Shaped by the Cross: Why Our Morals Are Still Christian
The cross is one of the most ubiquitous symbols in the world. People wear it on necklaces, ink it into their skin, raise it on steeples and mountains, and stitch it into clothing and flags. It’s so familiar, we hardly see it anymore.
Though it offers the idea of hope today, the cross was not always a symbol of comfort. In the Roman world, it was an implement of torture, designed not only to kill but to shame. My confirmation pastor once compared it to wearing an electric chair around your neck…only worse. That image has stuck with me.
Ancient cross on the Isle of Iona, Scotland
Tom Holland’s Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World helps explain why the cross is everywhere, as well as the impact of the poor rabbi from Nazareth two thousand years ago. He shows how the early Christians scandalized the Roman world by claiming that a crucified criminal was God incarnate, and that his death wasn’t a defeat but a victory. In doing so, they introduced a revolutionary moral idea in which the powerless were honored, the rejected redeemed, and the last made first.
That revolution didn’t just reshape religion; it reshaped everything, including how we understand ourselves. Today’s dominant conversations around human rights, dignity, social justice, and even personal identity are built on assumptions that would have been unthinkable in ancient Athens or imperial Rome.
Such a revolutionary conviction didn’t just give rise to a new way of believing… but to a new way of being human. As no other paradigm or construct has ever done, Christianity redefined identity, not only at the personal level but also as a social, political, and moral force.
Reimagined Identity
In the ancient world, identity was mostly inherited. Whether you were free or enslaved, male or female, Greek or barbarian, citizen or outsider, your place in the social hierarchy was largely fixed. As Tom Holland puts it, “Although the Great King was content to allow his subject people to uphold their own laws—provided, of course, that they were dutifully submissive—he never doubted the cosmic character of his own prerogatives and responsibilities.” [1]. Public esteem and honor defined the self, and value was assigned rather than received.
Into this stratified world came Paul, a Roman citizen and Jewish Pharisee, announcing a radically new basis for identity: not law, lineage, or social class, but faith. Writing to churches scattered across the Roman Empire, Paul declared, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). This wasn’t just a spiritual metaphor; it was a seismic reordering of human value.
Cross in South Africa
Holland captures the force of this moment: “The claim of Christianity to a universal message… had to appeal to people of every class, and of every level of education… That an identity might be defined by belief was in itself a momentous innovation…” [2] The early Christians claimed an identity that transcended national, ethnic, and gender distinctions. Christian martyrs in Roman arenas refused to name their ethnicity or citizenship. When asked who they were, their answer was simple: “I am a Christian.” [3]
For the first time in history, the individual’s deepest identity was not something imposed by the state, inherited from a tribe, or defined by public honor. It was rooted in being loved by God, and loving others in return. As Paul wrote, “The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love” (Galatians 5:6). This was the seed of the modern moral imagination: that every person, regardless of station, deserves to be shown respect and dignity.
N.T. Wright summarizes it this way: “The fulfillment of Israel’s hopes is the means by which the nations of the world are to be welcomed into the people of the one true God.” [4] Identity was no longer fate; it was invitation.
The Cross and the Transformation of Power
If Paul reimagined identity, it was the cross that redefined power.
In the Roman world, crucifixion was not just execution, it was humiliation. Reserved for slaves and rebels, it was a public spectacle designed to erase a person’s dignity. To claim that such a death revealed divine power was incomprehensible. As Holland puts it, “That a man who had himself been crucified might be hailed as a god could not help but be seen… as scandalous, obscene, grotesque.” [5]
Yet the early Christians did more than claim this crucified man as divine; they claimed his death as the ultimate revelation of love, justice, and strength.
One of Holland’s most haunting stories is the martyrdom of Blandina, a young slave girl tortured in the Roman amphitheater at Lyon. Repeatedly, she was asked to deny her faith. She refused. Her body was broken, but her spirit was not. “The radiance of her heroism had put even her fellow martyrs in the shade… It was Blandina who had won every bout, every contest—and thereby secured the crown.” [6] Her persecutors were shamed; she was honored.
This inversion—of shame turned to glory, of weakness turned to moral authority—became a defining feature of Christian identity. The cross was no longer a symbol of defeat but of radical victory. Power was reframed from dominance to self-giving love.
Tim Keller explains this reversal with pastoral clarity: “If you see Jesus losing the infinite love of his Father [while on the cross] out of his infinite love for you, it will melt your hardness. No matter who you are, it will open your eyes and shatter your darkness.” [7] In this new ethic, the highest status was not held by the conqueror, but by the one who suffered in love for others.
This idea remains the foundation for understanding moral leadership today. From Desmond Tutu to Martin Luther King Jr., the power of protest against the loss of individual freedom, dignity, and autonomy has flowed from conviction, conscience, and sacrifice.
From Identity to Action: Protest, Justice, and Conscience
Christian identity empowered action. Once people believed they were loved by God and equal in Christ, they began to challenge the systems that said otherwise.
Martin Luther, standing before imperial power, refused to recant his beliefs, declaring, “Here I stand.” His conscience had become his compass. This shift—placing the authority of inner conviction over external requirements—has shaped how the West understands justice and protest.
Tom Holland traces this line from Paul to Luther to Martin Luther King Jr., who preached that “Every human being has the indelible stamp of the Creator.” [8] Protest, in this tradition, is not rebellion for its own sake, but a defense of dignity rooted in divine worth.
Even secular movements today—civil rights, human rights, social equity—borrow from this Christian moral legacy. Holland writes, “That all men had been created equal and endowed with an inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, were not remotely self-evident truths.” [9] But the ethos of Christianity changed all that, creating our modern instinct to side with the oppressed.
