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Fall 2020 · Vol. 49 No. 2 · pp. 141–153 

Reading the Bible with Our Phones . . . Off

Gil Dueck

One of the most important early insights of my theological education was that biblical texts came from people who came from places. Moses was not just a mythical figure standing on Mount Sinai holding stone tablets with a halo around his head—he was a Hebrew raised in the courts of Egypt. Jesus was a Jew preaching the kingdom of God in Roman-occupied territory. Paul was a Jewish citizen of Rome who thought in categories that came from Pharisaic Judaism and Greek philosophy. These people were all products of their time.

It is only as we are rightly related to God that we can read the Bible well in this or any other time in history.

We have acquired a level of sophistication in applying this insight to the past. We are good at scrutinizing texts, literary or otherwise, and diagnosing the sociocultural determinants that produced them. Everything that follows in this article is intended to apply this insight to ourselves. I am primarily interested in this question: When future generations of historians describe us, the citizens of the early twenty-first century, as “products of our time,” what will they point to?

This is an important question for us to be asking. We Mennonite Brethren have a complicated history with culture. We have suspicion of the world in our theological DNA. We think of ourselves as a kind of counterculture. {142} Like any other community, we have been impacted by our surroundings. But we have not always been reflective about our relationship with culture. That is partly because culture is a complex thing. It is hard to see from the inside; and it is changing all the time. Like driving on a highway, what you see very much depends on where you are looking from.

What I want to do below is draw a conceptual map of our cultural territory and drop two important pins on it. Both, I will suggest, are important if we want to read the Bible well in 2020.


The terrain that we need to map in Canada in 2020 is a secular terrain. And to map this there is no better guide than Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor. Taylor begins A Secular Age, his 850-page book on the subject, with a diagnosis of a fundamental cultural change. This diagnosis has been quoted and puzzled over often ever since: “The change I want to define and trace is one that takes us from a society in which it was virtually impossible not to believe in God, to one in which faith, even for the staunchest believer, is one human possibility among others?” 1

We live, he says, in a world that was once framed by Christian assumptions about the world. We live in a world with a memory of Jesus, of the church, and of the Bible (at least parts of it). But those memories are complicated. They are overlaid with the weight of a tangled and partially understood history. And they are fading.

The word that Taylor uses to describe the conditions that presently exist is “secular.” So, I am going to simplify Taylor’s argument by focusing on three main points. You might think of them as borders on the territory we are mapping.


Taylor argues that the story of how we became secular is a not a subtraction story. What does he mean by this? A subtraction story would begin with a cultural world in which Christian faith was assumed. And then at a certain point in history—say 350 years ago or so—we subtracted religion from our culture; and what we were eventually left with was modern science, liberal democracy, and therapeutic notions of religion. 2

No, Taylor insists. That is not how it was or is. Secularism does not merely describe a remainder. It is not what you have left when you remove religion. It is not atheism. It is not even anti-religious. Rather, secularism is an alternative way of thinking about questions of truth, authority, meaning, and purpose. It is a new imaginative space within which we interpret our experience. It is not a space shorn of religion; it is a new space characterized by a “liberalism of neutrality” that is “extraordinarily inarticulate” on the constitutive ideals of modern culture. 3 And, crucially, {143} secularism is a space that has been constructed in the aftermath of a Christian consensus.

In this space, faith feels more contested, more fragile. We are more aware of our freedom and more aware of alternatives. But we are simultaneously aware that each of these alternatives is contested and that none are likely to provide unity. We interact every day with people who have assumptions that have nothing to do with the Bible. There is suspicion of the church and the Bible in the air. And this produces a kind of unsettled chill. The world feels less stable. We feel less stable.


Taylor suggests that secular assumptions now “frame” our perception of the world. A frame is what we use to focus our attention. Some things are included in the frame. Others are excluded.

Most of us do framing a couple of times a day. We see something. We decide it is worth remembering. We take out our phones and instinctively decide how to frame what we are looking at. Later, we can crop it to make sure that the frame only includes what we think is of importance.

