You Call Yourself a Christian?

By Prioleau Alexander

When an ethics disagreement arises between a Christian and a non-believer, the non-believer often listens very carefully for the Christian to espouse an opinion that in some way fails to “tow the theological line” of Christianity. Once that line is crossed, the secularist can then use what they believe to be the greatest of taunts: “How can you call yourself a Christian?”

This kind of thing doesn’t bother me, because I’m perfectly comfortable responding, “Maybe I’m just not as Christian as you.” That tends to get them.

I was recently drawn into a typically stupid Facebook discussion, when one of today’s evangelical atheists posted, “Will one of you Christians please explain how you can be pro-death penalty?”

I responded, “For, say, a pedophile? Someone sexually molesting a two-year old?”

“Yes.”

“Convicted with DNA evidence? Absolutely 100% no-doubt guilty?”

“Yes.”

“If the criminal repented, Jesus wouldn’t be for a death penalty; he’d forgive him. But I wouldn’t. If fact, I’d be happy to be the one to push him into a vat of Drano.”

“How can you call yourself a Christian?”

I responded, “I’m a Christian, but a long ways from being Jesus.”

I’m sure it killed him that, since he doesn’t believe in Hell, he couldn’t tell me I was going to Hell.

I bring this topic up as I recently finished reading a book titled “Tribe.” It is an ingenious exploration of the tribal male psyche, exploring the changed lives of men who serve together in the combat—and the alienation and lack of purpose they feel once removed from their comrades and the authenticity of life in the moment.

As a former Marine (who served in only in peacetime), it helped me better understand my love of the enlisted men I led, and the unbreakable bonds between me and my fellow Lieutenants. It opened my eyes to the servant leadership so natural to Jesus.

But one of its most frightening concepts was “bitter peace.”

Bitter peace—the tendency of some males to feel incomplete without belonging to a tribe of men on the edge of purposeful shared suffering. I felt shocked and ashamed I so quickly understood the concept, as bitter peace is a long way from God’s peace and love.

Does that mean I’m not a Christian?

I understand and embrace the fact that Jesus came to free me from this poisonous part of my human nature, but so far… well, either he hasn’t chosen to, or I haven’t allowed him to. Probably the latter.

There are, of course, dozens of holes in my personal armor of God vulnerable to attack. There are many Christians who think that a lack of personal joy is correlated to a lack of faith—perhaps a lack of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. And while I know I’ve received many supernatural gifts from the Holy Spirit, I fail to fully revel in my earthly blessings and Christ’s promise of the life to come, because I am distracted by the pain of the the earth below.

While I am personally safe and sound and surrounded by comforts most of the world would deem to be paradise, I mourn the horror and pain experienced by the majority of humanity. I’m told of God’s plan, but I don’t understand God’s plan for starving Muslim children in Africa… is it possible that they will live a life of agony, then an eternity in torment?

I have a hard time believing that. Yes, I believe the Bible, and I know it is true—and do know the only way to Father is through the Son. And through the mercy of his Son I’ll be with him one day.

But I can’t help but believe God has a plan far beyond our earthly comprehension… a plan that offers humans with genuine loving souls—who’ve never knowingly rejected the Gospel—a way to access the Son and come to the Father. Perhaps at a delayed moment between life and death? A chance for these souls to strip bear their human pride and hate and sin, repent, then fall to their knees and confess that Jesus is Lord? Perhaps like the parable discussing the last workers to enter the Vineyard?

Let me clarify—I am not a Universalist. I do not believe that “all roads lead to God,” or that God is part Judeo/Christian God, part Buddha, part Allah, part Flying Spaghetti Monster. I just can’t wrap my miniscule brain around the idea of eternal separation from God simply because a person never heard the Good News, or that it was presented poorly to them.

A secularist would say, “If that’s what you think, how can you call yourself a Christian?”

To which I would paraphrase a very wise man and say, “I trust Jesus. And I certainly think he’s smarter and more ethical than me. So I’m going to let him handle it. But I hope I’m onto something.”

Is my thinking heretical?

I watched in amazement as the families of the Mother Emmanuel martyrs told Dylan Roof they forgave him. I pondered the incredible impact those words would have on tens of millions of Americans, and the number of them who would think, “I want that in my life. I want to be like them. I need their faith.”

Who knows how many converts their words brought to Jesus?

Could I do the same? I think that now—having witnessed their example and the glorious results of their actions—I could say the words. In order to help spread the Christian example of love, I’m fairly sure I could swallow my anger and say the words.

But could I say them truthfully?

I’d pray, of course, for the Lord to enable me to truly forgive, but the Lord would have his work cut out for him. There’d be many nights of me lying awake, dreaming for the chance to encounter my Dylan Roof in a deserted alley.

Can I be a Christian?

I’m also a “God fearing man.” I know that’s not appropriate, because Jesus taught us to call the Father, “Abba,” but the God that spoke the universe into being is awesomely frightening to me. I shouldn’t feel that way, as my acceptance of Jesus assures my salvation… but paraphrasing C.S. Lewis, I’m not going to lay my reins across the saddle until I’m in the gates.

I fear my fear is not very Christian.

I’m don’t think I’m alone in many of my failings and confusion. But I have great hope—as we all should—because Jesus was fully-man. He did not give into our failings and sin, but he understands them. He wept for Lazarus. He cracked a whip and drove the moneychangers from the Temple. He sweated blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. He gets us, because he lived as one of us.

One of the great theologians in our Diocese once told me, “Jesus didn’t give the Sermon on the Mount under the misapprehension we could live up to the principles he described; he described the perfection of the Kingdom of God, so that we might understand how short we fall.”

That gives me great hope. Jesus’ continued love for the Apostles despite their confusion and failings gives me hope. The fact that he walked in my shoes gives me hope.

Is faith with confused hope enough for God?

I hope so.