Or maybe they would recognize it – but certainly not as anything Jesus called them – or us – to.

Christianity, in all too many churches and institutions and individual lives has become a shadow, even a mockery of what it was meant to be.

Most Christians I encounter and hear about are obsessed with “straining at the gnats” as Jesus put – wailing and gasping about the little things that don’t matter and neglecting or justifying those things that do matter. 

How many sermons or hushed conversations do you hear about books that should be banned, or “wokeism” or “antifa” or a dozen other “menacing” threats (that barely exist) while the pastors or “believers”  don’t seem to care at all about either real issues – like mass shootings literally  every day across America, raging climate catastrophes around the world, mass starvation at a level the world has never seen before, homelessness at a level no so-called advanced civilization has ever seen before.  

In short, we see people afraid, hungry, dispossessed and besieged – and what do American Christians for the most part care about? Fantasies, conspiracies and of course, “culture wars”.  In short, anything but Jesus.     

And of course, they do anything except what Jesus would do.

Don’t expect to find anything (or anyone) like Jesus in most churches.

Somehow “Christians” across America have become defined (and have defined themselves) not by abundant love, grace and forgiveness, but by hostility, fear and suspicion.

Instead of being carriers of “Good News” far too many “Christians” have become literal “carriers” of lethal weapons – and seem eager to use them.

Somehow killing people has become the most important “right” that many claim.

Helping people in need, as in the well-known parable of the “Good Samaritan” is obviously not in the job description of these current “Christians” – but harassing trans people is.

A church I have long been a part of emphasizes “Christianity” – but rarely mentions Jesus.

“Christianity”, as a focus, like the beliefs and values of the NT Pharisees, is about being “good” – a good parent, a good citizen, even a good neighbor – but certainly not about anything Jesus would recognize as being challenging, transformative or even worth living – or dying – for.

Rare is the church that has any “good news” to tell. At least as Jesus would know it; liberty to the captives? Justice for the persecuted? Hope for the lost? Food for the hungry?

You will find those things in few churches in America today.

But you will find churches (and sermons) full of self-congratulations and self-righteousness and, all too often, contempt and disgust, instead of a helping hand for those who need it. 

For God so loved the world….

This is easily the most widely known, and memorized, and I would argue, most neglected, verses in the Bible.

God, as a beginning point, as the ultimate reference, “loved” the world.  Doesn’t it follow that, being created in the image of God, that should be our first operating principle?

I don’t know about anyone else, but the vast majority of “Christians” I know not only don’t “love” the world – they are passionate and energized by the entire categories of people (!) they feel “called” to denigrate and harass.

These “targets” are, like each one of us, created in the image of the living God and yet, for some reason, because of race, fashion choices or lifestyle preferences, they have (in the eyes of some at least) somehow lost their standing among those of us seem so eager to stand in judgement, and yes, cast that first stone.

I have a simple guideline; if someone is urging you to join the “outrage of the month” club (from CRT to trans to beer to animated candies and a near infinite variety of real or imaginary enemies) or selling divisiveness or teaching animosity and fear toward those Jesus told us to show compassion to, they are certainly not teaching anything Jesus would.

It might be “Christianity” but it is nothing like what we are called to.

Paul taught “Jesus – and him crucified” not bromides and comfortable “assurances. And certainly not “commands” to persecute others – for any reason – but to stand for justice, decency, and even a love that transcends human understanding.

“What would Jesus do?” was a popular phrase several years ago. It was a trend that emerged – and quickly disappeared.

“What would Jesus do?” was (or at least often was) a guiding conviction to do the right, compassionate, generous thing, even when it could be costly.

After a year or so, many Christians found the burden too hard to carry. And many, if not most, decided that they didn’t want to know, or even think about “What Jesus would do”.

So another “movement” filled the vacuum; “What would (those who crucified) Jesus do?”

This was far easier to follow and live up to.

This is far more easily recognizable in the public/media sphere – or in any church or conversation.

There are two benchmarks – both plainly visible in the Scriptures and, for many of us, in our daily lives.

The first is a sense of self-righteousness, usually with the corollary belief that “I am saved/worthy and ‘those people’ are not”.

