One of the best fathers in the Bible is a man who had no children of his own. No biological children, that is.

The apostle Paul lived and died an “unmarried man,” always “anxious about the things of the Lord, how to please the Lord” (1 Corinthians 7:32). A frontier missionary; a restless church planter; a once-stoned, thrice-shipwrecked, five-times-lashed man — he had little room in his life for a stable home and a growing family. But he was, even still, a father. One of the best fathers the Scriptures offer.

“One of the best human fathers in the Bible is a man who had no children of his own.”

In fact, we find no other man so often associated with fatherhood in the New Testament. He called men like Timothy and Titus “my true child” (1 Timothy 1:2; Titus 1:4) and his churches “my beloved children” (1 Corinthians 4:14). He saw himself not simply as missionary or apostle or teacher, but also as “parent,” as “father” (2 Corinthians 12:14–15; 1 Thessalonians 2:11). Paul seemed to gather children wherever he went — even in prison (Philemon 10). He was a single man with many sons.

And in Christ, God calls any man, single or married, into the same kind of fatherhood.

Fathers Without Children

For long ages, the robust fatherhood we find in Paul was limited to, well, fathers — men with biological children. The Old Testament sometimes suggests a kind of spiritual fatherhood, as when Elisha refers to Elijah as “my father” (2 Kings 2:12). But for the most part, men who had no children of their own would have been tempted to say, “Behold, I am a dry tree” (Isaiah 56:3). The family line ends with me.

But then Jesus came: single, yes, and also the most fruitful and multiplying man who ever lived. Without marriage or children, without even a home where he might lay his head, he still surrounded himself with “his offspring” (Isaiah 53:10), “the children God has given me” (Hebrews 2:13). He was a dry tree in terms of biological lineage, yet his branches now cover the world.

In Jesus, then, we find a new kind of fatherhood alongside the old: a fatherhood not of the flesh, but of the spirit; not of the home, but of the church. Where once a father’s family tree required biological descent, now a single man like Paul can pass the gospel’s inheritance from one faithful son to the next (2 Timothy 2:2). Any man can be a father who will preach the gospel and disciple.

And more than that, Christian men are made for such fatherhood. We are made to be not only sons who follow behind, and not only brothers who walk alongside, but also fathers who chart the course ahead.

Four Paths to Spiritual Fatherhood

For a number of reasons, however, spiritual fatherhood may feel beyond reach. Some younger, struggling men may wonder how they could ever lead others. Others may wish they first had a spiritual father themselves, so that they had some example to follow. And then even older Christian men may look around, notice the lack of sons in their life, and feel unsure where to find them.

How then does a man in Christ become a father in Christ — young or old, single or married? Consider four paths to spiritual fatherhood from the life and letters of Paul.

1. Live worthy of imitation.

For Paul, two words lay near the heart of faithful fatherhood: “Imitate me.” He called his children not simply to listen or learn from him, but to follow him as he followed Christ. “I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel,” he tells the Corinthians. “I urge you, then, be imitators of me” (1 Corinthians 4:15–16). The first step to spiritual fatherhood, then, is leading a life worthy of imitation. Spiritual fathers are farther along on the journey of faith and Christian maturity.

Saying, “Imitate me” does not require perfection, of course. This side of heaven, any man worthy of imitation will wish he were more worthy of imitation. But saying “Imitate me” does require integrity. It requires an all-of-life pursuit of Christ. In other words, the house of a father’s life doesn’t need to be fully renovated, but there can’t be any secret rooms.

“The first step to spiritual fatherhood is leading a life worthy of imitation.”

By the transforming grace of Jesus, spiritual fathers are increasingly able to point to any area of life and say, “Follow me here as I follow Christ.” Follow my spending habits and my entertainment choices. Follow my spiritual disciplines and my work ethic. Follow, as Paul says elsewhere, “my teaching, my conduct, my aim in life, my faith” (2 Timothy 3:10). And when I fail in any of these areas, follow my repentance.

Regardless of whether anyone is following you closely right now, what if you lived expecting to be imitated? What if you awoke and worked and spoke and ate with the question in your head, “Could I call someone to follow me here?” Maybe, like a new biological father, you would begin to feel yourself freshly responsible for more than yourself, watched by more eyes than your own.

And when you discover some area where others should not follow you, don’t give up or despair. Most men, at most times, have some area that needs renewed attention and resolve. Focus on following Jesus there today, and then again tomorrow, and a life worthy of imitation will increasingly emerge.

