The Bible Contains Discrepancies. That Doesn’t Make It Untrustworthy.

Scholar Michael Licona makes the case for a “flexible inerrancy.”

Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Getty / WikiMedia Commons

In 1983, biblical scholar Robert Gundry was ousted from the Evangelical Theological Society.

Gundry, in his lengthy commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, had suggested that Matthew tailored stories about Jesus to his specific audience, sometimes in nonhistorical ways. Theologian Norman Geisler, who spearheaded the ouster, believed this “undermine[d] confidence in the complete truthfulness of all of Scripture.” Gundry disagreed with this assessment—he affirmed the doctrine of biblical inerrancy and argued the authors of Scripture were using accepted literary standards of their day. But he was expelled nonetheless.

Thirty years later, New Testament scholar Michael Licona found himself embroiled in a similar controversy. Licona had questioned the literal historicity of Matthew’s reference to saints rising from the grave after Jesus’ resurrection (Matt. 27:52–53). Here, too, Geisler led a campaign against the perceived threat to biblical inerrancy. As a result, Licona voluntarily resigned from Southern Evangelical Seminary and left his position at the North American Mission Board. (Today, he teaches at Houston Christian University.)

The doctrine of inerrancy may be a historically recent development, but some consider it essential to the faith. In fact, Geisler believed the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture was “the foundation of all other doctrines.”

But what happens when cracks appear in that foundation? I can tell you: It’s unsettling.

During my transition from high school to college, I deconstructed the Catholic faith of my upbringing but eventually reaffirmed my belief in God and converted to Protestantism. One of the foundational building blocks of my reconstructed faith was the authority of Scripture—including my idea of inerrancy.

But then that idea was contested. Though Christians have been dealing with the topic of biblical contradictions since there was a Bible, I started earlier this year. My exposure to contradictions occurred on TikTok, where I found clips (like this one) of critical biblical scholars challenging my beliefs about what the Bible is and how it works. I learned about the two different lists of animals on the ark (Gen. 6:19–20 and 7:2–3), the potential discrepancy between 1 Chronicles and 1 Samuel about who killed Goliath, and the differing genealogies of Jesus Christ. In my high school apologetics class, I was taught that there are only apparent contradictions in the Bible, not real ones. But what if there actually are real ones?

Licona takes up this question as it relates to the Gospels in his new book, Jesus, Contradicted: Why the Gospels Tell the Same Story Differently—a shorter and more accessible version of his 2016 academic book, Why Are There Differences in the Gospels? From the beginning, he’s clear where the problem lies: “Contradictions offer a challenge to the historical reliability of the Gospels and to some versions of the doctrine of biblical inerrancy.” Yet he argues that they “do not necessarily call into question the truth of the Christian faith.”

The rules of ancient biography

The most skeptical position on inerrancy, as advanced by New Testament scholar Bart Ehrman, treats contradictions between Gospel accounts as a reason for doubting their accuracy altogether. If the authors can’t get the minor details right, why trust them at all?

On the flip side, attempts at harmonizing the Gospels have been a popular (though not unanimous) Christian response. While some harmonizations may be legitimate, others seem far-fetched (like Peter denying Jesus six times, not three) and risk “subjecting the Gospel texts to a sort of hermeneutical waterboarding until they tell the exegete what he or she wants to hear,” as Licona put it in his 2016 book. Harmonization in the wrong place may very well lead us astray—and damage our credibility.

A third camp sees Gospel differences as grounds for rejecting the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture. This was my initial reaction as I wrestled with the biblical scholarship. The Bible, I believed, was the very Word of God, his speech in written form. But if God cannot err and the Bible has errors, then how could the Bible be divinely inspired at all? I began to think this collection of books by human authors might be just that: human.

Worse, the doubts spread. If what I had been told about the Bible was untrue, what else about Christianity was untrue? My conception of inerrancy and inspiration put my faith on shaky ground. But Licona lays out an alternative to this inflexible view of the Bible, hopefully preventing a good many Christians from falling away when they encounter contradictions too.

According to Licona, there’s a better way to handle Gospel differences, and it starts with understanding why they’re there in the first place. Licona provides a plausible explanation: Most of the differences between Gospels are due to literary conventions common to the genre of Greco-Roman (or “ancient”) biography and thus are not really contradictions or errors at all.

Importantly, ancient biography is not modern biography. Ancient biographies are playing by different rules and have different purposes. “Ancient biographers,” Licona explains, “sought to narrate sayings and deeds of the biographee that illuminated his character.” They’re portraits, not legal transcripts. The “essence” and “life” of a person are what matter, not precise details. Therefore, “Imposing modern expectations on ancient texts and authors is anachronistic since it assumes a standard not aligned with their objectives.” In ancient historiography, facts can be “reported with some elasticity.”

Matthew’s genealogy is a case in point. Luke and Matthew both contain genealogies for Jesus, but they don’t match. A popular explanation (though, as Licona points out, not among scholars) is that Matthew’s genealogy applies to Mary while Luke’s applies to Joseph. However, Matthew’s math suggests this is the wrong approach.

Despite claiming to include all the generations from Abraham to Jesus, Matthew omits multiple generations and uses “Jeconiah” twice (1:11–12). Why? He may be using a rhetorical device called “gematria,” where numbers are assigned to letters in the alphabet. In the Hebrew alphabet, the letters in “David” yield the number 14. By listing three sets of 14 generations, Licona argues, “Matthew appears to have arranged his genealogy artistically in order to communicate to his Jewish readers that Jesus is the Son of David, the Messiah.”

Understanding the rules of the game is essential to understanding what’s going on in the Gospels. Licona draws from ancient Roman compositional textbooks and Plutarch’s Lives to demonstrate six rules (or “compositional devices”) common to the genre:

Compression: presenting an event as occurring over a shorter time frame than its actual duration.
Displacement: removing an event from its original context and placing it in a different one.
Transferal: taking an action done by (or to) one person and attributing it to someone else.
Conflation: combining elements of two or more events but narrating them as one.
Simplification: omitting or altering details to abbreviate a story.
Literary spotlighting: only mentioning the person(s) in focus while being aware of others present.

When read in light of these compositional devices, many of the apparent contradictions between the Gospels disappear. Take the story about Jesus raising Jairus’s daughter from the dead: Is she about to die (as in Mark and Luke) or has she already died (as in Matthew)? While those with a preference for harmonization might posit that Jairus said both, this is more likely an example of Matthew compressing a story, as is his tendency.

For instance, in the story of Jesus healing the centurion’s servant, Luke records the centurion sending emissaries on his behalf (7:1–10), while Matthew cuts out the middlemen and has the centurion go himself (8:5–13). Likewise, Matthew compresses Mark’s account of the events following the triumphal entry (compare Mark 11:1–23 and Matt. 21:1–21). In Matthew’s version, Jesus appears at the temple once rather than twice, and the fig tree he curses withers immediately, not on the next day.

We find other examples of compositional devices at play in the Resurrection narratives. The Gospels differ in recording the number of women who visited the tomb, the number of angels at the tomb, and the number of male disciples who visited the tomb afterward. Are these errors, or merely examples of literary spotlighting?

The human element

While compositional devices clear up apparent contradictions and “errors”—calming concerns that differences between the Gospels undermine their historical reliability—they also raise issues for how we understand Scripture. They introduce a distinctly human element. The Gospel authors use sources. They paraphrase. They modify words and actions, even those of Jesus. Matthew and Luke improve upon Mark’s grammar, and Luke exhibits “editorial fatigue” (where he changes a story, but leaves leftover portions from the original, as with the parable of the talents).

Patterns like these flatly contradict the “divine dictation” view of inspiration—that the evangelists were heavenly stenographers taking down every word they received from the Holy Spirit. And though most evangelical Christians who affirm the inspiration and total inerrancy of Scripture would deny “divine dictation,” this model remains influential.

For example, the Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy states that “the whole of Scripture and all its parts, down to the very words of the original, were given by divine inspiration” (emphasis added). The glaring question is “How?” While the authors concede, “The mode of divine inspiration remains largely a mystery to us,” their view of inerrancy implies a very small role for the human authors themselves.

There’s a danger in holding such a rigid view of inerrancy. If you cannot square what you believe about Scripture with what you read in Scripture, something has to give. And if you put this view of Scripture at the foundation of all your beliefs—as Geisler recommended—then the whole edifice might come tumbling down.

Licona calls his alternative “flexible inerrancy.” Under this view, “the Bible is true, trustworthy, authoritative, and without error in all that it teaches” (emphasis added). Whereas traditional inerrancy says the Bible cannot err in any way, including in the details, flexible inerrancy says the message of God is preserved despite human involvement in the composition and preservation of the biblical texts.

How is Scripture divinely inspired then? Licona proposes a theory:

God, having foreknown all possible worlds, chose to actualize the one in which the biblical authors would write what they did. On some occasions, God may have planted ideas, concepts, perhaps even the very words they would write. However, the human element is present throughout and includes imperfections.

This view isn’t entirely original. In 1999, Christian philosopher William Lane Craig argued that God orchestrated the circumstances whereby the biblical authors would write what they did, and in that sense guided the process. Similarly, Reformed theologian B. B. Warfield thought inspiration looked like “[bringing] the right men to the right places at the right times, with the right endowments, impulses, acquirements, to write just the books which were designed for them.”

