Category: Theology and Reflections

Moving Beyond Biblical Literalism

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

The Bible Is Not One Kind of Book

“The Bible was not meant to be read merely literally. It was meant to be read literarily.”

For many Christians, ‘taking the Bible literally’ is often seen as a sign of faithfulness. Questioning a literal reading can feel like doubting Scripture itself. But this idea quickly runs into trouble, since the Bible is not just one type of book, written in a single style or for a single purpose.

The Bible is a library. Even the word itself reflects this reality. It comes from the Greek phrase ta biblia, meaning “the books”. From the beginning, Scripture was understood as a collection of writings spanning centuries, cultures, authors, and literary styles.

Within its pages, we find poetry, wisdom literature, parables, prophecy, apocalypse, genealogy, narrative, law, and song. Some passages are historical. Others are metaphorical. Some invite reflection. Others provoke imagination.

Psalmists speak of rivers clapping their hands and mountains singing for joy (Psalm 98:8). Jesus says faith can move mountains (Matthew 17:20). Revelation describes beasts rising from the sea. Few Christians insist these are literal descriptions. We instinctively recognise genre.

The issue is not whether the Bible contains truth, but what kind of truth a passage is communicating.

Modern readers often approach Scripture with assumptions shaped more by post-Enlightenment Western culture than the ancient world. We expect precision, science, and factual reporting. Ancient authors were often doing something else.

Old Testament scholar John H. Walton argues that modern readers ask questions that the biblical authors were not trying to answer. These texts are often concerned with meaning, purpose, and theology more than technical description.

This becomes especially clear in books like Genesis, Job, the Psalms, and Revelation. They are not merely reporting information. They are inviting readers into reflection, wisdom, and participation in the story of God.

As Tremper Longman III notes, responsible interpretation requires attention to genre. Different kinds of texts communicate differently.

“Good interpretation asks not just what happened, but what the text is trying to say.”

Literalism, in its modern form, often flattens Scripture into something it never claims to be: a single genre document written with modern expectations in mind.

Biblical Interpretation Has Never Been As Simple As We Imagine

“Modern biblical literalism is often a reaction to modernity, not a reflection of historic Christianity.”

One of the great myths surrounding biblical literalism is that Christians have always interpreted Scripture in a single, straightforward way. History tells a different story.

From early Judaism through the Church, Scripture has been read with depth and diversity. Ancient interpreters saw layers of meaning. A passage could be historical and symbolic at the same time. Jewish traditions long before Christianity engaged Scripture through poetry, symbolism, and pattern. This continued into the early Church.

Origen argued that some passages were designed to push readers beyond surface meaning (On First Principles). Augustine warned against rigid readings that ignored reason and reality (The Literal Meaning of Genesis), even cautioning Christians against making foolish claims about the natural world.

Even the Reformers did not read Scripture the way modern literalism often assumes.

Martin Luther read the Song of Songs not simply as romance, but as a picture of Christ and the Church (Lectures on the Song of Songs). John Calvin argued that God accommodates revelation to human understanding (Commentary on Genesis). He noted that Moses described the world in ways people could grasp, not as a scientific explanation. When Scripture speaks of the sun rising, it uses ordinary human language, not astronomy.

For much of Christian history, interpretation included multiple layers:

  • literal
  • allegorical
  • moral
  • anagogical

Scripture was seen as capable of communicating on multiple levels at once.

This does not mean agreement. It means diversity has always existed.

“There has never been a single, universally agreed ‘plain reading’ of Scripture.”

Modern literalism often emerges as a response to scepticism, treating the Bible like a document that must defend itself through precision and certainty. Ironically, this imposes modern expectations onto ancient texts.

Even Jesus and the New Testament Do Not Read Scripture Hyperliterally

The New Testament authors often interpret the Old Testament in ways that do not fit modern literalism. This is not because they take Scripture lightly, but because they take it deeply. They see patterns, symbols, and trajectories pointing toward Christ.

Jesus regularly moves beyond surface-level readings. When he speaks of destroying the temple (John 2:19), his listeners think in physical terms. John tells us he meant his body. Literalism misses the point. Jesus also teaches through hyperbole and metaphor: mountains moving, camels through needles, eyes torn out. These are not instructions. They are invitations to deeper reflection.

Paul continues this pattern. He reads Sarah and Hagar allegorically (Galatians 4), and describes Christ as the rock in the wilderness (1 Corinthians 10:4). These are theological readings, not literal ones.

Matthew does the same. He applies Hosea 11:1 to Jesus, even though Hosea is clearly referring to Israel’s past. Matthew reads typologically, presenting Jesus as embodying Israel’s story. He does something similar with Jeremiah 31:15, applying it to Herod’s massacre (Matthew 2:17-18). This also echoes the Exodus narrative, where Pharaoh kills Hebrew children.

Matthew is not just quoting predictions. He is drawing patterns.

  • Israel suffers.
  • Israel comes out of Egypt.
  • Israel enters the wilderness.

Jesus relives this story.

This was normal in the Jewish world of the first century. The issue is not seriousness. It is recognising the kind of reading Scripture invites.

Literalism Often Creates Fragile Faith

“Many people do not lose faith because Scripture failed, but because their framework for reading it could not hold.”

Modern literalism often tries to protect Scripture but ends up weakening faith. When every passage must function as science, history, or precision, the system becomes fragile. One challenge can feel like everything is collapsing. This is especially clear with Genesis.

Many were taught it must function as a scientific account of origins. When that clashes with modern knowledge, people feel forced to choose between reality and faith. But this is a false choice created by the framework, not the Bible.

John H. Walton argues that Genesis is concerned with function and meaning, not scientific mechanics.

The same issue appears elsewhere:

  • Proverbs are treated as guarantees.
  • Revelation is treated as a predictive code.
  • Poetry is treated as science.

Literalism often shrinks Scripture, and when cracks appear, people feel betrayed. A richer understanding of Scripture does not weaken faith. It strengthens it.

