I learned about Carl F. H. Henry at the feet of my mentor Leroy Forlines, professor of theology at Free Will Baptist Bible College (now Welch College) and author of books with titles such as The Quest for Truth and Classical Arminianism. Over the course of his career, Forlines taught his students the Henrician epistemology of God, Revelation, and Authority and the cultural mandate similar to what Henry outlined in The Uneasy Conscience of Modern Fundamentalism.

It was from my Arminian professor that I learned to love Henry, and that should be no surprise. Henry longed for vibrant faith, practice, and spirituality shared by all classic evangelicals—be they Arminian, Calvinist, Lutheran, or Anabaptist. He hoped for a transdenominational evangelical university that would bring together scholars from the various strands of confessional Protestantism.

This is the sort of program Henry modeled in the pages of Christianity Today. It's what caused Free Will Baptists like Billy Melvin, Wesleyans like Dennis Kinlaw, Lutherans like Robert Preus, Anabaptists like Edmond Hiebert, and Arminian-leaning Dispensationalists like Norman Geisler to rally behind Henry in his defense Scripture's truth claims and to sign on to the Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy.

My mentor loved Henry because, though Henry was a Calvinist and he an Arminian, they could put their differences aside in championing evangelical orthodoxy against a growing secularism, Protestant liberalism, and then-fashionable neo-orthodoxy. They could agree the Christian world-and-life-view had enormous implications—not just for a personal relationship with God, but also for culture and the created order as a whole.

Rather Ironic

My own love for Henry deepened when I was a student at Yale Divinity School in the early 1990s. Now that I look back on this time, it seems rather ironic—given current evangelical stereotypes—that a Free Will Baptist boy from the Deep South would be in the hotbed of Yale postliberalism, studying with George Lindbeck by day (and loving every minute of it) and leading the Divinity School Evangelical Fellowship in discussions of God, Revelation, and Authority by night.

Yet this "Reformed Arminian" had grown to love Henry's brand of presuppositionalism and his compelling defense of the classic Protestant doctrine of biblical inspiration. I was drawn to his Reformed emphases on human depravity, penal substitionary atonement, and the imputation of Christ's righteousness in justification. I identified with his down-to-earth evangelical spirituality coupled with a broadly Reformed-Kuyperian approach to culture and the implications of the Christian world-and-life-view.

Simply put, Henry seemed to this young Arminian theological student to be a more biblically faithful model of epistemology, theology, and cultural engagement than the postliberalism and liberation theology I was encountering at Yale. Indeed, I always thought Lindbeck didn't quite understand Henry. It seemed, in casting evangelical theology as merely "cognitive propositional," Lindbeck missed the distinctiveness of Henry's Reformed, faith-seeking-understanding epistemology. He seemed to be pigeonholing Henry and the mainstream evangelical tradition in a way that didn't do them justice.

Now, 20 years later, postmodernity doesn't seem so cool (at least to me) as it once did. It seems as though the evangelical academy is one of the few places where postliberalism is still in style (though its evangelical fans like to call it "postconservatism"). That's why I recently enjoyed reading Greg Thornbury's excellent new book, Recovering Classic Evangelicalism: Applying the Wisdom and Vision of Carl F. H. Henry (Crossway, 2013). This work has the prospect of resurrecting Henry's reputation among younger evangelicals. I hope as a result that our younger colleagues will actually read Henry, rather than just skimming his work and caricaturing him like so many evangelicals of my generation have done.

Undergirding Truth

I think Henry would have liked what Thornbury is doing and would have felt well represented by his book. Thornbury highlights the fact that Henry represents a Reformational epistemology as well as a traditional understanding of the nature of truth as that which conforms to reality. This view of truth undergirds the historic Christian view that Holy Scripture is without error in all it affirms.

Thornbury rightly insists that Henry's view of scriptural truthfulness isn't the novel invention of 19th-century Cartesian foundationalists, Enlightenment modernists who had too strong a dose of rationalism and Scottish Common Sense philosophy. Instead, it's common to historic Christianity from the Fathers up through the Reformers.

This is why evangelical Thomists like R. C. Sproul and Norman Geisler could join hands with those leaning more Augustinian in their epistemology, such as Henry, Francis Schaeffer, Ronald Nash, or Cornelius Van Til. They all shared the same traditional Christian approach to the truthfulness of Scripture as rational, propositional revelation from God.

Like these other thinkers, Henry never believed that the propositional character of special revelation—as important and non-negotiable as it is—exhausts the multiform character of divine revelation, as he and they are often caricatured as believing. Thornbury wants to resurrect this noble, classic evangelical understanding of divine truth and revelation for a younger audience. It will be healthy for younger evangelicals to let the clean sea breeze of classic evangelicalism blow through their minds. I believe this will help sweep away the cobwebs of well-worn postconservative clichés and stereotypes.

I do believe Henry would have responded favorably to the nuancing of some of his constructions in the light of postmodernity. (I also suspect Henry would find fruitful—and faithful—the ways scholars like Michael Horton and Malcolm Yarnell, whom Thornbury needlessly chides, have nuanced the Reformational epistemologies they received from their evangelical forebears.) Moreover, I think Henry would respond favorably to the proposals of Calvinist Don Carson (The Gagging of God) and Arminian Grant Osborne (The Hermeneutical Spiral), both of whom attempt to assert a classic evangelical view of revelation, truth, and hermeneutics in dialogue with postmodern thought.

Was Henry a man of his time who understood and communicated to his modernist interlocutors? Yes. But was he a captive to modernism? No. My hunch is that when our evangelical descendants look back on us in 100 years, the fact Henry was using a little too much rationalistic language and categories (a 300-year-old fad) isn't going to look nearly as faddish as postmodernism, postliberalism, postconservatism, postfoundationalism, postpropositionalism, and all the other "post"-fads presently driving much of evangelical theological method.

Culture and Kingdom

But in addition to epistemic and theological considerations, Thornbury desires to resurrect Henry's approach to culture and the kingdom so eloquently stated in The Uneasy Conscience. This is much needed in today's evangelical environment, with people on the one hand calling for evangelicals to be silent for a time in the public square while those on the other hand redefining the mission of the church as much in terms of saving the whales as saving souls.

