“Christ says, ‘Give me all. I don’t want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want you. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it.’” — C.S. Lewis

This quote from Mere Christianity apparently circulates frequently on Christian social media. It’s been decades since I have read Mere Christianity, so the context of this particular quote escapes me. But that is, in fact, the point. This quote is assertively used in isolation by mainstream evangelical platforms. The sans-context shock value seems to be its intent.

C.S. Lewis just might be the most quoted modern voice in evangelical Christian platforms. His theological legacy rivals that of the Apostle Paul. Posting C.S. Lewis quotes have become a signal that the source is steeped in a tradition of apologetics that need no vetting. If Lewis said it, it is beyond debate; dare I say “gospel.”

Now understand, I’m a long time C. S. Lewis fan and read more than a dozen of his books. The Narnia series both opened up my childhood imagination and helped shape the very foundation of my faith. In my mind, Aslan and God were synonymous and the allegorical fantasy series accomplished what it set out to do. It demonstrated the path of divine allegiance through adventures that tested the character’s faith.

But something about this quote gutted me.

I had a visceral response to it that wouldn’t shake by scrolling to the next batch of memes, hot “news” takes, and TikToks. Like a blood stain on a crisp white t-shirt that demands attention, the words “torment” and “kill” distracted me from the message of devotion intended by the quote.

Certainly the hyperbolic metaphor that relishes murder over sadism is in stark contrast to Jesus’ ministry which was anchored in healing diseased bodies and spiritual wounds. Even the logic is structured around the would be disciple’s expectation of torture, with the morbid comfort of divine murder. Most disturbing is that this violent language of intent is put in the first person point of view, the mouth of Christ himself. The same Christ who said, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).

Ignoring conventional wisdom warning against social media religious debate, I posted the following response to Lewis’ quote on The Gospel Coalition:

“Powerful and deadly [skull emoji] Imago Dei would never kill itself. We are made in the image of the divine who created our unique gifts and desires. Christ literally came to bring life. This kind of argument relies on a kind shock and zeal that creates more spiritual shameful anxiety than spiritual freedom. Sorry C.S. You have wisdom but you are not the 5th gospel.”

It wasn’t well received. The pushback was predictable: from comments quoting scripture such as “deny yourself and take up the cross” to whataboutism metaphors such as “crucifying the flesh.” To be fair, the defenders of the quote were reasonable and scripturally accurate. The Christian path, like many faiths, includes a dichotomy of healing and suffering.

Undeniably, the language of self-violence is present in scripture and used generously by the church in the name of purifying our “sinful” nature. And yet, John the Baptist practiced the profoundly peaceful cleansing ritual of baptism to symbolize a new beginning. Even the warrior king David’s prayer for God to “cleanse me with hyssop” communicates the message of purification without the language of self-violence. But the imagery of an herbal bath is rarely used in the American church pulpit. Instead, we are more often conditioned to view our faith in terms of the violent metaphor of crucifixion and imagery of martial loyalty.

Take, for example, the early cultivation of the language of war I learned before I could even read in Sunday School. One song describing the Christian commitment was even sung in military cadence with coordinating charades. The lyrics depict stark warlike imagery that incorporate military body language to playfully illustrate the verses. Perhaps it’s familiar:

I may never march in the infantry
Ride in the cavalry
Shoot the artillery
I may never fly o’er the enemy
But I’m in the Lord’s army
Yes, Sir!

(repeat)

I can’t tell you how many times I got up and sang that fun interactive sing-along in Sunday school, VBS, and summer camp. I also couldn’t tell back then how the repetitive military imagery would normalize braiding lyrics of battle with language of faith.

And that’s just the Kid’s Bop version. Revisit the lyrics of the powerful abolitionist anthem “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” where God’s “terrible swift sword” meets “fiery gospel.” Written during an actual war to free enslaved, brutalized, and lynched people, this language is in keeping with the literal context of a brutal war fought for justice. But singing it today, far from its civil war context, becomes another anthem validating the metaphorical “Army of God” fighting the hypothetical persecution complex narrative the modern-day American church seeks to wage.

Why is the language of war repeated, shared, and celebrated in the church?

How has military and conquest become a central repeated metaphor of the gospel — literally translated “good news”?

How has language of violence, suffering, pain, torture, and even divine murder (according to C.S. Lewis) become a normalized metaphorical language of our faith?

Is it possible that conditioned language steeped in violent imagery creates a perspective that justifies and celebrates violence in the name of God?

