Is Christianity No Longer Allowed to Ask Anything of Us? – On a Faith That May Comfort but Not Demand.
“We can't expect that of people today.” Heard that one before? In church debates, a sentence like this comes up surprisingly often. On topics like sexual morality, celibacy, obedience, or Sunday Mass. Somewhere a demand of the faith is on the table, and before long the search begins for how to explain it,
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“We can't expect that of people today.” Heard that one before? In church debates, a sentence like this comes up surprisingly often. On topics like sexual morality, celibacy, obedience, or Sunday Mass. Somewhere a demand of the faith is on the table, and before long the search begins for how to explain it, soften it, or at least make it sound less strict.
Of course the Church has to explain what she teaches. And of course people can be overwhelmed by demands. But something has shifted here. It's no longer always a question of how Christianity demands something. More and more, the very fact that it demands anything at all seems suspect.
Yet Christ does make a claim: He calls to conversion and demands forgiveness. He speaks about fidelity, possessions, and how we handle our own desires. And then there's this: “If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24)
Is that demanding? It's meant to be demanding.
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A Faith That Speaks Into My Life
The problem already begins with our idea of what religion is actually for. Faith is supposed to give support, offer comfort, and create community. There's nothing wrong with that. But Christianity was not founded so that I might feel a little better about my current life. Christ calls people, and in doing so changes their lives.
This is already evident in the calling of the first disciples. Peter and Andrew are in the middle of their work when Christ says to them: “Come after me,” (Matthew 4:19). They leave their nets and follow Him. Christ steps into an existing everyday life and suddenly lays claim to something that had previously belonged entirely to them: their time and their future.
It becomes even clearer with the rich young man. He himself asks Christ what he still lacks. The answer is anything but comfortable: “You are lacking in one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21). The man goes away sad. And Christ does not run after him to renegotiate the terms.
This is unsettling if you're used to checking every demand first for how reasonable it is. Christ, by contrast, seems to genuinely trust man with something. Following Him is allowed to cost something.
As long as Christian love of neighbor just means being nice to the people I already like anyway, it doesn't take much Christianity for that. Forgiveness only becomes difficult when someone has truly hurt me. Fidelity doesn't carry its real weight on the wedding day, when both stand happily before the altar. It becomes significant years later, when life together has grown wearisome. And fasting simply isn't fasting if I only give up what I didn't want anyway.
The demand is not an accidental part of the Christian faith, then. It arises from discipleship itself. Christ may lead me to places I would never have chosen for myself. That is probably the part we struggle with. For a very comfortable faith would be one in which God loves me, comforts me, and accompanies me, but please asks nothing of me that would seriously upset my plans. Yet then God would play a strange role. He would be allowed to give me strength for my path, but I alone would be allowed to determine its direction.
The Gospel knows no such division of roles: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15). Love and commandment stand in the very same sentence for Christ. Apparently He saw no contradiction in that.
We often do today. Love is supposed to affirm, while commandment restricts. Love feels good, but demands get in the way. Yet we know from ordinary life that love most certainly makes demands. A father who is completely indifferent to what becomes of his child does not love especially generously. A good friend will hold me back if I'm going off the rails—precisely because he is not indifferent to what becomes of me. Why should God's love consist precisely in never contradicting me? Christ wants to be our friend. A true one.
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An Undemanding Christianity?
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One can, of course, scale back the demands of Christianity. At first, that makes many things easier. There is less need to speak about sin. Moral boundaries widen, fasting loses its weight, obedience already sounds outdated anyway. No one likes to be offended by anything.
Only something happens to faith itself in the process. Take forgiveness, for example. Christ does not say that we should forgive once the other person has apologized sufficiently nicely. Peter even asks Him how often he must forgive his brother. Seven times? That would already be quite generous. Christ answers: “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.” (Matthew 18:22).
That can really hurt. Because perhaps I don't want to forgive my brother at all right now. Perhaps I even have good reasons for my anger. The Christian claim does not take away the hurt. But it does not leave me the comfortable option of simply declaring my anger justified just because it is understandable.
With sexual morality, it becomes even more personal. It is not enough to say: I feel this way, so it must be right. Christianity actually dares to claim that sexuality, too, has an order, and that not every desire becomes good simply because it is strongly felt. And obedience? That probably hits closest of all. Because then I must accept that my own will does not automatically have the last word.
All of this can be abused. Of course. False obedience can destroy people, religious demands can be enforced without love, and even Church authority can fail. But it does not follow from this that a Christianity without any claim would be the better solution.
For if faith is only allowed to speak to me where I already agree, then at some point it can no longer correct me either. But then conversion also becomes difficult. Why should I convert if my own way of life is already the standard for what faith is allowed to demand of me? Conversion presupposes, after all, that I really can be wrong. That not every one of my decisions was good. That at some point in my life, what I need may not be a new justification, but a change.
This happens again and again in the Gospel. Zacchaeus had cheated people out of their money. After his encounter with Christ he says: “If I have extorted anything from anyone, I shall repay it four times over.” (Luke 19:8). Peter and Andrew are standing by their nets when Christ calls them. “At once they left their nets and followed him.” (Matthew 4:20). With Paul it is even more drastic. He persecutes Christians and is convinced that he is doing the right thing by it. After his encounter with Christ near Damascus, he has to recognize that his very own firm conviction was wrong. The persecutor finally becomes the man who himself proclaims Christ (Acts 9:1–22).
That is conversion. And precisely for this reason, Christianity needs a claim that can also stand against me at times. Zacchaeus must give something back. Peter must leave something behind. Paul must admit that he was wrong. None of them would have changed if Christ had only confirmed what they had already been doing.
If this claim is taken away from Christianity, one loses far more than a few inconvenient rules. Then conversion, too, loses its meaning. For what am I supposed to convert from, if faith is no longer allowed to judge my life at all? Why should I give up, return, or change anything, if my own will ultimately decides what God may demand of me?
What remains then is a Christianity that accompanies, comforts, and affirms. But only as a faith that never challenges me and leads me nowhere. And one truly does not need that.
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And God?
What do we actually expect from Christianity? That it carries us through difficult times? Of course. That it gives hope, forgives guilt, and catches people when they fall? Absolutely. But why should it stop precisely there? When it comes to faith, it seems that even a “no” now requires justification.
That is a strange expectation to have of a religion that claims God really exists. Because then it is not only about what I receive from faith. Then another question also arises: What do I owe God? What may He expect of me? This question has almost vanished from our religious thinking.
Yet it changes one's view of faith considerably. I do not then go to Mass only when it gives me something personally, nor do I pray only when I need comfort. A commandment does not need to first prove its worth by making my life more pleasant – after all, God is not there so that my life might function as smoothly as possible.
In Christianity, the relationship is greater: God gives everything to man, even Himself, and man gives an answer in return. But an answer that only holds as long as it costs nothing would be rather little.
Perhaps, then, we should not constantly ask how much Christianity people today can still be expected to bear. The older question would sometimes be the better one: What do I owe God? If God is truly God, the answer can hardly be: only what happens to suit me.
About Lukasz Holfeld
Editor / author at Priesterausbildungshilfe.
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