The Bible doesn’t spell out how inspiration works, and we can only speculate, but such statements at least don’t contradict Scripture. For example, Licona conducts a word study of theopneustos (the word for “inspired” or “God-breathed” found in 2 Timothy 3:16) and finds, “Perhaps the closest way of describing the meaning of theopneustos is to say the thing it describes derives from God or that God is its ultimate and special origin.”

Due to the Bible’s ambiguity regarding inspiration and inerrancy, we ought not demand conformity to the most rigid conceptions of either. There should be room to question. And we should remember that there were followers of Jesus before there was a New Testament. If believing in traditional inerrancy is a litmus test for being a Christian, then Jesus’ disciples wouldn’t pass. Nor would Paul, or any members of the early church.

The Gospels as we have them accomplish what their authors intended. Though they may supply tinted windows into Jesus’ life and teachings, what we see is true and compelling. They show us who Jesus is, what he was like, and what he taught. They establish his authority and the beauty of his way of life.

If the words and deeds of Jesus as recorded in the Gospels had contradicted the living memory of Jesus, it’s unlikely they would have found such broad acceptance across the early churches. They were preserved because they taught readers how to be disciples—and they can do the same for us today, no matter our view of inerrancy.

Noah M. Peterson is a philosophy of religion graduate student at the University of Birmingham and the editor of a think tank based in Washington, DC.

- More from Noah M. Peterson

News

‘It’s Okay to Say We’re Born Again’

Daniel Silliman in San José, Costa Rica

Global Methodists embrace evangelical identity but seek to emphasize distinctive doctrine of sanctification.

Global Methodists sang worship songs and Wesleyan hymns in Costa Rica at the first General Conference.

Courtesy of the Global Methodist Church

Nowhere on its website or in its founding documents does the new Global Methodist Church call itself evangelical.

Perhaps the term is too controversial, too divisive and political.

Or perhaps the Methodists are just out of practice.

“You know, as Methodists, it’s okay to say we’re born again,” said Asbury Theological Seminary professor Luther Oconer, preaching to the more than 900 people gathered in San José, Costa Rica, last week for the denomination’s first General Conference.

“Tell the person next to you, ‘I’m born again.’”

Around 900 people turned and said, “I’m born again,” laughing at themselves as they did.

The convening General Conference looked and sounded evangelical, with charismatic tinges. There was talk about evangelism, missions, the Great Commission, discipleship, and revival. People spoke unselfconsciously about the presence of the Holy Spirit, words from the Lord, what God is doing among them right now, and their love for Jesus. They read aloud from Scripture, taking the words as personal promises. Delegates raised their hands, singing Chris Tomlin’s “Holy Forever” and other contemporary worship songs, and lifted their voices with camp-meeting fervor when the band struck up “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.”

Oconer, who is originally from the Philippines and described himself as a third-generation Global South minister, ended his sermon with an altar call. He asked people to come forward to give themselves and their new denomination to Christ, committing to the biblical vision of a New Testament church.

“Let us be a church of Pentecost first,” he said. “We must be a church of Pentecost first. We are a people born of the Spirit, first and foremost.”

People streamed forward, kneeling, praying, crying, singing. Steve Beard, editor in chief of Good News, described this as “old-time Methodism,” a religious movement unconcerned with the propriety of mid-century mainline Protestantism, a movement of field preaching, circuit riders, conversion experiences, and testimonies about freedom from sin.

In the midst of resurgent evangelicalism, however, some Global Methodists are worried about preserving Wesleyan distinctives. They expressed concern that the denomination might slide into a kind of generic evangelicalism.

The religious landscape is increasingly dominated, after all, by nondenominational churches that reject the importance of distinctives. Even churches that have affiliations often downplay their differences. Many evangelical churches feel about the same, whether they’re Southern Baptist or Evangelical Free, Independent Christian or Christian and Missionary Alliance. They sing the same songs, talk about the same Christian celebrities, listen to similar sermons, and practice mostly indistinguishable liturgies.

Roughly half the congregations that left the United Methodist Church have not joined the Global Methodists. Some are waiting to see what happens. They have said they might join, depending on the shape the new denomination takes, its authority structure, and the guarantees put in place to prevent the repetition of their bad experiences. But others are just done with denominations—liberal or conservative, mainline or evangelical. Hanging on to Methodist connections isn’t that important to them.

Mark Tooley, president of The Institute on Religion and Democracy and a lifelong Methodist, said the new denomination is going “against the headwinds of current American religious preferences.” As they embrace an evangelical style, Global Methodists will be forced to answer the question, “Why should Christians be specifically Wesleyan?”

In Costa Rica—as delegates passed a constitution, established the process for nominating bishops, and dealt with the legislative business of founding a new denomination—they also worked informally to articulate a Wesleyan charism, the unique spiritual gift that the Global Methodists could offer to evangelicals and the whole church.

“I think what we have to offer as a movement is the ‘heart strangely warmed,’ which is hearts changed, sanctification,” said Emily Allen, an Asbury seminary student and a delegate to the General Conference. “There’s a line I love from the Methodist communion liturgy: freed for joyful obedience. That is such a joyful thing! We need to have our hearts transformed.”

Jeff Kelly, pastor of the largest Global Methodist church in Nebraska, said he sensed the Holy Spirit changing hearts during the legislative sessions in Costa Rica.

“I’m seeing an injection of grace—that Wesleyan gift of grace,” he said.

It made him think that the new denomination might put an emphasis on the doctrine of sanctification, Kelly said. That idea could be reclaimed as the key Wesleyan distinctive.

“I think John Wesley called it the Methodist depositum,” he said. “After you’re saved, you’re not done. God is still bringing change.”

Seedbed, a publisher specializing in Wesleyan literature, currently lists two books on sanctification among its best-selling titles.

The publisher also released a hymnal in time for the convening General Conference. Editor Sterling Allen, a Global Methodist minister at a church in Houston, called it “a curated renewal of Charles Wesley’s most beloved hymns” that he hoped would serve as “a catalyst for repentance and renewal, a celebration of the joyous proclamation of the gospel, and an outpouring of the Spirit.” It includes 58 hymns on sanctifying grace, including “Spirit of Faith, Come Down,” “What is Our Calling’s Glorious Hope,” “Lord, Fill Me with a Humble Fear,” and “O Joyful Sound of Gospel Grace!”

Seedbed is also reprinting Methodist texts as pocket-sized tracts. One is John Wesley’s On Perfection. Another is The Character of a Methodist, where the founder of the movement writes that “Methodists are continually offering their whole selves to God … holding back nothing but giving all to increase the glory of God in the world.”

On the final day of the General Convention, the Global Methodists voted to change their mission statement to put more of an emphasis on sanctification. The original mission statement, put in place by transitional leadership, said the church’s goal was “to make disciples of Jesus Christ who worship passionately, love extravagantly, and witness boldly.”

David Watson, New Testament professor at United Theological Seminary and lead editor at Firebrand, said it seemed too generic to him. That mission statement would work for any evangelical megachurch—but wasn’t specifically Wesleyan.

With input from Paul Lawlor, a pastor in Memphis, and Jason E. Vickers, a professor at George W. Truett Theological Seminary at Baylor, Watson proposed an alternative. The new mission statement said, “The Global Methodist Church exists to make disciples of Jesus Christ and spread scriptural holiness across the globe.”

It passed overwhelmingly.

“What I’ve tried to do is keep us theologically grounded so we don’t lapse into mere pragmatism but stay Methodist,” Watson said. “What’s at stake is our identity as Methodists. … For us, the heart of it all is sanctification.”

Correction: A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that the worship band at the convening General Conference played “Oceans.”

- More from Daniel Silliman

Ideas

The Evangelicalism of Jimmy Carter

Daniel K. Williams

Contributor

The former president, who turns 100 on Tuesday, was elected while serving as a Southern Baptist deacon. But he was never fully welcomed by white evangelicals as one of our own.

Former President Jimmy Carter teaches Sunday School class at Maranatha Baptist Church in Georgia.

David Goldman / AP Images

When Jimmy Carter spoke about his faith in Christ while campaigning for president in 1976, many evangelicals were ecstatic.

No previous presidential candidate had claimed to be “born again” or spoken so openly about his relationship with Jesus. Nor had any welcomed journalists to his adult Sunday school class, which Carter continued to teach even while running for the White House. But then again, no other presidential candidate was a deacon in a Southern Baptist church.

The United States needed a “born-again man in the White House,” Oklahoma pastor Bailey Smith told the crowd gathered at the SBC’s annual meeting in June 1976. Then he added, in case anyone missed the hint, “And his initials are the same as our Lord’s!”

But only a few weeks later, Third Century Publishers, an evangelical publishing firm cofounded by Campus Crusade for Christ founder Bill Bright, released a book that sharply criticized Carter’s evangelical bona fides. The book, What about Jimmy Carter?, was written by a young evangelist named Ron Boehme.

When he first heard about Carter’s candidacy, Boehme said, he was “thrilled” that a born-again Christian was running for president. Yet as he learned more about Carter’s beliefs, his opinion of the Democratic candidate quickly soured. Carter, he discovered, had embraced neo-orthodox views of the Bible, and he supported liberal abortion policies as well as gay rights.

Perhaps Carter wasn’t really an evangelical at all, Boehme decided, or not even a believer. “When a man promotes or goes along with immorality and ungodliness in his political campaigning and lawmaking, he is not a true follower of Jesus,” he wrote. Appropriating one of Jesus’ statements in the Sermon on the Mount, Boehme doubled down: “A good tree cannot produce bad fruit.”

