Let’s Talk About Hell

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Recently I posted the following on social media:

I’m a Christian, a follower of Jesus. Of course I believe in hell.

But do I believe in a post-mortem lake of fire where people are tortured eternally for not believing the right things? Absolutely not. That’s utterly unchristian and foreign to the way of Jesus.

But I was being tricksy.

I was intentionally trying to get a reaction from both the “fundamentalists” and the “progressives.” Christian fundamentalists, of course, believe exactly what I deny in the second part, and they think this belief is the historically orthodox, biblical, properly Christian understanding of hell (it isn’t). And Christian progressives—or at least the most progressive of progressives—don’t believe in any kind of hell at all. Some ultra-progressives don’t even have any place for sin in their theological framework.

But it’s really hard to be a “follower of Jesus” in any meaningful way and deny the reality of hell. After all, Jesus talks about it quite a bit in the Gospels, mostly as gehenna, and given the location of that concept historically—and even geographically—it’s quite likely this memory accurately reflects the historical Jesus of Nazareth.

This is not hell.

But there’s also nothing in Jesus’ teaching in the Gospels that supports the idea that God sends people to a place of eternal torture because they don’t believe the right things about Jesus or God or salvation. In spite of the prooftexts that some might trot out.

So what do I think about hell? A few thoughts.

First, for Jesus in the Gospels, “hell” is pretty consistently for those who abuse their power by harming those who have less power.

A few examples:

“If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell” (Matt 5:28-29).

This ⬆️ is for men who lust after women—in a patriarchal culture where men have power over women and women have little power over men. It’s telling, then, that Jesus doesn’t command women to “dress modestly”; rather, he calls out men for their objectification and sexualization of women’s bodies.

“If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life maimed or lame than to have two hands or two feet and to be thrown into the eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into the hell of fire” (Matt 18-8-9).

This ⬆️ is for those who cause children to “stumble”—probably at least a reference to keeping children from coming to Jesus, though possibly a more sinister reference to child abuse. Either way, it’s an abuse of power over those without power, again in a patriarchal culture where men were at the top of the heap and children among those at the bottom.

“The rich man also died and was buried. In hell, where he was being tormented, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side” (Luke 16:23).

This ⬆️ is Jesus’ story of the rich man and Lazarus—and the rich man is in hell (here “Hades,” the realm of the dead) because he had refused to help the poor man at his gates. “Woe to you rich,” Jesus has already warned in Luke’s Gospel, “for you have received your consolation. Who to you who are full now, for you will be hungry.” (6:24-25).

“Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ And these will go away into eternal punishment but the righteous into eternal life” (Matt 25:45-46).

This ⬆️ is Jesus’ story of the sheep and the goats—and the “goats” who go to “eternal punishment” are those who have the means to care for the poor, the stranger, the sick, and the imprisoned, and yet they refuse to do so.

You get the idea.

Second, for Jesus in the Gospels, “hell” is most often a translation of the word gehenna—and for those instances where that’s not the case, the idea of gehenna is probably not far away.

I’ve got a separate blog post on this, but here’s the executive summary.

Gehenna is a reference to the Valley of Hinnom, a literal valley on the south side of Old Jerusalem. It was the place where, at particularly horrible times in ancient Israel, children were burned in sacrifice to other gods—epitomizing the depths of injustice present in Israelite society at the time. These “fires of gehenna” were not lit by God but by people with power pursuing idolatry and injustice. Yet God warned that one day this valley would burn with the corpses of these violent powers-that-be, when the Babylonian empire came a-conquering. And so gehenna came to be a symbol of God “turning the tables” on abusers of power, abusers of the powerless.

Are you seeing a theme?

This is also not hell.

Third, for Jesus in the Gospels, even this “hell-as-gehenna, as a just punishment for abusers of power over others” probably involves some good ol’-fashioned symbolism and hyperbole.

As a teacher of wisdom, Jesus was not averse to hyperbole. Right in the context of the first example above you’ve got exaggeration for effect: eyes being gouged out and hands being cut off. And as an apocalyptic prophet, he was not averse to apocalyptic-prophetic imagery, which was highly symbolic. Beasts are not literal beasts, multiple heads are not literal heads, and “eternal fires of hell” are neither literal fires, nor literally without end.

Don’t misunderstand: neither hyperbole nor symbolism mean that the thing they are describing is “not real” or “not true.” Rather, they are telling the truth, but telling it slant, to borrow from Emily Dickinson.

The hyperbole and vivid imagery catch your attention. They tell you, “This is important, listen up!” They point to some very real truths—in this case how much God hates it when people abuse their power and harm those under their power, and that one day these abusers will face the consequences. But it’s not in a literal lake of fire, being eternally tormented.

I would say that, generally, this understanding of “hell” holds true for later, similar descriptions of “hell” in the New Testament, where the word gehenna is not directly used. Regardless, this is what “hell” meant for Jesus.

So yes, as a follower of Jesus I believe in hell. And, like Jesus, I say woe to you who are abusing your wealth and power, causing harm to those without wealth and power—you’ve got a hellish time coming your way, whatever that might look like. For the sake of those you are harming—and your own sake—turn from your wicked ways, make restitution to those you have harmed, and follow Jesus in his way of love.

Leading the Willfully Aggrieved

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It’s a hard truth of leadership: when you’re a leader in a group or organization, including the church, people will sometimes disagree with what you say and do.

Another hard truth of leadership: not everyone who disagrees with you is willing to talk with you about it. Thankfully, some are. But many are not.

I learned the first hard truth early in my experiences of leadership. I learned the second hard truth in my last stint as a pastor, and I experience it in my new role as a regional church leader. There are some people who simply don’t want to have a conversation with leadership about issue X, Y, or Z, even though they have strong feelings about X, Y, or Z which are at odds with their perception of “where leadership is going.”

Now there are many reasons why this might be the case, but at least for some, they draw a sense of power and even identity from being able to claim that “leadership doesn’t listen” or “leadership doesn’t care.” And then some of them will use that power to draw others to them, and together they form a group who share that sense of aggrieved identity—all while ignoring or refusing invitations from leadership to have a conversation. They’ll claim, “The leaders won’t actually listen, so what’s the point?” but they don’t really know that since they won’t actually talk with the leaders.

This dynamic is a common human trait. You see it in the political realm all the time.

I grew up in Alberta, where many Albertans had a strong sense of “western alienation” as part of their identity. They railed against Ottawa and claimed that the federal government didn’t care about them, didn’t listen to them. But any time a prime minister or cabinet minister would come to Alberta for a meeting or town hall, they’d either not show up or they’d show up but sit there in silence, arms crossed. That allowed them to go back to their group and say, “See, I told you they wouldn’t listen!”

