Rekindle

Doodle: Hi Kids, (Why) Do You Like Violence?

Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

To my own surprise, I’ve probably read more memoirs in the last two years than I’d previously read in my entire life. Writing that sentence I realise it might not be entirely true. This is partly down to the fact that the line between autobiography and memoir is difficult to draw—and I’ve definitely read my fair share of those, most noticeably Augustine’s Confessions, which everyone simply must read. It’s my intention to produce reflections on at least two standout memoirs in the future: Hilary Mantel’s Giving Up the Ghost and Laura Cumming’s Thunderclap. But the passage I want to turn over below comes from This Boy’s Life, by Tobias Wolff. Within Wolff’s memoir it isn’t an insignificant passage. Only he uses it reflect on the difficult relationship he had with his stepfather. My purposes are somewhat more on the nose, related to watching of blood sports.

Owing to this being a doodle, I’m not even going give you broad brushstrokes describing Wolff’s memoir; we’re going to jump straight into the relevant passage. I’ll make a few brief comments along the way, mostly tied back to my writing on blood sports, and possibly offer up some concluding thoughts.

Boxing in This Boy’s Life

After getting caught in an argy-bargy with his friend Arthur, Wolff was handed a note consigning him to a boxing match with that same friend. This would take place in school gymnasium, overseen by one of their teachers. “Mr Mitchell,” the teacher concerned, “had started the smokers some years back to showcase the boxing talent of a few boys, and his own talent as their coach, but since then they had become big business. The tickets cost three dollars and sold out in a matter of days.”

What got my attention as I read this passage was what comes next, in Wolff’s explanation of the smokers’ meteoric rise and considerable popularity. The tickets didn’t sell out, writes Wolff, “because the quality of the fighters got better, but because they got worse. Nobody wanted to see artful flyweights dance up and down, moving their shoulders prettily while darting in for another scientific love tap. They wanted to see slope-shouldered bruisers stand toe to toe and pound each other into goulash. They wanted to see blood. They wanted to see pain.”

At least two observations are worth marking at this juncture. Firstly, as I argued previously, “most people who watch blood sports prefer the sensational to the technical. In other words, we cheer loudest when a boxer is knocked out cold. We don’t want fights decided by the judges. In MMA most viewers relish bloodied faces and broken limbs, while rolling their eyes at the indiscernible grappling that takes place on the floor.”

That is tied to a second observation, there’s essentially no way for someone who enjoys blood sports to deny that part and parcel the entertainment is real world violence that often results in serious injury, sometimes death. Thus I contended in another article, blood sports offer us a context where consuming violence is acceptable, which is further abstracted by our screens. As I wrote, “blood sports have created a context where human violence isn’t only tolerated but celebrated.”

Before his three rounds in the ring, Wolff had to sit in the locker room with the other fighters. His recollection of that wait and what he could hear from the crowd effectively underlines my points. “The roar was steady, almost mechanically so, except when it fell off during the breaks between rounds and when it rose during what must have been particularly violent passages in the fight then underway.”

“Drunk With Delight at the Cruelty”

I think it was Kevin DeYoung who once remarked that if early Christian believers stepped into one of our churches they’d be profoundly shocked by two things. The first is how conformably we live. Though this warrants reflection, it isn’t my concern here. The second, however, would be how indistinct we are from our culture. It’s been my conviction for a long time now—a conviction that only grows with conversations and reflection—that one of the things our forebears in the faith would bristle at is our decision to cheer on as two humans hurt each other for entertainment.

It’s fitting then that we give the last word to one such believer, from across the millennia. Recounting a friend’s first time at the gladiatorial games in his Confessions, Augustine writes, “With eyes glued to the spectacle, he absentmindedly gulped down its frenzies. He took a complicit joy in the fighting, and was drunk with delight at the cruelty.”

If the Bible Is Sufficient, Do We Really Need Theology?

Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Earlier this year I set out to dissuade pastors from reductive approaches to shepherding, which often turn on the pious sounding insistence that we need only teach the Bible. Of course it comes across as a humble commitment to sola scriptura—assuming that’s what the Reformers meant as well as pretending that they themselves didn’t write mountains of theology as well as promulgating various confessions and catechisms. But as I wrote in that article, “Balanced preaching,” along with Reformed theology, “is committed to furnishing the flock with theological categories, developing their grasp of Christian doctrine.” I went on to say that if pastors don’t do this out of some misguided insistence on sola scriptura, I fear their God’s people will be ill-equipped for both robust Christian thinking and—a little ironically—Bible reading.

In response a few readers felt I was suggesting that the Bible isn’t enough. After all, among Christians who prize the Bible and expository preaching can sometimes lurk the notion that theology is fruitless, a fool’s errand. In defence of those believers, one might point out that this notion is the result of poor instruction. But in my experience many Christians are very content with the idea. After all, who wants to feel bad for streaming over 20 hours of series in a week without committing even an hour of theological reading and engagement? It’s much easier to let ourselves off the hook if we can boldly declare: “this is my Bible. I am what it says I am. I have what it says I have. I can do what it says I can do.” Who needs theology anyway?

To answer the question posed by my title, while the Bible is enough—or sufficient—Christians need theology. And Herman Bavinck is here to persuade us.

The Church Must Keep Retelling Salvation History

Towards the end of his relatively unknown little work, What Is Christianity?, Bavinck asks whether the Bible is enough. As you read the lengthy passage below, note that his high view of Scripture doesn’t result in demeaning theology or Christian thought; in fact, we can observe the opposite.

“Scripture is the magnificent painting which, in a series of captivating scenes, brings before our eyes the works of God in salvation history. Well then, that powerful imprint which the Scriptures make on the Church, it must reproduce. What the Church has seen through that wonderful book, what it has felt of the word of life, it must proclaim. The Church must try to put it into words and account for it. The Church has absorbed what the Scriptures tell it, lived it as it were, and now reproduces it in its confession. Emerging again from the penetration of the Holy Scriptures, it looks around itself, feels strange in this world, and expresses to opponents and those who are astray—with holy enthusiasm—what it has experienced and enjoyed.”

As Bavinck puts it, what the Church experiences and enjoys in God’s wonderful book demands retelling or reproduction. Only he isn’t referring to reprinting the Bible—as important as that is—but putting into words and accounting for what the Church feels as she hears from God. Christians ought to both absorb and attest to what God has revealed in the Bible, that magnificent painting with its manifold captivating scenes. “That powerful imprint which the Scriptures make on the Church, it must reproduce.”

