Truth Can Withstand Scrutiny

Do You Have a Lion or a Lapdog?

I say it often, and I mean it every time:
Truth can withstand scrutiny.
It's not just a slogan.
It's an invitation.

The Scriptures echo it: "Come, let us reason together," and "Always be ready to give an answer for the hope that is within you." Neither God nor the men who penned His words ever criticized sincere questions or shut down honest examination.

But that's not always the posture of His people.

I once questioned a popular secondary doctrine during conversation with an evangelist—not to attack it, but to open a conversation about another doctrine it affects.

The reaction was swift and decisive: no questions, no Bible, no dialogue. Just a shaming shutdown that buried my actual point before it surfaced. Then came a private reprimand from the pastor he told—who didn't ask what I meant, just made sure I knew it wasn't up for discussion.

And yet, I've watched people question primary doctrines like the deity of Christ, and the response is often the opposite: calm, engaged, even joyful. Why? Because when a doctrine is genuinely sound, we welcome the challenge. We love opening the Word, tracing the truth from the Law to the Prophets, from the Gospels to the Epistles. It's not a threat; it's an opportunity to let light in.

So what's the difference?

Why are some doctrines treated like lions to be unleashed, and others like pets to be protected? If truth can withstand scrutiny, why do some beliefs flinch when touched?

The answer isn't just theological—it's telling.

And it's time we talked about it.

Before We Bark Too Loudly

It's easy to read this and think of someone else's pet doctrines. But if every line in this makes you nod with righteous satisfaction and not one makes you squirm…
Pause. That's not discernment, it's deflection.

Pet doctrines don't just bark from other people's porches. Sometimes they're napping on our own sofa right beside us. Familiar, well-fed, and unbothered… until someone knocks on the front door.

Truth can withstand scrutiny; pet doctrines growl the moment you touch their plush proof-text.

Truth isn't fragile. It can be flipped, questioned, tested, and still land on its feet. But pet doctrines? Rub them the wrong way and they snarl like you insulted their ancestry.

If your belief needs a quiet room every time someone reads the next verse, you're not engaging the truth—you're babysitting a theological pet with separation anxiety.

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Truth is safe in an open Bible; pet doctrines need the Scriptures on a short leash.

Truth runs free through the whole counsel of God: ears perked, nose to the wind, unbothered by terrain or tension. It hunts for connections, not confirmation. Pet doctrines prefer a fenced yard with a "No Trespassing" sign. Suggest reading past verse 13 or comparing other scriptures and suddenly they bark, whimper, and act like they've never heard of Deuteronomy.

If your theology flinches at context or cross-references, it's not sound doctrine—it's a nervous lapdog guarding its chew toy.

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Truth asks to be tested; pet doctrines demand treats, not tests.

Truth steps into the spotlight unafraid—it knows what it's made of. It invites inspection. Pet doctrines just want applause and the same old treat. Hold them up to Scripture, and they flinch like it's a needle, not a mirror.

If it faints at the thought of honest questions, it's not truth—it's a pampered pooch dodging examination.

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Truth trains disciples; pet doctrines are house-trained to sit, stay, and fetch the same few proof-texts.

Truth shapes people who walk the talk, in sandals and under spotlights alike. Pet doctrines? Like Pavlov's pup, they're conditioned to bark on cue and stay in their theological crate. If your convictions vanish outside your echo chamber, you're not practicing faith—you're performing for biscuits and approval.

If your "doctrine" only shows up for show-and-tell, it's not discipleship—it's a parlor trick.

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Truth guards the flock of God; pet doctrines guard their favorite kibble.

Truth lays down its life for the sheep. Pet doctrines lay down guilt trips to protect their brand.

If your theology fights harder to defend what is comfortable than to liberate the bound and heal the wounded, it's not a watchdog—it's a spoiled mutt with a spiked collar.

Leave the Petting Zoo

We love to think we're champions of truth, defenders of the gospel, guardians of orthodoxy. But truth doesn't need a muzzle or a leash—it just needs to be unleashed. If your belief collapses under context, dodges questions, and bites at correction—it's not a lion, it's a lapdog with an attitude.

It's easy to believe we're defending sound doctrine straight from the mouth of God. But listen closely, and some of it sounds less like the Lion of Judah… and a lot more like a Shih Tzu.