The Two Trees

There was once a gardener who planted two young trees at the edge of his house. One was a slender tree with silver leaves, beautiful but easily bent. The other was a young oak, smaller then, with a plain, sturdy trunk and roots that seemed determined to take hold wherever they were planted.

The gardener loved both trees, or at least he believed he did. He worried constantly over the silver tree. When the wind blew from the east, it leaned west. When the rain came in hard, its limbs drooped toward the ground. So the gardener drove stakes into the earth and tied the silver tree to them. The oak seldom bent beneath the wind, and because it seemed to need less tending, the gardener slowly came to believe that it needed less care.

When one of the silver tree’s branches grew across the path, the gardener moved the path. When its roots cracked a stone in the garden wall, he replaced the stone. When its limbs struck the oak, he cut the oak back.

“The silver tree cannot help the way it grows,” the gardener would say. “You are stronger. You can bear the pruning.”

And the oak did.

It grew slowly and straight, and because it seldom bent beneath the wind, the gardener came to believe that it did not feel the wind.

Years passed. One summer afternoon, the silver tree dropped a heavy branch onto the garden fence.

“The oak pushed it down,” said the silver tree.

Trees cannot speak, of course, but gardeners sometimes hear what they have already decided to hear.

The gardener examined the broken branch. He could see that it had fallen nowhere near the oak. For a moment, he seemed puzzled.

“The oak could not have done this,” he said.

The oak was relieved.

But that evening, after walking beneath the silver leaves for a long while, the gardener returned.

“You should have warned us that the branch was weak,” he told the oak.

“I did,” said the oak.

“Then you should have warned us more clearly.”

So the gardener cut another branch from the oak.

Years became decades, and a strange thing happened in the garden. The gardener forgot the order in which things had occurred. He remembered moving the path, but remembered that the oak had somehow made it necessary. He remembered repairing the wall, but remembered that both trees had damaged it. He remembered cutting the oak again and again, but remembered each cut as evidence that the oak had always been difficult.

Whenever the oak protested, the gardener shook his head sadly.

“Why must you keep bringing up old storms?”

But the storms were not old to the oak. Their scars were still in its wood.

Then came a spring when the silver tree produced its first fruit. Everyone rejoiced. A small piece of fruit appeared on one of its highest branches, and the silver tree sent word throughout the garden so that everyone might admire it. The oak saw it and lifted its leaves toward the sun in delight.

Later, the silver tree whispered to the gardener, “The oak did not rejoice over my fruit.”

The gardener went to the oak.

“Why couldn’t you be happy for the silver tree?”

“I was.”

“It says you weren’t.”

“I lifted every leaf I had toward it.”

The gardener looked upward and saw that this was true. For a moment, the oak thought perhaps something had finally changed.

Then the gardener frowned.

“You could have rustled them.”

The oak said nothing.

“You know how the silver tree is,” the gardener continued. “You know it needs to hear the leaves.”

And there, at last, the oak understood.

The gardener had not come to discover what happened. He had come to discover how the oak was responsible for it.

So the oak stopped arguing about the garden’s history. Not because the gardener’s memories were true. Not because the silver tree had become honest. Not because the cuts had ceased to hurt. The oak stopped arguing because it finally understood that no collection of scars could convince a gardener who had decided that every scar was deserved.

Years later, travelers passing the garden noticed something strange. The silver tree was enormous, spreading wherever it pleased, supported by stakes that had long since become permanent. The path curved strangely around it. The wall bowed beside it. Nothing was allowed to touch its branches.

Several yards away stood a great oak. Its trunk was scarred from years of pruning, but its roots ran deep. Birds nested in its branches. Children rested beneath its shade. Storms came and went, and still it stood.

One traveler asked the old gardener why the trees grew so far apart.

The gardener sighed.

“We never understood that oak. It always wanted distance.”

The traveler looked at the crooked path, the broken wall, the silver tree held upright by a forest of stakes, and the scars running down the oak’s trunk. Then he looked back at the gardener.

But he said nothing.

Some gardens tell their own history.

Everyone’s an Expert

I have a bee in my bonnet, as the old saying goes. Every now and then I have a conversation, or overhear one, that my brain simply refuses to let go of. I keep replaying it, formulating responses long after the conversation has ended. Something like that happened recently, and now I have to write about it.

One thing I have realized is that theology is considered an immeasurably valuable area of study…until it isn’t.

Let me explain.

A person can spend the better part of a decade studying Scripture, learning the historical context in which it was written, wrestling with the original languages, reading the best scholarship available, and even traveling to the places where these texts were written or first received, only to come away with a profound sense of how much there is still to learn.

Meanwhile, Joe Bob down the street, who has not read his Bible in years, or perhaps Mary Jo, who reads just enough to make herself dangerous, suddenly becomes a self-proclaimed expert.

Let me paint the picture differently.

Suppose you go to the doctor because you are feeling terrible. After examining you, he tells you that you have the flu. But you are no ordinary patient. You have spent the last two hours researching your symptoms on Dr. Google. Having also consulted WebMD, a close associate of Dr. Google, you are convinced that you do not have the flu at all. You have Legionnaires’ disease.

Confident in your diagnosis, you inform the doctor that he is mistaken and should prescribe antibiotics immediately. The doctor, somewhat taken aback, calmly attempts to explain why your conclusion is wrong, but you are prepared: You have printouts. Surely this will convince him.