Henry's view of the in-breaking kingdom of God as "already but not yet" made him critical of social-gospel liberals, whose over-realized eschatology made them place too much salvific significance on social justice and too little on evangelism. But he also believed his fundamentalist brothers and sisters didn't sufficiently emphasize the "already" nature of the kingdom and so ignored the social and cultural implications of the gospel.

Henry's life and ministry called 20th-century evangelicals back to a full-orbed Christian world-and-life-view that emphasized the Great Commission: making disciples and teaching them to live out Christ's teachings. This is just the sort of balance we need in the current evangelical debates about the Christian's role in society and public life.

Describing Henry as the man who "invented evangelicalism," Timothy George says Henry wanted to foster a movement that was "transcontinental, interdenominational, theologically affirmative, socially aggressive, and irenic." These are still worthy goals for a compelling, vibrant, theologically orthodox evangelical movement, and I believe a fresh reading and appreciation of Henry is just what we need to help us work toward these goals he valued so highly and embodied in his life and work.

Editors' Note: This is the first in a series of brief articles from students and graduates answering the question, "What do I wish someone had told me before seminary?"

*************

What do I wish someone had told me before seminary? First, I wish someone had explained that my time would be a season of preparation in the fullest sense. To grasp this concept has taken me a few years. I had little experience with graduate level study, even less experience with writing, but most significantly I was unprepared for the kind of commitment I was making. In an ethereal, almost metaphysical sense, I had a notion that I was entering a season of necessary discipline and diligence. But I failed to grasp what that meant in the everyday grind of theological training.

I attend Beeson Divinity School in Birmingham, Alabama. It's an incredible institution founded on the desire to build up and prepare ministers to proclaim the name of Christ. Their credo is what attracted me first, their high academic standard second. Though I wanted to be challenged in my faith as well as in my studies, I'm not sure I understood what that would actually require. As I'm sure most seminary students would agree, studying theology, philosophy, and the biblical languages takes concerted effort and copious amounts of time. It's truly a time of intentional preparation.

When my classmates and I began seminary, many of us assumed we'd have ample opportunity to use what we were learning in everyday ministry. But this hasn't always been the case. I'm not proud of this fact; I'm just making an observation. Much like other fields of training, in ministry it's wise to build a solid foundation of learning before undertaking your first "real world" assignment. Seminary provides such a foundation. Many students have ministry positions during their time in seminary, to be sure. Even in those situations, though, it's difficult to give your all to a particular ministry while investing in the future. This by no means excuses ministry laziness while in seminary; instead, it calls to attention the need to prioritize. It's a hard choice, but one that ultimately results in a person better equipped to serve in the long run.

I also wish I'd understood before seminary that it's an investment in my future. Not some theoretical "oh that sounds nice" sort of investment, but a literal, determined, hard-fought one. Moreover, I wish someone had made clear that such educational pursuit is okay. Investing through further education is worthwhile, and no one should feel a false sense of guilt for this effort.

I believe seminary should be difficult. Most worthwhile pursuits are. Those in seminary are challenged with the prospect of ministering to others who, like themselves, are broken and need help. Rigorous training, therefore, is necessary. We expect high standards from our physicians, our accountants, and our professors; shouldn't we expect as much—if not more—from our Christian leaders?

Seminary is necessarily a time of foundational training and preparation. It sets the standard for the future. I just wish I'd recognized what it actually would—and should—require before I began.

The dawn of a new day pulls you out of your much-needed sleep. Your mind immediately replays the various conversations and teaching associated with a jam-packed Sunday of ministry. Against your better judgment, but out of habit, you reach for your phone and click on the e-mail icon.

Your eyes quickly spot an e-mail from a trusted ministry leader in your church informing you a husband has left his wife despite repeated exhortations to entrust his troubled marriage to Jesus and allow their close friends to journey with them in love. Lord, not another marriage crisis! Your mind races through the possible scenarios, anticipating the energy needed to shepherd this couple standing at the brink of divorce.

Then you see another e-mail from another ministry leader expressing how her life is falling apart. She admits she's struggling to trust God and is questioning everything about Christianity.

Church leaders often grow weary dealing with constant waves of suffering and sin. The challenges of ministry are overwhelming, demanding, and relentless. You battle guilt and shame as you experience schedule overload, fear of not knowing how to deal with a certain situation, dislike of conflict, procrastination, and even "compassion fatigue." However, God makes it clear what he expects from those he places in leadership. He holds them accountable for their pastoral responsibilities (Ezek. 34; 1 Pet. 5:1-11; Heb. 13:17). By his grace, pastors can look to and follow Jesus, their Great Shepherd, as he empowers them by his Spirit to accomplish his purposes in and through his church.

Stepping Back to Step Forward 

Given your overwhelming ministry load, and perhaps your understanding of church discipline, you may think: No way! I don't have time to fit another thing into my schedule, let alone think about church discipline. But here's the thing: you can't afford not to participate in God's discipline within his church.

Regularly we must step back, take a deep breath, and reflect on the ministry God has entrusted to us. It's all too easy to drift not only from God's mission but also from seeking and following his Spirit, instead defaulting to merely reactive and pragmatic ministry.

We should rejoice whenever we feel overwhelmed by the demands of ministry, for God uses such times of desperation and exhaustion to humble us, to make us more dependent on him, and to remind us that gospel ministry is all about him—not us or "our ministry." We're also reminded that God-glorifying ministry is impossible apart from relying on his means and his power. This is where church discipline enters the picture.

God's Mission and Church Discipline

As we look at church discipline, we're reminded God is continually bringing about redemption within his church while he advances his kingdom in the world. That's why it's so critical we see God's discipline as a primary means by which he's redeeming his bride and bringing glory to himself. The following definition may offer a sense of relief and direction as you try to navigate the chaos of ministry:

Church discipline is God's ongoing, redeeming work through his living Word and people as they fight the good fight of faith together to exalt Christ and protect the purity of his bride.

