Natalie's Narrative

When watertight, insular beliefs are actually identity-markers...

Last week on Anderson Cooper's show, Elizabeth Esther spoke out against Michael Pearl, who advocates hitting children as young as two with plumbing pipe.  Esther grew up in Christian fundamentalism, and previously used Pearl's teachings to raise her children.  After several children died at the hands of Pearl-following parents, Esther now speaks out against these harmful practices. 

A couple who follow Pearl also appeared on the show, and wrote about their appearance on The Christian Post.  The language they used reminded me of the way many fundamentalists and evangelicals ensure a watertight, insular belief system.  The couple quoted Pearl, who remarked:

The people who condemn biblical chastisement do not believe the Bible. They judge others by their own experience.

The couple also stated, "The only real issue is whether or not you agree with the biblical precepts that are given to us in the Book."  Throwing down the gauntlet in this way is hostile to disagreement.  Using the "biblical" label, Pearl and his followers equate his teachings to the very Word of God, so it becomes difficult for other professed Bible-believers to oppose him.  

Elevating your interpretation to Scripture itself is only one rhetorical move employed by fundamentalists and evangelicals.  Another common tactic is the persecution complex, which Christians often use together with "biblical" rhetoric.  Believing you are a victim of a sinful majority is an excellent way to dismiss opponents:

[I]t is incredulous to believe something simply because a majority believes it. [...] Majority does not matter; only the Bible is our foundation and what it has to say.

[...]

Also noteworthy is the fact that the majority of the opposition does not come from those duly learned in Scriptures, but from mostly secular psychologist, child advocates (which are rarely biblical advocates), and liberal Christians who oppose a lot more conservative points of view on Christianity in general – know your source and research its roots!

Is this the “crowd” you truly want to be in line with? If the enemy, the world, and secular humanistic followers are against it – chances are fairly high that it’s the right place to be and the right principle to stand for.

Framing the issue this way makes disagreement dangerous.  Equating an interpretation of the Bible with the Bible itself, and automatically portraying divergent beliefs as attacks from godless liberals, have formed evangelical identity.  Thus, those who don't want to be alienated from a community they love face high stakes if they disagree.  

Diverging from your church's core beliefs is often a scary, emotional experience.  I have genuinely wondered if I'm going to hell, and whether my disagreement simply means I've been duped by the secular, sinful "culture at large." 

David Rattigan, who has great resources on leaving fundamentalism and evangelicalism, shared an essay by P. James Bowen on leaving a watertight, insular faith, and I see much of these rhetorical moves at play.  Bowen describes his departure as painful and lonely.  In Bible college, he discovered Barth, Bultmann and Tillich. Although alienated from evangelicalism, he was reluctant to leave:

The shape of my faith was radically different from what it had been and there was no going back. But at the time I had no idea how much had changed, and the thought of leaving my evangelical home barely occurred to me. When it did, the thought terrified me. I still wanted to belong. No matter what I thought about charismatics and conservatives now, I still couldn’t bring myself to break away. I had always been one. They were my friends, my family. Where else was there? 

Once Bowen accepted he no longer belonged in evangelicalism, he realized his disagreements were often not theological, but 

a matter of personal identity. I had become, body and soul, a quite different type of person than the good people in that community. I still had a Christian faith. But the shape of that faith was, I finally realised, just too different from the shape of that community. I no longer belonged there. It took years to get from the changes that took place at Bible college to the day I finally left evangelicalism behind. It was a fight between my desire to belong and my inability to belong.

Many evangelicals (often unintentionally) view disagreement with evangelical beliefs as tantamount to heresy, because evangelicalism's identity has been grounded in unwavering "biblical" interpretations of Scripture and portraying dissenters as sneering liberals.  

Although the past decade has shown much promise, there's still little wiggle room for us questioners, even for those like Bowen who have no theological qualms.  As a questioner who has joined a local evangelical church again despite evangelicalism's troubling flaws, I hope to push against this insularity and create some wiggle room, because I know I'm not alone.  

How, then, do I handle truth claims?  I like Rattigan's approach in his FAQ section.  He's not abandoning truth claims, but rather acknowledging that many beliefs "are open to being thrashed out, tested, verified, debated and evaluated."

