Part 3 — The Better Vocabulary
The folder stayed closed for a moment, as if all three of them knew that the next step wasn’t more analysis—it was authority.
Elijah slid his notebook aside and opened his Bible on the table like a man setting down a plumb line. The pages caught the warm café light, thin as onion skin, and Jeremiah watched the motion with the quiet seriousness of someone who understood what the Word does when it is actually trusted.
Barbara kept her hands folded near the folder, but her eyes stayed on the Bible.
Elijah spoke first. “Barbara, I want to say this plainly: Christians are not forbidden to seek help. But Christians are forbidden to replace God.”
Barbara nodded. “That’s what I’m trying to protect. The help isn’t the enemy. The replacement is.”
Jeremiah leaned forward slightly. “So our goal is discernment—tool versus throne.”
Elijah’s finger rested near a passage as if he didn’t want the point to drift. “Second Timothy says Scripture is profitable for teaching, reproof, correction, and training in righteousness. Not just comfort. Correction is part of love.”
Barbara’s expression softened and tightened at the same time—relief that he said it, grief that it needed saying.
Jeremiah added, “And Hebrews says the Lord disciplines those He loves. So discipline isn’t cruelty. It’s family language.”
Barbara exhaled slowly. “But that’s exactly what they’ve been trained to reject. They hear ‘correction’ and translate it as ‘harm.’”
Elijah nodded. “That’s why we need a better vocabulary—one that doesn’t deny pain, but also doesn’t enthrone it.”
He turned his notebook around and wrote a simple line in block letters:
COMPASSION ≠ PERMISSION
Then he set the pen down.
“People confuse those,” he continued. “We can be compassionate and still call sin ‘sin.’ We can be patient and still call people to maturity.”
Jeremiah’s eyes held the notebook. “In other words, we don’t have to choose between being gentle and being truthful.”
Barbara looked at them, then down at her folder. “How do we teach that without sounding cold?”
Elijah didn’t answer with a slogan. He answered with a picture.
“Think about the Good Shepherd,” he said. “He doesn’t just soothe the sheep. He leads the sheep. If the sheep is running toward a cliff, love doesn’t say, ‘I validate your journey.’ Love grabs wool.”
Jeremiah let out a low, approving hum. “That’ll preach.”
Barbara’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “It will.”
Elijah turned a page and pointed with care, not theatrics. “Here’s the first distinction I want our women to carry: your feelings are real, but they are not your ruler.”
Jeremiah nodded. “The heart can lie.”
Barbara’s gaze dropped. “And social media teaches them to treat the heart like a prophet.”
Elijah’s voice stayed steady. “And Scripture teaches us to test, to discern, to renew the mind. Christianity isn’t endless self-analysis. It’s transformation.”
Jeremiah leaned back, hands clasped. “And it produces fruit. Not just insight.”
Barbara lifted her chin. “Self-control.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Self-control. Endurance. Gentleness. Faithfulness. Those aren’t trendy. They’re holy.”
Barbara opened her folder again—just enough to pull one sheet free. The “concordance” page. The left column of terms and the right column of translations. She slid it toward the Bible.
“What scares me,” she said quietly, “is how they’ve been trained to speak in ways that remove agency. They don’t say, ‘I was harsh.’ They say, ‘I was dysregulated.’ They don’t say, ‘I sinned in anger.’ They say, ‘I was triggered.’”
Elijah looked at the page and then looked at the open Bible. “Then we teach a translation back.”
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “A re-translation.”
Elijah nodded. “Yes. Not to mock people. To restore truth.”
He tapped the table lightly as if to mark each point.
“Dysregulated can mean: ‘I’m overwhelmed and I need to pause.’ Fine. But it cannot mean: ‘I’m not responsible.’
Triggered can mean: ‘Something hit a sore spot and I need help.’ Fine. But it cannot mean: ‘You now owe me obedience.’
Boundaries can mean: ‘I won’t participate in sin or manipulation.’ Fine. But it cannot mean: ‘Nobody may correct me.’”
Barbara’s eyes stayed fixed on him. “That’s the exact distinction I want the women to learn.”
Jeremiah leaned forward. “And we need to be honest about this: real therapy done well often supports these biblical goals. It helps someone see patterns, regulate emotions, tell the truth, take responsibility.”
Barbara nodded. “Yes.”
Jeremiah continued, “But when therapy becomes a substitute faith, it does the opposite. It turns weakness into identity. It turns accountability into oppression. It turns repentance into shame.”
Elijah’s voice lowered. “And it quietly dethrones Christ.”
Barbara’s fingers tightened on the folder. “That’s what I can’t shake. If they are only symptoms, they don’t need a Savior—just a system.”
Elijah glanced toward the café window, where the rain still traced slow lines down the glass. “Then we teach the church this one sentence: You are more than what happened to you.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And in Christ, you are not a captive to what happened to you.”
Barbara’s eyes glistened slightly. “How do we say that to a wounded young woman and not sound dismissive?”
Elijah answered without raising his voice.
“We say it like the gospel says it,” he replied. “We acknowledge the wound. We refuse to deny it. And then we offer hope bigger than it. The gospel doesn’t say, ‘Your pain is imaginary.’ It says, ‘Your pain is not your identity—and it will not be your master.’”
Jeremiah’s tone softened. “And then we walk with her. Not just talk at her.”
Barbara nodded slowly. “Older women. Titus 2.”
Elijah nodded back. “Exactly. Not as a lecture. As a relationship.”
Jeremiah added, “And we teach them that repentance is not humiliation. It’s release. It’s the door out.”
Barbara stared at the Bible, then at her list, then back again. “So the church must stop apologizing for moral categories,” she said.
Elijah’s voice carried a quiet firmness. “Yes. The world may treat discernment as cruelty. But Scripture commands discernment.”
Jeremiah’s gaze sharpened. “And Christianity is not lawless. Love doesn’t destroy order; love fulfills God’s order.”
Barbara leaned back slightly, as if the room had finally given her enough air to breathe. “I want a plan,” she said. “Something practical. Not just ‘we should teach it.’”
Elijah didn’t hesitate.
“Part 4,” he said, “is our response. A women’s lesson—yes. But also mentoring. And a small guide that gives better biblical language: confession, repentance, forgiveness, endurance, self-control, prayer.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And we call the women to this: you can receive care and still accept correction. You can be wounded and still be responsible. You can be tender and still grow strong.”
Barbara’s shoulders dropped. The burden didn’t vanish—but it moved from panic into purpose.
Elijah closed his Bible gently. “Barbara,” he said, “you were right. This is a rival gospel.”
Jeremiah nodded once. “So we answer it with the real one.”
Barbara looked at both men, voice steady now. “Then next part,” she said, “we teach the women how to spot the counterfeit—and how to return to prayer without shame, and holiness without fear.”
Elijah picked up his pen again, as if to sign the decision. “All right,” he said. “Let’s build the better vocabulary.”
And in the warm hum of The Shepherds Cafe, the work shifted again—from naming the threat to preparing the cure.
End of Part 3