2. Pursue specific sons.

Physical fatherhood is, at times, unintentional: a man can get a son without wanting one. Spiritual fatherhood, however, begins and continues only with careful intention. These fathers go and find their sons.

Of course, some men’s lives are so worthy of imitation that sons go and find them. But in each of Paul’s own father-son relationships, he initiated. Often, he had to initiate because the children in question were not yet in Christ. So, he became a father to churches like the Corinthians and to men like Onesimus by first winning them to Jesus (1 Corinthians 4:15; Philemon 10). Yet even when he didn’t have to initiate (when the son was already a Christian), we still find him doing so.

When Paul came to Derbe and Lystra and heard a good report there about a young man named Timothy, we read, “Paul wanted Timothy to accompany him, and he took him” (Acts 16:3). Paul wanted Timothy. He wanted this young man to serve with him “as a son with a father” (Philippians 2:22). And so, he took him. Thus was born the deepest, most enduring father-son relationship in the apostle’s life.

When I compare my own intentionality to Paul’s, I realize that I often expect spiritual fatherhood to happen on accident. But if a man has a relationship with a spiritual son, in all likelihood that relationship has come because he saw a man, befriended him, and then invited him to come along — to read along, pray along, eat along, evangelize along, rest along.

As you think of the younger men around you — younger in either age or faith — whom might you take intentional steps toward? Whom might you fold into your life in meaningful ways? Whose gifts might you “fan into flame” (2 Timothy 1:6), even at the cost of much time and attention? If we wait for spiritual fatherhood to happen on its own, it probably won’t.

3. Develop discipleship patience.

Any man who pursues younger men will realize (and often quickly) his need for patience. Much patience. Disciples tend to grow slowly, just like children (and just like us). But through every advance and setback, rise and fall, breakthrough victory and miserable retreat, spiritual fathers remain faithful. Steady. Patient.

“Discipling a spiritual son in Christ takes time, creative thought, precious energy, and lots of heart.”

Paul’s patience may appear most clearly in his fatherly heart toward the Corinthians. Only a forbearing father would remain loyal to such a church. And loyal Paul remained. He not only planted the church, but taught there a year and a half (Acts 18:11). He not only taught there, but wrote letters after he left, often addressing deep immaturity. And he not only wrote letters, but laced his words “with love in a spirit of gentleness” — the patience of a father (1 Corinthians 4:21).

Where did such patience come from? It came, in part, from Paul’s ability to look at immature sons and see an image of their future glory. Like Jesus with the twelve, Paul could trace a line between what is and what could be — and in Christ, what will be. He could see the possibility of purity in those struggling with lust, the hope of contentment in bitter hearts, the grace of diligence in sluggish hands.

And so, despite his incredible patience, he refused to lower the high bar of holiness, and instead raised his sons up to the bar. “Like a father with his children,” he wrote to the Thessalonians, “we exhorted each one of you and encouraged you and charged you to walk in a manner worthy of God” (1 Thessalonians 2:11–12). There could be no higher standard of conduct than walking “in a manner worthy of God.”

When you consider the younger, more immature men around you, do you see them with the dogged, deep-down hope that they, however weak or wandering, could walk increasingly worthy of God? As you see their weaknesses, do you see also their potential in Christ? And might your words — patient yet believing and bold — become one of the means God uses to call them higher?

4. Embrace the greater blessedness.

As we consider the intentional pursuit and patient investment of spiritual fatherhood, perhaps the cost looms large. Discipling a spiritual son in Christ takes time, creative thought, precious energy, and lots of heart. If we run the commitment through a relational calculator of profit and loss, we may well decide to remain childless. Jesus, however, would have us use a different calculator altogether: “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

Paul models what it looks like to embrace this greater blessedness. As he writes to the Corinthians,

I seek not what is yours but you. For children are not obligated to save up for their parents, but parents for their children. I will most gladly spend and be spent for your souls. (2 Corinthians 12:14–15)

Hear the father’s heartbeat: “I seek not what is yours but you.” I do not seek your fast growth, your tit-for-tat repayment, your easy ego affirmations, or even your recognition of all that I do for you. Rather, I seek you. From the depths of my new heart in Christ, I seek the good of your heart in Christ. And therefore, every sacrifice and service, every hard word spoken and burden borne carries the unmistakable aroma of Christian gladness.

Or as another spiritual father put it, “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth” (3 John 4). Behold the secret of spiritual fatherhood: under the sun, there is no greater joy than to see spiritual children walking in the truth. And those who taste such joy will be on their way to becoming a father, single or married, with many sons.