The secular shift involves construing the world through what Taylor calls an immanent frame. The word “immanent” is contrasted with “transcendent.” So, an immanent frame for reality assumes an enclosed natural order that is not influenced by transcendent causes. 4

How did this come to be? Obviously, the rise of modern science, with all its successes, was a key factor. Mysteries that were previously attributed to God were suddenly explained through natural processes. Weather patterns, crop cycles, fertility, disease, religious ritual, and ceremony—all of these were previously interpreted with the assumption that God or spiritual forces were active agents in the world. As modern science appeared to unravel some of these mysteries, it became more natural to assume that the world was unfolding according to impersonal and predictable laws.

But it was not just the rise of science that created the immanent frame. The Protestant Reformation had earlier erased the division between a sacred realm inhabited by priests and monks and an ordinary realm where people lived, worked, and raised families. “No,” Luther, Calvin, and others said, “all of life is sacred.” The baker and the butcher have vocations that are every bit as important as the village priest. 5 So, on one level the Reformation gave unprecedented dignity to so-called “ordinary life.” There was no longer a divide between sacred things and worldly things. On another, the Protestant perspective makes it harder for us to see God as active in the world. We no longer {144} instinctively interpret things that happen in the world as coming from the hand of God. We no longer know where to look to find God. The world becomes, to use Taylor’s term, “disenchanted.” It is no longer a place where spiritual forces are at work and where everyone believes this to be the case. It is a flattened world where the things that happen to us can be explained with or without reference to God. Our ordinary lives are no longer charged with the same kind of meaning. 6

Within the immanent frame, we are alone. There is no transcendent reference point to guide or orient our lives. We are alone under a brass heaven, alone with our subjectivity. God, if we are into God, becomes a character in that subjective story. But the sense that we share a common space under God is lost.


The nova effect is Taylor’s way of describing how secular assumptions produced an explosion of options for creating meaning in the world. A nova is a star that has neared the end of its life cycle and explodes. A nova is triggered by the sudden gravitational collapse of a star’s core. It looks like a bright new star that slowly fades from view over time. The gravitational center of the West, Taylor argues, has collapsed. There is no longer a stable consensus on who we are and why we are here. 7

We no longer look “up” for a shared sense of purpose for our lives. Now we look “in.” We know that questions of meaning no longer have the same kind of shared traction with those around us. It is up to us, then, to construct whatever meaning we can find.

Into this secular space has come an explosion of energy as we have scrambled to reinterpret our lives. On the one hand, this was experienced as a kind of liberation from the demands of a stifling social hierarchy mediated through the authority of the church. On the other hand, people quickly saw the burdens this could place on the lonely individual, condemned to choose while knowing that this choice rested on such obviously fragile foundations.


So much for the map. According to Taylor, we live in a new imaginative space. Our faith exists under different, secularized conditions. It exists in the aftermath of a complicated history. It exists within an immanent frame and places new opportunities and burdens in front of us. What I want to do now is to place two pins on that map. There are others. But these two, I suggest, are vital for understanding how we might be products of our 2020 context. Both are uniquely products of this secular space that we live in. Both will significantly impact how we read the Bible. {145}

The first pin is identity. Like all important words, it is endlessly contestable. What is identity? What makes you you? What makes us us? Is identity something inside of us, like DNA? Is it something conferred on us by someone else, like the name we are given by our parents? Is it a role we negotiate with others, like the role of husband or mother?

The importance of sticking this pin onto a secular map is that identity has become a very big deal in a secular space. In the absence of transcendent meaning, immanent “meanings” take on added significance. Secularism produces an understanding of identity as a personal, self-directed project. Each of us is now responsible for our identity in a way that would have been inconceivable even two generations ago. The nova has exploded.

Will Storr, in his 2017 book Selfie, charts a 2500-year cultural story of how we think of ourselves. A key recent development in that story, he suggests, is social media, and the advent of the digital self. To make his point, he focuses on the smartphone and how it has changed our perceptions.