This definition highlights how God disciplines us through his church for the purposes of restoring relationships, removing wickedness, renewing his people, and revealing his glorious love. It helps us to view church discipline not from our perspective, but from God's. It also helps us to see God's discipline through his church as his ongoing work through his living Word and people. Inherent in the definition, too, is an understanding that church discipline involves a continuum that includes both expanding (involving an increasing number of people) and also escalating (involving elders and more formal warnings) efforts over time to fight for those who relentlessly refuse to turn back to their living God.

This definition also recognizes that God disciplines us in everyday gospel community as we struggle with not believing—perhaps as a result of our intense suffering or chronic sin—who he is or what he's done through Christ. This is where giving the church a vision of living out the gospel in community—while equipping them to continuously encourage one another toward enjoying, trusting, and obeying Jesus—will yield disciples and eternal fruit. In other words, church discipline isn't meant to be just another thing to add to the plate but rather, by God's design, life-giving for everyone involved.

A much-needed look at church discipline also reminds us that God's ways and thoughts aren't like ours. No measure of rebellion disrupts or blinds God's redemptive gaze upon his people; he will complete the redemption he began in each of his children. Moreover, God uses his church to pursue, call back, and even remove the unrepentant person not only to redeem him or her, but also to redeem his bride as a whole. God is in the business of transforming what we mean for evil and leveraging it for his glory. Such is the nature of his gospel mission. Such is the nature of church discipline.

Whether we're fighting for tottering marriages or hearts ensnared by unbelief, God's discipline is meant to have a ripple effect on the entire congregation. Such difficult yet rewarding ministry enables us to experience God's radical life of mission, to see more clearly the glory of Christ amid suffering and sin, and to love one another in ways that image the gospel. These are the up-close, personal, and messy means through which God is redeeming his bride.

Editors' note: This article has been adapted from Robert Cheong's new book God Redeeming His Bride: A Handbook for Church Discipline (Christian Focus, 2013).

Online, Jill is a joyful and encouraging believer. She advocates for the oppressed and raises money for the poor. Every Saturday she tweets about her service at the local homeless shelter. She posts Bible verses several times a day. Based on her social media interactions, her friends seem to love and enjoy her.

Offline, she's a different Jill.

Offline Jill seems standoffish and unengaged with her church community. Her online activism feels more like judgmentalism and, while happy to volunteer at a shelter, she can't be bothered to serve her local church. Hurt by her apparent disinterest, Jill's peers feel ignored and pushed away. She seems more content to live online than face-to-face.

How can Jill's online life look so different from her real life? I can't judge her; I've been her and seen the fallout.

I Trick You

What I allow you to see online shapes your perception of me.

I put forth the cleanest version of myself not to intentionally fool you, but because I want to glorify God in all I say and do (and for more selfish reasons). I avoid broadcasting my negativity to keep you from stumbling (again, and for more selfish reasons). I carefully steward my statuses, affirm others, and avoid grumbling and complaining. I mind my moral and social p's and q's.

It's an admittedly misleading version of myself. I'm not posting, "Wow. I'm totally out of control. #ShamingMySon," or "I haven't done laundry in a month. #RatherBeTweeting." It's not that I'm unaware of my sin; I've just methodically eliminated the evidence. You assume I sin sometimes, but not because I've confessed.

In short, basing your impression of me on my social media profile would result in an embarrassingly inaccurate rendering of reality.

I Trick Me

What I present online unintentionally shapes my self-awareness, too.

Looking at the neatest, tidiest version of myself is sneakily alluring. I like the feeling of appearing perfect. The onlooking masses (or handful of friends) needn't know I sin, well, regularly.

To be honest, my own sin surprises me. I'm shocked when pride surfaces, self-control slips, or I fall prey to the same idolatrous patterns I've been battling for years. My gut reaction isn't Woe is me, I am a woman of unclean lips, but embarrassment about the evidence of indwelling sin I thought I could hide.

If Real Me is radically different than Online Me, which me is real, and which is the impostor? If I'm failing to demonstrate the same fruit of the Spirit in "real life" as I do online, it's probably plastic fruit—and I need to be aware of the discrepancy.

Getting Comfortable

It's fun to fill your life with Facebook friends, Twitter followers, and blog readers who seem to care every time you nail a Pinterest project or your kid does something cool. Who wouldn't love an audience to "like" all their pictures and "ooh and aah" over their craftiness?

But brothers and sisters, we must recognize this self-obsession and pride for what it is.

When I'm being encouraged primarily by online relationships, and large portions of my time are spent reading my own good press, it can get pretty comfortable on the sofa of social media. I like living in an online world where there's no need for my community to truly bear with me. I'd rather bask in the love of my digital perfection than stumble and fall before real people who will call me out and hold me accountable.

If I'm not careful, hanging out where no one knows my dirt can easily lull me away from reality into a life of insincerity and isolation.

Being Present 

Avoiding real-life connections—the ones you see every Sunday morning—to unpack your heart in the digital community doesn't only set you up for a delusional view of self, disappointment with your physical community, and social isolation; it also breeds spiritual stagnancy.

No matter how great your internet friends are, they aren't standing beside you, sensing your suffocating self-absorption. They don't see you at your worst or notice when you're avoiding fellowship or suffering from spiritual depression. They won't pick up on your dissatisfaction with your spouse, your constant bitterness or negativity, or your refusal to forgive the friend who hurt you. But real-life friends, the ones who can drive to your doorstep when you call, will.

I need friends who will get in my grill, iron sharpening iron, and help me to conquer sin head-on. I may turn a blind eye to my own social media slickness, but true friends won't. I need to be confronted by my sinfulness in real life, where there's no filter and no delete button.

Our Real and Present Need

My greatest need isn't a public relations manager; it's a Redeemer. And real-life, everyday friends—the ones aware of both my sin and the gospel's power—will regularly remind me of this need.

Long-distance and digital friendships, no matter how wonderful they are, cannot gain full access into our souls. Seeing a friend's compassionate eyes, holding her hand, and kneeling together in prayer are evidences of God's tangible nearness in the war against sin.

