This short series – in which you will hear from all of the Collective’s regular contributors – was initially ‘inspired’ by the arguments surrounding the inauguration of Donald Trump and the homily given at the National Cathedral by Bishop Mariann Budde. The row presented such contrasting images of Christianity that I was tempted to just walk away – not from Jesus, not from the church, but from the label. I didn’t want to be associated with the brand of Christianity that tends to be in the news these days.

Then a few things happened in quick succession that made think is a conversation worth having.

Firstly, the church that I’m part of met to talk about what we think the message of Easter is. We have been (OK, yes, I’ll use the word) deconstructing the gospel as we have inherited it from our spiritual parents over the last few weeks. One advantage of the story we were told as young people (or young Christians) is that it’s really, really simple: our sin has cut us off from God and after death we will be forever punished for it. Jesus has already taken the punishment in our place but to be saved from eternal conscious torment we have to declare our faith in Jesus. If our faith is true, we will be saved from hell and instead enjoy heaven with God. This message can be learned by rote and shared on street corners the world over, and requires a one-off momentary decision. It’s a brilliant package that still sells well in many parts of the world.

The first problem with this message is that Jesus never said anything like it. The second problem is that in this worldview that doesn’t matter, because the life and teaching of Jesus are completely secondary to the death of Jesus, as if they were just what Jesus kept himself busy doing until his time came to die. Jesus has become a ticket to the next life, so much so that what he said about this life can be ignored (unless it’s about sex).

At our church meeting we spent some time trying to express what it is about Jesus that makes us choose to follow him. It turned out to be both challenging and beautiful. I was reminded again why I love Jesus so much.

Afterwards, a friend mentioned that they had met someone they know in a local park. This person had said, ‘I’m a Christian, but I must admit I’m embarrassed to let people know.’ They chatted for a couple of minutes before my friend recommended Unapologetic by Francis Spufford as a book that would help him see that being a Christian wasn’t just for racists and crazies. I love that book, and I recommend it heartily to anyone looking for a way to understand faith that makes sense.

Then the next morning Instagram fed me a video about the philosopher Bertrand Russell (I guess my Insta feed is different to many). The video reminded me that Russell was an admirer of the teachings of Jesus, but despised the religion that had grown up in his name. He admired the teachings of Buddha, but said that Buddhism could just as equally be corralled into the service of empire or money. I know that more recently the novelist Philip Pullman has said similar things, and tried to articulate them (not successfully, imho) in his novel The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ. At the time of writing the novel, he described himself as a Jesusist, but not a Christian.

I have a huge amount of sympathy for that position. It is very, very, tempting to just dump the whole Christianity thing and start again with the four gospels (or even three, since John’s is so trippy). Given that I see Jesus relating to religious and imperial power on a scale that ranges from indiferrence to outright rebellion, I struggle to relate to any of the major Christian traditions. The Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches have the deals with Constantine (4th century) and Charlemagne (9th) baked into their DNA, such that the exercise of religious power and complicity with state power are taken for granted. The Protestant Reformation relied on Luther’s deals with German princes, Cranmer’s with Henry VIII and Calvin’s oppressive Geneva. Perhaps somewhere in my Baptist heritage and the parallel Anabaptist movement I can find people who sense that the Abba that Jesus points to is not violent or controlling, so neither should we be.

There is currently a lot of talk about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Bonhoeffer’s Confessing Church, and the lesser-known White Rose Movement exemplified by the martyr Sophie Scholl, remind me that those who stood against state power religion were very small in number. Most Christians in Germany supported the Nazis, since they opposed the very real threat of Soviet Russia. This is unlike the completely imaginary threat of communism in the USA, where there is no real excuse for the worship of state power religion, except that alliance with state power seems to be the majority position throughout the history of Christianity.

So why am I not just dropping the name Christian? I have certainly dropped – with a great deal of resentment – the name evangelical, since to those looking in from the outside it just means ‘Trump supporter’. Well, the name Christian is not one that can be given up so easily.

Interestingly, it was first given to those who called themselves ‘Followers of The Way’ in the city that is now called Antakya in Turkey. It means ‘Little Christ’ and may have been an affectionate nickname or a flat-out insult. What we know about the earliest Christians is that their reigious life was kept secret because of persecution, but their kindness to people outside their group was what marked them out. By the 4th century, this kindness was already creating a kind of unofficial welfare state across the Roman Empire. The Emperor Julian wrote to his priests to encourage them to copy the Christians in their care for the poor:

“when it came about that the poor were neglected and overlooked by the [pagan] priests, then I think the impious Galilaeans [i.e., Christians] observed this fact and devoted themselves to philanthropy.” (Fragment of a Letter to a Priest, 337)

“[They] support not only their poor, but ours as well, all men see that our people lack aid from us.” (To Arsacius, High Priest of Galatia, 69)

“it is their benevolence to strangers, their care for the graves of the dead and the pretended holiness of their lives that have done most to increase atheism.” (To Arsacius, High Priest of Galatia, 69-70)

In contrast to those early Christians, good people today are rejecting Christianity because it is nothing like Christ. It is difficult to get to the source of Gandhi’s famous quote (‘I like your Christ; I do not like your Christians’) but he does seem to have said something similar. When asked by the Missionary Stanley Jones how Christianity might ‘become native’ in India, Gandhi is said to have replied, ‘I would suggest first of all that all of you Christians, missionaries and all begin to live more like Jesus Christ.’ (The Christ of the Indian Road)

So perhaps it is my life’s ambition to one day earn the name Christian: Little Christ. That in some small way someone would look at me and say I am like him.

The other reason that I don’t reject the name Christian is because Jesus of Nazareth didn’t reject his Jewish heritage, even as he sought to transform it. Perhaps he knew all along that his critique of Judaism would lead to his death, yet there is no sign of him trying to start a new religion. One might consider the teaching of Jesus as a kind of ‘gene therapy’ for Judaism, trying to heal it through an imperciptible change at the level of individual hearts and minds, ultimately leading to transformed communities of love. Unfortunately, the body politic of Judaism read Jesus as a deadly virus, and activated itself to stamp out the disease.

It’s telling that the first Christians still worshipped in the Temple in Jerusalem. The religious leaders had participated in the execution of Jesus just a few weeks earlier, but God was still God. I don’t know if I could have done that, to be led in worship by the people who killed my teacher. I probably couldn’t. Nonetheless, as much as I can, I will try to worship with those who claim the name of Jesus, even as it’s becoming clear that many of them can’t bear his teaching.*

So, here I am. I hope I’m becoming a person worthy of one being called a Little Christ, and not as a snide joke. Maybe one day.

*‘[I’ve had] multiple pastors tell me essentially the same story about quoting the Sermon on the Mount parenthetically in their preaching – turn the other cheek – to have someone come up after and to say, where did you get those liberal talking points? And what was alarming to me is that in most of these scenarios, when the pastor would say, I’m literally quoting Jesus Christ, the response would not be, I apologize. The response would be, yes, but that doesn’t work anymore. That’s weak.’ Russell Moore on NPR