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What Would Jesus Like?

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In the 1990s, evangelical reflection on morality was a simulacrum of Joseph’s amazing technicolor dreamcoat.  Only, evangelicals sported the psychedelic colors on wrists instead of backs.  For during this time, the first and greatest moral interrogative was “What Would Jesus Do?” (WWJD).  

The number of parodies to which the WWJD fad has now been subject undoubtedly suggests to some that the turn of the last century represents the nadir of evangelical reflection on morality.  This conclusion, while tempting, would be hasty.  For the social media revolution has unleashed a formative cultural icon that threatens to undermine the very possibility of moral deliberation among evangelicals: the Facebook “Like” button.   

In 1989, Bill S. Preston, Esq. (Alex Winter) and Ted “Theodore” Logan (Keanu Reeves) delighted moviegoers with their Excellent Adventure.  Their academic foolishness notwithstanding, Bill and Ted illustrated a capacity for human(e) reflection by “philosophizing” with Socrates.  Granted, their attempt to offer existential wisdom on the human condition (“Dust…wind…Dude.”) is hardly the stuff of philosophical legend.  But the rudiments of the Socratic dictum (“The unexamined life is not worth living.”) are there nonetheless.  

Almost 25 years later, it is worth wondering.  Were Socrates to come again (in a telephone booth, of course) would he find reason on the earth?  A quick perusal of any social media platform suggests that the prospects look grim.  For the unexamined status statement is apparently worth liking.  

With respect to morality, the danger that the Like button presents rests in its formative effects.  For starters, the Like button reduces everything to which it is attached to consumer preference – an object of appetitive desire.  To “like” something is to signal a preference lower than intellectual assent or moral conviction.  It is to express mere taste or personal preference.  At best, it signals a fleeting allegiance to an unspecified vibe.  

To employ the Like button (as for example, nearly half a million of the over 25 million viewers did for the “Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus” video on YouTube) forestalls meaningful conversation about moral matters.  Such silence follows from the internal logic of the Like button itself.  If my moral convictions are merely matters of taste (like my preference for Coke over Pepsi), then what I “like” requires neither rational deliberation nor defense.  Why think?  Just click.

Beyond the obstruction of inquiry, the Like button conditions its users to think of moral conviction as a kind of personal accessory – a way of constructing an identity.  In the techno-consumer society we inhabit, we accessorize to say who we are.  By aligning ourselves with moral perspectives expressed in cyberspace, we use morality as a way of expressing our present profile.  And in so doing, we trivialize moral conviction.

Even more worrisome, however, is the fact that treating morality as a mere expression of one’s persona, as the Like button does, fundamentally subverts the relationship between morality and the individual seeking to live a moral life.  Historically, orthodox Christian belief has been committed to a transcendent understanding of morality, construed as a “Way” to which one ought to conform.  This is, for example, the explicit structure of The Didache – one of the earliest Christian documents expressing the shape of the moral life.  And as C.S. Lewis points out in The Abolition of Man, it is arguably the predominant understanding of morality, Jewish, Christian, Muslim or pagan, before the advent of modernity.  

But the world of the Like button turns this way of thinking on its head.  No longer is morality a transcendent order to which we seek to conform; it is rather a digital drop-down menu from which we select our status.  Instead of seeking pre-existing moral norms that necessarily bind us, we click to create motifs that define us.  And our self-definition has all the contingency of whim.  For we remain attached to particular stances only as long as we continue to feel as though they authentically express who we are at any given moment.  

In a sense, the Like button in social media is the sacrament for the religion that sociologist Christian Smith has identified as defining the present generation: “moralistic therapeutic deism.”  It is a religious stance in which “feeling happy” is the first principle and how one “feels” is the epistemological lens through which everything is assessed.  Of course, Smith’s work does not apply uniquely to evangelicals (rather to U.S. teenagers, generally).  However, as another noteworthy Smith has recently observed, sacraments such as the Like button are embedded in larger, “cultural liturgies” in which the evangelical world is immersed (see James K.A. Smith, Desiring the Kingdom and Imagining the Kingdom).  

Evangelicals should take seriously the formative effects of the prevailing cultural liturgies.  For if the foregoing analysis is right, the overwhelming effect of the liturgies of social media is not to the good.  Rather, they threaten to erode the very foundation on which deliberation, conversation, vision, and formation are built – namely, the assumption that the moral fabric of reality is ontologically prior to the volition of the individual.

