In a recent article, “The trouble with the ‘inclusive’ Jesus”, the Revd Dr Ian Paul explores what he sees as a central tension in the Gospels: that Jesus is at once radically inclusive—and yet also deeply exclusive.
It is a thoughtful and carefully argued piece, and in many ways he is right to identify the tension. But I believe the conclusion he draws—that Jesus offers a wide invitation but sets narrow conditions for entry—rests on a profound misunderstanding.
Because in my view it does not take the Cross seriously enough.
The Question We Are Asking
At first glance, the argument feels persuasive. Jesus welcomes those on the margins: tax collectors, sinners, the unclean, the outsider. And yet he also says things like:
“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)
It sounds exclusive. But only if we assume that Jesus is describing a boundary he intends us to enforce. What if he is doing something else entirely?
Words on the Edge of the Cross
It is easy to forget when Jesus speaks these words: “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” he is not speaking from a position of safety or abstraction. He is speaking on the very edge of the Cross. Within hours, he will be arrested, falsely accused, mocked, beaten, and condemned.
And then—he will walk the way he has just described.
The cost of those words is not theoretical. It is about to be paid in full.
To read them as a boundary marker, rather than as a life about to be poured out, is to detach them from the very moment that gives them their deepest meaning.
The Cross as the Key
If we want to understand what Jesus means, we cannot stop at his words. We have to look at where those words lead. They lead to the Cross. And there, everything becomes clear. Because at the very moment when human deceitfulness, violence, cruelty, and rejection reach their full expression, Jesus does something utterly astonishing.
He cries out: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
There is no condition in that prayer.
No prior repentance.
No moral qualification.
Only forgiveness.
If Jesus can say this—under torture, humiliation, and abandonment—then we are not simply dealing with a moral teacher. We are encountering the very life of God.
And here something else comes into focus.
We do not come to the Cross to find love; we come because we are already loved.
It is this prior, unconditional love—given without shame, without bargaining, without the need to prove ourselves—that makes it possible to follow Jesus at all.
Only when we know we are loved can we walk the way he walks.
Only then can we enter the costly path of forgiveness, vulnerability, and self-giving without fear.
Seen in this light, the Cross is not a demand placed upon us by God.
It is the shape that love takes in a world still bound by fear, scapegoating, and exclusion. To walk this way is to risk being misunderstood. To love without control. To forgive without limit. And sometimes—to be rejected without reason.
As Jesus himself says: “They hated me without reason.” (John 15:25)
There is a deep sadness in those words—and a deep truth. That a life so full of compassion could provoke such hatred. But this too is part of what the Cross reveals: it is not what God inflicts on Jesus. It is what our world does to love. And what God, in Christ, transforms into healing.
Not Absorbing Violence—but Exposing It
When we stand before the Cross—not as an idea, but as a reality—we are confronted with something deeply disturbing.
The brutality.
The humiliation.
The physical agony.
This is the full weight of human violence laid bare, not a symbol at a safe distance.
And as we look, we are brought face to face with something we would rather not see. It reaches into us, unsettling every easy assumption. We see not only what was done to Jesus, but what human beings are capable of.
And then—we hear his words: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
In that moment, the meaning of the Cross begins to open up. This is not simply suffering endured. It is love revealed in the very place where love is most violently rejected.
Violence does its worst.
Hatred reaches its limit.
Death claims its victim.
And yet—love remains.
Love forgives.
Love endures.
Love rises.
As Jesus himself says: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
This is truly the voice of victory—spoken from within the very heart of suffering. It is absolutely not the voice of exclusion.
The resurrection is not simply a happy ending. It is the unveiling of reality:
that the life of God cannot be extinguished,
and that violence, for all its apparent power, leads nowhere.
“I Am the Way”—Reconsidered
So when Jesus says, “I am the way,” what does he mean? Not: “Get in line; stand on the right side of the boundary.” But: “This is the way life with God actually is.” A way of:
• truth without defensiveness
• love without condition
• forgiveness without limit
• trust that does not collapse, even in the face of death
The Cross is not an exception to that way. It is its fullest expression.
The Problem with Soundbite Theology
There is something shaping how we hear these words, often without us realising it. If we take Jesus’ words as standalone statements—detached from the life he actually lived—then it is possible to hear them as exclusionary. But that is not how the Gospels present him.
Jesus does not simply state that he is the way: He becomes the way—by walking it.
He does not merely declare the truth: He embodies it—standing in it without defensiveness, even under accusation.
