I've had one of those questions rattling around in my head lately. You know the kind. The ones that show up while you're driving. Or standing in line at the grocery store. Or trying to fall asleep because apparently your brain has decided this is the perfect time to start a theological discussion.

Here's the question:
How do we decide whether a theology is worth keeping?

Not whether it's old.
Not whether it's popular.
Not whether your denomination approves of it.
Not even whether someone can quote a Bible verse in its defense.

How do we decide it's actually worth holding onto?

So I asked that question on Facebook. The responses were thoughtful, insightful, and exactly what I hoped for. And also...not.

People talked about Scripture.
The teachings of Jesus.
The Wesleyan Quadrilateral.
Reason.
Tradition.
Experience.
Love.

They were good answers. They just weren't answers to the question I thought I was asking.

It finally dawned on me. Most people answered which measuring stick they use. Very few stopped to ask whether the measuring stick itself should be measured.

That realization has been following me around ever since.

Because I think Christians have become remarkably good at arguing over theological conclusions. We've gotten far less practice asking whether the methods we're using to reach those conclusions deserve to be trusted.

Every theology comes with a way of deciding what's true.

Some begin with Scripture.
Some with tradition.
Some with reason.
Some with experience.
Some with church authority.

Many use a combination of all of them. That's not the surprising part. The surprising part is that we almost never stop to ask a question that seems painfully obvious once you hear it.

Who measures the measuring stick?

How do we know whether our way of evaluating theology is itself worthy of our trust?

That's a conversation I don't hear Christians having very often. Instead, we usually skip straight to the conclusion.

“My theology is right because my method says so.”

Fair enough.

But why should I trust the method?

One of the things I've learned over the years is that theology has this annoying habit of refusing to stay on the page.

It doesn't remain tucked neatly inside theology books.
It gets preached.
It gets taught.
It gets voted on.
It shapes churches.
Families.
Politics.
Dinner table conversations.

It influences who gets welcomed.
Who gets excluded.
Who learns they're beloved.
Who learns they're “broken.”

Every theology leaves fingerprints.

Sometimes they're fingerprints on healed hearts.
Sometimes they're fingerprints on broken ones.

Either way...
they're fingerprints.

Which raises another question that won't leave me alone.

Shouldn't theology have to answer for the fingerprints it leaves behind?

Think about how we evaluate almost everything else in life.

If a medicine consistently makes people sicker...
we stop prescribing it.

If a bridge keeps collapsing...
we don't congratulate the engineer for sincere intentions.

If an educational method consistently fails students...
we don't call failure faithfulness.

We ask hard questions.
We revisit our assumptions.
We change course.

Except, it seems, when it comes to theology. For some reason, theology often gets a pass.

If a theology repeatedly produces fear...
or shame...
or abuse...
or exclusion...
or violence...
our first instinct is often to say,

"The theology isn't the problem. People are just using it wrong."

Sometimes that's true. People can misuse almost anything. But surely there comes a point when we stop asking whether the fruit is bad because of the gardener...

...and start wondering about the tree.

Because if generation after generation...
Church after church...
Family after family...
keeps producing the same harmful fruit...

isn't it at least worth asking whether the theology itself deserves another look?

That's not an attack on theology. It's accountability. And accountability isn't the enemy of truth.

It's one of the ways we discover it.

Jesus didn't spend much time explaining how to construct a systematic theology. What Jesus talked about, over and over again, was life.

Love.
Mercy.
Justice.
Forgiveness.
Neighbor.
Enemy.
Community.

And then Jesus said something we've all heard.

"You will know them by their fruits."

We usually apply that to false prophets. And we probably should. But I've started wondering whether the principle is bigger than that.

What if Jesus wasn't only giving us a way to recognize false teachers?

What if Jesus was also giving us a way to evaluate the teachings themselves?

That's a very different question.

Before somebody accuses me of saying, "Whatever makes people happy must be true," let me save you the trouble. That's not what I'm saying.

I'm not suggesting that Scripture doesn't matter.
Or reason.
Or tradition.
Or experience.

They all matter.

What I'm asking is whether any of them should exempt a theology from answering for what it consistently produces. Because ideas don't simply exist. Ideas become lives.

And if a theology consistently leaves behind fear instead of freedom...
shame instead of healing...
domination instead of service...
shouldn't that count as evidence?

Not the only evidence.

But evidence nonetheless.

This series isn't about proving progressive Christians right.

It's not about scoring points against conservative Christians.

It's not even about arriving at quick answers.

It's about asking better questions.

Questions like...
Can a theology be biblical and still be harmful?
Should harm count as evidence?
What kind of communities does a theology create?
When should Christians reconsider a long-held belief?
What if the fruit should have a vote?

Those are the conversations I hope we'll have together. Because I have a hunch that we've spent centuries arguing over theology while rarely asking whether theology should be accountable for the lives it shapes.

I think it's time we started asking.

Whenever you encounter a theological claim, ask:

What kind of people does it produce?
What kind of communities does it create?
Who benefits?
Who is harmed?
Does it bear the fruit of love, justice, mercy, and human flourishing?

A theology that consistently harms people deserves to be questioned.

A theology that consistently helps people deserves our attention.

This week, don't try to answer those questions.

Just start noticing how rarely we ask them.

Because if theology should be accountable for the lives it shapes...

...then the next question becomes unavoidable.

Can a theology be biblical… and still be harmful?