When Literalism Becomes Harmful

“The question is not just what a text says, but what it produces.”

The problem with literalism is not just intellectual. It can become harmful. Throughout history, rigid interpretations have been used to justify abuse, control, and injustice. This is not a problem with Scripture itself, but with how it is read. A flat reading struggles with the Bible’s movement and development. Scripture is a story moving toward Christ.

Jesus consistently resists rigid interpretation. He prioritises mercy, restoration, and human flourishing. “The Sabbath was made for man” (Mark 2:27). In the Sermon on the Mount, he deepens the law beyond behaviour into the heart. Literalism can confuse faithfulness with control. Texts become tools of enforcement rather than tools of transformation.

This is especially damaging around:

  • shame
  • power
  • mental health
  • fear

“People are often taught how to be afraid of being wrong, rather than how to love God.”

This raises a deeper question:

What kind of person is this interpretation producing?

Scripture points to Christ. And Christ becomes the lens through which Scripture is read. The goal is not information, but transformation.

Toward A Better Way Of Reading Scripture

“Scripture is not just meant to be understood. It is meant to form us.”

Rejecting literalism does not mean abandoning Scripture. It means reading it more faithfully. The Bible is not a modern textbook. It is a collection of human texts through which God reveals himself.

Reading well requires asking:

  • What kind of text is this?
  • What is it doing?
  • How would it have been understood?
  • How does it point to Christ?

It requires humility. No one reads Scripture neutrally. It requires comfort with mystery. The Bible does not offer simplistic certainty. It invites wisdom, trust, and transformation. Historically, Scripture was meditated on, not just analysed.

A healthy reading holds together:

  • literary awareness
  • context
  • theology
  • community
  • formation

Its poetry deepens. Its tension becomes meaningful. Its humanity becomes part of its beauty. The Bible was never meant to produce certainty alone. It was meant to form a people capable of love, wisdom, justice, and communion with God. And perhaps that is not a departure from Scripture, but a return to reading it well.

What Is Religious Trauma?

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

In many Christian communities, trauma and pain are often overlooked or explained away with spiritual answers. Churches struggle to support people whose wounds do not fit into familiar theological boxes. Even now, in 2026, common mental health issues like depression and anxiety are sometimes dismissed as a lack of faith, not praying enough, or not believing the right things.

The National Church Life Survey (NCLS) found in 2021 that in Australia, one in five Christians faced mental health problems like anxiety and depression. Of those, 38% said their church did not know they were struggling. The study does not explain why, but from my own experience and conversations with others, I can guess some reasons. People may fear being judged or dismissed, worry their struggles will be given only spiritual answers, or feel afraid of being isolated and losing friendships. Some even fear losing their ‘salvation,’ especially if leaders see their struggles as a problem.

What is even more concerning is that these mental health issues are only part of a bigger problem. Stories of religious trauma and years of spiritual, institutional, and sometimes even physical or sexual abuse are becoming more widely known. From Mars Hill to Bethel, there are many accounts of church leaders using their power to manipulate or harm people in vulnerable situations. Sometimes it feels so overwhelming that I want to ignore it all and disconnect from social media. This reality can be discouraging, leading many people to feel disillusioned, question their faith, or even leave the Church. Clearly, we are not doing a good job of representing Jesus.

In this post, I want to make room for us to think about religious trauma and the misuse of power in our churches. I hope to define it, name it, speak against it, and share some ideas for a better way forward.

Not Everything That Hurts Is Trauma: Religious Trauma Defined

I once heard someone say that life is a series of traumatic events we learn to manage. For many of us, that feels true. Some people go through more pain and hardship in a few years than others do in a lifetime. Still, not every hard experience in life or church is trauma. The word ‘trauma’ has become a buzzword lately and is often used for any distressing or uncomfortable experience. Using it this way can actually take away from the real struggles of people who live with true trauma every day.

This is also true when we look at the Church. Christianity is meant to change us. It challenges us, reveals our flaws, and helps us grow. This kind of transformation is often uncomfortable and sometimes painful, as we are shaped into the likeness of Jesus (John 15:1-5; Romans 8:29). But trauma is something very different. Here is how I define religious trauma:

Religious or spiritual trauma is psychological, emotional, relational, or physical harm that is caused, intensified, or sustained within a religious context, particularly when people in positions of spiritual authority or influence misuse their power, or use God, Scripture, or their role in ways that distort truth, override personal agency, or damage a person’s sense of self, safety, or relationship with God.

Questions to Ask Yourself

With this definition in mind, we can ask ourselves some pressing questions to help us discern the difference between something that looks to transform us and something that causes genuine trauma.

Honesty

  • Do I feel safe saying what I actually think and feel here?
  • What would happen if I said something that disagreed?
  • Am I editing myself to avoid consequences?

Pressure

  • Do I feel free to take time and think, or do I feel pushed to respond quickly?
  • Would saying “no” feel genuinely acceptable, or risky?
  • Do I feel like I am being led, or steered?

Fear

  • Am I more motivated by love and trust, or by fear of getting it wrong?
  • Do I worry about disappointing God or specific people in a way that feels heavy or constant?
  • Do I feel watched, evaluated, or measured?

Clarity

  • Do I understand what is being asked of me, or do I feel confused but still expected to comply?
  • Am I allowed to question and process, or is that discouraged?

Authority

  • Can leaders be questioned without tension or fallout?
  • Do certain people carry a weight that makes disagreement feel unsafe?
  • Is “God said…” or “the Bible says” ever used in a way that shuts down conversation?

Sense of Self

  • Do I feel more grounded in who I am, or more unsure of myself over time?
  • Am I becoming more honest and whole, or more careful and guarded?
  • Do I feel like I am growing or shrinking?

Relationship with God

  • Do I experience God as someone I can trust, or someone I need to manage?
  • When I struggle, do I move toward God, or pull back?
  • Is my spiritual life marked more by connection or pressure?

