One day in class a student asked me a question. While that’s standard in any class, this time I wrestled internally with how to reply. I didn’t know the answer, but should I admit that? I’m the lecturer after all. I should know these things. And I’m a woman in an overwhelmingly male profession with overwhelmingly male students. If I admit I don’t know, would that undercut my credibility? Would that justify those who think I shouldn’t be doing this? Should I try and just make something up, see if anyone calls my bluff? After a deep breath, quelling the internal monologue, I simply replied, “I’m sorry. I don’t know, but I’ll see what I can find and come back to you.” I didn’t think much of this exchange (other than fighting my own imposter syndrome) until later a student approached me to thank me for being so honest. This student then shared that thought they shouldn’t ever say “I don’t know” as someone training for ministry as they had never seen someone in church leadership do so. They said seeing someone in my position admit a lack of knowledge was surprising and freeing for them. That experience shocked and saddened me at the time, but I’ve now seen this play out repeatedly among my students. Another time, a student told me they were afraid to test out new ideas or initiatives because there was “the way” things “should” be done and because they weren’t given any permission to try and fail; it had to be a success if they were going to try anything new.

These two interactions highlight what I think are some fundamental problems that theological educators should be pushing back against. One problem I see in the current landscape is a desire to look impressive or to come across as competent and effective in ministry. This plays out in multiple ways, such as popular Christian figures claiming academic credentials they do not actually have or a desire to recruit and influence “the best and brightest.” At the same time, in many of these circles there has been an alarmingly consistent unwillingness to admit when a mistake has been made or to clearly name harm that has been done. We also see this occur where leaders neglect the perspective of those under their care, assuming that they have the “correct understanding” of things. I think those of us involved in Christian ministry and education are often afraid to admit our limitations and weaknesses. One of the most helpful books I’ve read lately is Kelly Kapic’s You’re Only Human. Kapic focuses on the very human quality of finitude and how our nature as limited beings is not a curse or something to be overcome but is instead a gift from God, the only one who is infinite and unlimited. Living out our finitude requires humility—an understanding that we cannot possibly do it all, for we were not designed to do so. It also requires patience and discipline to regard our limits as blessings rather than hindrances and to not be afraid of revealing those limitations to others.

There are challenges here for theological educators and for church leaders alike. Too often theological education can serve to puff up rather than humble. We’ve all encountered the fresh student who overfills their sermon with quotes from Calvin or appeals to “the original language” while communicating little of real pastoral value. One possible antidote to this problem could be encouraging a culture of theological educators who regularly admit their own shortcomings and limitations, thus forming the same practices in their students. I would love to see a greater emphasis across the theological education sector of training students to try new things, with wisdom, and to not be ashamed of failure. I would also love to see more church leaders give themselves and those under their care permission to show weakness.

To enact this vision, we need to ask: What’s the goal of theological education? Perhaps the obvious answer is to be equipped for ministry. There is something utilitarian in this answer, though, as if the only benefit of education is to walk away with a set of strategies and specialist knowledge that can be directly applied. At times, however, theological education does not look particularly useful.

“How will this help me practically in my ministry?” is a fair enough question, but it reveals that we have failed in communicating the real goal of education. Ask most theological educators what they want for their students and I guarantee you’ll hear something along the lines of wanting students to be personally transformed through their time at theological college. Truly valuable theological education grows students’ characters even more than their knowledge. While there are of course skills and information that are important for one’s ministry training, what is most important is letting that knowledge form one’s habits, thoughts, responses, and interactions.

Theological education can be particularly suited to exposing limitations as students grapple with deep and complex theology, battle with the new grammar of ancient languages, and are stretched by pressured deadlines and demanding assessments. The formative impact of intentionally helping students to seriously consider and value their finitude would be significant. It would force one to grow in patience, recognising that learning is a lifelong process and that it’s impossible to have all the answers or to always do the right thing. It would encourage leaders to actively seek out other perspectives and to listen well to those under their care. And, hopefully, it would open the door to a greater willingness to acknowledge our mistakes. The simple sentence, “I was wrong” can make a significant difference in the culture of a church or institution. A setting where mistakes are accepted, real apologies are quickly and sincerely offered, and clear repentance and change is at work is a place that models the power of the gospel.

For myself, I hope among everything important and helpful my students learn they learn how to say, “I don’t know.” I hope they are bold enough to acknowledge, even value, their limits and to model that for their congregants. I hope they are endlessly curious about God and about people, wanting to grow in knowledge in order to love better. I hope when they get something wrong they are clear and honest in their apologies and take active steps to right the wrong. I hope they can bear cheerfully with others’ limits and not expect more of people than is reasonable. Like what is said of Abraham in Hebrews 11:8, I hope they might be courageous enough to obey and go, even when they don’t know exactly where they’re going or how things will turn out.

Sydney Tooth (PhD, University of Edinburgh) is Lecturer in New Testament and Greek at Oak Hill College in London, UK. Her research interests lie in the Pauline Epistles, especially Thessalonians, and Christian eschatology. She is a co-host on the Two Cities Podcast.