It’s similar—but with some important differences—to the phenomenon of a wounded person clinging to their wounds (physical or psychological) and not moving toward healing. Their wounds become part of their identity, and if they come to a moment of realization about this, they acknowledge that they don’t really want to be healed because that would mean having to change, to become a different person.

The key distinction between this and the other, of course, is that here we’re talking about someone with genuine wounds. In the situations I’ve described earlier we don’t actually know if their grievances are legitimate because there’s no chance to talk about them, to clarify, to seek mutual understanding.

So what can leaders do in these situations? How do you lead the willfully aggrieved?

I don’t have any magic solution here. All I’ve got is patient, compassionate persistence.

I keep my door open, and keep letting these folks know my door is open. I offer to talk, or better to listen, in person if possible, every time I become aware of a new aggrieved person. I keep reaching out to the person, and to their group. I try to be gentle, to be patient, to be compassionate, to be respectful, to be kind.

Sure, sometimes you have to set boundaries with those who persist in their willfully aggrieved state and invite supportive friends and colleagues to help those boundaries be maintained. This is necessary if the person is continually speaking out publicly or in their group but refusing to talk with you directly, especially when this behaviour becomes abusive or destructive. But, to use Paul’s words, “As far as it depends on you, be at peace with all people” (Rom 12:18).

It’s also important to maintain peace within yourself. I’ve had to learn to accept the hard truth that not everyone who disagrees with me is willing to talk with me about it. That reality has eaten at my soul many times, causing me tremendous anxiety and even contributed to bouts of depression. But I am learning to accept this truth. I am learning to entrust these situations, these people, into God’s hands.

Two hard truths of leadership. And yet God is with us, even in the hard truths.

What is Christian nationalism? And why is it a problem?

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There’s a lot of discussion about Christian nationalism these days, and a lot of people are unsure what to make of it, or even what Christian nationalism (CN) is. Some thoughts on what it is and why it’s a problem…

Let’s start with “nationalism.” Encyclopaedia Britannica gets it nicely: “Nationalism is an ideology that emphasizes loyalty, devotion, or allegiance to a nation or nation-state and holds that such obligations outweigh other individual or group interests.” Nationalism is not just patriotism; it’s an elevation of the nation-state to a place of high allegiance, often with a sense of the nation’s superiority over others.

“Christian” nationalism adds the expectation that the nation reflect specific values deemed to be Christian, in its constitution, laws, policies, and so on. Typically it means that these things should be based on biblical laws or teachings, especially the Ten Commandments.

Christian nationalism thus holds the expectation that Christianity be privileged in some way, perhaps even adopted as the state religion. In more extreme forms, CN includes ideas like requiring high-ranking government officials to be Christian or expecting immigrants to adopt Christianity.

If this is hard to imagine, just replace “Christian” with “Islamic” or “Jewish,” and imagine Islamic or Jewish nationalism as the guiding ideology for a nation-state.

So much for what it is. What’s wrong with it? Well, there are several problems with nationalism generally and Christian nationalism in particular. Here are a few…

First, nationalism’s elevation of the nation-state and the sense of the nation’s superiority can lead to interventionist, even expansionist, policies, resulting in increased violence world-wide and (ironically) less security at home.

Now, nationalism is an inherently isolationist ideology. It sees “globalism”—nation-states working together in a way that is perceived to erase national identities—as a threat. However, nationalism can become expansionist. The nation can seek to impose its values on other nations through cultural, economic, military, or other means. This is when nationalism becomes imperialism. Think 400 years of colonization by western European nation-states. Or Russian expansionism now in Ukraine. Or most US foreign policy since WWII.

Second, when this nationalism conflates the nation-state with a particular person, you get cult-like authoritarian regimes, even under the guise of “democracy.” Think Nazi Germany, or Putin’s Russia, or MAGA America. Combine with the previous, and you get war. Even world wars.

Third, an obvious problem with Christian nationalism is this: which Christianity? Inevitably it is a conservative version, mirroring nationalism’s expectation of allegiance and its sense of superiority. Literalist in its reading of Scripture and fundamentalist in its outlook.

And white. And patriarchal. This also needs to be said: Christian nationalism is a white, patriarchalist movement. It’s an attempt to re-create a lost society, a golden era of 1950s white, “family values” suburbia. Think “Leave it to Beaver,” but with more overt Christianity.

But this is only one slice of Christianity, and a relatively recent one at that. Christianity originated on the margins; anything like Christian nationalism was unthinkable for its first 300 years. The “kingdom” Jesus envisioned is “not of this world”: it’s not a political entity, a nation-state.

And the Christianity that grew from Jesus wasn’t white, and it wasn’t patriarchal. Following Jesus’ way, early Christianity was intercultural and egalitarian, sometimes even radically so.

Finally, Christian nationalism seeks to impose religious values on others who do not share those values, even requiring them to live contrary to their own religious (or non-religious) values. Which, of course, is a problem if the nation is striving to be a democracy.

Note: the problem is not having different values, or seeking to persuade others to share one’s values, or even seeking to establish laws for the common good on the basis of one’s values. All this is fundamental to democracy.

The problem is not even that sometimes we have to agree to things deemed to be for the common good which go against our personal values. Again, democracy. Or just, “living together.”

No, the problem is the imposition of one’s values on others, requiring them through a use of power to abide by or even adopt those values themselves, and especially without striving through dialogue, debate, and compromise to determine a “common good.” This is not democracy.

This is also not many Christians’ understanding of Christianity. Jesus didn’t impose. He didn’t coerce. He didn’t use power to make people follow his way. The opposite, in fact.

Jesus gave up his power, he gave up his privilege, in order to serve others, to meet their deepest needs, to love them. This is Philippians 2. This is the Gospels. This is the gospel.

And this is authentic, historic Christianity.

© Michael W. Pahl

Why (and How) Do I Trust the Gospels?

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Although I don’t believe in Scripture’s inerrancy, I do believe in its inspiration, that God “breathed into” the ancient writings that comprise the anthology we Christians call Scripture, enlivening them to make them “useful” for teaching and training us in God’s ways, the way of Jesus (2 Tim 3:15-17). And although I have spoken out against fundagelical “bibliolatry” (venerating the Bible in the place of God, acting as if the Bible and not Jesus is Lord), it is certainly true that, as I’ve also said, we need to “read the Bible to follow Jesus.”

But how do I fit this all together? If the biblical writings—and the Gospels in particular—are not inerrant, how are they reliable for teaching us about Jesus and his way?

Here’s how I make sense of this.

