My wife will tell you—I’m a bit of a know-it-all.
She’s right. And I love it.
How much do I love being right? I love being right so much that I will hold on to a “Scene It?” trivia board game for years, just waiting for the right unsuspecting victim to come along and foolishly attempt to prove they know more about movies than I do. (True story.) I love being right so much that, if I hear a conversation about Star Wars or superheroes, but it’s clear that the participants themselves are not nearly as into it as I am, I will engage in every non-verbal cue in my arsenal until they invite me into the conversation. (Also true.)
So I love being right. But, at times, I also hate it.
When do I hate being right? When Christians get theology wrong.
I hate being right when a friend on Facebook presents a “cutting-edge” idea about Christianity, but which has dire implications if taken to its logical extension, regardless of how many “likes” it garners. I hate being right when an author or celebrity with a broad audience tells others his opinions of what God is like, as though personal speculation were superior to biblical revelation. I especially hate when a pastor fails in his duty to present the Word of God as anything less than the clear, true, authoritative, and sufficient Word that it is, or to present Jesus as anything lower than the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God, the Son of Man, the Son of David, the King of the Jews, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the Judge of the whole earth, the One who is and was and is to come.
Tragically, however, I have loved “being right” more than I have loved the person in error. How? I tended to keep the truth to myself. Rather than engage in a conversation about issues that have eternal consequences, I have seethed to myself and satisfied myself with the smug consolation: I’m right and they’re wrong.
Or, occasionally, I have failed in the opposite direction. I have interpreted their theological error as a character defect, and I have let them know as much. This is a rarer occurrence, but usually by this time I have built up a lot of animus and vitriol compounded with confirmation bias, and heaven forbid I should let this “righteous indignation” go to waste. I will not only definitively show you everything wrong with what you have said/done, but how this further proves that you are a terrible person.
By withholding the truth, I have not loved my brother in Christ. And by ascribing evil to the one in error, I have not loved my brother in Christ. And if I do not love my fellow Christian, I am disobeying Jesus (John 13:34-35).
Paul famously wrote about Christians “speaking the truth in love” (Ephesians 4:15) in the context of members of a church growing together in spiritual maturity. Well, in my mind, I’ve got the “truth” part down, but that still leaves “love” and “speaking.”
So here is my resolution going forward. If I hear a fellow Christian teaching something that seems off-base, I will pray that Jesus would give me the opportunity and the words to speak in response, whether they are words of seeking clarification, of offering a perspective that he/she perhaps had not considered, or even of rebuke (if it directly contradicts the gospel) and entreating this brother/sister to return to the good news “once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 3).
And I ask that you, my fellow Christians, would do the same for me.
Because, in the end, it does not matter how “right” I am; what matters is that we all come to grow in our knowledge of the Truth Himself (John 14:6).