The government does not own us. In this Harris is right. But we don’t own ourselves. Christians who believe the faith “once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3) know that “You are not your own.” We were bought with a price—the very blood of Jesus. We must not do whatever we want but instead glorify God in our bodies (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). We cannot defy the image of God in fellow human beings, even unborn ones, without defying God Himself.

In last Tuesday’s presidential debate, Kamala Harris said, “One does not have to abandon their faith or deeply held beliefs to agree the government, and Donald Trump certainly, should not be telling a woman what to do with her body.”
She’s partly right. We don’t belong to the government as if it owned us and can command our every action. This is deeply ingrained in the American psyche and our representative form of government. But neither do we belong to ourselves—not in the radically individualistic, deterministic way Harris meant it.
From a civics perspective, we belong to the communities we join or are born into. We are members of families, volunteer organizations, and churches. Our memberships require things of us, and we are not free to neglect or defy those obligations without consequence. These community bonds make for rich cultural relationships. They knit us together in ways that enrich us even as we enrich others. All of this is free from government intrusion and control—and rightly so.
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Pastor Justin Perdue launched Theology Night in 2022, believing that “under the shag carpet of contemporary evangelical teaching lies a beautiful hardwood floor of confessional doctrine and the ancient creeds of the church.” He says the church movements of the 20th century have produced a generation of people who are “frustrated and disenchanted with the fluffiness and the shallowness” and want something “more robust.”

MEN AND WOMEN come casually dressed and carrying Bibles as they enter the spacious office of Covenant Baptist Church in Asheville, N.C. Once conversations get going, voices echo off the concrete floors, creating what one church member calls the “happy buzz of fellowship.” This isn’t your typical midweek service, though. Twice a month, the office is transformed into a classroom for learning deep theology.
Folding chairs screech against the bare floor as everyone finds a seat. Pastor Justin Perdue, in jeans, T-shirt, and ball cap, stands behind a burnished café chair that doubles as his podium. He’s speaking from notes on a laptop, flanked by a water bottle emblazoned with Theocast, the name of his podcast.
Despite the hipster vibe in this 9-year-old church plant, Wednesdays are about something ancient. Perdue will spend the next 75 minutes digging into the threefold division of the law as part of a robust series for lay Christians. Two years in, he’s covered doctrine, church history, and what it means to be confessional. Welcome to Theology Night.
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