Neutral Is Not Faithful: Remember Your Baptism

I’m going to be honest: I am tired.

Tired of Christians who insist on “staying neutral” while harm is happening all around us. Tired of the idea that silence equals faithfulness.

Tired of hearing, “The church shouldn’t get involved,” when the church was literally born out of resistance to injustice. Neutrality is not a fruit of the Spirit. It is a strategy of self-protection.

When we hear the words “I do,” most of us think of weddings—flowers, promises, witnesses, public vows. But long before we ever said “I do” to a partner, many of us said “I do” at a font, with water running down our foreheads and the community gathered around us.

In baptism, in the United Methodist Church, we are asked a question before we are asked anything else:

Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sin?

And together, we answer: I do.

That vow is not poetic filler. It is not symbolic fluff. It is a public commitment to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. Not just the obvious ones. Not just the socially acceptable ones. Not just the ones that don’t rock the boat.

I just buried the lead on the next question we are asked:

Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression

in whatever forms they present themselves?

And together, we answer: I do.

Whatever forms they present themselves.

That means we don’t get to be neutral observers when systems are tearing families apart. We don’t get to shrug when ICE raids communities and traumatizes children or circumvents the law to achieve their goals (whatever those really are). We don’t get to say, “That’s complicated,” when Scripture is overwhelmingly clear.

Jesus was not unclear either about where he stood: Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the people who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Blessed are the peacemakers.

Yesterday I preached on Psalm 27 and Ephesians 6. Psalm 27 opens with courage, not caution: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” This is not naïve optimism. This is faith forged under threat. The psalmist names enemies and danger and still refuses to let fear have the final word. That matters, because fear is one of the primary tools evil uses to survive. Fear keeps us quiet. Fear convinces us that justice is risky, love is dangerous, and speaking up will cost too much.

For Christians, baptism interrupts that story. In baptism, we are called to choose courage over compliance. Ephesians 6 gives us the image of the “armor of God,” which has been wildly misused over the years. This is not about holy violence or Christian domination. Paul is explicit: our struggle is not against flesh and blood. Not against people.

Evil in Scripture is not primarily about individual bad behavior—it is about systems, powers, and patterns that distort God’s intention for life. Truth, righteousness, peace, and faith are not weapons to hurt others. They are practices that help us stand firm when the world pressures us to look away.

And here’s where I need to be especially clear.

As a United Methodist, I do not believe the Bible exists to rank human worth. We do not read Scripture as a hierarchy of who matters more to God. We read Scripture as a witness to God’s relentless insistence that every person bears the image of God—and that any system denying that truth stands under judgment.

The Bible is not a tool for domination. It is a story of liberation. Again and again, God sides with the vulnerable. Again and again, God chooses life. Again and again, God calls God’s people to embodied action.

Paul writes in Romans, “Love unambiguously. Hate what is evil. Hold fast to what is good.” That word hate is strong. It means refusing to cooperate with evil. It means not accommodating it, not excusing it, not staying politely quiet while it harms others.

But Scripture is equally clear: our resistance is never aimed at people. Jesus commands us to love our enemies, to pray for those who harm us, to refuse the cycle of dehumanization.

• Resistance is not cruelty.

• Resistance is not self-righteousness.

• Resistance is love with a backbone.

This is why, for United Methodists our Social Principles exist. They are not political trends. They are theological commitments flowing directly from our baptismal vows. When we speak against racism, economic injustice, environmental destruction, mass incarceration, or policies that criminalize immigrants and refugees, we are not being divisive.

We are being faithful.

Methodists have always understood this. Early Methodists didn’t just avoid personal sin—they organized, advocated, challenged laws, reformed prisons, and helped abolish slavery. The church split more than once because people refused to stay neutral in the face of evil. They believed holiness was personal and social. They knew what we sometimes forget: evil is not only what individuals do—it is what societies normalize.

And yes, living this out costs something. It is easier to say “I do” in worship than it is to live it Monday through Saturday. Renouncing evil may cost us comfort, approval, or the illusion that faith is private and harmless.

But baptism was never meant to be safe. It was meant to be transformative. For some, living this vow looks like marching, protesting, or showing up at city council meetings. For others, it looks quieter but no less holy: paying attention, refusing harmful language, choosing compassion, and standing visibly with those who are targeted.

When we stand with our immigrant, refugee, migrant, and Native neighbors, we are not making a political statement—we are making a Christian one. We do this because we follow Jesus, who told us that loving God and loving neighbor are inseparable.

Every neighbor. No footnotes. No exceptions.

The good news is this: we do not make this promise alone. God is our shelter. We are clothed in truth, peace, and righteousness. We resist evil not because we are fearless, but because God is faithful.

Every time we choose courage over silence, compassion over cruelty, truth over convenience—we are saying “I do” to our baptism again.

Baptism is not something we outgrow. It is something we grow into.

So may we remember who we are: beloved, claimed, and called.

And may we live our “I do” not only in words, but in witness—until justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.