Pattern Over Time

  • Is this an occasional moment of challenge, or a repeated pattern?
  • Am I becoming more alive, or more exhausted?
  • Do I feel freer now than I did before, or less?

A Final Question

If I were completely honest about my experience here, would I feel safe, or would something in me expect consequences?

My Experience

In the early years of my faith, I was part of a church, and I use that term loosely, that placed a heavy emphasis on spiritual warfare. It was the kind of environment where there seemed to be a demon behind every bush. There was a strong us-versus-them mentality. We knew where the evil was. Others didn’t. At the time, it felt intense, even meaningful. However, over time, there were moments that stayed with me.

I remember being told not to read certain books or listen to particular teachers because they were spiritually dangerous. Even things like clothing, music, and movies were treated with suspicion. I have a vivid memory of my mum buying me a simple leather ankle bracelet from a market. I wore it without thinking much of it. Not long after, I was told it carried something spiritually attached to it. A curse. Something only certain people in the group could discern. I was told I needed to cut it off.

So I did. I was young. I trusted the people around me. But even then, something in me felt uneasy. Over time, that environment began to shape what was happening inside me.

I felt constant pressure to perform, to be a certain kind of Christian. I became hyperaware of everything, believing evil could attach itself to ordinary things.

It was exhausting and fear-based. Looking back, some in the community genuinely believed they could see demons or curses at work in everyday things, believing their spiritual insight was unique.

Was it group delusion?
Was it control from leadership?
Was it a mix of both?

I am still not entirely sure. What I do know is this: I began to see the impact it was having on people. I watched others get hurt and leave. Something in me, perhaps a stubborn resistance to control (I’ve always been a contrarian at heart), began to push back. Eventually, I decided to leave.

I remember walking along the beach with my best friend. We had both been deeply involved in the same group. And I told him that the moment I decided to step away, I felt something I had not felt since first becoming a Christian. Freedom. And I really did.

Common Examples of Spiritual Abuse

To name these patterns more explicitly, spiritual abuse in Christian settings often looks like:

  • Using God or Scripture (particularly Scripture misread and taught out of context) to control behaviour.
  • Discouraging questions or framing doubt as rebellion.
  • Leaders who cannot be challenged or held accountable (this happens when there is unhealthy leadership in the local church).
  • Fear-based teaching about hell or judgment used to drive compliance.
  • Pressuring obedience over personal conscience (Romans 14:5).
  • Shaming or silencing people who raise concerns.
  • Equating loyalty to leadership with loyalty to God.
  • Creating environments where leaving results in relational or spiritual threat and isolation.

None of these, on their own, always constitute trauma. But sustained exposure to these patterns can.

The Role of Power

Where there is trauma, there is usually an imbalance of power. Not always overt power. Sometimes it is subtle. Cultural. Assumed. It is usually found in a leader who cannot be questioned. A community where leaving means losing your salvation, your friends, and your family. A system where blind obedience is equated with faithfulness and being a part of the ‘in crowd’.

In those environments, the ability to say no is removed and twisted so that the person feels they’re not giving their all to God. And that is important to understand, because healthy spiritual formation always preserves agency. It invites. It does not coerce. It calls, but it does not control.

When a person cannot disagree, say no, or question without consequence, something is wrong.

What It Does to a Person

These environments don’t just shape beliefs. They reshape a person’s inner world.

Psychologically, it can look like:

  • Persistent anxiety.
  • Chronic guilt or shame.
  • Hyper awareness of failure.
  • Seasons (even years or entire lifetimes) of depression and anxiety.
  • Isolation from community, friends, and relationships.
  • Grief.
  • Exhaustion and burnout.

Spiritually, it can look like:

  • A constant sense of fear of God and separation rather than trust
  • Difficulty praying without tension
  • Confusion about what God is actually like

Relationally, it often leads to:

  • Loss of community
  • Fractured relationships
  • Difficulty trusting others

And perhaps most disorienting of all, it can destabilise identity. If your sense of self was formed within that system, leaving it can feel like losing yourself entirely (Herman, Trauma and Recovery).

People struggling with these things are often lost, unsure where to find help. They stop attending church. They stop reading Scripture. They stop praying. They isolate themselves, exhausted and unable to properly process what they’re experiencing.

To everyone else, especially those in positions of power and authority, the person struggling is seen as unspiritual, faithless, and rebellious. The answer to their problems, after all, must be prayer, faith, and church.

A Theological Line We Cannot Ignore

At this point, the question becomes theological, not just psychological. What is the fruit? The New Testament gives us a remarkably clear vision of what life in Christ produces.

Life in Christ looks like freedom. Not just freedom from guilt, but freedom from the powers that enslave us (Galatians 5:1; Romans 6:6–7). It looks like a life marked by love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). Not as ideals we strive to perform, but as fruit that grows as we are united to Christ. It looks like a renewed mind. A way of seeing the world that is no longer shaped by fear, anxiety, or cultural pressure, but by the truth and character of God (Romans 12:2). It looks like becoming more fully human. Being conformed to the image of Christ (Romans 8:29), who reveals what true humanity actually is. It looks like love that is patient and kind, not easily angered, not keeping record of wrongs, rejoicing in truth (1 Corinthians 13:4–7). It looks like a community where burdens are shared, where people confess, forgive, and restore one another (Galatians 6:2; James 5:16). It looks like peace replacing hostility, reconciliation overcoming division, and walls of separation being torn down (Ephesians 2:14–16). It looks like boldness without fear. Confidence to draw near to God, not shrink back from Him (Hebrews 4:16; 1 John 4:18). It looks like life. Not just survival, but participation in the life of God Himself. A life that is described as abundant (John 10:10).

So when we ask what a Christian environment should produce, the answer is not unclear. It should produce people who are becoming more alive, more whole, more grounded in love, and more free. If the consistent outcome of a system is fear, control, and shame, we have to pause. Not everything that uses the language of Scripture reflects the heart of God. This is not a new problem.

