THE GOSPEL IN MUSIC — WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

Sometimes truth reaches us sideways—not from a pulpit or a page, but through a song that finds its way into the heart before the mind has time to object.

Music has always carried meaning; long before most people owned a Bible, they learned what to believe by what they sang. Israel remembered the faith with psalms; the early Church held fast to Christ with hymns sung under pressure and in the dark. And many times, even a secular song brushes up against something unmistakably biblical.

With a Little Help from My Friends is not a Christian song. It makes no such claim. I’m probably aware of what “friends” The Beatles were talking about. But that does not change the fact that the song can be heard in a completely different way. To me, it names a reality the Bible takes seriously: human life was never meant to be solitary or self-sustaining.

“What would you do if I sang out of tune? “Would you stand up and walk out on me?”

That question carries a quiet vulnerability. It is the fear most people keep hidden—what happens when I disappoint, when I falter, when I am no longer impressive? The Bible answers that question not with theory, but with a Person. God does not walk out. He comes near. “But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Love is not offered after improvement; it is given at our worst.

The song leans hard on companionship. I get by with a little help from my friends. Scripture affirms that instinct, but deepens it. Jesus does more than tolerate us; He names us. “No longer do I call you servants…but I have called you friends” (John 15:15). And unlike even the best human relationships, this friendship does not collapse under strain. “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5).

There is also an honesty in the lyrics that feels almost confessional: Do you need anybody? I need somebody to love. The Bible never treats that admission as weakness. It calls it humility. Grace begins where self-sufficiency ends. “God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). The Gospel is not for those who have learned to manage on their own, but for those who know they cannot.

Still, the song stops where the Gospel must continue. Friends can steady us, encourage us, and walk beside us—but they cannot redeem us. They cannot bear our guilt or reconcile us to God. Only Christ does that. “For there is one God and one Mediator between God and men, the Man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5). Community is a gift; salvation is the gift.

And yet, how generous God is to give both. The Bible never imagines faith as a solo act. The Church exists so that when one voice falters, others carry the song forward. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). We come to Christ one by one, but we are joined together once we arrive.

So when that familiar tune plays, it can remind us of something the Bible has always said more clearly: we are not saved by our performance, nor sustained by our own strength. We are held by Christ—and surrounded, by His kindness, with fellow travelers who help us along the way.

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Lord Jesus, thank You for loving me when I stumble and fail. Thank You for saving me by grace and placing me among Your people. Teach me to depend fully on You and to love others with the patience You have shown me. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN ART — WHEN BEAUTY BEARS WITNESS

From some of the earliest days, the Gospel has not only been preached with words; it has been seen. Before creeds were systematized and before many believers could read a single line of Scripture, walls spoke, colors confessed, and images testified.

Art became a quiet evangelist—often persecuted, sometimes misunderstood, yet stubbornly faithful. In catacombs beneath Rome, simple symbols—the fish, the anchor, the shepherd—declared what tyrants could not silence: Jesus Christ is Lord. Beauty, here, was not decoration; it was proclamation.

The Gospel in art begins, fittingly, with the incarnation. Christianity is the only faith that insists God may be pictured—not because wood and paint are divine, but because God once took on flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). When artists painted Christ’s face, they were not reducing Him; they were confessing Him. The very act of portraying Jesus said, He truly came. He walked. He wept. He bled. The brush affirmed what the apostles preached: “That which we have seen with our eyes…” (1 John 1:1).

Across centuries, the Gospel unfolded on canvas and stone. Medieval crucifixions were not polite or restrained; they were brutal, heavy with blood and sorrow. They refused to sentimentalize the cross. They declared, without apology, that salvation was costly. “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5).

Later, resurrection scenes flooded churches with light—Christ stepping out of the tomb, banners raised, death humiliated. Art preached both Friday and Sunday, judgment and joy, sin exposed and grace triumphant.

The Reformers, often suspicious of excess, still understood the power of image and hymn. Even stripped walls could not erase imagination shaped by Scripture.

Meanwhile, composers like Bach painted the Gospel in sound—layer upon layer of harmony, disciplined yet soaring, echoing Paul’s confession: “For I determined not to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified” ( 1 Corinthians 2:2). The arts multiplied the message, not by replacing Scripture, but by responding to it—like melodies in a great cathedral.

And still today, the Gospel finds its way into galleries, songs, novels, films, and even street murals. Not all Christian art is explicitly religious; sometimes it whispers rather than shouts. A story of sacrifice. A painting of light breaking through darkness. A melody that aches with longing and resolves in hope. Wherever truth confronts despair and grace interrupts ruin, the Gospel leaves fingerprints. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it” (John 1:5).

Art does not save; Christ saves. Yet art can point—often powerfully—to the Savior. It can awaken the heart, unsettle the conscience, and prepare the soil. When rightly ordered, beauty becomes a servant of truth, not its rival. And when the Church remembers this, she regains a language the world still understands: the language of wonder.

The Gospel in art is not about making Christianity impressive; it is about making Christ visible. Not always clearly, not always perfectly—but faithfully. And in every age, He continues to stand at the center, inviting all who see to come and behold.

BDD

CHOSEN BY GOD—OR CALLED BY GRACE?

Before any critique is offered, something must be said plainly and without qualification. I have long admired R. C. Sproul’s intellect, his disciplined mind, and his visible reverence for Holy Scripture. He was no theological lightweight, nor was he careless with the text.

His passion for the holiness of God stirred many to take the Bible more seriously, to think more carefully, and to worship more reverently. I have learned real and lasting things from his teaching. I believe he was a godly man who loved Jesus, loved the God’s people, and labored sincerely to defend what he believed to be the truth.

There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Brother Sproul is with the Lord now. What follows, then, is not an attack on his character or his devotion, but a disagreement with a system he championed—one I believe ultimately presses Scripture further than Scripture itself will go.

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R. C. Sproul’s Chosen by God is written with clarity, seriousness, and reverence; it is not a careless book, nor the work of a man indifferent to holiness or the glory of God. For that reason, it deserves a careful response rather than a reactionary one. Yet clarity does not equal correctness, and reverence does not guarantee balance.

The system Sproul defends—classical, deterministic Calvinism—ultimately presses Scripture into a philosophical mold that Scripture itself resists. The God of the Bible is sovereign, yes; but His sovereignty is personal, covenantal, and moral—not mechanical, exhaustive, or coercive. When sovereignty is defined in such a way that human response becomes illusory, love becomes selective by decree, and judgment falls on those who never possessed genuine opportunity, something vital has been lost.

Sproul insists that if God is truly sovereign, then human freedom must be radically curtailed. Yet Scripture never defines God’s sovereignty in opposition to meaningful human response. Again and again, the biblical narrative holds both together without embarrassment. “I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing; therefore choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

The command is not theatrical, nor is the invitation hollow. The God who declares the end from the beginning also pleads, warns, grieves, and rejoices. Divine sovereignty in Scripture is not displayed by rendering human decisions irrelevant, but by accomplishing redemptive purposes through real choices made by real people—choices that matter eternally.

At the heart of Chosen by God is the doctrine of unconditional election: that God, before creation, chose certain individuals for salvation and passed over the rest, not based on foreseen faith, but solely on His secret will.

Yet the New Testament consistently frames election in Christ, not as an abstract decree concerning isolated individuals. God chose a people, a body, a covenant family—and the means of entering that chosen reality is faith-union with the Son. “He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world” (Ephesians 1:4).

The phrase “in Him” is not incidental; it is decisive. Election is Christ-centered before it is individualized, and corporate before it is personal. Sproul’s reading reverses that order, beginning with an eternal decree about individuals and only later situating Christ as the mechanism for its execution.