The second identifier is the deliberate, even “theological” justification for denigrating, attacking, even executing those who have been designated less than human.

This is the ultimate rationalization for ethnic cleansing, apartheid, segregation and death camps. 

The logic goes – if these are less than human, we are justified in treating them less than humanly.

I heard one “Christian” describe a trans woman as a “robo-whatever” that deserved no rights, and certainly no respect.

I wonder about the depth of this person’s theology; is hormonal treatment or physical appearance enough to somehow separate one from their state of being created in the image of God?

Who else, in this theology, is not “good enough” to be treated and respected as a fellow human being?  

The Bible, if not human decency, shows us that we have all “fallen short” and that, no matter what we may look like, we all come from the same Creator’s hand.

Not long ago I was driving my granddaughter to one of her activities. On the way, we saw a cluster of tarps and makeshift shelters and several people bundled up against the frigid winter morning.

“That’s so sad…” was all she could say.

Yes, it was sad – on many levels.

In God’s eyes it was certainly “sad” that in this city filled with those who call themselves “believers” not one could step up and offer help or shelter.

There was not a single “good Samaritan” to be found, not even “ten righteous” to be found in a whole modern “Christian” city….

Some cities have even legally banned assistance to the homeless and hungry. And they often use “scripture” to justify their actions. Just like those Pharisees so long ago…

Does anyone really think that Christians, let alone non-Christians, would want to spend eternity with a group like this?

Not a smile, celebration, sense of awe or certainly gratitude or worship would be visible, or even tolerated by this group.

Maybe it’s my bias, but this scene seems as close to Hell as any near-cartoonish, burning eternity.

But if Heaven is anything, it is a home for the homeless, refuge for the persecuted, and a place where any and all of the abandoned and neglected find their enduring home and people.

It would be a place of ultimate welcome and Shalom, connectedness and safety, where, as Jesus showed, the Pharisees and hypocrites would be locked out, the moneychangers and hustlers chased away, and the lion would lie down with the lamb and children could play with the most poisonous of snakes and vipers and there would be no harm.

The oppressed would be set free and even those who could not forgive themselves would find forgiveness.

As you might guess, or believe, there are many “Christians” who would hate such a place; Heaven on earth, or even Heaven as an abstraction, to many I have encountered, could never be a place of infinite, unfettered, unqualified welcome – especially to those among us who did not meet our (earthly) expectations – especially religious expectations.

But in Jesus’s value system, a broken heart is of more worth than a proud one and, to put it mildly, those who make a practice, or even a livelihood, from killing the prophets would, at minimum, not find a home in any divine kingdom.

If Heaven is anything, it is a refuge for those who never found it, a place of restoration and wholeness for those who pursued, and rarely, if ever found it, and a place where home and community, seemingly forever elusive, is finally found.

The irony though, is that any who are or were called to discipleship are called to build, sustain and live-out the kingdom, not on some abstract, distant horizon, but on the now, and right here.

If Heaven is anything, it is before us, around us and within reach.

If Heaven is anything, it is not a place of rarified, exclusive theology, but a place where a child shall lead us all….

In short, if Heaven is anything, it is real, and a party, and now. And here.

If believing in Heaven means anything, it means that it is within our reach, within our view, and within our hands.

Hell is, of course, equally within our grasp, and Hell too, does not need an other-worldly existence.

Hell is, of course, no celebration, no forum for forgiveness, no welcome home.

Hell is the site of unfulfilled resentments and forever nurtured visions of revenge.

Lord, when did we see you naked, hungry, abandoned and afraid?

It would be easy to make the argument that those lost, forsaken, hungry and afraid are in at least a corollary of Hell.

And those capable of helping, are not only able to help, but to either rescue those from a living Hell – or amplify the Hell they already inhabit by even further persecution, harassment or abuse.

In what could be called the earthly lab for sifting out who would be most qualified, even suited, for Heaven or Hell, the verdict of Jesus, based on his own words, is at minimum compelling.

Those in need are a continual reminder – and opportunity – for us to construct, with our own hands and actions, Heaven or Hell around us.

If Heaven is anything, it is the place of transformation, welcome and restoration.