Haunted by Christianity
We imagine our values—human dignity, equality, compassion—as universal. But Holland argues they are deeply shaped by the Christian story, particularly the image of a crucified God who sides with the victim. Even in a secular age, Western morality carries deep Christian roots. Holland writes, “Whether it be the conviction that the workings of conscience are the surest determinants of good law, or the Church and state exist as distinct entities, or that polygamy is unacceptable, its trace elements are to be found everywhere in the West.” [10]
Modern culture may believe it has moved past Christianity, but in many ways, it still thinks with its categories.
Rediscovering Identity in a Christian Key
The cross is easy to overlook now: flattened into jewelry, logos, and décor. But as Dominion makes clear, it once upended the world’s understanding of who matters and why.
In a culture that often struggles with questions of identity, value, and justice, the Christian revolution offers a deep reservoir of meaning. It teaches that worth is not achieved, but received; that power is most true when it serves; and that identity is rooted not in status, tribe, or performance, but in love.
As Holland writes, “The power of the strangeness remains as alive as it has ever been.” [11] Perhaps it is time to remember how strange—and how beautiful—that ongoing revolution really is.
- Tom Holland, Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World (New York: Basic Books, 2019), 5.
- Holland, Dominion, 106.
- Holland, Dominion, 97.
- N.T. Wright, The Day the Revolution Began: Reconsidering the Meaning of Jesus’s Crucifixion (New York: HarperOne, 2016), 150.
- Holland, Dominion, xviii.
- Holland, Dominion, 93.
- Timothy Keller, King’s Cross: The Story of the World in the Life of Jesus (New York: Dutton, 2011), 210.
- Holland, Dominion, 478.
- Holland, Dominion, 384.
- Holland, Dominion, xxv.
- Holland, Dominion, 524.
About the Author
Debbie Owen
Deborah C. Owen is an experienced spiritual director, Neuro-based Enneagram executive and life coach, disciple maker, professional writer, senior librarian, and long-time church Music Director and lay leader. She has earned the award of National Board Certification for teaching excellence, and a podcasting award, and is pursuing a Doctor of Leadership degree through Portland Seminary at George Fox University. She lives in the backwoods of Maine with her husband and flat-coated retriever. She spends as much time as she can with their 3 grown children, daughter-in-law, and 2 small grandchildren. Find her online at InsideOutMinistries.info.8 responses to “Shaped by the Cross: Why Our Morals Are Still Christian”
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Debbie,
In writing about the cross you state “It’s so familiar, we hardly see it anymore.” I find that to be so true. I also have found myself not automatically thinking the cross has meaning to the person displaying it, because I’ve experienced that in talking with people. Because of Christianity’s influence on the world, is there anything that we as Christians exhibit that makes us unique? If not, I wonder if that is a good thing or bad.
Jeff, that’s the perennial question, isn’t it? What makes us unique as Christians? How do we not just stand out from the rest, but stand apart? Isn’t that the definition of “holy”? So what makes us holy? If people can’t tell we’re different then we aren’t doing this very well.
An excellent and thoughtful post, Debbie.
I was also taken by the story of Blandina. The inversion of power is definitely a powerful force. You mentioned a couple of figures that have shaped history, but how might we see this in the everyday, normal flow of life? How might this be applicable in local churches, families, and neighbourhoods?
“You mentioned a couple of figures that have shaped history, but how might we see this in the everyday, normal flow of life? How might this be applicable in local churches, families, and neighbourhoods?”
Graham, when it comes to the inversion of power, I see it happening now in our daily discourse. It’s the grandmothers standing on the corners in Washington DC, banging their pots and pans to say, “We don’t stand for this!” It’s the white men and women going to marches and protests and taking videos of ICE agents harassing and abusing black and brown people. It’s the churches who, through the centuries, have gone into the places where marginalized people have always been shunted aside, providing food, clothing, and companionship. These are the beginning ways that we can reverse power every day.
Hey Debbie,
Great post. Since you mentioned the story of Blandina, I’d love to recommend a book you might enjoy: Christian Women in the Patristic World by Lynn H. Cohick and Amy Brown Hughes. In my own daily experience living in a non-Christian context, I’m reminded often that the cross still appears grotesque and scandalous—after all, such suffering could never be imagined for a true prophet of God. I’m curious, how do you engage with people who see the cross as grotesque, scandalous, or even as a sign of weakness? Do you notice any common threads in those conversations? For me, it feels strange that what I experience as gratitude, strength, and freedom in the cross, others still view as a source of horror.
“I’m curious, how do you engage with people who see the cross as grotesque, scandalous, or even as a sign of weakness? Do you notice any common threads in those conversations?”
Good question Elysse. I don’t run into people like that. My atheist sister might be the closest and she looks at life theough a purely scientific lens. But I also know she “doesn’t do funerals” so I don’t know how she will handle her own creeping mortality.
Hi Debbie, You comment early on about ‘value being assigned’ gives me a really helpful framework for determining misuse of legacy. If I see people who use their faith as a means to gain status, position, or power acting or speaking in ways that “assign value” that will be a determining red flag. Thank you.
“Public esteem and honor defined the self, and value was assigned rather than received.”
“Your comment early on about ‘value being assigned’ gives me a really helpful framework for determining misuse of legacy. If I see people who use their faith as a means to gain status, position, or power acting or speaking in ways that “assign value” that will be a determining red flag. Thank you.”
Thanks Julie. I guess any time we judge another, in any way, it’s a red flag. With humility, I confess I have to watch out for this regularly.