Controversy - Glenn Conjurske

Controversy

by Glenn Conjurske

Controversy can be one of the most profitable exercises in which men can engage. It often serves to elicit and settle the truth as nothing else can do. Much of the New Testament is in fact controversy. It was written to refute error and establish the truth. And profitable or not, controversy is a plain necessity. So long as men of corrupt minds exist, so long, indeed, as ignorance exists, so long as doctrinal, practical, and factual errors claim recognition as truth, thus long will it be a simple necessity to defend and settle the truth by controversy. The prophets of God, the apostles of Christ, and the Son of God himself have set us the example in this matter. Men of God of all ages have followed that example, and it is our business to do the same. And those who have no call to engage in controversy themselves surely have a responsibility to judge of the performances of others. A few only of prophets and apostles were called to write the controversial matter which the Scriptures contain, but all the saints are called upon to read it, and weigh it, and form a judgement of the matters treated.

But having said this much, I must affirm at the outset that I deplore that spirit of contention which has possessed certain small minds in all ages. This spirit does not engage in necessary or weighty controversy, but in petty nit-picking. It is never happy except when “contending for the faith”—-contending, that is, for its own peculiar way of dotting every “i” and crossing every “t.” It judges everything and everybody on the basis of the minutiae of its own small notions, and can never rise to the spirit of anything. It cannot recognize spirituality or moral worth in anyone who disagrees with its own tenets, and it enters the lists against them not reluctantly (as good and great men do), but glibly and greedily. Scripture has but one word for such folks, and that is, “Only by pride cometh contention.” (Prov. 13:10). Once more, “Only by pride cometh contention.” Contention is of the flesh. Though it can find a hundred issues over which to contend, seldom are any of them the real issue. Search those contentions to the bottom, and you will find petty jealousies, wounded feelings, carnal resentment, sectarian conceit, personal self-importance, and numerous other manifestations of fleshly pride.

But on the other side, those who shun and avoid controversy are no more to be commended. While those err on the right, these err on the left. While those claim that they contend for the sake of truth, these claim that they refrain from contending for the sake of love. But most of such love will boil down after all to love of self. They wish to keep the peace—-to avoid giving offense, to keep on good terms with everybody—-and on the altar of professed love they sacrifice the love of the truth. This is not spirituality, but apathy, and I frankly have a good deal more hope for the contentious than I do for the apathetic. On this theme J. C. Ryle well says,

“To tell us, as others do, that clergymen ought never to handle controversial subjects, and never to warn their people against erroneous views, is senseless and unreasonable. At this rate we might neglect not a little of the New Testament. Surely the dumb dog and the sleeping shepherd are the best allies of the wolf, the thief, and the robber.”

Again, “Controversy in religion is a hateful thing. It is hard enough to fight the devil, the world and the flesh, without private differences in our own camp. But there is one thing which is even worse than controversy, and that is false doctrine tolerated, allowed, and permitted without protest or molestation.”

We ought to engage in controversy—-those who are called to preach, in their preaching, and those who are called to write, in their writing. I take this as an axiom, and suppose few of my readers will disagree with me. But then there is a proper manner in which to engage in controversy, and even the best and greatest of men often fail in this. As necessary and profitable as controversy is, it is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands. It can do great damage. Even though it establish the truth, it may at the same time establish a whole host of fleshly emotions, from pride to bitterness. It may destroy men’s walk with God, banish love, and divide the church of God beyond repair. And it has often destroyed truth as well as love, and set up subtle sophistry in its place. As necessary and profitable as controversy is, it is a solemn matter. This is not the business of every jack-in-the-box, who is possessed with an inherent and irresistible inclination to pop into the public eye as soon as his trigger is sprung. Controversy does not belong to such men, but to men of weight and wisdom and experience and spirituality. And when we see so many even of them failing in the manner in which they conduct their controversies, it behooves lesser men to enter the field of battle with the greatest of caution, or to stay away from it.

Now there are two things which ought to be maintained in every controversy. Those two are truth and love. “Speaking the truth in love,” says Paul in Eph. 4:15. This is simple enough, and yet it is a simple matter of historical fact that many of the best and greatest of men have failed on both sides in the field of controversy.