In 2010 the first iPhone with a front-facing camera arrived. Although it was envisioned primarily as a tool for video chats, we the people surprised the technologists by mostly doing something else with it. By 2014, 93 billion selfies were being taken every day on Android phones alone. Every third photograph taken by an eighteen to twenty-four-year-old was of themselves. 8

And the purpose for these selfies is apparently to share them—to externalize them into a social space for recognition and validation. You could think of each of these 93 billion selfies as containing the questions: “Do you see me?” and “What do you see?” The self-directed notion of identity-formation is now being refracted through the lens of social media. The key novelty here is that identity is now being formed in real time in front of a watching public. We can submit our images, our opinions, our politics, our anger, our cravings, our fears, and our hopes into a shared social space. And then we can sit back and watch the response. We can receive immediate validation, neglect, or condemnation. And all of this without looking at another human face.

Storr says,

To get along and get ahead in this new you-saturated social media arena, you had to be a better you than all the other yous that were suddenly surrounding you. You had to be more entertaining, more original, more beautiful, with more friends, have wittier lines and more righteous opinions, and you’d best be doing it looking stylish in interesting places with your breakfast healthy, delicious and beautifully lit. 9 {146}

The emphasis on identity construction in a secular context has produced two contradictory affirmations. The first is that you can be whoever you want to be. Within the immanent frame, the world is a blank canvas onto which you can paint a picture that is uniquely you. Identity is not about conformity to the expectations of village or family or church, or of an ancient text. Neither is it some agreed upon destination in terms of character or virtue or maturity. The goal is an alignment between who you have discerned yourself to be and your willingness to publish that identity within the wider world. The main virtue is authenticity, or perhaps a kind of courage.

On one level this can feel like an emancipation story. The future is open-ended. Who we can be is not constrained by where we come from. We no longer feel like we live under an always-watching eye of God or of the church. We no longer feel the need to conform to these external expectations. Within the immanent frame we get to write the script. Identity cannot come to us from outside the frame.

But we are also, in our more honest moments, haunted by the fragility of it all. We inhabit these islands of personal meaning, but we know they rest only upon the strength of our own sense of ourselves. And we know ourselves well enough to know that we are unpredictable, conflicted, and vulnerable to change.

The second affirmation, which contradicts this first, is that you cannot be anything other than what you are. The point here is that you can never transcend your identity. You can only speak for your people. So, I, as a middle-aged, white, middle-class Canadian man can speak for people who are like me. What I say is a function of where I come from. But what I say cannot transcend it. I cannot access or speak for a reality that we are all under and to which we are all accountable. Identity circumscribes our possibilities.

In 2020, we hear identity being invoked in increasingly politicized terms. The question in a thousand different conversations is shifting from “What is being said?” to “Who has access to the microphone?” It is a shift from the substance of the conversation to the identity of the participants. This is motivated by a laudable interest in amplifying the voices of those who have previously been ignored. For too long there have been conspicuous absences on our stages and in our pulpits. Our contemporary interest in questions of identity is at least partially motivated by a desire to right past wrongs.

We know that we need to be attentive to diverse perspectives because we have blind spots. We see the road from different vantage points. We need one another to understand the Bible, to hear the voice of the Spirit, and to discern our calling together. Ultimately, we know that the family of God is colorful. Every tribe. Every nation. Each bringing their uniqueness to the banquet. Each worshipping at the throne of the same Lamb. {147}

But our eagerness to correct the diversity problem may carry within it the seeds of a different and potentially destructive problem. This can lead to contested identities and a kind of renewed tribalism. It can lead to a scramble for validation and resources. And identities can fragment into dozens of new directions, each asking the same basic questions: “Do you see me? Do I have a place at this table?”

This could have the unfortunate outcome of reducing people to aggregations of identity markers—race, gender, class, age, politics, sexuality, religious belief, and so on. The list is multiplying.

We can speak for people who look like us or believe like us or behave like us. But we have a rapidly declining ability to offer something to the entire community. Increasingly, we speak as representatives, not as members of shared community. This, I would argue, can have the paradoxical effect of diminishing rather than amplifying our sense of the personhood of others.

If the fundamental question is “Do you see me?”, the answer increasingly seems to be, “No.” I may see your traits. I may have a composite in my head of people who look like you and come from where you come from. I may admit that your kind of people deserve a seat at the table or access to the microphone. But I do not really see you. Because you cannot be anything other than what you are.

So, in a secular space—a space in which there is no meaning available other than what we construct for ourselves—identity takes on added significance and meaning. There is so much riding on it. There is too much riding on it. It may be collapsing under a weight it was never meant to bear. The question is, what does this mean for our reading of the Bible?