I hope you can see how ridiculous that scene is; yet, this happens in theology all the time.

Many people consult Dr. Google or their favorite internet personality, assemble an argument from a handful of articles or videos, and then become defensive when someone challenges their conclusions. Sometimes they avoid the conversation altogether because they are uncomfortable having their views examined.

One of my favorite examples is the statement, “Revelation is too hard because there are too many interpretations.”

No, Revelation is difficult because it requires hard work. It demands careful study, historical awareness, and patient reading. The existence of multiple interpretations is not an excuse to avoid the work. Every field of study has disagreements. We do not abandon medicine because doctors disagree or history because historians debate.

Now, don’t hear what I am not saying.

I am not suggesting that educated people are always right, nor am I saying that uneducated people are necessarily uninformed. Some scholars are genuinely eccentric, and some of the wisest Christians I know have never attended a seminary classroom.

What I am saying is this: if the overwhelming majority of those who have devoted their lives to studying a subject arrive at a similar conclusion, that conclusion is at least worthy of serious consideration. I did not say unquestioning acceptance. I said consideration.

We should be patient, kind, and willing to listen to those with whom we disagree. We should test every argument by Scripture and seek the author’s intended meaning. But we should also have enough humility to admit that expertise matters and that deep study ought to command at least a measure of respect.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion.

Not everyone is an expert.

The Old Covenant Made Obsolete: What Hebrews 8 Means for How We Read the Bible

There is an important question that often sits in the background of how we read the Bible, even if we have never put it into words. How do the Old Testament and the New Testament fit together, and what happened to the old covenant once Christ came? Some teaching, especially what is often called dispensationalism, tries to preserve a strong distinction between Israel and the Church. In doing so, it can end up treating the old covenant, particularly the one given through Moses, as still having a kind of ongoing place alongside the new covenant. Even if it is described as paused or set aside for now, the idea remains that it still stands in some sense as part of God’s plan for Israel.

At first glance, that may sound like a way of honoring the Old Testament. We do not want to act as though God’s earlier promises no longer matter. Yet when we turn to Hebrews, we find language that does not leave much room for that kind of arrangement. What makes the argument even stronger is that Hebrews is not introducing a new idea. It is building directly from the Old Testament itself. In Hebrews 8, the writer quotes at length from the prophet Jeremiah, specifically Jeremiah 31:31–34, and he uses that passage to explain what God has done in Christ.

The setting of Jeremiah’s words is crucial. The people of Israel had broken the covenant God made with them at Sinai. Their history had been marked by idolatry, disobedience, and hard hearts, which led to judgment and exile. The problem was not with the covenant itself, but with the people’s inability to keep it. It is in that context of failure that God makes a promise that is both hopeful and decisive. He declares that the days are coming when He will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. To be clear, God does not speak of repairing the old covenant or placing it alongside something new. He speaks of establishing a new one.

He then makes the contrast unmistakable by saying that this new covenant will not be like the one made when He brought them out of Egypt. That is the Mosaic covenant, and God explicitly distinguishes the coming covenant from it. Under the old covenant, the law was written on tablets of stone, external to the people. Under the new covenant, God promises to write His law on their hearts. What was once external becomes internal. What once exposed sin without curing it now includes a transformation of the person from within.

The promise continues by describing a deeper knowledge of God. No longer will the people need to say to one another, “Know the Lord,” in the same way as before, because all who belong to this covenant will know Him, from the least to the greatest. This points to a more direct and personal relationship with God than what was experienced under the old covenant structure. And at the center of it all is the promise that makes everything else possible: “I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.” Full and final forgiveness stands at the heart of the new covenant.

When the writer of Hebrews quotes this passage, he is not simply offering an encouraging Old Testament promise. He is showing that even in Jeremiah’s day, God had already announced that the old covenant would not be the final arrangement. So when Hebrews 8:13 concludes, “In speaking of a new covenant, he makes the first one obsolete,” it is drawing out the clear implication of what God had already said. The old covenant was never meant to last forever. It had a purpose, and it fulfilled that purpose, but it was always pointing beyond itself.

This is where the tension with dispensational thinking becomes clear. If God promised a new covenant that would not be like the old one, and if that new covenant has now been established through Christ, then the old covenant cannot still be functioning alongside it as an active covenantal system. The very promise of a new covenant implies the passing away of the old. You cannot have both operating at the same time in the same sense, because the new one was designed to bring the old to its intended conclusion.

None of this means that God has failed to keep His promises to Israel. In fact, it shows that He has kept them. The new covenant was promised to the house of Israel and the house of Judah, and it is fulfilled in Jesus. Through Him, its blessings extend to all who belong to Him, both Jew and Gentile. The story of Israel is not abandoned; it reaches its goal in Christ. The promises are not canceled; they are completed.

A simple way to think about it is this. The old covenant laid the groundwork. It was necessary, intentional, and good. But once the work it pointed toward had been accomplished, you do not return to it as though nothing has changed. Hebrews is calling us to see that something decisive has happened in Jesus. The old covenant has served its purpose. The new covenant has come in its place. And Christ Himself now stands at the center of God’s relationship with His people.

That is not a loss of what came before. It is the fulfillment of everything God had been preparing from the very beginning.

One People of God: From Promise to Fulfillment in Christ

“YouTube millennial here,” or so I suppose I might be labeled. And while I can appreciate the concern behind that kind of comment, I think it actually points us toward something more important than personalities, platforms, or generational differences. The real question is not who is speaking, but whether what is being said faithfully follows the storyline of Scripture.