Is it any wonder the evangelical church is culturally aligned with gun culture, military glorification, and authoritarianism?

The lexicon of war is rooted in hierarchy, aggression, weaponry, military strategy, and battles. This language is pervasive in the evangelical pulpit from mild sports metaphors to historical battle illustrations. Indeed, one of the single most used sermon illustrations is the “Armor of God” passage in Ephesians 6. It is taught in Sunday School, themed in VBS, heck, I even bought my kids a life-sized costume complete with the helmet of salvation and the sword of the spirit.

Do you know what wasn’t available in the children’s Bible bookstore? A feet washing kit. And yet, Jesus doesn’t just mention feet washing as a hyperbolic metaphor, he literally undresses, wraps a towel around his waist, and washes the disciples’ feet the night before his own actual crucifixion. And then? He directs them to do the same. Not as a pulpit metaphor, not as a figure of speech, but as a matter of practicing the kind of radical humility and true equanimity the love of Christ exemplifies.

“Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him.” (John 13:14-16)

The man we habitually call the “King of Kings” insisted on being a “Servant of Servants.” 

Without question, death is an important metaphor in faith. But so is life. We too often forget the balm of Psalm 23 (“He leads me beside the still waters, he restores my soul”), and we focus on Galatians 5’s invitation to “crucify the flesh.” We are so desensitized to the graphic imagery of the crucifixion that we are immune to the recoiled responses of those seeking a faith of healing, not crucifixion.

We would do well to communicate the love of Christ with restorative language that welcomes healing rather than violent language that threatens suffering. Certainly Jesus himself invites us repeatedly into the language of love: love neighbors, love enemies, love self, bless others, do good, turn the cheek, lend without expectation, show mercy, give and forgive.

We have just as many scriptures validating the peaceful, restorative, healing love of God. Most ironically this is found in the repentant Psalm 51 of the warrior king himself, David:

“Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.
Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
so that sinners will turn back to you.”

This language of love, nurturing, restoration is absent any violent imagery in this Psalm of repentance. The only sacrifice offered is the broken spirit David brings to God — not to kill or torture, but to heal and restore. In fact, it is this very language of love he notes that will actually draw others to God’s love, not the language of blood sacrifice.

Why is it that our modern church culture identifies faith with the language of pain, aggression, and domination more so than with nurturing peace and equality? Perhaps the linguistic indoctrination of a faith “warrior” reflects and perpetuates a culture bent toward the certainty of power that war protects instead of the risk of peace that love offers. The human condition vacillates between the capacity for destruction and creation. Micah 4 offers wisdom to reconcile our bent toward aggression by literally refashioning weapons of war into garden tools.

“They will beat their swords into plowshares
 and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation will not take up sword against nation,
nor will they train for war anymore.
Everyone will sit under their own vine
and under their own fig tree,
and no one will make them afraid,
for the Lord Almighty has spoken.”

This literal vision of converting the destructive energy of human nature into a creative energy profoundly leads us back to the garden, under the fig tree we once dressed ourselves in shame. It is in the garden, not the battlefield, where we will experience the true peace of divine union. In the same way, we can convert our language of war into a language of love. We just have to embrace the language of baptism, creation, and restoration.

Let us then speak the truth in love, not war.

Apparently my decision is part of a larger exodus of generations leaving the church. One google search populates articles analyzing the demographics and reasons many are leaving their church of origin. But, though many of us are leaving at the same time, we are not leaving together. It is a mass exodus of individuals. And it is a lonely exodus. Not only have I lost the community I once had, I found myself without a community to enter. And yet there was one thing I couldn’t leave behind: a Stubborn Faith that refused to be ignored or abandoned. 

Certainly for me, deconstruction from evangelicalism became inevitable when the unholy trinity (so called by Rachel Held Evans), religious nationalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy, was embraced by the church in the Trump presidency era. To be fair, the pastor of my church was unique in that he did not communicate the political denomination talking points either directly or indirectly. Nonetheless, even an apolitical stance proved to be political, and the divisions in the church were palpable. Some parishioners stayed; others, like me, left. 

After the leaving, comes the grieving. But then what? The thing is, I’ve always been a church girl at heart. Sunday School, youth group, study groups, coffee and bagel fellowship, nursery duty, and just sitting next to my parents in my “assigned pew” every Sunday: these aspects have been markers of my identity.

