It started off a simple thing. I would share a bit of grief with someone, and I had the letter half written. I gave the decision a perfunctory run past my internal Moral Board of Review, which rubber-stamped the plan. The board told me there was nothing sinful about the missive; it was adiophara. The contents were all true. Some elements of the message were arguably beneficial, even necessary.

“Adiophara” is the Greek word for “things indifferent,” by which the Stoics used to indicate matters that fell outside the realm of morality. Christians employ the term similarly, invoking Paul’s statement to the Corinthians regarding the ingesting of certain foods: “… neither if we eat are we the better, nor if we do not eat are we the worst” (1 Corinthians 8:8). Adiophara has usually been good enough for me.

I made the mistake of praying about it. A question arose: Why do I want to share this? What are my motives? Is this ministry or manipulation? (Benign manipulation, to be sure, but manipulation.)

A second question: What will this do for him? Will it build him up? (This was a tough one because my internal Bureau of Spurious Reasoning was working full tilt.) Will it do him good in the long run? James 3:17 jumped into the act, with its description of heavenly “wisdom” as “pure” and “peaceable.”

I can honestly say that the “pro” and “con” columns are running neck-and-neck. But because of the very slight chance that my words will do harm, and because faith tells me that God is able to heal my heart unilaterally without recourse to this letter, I think the cons have it.

I have almost never been this far down the tunnel of soul-searching over a letter, and now I know why. It feels like dying.