Last night, after my Bible study group, I reflected on theology strengthening some people’s faith and unsettles others. My friend, someone I’ve known for sixteen years across various settings, asked questions during our Lent session. They were good questions: Why do we celebrate Jesus’ birth on 25 December? Why does Easter move? When was Jesus actually born? What evidence do we have? How did early Christians set these dates? Why is Ash the focus and not dust during Lent? Why is the Passover important? What’s the difference between Passover and the Last Supper?
I love these questions. They make theology come alive. I answered them historically, theologically, honestly. They said, “So everything I know is a lie? Everything we get told on a Sunday is wrong? Ever since joining this group it feels like everything is being blown apart.”
Another friend once shared that studying theology was difficult. Learning about Markan priority, Q source, L and M's unique material, and how Psalms echo ancient Near Eastern myths shook them. Eventually, they separated theology from faith mentally to adjust their thinking.
This reminded me of Bart Ehrman, a well‑known theologian, once a passionate evangelising Christian, studied theology to deepen that calling, but lost faith. The material that energises me dismantled him. Textual development, gnostic writings, and early doctrinal debates made the Bible’s authority fragile, and wrong. I understand why, but disagree.
I have never “worked through” theological disruption the way others do.
Before becaming a Christian, I was kicked out of Alpha courses, not for being rude or disruptive, but because I asked the wrong questions. I wasn’t tearing anything down; I just read widely and thought deeply. A self-called armchair theologian. When I finally encountered God, my theological wiring didn’t collapse, it was reinforced. Beginning formal theological studies validated everything I’d known and believed.
Theology was not against faith. It became the lens that strengthen it.
This is why I love the great reformers. Luther, Calvin, Cranmer, Wesley, and others never wanted to destroy the Church. They tried reforming harmful or misleading practices through theology, believing honesty strengthens the Church, not weakens it. I stand in that same tradition.
I don’t believe in Scripture as a perfect, black‑and‑white text. The Bible moved from Aramaic and Hebrew to Greek, Latin, German, English, and now into dozens of translations. Some with accompanying "missing books," guides and stories. I have many different Bibles on my shelf. They don’t always agree. That doesn’t make them unreliable; it makes them human. Translation is interpretation, and interpretation is theology.
Insisting translations are unmoveable is wrong. Not because I doubt Scripture, but because revelation is found in the intent, not the translation. Theology uncovers that intent, revealing messages about God, His heart, and humanity where literalism obscures it. Once revealed, it applies to our lives, transcending human behaviour across time to meet us today.
Take the LGBTQ+ debates. Theologically, the texts are about rape, exploitation, purity, prostitution, and social order, not loving, consensual relationships. Bishops, priests and scholars know this. Many cling to tradition because admitting misinterpretation means admitting centuries of mistakes. Heterodoxy (belief or practice that departs from accepted doctrine, often becoming tradition through repetition rather than truth) becomes habit, and habit becomes identity.
People feel shaken when they are taught a faith built on certainty. When theology introduces complexity, the foundation collapses. For me, complexity is where God speaks most clearly.
It shouldn’t be “Is everything I believed wrong?” but, “How does this deepen my understanding of God?”
That difference explains why someone like Ehrman loses faith while others are strengthened. Some can’t absorb complexity. I was built for it.
Maybe this is why my non‑church friends call me the “best worst Christian.” I’m not naughty or rebellious. I just don’t fit the polished “good Christian” stereotype. I’m divorced and remarried, disabled, and have mental health issues. I wear my woolly hat everywhere, including when I preach. I don’t dress fancy. I’m me. I don’t get defensive and won’t shut down those asking hard questions. Alongside those early Alpha experiences, I’ve been removed from churches. I challenge injustice. I argue with those who weaponise Scripture. I use theology defensively, not destructively. I don’t embody the image of a “healed and blessed” Christian. I embody a broken world.
While I believe God heals people back to their natural state, I don’t believe God “fixes” those born disabled, as I was, when He creates with intention (Exodus 4:11 and Psalm 139). I also emphasise Jesus’ social healing, where He promotes belonging, inclusion, restoration, and dignity.
Being the “Best worst Christian” then means I stand apart in action and belief. I love that.
Clergy don't resist theological honesty maliciously. It’s fear: fear of destabilising congregations, of being labelled liberal, and of institutional fragility. I, nevertheless, believe people deserve truth. This is why I teach and preach applicable exegesis, and lead studies that explore context, history, and meaning. It’s why I feel called to be a priest to the outcasts, outsiders, and those hurt by religion. I want to show that God’s word is richer than literalism allows.
Truth and God are never in conflict. Humanity is, by using Scripture to perpetuate problems rather than allowing theology to connect and bridge people.
In the meantime, I’ll keep seeking theology over Scripture. When Scripture becomes a breaking point, theology is what holds my faith together. I just need to not shake my friends foundations too much.
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