The most common failure, of course, is on the side of love. Where love is not strong and true, it is much too easy to fall to abusing our opponent, instead of refuting his errors or answering his arguments. When we see a man propagating doctrines which actually damage the souls of men, how easy it is to regard him as an enemy of the truth, and to treat him as one. More especially, if a man’s preaching tends to break down the work which we ourselves have built up, how easy it is for jealousy and resentment to control our spirits, rather than love.

Martin Luther was very sensible of his failures in this regard, and often expressed his regret over them. He wrote in 1520, “I cannot deny that I am often more violent than is absolutely necessary, but the fault is mainly in those, who, knowing the irritability of the dog, persist in teasing him. You yourself know how difficult it is to moderate one’s energy, to keep one’s pen in check, on a subject in which one is wholly interested.”

And it is not only men of Luther’s stamp who have had occasion to express such regrets. Even the mildest of men have been obliged at times to lament their sharpness. Thus J. C. Ryle, in the preface to a new edition of Knots Untied, says, “I frankly admit, after careful examination of ‘Knots Untied,’ that I observe in its pages occasional sharp and strong expressions which perhaps I should not use if I wrote the book over again in the present year.” And John Fletcher, “I do not doubt, but if I had health and strength to revise my Checks, I should find some things which might have been said in a more guarded, humble, serious, and loving manner.”

But mark, I do not say that an opponent in controversy ought never to be blamed. The fact is, doctrinal error is seldom wholly excusable. Some men are enemies of the truth, and the apostles of Christ did not hesitate to call them such. Even good men may be led away into false doctrine by unworthy motives, and it is nothing uncommon for them to use the most foolish and hypocritical arguments in order to sustain their doctrines. This is blameworthy, and it is as much the part of a defender of the truth to expose their sophistry and hypocrisy as it is to expose their errors. But all of this can be done with love. We may dip our pens in tears as well as gall. We may expose a man’s unworthy motives and arguments as a friend and a brother, rather than as an enemy. We need not hold him up as an object of scorn and contempt to refute his errors. Paul blamed Peter, charged him with hypocrisy (so the Greek, Gal. 2:13), and wrote of it afterwards, but he did not treat him with contempt, but related the matter in a simple matter-of-fact way. “Honour all men” is just as binding upon us as “love the brotherhood” or “fear God,” (I Pet. 2:17), and we do not honor a man by ridiculing him, calling him bad names, making derogatory puns upon his name or position, or holding him up to scorn and contempt. None of this has anything to do with “speaking the truth,” much less with speaking it in love.

We ought by all means to do unto others as we would have them to do unto ourselves, and if there is any sphere in which men are likely to forget this first principle of love, it is in the field of controversy. The most excellent thing I have ever seen in print on this theme comes from the pen of John Wesley. When he first entered the field of controversy in 1740, he wrote,

“I now tread an untried path `with fear and trembling:’ fear, not of my adversary, but of myself. I fear my own spirit, lest I `fall where many mightier have been slain.’ I never knew one man (or but one) write controversy, with what I thought a right spirit. Every disputant seems to think (as every soldier) that he may hurt his opponent as much as he can; nay, that he ought to do his worst to him, or he cannot make the best of his own cause; that, so he do not belie or wilfully misrepresent him, he must expose him as far as he is able. It is enough, we suppose, if we do not show heat or passion against our adversary. But, not to despise him, or endeavour to make others do so, is quite a work of supererogation.

“But ought these things to be so? (I speak on the Christian scheme.) Ought we not to love our neighbour as ourselves? And does a man cease to be our neighbour, because he is of a different opinion; nay, and declares himself so to be? Ought we not, for all this, to do to him as we would he should do to us? But do we ourselves love to be exposed, or set in the worst light? Would we willingly be treated with contempt? If not, why do we treat others thus? And yet who scruples it? Who does not hit every blow he can, however foreign to the merits of the cause? Who, in controversy, casts the mantle of love over the nakedness of his brother? Who keeps steadily and uniformly to the question, without ever striking at the person? Who shows, in every sentence, that he loves his brother only less than the truth?

“I have made a little faint essay toward this. I have a brother who is as my own soul. My desire is, in every word I say, to look upon Mr. Tucker as in his place; and to speak no tittle concerning the one in any other spirit than I would speak concerning the other.”