And it is right in front of us.

In most, if not all traditions, it is an affirmation of the desire and hope that we can be, and become, in some ways, fuller and better people.

New Year’s resolutions are notorious for their short shelf-life, but people of faith know that they can be much more than vain attempts to get more fit or eat better.

The premise of virtually every faith tradition is that we can become, somehow, “new” people – any time of year.

It’s fair to say that we all have things to “work on”, to embrace or to leave behind, but more than that, central to most faiths is that we can become entirely new people, born, as the saying goes “again”.

This new person, as some of know directly, is oddly more solid and more porous, more submissive and yet more determined, more “free” but yet more defined, more demanding and yet more forgiving, and perhaps even more sad and somber – with a heart more joyous and celebrative than ever before.

The “converted” person is freer of what binds everyone else, but somehow knows a deeper allegiance to a presence few others seem to comprehend or acknowledge.

Violations and cruelty are seen clearly as an affront to the Creator as much as to any individual.

Injustice is seen, not only as an assault on a person or people, but as an insult and injury to justice itself.

The seeking of “justice” is not a goal or a belief, it is a correcting, a stabilizing, a reclamation that Creation – and the Creator – matter more than we can ever know.

Scriptures of all faith warn of those who are “seeking but never finding” and of those who become more brittle, cynical even cruel and vindictive with a veneer of religiosity. These people, we are told, are the worst.

To use phrases from scriptures, they “block the way”, “poison the well” and “make worse converts than themselves”.

They, like all of us perhaps, make a world in their own image.

And the “fruit” of such a “faith” is all too apparent. Eventually.

But not always before lifelong damage is done.

But the person truly “born again” seeks AND finds. Heals and restores. Requires much – and forgives much. Celebrates and mourns.

And values life, even as they are willing to leave it behind.

Being born “again” then, is much like being born the first time; we find ourselves in a world where we must learn how things work – from gravity to the volume of our own voices – and become a vital, contributing presence in a world that we find ourselves in, fully but not always willingly.

And perhaps that is the point – the world is ours – and not ours. We belong to it as much as it belongs to us.

A New Year is as much about endings as it is beginnings.

Western traditions set the new year in mid-winter, Asian cultures at the “new moon” – the ultimate signifier of spring.

They are both right. A new year, and a new beginning is a celebration of life as much as a mourning of what has cast a lasting shadow over it.

When does the year “begin”, when does it “end”?

Perhaps it only begins when we embrace it and it merges into us so that we, now, then, and all of eternity, all of our hopes, dreams and disappointments become indistinguishable.

The kingdom of God is within us, in front of us, and among us.

It is never far away. And never out of reach.

The word “mine” seems programmed into our DNA. Protecting what we have is the guiding impulse for every empire, tribe, family, or screaming toddler. And, for many of us, throughout our lives, it stands as the framing philosophy for every action and decision. Nothing, I want to emphasize, comes more naturally or easily. And no force in human history would dare confront such an ingrained and manifested belief system.

Except one did. 

The impulse to protect what we have is threatened by one equally relentless adversary, one hidden in plain sight, one that promises release from fear and suspicion, one that holds the key to trust, restoration for societies and individuals, and even the environment. One that promises wholeness, healing, peace, and forgiveness beyond our comprehension.

That sworn enemy of “protecting what we have” is, of course, Christianity.

Notedly, Christianity has been woven into war, conquest, and slavery for so long that it is easy to presume that it too affirms if not justifies violence and oppression. But nothing could be more alien to the “good news”: the gospel of lifting up the poor and casting out the rich (Luke 1:52), the call to cast our bread on the waters,  to give what we have to the poorest, expect no reward, think of others (even strangers) first, and not build bigger barns (Luke 12:16-21) but to build better and more welcoming tables.

And, when someone does take something, give them more (Matthew 5:38-41).

Protecting what we have presumes that we, as individuals, communities, and nations, have every “right” to protect what we have. And we are willing, even eager, to violate every Commandment or pretense of human decency, from murder to hoarding to squandering, instead of abiding by the simple and liberating (if not healing) act of sharing.