Moreover, Chosen by God asserts total inability in such a way that the Gospel call itself becomes selective in intent. Sproul maintains that the unregenerate cannot respond positively to God under any circumstances unless first regenerated—and thus the universal invitations of Scripture function merely as instruments to gather the already-chosen.

But the apostles did not preach as if this were so. They pleaded, reasoned, persuaded, and warned. Paul declares that God “now commands all men everywhere to repent” (Acts 17:30), not as a rhetorical flourish, but as a sincere summons grounded in the reality of accountability. A command that cannot possibly be obeyed—even in principle—empties language of its moral meaning.

Most troubling is the portrait of God that inevitably emerges. Sproul denies that God delights in the damnation of the reprobate, yet the system he defends requires that God eternally wills the non-salvation of multitudes for His own glory.

The Bible, however, repeatedly affirms that God’s disposition toward the world is genuinely salvific. He is “not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9). He “desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4). These statements are not explained away by appealing to hidden wills or divided intentions; they are revelations of the heart of God as He has chosen to make Himself known.

None of this denies grace. Salvation is not earned, initiated, or completed by human effort. Faith itself is a response made possible by grace from beginning to end. But grace, in Scripture, is not irresistible force—it is divine generosity that can be received or resisted.

“You always resist the Holy Spirit” (Acts 7:51) is not a hypothetical accusation; it is a historical indictment. Love that cannot be refused is not love as the Bible presents it; and judgment that falls where no real alternative was possible cannot be reconciled with the justice God declares of Himself.

Chosen by God is right to exalt God; it is wrong to do so by diminishing the sincerity of His invitations, the integrity of human response, and the breadth of His redemptive desire. The Gospel does not announce that some are secretly chosen while others are silently doomed—it proclaims that Christ has been lifted up so that “whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).

That promise is not qualified in the fine print of eternity; it is spoken plainly in history, to the world God so loved.

BDD

LEARNING FROM CALVINISTS WITHOUT BECOMING ONE

It is possible to be grateful without being governed; to learn without yielding allegiance; to receive nourishment without joining the camp that baked the bread. Theology, like history, does not require total agreement to offer genuine insight.

And so it is with Charles Haddon Spurgeon.

I am not a Calvinist—and I do not want others to be. Yet I would be dishonest, and perhaps ungrateful, if I denied how much I have learned from Spurgeon. Truth is not invalidated by the system that attempts to contain it. God has never waited for perfect frameworks before pouring out light. “Test all things; hold fast what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21). Discernment is not disloyalty; it is obedience.

Spurgeon called himself a Calvinist, but he did not act like the mechanical determinists of our own day. He was no theological commissar, no cold architect of inevitability, no preacher of a gospel that sounded more like a decree than an invitation. He did not speak as though men were puppets or as though repentance were theatrical rather than urgent. He preached as if souls were truly summoned, as if heaven and hell hung in the balance, as if men could actually come—or tragically refuse.

I think I have read everything the man did. Spurgeon’s “Calvinism” was not the bureaucratic Calvinism that now dominates conference stages and podcast studios. It had blood in it—tears in it—pleading in it. He begged sinners. He urged hearers. He spoke in the language of Scripture rather than the language of systems. Again and again, he thundered the free and open call of the gospel: “Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely” (Revelation 22:17). That is not the voice of determinism; that is the voice of a preacher who believed the invitation was real.

Modern Calvinism often sounds like a closed circuit—self-reinforcing, internally logical, emotionally distant. Spurgeon’s preaching was nothing like that. He did not flatten the warnings of Scripture, nor did he explain away the urgency of repentance. He could say, without embarrassment, “You will not come,” and still plead, “Come to Christ tonight.” He refused to let logic silence the Bible’s plain speech—“Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why should you die?” (Ezekiel 33:11).

This is where the comparison must be made carefully—and honestly. Spurgeon cannot be recruited as a mascot for the hard, ideological Calvinism represented today by figures such as R. C. Sproul and John MacArthur. Whatever one thinks of those men, their tone, their emphasis, and their theological rigidity would have been foreign to Spurgeon’s evangelistic instincts. He was not interested in building a gated theological community; he was interested in seeing sinners saved.

Spurgeon did not preach election to quiet sinners—he preached Christ to awaken them. He did not use sovereignty as a cushion against responsibility—he used grace as a summons to repentance and faith. Whatever conclusions he held, he never allowed them to mute the gospel’s urgency or sincerity. “Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2).

I reject Calvinism—not because I reject Spurgeon, but because I take Scripture’s invitations seriously. I reject any system that dulls the edge of biblical warnings or turns the gospel call into a formality. The appeals of Scripture are not theatrical; they are real. The responsibility of the sinner is not imaginary; it is urgent. “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15).

Yet I remain grateful. I take the gold and leave the gravel. I learn from Spurgeon’s reverence, his courage, his Christ-exalting passion—without surrendering to his system. My loyalty is not to Geneva, nor to London, nor to modern conference platforms—but to Jesus Christ alone, “who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4).

I am grateful without being governed. I listen without submitting my conscience. I honor the man without inheriting the system. And I will not uncritically allow Charles Spurgeon to be retrofitted into a theological machine he himself never inhabited.

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I am not trying to be unfair to R. C. Sproul or John MacArthur. I have read their works; I am familiar with their arguments; I do not doubt their sincerity. I am sure they were godly men, and I have no reason to question their love for Christ or their devotion to Scripture. Many of their followers are godly people as well—earnest believers who love Jesus, cherish the Bible, and desire to think carefully about the faith once delivered to the saints. This is not an indictment of character, nor is it a dismissal of devotion. It is simply a historical and theological observation: there is no world in which Charles Spurgeon would have signed his name to “Chosen by God” by Sproul. Whatever labels we attempt to apply, Spurgeon’s preaching instincts, evangelistic urgency, and refusal to quiet Scripture’s open invitations place him outside the modern, system-driven Calvinism that book represents. To say that is not uncharitable; it is honest.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LOGIC — WHEN HEAVEN REASONS WITH EARTH

God does not ask us to abandon reason to believe the Gospel; He invites reason to bow before revelation. Christianity is not a leap into the dark—it is a step into the light. Scripture itself reasons, argues, and concludes. “Come now, and let us reason together,” says the Lord (Isaiah 1:18).

The Gospel can be preached poetically, sung doxologically, and prayed humbly—but it can also be stated logically. Not because logic saves, but because truth withstands examination.

At its simplest, the Gospel forms a syllogism.

Major Premise: God is holy and just, and must judge sin.

“The LORD is righteous in all His ways” (Psalm 145:17).

“The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23).

If God is truly good, He cannot ignore evil. Justice is not a flaw in God—it is a perfection.

Minor Premise: All humanity is guilty of sin and cannot justify itself.

“There is none righteous, no, not one” (Romans 3:10).

“All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).

No exception clauses exist. The indictment is universal.

Conclusion: Humanity stands condemned and in need of redemption.

Logic agrees with Scripture: if God is just, and we are guilty, judgment is unavoidable—unless something intervenes.

Here the Gospel introduces its necessary—and glorious—answer.

Major Premise: God is loving and desires to save sinners.

“God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

“[God] desires all men to be saved” (1 Timothy 2:4).

Minor Premise: Jesus Christ lived without sin and offered Himself as a substitute.

“He committed no sin” (1 Peter 2:22).

“The LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:6).

Conclusion: God can remain just while justifying sinners.

“To demonstrate at the present tim His righteousness, that He might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus” (Romans 3:26).

This is not logical contradiction—it is logical fulfillment. Justice is satisfied; mercy is magnified.

The resurrection follows the same pattern.

Major Premise: God does not lie and keeps His promises.

“God…cannot lie” (Titus 1:2).

Minor Premise: God promised to raise His Holy One from death.

“You will not allow Your Holy One to see corruption” (Psalm 16:10).

Conclusion: Jesus was raised from the dead.