I agree with scholars who determine that the Gospels are a form of ancient biography (bios), along the lines of those by Suetonius or Plutarch. These bioi are similar to modern biographies in that they tell the story of a historical person of some significance. Like modern biographies, bioi rely on prior sources for the story they create: written sources, oral traditions, and personal testimony.

Of course, ancient biographers didn’t have the advantages of their modern counterparts—video and audio recordings, extensive libraries and archives, the internet. They worked with the sources they had, which often wasn’t much. Because of this, ancient biographers felt freedom to paraphrase or expand or summarize their sources, and even fill in gaps with their own creations. In fact, rhetorical education of the day provided opportunities to practice this.

Ancient biographers included fantastical elements like cosmic portents at the subject’s birth or death, or miracles performed by the person or because of their presence. Some of these may have been prompted by an actual event of some kind (not necessarily “supernatural” or “miraculous”), but these were seen as signs of the person’s significance regardless of whether or not they actually happened as described. And ancient biographers were unconcerned with an accurate order of events or even necessarily providing what we might today consider basic biographical information.

In short, an ancient bios was a story about a historical person deemed to have public significance, using prior sources but with freedom to “play with” those sources, in order to enlighten the reader about the person’s significance and encourage the reader to learn from their life and characteristic ideas.

This is the canonical Gospels. This understanding of the Gospels itself suggests that Jesus was a historical person and that the Gospels reflect a variety of sources, however much each of the Gospel authors “played with” those sources to portray Jesus in a particular way. And this in turn prompts me to read them through two different sets of lenses.

The first set of lenses is a critical historical one: I read through the Gospels (and other sources) to learn who Jesus was as a person in history.

Now, this is a whole blog post in itself (a book, really, or a set of them). But in summary, I think Jesus of Nazareth would have seen himself as a prophet, sort of a cross between Elijah/Elisha and Isaiah. More specifically, and roughly in line with a wide cross-section of historical Jesus scholars, I think that:

  • Jesus of Nazareth announced that Isaiah’s promised “reign of God” was imminent—God’s reign of true justice and lasting peace on earth, bringing flourishing life for God’s people and all creation, in contrast to the “kingdoms” of this world.
  • Jesus gathered disciples and taught them his interpretation of the Torah, focusing moral obligations around loving God pre-eminently by loving others, including neighbours, strangers, and enemies.
  • Influenced by Isaiah’s “peaceable kingdom” visions, Jesus taught and lived out a form of nonviolent resistance to evil oppressors.
  • Jesus, like Elijah and Elisha, paid special attention to the poor, widows, children, and others impoverished in power.
  • Jesus shared meals with those deemed “sinners” as well as the religiously powerful.
  • Jesus, following Elijah’s/Elisha’s footsteps, became known as a healer (whether or not these healings were miraculous, Jesus’ reputation as a healer is one thing even ancient non-Christian references to Jesus highlight).
  • At some point, Jesus began to take on a messianic mantle, presenting himself as Isaiah’s “servant” who would bring about God’s reign in its fullness (note: “messiah” does not in itself imply “deity”).
  • Jesus lived and taught these things in such a way that he was deemed an enemy of powerful people, including the Roman state, and so was crucified.

There’s more to this “Jesus as prophet” picture one gets through critical historical means, some of which is troubling (e.g. his anti-“family values” teachings) and some of which was wrong (e.g. predicting the fulfilment of God’s reign within a generation). But I do find this Jesus of Nazareth compelling—enough to read the Gospels through a second set of lenses.

This second set of lenses is a historical-theological one: I read the Gospels to learn how each of them interpreted the stories and traditions of Jesus they had inherited to understand Jesus for their own time.

This is another blog post (or book, or book series), but here are a few summary thoughts. In general, each of the Gospels emphasizes different aspects of Jesus of Nazareth, and in some respects they highlight those aspects beyond what I imagine Jesus himself would have found comfortable.

  • Mark highlights Jesus as the “messianic servant” of Isaiah, especially emphasizing Jesus’ suffering and death as critical for understanding Jesus’ messianic identity and the nature of God’s reign.
  • Matthew builds on Mark, but also highlights Jesus as the “messianic teacher” who authoritatively interprets Torah for his followers in the messianic age.
  • Luke builds on (and to an extent critiques) Mark and Matthew, but highlights Jesus as “messianic peacemaker” who shows the way of peace and brings about inclusion for the marginalized and justice for the oppressed.
  • John mostly (but not entirely) ignores Mark, Matthew, and Luke, and highlights Jesus as “divine messiah” who reveals God to the world and draws the world to God.

The Gospel authors, then, use the genre of ancient bioi to present their portraits of Jesus. They “play with” their sources—paraphrasing, expanding, summarizing, re-ordering, and embellishing them, but still relying on them—to present a particular angle on Jesus of Nazareth, to enlighten their readers about what Jesus said and did and why he is significant.

This also means the cosmic portents they describe at Jesus’ birth and death highlight Jesus as true messianic king in contrast to the line of Caesars. The healing miracles show him to be a true prophet like Elijah and Elisha. The nature miracles point to his divine mission or even, in the case of John’s Gospel, his divine origin. Whether or not those things actually happened is less important than what they signify.

Here’s the thing for me: I not only find the historical Jesus of Nazareth to be a compelling person, I find the canonical Gospels’ bioi of Jesus to be compelling interpretations of Jesus’ life and teaching and larger significance. And this—along with other factors such as my own spiritual experience—compels me to believe in Jesus as Messiah bringing about God’s reign on earth, as Lord owning our allegiance above all other powers of this world, as Saviour bringing about justice and peace and flourishing life for all, and even as God incarnate revealing God as God truly is.

Will this convince others? I don’t presume to think so. All I can say is, along with the late Rachel Held Evans, “The story of Jesus is the story I’m willing to risk being wrong about.”

———————-

There’s a massive amount of scholarly literature on the Gospels and Jesus. The following are just a few examples, including both more technical volumes and more popular works.

The classic study of the canonical Gospels as ancient biographies is Richard A. Burridge, What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (3rd ed.; Baylor University Press, 2020).

The best works on the relationship of the Gospels to each other are E. P. Sanders and Margaret Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels (Trinity Press, 1989); Mark Goodacre, The Synoptic Problem: A Way through the Maze (T&T Clark, 2001); Mark Goodacre, The Case Against Q: Studies in Markan Priority and the Synoptic Problem (Trinity Press, 2002); Mark Goodacre, Thomas and the Gospels: The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Eerdmans, 2012).