The irony is that no matter how much we spend, or how hard we fight to keep “what is ours,” we will not “keep” it for very long. Anything we have in our hands is only there for a short time, and the “best use” of almost anything is to share it.

We will literally take nothing with us. And that, at its core is a primary message of Christianity: everything we have is the means and cause for sharing and celebration.

It is such a radical notion that few, even most who call themselves “Christian” dare to believe it. “God will provide” is a placard in many “Christian” homes, but who among us would really believe it?  Who among us would dare to live, even one day a week, as if that were true? Who would base a business or a national policy on such a principle? Only a fool, most of us would answer.

Or a prophet.

READ: Can Theology Be an Idol? 

Or one so in love with God that they trusted their own Creator to care for them – as was promised over and over in the scriptures.

We are called to be “hilarious” givers (2 Corinthians 9:1-15), to share our last penny (Mark 12:41–44, Luke 21:1–4), and even to eat what others would never know about (John 4:32). And let the right hand give without letting the left hand know (Matthew 6:3).

It is no wonder that so few would follow such a belief that unravels what we believe as such a core belief.

But you’d think some would.   

The scriptures plainly tell us that a sign of the kingdom is this unaccountable, unjustified generosity and compassion. It is God’s kindness—or winsomeness—(Romans 2:4) that draws us to the kingdom. It is not the use of force, threats, or even accumulated wealth. The Gospel, it could be argued, is the release from greed and covetousness, the proclamation that the kingdom is shared, lived out, and never finished. Grace, mercy, compassion, humility and every other entry from the vocabulary of faith is unmeasurable. They are poured out like the rain (Matthew 5:45) on those who “deserve” it and those who, by human standards at least, never will.

I’m not terribly interested in protecting what I have, but I am interested in sharing what I have. And I’d love to live among those who felt the same way.

That would truly be a kingdom worth protecting. 

I (and virtually everyone I know) will one day be on that list. Those who do this killing (theoretically or otherwise) have gone by many names over time: lynch mob, death squad, vigilantes, and more. What do they often have in common? They kill in the name of God, cause, or country. Many justify their blood-taking by the Bible.

“Thou shall not kill,” as many pastors including my own insist, has an asterisk beside it—an all-purpose disclaimer that allows or even justifies killing for any cause required by the party or the faith. But if that Commandment allows exceptions, why not any of the others? 

Could any of us even begin to imagine a community or even an individual life where the Commandments – without exception – were followed?  Where killing of fellow creatures – not behavior or beliefs – is what was not tolerated or excused?     

Killing in the name of God should be the ultimate oxymoron – the most extreme self-canceling, obvious-to-all contradiction. And yet it is the one “philosophical exception” most of us hold to and defend passionately. It is the one “right” that we protect so dearly that it almost defines us. In fact, most of us have a working list of those we would be “better off without.”

We rarely speak of or even acknowledge such a list; we even more rarely act on it. But acting on it is always, in most cases, justified—or so it seems. Whether it is revenge, patriotism, or defending a way of life, killing seems to be always an option (maybe even the preferred option) among us. This primary belief, though few of us recognize it, surges through our conspiracy theories, our national anthems, and our personal philosophies. From Cain to the latest mass shooting in our headlines, murder – its action or its justification – hangs over us like a spirit of our own creation, a specter of death and destruction. We might mistakenly, almost romantically, call it power.

History, God, and even our own consciences might consider it a paltry power, but this power to take life in the name of our own cause is a distorting and potent elixir. It’s not just a surging lynch mob or murderous group of vigilantes, it is us: we humans who love blood and will do anything to preserve our right to take it.

The question remains, though: who among us is worthy?

READ: The Ones Who Led the Way

The irony in this reality is that the philosophy is half true. The Bible clearly tells us (and I think, in our hearts, we all know) that no one is righteous, no one is perfect, no one of us deserves the fragile, beautiful, and wondrous gift of life. Christianity, Judaism, and Islam are all premised on the belief that life is an incomprehensible miracle, one that no person or belief system can fully comprehend or control.

Life and community—like peace—pass our understanding. We are created in the living image of a being, a presence, a power we could not even begin to explain or comprehend. Our humility, as well as our grandeur, is beyond us. That’s the half that is true.

