Fighting like the Devil

We Lose Culture Wars by Prosecuting Them

“Why are we on defense,” one frustrated culture warrior asked me, referring to some religious freedom issue, “when we should be on offense?” As I’ve written elsewhere, I find this metaphor telling. It assumes that what really matters is the church’s state rather than its mission.

The more I’ve thought of it, though, the more I’ve come to believe that—in one sense—“defense” is exactly what we’re called to do.

Metaphors matter. They shape the way we see who we are, where we are, and what we do. Even though we use the metaphor “culture war” for what some would call “worldview conflicts,” underneath all the military imagery is an unspoken legal metaphor that might be even more controlling. We lose ourselves in culture wars when we think we are prosecutors. But we’re not—we’re attorneys for the defense.

The image of culture war as prosecution makes sense. After all, we are often dealing with principles of righteousness and unrighteousness, of morality or immorality. We make the case for who’s wrong and who’s right, and having won the argument, we thus win the case. This sense of purpose has the additional benefit of being fully in step with the times.

From the social-justice advocate on TikTok policing pronouns and cultural appropriation to the “own the libs” right-winger showing how “wokeness” will make everywhere like Portland, almost everyone can find people or movements to prosecute their cases. And we cheer our favorites on from the courtroom benches.

The problem is that the Bible tells us the role of prosecuting attorney is already filled. Scripture reveals that the devil has two fundamental powers: deception and accusation (Rev. 12:9–10). It says the devil has “the power of death” precisely because the slavery common to humanity is the “fear of death” (Heb. 2:14–15). If the mission involves winning arguments and condemning opponents, the devil does that better than we ever could.

But Jesus’ mission is different. The apostle John writes, “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him” (John 3:17).

The world, John explains, is “condemned already” (v. 18). We all have sinned; we all fall short of the glory of God. People find different ways to do that, but whether through self-indulgence or through self-righteousness, we all are found guilty before our own consciences and before the judgment seat of Christ.

Yet we are part of a “ministry of reconciliation,” announcing the possibility of forgiveness of sins and peace with God. “We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us,” Paul wrote. “We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God” (2 Cor. 5:20).

Returning to our metaphor, we might assume that the prosecuting attorney is the one devoted to justice and to calling things what they are. But the defense attorney must be just as rigorous in defining a crime, if not more so.

A defense attorney does not say to his or her client, “Well, who among us hasn’t embezzled a widow’s retirement fund?” Instead, the defense attorney will explain exactly what kind of jeopardy the accused is in and will usually say to the defendant behind closed doors, “You have to tell me the truth about what we’re dealing with here.”

Sometimes in those closed-door meetings, the defense attorney asks even tougher questions than the prosecuting attorney ever would. The difference is the end goal. The defense attorney is tough precisely because he’s on the side of the accused.

Several years ago, a friend of mine was being considered for a ministry position. I knew he would serve the ministry well, but I also knew the search committee was unsure about him. So I suggested we meet and do a practice run to prepare him for the interview. I said, “I’ll pretend to be the questioners, and you answer me.”

I then proceeded to ask the toughest, most hostile questions I could possibly ask—taking the worst view possible of every controversial thing my friend had ever done. He gave me a look of anguished disappointment: “Russell?”

“I’m not Russell Moore,” I said. “I’m not your friend here. I’m so-and-so on the search committee.” After that momentary confusion, my friend loosened up and answered my machine-gun round of obnoxious questions. He could then see that my questions weren’t to trip him up or humiliate him. Just the opposite—I was on his side.

Imagine a team of defense attorneys arguing their case before the jury. If one of them began referring to the accused as “our client, the obvious embezzler” or “our client who—if you have any sense at all—will rot in jail” or remarked, “There’s nothing as relaxing as some good old-fashioned embezzlement,” that would be a crisis. Some in the jury might say, “This defense attorney isn’t rebuking the embezzler; he’s rebuking his own team in front of the judge!”

The defense attorneys are on the same team only to the degree that they have the same mission. If one of them starts thinking he or she is a prosecuting attorney or a coconspirator with the accused, the group is no longer a team of defense attorneys.

