A Theology of Telling
“If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have gained your brother. But if he does not listen, take one or two others along with you, that every charge may be established by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church.”
Matthew 18:15-17
I have long misunderstood what the Bible says about my voice.
In fact, my theology has more closely resembled the children’s movie Bambi:.
“If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nuthin’ at all.”
But there is a terrible problem with saying nothing at all.
Too many times I’ve been told to be silent to protect the Kingdom of God. I wonder if we remember what the Kingdom of God is at all.
Because the Kingdom of God is a call to repentance–a story where every shameful thing comes out of hiding.
A place where only serpents ask, “Did he really say that?”
The Kingdom of God is every drop of Abel’s blood that cried out for justice.
It’s every Hagar who was seen by God.
It’s every Joseph who was vindicated after he was falsely accused.
It’s every Bathsheba whose story wasn’t struck from the record, not even for the sake of a king’s reputation.
It’s every raped concubine whose dead body calls forth an army.
It’s every Esther who risked her life speaking up against abuse.
It’s every Job who gave voice to his sorrow when he suffered as a righteous man.
It’s every psalmist who spelled out how his enemy was wrong.
It’s every prophet who confronted sin publicly and in detail.
It’s every virgin who told the truth when no one believed her.
It’s every good shepherd who could see a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
It’s every teacher who warned of whitewashed tombs, full of dead men’s bones.
It’s every apostle who called out religious leaders by name.
It’s every passage that decries gossip and slander, but never forbids a truthful story.
It’s every slain witness under the altar of God, crying out to be avenged.
And it is, most of all, the story of a Man who was murdered by religious leaders–His trauma hung up for all the world to see. It is every slap of His face, every sharp edge of betrayal that pierced His body and soul. It is the story of God Himself, rejected and spit on—weighed, measured, and found wanting. It is the story of a Man who told the truth and was crucified for it.
The Kingdom of God is the story of One who got up out of the grave, not a fiber of death clinging to His resurrected body.
And what does this Man do when He comes out of the grave? Does He grow quiet to protect the religious system? Does He speak about it in hushed tones, careful not to upset the balance?
No, with His last words He tells us not to be silent, insists that every tribe and tongue know His death and resurrection.
He is a God of telling, because the darkness and the light are both alike to Him. And He is making every injustice into good news, every survivor’s story a shadow of the gospel.
Here’s the thing—the wild, beautiful thing: this story doesn’t belong to me alone. I share it with the One who lives inside of me–the One who promised to be with me to the very end. My story is His story. My grief, His grief. Every good and perfect thing came from Him, and every evil thing was done against Him more than it was ever done against me.
And with that revelation, I found the courage to use my voice again.