Last year was not a good year for race relations in the United States. Whether you think the main culprit is the police, politics, or protesters, I think most of us—Black, White, Asian, Hispanic, or whatever—look at the racial tensions in this country and, at least on our worst days, feel a dangerous mix of confusion, discouragement, frustration, and hopelessness.
And if things are bad in the country at large, it’s hard to see how they are better in the church. While I’m sure many Christians are still laboring behind the scenes to love their neighbors and to give people of a different skin color (or people with a different approach to skin color) the benefit of the doubt, the public face of Christianity—the way we talk to each other and talk about each other—is not impressive. Our witness to the world does not scream Isaiah 1:18 (“Come now, let us reason together”) or John 13:35 (“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another”). On the whole, when it comes to talking about this country’s most painful and most vexing problem, we are often getting Spurgeon’s dictum exactly backward: we are making soft arguments and using very hard words.
I can imagine what the rejoinders might be to that last paragraph. From the left, some will say, “Of course you want us all to settle down. That’s your privilege talking.” And from the right, some will say, “Just what I expected. More tone police when the church is being overrun by heresy.” If you think perpetual outrage and recrimination is the way forward, I suppose you are entitled to your opinion. But that doesn’t mean everyone else is obliged to share your opinion. For my part, I refuse to believe that talking about racial matters in a way that is reasonable, thoughtful, careful, and charitable makes one beholden to Whiteness or makes one a compromised squish.
The simple, honest truth is that Bible-believing orthodox Christians are not setting a Spirit-infused example in how to talk about racial matters. That’s the bad news. The good news is no one else is setting a great example either, which means it’s not too late for grace-filled, truth-loving followers of Jesus to show to the world a still more excellent way (1 Cor. 12:31).
What might it look like for Christians to talk about race in a more constructive and more helpful manner? Here are three suggestions.
1. Focus on ideas, not labels.
I’ll be blunt: I am no fan of Critical Race Theory. Judging by this introductory volume, I disagree with CRT’s aggressive color-consciousness (17), its jaundiced view of American history (48), its rejection of legal neutrality (3), its emphasis on economic redistribution and equality of results (29, 115), its interpretative principle that divides the world into rigid categories of oppressors and the oppressed (58, 78, 81), and its insistence that racism is pervasive and at the center of everything (8, 91). If that’s CRT, I see little to be gained by using it as a hermeneutical lens, let alone as an all-encompassing worldview.
And yet, I will be the first to confess I am no expert in CRT. While I think every point in the paragraph above comes directly from the book in question—and, consequently, from two leading proponents of CRT—I’m more interested in debating those ideas than I am in debating Critical Race Theory per se. To be sure, there are some experts among us who have deeply studied the major CRT texts. I’m happy for these Christian thinkers to discuss CRT at length. But for the vast majority of us (myself included), CRT is something we’ve heard a lot about and have studied very little. Consequently, one person hears “Critical Race Theory” and thinks: Marxist, leftist, postmodern, anti-Christian ideology. Another person hears “Critical Race Theory” and thinks: helpful tool for demonstrating that racism is more central to our history and has more explanatory power for our present situation than we thought.
My concern is that CRT has become an issue of symbolism before substance, a flag to be waved (for or against) in order to prove that we are sufficiently orthodox or sufficiently sensitive. The result is that Christians end up one step removed from discussing the issues we really need to be discussing. Too often, we think we are fighting about the gospel or fighting about whether we should love and listen to minority brothers and sisters, but really we are fighting about how to define Critical Race Theory. As a pastor, that’s way down on the list of fights I want to have.
When I served on the PCA’s sexuality study committee, we made the decision early on not to mention Revoice, even though everyone could see that was a major reason the committee was formed. But we knew that if we made the report about Revoice, there would be endless arguments about what Revoice is, and who is a part of it, and what so-and-so really meant. We thought it much better to focus on the theology we wanted to promote, the ideas we wanted to warn against, and the pastoral approach we wanted to encourage. In the same way, I think our discussion about race would be greatly helped by saying a lot less about Critical Race Theory and a lot more about the specific ideas that we find promising or problematic.
2. Approach the conversation with intellectual integrity and personal maturity.
What does this mean? Several things in my mind.
Don’t take everything personally. Don’t turn up every disagreement to 11. Recognize when people change their minds or nuance their views. Don’t define someone by their worst statement, and don’t then define every institution they’ve ever been a part of or any friend they’ve ever had by that statement.
Whenever possible, isolate the issue you mean to talk about. Don’t make the issue about gospel fidelity, if the argument is actually about interpreting American history. And don’t make the issue about whether you agree with the prophet Amos, if the argument is about how to interpret policing data.