That’s partially why the apostle Paul—like Jesus before him—speaks far more harshly to those inside the church than those outside. He doesn’t denounce the people who would say “I am of Zeus” or “I am of Artemis” the way he does those who would say “I am of Paul” or “I am of Cephas.” Why? It’s because the church is called to a higher accountability than the world—and because a divided church speaks something untrue about Christ and the gospel. Paul specifically announced, “What business is it of mine to judge those outside the church? Are you not to judge those inside? God will judge those outside. ‘Expel the wicked person from among you’” (1 Cor. 5:12–13).

If there is no eternity, then we should just fall into the same old culture-war patterns as the rest of the world. We should find an in-group and justify whatever they do—and we should identify an out-group so we can relentlessly hound them as stupid and wicked. But if there is a heaven and a hell and a Holy Spirit, then that posture is not just wrongheaded; it’s satanic.

If we are gospel Christians, entrusted with the genuinely Good News that “God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ” (2 Cor. 5:19), then our end goal cannot be to “win” an argument, much less to humiliate our opponents. Our end goal is to see people reconciled to God and to each other. Success for us isn’t defined by getting a “successful conviction” of our “enemies” on the Day of Judgment. Success is their acquittal through the blood of Christ and—even more so—their adoption into the family of God.

The frantic rage we can often display in supposedly protecting “Christian” values might feel like strength, but the world sees it for what it is: fear, anxiety, and lack of confidence. They can also see that it’s nothing like the confident tranquility of Jesus—who overturned tables inside the religious establishment but was indescribably calm before those with the authority to crucify him.

None of the prostitutes and tax collectors around Jesus were confused about his stance on sex trafficking or imperial extortion. And yet none of them were confused about the fact that he loved them—and that he did not fear being put out of the “in-group” for being associated with them.

If that doesn’t feel “offensive” enough for you, then maybe you’re playing a different game.

How We Are All a Little Bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger

At one point while reading Mark Leibovich’s profile of movie star/bodybuilder/governor/Kindergarten Cop Arnold Schwarzenegger, I found myself unexpectedly moved.

Schwarzenegger described what it was like to be at Auschwitz while knowing that his Austrian father had been a member of the Nazi Party. He acknowledged his father’s guilt and complicity but said, “We don’t have to go and follow. My father was an alcoholic. I am not an alcoholic. My father was beating the kids and his wife, and I’m not doing that. We can break away from that, and we can change.”

The emotional uplift didn’t last long because I almost immediately cringed while reading, in the same piece, that at Auschwitz, Schwarzenegger signed the guest book with “I’ll be back.”

For most people, signing “I’ll be back” is straightforward enough, signifying that they found the museum meaningful and will return. But when one is Arnold Schwarzenegger and “I’ll be back” is the almost universally known catchphrase of one’s character in The Terminator, the words hit differently.

Leibovich pointed out to Schwarzenegger that some on social media had (quite understandably) denounced the message as “tacky” and “flippant.” Schwarzenegger’s response was not what I was expecting.

“I wanted to write ‘Hasta la vista, baby,’” he told Leibovich, referencing yet another famous line from Terminator 2. (“Yes, he was serious,” Leibovich parenthetically noted to readers.) “I mean, you know—‘hasta la vista to hate and prejudice.’”

As he thought about it, though, Schwarzenegger concluded that the message would read as “Buh-bye, I will never come back here again.” So he went with “I’ll be back.”

I mumbled aloud, “Did you really think these were your only two options?”

Yes, “I’ll be back” is not as bad as “Hasta la vista, baby.” But what about just “This experience moved me, and I will come here again”? Or what about just nothing alongside the name, indicating reverential silence in the face of unspeakable evil?

Granted, most of us say or write things we wish we could take back. Many times, I have awakened in the night, remembering something I said at a gathering, and thought with alarm, I didn’t mean it like that! I wonder if they took it like that. And granted, most of us don’t do that in places as historically and humanly important as Auschwitz or with an audience as vast as the whole world.

What interests me is not so much Schwarzenegger’s attempt to justify his wording (which the museum defended, saying they knew what he was trying to convey) but the fact that he seemingly believed that his only choices were two arguably trivializing and inappropriate sentences.