Baptists were birthed in the matrix of Puritanism, that sixteenth- and seventeenth-century movement of reform and renewal. The genesis of Puritanism between the 1560s and the 1580s was deeply intertwined with questions of worship and polity. In fact, Puritanism, in its various ecclesial manifestations, was confident that there was a blueprint for polity and worship in the New Testament. As we will see, these concerns were bequeathed to their Baptist offspring.

‘Apostolic Primitive Purity’

Baptists began their existence in the first half of the seventeenth century — the General (Arminian) Baptists emerging in the 1610s and the Particular (Calvinistic) Baptists appearing some 25 years later — with a passion for going back to the apostolic model that they believed was taught in the Scriptures.

One of the major architects of the Particular Baptist cause, William Kiffen (1616–1701), explained in 1681 why he became a Baptist in the late 1630s/early 1640s:

[I] concluded that the safest way [for me spiritually] was to follow the footsteps of the flock (namely that order laid down by Christ and his Apostles, and practised by the primitive Christians in their times) which I found to be that after conversion they were baptised, added to the church, and continued in the apostles’ doctrine, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer; according to which I thought myself bound to be conformable.1

In other words, Kiffen became a Baptist because he was convinced that believer’s baptism and congregational church governance were indisputably part of the blueprint of New Testament polity.

Ten years later, Hercules Collins (d. 1702), a key Baptist leader in London, made the exact same point in a polemical piece on baptism when he stated that his intent was “to display this sacrament in its Apostolic primitive purity, free from the adulterations of men.”2 In fact, he asserted, it would violate his conscience were he to baptize an infant.3

The Believer’s ‘Great Pattern’

Given the uniqueness of believer’s baptism on the ecclesial scene of Stuart England — of the various church groups, only the Baptists restricted baptism to believers — it is not surprising that they had to defend the biblical legitimacy of their position time and again in this era. One scholar reckons the number of tracts and treatises written on this subject during the seventeenth century to be more than a hundred.4

“In being baptized as believers, Christians are following the example of Christ, their ‘great pattern.’”

One of the most popular of these tracts was John Norcott’s (d. 1676) Baptism Discovered Plainly & Faithfully, According to the Word of God (1672). In the relatively small compass of 56 pages, Norcott’s tract sets forth the standard seventeenth-century Baptist positions on the proper subjects of baptism (believers), the correct mode (immersion), and the meaning of baptism (primarily identification with Christ in his death, burial, and resurrection).5 Among his arguments in favor of believer’s baptism is his emphasis that in being baptized as believers, Christians are following the example of Christ, their “great pattern.”6

Hercules Collins maintained the same. He argued that “Christ was baptized about thirty years of age, as our example.”7 And at the close of the Stuart era, the Seventh-Day Baptist leader Joseph Stennett I (1663–1713) made the same argument in the following extract from one of his baptismal hymns:

Lord, thy own precept we obey,     In thy own footsteps tread,We die, are bury’d, rise with Thee     From regions of the dead.8

For Baptists, Christ’s baptism was the pattern that the believer, in being baptized, was following in obedience.

‘Forced Worship Stinks’

Believer’s baptism also became tied to religious liberty. In infant baptism, the child had no choice over what was transpiring. Some saw this as a symbol of an oppressive state church. Thus, its counterpart, the baptism of believers, became a symbol of religious freedom.

“The baptism of believers became a symbol of religious freedom.”

Consider the testimony of Roger Williams (1603/4–83), who became a Puritan during his studies for the Anglican ministry at Cambridge and who, in 1630, sailed to Massachusetts. During the long voyage, Williams had time to do an intensive study of New Testament church polity and its relationship to governing authorities. He came to the conviction that the magistrate may not punish any sort of breach of the first table of the Ten Commandments, such as idolatry, Sabbath-breaking, false worship, and blasphemy. Moreover, he was certain that every individual should be free to follow his own convictions in religious matters, for, in his words, “forced worship stinks in the nostrils of God.”9

During the 1630s, Williams came into conflict with the Massachusetts authorities regarding his perspective on religious liberty. Within a couple of years, Williams and some like-minded friends were driven out of Massachusetts and founded the colony of Rhode Island. And though there is no indication that their disagreement with the Massachusetts authorities concerned believer’s baptism, they had adopted Baptist views, and the church they founded in Rhode Island became First Baptist Church in America. Believer’s baptism thus became tied to affirming religious liberty.

