A Peculiar People: Distinctiveness That Reflects Christ

There are moments in the life of the church when the conversation feels heavier than usual.

Not louder.

Not angrier.

Just heavier.

You hear it in the way we talk about the times we’re living in.

In phrases that surface again and again:

“Things are accelerating.”

“Prophecy is lining up.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“We need pastors who aren’t afraid to preach the truth.”

Those words don’t come from nowhere.

They come from a sincere desire to be faithful in uncertain days.

And I want to say this clearly at the outset:

that concern is not wrong.

Adventists are not casual about truth.

We were not shaped by convenience.

We were formed by conviction—by Scripture, by the belief that God has spoken and that what He has said matters, especially now.

We believe history is moving.

We believe prophecy reveals not just information, but the character and purposes of God.

We believe we have been entrusted with a message for the last days.

So when someone says, “We need Adventist pastors who have the guts to preach the truth,” what I usually hear is not an accusation—it is a longing.

A longing for clarity.

A longing for courage.

A longing for a church that knows who it is and why it exists.

But before we answer that longing too quickly, we need to slow down and ask a deeper question—one that sits underneath all the others.

Not do we believe the truth?

But what is the truth meant to do?

Because Scripture never treats truth as an end in itself.

Truth always has a purpose.

Truth reveals something about God.

Truth forms something within people.

Truth is meant to be lived, not merely held.

And that brings us to Jesus.

If we want to understand what it means to preach the truth without fear, we have to look at how Jesus Himself lived and spoke truth.

No one was more truthful than Christ.

No one was clearer.

No one was more uncompromising about the kingdom of God.

And yet His life does not resemble distance or withdrawal.

Jesus did not guard holiness by insulation.

He stepped into human life.

He ate with people whose reputations made others uncomfortable.

He touched the sick when it was risky to do so.

He lingered with the wounded.

He allowed Himself to be misunderstood rather than retreat into safety.

And something remarkable happened wherever He went.

People drew near.

Not because He softened truth.

Not because He avoided hard things.

But because truth, when embodied, became life-giving.

Sinners trusted Him with their stories.

The sick reached out to touch Him.

And children—children felt safe enough to come close.

That detail matters.

Children do not approach what feels threatening.

They do not come near what feels brittle or dangerous.

They sense instinctively whether holiness brings life or fear.

Jesus was holy—and approachable.

Clear—and compassionate.

Distinctive—and inviting.

That combination is not accidental.

It reveals something essential about the nature of truth itself.

Truth, in the life of Jesus, did not create distance.

It created invitation.

And that brings us to our own calling.

As Adventists, we care deeply about being distinct.

We believe God has given us something specific to say in the last days.

That matters.

But distinctiveness was never meant to be an end goal.

It was always meant to serve a purpose.

Our distinctiveness is found in the heart of Christ’s gospel message.

The purpose of our last-day message is to reflect the character of Christ to a world in darkness.

When truth stops reflecting His character, it may remain correct—but it loses its witness.

So today, I’m not asking whether we believe the truth.

I’m asking something more searching:

Does our truth still look like Jesus?

— PART I: When Distinctiveness Becomes Distance

If Jesus shows us what distinctiveness looks like when it is fully embodied, then we also have to be honest about the danger that always follows it.

Because distinctiveness has a shadow side.

What begins as faithfulness can slowly turn into distance.

What begins as clarity can harden into insulation.

What begins as devotion can drift into defensiveness.

Not because people stop loving truth —

but because they become afraid of losing it.

Scripture gives us language for this tension, even if we don’t always notice it.

Jesus said His followers would be salt and light.

Both images assume contact.

Salt only works when it touches what needs preserving.

Light only matters when it enters darkness.

Neither image describes withdrawal.

Neither suggests elevation for safety.

Neither functions from a distance.

And yet, when fear enters the picture, salt starts staying in the shaker, and light starts getting lifted out of reach.

We don’t call it fear.

We call it protection.

We tell ourselves we are guarding identity.

Preserving purity.