Good representative works on the historical Jesus reflecting a cross-section of author backgrounds and perspectives: E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Fortress, 1985); John P. Meier, A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus (5 vols.; Doubleday, 1991-2016); E. P. Sanders, The Historical Figure of Jesus (Penguin, 1993); N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Fortress, 1996); Dale C. Allison, Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Fortress, 1998); Bart D. Ehrman, Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium (Oxford University Press, 1999); Paula Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity (Vintage, 1999); Dale C. Allison, Constructing Jesus: Memory, Imagination, and History (Baker, 2010); N. T. Wright, Simply Jesus: A New Vision of Who He Was, What He Did, and Why He Matters (HarperOne, 2011); Anthony Le Donne, Historical Jesus: What Can We Know and How Can We Know It? (Eerdmans, 2011); Helen K. Bond, The Historical Jesus: A Guide for the Perplexed (T&T Clark, 2012).

© Michael W. Pahl

Am I left or am I right? (and why I don’t really care)

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I came of age theologically in a conservative evangelical environment. Canadians may know the name “Prairie Bible Institute” or “Prairie Bible College” (“Prairie College” now) as a bastion of evangelicalism— most often a conservative form of evangelicalism. That was my space, both physically and theologically.

I was a card-carrying evangelical—literally. I was a member of the Evangelical Theological Society for many years, an academic society more diverse than conservative evangelicalism but very often dominated by an American flavour of conservative evangelicalism. And yes, I had a membership card.

That was the world I occupied from the time I was twenty until I was thirty-eight—nearly twenty years of adult life, living and breathing and teaching evangelicalism.

During my ten years of teaching at Prairie Bible College, I began to shift in my theological views, but never so far as to venture outside of the evangelical fold. As I taught through the New Testament many times, as I worked on my Ph.D. focused on the Gospels, Jesus, and Paul’s theology, I became more and more Anabaptist in my theology. This is the way I identified myself during that time: first as a moderate evangelical, then an evangelical Anabaptist.

It was during those years, while serving as Associate Professor of New Testament and Chair of the Department of Bible and Theology at Prairie Bible College, that I had two encounters within the span of a week that I will never forget.

In the first, after a lengthy discussion about whether or not concern for the poor was part of the gospel, or even something Christians should be particular focused on, the man I was speaking with called me a “liberal.”

In the second, after an equally lengthy discussion about whether the Bible is inspired and authoritative for Christians, or if Christians could view other scriptures as equally inspired and authoritative, the man I was speaking with called me a “fundamentalist.”

Since then I’ve been called both “liberal” and “fundamentalist” several times—as well as “progressive” and “conservative,” “leftist” and “on the right.”

When people have used those words, most often they’re not just labelling me, placing me on their spectrum (or often, polarity) of political, social, religious, or theological views. No, when people use those words, they’re an accusation. The label allows them to slot me into a category and dismiss my thoughts without even engaging them. Even more, they seem to think that by simply calling me that term, I will be shamed, and maybe I’ll recant. After all, no one wants to be a “leftist” or a “fundamentalist.”

As I’ve reflected on this frequent experience, though, going all the way back to those paradoxical encounters at Prairie Bible College, I’m even more interested in my own response to these accusations-as-labels, these attempts at shaming: I don’t really care.

I get it. I understand the labels and how they’re used. I’ve used the labels myself, when words are inadequate to describe people’s views on X, Y, or Z, but you need something to tag them with, something to succinctly describe where they sit relative to others. And yes, on many theological or social or political issues I would be on the progressive side of the spectrum (though on others I’d be more conservative—hence the conflicting labels I get).

But while I understand those labels, and I will even at times use them, they don’t register for me as something I should be concerned about. I can’t be motivated by attempts to shame me by accusing me of being a “liberal” or a “conservative.”

Recently I most often hear the label “leftist” applied to me. I talk about getting vaccinated for Covid, or the plight of Palestinians in Gaza, or the absurd wealth gap between the richest few and the many poor, or the importance of acting on climate change, or the bigotry that LGBTQ+ people experience, or the devastation of gun violence in the U.S.—and I get labelled a “leftist.”

Categorized and dismissed. Accused and shamed.

What’s even more galling for some is that I’m a church leader and I’m “leftist.” Church leaders are supposed to be neutral. They shouldn’t enter into these politically charged debates, taking a side. They’re just supposed to love people, everyone equally.

Crank that shaming up a notch or ten.

But that just doesn’t work for me. I don’t particularly care whether someone calls me “leftist,” or even (still occasionally) when I’m dismissed as a “conservative.”

It might sound cheesy, it might sound self-righteous, it might be hard to believe, but what motivates me is seeking to be faithful to the way of Jesus as shown in the Christian Scriptures and especially the Gospels. I don’t really care whether someone labels me as “left” or “right.” If you want to engage me about what I say or do, talk with me about the life and teachings of Jesus.

Does that put me on the left? Yeah, sometimes. Does that put me on the right? Yeah, sometimes. But that simply doesn’t concern me.

Having said that, it’s not entirely true that I don’t really care. I do care when someone labels me in accusatory fashion a “leftist” or “conservative”—because that tells me something about them. It tells me what position they see themselves occupying on a left-right spectrum relative to how they view me. It tells me something about how they perceive the world, what it is that they value.

And if they’re a Christian, it tells me that this left-right spectrum, even polarity, which we have created to help us make sense of the world, may well be more important to them than following Jesus. And that saddens me deeply.

© Michael W. Pahl

The Problem with “Wokeness”

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Certain politicians in the U.S. and Canada have surged in popularity in part by decrying “wokeness” in our society, “woke ideology” in our universities, and the “woke agenda” of non-conservative governments. What exactly they mean by “wokeness,” though, can be hard to pin down.

The language of “woke” grew out of the Black experience in the U.S., all the way back in the 1930s. Originally it had the idea of being aware of—and on guard against—the violence and systemic injustice experienced by Black people in American society.

More recently “woke” language has been used to mean being aware of systemic injustice generally, as experienced by any historically marginalized or disempowered group—Black people, Indigenous people, women, impoverished people, LGBTQ+ people—and the ways these different dimensions of the human experience of marginalization or disempowerment intersect with each other.

Still more recently, picked up and nourished by those savvy conservative politicians, this language of “woke” has taken on other connotations. It now evokes for many people, including many Christians, ideas of a nefarious agenda by powerful but out-of-touch “progressives” or “leftists” or “elites”—those people who live in coastal cities or teach in liberal universities, or who work for global organizations like the United Nations—to weaken the fabric of our society, take away our freedoms, and destroy free-market capitalism.

“Woke” is now equivalent to tried-and-true scarewords of the past like “socialist” and “communist” and “Marxist.” For these “anti-woke” politicians, “wokeness” is the opposite of the down-to-earth “common sense” of “average Americans and Canadians”—who happen to be mostly white, straight, and middle-class.

