Where the Social Justice Movement and the Church Missed Each Other
Twenty years on, the Christian social justice movement has left a complicated legacy. Some of its prophetic fire brought about lasting change; some of it burned away relationships, trust, and faith- and some of it, if we’re honest, just burned very hot for a while and then quietly fizzled out.
This is the fourth post in a four-part series. Part one traced the formative impact of social justice on my own faith. Part two offered a theological reflection on its promises and pitfalls. In part three, I reflected on the movement’s legacy within the church in Aotearoa.
This final piece is less a manifesto than a lament. It reflects on where the church and the social justice movement missed each other, and how justice sometimes became politicised or theologically untethered.
It asks hard questions, without easy answers:
What did we fail to see in one another?
Where did prophetic fire turn destructive- or go cold?
And what might it look like for the church to hold conviction and compassion together more faithfully in the years ahead?
The church hasn’t always responded well to social justice advocates
In my experience, the Christian social justice movement has carried a strongly prophetic bent. It draws deeply from the Old Testament prophetic tradition, a tradition that critiques compromise and half-heartedness, calls for radical devotion, and seeks to correct the beliefs and practices of the faithful, particularly where idolatry or the neglect of the poor and vulnerable are present.
For me, and for many other idealists of my generation, this radicalness was profoundly formative. Social justice gave us role models to admire, pathways into service, and practices that shaped our discipleship. It offered a way of following Jesus that felt concrete, costly, and compelling.
This prophetic impulse also resonated strongly with the Gen X, anti-institutional, punk-rock spirit. The prophet is never neutral, never predictable, never dull or dispassionate. Prophetic faith is intense, emotive, and disruptive- uninterested in the calm maintenance of the status quo.
At our best, we tried to let our lives do the talking, embodying good news for particular people in particular places. At our worst, we drifted into abstract theorising about justice and mission, or became reactionary, provocative, and self-righteous.
Unsurprisingly, then, the challenges raised by social justice advocates were not always warmly received by church leaders. While I can certainly think of moments when I could have spoken with more tact, I remain unconvinced that prophetic critique ever arrives wrapped in perfect sensitivity or nuance.
Alan Hirsch describes those who carry this kind of prophetic energy as holy rebels. He writes:
“A prophetically consistent Christianity means that we must remain committed to a constant critique of the structures and rituals we set up and maintain… This is prophetic religion in practice, and it remains one of the essential elements of a true experience of Christianity. It is rebellion because it refuses to submit to the status quo. But because it is a holy rebellion, it directs us towards a greater experience of God than we currently have… The task for the established church and its leaders is to discern the will of God for our time addressed to it in the mouths of its holy rebels.”
Part of me wishes church leaders had taken a longer view. Every generation brings its own emphases, blind spots, and passions- and this was ours. Having read about the battles many Baby Boomers fought with the Silent Generation over guitars and drums, I wish that same grace had been extended more often to us.
As J. Oswald Sanders once observed, “A great deal more failure is the result of an excess of caution than a bold experimentation with new ideas. The frontiers of the kingdom of God were never advanced by men and women of caution.”
Whatever causes and passions Gen Z and Alpha choose to advance, it is almost certain they will look and sound very different from the things we championed. The question is whether we will show them the openness and grace we once desired for ourselves.
When justice becomes politicised
I feel a deep sadness that many of my justice-loving friends are no longer part of the church. What could cause such committed, passionate Jesus-followers to walk away?
Every story is unique, of course, but familiar patterns emerge.
From the church side, there has often been a lack of appreciation for the prophetic instinct, compounded by generational differences, leadership insecurity, and an inability to imagine new possibilities.
From the justice-advocate side, we have not always helped ourselves. At times, we have been belligerent or thin-skinned- convinced that everyone should immediately align with our cause, and overly sensitive to misunderstanding or critique. Sometimes we were theoretical activists, passionate in language but slow to embody the changes we hoped to see. And, perhaps saddest of all, some of us became modern-day Marthas: frantic with activity, yet slowly starving the inner life of faith that once powered our action.
For some, the church ceased to be the primary community where justice-shaped discipleship could flourish. Over time, practices that once tethered justice to worship, community, and formation- shared prayer, local service, and patient commitment to imperfect congregations- gradually thinned out. In their place, justice-minded Christians often found greater energy, belonging, and affirmation within secular political movements.
This is not to deny the legitimacy of political engagement, but simply to note a quiet shift, and with it a quiet loss: the church no longer held the same density of justice-shaped imagination, leadership, and energy that it once did, as some of its most gifted and passionate people slowly found their centre of gravity elsewhere.
Progressive Theology as a Safe Harbour
My final sadness is for those who walked away from orthodox Christianity altogether after experiencing disappointment or disillusionment. For justice-oriented Christians- particularly those hurt by evangelical leadership- progressive theology often felt like a natural refuge.
Progressive theology can be understood as a contemporary re-expression of liberal theology, shaped by late-modern social concerns. Where classic liberal theology asked, “How can Christianity remain intellectually credible in the modern world?”, progressive theology asks, “How can Christianity be morally responsible and socially just in today’s world?”
The problem with both liberal and progressive theologies is not their concern for justice, but their tendency to minimise the inherent tension between the church and its surrounding culture. Yet, as Alan Hirsch has observed, it is precisely this tension that generates mission. Faithful Christianity has always sought to challenge, resist, or transform aspects of the wider culture that conflict with the purposes of God.
This tension is not a problem to be solved but a creative force to be stewarded. It gives energy to reform, focus to mission, and reminds Christians that they are a peculiar people, shaped by a redemptive vision the world does not naturally share. When this tension is minimised, progressive Christianity risks collapsing into cultural affirmation. Activism may remain, but the church’s distinctive theological vision is dulled- along with its capacity for sustained, transformative mission.
Hirsch’s analysis is devastating:
“Theological liberalism is an indicator of institutional decline not only because it tries to minimise the necessary tension between gospel and culture by eliminating the culturally offensive bits, but because it is basically a parasitical ideology… Theological liberalism rarely creates new forms of church or extends Christianity in any significant way, but rather exists and “feeds off” what the more orthodox missional movement started. Theological liberalism always comes later in the history of a movement, and it is normally associated with its decline.”
For many justice-oriented Christians, I think progressive theology became a refuge rather than a carefully chosen destination. And while it preserved passion for justice, what it often offered was something significantly less potent- a framework that lacked the formative depth to shape discipleship in the way they themselves had once been shaped.
Carrying the Fire Forward
I grieve for those passionate, justice-seeking Christians who slipped away- from church, from faith, or from the joy and courage that once marked their discipleship. I grieve, too, for churches that didn’t know what to do with prophetic voices, and because of this, lost something vital.
Social justice didn’t renew the church, but for evangelicals of my generation, it gave a deeply meaningful outlet for our faith. Its rediscovery was energising, even if we sometimes over-prioritised what we were championing. Yet that passion also carried my family and me into some of the most demanding and rewarding seasons of our lives.
Now, in my mid-forties, I still love the image of the passionate holy rebel- though I hope I’m a less pushy, more humble version- striving to hold conviction and compassion together. And I remain fully convinced that the church needs prophetic voices.
I am sure that the Spirit will continue to stir fresh emphases. I pray that my children and grandchildren will find, within the length and breadth of Christianity, a cause that shapes and forms their lives. When I see the holy rebellion of Gen Z and Alpha, I want them to find in me the same openness and grace I once longed for myself- and perhaps, through them, to glimpse the fire of God burning in ways both familiar and entirely new.
Sources: Alan Hirsch, The Forgotten Ways
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