The Temptation of Certainty

Via TJC

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.” — Matthew 5:14

Prohibition began with a problem worth solving.

By the nineteenth century, alcohol consumption was staggering. Families were being devastated by addiction. Wages disappeared at the saloon. Women and children often bore the consequences of drunkenness, violence, and abandonment.

Christians looked at the suffering and decided something had to change.

They organized temperance societies. Churches preached abstinence. Women marched and prayed. Reformers fought for families that had little power to protect themselves.

Their concern was not imaginary.

But over time, a movement to persuade Americans not to drink became a movement to prohibit them from drinking.

In 1920, the Eighteenth Amendment took effect.

America divided into camps: dry and wet. The divide wasn’t merely about alcohol. It increasingly reflected deeper divisions—rural and urban, Protestant and Catholic, native-born and immigrant, traditional and modern.

Each side developed its own picture of the other. To some dry Americans, those who resisted Prohibition weren’t simply people who disagreed. They represented moral decay. To some wet Americans, temperance advocates weren’t concerned neighbors. They were religious zealots imposing their morality on everyone else.

Neighbors became categories. Categories became caricatures. And caricatures are much easier to despise than people.

We recognize the temptation.

When America becomes deeply divided, we sometimes hear predictions of another Civil War. But division doesn’t always look like armies facing one another across a battlefield.

Sometimes it looks like Prohibition.

We retreat into camps. We surround ourselves with people who agree with us. We assign motives to people we’ve never met. Eventually, disagreement becomes evidence of character.

If you were a good person, you would agree with me.

Christians are not immune to this. In fact, moral conviction can make us especially vulnerable. When we believe something is true—and perhaps it is true—we can begin believing that our certainty excuses our contempt.

James warns us otherwise:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” — James 1:19–20

Notice what James doesn’t say: He doesn’t say the concern is wrong.

He says anger cannot produce God’s righteousness.

We can be right about the issue and wrong in the way we carry our righteousness.

Jesus offers another way.

He calls us light.

But the purpose of light isn’t to expose how dark everyone else is.

Jesus says, “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

The purpose of our light is to help people see the Father.

That changes how Kingdom Men enter a divided world.

We can hold convictions without holding people in contempt. We can speak truth without caricaturing those who disagree. We can listen without surrendering what we believe. We can sit across a table from someone whose worldview troubles us and still remember that he bears the image of God.

Our country doesn’t need Christians who simply become another camp. It needs men whose presence lowers the temperature without dimming the truth: Men who are quick to listen. Slow to anger. Firm in conviction. Generous toward their neighbors.

Kingdom Men don’t measure faithfulness by how brightly we expose someone else’s darkness. We ask whether our lives are helping them see the Father.

Daily Battle Order:

Think of someone whose beliefs frustrate you—politically, culturally, or spiritually.

Before you argue with his position, refuse the caricature.

Have a conversation this week with the goal of understanding rather than winning. Ask a sincere question. Listen without preparing your rebuttal. Look for the fear, experience, hope, or conviction beneath his position.

Then ask yourself: What is my light illuminating?

When this person encounters me, do they simply see what I oppose—or do they get a clearer glimpse of my Father?