When Rattigan makes theological claims, he's honest about their "tentative, provisional and subjective nature."  He doesn't insist others accept his interpretation, "or that there will be divine consequences (i.e. punishment)" for those who disagree.

That evangelicalism's "big four," anti-abortion, anti-evolution, anti-homosexuality, and anti-environmental views, are actually identity-markers--rather than high-stakes "musts" that can't be separated from the gospel--is a freeing, healthy realization.  There are no divine consequences if I don't toe the line.  And many other beliefs, such as gender roles, pro-Republican views, pro-capitalism/consumerism, and pro-violence (including corporal punishment) are just as prominent as the big four in some circles.  It's just as freeing to realize that not toeing the evangelical line on these issues will not condemn me to hell.

More problems with Biblicism

Chapter 4 of The Bible Made Impossible provides more problems with biblicism, beyond Chapter 3's epistemological and sociological problems. 

Scripture gives direct commands many biblicists ignore, such as "greet one another with a holy kiss," or "wash one another's feet."  While many Christians greet with a kiss due to culture, and some perform feet-washing, biblicists generally do not follow these commands.  

Meanwhile, biblicists feel strongly about pre-marital sex and abortion, yet Scripture lacks direct instructions about these issues.  Biblicists may respond that these explicit commands are culturally rooted, thus not applicable today.  But biblicists do not fairly and consistently appeal to cultural relativism, which undermines biblicism. 

This is why I took issue with complementarians and biblical gender roles.  Smith asserts interpretation ends up an ad hoc process (perhaps much like gender roles):

Various biblical commands are relaxed or tightened without a clear underlying rationale or justification, depending significantly, it seems, on the particular cultural and political interests and discomfort of those doing the relaxing and tightening. In other words, biblicists very often engage in what we might call “uneven and capriciously selective literalism.” Sometimes the Bible says what it says and must be obeyed. Other times the obvious meaning of the passage is relativized by historical and cultural considerations. And it is often not clear for any given interpreter or across different interpreters which is which, when, and why.

Smith then cites to troubling passages, on which hardly anyone attempts to sermonize (Phineas, anyone?).  For example, Paul furthers an ethnic stereotype in Titus 1:12-13: "Cretans are always liars."  It's difficult to find a take-home, prescriptive message from these puzzling passages.  

Another interesting point is that biblicists use circular logic when using Scripture to validate its own authority.  If this isn't problematic, what Scripture says about itself does not validate biblicism.  To make the Bible support biblicism, dubious logic is required, along with an anachronistic view of Scripture.

Smith echoes what Timothy Beal points out in The Rise and Fall of the Bible: the early church had a different understanding of what "the Bible" was.  When referring to "Scripture," they meant what is now the Old Testament.  The New Testament didn't exist yet.  

So, while the New Testament described Scripture as God-breathed, it's quite the leap to assume "the Bible, down to the details of its words, consists of and is identical with God’s very own words written in human language. Those are not necessarily the same thing."  That biblicism cannot be supported by the Bible "suggests sociologically that biblicism is actually not driven by its purported, manifest interest, but by other latent concerns, motives, and interests[.]"

Smith's last point is that biblicism sets up young believers for crises once they realize biblicism is untenable.  When non-biblicists point out problems, young Christians may not know how to respond.  Sociologically, once they're outside of their homogeneous tribe and in college, these young believers may feel they must reject their faith outright.  Biblicism sets up expectations that are impossible to meet.  

Biblicism "not only makes young believers vulnerable to being disabused of their naive acceptance of that theory but it also often has the additional consequence of putting their faith commitments at risk."  It's ironic that a sect of Christianity that purports to take faith and the Bible so seriously sets up its young people for failure when they experience the world for themselves.  

This reminded me of my first year of college, an experience I shared here a few years ago.  At a "secular" university with liberal professors, I joined two campus Christian organizations: 

...both groups tended to have a “those-evil-professors-will-taint-your-mind” mentality toward the university. They were simply diametrically opposed to the university, and the prevailing attitude was that of blanket rejection of anything not explicitly conservative, evangelical Christ­ian. [...] In our Bible studies and Friday lunches, we were taught sys­tem­atic, care­fully laid-out answers to the criticisms that “those professors” were going to level against our faith...