Because when it comes to a question like “Who are God’s people?” we are not helped by dismissals or soundbites, whether they come from social media or anywhere else. What we need is careful attention to the text itself, allowing Scripture to define its own categories and to trace its own development from beginning to end. The Bible tells a unified story, and if we listen closely, it speaks with far more clarity than any passing voice in the cultural conversation.

When we do that, we begin to see that Israel’s identity, while real and significant, was never meant to be the end of the story, but to point forward to something greater. It was always part of a larger redemptive movement that reaches its fulfillment in Christ and, through Him, in the people of God drawn from every nation.

When we speak of Israel being chosen, we are stepping into one of the most central themes in Scripture, yet it is often misunderstood because it is detached from its larger purpose. The Bible does not present Israel’s election as an end in itself, but as part of a redemptive movement that unfolds across the whole canon and finds its fulfillment in Christ and, through Him, in the church. From the beginning, Israel is chosen not because of merit, but because of grace. In Deuteronomy 7:6–8, God makes clear that His choice was not grounded in Israel’s size, strength, or significance, but in His love and His faithfulness to the promise made to Abraham. Their identity, therefore, is not something achieved, but something received. It is rooted in God’s initiative and sustained by His covenant faithfulness.

Flowing from that gracious choice, Israel is set apart to belong uniquely to God. In Exodus 19:5–6, they are called His treasured possession, a kingdom of priests, and a holy nation. This language is deeply relational. Before Israel is tasked with any mission, they are defined by their relationship to God. To belong to Him meant that they were to reflect His character, live under His rule, and remain distinct from the surrounding nations. Yet this identity was never meant to terminate on itself. Israel’s calling always carried an outward dimension. As a kingdom of priests, they were meant to stand between God and the nations, displaying what He is like and drawing others toward Him. Isaiah 49:6 makes this explicit, declaring that Israel was to be a light to the nations so that God’s salvation might reach the ends of the earth. From the outset, Israel was not the destination, but the instrument.

This outward purpose is grounded in the original promise to Abraham, where God declares in Genesis 12:3 that through him all the families of the earth will be blessed. That promise moves forward through Israel’s history and finds its clearest expression in the coming of Christ. As Paul notes in Romans 9:4–5, it is from Israel that the Messiah comes, the one through whom God’s saving purposes are accomplished. Israel’s role in redemptive history is therefore preparatory and instrumental, pointing beyond itself to the One who would fulfill everything it anticipated. At the same time, Israel’s election never functioned as a shield from accountability. In Amos 3:2, God reminds them that being uniquely known by Him does not exempt them from judgment, but rather intensifies their responsibility. Election is not just privilege. It is a calling that carries weight, and when Israel treated it as entitlement, they came under the same divine judgment they saw fall upon the nations.

All of these threads come to their fulfillment in Jesus Christ. Where Israel failed, Christ is faithful. Where Israel was called to be God’s son, Christ is the true Son who embodies perfect obedience. He does not set aside Israel’s calling, but brings it to completion. This is why the New Testament reframes the question of identity around union with Him. In Galatians 3:29, Paul states that those who belong to Christ are Abraham’s offspring and heirs according to promise. The inheritance is not discarded, but fulfilled and expanded in Him. What was once tied to ethnic lineage is now defined by relationship to Christ.

This movement becomes even clearer as the New Testament applies Israel’s language directly to the church. In 1 Peter 2:9, believers are called a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, and a people for God’s own possession, echoing the very words spoken to Israel in Exodus 19. It signals that the identity and calling of Israel have reached their fulfillment in a people united to Christ. Likewise, in Ephesians 2:11–22, Paul explains that Gentiles who were once far off have been brought near, no longer strangers, but fellow citizens and members of God’s household. The dividing line between Jew and Gentile is not reinforced, but removed, as both are brought together into one new people in Christ.

Seen in this light, the purpose for which Israel was chosen continues, but now in its fulfilled form. The church, as those united to Christ, now belongs to God as His people, reflects His character in the world, serves as a priestly community, and proclaims His salvation to the nations. The mission has not changed, but its scope has expanded and its center has been made clear. Everything now revolves around Christ. Israel was chosen by God’s grace to belong to Him, to reflect His character, and to serve as the instrument through which His salvation would come to the world. That purpose has not been abandoned. It has been fulfilled, and all who are in Christ now share in that identity as the people of God.

When They Answer Back: The Joy of Training Children in Truth

There is no such thing as a neutral childhood.

Every home is a classroom. Every conversation is shaping belief. Every story, every show, every friendship, every passing comment is doing the work of formation. The only real question is who is doing the teaching and what they are being taught to love, trust, and believe.

Indoctrination is a reality to recognize. The world catechizes relentlessly. It offers its own doctrines of identity, truth, authority, and purpose. It does not wait for permission, and it does not present itself as optional. If we do not intentionally form our children in the truth, they will be unintentionally formed by something else.

This is why theological training in the home is not an accessory to parenting. It is central to it.

We are not simply raising well-behaved children. We are raising image-bearers who must learn to think, to discern, and to stand. That kind of formation requires more than moral instruction or biblical familiarity. It requires theology, carefully, patiently, and consistently taught.

Our goal is not only that our children know the truth, but that they can articulate it. Not only that they can repeat what they have heard, but that they understand why it is true and how it fits within the whole counsel of God. We want them to recognize error when they hear it, to respond with clarity rather than confusion, and to speak with both conviction and humility.