The pandemic lockdown conveniently granted a sabbatical that delayed the inevitably final, sad, yet amicable, meeting with my pastor.  Even in our last prayer together, he had the grace to pray that my leaving would “give space for my faith to grow.” He must have recognized that Stubborn Faith as well. Leaving did give me the opportunity to expand my church experience. I sampled a few streamed services that I never would have been able to visit pre-Zoom era. Unfortunately, the communal experience did not translate through the internet. I could sense the spirit, but not share in it. I walked out again; this time, literally. 

My new church was what my son and I called Beach Church. I became a “blue domer,” a term traced to 19th century Romantic poet Percey Shelley that evolved to refer to those who eschewed church to worship in nature, under the “blue dome” of the sky. Just two miles from my Jersey Shore home was a sanctuary where seagulls sang in the choir, the ocean preached the sermon, and the sun’s warmth blessed me with divine love. Here I was, worshipping in God’s original temple of creation with fellow parishioners like Emily Dickinson, whose poetry, written in hymn meter, can be sung to the tune of Amazing Grace:

“Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –

I keep it, staying at Home –

With a Bobolink for a Chorister –

And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –

I, just wear my Wings –

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –

I’m going, all along.”

I developed my own Lectio Divina, a daily spiritual practice of reading, prayer meditation, and journaling. The daily meditations of Father Richard Rohr helped to reframe the myopic indoctrination I was detaching from. I studied under contemporary mystics Cynthia Bourgeault and James Finley through online education at Center Action and Contemplation. I adapted ancient gnostic practices of Mary Magdalene and Teresa of Avila. I practiced breath prayer with the mantra “Be still and know that I am God.”  Wherever my worship took place, and whatever it looked like, Psalm 46:10 became the through-line prayer of my Stubborn Faith.

I discovered new voices of faith who all pastored me through the global pandemic lockdown and my own private quarantine from evangelical toxic theology. These prophets and teachers and poets and healers ushered me out of the confines of a sharply defined dogmatic God into the wilderness of the expansive divine love of the Holy Spirit. Many of these voices spoke at Evolving Faith, a conference that centers “the wilderness” as its faith metaphor. Sarah Bessey, Jeff Chu, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes, Pádraig Ó Tuama, Jen Hatmaker, Tanya Marlow, Kate Bowler, Barbara Brown Taylor, and others are central to this experience. The globally mandated and self regulated exile became a freedom walk into what turned out to be a rather populated wilderness.  

I fortified my InstaGram feed with the cerebral faith art of Scott Erickson and the satiric comics of David Hayward, aka Naked Pastor (and own pieces of both). I joined the Live Kitchen Table Talk of activist  Lisa Sharon Harper on Friday nights. I contemplated the meditations of Laura Jean Truman and Sarah Bessey. I discovered the unbridled feminist voice of Julianna Zobrist who invited voices of female deconstruction to share on her feed.  When I heard Jules read my story, it was a “welcome to the wilderness” moment for me. And just for down-home levity, I listened to Travis Howard’s Sunday Songs and Stories. I’m not even a country music lover, but Travis converted me every Sunday at noon with his blend of hymns, popular songs, and gosh darn charm.  

READ: Easter Encouragement for the Spiritually Homeless

I discovered podcasts that embraced the full imagination, intelligence, and soul of faith such as Richard Rohr’s Another Name for Everything and Brian McLaren and Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis’ Learning How to See, Tony Caldwell and Audrey Assad’s Jungian approach to faith Archetypal, and Michael Gungor’s The Liturgists.  The Liturgists, is not only a podcast, but a community which has recently shifted focus from deconstruction to reconstruction. Gungor has articulated a vision that reimagines the church without abandoning the church. Season 7 is worth a listen and something to keep an eye on.

I discovered the world of true faith social justice activism in the work of Red Letter Christians and others like Freedom Road. These organizations, as well as local charities, gave me a place to redirect my tithe money. When I saw Shane Claiborne and his crew protesting federal executions in below freezing weather broadcasting live from Terre Haute, Indiana, I knew this community which embodied Christ-like passion for justice and was worth my financial support. 

In the recent Red Letter Christians book club interview, Kristin Du Mez, author of Jesus and John Wayne, suggested we may be at the end of institutional faith and at the beginning of individual faith. Her observation that faith isn’t being deconstructed, but rather “the cultural baggage that has corrupted the faith” certainly describes my own experience of faith reconstruction. I have been fortunate to find real connections–okay, fellowship–through several online writing groups with souls who share both my love for the written word and the ability to wrestle with Stubborn Faith. These cannot be hyperlinked for good reason: these fellow wanderers were found through the serendipity of divine guidance. There is no hyperlink shortcut for that.  

