What Do Christians Need to Believe? Part 2
Regular blog readers may have spotted that the title of last week’s article has retrospectively become “Part 1” of what is now a two-part series. It wasn’t the original plan, but I realised that there was more to be said.
Last week focused on the “correct” beliefs a person must hold to describe themselves as “a Christian.” We touched on the slipperiness of the concept of “believing” (what that actually means, in practice) and the consequences of believing “wrong” things. We also identified the phenomenon of evangelicals—more often, the leadership of their denominations and parachurch organisations—insisting on fealty to particular beliefs under threat of being disfellowshipped (or, more colloquially, “being cancelled”) and, for church leaders and theologians, being “deplatformed.”
One of the first challenges in delineating “correct” beliefs is the longstanding division of the church into various wings or factions. At the highest level, we have Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox. Size isn’t everything, but in membership terms, Christianity is approximately 50% Catholic, 40% Protestant, and 10% Orthodox.
“Beliefs” led to those divisions. Some concerned ecclesial governance, such as whether leadership should be vested in a pope (Catholics say yes; the others say no). Another major difference concerned authority: is it partly located in church tradition or in Scripture alone? Protestants champion sola Scriptura, yet even they rely selectively on tradition. For example, one of the two main current conservative arguments for restricting marriage to opposite-sex unions is grounded explicitly in church tradition.
In reality, “tradition versus Scripture” is a false binary. What we are really debating is not Scripture itself but its interpretation—which interpretations should be granted authority. There is no such thing as uninterpreted Scripture (nor traditions that do not claim at least some scriptural foundation).
If we zone in on Protestantism, there are literally thousands of denominations—not to mention a multitude of independent churches that are self-governing (where every church leader, if not every member, is in effect their own pope). It would be an exaggeration to say they all believe different things, but it is undeniable that there are significant differences in their Statements of Faith. Virtually all Protestant churches and their denominations have one, and they invariably differ. Logically, they can’t all be right, of course, which raises the obvious question: how much does being “wrong” in certain non-core beliefs ultimately matter? (If it doesn’t, we ought not to behave as if it did.)
Before going any further, we need to distinguish between those beliefs that define core Christian orthodoxy (what the Vincentian canon rather optimistically describes as “that which has always been believed everywhere, always, by all”) and those which sit outside of that boundary. In simple terms (it’s never in reality quite that simple), “Christian orthodoxy” is expressed in the earliest creeds: specifically, the Apostles’ Creed and the later, more fulsome, Nicene Creed. These function as Christianity’s core definition across its major traditions. In other words, they mark the boundaries of what has historically been regarded as salvation-defining Christian belief.
Why, then, do so many different Protestant Statements of Faith and Confessions of Faith abound? And what do we do with the fact that, to the extent that they differ in content, they can’t all be right? Evangelicals often respond that the differences are “not material,” concerned only with secondary and tertiary nuances. However, this implies either that God is flexible about such matters or, less controversially stated, that God understands human limitations: Christians must follow their best understanding (and conscience), recognising that we are all, to some extent, “seeing in a mirror, darkly” (1 Cor 13:12). Yet neither sits comfortably with the insistence in some parts of the evangelical world that certain beliefs must be affirmed for one to be “properly” (acceptably) evangelical.
Let’s probe further into the claim that the differences only concern non-core matters. A cursory survey of the popular “Two Views”, “Three Views,” and even up to “Five Views” book series suggests otherwise. Can subjects such as salvation, atonement, biblical inerrancy, the Genesis 1–3 creation account, hell, or even the Trinity (to name but a few) really be described as incidental? Put differently, if the various perspectives discussed in these volumes—all of which are presented by respected academic theologians and biblical scholars—are theologically reasonable and biblically valid, why is that not reflected in popular evangelical practice? Why are all such variations (remembering that we’re talking about non-creedal matters) not treated with equal charity and humility?
