By David French
Here’s a query I encounter everywhere, even among fellow believers: Why do so many Christians exhibit such cruelty?
I cannot count how often I’ve heard someone express sentiments like: I’ve faced backlash in the secular realm, but nothing could prepare me for animosity within the church. Followers of Christ can show notable anger and, at times, outright hostility.
It’s a straightforward question with a multifaceted answer, though that answer often commences with a particularly alluring temptation common to all faiths: that the faithful, who claim eternal truths, deserve authority. Under this notion, might equates to right, and right commands might.
Most of us possess sufficient moral instincts to refute the idea that might is synonymous with right. Power alone cannot define righteousness. We might witness individuals succumbing to power due to fear or reverence, but submitting to power does not equate to acknowledging its legitimacy or justice.
The belief that right commands might is distinct and may even be more harmful. It entices our ambitions through our virtues, which renders it perilous. It conceals its malevolence. It starts with the premise that if you consider your beliefs just and correct, then it’s a societal issue if you aren’t in control.
In this framework, your desire for power is sanctified. It’s seen not merely as your ambition, but as your love for your community. You seek what’s best for your neighbors, and what’s best for them is, well, you.
The practical critiques of this mindset are plentiful. How can we be so certain of our own righteousness? Even if we hold a more just vision than our adversaries, the pursuit of power may overshadow the pursuit of justice.
There are countless historical examples. Equip someone with a sword and claim he’s safeguarding the cross, and the potential for destruction is limitless.
There’s also a theological objection to the belief that right commands might. In Christian theology, Jesus embodied both God and man, an individual without sin. I am flawed and fallen. He is not.
And how did this unique individual — this eternal being in human form — approach power? He rejected it, through both words and actions. And it all commenced with Christmas.
If someone is searching for a future king, the last place you’d think to start is in a stable. Yet that modest birth foreshadowed a humble existence and the creation of what my previous pastor frequently referred to as “the upside-down kingdom of God.”
Christ’s teachings were explicit, challenging every human inclination towards ambition and pride:
“The last will be first.”
“It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a wealthy man to enter the kingdom of God.”
“If anyone wishes to follow me, let him deny himself and take up his cross.”
“Love your adversaries and pray for those who persecute you.”
Those were the words. The actions were equally clear. He didn’t merely experience a humble birth; Jesus was raised in a modest household, far removed from the corridors of power. As a child, he was a refugee.
And upon commencing his ministry, he consistently acted in ways that baffled every contemporary understanding of how to cultivate a movement, let alone how to challenge an empire.
He distanced himself from crowds. When he worked miracles, he often instructed those he healed to keep it quiet. Near the end of his life, when he proclaimed that we are to “render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s,” he not only dismissed the notion of being Caesar, but also negated that Caesar’s authority was boundless.
And faced with the ultimate test — an unjust execution — right submitted to might. The Son of God allowed earthly men to torture and execute him, despite having the power to liberate himself from Rome’s lethal grip.
When Jesus did celebrate victory, it wasn’t over Caesar. He triumphed over death itself. When he ascended into heaven after his resurrection, he left Earth with Caesar still in charge.
My perspective on Christmas has evolved over the years. A day that was once purely celebratory now carries profound humility. In many respects, the details surrounding Christ’s birth hold as much significance as the event itself. How he came was indicative of why he came: to redeem hearts, not to govern nations.
It’s striking how often ambition morphs into cruelty. In our self-deception, we persuade ourselves that we aren’t just correct, but that we are so evidently right that any opposition must stem from arrogance and malice. We retaliate. We strive to silence and obliterate our foes.
Yet it’s all justified as being for the public good. Thus, we rest easy at night. We become one of the most dangerous types of individuals — a cruel person with a clear conscience.
The path of Christ, in contrast, precludes cruelty. It demands compassion. It reverses our moral compass, or at least it should. We adore rags-to-riches narratives; for instance, if many of us were crafting Christ’s tale, we might start with a manger but conclude with a throne.
However, Christ’s journey began in a manger, and it culminated on a cross. He warned his followers that a cross might await them as well. An upside-down kingdom was ushered in by an upside-down birth. When Jesus exemplifies humility, how can we rationalize our pride?