The problem with “wokeness,” it seems to me, is twofold.

The first problem with “wokeness” is that there is no problem with “wokeness”—that is, with the essential ideas that originated in the Black community and have found purchase in the experience of other groups.

There are groups of people that historically, genuinely, have been pushed to the margins of society and stripped of the power to determine their own future on their own terms. It is true that various dimensions of human experience intersect in this injustice, so that an Indigenous person in Canada is at a higher risk of poverty and violence than a white person, but that an Indigenous woman is at even higher risk of these things.

It’s also true that, for Christians who look to our Scriptures and ultimately to Jesus for our moral compass, these essential ideas of “wokeness” do not run counter to our faith. In fact, they are very much with the grain of our faith. The Law of Moses, the Prophets, and the Gospel stories of Jesus are filled with much that highlights the need for what we today call “social justice,” including economic justice, racial justice, gender justice, and more.

This first problem with “wokeness,” then, is that the use of “woke” as a pejorative scareword has no substance. It’s based on misunderstandings at best, and baseless conspiracy theories at worst.

But there is a second problem with “wokeness,” a genuine problem, as I’ve experienced while moving in some of those “woke” circles. These circles have largely dropped the term as a self-designation, in large part because of the way it has been co-opted as a scareword by more conservative people and politicians. But this problem remains, regardless of whether the term is used: people who recognize the reality of systemic injustice in our society and with the intersectional nature of that injustice, can sometimes, as we speak against this injustice and work for greater justice, perpetuate injustice ourselves.

We can operate with prejudices, even cruelty, against those who don’t agree with us. We can divide humanity into “us” and “them” along the lines of those aware of systemic injustice and those who aren’t, and then denigrate and even vilify those who we feel are not sufficiently aware (even “cancelling” a progressive ally if they don’t meet our expectations). We can use coercive power, even institutional violence, to correct the injustices we have identified, and so perpetuate the very injustice we deplore.

In other words, while the use of “woke” as a pejorative scareword is without substance, some of those conservative critiques of “wokeness” do have some truth to them. Socially, politically, and religiously progressive folks can be elitist. We can be hypocritical. We can be cruel, even causing injustice or committing violence.

For Christians who look to our Scriptures and ultimately to Jesus for our moral compass, then, while the essential ideas of “wokeness” do not run counter to our faith, some of the by-products of “wokeness” in our society (or whatever term we use) do run counter to our faith. They run counter to love.

May we as Christians keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, and in so doing walk in his ways of love and justice and peace, without hypocrisy, without prejudice, and without violence toward all our neighbours, each of whom is created in God’s image and deeply loved by God.

Bad Bible Takes Cause Harm

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It’s no secret that I am fully affirming of LGBTQ+ people and equal marriage. It’s also no secret that my position on this is shaped in large part by my reading of the Bible, centred on Jesus and the surprising work of the Spirit.

However, it’s not enough for me to say, “Here’s what I think is a better way of reading the Bible related to sexuality, gender, and marriage.” It’s also important to put the spotlight on some really bad takes on a few biblical passages, not to win a debate, but because these bad takes have caused—and continue to cause—tremendous harm to LGBTQ+ folks.

Here are four of those Bad Bible Takes that cause real-life harm.

Bad Bible Take #1: Sodom and Gomorrah were judged by God because of homosexuality.

I get it. On the surface it sure looks like that’s what’s going on in Genesis 19, since you’ve got “the men of Sodom” wanting to have sex with the visiting angels, described as “men.”

But it’s hard to imagine that all “the men of the city” of Sodom, “all the people to the last man,” were gay. And more importantly, the sex being described is not based on sexual attraction; it is violent rape, which is always about power and control more than it is about sex. (Prepare your innocent eyes here: the rape of not just women, but also men, by heterosexual male soldiers has not been an uncommon feature of warfare through human history.)

The true sin of Sodom in this story is that, not only did the Sodomites refuse to extend hospitality to the strangers in their midst (like that modeled by Abraham in the previous chapter), they responded to these strangers with violence, wanting to brutalize them and cast them out. One wonders if this was the way Sodom treated all those who were vulnerable and needy.

Which is exactly where Ezekiel 16:49-50 goes with the Sodom story: “This was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease but did not aid the poor and needy. They were haughty and did abominable things before me; therefore I removed them when I saw it.”

“Ah,” you might say, “but Jude says Sodom’s sin was homosexuality!” And you’d be wrong.

Jude 7 says, “Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which, in the same manner as they, indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural lust, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.” The phrase “unnatural lust” is literally “lusting after different flesh,” and seems to be a reference to the men lusting after angels. (Think about it: it would be weird to describe same-sex lust as lusting after “different flesh”!).

But what about the “abominable things” that Ezekiel mentions? Could that be a reference to homosexuality? Well, it’s possible that they refer to the same thing being referenced in Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13, which speak of a man “lying with a male as with a woman,” describing this as an “abomination” (same word in Hebrew). However, if that’s so, this actually helps us interpret Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13, not the other way around—which leads to the next Bad Bible Take.

Bad Bible Take #2: The Law of Moses condemns homosexuality.

Again, I get it. “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” seems pretty straightforward. But there are a few things wrong with seeing this as a blanket condemnation of “homosexuality.”

First, these verses in Leviticus say nothing about female-female sex, only some form of male-male sex. And second, these verses say nothing about same-sex attraction, let alone sexual orientation. In other words, right off the bat these verses are not condemning everything that is meant today by “homosexuality”: a sexual orientation that involves same-sex attraction, either female-female or male-male, and which may or may not be expressed through same-sex sexual acts.

Third, the phrase “as with a woman” suggests that penetration is the specific sexual act being described. Not sexual orientation, not female-female sex acts, and not even all male-male sex acts: just male-male penetration. If this is the focus, this prohibition is probably alluding to patriarchal notions of sexual penetration being inherently a male act: men penetrate, women are penetrated. Considering Jesus upset many patriarchal notions in his day—including anticipating a time, already here, when men would no longer “marry” and women no longer “be given in marriage”—this would be an odd thing for Christians to double down on.

However, fourth, some scholars have suggested that the reference here is specifically to male-male sex as part of the idolatrous practices of Israel’s neighbours, and perhaps even to prostitution or pederasty within that idolatrous context. And here’s where the reference to Sodom in Ezekiel 16 can actually help understand what’s going on in Leviticus 18 and 20. Because Ezekiel 16 says a lot about sexual immorality and “abominations” in its comparison of Israel with Sodom—and it’s all about prostitution in the context of idolatry.

In other words, at the very least Leviticus 18 and 20 aren’t speaking to things like sexual orientation or even female-female sex. But it’s very likely these verses are not even speaking about all male-male sex either—only male-male sex that is idolatrous or exploitative in nature. Which leads to the next Bad Bible Take.

