I've been expecting this question ever since I started writing this series.

Actually, I was a little surprised it didn't come sooner.

If we're going to evaluate theology by its fruit, who gets to decide what good fruit actually is?

That's a fair question. Honestly, it's the question I've been quietly hoping we'd get to. Because if "good fruit" simply means whatever I happen to like, then this whole series falls apart. I've just replaced one measuring stick with another and asked everyone else to trust mine instead.

That’s a no-go for me.

So where do we go?

The more I've thought about it, the more I think we've been answering this question our whole lives without realizing it.

Think about the Christians you've admired over the years.

Most of us don't start by talking about their theology. We tell stories instead. We remember their kindness. Their generosity. The way they listened when everyone else was talking. The way they showed up when life fell apart. The way they somehow made you believe you were loved before they ever tried to convince you of anything.

I've never heard anyone leave a funeral saying, "You know what I'll miss most? Their doctrinal precision."

We remember fruit.

Maybe we've always remembered fruit.

That keeps nagging at me.

The funny thing is, every time I start chasing this question somewhere else, I somehow end up back with Jesus.

I don't really plan it that way.

I start by thinking about theology, or church history, or some argument Christians have been having for centuries. Then somewhere along the line I hear Jesus saying something that makes the whole conversation feel... simpler.

Not easier.
Simpler.

Those aren't always the same thing.

Jesus never seemed particularly interested in giving people a checklist of correct beliefs. Instead, Jesus kept describing the kind of life faith should produce.

Love your neighbor.
Love your enemy.
Forgive.
Show mercy.
Care for people who are hungry.
Welcome the stranger.
Seek justice.
Make peace.

However you summarize Jesus' ministry, you keep ending up in roughly the same place. Love. Mercy. Justice. Humility. Reconciliation. The stories change. The people change. The circumstances change.

The direction doesn't.

I can't quite shake that.

The Sermon on the Mount has started sounding different to me over the last few years.

I used to read it as a collection of beautiful teachings. It challenged me. Inspired me. Reminded me of the kind of person I wanted to become. I still think all of that is true.

But lately I've started wondering if Jesus was doing something more.

What if Jesus wasn't simply telling us how to behave?
What if Jesus was showing us what healthy faith actually looks like?

When Jesus blesses the peacemakers, the merciful, those who hunger for justice, and those who refuse to answer violence with more violence, maybe Jesus isn't simply describing admirable people. Maybe Jesus is answering the question we've been asking throughout this series.

What does good fruit actually look like?

I'd never connected those dots before. Which is a little embarrassing to admit after spending this much of my life reading the Gospels. But there it is.

Now that I've seen it, I can't seem to unsee it.

Whenever Christians begin talking about love, somebody inevitably worries that we've abandoned truth.

I've never understood why those two ideas get treated like they're on opposite teams.

Jesus never seemed to think they were.

The love Jesus describes isn't sentimental. It isn't passive, and it certainly isn't about pretending everything is fine. Love tells the truth. Love confronts injustice. Love protects people who are vulnerable. Love refuses to confuse cruelty with faithfulness simply because someone found a Bible verse to defend it.

The more I read the Gospels, the less convinced I become that love is the easy way.

We talk about love as though it's soft.
Jesus lived it like it was courageous.

I don't think that's an accident.

Over the past few years, I've noticed I've started asking a different question whenever I encounter a theological claim. Not first, but eventually. After I've listened to the arguments and read the passages and tried to understand how someone arrived at their conclusion, another question quietly works its way into the conversation.

If this belief became the organizing principle of an entire church, what kind of people would that church produce?

Would they become more compassionate? More generous? More humble? More committed to justice? More willing to see the image of God in people who don't look like them, vote like them, worship like them, or believe exactly what they believe?

Or would they become more fearful? More suspicious? More convinced that everyone outside their circle is the problem?

Maybe I'm oversimplifying things.
It wouldn't be the first time.

But I don't think I'm oversimplifying them by much.
Because theology never stays in books.

It always escapes.

It finds its way into sermons, dinner tables, Sunday school classrooms, church board meetings, and family conversations. Before long, it's shaping the way people see God, themselves, and everyone around them.

Eventually every theology becomes a way of living.

And that's when it starts producing fruit.

Sometimes I wonder if we've complicated something Jesus made surprisingly simple.

Jesus didn't point people toward doctrinal flowcharts. Which is probably just as well, because I doubt first-century Galileans would have appreciated one anyway.

Jesus pointed toward fruit.

Maybe that's because fruit has a way of telling the truth eventually.

Most people don't need a degree in botany to recognize a healthy apple tree. You simply pay attention to what it consistently produces over time.

Maybe theology isn't so different.

At least, I don't think it is anymore.

Whenever you encounter a theological claim, ask:

Those aren't the only questions worth asking.

But they seem like a very good place to begin.

Think about a Christian who has shaped your life for the better. Don't begin by thinking about what they believed. Think first about who they became and how other people experienced them. What kind of fruit grew in their life? What kind of fruit grew in the people around them?

Because I have a hunch that's what first captured your attention.

And if that's true...

...then the next question becomes unavoidable.

Can a false belief sometimes produce good fruit?