That kind of clarity does not appear overnight. It is cultivated through hundreds of small moments, ordinary conversations, and intentional questions.

And sometimes, the fruit of that labor catches you off guard.

Tonight, I had the opportunity to press my boys a bit. We talked about the idea of “true Israel” and how the promises of God are fulfilled in Jesus Christ. I asked them questions, expecting simple answers, maybe even some hesitation.

Instead, they began to explain.

They spoke about the promise being made to a seed, not seeds. They connected it to the argument in Galatians. They reasoned through it, not as something memorized and recited, but as something understood. They made their case.

And I just sat there, listening.

It was, quite honestly, mind-bogglingly incredible.

Not because they said it perfectly, and not because they have mastered theology, but because it was clear that the truth is taking root. The categories are forming. The connections are being made. The Word of God is not just something external to them, it is beginning to shape how they think.

That is the goal.

We are not raising children who can win arguments for the sake of winning. We are raising children who know Christ, who understand His Word, and who can speak truth in a world that is often confused about even the most basic realities.

Theological training gives them categories. It gives them language. It gives them confidence, not in themselves, but in the sufficiency and clarity of Scripture.

It also gives them stability.

When challenges come, and they will, our children will not need to build their beliefs from scratch. They will already have a framework. They will already know where to stand. They will already have learned that God’s Word is trustworthy, coherent, and worth building their lives upon.

This kind of formation does not require a seminary degree. It requires intentionality. It requires opening the Bible, asking questions, welcoming questions, and refusing to settle for shallow answers. It means inviting our children into real theological conversations earlier than we might expect.

It also means patience.

There will be moments of confusion. There will be incomplete answers. There will be times when it feels like nothing is sticking. But over time, with consistency and care, the truth begins to settle in. And one day, often when you least expect it, you hear it come back out of them.

Clear. Thoughtful. Rooted.

And you realize that something deeper is happening.

So we teach. We ask. We listen. We guide.

Not because we are trying to control our children, but because we love them enough to ground them in what is true.

Because the world is already discipling them.

And we want them to be ready.

Jesus the True Temple and the True Israel

The story of the Bible is, in many ways, the story of where God dwells. From the opening chapters of Genesis to the final vision in Revelation, Scripture traces a long journey in which God draws near to His people, withdraws because of sin, and then comes near again through redemption. Along the way we encounter gardens, tents, and temples. Yet none of these places were meant to be the final destination. They were signposts pointing forward to someone greater. When the New Testament tells us that Jesus is the true temple and the true Israel, it shows us that the long arc of the story finally finds its center in Him.

From Garden to Temple

In the beginning, God walked with humanity in the garden of Eden. The language of Genesis gives us a picture of closeness and fellowship. God was not distant from His creation. He was present with it. Eden functioned as the first sanctuary, the first place where heaven and earth met.

Sin shattered that fellowship. Adam and Eve were driven from the garden, and humanity began to feel the distance that sin creates between God and His people. Yet God did not abandon His creation. He began to restore what had been lost.

When Israel was delivered from Egypt, God commanded Moses to build the tabernacle. This tent stood in the center of Israel’s camp, surrounded by the tribes on every side. It served as a constant reminder that God had chosen to live among His people. Later, Solomon built a permanent temple in Jerusalem, and when it was finished the glory of the Lord filled the building so powerfully that the priests could not stand to minister (1 Kings 8:10–11).

For generations the temple stood as the heart of Israel’s worship. It was where sacrifices were offered, where prayers were lifted, and where forgiveness was sought. It was the place where heaven and earth seemed to touch.

Yet even in its glory the temple carried a quiet tension. Solomon himself acknowledged that no structure could contain the living God. “Even heaven, the highest heaven, cannot contain you,” he prayed, “much less this house that I have built” (1 Kings 8:27). The temple was real and holy, yet it pointed beyond itself to something still to come.

When the Temple Fell

Israel’s story took a tragic turn when Babylon destroyed Jerusalem in 586 BC. The temple was burned, the city was leveled, and the people were carried into exile. For Israel this felt like the collapse of everything sacred. The temple symbolized God’s presence. If the temple was gone, where was God?

After the exile a second temple was built. It stood in Jerusalem for centuries and was later expanded by Herod the Great into a massive complex. Pilgrims traveled from across the world to worship there.

Still, many believed something was missing. The prophets had spoken of a day when God Himself would return to dwell with His people in fullness. The rebuilt temple stood as both a promise and a reminder that the story was not yet complete.

The Words of Jesus

Into that world stepped Jesus of Nazareth.

One day, after driving merchants from the temple courts, the religious leaders demanded an explanation. What right did He have to disrupt the sacred space of Israel’s worship?

Jesus answered with words that must have sounded strange to those who heard them.

“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19).

His listeners assumed He was speaking about the massive temple building that had taken decades to construct. Yet the Gospel of John tells us that Jesus was speaking about the temple of His body.

With those words Jesus made a remarkable claim. The temple had always been the place where God’s presence dwelled among His people. Now Jesus was saying that the true dwelling place of God was not a building of stone but His own living body. In Him, heaven and earth met again.

The Temple Torn Down and Raised Again

The meaning of Jesus’ words became clearer through the events of the cross. When Jesus died, the curtain inside the temple was torn from top to bottom (Mark 15:38). That curtain separated the Most Holy Place, the symbolic dwelling place of God’s presence, from the rest of the temple. Only the high priest could pass beyond it, and only once a year. When it tore, something profound had happened. The barrier between God and humanity had been removed.

