I’ve always suspected that Jesus was way more radical than the Christians I grew up around could comprehend.
A few years ago, I met with the associate pastors at my church and nervously confessed to them that I didn’t feel comfortable inviting other young adults to service on Sundays. I was the youth and young adults minister, so it was literally my job to bring young people into that church, but it became a burden.
The year was 2017. My peers were talking about Trump’s travel ban on Muslim countries, immigration, police brutality, white supremacy, and trans rights. Throughout the year there were also Black Lives Matter protests, women’s marches, and teacher strikes. And yet, every Sunday morning we ignored all that.
The associate pastors listened to me as I explained this, and responded, “I don’t think there’s as many people thinking about all that stuff as you think there are.”
I left that church about a month later. But leaving that church didn’t feel like I was leaving Jesus. It felt like I was following Jesus into something bigger.
I had come to realize that it was wrong to remain neutral on so many points of injustice. We claimed to be a community that followed Jesus, but I don’t know what kind of Jesus this was. The Jesus of the Bible empowered people to confront injustice, not avoid it.
My favorite Jesus story is a scene a few days before Jesus is crucified where he enters the temple’s outer courts and shuts the place down. Jesus flips over the tables of those selling sacrificial animals and pours out their coins on the ground. With a whip he drives out the people and animals and won’t allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. He then uses the place to teach and accuses the priests of turning a house of prayer into a den of robbers.
A den of robbers is not where people are robbed. A den of robbers is where robbers hide, expecting to be safe. Jesus uses this temple demonstration to accuse the religious authorities of hiding behind their religion to avoid confronting the injustice going on outside of the temple. Today, we all know Christians who hide behind their religion to avoid confronting injustice, so this demonstration is more relevant than ever.
Again and again, the God of the Bible chooses the side of the oppressed. Jesus embodies this decisiveness. Jesus said the spirit of the Lord anointed him “to let the oppressed go free.”1 This is the purpose of Jesus’s ministry. The language of choosing sides is uncomfortable in our highly divisive times. Often we are trying to escape “us vs. them” stories. In our attempt to combat our divisiveness, we often prioritize harmony over justice. However, this only prolongs the injustice that is at the root of our divisions.
Religious organizations’ priority for harmony over justice has led to various critiques of religion over the centuries. It’s why Karl Marx called religion the opium of the masses, imagining flowers over our chains. It’s why we may love spirituality but get really uncomfortable around people who seem to over-spiritualize things. It’s why we roll our eyes at people who claim that the solution to suffering is simply a change of perspective, while ignoring the oppression that continues no matter how we perceive it.
Justice requires us to choose sides. Even love requires us to choose sides. And choosing the side of the oppressed requires us to fight for what the oppressed fight for. People need others to share their struggle.
This is the objective of the incarnation. God is embodied in Jesus, a poor and powerless child, who grows up to build a movement in solidarity with the poor and powerless unto his death. Through Jesus, God chooses sides. It is only through the poor and powerless that salvation becomes available to everyone. Supporting the poor and powerless in their struggle to free themselves is how we all get free.
In the spirit of this incarnational sensibility, the American Christian socialist Eugene Debs famously said,
I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.2
Choosing the side of the underclass is a deep impulse throughout Christian history, but it’s never been the most popular expression of Christianity in the world. In my search for a more liberative Christianity I discovered liberation theology, which is a major influence on my faith today. Liberation theology was formulated in Latin America in the 1960s out of a commitment to “the preferential option for the poor.” The sentiment behind this slogan was that God always chooses the side of the poor in their struggle for freedom from oppression, so the church should too. The only reason liberation theology had to develop as a distinct interpretive lens is because of the history of the church choosing the side of the rich and powerful again and again until it was impossible to imagine or recognize a mainstream Christianity that chooses the side of the poor and powerless.
In spite of Christianity’s corrupt history, there has always persisted a stream within Christianity that chooses the side of the poor and powerless. One of my heroes, St. Francis of Assisi, started an order of friars called the Lesser Brothers, who were committed to poverty and charity. His motivation was to serve every need of the poorest people in society to the extent that the Brothers had fewer material resources than those they served. They tapped into that incarnational sensibility and viscerally understood the significance of Jesus saying, “Whatever you did to the least of these, you did to me.”3 He did this during the Crusades, in the same country as the pope.
We can either use our faith to empower us to transform the world or use our faith to justify the world as it is. Our faith often operates as one form or the other, even if we are not aware of it. Both of these forms of faith live within us, always at tension. And both of these forms of faith have shaped our history, always at tension.
This book is about that tension.
Many of us are more familiar with the ways Christianity has been used to suppress change, which is why many of us have a complicated relationship with religion. You are not alone. This is my story too. And my faith opened up in new ways when I discovered the stream of Christianity that empowers the work of liberation, even when it requires fighting injustice within the Christian tradition itself.
This book is written from a Christian perspective, and is mostly about Christianity, not because I believe Christianity is superior to other religions, or that Christians have special access to God that non-Christians don’t have. Rather, since I grew up in Christianity, it is my responsibility to reclaim my own religious tradition to empower myself toward liberation. It is the responsibility of people of other religious traditions to reclaim theirs in their own way.
The Christian faith begins with Jesus as the point of entry to God. Jesus uniquely shows us what God is like. And it is through Jesus’s riotous demonstration in the temple that we experience the God who riots. This God is manifest in all kinds of places we may not expect. And as I look at modern-day riots, protests, strikes, and all other forms of direct action toward liberation, I am compelled to bear witness to the God who riots, continuing to empower people in the work of liberation.
This God chooses sides in our struggle. In response to injustice, this God riots alongside us, within us, and through us.