Let’s show ourselves as Christians to be more logically rigorous and definitionally precise than the world. Don’t confuse correlation with causation. Don’t look for the worst examples on the other side to prove the rightness or righteousness of your side. Don’t assume that the person not entirely with you on every point is, therefore, an enemy not to be trusted on any point. Don’t think that courage means you can’t be careful with your words, or that compassion means you can’t ask uncomfortable questions.
3. Be willing to work with a few common sense both/and propositions.
If there is one kind of argument I generally loathe, it’s the lazy third way approach to solving all of life’s problems. I’m not against finding middle ground (see below). I’m not against seeing how Christianity sometimes transcends our labels and differences. What I am against is intellectual laziness masquerading as above-the-fray, third wayism: “I’m not liberal; I’m not conservative; I’m just Christian!”
Having said that, it seems to me there are a few basic both/and propositions that could turn down the temperature of our rhetoric, while also pushing the racial conversation toward greater clarity and usefulness.
For example, might we be able to acknowledge that systemic injustice can exist while also asking for evidence that, in whatever particular situation we are studying, it does exist? That seems like a reasonable starting place for further conversation. “I acknowledge that structural racism could play a part, but let’s take a closer look at the evidence for that claim.”
Similarly, might we be able to acknowledge personal choices and cultural factors almost always play a role in shaping who we are, the mistakes we make, and the opportunities we find? I’m sure we will still disagree about the relative importance of each factor but recognizing that we are all complex people—not merely the product of environment and circumstance, nor simply the accumulation of our individual decisions—is surely a better way to talk about racial matters than assuming that every disparity is the result of discrimination or that personal responsibility alone can right every social wrong.
Likewise, isn’t it possible that American history is both worse than most white people think, when it comes to race, and still a story with much to celebrate and be thankful for?
Isn’t it reasonable to think that minorities have different experiences than members of the majority and that members of the majority may be blind to those experiences, while nevertheless rejecting the kind of standpoint epistemology that circumscribes the right to speak, and even defines the measure of truth itself, by the standard of one’s lived experience?
These both/and propositions won’t remove all our different emphases and suspicions, but they might help us inch toward one another in finding common ground. That is, if we want to find common ground. The incentives in church discourse are unfortunately the same as in political discourse. There is more to be gained (humanly speaking) by dealing with racial issues in Manichaean categories of absolute light and darkness. Nuance and precision don’t get you much, except the expectation of being shot at from all sides.
There is no way to make an honest conversation about race an easy conversation. There is too much in our history for that. There is also too much in the human heart that is self-justifying, other-accusing, and innocence-seeking to make race and racism a simple intellectual discussion. But with the power of the Spirit and the hope of the gospel, we need not despair. God can yet give us the humility, the rationality, and the charity we need.

Kevin DeYoung (PhD, University of Leicester) is senior pastor of Christ Covenant Church in Matthews, North Carolina, Council member of The Gospel Coalition, and associate professor of systematic theology at Reformed Theological Seminary (Charlotte). He has written numerous books, including Just Do Something. Kevin and his wife, Trisha, have nine children: Ian, Jacob, Elizabeth, Paul, Mary, Benjamin, Tabitha, Andrew, and Susannah.

It has never been easier to have a voice in the public square. Virtually anyone with access to the internet can make his (or her) ideas and opinions known to hundreds or thousands or even millions of people. And of course, there are still older forms of print communication with a large following—books, journals, magazines, newsletters, and the like. It would seem that more people are talking to each other about more things than ever before.
Or are we just talking past each other?
There will always be people who disagree with each other. That’s not necessarily a problem. And there will always be people who make bad arguments. That’s inevitable. But if we are interested in debating ideas (not just destroying people) and interested in persuading (not just performing), we will try our imperfect best to speak and write in a way that aims to be clear, measured, and open to reason.
Of course, this is easier said than done. Venting one’s spleen is easy; cultivating a disciplined life of the mind is hard.
So how do we get off the rails? How does the noble pursuit of truth turn into a hot mess of hurt feelings and recriminations? How should we not debate ideas in the public square?
Here are eight bad ideas when it comes to communicating our ideas in public:
1. Take everything personally.
I’ve learned over the years that anyone anywhere could be reading what I write or listening to what I preach. That means I try to be sensitive to the fact that people with different objections and different experiences may be on the other end of my communication. I do not want to needlessly alienate or offend. And yet, no writer or speaker can possibly anticipate every bad experience someone may associate with what is said. We’ve all suffered loss, and we’ve all been hurt—some more than others. Basic human decency says, “Let’s try not to make things worse.” At the same time, basic commonsense says, “Let’s not expect everyone else to know everything I’ve been through, and let’s not read my own sensitivities back into someone else’s motives or ideas.” In other words, try not to hurt people, and try not to be the sort of person who is easily hurt.