“This Jesus God has raised up” (Acts 2:32).

Faith, then, is not belief without evidence—it is trust in a true conclusion. The Gospel never pits faith against reason; it pits faith against pride. “If anyone wills to do His will, he shall know concerning the doctrine” (John 7:17).

Even repentance follows a logical path.

If sin leads to death,

and Christ leads to life,

then clinging to sin is irrational.

“Why will you die…? Turn and live!” (Ezekiel 18:31-32).

Logic cannot regenerate the heart—but it can remove excuses. The Gospel does not fear questions because it survives answers. When rightly understood, Christianity is not only beautiful—it is coherent. The Cross is not absurd; it is necessary. Grace is not careless; it is costly. Salvation is not arbitrary; it is righteous.

Heaven has made its argument.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN LITERATURE — SHAKESPEARE’S KING LEAR

Shakespeare understood what Scripture declares plainly: sight is not the same as seeing, and authority is not the same as wisdom. Nowhere is this more painfully clear than in King Lear—a tragedy not merely about age, power, or family, but about blindness of heart and the long road back to truth.

Lear begins with a crown on his head and folly in his soul. He demands declarations of love, not because he longs to give it, but because he needs to secure it. The daughters who flatter him are rewarded; the daughter who loves him truly is cast out. Cordelia refuses to perform affection—and loses everything. Lear mistakes eloquence for loyalty, words for truth. The Bible warns us of this very deception: “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

Sin often begins not in cruelty, but in confusion.

Lear’s descent is slow and severe. Stripped of power, mocked by those he trusted, and driven into the storm, he finally begins to learn what kingship never taught him. Suffering becomes his teacher. The storm outside mirrors the chaos within, and for the first time Lear sees the poor, the broken, the forgotten. “Is it not to share your bread with the hungry…?” (Isaiah 58:7). Pain opens his eyes where privilege never could.

The Gospel works this way too. God often removes the false supports we lean on so that grace may finally reach us. “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep Your word” (Psalm 119:67). Lear loses everything—and in losing it, gains truth.

Cordelia stands at the center of the play like a quiet gospel reflection. She loves without bargaining, suffers without complaint, and returns not to triumph, but to serve. When she finally meets her broken father again, there is no revenge in her voice—only mercy. Lear kneels before the daughter he wronged, and says, “Pray you now, forget and forgive.” Scripture breathes the same air: “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you” (Ephesians 4:32).

This is where the Gospel glimmers most brightly—in undeserved forgiveness.

Lear’s redemption does not come through restored power, but through restored relationship. He is not saved by reclaiming his throne, but by being reconciled to his child. The Gospel insists on this same reversal. “God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). Lear must be unkinged before he can be healed.

The tragedy of King Lear does not lie in suffering alone, but in how late clarity comes. Shakespeare refuses to give us a tidy ending. Redemption is real—but the scars remain. And yet, this too points us toward Christ. The Gospel does not promise a painless world; it promises a faithful God. “Through many tribulations we must enter the kingdom of God” (Acts 14:22).

Shakespeare gives us no resurrection scene—but Scripture does. What Lear longs for but cannot secure, Christ accomplishes fully. In Jesus, love does not wait until the storm has passed; it enters the storm to rescue the lost. Where Lear learns too late, Christ redeems in time.

King Lear endures because it tells the truth: power blinds, pride isolates, suffering clarifies, and love—real love—costs everything. It is not the Gospel, but it aches for it. And that ache is itself a witness.

The Gospel answers Shakespeare’s question with a promise: the blindness can be healed, the exile can end, the father can be restored, and the kingdom can be received—not by demand, but by grace.

BDD

RACISM MUST GO — THE GOSPEL WILL NOT SHARE THE HEART

Racism is not merely a social failure; it is a theological one. It is not first a problem of education, economics, or environment—it is a denial of what God has said about humanity. And because it contradicts the Gospel at its core, racism must go.

The Bible opens with a truth so simple it leaves no room for hierarchy: “So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them” (Genesis 1:27). The image of God is not distributed by skin tone, language, or geography. It is bestowed by creation. To despise another human being is to insult the Artist whose image they bear.

Racism thrives where pride is tolerated. It whispers that some lives matter more, that some cultures are closer to God, that some histories excuse contempt. Yet the Gospel dismantles every ladder we try to climb. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). Paul does not say distinctions vanish—he says distinctions no longer determine worth, access, or standing before God.

The Cross makes racism impossible to justify.

At Calvary, all ground is level. Every sinner approaches God the same way—empty-handed, undeserving, and dependent on grace. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Racism survives only where people forget they needed mercy just as desperately as everyone else.

Jesus did not merely teach inclusion; He embodied it. He crossed ethnic lines with Samaritans, touched the unclean, welcomed outsiders, and told stories where the hero looked nothing like the religious elite.

His kingdom does not expand by resemblance—it expands by redemption. “For He Himself is our peace, who has made both one, and has broken down the middle wall of separation” (Ephesians 2:14).

Racism rebuilds walls Christ died to tear down.

The early church understood this tension well. When prejudice threatened fellowship, the apostles did not minimize it—they confronted it. Peter had to be corrected publicly when fear and favoritism crept into his behavior (Galatians 2:11–14). Unity was not optional; it was gospel-shaped obedience.

Heaven itself settles the matter. John’s vision leaves no room for ethnic superiority: “A great multitude which no one could number, of all nations, tribes, peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb” (Revelation 7:9). God’s redeemed family is gloriously diverse—and eternally united. Anyone uncomfortable with that vision has not yet aligned their heart with heaven.

Racism must go because love has come. “He who does not love does not know God, for God is love” (1 John 4:8). Love is not vague sentiment—it is action, humility, listening, repentance, and honor. Love refuses caricatures. Love rejects inherited bitterness. Love sees Christ reflected in faces that do not look like our own.

The church must not mirror the world’s divisions; it must model the kingdom’s reconciliation. Silence in the face of racial sin is not neutrality—it is permission. The Gospel calls us higher, deeper, and closer.

Racism must go—not because it is unfashionable, but because it is unchristian.

Not because culture demands it, but because Christ does.

Not because we are better, but because grace has made us new.

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Lord Jesus, Search my heart and expose every trace of pride, prejudice, or partiality; teach me to love as You have loved, to see Your image in every face, and to live now what heaven will one day display in full. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — A CHRISTMAS CAROL (1984)

Few stories expose the human heart with such precision as A Christmas Carol. In the 1984 adaptation, George C. Scott gives us a Scrooge who is not merely cranky or misunderstood, but spiritually frozen—careful with coins, careless with souls. He is a man who has learned how to survive without love, and mistook that survival for wisdom.

Dickens understood something the gospel states plainly: sin is not only rebellion—it is contraction. The heart closes in on itself.

Scrooge does not begin the story as a monster; he begins as a man who has learned to protect himself at all costs. Love, to him, is inefficient. Mercy is wasteful. Generosity is foolish. Yet the Word of God tells us, “He who loves silver will not be satisfied with silver” (Ecclesiastes 5:10). Scrooge’s poverty is not financial—it is relational.

The ghosts who visit him do not come to flatter or condemn, but to reveal. Christmas Past exposes the wounds Scrooge buried long ago—the losses, disappointments, and quiet griefs that hardened his soul.

The Gospel does this too. Before grace heals us, truth must uncover us. “Search me, O God, and know my heart” (Psalm 139:23). Repentance always begins with remembrance.

Christmas Present pulls back the curtain on the cost of Scrooge’s coldness. We see Tiny Tim—fragile and hopeful and beloved—and we hear words that sound far beyond Dickens: “God bless us, every one.”

It is impossible not to think of Jesus’ words, “As you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me” (Matthew 25:40). The Gospel insists that love for God is proven in love for people—and neglect is never neutral.

