For a season, I found myself teaching at my church—not the standard fare of baptism preparation, discipleship basics, or evangelism workshops, but the off-sequence courses tucked just outside the main meat and potato courses. These were the spaces where we wrestled with Five Views on Creation, surveyed world religions, or stepped into the winding corridors of apologetics. They were, in a sense, the “electives” of the Christian life, topics more nuanced, often more contentious, yet capable of forming deeper theological muscles if approached with patience and humility.

I remember one creation course in particular. I had worked hard to present each view as faithfully and charitably as possible, refusing to champion one over the others because, in the grand scheme of Christian essentials, I have never believed that the old-earth/young-earth debate should fracture the body of Christ. To my quiet amusement, a young-earth advocate approached me afterward and thanked me for confirming that I must be a young-earther. Not five minutes later, an old-earth proponent pulled me aside to say how good it was to have a teacher who clearly understood and shared their perspective.

What a curious affirmation. Their reactions were less about me and more about the mirrors they carried into the classroom. If anything, it told me I had succeeded in doing what I set out to do: present the views themselves, not my own. Perhaps I did unintentionally reinforce their confirmation bias (who among us escapes that entirely?), but at minimum I had opened a window. I had shown them that faithful Christians can disagree on non-essentials, and still remain faithful. Whether anything took root after the final session, only God knows. I hope they are at least charitable to Christians with other points of view.

After a few years of teaching, everything changed. When I entered the difficult process of divorce, my brother, thinking he was helping, told one of the elders what was happening. That information moved quickly through the usual channels, and before long it was clear that my teaching role was in jeopardy. Rather than wait to be removed, I canceled my class myself. When I went to talk to Pastor Dean about taking time away from teaching, it was obvious he already knew, signifying word travels fast in the back channels. He mentioned there were church rules about situations like mine, though he didn’t sound convinced those rules were fair or wise.

What made it harder for me was the inconsistency. One of the senior leaders had been divorced multiple times and he was one of the main teachers, but because his divorces were in the past and mine was still ongoing, it was ok. Which didn’t feel fair at the time, even if I wanted to step away for a time to attend to family issues.

I had started teaching at the church because I wanted to do something with lasting spiritual value. I had spent years teaching job skills at the college level, and while that work matters, I wanted to invest in something that could shape a person’s faith, not just their résumé. When I explained that to Pastor Dean, he was supportive. He knew my theological background and thought I would be a good fit, and for a while he frequently told me how well the classes were going.

I had started teaching at the church because I wanted to do something with lasting spiritual value. I had spent years teaching job skills at the college level, and while that work matters, I wanted to invest in something that could shape a person’s faith, not just their résumé. When I explained that to Pastor Dean, he was supportive. He knew my theological background and thought I would be a good fit, and for a while he frequently told me how well the classes were going.

That changed with the divorce. To be fair, I wasn’t in the right headspace to teach, and stepping back was the responsible thing to do. But the way it happened still hurt. The church didn’t seem to check in or care much about what I was going through. People I had known for years—including those with influence—simply stopped talking to me. It felt like I was being divorced by the church too, and in many ways that loss was more painful.

I had been part of that church for twenty years. My kids were dedicated there; one was even baptized there. I was the one who brought my parents into that church, and later my siblings and their families. It had been my spiritual home. And suddenly, it was gone.

A friend of mine went through something similar. He was a pastor in North Haverbrook and filed for divorce only because his wife planned to take their children out of the country. As soon as he filed, she told the church elders he was abusive. Without even speaking to him, they cut off his access to the church and put him on administrative leave. They eventually hired an investigator, who found he had done nothing wrong and that the accusations were fabricated. The elders lifted the administrative leave, but by then the damage was done. He resigned because they had treated him like an outcast—guilty before they ever heard his side of the story. He wasn’t even told an investigation had taken place until it was over.

It was ugly. And it showed how quickly people can be pushed aside at the exact moment they most need support.

Why tell all of this? Because it explains why I’m not eager to return to a church teaching role. I still love teaching, and I would gladly do it again, but I have real issues with how Springfield Plains Church handled my situation. It’s hard to feel drawn back into a community that seemed to distance itself so quickly. And truthfully, I’ve never fit neatly into the usual church categories anyway. I’m too liberal for conservative Christians and too conservative for progressive Christians.

I take my faith seriously. I’m willing to change my views on non-essential issues when the evidence warrants it, and I hold to the historic creeds (essential issues) without hesitation. At one time I would have described myself as a fundamentalist in the older sense—someone committed to the fundamentals of Christian belief. But the term has been hijacked by those who equate it with anti-intellectualism and insist that “literal” reading of the Bible.

So where does that leave me? Perhaps, like C. S. Lewis, I’m content with being a “mere Christian.” Even the word Christian doesn’t say much about a person anymore. Maybe “follower of Christ” is closer to the mark. Who knows—there’s no easy label that captures my third type of perichoretic relationship with the Creator.

Lately I’ve been wondering whether God might be nudging me back toward teaching. I’m not claiming visions or anything dramatic, but there have been four moments or four “signs,” if we want to call them that, that have caused me to pause and reconsider the possibility. None of them felt random. They arrived close enough together, and with enough weight, that I couldn’t simply dismiss them.

In many ways, my men’s group already gives me a space to teach and be taught. We’re not operating with formal roles, but there’s a kind of shared discipleship there in an iron-sharpening-iron kind of vibe. Still, these recent moments made me wonder whether there’s something more I’m supposed to pay attention to. So here are the four signs that have been on my mind.

“It is dangerous for a man to teach unless he has first tested what he says.“ – Abba Pambo

1st Sign

Over lunch one afternoon, Pastor Dean suggested that I should think about teaching again. He didn’t point to a particular church or context, just the general idea that perhaps it was time to reconsider. It was the same lunch where we ended up talking about perichoretic salvation, so the conversation was already orbiting questions of calling and participation in God’s work.

