Divinely Inspired Coat Checks (and Other Things We Probably Don’t Need to Turn Into Doctrine)

By LONNIE KING

There’s a verse in the New Testament that has always made me smile.

Not because it’s profound.

Because it’s hilariously ordinary.

In 2 Timothy 4:13, Paul writes to a young acolyte named Timothy:

“When you come, bring the cloak I left with Carpus at Troas — and the books, especially the parchments.”

That’s it.

Not a parable. Not a prophecy. Not a theological bombshell. Just: “Hey… don’t forget my coat.”

If we really mean all Scripture is equally inspired and equally binding, then somewhere out there a very serious theologian should be developing a doctrine of holy outerwear.

The Perseverance of the Saints… and Proper Layering.

And Paul doesn’t stop there. We also get nuggets like:

• “I left Trophimus sick at Miletus.”
  (Divinely inspired travel update.)
• “Take a little wine for your stomach.”
  (First-century gastroenterology, apparently straight from heaven.)
• “Greet one another with a holy kiss.”
  (Still waiting on that one to come back during the welcome time at church.)

If every sentence carries identical eternal weight, then we probably need a church committee for lost-and-found cloaks and medicinal merlot.

But we don’t treat those verses that way. Nobody does.

Even the most “the Bible says it, that settles it” folks quietly skip past Paul’s laundry list and travel notes. Because deep down, we all know something.

These are letters. Not dictation transcripts from heaven. They’re the words of a tired, traveling missionary writing to friends.

Sometimes he’s brilliant. Sometimes he’s pastoral. Sometimes he’s frustrated. And sometimes he’s just an old lonely guy who is cold and wants his coat.

And honestly? That makes him feel more human to me. Not less.

Pick-and-choose inspiration

But here’s where the smile fades a bit. Because while we’re happy to treat the coat verse as “contextual,” we suddenly get very serious about other verses. Especially the ones that control people.

Those we carve into stone.

• “Women must be silent.”
• “Obey your masters.”
• “Submit.”
• “Confess publicly.”
• “Fall in line.”

Funny how the cloak is cultural…but control issues are divinely inspired and eternal, instead of the musings of an imperfect old man.

That’s not theology. That’s selectivity.

God-in-a-Box governed by a rulebook

Somewhere along the way, religion took a book full of human letters, poems, and stories… and flattened it into a rulebook.

And then something even stranger happened.

We took one of God’s most beautiful qualities — love — and put it inside that rulebook.

So now “love” doesn’t mean what it naturally means anymore.

It means:

• shame you so you behave
• pressure you so you conform
• humiliate you “for your own good”
• demand public apologies to earn restoration
• “be cruel to be kind”

But that’s not love. That’s manipulation wearing a church name tag.

If a person treated you that way, you wouldn’t call it love. You’d call it control. So why do we call it love when we attach God’s name to it?

What really matters is what Jesus said

The older I get, the more I find myself going back not to Paul’s travel notes, but to Jesus’ stories. Like the story of the father standing outside watching the road for his runaway son to come home.

First of all, though, in that story, Jesus tells us that the son comes to his senses on his own…no priests or rabbis or churches or religious zealots converting his way of thinking. Just a young man realizing how his choices were not working out. So, he decides to go home with the intent of asking Dad to just allow him to be a servant, because he knew those people had it better than he did.

But then, the father…missing his son and concerned enough about him that he waits and watches, hoping he’ll come walking up the road. Until that day he does.

And the father’s reaction? No stoic posture. No lecture. No probation. No “prove you’re sorry enough.”

Just running. Arms open. Before the kid even gets his apology speech out.

That’s what love looks like.

It doesn’t coerce. It doesn’t humiliate. It doesn’t make you perform repentance so the crowd feels satisfied.

It just welcomes you home.

Something never meant to be

Maybe Scripture was never meant to be a legal code. Maybe it was always meant to be something messier and more human.

Letters. Stories. Poems. People trying to describe their encounters with God.

Some of it is timeless. Some of it was targeted to a specific audience. And some of it was just cultural.

Some of it… apparently just about forgotten coats and books.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because if God is love — not just a doctrine, but real love — then God isn’t fragile. Because love is tough.

God doesn’t need us defending every sentence Paul ever wrote on a cold afternoon. But people? People sometimes use those sentences to control other people. And that’s a very different thing.

My new approach

So these days, when I read the Bible, I try to use a simple filter: If it sounds like love, it’s probably pointing me toward God.

If it sounds like manipulation, shame, or control…it might just be a tired human asking for his coat.

And honestly, that feels like a much healthier place to start to me.

Grace and grit to you! — LK