Don't settle for keeping your life primarily or exclusively online. Social media is a poor substitute for physical presence. Strive, fight for, and pour into those friends with whose voices, body language, and quirky personalities you're well familiar. These are the hearts that know your heart—and are praying and engaging for your sanctification.

In recent years there has been a marked movement of evangelical converts to Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy. This trend has included not just younger, untrained evangelicals, but established pastors and professors and even one president of the Evangelical Theological Society. While the causes for this phenomenon are doubtless complex and different in each individual case, one frequently cited reason is the sense of historical rootedness these traditions offer. Thus at the website Why I'm Catholic, one former Baptist chronicles his conversion to Roman Catholicism in terms of his parallel discovery of church history; at Called to Communion, one former Presbyterian equates his acceptance of Roman Catholicism with an acceptance of "historic Christianity"; and at Journey to Orthodoxy, one former Anglican describes how blessed he feels to be worshiping in direct succession with the apostles through the liturgy of the Eastern Orthodox church.

Within Protestantism also there's a migration toward more historically rooted traditions (especially Anglicanism, the so-called via media) and more liturgical, historically conscious expressions of worship and spirituality. For devotional reading, most of my younger Protestant friends love Thomas à Kempis's The Imitation of Christ but wouldn't be caught dead with a John Eldredge book. Hymn writing is on the rise, and many evangelicals are suddenly interested in the liturgical calendar.

What's causing this shift? While leaving room for the complex theological issues inevitably at play, I think one significant factor is the sense of rootlessness and restlessness many younger postmoderns feel today. At the heart of my generation is a profound emptiness—a sense of isolation and disconnectedness and consequent malaise. We're aching for the ancient and the august, for transcendence and tradition, for that which has stability and solidity and substance. And it's driving many of us out of evangelicalism.

At 29 years old, I can relate to this feeling of being lost in the world without a context by which to interpret it. But I don't think we need to abandon evangelicalism to find a sense of historical placement. In fact, I believe this thirst for rootedness can be fully satisfied within a Protestant and evangelical framework. You can be catholic without becoming Catholic, and orthodox without becoming Orthodox. As we promote "gospel-centered ministry for the next generation," we must make clear there's nothing inconsistent with being both evangelical and ancient, "gospel centered" and "historically rooted." The reason is simple: gospel-centeredness is itself historically rooted. In fact, it's as ancient as the gospel itself.

Evangelicals and Pre-Reformation Church History

How many Christians between the apostle John and Martin Luther do you think today's average American evangelical can name? It seems we contemporary evangelicals have a tendency to neglect this span of church history, acting as if the important stuff basically skipped from the 1st to the 16th century. Yes, we acknowledge the importance of Augustine (especially his Confessions). And there were some key battles about Christology and Trinitarianism early on, and some courageous martyrs somewhere back there, too. Sometimes we'll even enjoy a John Chrysostom sermon or Bernard of Clairvaux poem. But all too often we give the impression that our real tradition is roughly 500 years old—with a few scattered precursors, perhaps—rather than one solid, 2,000-year-old tradition. And there are huge stretches of time to which we have no conscious connection. What would it have been like to be a Christian in the 9th century, for example? Did gospel-centeredness (the reality, not the word) exist then? How does the ministry approach we champion today relate to the entire history of the church?

If we contemporary Protestants have sometimes failed to explore these questions, it isn't an error we learned from the first Protestants. Nor is it intrinsic to Protestantism. In fact, the Reformers took pains to emphasize they were seeking to reform the church, not recreate it, and that the true gospel had never entirely vanished from the earth. Even the most strident critics of Roman Catholic theology (like Luther, or later Turretin) insisted that during seasons of great corruption and decadence God had always preserved a regenerate people (though Luther, in typical tongue-in-cheek fashion, speculated that at times it had perhaps dwindled down to a few maidservants). And when Roman Catholic theologians appealed to Augustine and the church fathers to vindicate the tenets of the Counter-Reformation, John Calvin didn't respond by saying, "Who cares about Augustine and the fathers? They're nothing." Instead he became a diligent student of the church fathers, seeking to establish points of continuity between Reformation theology and patristic theology. Sola scriptura meant Scripture alone is the supreme authority—not that Scripture alone is valuable.

Owning the Family Photo Album

I'm a Protestant, and I believe Reformation theology protects the gospel. But I also believe it's possible to be robustly Protestant and vitally connected to, say, medieval Christianity. The church didn't completely sink during the eras of castles and cathedrals, monks and monasteries, bows and arrows, and knights in shining armor—only to suddenly re-emerge with Luther's 95 theses. No, there's a solid and steady chunk of Christianity subsisting right alongside Caedmon and Charlemagne and Chaucer. And since through many advances and retreats, corruptions and renewals, Jesus has always been building his church (Matt. 16:18; cf. Isa. 42:4), we can stand to learn from medieval theology. It can serve as a resource for ministry in our post-Christian, wandering culture.

To be sure, it's possible—and dangerous—to so emphasize "mere Christianity" that we lose our Protestant distinctives. But it's also possible to so bask in our particular denominational enclave that we lose touch with the entire Christian tradition. We contemporary Protestants need a balanced historical identity. We need to engage with both the last 500 years and also the previous 1,500, recognizing areas of discontinuity as well as encouraging points of overlap. As an African Christian in the patristic era remarked, "I am a Christian, and nothing which concerns Christianity do I consider foreign to myself."

I think this statement captures exactly what our attitude should be in engaging pre-Reformation church history: this is part of my heritage, my identity. The image I think of is a family photo album. In any such album there may be pictures that embarrass us, and we may be more proud to be related to one great uncle than to another. But warts, blemishes, and all, my family is still my family—and it would be foolish to cut myself off. After all, I wouldn't even be here without them.

Where to Begin?

If we want to increase our awareness of our pre-Reformation roots, where should we begin? The first six chapters of Mark Noll's Turning Points: Decisive Moments in the History of Christianity serve a great starting point in terms of secondary literature, but let me here mention three primary texts. These are all classic works of theology I believe deserve a wider readership among contemporary Protestants.