He asked why the idea hadn’t crossed my mind. He knew about the church policy that sidelined people going through divorce, even though others with multiple past divorces continued in leadership. Maybe the rule only applied while the divorce was active. Maybe they expected some period of repentance. I never pushed for clarity, I didn’t have it in me at the time.

I told him my family life still carries a lot of weight and complication. He was honest enough to say his does too. He reminded me that God used King David despite his deeply dysfunctional family and his failures. David wasn’t perfect, and his household certainly wasn’t. And yet God still worked through him. Perfection isn’t the entry requirement for serving.

I mentioned that I’m part of a men’s group that meets on Saturdays, and that it’s become a place where I can share what I’m learning, sometimes through my blog, and sometimes just in conversation. I’m still not sure whether the blog functions as a teaching tool or simply as a public journal. But learning isn’t meant to be effortless. If readers have to work a bit to uncover the value in what I write, then maybe that struggle is part of the learning process itself.

I left the conversation with a simple conclusion: I would consider it. If God wants to open a door for teaching again, He can. My job is simply to stay attentive.

2nd Sign

The second sign came from a friend who reads my blog. She told me she enjoys the topics but finds the writing a bit dry at times. Ouch—but fair. She went on to say that I should consider teaching again. She’s going through a divorce herself and has a trans child, and she said it’s difficult to find a church where she doesn’t feel scrutinized every time she walks in. When we talk, though, she says she understands things more clearly because I make them accessible. In her mind, that’s what a good teacher does.

I told her, as I told Pastor Dean, that I’m waiting for God to open a door if one is meant to open. Right now, most of my teaching seems to happen in quieter ways, like through mentoring, through my work with veterans, or through the conversations that come up naturally in those spaces. Maybe that’s the kind of teaching I’m meant to do.

A few days later we talked again, and she mentioned that I should simply start a Bible study and answer people’s questions. When I asked what questions she meant, she gave an example: Why does the Catholic Bible have more books than the Protestant Bible? A perfectly good question. And honestly, that might make a good blog post someday. Whether it becomes a class is another matter.

3rd Sign

The third sign came while I was reading The Intellectual Life: Its Spirit, Conditions, Methods by A.D. Sertillanges. In one section, Sertillanges talks about what he calls a kind of intellectual stewardship. The idea is simple but weighty: the knowledge we cultivate isn’t really ours. All truth comes from God, and whatever we come to understand is something entrusted to us, not something we own. Our role, then, isn’t to guard truth but to make it accessible—to pass it on.

That stands in sharp contrast to the mindset that certain truths should be kept for a select few because “ordinary people” supposedly can’t handle them. Sertillanges pushes back against that whole way of thinking. It echoes the old Gnostic impulse toward secret knowledge, and even some modern groups that treat information as a tool for control rather than a gift meant for the common good. His words made me stop and think about whether I’ve been too cautious with the things God has given me to understand.

One of the reasons I started the blog in the first place was to capture what I was learning and pass it along. In its own way, it does that. A friend tells me I often explain things better in conversation, and maybe that’s true—but I can’t sort out my thoughts until I write them. Writing forces me to slow down, clarify, and be honest about what I actually think. Only after I’ve put the ideas on the page do I feel confident expressing them to others. In that sense, the blog has always been part teaching tool, part self-discipline.

4th Sign

The fourth sign came during my men’s group. I shared the previous three signs with the group, and one of the guys suggested a simple question to help orient my thinking: What would be pleasing to God? It’s a good question, and he uses it often. The challenge, of course, is that many things would be pleasing to God, and not all of them may be right for me in this particular season.

I brought up Sertillanges’ idea of stewardship, the sense that whatever God teaches us is meant to build up His kingdom, not sit unused. That led me to mention a quote I’d heard before: Don’t be a dam or a reservoir; be a river. When I looked it up later, I found it attributed to John C. Maxwell. The idea is simple: knowledge, wisdom, and blessing aren’t meant to be stored but continually passed on.

From there the conversation moved toward the third type of perichoretic relationship we had discussed earlier about the idea of aligning ourselves with God’s work rather than trying to do things for God on our own. If teaching is part of my calling, it wouldn’t be me operating solo. It would be me participating with the Spirit in whatever God is already doing. That perspective doesn’t answer the question of whether I should actively pursue a teaching role, but it does help me frame the question differently.

Someone else suggested focusing on hospitality such as sharing meals, creating space around a table, meeting people where they are. Teaching, in that sense, becomes far less formal and more relational. I like the idea, but it’s not easy for us. My wife prefers structure when we have people over: planning ahead, keeping things clean, inviting a limited number. I grew up with a more open-door style of hospitality, where friends could drop by anytime. So while I appreciate the concept, I’m not sure how it fits into our life right now.

Conclusion

So where does all of this leave me? Honestly, I’m not sure. I believe God will open a door if and when the time is right, when I’m ready, when He’s ready, or more accurately, when we’re ready together. (Yes, that’s a nod to the third type of perichoretic relationship. If that reference doesn’t make sense, you’ll have to visit my earlier posts on Perichoretic Salvation.)

For now, I’m holding the question with open hands. I’m paying attention. And I’m trying to stay faithful with whatever truth, insight, or experience God entrusts to me—whether it flows through formal teaching, quiet conversations, mentoring, writing, or simply living in a way that reflects Christ.

Excerpt

After stepping away from church teaching during a painful season, four small but meaningful signs have made me wonder whether God might be nudging me back. This reflection explores hurt, healing, stewardship, and the quiet ways calling can re-emerge when we least expect it.