Part 2 — The New Concordance
The coffee at The Shepherds Cafe had cooled a little, but nobody reached for the mug. The table had become a small council, the kind formed when people realize a problem is not personal—it’s formative. It shapes how people think, speak, and then live.
Barbara slid the second page out of the folder and held it down with two fingertips, like it might try to float away.
Elijah leaned in. Jeremiah didn’t move much, but the stillness was not detachment. It was focus.
“Before we go any further,” Elijah said, “I want to be careful here. We aren’t condemning people for needing help. We aren’t condemning counseling.”
Barbara nodded quickly. “Correct.”
Jeremiah’s voice was steady. “So tell us where the line is.”
Barbara looked up. “The line is when therapy stops being a tool and becomes a lord. When the language of care becomes the language of authority.”
Elijah tapped the page lightly. “Show us what you mean.”
Barbara turned the sheet so both men could read. It had two columns. On the left: words and phrases. On the right: Barbara’s translation—what those words often functioned to do.
The left column read like a modern psalm. The right column read like a warning label.
Jeremiah scanned the page slowly. “This is… extensive.”
Barbara didn’t smile. “I told you it was longer than it should be.”
Elijah read aloud a few from the list, carefully, as if he didn’t want to mock the words—even if he believed they were being weaponized.
“‘Dysregulated.’ ‘Triggered.’ ‘Unsafe.’ ‘Toxic.’ ‘Narcissist.’ ‘Gaslighting.’ ‘Boundary violation.’ ‘Self-care.’”
He looked up. “And your translations?”
Barbara’s finger traced down the right column.
“‘Dysregulated’ becomes, ‘I’m not responsible for how I treated you.’
‘Triggered’ becomes, ‘You must manage my emotions for me.’
‘Unsafe’ becomes, ‘Any discomfort is harm.’
‘Toxic’ becomes, ‘This person is beyond reconciliation.’
‘Narcissist’ becomes, ‘I can dismiss you without proof or due process.’
‘Gaslighting’ becomes, ‘You disagree with me, so you’re abusive.’
‘Boundary violation’ becomes, ‘You asked me to do something hard.’
‘Self-care’ becomes, ‘I will do whatever I want and call it healing.’”
Jeremiah’s eyes lifted. “So the words—some of them real—become legal shields.”
Barbara nodded. “Exactly. A new kind of courtroom. And the verdict is always ‘Not guilty.’”
Elijah leaned back slightly, not because he was dismissing her, but because he was seeing the pattern form.
“A new moral framework,” he said.
Barbara’s voice stayed calm. “A new religion.”
Jeremiah’s tone didn’t change, but the words landed heavy. “And every religion needs a doctrine of man.”
Barbara pointed at the center of the page where she had written one sentence in bold pen:
I AM WHAT HAPPENED TO ME.
“That,” she said, “is what I keep hearing without them saying it outright. Their identity is being built around pain and diagnosis.”
Elijah’s expression tightened with concern. “Pain is real. Trauma is real. But identity is bigger than pain.”
“Yes,” Barbara said. “And Scripture agrees with you. But their feeds don’t.”
Jeremiah’s brow furrowed. “How does it spread so fast? Why do young women, in particular, lean into it?”
Barbara didn’t answer with stereotypes. She answered with clarity.
“Because it offers three things instantly,” she said. “Community, absolution, and meaning.”
Elijah nodded slightly. “Explain.”
Barbara held up a finger.
“Community: ‘If you have this label, you belong here.’
Absolution: ‘You are not wrong; you are wounded.’
Meaning: ‘Your diagnosis tells the story of your whole life.’”
Jeremiah leaned forward. “And what does it cost them?”
Barbara’s eyes sharpened. “Everything Christianity requires.”
Elijah didn’t interrupt. He let her finish.
“It costs repentance,” Barbara continued. “Because repentance means I can be wrong, even if I’m hurt.
It costs self-control,” she said, “because self-control means I don’t get to excuse my outbursts.