All of this is most excellent, though we would not pretend that Wesley always attained the noble aim. He himself immediately proceeds to say, “But whether I have attained this or no, I know not.” For my own part, I must lament that I have not. I read this statement of Wesley’s many years ago, thought it excellent then, and endeavored to make it my own. But alas, I have not always been mindful of it. It is easy to fail in love when standing for the truth. So determined we become to expose error and establish truth, that while we may be wise as serpents, we forget to be harmless as doves.

For this cause it is often best to engage principles and doctrines in battle, and leave persons alone. Yet men who enter the pulpit or appear in print have no right to complain if they are held responsible for their errors. We ought indeed to make men ashamed of their errors, as we ought to make them ashamed of their sins. To that end the native deformity and absurdity of those errors ought to be exposed. But oh, what a delicate business is this! How extremely difficult it is to expose the absurdity of a man’s doctrine, without bringing contempt upon the author of it. Yet if we expose a man to contempt, we are almost sure to lose him. If we may humble a man, we may win him. If we humiliate him, we shall lose him—-unless he himself is a man of the most extraordinary humility. We must aim, therefore, to humble men without humiliating them, and this is a delicate business indeed. Love can accomplish it, but it will be done no other way. Love will maintain a man’s dignity, while it convicts and shames him for his wrongs. But “who is sufficient for these things?” This is a task for men of the highest wisdom and the deepest spirituality. Blustering blunderers have no business here.

The reader must pardon me if I often quote John Fletcher in this article, but I believe him (directly contrary to Spurgeon’s opinion) to be one of the very best of controversialists. On this point he says, “Before the Searcher of hearts I once more protest, that I make a great difference between the persons of good men, and their opinions, be these ever so pernicious. The God who loves me,—-the God whom I love,—-the God of love and truth teaches me to give error no quarter, and to confirm my love toward the good men who propagate it; not knowing what they do, or believing that they do God service. And I humbly hope that their good intentions will, in some degree, excuse the mischief done by their bad tenets. But, in the meantime, mischief, unspeakable mischief is done, and the spreading plague must be stopped. If in trying to do it as soon and as effectually as possible, I press hard upon Zelotes and Honestus, and without ceremony drive them to a corner, I protest, it is only to disarm them.”

But I would not contend that all adversaries ought to be treated alike. Some are beloved brethren, right in their hearts if wrong in their heads. Others are enemies of the truth. It is not so much as possible to love them all alike, nor do they all deserve to be treated alike. It is more important to establish the truth and deliver souls from error than it is to spare the feelings or the reputations of those who oppose it. The latter we ought to do if we can. The former we must do at all hazards. The Lord surely did not spare the feelings of the Scribes and Pharisees, when he repeatedly called them fools, blind guides, and hypocrites, in a public discourse before the multitude. Yet even when we confute the enemies of the truth, we have no right to paint them blacker than they are, nor to hurt them any more than the case requires. Absalom might have been both defeated, and spared also, and no doubt would have been if Joab had had anything of David’s love. Not that Absalom deserved any mercy, for his course was one of unmitigated criminality, and that of the worst sort. “Yet Michael the archangel,” when engaged in a controversy with the very devil—-for “he disputed about the body of Moses”—-yet “durst not bring against him a railing accusation, but said, The Lord rebuke thee.” (Jude 9). The great and pure Michael, whose very name is “who is like God,” in controversy with the most wicked fiend, would yet bring no railing accusation against him. The devil was no doubt unfair and unprincipled in the conflict—-hence “The Lord rebuke thee”—-yet Michael remained meek and courteous, and would bring no railing accusation against him. What a pattern is this for poor sinners, who are so quick to bring virulent and vitriolic accusations against their fellow sinners. We who have sin enough of our own to account for—-and knowing that with what measure we mete it shall be measured to us again—-ought to be meek and merciful even in dealing with the inexcusable.

When we deal, however, with the bad doctrines of good men, we must regard them as at least partly excusable. They think indeed that they do God service with their bad doctrines. As violent as Luther was in controversy, he yet made it his principle to distinguish between the mistaken and the incorrigible, and wrote to Erasmus, “For myself, I am, I admit, irritable, and often led away, under the impulse of indignation, to write with greater bitterness than I myself approve of upon reflection, but I have never yielded to such intemperance, except in the case of persons whom I deemed perversely obstinate. Gentleness and kindness towards all others, however wicked and foolish they might be, it has always been my care to observe.”

