God is not guided by today’s moral compasses

Notting Hill is still one of my favourite ‘rom coms’ ever. Memorably, it starred Hugh Grant, Julia Roberts, and the late Emma Chambers (who tragically died a few years ago).

In the film, there is a dinner scene in which Emma Chambers’ character refuses the offer of a dish because she is fruitarian. When Hugh Grant’s character asks what that is, she says: ‘We believe that fruit and vegetables have feelings. So we think cooking is cruel. We only eat what has fallen from the tree or bush and that are, in fact, dead already.’

He replies: ‘So, these carrots… have been murdered?’ ‘Yes!’ is her reply.

And if you think fruitarianism is a fringe fad, then think again. Notable adherents include actor Ashton Kutcher, and the late CEO of Apple, Steve Jobs.

Given the rise of such dietary ethics, imagine the horror that preaching on the parable of the barren fig tree (Luke 13:6-9) would inflict upon a fruitarian. I mean, the parable ends with the owner giving the following stern instruction about the tree that was failing to bear fruit: ‘… if it bears fruit, fine! If not, then cut it down.’

On hearing that Bible passage alone, I could well imagine a fruitarian storming out of church and never coming back.

Of course, such a hasty exit might be averted by the preacher preparing the congregation for that passage by explaining that, for some people, it is understandable that the owner’s instruction will be seen as barbaric. That is part of the chronological snobbery which deems thinking in first-century Judaea to be backward in comparison to the 21st-century British mindset.

However, such precautionary avoidance of offence only scratches the surface of the issue. There are other people who will find the parable of the vineyard workers (Matt. 20:1-16) equally unpalatable and for similar reasons.

Just as fruitarians would take issue with a vineyard owner’s right to deprive a failing fig tree of sustenance, those who believe in workers’ equality would take issue with any businessperson paying late workers the same wage as those who worked the entire day.

In the latter parable, when early workers take issue with the owner’s generosity, his rhetorical reply is a declaration of absolute power and discretion: ‘Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money?’

In both parables, what really offends post-Christian sensibilities is sovereignty: the exercise of absolute power.

Similarly, the post-Christian mindset would not be satisfied with the following response (from the apostle Paul) to the assertion that it is unfair for our all-powerful God, in eternity past, to elect some (but not all) to salvation: ‘Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common uses?’ (Rom. 9:21 NIV)

That mindset struggles with the truth that God’s authority in relation to man is analogous to a potter’s discretion to fashion clay as she pleases. God is not answerable to humanity; He is not like a politician trying to win over the electorate. And for those who think He should be, Scripture’s rebuke exposes their error: ‘You thought I was exactly like you’ (Ps. 50:21).

As the supreme life-giver, God is sovereign over all creation. When that sovereignty is undermined by disobedience, then the dishonour can only be rectified by the surrender of a perfect life to the life-giver. That is why we preach Christ crucified.

So, however much post-Christian minds might take offence, faithful preaching must press home divine sovereignty as a principal dimension of that vast chasm that differentiates Creator from created, which is encapsulated in the worship chant: ‘Holy, holy, holy!’

As owner of all creation, God may graciously grant fleeting insights into His sublime wisdom, but that does not oblige Him to be guided by today’s moral compasses. Especially when those compasses invariably point towards us, rather than Him.