The half that is not true is the presumption that followers in any particular belief system are exempt from any “list” of who “doesn’t deserve to live.” And, further into the falsehood, is the belief that they or someone in their name is authorized to ensure that those who “don’t deserve to live” are actively persecuted. The Holocaust, pogroms, persecutions, slavery, and even bullying would not exist without people like this.

Murder is only possible if one presumes that others “don’t deserve to live”.  

To put together such a list is a direct contradiction of anything remotely resembling any ‘Gospel’ as well as a declaration against humanity – against being human.

Virtually every faith tradition calls us to welcome, to heal, to restore, and forgive – to celebrate even – those who are outside of our traditions and our ways.

It is real work to do that, of course.

And we’d rather not. Sometimes.

Even when we are willing, it is often a sacrifice – but usually a sacrifice with rewards we cannot begin to define. God, as always, calls us to a larger vision—one that gives and advocates for life. There are those who claim to act in God’s name, who use faith to reduce life, to cut us off from what would restore and redeem us. To condemn those who we could, if we were humble and teachable, actually learn from. Our faith could grow deeper and our compassion and humility more grounded and fruitful were we to posture ourselves with curiosity over condemnation. 

Wishing people death—or nodding in agreement with others who do—will not bring us life, freedom, or satisfaction. Bullies, from the schoolyard to the boardroom to the halls of power, operate on the assumption that some people, some human beings created in the image of the living God, are expendable and disposable. But they forget that God has his eye on the fragile and dispossessed (as well as on those who take unfair advantage of them).  Justice might feel far away, and it often is, but it is never absent.

As we should have learned from the Holocaust, death is never satisfied. Death, like every fire, is never quenched by feeding it more. The “list” is never complete until no one – or everyone – is on it.

We, like every nation perhaps, define ourselves by our faith and our national history. These two strands interweave in our identity, and when we look to them—or even better, live up to those ideals—we are a beacon to the world, a place of liberty and justice, and refuge and opportunity for all.

Then, of course, when we neglect those lofty and, yes, mostly aspirational ideals, we become cynical, suspicious, and in far too many cases driven by rage and resentment. It would be difficult to imagine a less Gospel-driven ethic than what we have seen far too many “Christians” present in public spaces across America.

Humility, compassion, generosity, and a welcoming (even restorative) heart should be the public face of faith (of all types) across history. Such is, of course, rarely the case. But it is the life we all, especially American Christians, are called to.

We affirm, as a nation, and certainly as believers, that no one is beyond redemption and all are called and invited into community, connection, and belonging. In faith, as well as citizenship, sacrifice and individual contribution are central themes. In other words, full citizenship in either God’s kingdom or a human kingdom draws us to a life and a vision beyond ourselves.

The Gospel calls us to kindness and forgiveness beyond measure and even beyond accounting. God’s love, if we believe it, is unlimited and crosses every human-made boundary. Faith and citizenship at their best inspire us to compassion and community – and a peace that truly and fully is beyond understanding and explanation.

Does our faith (and citizenship) elevate and inspire us? Or does it implode and seek only to protect itself?

Does it welcome others? Or does it threaten those who dare to join us? Especially those who consider themselves equal in rights and privileges to all of us?

READ: We Must See No Stranger

It is all too obvious which life the Gospel calls us to. Hope, like bitterness, is contagious. Revenge and resentment are nurtured and cast out but take root most deeply in their source. Those who cultivate hostility and even violence are the host and find themselves home to ever greater and more intense negative feelings. And like any seeds, they take root and bear fruit in unexpected places. The same is true for those who cultivate hope and healing.

We become what we believe. In a way, we have no choice but to live out what we value. Awe and wonder at who God is and what God has called us all to is the way for all of us. Any good news, political or religious, should equip us to transcend our natural – even national – boundaries and set us, as well as those who we encounter, free in ways we never could have imagined on our own. A truism of freedom is that no one is free if everyone isn’t free.

The same applies to other areas; no one is welcome if everyone isn’t, no one will experience justice if everyone doesn’t, and possibly even, no one is loved if everyone isn’t.