So, I hunkered down in political and theological conservatism in my first year of col­lege, holding tightly to my beliefs. I was certain that I was biblical and right, and my faith grew into a reaction­ary one. ...[T]hings were black or white, good or bad, Christian or non-Christian...

...I immediately labeled as non-Christian anyone who didn’t fit my conception of “Christian” (meaning conservative, evangelical...Republican). Therefore, I blocked off any learning from people I had labeled, building up my defenses so my faith couldn’t be jeopardized. 

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Even in October...

Can I just get really honest with you for a moment?  I don't feel comfortable sharing things like this, because I know there's a deadly famine and millions of women are being sex-trafficked and who am I to complain about anything...

But I'll admit it.  October is a hard month.

This is supposed to be the cozy, pumpkin-patch-and-cider, enjoy-the-pretty-autumn-leaves time of year, right?

Since losing Dad, October is different now.

It's his birthday month.  There's less sunlight -  the days are getting shorter.  The holidays and the cold start creeping in.

Anyway, I look through Dad's blog when the grief hits.  (This time, I am struck by how funny he was. Joking about how fat butts require longer needles, or getting high-speed internet and finally being able to do two things at once online!)

For Dad, his hard month was April.  He even wrote a post about it.  And like usual, his words reach through time and comfort me today:

I know as a Christian I should be writing inspirational messages of how Christ can overcome, and this I do know. But right now I feel like I am in the valley. And I am pretty sure I don't doubt God, maybe I am doubting myself, like the preacher said Sunday. Sometimes we suffer because we are human, it is part of life. Now that I think about it God has always been faithful (even though I may suffer), as well as my community of believers (friends) who has been faithful......... even in April.

 

When God is silent: others...and the ordinary...

I discovered Charissa's blog, Light Bulbs and Baby Steps, a couple of months ago, and have appreciated her honesty.  The questions she asked in her a recent post are exactly what I have felt the past few years:

I struggle greatly with my ability to have faith when it comes to knowing God. The truth is, it has been a long time, maybe years since I have clearly felt or heard the voice of God in an irrefutable way. Radio silence. And yet I cannot seem to abandon Him, or is it He won't abandon me? Either way, I find myself in a holding pattern. A frustratingly long holding pattern. I haven't known how to proceed. How do I keep praying without doing it out of mere obligation and guilt? How do I read the Bible without disintegrating into a quivering heap of questions in the corner of my room?

Frankly, I have a hard time telling the difference between that still small voice and the crazy-person talk in my head.  And I often find myself agreeing with agnostics and atheists when it comes to "proof" issues, especially when I think about other religions.  Everyone thinks they've heard from God, and that their holy book is the truest version of the truth.  Sometimes I get confused in the cacophony of both my own internal voices and the external debates on epistemiology.  So I get frustrated with the holding pattern I'm in when I don't clearly hear God.

But lately I've realized I may have been going about it the wrong way.  I've been waiting to hear from God and have placed certain expectations on what hearing from Her would sound or look like.  Perhaps this is going to sound heretical and humanist, but I "hear" from God quite often via my fellow human beings.

I may not feel God's presence when I sit with by Bible open, looking for answers, but I sure feel His presence when my husband extends me an incredible amount of grace.  I may not literally hear a response from God when I ask Him questions, but if I would just look around, I might get an answer.

I came across this quote from Stanley Hauerwas, which explains more clearly how others help me stay on this crazy God-following path: 

The worship of God does not come naturally to me, as it seems to for some. I live most of my life as if God does not exist. Yet I know I would not have survived without the prayers of friends who have learned to pray the prayers of the church. My life depends on learning to worship God with those who have made it possible for me to go on. Through worship, the world learns the truth that is required for our being truthful about ourselves and one another.

