His first followers had Jesus himself to learn from. After his death, resurrection and ascension, the next wave of believers had the first followers and the Holy Spirit to guide them in the ways of faithfulness. Then, as those generations died, subsequent Christians relied on the Holy Spirit and the writings of the first followers to help make sense of God’s revelation of God’s self to humans.

Many find the word “Theology” intimidating. However, for Christians, it is simply the ongoing act of making sense of God’s revelation without the physical presence of Jesus and his original witnesses.

As an undergraduate theology major, I took a class called Basic Christian Doctrines. This was essentially a systematic theology course that presented the various ways Christians throughout history have attempted to organize the themes found in the Bible into cohesive units. Dr. Donald Potts, a well-respected scholar who loved his students and God, taught the class.

As a cradle Southern Baptist, I was shocked to learn as a young adult that there is more than one way Bible readers have interpreted ideas like the end times and nature of God. What shook me to the core was being exposed to the many paths people have gone down to understand the meaning of Jesus and his life, death and resurrection.

As a proponent of academic freedom, Dr. Potts had enough integrity to expose us to many historical Christian beliefs about Jesus. But as a conservative theologian, he also knew how to place his rhetorical thumb on the scale to influence us on which one we should hold as the most faithful explanation.

Regardless, some of us were intrigued by the other options, and even more intrigued by the thought that there may be more out there.

Most, however, closed the book at the end of class, having made their decision on what they would believe about Jesus until kingdom come. One of these doctrines they have carried is, perhaps, the most prevalent belief among modern evangelicals and one that isn’t just personal but affects all of us.

I won’t get into the weeds with what the doctrine is called or all its many angles and crevices. But, it is essentially the belief that humans can’t live up to God’s perfect standard, and the debt for our inability to do so is separation from God (hell).

In this framework, the life of Jesus was to show us how we’ve missed the mark, the death of Jesus was to take on the debt owed by humans, and the resurrection of Jesus was to make good on the promise of eternal life. The ramifications of this belief are legion. 

But one in particular carries significant implications for how the followers of Jesus are to live among their neighbors. If the parts of the Bible between Bethlehem and Calvary are primarily about contrasting the perfect life of Jesus and the imperfect lives of humans, then the teachings of Jesus become nothing more than object lessons about our failures.

Recently, MAGA journalist Megan Basham put this belief on display in a post on X. In the wake of Donald Trump’s pending inauguration and amid an online dialogue about how the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37) relates to our responsibility to those who are marginalized, Basham wrote: 

Here, Basham is practicing the meaning-making work of theology.

But there’s something else about theology that Christian prophets of Uniformity, Inequity and Exclusion (UIE) like Basham would prefer you not to know about. (We also weren’t told this at East Texas Baptist University.) Since Constantine made Christianity the official religion of empire (probably before), theology has been about making sense of Jesus, but it has also been about exercising and retaining power.

Basham’s (and the vast majority of American evangelicals’) interpretation of the parable of the good Samaritan tries to make sense of Jesus, but it is also functional. It serves a purpose.

As I reflected on this particular interpretation of the parable, I couldn’t help but think how it sounded like something the teacher of the law, the one whose question about what constitutes a “neighbor” prompted the parable, would have concocted after walking away and stewing in anger for a while about what Jesus was telling him. 

If the parable’s point isn’t about how we should care for our neighbor (and how a hated Samaritan does this better than us), then I am free from responsibility to my neighbor. “He wasn’t really telling me what we all know he was telling me,” the teacher of the law must have thought. “He was talking about my soul.”

This interpretation lets the teacher of the law, not to mention the priest and Levite in the parable, off the hook for any issue related to caring for the marginalized. It compels kings and aspiring despots to look at prophets of the truth and call them “nasty,” “very boring” and “uninspiring,” while the court evangelicals sit back in “palpable disgust” at the words of Jesus.

Other than Jesus, you know who doesn’t have the time or privilege for this interpretation of the parable? The person in the ditch.

They know exactly what Jesus was saying, and so do you.



 

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