Then, three days later, Jesus rose from the grave. The temple that had been destroyed was raised again, just as He had said. His resurrection confirmed what His words had hinted all along. The true meeting place between God and humanity was no longer a building in Jerusalem. It was the risen Christ.

Jesus the True Israel

Alongside the temple story runs another thread through the Old Testament. Israel itself was called to represent God’s people in the world.

God described Israel as His son (Exodus 4:22). They were chosen to reflect His character and to carry His light to the nations. Yet Israel’s history is filled with failure. Again and again they turned away from the God who had called them. When Jesus came, He began to walk the same path Israel had walked, yet this time the story unfolded differently.

Israel passed through the waters of the Red Sea. Jesus passed through the waters of baptism. Israel wandered in the wilderness for forty years and fell into temptation. Jesus entered the wilderness for forty days and resisted every temptation placed before Him. Israel was called God’s son yet repeatedly rebelled. Jesus was declared the beloved Son who perfectly obeyed the Father.

Where Israel stumbled, Jesus stood firm. Where Israel failed, Jesus remained faithful. In this way He became what Israel was always meant to be. He is the true Israel, the faithful representative who fulfills the calling of God’s people.

A Living Temple

Because Jesus is the true temple and the true Israel, something remarkable happens for those who belong to Him. The New Testament says that believers together become a temple where God’s Spirit dwells (1 Corinthians 3:16; Ephesians 2:19–22). This does not mean the church replaces Jesus as the temple. Rather, it means the life of the true temple spreads outward through those who are united to Him. The presence of God no longer rests in a single building or city. It moves through a people gathered around Christ.

The Final Picture

The Bible’s final pages bring the story to its breathtaking conclusion. In the vision of the new creation, the apostle John looks upon the heavenly city and notices something unexpected.

There is no temple.

The reason is simple and beautiful: “The Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb are its temple” (Revelation 21:22).

What began in a garden and continued through tents and temples now reaches its fulfillment. God Himself dwells openly with His people. No walls are needed. No veil remains.

And at the center of it all stands Jesus, the true temple, the faithful Israel, the place where humanity meets the living God.

A Final Reflection

Today many people watch Jerusalem and wait for a third temple to be built. They scan the headlines, follow political developments (and wars), and imagine that the story of God’s presence among His people still depends on stones being set upon one another in that ancient city.

Yet the New Testament tells a different story. The temple has already come. It came when the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. It came when Jesus spoke of His body as the temple. It came when that temple was torn down on a cross and raised again three days later.

Sometimes I wonder whether the search for another temple risks repeating an old mistake. In the days of Jesus, many of the religious leaders were so certain about how God’s promises would unfold that they failed to recognize the One standing in front of them. Their expectations had become so fixed that they missed the fulfillment.

There is a warning in that history. It is possible to search for signs of God’s work and still overlook the Savior Himself.

The temple we need has already come. His name is Jesus.

Raising Readers in a World of Stories

I have been rereading one of my favorite fiction series of all time, The Lord of the Rings, with my two boys, and there are moments when the boundary between our routines and Tolkien’s world feels surprisingly thin. We begin a chapter in the middle of an ordinary day, yet within a few pages we are no longer aware of the clock. The cadence of the prose slows us down. Before long, we are walking through the Shire. We can almost smell pipe smoke drifting through the Green Dragon. The world grows larger, and at the same time, more personal.

That experience, being carried somewhere else without ever leaving the room, is not escapism in the trivial sense; rather, it is an exercise of the imagination, and the imagination is not a childish faculty to be discarded once we grow old and “serious.”

I often hear people say they do not enjoy reading, or that fiction simply is not for them. Preferences differ, certainly. Yet a categorical dismissal of story suggests a misunderstanding of how human beings actually come to know the world. Long before theology was systematized and philosophy codified, truth was narrated. We think in scenes and sequences. We remember our lives as chapters. We interpret our suffering and our hopes within a plot. Fiction, especially when crafted with care, works on this narrative level.

As we move through Tolkien’s pages, my boys are not only following a quest across Middle-earth, they are encountering virtue and vice in embodied form. They watch courage that trembles but presses on. They see the seduction of power. They encounter a king who lives in obscurity before stepping into his rightful authority. None of this is presented as moral instruction in the formal sense. It is absorbed through story, and because it is absorbed that way, I would argue it reaches further.

A child may be told that pride leads to ruin, but when he witnesses Boromir’s internal conflict and ultimate fall, the truth acquires emotional depth. He feels the cost. He sees how good intentions can be distorted by disordered desire.

Tolkien’s world possesses an internal coherence that reflects the structure of reality itself. Evil in Middle-earth is parasitic. It cannot create goodness; it can only twist what already exists. Power promises autonomy and delivers enslavement. The smallest characters, those who appear least consequential, become central to the unfolding of history. These literary devices mirror the moral architecture of the universe.

That architecture, from a Christian perspective, is grounded in the larger drama of Scripture.

The Bible unfolds as a story: creation, fall, promise, redemption, consummation. At its center stands the true King who embraces humility before exaltation, who bears a burden not for personal advancement but for the salvation of others, who defeats darkness not through domination but through self giving love. The narrative patterns that stir us in great fiction resonate because they correspond to this deeper reality.