1. Boethius's The Consolation of Philosophy

Despite being one of the most influential books throughout church history, this work has been almost forgotten in recent centuries. Of it C. S. Lewis remarked: "Until about two hundred years ago it would, I think, have been hard to find an educated man in any European country who did not love it. . . . To acquire a taste for it is almost to become naturalised in the Middle Ages." Written in alternating poetry and prose while Boethius was awaiting execution in AD 524, The Consolation explores themes of suffering and divine providence. Boethius's treatment of the classic difficulty of divine foreknowledge and human free will in Book 5 alone makes the volume worth reading.

2. Gregory the Great's The Book of Pastoral Rule

Calvin called Gregory (c. 540-604) the last good pope. This book is a classic of pastoral theology; every minister should consider reading it. Gregory's thesis is that pastoral ministry requires a delicate balance of inner and outer qualities—theory and practice, contemplation and activity, administration and asceticism, otherworldly holiness and earthly wisdom. This is a helpful reminder since pastors tend to gravitate toward one of these realms more than the other. A good edition can be found in St. Vladimir's Seminary's Popular Patristics series, which in general is a great resource for becoming acquainted with early Christian thought.

3. Anselm's Proslogion

Although famous for its "ontological argument" for God's existence, this volume's rich theology and impassioned prayers make it a nourishing and edifying read as well. My doctoral research concerns St. Anselm's doctrine of heaven in chapters 24-25, and my delight and amazement with this book is the chief cause of this article. If anyone doubts the value of reading pre-Reformation theology, all I can say is, find a good translation of the first chapter of Proslogion, and tolle lege!

This article is written in love and admiration for pastors in North America. It is also written in brotherly concern because pastors in our culture are frequently subjected to gossip, slander, and malicious speech. You probably do not have to attend church meetings for very long before witnessing this for yourself. I remember speaking with a friend who attended a church meeting that quickly turned ugly. His comment to me, as a new Christian, was, "My honeymoon in the church was over." I doubt any of my readers will have trouble imagining what that meeting was like for my friend. While this is naturally a problem for any church in any age, certain tendencies in our culture make it an especially glaring one—and the Internet only makes things worse. I would like to think through the issue of foolish speech in a pastoral context by turning to the book of Proverbs because this book contains rich resources for both understanding and interpreting the roots of foolish speech and responding to it in a faithful way.

I would like to argue that, in the book of Proverbs, one cannot argue with a fool without making things worse. The wise person instead trusts the Lord to intervene by silencing and stopping foolish speech and vindicating those who trust him. I realize this conclusion may seem extreme. In order to recommend it, this article briefly sketches how the major characters in Proverbs speak and examines how the wise respond (or do not respond) to foolish speech. Then it turn to the NT, focusing on Paul's directions to how Timothy and Titus should speak in different situations, as well as Paul's presentation of Christ as the wisdom of God in 1 Cor 1. The essay closes by applying the wise speech of Proverbs to everyday-ministry settings.

1. Major Characters in Proverbs: The Simple, the Fool, and the Wise Man

The first major character in Proverbs is the simpleton, most often identified with the son or the youth in the book. The book of Proverbs portrays a pious Israelite father, guided by Solomon, teaching his son how to engage successfully in the complex adventure called "life." The son or youth is classified as "simple" (פֶּתִי) in the sense of being naïve about how life works and easily fooled (see Prov 1:4). While not morally wrong in itself, the youth's simplicity is dangerous because it is susceptible to influence from either wisdom or folly (9:4-6, 16). If not left behind, the youth will suffer the most terrifying consequences (1:22, 31). Although more could be said about this character, it turns out that the simple youth does not have much to say in Proverbs—he is rather called on to listen quietly to the wise instruction of the father.

For this reason, we turn to the two other major characters in the book: the righteous-wise and the wicked-fool.[1] In making this distinction, I am not ignoring how Proverbs uses a number of words are for different kinds of people. For instance, לֵץ ("scoffer") seems to denote a hardened cynic for whom there is the least hope of change.[2] Nevertheless, it is fair to make a broad distinction between two basic kinds of people in Proverbs: the righteous and the wicked, the wise and the foolish. The entire book of Proverbs is an appeal to the son to leave behind his simplicity and join the ranks of the righteous-wise by describing the life (and especially the speech) of these people and the blessed consequences that meet them under YHWH's hand.[3]

The righteous-wise can be defined, first, as those who "do right by" God and neighbor (1:3, 2:9, 12:17, 21:21, etc.). They discharge all relational obligations, doing what is right in the complex junctures to which every relationship is subject. This righteousness should not be understood only in the sense of fairness or balance, but more extremely as going "over the top" to do as much as possible to enhance the life of one's neighbor. "The righteous are willing to disadvantage themselves to advantage the community; the wicked are willing to disadvantage the community to advantage themselves."[4] Second, this category of people are "wise" in the sense of being skilled at engaging with the complex order God has set up in creation, and especially in relationships (1:2-7). This category of people is consistently portrayed as morally upright and insightful about how life and relationships work.

By contrast, the wicked-fool privileges self over neighbor. His wickedness consists in working for his own advantage to the detriment of others. His folly is similarly seen in the lack of skill with which he lives, despite the disastrous consequences to himself and others. Furthermore, this type of person consistently refuses to listen to instruction or rebuke or advice. The fool is someone who is incorrigibly certain he knows how life works, no matter how he is warned (1:7, 22; 12:15, 15:5). They are the ones who are wise in their own eyes (3:5-8). In contrast, the wise are receptive, open, and listening to wisdom (1:7-8, 2:1-4, 10:8, etc.), even loving rebuke (9:8).

How do these two groups of people talk? Proverbs spends no small amount of space portraying wise and foolish speech.

2. Foolish Speech in Proverbs

We can broadly summarize foolish speech in two ways.

2.1. Constant

First, there is a lot of it: the fool is always talking. Instead of pondering how he should answer, his mouth pours forth wicked things (Prov 15:28; cf. 15:2). He answers before he listens (18:13). He gets involved in arguments not his own (26:17). This kind of person is completely unrestrained: cross him and he explodes (12:16; 29:11). He cannot keep another's secret (11:13; 12:23). He abuses people he dislikes (11:12)[5] and criticizes them to others (10:18). Instead of keeping quiet, his rash words are sword-thrusts (12:18) that spark arguments with others (15:18).