If we lived what most of us say we believe, it would be the best of the “good news” of all.

You’d think most of us would be proud of (may even proclaim) our welcome to the weary, oppressed, and those inspired by freedom and opportunity. But somehow many of us have forgotten who we are. Too many of us want to lock our borders, limit our rights and even quantify and restrict our “American dream” to those who meet some ideal (and usually imaginary) criteria.

History will tell whether we lived up to our calling at this crucial time. Will we become more open, or more closed? More eager and willing or more resistant? Will we welcome those who do not resemble us, or will we fear, categorize and negate their God-given humanity?

Who among us, after all, does not believe that faith, and yes, even the base-level of citizenship, is framed by discernment and decency? Faith, if it means anything, presumes an inspiration of “new” air, even a “new” being, freed from perhaps long cultivated fears and biases.

Faith, real faith, is the delivery of the promise to see the world through the eyes of the Creator. It is through that faith that we become citizens of a much larger, much more enduring world. 

In the Christian scriptures, it is very simple – as Jesus himself put it, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15). And the apostle John reflects this when he wrote, “This is the love of God, that we keep God’s commandments” (1 John 5:3).

Love, the Bible (and common sense) tells us, is what we do. But that’s not what the church announcement said or even implied.

“Loving Jesus” in many Christian circles has come to mean precisely the opposite of what Jesus clearly stated. For many I know who claim Christianity, “Loving Jesus” does not equate to living an exemplary or even distinctly Christ-following life.  Salvation, they tell me, is not earned or even deserved: it is free gift to be claimed.

Can anyone really just “claim” salvation? Or maybe this isn’t even the question to be asked. Maybe instead, we should wonder if salvation is the only (or even primary) goal and achievement of faith? Is living a life of compassion, generosity, and sacrifice of so little value or interest that it is not even considered?

There’s an old saying among believers, rarely heard anymore, that sums up this vacuous theology. It says, “Some people are so heavenly minded that they are of no earthly good.”

The irony for Christians is that Jesus, at every level, was of constant, enormous, and often near sacrilegious “earthly good.” He healed the sick, touched the unclean, condemned the religious bureaucrats and their followers, and praised “righteous” unbelievers. I would like to ask our current generation of such followers of Jesus why they call themselves Christians. Would they say that it is because they “know Jesus”? Would they be able to tell me what that means?

What I really want to know is why this “love” so often doesn’t look like love; why this “faith” doesn’t look like faith. Would they say, “It’s not about what love looks like, it’s about what I believe”?

READ: The Wrong Debate: On Alabama’s New Gas Chamber

To that, I would press, “Does any expression of love fit that definition?” If I love a dog or cat, or even a child or spouse, isn’t my love reflected by what I do and how I treat them? And not by what I “believe” about them?

One of the many ironies of modern, specifically American, Christianity is how indistinct it is from the larger culture. Being called out by scripture as a “peculiar people”—those who live by and are inspired by divine principles and are alien to the larger culture—you’d think that people of faith would stand out and be literally defined by their compassion, generosity, and sacrifice in the greater community.

But no, Christians are rarely a distinct, inspiring presence. In fact, in most cases, they barely make their presence known at all. As we have seen all too often in the 2020s, “Christians” are seemingly eager to believe and propagate absurd conspiracies while refusing even the most basic health precautions in the midst of the worst pandemic in a century.

Instead of being of service to or even proponents of truth and integrity, all too many Christians use their “faith” as an excuse to flaunt their own privilege if not arrogance and ignorance. At its most basic, how does a church parking lot, for example, differ from the parking lot of any mall or public space? How does a typical contemporary Christian value differ from what anyone else values?  How would, or should, a “Christian” neighborhood look, or even feel, different from a neighborhood of non-believers?

There is a parable in the New Testament about a house built on sand and a house built on rocks. Per my interpretation, the point of the story is not that the house built on sand that collapses. Rather, the point is the house built on the rock that prevails. And what makes that house prevail?  Hearing and doing. “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock” (Matthew 7:24).

