Every so often someone asks me who Theo is.
There is a simple answer and a longer one. The simple answer: Theo is short for Theophilus, the friend to whom Luke addressed his Gospel and the book of Acts. The longer answer is this article, and it is also the reason this site exists at all.
“Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile a narrative of the things that have been accomplished among us,” Luke begins, “it seemed good to me also, having followed all things closely for some time past, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught.” (Luke 1:1, 3-4 ESV)
That is the mission statement of Dear Theo. A letter, written plainly, so that an ordinary Christian may have certainty about what he has been taught.
Who was Theophilus?
His name is Greek and it means “lover of God.” Beyond that, honest scholars disagree, and I think it is worth saying so up front, because this site will never pretend that every question has one settled answer.
Some hold that Theophilus was a real man, perhaps a Roman official or a wealthy patron. Luke calls him “most excellent,” a title used elsewhere in Acts for governors, and the early church fathers treated him as a historical person. Others argue that the name is a kind of gracious pseudonym, addressed to every “lover of God” who would ever read these words. Luke 1:3 also admits that others had already tried to compile accounts, so the letter was filling a need that real readers felt.
From my perspective, the two views are not as opposed as they first appear. If Theophilus was a real person, Luke still wrote in a way that serves every lover of God. If the name was symbolic, the point remains: Luke wrote to a friend, not to a committee. Either way, the posture is the same. A letter to a friend.
Why a letter and not a lecture?
I chose the letter form for a reason, and it is a biblical reason. A large portion of the New Testament is correspondence. Paul wrote letters to churches he loved and churches he worried about. John wrote letters to congregations facing false teaching. These were not academic papers. They were written to be read aloud to ordinary Christians, many of whom could not read at all.
A lecture performs. A letter corresponds. A lecture says, “Watch me think.” A letter says, “I was thinking of you.” There is a difference, and it matters for theology.
C.S. Lewis understood this. He wrote “Letters to Malcolm,” an imagined correspondence about prayer, because some subjects only open up when they are addressed to a person. Lewis once observed that we must not suppose the difficulty of theology means we should give it up, since the difficulty lies in the subject, not in the explaining. A letter gives the writer permission to take the reader by the hand and walk through the difficulty together. That is what I hope to do here.
I should add one more distinction. This site is not punditry and it is not a store. There is plenty of theology online that functions as entertainment: confident voices scoring points, each new post a volley in a war the reader did not start. And there is theology that functions as credentialing: books written to impress other scholars, where the reader is allowed to watch but not to participate. Neither of those is a letter. A letter assumes a reader who is intelligent but untrained, and it takes the time to explain.
Why plain, and why certain?
The site’s tagline is “Reformed theology, plainly taught.” The word plainly needs definition, because people hear it two wrong ways. Some hear “plain” and think “shallow.” Others hear “plain” and think “simplistic.” I mean neither. Plain speech is speech that a smart teenager can follow. I teach a weekly Sunday school class for teenagers at my church, and that ministry has trained me more than any classroom did. Students rise to the level of the material. What they will not forgive is jargon that hides behind itself. When I use a technical term here, I will define it the first time it appears. That is not dumbing theology down. It is refusing to let the vocabulary do the work that explanation should do.
Plain, however, must not mean vague. Luke did not write to give Theophilus a general sense of warmth about Jesus. He wrote that he might have certainty. Certainty is a stronger word than our age is comfortable with, so let me be careful about what it claims. It does not claim that every theological question is settled. It claims that the main things are settled, and that we can know them.
The 1689 London Baptist Confession opens with a paragraph that has shaped everything about this project:
“Although the light of nature, and the works of creation and providence do so far manifest the goodness, wisdom, and power of God, as to leave men inexcusable; yet are they not sufficient to give that knowledge of God and His will which is necessary unto salvation.” (1689 LBC, 1.1)
Nature preaches, in other words, but nature does not save. We need written revelation. We need an orderly account. That is why Luke wrote, and it is why the church keeps writing: so that ordinary believers may have certainty concerning the things they have been taught.
What you will find here
I am writing from a confessional Reformed Baptist perspective, in full subscription to the 1689 London Baptist Confession. That sentence deserves a word of explanation for readers who are new to confessional language. To be confessional simply means to say, in public and in writing, what I believe the Bible teaches, in words I can be held to. A confession is not a rival to Scripture. It is a summary that can be tested against Scripture, and it is meant to be tested. When I am wrong about what the confession says, or about what Scripture says, I want to know.
The posts here will work through the confession in plain language. They will also take up the doctrines of grace, the ordinary means by which God grows his people (the preached Word, prayer, and the ordinances of baptism and the Lord’s Supper), and the work of teaching the faith to the young. Some posts will read the culture confessionally, because the world keeps asking questions the church answered centuries ago. Every post will assume you are intelligent and untrained, and every post will end where it should: with the text of Scripture open and the reader equipped.
I will disagree with other Christians sometimes. When I do, I will try to represent the other view fairly before saying why I find it unpersuasive. Disagreement is fine and expected. Sneering is not. If I cannot describe my opponent’s position in a way he would recognize, I have not earned the right to disagree with it.
One more thing worth saying. I will sometimes write, “I find this difficult.” There are doctrines I believe with my whole heart that still stretch my understanding, and I will not project a false certainty where the church itself has wrestled. Certainty about the main things does not require pretending the deep things are shallow.
So, dear Theo
There is no Theo sitting across the desk from me. There are, I hope, many Theos: lovers of God, real and unnamed, reading at kitchen tables and on lunch breaks, in Sunday school rows and hospital waiting rooms. You are the reason for the letter form. You can be reached by a letter in a way a lecture cannot reach you, because a letter is a conversation, and a conversation is where teaching becomes personal.
Luke wrote to his friend so that he might have certainty. I am writing to mine for the same reason. The material will be serious. The voice will be plain. The door is open.
Sincerely, your friend.