And this, from an amazing, must-read post by Sarcastic Lutheran, points out the ordinariness of the kingdom of God:

the kingdom of heaven is not to be found alone in a monestary, it’s not to be found in the demands and rewards of human religion, it’s found in the ordinary, the daily, the right in front of your face and never realized it.  And when you see it something is made new. Perhaps a part of the world perhaps a part of yourself.  But something is made new when the empty promises of the world according to us gives way to the whimsy, and the true and the eternal in the world according to God.  And it’s always a surprise.  Tilt your head and look sideways at your life and might see it in the small or the unexpected or the impure.

Tilt your head and look sideways and catch a glimpse- for the Prince of Peace has begun his reign. The signs are all around.  They are signs of a battle already won.  Signs of a world loved so deeply by God that God refuses to leave it alone.  So take another look. See if you can spot it.

From "Why me" to "I will follow"

Beal, in The Rise and Fall of the Bible, provides a clear description of the problem of theodicy:

Imagine the problem as a triangle: on one corner you have the belief that God is just; on the next you have the belief that God is all-powerful; on the third, you have the observation that people suffer unjustly.

It's a logical problem.  You can't hold the three corners of the triangle together.  So any solution to the problem of theodicy inevitably lops off one of them. (p. 160)

Some of us cut off the God-is-all-powerful corner, while others cut off the God-is-just corner.  Still others claim that no suffering is unjust.  

Beal notes that the Bible (remember, it's a collection/library) does not resolve theodicy.  Instead, it argues, wrestles, and explores different responses to it.  The texts end up "affirming the question over any and every solution" (p. 160).  Again, the Bible is not univocal, and we cannot reduce it as such.

Psalms 13 and 88, and Pharoah's hardened heart, stand in tension with the idea that God is always just.  This should rightly horrify us, and we feel the need to turn away.  These stories and outpourings to God cause discomfort, and so we seek reassurance.  But Beal points out:

[T]he psalm itself, indeed the Bible itself, doesn't turn away with us.  It stays with the voice of pain.  Even as it lingers in the hollow silence after Jesus' own lonely cry from the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" [...] The library of the Bible has spaces to let suffering speak and be heard. (p. 161)

This way of looking at those troublesome passages of Scripture, and the troublesome suffering we experience today, is intriguing, but it still begs the question.  I still want to know why God would supposedly harden Pharoah's heart and render plagues the way She allegedly did.  The notion that humans are pawns in a cosmic game is disconcerting.

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Aside from my lingering concerns, though, the idea that the Bible doesn't seek to resolve the tension of theodicy is compelling.  Perhaps we shouldn't expect the Christian faith to resolve those tensions either.  In the same way that Beal criticizes the expectation that the Bible is an answer-book, I've realized that I'm expecting the Christian gospel to provide an answer to the theodicy problem.  

In demanding that my faith provide answers it perhaps was not designed to provide, and in turn rejecting this version of the faith, I do it a disservice.  Maybe what is repugnant to me is not the failure of Christianity to solve the theodicy issue once and for all, but at the heart of it, it's a failure of the expectations that I've imposed.

Will Willimon recently remarked on Bart Ehrman and theodicy in The Christian Century.  In the context of the recent tornados that pummeled the South, Willimon acknowledges the limits of explanation, but comments that an Ehrman-like rejection of Christianity is not the only option:

No one around me at those locations of terrible destruction asked, “Why me? Why God?” Most of them were too busy, drenched in sweat, and dust from the rubble to pause to engage in philosophical speculation. Their most persistent question was, “How can we do more to support and work for the victims?”

And that seems very Christian to me. Jesus was not a great philosopher who came with a set of noble precepts and brilliant ideals. Jesus never said, “Think about me.” Rather it was always, “Follow me!”

Jesus was among us as a victim of horrible injustice. He offered us few explications of suffering and injustice; he offered himself as fellow sufferer. As Hebrews says, Jesus not only came to us but suffered with us. He offered us not reasoned explanations but rather empathetic, life-giving presence with us. He gave us not a great way to think about tragedy but a way of acting in and through tragedy.

The mindset of the tornado survivors who turned around the "Why me" question strikes me as very powerful.  In my cerebral, analytical way, I have begged God, Scripture, and my faith community to please give me an answer in the face of global suffering and my very own personal nightmares.  