This is reason enough for thinking that despite its inherent limitations, the WWJD bracelet, when compared with the liturgies of social media, is a step in a salutary direction.  For starters, the interrogative mood, together with the implied dominical authority, suggests a posture of submission that is the beginning of moral formation.  To be sure, the bracelet is an accessory.  But the content it expresses, while truncated, does not accessorize.  For when properly applied, the WWJD bracelet does not permit the wearer to use the fruits of inquiry as a means of self-expression (except perhaps in choosing a neon color).  Rather, what Jesus would do in a given situation becomes a “Way” to which the faithful evangelical must conform.  Philosophically speaking, as morally formative liturgical acts go, snapping on a bracelet seems superior to clicking a mouse.  Perhaps the renewal of evangelical reflection on morality looks more like a rosary than a blog. 

Inerrancy Is Nonsense

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Evangelical inerrantists are in the apostle Paul’s camp.  They’re sinners (I Timothy 1:15).  But contra Giberson, pointing out the mote in the inerrantist’s eye hardly constitutes a refutation of inerrancy.  (A college student’s failure to find the derivative of a function doesn’t entail that calculus is a “gigantic anchor holding mathematicians back.”)  So, what’s the real concern here?

Inerrancy is all about epistemology.  Giberson knows this.  He rejects “the ‘hypothesis’ of inerrancy [because it] has proven to be ‘degenerate’ because it is too difficult to apply, leads nowhere helpful, has to be propped up with all sorts of ad hoc additional assumptions . . . [and] turns out to lead to error.”  It prevents Christians from holding “sensible positions” [emphasis mine] on many matters.  

Giberson is probably right in thinking that his epistemology of sensibleness is incompatible with his understanding of inerrancy.  Many inerrantists believe that Scripture teaches all sorts of nonsense, often on the basis of their commitment to the Bible’s being without error.  It’s better to believe “sensible” things than nonsense.  Therefore, inerrancy must go.

Whether evangelicals should pull up the anchor of inerrancy and set sail with Giberson turns on whether the epistemology of sensibleness should govern one’s approach to Scripture.  Here’s why it shouldn’t.  

Christianity is fundamentally a religion of nonsense.  Does it make any sense to believe that the death of a first-century rabbi has any bearing on the resurrection of my body to eternal life?  (Does it make any sense to believe in the resurrection of the body to eternal life, period!?)  It is precisely the utterly fantastic nature of the “word of the cross” that led the apostle Paul to call it “foolishness” to the Greeks (I Corinthians 1:18-25).  And as heirs of the disenchanted world of the Enlightenment, we are all, denizens of 21st century West, thoroughly Greek.  

Giberson may be right in claiming that a commitment to inerrancy “requires the rejection and distortion of so much generally accepted knowledge that embracing it forces one onto an ideological Fantasy Island.”  But aside from taking the epistemology of sensibleness as axiomatic, it does not follow from this observation that “Fantasy Island” is uninhabitable.  

C.S. Lewis illustrates the logic of this point delightfully in a marvelous scene in The Silver Chair.  Having been captured by the Lady of the Green Kirtle, the nefarious enchantchress of Underworld, Jill Pole, Eustace Scrubb, and Puddleglum the marsh-wiggle find themselves on the brink of falling under her epistemological spell.  She tries to persuade them that Narnia, Aslan, and life above the surface in “Overland” is all illusory – not real, merely a fantasy.  In a moment of fragile clarity, Puddleglum responds:

“Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”

Of course, Giberson is undoubtedly right in pointing out that far too many self-professed inerrantists lack the humility of Puddleglum in their quests to set out in the darkness of inerrancy looking for a young earth, or the anti-Christ, or a biblical worldview.  Far too many are just downright arrogant and mean-spirited.  

But vice is no respecter of epistemological frameworks.  Thus, the epistemology of sensibleness lends itself to being defended with as much “obnoxious vigor” as inerrancy.  So, why favor inerrancy?  

Besides the fact that Christianity is built on the rock of folly, inerrancy matters because at its best, it is designed to posture the reader in precisely the stance that Brown and Roberts so eloquently describe – standing “under” the text.  At its core, inerrancy is a commitment to the idea that the Bible is truthful in all that it says.  It is the spirit of the Psalmist who rejoices, “The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul” (Psalm 19:7).  One could almost think of inerrancy as an epistemological prayer: “Lord, help me to be faithful to understand all and only those truths expressed herein.”  

In practice, this means that perceived errors (or conflicts between revealed and natural knowledge) should be treated neither as occasions for rejecting Scripture or nature nor as mere puzzles to be solved through interpretation and systematicity.  Rather, perceived errors in the Bible should, first and foremost, drive readers to root out error in themselves (Psalm 139:23-24).  In other words, the perception of error in Scripture (or of conflicts between revealed and natural knowledge) primarily signals that something is wrong with me.  