Throughout the ages Christian theologians have carried out this beautiful vision with varying success. There are many reasons for Christians’ mixed feelings towards theology—a few of which I explored recently here and here—but a high view of the Bible does not entail the dismissal of theology. Instead, it invites us to gratefully listen to Christians voices from the past and perhaps add ours to their chorus.

Theology Is More Than Man’s Thoughts About God

Bavinck goes on, possibly anticipating another reason to support an indifference towards theology: isn’t theology just people’s thoughts about God? In response to this objection Bavinck says, “The Church does not create; it does not discover a single truth; it only finds what is laid down in Scripture; it merely reflects after the Holy Spirit has thought it all out, but then the Church expresses what it has found and thus reflects it in its own language, in its own way, fully conscious and understandable for everyone. The confession it expresses, therefore, does not stand above or beside or outside Scripture, but entirely in Scripture.”

While there is no shortage of speculative and abstract theology, the best Christian thinking is—as Bavinck puts it—the Church’s attempt to faithfully witness to what it hears from the Spirit in the Bible. Regrettably much theology today is self-referencing; as Stanley Hauerwas observes, instead of writing about God, academic theology has essentially become people writing about the thoughts of other people. When theology takes this direction, the Church’s suspicion is justified. But when theologians take seriously Bavinck’s charge then their writing will serve believers and witness to their own age. The means of doing so is nothing other than what God has “laid down in Scripture.” Therefore the best theology isn’t self-congratulatory or circular but the Church’s humble and prayerful attempt to think God’s thoughts after him, for “the Holy Spirit has [already] thought it all out.”

The Church’s Theology Is Incomplete

Bavinck makes one last point in this remarkable section. Again he seems to anticipate a common objection to theology: we’ve got two millennia of Christian theology, do we really need more? Somedays I’m more sympathetic to this scruple than others, though as I’ve written elsewherethe relative abundance of theological writing in certain quarters doesn’t cover the lack in others. Bavinck, on other hand, offers a peculiar answer, one that I’ve argued before: the Church’s theology is incomplete.

Concerning the Church’s confession, Bavinck insists that “what is contained in that Bible is so rich and so broad in scope that it cannot be taken in and reproduced by one person, not by a single generation of people. That requires centuries.” The implications of this are inspiring because not only does Bavinck urge the Church to write he simultaneously celebrates what she’s already written. “The knowledge of the length and breadth and depth and height of Christ’s love can only be attained in fellowship with all the saints.” It must continually be heard and retold, pondered and delighted in.

Thus Bavinck continues, “each time the Church is introduced more deeply into God’s revelation in subsequent times, this root grows up and various branches grow on it, some of which bend sideways and grow in the wrong direction. But thus, in the course of the centuries, the love of Christ is interpreted more and more broadly, and that glorious image which the Church conceives from the Holy Scriptures and causes to radiate outwardly is further and further completed.”

The Bible Corrects a Low View of Theology

This article is longer than what I tend to publish here—I hope the extended portions from Bavinck’s What Is Christianity? offset my own ramblings. In conclusion, many Christians today have adopted a low view of Christian theology. Without getting into the reasons behind that view, Bavinck provided us with three correctives to it. Firstly, the Spirit empowered reception of God’s glorious truth demands retelling. Secondly, theology proper is an initiative of God that draws people to him. Finally, the theological task will remain incomplete until Christ returns.

Millennials Got Phones Young, But the Similarities Stop There

Wed, 06 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There are many poor arguments in support of children getting their first smartphone earlier and earlier, perhaps even before they’re teenagers. These include:

“All of Leah’s friends have a smartphone, I don’t want her to feel left out”
“Community is different today. What’s wrong if Rupert finds his online?”
“This is how the world is now. And it’ll increasingly be Amelia’s world.”

As you might’ve detected, I deem these reasons and their various iterations far from convincing. Though I’m unwilling to go there—yet—I’m tempted to say that giving your child a smartphone could be tantamount to bad parenting. Of course, such lines are incredibly difficult to draw and we must be alert to legalistically shaming parents who’re only doing their best. But as I suggestedlast year, coinciding with Australia’s ban on social media for children under-16, everyone who’s even marginally self-aware can attest to the destructive and addictive aspects of social media and smartphones—and that’s among adults; imagine what they’re doing to children.

Fortunately, we don’t have to imagine. Thanks to the ongoing work of people like Jonathan Haidt, parents can no longer deny that the unholy digital trinity of social media, smartphones and streaming services is profoundly damaging our children. At this point, to suggest otherwise puts you in the orbit of the same people who insist that the earth is flat.

“We Got a Phone When Were Kids”

However, there’s one anecdotal argument in favour of giving children a smartphone and access to social media that stubbornly persists among my peers. It’s this: most Millennials—myself included—got their first phone long before the age of 16, and we turned out alright.

Putting aside the question of whether Millennials “turned out alright,” the above claim has a few not insignificant problems, clustered around the painfully obvious fact that our world and technology has changed both rapidly and radically over the last two decades. That’s right. We were getting our first phone more than twenty years ago. The Nokia 3310 was released in the year 2000. Myspace didn’t even exist then—let alone Facebook, Instagram or TikTok.

If those platforms existed in the early 2000s our Nokia 3310s wouldn’t have been able to access them. I’m not even sure it had a built-in browser. But more than that, data (or airtime) was expensive. Who doesn’t remember keeping track of how many characters we were using as we typed out SMSs?

However I’m not merely reminiscing. The point is that both our devices and the digital landscape of twenty years ago are unrecognisable to digital natives, Gen Z—it’s a foreign land. Access to the internet was immensely limited, as were our devices. In some ways there’s no comparison. Therefore the analogous argument between our teens and today’s is a non-starter.

Today’s Digital World Is Markedly Different

Furthermore, while Nokia was obviously in the business of selling cellphones, the tech giants of today are in a very different business. Yes, they’re still after your hard-earned cash, but they’re even more greedy for your attention. This is particularly true of social media platforms. As Nate Anderson writes, “Many modern digital services want to monopolise human attention,” this is their “fully intended goal.” While Tom and the team behind Myspace might have envisioned an online space for social engagement and self-expression, platforms like TikTok and Instagram are engineered to ensnare. They’re built to hook users and breed addicts willing to spend every last minute of their spare attention for just a few more scrolls.