2. Turn everything up to 11.
If you want to rally a loyal core of followers and alienate most everyone else, crank up the rhetorical dial on everything you say and write. Get angry quickly, scold constantly, and be eager to die on every hill. We may think that we are helping the cause by making every controversy sound like the Battle of Britain and every opponent resemble the evil eye of Sauron, but in the end such rhetoric is usually self-defeating. Most people don’t want to live in a state of unrelenting intensity, and most issues are not as important as stopping Hitler’s conquest of Europe. If you want to be an effective communicator (over the long haul), move up and down the emotional register. Save 11 for when you really need it.
3. Assume your experience is the way things really are.
Most of us do it to some extent: we look at the world figuring the world as we’ve experienced it is normal. If we’ve been treated fairly most of the time, we assume the world is pretty fair. If we’ve worked hard and got ahead, we think others should be able to do the same. If we’ve seen good authority or have been in positions of authority, we tend to trust authority. On the other hand, if we’ve been betrayed by those in authority, we tend to assume the worst about persons in authority. If we’ve been lied to and abused, we tend to see abusers and enablers around every corner. If we’ve been hurt by conservative Christians, we may be especially wary of conservative Christianity. And on and on. Of course, our experiences—good, bad, and ugly—can be powerful motivators, pushing us to guard against theological error or speak out against dangerous people and patterns. But we must not assume that our experience has been everyone’s experience. We must be careful not to present assumptions as facts. We must not let a wonderful “normal” make us blind to corruption and evil, nor should we allow our painful “normal” to so color our vision that we take down people who do not deserve our wrath.
4. Refuse to deal in nuance.
Complex problems rarely have simple explanations, and even more infrequently do they have simple solutions. If the solutions were easy—especially for problems that everyone would like to see changed—they probably would have been implemented by now. People are usually multilayered, a mixture of good and bad and everything in between. History is usually complicated, filled with villains who get some things right and heroes who get some things wrong. And explaining why things are the way they are is not always straightforward. Monocausal explanations for social ills and societal trends are rarely right. The better explanation for the way things are the way they are is usually a combination of personal choices, cultural forces, intellectual assumptions, technological innovations, and a staggering array of different experiences, opportunities, gifts, abilities, advantages, and disadvantages.
5. Make everything about everything.
Our communication will never be profitable if we expect every article or every post or every book to say everything that needs to be said. We must be able to focus on a specific topic, debate, or idea without insisting that our opponents provide a caveat for every possible exception, a paragraph for every possible hurt, and an answer to every related problem. Of course, we don’t want to be ignorant about the various connecting ideas (see “nuance” above) or indifferent to the various questions people might raise, but we have to be able to deal rationally with the issue at hand. It’s okay to talk about one thing at a time.
6. Discount individuals and their ideas based on their group identity.
Although individualism can be of the dangerous expressive type, there is also a good kind of individualism. As Christians, we believe that each person is made in God’s image, that each person is responsible for his or her actions, and that each person will stand as an individual before God. To be sure, we are more than individuals. Being a man or a woman, an American or a Pakistani, a Black upper-class father or a White lower-class single mother shapes who we are and how we see things. But we should not dismiss other people’s arguments because the one making those arguments is male or female, Black or White, rich or poor. Bad arguments are bad even when our tribe makes them, and good arguments are good even when they come from the group we’ve been told we cannot trust. Argue with ideas not with stereotypes.
7. Pay no attention to the type of communication you are having.
As digital communication has gotten easier, the lines of demarcation between different kinds of communication has gotten fuzzier. This confusion can be found across different digital platforms (i.e., using Twitter for intricate and emotionally charged debates), but it also stretches across entirely different modes of communication. I’ve had people say to me before, “I read that article. Is that how you would counsel someone struggling with X?” But of course, a book or a blog post is written to a general audience not to a specific person. When talking in person in a private setting, you can ask questions, read facial gestures, ask for follow up, express sympathy, say a prayer, listen to someone’s story, and acknowledge pain. Public communication should not be rude and uncaring, but it will always be to some degree impersonal. When we load all means of discourse with therapeutic expectations—held hostage by the emotional needs of those listening or speaking—we treat books and articles and reviews and sermons as private encounters, just on a larger scale, instead of different kinds of communication altogether.