Boehme was hardly alone in this conclusion. Although Carter won approximately half the white evangelical vote in 1976, many evangelicals echoed Boehme in their questions about his faith during the weeks leading up to the election. Carter’s interview with Playboy magazine disturbed many conservative Christians, and so did a few of his policy positions.

By 1980, some evangelicals who had once supported Carter (such as the Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson) were at the forefront of the movement to defeat him at the polls. Carter, they decided, had promoted “secular humanism” through his promotion of a feminist agenda and his refusal to oppose gay rights. Indeed, it was largely a reaction against Carter’s presidential policies that prompted the political mobilization of the Religious Right and the strong evangelical support for Ronald Reagan in 1980.

After Carter left office, the rift between him and the increasingly conservative leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention continued to grow. Carter eventually left the Southern Baptist Convention to join the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, a denomination that ordained women and rejected some of the SBC’s conservative political stances.

But Carter continued to call himself an evangelical Christian. He continued to speak of reading the Bible daily, praying constantly, and teaching weekly Sunday school classes at his Baptist church. His volunteer work through Habitat for Humanity became legendary. And he frequently shared his faith with others, including with non-Christian international leaders while he was president.

He also wrote several books about his faith. “I am convinced that Jesus is the Son of God,” he said in his final book on the subject, published in 2018. Jesus is his “personal savior,” he declared, as well as “an exemplary personal guide for a way for me and others to live. … The basis elements of Christianity apply personally to me, shape my attitude and my actions, and give me a joyful and positive life, with purpose.”

After consulting the description of evangelicalism provided in a Wikipedia article and supplementing it with information from one of his Bible commentaries, Carter concluded in the book that not only was he a Christian, he was an “evangelical Christian.” He had been born again; he shared his faith with others; and he loved Jesus as his Savior. What could be more evangelical than that?

But clearly there was a difference between Carter’s understanding of the faith and the views of his evangelical critics. His born-again experience of conversion may have resembled theirs, and his devotion to prayer and Bible reading may have been just as strong, but on two issues Carter parted ways with conservative evangelicals of the late 20th century and beyond: biblical inerrancy and politics.

Those were the very issues at the heart of the conservative takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention that began while Carter was in office. For many conservative evangelicals of the 1970s—Harold Lindsell, Francis Schaeffer, and the leaders of the conservative faction within the Southern Baptist Convention—biblical inerrancy was central to the evangelical identity. Without an inerrant Bible, Protestant Christians would have no fixed, transcendent source of authority, they argued. The Reformation principle of sola scriptura, combined with an understanding of God’s perfection and sovereignty, demanded an inerrant scripture.

Many of these evangelicals also argued that the American government needed a fixed, transcendent moral standard based on Christian principles. Legal abortion and a new public celebration of sexual immorality were the result of politicians and judges who had forgotten God’s law, they said.

Their vision of Christianity as an influence in the public sphere primarily meant championing Christian moral principles in the face of growing secularization. They thought that the sexual revolution, along with second-wave feminism, was perhaps the greatest threat that the American family had ever experienced. And they were determined to stop that threat by electing godly people to office, people who would be guided by God’s law, not contemporary cultural trends.

But Carter did not share any of these views. His political and religious ideas were shaped not by a reaction against the sexual revolution but by experience of the civil rights movement. Like other white southerners of his generation, Carter grew up amid racial segregation and inequality, and he concluded that the white evangelical churches of his region were mostly on the wrong side of Black Americans’ struggle for justice.

Carter’s own Baptist church in Plains, Georgia, was officially segregated until 1976. The congregation voted in the 1960s against accepting Black people as members, and Carter opposed that decision but did not immediately leave the church. Yet, as he recalled years later in his book Faith: A Journey for All, he was inspired by the examples of other Christians who took the countercultural stance of reaching across the color line in the segregated South. Only a few miles from his home in Plains, for example, Millard and Linda Fuller started an interracial Christian communal farm named Koinonia—then later founded Habitat for Humanity.

Encounters with people like the Fullers convinced Carter that what the country needed was not a public campaign to take America back for God. It was a practical emulation of the ethics of Jesus. This, after all, was how African American Christian advocates for civil rights had gained the support of previously oppositional white Christians, who were moved by the activists’ example of Christlike love.

Carter was so impressed by that example that he framed his entire Christian faith around this principle rather than around any specific doctrinal statements. But the more that he read Scripture, the more impressed he was by the ethics of Christ and the more he wanted to have Jesus as his “constant companion” by grace through faith.

For Carter, then, biblical inerrancy was a non-issue. Perhaps the Bible did contain some internal contradictions that could not be harmonized, he decided, and perhaps parts of the Bible did need to be reinterpreted in the light of modern science. But that really didn’t matter as long as the general narrative of Jesus’ life was historically correct.

And the Christian Right’s political priorities were misguided, Carter likewise determined, because they were centered not around the ethics of Jesus but around an erroneous notion that family values could be imposed through law. As an Arminian Baptist, Carter opposed creeds, believed in the priesthood of all believers, and strongly insisted that faith must be freely chosen to be true. It could not be dictated by legislation, he argued in multiple books, including Our Endangered Values: America’s Moral Crisis and Faith: A Journey for All.

Following Jesus in public office, then, could not mean imposing Christian standards through law. For Carter, it had to mean acting with integrity and with concern for all people. And if the nation turned to God, the fruit of this conversion would not necessarily be laws against same-sex marriage or abortion. It would be a dedication “to the resolution of disputes by peaceful means” and a commitment to “freedom and human rights” for others, including especially the rights of women, which he believed too many conservative evangelicals ignored.

Functionally, Carter’s faith had more in common with mainline Protestantism than with late 20th- or early 21st-century American evangelicalism—and evangelicals weren’t incorrect when they observed that difference. But Carter was also a lifelong Baptist who believed in born-again conversion, a personal relationship with Jesus, and the need to share one’s faith with others. He always spoke of faith with an evangelical accent, and despite his differences with more conservative Christians, he cherished a love for the same Savior.

With the perspective of history—thanks to the longest post-presidency in American history—those commonalities are perhaps easier to see now than they were in 1980. Carter’s determination to extend the love of Jesus was a better reflection of the Sermon on the Mount than his evangelical critics realized.

Daniel K. Williams teaches American history at Ashland University and is the author of The Politics of the Cross: A Christian Alternative to Partisanship.

- More from Daniel K. Williams

Ideas

Who Is My Neighbor?

Nikki Toyama-Szeto

How Christians can love well in a digitized, global, and polarized world.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Getty

My neighborhood, just outside of Washington, DC, has a strong sense of local community. I know the people on our block, and I love bumping into folks—at PTA meetings, sports outings, or the grocery store. My neighborhood has quaint traditions: We celebrate holidays with cookie exchanges. Local groups play music on front lawns in the summer. On these lovely nights when people are walking the block, I don’t see the divisions and divides that worry me when I read the news.

So I was surprised a couple of months ago to find out that I didn’t actually know many of my neighbors. One of my kids was collecting items for a service project. On a Saturday morning, we slowly walked the block, placing a flyer at each door. With half a stack of flyers left, we continued to the next block—a block I walk or drive often.

But the slowness of the task caused me to pause, to stop at each door, to see each place where people live. I noticed the numbers on the walls, the color of the doors. And I was surprised at how many homes I had never “seen” before. I was surprised, just one block away, how few of the people I knew. Before that day, I would have called these folks my neighbors. In reality, I didn’t know my neighbors.

Throughout the Gospels, we see the exhortation to “love your neighbor as yourself” and to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” (Matt. 22:37–40; Mark 12:29–31). But who is my neighbor (Luke 10:29)? And what does being a neighbor look like in a time of such polarization?

When I try to make sense of what it means to love my neighbor, I think of Acts 1:8. In this passage, Jesus exhorts his followers to bear witness to the power of his resurrection in Jerusalem, in Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. Jerusalem was essentially the disciples’ city. Judea was the larger region that contained their local city. Samaria was a region just next to Judea—a place that was adjacent and had a different ethnic group. And the ends of the earth were, well, everywhere else.

I use these categories of Jerusalem (the city where I am), Judea and Samaria (the region I’m in and the one next to it), and “the ends of the earth” (everyone else) to help me think about whom I consider my neighbor. I try to make sure I have neighbors in each of these groups.

Jesus’ invitation to his first followers to bear witness is extended to us today—to be people who bear witness to Jesus “in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

When I’m trying to navigate tricky issues, expanding my definition of neighbor like this helps. I try to use these three categories of people to stretch me to care about people just beyond my natural inclination—people in the place where I am, the place just next to me, and a place farther away.

How does an issue affect people like me? Or people who are adjacent to me—nearby, but perhaps affected slightly differently? And how does it affect people with whom I don’t have much in common, people who seem far from me? And what response to this issue would bear witness to God’s character and love to each of these different groups?

That final group, the ends of the earth, seems like a catchall: Did I miss anyone? Well, reach out to them too. One of my favorite insights about missions comes from an Indigenous Christian theologian who pointed out to me that North America might be part of what the early church imagined as “the ends of the earth.” It’s humbling to think that I am someone else’s “ends of the earth.” And at the same time, it nudges me to do the extra work of caring about someone different, perhaps even at odds with my group.

With each of these circles, I try to think, How can I love this group of neighbors as myself? How can I learn more about the realities of their daily life, their priorities, and their cares? And how can I carry that perspective with me as I think about my role as a Christian committed to social action? Are there places where I can journey alongside, add my voice as a support, and function as a neighbor in this diverse and dynamic place where we live?