As the narrator of Don Delillo’s Zero K admits, “I maintain myself on the puppet drug of personal technology. Every touch of a button brings the neural rush of finding something I never knew or never needed to know until it appears at my anxious fingertips, where it remains for a shaky second before disappearing forever.” Find me an adult who can’t corroborate that experience.

What’s astonishing is that despite the mounting evidence along with personal experiences, Millennial parents are still peddling stupid arguments about us getting our first phones before we were teenagers. Stop it. And even if you can’t put your phone down, give your children a chance to set theirs aside rather than colluding with Zuckerberg and company to turn them into social media addicts.

Give Your Children a Chance

“We can scarcely grasp what our generation has wrought by putting a supercomputer into all of our hands, all of the time. If you are reading this, whether on a page or a screen, there is a very good chance that you are caught up in a revolution that may have started with enticing gadgets but has not reshaped everything about how we live, love, work, play, shop, share—how our very hearts and minds encounter the world around us.”

That was written by Nancy Gibbs at TIME, in 2016. Ten years ago. Even in that time the digital landscape has morphed tremendously, monopolising even more of our time and intentionally seeking to grow its marketshare among adolescents. As a parent to other parents—and would-be parents—we must read the times, though not necessarily TIME. Without denying most of us remember the early 2000s fondly, there’s simply no denying that social media is a profoundly different ‘place’ today; as are the devices we use to inhabit it. Children need help to navigate this stupid new world. They need parents who want what’s best for them—not to be handed over to the whims of those who only desire to profit from them.

Having recently finished Jonathan Haidt’s Anxious Generation, I’ll give him the last word. “We need to develop a more nuanced mental map of the digital landscape. Social media is not synonymous with the internet, smartphones are not equivalent to desktop computers or laptops, PacMan is not World of Warcraft, and the 2006 version of Facebook is not the 2024 version of TikTok. I’m not saying that 11-year-olds should be kept off the internet. I’m saying that the Great Rewiring of Childhood, in which the phone-based childhood replaced the play-based childhood, is the major cause of in international epidemic of adolescent mental illness. We need to be careful about which kids have access to which products, at which ages, and on which devices. Unfettered access to everything, everywhere, at an age has been a disaster, even if there are a few benefits.”

Don't Confuse Faith in the Sovereign God With Stoicism

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Stoicism—popularised versions of it, at least—is a growing force in contemporary culture. By Stoicism I’m not referring to the stiff-upper lip, but the philosophy dating back to ancient Greece. Thanks to the efforts of authors like Ryan Holiday and his Daily Stoic there’s no shortage of moderns loosely identifying as Stoics. I say “loosely” because the philosophy has been cherrypicked rather than properly understood or consistently applied. That being said, Stoicism’s recent popularity makes a lot of sense, given its thoroughgoing commitment to materialism as well as moderns’ eclectic approach to ethics or morality, all within their expressive individualism. But I’m not here to weigh-in on another cultural trend. Rather I’m interested in the ways Christians unwittingly reach for versions of Stoicism when facing hardships and suffering.

Below I offer a brief description of Stoicism, drawing on both Marcus Aurelius and a contemporary philosopher. In the following section I show how certain Christian approaches to suffering are barely distinguishable from the Stoic’s, barring different language. Finally, with the help of Eugene Peterson I contrast Christian faith with the stoical spirit, arguing that the former means weakly depending on another rather than bravely standing on your own strength.

A Layman’s Guide to Stoicism

Despite my wide-range of dabbling, let me begin this section by reminding readers that I’m no philosopher. While I have read both Marcus Aurelius and Seneca it would be a lie to claim any sort of competence concerning Stoicism—or any other philosophical system for that matter, excepting perhaps Friedrich Nietzsche’s. Having said all of this, I will attempt a—very likely flawed—summary of Stoicism.

Many passages stood out in my reading of Marcus Aurelius, but one that I thought succinctly expresses his outlook reads, “You are not compelled to form any opinion about this matter before you, nor to disturb your peace of mind at all. Things in themselves have no power to extort a verdict from you” (Meditations, 6.52).

Aurelius’ words capture Stoicism’s emphasis on being unaffected by the world and its goings on. Man is fated, fettered. His only freedom, as R. C. Sproul puts it, is “restricted to his inner response or attitude to what befalls him.” Their philosophy is in the end a sustained “practice of imperturbability, accepting one’s lot with courage and serenity” (The Consequences of Ideas). Imperturbability, what a word; the Cambridge Dictionary says it means remaining “calm and controlled, even in difficult situations.” Because we’re unable to control the external world, Stoicism insists on cultivating the inner life, creating an oasis of the soul, untouched by the chaotic world outside.

The Stoic accepts that she isn’t free to determine the course of history or even her own life and must therefore pursue “peace of mind.” In Aurelius’ words she refuses to accede power to “things in themselves,” calling instead for exercising what little power we have in and of ourselves. This is the only and surest path to happiness, refusing to tie it to anything other than the individual will. This is also virtuous. The Stoic’s inner resolve is a feat of individual strength—a decision despite the horns of suffering.

Stoicism in the Church

As I’ve already said, Stoicism fits well within our disenchanted and individualistic age. But I’m far more interested in its appeal and apparent congruence with the Christian faith. If you listen closely, talk of suffering among believers is often indistinguishable from Stoicism; you can hear it in many of our hymns too.

Years ago I wrote about a period in our life when our well-laid plans were falling apart. It was an incredibly difficult time. Both my wife and I were hurt by people we trusted and little to no help was on the horizon. Well meaning brothers and sisters in our local church were quick to offer reassurances. However well-meaning, many of their attempts at encouragement could’ve been passages from Aurelius’ Meditations—the only difference was that instead of citing the intractable direction of the cosmos, they pointed out that God is sovereign. In other words, even though our world felt chaotic, we could rest in the knowledge that God is in control. As I wrote then, “merely stating the sovereignty of God can be little more than saying God is moving the pieces on the board from a distance.”

In the end, too much Christian counsel sounds like it was cribbed from the Stoics, with a sprinkling of sovereignty. When we do this we betray a profound misunderstanding about the presence of God. Worse still, any admixture of Stoicism and God’s sovereignty ultimately turns on the believer’s personal resolve and grit, their ability to persevere.

