Have you ever found yourself, perhaps without even realising it, thinking about God's perfect kingdom and ultimate future in a way that subtly diminishes the importance of our present reality? It's something I've been pondering quite a bit recently. There's a theological idea that speaks to this: unrealised eschatology, which often stems from a kind of Platonic dualism. Essentially, it's the notion that the ideal world we hope for exists 'beyond' us, and our current life is merely an imperfect, less significant reflection of it. When this way of thinking takes root, it can quietly lead us to separate heaven and earth, making our present struggles and calls to justice feel secondary to a glorious future still far off. And, if I'm honest, it can create a surprising passivity, where we're waiting for everything to be made right 'someday' instead of actively engaging with God's kingdom breaking in right here, right now.
This line of thought brings me to another crucial concept: interpretation. Stanley Fish famously said, "Interpretation is the only game in town." And indeed, in faith as in life, we are constantly engaged in making sense of our world, our scriptures, and our shared beliefs. But if we are going to play this "interpretation game," we must ask: Who gets to write the rules, and who are the umpires? My hope is that the umpires include our biblical scholars—those dedicated individuals who immerse themselves in ancient texts, languages, and contexts to help us understand the Bible on its own terms.
I remain deeply wary of those who attempt to write the rules of interpretation in such a way as to predetermine the outcome. When the rules are fixed to confirm pre-existing biases, the game is no longer about genuine discovery or faithful wrestling; it's about enforcing a particular cultural orthodoxy.
The Rules of the Game: Orthodoxy vs. Costly Love
In sport, the rules define the game you’re playing—football, rugby, Formula 1. Similarly, in church life, different traditions—Anglican, Baptist, or various academic streams—operate by different rules, shaping their worship, community, and understanding of discipleship. But what happens when the "rules" seem to contradict the very heart of the Gospel?
There are days when, as a minister, I find myself wondering why I so often seem to be on the ‘wrong’ side of things, at least in the eyes of some of my Christian friends. My convictions lead me to positions that, for some, fall outside the perceived boundaries of Christian orthodoxy. I am LGBTQ+ inclusive. I affirm the dignity of trans people. I support the legal option of assisted dying where appropriate, believing in compassion at life’s end. I believe women should not be criminalised for having late-stage abortions, understanding the desperate circumstances that can lead to such decisions. And I stand in solidarity with the Palestinian people. I grieve the horrific violence of October 7th, and I equally grieve the catastrophic violence that has followed. I firmly believe that justice for Palestinians is not opposed to peace for Israelis; rather, true and lasting peace will never come without justice. I name the systems of occupation and apartheid not because I hate Israel, but because I love humanity and believe in the inherent dignity of all people.
These positions, taken together, frequently place me at odds with parts of the Church. At best, I’m tolerated; at worst, I’m accused of abandoning the faith. But the truth is, I hold these convictions because of my faith, not in spite of it. I hold them because I follow a Christ who stood with the outcast, who touched the untouchable, who crossed boundaries of ethnicity, gender, and purity to proclaim good news to the poor and liberty to the oppressed.
Jesus: The Original "Wrong Kind" of Religious Person
Sometimes it feels as though Christianity, especially in its more institutional or conservative expressions, has become more concerned with defending cultural orthodoxy than with truly embodying Christ. It’s as if the point has become to draw lines around who’s "in" and who’s "out," rather than to walk with those whom society—and often religion itself—has pushed out.
I’m not trying to be difficult, or to ‘go against the grain’ for the sake of it. But when I look at Jesus, I see someone who was constantly getting into trouble for breaking the rules in the name of love. He healed on the Sabbath, ate with sinners, spoke to women in public, and touched the unclean. He, too, was considered the ‘wrong’ kind of religious person by the establishment of his day. He, too, was misunderstood by his own.
And perhaps that’s the point. The gospel has never been about protecting power or preserving purity in a rigid, isolating sense. It’s always been about a radical, risky solidarity with those at the bottom of the pile. That includes queer teenagers navigating a world that often rejects them. That includes dying people facing painful choices about their final moments. That includes women in desperate circumstances making incredibly difficult decisions. And yes, that includes Palestinians living under military occupation.
To stand with these people—to see their humanity and affirm their dignity—is not a betrayal of the gospel. It is, in fact, its fulfilment. It is a tangible expression of a realised eschatology, bringing the perfect love and justice of God’s kingdom into the imperfect present.
I believe we are called to play the game of faith with rules shaped by Christ’s radical love and unwavering solidarity. This is the only kind of Christianity worth living.
If you’ve found yourself called the ‘wrong kind’ of Christian for embracing compassion and justice, take heart. You may be walking the same narrow, costly path Christ walked—a path that leads not to exclusion, but to the abundant life found in radical love.
No comments:
Post a Comment