The very fact that I've had the luxury to stop and think about suffering, analyzing the why's every which way, is telling.  Just like those in the U.S. who have had their houses leveled, I doubt that those without clean water and enough food for their children around the world care which theodicy-triangle corner to lop off at the moment.  

Yes, I still definitely struggle with what Ehrman dubs "God's problem," and at this time I'm close to lopping off the God-is-all-powerful corner.  But Beal and Willimon have reminded me that Jesus calls us to follow him where we are.  Perhaps instead of spilling liters of ink and writing wordy blog posts on theodicy, we should subvert those questions.  We can't be expected to first solve all philosophical problems, or expect the gospel to solve them, before we begin to follow Jesus.

If your heart doesn't yet say hallelujah...

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Yesterday, as I was sitting with a grieving family, I said something that probably a good Christian shouldn't have said.  One of the family members remarked, "It will be alright, it will be alright."  Today, Resurrection Day, tells us it will be alright -- we all know this.  But I, not meaning to give any sort of advice on grieving at all (because everyone is different), automatically responded that if you ever get to a moment where you don't think it will be alright, let yourself have that thought.  I said that it's good to work through it.  I hope I didn't offend anyone in the room, but after having deep doubt myself, I've become quick to reassure and to make space for those who maybe can't say 100% of the time that "it will be alright."

Maggi Dawn has a great post this morning about just not feeling it on Easter.  She echoes what I pointed out yesterday.  Easter is the day when we are supposed to celebrate that Jesus is risen:

But what do you do if Easter comes and your spirits do not rise? It’s a bad day in the kitchen, in your marriage, with your in-laws or your hormones or your bank balance? What do you do if your job has disintegrated, your hopes are dashed, your dreams didn’t come true – or if, simply for some unaccountable reason, there is no hallelujah in your heart?

There is no need to beat yourself up. Read the story again, and you see that even his first disciples took time to absorb the news. Mary saw it and jumped at it. Peter and John didn’t believe it, half-believed it, went to look and still took a while to take it in. The other disciples took longer – Thomas, according to John, stubbornly refusing to believe what his eyes could not see. And even when the disciples did get the news, they didn’t know quite what to do with it: for a while they still found themselves fishing in Galilee, a little lost in life.

The hallelujah of Easter, the risen spirits, are not always instant. There are weeks and weeks of Easter still to come; the Church calendar celebrates the slow dawning of Easter for fifty days – even longer than the arduous journey of Lent. Today is a promise of things to come, not a climactic moment that you have to catch as it passes. If your heart doesn’t yet say Hallelujah, let your curiosity lead you, let your doubts be voiced and your questions be heard.

Space to ask questions

“God's not mean...he's holy. If you cheapen that holiness no one wins and God isn't perfect...my heart is heavy again. #lovewins”  -Matt Chandler

I recently saw this tweet and it made me think about suffering, and why a place dedicated to eternal suffering would exist.  My honest reaction the past few years has been...God is mean.  Of course I would’ve never said that out loud.  I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to admit I felt that way.  But, stifling that thought made me feel even more frustrated and discouraged.

I’ve been forced to deal directly with my belief that God is in control and works all things for the good of those who love him.  Previously I had never thought to question God's omnipotence, but the more I learned in college and just experienced life, I simply couldn't square genocide, war, hurricanes, unexpected deaths, etc., with a loving, all-powerful God.  It seemed sick.

I began to notice comments from well-meaning people.  Someone mentioned to my mom, just months after my dad's death, that her husband had also had a heart attack, but he survived.  The wife commented, “God was watching over us.”  So logically I wondered: was God not watching over our family?  Why spare this woman's husband, but not my dad?

A lot of people make comments like this, myself included.  If I just miss being in a car accident, my immediate reaction is to thank God.  But would I immediately thank God if I were to be horrendously injured in an accident?  Or on a broader scale, many like to think of the United States as blessed.  Look around at our wealth, tranquility, high standard of living...so God has been good to us.  The same cannot be said for the majority of the world, so what about them?

Martin Bashir's recent interview with Rob Bell demonstrated perfectly this false dilemma that our theology tends to create: either God is omnipotent but doesn't love Japanese people, or God loves Japanese people but does not have the power to stop an earthquake and tsunami.