Tolkien described the sudden turn from despair to joy as a eucatastrophe, a moment when hope breaks in unexpectedly. Such moments move us because they echo the Gospel. When all seems lost and restoration dawns, something within us recognizes the pattern. We were made for such reversals. We long for the return of the King, for the healing of the land, for a world set right.

This is why I find it difficult to understand a wholesale rejection of fiction. Without narrative, intellectual life becomes thin. We may master arguments and articulate doctrines, yet lack the imaginative capacity to perceive their beauty. The imagination, when neglected, atrophies. When it atrophies, our ability to feel the weight of glory diminishes.

We should allow ourselves to be transported, as we are in those opening chapters in the Shire, not in order to flee reality, but to see it more clearly. Good stories cultivate endurance in what Tolkien called the long defeat. They awaken longing for a restoration that no earthly kingdom can finally secure.

When I read these pages with my boys, I am not simply revisiting a beloved series. I am participating in their formation. They are learning to admire humility, to despise treachery, to recognize that comfort is pleasant but not ultimate, and to hope for a kingdom that does not fade.

Every truly great story points beyond itself. It tunes the heart to recognize the Grandest Narrative of all, the story in which the true King has come, has borne the unbearable burden, and will return to make all things new.

And so we read. We linger in the Shire. We walk the long road east. Yet even as we inhabit Tolkien’s world, we are being trained to recognize and love the greater world in which our own lives unfold, a story whose ending is certain, and whose Author is faithful.

Wit Without Warrant: A Biblical Critique of a Baptismal System That Cannot Sustain Its Own Claims

In recent years, a particular strand of Reformed ecclesiology, most visibly embodied in certain confessionally Reformed but sacramentally maximalist church networks, has advanced a distinctive account of baptism and covenant membership that warrants careful scrutiny. The arguments are often delivered with sharp wit, confident assertions, and a dismissive posture toward Baptist theology. On the surface, the position appears robust, covenantal, and deeply scriptural.

Yet beneath the wit lies a persistent problem. The system repeatedly advances claims it cannot warrant from Scripture. This is not a charge of ignorance or bad faith. Many of its defenders are intelligent, articulate, and well read. But when their assertions are pressed for biblical grounding and theological coherence, the argument routinely fractures. Their rhetoric can be impressive, but the argument does not survive sustained examination.

What exposes the weakness most clearly is a simple exercise. Take the system’s key claims seriously, and then carry them to their logical conclusions. When you do, the position either contradicts itself (for a group that prides itself on logic, I’ve never encountered, nor had the privilege, of pointing out so many logical fallacies) or forces you into conclusions that Scripture does not allow.

Strong Claims, Weak Scriptural Justification

This system makes expansive claims about baptism. Baptism is said to unite individuals to Christ, to claim them as God’s own, and to incorporate them into the covenant in ways that meaningfully parallel salvation itself. These claims are often presented as self evident and are sometimes accompanied by rhetorical jabs at Baptists, who are portrayed as reductionistic or inattentive to the covenantal shape of Scripture.

The difficulty is that Scripture consistently locates these realities elsewhere.

Union with Christ is repeatedly tied to faith and the Spirit, not to the administration of a rite. “For in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith” (Gal 3:26). Paul describes union with Christ as participation in His death and resurrection that results in newness of life (Rom 6:3–5). Scripture does not recognize a category of genuine union with Christ that fails to save or fails to endure. Jesus says of His sheep, “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand” (John 10:28). Paul presents justification as inseparable from final glorification (Rom 8:30). John speaks of apostasy as revealing an absence of saving belonging from the start (1 John 2:19).

So when a theology claims that baptism confers union with Christ in a robust sense, it then must explain away apostasy by saying the union was real but not saving, and, congratulations, you’ve now departed from Scripture’s categories. The burden of proof is not on Baptists to disprove the claim. The burden is on the system to warrant a biblical category it insists exists that simply does not exist.

Carrying the Claims to Their Logical Conclusions

Here is the central tension. The system wants to say two things at once.

First, baptism truly places a person into Christ and into the covenant in a meaningful sense. Second, a baptized person can later fall away in a way that proves they were never in saving union with Christ.

If you carry those claims to their conclusions, only a few options remain, and all of them create serious doctrinal problems.

  1. If baptism unites someone to Christ in the ordinary biblical sense, then apostasy implies losing Christ
    • The New Testament treats union with Christ as the source of salvation’s benefits. Those in Christ are justified (Rom 8:1), adopted (Gal 4:4–7), and made new (2 Cor 5:17). If baptism truly unites someone to Christ in that sense, then a baptized apostate was once justified, adopted, and made new, and then later became unjustified, disowned, and unmade.

That conclusion conflicts with Scripture’s teaching that God completes the work He begins in His people (Phil 1:6), that Christ loses none of those given to Him (John 6:37–40), and that nothing can separate believers from the love of God in Christ (Rom 8:38–39). The system therefore cannot let union mean what Scripture ordinarily means, because if it does, the system implies the loss of salvation.

  1. If apostates were never truly united to Christ, then the system must redefine union, adoption, and covenant membership
    • To avoid the first conclusion, the system typically introduces a second sense of union. It speaks of union that is real but not saving, covenant membership that is real but not the kind that grants the promises, and grace that is given but not in a way that endures.

