The pure church, the ancient church, the Spirit-filled church, the biblical church, the confessional church, the social justice church, the inclusive church, the traditional church, the relevant church; each arrives with its own banner, vocabulary, heroes, grievances, and list of errors committed by everyone else. Each claims, with impressive solemnity, to have found the place where Christ may be safely kept.

 

And then the food fight begins.

 

To the outsider, it looks absurd. Christians speak of love while sharpening knives. They speak of grace while counting infractions. They speak of the truth as held by their church while sounding pleased that other churches have missed it. They speak of unity while running a brisk ecclesiastical trade in partitioned Christs, each communion claiming its own authorized fragment of the Savior and treating the rest of his body as damaged merchandise.

 

The objections will come at once.

 

“Surely doctrine matters!” Of course it does. Only a fool would deny it, and only a sentimentalist would pretend that truth becomes more Christian by becoming vague. A church that cannot say what it believes has not achieved humility. It has achieved fog.

 

“But our differences are real!” Yes, they are. Some churches do deny the gospel. Some do demote the Son of God into moral scold, a political emblem, a manager of religious feelings, or a mascot for whatever cause happens to be fashionable or profitable. 

 

Sinners can corrupt even a true argument by using it to justify themselves.

​

“But we are defending the faith!” Very well. Defend it. But do not confuse defending the faith with defending your need to be the sort of person who is always found defending the faith. The old Adam can wear armor. He can quote Scripture. He can cite confessions. He can rebuke heresy with pious sincerity and still be chiefly interested in the delicious fact that he is not like other men.

 

“But certainty is necessary!” Certainly. But there is certainty that looks to Christ alone, and there is certainty that clings to itself. The first is faith. The second is vanity with a doctrinal vocabulary.

 

That is the scandal. The church can be right and still be proud. It can be orthodox and still loveless. It can speak the truth and still use the truth as a weapon against the neighbor for whom Christ died.

 

So no, the answer is not to abandon doctrine. That would only replace one vanity with another, the vanity of the enlightened person who is too refined for conviction. The answer is far more terrible.

 

The Word of God does not wait for our permission or approval. It does its work upon us.

 

It comes as law and gospel, accusation and promise, death and resurrection. It kills the self that wants to be justified by being right. It exposes the pleasure we take in other people’s error. It uncovers the smug relief behind the sentence, “We are not like them.” It drags our pious certainties to the foot of the cross, where no one gets to boast except in the Lord who was crucified for sinners.

​

Only then can doctrine serve its true purpose. It clears the way for the confession Christ puts in the mouth of every sinner he claims: 

 

“It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost.” 1 Timothy 1:15

 

That Word takes Christ out of our clenched hands and gives him back as gift. It strips us of every boast and leaves us with mercy alone.

 

And perhaps this is the word most needed by the one who has watched our unseemly food fight from the outside and wondered whether Christ himself has been lost in it. He has not. He is not the private property of the triumphant church, the anxious church, the clever church, or the wounded church. He is the Lord who comes through the locked doors of our fear and says, “Peace be with you.”

The Christ who comes to sinners, forgives them and makes them his own.