Yet with such a principle, Luther must often acknowledge that he failed to carry it out. How much greater will be our failure if we enter the lists with no such restraining principle to temper our pens.

And as a simple matter of wisdom, aside altogether from the question of right, it is a very great tactical error to depart from love in order to defend the truth. If it is actually the truth which engages our zeal, if the literary battles which we fight are actually to establish the truth, then the more love we show, the better. The truth itself is likely to give offense enough, but any harshness or asperity in our spirit will multiply that offense. Tears will soften men’s hearts to receive the truth. Sneers will harden them in error. Let the Billingsgate, Fishwife, and Bear Garden be left to the preachers of error. Such language is the fit vehicle for lies and deception. Let the truth be defended with the language of love. I am aware, and will contend for it, that we ought to season our speech with salt. Salt is biting and pungent, yet it very much adds to the pleasure of eating—-—--unless we use too much of it. Then it becomes intolerable. “Salt is good,” and so is wit and irony, but only if it is used carefully and sparingly. “Beware of the concision,” says Paul, “for we are the circumcision.” This is wit and irony, but Paul does not often speak so. When he says “Forgive me this wrong” to those who had wronged him, this was deep irony, but it was no asperity, for he wrote out of deep anguish of heart, with many tears. Ridicule and sarcasm may be very effective tools with which to expose error and establish truth, but they are better reserved for principles than persons.

We need scarcely hope to find a man more mild and courteous in controversy than John Fletcher, yet he used salt, and defended it also. Says he, “I have sprinkled with the salt of irony your favorite doctrine,” and in a footnote, “If I make use of irony in my Checks, I can assure thee, reader, it is not from `spleen,’ but reason. It appears to me that the subject requires it; and that ridiculous error is to be turned out of the temple of truth, not only with Scriptural argument, which is `the sword of the Spirit,’ but also with mild irony, which is a proper scourge for a glaring and obstinate mistake.”

And again, “A polemical writer ought to be a champion for the truth; and a champion for the truth who draws only a wooden sword, or is afraid lovingly to use a steel one, should, I think, be hissed out of the field of controversy, as well as the disputant who goes to Billingsgate for dust, mud, and a dirty knife, and the wretch who purposely misses his opponent’s arguments that he may basely stab his character. I beg, therefore, that the reader would not impute to a `bad spirit,’ the keenness which I indulge for conscience’ sake; assuring him that, severe as I am sometimes upon the errors of my antagonists, I not only love, but also truly esteem them.”

It is not the province of love to deter us from “speaking the truth,” though the truth may hurt, but only to temper the manner in which we speak it. When I write controversy, I write to convict and convince. I use no wooden sword, and I suppose my readers are aware that I am not fencing, but fighting in good earnest. Yet all of this may be done in love. “Speaking the truth in love,” says Paul. This may look uncharitable, especially to those who are wounded by it. Paul himself could not escape this imputation, but must write to his beloved Galatians, “Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?” (Gal 4:16). Yet who loved them as Paul did? We can hardly expect the whole world to judge objectively of our performances, and nothing is more common than for folks who cannot answer a man’s arguments to charge him with a bad spirit. That is a reproach which every debater must bear, whether he deserves it or not. It remains our business to make sure in our own conscience before God that we do not deserve it.

That many who engage in controversy do deserve that reproach is an unquestionable fact, and alas, it often happens that the man who has the most of truth in his position, shows the least of love in his performance. When George Travis fought for the genuineness of I John 5:7, and Richard Porson opposed it, there was little enough to admire in the performance of either one of them. Travis is all sophistry, failing altogether on the side of truth, while Porson is all vitriol, failing altogether on the side of love.

F. H. A. Scrivener says of this controversy, “I side with Porson against Travis on every important point at issue between them, and yet I must say that if the former lost a legacy (as has been reported) by publishing his `Letters,’ he was entitled to but slender sympathy. The prejudices of good men (especially when a passage is concerned which they have long held to be a genuine portion of Scripture, clearly teaching pure and right doctrine) should be dealt with gently: not that the truth should be dissembled or withheld, but when told it ought to be in a spirit of tenderness and love.” These are very seasonable words, to the spirit of which we ought all to take earnest heed—-though I am conscious that I have not always sufficiently done so.