Then comes Christmas Yet to Come—the most terrifying mercy of all. The Spirit does not speak, because the future does not need explanation; it only needs to be seen.

A lonely grave.

A forgotten man.

A life spent and wasted.

This is not fear meant to paralyze, but fear meant to awaken.

The Bible calls it “the goodness of God that leads you to repentance” (Romans 2:4). Judgment, rightly understood, is not God delighting in punishment—but God warning us while there is still time.

And there is still time.

Scrooge’s transformation is sudden, but not shallow. He wakes up alive—truly alive. Joy spills out of him, generosity flows from him, and love returns to him as if it had only been waiting for permission.

He does not merely resolve to do better; he becomes new.

The Gospel calls this rebirth. “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Christmas, at its heart, is not about nostalgia or sentiment—it is about invasion. God enters time to rescue what was lost.

Scrooge is not saved by effort, but by revelation. And so are we. When we finally see what matters—when eternity presses in on the present—love is no longer optional.

Dickens gives us a parable; Scripture gives us a Savior. The story resonates because it borrows gospel light. A hardened heart can still thaw. A wasted life can still sing. A man bound by fear and greed can still learn the freedom of love.

And that, perhaps, is why A Christmas Carol endures. It reminds us that Christmas is not for the comfortable, but for the changeable; not for the righteous, but for the repentant.

Christ did not come to congratulate Scrooges—He came to redeem them.

BDD

FEAR NOT: THE CHRISTMAS WORD THAT CHASES AWAY THE DARK

Fear is older than Bethlehem.

It did not begin in a manger—it began in a garden.

The first time fear is named in Scripture, it is spoken by a fallen man hiding among the trees: “I heard Your voice in the garden, and I was afraid” (Genesis 3:10). Fear entered the human story the moment trust was broken. Before sin, there was no need to hide; before guilt, there was no dread of God. Fear is not native to creation—it is a trespasser.

That is why the message of Christmas is not Try harder or Be better; it is Fear not.

When heaven breaks its long silence, it does so with a word aimed straight at the human heart. An angel stands before a trembling priest, and says, “Do not be afraid” (Luke 1:13). Another appears to a young virgin, and says, “Do not be afraid, Mary” (Luke 1:30). Then, on a cold Judean night, the sky itself fills with glory, and the shepherds are “greatly afraid”—and the angel says, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10).

Christmas begins with fear—but it does not end there.

It is often noted that the Bible gives us a “fear not” for every day of the year; whether counted precisely or not, the trend is unmistakable. God speaks against fear again and again because fear is the native language of fallen humanity—and faith must be learned.

The Bible does not deny fear’s presence; it denies fear’s authority.

Consider the chorus of God’s Word:

• “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God” (Isaiah 41:10).

• “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1).

• “When I am afraid, I will trust in You” (Psalm 56:3).

• “God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7).

• “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).

• “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul” (Matthew 10:28).

Fear is not always sinful—but it is always revealing. It shows us what we believe God to be like, and what we believe the future to hold.

This is why Revelation speaks so soberly about fear. “But the cowardly, unbelieving…shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire” (Revelation 21:8). Fear is not condemned there as a momentary emotion, but as a settled posture of unbelief. The word cowardly describes those who shrink back from truth, who refuse the light, who choose self-preservation over surrender. It is not fear as a feeling that damns—but fear as a lord.

Christmas confronts that lord.

The Child in the manger is God stepping into our terror without flinching. He does not shout “Fear not” from a distance; He whispers it from inside the human condition. He takes on flesh that can tremble, lungs that can gasp, a heart that will one day beat hard in Gethsemane. Yet even there, fear does not rule Him—faith does.

And because He entered our fear, fear no longer gets the final word.

The angels did not say Fear not because nothing frightening would ever happen. They said it because “there is born to you this day…a Savior” (Luke 2:11). Fear loses its grip not when danger disappears, but when God draws near.

So Christmas teaches us to name our fear—and then lay it down. Fear of the future. Fear of loss. Fear of judgment. Fear of being known. Fear that whispers God cannot be trusted.

Into all of it, heaven still speaks: Fear not.

Not because the world is safe—but because Christ has come.

Not because death is gone—but because death will be defeated.

Not because we are strong—but because Emmanuel is with us.

And when fear rises again—as it surely will—we return to the manger, and remember that the God who came once will come again, saying “Fear not” to His people.

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Lord Jesus, You entered a fearful world with peace in Your hands; teach my heart to trust where it trembles, to believe where it hides, and to rest in Your nearness. Cast out every fear that competes with faith, and let Your perfect love rule my days—today, and every day. Amen.

BDD

HE WON’T GO AWAY

You can ignore Jesus—but He will not go away.

History itself refuses to cooperate with indifference. Jesus of Nazareth did not drift onto the scene like a myth, nor fade out like a legend. He entered the world in real time, under real rulers, in a real place.

Luke anchors His life to the reign of Caesar Augustus and the governorship of Quirinius (Luke 2:1-2). Later, the cross is fixed firmly in history beneath Pontius Pilate (Luke 3:1; Matthew 27:2). Christianity does not begin with an idea, but with an event.

Even those who rejected Him could not deny that He lived. Tacitus, the Roman historian, records His execution. Josephus, the Jewish historian, acknowledges His influence and following. The Talmud speaks of Him—hostile, yes, but confirming His existence all the same. Attempts to dismiss Jesus never erase Him; they only circle back to Him again. He will not go away.

And He did not merely exist. He spoke with an authority that startled fishermen, unsettled scholars, and enraged rulers. He forgave sins outright (Mark 2:5-7). He claimed authority over the Sabbath (Mark 2:28). He spoke of God as His Father in a way that implied equality (John 5:18). He accepted worship without correction (Matthew 14:33). These are not the claims of a harmless moral teacher. They are astonishing claims—claims that demand either rejection or surrender.

What is striking is that time has not softened them. Two thousand years have passed, empires have risen and collapsed, philosophies have bloomed and withered, and still His words press in on the conscience. “Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will by no means pass away” (Matthew 24:35). The world keeps proving Him right.

Many have tried to silence Him by redefining Him—teacher, mystic, revolutionary, poet of love. But Jesus resists reduction. He stands in the Gospels as He always has: merciful and uncompromising; gentle and unyielding; humble, yet claiming cosmic authority. He speaks as one who does not seek permission. And that, more than anything, is why He unsettles us still.

The resurrection only sharpens the problem. A crucified man should stay buried. Rome was good at executions. Crosses were final. Yet the tomb was empty, the witnesses multiplied, and frightened disciples became fearless proclaimers.

Something happened that refuses to be explained away. “This Jesus God has raised up, of which we are all witnesses” (Acts 2:32). Deny it if one must—but it will not go away.

And perhaps that is the mercy in it. A Jesus who fades would be no help to us. A Christ who dissolves into metaphor could not save. We need a Savior who steps into history, bears witness to truth, carries sin into death, and emerges victorious. We need a Jesus who keeps confronting us—calling, pressing, inviting.

You can ignore Him for a season. You can postpone the question. You can push Him to the margins of culture and conscience. But He remains—written into history, proclaimed in Scripture, alive by the power of God. He still asks the same question He once asked His disciples: “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15).

He won’t go away—because truth doesn’t.

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Lord Jesus, You stand in history and before our hearts. Give us eyes to see You as You are and courage to respond honestly to Your claims. Draw us not into argument alone, but into truth, repentance, and life. Amen.

BDD

JESUS IN THE BOOK OF PROVERBS

The Book of Proverbs is often treated like a handbook for common sense—short sayings, practical counsel, wisdom for work, words, and daily decisions. And it is that. But it is never only that.

