I've managed to create a problem for myself.

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.

For four articles now, I've been arguing that theology should be accountable for what it produces. We've talked about whether something can be biblical and still be harmful. We've asked whether harm should count as evidence. And last time, we finally tried to put some words around what good fruit actually looks like.

Love. Justice. Mercy. Humility. Human flourishing.

So far, so good.

Except now there's a question I can't quite get around. What happens when a belief we think is wrong produces really good fruit? Because it happens.

And if I'm going to keep insisting that fruit matters, I don't think I get to suddenly look the other way when the fruit starts messing with my argument.

There's a version of theology that works beautifully on paper.

Correct beliefs produce good people. Incorrect beliefs produce bad people. Get the theology right and everything downstream should take care of itself.

Nice.
Clean.
Convenient.

Also, as best I can tell, not remotely how human beings work.

I've known people whose theology I disagree with pretty profoundly who are some of the kindest, most generous, compassionate people I've ever met. I've also known people whose theology looks remarkably similar to mine who can be, well...

Let's just say having the right theology doesn't automatically make you someone I'd want to sit beside on a long flight.

People are complicated. What we believe gets mixed up with who we are, where we've been, what we've experienced, who raised us, who hurt us, who loved us, and a whole lot of other stuff before it ever turns into something we actually do.

Which makes this whole fruit business considerably messier.

Good.

A theology that can't survive inconvenient questions probably isn't much of a theology.

Let's get one thing out of the way first.

Good fruit doesn't magically make a false claim true.

If I sincerely believe something that isn't historically accurate, my sincerity doesn't change history. If I misunderstand a biblical text but that misunderstanding somehow makes me a kinder person, I've still misunderstood the text. If I believe something about how the universe works that simply isn't true, becoming wonderfully compassionate because of that belief doesn't cause the universe to say, "Well, Mark seems nice. Let's make an exception."

Fruit can't turn falsehood into fact.

Otherwise, we've got ourselves a pretty serious mess.

So the Fruit Test can't become some theological cheat code where anything that produces a result we like gets stamped TRUE and sent on its merry way. That's not what I've been arguing.

Fruit is evidence.
Not the only evidence.
But evidence nonetheless.

So what do we do when a belief we think is wrong produces something undeniably good?

I don't think we shrug and ignore the fruit. That would defeat the whole point of this series. But I also don't think we have to suddenly declare the belief true.

Maybe the fruit is telling us something else.

There might be something inside the belief worth preserving even if the explanation surrounding it doesn't hold up. The person might be interpreting it in a way that changes what the belief actually does in their life. Their community may have shaped the way they live it. Another belief may be doing more of the heavy lifting than anybody realizes.

Or...

we might be wrong about something ourselves.

I know.

Nobody likes that one.

But intellectual humility doesn't mean much if we only practice it when we're already pretty sure we're right. Sometimes the evidence we encounter should make us reconsider our assumptions. Sometimes it should make us ask better questions. Sometimes it should simply leave us scratching our heads for a while.

That's the thing about evidence. We don't get to tell it what it's allowed to say before we listen to it.

And then there's another problem.

Two people can hold essentially the same theological belief and produce radically different fruit from it.

Take the belief that God judges human behavior. One person might hear that and become deeply humble. They examine their own life, become slower to judge other people, take responsibility when they've caused harm, and try to live with greater compassion.

Someone else can hold essentially the same belief and become obsessed with everybody else's behavior. Suddenly they're God's assistant manager, apparently responsible for keeping track of who's doing what, with whom, and whether God approves.

Same basic belief.
Very different fruit.

I've seen versions of that pattern more times than I can count. Belief in divine providence can make one person less afraid and more generous because they trust that things will somehow be okay. That same belief can give another person permission to ignore suffering because "God has a plan."

So clearly the belief isn't the whole story.

It enters a person.

And people bring baggage.

All of us.

I think this may be where I've been oversimplifying things.

Human beings aren't theological vending machines. You don't put Doctrine A into the slot, press the button, and get Behavior B.

Would make ministry a heck of a lot easier.

Our beliefs get tangled up with everything else we've accumulated along the way. Family. Culture. Experiences. Wounds. Privilege. Fear. Hope. The churches that formed us. The people who loved us. The people who hurt us. The questions we were encouraged to ask and the ones we learned very quickly not to ask.

All of that gets mixed together. Then something grows.

That's one reason two churches can affirm almost identical statements of faith and feel like entirely different worlds when you walk through their doors. The words on the website may be the same. The lived theology isn't.

One church can take a belief and use it to open doors. Another can take essentially the same belief and use it to build walls.

If we're only reading the statement of faith, we might miss the difference.

If we're paying attention to the fruit, we won't.

I'll admit, part of me would prefer a simpler test.

Good theology in.
Good fruit out.
Bad theology in.
Bad fruit out.

Done.

But human beings have apparently decided not to cooperate with my tidy little theological system.

Typical.

If good fruit can sometimes grow from a belief that is incomplete, mistaken, or simply false, then fruit can't be our shortcut around all the other work theology requires. Scripture still matters. Reason still matters. Tradition still matters. Experience still matters.

That's why they're all sitting there at the bottom of the graphic for this series.

All of them matter. None of them is exempt.

And neither is fruit.

That's important.

The Fruit Test doesn't get to become the new measuring stick that never has to be measured. Otherwise, we've just recreated the problem this series started with and slapped an apple on it.

Fruit joins the conversation.

Sometimes it confirms what everything else is telling us. Sometimes it complicates things. And sometimes it may be the voice in the room saying, "Hang on. Something here isn't adding up."

Theology needs that voice in the room.

The more I think about this, the more I wonder whether I've been asking the Fruit Test to do something it was never meant to do.

Maybe fruit doesn't simply tell us whether a belief is true or false.
Maybe it tells us what happens when that belief gets inside a human being.

That's different.

And I think it matters.

A theology can be beautifully constructed, carefully argued, footnoted within an inch of its life, and still become destructive when people live inside it. Another theology may contain ideas I think are mistaken and somehow help someone become more compassionate, generous, forgiving, and just.

Neither outcome settles the question of truth. But I can't believe either outcome tells us nothing. Maybe that's what we're really getting at with all of this.

Not replacing truth with outcomes.
Not replacing Scripture, reason, tradition, or experience with fruit.
Not saying, "It made somebody nicer, therefore it must be true."

We're asking theology to pay attention to what happens after the argument is over.

After the books are closed.
After the sermon ends.
After everybody goes home.

What happens then?
What grows?

That's the part I don't think theology gets to ignore.

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?

And now I think we need to add one more:

What else might be contributing to the fruit we're seeing?

Because theology matters.

But theology never operates alone.

Think of someone whose beliefs are very different from your own. Not someone you secretly want to fix. Someone you genuinely admire.

What do you see in their life that you would call good fruit? Compassion? Generosity? Humility? Courage? Mercy? A commitment to justice?

Then resist the temptation to explain it away. Just notice it. Maybe even let it bother you a little.

Because if we're serious about letting the fruit have a vote, we don't get to count only the votes we like.

And if a belief we think is false can sometimes produce good fruit, we have to be careful about assuming good fruit automatically proves a theology is true.

Which leaves us with the other side of the question. And I have a feeling it's going to be even less comfortable.

Can a true belief produce bad fruit?