But I turn to the other side of the question. It is to be taken for granted that men are contending for the truth when they enter the field of controversy, and yet controversy is often as devoid of “speaking the truth” as it is of speaking it in love. I do not refer merely to those who think to defend the truth when they have no notion as to what the truth is. That there are thousands of such we all know—-though we may not agree as to who they are. But I do not speak of these, but of those who actually know the truth—-who stand on the right side of the questions which they debate—-and yet miserably fail to “speak the truth” in their battles for the truth.

It too often happens that those who defend the actual truth have ulterior and unworthy motives. They lack the single eye. The triumph of the truth they desire indeed, but this is not their sole desire. Mixed with this is a desire of party victory, or of personal victory, or even of personal revenge. Such motives often lead them to sacrifice the truth at every point, while they claim to defend it.

In the first place it leads them to conceal or ignore the strongest points on their opponents’ side of the question, whereas a sincere love of the truth would lead them at least to call attention to those points, and acknowledge their inability to answer them. On this head John Fletcher writes, “I take the Searcher of hearts, and my judicious, unprejudiced readers to witness, that through the whole of this controversy, far from concealing the most plausible objections, or avoiding the strongest arguments which are, or may be advanced against our reconciling doctrine, I have carefully searched them out, and endeavoured to encounter them as openly as David did Goliah. Had our opponents followed this method, I doubt not but the controversy would have ended long ago in the destruction of our prejudices, and in the rectifying of our mistakes. O, if we preferred the unspeakable pleasure of finding out the truth to the pitiful honour of pleasing a party, or of vindicating our own mistakes, how soon would the useful fan of Scriptural, logical, and brotherly controversy `purge the floor’ of the Church!”

This is “speaking the truth” indeed, and such a manner argues not only the author’s actual love of the truth, but also the strength of his cause.

But the thirst for victory not only moves men to conceal the strongest points of their opponents, but also often to speak that which they know to be false, or at any rate, which they do not know to be true. Those who are bent upon personal or party victory, rather than simply and sincerely to establish the truth, often become unscrupulous in argument. They will use any argument which seems to make for their end, though some of those arguments are absurd, and carry their refutation on their own face. They will affirm things “in the heat of controversy” which they do not believe themselves, and then defend those things afterwards, because they have too much pride to retract them.

In 1889 D. M. Canright wrote Seventh-Day Adventism Renounced. He had left the Adventists and joined the Baptists. The book was not answered for over forty years, but in 1933 William H. Branson answered it in a volume entitled In Defense of the Faith. His first chapter is entitled “What Did Mr. Canright Renounce?” In this he says, “Mr. Canright says he renounced `Seventh-day Adventism.’ His book indicates that he rejected it in toto. . . . If, therefore, we can ascertain what Seventh-day Adventists really believe, we shall understand clearly what it was that Mr. Canright renounced.” He then follows with a doctrinal statement more than five pages in length, beginning with the Scriptures as the only rule of faith and practice, the doctrine of the Trinity, the Deity of Christ, the necessity of the new birth, the baptism of believers by immersion, etc., etc., followed by “This is, in brief, what Seventh-day Adventists believe, and this is, therefore, what Mr. Canright renounced and endeavored to refute.” Now this is sophistry, and it is dishonest. It is writing what the author himself certainly knew to be false. He certainly knew very well that to renounce Seventh-day Adventism means to renounce its distinctives, not to renounce everything which Adventists believe. Adventists believe that the sky is blue, and Branson certainly knew that Canright did not renounce that.

But it is not only cultists who use such unworthy shifts, but the orthodox and evangelical also. Such arguments may—-and often do—-carry the day with the prejudiced, the shallow, and the bigoted, but what satisfaction do men find in standing at the head of such a crew? The men who will use such tactics do but prove that it is not the pure love of the truth which moves them. How much begging of the question, how much wresting of the Scriptures from their plain and obvious sense, how much obscuring of the real issue, how much fallacy in the place of reason, how much sophistry in the place of argument, how many conclusions which have nothing to do with the premises, do we see in the doctrinal controversies of the church! None of this is “speaking the truth,” and none of it is excusable, except perhaps for those whose powers of reason are so weak as to be actually incapable of anything better—-and these have no business on the battlefield. For the sake of the truth, such controversialists ought to be exposed and driven from the field. And when such arguments are used (as they often are) to defend the very truth itself, those who love the truth ought by all means to have the candor to expose and repudiate them, for they do not strengthen the cause of truth, but weaken it.