Bad Bible Take #3: Paul lists homosexuality among those sins that are contrary to sound teaching and keep one from the kingdom of God.

I’m speaking, of course, of the two “vice lists” in 1 Corinthians 6:9-10 and 1 Timothy 1:9-11. Some English translations use the word “homosexual” in these lists of sins. But that’s a really bad—and harmful—translation of the word arsenokoitai. (It’s worth noting that no English translation before 1946 translated arsenokoitai as “homosexuals.”)

Arsenokoitai comes from two Greek words, meaning “man” and “lie with.” If that rings a bell, it should—it’s the language of Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13. In other words, whatever is being referenced as sexual immorality in these Leviticus verses is likely what’s being described as sexual immorality in 1 Corinthians 6 and 1 Timothy 1.

And, as we’ve seen, that’s not “homosexuality” as some blanket term. It’s not about sexual orientation. It’s not about female-female sex. And it’s probably not even about all male-male sex, but particular male-male sex acts that are idolatrous or exploitative in nature. Which makes perfect sense in the context of these vice lists in 1 Corinthians  and 1 Timothy: “idolaters” and “slave traders” are listed right alongside arsenokoitai.

And this is a good segue to the fourth Bad Bible Take.

Bad Bible Take #4: Paul describes homosexuality as a sin which God gives people over to in judgment.

Yes, I’m now talking about Romans 1:26-27.

First, once again, this passage is only clearly speaking of male-male sex. Some translations have verse 26 describing women exchanging natural relations with unnatural relations “with other women”—but that last phrase is not there in Greek. The “unnatural relations” that women engage in are more likely “unnatural relations” with men, or, even more likely, with animals (Leviticus 20 once again may be in the background here, and bestiality is the one sin listed there which women are said to instigate).

Second, the male-male sex that is described has nothing to do with the sex that happens within a committed, loving relationship. It’s a sex motivated by lust and grounded in idolatry. In other words, like Leviticus 18 and 20, like 1 Corinthians 6 and 1 Timothy 1, Paul in Romans 1 seems to be thinking of male-male sex acts that are idolatrous and exploitative.

None of these passages—not a one—is referring to “homosexuality” in general as we understand it today, let alone what we know of as same-sex marriage. These are all condemning harmful same-sex acts, in exactly the same way that the Bible condemns harmful heterosexual acts.

These are just Bad Bible Takes.

But the worst part about all these Bad Bible Takes is not their exegesis, but the harm they have caused.

Some of these Bad Bible Takes are more clearly wrong interpretations or translations than others, especially Takes #1 and #3. But the reality is that at least some biblical scholars who oppose same-sex marriage don’t look to these passages anymore to support their view. They know these passages are not as clear as they’ve been made out to be, and they may not even speak about “homosexuality” as we think of it today.

But even worse than the biblical interpretation behind these Bad Bible Takes is the fact that these have been used as “clobber passages,” heavy clubs to pound gay people into submission, shame, and silence. Even if non-affirming scholars don’t look to these passages anymore, they are still used every day on social media, in coffee shops, around kitchen tables—and in churches.

The result has been devastating—not just for gay, lesbian, and bisexual folks, who one might expect to receive the brunt of these particular “clobber passages,” but for people of all the letters and the plus of “LGBTQ+.” Queer youth generally have a higher risk of depression, suicide, homelessness, and being a victim of a violent crime than the average. But the risk of these things is even greater when their family rejects them, and even greater again when their community of faith rejects them. (For instance, see here.)

And part of that rejection is taking these Bad Bible Takes and wielding them like a club, and in doing so destroying these beloved children of God, bearers of the image of God.

May we leave these Bad Bible Takes behind and instead reach out to LGBTQ+ folks around us and among us with love, with tenderness, with compassion—and with full acceptance, even celebration, for who they are.

As I’ve indicated in this post, many non-affirming biblical scholars and theologians don’t primarily base their view on these passages. They appeal to a broader biblical theology of gender, sexuality, and marriage, claiming that the Bible supports a binary view of sex and gender and/or a “traditional view” of marriage as only heterosexual. I don’t find their arguments compelling, but it’s important to note that I’m not addressing those “better” arguments for a non-affirming view here. See “My Journey toward Being Affirming” for a broader biblical-theological argument for an affirming perspective.

© Michael W. Pahl

Whose side are you on?

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In Joshua 5, we come across one of those wonderfully strange biblical stories that shakes our preconceptions and leaves us with more questions than answers.

Israel is encamped at Gilgal, preparing to besiege Jericho at God’s command—so they firmly believe. Suddenly Joshua sees a man whom he does not recognize standing in front of him, sword drawn.

“Whose side are you on?” Joshua asks. A reasonable question in the circumstances.

“Neither,” the man replies. “I have come as commander of God’s armies.”

Wait a second. Isn’t God on Israel’s side? God has delivered them from slavery in Egypt, covenanted with them at Sinai and led them to the Promised Land. If God is not on Israel’s side, who is?

As I write this, modern-day Israel’s armies are besieging and bombing Gaza, preparing to root out the Palestinian terrorist group Hamas. This is a response to Hamas’ horrific rampage of violence, slaughtering and kidnapping Israeli civilians. To this point, over 1,300 Israelis have been killed by Hamas. In response, over 1,500 Palestinians, nearly half of them children, have been killed by Israel.

Here in Canada we as Christians are asked, “Whose side are you on?” A reasonable question in the circumstances. How should we respond?

The way of Jesus helps guide us to an answer. In a world of complex and thorny questions, an increasingly polarized world where we are urged to take sides for and against, Jesus’ way provides the nuance we need and the moral clarity we require.

Jesus, I’m convinced, would give the same answer as the commander of God’s armies gave to Joshua—but still with a strong sense of standing with particular people. For Jesus does take a side. It’s just that the side he takes doesn’t necessarily match up with the binary choices we create.

In the Gospels, we never see Jesus taking the side of a political faction or a nation-state, certainly not one armed and ready for slaughter. Rather, Jesus is consistently on the side of people—real, living, flesh-and-blood people, especially those considered by the world to be “last” or “least” or “lost” (Jesus’ words).

Jesus stands on the side of the broken sinner, ready to repent, and offers forgiveness. Jesus stands on the side of the indebted poor, exploited by wealthy landowners, and offers good news.

Jesus stands on the side of the oppressed, occupied by a foreign power, and offers the earth. Jesus stands on the side of the sick and disabled, physically and financially dependent, and offers healing.

