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Some Thoughts on Religious Shunning

Religious shunning can inflict a particularly deep kind of pain. I believe there are  religions out  there in which people could be shunned for reasons that seemed tragically disproportionate—for example, simply leaving the religion, questioning doctrines and rules that are obviously wrong, even though they continued sincerely to worship God. The loss involved can be enormous. Parents may cease normal association with their children; children may become separated from parents; brothers, sisters and lifelong friends can suddenly become strangers. A person may lose, almost overnight, the human world in which he or she once felt at home.

For those who have suffered this, there is a remarkably tender incident in John chapter 9.

Jesus had healed a man who had been blind from birth. Instead of rejoicing over this extraordinary act of mercy, the religious authorities became preoccupied with the fact that Jesus had performed the healing on the Sabbath. They repeatedly questioned the man and even questioned his parents. His parents were afraid to speak openly because, as John explains, the authorities had already decided that anyone acknowledging Jesus as the Christ would be “put out of the synagogue” (John 9:22).

The healed man, however, refused to deny what he knew to be true. He could not answer every theological accusation thrown at him, but he could testify to what he had experienced: “One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see” (John 9:25).

Eventually, the authorities turned on him. They insulted him and “cast him out” (John 9:34).

Those few words can easily be read too quickly. Being expelled from the synagogue was not merely losing a seat in a religious building. Religion, family and community were closely intertwined. Whatever the precise social consequences of this particular expulsion, John presents it as a painful rejection by the religious authorities of the man's community.

And then comes one of the most beautiful sentences in the account:

“Jesus heard that they had cast him out, and having found him...” (John 9:35).

They cast him out.

Jesus found him.

There is something profoundly comforting in that contrast.

The religious authorities regarded the man as troublesome and disposable. Jesus regarded him as someone worth seeking. When others pushed him outside the boundary of belonging, Christ crossed that boundary to meet him. The man had lost the approval of powerful religious figures, but he had not lost the approval, attention or love of God.

This distinction matters enormously for victims of religious shunning. Rejection by a religious community is not the same thing as rejection by God. Human beings may close a door and sincerely believe that they are acting for God; that does not mean God has closed His door. Religious authority and divine authority are not automatically identical.

Indeed, Jesus repeatedly placed mercy above the rigid application of religious rules. When challenged about healing on the Sabbath, he asked, “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do harm, to save life or to kill?” (Mark 3:4). Elsewhere he reminded his critics of God's words, “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice” (Matthew 12:7; compare Hosea 6:6).

That should give any religious person reason for humility. Discipline may sometimes have a legitimate place within a faith community, but when religious practice becomes indifferent to mercy, conscience, family affection and human suffering, Christians should remember the character of the One whose name they bear.

And for the person who has been shunned, John 9 offers something gentler still.

People you loved have walked away from you. People who once prayed beside you now cross the street rather than speak to you. You have wondered in lonely moments whether their rejection means that God has rejected you too.

John 9 answers with a picture rather than an argument.

A man stands outside, rejected by religious authority.

And Jesus goes looking for him.

There may be no immediate remedy for the empty chair at the family table, the unanswered telephone call, or the ache of being treated as though years of love can simply be switched off. Those wounds are real, and faith does not require us to pretend otherwise.

But neither does another person's rejection determine your worth before God.

The final word in John 9 does not belong to those who expelled the man. It belongs to Christ who found him.

For anyone left “out in the cold” by religious shunning, perhaps that is the thought worth holding close: being cast out by people does not mean that you have been cast away by God. Sometimes it is outside the door that we discover Christ was already coming to find us.

Image generated with the assistance of  Copilot

By nature, I withdraw from proud, self-righteous people—traits we all encounter, both in others and ourselves.

I once knew someone who often began a sentence with, “Well, you wouldn’t know this, but…”

Whether it's the Pharisees of Jesus’ day or modern attitudes, the same patterns emerge: judgment, superiority, and control. While I get frustrated when I see these traits in others, I’ve had to acknowledge them in myself.

The Pharisees were religious leaders known for strictly following the Law of Moses. They believed they were society’s moral benchmarks. But Jesus saw through their façade. In Matthew 23, He called them “whitewashed tombs”—clean on the outside, but dead inside. Fixated on rules, they missed the heart of the law: mercy, justice, and love. Their self-righteousness wasn’t about honouring God; it was about preserving their status.

Reflecting on that, I see how easily I can slip into similar patterns. The Pharisees clung to their beliefs out of fear—fear of losing control, of being wrong, of being exposed. When I get caught in self-righteousness, it’s often rooted in that same fear. I may hold onto my ideas or principles, not from conviction, but to avoid vulnerability and admitting I don’t have all the answers.

Self-righteousness often starts with good intentions. We want to live rightly and honour our beliefs. But when it turns into comparing ourselves to others, it shifts. Instead of focusing on personal growth, we look down on those who don’t meet our standards. The Pharisees mastered this, using their strict rule-following to judge others.

So, how do we handle self-righteousness—in others and ourselves? The instinct is to meet judgment with judgment, but that only deepens the problem. When I feel self-righteous, I try to step back and ask, “What am I afraid of? Why do I need to feel ‘better’ than someone else?” Understanding the fear or insecurity behind self-righteousness helps me approach others with more empathy and less anger.

Jesus set the example in how He dealt with the Pharisees. Yes, He called out their hypocrisy, but His aim was to wake them up, not shame them. When I encounter self-righteousness, I try to follow that approach—challenging where necessary, but with the goal of healing, not tearing down. Of course, I must be careful not to become self-righteous in the process! That’s where Jesus’ words about removing the plank from my own eye before addressing someone else’s speck (Matthew 7) come into play. I must check my heart first.

Setting boundaries is also crucial. Sometimes, despite all the grace and patience I can offer, people won’t change. In those moments, it’s okay to step back. Jesus did this with the Pharisees too, withdrawing when they refused to listen. Protecting my peace and spiritual well-being means knowing when to engage and when to let go.

The cure for self-righteousness, in myself or others, is humility. Paul wrote to the Philippians, using the Greek word tapeinophrosune—literally "to make the mind low." It’s a beautiful metaphor for humility, the antidote to self-righteousness: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or empty pride, but in humility consider others more important than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).

Recognizing that none of us has it all figured out is okay. Rooting out self-righteousness takes time. True righteousness isn’t something I can earn or enforce; it’s a gift of grace. When I embrace that, I can live with more freedom and less judgment—both towards others and myself.