The first-time reader of Proverbs might conclude at this point that people who are naturally outgoing and talkative are closer to folly than those with a quieter personality. Proverbs does contain some sober warnings about talking a lot: "in many words, sin is not lacking" (10:19); "the one guarding his lips guards his life" (13:3). But the biblical portrayal of the fool's unrestrained speech locates its source elsewhere: the fool talks so much because he is someone who has to be right. He will not stop arguing (20:3). If you get into an argument with the fool, instead of giving you the benefit of the doubt and working with you toward a resolution, "he only rages and laughs, and there is no quiet" (29:9). From the very first chapter of Proverbs, gaining wisdom means listening to those wiser than you; one cannot become wise without being receptive. An essential characteristic of the fool is that he will not do so, instead despising יסר, "fatherly instruction" (1:7, 5:23, 10:17, 12:1, 13:1; cf. also the understatement for effect in 15:12). Refusing to accept instruction in how life works, the fool is interested only in airing his own opinion (18:2).

And there is a sense in which the fool cannot accept such instruction. The fool's unwise speech is constitutional: he does not know how to say anything else. The mouths of the wicked know only what is perverse (10:32); when a fool decides to instruct someone, all he can dispense is more folly (16:22). Truths that would otherwise help others dangle like crippled legs in his mouth (26:7; cf. 1:22, 23; 13:19; 17:10; 24:7; 27:22).

When a dear friend asked me to write an article about my journey to sustained victory over pornography, I must admit I didn't want to do it. Excuses filled my head. What will people think about me? What would I say about such a complicated issue? But at the forefront of my mind was simply this thought: Am I even victorious enough to write such an article? My so-called victory, after all, has been sloppy. Desires didn't magically disappear. The temptation to succumb has, at times, felt inordinate. But I can honestly look back and bear witness that God's grace is training me to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions (Titus 2:11-12).

When I think about my journey, the path has been marked by months of prayer, meditation, conversations with God and others, and some despair along the way. If you're currently struggling between the desire to please God or to please self, take it from someone who has been in your shoes: God is faithful to forgive and to give grace to help you. As I look back, here are two threads of thinking that run through the entire process.

Remember the Gospel

The first thread comes at the risk of sounding cliché, but I couldn't be more serious: remember the breadth and magnitude of the gospel. For years my struggle with pornography was merely an annoying habit I wanted to fix, like biting my nails or saying "um" when speaking. But it kept me from being an effective leader in the church, and it kept me from being normal. I needed a fresh vision of what I was actually doing: I was grieving the Holy Spirit and participating in the very things that stored up wrath against me before I was in Christ (Eph. 4:30; Rom. 2:5). When the Lord brought a season of gospel renewal to my life, I came to understand that my sin was far more serious than I knew.

Thankfully, when the Lord brings gospel renewal he doesn't just show us how bad we are—he shows us how incredible he is. His mercies, his attributes, and his gospel became to me far sweeter than I'd ever imagined. Hour by hour I reminded myself that just as Christ's death called me to die, his resurrection called me to new life. I often stumbled and clawed my way back to these deep pools of water. When I sat down to pray, I felt like a child just learning to utter his first words. But I didn't give up. If you're struggling with pornography, fight to remember the life-changing truth of the gospel. Let that truth drive you moment by moment to confession and repentance. Practice it often. Don't be like the rich young ruler who wanted an easy formula for eternal life. Be instead like the woman who wept at Jesus' feet because she knew her sin was great but knew her Savior was better.

Remember Common Grace

The second thread of thinking flows from the first: remember the common grace gifts God has given us to fight pornography. Without the first thread, the second would be legalism; without the second, however, the first would be impractical. In order for gospel fruit to grow, I had to put myself in an environment where the fruit wouldn't be scorched before it could blossom. That meant I had to flee temptation by cutting off access to it. I had to use computer software, accountability partners, and daily reminders that I'd disqualify myself from ministry if I persisted in this sin. Even more, I had to visualize my wife's face each time I confessed it wasn't going well.

Because of our necessary and helpful focus on heart idolatry, we can be afraid of putting "eye-gouging" measures into our lives to fight sin. Computer software can't change my heart, we think. And that's true. But we should recognize these practical safeguards as common grace gifts from God to help us in our fight against our heart's idols. The path to sustained victory in my life is filled with earthly motivations. I didn't want to hurt anyone by derailing my life with pornography. I urge you to think about the same things. If the look of brokenness on your wife's face or an uncomfortable conversation with an accountability partner motivates you to resist porn, rejoice. Then, remember the gospel.

There are many helpful materials available on the subject of lust and pornography. You can read about the effects pornography has on the brain, or you can read about the "sin behind the sin" of control or ungodly pleasure. All of this information is vital to digest and understand. But let's never forget the most important thing to consult when thinking about these issues—God's own words:

Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions. Do not present your members to sin as instruments for unrighteousness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments for righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace. (Rom. 6:12-14)

May the grace of God remind us of who we are and who he is in our fight against sin—and may that grace also empower to obey in moments of intense temptation. He is faithful.

Studying the Bible with other believers can often have an insular effect that's unhealthy and, according to Luke's Gospel, unbiblical. From beginning to end in his Gospel, the Gentile physician spotlights the surprising work of the gospel in those thought to be "outsiders."

Luke articulates Jesus' story as accessible to the unknowns, the outcast, the lost, and the hopeless. For example, Jesus recounts the stunning embrace of the returned prodigal and embittered response of his "righteous" brother, displaying his desire for irreligious and religious alike to turn to him in repentance. We see Jesus' invitation to Zacchaeus—the hated tax collector eavesdropping on Jesus from the outside—and the grumbling response of the crowd on the inside: "He has gone in to be the guest of a man who is a sinner." We witness Jesus look with compassion on a reviled yet repentant criminal hanging on the cross next to his. Despite being the final moments before his death, Jesus takes time to give the criminal an astonishing promise—a scandal that remains today. Examples like these abound throughout the Gospel of Luke. In short, Jesus constantly challenges Israel's "insiders" by highlighting "outsiders" transformed by the gospel. He desires transformation in both camps.