And just a few verses earlier in this same chapter, a warning is given about false prophets, who will be recognized “by their fruits” (their actions).  And in verse 21 of the same chapter, a clear warning to anyone who might “claim” salvation: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.”

I’m not interested in “claiming” salvation, but I am interested in “being” a follower of the one who calls us to “go and do” and be of distinct, powerful, and often baffling “earthly good.”

I’m interested in a reality where “loving Jesus” is the beginning, not the end, of my faith: one where I see the poor, my livelihood, and my relationship with every other living creature through the lens of Christ.

The key characters are very different people at the end of the film than they were at the beginning. The story we just saw changed them — forever. It’s no coincidence that this would happen. We like, even love, portrayals of transformed lives.

In spite of culture war noise about “Hollywood elites,” virtually every film is a proclamation of actual, or at least possible, transformation and restoration.

No individual is beyond redemption, they demonstrate. 

No relationship is entirely bereft of reclamation.

This is not quite how some religious traditions view the film industry —but it is their loss. And ours.

At its core, life — at every stage, in every culture — is about reclamation and recovery, restoration and healing. Our relationships (with the earth, with other races, other faiths, even with our own individual conflicting impulses) are perpetually in need of healing. This is the foundation of every expression of storytelling and every religious tradition.

In an odd turn of events, most films are better sermons than the authorized church version. Forgiveness and restoration are, as many films show us, worth the (sometimes high) price we end up paying for them. But full and final reconciliation, as the gospel tells us, is worth every sacrifice, every last drop of that precious blood, every ragged and clumsy step toward that humility that takes a lost soul back.

READ: The Racist Policing of China and the United States

Yes, betrayal, deception, and destruction are everywhere. But that is not the world we are called to live in.

Or hide from.

It is the world to and for which we are called to witness, heal, restore, and inspire.

In a time of indescribable need, how many churches failed to reach out and live up to their one true calling will be a question people will ask for generations. Those who did stand up and testify (sometimes with their lives) that there is indeed hope and power and healing beyond the grim, obvious drone of depressing headlines will be hailed as our saints. 

They, as you probably know all too well, are not always “good” people, or even “likable,” or “nice.” In fact, those I have known have been often burdened, even relentlessly pursued, by a vision no one else can see, a Word that cannot be explained, a Knowledge that cannot be contained, a power so far past our standard horizons of explanation that, even those of us who “agree” with them can barely comprehend their message. 

These are the people who follow the calling we are all called to follow: to leave a trail of transformation wherever we go.

There is no greater calling.

In fact I would say that there is literally no other calling. Being transformative is who we are. Attending church or even being “saved” is, if anything, the barest beginning, the starting line of a faith intended to redeem and transform every corner of the world that we encounter.

Stepping out in faith will never be easy — in fact probably nothing is more difficult. But nothing else is more rewarding. It won’t always be “safe,” but it will show us (and sometimes those around us) that what we believe is not only what we “believe,” but who we are. 

We, and they, just might learn that faith matters in the real world.

Now there’s a message worthy of the big screen.

He could barely contain himself. I did not share his excitement.

I was not convinced that Jesus, or unbelievers, or pagans, or people in our neighborhood, or any in need, or even those of other faith traditions would agree or even care about those “propositions.” I didn’t even care that much.

What were those “statements of faith” in the light of tragedy? Social upheaval? Personal challenges? Difficult relationships? Crisis? Or even encounters with wonder and discovery?

Years later, I read Wendell Berry’s book The Hidden Wound. Berry’s book addressed the psychological and character cost of slavery—on those who held slaves and imagined that they could own and exploit for their own purposes other human beings, even their children.

And yes, they had developed a “propositional faith” and a “sinner’s prayer” that defended and justified their actions. They had separated, with surgical precision, faith from life.

They had convinced themselves (and generations to follow) that they could commit any act of violence or depredation and still be “sanctified” and “forgiven” in the eyes of God.

And who needs “forgiveness” more than the one who has justified, advocated, and profited from cruelty and “socially acceptable” kidnapping, assault, and brutality?

Their “theology” didn’t guide them; it protected and justified them. And my church still believes that.