Caring only about the people nearest to us or most like us doesn’t bear witness to our God, who cares for all people and calls people from all nations to become part of his family. Only seeking the good of those who live near us or live like us can lead us to perpetuate economic, racial, ethnic, or other divisions. That lifestyle doesn’t bear witness to Jesus’ power to be a peacemaker who is able to remove dividing walls and bring unity to groups separated by hostility (Eph. 2:14–15).

Our current political system encourages a self-serving posture. It leads us to ask, “How do I accumulate power and use it to push through my demands and center my priorities for my own well-being?” This perpetuates a game where there are winners and losers.

In a world like this, one of the most compelling ways we Christians can bear witness is by being generous with our hearts, passions, and interests and by using our voices, votes, and energy on behalf of our neighbors. We can love our neighbors as ourselves and love God with our heart, soul, mind, and strength.

My hope is that Christians would not play politics the way the world does, but rather—filled with an abundance that comes from being unconditionally loved, repeatedly forgiven, and embraced by a caring, powerful, and compassionate God—feel generous with our love, hope, and faith.

We can not only love the neighbors who have commonalities with us but also love the neighbors who are just over and beyond our reach. In this way, we can be people who bear witness to and live in the reality of Jesus, the peacemaker who removes walls of hostility and offers reconciliation generously.

Nikki Toyama-Szeto is the executive director of Christians for Social Action.

Learn more about Evangelicals in a Diverse Democracy.

- More from Nikki Toyama-Szeto

News

Widespread Helene Misery Stretches Christian Relief Groups

Emily Belz

Organizations respond to destruction in Florida, Georgia, and rural Appalachia, but they must pull resources from as far away as Canada.

Men inspect damage in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene in Asheville, North Carolina.

Sean Rayford / Getty Images

Devastating hundreds of miles from the Florida Gulf Coast to Georgia to the mountains of North Carolina, Hurricane Helene has created a complicated equation for Christian organizations that are on the frontline of disaster response.

“In my more than 20 years of disaster experience, I can’t think of a time when such a large area was at risk,” Jeff Jellets, the disaster coordinator for The Salvation Army’s work in the South, said in a statement.

Samaritan’s Purse chief operating officer Edward Graham told CT that the organization had to call in equipment and volunteers from its Canadian arm for its hurricane response and even had to adjust some of its overseas work. Just for this disaster, Samaritan’s Purse is operating in Florida, Georgia, and North Carolina.

“We’re running at max capacity for our domestic response,” Graham said. But he added, “Logistically, God has given us the resources and the talent to navigate.”

Still, Christian relief organizations—partnered with local churches—were working on bringing help to the most difficult-to-reach places. In western North Carolina, where record-setting flooding destroyed roads and other infrastructure, mountain communities, including the city of Asheville, were difficult to access.

On Monday, Samaritan’s Purse was setting up an emergency field hospital in North Carolina’s Avery County, a rural area in the Appalachians where search and rescue teams were conducting operations in mountain towns and remote valleys.

The field hospital will function as an emergency room alongside the local hospital in anticipation of an influx of patients from rescue operations. More than 100 have died in the storm.

Graham also said a Samaritan’s Purse helicopter dropped food and water to stranded students at Lees McRae College in the mountains of North Carolina. He said he alerted the North Carolina National Guard that the school would need Chinook helicopter evacuations, and the military airlifted students out on Sunday.

The disaster had engulfed Samaritan’s Purse’s own headquarters in Boone, North Carolina, and its staff were reeling from losing homes in the storm.

The disaster also hit personally for the Graham family in Montreat, North Carolina, where evangelist Billy Graham raised his children. Edward Graham, Billy Graham’s grandson, serves on the board of Montreat College, a Christian college in the same area which also suffered significant damage. Graham said he didn’t know the state of the family home, but he couldn’t give that his attention: “My grandfather lives in heaven.”

“It’s not that there is a lack of supplies and desire to help,” said Amanda Held Opelt, an author and songwriter who worked for Samaritan’s Purse for a decade. She lives in a rural area near Boone called Meat Camp and has family in the surrounding Appalachian hollers.

The only road into Meat Camp is gone, and Opelt knows a pregnant woman who is due soon and stranded. “What we need is a thousand engineers with bridge-building capabilities to get here,” she said.

Graham noted that flooding in a flat plain is one thing, but they were seeing “the power of water in a valley.”

Opelt noted the resilience of people in Appalachia and the small local churches there, cut off from the world but checking on each other and bringing water for the sick and elderly. She was able to navigate into the small Appalachian community of Bakersville, North Carolina, to check on her two aunts.

“They were sitting there eating saltines and vegetables from their garden and washing their bloomers in the creek,” she said. “I started crying when I saw them.”

The most extensive death and destruction is in North Carolina, but communities in Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida are also dealing with destroyed homes and infrastructure.

After the storm, some churches in heavily hit areas met outside to worship on Sunday, locals reported. But some church members and leaders couldn’t communicate with each other at all because of compromised cell service. And others focused on distributing water and food from their properties, which became natural community gathering points.

The Salvation Army quickly deployed 14 mobile units to provide thousands of meals in Florida and Georgia.

Send Relief, the disaster response arm of the Southern Baptist Convention, has 23 response sites set up in six states to respond to Helene, providing food and organizing debris removal and hot showers.

Convoy of Hope, a faith-based disaster response organization that partners with local churches, arrived with supplies in Perry, Florida, on Sunday. Three hurricanes have hit Perry in the last year. The organization was sending supplies on Monday to Morganton, North Carolina; Tampa Bay, Florida; and Augusta, Georgia.

Local organizations and churches have gotten to work as well. Baptist churches in western North Carolina were distributing water, the biggest need in the area.

Evangelical climate scientists warn that local churches and relief organizations will have to adjust to a new normal of these types of super-charged weather events in unexpected places.

Jessica Moerman is a climate scientist and the CEO of the Evangelical Environmental Network. She’s also from Knoxville, Tennessee, near the areas devastated. Her family members lost a home in the 2016 wildfire in nearby Gatlinburg.

“What we’ve seen over the last few years is that we’re just in a new normal,” she said. “We’re seeing it across the Southeast and across Appalachia—small towns saying, ‘This is like nothing we’ve seen before.’”

Moerman explained how seawater warming due to climate change made these storms worse. With Helene, warmer gulf waters meant the storm held more water in the atmosphere and had the strength to go further inland and dump historic rain on western North Carolina—a place so far inland that few would expect it to be vulnerable to hurricanes.

The warm seawater is “rocket fuel that makes these storms stronger and more intense,” she said. “The hurricane has so much more energy, it can travel farther … It’s really, really heartbreaking.”

Christian disaster relief organizations will have to prepare for a situation “where we are expecting worse storms than we’ve ever experienced in the past and expecting to experience them again.”

Organizations responding now are focused on people are still missing from the storm, and staff noted that first responders in these areas are still having issues with communication and are battling their own fatigue.

Graham said Samaritan’s Purse would stay in the disaster areas for the duration.

“This is going to be a very long recovery,” he said. “We do not leave the community till it’s done.”

- More from Emily Belz

Ideas

25 Precepts for This (and Every) Election

Bonnie Kristian

CT Staff; Columnist

On disagreement, faithfulness, forbearance, and votes.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Getty

The high season of American politics is here. Stomachs are knotted. Electoral trend lines undulate. Betting markets tremble.

And what of the American church? Many of us are trembling too: with fear, with rage, with anticipation of whatever may be in store for us in Washington—and in our own kitchens and sanctuaries.

A few weeks ago, a colleague of mine here at CT wrote an article pertaining to politics, and the online backlash was furious. The social media responses crossed every prudential line in Proverbs; they would have made Martin Luther blush.

And it didn’t come from social media bots, machines programmed to automate inhumanity. The names of many respondents were familiar. They weren’t computers; they were Christians. It was us.

When I say “us,” I don’t mean that you are personally sniping on social media; I know I’m not. Rather, I mean that the precepts I offer below are not—cannot be, if they’re of any use—reflections and guidance loftily directed at those people, the Christians who embarrass and frustrate and confound us.

The way we get through this next month and the months to come with any semblance of Christian love and unity is to copy Paul in 1 Timothy: “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst” (1:15). And not just to say it, but to mean it.

