Category: Theology & Themes

Exploring the grand story of Scripture and the threads that weave God’s story through creation, exile, and redemption.

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.

On the Incarnation: Athanasius, Christmas, and the Healing of the World

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

A Theological Reflection on “On the Incarnation” in Its Historical Moment

In the early fourth century, Christians went from facing persecution to receiving uncertain support from the empire. Athanasius of Alexandria wrote On the Incarnation during a time of confusion and exile. Many believers lost homes and were divided over who Christ was. For them, the question of Jesus’s identity had real and urgent consequences (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 1–2).

Athanasius lived and wrote in Alexandria, a city known for its intellectual life. Here, Greek philosophy, Jewish theology, Roman authority, and Christianity all met. The main conflict was about one question: Who is Jesus? Was he fully God or a created being? The Arian controversy was serious, as it affected Christian worship, prayer, and salvation (John 1:1–3; Colossians 1:15–20).

Athanasius said that if Christ is not fully God, then humanity stays trapped in decay (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7). A created being cannot restore creation; only the Creator can heal what is broken (Psalm 36:9; Hebrews 2:14–15). Only God saves; Jesus saves; therefore, Jesus is God. This fundamental principle forms the basis of Athanasius’s argument and guides the whole book. Athanasius is not just focused on philosophical detail; he wants to show that the world is being restored.

Athanasius retells the Christmas story as a struggle involving the whole universe, underscoring its importance for his message. He moves beyond simple sweetness or just historical views, placing the empire’s power alongside the quiet strength of Christ’s simple birth. Where others see only a child in a manger, Athanasius sees a revolution: the incarnation as God’s bold action in the world of power.

Jesus was born during a time of empire, census, displacement, and fear (Luke 2:1–7). Caesar Augustus claimed to bring peace, but did so through taxes and military force. Joseph and Mary travelled because of an imperial order. Jesus was born not in a palace, but in a borrowed place, far from power. For Athanasius, this is important. While the empire tries to keep order, creation is falling apart (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4).

Athanasius says that humanity’s problem is not only moral failure, but also corruption. God made people from nothing and keeps them alive through relationship. When people turn away from God, they move toward nothingness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 4–5; Genesis 1:26–27; Romans 1:21). Sin breaks things apart. Death serves as more than a punishment; it is what happens when we separate from the source of life (Romans 6:23).

Athanasius sees Christmas as the turning point, the moment when God enters humanity’s broken world.

The incarnation shows that God does not abandon creation. The Word does not rule from far away or just send messages from heaven. The Word becomes flesh (John 1:14). For Athanasius, being truly human is essential. Salvation cannot happen from a distance. Healing requires closeness. What is not assumed cannot be restored (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8–9).

Athanasius focuses on Christ’s body for a reason. The manger leads to the cross, not simply a feeling, but as a core belief. The body placed in the straw is the same body placed in the tomb (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 20; Luke 23:46). God chooses to be fully vulnerable from the beginning. Hunger, tiredness, suffering, and death are not too low for God (Hebrews 2:17).

The Controversy

The Arian controversy questioned whether Christ was truly God. It said the Son was separate and lower than the Father. Arians said that if the Son was born, there was a time when he did not exist. This made him a created being, not the Creator. The idea made God seem easier to understand by making the Son less than fully God. These arguments became popular because they seemed logical and because explaining the Trinity is hard. However, Athanasius challenges this by asking: How can something created save all of creation? He argues that if death holds humanity, only the Author of life can break that hold (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 7; Acts 2:24). Therefore, when the immortal Word enters death, death meets what it cannot control. Athanasius says the resurrection is not an afterthought, but the public result of what the incarnation began (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 25; 1 Corinthians 15:54–57).

Athanasius shows that incarnation and salvation go together. What we believe about Christ is linked to what we believe about humanity. To say Christ is truly human also says something about all people (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; Romans 8:29). Jesus is not an exception; he reveals what it means to be human. Salvation brings humanity back to what it should be.

This vision deeply affects how we live our faith. If God has entered human life, then every part of our physical existence matters spiritually (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 8; Genesis 1:31). Eating, working, loving, suffering, and rejoicing are all ways we can meet God (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). Holiness is not about leaving the world; it’s about living in it. Practically, this means engaging in kindness and service, seeing God’s face in each person. It also means practising daily gratitude and being mindful of God’s presence, whether in quiet reflection or in busy work. By fostering loving, compassionate relationships, we reflect Athanasius’s incarnational theology, connecting deeply with others and God through our everyday actions.

In the fourth century, there was political turmoil, theological conflict, and fear. Athanasius makes a bold claim: reality’s centre is now in human flesh (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 16; Ephesians 1:10). The world’s stability depends not on empire or philosophy, but on a child born under occupation (Luke 2:7). This is a profound challenge to powers that demand ultimate loyalty, both then and now. The focus shifts from secular dominance to divine presence in unexpected places.

For Athanasius, that is what Christmas is all about.

Christmas means that God joins his life to the world (Matthew 1:23). Heaven does not wait for people to reach up; it comes down. Instead, heaven comes down and lifts us from within (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54; John 3:13). The manger is the main path, not a side road.

Athanasius believes that because the Word enters our story, history now moves toward life rather than emptiness (Athanasius, On the Incarnation 56; Revelation 21:5).

Even though it is deep theologically, On the Incarnation is easy to read. Athanasius writes in a clear, urgent, and caring way. This theology is not only for experts; it speaks to a Church trying to remember God during times of confusion and fear. That alone makes it worth reading.

But even more, this book gently changes how we see things. It moves past sentimental Christmas ideas and offers something stronger and more hopeful. God does not control humanity from a distance. Instead, God enters our weakness and heals it from the inside. That vision stays with you long after you finish reading.