Of course, all of this didn’t stop me from visiting a local chapel to reconnect with human communion. Like I said, hopeless church girl, here. And it’s nice to hear the human voice unfiltered by technology, the real time hymns, the occasional interruption of a baby’s coo, and the Holy Spirit’s whisper amid the pleasant distractions of stained glass and semi-comfortable pews. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s two blocks from my other sanctuary, Beach Church.  

Easter Sunday is a time when many churches become Blue Domers at least once a year, holding sunrise services to honor the resurrection of Christ. But of course, it more profoundly honors Christ’s power to resurrect our own battered, distorted, dogmatic faith. Perhaps “stubborn” is a divine trait that makes resurrection possible. Stubborn Faith is resurrection faith. 

Wherever you are–in church, in the process of leaving, or out–it is possible to keep your faith and find your community. I did. It is out there.  It just will look and feel a lot different than what you are used to. All you need is the spirit of inquiry championed by Jesus himself: 

“Ask, and it shall be given you; 

seek, and ye shall find; 

knock, and it shall be opened unto you: 

For every one that asketh receiveth; 

and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.” Matthew 7:7-8

Asking, seeking, knocking: This spirit of inquiry is the very character of Stubborn Faith–a faith that helped me discover ancient wisdom, new pastors, provocative artists, and fellow parishioners in online community groups. In short, Stubborn Faith helped me find that church can be found just about anywhere. I just had to leave church, to find out just how big it is. 

The initial allegations by a single victim were first met by the perpetrator with panicked acknowledgement, then an appeal for secrecy and even a threat of suicide.  Finally, in true predatory fashion, Zacharias cast himself as the victim by suing his victim. The details were hushed by a nondisclosure agreement. And the Silence began.  

The NDA legalized the Silence from the victim. It protected the Silence of the perpetrator.  It permitted convenient Silence by the RZIM organization. And it allowed for a sigh of relieved Silence by the church.  Denial, manipulation, and false accusations were rewarded with Silence—for a time.  

When Zacharias died last March, other victims began to come forward.  These allegations were covered by The Roys Report in September of 2020  picked up by Christianity Today, investigated by an influential blog,  and vehemently dismissed by the RZIM in a statement released September 15, 2020. So now, when the NYT covers it February 2021, yes, it is news. It just isn’t new. In fact, considering the scale of Mr. Zacharias’s abuse, it is clear that there was a journalistic reluctance to vigorously investigate him.  Muted attempts at best, if not Silence.  

This week RZIM released a repentant mea culpa in light of the massive compiled evidence from many victims over many years in many places (including a frequented apartment in Bangkok and his own spas—one brazenly called Touch of Eden—in Georgia).  So while an apology and plan to address the damage is to be expected, it is not something to be applauded.  It is in fact the least they can do. The repentant language in the released statement is in stark contrast with the same organization that wasn’t satisfied with just denying the first victim’s allegation, but sought to publicize the victim’s past to discredit her.  And according to recent reports, mocked her and took bets on how long her marriage would last. 

Zacharias is dead and will never have to acknowledge the pain of the victims, the shame of his family and friends, and the damage to the faith organization.

READ: Bad Theology Promotes Sexual Abuse

Clearly, we cannot expect victims to break the Silence. Nor can we trust the perpetrator or the organization that backs the perp to break the Silence. Nor can we trust the churches that relied on his erudite intellect to legitimize faith with reason to break the Silence. 

On February 9, Lori Anne Thompson broke her NDA by releasing her own victim impact video statement. Even though RZIM has had the final investigation report of all the victims since December, and released its own statement of acknowledgement, it would not release her from the silencing NDA. So, LoriAnne Thompson released herself from it. She broke her Silence.  

“RZ’s secret sins and public shame do not belong to me, and I verbally and publicly send them back to him and RZIM. I have repeatedly requested to be released from the NDA. To date, no release has come. So be it. My words belong to me, and I take them back today. To my fellow survivors: hold fast. There is hope. There is also help. All will not always be lost. What happened to you does not have the last word. You do.”

Her words remind us of the single most powerful tool perpetrators use: The Silence of their victims. And the use of Silence is most significant in the church, since it is used to protect the kind of power that depends on trust in its reputation: spiritual leadership. Most vile, in addition to physical, social, and vocational threats, the church leader has an additional threat: spiritual damnation for those who attempt to speak out. Zacharias specifically leveraged salvation against her voice when he told his victim she would be responsible for millions of lost souls if she spoke out and damaged his reputation. 