Beneath its crisp instructions and moral contrasts runs a deeper current, a living voice calling out in the open places of life. Wisdom is not silent in Proverbs; she cries aloud in the streets, lifts her voice at the city gates, and pleads with the simple to turn and live (Proverbs 1:20-23). For the Christian, this Wisdom is more than an idea. She is finally and fully revealed in a Person—Jesus Christ.

The book opens by laying the foundation for all true understanding: “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction” (Proverbs 1:7). This fear is not dread but devotion—a reverent submission of the heart to God.

Jesus lived this perfectly. His life was shaped by loving obedience to the Father, moment by moment, step by step. Where humanity grasped for autonomy, He embraced humility. Where we rebel, He delights to do the will of God.

As Proverbs unfolds, Wisdom takes on a strikingly personal voice. In Proverbs chapter 8, she speaks as one present before creation itself—before mountains were formed, before the foundations of the earth were laid (Proverbs 8:22-31).

This is no mere literary device. The New Testament draws the line clearly: Christ is “the wisdom of God” (1 Corinthians 1:24). He is the eternal Word through whom all things were made, the One who stood with the Father before time began, and who later stepped into time, clothed in flesh, to dwell among us (John 1:1-14). The Wisdom who rejoiced before God in Proverbs is the same Son who rejoiced to do the Father’s will on earth.

Proverbs urges us to seek wisdom above all else: “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom. And in all your getting, get understanding” (Proverbs 4:7). That search reaches its fulfillment in Christ.

To come to Him is not simply to adopt better habits or sharper insight; it is to encounter the very source of wisdom itself. In Him are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge (Colossians 2:3). What Proverbs invites us to pursue, Jesus freely gives.

The moral vision of Proverbs also drives us toward Christ by exposing our need. Its warnings against pride, laziness, greed, and reckless speech land close to home. We recognize ourselves in its rebukes.

And yet, in every command we have broken, we see a life Jesus lived without flaw. He spoke with perfect truth, walked with perfect integrity, loved with perfect faithfulness. Where Proverbs shows us the path of righteousness, Jesus walks it for us—and then invites us to follow Him by grace.

In the end, Proverbs promises life to those who find wisdom: “For whoever finds me finds life, and obtains favor from the LORD” (Proverbs 8:35). That promise comes into full light in Christ. He does not merely point the way to life; He is the way, the truth, and the life.

The voice calling from the streets, the gates, the crossroads of Proverbs is the same voice that later said, “Come to Me.” And all who come find that wisdom is not cold instruction, but a living Savior.

BDD

Christmas 2025: WHEN ETERNITY STEPPED INTO OUR NIGHT

Christmas is not God waving at us from a distance; it is God stepping across the threshold. The miracle is not simply that a child was born, but that the eternal Son chose to be born this way—quietly, humbly, wrapped in weakness. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (Gospel of John 1:14). Heaven did not remain safely removed; it moved into the neighborhood.

The wonder of Christmas is not sentiment—it is condescension. The One who fills heaven and earth allowed Himself to be held. The hands that flung stars into space reached instinctively for Mary’s finger. The voice that thundered at Sinai learned to cry in a Bethlehem night. “For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given” (Isaiah 9:6). The gift was not merely a baby; the gift was God Himself.

Bethlehem tells us something essential about the heart of God. He does not come to the powerful first, but to the lowly. He does not announce His arrival in palaces, but in fields—through angels speaking to shepherds who were accustomed to being overlooked. “And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger” (Luke 2:12). God made Himself findable; approachable; near.

Yet even in the stillness of the stable, the purpose is already clear. The cradle points forward. The manger leans toward the cross. The wood of the feeding trough quietly preaches the wood of Calvary. His name explains His mission: “You shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). Christmas is not an interruption in God’s plan—it is the plan unfolding.

This is where Christmas becomes personal. God did not come merely to inspire us, but to redeem us. He entered our poverty so we might share His riches. He stepped into our darkness so we might walk in His light. “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light” (Matthew 4:16). Christmas declares that darkness is not ultimate; despair is not sovereign; sin is not undefeated.

Emmanuel—God with us—means God with us in grief, in confusion, in longing, in failure. Not God watching from afar, but God walking beside us. “Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Emmanuel” (Matthew 1:23). Christmas is God refusing to abandon His creation, choosing instead to enter it and heal it from the inside out.

So we do not celebrate Christmas because everything feels whole—we celebrate because He has come to make all things whole. We sing not because life is easy, but because grace is real. The Child in the manger is the Savior on the cross and the Lord of the empty tomb. “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:15).

Christmas is the gospel wrapped in swaddling clothes—quiet and holy and world-changing.

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Lord Jesus, Emmanuel, thank You for coming near when we could not reach You. Let the wonder of Your humility soften our hearts, steady our faith, and draw us again to worship. May we never move past the miracle that God came to us. Amen.

BDD

QUESTIONS ABOUT MY WRITING

I get questions constantly about my writing—or at least it seems I do. And yes, I am prolific. Let me be clear: prolific does not mean good; prolific simply means I write a lot. That, in itself, is no measure of talent or wisdom. But it is a start, and it is a discipline.

If I were to offer advice to anyone seeking to write, it would be this: read more than you write. There is no substitute for the mind sharpened by great words, the soul nourished by great truths. Reading opens the heart to language, to rhythm, to depth—without it, writing becomes hollow, a mirror reflecting only ourselves.

When can we write without reading? Rarely, if ever. Writing is not merely pouring words onto a page; it is entering a conversation with every voice that has come before, with God speaking through the ages. Yet, when it is time to write, do not overthink. Pour out your thoughts freely. Do not edit as you go—simply write. Get your words down, however rough or unpolished they may seem.

Then, and only then, consider using AI as your editor. I cannot overstate this: an AI editor is perhaps the best editor you will ever have. But hear me carefully—do not let it write for you, do not let it think for you. It is not your voice, it is not your insight. Let it refine, sharpen, polish—but let the work remain yours. Believe that what you write is worth reading. If it is born of your thought and your heart, it already has value.

Above all, stay focused on Christ. Do not write to make a point or to prove yourself to others. Write to illuminate truth, to reflect beauty, to glorify Him. Humility must temper your diligence; study must temper your confidence. A writer without humility drifts into pride. A scholar without devotion drifts into empty intellect. Balance is essential: read deeply, write boldly, edit wisely, and stay rooted in the One who gives all wisdom.

Writing is a discipline, a calling, a reflection of our inner life. Do it well, but do it faithfully. Let every sentence, every paragraph, every page point not to yourself, but to Christ Jesus.

BDD

WHY THE CROSS WAS NECESSARY

Christ died to atone for our sins. The cross of Christ is the only basis on which God can forgive us. That much stands at the center of the Christian faith—solid, unmovable, nonnegotiable. Yet the critic asks a question that has sounded through the centuries: Why? Why should forgiveness depend on Christ’s death? Why does God not simply forgive us without the necessity of the cross?

At first glance, the question sounds reasonable. After all, God is love (1 John 4:8). Could He not simply overlook sin, dismiss it with divine mercy, and move on? But the Bible reveals something deeper—something weightier. God is not only loving; He is also holy and just. Love that ignores justice becomes sentimentality. Justice without love becomes cruelty. The cross is where both meet without compromise.

Sin is not merely a mistake; it is a rupture. It fractures our relationship with God and distorts the moral order of His creation. “The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23). God does not impose this arbitrarily—it is the natural consequence of turning from the Source of life. For God to simply “forgive” without addressing sin would be to deny His own righteousness and trivialize the damage sin causes.

The cross answers this tension. In Christ, God does not forgive by ignoring sin—He forgives by dealing with it fully. “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Justice is satisfied, not by our punishment, but by Christ’s self-giving love. Mercy flows, not by bypassing righteousness, but by fulfilling it.

