Hi friends,
I’ve been spending a lot of time working on the Confident Reader course—thinking not just about how we read the Bible, but about how we engage each other when Scripture brings up tension.
And in that process, I noticed something uncomfortable about myself.
I keep getting pulled into conversations I never agreed to have.
I’ve gotten better at setting boundaries online. I can usually spot when a comment section is headed nowhere good. But what finally forced me to confront this wasn’t an online interaction.
It was someone close to me. Someone I care about deeply. Someone whose convictions are intense and absolute.
Because of that relationship, I felt like I owed them engagement.
I owed them a response.
I owed them my time.
And that belief nearly burned me out.
For a long time, I carried this quiet assumption: Because I’m a teacher, I owe everyone a response.
If I didn’t respond, I felt dishonest. Cowardly. Unloving.
That belief has done more damage to my life than I realized.
Here’s what finally became clear to me:
You owe people honesty.
You owe people respect.
You owe people clarity.
But you do not owe people access.
You do not owe people engagement.
And you do not owe people a debate.
What finally pushed me over the edge was recognizing a pattern.
It wasn’t someone saying, “I’m struggling with this text.”
It wasn’t, “Help me understand why you see it this way.”
It was bait.
“I’ve been studying this book…”
“Then I noticed this passage means something very different…”
I recognized the tactic immediately. It’s a pattern used to hook you into a conversation you’d never agree to upfront—because once you’re in, the goal isn’t understanding. It’s conquest.
That’s when I realized something that now feels painfully obvious:
You cannot have a healthy relationship with someone who treats every conversation as a conquest.
Here’s the diagnostic that helped me see it clearly:
When identity is attacked, dialogue is over.
The moment someone stops engaging your perspective and starts attacking you—
your intelligence, your faith, your sincerity—
the conversation has crossed a line.
Online, this often shows up immediately.
“Do you even read the Bible?”
“You’re just a pagan.”
“You’re not a real believer.”
That’s not curiosity.
That’s not dialogue.
That’s someone leveraging shame to dominate the exchange.
And here’s something else I had to learn the hard way:
If disengaging makes you feel like a coward, that’s often a sign someone is trying to weaponize your conscience against you.
That’s not love.
That’s manipulation.
So I started doing something different.
Sometimes I don’t respond at all.
Sometimes I hide the comment.
Sometimes I offer one calm line of clarity:
“Hey, we clearly see this differently. I’m not interested in debating this.”
And then I stop.
What surprised me most?
Once clarity is established, most people back off.
Boundaries don’t escalate healthy people.
They reveal unhealthy dynamics.
And here’s the cost I finally learned to measure.
Every time I said yes to a fruitless debate, I was saying no to something else.
Presence.
Peace.
My family.
I noticed that after these interactions, I was shorter with my wife. Less patient with my kids. Carrying agitation that didn’t belong to them.
That’s when it hit me:
Constantly giving yourself away isn’t love.
It’s self-destruction.
And it’s not what Scripture calls us to.
Jesus loved deeply—and still refused to engage at times.
He stayed silent.
He walked away.
He absorbed hostility without returning it.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and for the other person—is to refuse to participate in a conversation that’s doing harm.
This realization is a big part of why the Confident Reader pathway matters so much to me.
Confident Reader isn’t just about learning ancient context or reading Scripture better.
It’s about retraining how we engage.
It helps us move from:
- reactivity → curiosity
- fear → discernment
- obligation → wisdom
It teaches us when to engage, how to engage, and—just as importantly—when not to.
Because confident faith doesn’t need to win every argument.
It knows what’s worth carrying—and what’s worth laying down.
If you’ve ever felt that tightness in your chest when a Bible conversation turns adversarial…
If you’ve ever felt guilty for walking away…
If you’ve ever confused endurance with faithfulness…
You’re not alone.
And you’re not failing.
You’re learning discernment.
Have a blessed week,
—Ryan