Sadly, too many inerrantists lack the piety that is built into their epistemological stance – a piety that Augustine himself expressed in a letter to Jerome:

“For I confess to your Charity that I have learned to yield this respect and honor only to the canonical books of Scripture: of these alone do I most firmly believe that the authors were completely free from error. And if in these writings I am perplexed by anything which appears to me opposed to truth, I do not hesitate to suppose that either the MS. is faulty or the translator has not caught the meaning of what was said, or I myself have failed to understand it . . .”

To the extent that such piety has been lost among evangelicals in their clamor to defend  the veracity of the Bible, rejection is not the remedy.  Remedy rests in remembrance and recovery.  

Perhaps it’s still premature to weigh anchor and “learn to sail” from the Fantasy Isle of Inerrancy.  After all, there’s no assurance of better lands across the Ocean of Disenchantment.

Jesus Throws Everything Off Balance

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For some evangelicals, a great disappointment of heaven will be the shocking discovery that God has not read John Rawls.  Although it does not require strict equality of outcome, Rawls’s theory of justice as fairness presupposes that just ground rules are rooted in the free, rational self-interest of mutually contracting parties.  

So Rawlsian soteriology would work like this.  Before the foundation of the world, when me, God, and everyone else were establishing the rules of the “salvific contract,” we would agree to a set of principles that would fairly distribute eternal rewards and punishments, since, being behind Rawls’s imagined “veil of ignorance,” none of us (God included) ought to know exactly how things would turn out (e.g., in which religious tradition I might find myself).   

Of course, from a Christian perspective, the difficulty with Rawlsian soteriology is that salvation isn’t a matter of social contract.  Nevertheless, I cannot shake the sense that discomfort with the exclusivity of Christianity is more deeply shaped by applications of late-twentieth century, philosophical accounts of justice to Divine agency than by the witness of Scripture and the Christian tradition.  

In “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” Flannery O’Connor calls attention to the exclusivity of the Gospel through the actions and words of a murderous nihilist called “the Misfit.”  In the story’s climactic scene, the Misfit speaks frankly to his next victim – a self-centered grandmother whose half-hearted attachment to Christianity is rooted in its perceived socio-economic utility.  The Misfit: “Jesus thrown everything off balance.  If He did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can – by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him.”

Quite provocatively, the Misfit articulates the sense in which Jesus came not “to bring peace, but a sword” (Matthew 10:34).  Jesus Christ is the decisive and divisive One in human history precisely because there is no safe place, no middle ground.  As the Misfit understands, every human being must either “throw away everything and follow” Jesus Christ or run the other way.  There’s no other alternative, no neutral space.  In Rawlsian terms, there is no “original position” imagined or otherwise.  

Despite his hopeful inclusivism, C.S. Lewis himself – occasionally regarded as the patron saint of evangelicalism – could not deny the binary nature of salvation history.  In The Last Battle, Emeth is “saved” by Aslan, not Tash.  In Lewis’s Great Divorce, the figure of George MacDonald cautions with eschatological sobriety: “There are only two kinds of people in the end those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done’.”  If Jesus Christ has indeed “thrown everything off  balance,” it is difficult to see how a persistent, deliberate refusal to love and follow Him can, in the end, result in anything other than being on the “wrong” side of the divide beyond the stable door.  

Obviously, this raises the crucial issue of specifying precisely what loving and following Christ amounts to and what it means to be on the “wrong” side in the end.  With respect to the former, many evangelicals have regrettably reduced belief to mere cognition.  This has two unfortunate consequences.  First, if salvation is primarily a function of explicit intellectual apprehension and self-conscious affirmation of the requisite set of propositions, this renders the prospect of redemption unlikely, if not impossible, for a whole range of persons for whom Christ died (e.g., very young children, and the severely disabled).  Second, an over-emphasis on procuring justification by belief-as-transaction tends to minimize the centrality of faithful obedience (John 14:15).  Certainly, one cannot love and follow Christ while explicitly refusing to confess Him.  But perhaps, by grace through faith, one can begin to love and follow Christ without yet fully understanding that it is Christ whom one is loving and following.  Faith is, after all, God’s gift.  

The meaning of hell remains a thorn in the evangelical flesh.  Yet, as distasteful as the biblical imagery may seem to modern sensibilities, the real possibility of eschatological conscious punishment is inseparable from the Gospel that evangelicals profess.   To deny this possibility trivializes the wickedness of a persistent, deliberate refusal to love and follow the One who is at the heart of reality.  If O’Connor’s Misfit is right, we must either surrender or run away.  Either way, Christ’s gravity at the heart of reality is, having been “lifted up” (John 12:32), drawing all things to the consuming fire that He is.  Purification or consumption seems inescapable.  