In the Gospels, even Satan quotes Scripture. In the wilderness, he uses the words of God in an attempt to distort the will of God (Matthew 4:1–11). The issue is not whether Scripture is being used, but how it is being used, and to what end. And this pattern has not stayed confined to the pages of the Bible.

Throughout church history, there have been seasons where theology, grounded in biblical language, has been used to justify control, harm, and exclusion. Often this has happened when the Church has become entangled with power, status, or empire. The more there is to protect, the easier it becomes to distort.

So we have to be honest. Biblical language, on its own, is not proof of truth. Even Scripture can be weaponised. Which means the question is not simply, “Is this biblical?” The question is, “Does this reflect the character of Christ?”

Formation or Distortion?

We are always being formed. The question is whether that formation reflects the life of Jesus or does it conform to the way that those in positions of power want us to live? The goal of Christian formation is to become the kind of person who naturally lives in the way of Christ. A person whose inner life is marked by faith, peace, and love.

But formation can be distorted. When fear becomes the primary motivator. When control replaces invitation. When conformity is valued over transformation. The process may still be called discipleship, but it no longer reflects the kingdom.

The Gospel Still Leads to Freedom

Talking about religious trauma is not an attack on Christianity. It is, in many ways, an attempt to take Christianity seriously. Because if the gospel is what it claims to be, then it cannot be the source of fear-driven control. If the Gospel is about Jesus dying to free us from that which oppresses and enslaves us (sin, satan, death), to unite us to God in Christ, and to transform us into his image, then being part of a community that preaches a gospel that disintegrates life, that’s seeded with anxiety, fear, and depression is nothing short of anathema. If something consistently leads away from freedom, it is worth asking whether it truly reflects Christ.

Moving Forward

If we are honest about the problem, then we also need to be honest about the responsibility. Creating safer, healthier spaces in the church does not happen by accident. It requires intention, humility, and a willingness to change. So what might this actually look like?

1. Create cultures where honesty is normal, not risky

People should not have to edit themselves to belong. That means leaders modelling honesty first. Naming their own limits. Admitting when they do not know. Creating space for people to speak without immediately correcting, fixing, or spiritualising their experience. If people only feel safe when they agree, the space is not actually safe.

2. Teach people how to think, not just what to think

A healthy church forms people; it does not control them. This means encouraging questions. Letting people wrestle with Scripture. Making room for disagreement without labelling it as rebellion. When people are trusted to engage, not just comply, their faith becomes their own.

3. Be clear about power, and accountable with it

Where there is unexamined power, there is always potential for harm. Churches need visible, functional accountability. Not just in theory, but in practice. Leaders who can be questioned. Structures where concerns can be raised safely. Processes that do not protect reputation at the expense of people. Authority in the kingdom is meant to serve, not control (Mark 10:42–45).

4. Separate conviction from control

The Spirit convicts. People do not need to be coerced into transformation. There is a difference between being invited into truth and being pressured into conformity. One leads to life. The other leads to fear. A healthy environment allows people to move at a human pace. It does not rush, force, or manipulate decisions in the name of spiritual urgency.

5. Take mental health seriously, not spiritually

Depression, anxiety, trauma, and burnout are not signs of weak faith. They are human experiences that require care, wisdom, and often professional support. Churches should be places that normalise this, not minimise it. Sometimes the most spiritual response is not prayer alone, but referral, rest, and practical support.

6. Protect people, not systems

When harm happens, the instinct is often to protect the church, the leader, or the reputation. But the call of the church is to protect people. This means listening well. Taking concerns seriously. Acting decisively when needed. And being willing to name failure without defensiveness. Truth builds trust. Silence destroys it.

7. Centre everything on the character of Christ

Not every environment that uses Scripture reflects Jesus. So we return to Him again and again. Does this community reflect His posture? Is there gentleness here? Patience? Freedom? Truth without fear? Jesus does not coerce. He does not manipulate. He does not crush the bruised reed (Isaiah 42:3; Matthew 12:20). If our spaces do not look like Him, then something has gone wrong.

A Better Way Is Possible

The goal is not to create a perfect church, because that does not exist. But we can build healthier churches. These are places where people can be honest without fear, where questions are welcome, and where leaders serve others. In these communities, spiritual growth leads to freedom, not control. Such a church does more than avoid harm—it becomes a place where people can heal.

Easter Sunday: The Defeat of Death and the Birth of New Creation

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

In my last post, I asked a question that sits underneath much of our theology, whether we realise it or not. Did Jesus save us from God, or from sin and death?

This is a question that comes into sharp focus on Good Friday, and Easter Sunday offers the answer.

If Jesus really rose from the dead, Easter signals the single greatest change in reality: the ultimate defeat of sin and death. The resurrection is not about dealing with guilt or our moral standing but about the breaking of powers that hold humanity captive. Because Christ has risen, fears, shame, and failures no longer have the final word. Resurrection is not abstract hope, but a source of real freedom and courage in daily life. This is the heart of the Easter message.

This means the resurrection should not be seen merely as an appendix to the cross. Instead, it is the lens through which we truly understand what the cross accomplished.

The Resurrection Is Not Proof. It Is Victory

We often describe the resurrection as proof of Jesus’ identity and God’s acceptance of his sacrifice. But the New Testament presents it differently.

Paul describes the resurrection not just as proof, but as a victory. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). Not managed. Not reinterpreted. Destroyed.

The resurrection is not God saying that a payment has been made. It is God declaring that the enemy has been defeated.

This is why Peter says it was impossible for death to keep hold of him (Acts 2:24). Death could not hold Jesus. Death lost its grip.

From the earliest centuries, the church understood this. Irenaeus speaks of Christ entering into death to undo it from within, recapitulating Adam and reversing humanity’s trajectory (Against Heresies 3.18.1). Athanasius says that by his death and resurrection, Christ “trampled down death by death” (On the Incarnation 27).

This is not just metaphor. It is about reality itself. Something has shifted.

So What Were We Saved From?

If Easter is victory, then we need to ask the question again. Saved from what? Scripture does not present us as saved from God.