For those seeking a Christmas book that is honest, challenging, and full of life, On the Incarnation stands out. It does not offer easy comfort. Instead, it presents a vision of a world upheld by the Word made flesh.

Recovering the Lost Books: Why Protestants Need the Deuterocanon Again

Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

Why don’t we (Protestants) read the apocrypha? The first Christians read Scripture with wider eyes. Their Bibles included books like Wisdom, Sirach, Baruch, Tobit, Judith, and the Maccabees. These books shaped their imagination, their theology, and their understanding of God.

Modern scholarship confirms this (N T Wright, Larry Hurtado, Lee McDonald). Jesus and the apostles inherited a Greek Jewish Bible that included these writings. In other words, the world of the New Testament is Deuterocanonical.

A Lost Inheritance

During the Reformation, these books were not removed because they were unspiritual or unorthodox. They were moved aside for practical and historical reasons, not theological ones (see Alister McGrath, Bruce Metzger). The Reformers wanted to emphasise Hebrew manuscripts and guard against medieval excess, but in doing so they quietly set aside a treasured part of the early Christian imagination.

The result was a thinner canon. Not heresy-free, but texture-free. A loss of the voices that shaped the spiritual air that Jesus and the early Church breathed.

What These Books Give Us

The Deuterocanon does not contradict Scripture. It enriches it. And the New Testament writers show they knew these books intimately.

1. A wider imagination of divine mercy

The Deuterocanon constantly describes God as patient, restorative, and willing to heal what is broken. Wisdom 11 – 12 speaks of God whose judgment is measured by compassion. Sirach 2 and 17 emphasise mercy that endures and seeks the sinner. Baruch 4 – 5 offers hope of restoration for the scattered.

This is the same tone we hear in the New Testament. Paul’s language of God’s patience in Romans 2 resonates with Wisdom 12. James 1 echoes Sirach 2 almost line for line. Jesus’ teaching on generous mercy mirrors the moral vision of Sirach and Wisdom (see Ben Witherington, Richard Bauckham). Readers who know the Deuterocanon recognise these currents immediately. Those who do not simply sense beauty.

2. A deeper sense of spiritual formation

Sirach in particular reads like the spiritual director of ancient Israel. Its wisdom shaped the early Church fathers (see Athanasius, Augustine, Basil).

Its themes echo throughout the New Testament:
Jesus’ teaching on humility in Luke 14 echoes Sirach 3. The Lord’s Prayer resembles Tobit 13 and Sirach 28.
James’ emphasis on speech discipline mirrors Sirach 19 and 28, and
modern scholars note that James may be the most Deuterocanonical letter in the New Testament (see Richard Bauckham, Luke Timothy Johnson).

3. A vision of suffering that prepares the soul

Four Maccabees shaped the early Christian understanding of martyrdom (see Origen, Gregory of Nazianzus).

Its themes appear in:
Hebrews 11 where the Maccabean martyrs are referenced directly.
Hebrews 2 where the suffering of Christ mirrors the noble endurance central to Maccabean theology and
Revelation’s language of faithful witness through death. Wisdom 3 describes the righteous shining like sparks among stubble. Jesus uses the same imagery in Matthew 13. This is not a coincidence. It is continuity.

4. A sacramental view of creation

The Deuterocanon carries a world where God speaks through the ordinary. Tobit reveals divine guidance in family life. Judith portrays courage as sacrament.

Wisdom 7 paints a breathtaking vision of divine presence infused in creation, a passage that influenced early Christian theology of the Logos (see Justin Martyr, Irenaeus). When John opens his Gospel with the Logos who enlightens everyone, he is standing on the shoulders of Wisdom literature, especially Wisdom of Solomon.

5. A bridge between the Old and the New

The Deuterocanon does not stand apart from the biblical story. It is the bridge between the Testaments. Some examples where the New Testament expressly draws on these books:

Direct Echoes

Hebrews 1 draws heavily from Wisdom 7, describing Christ as the radiance of divine glory.
Romans 1 mirrors Wisdom 13 to 14 in its analysis of idolatry.
Ephesians 6 echoes Wisdom 5 in speaking of divine armour. Matthew 27’s mocking of Jesus recalls Wisdom 2 and its portrait of the righteous sufferer.

Thematic Echoes

Jesus’ parables of divine patience mirror Wisdom 12. Paul’s theology of immortality aligns closely with Wisdom 3.
James’ ethical teaching parallels Sirach everywhere. Revelation’s vision of the righteous shining comes from Wisdom 3. Scholars widely note that New Testament authors quote or allude to the Deuterocanon more often than to many books in the Protestant Old Testament (see Craig Evans, David deSilva).
Without these texts, the New Testament stands true, but strangely suspended. With them, it stands grounded and alive.

Why Protestants Need This Today

Reading the Deuterocanon does not mean abandoning Protestant convictions. It means recovering the breadth of the early Christian mind.

These books deepen:
our vision of divine mercy our understanding of justice as restoration
our sense of the spiritual life as a long obedience
our view of creation as a place where God moves
our ability to understand the New Testament’s theology. When Christians rediscover these books, their faith grows more ancient and more alive. Their picture of God widens. Their hope deepens. Their spirituality becomes more rooted in the world that formed Jesus and the apostles. Not because these books overwrite Scripture, but because they illuminate it. They give back to the Bible its original texture.

A Closing Thought

I am not arguing for a new canon. I am inviting us to remember the older one. The one that shaped the earliest believers. The one Jesus’ world knew. The one the apostles assumed. The one the Church prayed with for centuries.

The Deuterocanon reminds us that God’s story has always been wider than our traditions. That divine mercy is deeper than we imagine. That judgment aims at healing. And that the hope of God stretches further than we often dare to believe.

Sometimes recovering lost books is less about changing doctrine and more about expanding the heart.