As an educated urban Gentile, Luke himself would have been familiar with the local synagogue. Given his understanding of the Hebrew Scriptures, he must have listened in as an outsider for years. But growing up he would have quickly learned the limits of his access to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Being included in the great story of God's people was impossible for someone like him. Yet the message of Jesus transformed Luke, too, moving him from the "outside in" to a full-fledged member of God's community.

The implications of Jesus' message directly affect those on the outside looking in. It's also a message deeply challenging to "insiders," designed to reveal cracked foundations upon which many have built their religious lives. When outsiders turn to God, insiders are pressed to reevaluate the biblical story and reexamine the foundation of their relationship with God.

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Editors' note: This excerpt has been adapted from The Gospel of Luke: From the Outside In (LifeWay), a new resource offering a thorough look at the ministry of Jesus through the eyes of Luke and the careful interpretation of scholars David Morlan and D. A. Carson. Based on the theme of The Gospel Coalition's 2013 National Conference, this 12-session group study shows how Luke brings the good news from the "outside in" as Christ embraces the unknowns, the outcast, the lost, and the hopeless. Morlan and Carson hope participants will gain greater awareness of God's work on "the fringes," learn to recognize the tendency in believers toward insular Christianity, and marvel at the person and work of the Lord Jesus.

Both the member book and also the leader kit for The Gospel of Luke: From the Outside In can be purchased here.

In addition to the brief promotional video above, you can watch a clip of one of Carson's teaching sessions below and preview a digital copy or even download the full introduction and session one. 

I'm an introvert. Most people who don't know me well wouldn't guess this about me, but it's true. On a practical level, being an introvert means I'm generally more energized by time alone than by time with people, and I have a preference for a less externally stimulating environment. I feel very alive in a quiet, empty room. On the introversion/extroversion spectrum I fall closer to the middle, but still lean decidedly toward the introverted side.

The process of understanding introversion and the way it's expressed in my life has been both a tremendous relief and also an ongoing source of doubt and concern. My daily reality is people-intensive and externally stimulating. I'm married to an extrovert, we have four children, and we live in an urban setting. Our home and surroundings are fun and energetic—not exactly low-stimulus. My husband pastors a large church, and we're involved with many congregations and ministries throughout the world; consequently, our social circles are large and complex. To complicate things even further, my spiritual gifts are often expressed publicly as are the (non-innate!) social skills I've managed to learn and practice over time. These realities, combined with my definite need for quiet and solitude, have often left me and others confused about who I really am.

The lie I'm most tempted to believe is that the way God has wired me is incompatible with the life he's called me to live. The logical conclusion of this lie is that joy and contentment aren't possible—and that constant frustration is inevitable.

It took a while for me to unearth and articulate that lie under the layers of fear, doubt, and insecurity it was producing. I knew these beliefs didn't line up with God's character or promises, but it's taken extended immersion in the truth of God's Word to renew my mind and dismantle that deception. Along the way, I've discovered some subtle and not-so-subtle assumptions I'd unwittingly latched onto over time.

1. Extroversion is the biblical ideal.

There's little question our culture leans toward idealizing extroverts. Those with intrinsically good social skills, who appear to thrive in party-type atmospheres and exude confidence when meeting new people, are often considered worthy of emulation. I spent many years wondering why small talk felt so awkward for me when it seemed so effortless for my friends. In some churches, an appropriate focus on community life can inadvertently favor those who are most comfortable socially, quickest to share their thoughts and feelings, and most likely to throw a party. But there's no biblical precedent for idealizing extroversion, just as there's none for idealizing introversion either. I know extroverts who feel condemned because a quiet environment and time alone are somewhat distracting. They find it difficult to avoid comparing themselves to more introverted, contemplative types and avoid attributing their struggle to a lack of self-discipline when, in fact, a preferred environment has little to do with self-discipline at all.

The comparisons aren't helpful and neither is holding up an ideal the Bible does not. The body of Christ includes persons at all points on the introversion/extroversion continuum, and no one's contribution is more important than another's. We're all responsible to spend time both privately and corporately with God and others in worship, study, prayer, and service. Caving to a cultural standard that doesn't line up with scriptural truth is destructive to individuals and to the body of Christ.

2. Introverts don't like people.

This has perhaps been the lie that's stung most for me. I care deeply about people, but I need time alone to recharge in order to be able to give them my best. It's taken me years to view this as good stewardship rather than some sort of flaw I need to overcome. Actually, and perhaps ironically, the chief thing that's kept me from loving people well has been my attempt to be someone I'm not. The more I've tried to be that "life of the party" girl, endlessly accommodating others without considering what I need to recover, the less capacity I've had to actually love people well.

We're all responsible to obey biblical commands related to loving people sacrificially and living hospitably and generously. And it's a cop-out to use introversion as an excuse for self-protective isolation. But there's not just one or even ten "right" ways to love people well. I've learned to get better at small talk and interacting with strangers, because it's important and necessary, but it's never going to be my greatest strength. I've become much more comfortable in opening our home to small and large groups of people, both in planned and spontaneous ways, but going deep with one or two people over coffee is always going to be a place where I thrive. Accepting my God-given introversion, I still allow myself to be stretched or uncomfortable. But I passionately pursue opportunities where I can love people deeply with my gifts and life, and then humbly take responsibility for what it looks like for me to be refreshed.

3. Solitude is selfish and indulgent.

Now there's a reality here that can be true. If my choice to be alone is primarily to serve myself and intensify a me-oriented focus, it is a problem. But for a long time I believed solitude for the purpose of prayer, Bible study, or worship is necessary, but anything beyond that is probably frivolous. However, I've come to experience great benefits from a variety of solitary activities. Solitude in itself isn't inherently helpful or harmful, but the underlying purpose is pivotal. I can go for a run by myself to clear my head and enjoy God's gift of nature—or to sinfully distract myself from something I need to confront. I can sit alone in a coffee shop in order to think deeply and process life events—or to worry about things beyond my control. When I cooperate with the way God has designed me, and surrender my solitude to him, he uses it to refresh my soul in often unexpected and powerful ways.