Distinguishing Christian Faith From Stoicism

In his outstanding Long Obedience in the Same Direction, Eugene Peterson acknowledges that God’s people are no strangers to deep struggles or suffering. When they bear it well, he adds, this has nothing to do with them having “a good digestion and sunny disposition.” To suggest so veers back towards Stoicism. “The person of faith,” Peterson insists, doesn’t persevere by personal strength or resolve. Nor do they shut their eyes tight, pretending not to see the world’s troubles. Like the author of Psalm 124, the believer “looks into the troubles of history, the anxiety of personal conflict and emotional trauma.” Why? Or how? Because it’s only outside of themselves that they can find the God who is at their side. “Our help is in the name of the Lord” (Psalm 124:8).

The problem with a Christian faith formed in conjunction with Stoicism is that while it might recognise God’s sovereignty it majors in the individual believer’s strength—their brave resolve through the mysterious caverns of suffering, rather than God’s presence with his people.

All of this, I think, brings us to a better definition of faith—faith in the face of suffering. For a biblically-keyed faith always looks outside of oneself for help and support; it isn’t a self-congratulating strength but the recognition of real weakness. At the same time, it searches about for real strength. As Peterson goes on, “We are travelling in the light, toward God who is rich in mercy and strong to save…It is the help we experience, not the hazards we risk, that shapes our days.”

Is It Time to Commit Western Theology to the Flames?

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

These days, whether it’s in an effort to decolonise theology or simply under the banner of deconstruction, it’s trendy—and relatively costless—to pillory Western theology. This dismissal of the Western tradition is part of a larger social reckoning. As I contend below, that broader backdrop isn’t inconsequential as we observe the same instincts among theologians; simultaneously it is beyond the scope of this article and my own abilities. As a theologian, however, I find this widely recycled scorn for Western theology troubling and profoundly problematic. My reasons for saying so will be spelt out in a series of articles, when I will address the various theological, intellectual, historical and philosophical problems with anti-Western sentiments. My aim for this article is far more modest: to briefly explore why this mood is so prevalent and to highlight one of its Achilles’ heels.

The Mood

As already alluded in the first line of this article, deconstruction is on trend. Ours is an age of dismantling, aggressively suspicious of inherited traditions and authorities out of preference for the sovereign self. As Marilynne Robinson notes in her outstanding essay Decline, there exists “a cultural habit of picking up the latest thing and discarding the second-latest thing without a thought or a backward glance. There is a great deal in our culture that encourages us to do this.” Thus we have a rejection of Western dogmatism in the name of 21st century dogmatism.

The more I reflect on this trend, particularly within theology, the more ironic it appears. One of the criticisms routinely levelled against Western theology is its being indistinguishable from 19th century European assumptions—in effect, the Enlightenment with all its rationalistic fervour and imperialistic instincts. Only, the suggested solutions to this poorly dressed-up colonialism are, supposedly, newer Western tools: postmodernisms and critical theory.

Irony aside, in addition to deconstruction being on trend it’s also relatively costless. While its heralds would have us see them as bold martyrs, on some or other level they’re self-preserving. As I wrote a few years back on cancel culture, with the help of Friedrich Nietzsche, “We’re no longer afraid of being excluded by mores of the past but the progressive culture of the future.” As the bell supposedly tolls for the West, vandalising its proverbial coffin is hardly heroic—it’s actually quite dull and largely predictable.

Though more could be said, let’s conclude this section on the mood behind these daring denunciations of Western theology by coming back to Marilynne Robinson’s essay. “Its exponents,” who in this case are the Western tradition’s detractors, “feel that scales have fallen from their eyes. Why talk of the divagations of other decades,” Robinson asks, when “context cannot catch revelation in its snares.” The entire essay—together with anything Robinson writes—demands careful reading. But her point is fairly simple and remarkably apt. The ongoing project to deconstruct theology is itself animated by a religious zeal or devotion. This is why its adherents refer to their efforts as prophetic. Yet I wonder whether its animus is more zeitgeist than Holy Ghost.

The Problem

Following that somewhat disorderly dissection of the moods I perceive behind the dogmatic dismantling of Western theology, let’s consider one profound problem with them.

As Herman Bavinck writes in the first volume of his Reformed Dogmatics, “Frequently doubt makes much deeper inroads into skepticism and agnosticism. Then dogmatics, faith, confession, and fellowship, are gone; mere negation is incapable of creating fellowship” (2.23). This concise statement isn’t dissimilar from the argument I made a few years back, demonstrating that cobelligerents make bad friends. For the enemy of your enemy, in reality, is not your friend. Cobelligerence should never be confused with community; to use Bavinck’s—as well as the Bible’s—terminology, it doesn’t create fellowship. It doesn’t build up. Defining yourself by what you aren’t is hardly an identity, and therefore it’s ineffective in bringing people together. As Bavinck puts it, “mere negation is incapable of creating fellowship.”

Yet mere negation is a central tenet of the mood and movement we’ve considered above. Of those two words, mood is more fitting since to speak of a movement suggests cohesion and direction. This mood creates theological communities like the hellscape from C. S. Lewis’ Great Divorce. There, all anyone needs to do is think it and a house appears. Thus the landscape is littered with empty streets and isolated homes as far as the eye can see. Though Lewis refers to these people as neighbours, I detect sarcasm in his choice of word because where the inhabitants settle is determined by their contradistinction and quarrels with one another. Eventually, then, these neighbours live as far as possible from each other; they don’t establish new communities but rather a sea of isolated individuals.

A Solution

There’s much more to say—indeed, it’s my hope that this article will stimulate some dialogue and maybe even an incensed response or two in writing. Western theology is imperfect. It’s weighed down by cultural baggage, infused with various worldview assumptions that originated outside of the Bible. So there’s space for more critical receptions of Western theology than perhaps tends to be permitted. Though I’ll get into his writing later in this series, John Webster superbly expounds the Western tradition while also exhorting theologians to adopt a somewhat ironic, openhanded and provisional stance towards their theologies. All of us would benefit from listening to him.

I, however, am firmly ensconced in the Western tradition, hopefully without being too blinkered. Therefore it’s only fitting to conclude with an appeal made by one of my favourite Western theologians, Herman Bavinck. In his terrific little book, What Is Christianity?, he writes, “One should not overlook the comfort it has poured into our hearts, the intimate and tender piety it has cultivated, the holy life it has enabled us to attain. Churches and monasteries, charitable foundations for all kinds of poor people, evangelism and missions, family and society, architecture, painting and poetry, all the goods of our rich culture are eloquent witnesses of Christianity. Christianity has revealed to us the heart of God and also the heart of mankind.”