Scripture consistently presents God as the one who saves, not the one we are rescued from. “God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself” (2 Corinthians 5:19), not reconciling himself to the world.

What then holds us? Sin. Death. Corruption.

Paul describes sin as a power that enslaves us (Romans 6:6). Death is not just an event, but a force that spreads through humanity (Romans 5:14).

We are not depicted as trapped between an angry God and a moral ledger, but under powers that deform, enslave, and destroy.

Easter tells us those powers have been confronted and broken. Therefore, we do not need to live in fear. In Christ, we are free from the grip of sin and death and can walk in confidence and hope.

The Cross in the Light of the Resurrection

Without Easter, the cross looks like failure. A righteous man executed. Another life swallowed by the machinery of empire and death. But with Easter, we see the cross as the moment when death tried to go too far.

Jesus enters fully into the human condition, even to the point of death on a cross (Philippians 2:8). And in doing so, he allows death to do its worst.

But death cannot hold him. In swallowing Christ, death swallows something it cannot digest.

Paul says Christ has disarmed rulers and authorities, making a public spectacle of them (Colossians 2:15). Their apparent victory is actually their defeat.

Some scholars argue that the resurrection is about life after life after death—the beginning of a new creation breaking into the present (see N. T. Wright, Surprised by Hope). Michael Gorman describes the cross and resurrection as a single movement of divine self-giving love that defeats the powers and creates a new way of being human (Cruciformity).

The cross is not set aside by the resurrection. It is more fully understood in its light.

A Garden Again

John tells us that Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener (John 20:15). It is a strange detail that almost seems unnecessary. Unless it is not.

The story began in a garden. Humanity was called to bear the image of God, to cultivate, and to participate in the life of creation (Genesis 1:26, Genesis 2:15). That vocation was fractured. The ground itself became a place of resistance and decay.

Now, on the first day of the week, in a garden, a man stands alive after death. Mary is not entirely wrong. New creation has begun.

Paul calls Christ the firstfruits (1 Corinthians 15:20). Not an isolated miracle, but the beginning of a harvest. What has happened to Jesus is not unique to him. It is the future of creation brought forward into the present.

God has not abandoned the world. He has begun to remake it. And this work of new creation is not something God does alone. We are invited to take part, to join together as a community in cultivating hope, working for renewal, and tending the places where resurrection life breaks into our world. As we participate in God’s ongoing work, we discover that new creation is something we are called to share and build together.

Unrecognised Life

Yet, no one recognises him.

Mary does not. The disciples on the road to Emmaus do not (Luke 24:16). Even those closest to him struggle to see. This is not incidental.

Resurrection life is connected to this world, but it is not limited to it.

Resurrection life is real, embodied, and tangible. Jesus eats, speaks, and bears wounds (Luke 24:39-43, John 20:27), yet is also transformed and no longer bound or limited in the same way.

The problem is not that the resurrection is unclear; it is that we do not yet know how to see it. For many, this can be difficult. Doubt and uncertainty are genuine parts of the journey for disciples, then and now. If you find yourself struggling to perceive resurrection life, know that you are not alone; those closest to Jesus did not recognise him at first either. As we honestly bring our questions and hopes before God, even small acts of trust can open us to new ways of seeing. Sometimes we borrow others’ faith until we catch a glimpse of resurrection life for ourselves.

Gregory of Nyssa writes of the resurrection as the transformation of human nature into incorruptibility, not the abandonment of embodiment but its fulfilment (On the Soul and the Resurrection).

The risen Christ is not less physical. He is even more alive than before.

The Wounds Remain

Thomas is invited to touch the wounds (John 20:27). This matters.

The resurrection does not remove suffering’s marks, but transforms them. The scars, no longer signs of defeat, become evidence of victory. God redeems, not erases, history.

The cross is brought into resurrection life, not as a sign of shame, but as a sign of glory.

Raised With Him

If this is true, then Easter is not just something that happened to Jesus. It is something we are all drawn into.

“Sin entered the world through Adam, bringing death to all humanity, but through Jesus Christ, righteousness and life are offered to all.” (Romans 5:12)

“We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead… we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4).

“Set your minds on things that are above… for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:2-3).

Resurrection is not just something for the future; it is participation in the now.

Dallas Willard speaks of eternal life not as duration but as a kind of life, the life of the age to come made available in the present. Easter is the moment that life breaks into history and becomes accessible.

Following Jesus is not just about believing things about him; it is living from a different reality now. This means allowing the hope and freedom of resurrection to actually shape our daily actions and attitudes. For example, when we extend forgiveness rather than hold onto resentment, or when we choose hope in the face of disappointment, we are living out this new reality. Serving others, practising kindness, or showing generosity even when it is difficult are all practical ways in which resurrection life breaks into our world through us. Each ordinary act, offered in trust that Christ’s victory is real, becomes a sign of the new creation at work.

Sunday

Easter Sunday does not just undo death; it breaks its power completely. This is at the heart of the Christian message: death’s rule is over, and new creation has started. It is the end of its authority.

God did not need to be reconciled to us. We needed to be saved from everything that was destroying us.

Sin has been confronted. Death has been undone. Creation has begun again.

And the risen Christ stands, still bearing wounds, still calling our name, inviting us not just to believe in resurrection, but to live out of it.

Did Jesus Save Us From God or From Sin and Death?

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

This question might make us uneasy, but it matters. When we say Jesus saves, what do we really mean?Did Jesus save us from God, or did Jesus save us from sin and death? How we answer this question reveals what we believe the real problem is.

What Is the Fundamental Barrier?

The Bible shows that something is deeply wrong with humanity. This story does not begin in the New Testament, but in Genesis. The sense of exile, of being cut off from the life we’re meant for, is not just an ancient tale; it is a feeling that still shadows our lives today. It’s like the sudden ache of finding yourself scrolling through photos of people you once knew, realising the distance that has quietly grown between you and them. Or waking in the night, feeling strangely out of place in your own skin, longing for a wholeness you can’t name. The story of Genesis is one of lost belonging and deep separation, but the ache it describes lives on in our day-to-day experience.

