The Space Between

I knew a newly married fellow through an online forum who was a fan of my podcast, patriarchy, and, as I recall, reformed theology in general. One day, he told me—and a few of the other men—that he’d slowly come to realize his wife was a feminist. I asked, “How so?” He said she didn’t like children the way he did. He wanted ten of them.

I said that was ambitious and asked how many they had already.

“None,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “maybe start with one. Ten’s a lot for anyone. It’s intimidating. It’s like never having touched a barbell and then asking someone to load three hundred pounds. She probably just needs to fall in love with being a mother—and see you can carry the weight as a provider.”

He agreed.

Some months later, the couple visited our church from out of town. They spent time with a few of the pastors, myself included. I was struck by how peculiar he was—and how normal and kind she seemed.

In the course of conversation, we learned they were living in a single rented room in a house full of older roommates. He was patching together a handful of part-time jobs while trying to make his way through seminary or Bible college—said he felt called to the ministry.

My wife leaned over to me afterward and whispered, “That’d be a hard situation to feel excited about bringing a baby into.”

Weeks later, the man confessed on the forum that he’d been nursing a long-standing addiction to pornography, hadn’t been attending church, and wasn’t sure he was even a true believer. The other men rallied—challenged him, encouraged him. For a brief moment, it felt like something good might come of it.

Then he went quiet.

Some time passed before he posted again to say he was leaving the forum.

A year went by, and I found myself thinking of him. I didn’t have his number, so I texted my associate pastor to see if he did. I told him I suspected they’d divorced and that the man had drifted out of church.

I sent a message.

Turned out, that’s exactly what had happened.

I told him I’d pray for him. And I did.

I have more than a few of these stories—some even sadder.

This is part of why I don’t put much stock in people’s labels—or the camps they say they belong to. Husband or wife, Calvinist or patriarchal—folks say all kinds of things. I’ve learned to take most of it in stride. It’s also why I’m slow to hand out specific advice to people I don’t actually know. Christians need to be in a church where they’re known—truly known. A forum won’t do it. Twitter can’t do it. Zoom calls don’t even come close.

What’s amazed me over the years is how gullible online Christians can be. I admire that they’re not bitter or suspicious, but still—it’s remarkable how many believe that influencers are exactly who they say they are.

Emily and I have had people compliment our marriage—people who’ve never met us, never stepped foot in our home. All they know is what we post. And don’t get me wrong—it’s good. But when some of those folks have visited, more than one has said, “You guys are just normal people.”

Yes. Exactly.

There’s the online version—what we post, curate, and claim. And then there’s reality. Sometimes those things line up. Often they don’t. The Christian life is about closing the gap between what we say and what we do. That’s sanctification.

There’s a kind of godly pressure that comes when your life is seen up close—when folks can tell your “walk” looks more like a limp. That pressure doesn’t exist online.

So, take this for whatever it is worth.