Recently, our pastor gave a message on the well-known Good Samaritan parable. In the scriptural account, a teacher (to “justify” himself) asks “who is my neighbor?” The parable is the answer. In short, the one who shows mercy to a stranger shows who a neighbor is and what a true “neighbor” does for a stranger in need.

If you remember the story, two religious men walk by the man in need. And a Samaritan, a much-despised half-breed, stops and spends time and money to help a man in distress.

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Our pastor, a religious man of our times, “justified” those who did not stop to help. And he had little to say about the act of mercy and sacrifice that was the literal heart of the story. His message in fact, “justified” not caring or showing an act of sacrifice. He defended, passionately, the right to do nothing, the right to keep one’s own agenda sacred.

Instead of inspiring us to step beyond our boundaries and into, by the way, a state of Grace beyond description, he encouraged us to bundle up, “justify” ourselves, and continue on our way. Instead of urging us to open our eyes and hearts, he urged us to play it safe and keep our hands clean.

We could live our lives free of the intrusion of Grace and sacrifice, and nothing would be asked of us. We too, would be not be expected to extend that indescribable giving, especially to strangers in need.

The message, then, seems to be that our salvation is secure. Somehow I am not encouraged. But I do understand a little bit more of how American Christianity became so different from what the faith has always been and what the world needs it to be.

And who God has called us to be.

Protecting what is ours (with walls and armies of propositions) has become the operational first commandment, if not first response, of too many of us. Meanwhile, the world turns on and real people need real good news. 

Helping a stranger may never be our first impulse, but it just might be the act that truly sets us free.

The taking of life is, as every faith tradition has held for millennia, the ultimate violation.

Yet for us, it has become a daily staple of our entertainment, our conversations, our civic and national budgets, even our menus. Our media obsession with the taking of life (whether fictional or under the guise of “news”) literally defines our culture and era. And nothing captures our attention, passion, clicks, and eyeballs more than the portrayals of Black deaths at the hands of white vigilantes – those “enforcers,” authorized or not, acting as judge, jury, and executioner on behalf of white society and values against those Black offenders who dare to walk or drive or work or shop alongside white society.

Their “crime” of course, is the belief that they can and do “belong.” Police and policing-white-citizens do their best to enforce (by force if they can) white purity of existence in every school or park or workplace. They do it out of a sense of duty. It might be a duty few of us can comprehend, but it is a duty that drives and defines them.

A century ago, public lynching served that purpose. Today it is the relentless broadcast, and rebroadcast, of Black deaths – the literal murders of Black adults and children – that are “difficult to watch” as our media so delicately puts it. Yet, “viral” is what they become.

And like those public, sometimes even festive, lynchings that celebrated and anchored in the souls and hearts of Blacks and whites alike the sheer unrelenting code of white supremacy, these video clips tie us together in a common destiny, a common identity—one that will haunt us like a crowd of white hoods emerging from the darkness, torches in hand.

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It becomes pain on parade, and why? Is it because we are addicted to outrage? Is it because we hope to change someone’s mind with gory evidence? Or because we imagine that the blood of others, taken and shared publicly like some crazed communion, will somehow redeem us?

It never does and it never will.

But like an addict, all we want is more. Like a dystopian horror movie that never ends, we can’t look away and we can’t stop. Except that we must.

Our humanity demands that we treat every life as sacred. Every religion tells us not to kill, yet we exult in death and blood, rarely recognizing that it is not the blood of others that heals and restores us. It is the blood of the Creator, the Giver of life, that surges within us and comes from a common source, leading to a common destiny, if only we would follow it.

“By the Blood,” early Christians used to say. Not the blood of others, not blood on our hands, not blood spilled, but the blood that unites and defines us, that lifts us up by and with our shared humanity.

Black deaths, all deaths, are sacred.

No death, from Roman coliseum to Aztec human sacrifice to modern newsroom or film screen or Facebook post is entertainment – it is a piercing and haunting reminder of the distance between our lived humanity and the divine calling of living as if we, and every face we see, were created in the image of the living God.   

The media we ingest and share is a reflection of who we are. Our screens are mirrors of our collective souls which will find no peace until the blood – and breath – of every one of us is recognized as sacred.