To that end, here are 25 precepts for an election year:

A Christian’s opposition to Candidate X does not entail her support for Candidate Y. It does not entail it by implication or in practice. To insist otherwise against the protests of your sibling in Christ is to embrace dissension and slander.
You can critique a fellow Christian’s politics without questioning his faith, and both of you should be able to hear the difference.
Your critique of a fellow Christian’s politics may well include reminding her of the commitments and obligations of her faith.
Your critique of a fellow Christian’s politics may never persuade him. At a political impasse with a sibling in Christ, mutual forbearance and grace is usually a better way forward than ongoing argument. What better things could you each be doing with your time?
There is a line across which a Christian’s politics might justifiably cast doubt on her profession of faith. The line may not be where we assume it to be.
That line may even be different for different Christians in different times, places, and stages of sanctification, for God does not address our every sin, error, and weakness at once.
Some of us may need more courage of our convictions, especially if we find ourselves a religious, political, or cultural minority in our churches and wider communities.
But most of us, in this brash and hasty culture, are more likely to need forbearance and grace for those we believe to be less spiritual, moral, intelligent, or knowledgeable than ourselves.
Forbearance isn’t tolerance. Grace is not condescension.
Nor are forbearance and grace indecision and cowardice.
Remember 1 John 4:20: “Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar.”
Lasting political disagreement among Christians is not by itself evidence of sin, unbelief, or any other dysfunction. Reasonable, faithful Christians may in good faith reach different conclusions. They may all have solid biblical support for their views; they may all seek the common good; they may all seek to love their neighbors; they may always disagree.
Your voting choices are constrained by the realities of our electoral system. You can vote third party or write in a name, but don’t pretend these are politically viable candidates when they are not.
Reasonable, faithful Christians may decide to only seriously consider viable candidates.
Reasonable, faithful Christians may decide that viability is less important than ethical and policy alignment.
Reasonable, faithful Christians may decide not to vote: “Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help” (Psalm 146:3, KJV).
Hope is a Christian virtue; wishful thinking is not.
Wisdom is a Christian calling; cynicism is not wise.
No candidate is owed your vote. Not even if you believe you have a duty to vote. Not even if you’re registered to one party or another. Not even if you live in a swing state.
With some exceptions, down-ballot votes—especially for state and local officials, judges, and ballot initiatives—will have more frequent and more tangible effects on your life and those of your neighbors than votes for president.
This is probably not the most important election of your lifetime. If it is the most important election of your lifetime, you can’t know that in real time. You may be able to make that assessment 5 or 10 or 20 years hence, but you cannot know now.
Your vote is not passed along to the candidates with an explanatory note. The candidates do not know you felt conflicted or were strategically voting to change the direction of the opposing party. They only know they have won with the support of however many thousands or millions of Americans, and they will act in those voters’ name—that is, in your name.
What you do in the privacy of the voting booth is your own business and may be kept secret. But if you find yourself hesitant or ashamed to share how you voted, ask yourself why.
All told, your individual vote is of negligible import in determining the electoral outcome or the future of the country. It may be of substantial spiritual import for you.
“Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:38–39).

Bonnie Kristian is the editorial director of ideas and books at Christianity Today.

- More from Bonnie Kristian

Culture

Fasting Is A Good Thing. But For Some of Us, It’s Complicated.

Jacinta Read

My history of disordered eating means I practice the spiritual discipline in community and with accommodations.

PM Images / Getty

For a time when I was a child, I wanted nothing unless it was grilled cheese—without the bread. My loving parents accommodated me by placing a special order when we went to restaurants. Eventually, I became a vegetarian after making the connection between the animals I professed to love and what was on my plate.

By the time I was a teenager, I ate a greater variety of dishes. But pickiness had given way to something more sinister. A friend and I ate burgers and fries, then guiltily pooled our money to buy a diet product called Trim Gum. My problematic relationship with food escalated after I left home for boarding school, an ocean away from my family. I went to great lengths to mask the fact that I had started throwing up after every meal.

Many factors contributed to my bulimia. I was a mixed-race girl who had grown up in Hong Kong, where grown-ups pinched children’s cheeks and openly body-shamed others. Supermodels reigned supreme in ’90s pop culture, enforcing waifish beauty standards. It didn’t help that I aspired to be a ballerina. Decades later, I’d learn of the link between disordered eating and neurodivergence; it’s common for autistic people like me to struggle with food in one way or another.

Into all this reached the loving arms of God. My illness was interrupted by amazing grace and a youth group full of new friends who provided me with the community I craved. It was a beautiful but sadly temporary reprieve: Eating disorders are resilient. They can morph and return like the unclean spirit in Matthew 12. And this happened to me in the guise of fasting.

Scripture contains dozens of references to fasting. The psalmist fasts (Ps. 69:10); the prophets fast (Ezra 8:23; Dan. 10:3; Neh. 1:4). Jesus went without food and water for 40 days in the wilderness (Matt. 4:2). In fasting, we give something up in order to deepen our dependence on God; we remove a meal or a drink and fill the space they leave behind with prayer.

But there are physical, mental, and social implications to fasting that can add up to major problems for anyone who has struggled with disordered eating. “When you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen,” instructs Jesus, “and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you” (Matt. 6:17–18). For those with eating disorders, however, secrecy can derail recovery.

As a relatively new Christian in my early 20s, I took to fasting with zeal. It was mid-summer; I was training for a marathon and also undergoing a 40-day “Jesus” fast. I ran miles in the heat, then came home to shower and study the Bible, collapsing in an exhausted heap. I drank clear liquids but I did not eat. I don’t remember what I prayed for; I was simply interested in proving that God’s sustaining power was better fuel than food.

There’s no limit to the ways in which good things can, without care and community, distort into chaos and destruction. Neither the body nor the brain works as God intended unless they are cared for as God intended.

As a fit young person, there would be a delay before I felt the long-term physical consequences of this extreme deprivation. It was the psychological effects that first became apparent. Research shows that the quality and quantity of nutrition directly affect our brain’s neurotransmitters, the chemical messengers responsible for every facet of functioning. I was starving and dehydrated, and I quickly lost my grip on reality.

My descent into irritability and paranoia lasted a few short weeks; it ended when I landed in the local ER after a serious self-inflicted injury. The recovery process since has been an uphill slog. It’s taken years—and it’s taken supernatural levels of loving support from others.

For the first 15 years of my eating disorder recovery, I agreed with my husband: I would not fast. Not during Lent. Not during special times of prayer. I’d come to God in other ways: by reading the Bible and books on theology, listening to podcasts, and taking walks in nature.

On one hand, this wasn’t difficult. People tend to afford fasting (or its absence) some privacy.

On the other hand, it was difficult. The desire to fast never left me. I battled faulty logic, wanting to blame life’s troubles on my failure to give up food and drink. It was hard to shake the idea that if fasting could bring about a breakthrough, then not fasting could be the reason behind any number of problems. As a matter of survival, I had to hold this tension.

My fixation with fasting was more than an eating disorder running into hyper-religiosity. It was what the poet John Keats called an “irritable reaching for certainty.” If fasting could make my prayers more powerful, then there was something I could do to get the outcomes I wanted from God. Not fasting meant giving up a measure of control.

Grappling with this, I stumbled upon the essence of faith. I remembered that the cross was an unearned gift. God’s loving salvation is unconditional. I was loved, even if I never fasted another day in my life.

You’re still here even though I didn’t fast? My prayers assumed a playful tone. Responding in kind, God proved himself as I completed my doctoral studies, a miracle I’d previously thought impossible without fasting. I got on with my life, banking all my faith in a grace that exists in spite of failure.

Instead of fretting about eating or not eating, I allowed God to engage me with art and music. He nourished me with words of life from the Bible and great literature. He drew my family to a healthy church community where we contributed what we could while feeling safe to say no when needed. If the topic of fasting came up, I willed myself to disengage. When thoughts of spiritual discipline came with feelings of obligation, I sensed the Holy Spirit: I love you, don’t do me any favors. My recovery was centered on God’s unmerited grace.

That said, complete freedom around food is an ideal I haven’t yet reached. Instead, I struggle on, remembering Paul with the thorn in his side and the Lord’s words to him: “My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9).

This could be the end of the story: I opt out of fasting due to my complicated history with food. For two decades, this was my safe and appropriate stance. There is no shame if the same is the case for you or someone you know.

But in recent years, I’ve felt ready to revisit fasting. There is no overstating the importance of time, which has allowed for gradual healing and greater maturity. Twenty years on, my genuine desire for spiritual formation now grows safely alongside a stubborn commitment to mental and physical health.

This season unfolds under the watchful eyes of my husband, doctors, and therapist. Now, I compare fasting to exercise: It’s not compulsory, but it is beneficial when done for the right reasons and with proper care. People with physical injuries or disabilities might require special accommodations and should use them without shame. I have learned to afford myself the same grace in fasting.

Through experimentation, I’ve found some strategies that work for me. I abstain from solids only; my fasts are shorter; I use nutritional supplementation; I break fasts guilt-free if I feel my motivation veer. I try to let my hunger serve as a call to prayer.

There are new challenges too, such as feeding my family on fast days and being honest with my teens, who are still in their formative years.

I am on track for the 40-day fast I was interested in all those years ago, but the 40 days aren’t consecutive; I’ve been at it for two years already. I have faith that this is fine.

Fasting as a spiritual practice can bring numerous benefits as we heed the call in 1 Corinthians to glorify God in body and spirit. But access to these benefits is complicated for some of us. As we Christians press into spiritual formation, my hope is that we hold space for the community around us, made up of stories and recovery journeys that we might never know.

Jacinta Read is a writer, artist, and neurodiversity advocate. She serves as the Connections Pastor at Vintage Church Pasadena.‌

- More from Jacinta Read

Ideas

Faith Lived Close to the Land

Brian Reisinger

Growing up on a farm indelibly shaped my understanding of God and his creation. It’s an increasingly uncommon experience.

Julian Scholl / Unsplash

My dad eased his pickup truck along the rolling sidehill, tracing the curves in the rows of hay stretching before us, the steering wheel wandering beneath his hand. The afternoon sun was high and warm. We could have fallen asleep beneath its affectionate glow, were it an afternoon lazy enough to let our family rest.

But it was not such an afternoon—for our family of farmers, few afternoons were. My dad threw the truck in park, and at just four years old, I knew this stop was important enough for me to jump out and tramp across the field behind him. He knelt alongside a row of hay he’d recently cut and felt the fallen alfalfa with his hands. Then he looked at the sky, pondering the weather that could either bless or curse his work.