Genesis 1 says people are made in God’s image and given a purpose. We are created for relationships, trusted to care for creation, and invited to share life with God.

Genesis 2 shows that life comes from being close to God. The tree of life reminds us that immortality is a gift, not something we possess.

In Genesis 3, everything changes. The serpent tricks, trust is broken, disorder grows, and death enters the story. Things go downhill quickly: deception breaks trust, distrust leads to chaos, and the world moves toward death. Shame appears, fear replaces closeness with God, the ground is cursed, and death starts to spread.

God says, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Exile follows.

Look at what happens next. God doesn’t respond with anger. Instead, people become separated, life becomes disordered, and mortality enters. The break is about our relationships and who we are. Death becomes part of our story.

The rest of the Old Testament unfolds under that shadow.

In Genesis 4, sin is described as crouching at the door like a predator.
In Psalm 51, David speaks of being conceived in iniquity.
In Isaiah 59, the prophet says iniquities have separated us from God.
In Ezekiel 37, Israel is pictured as a valley of dry bones, in need of resurrection, not merely acquittal. The problem deepens into exile, idolatry, injustice, and even national death. Yet throughout the prophets, there is a promise.

Isaiah 25 – 26 speaks of one who will swallow up death forever.
Hosea 13 anticipates ransom and redemption from the power of Sheol.
Daniel 12 foresees resurrection.

By the time we reach the New Testament, these ideas are already there.

Paul says sin reigned in death in Romans 5.
He says we were enslaved to sin in Romans 6 (for insight into the theme of redemption in Romans, click here).
Death is called an enemy in 1 Corinthians 15.
Hebrews 2 says Christ became human so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil.
1 John 3 says the Son of God appeared to destroy the works of the devil.
Colossians 2 says Christ disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame.

This pattern runs throughout the story.

Sin leads to corruption.
Corruption leads to death.
Death leads to exile and alienation.

From Genesis on, the Bible’s main problem isn’t that God needs to be appeased. It’s that people have come under the power of sin and death. The Bible’s main crisis is the tyranny and rule of sin and death, not the anger of a God who needs to be satisfied. This idea anchors the biblical story, and every major theme points back to it. So if the cross is the main point of the story, it must address that rule.

This isn’t legal language. It’s about a real victory, where Christ faces our true enemies: sin, death, and the devil. Think of the resurrection, Jesus rises from the tomb, breaking death’s power and showing that sin and the devil don’t have the final say. Just as the Israelites were freed from slavery in the Exodus, Christ leads a rescue, breaks our chains, and restores what was lost. This victory is real; it’s a win over the forces that keep us trapped. So when we struggle with temptation, discouragement, or habits that seem impossible to break, we’re not alone. Christ’s victory means those old powers don’t control us anymore. When you face daily battles, fear, anger, or habits that feel too strong, remember that His victory is at work in you. We can ask for His strength, trust His freedom, and find new hope even in everyday moments.

Here’s how the Bible tells the story: sin leads to corruption.
Corruption produces death.
Death produces alienation.

Isaiah says our iniquities have separated us from God.
Paul says we were dead in our trespasses. This separation is connected to being trapped and to decay.

But What About Wrath?

Scripture also speaks plainly about wrath.

Romans 1 says the wrath of God is revealed.
John 3 says the wrath of God abides.

But if we look closely at Romans 1, we see that God’s wrath is shown by letting people go their own way. He allows humanity to face the results of its choices. Wrath isn’t God losing control. It’s God’s holy stand against anything that harms what he loves.

It’s real. It’s serious. It isn’t downplayed. But it is responsive.

The Bible says God is love (1 John 4:8), but it never says God is wrath. God’s love isn’t weak or easy; it’s deeply holy. Wrath is how God’s holiness responds to sin, showing his steady opposition to anything that destroys what he loves. So we must ask a deeper question. Is wrath the root problem, or is wrath God’s righteous response to a deeper disease?

Two Different Logics of the Cross

In penal substitution theology, especially in the Reformed tradition, the main problem is guilt before a holy God. Divine justice must be satisfied. Christ takes the penalty we deserve, and wrath falls on him instead of us. Forgiveness comes because justice is met. This courtroom way of thinking has given many Christians real comfort and assurance, offering a clear sense of security before God and a solid foundation for knowing they are forgiven. Many of us have sung hymns that value this image, and it’s important to recognise the pastoral strength and deep devotion that come from this understanding. This view has been held by many faithful believers and has shaped the faith of countless Christians. But it has also caused harm. The issue isn’t just about doctrine. It’s about how we are formed.

You become what you worship

If, deep down, you picture God as mainly wrathful and needing to be satisfied before he can embrace you, that image doesn’t just stay in a textbook. It shapes you. If you believe ultimate reality is about payback, you slowly become that way, too. If you think God relates to you mostly through anger that must be appeased, you start to treat yourself and others the same way.

It can create a constant, low-level spiritual anxiety. There’s a steady sense of fear, like you’re always one mistake away from letting God down. You feel like you’re never quite enough, always at risk of messing up. Over time, that changes you.

It breeds insecurity.
It creates scrupulosity.
It amplifies shame.
It makes obedience feel like walking through a minefield.

You start to wonder if every decision could be a failure, if every doubt disqualifies you, or if every mistake brings back God’s displeasure. Even if you believe Jesus took on wrath, the feeling can stay. You might think, ‘Lucky me, Jesus died,’ but the Father still feels distant, still feels harsh, still feels basically unsafe. I know this not as a stereotype, but from my own experience.

For years, I kept hearing how wretched I was. That changes you. It made me unsure of myself, anxious, and often depressed. I saw God as distant and unloving. The cross felt like a technical fix for a problem that always felt personal. I never felt free to just live without always fearing I was messing up.

That is not abundant life.