But once that move is made, the language becomes unstable. Biblical words lose their ordinary force. “Union with Christ” becomes a term that no longer tells you whether someone is saved. “Belonging to Christ” becomes a phrase that can be true and yet signify no persevering possession of Christ. “Covenant membership” becomes something that can be affirmed vigorously, then denied in substance when the warnings come due.

To be clear, this is not a semantic preference. It changes how Scripture’s assurance and warnings function. John gives the explanation for apostasy as this: “They went out from us, but they were not of us” (1 John 2:19). He does not say they were united in one sense but not another. He says their departure revealed they never truly belonged.

  1. If baptism gives what looks like salvation but does not guarantee salvation, assurance is relocated from Christ to a rite, and then destabilized
    • Another consequence is pastoral. If people are told to look to baptism as God’s claim upon them in a way that closely parallels salvation, then assurance is effectively grounded in an external event rather than in present faith in Christ. Yet the system then must qualify that assurance, because baptized people can fall away. The result is a kind of sacramental confidence without sacramental certainty.

Scripture grounds assurance in Christ Himself and the evidences of His saving work. “Whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life” (John 5:24). “By this we know that we have come to know him, if we keep his commandments” (1 John 2:3). The goal is not to make believers stare at themselves, but to anchor them in Christ and to recognize His fruit. A system that tells the unregenerate to rest in baptismal claims risks giving false comfort, while a system that later explains apostasy by redefining those claims risks hollowing out any comfort baptism was supposed to provide.

  1. The system must either mute biblical warnings or make them incoherent
    • The New Testament issues real warnings to professing believers, and those warnings function as means by which God preserves His people. Hebrews warns against falling away with sobering language (Heb 3:12–14; 6:4–6; 10:26–29). Paul warns “if you live according to the flesh you will die” (Rom 8:13). These warnings are not theater, they are instruments of perseverance.

But if baptized people are said to be united to Christ in some robust sense, and then can fall away without ever having had saving union, the warnings become difficult to interpret. Are they warnings to truly saved people who might be lost, or warnings to people who are only united in a special non-saving sense? Either way, clarity is lost. The warnings are either emptied of real peril or attached to categories Scripture does not clearly establish.

Baptist theology does not have to blunt the warnings or invent a second-tier union. It simply says what Scripture says. The church is filled with professing believers. Some are genuine, and some are not. Warnings are addressed to the visible community, and God uses them to preserve the elect, while apostasy reveals false profession (1 John 2:19). That reading matches the surface logic of the texts and preserves both the seriousness of warnings and the security of Christ’s sheep (and yet, baptists are mocked).

Well Read, but Narrowly So

It is important to be precise here. Defenders of this system are often well read, but almost entirely within their own theological ecosystem. They cite their preferred theologians fluently and appeal to a closed set of authorities that already share their assumptions.

What is conspicuously absent is sustained engagement with serious scholarship outside those circles. Baptist theology, broader Reformed circles, and historical counterarguments are rarely addressed on their own terms. When they are mentioned, they are often reduced to caricature rather than carefully examined.

This insularity matters because Scripture commends testing claims, not insulating them. “Test everything; hold fast what is good” (1 Thess 5:21). A position that discourages rigorous external testing, whether intentionally or by habit, tends to confuse internal coherence with truth.

The Baptist Alternative: Scripture’s Categories, Not System Maintenance

The Baptist position is often accused of being simplistic, but on this issue it is simply disciplined. It refuses to assign saving realities where Scripture assigns them to faith, and it refuses to redefine biblical terms to rescue a system.

Union with Christ is saving union. Those in Christ will persevere (John 10:28; Rom 8:30). Those who fall away never truly belonged to Him (1 John 2:19). Baptism is an ordinance given to believers, a public confession of faith, and a sign of the believer’s union with Christ, not a mechanism that creates union apart from faith.

This preserves the ordinary meaning of Scripture’s language. It preserves the seriousness of warnings. It preserves the comfort of assurance. It preserves the gospel’s coherence.

Conclusion

This is a dispute over whether theological claims can be asserted with confidence without being warranted from Scripture, and whether biblical language can be repeatedly qualified without distorting its force.

If a system must invent a second-tier union with Christ, a conditional inheritance, and a sacramental claim that can be real yet finally empty, then the system is not simply offering a different reading of the Bible, it is forcing the Bible to speak in categories it does not naturally use.

The Baptist position persists not because it is clever or fashionable, but because it is constrained by Scripture’s language, Scripture’s logic, and Scripture’s gospel. In theology, constraint is not weakness, it is fidelity. And fidelity is a charge I will gladly bear, even when it invites ridicule.

“Not Less, Not Second: A Biblical Response to ‘Biological Privilege’”

As Christmastime approaches, I find myself thinking more deeply about family, belonging, and the stories we tell about what makes someone truly “ours.” Much of this reflection comes from conversations with my boys and from stories they have shared with me, stories shaped by their own experiences of being fostered before they were adopted by us. They have told me about moments that reveal how easily children who were fostered or adopted can be made to feel different, excluded, or somehow less special. Hearing this, especially through the voices of my own sons, breaks my heart. No child should ever feel that their place in a family is weaker or secondary because of biology.

The idea, whether stated outright or assumed, that biology grants a deeper or more authentic belonging causes real harm. Scripture speaks clearly and compassionately against this way of thinking. From the opening pages of the Bible, family is shown to be more than shared DNA. God creates human beings not only as biological organisms, but as image bearers, persons defined by relationship, calling, and covenant. It is clear that belonging is never reduced to bloodlines alone.