The epidemic of clergy misconduct is not only the abuse itself, but the Silence that enables the abuse to continue to exponentially harm people. While perpetrators will always exist, the damage they do can be diminished and halted with a way to break through the Silence that protects power.  

For some resources to disempower this kind of Silence, see below. And, in the words of Lori Anne Thompson—her words—Hold fast. There is hope. There is also help: 

Texas recently passed one such way to break the Silence: a law that protects churches and nonprofits from retaliation when providing accurate, negative information on clergy abuse. Without legal protections, there is institutional reluctance to expose perpetrators.  These data bases alert hiring boards and protect would-be victims. This is an astounding tool with potential to diminish the epidemic of clergy abuse by eradicating its facilitator: Silence.

Do you know these badly-behaving Baptists? Search BaptistAcountability.org

Search Credibly Accused for names of Catholic clergy predators.

Search AnglicanWatch.com for alleged predators in Anglican houses of worship.

Search the Mennonite Abuse Prevention list.

“Abuse of Faith:” ground-breaking six-part series from the Houston Chronicle and San Antonio Express-News on coverups in the Southern Baptist Convention.

The original voice for SBC clergy accountability: StopBaptistPredators.com.

“JESUS IS MY SAVIOR, TRUMP IS MY PRESIDENT.” 

Trump flags and Jesus flags waved together commingled with nazi imagery, paramilitary gear, and confederate flags. Life-size homemade crosses marched alongside noose scaffolding platforms. These symbols of white supremacy, patriarchy, and religious nationalism are embedded in the larger Evangelical colonized message dating back to the Puritans: America is a Christian country with Christian values that is threatened by secular democracy.  And when threatened, better call on Jehovah of the Old Testament to defend Jesus of the New Testament.  Fight, bully, rage, shock, vandalize, militarize, terrorize, and kill– all in the Name of God.

This, this is what it means to take the name of God in vain.    

Slogans like Take America Back, Save America, and, yes, Make America Great Again are all rooted in Christian nationalism, the hallmark of Evangelicalism. The narrative that America is in danger of losing its faith and needs to repent or lose its soul is old. The personification, while ludicrous, is an effective motivator that elevates the church, its leaders, and its politicians to savior status. It bundles salvation through the letter of the law and the power of politics rather than addressing the everyday needs of individuals. It attempts to codify a conservative moral agenda as a shortcut to changing the human heart.  It equates evangelism with legislation by electing politicians and seating supreme courts justices who mirror a particular brand of Christianity. It trades compassionate service for political power under the guise of saving all of America. 

READ: Why I Cannot Stay: A Letter to My Church

This dangerous narrative uses faith infused political language to sustain cult-like political loyalty. It rationalizes the Church’s partnership with politics. It becomes more dangerous when that power is threatened, or worse, taken away by free elections. It will justify any act in the name of God, even if it means defiling the name of God. The Evangelical Church is the modern day Roman Empire that has crucified the reputation of Jesus in exchange for power afforded by religious nationalism. 

“So Jesus, aware that they intended to come and take Him by force to make Him king, withdrew again to the mountain by Himself, alone.”— John 6:15

Here’s the thing, America doesn’t need saving anymore than Israel needed saving when it expected a messiah to save it from the Roman empire. The message on the insurrectionists’ flags is a dangerous narrative rooted in pride of converting thousands through political fervor rather than doing the humbling work of loving one’s neighbor or washing the feet of a stranger.

Jesus doesn’t bundle salvation or healing. He touches individuals. He speaks to the particular pain of each person. He restores the soul of the singular that then speaks to the wounds of the collective.  He saves people, not countries. He intentionally separated from institutions of faith and state and disrupted the status quo that often left leaders debating, not praying. Jesus explicitly rejected the title of king and refused to be the messiah that Israel anticipated would save them from the empire. Instead he was a servant who would save them from their own distorted faith rooted in religious indoctrination.

“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”  Luke 12:49-51

The jarring reality is that this may not be the time for an altar call to unity. 

This may be a time for separating the sheep from the goats. 

This may be a time for recognizing division and reckoning with our own role in creating it.

It may be a time to take a clear stance.

It may be a time to separate from the church’s alliance with political power. 

It may be a time to recognize truth and call out power-dependent structural distortions, manipulations, and traumas. 

It may be a time to denounce the systemic racism, patriarchy, and religious nationalism tolerated through silence. 

It may be a time to recognize division for what it is: an incompatibility of truth and injustice. A division ushered in by Christ himself. 

Choose wisely.

