Side Note: I don't need to die on that hill

Unless it looks like Calvary

I recently had a conversation about faith and doubt. I believe I said something along the lines of “certainty is the death of faith”. The response was the usual theological stronghold, “but there are a few hills I am willing to die on”. Neither of us was willing to go further in the conversation, so we moved on. But a singular question haunted me all day:

What does dying on that hill look like?

Growing up in a tradition where I was taught that rightness equated to righteousness, I get it. I once lived in my towers of doctrine and certainty, ready to launch my theological grenades at those who dared to question. I understand how the safety of certainty can offer us a warm home of acceptance and belonging. And yet, that home came with present conditions and just the right amount of fear not to question them. There was little room for mystery, to converse without the intent of conversion, and little to no room for something wild or feminine. The pen-to-paper doctrine we’ve all inherited became the hills we die on, and yet not many of those hills look like Calvary.

I’ve done my share of damage in weaponizing my theology. I’ve studied the arguments. I’ve cemented my interpretations. Between Bible College and Seminary, I am well equipped to give someone a theological beat down. And yet, I’m beginning to understand what the apostle Paul has been saying all along: It’s all rubbish compared to the love of Christ.¹ I love Jesus with my whole being. For me, that means dropping the sword and picking up the cross. It means leaving the door of doubt crack open enough to keep me humble. I could be wrong. Admitting I could be wrong still carries a sense of fear for me. But if being wrong makes me more compassionate and inclusive and being right crowns me as judge, excluding others from the table, I am willing to be wrong every single time.

The only hill I am willing to die on is Love.

Peace and every good,

1. Philippians 3:8-10