It was a moment that showed me the spirituality of living close to the land, where the beauty of God’s creation, the risk of hardship, and the work that binds them together are always close at hand. This is a life familiar to generations of God’s people, including most of the Bible’s first hearers. Jesus spoke to crowds of farmers, people who could easily make sense of his parables of seeds and fields and failing crops. But this experience of faith lived close to the land, which I grew up with, is slipping away in our country today.

America drew its earliest economic strength from the natural resources of this vast land, but we are no longer a nation of farmers. From a height of nearly 6.5 million family farms, the United States has fewer than 2 million—often losing them at the rate of tens of thousands per year nationwide, according to federal data. In my home state of Wisconsin, we’re losing as many as three farms per day.

And closing or consolidating farms aren’t the only changes coming to America. Ranches and forests are falling to urban development and economic decline, and our population is steadily urbanizing, shifting from nearly 60 percent rural in the 1940s to just 14 percent rural in 2020.

This is not a culturally and spiritually neutral economic shift. For many of us, loss of life close to the land means loss of regular encounters with God’s creation. It means we are more likely to see the world God made on a small and merely recreational scale: in a tame public park instead of a woodland wild with life or a field furrowed with crops to come.

The spiritual effects may be most measurable in rural areas—where addiction is rampant and we see rising deaths of despair—but I see a connection too between this loss and our larger mental health crisis, as well as the deep political divisions between rural and urban Americans.

I also know my own faith would look very different were it not farm grown. When my dad crouched in that field, he was trying to decide how soon the hay would be dry enough to bale. And when he looked up at the sky, he was trying to decide how much time he might have to do it before the rain came. It was a moment of economic decision-making, but it was also inextricable from his connection to creation and our Creator.

This and countless other moments shaped my faith. I grew up Catholic, though our family also attended nondenominational churches at various times. But whatever our church home, I had constant lessons in faith on our land.

As a kid, I was sure my dad could divine the weather. This is laughable to any grown farmer, but it led me to pay attention—to see, like the psalmist, God’s work in the water, clouds, and thunder (Psalm 77:16–19). Working sunup to sundown with my dad was a kind of discipleship, training me in diligence, determination, and dedication. Seeing seeds planted in the spring sprout as alfalfa and corn showed me God’s miracles every harvest. Living with animals taught me that the circle of life—from newborn calves taking their first breath, to dear old dogs taking their last—can point our eyes toward heaven if we let it.

My faith was both tested and confirmed on the farm when I was 14. One morning, my dad woke up to severe bleeding. Operations to address what we thought were digestive issues later turned up cancer.

With my dad sick and undergoing treatment, I rose every morning before the sun. Working alongside a family friend who came to milk our cows and perform the tasks a boy of 14 couldn’t do on his own, I prepared the cows and equipment for milking, cleaned their udders, and helped milk when I got far enough ahead. Then I’d do all the other chores: feeding the livestock, cleaning the barn, leaping from the tractor to the ground and back for one job after another. I’d be back at it in the evening, with school in between.

Along the way, friends from church were the hands of Christ to our family. They dropped off meals, told me what a blessing my work was to my father when they saw the fear and fatigue in my eyes, and rang from house to house with prayer chains. On and on, they taught me a lesson about prayer that has stuck ever since, through times of waxing and waning faith alike. And one day, my dad came back.

These days, I split my time between my family’s farm in Wisconsin and northern California, where my wife’s family lives. I know most people will never become farmers, and though a plurality of Americans say they’d prefer to live in a rural area, they may not be able to move there.

But that doesn’t mean we must be cut off from the land and its revelation of God as Creator. We can teach our children where their food comes from and introduce them to creation in America’s remaining farmland, rural communities, and outdoor places.

My wife and I had a little girl earlier this year. She’s a happy baby who, I’m grateful to say, seems to take after her mother, with watchful eyes and a ready smile. I think a lot about how to teach her what she’ll need to know—about God, about the world, about how to live—and how much she’ll learn rumbling over her grandpa’s fields in a pickup truck.

Brian Reisinger grew up working with his father from the time he could walk. He is the author of Land Rich, Cash Poor and can be found at brian-reisinger.com.

This article is partially adapted from Brian Reisinger’s book, Land Rich, Cash Poor: My Family’s Hope and the Untold History of the Disappearing American Farmer.

- More from Brian Reisinger

News

Can a Lebanese Seminary Move Beyond the Liberal-Conservative Impasse?

Interview by Jayson Casper

Martin Accad, the new president at Near East School of Theology, speaks at its campus in Beirut.

Courtesy of Near East School of Theology

The oldest Protestant seminary in the Middle East has a new vision.

Officially founded in 1932 but with origins dating back to the 19th-century missionary movement, the Near East School of Theology (NEST) is operated by the Presbyterian, Anglican, Lutheran, and Armenian Evangelical denominations.

Installed this week, its 11th president is a nondenominational Lebanese evangelical.

Martin Accad, formerly academic dean at Arab Baptist Theological Seminary (ABTS), was installed on Sunday at the historic institution’s Beirut campus. He graduated from NEST in 1996 with a bachelor of theology degree, eventually earning his PhD from the University of Oxford. Awarded scholarships by the World Council of Churches and the evangelical Langham Partnership, Accad is a locally controversial theologian who, like NEST, straddles the liberal-conservative dichotomy.

Author of Sacred Misinterpretation: Reaching Across the Christian-Muslim Divide, Accad has urged believers to approach Islam in a manner that avoids the twin pitfalls of syncretism and polemics. But before joining NEST he resigned his prior academic position at ABTS to apply his biblical convictions within Lebanon’s contested political scene. Creating a research center, his last four years have been spent in pursuit of reconciliation between Lebanon’s often-divided sectarian communities.

Accad will now bring his vision to a new generation of Middle East seminarians.

Although doing public theology is novel for the institution, NEST has long sought, with some struggle, to balance the two streams of its early predecessors’ commitments to evangelistic outreach and service-oriented witness. Its founding in 1932 resulted from a merger of two programs, each with its own distinctives.

One stream of NEST’s roots dates to 1856, when American missionaries began what Accad describes as a discipleship training program in the mountains of Lebanon. Along with providing pastoral development, it functioned as a mission station for sharing the gospel in local villages with non-Protestant Christians and diverse Muslim communities. Its remote location was also designed to isolate these early “seminarians” from the corruption of city life in Beirut.

American outreach to Armenians and Arabs in the Ottoman Empire (modern-day Turkey) led to the creation of similar schools beginning in 1839. After the Armenian genocide in World War I, these efforts relocated to Athens where they coalesced into a seminary that adopted an ecumenical, Enlightenment-informed model, emphasizing the importance of social service. This was especially true in its approach to Islam—sympathetic and comparative with an eye toward reconciliation.

The merger of these two programs created NEST, which eventually settled in the cosmopolitan Hamra neighborhood of Lebanon’s capital. Although it is situated near three historic Protestant liberal arts colleges—now known as the American University of Beirut (AUB), the Lebanese American University (LAU), and the Armenian-led Haigazian University—early cooperation was shattered by the Lebanese civil war in 1975 and has not been re-established.

Accad wants to restore this collaboration and embody an integration of scholarship and discipleship. CT spoke with him about Protestant distinctives, “electric shock” pedagogy, and how to understand the mainline-evangelical divide in the Middle East.

Why does serving as president of NEST appeal to you?

We need to rethink what it means to be a seminary student today. This question is a key issue globally, but especially in the Middle East. Ideally, the seminary leads the church to be relevant in society. This requires beginning with society and determining its needs. And then the seminary addresses the church—what does the pastor need? Finally, it works backward and designs a program to fit this profile.

Historically, NEST has been an ordination track. This is the traditional model, and it is still necessary if the church believes that it is. But I want to explore with the churches their vision for seminary training, for congregational service, and for regional witness—and how NEST can help prepare leaders to implement this vision.

How do you plan to prepare leaders to serve the church?

Nontraditional, focused tracks are becoming the way people want to learn. Accrediting bodies speak of micro-credentials that may contribute toward academic goals but have value in and of themselves and fit into the bigger puzzle of what students want to do with their lives.

But this system of training should not be only for evangelicals. I want NEST to attract Catholic and Orthodox students also, to think together about how to impact the reality around us. And as we design our programs, I will engage civil society and political activists, where the conversation might be challenging. Many of these people have been turned off by religion due to the sectarian religious landscape of Lebanon, so my interactions with them will be an act of witness.

I can testify on behalf of NEST that God, the church, and theological education are not just internal affairs within the boundaries of our community. No, the church is in society and serves society, and if it is not leading the process of societal change, then it is not following its calling.

How do nonevangelicals fit into a Protestant seminary?

NEST will always be a place of theology and religious studies. I don’t see NEST starting a program in business. But I would like us to reflect on theologies of poverty, just economics, and corruption. These are real problems in Lebanon and the surrounding region, and more Lebanese should be equipped to address them at the spiritual level.

Courtesy of Near East School of Theology

Abeih Seminary in Mount Lebanon

We have students in our churches getting degrees in liberal arts at local universities who do not know how this education fits within a larger calling. They have grown up in the church or experienced a heart conversion as an adult, and while they want to serve God, they don’t see themselves as pastors.