Does this make evangelism of paramount importance?  Absolutely – provided that the telling does not outstrip the following.  For the urgency created by the traditional doctrine of hell together with the exclusivity of the Christian religion is not the rush to saturation by verbosity.  It is rather the slow, laborious task of gardening – of sowing, tending, and keeping – discipleship by faithful disciples.  The harvest is truly plentiful, but the laborers are few. 

Lived Evangelicalism – Present Conditions and Future Possibilities

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As these first posts from our friends indicate, there is such a thing as evangelicalism understood from historical, theological, sociological and cultural perspectives, and then there are all sorts of evangelicalisms in their more popular forms that are lived out by all sorts of people in all sorts of churches with all sorts of understandings of what it means to “be” an evangelical.  It is evangelicalism at this more popular level I find fascinating with lived beliefs and practices that perhaps say more about who evangelicals are in their own self-understanding, and give us insight into present conditions and future possibilities. 

As John Wilson rightly notes, many Christians in North America are evangelicals without owning the label.  This was true in his own Baptist context, and it is true for Christians in mainline traditions that are “evangelical” but do not use this term as a self-designation, such as my own United Methodist ecclesial context.  But what about the many Christians who do say “I am an evangelical” and “I go to an evangelical church,” who are largely unaware of the ways in which evangelical faith and practice have come to be in its distinct North American forms?  What shapes this kind of self-identity? What might be their self-understanding of this identification as it is actually lived out in their own lives?   These seem to me to be the harder questions to ask for ascertaining present conditions and future possibilities. 

I agree with John Franke that there is a theological ecumenism in evangelicalism based on its trans-ecclesial nature as a movement as opposed to a particular denomination or confessional stance. Those of us who “live and move and have our being” in these kinds of conversations understand this. However, on a lived level, I am not as optimistic about this evangelical ecumenical spirit for a few reasons. Given what we know about the emergence of certain segments of contemporary North American evangelicalism out of the modernist-fundamentalist controversies of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, seeds of separation from those with whom there is theologically disagreement have been part of the DNA of much contemporary evangelicalism.  While I too affirm the Scriptural mandate for the unity of the church as a normative one for Christians, I find a higher commitment to truth at all cost among evangelicals (at least in the forms of propositional truth statements) as the supreme virtue, largely at the expense of other important commitments, such as unity, love, kindness, compassion, forbearance and a much needed epistemic and personal humility.

I think Vince is right when he presses on the ways in which the sola scriptura principle gets lived out in actual practices in many evangelical contexts.  A common thread in each of these first posts noted the centrality of the Bible for evangelicals.  I couldn’t agree more, and am very grateful for my own evangelical heritage that explains my own deep commitments to Scripture today.  Yet, I would suggest that the commitment to the Bible’s authority, understood in a very particular way, has become a confession that is used to determine who is in and who is out of the evangelical fold.  This particular way of articulating Scripture’s authority in most evangelical contexts is inerrancy which does not solve the hermeneutical difficulties of reading and interpreting Scripture nor of making appropriate hermeneutical jumps from one context to another, nor how we understand authority or how it actually functions when reading the Bible.  Many evangelicals know what they think about the Bible, without actually knowing the narrative and trajectories of Scripture.  This is where evangelicals can benefit from a theological interpretation of Scripture, reminding us of the larger faith, theological, ecclesial, and formation contexts of our reading of the Bible. This is a way forward for a future possibility in order to appreciate and live out the functional authority of Scripture that evangelicals value as opposed to insisting on a particular view of the Bible’s authority as authoritative. 

I find Amos’ re-envisioning of evangelical distinctives helpful as he reminds us of the prominent role which the Holy Spirit has in certain “Pentecostal, charismatic, and renewalist spins” in reference to Bebbington’s categories.  This experiential dimension is a good reminder, given most evangelicals insist that one must have a personal relationship and an on-going experience with God through Christ made possible by the Holy Spirit as a mark of authentic evangelical piety and faith.  Evangelical faith has always had a deeply experiential component, yet evangelicals also maintain degrees of ambivalence toward experience as somewhat untrustworthy, fickle, and even dangerous.  I have heard often a  warning that goes something like this: “every experience must be weighed and judged against the Scriptures.”  Yet, there are all sorts of bizarre experiences recorded in Scripture that would never pass the muster of this kind of scientific judgment and evaluation of authenticity in the evangelical contexts in which I have been a part. I think evangelical experience has been shaped by all sorts of things such as race, class, and gender that go unnamed as experience but must be named for the ways they shape evangelical identity and practice. For Wesley, experience in Christian faith was never unmoored from the primary shaping source of Scripture, from faithful Christian traditions, and from our capacities to use reason to understand more fully and to evaluate more faithfully.  Along with an interpretation of Scripture that is more theological in scope, purpose and practice, I think a robust lived trinitarianism also holds some fruitful possibilities, particularly when it comes to how we understand experience in light of the Holy Spirit’s relationship to the missional and creating purposes of the Son and the Father, commitments which evangelicals hold dear.  