Fridays with Fred: How to Become Immortal

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In 2019 George Whitefield College hosted Gerald Bray and I had the privilege of sitting his intensive lecture series on the person and work of Christ. One of the results of my attendance was the simultaneously niche and surprisingly popular series of articles on Gustaf Aulén’s Christus Victor—and unless you’re into turgid theology, I’d recommend taking a wide berth of it. While some would deem this less complimentary, another benefit of Bray’s lectures was hearing his hilarious anecdotes and smarting quips. For example, when asked about the church growth movement Bray had us imagine a discussion among 1st century pastors following Peter’s hugely successful Pentecost ministry. Bray’s point was a simple, but important one: God grows his church; men and methods don’t. It’s another of these whimsical stories that stands behind this article and how to gain eternal life.

Though I can’t recall the context, at one point during Bray’s lectures he quipped that there are two ways to live forever—to become immortal. The first, as he put is, is the traditional Christian route (John 3:15; see 17:3). The second, according to Bray, is to join a church council, leadership or committee and make every decision as protracted as possible. Those people, he added with a devilish smile, never die. They seem to live forever, as if the frustrations of others affords them supernatural longevity—perhaps even immortality. I often find myself relaying Bray’s delightful jab; my reason for bringing it up here is to draw attention to humanity’s invariable desire to live forever.

Below I’ll consider this longing, our pursuit of eternal life, illustrating the unease all of us feel with death from Julian Barnes’ novel, Arthur & George. Then I briefly turn over some of the ways we attempt to attain immortality, such as our obsession with health. After that we’ll finally arrive at Nietzsche, who describes a very another very popular approach to living forever: through the memories of others. Finally, I attempt to bring all of that together by highlighting how none of these approaches actually work, bringing us back to Bray’s first suggestion, above.

Life As a Snatch of Light Within Eternal Darkness

As I argued at length, here, “annihilation is a dreadful prospect,” which explains why “we’re all devoted to eating and drinking, to distraction and diversion.”

Our preference for a kind of willed ignorance about the end of ourselves is well put by Julian Barnes’ in Arthur & George. With the novel reaching its conclusion, one of the eponymous characters—George Edalji—says that death can only mean one of two things. The dead are either “extinguished utterly, with the death of the body the test and proof that their self, their essence, their individuality, no longer existed; or you could believe that somewhere, somehow…they were still alive.” Only George doesn’t stop there. Despite being a self-contented skeptic concerning all things religious, the recognition that there is “no position of compromise” between these two views—no way both can be true—means George struggles “to believe that this intense and complex thing called life was merely some chance happening on an obscure planet, a brief moment of light between two eternities of darkness.”

If we don’t live forever, indeed if death is end, then ahead lies an eternity of darkness. An abyss. Annihilation. Like Julian Barnes’ character in Arthur & George, many hold the view that death is a complete cessation of the person. In George’s words, death spells the end of the self. Whatever essence constitutes us is utterly extinguished. However, as I’ve argued in the article linked above, in the day-to-day those same people live as if there’s something more—as if death isn’t the end. To be frank, to do otherwise would be unbearable. Simultaneously, all of us pursue eternal life; we all desire to live forever, hoping for something beyond the veil, on the other side of the grave.

Transhumanism is arguably the most recent faith-fuelled attempt to achieve eternal life. Behind it stands our almost religious fixation on health and well-being. Only, as Peter Leithart writes in Solomon Among the Postmoderns, “Jog and lift weights until you are eighty-five; aspire to be the healthiest ninety-year-old in history, but eventually you will be a corpse. Delay the inevitable with skin creams and make-up; keep fit by dieting and exercise; maintain your youthful appearance with plastic surgery and liposuction, but eventually your beauty will fade, and if it doesn’t fade while you’re alive, it will fade when you die.” We know this. We just pretend we don’t. So we give ourselves over to various diversions—whether that’s a career and family, success or simply what are popularly referred to as side-quests. In the end, these are fools’ errands.

Enter Nietzsche.

How to Become Immortal: In Memoriam

There is another way we brace ourselves against the immanent frame, against the terrifying prospect of death as utter extinction of the person: to be remembered by others.

Listen to everyone’s favourite German philosopher, in Twilight of the Idols. “I am often asked why it is I write in German: nowhere am I worse read than in the Fatherland. But who knows, after all, whether I even wish to be read today? - To create things upon which time tries its teeth in vain in form and in substance to strive after a little immortality - I have never been modest enough to demand less of myself. The aphorism, the apophthegm [or maxim], in which I am the first master among Germans, are the forms of ‘eternity’” (see Expeditions of an Untimely Man §51). While it’s typically blusterous, don’t miss Nietzsche’s repeated idea: perhaps immortality is possible through others’ memory.

Nietzsche returns to this notion in Ecce Homo. “I know my fate,” he writes, as the book draws to close and his mind continues to fray. “One day, my name will be associated with the memory of something tremendous — a crisis without equal on earth, the most profound collision of conscience, a decision that was conjured up against everything that mankind has ever believed in and held sacred. I am no man, I am dynamite” (§4.1).

Unsurprisingly, Nietzsche struts his way through this pronouncement. But to adapt one of his most famous aphorisms, as he penned these passages he was himself staring into the abyss. Within a few short years he would crumple in a heap, a mental collapse from which he never recovers. This splendid mind shuts down. Within a decade Friedrich Nietzsche is dead.

And on the one hand, he wasn’t wrong. His name is to a degree “associated with the memory of something tremendous.” Was this a crisis without equal on earth, the most profound collision of conscience”? I’m not sure. But on the other hand, how many people even know the name Friedrich Nietzsche? Can we even speak about his memory? Does the continued study of his writing grant him eternal life? Can we meaningfully speak about “immortality” when human memory is so fragile and fleeting? Surely these “forms of ‘eternity’” fully warrant those inverted commas. For Nietzsche there is no eternity. Memory is such a precarious thing to stake your immortality on.

No One Survives the Vicissitudes of Memory

Much of what I’ve written above could be illustrated using Ecclesiastes. Consider these famous words, “There was a little city with few men in it, and a great king came against it and besieged it, building great siege-works against it. But there was found in it a poor, wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city. Yet no one remembered that poor man” (Ecclesiastes 9:14-15). It is a profoundly unsettling Bible book, largely misunderstood and routinely avoided. So to spare my blushes I’ll encourage you to read it for yourself. And instead of landing this anfractuous flight in the Old Testament text, I’m going to return to another already quoted: Arthur & George.