Catholic and Orthodox students are similar, devoted to God in their contemplative practices but not knowing how to integrate this strength into secular life. These students should have the opportunity to take classes at NEST to think more deeply about their degrees in business, engineering, or history.

How will this integration develop?

I will have dialogues with AUB, LAU, and Haigazian about cross-registration and joint institutional credits. Though we have a shared history, many professors at these universities do not know that NEST exists.

At some point, Protestants divided university education into separate tracks for liberal arts and seminary study, as in the American Ivy League. Some of this was due to tensions between evangelism and the social gospel, which contributed to a dichotomy between mainline and evangelical churches.

But in light of God’s overarching sovereignty, it is biblical to combine them into a coherent whole so that public theology can become the life of the church. And as evangelicals seek to repair this breach—as in the Lausanne Covenant—our modern world no longer has a need for these separate paradigms.

What nags at me locally, however, is that while higher education institutions in Lebanon and the Middle East have done a wonderful job forming global citizens and experts in specific fields, they take pride when graduates become dual citizens and succeed abroad. I feel that this is a loss. I want graduates to stay here and explore their calling in their home country.

This is vocation—to make your career count in God’s perspective.

Will NEST remain a Protestant institution?

The vision I spelled out is very Protestant. It is about social transformation. There have been many different and opposing voices in our tradition about how much of our toe to dip into society, politics, and current affairs. But for me, it is theology that sets the framework for this engagement.

NEST is the only evangelical body in the Levant that belongs to the Association of Theological Institutes in the Middle East (ATIME). I hope to hire qualified Catholic and Orthodox professors. But while we will offer a broadly Christian education, other denominations will still consider us Protestant, which in our essence we will remain.

I am nonsectarian, so this is a difficult question for me. Lebanese Protestants take pride in how they have contributed to Lebanon by building hospitals and schools and in how they demonstrate an ethic of love and honest work. We aim to care for the whole person.

But these contributions no longer distinguish us from the rest of society. Nor do we want to pine for our past glories. Protestantism, for me, is about reformation, a countercurrent that improves upon what has become ineffective. It then impacts society and contributes to human well-being and the common good.

Ideally, our denominational heritage also leads to personal transformation as a disciple of Jesus. This is the church’s responsibility, and Christian involvement in society is one of the strongest testimonies to the power of Christ.

Among local evangelicals, NEST has a reputation as a liberal institution.

This is true, even within its four denominations. Some students have entered NEST excited to study and left with serious skepticism about matters of faith. My experience is that NEST has been a mixed bag of theology. It receives faculty sent by mainline partners in the West, and sometimes the vetting could have been more thorough. While many professors have been conservative, others have been quite liberal.

How are “liberal” and “conservative” defined in the Lebanese context?

Academic theologians read all the same books and think very much alike on core issues. The difference is in pedagogy—how they communicate knowledge, not the knowledge that they have.

Many professors teach as if they must communicate everything to first-year students on day one. They act as if the purpose of theological education is to give budding seminarians an electric shock, provoking an existential crisis that will hopefully lead to greater maturity. I have heard faculty members talking in the coffee room about how students are having doubts in their faith, as if this is something to be proud of.

Pedagogy should be about helping people grow and mature, to make them better citizens and Christian leaders. It is a process of walking alongside someone.

But neither is conservative indoctrination the point.

Over the years, evangelicals have started other seminaries in response to NEST, which were then critiqued similarly. On the whole, it is impossible to do serious theology for very long without the risk of being viewed as too liberal by local churches, unless an institution works very hard to stay connected to them.

Pedagogy is important, but so is content.

No one theological position has categorized NEST, which is not problematic in itself. But when one is hiring professors who do not all come from a single confessional background, an agreed-upon framework is necessary to ensure consistency in the formation of students.

I want to recruit faculty members who fit within our classical Reformed heritage. We believe in the Nicene doctrines of Jesus’ divinity, virgin birth, physical resurrection, and second coming. Concerning the authority of Scripture, Lebanese Protestants are quite conservative but sometimes too literalist.

NEST has an open evangelical position in terms of how to interpret literary genres, keeping some questions unanswered—for example, understanding the violence of God in the Bible. Women’s ordination is a matter where the mainline denominations here have made more progress than the more conservative streams of evangelicalism.

I’m excited about this side of NEST, which it pioneered in the Middle East.

On other issues, such as gender and sexual orientation, we all still have quite conservative views that reflect our conservative social boundaries. We must honor our church community with great sensitivity and with a faithful biblical hermeneutic. But we also need to better familiarize ourselves with all sides of current social and scientific research rather than rallying for any specific interpretation of a cultural cause.

How do you fit personally into the evangelical church community?

Within the mainline Protestant churches of Lebanon, I am viewed as quite conservative. Among Baptists I’ve been perceived—unjustly I would say—as too liberal. These communities are more alike than different, with much overlap in their Venn diagrams. But I won’t be an “odd fish” at NEST.

Those who are considered liberal Protestants in the Middle East are more akin to the conservative-leaning mainline churches in America. I am more concerned about NEST’s pedagogical framework than about its position on the conservative-liberal spectrum. For me, it is most important to determine how to help students get to an understanding that builds their faith and their ability to be pastors and leaders who serve their communities.

One wing of the Middle East church is said to be ecumenical, the other evangelistic. Is this fair?

These are characterizations. Mainline Protestants here care about witnessing to Jesus. Not everyone will actually evangelize, just as not every Baptist will. And the traditional evangelical approach of trying to convert everyone who “doesn’t look like me” is becoming increasingly less common.

It disturbs me when someone says, “I met this priest or monk, and I preached the gospel to him.” What arrogance toward someone who is dedicated to God’s calling. The nonecumenical approach is disastrous. Christian maturity is to preach the gospel in a way that introduces people to Jesus while journeying with them—not simply winning converts to one’s own tradition.

How will you implement this spirit at NEST?

I look for three things when searching for a church: vibrant worship, biblical teaching, and outreach in the community. A seminary should not be different.

Intellectual learning is dry; this becomes problematic if not accompanied by a life of worship, prayer, and application. Solid biblical theology is born not from discussion over what is conservative or liberal but by a devotional practice that feeds into transformation of the community.

If worship and witness result from theology, then it is a theology that works, protected from the two extremes.

- More from Jayson Casper

News

Lausanne Theologians Explain Seoul Statement that Surprised Congress Delegates

Morgan Lee in South Korea

Leaders of the 33-member Theology Working Group offer insight on their 97-point, 13,000-word declaration.

Ivor Poobalan, principal of Colombo Theological Seminary, and Victor Nakah, international director for sub-Saharan Africa with Mission to the World, served as co-chairs of the drafting committee of the Seoul Statement.

Photography by Morgan Lee

The Lausanne Movement’s decision to release a 97-point, 13,000-word theological statement on the inaugural day of its fourth world congress has sparked a week of debate and conversation.

The seven-part treatise, which stated theological positions on the gospel, the Bible, the church, the “human person,” discipleship, the “family of nations,” and technology, went live online shortly before the event kicked off on Sunday night.

The Seoul Statement “was designed to fill in some gaps, to be a supplement in seven key topics that we have not thought enough about or haven’t reflected or written enough about within the Lausanne Movement,” said David Bennett, Lausanne’s global associate director, on Sunday afternoon, where he met with the media to explain the statement’s vision and purpose.

“We were not trying to create a fourth document which would then replace or make obsolete those earlier three documents,” he added.

The congress organizers also explained at a press conference on Monday that the text was final.

Nevertheless, two days later, Christian Daily International reported that a section addressing homosexuality had been amended after its release. These edits were intended to be made prior to the Seoul Statement’s publication, a Lausanne spokesperson said on Tuesday.

On Thursday, in response to the statement’s release, Ed Stetzer, Lausanne’s regional director for North America, publicly urged the organization to “state emphatically that evangelism is ‘central,’ ‘a priority,’ and ‘indispensable’ to our mission.” Meanwhile, by Friday morning, 235 delegates had signed an open letter organized by Korean Evangelicals Embracing Integral Mission asking the Lausanne Theology Working Group (LTWG), the body that composed the Seoul Statement, to review and revise it with special attention to 10 particular points.

Through Thursday night, no Lausanne leaders had offered an in-depth explanation from the main stage of the Seoul Statement, or of why the statement was finalized prior to the conference—an action that surprised those who, based on previous congresses, had anticipated a document still open to revision based on delegates’ feedback.

On Friday morning, Mike du Toit, Lausanne’s director of communications and content, sent a mass email to delegates, explaining that the Seoul Statement “focuses on certain theological topics identified by the Lausanne Theology Working Group as needing greater attention by the global church, and reflects on them on the basis of the gospel, the biblical story we live and tell.”

“We recognize that in introducing the Seoul Statement, we should have been clearer in explaining its purpose and the way in which participants are invited to engage with it,” he wrote. The email also offered a link to a feedback form.

Du Toit’s email also noted that delegates would be invited to sign a document called the Collaborative Action Commitment during Saturday’s closing session and that this was not related to the Seoul Statement.

Later that morning, Wheaton College president and plenary speaker Philip Ryken mentioned the Seoul Statement and encouraged delegates to provide feedback.

In the meantime, CT heard from dozens of delegates who were confused and frustrated by the lack of formal feedback channels and whose understanding of the purpose of the statement diverged from that presented by Bennett in his Sunday and Monday press conferences.