As postmodern theorists remind us, identities are shaped and are always being shaped.  This conversation reminds us that evangelical identity has been shaped, is being shaped, and will continue to be shaped, much to the consternation of some.  I resonated with insights offered by Corwin Smidt and the reminders offered by Jeannine Brown.  How we respond to the important questions posed in this conversation about evangelicalism, identity, practice, history and meaning may need a caveat of, “well, it depends.”  Our contributors have helpfully clarified some of these issues. It depends on the trajectories of evangelicalism in which we find ourselves; the ecclesial communities with which we identify; in what part of the country we live; the parachurch organizations of which we have been  a part; where we have been educated, along with how we read the Bible and what theological claims we make as primary ones.  I suggest that evangelical identity formation may largely be hidden from view, and I suspect this is the more difficult aspect of evangelical identity and belonging to address, the one which many of us have experienced, and perhaps the area which has caused the greatest pain to those whose experience is not counted as part of the evangelical mainstream, such as women, who are often shaped and constrained by the prevailing gender ideologies that have characterized so much of evangelical faith and practice.  It is for this reason that exploring evangelical identity and practice through more popular (and hence more powerful?) lenses may give us more clues to present conditions and future possibilities. 

Evangelicalism as Platonism: A Response to Enns

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Peter Enns is surely right when he says that “defining ‘Evangelicalism’ in America is like trying to hit a moving target.”  His initial observation has been echoed by others (e.g., Bacote and Wilson), and the very shape of the conversation thus far underscores the point.  Proposals that lean on Bebbington’s quadrilateral (see Yong: “Biblicism, crucicentrism, activism, and conversionism”), while not without merit in light of Evangelicalism’s origin in the 20th century, seem strained by present sociological realities (as noted by Smidt, Franke, and Wilson).  Thus, Enns wonders, “whether Evangelicalism as it has been understood can genuinely enter into a broader dialogue and accept its role as one voice among many while also retaining its traditional Evangelical identity.”  As Enns no doubt knows, the likelihood of success in this undertaking depends, in part, on the nature of Evangelicalism’s traditionally understood identity – one that is presently, to some extent, in “crisis”.

By way of response to some of the challenges Enns’s remarks raise, I’d like to propose a way of thinking about Evangelical identity that captures the spirit of its actual history, explains its present sociological tensions, and provides a blueprint (admittedly unsatisfying) for moving forward with a “genuinely broader dialogue.” 

Like Enns, I think it is a mistake to think of Evangelicalism itself as “the standard against which other traditions should be judged.”  But this is not because Evangelicalism is a “relatively recent, culturally conditioned, expression of Christianity.”  (Though, “traditionally understood”, it is.)  Rather, it is because Evangelicalism is perhaps better construed as an impulse or a posture concretely embodied in the individual lives and communities who so identify.  My suggestion is that this Evangelical impulse is helpfully understood as a kind of tacit Platonism. 

To see this, consider the difference between an Evangelical and a Catholic reading of Peter’s confession of Christ in Matthew 16:16, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.”  For the Catholic, the “rock” on which Christ builds the church is not merely Peter’s confession.  It is also the apostle himself, together with the communion of his visible successors.  Thus, for the Catholic, the form of the gospel itself is immanently embodied in the organismal life of the church of Rome.  If I’m right about this, Catholics have what amounts to an Aristotelian understanding of the relationship between the gospel (immanent form) and the visible church (matter). 

Evangelicals don’t.  By contrast, Evangelicals take the “rock” upon which Christ builds the church to be the Platonic form of the Gospel itself; it is that-to-which Peter’s confession points.  But by virtue of its transcendent nature, it is never reducible to nor identical with any visible human institution. 