Unless you’ve specialised in the history of British law, it’s highly unlikely you’ve ever heard of George Edalji (1976-1953). This is hardly remarkable. What is, however, quite striking is that the other eponymous character from Julian Barnes’ novel is none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s far more likely you’ve heard of him. But let me not be presumptuous, since Doyle died a century ago and the furthest most of us venture into history is our Facebook memories. What’s remarkable about Doyle is that he was outstripped by his fictitious creation, Sherlock Holmes. Even in his own lifetime, Holmes’ fame ran ahead of Doyle’s. How much truer is that today? I’m guessing most readers know the fictional detective, whereas far fewer know the author. This demonstrates not only the fragility of memory, again, but also how fickle it can be.

Let conclude, somewhat bluntly. Don’t live to be remembered. In the end you’ll always be forgotten. Even before you’ve faded from living memory you’ll be misremembered. You aren’t other people’s memories of you. No, believing that is perhaps a fate worse than death itself.

Worship Summit With the Apostle Peter: A Satire

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

After the institution of the Lord’s Supper, Jesus and his disciples sang a hymn (Matthew 26:30). But early church tradition tells us more. Peter was leading worship that night, with his brother Andrew on piano. James and John trimmed the candles, as Matthew prepared the offering bags. Thaddeus slowly turned up the ambience on the pad, as Peter stepped up to the mic. Then, after inviting the Holy Spirit into their presence, Peter sang:

Even if I must die with you
I will not deny
Lord, I follow you now
I will lay down my life

Though they all fall
I will never fall away
Though they all fall
I will always say

Lord, I am ready to go with you both to prison and to death;
Jesus, I will worship you, to my very last breath.

Hands raised. Eyes shut. After Peter sings the chorus an eighth and last time he bows his head in prayer. Andrew keeps the melody going on the keyboard and ambient pad ensures the atmosphere is spiritually dense. Then the music soars again. Alone now, Peter prays: “If I must die with you, I will not deny you” (Mark 14:31). This moment feels especially significant. Peter seems Spirit-filled. Spirit-assured. Spirit-led. There’s a fire in his eyes. Surely Jesus is pleased? Praised? Glorified?

Jesus looks at Peter. He stares kindly into his eyes and glances around the room at the other disciples. “Will you lay down your life for me?” he asks Peter. “Yes,” Peter’s cries out. An audible murmur is heard from the other disciples. But Jesus’ response silences them. “Truly, truly, I say to you, the rooster will not crow till you have denied me three times” (John 13:38).

Two Tenets of Contemporary Worship

Though I’ll stop short of saying this satire was Spirit-led, it was certainly inspired. I recently attended a large worship conference. Surrounded by genuine believers from various traditions and theological stables very different to my own, I’d put it out of my mind to be unnecessarily critical or polemical. Rather, it was my intention to praise God as we sang and fulfil my role in edifying those around me.

But four or five songs in it struck me. What we sang could be summarised with just two statements: (a) God is worthy of praise; and (b) we will praise God. In other words, the songs we sang majored exclusively in God’s worthiness and our desire to praise him. These two themes are almost perfectly summed up in a chorus from my heyday in Christian youth:

I will give you all my worship,
I will give you all my praise!
You alone I long to worship
You alone are worthy of my praise!

Despite singing in a variety of languages and tempos, the setlist didn’t cover anything other than our repeated commitment to worshipping God because he is praiseworthy.

Admittedly this summary is reductive. Somewhat. The choruses we sang did at the very least offer iterations of God’s greatness and our ambition to glorify him—but only iterations. We sang thunderously about God being mighty and majestic. We sang boldly about following God wherever he might lead us. But in the end, all we really sang was: (a) God is worthy of praise; and (b) we will praise God.

The apostle Peter on the night of Jesus’ arrest came to mind.

Sing of Grace, Not Your Great Commitment

It goes without saying, but then such things are worth saying: the first section of this article is satirical. All we read in the Gospels is that Jesus and his disciples sang a hymn. However, the lyrics to Peter’s satirical hymn are—if you’ll forgive me saying so—biblical. In fact, they’re little more than a paraphrase of Peter’s various promises to never abandon Jesus or fail him; they merely repackage him insisting that he’d faithfully persist, even if he was the last man standing of the twelve. Only Peter was wrong. His confidence was misplaced; his bravado little more than arrogance. Just hours later Peter swears: “I do not know the man” (Matthew 26:72). Just before that infamous denial, he slept as Jesus prayed (Matthew 26:40). An hour’s watch was too much despite those bold declarations. It’s no wonder departs Jesus’ trial weeping bitterly (Matthew 26:75).

Bringing my satire and recent worship experience together, what we sing in corporate worship matters tremendously. The person whose regular worship—and broader liturgy—never gets beyond God’s greatness and our ambition to glorify him will be ill-prepared for life. If all I ever sing about is how wonderful God is, what comfort do I have when my life does everything but honour him? What do I do with my sin? How do I cope with doubts, questions about whether he really is glorious or good? Where will I turn? What will I sing?

It is nothing but irresponsible—not to mention wildly at variance with our troubled and easily tempted hearts—to have people sing on repeat that God is praiseworthy and that we’ll praise him. Because we won’t. I mean, I don’t; I don’t always want to praise God. “I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand” (Romans 7:21). Singing repetitious songs might get people swaying and raising their hands, but it doesn’t prepare them to say with Paul: “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:24-25).

“Worthy Is the Lamb Who Was Slain”

In my writing I’ve tended to stay away from anything that might be construed as a harkening back to the worship wars. Rather what the Gospels report concerning Peter is a warning against shallow and ultimately graceless songs. We know from Revelation that glory will entail unceasing praise, as God’s people sing “day and night” with the heavenly choirs, “Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!” (Revelation 4:8). Oh, how we’ll sing of God’s worth (Revelation 4:11). Relentless rejoicing marks the pages of Revelation, only those songs are suffused with the suffering of the Lamb (Revelation 5:9, 12). Those choruses must be echoed in our own—making much of Christ’s work and little to nothing of my own weak, faulting and brittle commitment to him.

Between the Delights of Solitude and Dread of Loneliness

Thu, 12 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It’s been many years—though she might prefer the expression ‘many moons’—since I read The Luminaries. The mammoth, award-winning first novel from Eleanor Catton hopefully needs no introduction. If you’re after one, I can’t help you. In this article I want to consider just one short passage from the novel about solitude, loneliness and the illusion of company. In the words of Catton’s narrator, “Solitude is a condition best enjoyed in company. Especially the company of another soul. It’s dreadful to feel alone and really be alone. But I love to enjoy the feeling when I’m not.”