Hermeneutical Takeaways

  • Hermeneutics can easily become conditioned by the gravitational demands of identity. To put it more sharply: the identity of the interpreter is increasingly fused with the interpretive conclusions. This makes it harder for us to get at the text.

  • There is more at stake in our disagreements. Disagreements about texts can easily and quickly become validations or invalidations of identities (and often without this ever being articulated).

  • The Bible itself can sometimes recede into the background. It can either become a sourcebook for our privatized identity-construction project or it can become a weapon in the hands of squabbling identity factions. But the sense of the Bible as something external to us, something to which we submit, something that exists independently of our experience, is weakened. {148}


The second pin I will stick onto our secular map is summarized by the word distraction. If Taylor is right about the nova effect, we have a discernment question on our hands. And this has only been amplified as more and more of our engagement with the world and with one another takes place through screens.

For the most part we know that our digital environment is cluttered. We know that we spend too much time online. We know that it is rude to put our phones on the table while we are talking to someone and divert our eyes every time the notification light starts flashing. We are aware of “distraction” in a general sense. But we think about it like I think about coffee consumption: not ideal, probably not helping my overall health, certainly excessive most days, but not a big enough deal to warrant any meaningful change.

I have begun to change my mind on this. Instead of seeing distraction as something peripheral to everyday experience, I am coming to see it as something decisive, something that is a defining feature of our cultural moment. When future generations look back at us, they may comment on how distracted we were.

Two Key Features

Like many, I have lived through the transition to the age of the screen. Nicholas Carr, in his notable 2012 book The Shallows, summarizes my experience. “My life has unfolded like a two-act play. It opened with Analogue Youth and then, after a quick but thorough shuffling of the props, it entered Digital Adulthood.” 10 What he found, as he examined his own journey was that there were some unwelcome changes.

Over the last few years, I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I feel it most strongly when I’m reading. I used to find it easy to immerse myself in a book or a lengthy article. My mind would get caught up in the twists and turns of the argument and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration starts to drift after a page or two. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel like I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle. 11

I am not sure if you can relate. I feel like I spend a lot of my life engaged in a superficial but constant engagement with screens. Increasingly, moments of waiting or boredom lead inevitably to my phone. A quick survey of the news headlines. A quick look at Instagram to see the beautiful places apparently everyone is going. A cringe-inducing dip into my work email. {149} A head-scratching survey of what friends and acquaintances are posting on social media.

Thin Beliefs

According to Carr, we are in the midst of a decisive shift in the way we interact with the world and, ultimately, in the way we think. Each tool we use to shape our mental lives comes with an “intellectual ethic.” For example, when we made the shift from an oral to a written culture, we did not just stop telling stories by the fire and start reading books. We also adopted new habits of thinking that were produced by the book.

The biggest shift was the possibility of reading alone. We could each create, in our own minds, a personal synthesis of ideas and information as we engaged with the thoughts of others. We learned how to follow an argument, step by step, through a succession of printed pages. Quiet, solitary research came to be the pathway for academic achievement. We began to prioritize original or creative thought as opposed to repetition of past wisdom. All of this made us more independent, more reflective, more imaginative.

We are currently living through another shift. This time it is not from an oral to a written culture but from a written to a digital culture. This culture brings with it many blessings—ease of access to information, ability to connect with people around the world, unlimited convenience. But it is becoming clearer that it is producing a different habit of mind—a habit of fragmented attention and distraction. And this is not incidental to the information ecosystem; it is manifestly the point.

In 2020 your attention is a priceless commodity. People are spending vast amounts of money trying to figure out ways to capture it. It is the engine of our economy. Capture the consumer’s attention. Sell it to advertisers. Target advertising with ever-increasing precision. Repeat. It is in no one’s economic interest for us to focus on any one thing for a prolonged amount of time. The goal is for all of us to have multiple web browsers open simultaneously while scrolling through Instagram with Spotify providing the soundtrack.

