Theological Cocoon

I trust mechanics more than I trust theology.

Now, I don’t have a degree or certificate in either field. But I do have credibility with both. If you need proof, just read my books, blogs, or articles. Or ask about the Toyota Land Cruiser I’m slowly revitalizing.

Mechanics spend their lives dealing with the tangible. Either the thermostat housing leaks or it doesn’t. The brakes work or they don’t.

Theology? Not nearly so simple. You can love Jesus and consider yourself a faithful follower, yet have wildly different opinions about eschatology, the inerrancy of Scripture, or even same sex marriage. Theology is like that – it’s actually a big tent, or at least should be.

The problem, for me, is that sometimes the big tent isn’t. A person builds a belief system down one specific line of thought, and before long has constructed a fort of theological positions that keep most people out. 

Okay, yes, I know at some point this comparison gets silly. It breaks down if you go too deep.

But that’s the point. So does theology. 

Theology can wrap a person in a cocoon of perspectives that keep them apart from the tangible realities of the world around them. The further it gets from ordinary human lives, the easier it becomes to sound impressive while explaining very little. 

That doesn’t mean theology is useless. Good theology matters. Deeply. But theology detached from reality eventually starts sounding like somebody explaining engine timing who has never once opened a hood.

And people can tell.

Most people are not looking for perfect systems. They’re looking for honesty. They’re looking for somebody willing to admit that human beings are complicated, grief is real, marriages fail, addictions lie, churches disappoint, prayers sometimes go unanswered, and life does not fit neatly inside bullet points.

Mechanics know this instinctively. Nothing arrives at a garage in perfect condition. If it does, just wait a while and a problem will surface.

If I were to write fiction, the main character would probably work around cars and wrecks.

Maybe a mechanic. Maybe a junkyard owner. Somebody suspicious of simple solutions because he’s spent his life dealing with complicated failures.

But equally suspicious of complicated solutions because only the simple ones last.

The main character knows that when somebody says, “It’s an easy fix,” it usually isn’t. He’d distrust polished appearances. He’d have strong opinions. Most mechanics do because reality tends to wear the nonsense out of you. 

The mindset carries into his perspective on faith, theology, and doctrine. Anything too complicated can become an anchor. 

We live in a culture of curated authenticity. It doesn’t matter if we are sincere; we just need to appear sincere. We used to call such people fake. Now we call them influencers. 

By contrast, the character in my book would respect brutal honesty over curated authenticity. He’d point out that curated authenticity is still … well, he’d call it bullshit. 

That’s one reason why so many people are exhausted with institutional religion right now. They are tired of being told to ignore obvious problems. Tired of polished certainty from people who seem disconnected because they are so wrapped in their theological cocoon.

Ironically, Christianity begins with the acknowledgment that human beings are broken and in need of grace, forgiveness, love.

I’ll wrap this up with one last thought.

Jesus talked a lot about fishermen, shepherds, and farmers. Real people in real situations, dealing with all the crap life throws at them. 

I suspect today he’d talk a lot about mechanics.