How often, I wondered, do I do the same thing? How often do I agonize in making a choice—in some decision big or small—without ever realizing that my options themselves are wrong?

Sometimes we think we are choosing a lesser evil, but that’s only because we’ve narrowed our possibilities down to evil.

At times, what we need to do is not to choose between two bad directions but to step back and say, “Maybe there are options I’m not even considering.” Sometimes the right answer to a dilemma is not option A or option B but neither.

How My Dog and a Song Changed My Prayer Life This Week

I’ve found myself listening nonstop to the song “Someday You’re Gonna Leave Me” by Taylor Leonhardt from her Hold Still album. This is the sort of song I love—an echo of Frederick Buechner (“hungering dark”) and all.

The first several times I heard it, I assumed it was a love song—until I paid attention to the lyrics, “You were just what I needed / A cold nose on my arm,” and realized it’s about a dog helping someone out of depression.

Been through the wringer and we’ve been through hell

Made it to the other side

Never known a day when you didn’t like me

Means more than love sometimes

After listening to this song almost constantly for several weeks, I started noticing that our dog, Waylon, is a lot more lethargic than before and has lost a lot of weight kind of suddenly. I added up the years and realized he’s ten years old now. This song prompted me to think about the fact that someday he’s going to leave us—and about how God used him through my own “hungering dark” in just the way this song describes.

I hope the “someday” for Waylon is a long time from now. In the meantime, this is a really good song. You can listen to it here.

Every other week, I share a list of books that one of you says you’d want to have on hand if you were stranded on a deserted island. This week’s submission breaks a couple of the rules—no picture attached, and no “where from” info—but I’m running it anyway because it’s a fun and thoughtful list.

It comes from reader Ron Harrington who I believe may be from—I’m sleuthing from the very thin informational clue of his mobile phone area code—the Tulsa area of Oklahoma. Here’s Ron’s list:

Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse—Gussie Fink-Nottle gives away the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School and sets up a “mark for oratory at which all others school in vain.” I could have picked any number of Wodehouse books, but Right Ho, Jeeves is my favorite (with The Code of the Woosters a close second). His books are a never-ending source of delight.
Tremendous Trifles by G. K. Chesterton—Close call between this one and Orthodoxy. Tremendous Trifles shows that Chesterton could write a delightful and wise essay about anything under the sun, no matter how trivial.
Watership Down by Richard Adams—This epic, featuring a band of rabbits searching for a new home, reveals much about the human condition. Led by the brave Hazel, the rabbits encounter rabbit warrens with varied social arrangements that speak to the ways human societies can go badly awry. And the battle with Efrafa is one of the most gripping tales I’ve ever read.

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck—There are few things I enjoy more than relaxing with Mack and the boys at the Palace Flophouse, then stopping by to see what Doc is up to. This is Steinbeck’s most entertaining novel, and the story of the frog hunt alone is worth the price of admission.

From Dawn to Decadence by Jacques Barzun—This cultural history of the West covering AD 1500 to 2000 is the culmination of Barzun’s life work and a cracking good read. It is a monumental achievement.

The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe—Narrowly beats out The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test among my favorite Tom Wolfe books. It reveals the culture of fighter pilots/test pilots/Gemini astronauts in the most entertaining way imaginable. And it is among the funniest things I have ever read.

Babies and Other Hazards of Sex: How to Make a Tiny Person in Only 9 Months with Tools You Probably Have around the Home by Dave Barry—This is the funniest thing I’ve ever read. I first read it shortly after the birth of my first child and almost injured myself several times by laughing so hard.

Thank you, Ron!

Readers, what do you think? If you were stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life and could have only one playlist or one bookshelf with you, what songs or books would you choose?

For a Desert Island Playlist, send me a list of 5–12 songs, excluding hymns and worship songs. (We’ll cover those later.)

For a Desert Island Bookshelf, send me a list of 5–12 books. If possible, please include a photo of all the books together.

Send your list (or both lists!) to questions@russellmoore.com, and include as much or as little explanation of your choices as you would like. And remember to tell us the town or city where you live!

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Onward,
Russell Moore