The process leading to the Seoul Statement began at the end of 2022 when the Lausanne board tapped Sri Lanka’s Ivor Poobalan, principal of Colombo Theological Seminary, and Zimbabwe’s Victor Nakah, international director for sub-Saharan Africa with Mission to the World, as co-chairs of a drafting committee. Poobalan and Nakah worked with 33 theologians from South Africa, India, Ethiopia, Norway, Vietnam, Japan, South Korea, the United States, the United Kingdom, Brazil, Australia, New Zealand, Iran, Palestine, Sweden, Singapore, and Zambia.

“We’re not surprised by the conversations that have been generated,” said Nakah. “It’s a theological document, after all, and the topics in this statement are real issues.”

Poobalan and Nakah met with global managing editor Morgan Lee to discuss the Seoul Statement on Thursday afternoon.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

How was the task of the Seoul Statement articulated?

Poobalan: We asked ourselves, do we need another statement? There was no need for us to write a document simply because the Congress should produce a document. Our existing Lausanne documents are great in themselves.

But Lausanne leadership felt that as global Christianity grows in new places, a new generation of Christians was not aware of the Lausanne Covenant, Cape Town Commitment, or Manila Manifesto and perhaps not very interested in going back there. Instead, they are concerned about current issues.

For instance, anthropology has become a big issue only in the 21st century, and in the last few years it has become even bigger. So it was important for us to speak to some of these issues. We are not replacing the previous documents, but we’re trying to find ways to add more value to what Lausanne stands for, providing some specific guidelines that will help the global church navigate tough issues.

What was the process of creating the statement?

Poobalan: Throughout these 50 years, we’ve talked about the authority, infallibility, and usefulness of Scripture, but we haven’t really addressed how to interpret it. Our purpose was to address issues that have been somewhat neglected or under duress, such as the major challenge of discipleship or the issue of what it means to be human. That’s how we arrived at these seven subjects, though many others could have been addressed.

Nakah: For those who wonder why we started with the gospel again, it’s because there are now many different “gospels” going around. If evangelicals don’t have some agreed way of reading, studying, and interpreting Scripture, how are we going to find answers to the issues facing the church today? If hermeneutics is not attended to, then it’s just the gospel according to Ivor or Victor.

Why was the statement finalized before the Congress?

Poobalan: Different approaches are possible. The Lausanne Covenant was finalized during the Congress. In Cape Town, there was no final document at the end of the Congress; it came out much later, but listening took place in Cape Town and then the team used that information to complete the document later.

We took the position that we could complete this document, present it at the Congress, and get a sense of the chatter. We haven’t decided what we will do as a result, but we will discuss the input together as Lausanne leadership and see how we will go from there.

Nakah: The way people have responded to the document gives a more accurate picture of the global evangelical world’s theological diversity. But all this conversation being generated is good feedback.

Rightly or wrongly, the document was not meant to be something we present, get feedback on, and then refine. If that is what we wanted, we would have done that. That’s why this feedback is warranted. You don’t present a theological document and have everybody celebrating.

I’ve heard criticism over the lack of formal feedback channels. This hasn’t stopped some delegates from giving feedback. But if this feedback then influences any changes, I can imagine other delegates feeling frustrated that there wasn’t a more formal way of communicating their opinions.

Poobalan: I think that tomorrow [September 27], this will be addressed, and I do think people will be afforded opportunities to give feedback. Of course, feedback was going to come anyway, and once you formalize it, then there’s an expectation as to what you’re going to do with the feedback, and that’s what the Lausanne board will wrestle with.

Nakah: We are very grateful to the board for accepting this document and then taking it from there. But ultimately, it is Lausanne’s document. It needs the movement’s leadership to explain guidelines of how to move forward.

There are probably no other theological statements out there whose process was led by theologians from Zimbabwe and Sri Lanka. How might your background and context have influenced this statement?

Poobalan: I was surprised when Victor and I were asked to co-chair the TWG, because this group plays a critical role and has always had leaders from the Western world. The board’s bold willingness to think differently and invite two co-chairs from the Global South was surprising, but also stimulating and encouraging. On the other hand, we wanted to ensure that the document didn’t just become a matter of the Global South.

To that end, in establishing our team, we looked for people who could represent different parts of the church. Many of these 33 theologians are very well-known, but they were an amazing group who collaborated with each other.

In every meeting with them, I had two feelings: a sense of the great expertise in the room, and sheer humility.

Nakah: There were other times in this process when we realized we needed expertise. On more than one occasion, we would realize that someone was missing, and we had to reach out to someone who had done research in that area, because we knew we were not the experts. We ended up working with people who are far smarter than us and far more clever than us. It was a joy.

Can you point to one or two sections of the Seoul Statement that really evidence the presence of the Global South in this document?

Nakah: As we know, Africa has become the breeding ground of the prosperity gospel. In light of that, the section on the gospel was important, because there is a sense in which we can talk about many gospels on the continent of Africa. We wanted to frame the document in such a way that anyone who reads it will leave with an understanding of the gospel that is refreshing and challenging.

The second great challenge for the Majority World church today is discipleship. Some African theologians still push back when the church in Africa is described as one mile wide and one inch deep. But that’s still the reality.

So if there’s one section that is most critical for the African church going forward, it’s this one. We hope it will challenge church and parachurch leaders to take discipleship seriously.

Poobalan: This document speaks to the issue of theological anthropology. In the church, there is a sense of confusion about what it means to be a redeemed human being. Some people have at times claimed a godlike status or a power beyond what the Bible offers to the redeemed human person.

But also in the area of gender and sexuality, at times the Global South has wondered, “Why is Christianity speaking only from the perspective of the Global North?” In that sense, talking about sexuality and gender was important to clarify that our convictions are not reactions to what’s happening in the West, but expressions of the scriptural position.

Consequently, there’s a whole section on what Scripture teaches about sexuality and gender. There’s a little more Bible exposition there, because of the global church’s need for clarity about what Scripture teaches.

Additionally, the “family of nations” section talks about the importance of peace and what it means to be a nation in both a biblical and modern sense. For instance, can we just equate the historic names of people and countries without context? [Editor’s note: See Section 84 of the Seoul Statement.] We are trying to address current situations in which Christians sometimes find a theological basis for particular positions when taking an approach to war or conflict.

And yet sometimes there are contradictions in our approach. Christians may sometimes denounce all violence against civilians, but at other times they may find theological reasons to justify it.

I’m aware that some Lausanne delegates, because of their home context and those they minister to, found the sections on LGBT issues either too soft or too harsh.

Nakah: For the group that worked on this section, we felt that hermeneutics was a good starting point. So we started by asking, “What does the Bible teach?” In our group, there was general consensus as to what the Bible said, and the disagreements were all about application to real-life contexts.

For those leaders who feel our approach was a little bit soft, I would ask: Is it biblical to insult gay and lesbian people? If you come back to Scripture, the Bible helps you understand that God loves sinners. That’s totally different from a cultural position that demeans them.

How did you choose which conflicts to mention by name in the “family of nations” section?

Poobalan: We recognized that not every conflict could not be mentioned, because that was not the point. Some conflicts have been dealt with to the extent that the country has moved on, like South Africa or Sri Lanka or Northern Ireland. The examples of current conflicts serve as points of reference to discuss the biblical position on conflict and where Christians should stand. We do understand when people feel sensitive and sad that a particular conflict they have experienced is not mentioned.

With regard to Gaza and Israel, this situation is unique because the church is very strongly divided, based on its theology of Israel.

In a way, we would like to see the global church put this issue right in the middle and say, “Let’s talk about this. What is the actual biblical theology of Israel? How does this square with our understanding of the church” (which we have discussed in the third chapter of the statement)? It is important to discuss the particulars of the Seoul Statement, but we would really like the church to get back to asking, “Where does our theological basis come from?”

We hope very much that this work will stimulate the church to engage in conversation. This is not going to be easy, because at the moment a lot of emotion is involved, but we hope that the church will take up this task, since it is painful for the church to be polarized on this issue based on theology.

If I’m a delegate reading the Seoul Statement and I agree with much of it but not all of it, should I still feel that I can be part of the Lausanne Movement?

Nakah: I go back to the question of what unites evangelicals. What are the nonnegotiable fundamentals or essentials of the Christian faith?

When it comes to topical issues, most evangelicals don’t quite understand the overwhelming diversity of the global evangelical body. If anyone decides whether they are in or out of the Lausanne Movement on the basis of this statement, that’s unfortunate.

Poobalan: It’s naive to think that all evangelicals, even in one country, will agree on everything. But we practice this discipline of friendship, recognizing that the essentials of the faith must not be compromised.

Even John Stott and Billy Graham, the founders of the Lausanne Movement, disagreed on certain aspects, but they could remain friends. They reached out to each other. Similarly, in this Congress, our idea of collaboration is not based on all of us thinking identically. Collaboration involves a willingness to stretch out our hand to others who hold to the same core convictions.

What do you want people to know about the way this statement discusses evangelism?

Poobalan: The statement is very clear that evangelism is absolutely important. We’re working away from old dichotomies that separate the message we proclaim from the lives we live. Throughout the statement, there are many references to the importance of verbal proclamation, but verbal proclamation by people who do not demonstrate the reality of what they proclaim will ultimately undermine the truth of the message.

- More from Morgan Lee

Share

The rules of ancient biography

The human element

Share

Related

Share

related

Share

Share

Share

Related

Share

In this series

Share

Share

Share

Related

Share

recommended

Share

Related

Share

Share

Related

Share

related

Share

Related

Share

Share

Related

Share

Share