If I’m right to construe the Evangelical impulse as a kind of tacit Platonism, then on the one hand, Enns is right to say that it’s simply “one attempt to express faithfulness to God.”  Yet, on the other hand, the impulse itself, in the history of Christianity, is arguably much deeper than the 20th century “American historical context.”  For the impulse to disentangle something of the essence of the Platonic form of the Gospel itself from its particular manifestation in concrete historic churches is arguably rooted in the Reformation, if not Scripture itself.  (Hence, it’s not a category mistake for Catholics to speak of a diversity of protestants as “Evangelicals” in, for instance, the “Evangelicals and Catholics Together” effort.)

This way of understanding the nature of Evangelical identity affords a unifying principle for the present sociological diversity.  The tension arising “within the ranks” to “re-engage issues thought long settle and indisputable” is merely the manifestation of the dialogical process that is itself intrinsic to the pursuit of any transcendent Form.  Socrates, after all, spent his entire career arguing. 

We should not be surprised to find, as Enns points out, that “many have grown dissatisfied with Evangelicalism’s effectiveness to provide a coherent spiritual path.”  Pursuing a Platonic ideal by means of arduous dialectic is not for the epistemologically faint of heart.  The “restless” may give up the quest for any number of reasons: a preference for shadows rather than substance, a conviction that the long-sought Form is to be found in a particular institution (e.g., Rome), or a lack of epistemological intestinal fortitude that the Platonic project requires. 

Strikingly, Enns frames his critical question about the future of Evangelicalism in gastronomic terms: “is it within Evangelicalism’s constitution to assess its own identity in what seems like such a dramatic fashion?” (emphasis mine).  If my suggestion is right, the answer is plain.  Those with a deep Evangelical impulse (Platonically understood) will.  Those without it won’t. 

For me, the more crucial question is whether those who genuinely possess the Platonic Evangelical impulse recognize and accept the dialectical reality upon which the pursuit of the true form of the Gospel depends.  That some self-professed Evangelicals might not is evident in at least two important ways.  First, as Enns correctly points out, some “do not easily tolerate calls for critical self-assessment and theological adjustment.”  Undoubtedly, this is one of the contributing factors to the “pilgrimages” away from Evangelicalism to which Enns alludes.  Second, rather than merely resisting critique, others may resist the logical demands of the dialectical process itself (i.e., the very grounds on which criticism is possible).  For the latter, the cultivation of mood – one characterized principally by the avoidance of divisiveness and contention – takes precedence over the exacting nature of truth. 

Of course, the recognition and acceptance of dialectic as a way forward for Evangelicalism does not, by itself, necessitate a lack of charity in engagement.  That is why I’m grateful both for the space this forum provides for (admittedly wild!) ideas such as these to be tested and for the hospitable spirit with which the conversation has already begun.  May it continue to be so!

Hoping for the Best

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“Evangelical”, like the word “postmodern”, can mean both everything and nothing.  Depending upon the company one keeps, “Evangelical” can be code for something as simple as “Bible believing Christian” or as specific and pejorative as “anti-intellectual Republican fundamentalist” or a number of other labels.  The multiplicity of associations provides many with sufficient reason for choosing a label less susceptible to misunderstanding and unhelpful baggage. 

            Not me. While as a theology professor I would not call myself a typical anything, I am unapologetic about owning the label “Evangelical.” It is a label I can own because it does not have to bear the weight of the full history of Christianity.  Evangelicalism is a mostly Protestant expression of Christianity that has continuity with aspects of pre-Reformation Christianity but is clearly different in terms of areas of emphasis and cultural expression.  At its best, Evangelical Christianity in the United States has aimed to give great prominence to the authority of the Bible, deep personal experience of conversion to Jesus and a commitment to sharing the gospel with others.  Part of the strength of evangelicalism is the fact that it is a conservative Christian ecumenical movement that brings together a wide range of denominations while respecting (sometimes) differences in doctrinal emphasis and ecclesial practice.  Of course, this breadth has led some to regard evangelicals as people who are so broad that any significant depth of faith is sacrificed on the altar of this conservative ecumenism, but I am not convinced that this hazard is an insurmountable weakness.  