It’s a delightfully thought provoking passage. While much more could be said about it, along with The Luminaries itself, Catton’s narrator makes two salient point and related points. I’ll unpack each briefly below, before making an appeal for more intentional community and greater honesty.

1. The Delights of Solitude

Firstly, a distinction can be made between solitude and loneliness. In the scene being narrated, Catton’s characters is surrounded by people and the sounds of their voices, only they are also unsighted. This is solitude without being truly alone. “I love to enjoy the feeling,” of being alone, “when I’m not,” he writes. Who would disagree?

Even as a Myers-Briggs verified extrovert, I’m partial to moments like the one described here. Though preferences may vary, most of us enjoy time alone. Personally, I prize undisturbed time for my thoughts and books and writing. Such solitudes tend towards this first kind. While my community might not be immediately present, I’m aware of them. Company stands as an unseen atmosphere to these periods of solitude, which is merely a mode of existing rather than my truest or fundamental experience of the world.

2. The Dread of Loneliness

Secondly, however, as that passage from The Luminaries says, “It’s dreadful to feel alone and really be alone.” Here the narrator describes solitude that has solidified into loneliness. This experience, strikingly, isn’t all that different from the first—at least not in appearance. You can be surrounded by people and not only feel as if you’re alone (solitude) but actually be alone (lonely). And as Catton’s narrator notes, genuine loneliness is dreadful.

The point I want to make from this passage is that genuine loneliness can occur in the crowd. Rubbing shoulders with people doesn’t extinguish a burning and acute sense of loneliness. Nor will superficial conversations and shallow community, if such combinations of words aren’t oxymoronic. Just like you can feel alone without truly being alone, you can also be profoundly alone despite being immersed in people. Despite a humming social life or stacked calendar. Despite a glossy and full life according to social media, which is little more than a carefully curated conceit. Most people can attest to this, even if most people aren’t willing to admit it.

From Dread to Dependence

There’s much more to the passage I’ve quoted from Eleanor Catton’s Luminaries, particularly its context. Being well-drilled in the dangers of misusing texts demands that I keep this reflection short; it’s a terse passage in an otherwise considerable work. So in closing I want to offer two brief implications; one for the crowds (all of us) and another for the lonely (many of us).

Firstly, we all take up a part in someone else’s crowd—the humdrum of what might otherwise be a lonely life. The possibility of dreadful loneliness despite being surrounded by people demands vigilance. It demands intentionally looking around for those hidden in plain sight. Remember, busyness and bustle are not companionship. Beneath it might be an aching isolation. Those most desperate for help are usually those who’ve long given up asking for it, so the cliché goes. But then clichés often teem with truth and therefore shouldn’t be dismissed. Furthermore, if the statistics are anything to go by, you daily interact with at least one person who’s terribly lonely.

Secondly, to the lonely, resist the urge to console yourself with superficial interactions. Don’t put on a strong face or stoically embrace your lot. Stop surrounding yourself with people while also pretending you aren’t alone. Resist packing the calendar to create the illusion of community. While well-curated social media profiles might strengthen the pretence, they won’t satisfy your soul. I realise that all of this is much easier to write than it is to enact. Admitting that you aren’t doing well is difficult—especially for men. To tell others that you’re lonely, however, isn’t merely an expression of weakness but also humility. It is to acknowledge that you fundamentally depend on others. We were made for both, whether we want it or not.

This Is Not AI

Fri, 06 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Pictured above is Master Peregrin Took—Pippin for short—the latest addition to our home. Like a proud parent, I recently showed him to a friend and her response surprised me. Staring hard at the picture she asked: “Is that AI?” I was taken aback. Why would I try to pass off an AI-generated picture of a kitten as my own, picture or cat? Though it was a bizarre question to ask, I fully understand the growing cynicism with which people are viewing online content. Social media was already a hall of mirrors and disingenuous influencers. But today’s levels of fakery beggar belief. However this isn’t another post about social media—you can read some of my more recent thoughts on that here. Neither is it about AI-generated images, a battle other creatives can fight. Rather, my recent interaction about the picture of Pippin got me thinking about writing.

According to Facebook adverts, today it takes just five minutes to become an Amazon-listed author; you can get published in fewer minutes than one needs to steep a Ceylon teabag. When I was a youngster, you had to write something to be considered an author. Sure, ghostwriting has blurred the lines—and who knows how long they’ve been active, along with publicists and pedantic editors—only you know deep down that your favourite celebrity or sportsperson didn’t write their autobiography. Beyond those blurred lines, AI is stoking the flames of self-deceit and deliberate deception. Everyone has used AI to generate images, such as an icon of Nietzsche, only we don’t then tell people we’re artists or designers. Similarly people use AI to generate code without identifying as developers. Yet this common sense doesn’t seem to extend to writing. In the elated voice of Oprah Winfrey, everyone is an author.

Since I mentioned both biographies and developers above, we’d do well to consider Walter Isaacson’s Steve Jobs: The Exclusive Biography. According to Wikipedia that book was the result more than 40 interviews conducted by Isaacson over a two year period. Only Isaacson didn’t stop there. He also carried out more than 100 interviews with people that knew Jobs, whom Jobs encouraged to speak candidly about him. Putting all of this aside, I’ve already mentioned the most important aspect of this book, its subtitle: The Exclusive Biography. Despite inviting Isaacson, cooperating with him extensively and sitting for hours of interviews, the book is correctly labelled as biography. This is the truth; it’s honest. Writing a prompt and calling yourself an author is neither.

I realise that all of the above could come across as bitterness, barely more than an angry missive from a self-confessed Luddite—I am trying to make it something more. But part of me is angry. Passing off work that isn’t yours was until very recently considered plagiarism. It was an expellable offence in most higher learning institutions. Then along comes generative AI and suddenly it’s okay? As if the briefest of human inputs upfront—in the form of a prompt—somehow turns whatever the machine pumps out into a human labour. It doesn’t. Obviously. It’s plagiarism. Period. And to those who aren’t under threat of institutional expulsion, plagiarism is more than transgressing intellectual property laws; it’s a lack of integrity. It’s disingenuous, tending towards full-blown deceit.

