Why Wisdom Still Matters: Christian Thinking and Spiritual Formation

When people think of Christianity, “deep thinking” isn’t always the first thing that comes to mind. In fact, the public narrative often frames faith as the opposite of reason—like oil and water. I’ve even had people tell me (more than once) that Christians are just brainwashed. One July, that accusation popped up three times in a single week on my Confident Christianity Facebook page.

Of course, it's easy to become defensive in the face of those assumptions. But instead of retreating or reacting, maybe there’s a more fruitful question to ask: What can we do to live out a kind of faith that welcomes curiosity, wrestles with complexity, and engages the whole person?

The late Christian philosopher Dallas Willard believed that thinking well is essential to living well. He reminded us that Jesus was not only the Savior of our souls but also the most brilliant mind the world has ever known. And he wasn’t alone in this conviction. Isaac Watts—the hymn writer behind Joy to the World and When I Survey the Wondrous Cross—also taught logic and wrote a widely used textbook on reasoning.¹

So, what might it look like to follow in their footsteps? To pursue a faith that is intellectually serious, spiritually alive, and emotionally honest? Let’s spend a few moments exploring what a deeply thoughtful faith could mean for us—and why it still matters.

To begin with, we need to turn the focus inward. Scripture—especially the book of Proverbs—is explicit in instructing us to grow in knowledge, particularly knowledge of God. Wisdom, according to the biblical text, is described as "supreme" and worth obtaining "though it cost you everything you have" (Proverbs 4:7). Pause for a moment and reflect on that. Let God’s Word speak to you; consider looking up the passage in different translations.

Now ask yourself: Are you pursuing wisdom in a way that shows it is truly supreme in your life? Would those around you say that your life reflects this pursuit? If your answer is uncertain or even negative, think about how that might come across to those who do not believe in God. While I adamantly disagree with the wholesale condemnation of Christians as uncritical thinkers—as grossly false—I can also recall individuals within the Church who reflect this tendency, just as I’ve observed it across various belief systems and worldviews.

Still, the cultural ethos in contemporary America—shaped by performative discourse, ideological polarization, and a growing distrust of expertise—has shifted toward an anti-intellectualism that often wears the mask of reason.² Faced with constant noise and complexity, many are drawn to simplified narratives that offer clarity, identity, or relief, even at the expense of careful thought.³

However, Christians are called to resist the pull of slogans and surface-level thinking. We cannot afford to turn off our minds or hand over our discernment to the loudest voices in the room—whether from media, the pulpit, or our own echo chambers. As Dallas Willard reminded us, uncritical thinking leads to error, not the freedom found in Christ.⁴

But desiring to think well isn't easy. Becoming someone who prioritizes truth over impulse or entrenched desire is a difficult, often painful path. That’s why, as we turn inward, we must be intentional about forming daily habits that cultivate Christlikeness.

It is through the spiritual disciplines that we learn to trust God. In my own journey, I found little guidance on how to live a life that actually trusts God, rather than merely claims to. Yet this kind of trust is essential to becoming a critical thinker—especially in a culture where exhaustion and distraction dull our capacity for discernment.

Practices like prayer, study, silence, and worship train us to slow down, listen well, and rely less on instinct and more on God's wisdom. Over time, they help reveal how easily our perceptions can be shaped by noise rather than truth.

Think through some of these practices. How does fasting help you trust God? It places your very sustenance in His hands, saying, "I trust You with the basics of life." How do silence and solitude help? They give God your most valuable commodity—your time—as a declaration: "I give You what I think I don’t have, so that I can live within Your guidance and perfect governance." And how does study help? It declares, "There is nothing more important than knowing You."

Each discipline trains us to trust the Creator of all things, both physical and spiritual. Through them, we grow in biblical wisdom: not just acquiring knowledge but learning how to live it.

When a Christian entrusts their desires to the Spirit and increasingly conforms to the way of Christ, they become a living testimony to God’s truth—not just in belief, but in how they live, think, and respond to the world. In a cultural moment where Christians are often caricatured as intellectually disengaged or emotionally reactive, a life shaped by thoughtful faith and disciplined trust quietly pushes back. It reveals a coherent, God-centered way of being that resists both shallow certainties and performative outrage.

But this kind of transformation comes at a cost. It requires facing the falsehoods we’ve absorbed—about God, ourselves, and the world—and letting go of them, even when they feel comfortable or familiar. In The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis gives us a striking image of this in Eustace, a boy turned into a dragon by the weight of his selfish desires. When he finally surrenders, Aslan (a Christ figure) begins to peel away the layers. It’s painful—Eustace calls it a “good pain”—but it leads to restoration. What he thought would destroy him actually frees him.

In the same way, the spiritual disciplines position us to face and shed what is false within us. They don’t just help us think better; they help us become different—people who can endure discomfort, welcome correction, and live—not just believe—the truth.

To speak meaningfully into a cultural moment shaped by a public imagination that increasingly questions the very notion of objective truth—especially moral truth—we must begin with ourselves. The Spirit’s refining work starts by confronting the falsehoods we’ve absorbed or constructed, even the ones we’ve come to cherish. That means resisting the urge to shield ourselves from conviction or to elevate our personal perspectives as ultimate. Instead, we are invited into something far more life-giving: a deep alignment with the truth made known in Jesus Christ—a truth that frees, transforms, and grounds us in reality.

This week, will you pray with me—not just for truth in the world, but for the willingness to be changed by it ourselves? May we become people formed by Christ, even when the path is slow, costly, and refining.

1. Referencing Dallas Willard’s book, Renovation of the Heart.

2. For deeper discussion on anti-intellectual trends in American evangelicalism, see Mark A. Noll, The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind (Eerdmans, 1994). For a broader cultural critique, see Susan Jacoby, The Age of American Unreason (Pantheon Books, 2008). Further, this critique is not aimed at genuine emotion or lived experience—both of which are vital to human flourishing and central to the Christian life. Rather, it reflects a concern echoed by Susan Jacoby in which she describes the rise of anti-intellectualism in American public discourse.

3. While often linked to ideology, anti-intellectualism also emerges from emotional and cognitive fatigue. Susan Jacoby (The Age of American Unreason), Neil Postman (Amusing Ourselves to Death), Sherry Turkle (Reclaiming Conversation), and Jonathan Haidt (The Coddling of the American Mind) each suggest that media saturation, digital overstimulation, and cultural fragmentation can make sustained thought feel overwhelming—prompting a preference for simplicity over depth.

4. Willard, Renovation of the Heart.