Questions about the place of Christianity and the posture of Christians in a pluralistic society have never been merely theoretical for me. They have always been very personal.
I was first drawn to the Christian faith as a child in London. Both the city and the school I attended there were marked by profound religious, ethnic, and cultural pluralism. A few years later, while a freshman in high school, I began to follow Christ more intentionally after a conversion experience in a church youth group in the Washington, DC, area. I spent the rest of high school and college navigating how to inhabit my faith in settings where few shared my convictions.
When I got to grad school and discovered the life and writings of Augustine of Hippo from the fourth and fifth centuries, I felt like I’d finally found the resources I needed to begin imagining a faithful, generous Christian witness in our own time and place.
We live in a diverse and quickly changing democracy, surrounded by people with many divergent beliefs and ways of life, and this comes with both opportunities and challenges. We’re able to know and love neighbors very different from ourselves as we share and embody the gospel. But navigating deep difference and rapid social shifts can also be difficult and scary, and we may end up hurting our neighbors rather than loving them well.
I remember a friendly but heated conversation with a classmate in our high school senior lounge, on the brink of graduation. I was wrestling with what kind of moral expectations I could have for those who didn’t share my Christian faith. I was still naïve to the moral brokenness found within the church, and I had high expectations for the behavior of believers and low expectations for everyone else.
My friend wasn’t a Christian, and she pushed back on that assumption, arguing that people could have deep moral commitments outside of faith in God. I realized my line of thinking was offensive to her. I’d unintentionally implied that she had no moral grounding and failed to consider the personal ramifications of my theoretical ideas. It was a clarifying moment.
A few years later, my friend and I picked up the conversation again. I’d stayed near Washington for college and, along the way, had sobering experiences at the intersection of faith and politics. I saw fellow Christians responding to the realities of pluralism with fear, anger, and anxiety rather than faith, hope, and love, and these experiences left me asking a lot of questions.
Meanwhile, my friend had gone to an elite college in the Northeast and was on the brink of law school. Her convictions about the role of religion in a pluralistic society had become much stronger. She was convinced religion was harmful and no longer had any positive role to play in our society, politically or otherwise.
I’d read this viewpoint in the writings of people like philosopher Richard Rorty, who argues that religion is inevitably a “conversation-stopper” and causes harm. But to hear a friend speak this way about faith—including my faith—was painful. I could acknowledge that harm had been done in the name of Christ throughout the centuries. Yet this critique of Christianity felt very personal. It felt like my friend was saying that I, as well as my brothers and sisters in Christ, had no place in American public life.
These conversations and similar experiences were what led me to conclude that Christians need to learn how to better embody and articulate our convictions. So when I encountered the witness and writings of Augustine, I was delighted to discover resources for that project within the Christian tradition.
Augustine, too, became a Christian in a deeply pluralistic and tumultuous setting. Throughout his life, including his many years in ministry and as a public figure, he was always aware of the many religions and philosophies around him. Augustine didn’t expect Christianity to dominate society, and he rejected the impulse to respond to rapid political and cultural change with fear or anger.
Instead, Augustine called Christians to remember that we are citizens first and foremost of the City of God. This is our primary identity. He encouraged us to trust that no matter what happens in politics or culture (even the fall of the Roman Empire!), Jesus Christ is King. If we know this biblical truth, we never need to be afraid amid societal turmoil.
That rejection of fear does not mean retreat from society. Augustine taught that this kind of trust in God should inform our engagement in this world, not lead us to withdraw from it. We can seek the welfare of our earthly cities (Jer. 29:7) without losing sight of God’s kingdom. No political society will be or become the city of God in this age, but we can still contribute to public goods, like peace.
I’ve learned from Augustine an approach to Christian engagement amid pluralism that I’ve come to call “openhanded discipleship.” We learn about openhandedness all throughout the biblical story, going back to the very beginning when God gave humans everything: the breath of life, creation in his image, the gift of each other, a calling to be fruitful and multiply, a calling to steward the created world, and the power to fulfill those callings faithfully (Gen. 1:26–2:25). We were to receive all these gifts with gratitude and offer them back to God with open hands of our own.
Instead, humanity fell. Failing to trust God’s counsel, we used our hands to take rather than to receive. Since then, we’ve tended toward a posture of tightfistedness rather than openhandedness, of hoarding rather than sharing. To use a classic Christian term, humans became incurvatus in se (“turned in on ourselves”)—looking out for ourselves and our own instead of offering ourselves in love and service.
But even after the Fall, God didn’t let go of this vision of his people living with open hands. God called his covenant people, Israel, to remember that all they had came from God and was to be freely offered back, every moment of every day. We see this explicitly in Deuteronomy: “If anyone is poor among your fellow Israelites in any of the towns of the land the Lord your God is giving you, do not be hardhearted or tightfisted toward them. Rather, be openhanded and freely lend them whatever they need” (15:7–8).
That same vision underlies Israel’s calls to tithe and give God the first fruits of the harvest, as well as the command to leave the edges of fields unharvested so those in need could glean enough to survive. The land was a gift from God to be openhandedly received by God’s people, then offered back to God and to others.
This openhandedness was also behind God’s call to love him “with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength” (Deut. 6:5), a call famously reiterated by Jesus (Matt. 22:37). And not just reiterated but embodied by him, who loved so fully that he offered all of himself for the salvation of the world.
As his disciples, it is our call to “have the same mindset as Christ Jesus,” who emptied himself, opening his hands wide enough to die on the cross for us and our redemption (Phil. 2:5–8). In Christ and by the Spirit, we are to openhandedly offer all of ourselves to God every day, not tightfistedly holding anything back but loving God fully and loving our neighbors as ourselves.
This always lies at the heart of the call to follow Jesus, but it is particularly vital as we seek to live faithfully in pluralistic spaces. Even amid great political and cultural change, openhanded discipleship remains our calling. With Augustine, we can still find our primary identity in the kingdom of God. We can still generously offer ourselves as living sacrifices (Rom. 12:1–2). We can still seek the welfare of our cities, countries, and public institutions, whether or not our neighbors share our faith. We can still look for points of overlap rather than demarcating lines of division.
Trusting that Christ is King no matter what and rooted in Christ instead of fear or anger, we can become known as people who with open hands offer life and hope to the world.
Kristen Deede Johnson is the dean and vice president of academic affairs and the G. W. and Edna Haworth Professor of Educational Ministries and Leadership at Western Theological Seminary. Her scholarship focuses on theology, culture, formation, and political theory. She is coauthor of The Justice Calling and is writing a book about openhanded discipleship, to be published by Zondervan Reflective.
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