When the focus changed from ‘you are a wretched sinner barely tolerated because of Jesus’ to ‘you are deeply loved, and sin is the brokenness Christ came to heal,’ something shifted. The difference is subtle but huge. If God loves you only because his wrath is satisfied, love feels like a transaction.

But

If God loves you because God is love, and Christ stepped into your brokenness to restore you, then love becomes the foundation.In that second view, sin is still serious. It still destroys and still matters. But it’s not the main headline of your story. It’s not your identity. It’s the sickness Christ defeated.

About six months ago, something changed in me. After years of feeling distant and going through what felt like a dark night of the soul, I started to experience God’s love as real, not just as an idea. The cross stopped being about barely escaping wrath. It became about being rescued from brokenness and brought home. And when love comes first, you start to change.

If you worship an angry God, you become anxious and angry in turn. If you worship a God whose deepest instinct is self-giving love, you begin to soften. You start to trust. You start to really live.

Theology is never just abstract. It shapes who we are.

If the cross shows a God who must punish to forgive, that shapes one kind of Christian. If the cross shows a God who enters death to destroy it and restore connection, that shapes another. For me, the second view has brought freedom instead of fear, trust instead of tension, and a sense that I’m not always worried about making a mistake before God. And that difference isn’t just theoretical. It is life-changing.

In the Christus Victor view, the main problem is being trapped by sin, death, and the devil. Christ enters our world, becomes human, and defeats these powers from the inside. Church historians say that in the first century, when Roman generals won, they paraded through the city with captives and trophies. A freed slave would receive a special cap to mark their freedom and begin a new life. Early Christians used this powerful image to show Christ’s victory over the forces that held people captive. He destroys death by dying, removes the power of rulers and authorities, and sets people free. In this view, something real changes inside a person, not just in a legal sense.

The cross is primarily a battlefield.

Both affirm wrath.
Both affirm judgment.
Both seek to be faithful to Scripture.

The difference is what stands at the centre.

Is the problem God’s wrath that must be satisfied, or is the problem sin and death that must be defeated?

The Early Church’s Emphasis

Picture early believers gathered in a candlelit stone room, singing hymns about Christ’s victory that echo off the walls. In the flickering light, baptismal waters splash as new Christians rise up, greeted by the joyful shout, ‘Christ has trampled down death by death.’ The air is full of freedom and healing. For these communities, the story of Jesus wasn’t just a doctrine; it was an experience of rescue. In the first centuries, Christian thought focused strongly on victory and healing.

Irenaeus of Lyons described Christ as recapitulating humanity, retracing Adam’s steps and healing human nature from within. Athanasius of Alexandria argued that Christ became human to destroy death and restore incorruption. Gregory of Nyssa spoke of humanity held captive by a tyrant and liberated through Christ’s self-giving victory. Their main images were liberation, restoration, and sharing in God’s life. This doesn’t mean they ignored wrath or judgment. It means they saw the cross mainly as a victory over death and a way to heal human nature.

So What Did Jesus Save Us From?

If sin enslaves, if death reigns, if the devil accuses, salvation isn’t about a change in legal status. Christ defeats sin. Christ destroys death. Christ disarms the powers. And when these powers that enslave us are broken, wrath has nothing left to oppose.

He saves us from sin and death by bringing us back into relationship with the Father. To live in this restored relationship, try a simple practice: spend a few quiet moments each day praying the Lord’s Prayer slowly, letting each line remind you that you belong to God as your Father. Or, if you’re part of a group, gather this week to share communion, letting the bread and cup remind you that Christ’s victory over sin and death is real for you. Through these practices, the truth of your restored relationship with God becomes something you not only believe but also experience.

He saves us from sin and death by bringing us back into communion with the Father. The cross is not God changing his mind about us. It is God in Christ changing our condition.

Sin enslaves.
Death reigns.
Christ conquers.

And because of that victory, the separation ends, and life with God is possible again.

Deconstruction Led Me to a Deeper Orthodoxy and Faith

Camaron G. W. Smith2 Comments
A warmly lit study with a wooden desk and chair, an antique table lamp glowing on the desk, stacks of old books, and tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lining the walls.

When Faith Stops Feeling Life-Giving

I once managed belief like a fragile museum piece, feeling the weight of maintaining it rather than living it. Before deconstruction, my faith felt exhausting. Not because I didn’t believe, but because the answers I had adopted stopped helping me live freely or flourish. Over time, they settled into a shallow kind of idea-ism, a way of thinking about faith that meant my spirituality, my questions, and even my own human experience had to be constantly filtered through categories that needed defending, maintaining, and keeping in order. Faith became something to manage rather than inhabit. Something to defend instead of embody.

Unresolved Theological Tension

Faith started to feel like something that needed constant attention instead of bringing rest. I carried a lot of unresolved tensions. The sharpest was the contradiction of a loving God who was also described as perpetually angry. It was difficult to reconcile the message of the cross as good news with explanations that felt wrong to me. I was told to trust Scripture, but only within rigid boundaries, which impacted how I viewed science and historical contexts. These tensions weren’t just ideas. They manifested in politics and in divided groups. Faith increasingly felt like an exercise in picking sides to stay ‘biblical.’ Underneath, I was sorting people: who was orthodox or heretical, faithful or compromised, who belonged and who didn’t. None of it felt life-giving. All of it carried weight, and over time, that weight became unbearable. Eventually, I didn’t just feel strained. I stopped altogether. I stopped engaging. I stopped trying to hold everything together, not out of rebellious spirit or a hard heart, but out of exhaustion.

Why I Stepped Away

It wasn’t some hidden sin I wanted to justify that led me to deconstruct. Rather, it was the heavy burden of traditional evangelism, a way of holding faith that was slowly hollowing me out rather than giving life. I needed distance. Not dramatically or all at once, but carefully. Slowly and surely, I removed myself from it. Stepping back didn’t feel brave. It felt disorienting. I wasn’t replacing one system with another. I was letting go of the constant explanations and seeing what was left.
At first, stepping back felt uncomfortable, but also freeing. Without my old ways of thinking, I didn’t know what to do next. My prayers changed. I stopped trying to say the right words and just sat with my feelings, embracing these moments as a form of silent prayer or centering. This contemplative posture allowed me to talk less at God and be more present. Faith didn’t come with easy answers anymore. There were no safe categories or certain words. The mystery I used to fear started to feel interesting instead of scary.

