What is the relationship between presence and courage? The theme for the upcoming Converge conference recalls something I recently read in Shirley Mullen’s book, Claiming the Courageous Middle. During her tenure as the president of Houghton College, she noted that at times her attempt at courageous leadership was construed as sheer cowardice. She writes:
I found it fascinating to receive letters from college alumni constituents on both the right and the left who believed that the college should be more on their side and who readily assumed that the only reason we were not exactly where they were was that the college was afraid. Perhaps we were afraid of the government. Perhaps we were being pressured by large donors. Perhaps it was the need for students. But the common presupposition was that we couldn’t possibly be choosing the middle for morally defensible reasons. (61)
Mullen goes on to argue that remaining in the middle may actually require the most courage. For although the middle can become a place of lukewarmness and passivity, it can also be claimed as a place of courage and imagination. Yet as we seek to remain faithfully present, others may think we are simply afraid.
Presence and courage also bring to mind the biblical book of Joshua, where God commissions his servant with the charge to “be strong and courageous.” This thrice-repeated call to courage (1:6, 7, 9) is framed by God’s promise of faithful presence: “Just as I was with Moses, so I will be with you” (1:5); “The Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (1:9).
The calling of Christian educators living in the twenty-first century is different than Joshua’s task so many years ago. Yet we can still receive both the call to courage and the promise of presence. If we seek to be faithfully present and courageously good, then we must remember that our great hope is God’s promise, extended to us by the risen Christ: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)
But to Mullen’s point, we should also remember that the call to courage may look different than we think. When faith feels under attack, it is easy to accept the logic of culture war. When one is at war, constant vigilance is required. With a fog of war covering the field, we are prone to attack anyone who seems suspicious.
There’s another scene from Joshua that occurs just prior to the battle of Jericho. Anticipating the coming conflict, Joshua encounters an armed man and calls out a challenge: “Are you for us, or for our enemies?” (5:13)
I find myself thinking about this question a lot these days: “are you for us or for our enemies?” Sometimes it is because it feels like someone is testing me, trying to get a sense of where I stand on hotly contested issues. Some worry that pastors and professors have been co-opted by “the other side,” that they are no longer “for us” but instead “for our enemies.” Other times I find myself asking this question of others. Is this person on my side or on the other side? In polarized times, it can feel like this is the main question that matters.
Yet my professional work has focused on finding alternatives to this posture of cultural suspicion. My first book, Reimagining Apologetics, tried to reframe apologetics in terms of “culture care” (Makoto Fujimura’s phrase) rather than culture war. My second book, Interpreting Your World, articulated a mode of “non-anxious culture engagement” directed by universal questions about meaning, justice, and beauty.
A common misunderstanding of my project is that I just want everyone to be nicer to each other. And while basic human kindness is certainly a worthwhile goal, my hopes run deeper. I am interested in the kind of conversations, the kind of teaching, and the kind of leadership that flows from the conviction that the world belongs to God, and that God continues to be present and active, in even the darkest times. If this is the case, Christians should also be faithfully and courageously present, paying careful attention, listening patiently, serving our neighbors, and testifying to the Voice that tells us what we cannot tell ourselves.
In the biblical story, Joshua gives the armed man two choices: for us, or against us. But his interlocutor refuses the choice: “Neither. But as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come” (5:14). He tells Joshua to take off his shoes, paralleling the commissioning of Moses at the burning bush (Exodus 3:5). In my home, as in other Asian American households, taking off one’s shoes is an act of honor and of hospitality. It is the admission that you are entering someone else’s space. And if that space belongs to God, then it is also an acknowledgment of holiness.
When the stronghold of Jericho does fall, it is not by human ingenuity. It is because the ground belongs to God. God’s presence calls for a different sort of engagement. Forward progress is made, not by a martial company, but by a marching band (6:7). The battle is won, not by swords and spears, but by taking off shoes.
The implication of the “neither” is that we do not recruit God to come and bless our plans; nor do we assume that “God is on our side” and “against those people.” Rather, we take off our shoes, acknowledging that we are always walking around on ground where God is already present and at work. We seek to discern that work and to join God in some small way, bearing witness to his kingdom, marked by justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit (Romans 14:17).
I look forward to joining the educators and leaders at Converge 2025 as we take off our shoes together.
References
Shirley A. Mullen, Claiming the Courageous Middle (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2024) 61.