            I readily admit that one dimension of evangelical weakness stems from one of its strengths: fidelity to the Bible. Often the Reformation slogan sola Scriptura is morphed into a view that places the Bible in an exclusive domain set apart from any notion of the larger Christian tradition (for many, this may be due to equating “tradition” with “Roman Catholic”).  The Reformers did not dismiss tradition but wanted it to be subject to revision in light of the primacy of Scripture; many contemporary evangelicals essentially eliminate what they regard as tradition and strive to cross two millennia of history in their own personal encounters with the Bible in personal study and public reception of Bible proclamation.  But is this genuine weakness actually an essential part of what “Evangelical” means at its best?  Though I can understand why some might argue in the affirmative, I am not convinced this is the case.  Deep commitment to the Bible does not mandate a rejection of tradition (and it does not take that much effort to make people aware that they stand in the stream of some tradition, even if it is a tradition that minimizes the broader Christian tradition).  That said, it is true that what we could call an allergic response to tradition is reason to encourage, catalyze and facilitate a disposition of generosity toward the broader Christian tradition, especially when such generosity can help the evangelical populace recognize that there is much that could be learned from an encounter with some of the pre-Reformation Christian tradition, from the early church forward.  This encounter can be guided by fellow evangelicals already conversant with the traditions outside evangelicalism, or perhaps even better by engagements with generous Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Christians (ideally those less interested in drawing Protestants to their side).  A generous evangelicalism can encourage tours of our vast Christian heritage with the result that we understand our own particular tradition better along with gaining an appreciation for some of the unique emphases outside the confines of the evangelical world. 

            As an African-American evangelical, I want to dedicate the remainder of this post to the question: “Is the persistence of evangelicalism into the future a critical element of God’s work in the world?”  I know African-Americans who fit the label “evangelical” in some way or other who would not hesitate to answer “no”, but as I stated above, I am not one who is joining the chorus of those singing a version of Bob Marley’s “Exodus” tailored specifically for a march out of evangelicalism. There are very good reasons that many African-Americans feel compelled to move on to other shores, often because of the failure of White evangelicals to give sustained attention and effort to the deepest dimensions of the lingering problems related to race, particularly at the level of institutions.  Some time ago, I had a conversation with someone who strongly expressed the view that evangelical theology was simply not equipped to do what is necessary to address the deepest issues and concerns of minorities in general (and African-Americans in particular).  What this person suggested (and others as well) is that the social and cultural fabric of the evangelical world is not able to be changed in a way that would truly facilitate the emergence of an ethos that incorporates and promotes the lingering concerns that show up in books, articles, blog posts and other forms of social media.

            So why am I holding on to the label and more optimistic about a contribution from evangelicalism when so many have been frustrated and exasperated by their experience with institutions and individuals in the evangelical world?  It actually comes back to the same emphasis that caused the problem with tradition above: the evangelical commitment to the Bible.  If evangelicals are “people of the book” and have a posture of reception to God’s word in Scripture, then the possibility is always present that such openness to Scripture can lead to a revival (or perhaps even revolution) where those who lead, construct and steward evangelical institutions begin to usher in a transformation where African-Americans and other minorities see that there is no cost for being “evangelical” but only benefits of deeper and more robust faith pursued alongside those in the majority culture.  As I see it, if evangelicals are people of the book who are willing to listen to Scripture and be open to God’s leading by the Holy Spirit, then more changes could happen than many currently anticipate.  I realize this is a view based on a potential future, yet it is a potential future that always remains a possibility for evangelicalism at its best.  At their best, evangelicals are people willing to be subject to all that Scripture commands, which would include ways of obeying the second greatest commandment that lead to repentance and renewal in ways that would pleasantly surprise those who have decided to move on.  It is this hope for what is possible that compels me to see evangelicalism as an important tradition in the future of God’s mission in the world.  Just imagine what it might look like if the evangelical tradition lives up to its commitment to Scripture: such a state of affairs would probably stun us all.  We are not there yet, but I believe big changes can still happen in future.  So I’ll hold on to the label.

Evangelical Identity and the Broader Christian Tradition

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Defining “Evangelicalism” in America is like trying to hit a moving target, particularly in recent years. It is very difficult nowadays to capture the essence of what Evangelicalism means, and my sense is that we often work off of impressions based on our own experiences. The results can often be reductionistic and unsatisfying.

I do not wish to contribute to the confusion, but I’d like to offer at least an observation with respect to Evangelicalism’s origin (limiting myself to American Evangelicalism) as an entryway to this month’s topic. Evangelicalism is a 20th century cultural/theological phenomenon that arose out of the modernist/fundamentalist controversies as a third way between the extremes of those controversies. Evangelicalism sought to be intellectually engaged though still holding to certain fundamentals of the faith, such as biblical inerrancy and the exclusivity of Christianity as understood within classical Protestant categories.

I think this is a sufficient, though admittedly incomplete, observation of Evangelicalism’s raison d’etre. In recent years, however, Evangelicalism has been going through a bit of an identity crisis. After marking off its territory early on, with membership being wholly voluntary, we have seen an increased willingness from within the ranks to engage deeply beyond Evangelicalism’s borders and re-engage issues thought long settled and indisputable.