James Tissot, The Healing of Ten Lepers

Jesus stands on the side of the widow in her economic distress, the children ignored and powerless, the foreigner in an unfamiliar land, the leper outcast and feared by society, the humble faithful under the thumb of powerful religious leaders, the woman easily divorced by her husband to be left in shame and poverty, the insurgent hanging on a Roman cross, crying out for mercy.

In other words, Jesus consistently stands with the vulnerable-to-harm and the impoverished-in-power, those cast out and pressed down, those too easily and too often crushed and broken.

But for Jesus this does not create categories of people whom he supports (or opposes) as a block, blindly and without question. Again, Jesus stands on the side of real, living, flesh-and-blood people.

While standing with his fellow Jews under Rome’s occupation, he shows grace to a Roman centurion, healing his servant, and calls his compatriots to love their Roman enemies. While standing with the humble faithful under the thumb of some powerful religious leaders, he meets with one of these leaders by night, urging this seeker to be born again to see God’s reign of justice and peace and life.

This is the nuance we need to navigate a complex world. This is the moral clarity we require to enable us to know when, and with whom, and how to take a stand—and with whom to sit and share a meal.

We find Jesus in the “least of these”—the naked, the hungry, the stranger, the imprisoned, Israelis slaughtered by Hamas and Palestinians displaced and occupied and bombed by Israel—and there we stand, with Jesus. We see God’s image in the person right in front of us, regardless of their affiliation or allegiance, and there we sit with them, in grace.

Published in Canadian Mennonite 27, no. 21 (2023).

© Michael W. Pahl

Jesus Wasn’t “Family Values”

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The iconic Cleaver family

I am what they call a “family man,” committed to my wife and children. I love my wife, I love my family. I love families. Nothing brings a smile to my face quite like watching families (especially young families) just being a family together—except for being with my own family being a family together.

What’s more, my thoughts and feelings about the significance of marriage relationships and the importance of families are grounded firmly in my understanding and experience of Christian Scripture and the way of Jesus. Devoted faithfulness, holy love, persevering hope—marriage and family can give powerful witness to these and other core Christian virtues.

Nevertheless, none of that keeps me from acknowledging a few difficult realities.

For example, the Genesis creation stories are not as clear cut on marriage and family matters as we might like. Yes, these stories highlight how marriage relationships can fulfill the human need for biological procreation, how they can satisfy our innate need for human companionship, and how a marriage forms a new kinship group within society. These stories also underscore the inherent equality of “male and female” before God, sharing the dignity and responsibility of all humankind “in God’s image.”

However, there’s the fascinating fact that in the first creation story adam is said to include both “male and female” (Gen 1:27; see also 5:2), and the intriguing possibility that the second creation story is describing the creation of a non-gender-specified adam who is only gender-specified once the second human is built from the first (that’s when ish, “man,” and ishah, “woman,” are explicitly mentioned). I know, weird, eh?

And then there are all the ways even the “sure teachings” I’ve highlighted above fray at the edges as soon as you stretch them a little. These stories can’t be teaching that only procreative marriages are valid—what about couples unable to conceive? They can’t mean that marriage is the only way our innate need for companionship can be fulfilled—what about celibate singles? They can’t require that “male and female” be some absolute binary—what about intersex persons? Childless couples, celibate singles, “eunuchs from birth”—these were all known in the ancient world.

Or, for example, “biblical marriage” and the “biblical family” were not what we think of when we hear those phrases. We can tend to think of “marriage” as a relationship built around the love of two people for one another, and “family” as a nuclear family of one father, one mother, and their biological children.

However, most of the biblical depictions of marriage either assume or describe an adult man marrying a post-pubescent girl as arranged by the man or his father with the girl’s father, in large part to provide some economic or other pragmatic advantage for these men. We’re not talking Christian romance novels here.

Not the iconic Cleaver family

And most of the biblical depictions of family think of it more in terms of “household”: not just dad and mom and kids, but maybe also grandma, maybe a single uncle or aunt, maybe orphaned cousins, and, if dad were wealthy enough, maybe a few slaves and their kids (and in Old Testament days, maybe an additional mom, or concubine, or two or three, why not—and their kids). No, this isn’t “Leave It to Beaver.”

And then we get to Jesus, who was more disruptive than supportive of “traditional marriage” and “family values.” Sure, Jesus sides with the stricter interpretation of Jewish Law in his day when it comes to divorce and remarriage. And yes, Jesus speaks out not just against adultery but even against men lusting after a woman who is not their wife.

However, Jesus’ “No divorce except in adultery—and no remarriage!” was geared at least in part to protect women in a strongly patriarchal culture from being abandoned by men without provision for their welfare. And his “No lust!” put the onus on men to control their sexual desires—not women to restrict their dress or their actions. This is patriarchy put on notice.

Then there is a lengthy list of other things Jesus was and said and did that are often ignored in discussions of “Jesus and marriage/family.” In a marriage-dominated culture, Jesus was single and celibate. He encouraged others to be single and celibate instead of getting married—if they could hack it. As a single man he caused tongues to wag because of his close relationships with women. When his mom and siblings came to visit, he feigned indifference, saying his faithful disciples were his true mothers and brothers and sisters. Then there’s that bit about “hating your father and mother and wife and children” to follow Jesus. And that other bit about “follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead”—to the disciple who wanted to bury his father first.

Topping all this off is Jesus’ uncomfortable conviction that people will “neither marry nor be given in marriage” in the resurrection age. Echoes of Genesis, with its potentially androgynous original Adam? Maybe, but at the very least it’s patriarchy overturned—“marrying” was the dominant male role, “being given in marriage” the submissive female, and Levirate marriage (which the Sadducees were referencing) was all about keeping the male line going. No marriage = no male-dominated society.

No, Jesus wasn’t “family values.” He was “kingdom values,” centred not on kith and kin but on kingdom—God’s kingdom, God’s vision of justice and peace and flourishing life for all, not just families and the tribes that emerge from them.

Also not the iconic Cleaver family

The Apostle Paul doesn’t teach any differently. In fact, he’s right in line with Jesus if you focus on the letters most scholars believe Paul directly authorized. Paul, too, was single, and he viewed singleness as preferable to marriage. He frequently referred to God as “Father” and fellow believers as his “brothers and sisters,” while leaving no unambiguous reference to his own biological family. His teaching on divorce and remarriage is an extension of Jesus’, including the anti-patriarchal overtones.

Even Jesus’ idea that there will be no marrying or being given in marriage in the resurrection is there in Paul—that’s the essence of Galatians 3:28. In this passage Paul apparently quotes Genesis 1’s “male and female” when he says, “there is…no longer ‘male and female,’ for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” The resurrection age has arrived with the resurrected Christ, so now “in Christ” conventional—and even, it seems, creational—gender distinctions are irrelevant.