So, what is this doing to our minds? The short answer is it is wearing them out. We are collectively experiencing a kind of screen-induced cognitive fatigue. Our digital environment invites us to make a rapidly increasing number of small decisions and our attention is subsequently splintered in ever-increasing directions. Every time we shift from one thing to another, a piece of our attention is left behind. Each time we must drag our wayward minds back to the text, we drag a mind with less attention to give.

So, we tend to have less patience. We glance at the headlines and skim the articles. We prefer tweet-length sound bites. We are more likely {150} to proof-text. We are less likely to remember what we read. We are more readily guided by impressions and emotion. And all of this as our ability to express our opinions has never been greater.

This produces what Alan Noble has described as “thin beliefs.” 12 A thin belief is one that we hold without really understanding its justification and reasonings very well. A thin belief is easy to adopt. It does not cost us much. We can see a meme or a tweet, register a kind of superficial agreement or disagreement, and move on. We have not actually pondered it all that carefully. We have not thought through the deep implications over a period of time. We may not have any intent of changing our behavior. But we will “like” it. Maybe we will repost it. It is in our mental space in new way. But only in a thin way.

Noble writes, “The modern mind is often not prepared to engage in dialogue about personally challenging ideas, particularly ones with deep implications. The fatigued mind would rather categorize a conversation about God as another superficial distraction, requiring little cognitive attention, than a serious conversation that ought to cost us, at least cognitively.” 13

Cognitive “cost” is an illuminating concept in our contemporary context. If secularized distraction is a constitutive feature of where we live then it could be that the church broadly, and theological education more narrowly, need to give more explicit attention to the information ecosystem within which we speak about God. Like Jesus’s story of the builder of the tower, we may need to help one another “estimate the cost” as a part of the journey of discipleship (Luke 14:28-30).

“The gospel,” Noble goes on to say, “is cognitively costly.” 14 It decenters our perceptions of the world. It challenges our self-importance. It reveals our sin. It challenges our boundaries and makes ethical demands of us. It offers us healing and hope. It has implications. These demands are more difficult to navigate in an environment that actively foments distraction and reduces our ability to pay the cost.


But it is not just that the internet distracts us and makes money from the distraction. Way back in 2011, Eli Pariser published an important little book called The Filter Bubble. However, 2011 was a long-time ago. Internet usage was obviously widespread, but this was just before the mainstreaming of the smartphone. We still had a naïve trust that a networked world was a transparently good thing. We believed that it would deliver us “connection,” “community,” and a host of other social goods.

Pariser’s book was cup of cold water splashed over some of those assumptions. What was actually happening, he suggested, was that we were unwittingly enclosing ourselves in private digital universes where the messages that reached our ears were filtered and calibrated over time {151} by our click histories. The algorithms, it seems, are designed to send us content that lines up with what we have already bought and with what we already think. 15

Pariser dubbed this highly personalized digital environment a “filter bubble.” The key challenge with this is that our constant online engagement gives us the illusion of being exposed to a broad range of voices and options while, in fact, it is doing the opposite. We believe that our opinions are informed, when in fact they are alarmingly thin.

Again, this is not accidental. The digital economy runs on clicks. And what kinds of headlines generate clicks? Typically, the most inflammatory titles. The “gotcha” moments. The hyperbolic or alarmist titles. The “Can You Believe It” headlines that may induce a curious click but are almost certainly not adding to the depth of our understanding of either self or neighbor. The result of all of this is a world increasingly polarized, bewildered by differences, and offering fewer incentives for mutual understanding. Tristan Harris, former Google employee and Director of the Center for Humane Technology, writes, “The polarization of our society is actually part of the business model. The race for attention has to get more aggressive.” 16

In 2020, we are aware of the tribalism that can result from this kind of information ecosystem. We are seeing it unfold in real time. Common ground seems harder to find. We are more prone to all-or-nothing thinking. Friends and enemies are more sharply defined categories. The question for us is, “Why? What habits of mind produce this kind of polarized atmosphere?”

We are living in a culture that is making us more distracted at the level of our individual minds and more polarized at the level of our social spaces. I believe both are relevant as we consider how to read the Bible together.

Hermeneutical Takeaways

  • The Bible is a book that tells a story. Not only does it tell a story but the later chapters of the story depend on our familiarity with earlier ones. The Bible is a hyperlinked book. It makes constant use of texts, images, and allusions from previous parts of the story. It depends on these connections. If these connections are not understood, the meaning is distorted.