Deconstrucion Research

As I went through this, I noticed I wasn’t alone. Increasingly, I realized that deconstruction was happening everywhere. Research shows that about 42 percent of adults have questioned the faith they grew up with, and many still call themselves Christian. Barna’s research says about a third of practising Christians have seriously re-examined their inherited beliefs without leaving their faith. This shows that deconstruction isn’t simply about leaving Christianity. For many, it’s a personal reckoning inside the Church. Commentators such as Scot McKnight helped me understand this further. In Invisible Jesus, McKnight says that much of modern Christianity has replaced the real Jesus with other versions: a political Jesus, a nationalist Jesus, a moral enforcer, or a doctrinal gatekeeper. When people deconstruct, they’re often not rejecting Christ, but these distorted versions, hoping to find the real one.

Deconstruction as Reformation

Seen this way, deconstruction begins to look less like collapse and more like correction. Building on this, it almost ironically carries the marks of reform and renewal. Historically, movements that return people to the centre of faith are rarely neat or reassuring in the moment. They disrupt settled systems and force hard questions. Consider Martin Luther’s 95 Theses in 1517, which challenged the practices of the Church and sparked the Protestant Reformation, a period of profound religious renewal born out of significant disruption. Today, deconstruction feels like that kind of moment. As Brian Zahnd has often said, the future Christian will likely be a mystic, not someone chasing spiritual novelty, but someone formed by presence rather than control, encounter rather than certainty, love in place of fear. Taken together, the data and lived experience tell the same story. Deconstruction is not about killing Christianity. For many, it is about clearing away what is brittle and broken, so that something more ancient, deeper, and more Christ-centred can emerge.

Deconstruction as Formation

When I stepped back, not everything disappeared. In fact, some things stayed, not because I fought to keep them, but because they were never tied to the frameworks I had let go of. Christ stayed. Not as a system to defend or a set of conclusions to maintain, but as the person I kept returning to. Even when I wasn’t sure what I believed, Jesus himself remained compelling. His way of being in the world. His closeness to those on the margins. His refusal to grasp for power. Whatever else shifted, I couldn’t shake him. Sometimes, in silent prayer, it felt like Jesus whispered, ‘I’m here with you.’ It was as if he was telling me, ‘It’s okay to ask questions, to seek understanding. I am with you in your doubts and your discoveries.’ Scripture stayed too. And in many ways, it became more profound. I never stopped loving the Bible. I’ve always been a Bible nerd. What changed wasn’t my affection for the text, but the way I read it. As I let go of the lenses I had adopted, Scripture stopped being something I approached primarily to extract answers or defend positions. It became sacramental. Life-giving. Formative.

Deconstruction and Orthodox

I came to recognise the Bible not as a puzzle to solve, but as a place to meet God. Reading it this way made me slow down. It shaped how I think and what I care about. It worked deep inside me, not just in arguments. The text didn’t always answer my questions, but it kept bringing me back to Christ and to living more like him. That didn’t weaken my faith. It made it stronger. Orthodoxy came back, but it felt different.

What I eventually realised was that orthodoxy really is about healthy boundaries. In its earliest expressions, orthodoxy existed to confront heresy and guard the heart of the Christian confession. The creeds and confessions were shaped in conflict because what was at stake was not abstract correctness, but the truth about God, Christ, and what it means to be human. That work mattered. It still does. What surprised me was discovering that those boundaries were never meant to suffocate faith. They were meant to protect life.

Reading the early Church Fathers made this clear. Figures like Athanasius and Gregory of Nyssa were deeply orthodox and fiercely committed to doctrinal clarity, yet their theology was never anxious or thin. For Athanasius, orthodoxy mattered because if Christ is not truly God, then humanity is not truly healed. Doctrine was inseparable from salvation. Gregory of Nyssa, equally committed to the creedal faith, insisted that God always exceeds our concepts. Orthodoxy did not eliminate mystery. It required it. Doctrine named the centre, but it also opened the soul toward continual growth, desire, and transformation.

From there, the tradition opened rather than closed. I found this same orthodoxy expressed across several streams of the Church, in the earthy devotion of Celtic Christianity, in the depth and union spoken of by Catholic and Eastern mystics, and even in modern voices who continue to live this faith attentively and sincerely. Each tradition nurtures humility and compassion, drawing from the same well of Christ’s love and teachings. What united all of it was Christ, not as an idea to defend, but as a life to enter.

Deconstruction didn’t take me away from orthodoxy. It led me into a deeper kind of orthodoxy.

To Those Watching Other’s Deconstruct

That’s why I want to offer a word of caution to those watching others deconstruct: how we respond matters. Treating deconstruction as betrayal, danger, or moral failure does not protect faith. It reinforces the very wounds that made faith unlivable in the first place. If the goal is depth, maturity, and Christlikeness, then fear-driven responses are counter-formative. What deconstructing people need is love, not suspicion. Curiosity, not control. Space to ask honest questions without punishment. Orthodoxy was never meant to be enforced through fear. It was meant to form people into the likeness of Christ.


I didn’t lose my faith. I lost a version of it that could not carry life.
What remains now is not certainty, but commitment. Not answers I can deploy, but a way of living I am learning to inhabit. Christ abides at the centre again. Scripture is sacramental. Orthodoxy is formative. Mystery is no longer something I rush to resolve. For the first time in a long while, faith doesn’t require vigilance. It asks for faithfulness. Faith now feels like breathing, not balancing plates. It sustains me quietly, like a gentle rhythm that I can finally rest in. And that feels like something I can truly live with.