These radical ideas carried on into the early centuries of the church. For most early Christians, celibacy remained the ideal (even if they didn’t attain it themselves) and the church was God’s true family. For some, distinctive gender roles, at least within the church, were a relic of a bygone era. A few Jesus-followers even connected Jesus and Paul on this, passing around a saying of Jesus that “the kingdom of God would come” when “there is neither male nor female.”

However, not everyone could handle this. The Roman Empire certainly couldn’t—they, not the Christians, were the original guardians of “traditional family values.” These Christian teachings on marriage and family were seen by the powers-that-be as potentially subversive, even destabilizing for society (sound familiar?).

This led some early Christians to reassure their lords and neighbours that Christians were indeed pro-marriage, pro-familia. That’s the motivation for the so-called “household codes” in the New Testament, those passages that instruct wives, children, and slaves on how they were to relate to the pater familias, the patriarch of the proper Roman household. Yet even these capitulations to traditional Roman marriage and Roman family values were sometimes laced with subtle subversion. Imagine, the patriarch of the family being instructed at all in household matters, let alone having to love his wife and treat his slaves fairly!

What’s my point in all this? It’s not to mock the Bible, or to denigrate marriage and family—may it never be! That’s why I began this article the way I did (go back and start over if you need to). Rather, my point in all this is really three points.

First, we don’t do anyone any favours when we minimize the complexity and challenge of the Bible on marriage and family. The Bible’s teachings on these things are not uniform, and neither are they clear or simple. They’re certainly not easy. There are difficult laws and stories and teachings in the collection of ancient writings we call the Bible that do not fit neatly into our modern, western, nostalgia-for-white-1950s-suburbia way of thinking about marriage and family. If we want to take our Bibles seriously we must face up to this fact.

Which leads right to my second point: we need to be careful not to assume our understanding of marriage or family is the right one. The range of perspectives and practices on marriage and family throughout Israelite, Jewish, and Christian history is astounding. Polygamy, concubinage, monogamy, celibacy. Other-sex, same-sex, no-sex covenants. Households with slaves, extended families, nuclear families, adoptive families, single-parent families. Patriarchal, egalitarian.

All these and more have been represented among God’s people through history to today, all of them justified by divine revelation or human tradition or simple necessity. This doesn’t mean anything goes for Christians thinking about marriage and family. It means that a Christian perspective on marriage or family is not going to be determined by a facile appeal to Scripture or history.

Which then leads to a third point: it’s simply wrong to elevate marriage or family at all—let alone some specific idea of marriage or family—to the status of “essential Christian teaching” or a “gospel issue” or the like. I hear people say things like, “The Bible begins in Genesis with a marriage and ends in Revelation with a marriage, and that is why the nature of marriage is fundamental to our story as well,” and my first thought is, “But we follow as Lord an unmarried man who encouraged celibacy and taught that there would be no marriage in God’s good future.” Seriously, ponder that.

There’s a reason none of the New Testament gospel summaries or early Christian rules of faith or creeds said anything about marriage or family or even sexuality: these, like all dimensions of human existence, are impacted by the gospel, but they are not the gospel.

Here’s the thing: The crucial question of Christianity is not and never has been, “What do you think about marriage?” but Jesus’ question, “Who do you say that I am?” The central call of Christianity is not and never has been, “Stand up for traditional family values!” but Jesus’ call, “Come, follow me.”

This Bible-believing family man fears we’re confusing these things, conflating them, and thus badly missing the point of it all.

© Michael W. Pahl

In which I talk about politics, with fear and trepidation*

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As a follower of Jesus, I don’t much care who the ruling party is. Prime ministers and premiers come and go, but Jesus is still Lord—which means that no matter who rules on earth, I am still called to love God by loving my neighbour as if their needs were my own. I’m still called to love my enemies, welcome the stranger, heal the sick, free the captive, forgive debts, care for those considered “least,” bring good news to the poor, and warn the rich and powerful of the woes that will befall them. This is politics according to Jesus.

But politics according to Jesus does intersect with the politics of the world. When Jesus proclaimed the “kingdom of God,” he was claiming an alternative vision to the kingdoms of the world. When he brought “good news to the poor,” he was declaring a very different “good news” than that claimed by the Roman Empire. And all that Jesus-y stuff I listed in the previous paragraph? That’s the stuff that our politics—the ordering of society, collectively making decisions—is concerned with.

Health care. Immigration. Economic wellbeing. Creating a just society. Politics according to Jesus intersects with all these things and more.

So, while I don’t much care who the ruling party is, I do care about all these things. When a ruling party—or, in an election, a possible ruling party—makes policies or promises that ultimately work against these things (however much they appear like short-term fixes), I cannot support them, and at times I must even speak against them.

Which is why I cannot in good conscience, as a follower of Jesus, support parties on the conservative side of the spectrum in Canada, at least as they are currently operating.

Conservative politics has changed in Canada. I remember when conservative parties in Canada assumed universal health care as a fundamental, necessary good. I remember when they promoted more open immigration. I remember when they taxed wealthy corporations at higher rates than even liberal governments do now in order to provide the social services Canadians need.

I remember when conservatives spoke of the common good at least as often as they spoke of individual liberties.

And this, to me, is the tragedy of conservative politics in Canada: it has lost its moral compass, while still claiming the moral high ground. It claims the high ground of personal ethics and public safety, but the ground it stands on is a fundamentally selfish position. It looks out for its own needs and the needs of those who are “like me.” It does not seek to love its neighbour as if the needs of the neighbour—or stranger, or poor, or sick, or “least”—were as their own.

Liberal or progressive politics in Canada is not free of critique, to be sure. Small l-liberal parties in Canada can tend to follow social trends too easily and too quickly. They can tend toward empty talk, speaking about the kinds of things noted above but doing little to actually move on them. Nevertheless, a principled, motivated liberal or progressive party in Canada is more likely to move Canadian society toward the kinds of things Jesus was concerned about than any of the more conservative parties in Canada, at least as things currently stand.

As I vote, and otherwise act as a citizen of Canada, I do so as a follower of Jesus. And so the question I ask myself is not, “Which candidate/party will make my life better?” It’s “Which candidate/party most closely aligns with these expressions of the reign of God?”

Loving neighbours, loving enemies, welcoming strangers, freeing captives, forgiving debts, healing the sick, caring for those considered “least,” bringing good news for the poor, warning woes on the rich and powerful—these are what it means to claim Jesus as Lord, these are what the reign of God is about, these are the politics of Jesus.

*To be clear, these views are my own and I am neither endorsing nor opposing any particular party or candidate.