4. Introversion is incompatible with teaching and leadership gifts.

Last year, after an acquaintance watched my husband and me team-teach in front of a few thousand people, he remarked in a good-natured way that I couldn't possibly be an introvert. I knew he meant this as a compliment, and I also understood his confusion. People who are confident and capable in front of large audiences don't exactly fit the introverted stereotype. And while it's true many introverts aren't comfortable in front of people, I am. How much of that is due to my natural personality, gifting, or years of training in music, theater, and teaching, I don't know, and it probably doesn't matter. What I do know is that once the adrenaline wears off after such an event, I need some silence and solitude in order to be replenished. I'm passionate about teaching God's Word, and I love to get to use my gifts in this area, but it's equally important for me to take necessary steps to make room for quiet rest. By God's grace I'm learning to see my more public and more private sides not as incompatible or inauthentic, but as balances to each other. 

Additionally, my leadership gifts aren't expressed in the same way as my extroverted husband. I tend to lead best from a more contemplative place. My creativity flourishes, and my best ideas rise to the surface when I have time to be alone more so than when I'm brainstorming with others in a highly dynamic environment. Since there is no one-size-fits-all model for leadership, our churches will be best served when there's room at the table for extroverted and introverted leaders alike.

Accepting the realities of my God-given personality has been a process of sanctification. I've had to repent of people-pleasing and trying to be someone I'm not. I've had to humbly acknowledge my limits and weaknesses and to live in God's strength rather than my own. Ultimately, this process has been about God and his kingdom, not me. The more I rest in his gracious acceptance of me in Jesus, the more free I become to be myself for his glory. And that's a place where joy and contentment abound.

For the first 10 years of my Christian life, I was internally pro-life but externally pro-choice. I believed abortion was wrong, I voted like abortion was wrong, but I lived as if it were no big deal. At the heart of my indifference was the idea that combating abortion isn't a kingdom priority. Abortion is a political issue. It's not my calling. Why should I waste my time trying to moralize unbelievers?

All of these excuses came crashing down on a Saturday morning in Nashville, when the story of the Good Samaritan was opened to me in a new light. Gregg Cunningham, executive director for The Center for Bio-Ethical Reform, was in town for a one-day seminar. My mom knew Gregg and wanted me to meet him. The trip I'd scheduled for the weekend fell through. The tiny Baptist church hosting the event was a few blocks from my apartment. So I went. In fact, I was almost the only one who went, but the sparseness of that gathering has been a frequent source of encouragement ever since. Gregg could have packed it in and not bothered with such a small crowd. But he didn't. And here I am.

Central to his presentation was the story of the Good Samaritan—a story originally prompted by an incredibly significant question: "What shall I do to inherit eternal life?" When a lawyer asks him this question, Jesus in turn asks him what's written in the law. When the lawyer inquires about who his neighbor is, Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan.

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, 'Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.' Which of these three, do you think, proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?" He said, "The one who showed him mercy." And Jesus said to him, "You go, and do likewise." (Luke 10:25-37)

Who is my neighbor? The nameless, unconscious, socially despised stranger on the brink of death. What does it mean to love him? To physically intervene on his behalf, even if it costs time, money, safety, and prestige. Jesus builds his narrative on neighbors so different, so detached, so disconnected that it becomes impossible to classify anyone as a non-neighbor. And though it's a relatively extreme example, it illustrates how far genuine love for neighbor is willing to go. When we understand the story of the Good Samaritan, not as an extraordinary act of kindness but as an application of normal, neighborly love in extraordinary circumstances, we're on the right track. But it still won't hit us as it should if we demonize the priest and Levite. When we view them as self-absorbed villains, it's much easier to escape conviction. When we see them as normal, busy, distracted people, the story hits much closer to home.

Reasonable-Sounding Excuses

Jesus doesn't tell us what the priest and Levite were thinking, but it's unlikely these spiritual icons were so hardhearted that they could look on a beaten countryman without feeling compassion. Nor is it hard to imagine the excuses that probably went through their heads. I'm on my way to the synagogue. I can't become ceremonially unclean. Mercy ministries aren't my calling. I'm not a doctor. Someone else will help. I might be attacked and robbed myself. He's probably dead already. I'll pray for him as I go. Having used variants of these same excuses myself, I'm well aware how reasonable they sound in the moment. But Jesus makes it clear that feeling compassion and showing compassion are entirely different things. It doesn't matter what they felt; it matters what they did. And since they did nothing, they stand condemned.

In his talk Gregg suggested most Christians respond to abortion like the priest and Levite responded to the beaten man in the street. They feel bad but pass the victims by. His assessment was certainly true of me. Like so many others, I thought mental opposition is enough. As long as I knew abortion was wrong and didn't endorse it myself, everything was fine, since that's all I'd be held accountable for. But what's the underlying warning in the Good Samaritan story? It's not what we feel; it's what we do. We can act without love, but we cannot love without acting. Loving my neighbor is not a special calling; it's a response to those in need around me. And it's worth noting that the story's hero wasn't wandering around looking for someone to help. He was on his way somewhere else—but he stopped to help a neighbor in need.

How does this story connect to abortion? The parallels are many. Just like the man left for dead in the street, children threatened by abortion are utterly helpless. If someone doesn't intervene, they'll die. They have no capacity to communicate, to beg for help. They are socially marginalized strangers in a culture programmed not to care about them. And just like the persons passing by on the Jericho road, we may be innocent of the crime, but Jesus still expects us to intervene. The violence of abortion isn't as visible as a man lying beaten on a road, but it surrounds us every day. In the story of the Good Samaritan, Christ teaches us the significance of the insignificant. Even a nameless stranger on the brink of death is worth our time, labor, and love.

Editors' note: This excerpt is adapted from Michael Spielman's free eBook Love the Least (A Lot): Extending the Love of Christ to Abortion-Vulnerable Women and Children (2013). Spielman is the founder and director of Abort73.com.