One such topic covered in the series perhaps illustrates this better than any other: Two Views on Homosexuality, the Bible, and the Church. Why does this one generate such disproportionate heat? Might it be because there is more going on beneath the surface? Is it really about the aggressive defence of a vital Christian belief, or has it become a proxy for deeper anxieties—over creeping liberalism, the undermining of a simple version of biblical authority, and the kind of world that cultural conservatives would like to live in? Opposition to same-sex unions seems to have become a boundary marker, defining who is faithful and who is compromising with the world. It seems increasingly to function as a loyalty test—a line in the sand where people are required to declare which side they stand (with inevitable retribution for the “wrong” answer).
Richard Beck observes in Unclean that strong moral reactions are often connected to intuitive perceptions of purity and contamination. If so, it illustrates how some belief controversies may function symbolically. They become proxies for wider fears about a changing society, a decline in biblical relevance, and even Christianity’s future. This raises the uncomfortable possibility that what may initially appear to be a principled defence of a traditional Christian belief may sometimes be intertwined with psychological, cultural, or tribal concerns.
Consider a less controversial example—though perhaps not entirely so: the divide between cessationists and charismatics regarding the gifts of the Spirit. Cessationists argue that the gifts ceased with the completion of the biblical canon (I am simplifying); charismatics not only believe the opposite but practise them enthusiastically. One group is mistaken. What are the consequences for the wrong group?
In these two articles, I have raised more questions than provided clear answers. That is partly intentional: I want to help Christians recognise these issues and think them through for themselves. I hope to encourage evangelicals in particular—my own branch of the church—to hold more of their views more provisionally and to feel less threatened by a diversity of perspectives. I hope that this posture will foster greater charity and open-mindedness in matters where reasonable differences ought reasonably to be allowed to co-exist.
The reality is this: We will all find that we have been wrong to some extent about numerous things we currently believe when we stand before God on that final day. Yes? We will surely be hoping God will be gracious and compassionate towards us in that moment, that our being wrong on those things did not ultimately matter. So why would we not be willing to show that same grace and compassion towards sincere fellow believers in the present?
I sense that the underlying mindset of modernity—with its foundationalist approach to truth—helps explain evangelicalism’s combative instincts. Truth is absolute, sure, and certain, and we are therefore called to defend it; error must be called out. Evangelicalism was born within modernity and often assumes that certainty is both attainable and necessary for persuasive apologetics—that admitting any uncertainty is equivalent to conceding truth. Postmodernity does not share those assumptions. It is understandably wary of authoritative truth claims, given modernity’s track record in weaponising them.
Let me close with some suggestions for a way forward:
Thoughtfully consider what you personally think “to believe” something looks like in practice.
Articulate what you consider to be the essential versus the non-essential Christian beliefs, and why.
Consider limiting your “essential” list to the substance of the Apostles’ Creed/Nicene Creed, in keeping with their own minimalist approach. This will not come easily for those from an evangelical background, given the plethora of Statements of Faith and Confessions of Faith produced and affirmed so passionately in the Reformation and post-Reformation periods.
If that limitation feels like a bridge too far, at least cast your boundary rope as widely as possible and consider adopting a centred-set rather than a bounded-set approach (one which is less binary).
Focus on values as much as beliefs—what kind of fruit does a belief produce?
None of this is about abandoning fixed points of reference for Christianity. It is about generosity in the outworking of what we consider to be Christian orthodoxy—ensuring that it aligns with our best perceptions of God’s own perspective and priorities.
What might give a Christian the confidence to adopt this approach? I think it would be a recognition of the following:
Being wrong in beliefs that fall outside the historic creedal core does not threaten salvation (ours or others).
God receives us according to the faithfulness with which we believe, not the precision of our beliefs.
Serving a God who is abundantly gracious towards us should lead us to be abundantly gracious towards others.
The Holy Spirit continues to work notwithstanding doctrinal variances.
Christianity has long experienced (and survived) theological diversity.
If those things are true, then Christians can afford to be generous.
Next week—assuming you’ve made it this far—we’ll do something less theological!