I don’t remember his reasons, something about the Republican party being the “best for the nation’s stability” while adding that voting Democrat “for local elections was acceptable.” It’s possible they all knew, even before I did, that this wouldn’t comport with my conscience. This “meeting” was a preemptive strike.  It didn’t work.  I did not vote for Reagan.  (I didn’t vote for Mondale either, but that’s another digression.)

Those like me who grew up in the Evangelical tradition were conditioned to take comfort in certainties and dispel doubt with platitudes. This brand of Christianity specializes in bumper sticker confidence to quell questions about anything from scriptural literalism to cultural relativism. “God said it. I believe it. That settles it.” This is a literal bumper sticker. 

The Evangelical Church and the Republican party bonded over caterwauling about family values and sanctity of life, even as leaders from both institutions failed to maintain the righteous standards of their own hypocrisy through public scandal in both camps. Yet the bond of religious nationalism grew so strong that Jesus became an inconvenient third wheel with his “love all, judge not, do good, welcome strangers” ethos.  Better to call on the Jehovah of the old testament to validate war, imprison refugees, and create laws that enforce judgment on lifestyle identity, moral choice, and human desire.  

Religious nationalism reached its zenith in this election cycle when Vice President Mike Pence actually altered sacred scripture and replaced “Jesus” with the American Flag in his RNC address this summer.  “So let’s run the race marked out for us,” said Pence. “Let’s fix our eyes on Old Glory and all she represents.” 

According to Pence’s own Evangelical theology, manipulating scripture to fit a political message would be akin to blasphemy.  But more importantly, it crystallized the final consummation of church and state. The Evangelical Church’s support of a president who counters the life and teachings of Jesus actually makes sense when you take Jesus out of the equation.  Then you can ignore the cruel, feckless, truthless, despotic, violent, abusive, petty, vindictive language of a dangerous charlatan who promises the Church what it wanted all along: power of judgement over others.

Yes, it would all be worth it to just get a conservative supreme court majority that would legalize the Church’s legalism.  In fact, it was needed so badly, people were willing to make sure the president elect was “converted” before inauguration.  The photo opts are cringeworthy.  Thus the Church, a presumed sanctuary of peace, has allied itself with a force that continues to cultivate chaos to co-opt power.

As the Sunday School story goes, Samuel, prophet and last of the judges, led Israel until the people demanded a king lead them instead. God, through Samuel, warns the Israelites of the dangers of adopting the institutional structure of the surrounding kingdoms of men. Samuel and God reluctantly acquiesce, and Israel trades their prophetic judge for a warrior king, Saul. The church uses this story as a warning against aligning itself too closely with what is called “the kingdom of men” over the “kingdom of God.”

In a curious reversal, the Evangelical Church has courted a corrupt king in order to secure more judges.  What neglectful irony, that a significant portion of the Church has supported this presidential anti-christian, in order to appoint judges to the highest court of the “Kingdom of Men,” while ignoring a central tenet of the Kingdom of God to “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”  It preaches that only God can judge the human heart, while using political power to judge the moral will of all.  

This craving of supreme, earthly, judgmental power explains the Evangelical Church’s political allegiance.  At the Walk of Prayer, called “The Return,” in DC recently, leaders called for America to repent. Well, Church, it is time to look in the mirror, to “return.”

READ: True Prophecy in an Age of Deception

Repent for silence regarding abuse of political power.

Repent for silence regarding the use of violence by those who are to keep the peace. 

Repent for silence regarding structural racism, xenophobia, and torture of enemies.

Repent for investing in the kingdom of powerful people in exchange for sharing that power.

Repent for the political support that was zealously given to power that further hurt those on the margins: immigrants, poor, homeless, indigenous, LGBTQ. 

Repent for your exclusion of those who identify as LGBTQ who have every right to experience the full grace and love of God without any regard to sexual orientation. 

Repent, Church.  

How does this happen? Get a divorce. Leave the party of politics.  File for separation. Return to your first love: Love your neighbor as yourself.  Let your counselor be the First Amendment of the United States Constitution: the separation of church and state. Get back to the business of loving your neighbor instead of judging your neighbor. This should actually come as welcomed news for constitutional originalists, as “separation of church and state” is a key component to The First Amendment, a conveniently ignored tenant.  

Continued allegiance to a president and party that requires a systematic dismantling of the very principles that Christ lived and died and rose again for will result in crucifying him all over again.  And this time, his blood will be on the steeple of every church that promoted political agendas to gain access to the kingdom of men.