  • Because the Bible is a book that tells a story over a long period of time with complicated themes, it requires a certain kind of patient and focused attention—a kind of attention that is increasingly scarce.

  • A cultural moment where we are, first, distracted at the level of our individual minds and, second, polarized at the level of our identity {152} groups and social spaces means we will be more prone to proof-texting and using the Bible in the service of some other project.

  • As Mennonite Brethren, our emphasis on biblical theology—that is, hearing the Bible on its own terms—could stand us in good stead here. The task of connecting that theology to the questions of the day remains; but it is surely a good habit in 2020 to emphasize patient attention to the text as a first step.


I conclude with a word from the book of James, which offers us a few habits of mind and heart for a secular, identity-driven, distracted cultural moment: “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires” (Jas 1:19-20, NIV). This short text begins with a statement of identity. It is easy to miss it, but Paul identifies his hearers in a beautiful way. He calls them brothers and sisters. More than this, they are dear brothers and sisters.

These are radical, countercultural words in 2020. We are beloved. We belong to one another because of our shared faith in Christ. We are not rivals. We are not competitors. We are not representatives of our churches or our theologies. We are first brothers and sisters. This is because we, through our shared faith in Jesus Christ, belong to one another. We are given an identity that is in Christ. This identity does not erase our differences. It does not make us less distinctive or unique. But it does relativize those differences because we have something much more beautiful and important that we share. This identity in Christ affirms our particularity while also transcending it. This is precisely what is absent in a secular space. This is precisely what we are offered in Christ.

Next, James calls us to be quick to listen, slow to speak. These are remarkable habits of mind and heart. Can you imagine a world where people lived this way? Where we were eager to listen—to the words of Scripture and to one another? Can you imagine a world where we were slower to offer our opinions? Can you imagine the change?

We are surrounded by incentives to be slow to listen and quick to speak. We are tempted at every turn to engage superficially with ideas, with the Bible, and with one another. We are called by this text to do the opposite. The text intends these habits to inform our lives together as part of Christ’s church, but we can easily extend the force of James’s words to our hermeneutical habits.

The last word in this short text directs our attention beyond the immanent frame and back to a world framed by God’s intentions and purposes. It reminds us that these habits are not merely about self-improvement. They {153} enable us to conform to the intentions and desires of God. There is a kind of righteousness that God desires for us and, yes, requires of us. There is a quality of life and relationship that God intends for us. And it is only as we are rightly related to God that we can read the Bible well in this or any other time in history.


  1. Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 3.
  2. Taylor, Secular Age, 22.
  3. Charles Taylor, The Ethics of Authenticity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 17-18.
  4. Taylor, Secular Age, 542-44.
  5. Taylor, Secular Age, 104.
  6. James K. A. Smith provides a punchy summary of Taylor’s understanding of “enchantment,” suggesting that it basically means “things do stuff.” Smith, How (Not) to be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 29.
  7. Smith, How (Not) to be Secular, 62-64.
  8. Will Storr, Selfie: How We Became So Self-Obsessed and What It’s Doing to Us (New York: Abrams Press, 2018), 256.
  9. Storr, Selfie, 256.
  10. Nicholas Carr, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to our Brains (New York: W.W. Norton, 2011), 10-11.
  11. Carr, Shallows, 5-6.
  12. Alan Noble, Disruptive Witness: Speaking Truth in a Distracted Age (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2018), 44-49.
  13. Noble, Disruptive Witness, 22.
  14. Noble, Disruptive Witness, 27.
  15. Eli Pariser, The Filter Bubble: What the Internet is Hiding from You (New York: Penguin Press, 2011), 112.
  16. “Tristan Harris—US Senate June 25, 2019,” YouTube, June 25, 2019,
Gil Dueck (PhD, Vrije Universiteit) serves as academic dean at Columbia Bible College and teaches in the areas of theology and ethics.  He lives with his wife Shelley and their three daughters in Abbotsford, BC.  This article is a revised version of a paper presented at the 2019 Equip Study Conference on October 23, 2019, at the Waterloo Mennonite Brethren Church in Waterloo, Ontario.

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