He does not just promise life: He reveals it—by passing through death and rising beyond it.
To turn these words into a boundary marker, rather than a life revealed, is to fragment the Gospel—to treat it as a collection of soundbites rather than a single, unfolding story. And once we do that, we risk missing the very thing those words are pointing to.
More than that, we are turning a living revelation into something that functions like any other religious identity—something we align ourselves with, rather than a life that transforms us from within.
Because the meaning of “the way, the truth, and the life” is not found in the phrase alone, but in the life he lives—and the Cross he embraces.
Repentance in the Light of Love
This also reframes repentance. Repentance is not a condition we must meet in order to be included. It is what happens when we SEE. When we encounter a love that does not retaliate, a mercy that does not withdraw, a truth that does not condemn—we begin to turn. Because we are drawn—not because we are presented with a stark choice: heaven this way, hell that way.
The Keys to the Kingdom
At this point, some will point to Jesus’ words about the “keys to the kingdom”: “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (Matthew 16:19)
At first glance, this can sound like authority to draw boundaries—to decide what is permitted and what is forbidden, who is included and who is excluded. But read in the light of the Cross, something quite different emerges. Because the one who speaks these words is the same one who, when faced with betrayal, denial, and violence, does not bind—but forgives. Jesus does not exclude—he restores. He does not condemn—but entrusts.
The “keys” are not a licence to control access to God. They are a participation in the very life and authority of Christ himself.
An authority expressed through forgiveness, not exclusion. Through opening the life of Jesus to people, not closing doors in their faces.
Jesus himself warns of what happens when authority is misused in this way: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to.” (Matthew 23:13)
It is a sobering warning. Because it shows how easily what is given as a gift can be turned into a barrier—how quickly the language of truth can become a means of exclusion.
If anything, the Cross redefines what it means to “bind” and “loose”:
• to bind is to hold people in condemnation
• to loose is to release them into forgiveness and life
And Jesus consistently chooses the latter.
The Problem with “Exclusivity”
The idea that Jesus is ever “exclusive” almost always leads, however subtly, to one outcome: we become the gatekeepers.
And perhaps this is where the danger lies. In our pride, we can begin to assume that we have been given the authority—together, as “the church”—to decide who is “in” and who is “out.” Who has responded correctly and who has not. Who belongs—and who does not.
But the Cross removes that possibility entirely.
Because at the very moment when humanity excludes God, God refuses to exclude humanity.
The Real Demand of Jesus
In one sense, it is true: Jesus is demanding. But not because he sets conditions for entry.
He is demanding because the way he reveals overturns everything we rely on:
• our need to judge
• our instinct to divide
• our confidence in moral or religious superiority
The demand is not: qualify yourself. The demand is: walk this way.
Easter: The End of Boundaries
This is why this matters, especially in Holy Week. Because the Cross is not the place where God draws a line between insiders and outsiders. It is the place where that whole way of thinking is undone.
Where forgiveness is spoken into hatred.
Where love meets violence without becoming it.
Where life emerges from death.
And at that very moment, we are given a sign as powerful as any in the Gospels: “The curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” (Matthew 27:51)
The barrier is decisively removed. Forever. What had once symbolised separation between God and humanity is torn open—by God’s own action, not by human effort.
An Invitation
So perhaps we need to hear Jesus’ words again: “I am the way…”
This is an invitation first spoken across a supper table, among friends, and then lived out the very next day in the most brutal and public display of human violence, betrayal, and cruelty.
This is a life poured out to its very end, not a statement formed in safety.
This is about a life to enter, not a boundary to defend.
As someone to follow—not as someone to control.
A Conversation Worth Having
I am grateful to Ian Paul for articulating the tension so clearly, and for reminding us that Jesus cannot be reduced to a convenient slogan.
But perhaps the deepest resolution of that tension is not found in holding inclusion and exclusion in balance—but in allowing the Cross to redefine the question itself.
Because there, we do not find a boundary being enforced,
but a love that refuses to draw one.
Jeremy Marks, 31st March 2026
(This article is written in response to Ian Paul’s article—See https://gracetruth.blog/2026/03/25/the-trouble-with-the-inclusive-jesus-by-ian-paul/)
Thank you Jeremy, much appreciated. It’s a very thoughtful and freeing piece.
I understand and appreciate your take on I am the way…… a nd the way you place it in context. What would your take be then on “no one comes to the Father except through me”?