God identifies Himself as “a father to the fatherless” (Psalm 68:5) and commands His people to protect, welcome, and care for those without secure family ties (Deuteronomy 10:18; James 1:27). These commands are not about treating outsiders with distant kindness. They reflect God’s own commitment to bringing the vulnerable into real, lasting belonging.

At the center of the Christian gospel is adoption.

The apostle Paul teaches that believers are not just forgiven sinners, but adopted children of God. “You did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’” (Romans 8:15). Adoption is not a secondary benefit of salvation. God did not rescue us to leave us at a distance. He brought us fully into His family, giving us His name, His inheritance, and His Spirit.

Our adoption into God’s family does not make us provisional children. Paul is explicit that adopted children are heirs, “heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ” (Romans 8:17). There is no second tier in God’s household. No distinction between natural and adopted sons and daughters.

This truth exposes the egregious error of biological privilege. When we suggest, even unintentionally, that children who share DNA are more real, more secure, or more special than those who were adopted, we contradict the very gospel we profess.

Jesus Himself reinforced this redefinition of family. When He was told that His mother and brothers were looking for Him, He replied, “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother” (Matthew 12:50). This was not a rejection of family, but an expansion of it. Faithfulness and love, not blood, define the deepest bonds. In fact, I’ve often been told throughout my life “Blood is thicker than water.” And while that is true, my response is always the same: “that is true, but blood also clots faster.” 

For children like my sons, who were fostered before they were adopted, this biblical vision matters deeply. It affirms that their place in our family is not fragile or conditional. It does not depend on resemblance, shared traits, or genetics. It rests on love freely given and faithfully kept, mirroring the way God has loved us.

For parents and Christians, this truth carries responsibility. We must be careful with our words, our assumptions, and our traditions. We must never speak or act as though “real children” are biological ones, or as though adoption is a lesser story. The gospel calls us to honor adoption not as a backup plan, but as a beautiful expression of covenant love.

The family of God is not built on biology, but on covenant faithfulness. In that family, no child is less chosen, less secure, or less beloved.

If the gospel is true, then biological privilege is not. Biological privilege denies the way God Himself brings people into His family. If the gospel is true, then every fostered and adopted child should hear, in word and deed, what God declares to all His children: you belong, fully and forever.

The Detriments of Constant Entertainment: Why Boredom Is Good for Our Kids

“I’m bored.”

Few words spark more parental guilt or frustration. We hear them and rush to fill the silence with screens, activities, toys, or endless stimulation. We assume boredom is a problem to fix, when in reality, it’s one of the best teachers our children will ever have.

The Myth of Constant Engagement

Modern parenting often carries the unspoken expectation that good parents keep their children entertained. We sign them up for sports, music lessons, art clubs, and playdates. When there’s a spare moment, we hand them a tablet or turn on a show. But in our efforts to protect them from boredom, we’re actually robbing them of something essential, time to think and create.

Children who are constantly entertained never have to sit with their own thoughts. They never have to come up with their own ideas, make up their own games, or face the mild discomfort that leads to growth. The human mind, especially a child’s, needs quiet space to wander. Without it, imagination and self-motivation wither.

Boredom Breeds Creativity and Character

Boredom is not a void; it’s fertile ground. When a child has nothing to do, their mind begins to search, invent, and explore. Out of boredom comes forts built from blankets, stories spun from imagination, and inventions crafted from cardboard boxes.

More importantly, boredom teaches patience and perseverance. It forces a child to practice self-regulation, learning that not every moment must be filled with stimulation or reward. This kind of mental endurance prepares them for adulthood, where not everything is entertaining, and not every task yields instant gratification.

Excusing Misbehavior: The “I’m Bored” Trap

Too often, we excuse poor behavior because our children are “bored.” We say, “They’re just acting out because there’s nothing to do.” But this mindset subtly shifts responsibility away from the child and onto the parent’s ability to provide constant amusement.

When we do this, we teach them that boredom justifies disobedience, that discomfort is a reason to misbehave rather than an opportunity to grow in self-control. In truth, learning to handle boredom with grace is one of the earliest forms of maturity.

The Cost of Overstimulation

Constant entertainment, especially through screens, can actually dull a child’s ability to focus and appreciate simple pleasures. Studies have shown that overexposure to fast-paced media conditions the brain to crave constant novelty. As a result, ordinary life, reading a book, helping with chores, or simply sitting quietly, feels unbearable.

This overstimulation doesn’t just erode attention; it undermines gratitude. When a child’s baseline is constant amusement, real life often feels disappointing.

Reclaiming the Gift of Quiet

Parents don’t need to feel guilty for letting their children be bored. In fact, we should see boredom as an ally, not an enemy. It’s okay for them to sit on the porch and stare at clouds. It’s okay if they grumble for a few minutes before finding something to do. The discomfort of boredom is what pushes them toward independence, creativity, and resilience.

We can start small:

Limit passive entertainment like screens. Allow quiet afternoons without planned activities. Encourage unstructured play and household participation. Model contentment ourselves: show that silence and simplicity are not problems to solve but gifts to receive.

When we stop trying to fill every moment of our children’s lives, they begin to discover the joy of filling it themselves. Boredom, far from being harmful, teaches them to think deeply, play creatively, and live patiently.

Entertainment has its place, but constant entertainment robs them of something far better: the capacity to be still, to imagine, and to grow into people who can find joy even in the quiet.