It costs discipline,” she said, “because discipline means I do hard things even when I don’t feel like it.
It costs forgiveness,” she said, “because forgiveness means I release my right to nurse a grievance.
And it costs submission to God,” she concluded, “because submission is the opposite of making the self the center.”
Jeremiah’s face stayed calm, but his eyes showed agreement. “It’s a gospel of comfort without conversion.”
Barbara nodded. “Exactly.”
Elijah turned his notebook around and wrote two words, then slid it toward the center of the table so they could see it.
NO CROSS.
Barbara exhaled slowly. “No cross,” she repeated. “And no resurrection either. Just endless analysis and endless validation.”
Jeremiah looked at Barbara. “Say the part you’re hesitating to say.”
Barbara’s eyes flicked down and back up. “They’re being trained to treat fragility like virtue,” she said. “Like being emotionally brittle proves you’re enlightened. And if you talk about resilience, they call you ‘dismissive.’ If you talk about repentance, they call you ‘shaming.’ If you talk about holiness, they call you ‘judgmental.’”
Elijah’s voice was quiet. “And if we don’t answer it, they’ll assume we agree.”
Barbara’s tone hardened—just enough to show urgency. “Or they’ll assume the church has nothing to say except ‘be nice.’”
Jeremiah tapped the table once with two fingers. “So what’s your thesis? If you had to put it in one sentence.”
Barbara didn’t hesitate this time.
“They are being taught to replace the soul with symptoms,” she said, “and to replace holiness with emotional comfort.”
Elijah nodded slowly. “That’s the heart of it.”
Barbara glanced at the folder again. “And there’s more,” she said. “Because the language doesn’t just describe. It classifies. It teaches them to sort people into categories: safe/unsafe, validating/toxic, supportive/abusive.”
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “Binary.”
Barbara nodded. “Binary. And once people are sorted, you don’t have to love them. You just have to label them.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened. “But Christianity refuses that shortcut.”
Barbara looked at him. “Exactly. Christianity says love is patient. Love bears. Love endures. Love tells the truth. Love corrects. Love forgives.”
Jeremiah’s tone stayed low. “And love doesn’t surrender justice.”
Barbara nodded firmly. “That’s another piece. I’ve heard young women lash out at any structure—law, order, accountability—as if those things are inherently oppressive. As if any rule is violence.”
Elijah’s eyes lifted. “But God is not lawless.”
“No,” Barbara said. “And we are not called to lawlessness disguised as healing.”
A brief silence settled again.
Then Elijah opened his Bible and spoke as if he was setting the first beam of a framework.
“Barbara,” he said, “Part 3 needs to be Scripture—carefully applied. We need to show the difference between compassion and permission, between care and moral surrender.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And we need to show them that categories are not cruelty. They’re clarity.”
Barbara’s eyes softened with relief, but she still looked burdened. “Yes,” she said. “And Elijah… Jeremiah…”
Both men looked at her.
She pointed to the last line on the page, the one she had underlined twice:
IF I AM MY SYMPTOMS, I DO NOT NEED A SAVIOR.
Barbara’s voice dropped. “That’s why I’m afraid,” she said. “Because if they accept that, they won’t reject Christ loudly. They’ll just… quietly stop needing Him.”
Elijah’s hand moved to the edge of his Bible as if he was steadying himself. Jeremiah’s eyes held the line a long moment.
Jeremiah finally spoke, firm and calm.
“Then we don’t treat this like a trend,” he said. “We treat it like a rival gospel.”
Barbara nodded once.
Elijah looked at her, his voice low. “All right,” he said. “We’ll answer it.”
Barbara swallowed. “But we have to answer it in a way that helps the wounded without enthroning wounds.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And in a way that calls the capable to maturity.”
Elijah closed the folder gently. “Next part,” he said, “we open the Word and we build the better vocabulary.”
Barbara’s shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath. The café was still warm. The lights still glowed. But the work had moved from concern to strategy.
And Barbara knew something else now, too.
She wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.
End of Part 2