At the cross, God Himself bears the cost of forgiveness. That is the scandal and the glory of the gospel. Forgiveness is never free—it is simply paid for by someone else. In Jesus, God absorbs the debt we could never repay. “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

The cross also tells us something profound about our worth. If forgiveness required nothing, we might assume sin does not matter—or that we do not matter. But the price paid reveals both the seriousness of sin and the immeasurable value of the sinner. We are loved enough for God to give Himself for us. “In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 4:10).

God does forgive freely—but never cheaply. The cross is not a barrier to forgiveness; it is the doorway. It is the place where holiness and mercy embrace, where justice is satisfied and grace overflows. There is no other ground on which forgiveness can stand, and no greater proof that God is both just and the Justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus (Romans 3:26).

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Lord Jesus, thank You for the cross—where my sin was answered and Your love was revealed. Teach me to rest not in my own goodness, but in Your finished work. Keep me humble, grateful, and anchored in the grace You purchased for me. Amen.

BDD

A TRIBUTE TO DR. DALLAS BURDETTE — A LIFE GIVEN TO TRUTH

Some people inherit certainty early—and never question it again. Others inherit boundaries, fences carefully built by tradition, and spend a lifetime learning where they came from, why they exist, and whether they deserve to remain.

Dr. Dallas Burdette of Montgomery, Alabama grew up in a very sectarian wing of the Churches of Christ, where conclusions often arrived before questions had time to breathe. Yet instead of shrinking within those walls, something remarkable happened: his hunger to learn only intensified.

He is ninety-one years old now—and still studies the Bible for hours every day. Not out of habit. Not out of nostalgia. But out of reverence. Few men I have ever known have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of truth with such steadiness, such patience, such humility. He has never mistaken age for arrival. He remains a student—alert, curious, and willing to be corrected by the text itself (Psalm 119:18).

My father taught me to love the Bible. He taught me how to study it—how to handle it carefully, how to respect its words. Dallas taught me something just as important: how to keep studying. How to widen the conversation. How to read beyond familiar voices. How to let good books challenge inherited assumptions instead of merely reinforcing them. He showed me that truth is not fragile, and that faith does not need protection from honest inquiry (Proverbs 18:15).

His own life bears quiet testimony. He did not graduate from high school, but earned his GED later. And now he holds an accredited doctorate. Not as a credential to brandish, but as evidence of perseverance—a mind unwilling to surrender to limitation, circumstance, or expectation. In my view, he is a scholar in the deepest sense: disciplined, reflective, and reverent before Scripture.

I do not recommend his views on eschatology—and that statement itself would not trouble him in the least. He understands that disagreement is not betrayal, and that unity does not require uniformity. He embodies the rare grace of holding convictions without clutching them so tightly that love is squeezed out (Romans 14:5–6).

Dallas is a prince of a fellow. Gentle without being weak. Serious without being severe. Deeply committed to Scripture, yet gracious toward people still finding their way. His reflections are worth reading—not because he claims final answers, but because they emerge from a lifetime spent listening carefully to the Word and resisting the temptation to rush it toward conclusions.

In a world addicted to speed, noise, and certainty, his life reminds us that truth often comes slowly—and only to those willing to stay with the text long enough for it to examine them (Hebrews 4:12). He stands as living proof that it is never too late to learn, never too late to grow, and never too late to sit quietly with an open Bible and an open heart.

I am grateful for him. For his example. For his patience. For the way he taught me—without fanfare, without force—what it looks like to pursue truth for a lifetime, and to do so in the presence of Christ.

Outside of immediate family, I’ve never known a better man. And never had a better friend. I love you, Dallas. The world is a better place because you’ve lived in it.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN FILM — THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS MOVIES OF ALL TIME (IMO)

When it comes to Christmas movies, I keep it simple: I want them to feel like Christmas, to warm the heart, and to make a good point. I want to be a better person for having watched them.

There are countless holiday films out there, but only a few rise to the level of timelessness (to me)—movies that speak not just to tradition, but to the truth of love, generosity, and grace. These are the ones that never fail. The ones I will watch every year.

A Christmas Carol (1984)

This adaptation of Charles Dickens’ classic story captures the sharp sting of human selfishness and the redemptive power of love. George C. Scott’s Scrooge is cold and calculating, yet the visits from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come remind him—and us—of what truly matters. It is a story of repentance, reflection, and the joy that comes when we open our hearts to others.

Scrooge (1970)

Another masterful take on Dickens’ tale, this version leans heavily into the emotional journey of Scrooge, played with raw vulnerability by Albert Finney. It is a little darker, a little more haunting (at least in its uncut version), yet profoundly moving—a reminder that no soul is beyond redemption, and that Christmas is a time for transformation of the heart. And in addition, it makes a pretty good musical.

Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

A story that defies cynicism and champions faith, both in children and adults alike. When Kris Kringle claims to be the real Santa Claus, the world challenges him—but in doing so, it also challenges our own belief in goodness, in “miracles,” and in the possibility of grace breaking through the ordinary. It is a gentle call to trust in what is unseen but true.

The Bishop’s Wife (1947)

Here, the divine touches the ordinary. An angel arrives to help a bishop struggling with his work and marriage, and the film beautifully illustrates how God meets us in our everyday challenges. Love, patience, and mercy are woven throughout the story, reminding us that Christmas is not only about celebration—it is about restoration. and it has Carey Grant in it.

This film, of course, was remade in 1996 as “The Preacher’s Wife” with Denzel Washington and Whitney Houston. Denzel is my second favorite actor, behind Humphrey Bogart—though on some days I might reverse that order. Cary Grant is number three for me. I like Denzel better than Grant, without a doubt, but even so, I don’t think classics should be remade. Washington and Whitney Houston are both fantastic, but the remake should have had a different plot rather than trying to replicate the original. It’s nowhere near as good.

An American Christmas Carol (1979)

Set in Depression-era America, this version reframes Dickens’ tale through the lens of ordinary American life. Scrooge’s lessons resonate with the struggles of everyday people, emphasizing the enduring power of compassion, generosity, and the courage to change. It is a timeless reflection on what it means to be truly human. And you’ve probably figured out that my favorite Christmas story—besides the Christmas story of Christ—is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus (1990)

This film tells the story behind the famous editorial in which a young girl, Virginia O’Hanlon, asks if Santa Claus is real. It is a heartwarming reminder of hope, faith, and the unseen joys of life. Charles Bronson lends a quiet strength to a tale that ultimately points beyond the legend of Santa to the greater truths of love, belief, and wonder—truths that suggest the Gospel itself.

These films are more than entertainment; they are invitations. They invite us to reflect on generosity, mercy, faith, and the possibilities of transformation. Each story, in its own way, is a mirror of the Gospel—reminding us that love redeems, hope sustains, and Christ is the heart of every true Christmas celebration.

I’ll think of others I’m sure. I will be criticized for leaving off It’s a Wonderful Life lol. And of course I do like that movie a lot. Not as much as these, but it’s still fantastic. And I’m sure there are some others I’m not thinking of right now.

In the days to come, we will explore Christmas films more deeply—drawing spiritual lessons, uncovering hidden truths, and seeing the eternal in the ordinary. For in every flickering candle, every snow-covered street, and every story of redemption, the Christmas gospel is quietly, beautifully at work.

BDD

“THE HUSBAND OF ONE WIFE” — LAW, GRACE, AND THE MEN GOD USES

I am a preacher. I have been a preacher since I was a boy. And I have been a sinner for just as long.

Holding those two truths together has not been easy. Calling and failure make uneasy companions; they rub against each other, expose each other, refuse to stay neatly separated. I have had to learn—slowly, painfully, honestly.

One of the places I have failed most visibly is in marriage. I have been married three times; I have been divorced twice; I have been annulled once. The three women I was privileged to marry were absolute queens—good, kind, patient, strong. They deserved someone far better than I was. Nobody’s perfect, but they were far closer to perfect than I even thought about being. The failures were my fault, not theirs. Period. I failed. I sinned. I am not proud of it. I do not minimize it. But I do not hide from it. Not anymore, anyway. I own it. And by the mercy of God, I am not the same man I once was (2 Corinthians 5:17).