But “speaking the truth” implies more than abstaining from falsehood. One of the most common shifts of disputants, especially of those whose cause is weak, is to display a great host of facts and considerations, which may be true enough, but which are nothing to the purpose. This is little better than speaking falsehoods. Here is a man who sets himself to prove that Humpty Dumpty never fell from the wall. His first round of argument consists of the assertion the Humpty Dumpty was afraid of heights, and to prove this he has fourteen incidents, and numerous statements of fact and opinion from both friend and foe. All of this is set forth with great vehemence, and we are of course to conclude from it all that Humpty Dumpty never sat on the wall in the first place. The second line of argument is that it was not the king’s habit to allow folks to loiter about the wall, and this is set forth in the same manner, at great length, complete with official documents and royal proclamations. And so the controversy runs on, through several folio volumes. All of these arguments may in fact be true, but what are they worth? The facts remain that “Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall” and “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall”—-and there he lies, in more pieces than his apologist has arguments.

To speak the truth must mean to speak not only that which is true, but that which is relevant—-and not only relevant, but pertinent, and determinate. It is uncharitable to require folks to waste their time groping through a cloud of dust to no purpose, when a few telling arguments might convince them of something. And it is as unwise as it is uncharitable, for the intelligent and thoughtful, the judicious and dispassionate, will soon conclude that your cause must be as empty as your arguments—-that if you possessed any pertinent arguments you would not resort to a cloud of dust—-and thus while you think to defend the truth, you do it a great disservice. And while you are at it, you lose the judicious and the wise, while you gain the shallow and the bigoted—-and again, what satisfaction is it to stand at the head of such a crew?

“I see many a sacred doctrine,” says Adam Clarke, “suffering through the bad judgment of its friends every day. . . . When truth is assailed by all kinds of weapons, handled by the most powerful foes, injudicious defenders may be ranked among its enemies. To such we may innocently say `Keep your cabins; you do assist the storm.”’

Finally, to speak the truth means to set forth the Scriptures. There is a great deal of controversial writing which consists of almost everything but that. Many seem to mistake assertion for argument. They thus in reality establish themselves as the authority, rather than the Scriptures. Others continually bring forth their favorite doctrines as arguments. They tell us that this thing or that is false and dangerous because it overthrows the sovereignty of God, or breaks down the distinction between Israel and the church, or undermines salvation by faith, or militates against positional truth, or weakens the doctrine of eternal security. And to all of that I reply, What of it? It is no concern of mine. It is a most pernicious practice to set aside Scripture in order to maintain doctrine, and I will have nothing to do with it. I will get my doctrine from Scripture, not from my doctrine—-and much less from my neighbor’s doctrine. Doctrine is indeed an argument, and a good argument too, if that doctrine is true—-but that is to be proved, not assumed, and to make void the Scriptures is hardly the way to prove it. I have been obliged to give up or modify my doctrines in the past, in order to conform to the Scriptures, and I am ready to do so again if Scripture compels me.

One of the greatest evils in the church is basing doctrine upon doctrine, instead of upon Scripture. The Scriptures have thus been practically displaced, and every man’s doctrine has become his final authority. This is a very subtle thing, for every man flatters himself that his own doctrine is the truth, and it goes without saying that Scripture cannot contradict the truth. But even though your doctrine may be true in the main, it is no infallible standard, as the Scriptures are. To those and to those alone our appeal must be. Doctrine is one step from Scripture, and if it happens to be an erring step, everything built upon it will be false. And as a general rule, the man who actually stands for the truth has no need to appeal to doctrine. If it is the truth, it will stand upon Scripture. The man who argues from doctrine instead of from Scripture usually proves only the weakness of his cause, and instead of “speaking the truth” he may be unwittingly contending for that which is false.

To conclude: our whole business in controversy is to speak the truth, and our whole spirit to speak it in love. Yet I am persuaded that a good deal of the controversy which agitates the church consists of neither the one nor the other. This is as great a misfortune as it is a shame, for controversy managed on the lines of love and truth would be as great a benefit to the church as the contrary kind is a detriment.

Glenn Conjurske