8. Forget that your opponents are real people.
I’m sure I’ve told this story before. Soon after I started blogging I wrote a snarky article about another Christian leader. A few days later I was speaking at a conference, and to my surprise I was sharing the platform with someone who worked with this leader. The man confronted me about what I had written. As much as I didn’t enjoy that interaction, it was the Lord’s grace to me. It reminded me of what I should have known but so many of us forget, that the people I disagree with are still real people. I’m sure I haven’t done it perfectly, but since that interaction over a decade ago I’ve always tried to think as I write or speak, “Is this what I would say and how I would say it if this person or these people were in the room? Would I be embarrassed to run into this person at a conference next week?” That doesn’t mean we cannot challenge each other in books and in blog posts. It doesn’t mean we cannot say hard or even pointed things to and about each other. But that lesson many years ago cemented in my brain that even famous people—athletes, movie stars, politicians, well-known Christians—are flesh and blood human beings. They may be better or worse than I think, but they have feelings too and are deserving of basic decency and respect.

Kevin DeYoung (PhD, University of Leicester) is senior pastor of Christ Covenant Church in Matthews, North Carolina, Council member of The Gospel Coalition, and associate professor of systematic theology at Reformed Theological Seminary (Charlotte). He has written numerous books, including Just Do Something. Kevin and his wife, Trisha, have nine children: Ian, Jacob, Elizabeth, Paul, Mary, Benjamin, Tabitha, Andrew, and Susannah.

It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years. A few days ago my wife and I were watching one of the 9/11 documentaries with our kids. I found the viewing experience more tense than I expected. I knew what was going to happen, and it was still shocking. For my kids, this was interesting history. For those who can remember that Tuesday twenty years ago–even if we didn’t live in New York City and didn’t lose a loved one–the history can feel awfully present.
I was in my final year at Gordon-Conwell. It was a beautiful morning–sunny, deep blue, not a cloud in the sky. I had an early morning class on that Tuesday. Maybe it was Minor Prophets, something with Hebrew.
The class ended at 9:00am. I made the short walk across campus to my dorm room and picked up the phone. I had to check with my church. Something about a bulletin announcement or the preaching schedule. The church was in between pastors at the time, and I was helping out with the scheduling and some of the preaching. As it turned out, I was glad not to be preaching the next Sunday.
My friend on the phone asked me what I thought about the plane that had just crashed into the Twin Towers. I had no idea what he was talking about. This was 2001. I didn’t own a cell phone. I had no TV in my dorm room. Most of the time I went to the computer lab to check my email. We hung up the phone and I decided to figure out what had happened–probably one of these prop plane accidents. Didn’t John Denver die like that a few years ago?
I walked upstairs to the TV lounge, expecting the room to be quiet. It was a little after 9:00 in the morning. No one would be there. I was half right: the room was completely quiet, but everyone was there. I remember seeing the towers fall. Unreal. Unbelievable.
I remember walking up and down the Holy Hill on campus, praying, thinking, somewhat fearful, knowing that since every flight in the country had been grounded, if I saw a plane in the sky it was very bad news. I remember everyone trying to call home and not getting through. I remember driving the two miles over to Gordon College to pick up my fiance (now my wife) so we could be together. I remember the special prayer service and how we huddled in groups–students, families, professors. Walter Kaiser, David Wells, Doug Stuart–I think they all were there. I remember gathering in the one dorm room with a working TV to watch President Bush, and later Billy Graham.  I remember having to pray in chapel later that week and not knowing what to say, except that I should say something from Psalm 46.
I remember how personal the loss was for so many in Boston. I’d flown out of Logan too.
I remember all the American flags–everywhere, on mailboxes, on street corners, in store windows, even in Massachusetts. I remember hearing “I’m Proud to be an American” on the radio and crying instead of laughing. I remember how everything I was looking forward to–graduating, getting married, finding a church–seemed distant and on-hold, like maybe normal would not return, maybe nothing would be the same.
Life would be normal again. As least for most of us. Maybe too normal. Thousands walked into the church again. They didn’t stay. I told myself I would pray for my country every day for the rest of my life. Sadly, I haven’t.
It’s hard to believe that today’s seniors in high school weren’t alive for 9/11. Those just out of college won’t remember anything of the day. Even young people in their 20s or early 30s may only remember the day as something that made for a difficult assembly in school. They may know nothing about Todd Beamer’s “Let’s roll” or President Bush’s “I can hear you” or his opening pitch at Yankee Stadium. That’s bound to happen. I’m sure I don’t know as much about Pearl Harbor as I should. But let’s not allow the memory of twenty years ago to become too distant.
Where were you?
Teach our history. Share your story. Thank God for mercies. Pray, repent, and don’t forget.

Kevin DeYoung (PhD, University of Leicester) is senior pastor of Christ Covenant Church in Matthews, North Carolina, Council member of The Gospel Coalition, and associate professor of systematic theology at Reformed Theological Seminary (Charlotte). He has written numerous books, including Just Do Something. Kevin and his wife, Trisha, have nine children: Ian, Jacob, Elizabeth, Paul, Mary, Benjamin, Tabitha, Andrew, and Susannah.