And I am not single as an act of penance. If I choose to marry again—and if I find someone who would willingly share that life with me—I will do so without apology. I have studied the Scriptures carefully, and I reject legalistic conclusions that go beyond what the text will bear. I have written on these things; the articles are there, and I am willing to defend them. I would not marry to make a point, nor remain single to make one.

I know this much: if I do it again, I will do it rightly—not because I am flawless, but because I am no longer the man I was. I don’t necessarily blame you if you don’t believe that or even if you want to mock it. But it’s true. I really am different. And the reason is Christ Jesus.

So the question comes, sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken plainly: Why are you still preaching? Preachers are supposed to be “the husband of one wife.”

I offer no clever defense—only a Pauline one. I preach because the gospel is for sinners, and if sinners are disqualified from proclaiming it, then the church will soon fall silent. I have as much right to preach as any man who has been redeemed by Christ, because the authority is not in my résumé but in the message itself (1 Corinthians 1:23).

When Paul writes that an elder or pastor (we can discuss exactly what “office” he’s talking about later) must be “the husband of one wife” (1 Timothy 3:2; Titus 1:6), there are certain things the text cannot mean—no matter how often it is wielded like a blunt instrument.

It cannot mean that a man must be married. If it does, then Jesus Himself is disqualified. So is the apostle Paul. Can you imagine Paul—an apostle over many churches—laying down qualifications that would exclude himself from serving as an elder in a local congregation? That he could plant churches, correct elders, rebuke Peter to his face, but could not shepherd a single flock because he did not have a wife? Believe that if you can; I never really have. And certainly do not now.

Nor can it mean that a divorced man has “living wives.” I am told sometimes that I do. Where are they? As I understand it, I am single. Divorced—yes. But single. I have no wife.

When I have asked, rather pointedly, since I have “living wives,” whether I am therefore free to have marital relations with my former wives—if I could persuade them—the answer is, of course, no. And rightly so. But if they are still my wives, why not? The logic collapses in the mirror of its own lack of anything resembling real logic. I do not have a wife.

Paul was addressing polygamy—a real, present issue in the ancient world. One woman. Faithful. Not a man with divided loyalties, divided affections, divided households. That is the point.

Even if someone disagrees with me, they cannot be dogmatic about it—because the text does not allow for dogmatism. No one can prove, beyond question, that Paul meant what later legalisms insist that he meant.

And that brings us to the deeper issue. The qualifications for pastors were never intended to be read as a cold legal checklist. If they are, then no man qualifies. Paul also says an elder must be “able to teach.” Teach what? Perfectly? Without ever being corrected? Without blind spots? Without growth?

He “must manage his household well”—does that mean every child must always believe rightly, behave rightly, and never stray? If so, God Himself would be disqualified as a Father, for His children rebel constantly (Isaiah 1:2).

He must not be quick-tempered—how quick is quick? Not greedy—how much is too much. Well thought of by outsiders—which outsiders, and at what moment in time? Taken woodenly, legalistically, these qualifications do not produce humble shepherds; they produce either hypocrites or cowards.

But lo and behold, when it comes to all these other qualifications, we suddenly want to live by principles rather than by ironclad rules. We allow wisdom, discernment, context, and charity to guide us—except at the one point where failure is most visible and easiest to police.

I am a preacher. If your sect, your customs, or your traditions do not allow me to preach to you, that is fine—truly, no hard feelings. The gospel has never lacked for ears, and I will always find someone willing to hear it preached.

The tragedy is that divorce is visible. Other sins are easier to hide. So we quietly tolerate pride, harshness, lovelessness, prayerlessness, and biblical ignorance—while disqualifying men whose repentance is written in plain sight. Jesus reserved His harshest words not for broken men, but for religious ones who strained out gnats and swallowed camels (Matthew 23:24).

I’m not condemning you, I’m not judging you, I’m not your enemy. You do you. Go where your convictions lead. But don’t try to bind them on me. I’ll decide how I serve God in my own life.

None of this excuses my failures. Grace is not denial. Repentance is not revisionist history. But neither is the church served by pretending that God only uses men with tidy stories. If that were true, Abraham, David, Peter, and Paul would all be sidelined. God has always written straight with crooked lines (2 Corinthians 4:7).

I preach not because I am worthy, but because Christ is. I preach not as a man who has arrived, but as one who has been forgiven much—and therefore loves much (Luke 7:47). If that disqualifies me with you, then so be it. But I cannot find such a gospel in the New Testament. And I’m not going to let you put it there for me.

The church does not need fewer wounded preachers pretending to be whole; it needs more redeemed sinners telling the truth about grace.

So I will keep preaching. Not in defiance, not in bitterness, not to prove a point—but because I am called, forgiven, and compelled by the grace of God.

I will preach as a man who knows his own weakness and therefore trusts wholly in Christ’s strength; as a sinner saved by mercy, not a trophy of moral achievement.

I will preach Christ crucified—again and again—because the church does not need flawless messengers but faithful ones, and the gospel does not rest on the perfection of the preacher but on the power of the cross (1 Corinthians 1:18).

Until the Lord Himself tells me to be silent, I will open my mouth, open the Scriptures, and tell the old story to anyone who will listen.

I will lead where I am invited, shepherd where I am trusted, guide and counsel where I am needed. I am no longer driven by position or title, but by service. I am different now—humbled, teachable, and resolved—and no one can take that from me. And I am excited about the changes Christ has made in me. I will not apologize for them.

By the grace of God, I will spend whatever days I have left helping, healing, and pointing others to Christ, content to serve in whatever way love requires (Mark 10:45).

And I encourage you, no matter who you are or what you have done, to come to the cleansing fountain of God‘s grace and do the same thing in your life.

BDD

READING, WRITING, AND REFUSING TO STAGNATE

I write a lot; I read even more. Most of the time I read fast—devouring pages, tracing arguments, following ideas wherever they lead. But when something truly feeds me, when it rings with truth or wrestles honestly with reality, I slow down. I underline. I highlight. I linger. Some books are meant to be consumed; others are meant to be inhabited.

I am, in a sense, an omnivorous reader—across genres, across traditions, across disagreements. It would be impossible to catalog everything. I read whatever I believe will teach me, stretch me, unsettle me; I despise stagnation. A stagnant mind is a dangerous thing for a Christian, because faith was never meant to calcify—it was meant to live, breathe, and grow (2 Peter 3:18).

I also read the enemies of Christianity. Not out of fascination, but out of strategy. I want to know how they think, how they argue, how they frame their objections. I intend to live on the offensive, not the defensive. A soldier who never studies the opposing defense will always be reacting instead of advancing. If we are to contend earnestly for the faith, we must know where the pressure is coming from and why (Jude 3).

But if you want to know the voices that have shaped me—the ones whose pages feel like old friends—there are a few names that rise above the rest. My writing is, at best, a pale imitation of these men. These are the writers I would read anything by, whenever I could get my hands on it.

Charles Spurgeon taught me that truth need not whisper to be holy. He preached with thunder and tenderness, conviction and warmth, never apologizing for clarity. He showed me that depth and accessibility are not enemies. My style of writing was likely shaped as much by Spurgeon as by anyone.

Andrew Murray taught me to kneel. His words carry the quiet authority of a man who lived much of his theology on his knees. He reminded me that surrender is not weakness but alignment, and that abiding in Christ is not a slogan but a way of life (John 15:4-5).