Imagine Steve Jobs tasked Walter Isaacson with writing his biography but, before the book went to press or print, Jobs had Isaacson killed, stole the complete manuscript and published it as Steve Jobs: The Exclusive Autobiography. Admittedly the analogy is imperfect; we’d all agree that murder would be the most glaring peccadillo on Job’s part, had that happened. But the analogy does illustrate the sheer nonsense of calling AI-generated work your own, just because you prompted it or later edited the text.

I began this article by recounting a conversation from which I got its title. By now I’m sure it’s also no surprise that the title is a comment on my own writing: this isn’t AI. Nothing at Rekindle is AI-generated. Everything from ‘ideation to content creation’—to adapt a gag-inducing shibboleth—is human. I don’t use AI to help with editing. It doesn’t write my conclusions or introductions. Nor does it help with corrections or improving ‘readability’ scores. In fact, just months before widespread access to ChatGPT I explained why I forego tools like Grammarly, which are undoubtedly by now fully integrated with AI. As C. S. Lewis argued in his Experiment in Criticism, good writing is determined by a piece’s power to draw us back to itself—rather than the percentage of passive voice or sentence length. Therefore writing can only be evaluated by careful readers. Not computers.

Since I’ve already threatened to do, in closing let me attempt a positive appeal. There’s a passage in Dostoyevsky’s Notes From Underground where the narrator turns over a few reasons to write. He notes how writing is linked to memory; that those who practice it tend to be better prepared for speaking; that it enables us to examine ourselves and our own ideas; and that there is often relief in scribbling down our struggles. But throughout he also remarks that writing is arduous and demanding. This is very likely why most people have flocked to prompts and abandoned their proverbial pens. Bringing the thought to an end, Dostoyevsky’s narrator writes, “Writing is really something like work. They say work makes a man honest and good. Well, it’s a chance, at least.”

The Place and Perils of Polemical Theology

Tue, 03 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In my work with TGC Africa I’ve become aware of various discernment ministries around Africa. Invariably, they engage in what we would call polemical theology. As D. A. Carson defines it, “Polemical theology is nothing other than contending for a particular theological understanding (usually one that the contender holds to be the truth) and disputing those that contradict or minimise it.” Though discernment blogging typically majors in disputing aberrant teaching or practices and abuses, the definition fits. But in the short editorial where Carson provides that definition, he also issues a few timely warnings for those who engage in critical theological dialogue—from discernment blogging to response videos. For, as my title suggests, polemical theology is a necessary but perilous undertaking.

In the two sections below I’ll make a case for polemical theology and rescue it from how it tends to be mischaracterised; and then unpack some of the warnings in Carson’s essay for those engaged in critical theology, discernment ministries and reacting to others’s theology in general.

The Necessity of Polemical Theology

Firstly, polemics are both unavoidable and necessary. As Carson argues, it’s difficult to take a theological position seriously unless it also examines other positions offering “serious engagement with those who disagree.” Therefore, writes Carson, “It is not easy for Christians to be entirely free of polemics, and it is not wise to attempt such freedom.”

Secondly, there is a biblical precedent for polemical theology. Carson illustrates this with a host of biblical texts—from Isaiah to Galatians, both Jesus’ parables and his lampooning of the Pharisees—before writing, “In a world of finite human beings who are absorbed in themselves and characterised by rebellion against God, polemical theology is an unavoidable component of any serious theological stance, as the Bible itself makes clear.”

Thirdly, in light of the previous two points, we simply can’t dismiss polemical theology. This is done under a variety of banners, but perhaps primarily in the name of a naive peacefulness. If being angry without sin is possible (Ephesians 4:26), then surely one can disagree without it as well. Furthermore, just as there are truths worth fighting for, there are errors to address. This is well captured in Paul in Titus 1:9, “He must hold firm to the trustworthy word as taught, so that he may be able to give instruction in sound doctrine and also to rebuke those who contradict it.”

Fourthly, the arena of polemical theology is one where we must pay special attention to tone and mood, our own deceitful hearts. When disagreeing our attitude and manner is paramount. There’s a reason polemical theology—and some strands of apologetics—have negative connotations. However that doesn’t mean a moratorium on the practice; instead, it’s a call to be Christian when engaged in theological dialogue.

Abusus non tollit usum.

Polemics, Pitfalls and Spiritual Perils

With its place established, we must turn our attention to the perils of polemical theology. In his Exegetical Fallacies, Carson insists that “persistent negativism is spiritually perilous.” From his editorial we can tease out at least three ways in which this is true.

Firstly, as Carson puts it, “there is something wrong-headed about making polemical theology the focus of one’s theological identity.” Reflecting on his essay, that word “identity” stands out. For a self-understanding built around what one isn’t—apophatically defined—isn’t an identity. Perhaps an easy example is the notion that being Reformed means that you aren’t Roman Catholic. Of course, that says nothing about the riches of Reformed theology. Contradistinction has its place, but knowing what you aren’t doesn’t tell you who you are.

Secondly, Carson continues, “Some become far better known for what they are against than for the overflow of their worship or for their generosity to the needy or even for their affirmation of historically confessed truth.” Hot-takes are as easy as throwing shade. And there exists am insatiable appetite for both online. We love those flames and readily confuse graceless polemics with a godly presence. Don’t get me wrong: Jesus occasionally lashed the proverbial whip in his teaching; it just isn’t what we remember him for. “Set the believers an example,” not in antagonism or aggressive rebuttals but, “in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity” (1 Timothy 4:12).

Finally, “at the risk of a generalisation,” observes Carson, “those who spend their lives refuting and correcting fellow believers but who rarely engage at a serious level with ideas and stances in the broader world almost always find themselves at increasing odds with more and more believers.” His point here is slightly different but related to those preceding it. Instead of ceaselessly critiquing those within the Church, Carson exhorts Christians to work at standing beside other believers and looking at the world. There’s an apt word, often attached to Christians: internecine, which describes destructive infighting whereby all sides are hurt. At the risk of being repetitious, there’s a place for polemical theology but not if it blinds us to “the common heritage of Christians.”

Know Its Place, Beware Its Perils

In closing let me reiterate what I set out to say in the two sections above. On the one hand, polemical theology has its place. Refuting error, defending the truth and positively presenting sound doctrine is all necessary. There is also a well-documented biblical precedent for it. On the other hand, there are many pitfalls in making it one’s aim to always be refuting error or correcting others. “God knows there is plenty of error to confute,” writes Carson. But, he goes on, majoring in that “is likely to diminish the joyful affirmation of truth and make every affirmation of truth sound angry, supercilious, self-righteous—in a word, polemical.”