Undoubtedly there are numerous complex and interconnected factors that help explain this shift in mood. One factor that I feel is important to note is the rapid access to information and the creation of global virtual “communities” afforded by the Internet. The result is that Evangelicalism has become acutely conscious of itself as a participant in a diverse global Christianity. 

Be that as it may, in my experience, more and more Evangelicals—perhaps especially younger ones—are restless. They are actively looking for ways to respect the cultural movement that gave them spiritual birth while also looking for alternate language and categories better suited to explain their world and their place in it. Still others have given up on the Evangelical experiment altogether as a hopelessly encultured relic of their parents’ faith. It is not uncommon to hear reports of the significantly dwindling numbers that cause genuine concern for Evangelicalism’s future viability, let alone retaining its status as a mover and shaker.

Speaking for myself, these changes—among others—tell me that Evangelicalism, as it has been understood traditionally, cannot be thought of as a permanent fixture in Christianity history, let alone Christianity come into its own. I see it, rather, as a relatively recent, culturally conditioned, expression of Christianity. This fact alone does not make it right or wrong, but this simple observation serves to highlight Evangelicalism’s relative place in the world and in history.

I do not think, therefore, that the Evangelical tradition as such should be the standard against which other traditions should be judged, as if it has retained the essence of pure Christianity over against other traditions. It is one movement within a long and varied history of the Christian faith—not to mention the tremendous diversity we see at any one time across the world, the country, and even in one city block. This is not so much a comment on Evangelical theology, but an acknowledgement that Evangelicalism is simply one attempt to express faithfulness to God within a particular American historical context.

I think, therefore, that priorities are misplaced when one frets over the future survival of Evangelicalism, as if at risk is the continuance of the gospel itself. I realize that few would actually equate the two when pressed, but in my experience their close alliance seems for some to be functionally an operating assumption.

Our shrinking cyber-world has already contributed to Evangelical mass reflection on the wisdom and vitality that other Christian traditions have to offer. Stories of Evangelicals converting to Roman Catholicism, Orthodoxy, or Anglicanism, though not unique in recent years, seem to have become more common. Although each story is unique, there is a fundamental lesson to be learned here.

These sorts of spiritual journeys are not the by-product of sloppy thinking, trendiness, or a lack of courage to hold fast to the faith—though one hears these accusations too frequently. They reflect, rather, the fact that many have grown dissatisfied with Evangelicalism’s effectiveness to provide a coherent spiritual path. Carefully defined boarders of traditional Evangelicalism have already begun to be less clearly defined, not by outside forces pressing in but from inside forces pushing out. Many Evangelicals are already looking for help to provide things that their familiar system cannot. 

Now, such pilgrimages may be true of other traditions, too, but this would illustrate the very point I am aiming at—the isolation of traditions, whether we like it or not, is no longer viable. The question is not whether one ought to seek gospel-wisdom outside of Evangelicalism, but whether that process will happen intentionally or on the sly.

I am no prophet, but perhaps we are staring at a different expression of the Christian faith, one that is more global and less intellectually territorial than in the past. If I am correct here, the particular challenge of Evangelicalism is that its very existence is rooted not in inter-denominational (let alone inter-faith) dialogue and theological exploration, but in the defense of dogmatic concerns that has marked off—and continues to mark off for many—Evangelicalism from others. It was born to correct other traditions, not embark on a journey of theological discovery.

This raises the all-important question of whether Evangelicalism as it has been understood can genuinely enter into a broader dialogue and accept its role as one voice among many while also retaining its traditional Evangelical identity. In other words, is it within Evangelicalism’s constitution to assess its own identity in what seems like such a dramatic fashion? A choice I hear often and resonate with is whether Evangelicalism is to be reformed, or whether it has had its day, but now new times call for new measure. Either way, the status quo is in trouble.

What complicates the issue for the “reformers” is the very practical matter how those conversations would be able to take place. The Evangelical tradition has deep roots, and has provided a framework of faith and life that finds its intellectual support in clearly defined parameters, particularly concerning biblical interpretation. Evangelical ecclesiastical and academic structures have a vested interest in maintaining a traditional Evangelical model, and so do not easily tolerate calls for critical self-assessment and theological adjustment.

All this being said, my purpose here is not to denigrate Evangelicalism or predict its future. I do think, however, that the tensions within Evangelicalism today will generate further reflection from within about what Evangelicalism was, is, and what it’s future might be vis-à-vis the broader Christian tradition. I think that conversation, to be successful, would need to happen more deliberately than it has.