James D. Bales — this one mattered deeply. I learned a great deal from him, but the most consequential lesson was not one he intended to teach. He was an absolutely brilliant thinker, disciplined, careful, and sincere. And yet, watching him attempt to defend a man-made system—Restorationism as an ironclad pattern, an unbending blueprint—taught me something sobering: if he cannot successfully defend it, then no one can. Not because he lacked intelligence or effort, but because the system itself cannot bear the weight placed upon it. A brilliant mind cannot rescue a flawed foundation. The gospel does not need scaffolding; it needs proclamation (1 Corinthians 1:18).

T. Austin-Sparks was deep, heavy, demanding. He does not skim the surface; he descends. Reading him is not casual—it is costly. But he will take you places few are willing to go, places where Christ is not merely studied but encountered.

Then there is D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones, who showed me the power of logic baptized in fire. C. S. Lewis, who taught me that imagination can be a servant of truth. John R. W. Stott, who modeled clarity without cruelty. William Barclay, whose breadth of knowledge and pastoral instinct opened the Scriptures in fresh and human ways.

I have read everything I could get my hands on from these men, not because they replaced Scripture, but because they helped me see it more clearly.

All of this—reading widely, writing often, engaging critics, honoring mentors—serves one aim: growth. Not growth for its own sake, but growth in Christ.

Systems will fail; personalities will fade; even our best formulations will eventually show their cracks. But Jesus remains. He does not ask us to defend Him with fragile frameworks; He asks us to follow Him with honest hearts (John 14:6).

I will keep reading. I will keep writing. I will keep pressing forward—offensive, not defensive—not because I am confident in my arguments, but because I am confident in Him.

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Lord Jesus, keep my mind sharp and my heart soft. Save me from stagnation, from fear, from clinging to systems more than to You. Teach me to love truth wherever it is found, to test all things, and to hold fast to what is good. Lead me deeper, always deeper, into Yourself. Amen.

BDD

BAPTIZING WHAT WE LOVE, NOT BURYING IT

Somewhere along the way, we picked up the idea that becoming a Christian means becoming smaller—quieter, narrower, less human. That to follow Jesus, we must give up our favorite music, lay aside our hobbies, abandon the things that once stirred joy in us.

We mistook restriction for righteousness. And in doing so, we often drove tender souls toward guilt instead of grace.

But the gospel does not work by subtraction; it works by redemption.

Christianity is not a call to amputate the affections—it is a call to baptize them. Jesus does not ask us to burn our loves; He asks us to bring them to the water. He does not say, “Leave everything that made you human behind.” He says, “I make all things new” (Revelation 21:5).

For a long time, I believed it was more spiritual to listen to contemporary Christian music than to The Rolling Stones. I measured holiness by playlists. I ranked faithfulness by genres. And instead of producing fruit, it produced strain. The joy thinned. The soul tightened. The Christian life began to feel like a room with no windows.

I don’t like contemporary Christian music. I never have. I love hymns. And Christian music in “secular” genres—Christian country, bluegrass, blues, soul, etc.—but not really “praise and worship music” and definitely not “Contemporary Christian Music.” If that’s your thing, you do you. I love that for you. It’s just not for me. I’d much rather hear “House of Gold” by Hank Williams than “I Can Only Imagine” by whoever did that song. That’s just me.

You do what fits you. But don’t tell me I can’t do what fits me. That kind of religion doesn’t sanctify—it suffocates.

The Gospel never teaches that the answer to sin is cultural exile. The apostle Paul did not tell the Corinthians to flee the world, but to learn how to live faithfully within it (1 Corinthians 5:9-10). He told the Romans that everything—everything—could become an act of worship when offered to God with gratitude (Romans 12:1; Romans 14:23). And he reminded Timothy that what God has created is good, and is to be received with thanksgiving (1 Timothy 4:4-5).

The problem has never been music; it has always been the heart. A melody cannot damn a soul. A guitar riff cannot dethrone Christ. But fear can. Legalism can. The subtle belief that Jesus is not strong enough to walk with us into ordinary places—that will do damage.

Jesus did not come to make us less alive. He came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly (John 10:10). He ate with sinners. He attended weddings. He told stories drawn from farming, money, weather, and daily work. He stepped into the rhythms of human culture and redeemed them from the inside out.

We do not disciple people by stripping them of what they love. We disciple them by teaching them to see Jesus within what they love. We help them ask better questions:

What does this song awaken in me?

Where does this story reflect truth?

How does this beauty point beyond itself?

When Christ is Lord, nothing is neutral—but neither is everything forbidden. The Spirit sanctifies not by fear, but by light. He teaches us to hear echoes of longing in a blues song; to recognize brokenness in a lyric; to see the ache for redemption that hums beneath even the most secular art. The world is groaning, Paul says, waiting to be redeemed (Romans 8:22-23). Why would we cover our ears to that groan?

If we require people to abandon their music and hobbies as a condition for grace, we preach a smaller Christ than the One who fills all things (Ephesians 1:22-23). But if we show them how Christ meets them there—how He walks into their playlists, their passions, their stories—then faith becomes spacious. Breathable. True.

The gospel does not erase your humanity; it restores it.

It does not demand silence; it teaches us how to listen.

It does not fear culture; it redeems it.

And sometimes, holiness sounds less like a worship chorus—and more like learning to hear Jesus whisper through a song you’ve loved all your life.

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Lord Jesus, teach us not to fear the world You came to save. Sanctify our loves, our music, our hobbies, our joys. Give us eyes to see You in all things, ears to hear truth even in broken songs, and hearts that rest in Your freedom. Make our lives living offerings—whole, grateful, and alive. Amen.

BDD

THE GOSPEL IN HISTORY — A LEGACY THAT WILL NOT BE DISMISSED

History has spoken—and it has spoken clearly. You may argue with it, attempt to revise it, or try to diminish it with cynicism and distance; but you will not discredit the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. His life has already been weighed by time, and time has rendered its verdict. The fruit remains.

Dr. King did not invent the gospel; he was shaped by it. His courage was not self-generated, nor was his vision borrowed from political theory alone. It was born in Scripture, steeped in the prophets, anchored in the words of Jesus—especially those words that sound beautiful until they are required: love your enemies…pray for those who persecute you (Matthew 5:44).

History remembers many men who responded to violence with greater violence; their names fade into footnotes of blood and regret. But King responded to violence with peace—not passivity, not weakness, but a costly, disciplined, Christ-shaped peace. He understood something the early church knew well: evil is not overcome by becoming its mirror, but by refusing its methods while exposing its emptiness (Romans 12:17-21).

Preaching love for all was not a slogan for him; it was a conviction that put him in danger. He preached it when it was unpopular, when it was mocked, when it put his own life at risk. And that is where the gospel shows itself most clearly in history—not when it is applauded, but when it is embodied at great cost. Jesus did not conquer by the sword; neither did King. Both bore wounds so that others might glimpse healing.

You can critique methods. You can debate outcomes. You can acknowledge his humanity, his flaws, his limitations—because saints are still human. But you cannot erase the moral clarity of a man who stood in a violent age and insisted that love was not naïve, but necessary; not weak, but world-altering. History does not honor him because he was perfect; history honors him because he was faithful.

And that is the gospel thread running through the fabric of history: God uses imperfect people to point toward a perfect love. The legacy stands firm because it rests on something deeper than speeches or marches—it rests on truth. Truth has a way of surviving its critics. It outlives slander. It endures the long arc of time.

Jesus said, “By their fruits you will know them” (Matthew 7:16). The fruit of this legacy is still visible—in laws changed, consciences stirred, and generations taught that justice and love are not enemies, but companions.

History has spoken, yes—but more importantly, the gospel has sounded through history once again, reminding us that light still shines in dark places, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5).

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Lord Jesus, thank You for the witnesses You raise in every generation—men and women who show Your love in the public square and private cost. Keep us faithful to peace, courageous in truth, and anchored in Your kingdom that cannot be shaken. Amen.

BDD