Recovering a Lost Pattern

Becoming Baptist in the seventeenth century was thus a radical act politically. Not that those who did become Baptist would necessarily have thought of the act primarily in those terms. For them, it was a step of obedience to Christ and a way of recovering a lost pattern of discipleship. Over the next century, Baptist commitment to this ordinance in its original design continued to distinguish the Baptists from other evangelical bodies in the British Isles. In fact, it was not until the twentieth century that one finds other Christian communities embracing the baptism of believers by immersion.

Those who underwent this rite in the decades following the era addressed in this small essay displayed a willingness to be marginalized in British society. In fact, pick up most recent studies of eighteenth-century British society, and there is nary a mention of the Baptists. Such studies convey the impression that the existence of this Christian community was little more than a blip on the radar of eighteenth-century history.

As the biblical record of divine activity in antiquity bears witness, however, such has often been the case. The God of our Baptist forebears delights in using those considered small and insignificant by the intellectual elites and in employing means, like the immersion of believers, regarded with utter disdain by the surrounding culture.

Every time we reread a great book, we inevitably get something new out of it. This isn’t because the book changes, but because we do. Meaning is stable, but we grow and mature (at least, we ought to). And as we do, we become attentive to truth in new ways; we have a broader and richer framework that enables us to see more in the books we read (and read again).

This is true even of children’s books. Perhaps especially of children’s books. My appreciation of Narnia, for instance, is no secret. I’ve read the series dozens of times. On my most recent journey through the wardrobe, an important theme in the final book lit up for me in a fresh way. And then my own Bible reading connected with that theme and brought the whole matter home.

“Passions are the impulsive, almost instinctive motions of the soul. They are good, but dangerous.”

The theme is the centrality of the passions in the early chapters of The Last Battle. Passions are the impulsive, almost instinctive motions of the soul. They are good, but dangerous. They are our immediate reactions to reality, such as fear, anxiety, desire, pity, grief, and anger. It’s this last passion that figures prominently in The Last Battle. What happens when our anger, however justified in itself, goes unchecked and becomes rash? And are there any ways to rein it in?

The Rashness of the King

The second chapter opens with King Tirian and his close friend Jewel the Unicorn in a state of reverie over the news that Aslan has returned to Narnia. Aslan’s arrival is the most wonderful news imaginable. Their joy is interrupted, however, by Roonwit the Centaur, who claims that the news of Aslan’s arrival is a lie.

“A lie!” said the King fiercely. “What creature in Narnia or all the world would dare to lie on such a matter?” And, without knowing it, he laid his hand on his sword hilt. (20)

Note the intensity of the King’s reaction. More importantly, notice where that reaction takes him. His hand goes to his sword “without knowing it.” In other words, his impulsive passion moved him to react, apart from the guidance of his mind.

We see the same rashness a few moments later when the Dryad emerges from the forest, crying out for justice over the destruction of the talking trees. When Tirian hears it, he leaps to his feet and draws his sword. There are no enemies present. Nevertheless, the sword is drawn, perhaps again without him fully realizing what he’s doing. His passions are in control.

Anger Invites More Anger

When the Dryad falls to the ground dead, Tirian is speechless in his grief and anger. He then calls Jewel and Roonwit to immediately join him in a journey to put to death the villains who have committed this murder. They are to leave “with all the speed we may.” Jewel concurs, but Roonwit cautions. “Sire, be wary in your just wrath” (22). In your anger, Roonwit says, do not sin. Do not be unwise. Let us wait to gather troops and see the strength of the enemy.

But Tirian will “not wait the tenth part of a second.” His wrath is kindled and steering the ship. He and Jewel set out, with Tirian muttering to himself and clenching his fists. He’s so angry he doesn’t even feel the coldness of the water when they ford a river. His anger has him by the throat and will not let go.

After discovering that Aslan is apparently the one who ordered the felling of the trees, Tirian and Jewel press on toward the danger. The narrator comments,

[Jewel] did not see at the moment how foolish it was for two of them to go on alone; nor did the King. They were too angry to think clearly. But much evil came of their rashness in the end. (25)

This is the issue: they are too angry to think clearly. However righteous their anger at the injustice before them, the rashness of that anger leads to folly. They are impulsively reacting, not intentionally responding, and the results will be great evil and harm.

What Can Check Anger?

We don’t have to wait long for some of that evil to manifest. When the two come upon a talking horse being beaten and whipped by Calormen soldiers, their anger reaches a fever pitch.

When Tirian knew that the Horse was one of his own Narnians, there came over him and over Jewel such a rage that they did not know what they were doing. The King’s sword went up, the Unicorn’s horn went down. They rushed forward together. Next moment, both the Calormenes lay dead, the one beheaded by Tirian’s sword and the other gored through the heart by Jewel’s horn. (27)

“If unchecked and rash anger leads to great folly, evil, and bloodshed, what can check such a passion?”