These questions left me confused, and I didn't deal with it in a healthy way.  I'm not saying that this was the intent of Chandler's tweet (I try not to make assumptions based on 140 characters...), but it made me feel like admitting that God--or rather my perception of God--seems “mean” is a failure on my part as a Christian.  If I can't legitimately push those feelings away and hold on to the idea that God is holy and perfect no matter what happens, then surely I must be a heretic.  

When I started feeling confused and disgusted, perhaps if I would have had the space and comfort level to ask those hard questions out loud, would I be in a different place spiritually right now?  I wonder if the same holds true for many other present and former Christians?  Maybe most of us have major issues with the way that Bashir and others frame things, but keep it to ourselves for fear of “cheapening” God's holiness or--gasp--suggesting that God isn't perfect or all-powerful?

Sometimes I wonder whether making sure your theological ducks are all in a row and that God is precisely defined comes at the expense of addressing the real-live suffering and day-to-day junk that we all face.  What does it mean if you've had the time and luxury to read the books and get the schooling that enables you to supposedly perfect your view of God?  I've noticed that the targets of Jesus' criticism were those who had the most theological knowledge, and Jesus spent a good deal of his time on earth as a healer, alleviating the suffering of those around him.

I love studying theology and am definitely not anti-intellectual, so I'm not proposing we shouldn't think about these things.  Nor do I mean to disrespect those who have thoughtfully dealt with these issues and moved on to become atheists or agnostics.  I just think we've put correct propositional truth on a pedestal, at the expense of allowing real life speak to the way we think about God.  We've boxed ourselves in to a choice between a powerless, loving God or a powerful, cold-hearted God, so the space to seek a third (or fourth, or fifth...) way would be nice.  To be honest, I'm growing weary of being “forced” to think that God might be mean...

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Personal relationship with God...

My mom and I were talking last night about a blog post we had both read that dealt with the idea of a personal relationship with God. The post points out how ridiculous the notion is sometimes. I’ve struggled with this a lot—how do I know if the elusive voice of God isn’t really just a thought I myself am having? However, Mom and I both agreed that, looking back, it’s easy to see God’s hand in our lives. An example: if I wouldn’t have graduated early from college, it would have been terribly hard to finish up that spring semester when Dad died. I technically still haven’t finished my second major, because I had to drop a 2 credit-hour class that started the day after he died. I know that example may seem like a little thing, but God’s timing is evident in hindsight.

We were still left wondering, though, about the present. Sure, it’s great to look back and praise God for what She has done. But I need comfort and guidance now, too. This whole personal relationship thing where I’m in a room by myself with my Bible and my prayers just does not cut it. Praying, for me, seems like a one-way, dead-end, non-conversation at times. Some crazy crazy thoughts can get into my head, especially experiencing grief, and I need God and other people to make it through. That’s basically the conclusion Mom and I came up with—community is vital. 

I was looking through my dad’s blog last night, because sometimes I do that when I miss him and just need to read his common-sense thoughts. He provided so well for us when he was living and still does so now, isn’t that strange. A post dated June 19, 2004, spoke to the conversation last night. He was reading Dallas Willard’s book, Divine Conspiracy, and had just finished a chapter on prayer:

“I find it interesting that even in our private prayer life, as we pray in the name of our personal savior, others play a part.

Jesus instructs us to pray OUR father....Give US... forgive US ....as WE forgive OTHERS. So our relationship with those around us is vital. We do not have the option of isolating ourselves from others, it seems. The Bible teaches us that if our relationships are strained with man, they are therefore strained with God.

For so long I lived my life trying to have a personal relationship with Christ, often times neglecting the relationship that is necessary with others. I think Christ came to save a people, not just a person. The focal point of Christ ministry is put others first. This is how we show our love for God, in whose image we were created.

It is okay to ask for anything we desire as long as we remember to put others first. Many say put God first, but doesn't Christ tell us that putting others first IS putting God first? I don't know if that was the point Willard was making or not, but I can't get away from the thought that proper prayer life is contingent on proper relationship with others. (Forgive us as we forgive others)”