The Authority of Scripture (and ultimately, the Lord Jesus)

When Crystal and I first got married, we inherited the family cat, Yum-Yum. My parents were off to the mid-north coast on a bit of a tree change, and Yum-Yum wasn’t invited. So, as newlyweds living in a granny flat, we became his new humans.

One Saturday morning, we woke to a strange noise at the front door. Unsure what it was, we peered through the small rectangular window above the door—and there was Yum-Yum, clinging vertically to the flyscreen like Velcro, with a bird in his mouth. He’d somehow managed to climb the screen door, bird still in tow, and was proudly presenting it to us through the glass.

It was impressive on several counts: his acrobatics, his understanding of where we were, and his feline expression of affection. Because, of course, that’s what he was doing—bringing a gift to show his love.

But as charming as that was, it wouldn’t have been appropriate if Crystal decided to show her love the same way on our wedding anniversary—climbing the flyscreen with a bird in her mouth. Why? Because I’ve revealed myself to her in ways Yum-Yum could never understand. She knows what makes me tick, what I like, what I don’t. A gift from her that expresses love might look more like dinner at the St George Leagues Club—something far less feathery, but far more personal.

That’s the difference revelation makes.

And the same is true with God. If God has revealed himself, it’s no small thing. It’s the difference between guessing what pleases him and actually knowing him. It’s the difference between superstition and faith, projection and obedience.

At church last Sunday we read from Revelation 1, where John sees the risen Jesus. The vision is overwhelming—eyes like fire, a voice like rushing waters, a face shining like the sun. John’s only response is to fall at his feet as though dead. That’s the right response to divine revelation: awe, humility, obedience. As Paul says elsewhere, we are to “work out our salvation with fear and trembling.”

That’s why the authority of Scripture matters so deeply.

If Scripture is how God has revealed himself, then our task isn’t to edit it, reinterpret it to suit the moment, or decide which bits we’ll keep. Our task is to listen and obey.

And that, at its heart, is what’s going on in the Anglican Communion right now.

You may have seen the recent news about the election of Archbishop-elect Sarah Mullally in the UK and the response from the Global South (who make up about two-thirds of the world’s Anglicans). Many headlines have focused on gender, but that misses the real issue. The deeper and longer-running concern is the authority of Scripture—specifically, the decision in some parts of the Communion to bless what God’s Word calls sin.

This crisis didn’t start last week. It’s been building for decades. The recent election of an openly homosexual bishop in Wales, and the ongoing work within the Church of England to bless same-sex relationships, have brought it to a head. Bishop Mullally herself has been part of those discussions, which is why the Global South’s response has been so strong. For them, this isn’t about modernisation or inclusion—it’s about revelation. If God has spoken, then we don’t get to redefine what he’s said.

It’s worth noticing that attacks on the authority of Scripture—and therefore on the authority of Jesus—often look very similar, whether they come from inside the church or outside it.

In the progressive church, the move is often to “re-imagine” Jesus, softening his commands or reframing his words as culturally bound.

The New Age movement does something similar by de-authorising Jesus altogether, calling him “just another ascended master” alongside Buddha, Krishna or Muhammad. In that framework, Jesus is not Lord but an enlightened teacher—one voice among many. Push a little further and you’ll often find the claim that we all possess “Christ consciousness,” that Jesus merely modelled what we can become if we awaken to our divine potential. Some even suggest that Jesus himself was still “growing” in consciousness, meaning his moral vision was limited by his time and culture—so his commands aren’t timeless but time-bound.

In both cases—whether progressive or New Age—the result is the same: Jesus is de-authorised, and the authority of Scripture is undermined.

But Revelation 1 won’t let us do that. The Jesus who stands among the lampstands, whose voice thunders like many waters, is not a peer or a teacher or a moral exemplar. He is “the First and the Last, the Living One,” who holds the keys of death and Hades. When he speaks, the only right response is worship and obedience.

If God has revealed himself—if Jesus has spoken—then our job is not to climb the flyscreen with our own ideas of what love or truth should look like. It’s to listen to him, to trust his Word, and to respond with the reverence he deserves.

Reflection question:Where might we be tempted to reshape Jesus’ words instead of simply receiving them?