Over and over, we see the theme of this chapter — from the hand on the sword without knowing it, to being too angry to think clearly, to being so filled with rage that they don’t know what they are doing even as they kill two men. The unchecked rashness of the king has led to great bloodshed.

I’d like to bring the rashness of Tirian into conversation with a story from the Scriptures and ask, If unchecked and rash anger leads to great folly, evil, and bloodshed, what can check such a passion?

The Rashness of the Anointed

The biblical story is a familiar one from the life of David. He is dwelling in the wilderness because he is estranged from King Saul, who is in the grip of the passion of envy. David has twice spared Saul’s life and thereby earned a respite of sorts from Saul’s pursuit. Samuel is dead, and David and his men are in the wilderness of Paran, low on supplies.

David sends some messengers to Nabal, a wealthy man who lives close by. Nabal is preparing a feast, and David asks for favor and supplies. This request is not out of the blue. David and his men have been camped near Nabal’s shepherds. Not only have they refrained from plundering his flocks, but they have actually ensured that no one else does either. David and his men were a wall to Nabal’s flocks by day and night (1 Samuel 25:16). Neither thief nor beast ravaged his flock. It is in light of this protection that David makes his humble request, identifying himself as a son and servant to Nabal (1 Samuel 25:8).

Nabal responds with derision and insults. “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants these days who are breaking away from their masters” (1 Samuel 25:10–11). In other words, “David, you are an unworthy outlaw, a rebel against the king. And I will not give my bread and my water and my meat to men from who knows where.”

When David hears of the insult, he responds like the last King of Narnia. “Every man strap on his sword!” (1 Samuel 25:13). In his anger, he and his men immediately set out to avenge the insult. And their intentions are clear — every male in Nabal’s house will be killed (1 Samuel 25:22). As with Tirian, here we have the impulsive passion of anger, a rage that is about to lead to great bloodshed and bloodguilt. But unlike Tirian, it’s about to be checked.

How to Appeal to Anger

The check comes in the form of Abigail, Nabal’s wise and discerning wife. Hearing of Nabal’s insult and the evil that is coming to their house, she immediately prepares a lavish gift of food and wine for David and his men. She brings the gifts and falls on her face before David and pleads for his favor.

She takes responsibility. She testifies to her husband’s folly. She gives David the gifts. But most importantly, she makes two fundamental appeals. First, she urges David to refrain from shedding innocent blood and working salvation with his own hand (1 Samuel 25:26). By doing so, he will avoid the grief and pangs of conscience that will come if he brings bloodguilt by his hand or seeks to save himself (1 Samuel 25:31). Second, she reminds David that the Lord will fight for him, that David’s life is “bound in the bundle of the living in the care of the Lord your God” (1 Samuel 25:29).

These appeals check the rashness of the king. They arrest his rage and wrath and vengeance. They enable him to tame the passion of his impulsive anger. David blesses Abigail for her discretion and courage, because she has “kept me this day from bloodguilt and from working salvation with my own hand” (1 Samuel 25:34). And he blesses the Lord who sent her to him and restrained David’s hand from doing great evil by harming Abigail and her husband’s household.

And sure enough, the Lord vindicates David. Ten days later, the Lord strikes Nabal and he dies, avenging the insult against his anointed (1 Samuel 25:39). Not only does David spare himself from working evil, he gains the hand of a wise and discerning wife.

Weapons Against Our Anger

So how might we apply wisdom like Abigail’s in checking our anger today? As we feel the temperature of our souls rising, we stop and remind ourselves — and one another — first, that ungodly anger will only add iniquity to our injury, and second, that the Lord himself has said, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay” (Romans 12:19).

These two stories — one fictional and one biblical — issue the same warning: Beware the passions of your flesh. They often wage war against your soul (1 Peter 2:11). In your anger, do not sin (Ephesians 4:26). Remember that the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God (James 1:20). Instead, entrust yourself to God (1 Peter 4:19). Look to him to fight your battles and to vindicate.

This doesn’t make us passive; the Lord also fought for and with David when he took up his sling against Goliath. That salvation, like the one with Nabal, was wrought by God’s hand, not David’s. But when we act in faith, we do so intentionally and thoughtfully, not reactively or rashly. We trust that our lives are bound in the bundle of the living in the care of our Lord, that we always live between the paws of the true Aslan.