I am, to my own mind, Christian. There are those who would disagree with me, for reasons I note below, but that’s how I consider myself, and perception is reality, and so there.
This is not something I advertise a lot. I try not to hide it — because that would imply it’s something I should hide, and it’s not — but I don’t advertise it. “Hey, what about those Deutero-canonicals, eh? Pretty wild stuff!” Let alone, “Hey, thanks for coming over, let me give you one of these pamphlet!”
But it’s not cool to be Christian. Folks who “flaunt” their Christianity are criticized, looked down upon, or resented in may quarters. Which is ironic, given that it’s the majority faith in the US. But maybe that’s the problem.
Christianity has, in many ways, suffered terribly from its triumph under the Emperor Constantine, who’s basically the fellow who made Christianity the official state religion of the Roman Empire, hence (to further greatly oversimplify history) the West. The problem is, once you’re on top, once you’re the dominant social paradigm, then you are part and parcel of everything that is wrong with society. Anything about society that needs fixing must, therefore, require what is perceived by some as an attack on the faith. And any attack on the faith must in turn be considered (by those in charge of things) an attack on society’s structures, thus its rulers (thus them).
In other words, the search for Truth stops being about the spirit’s desire to come closer to the Deity, to figure out the meaning of life and our purpose here, and becomes part of everyone bouncing the ball in perfect synchronization (a particularly chilling image I carry to this day from Madeleine L’Engle’s masterpiece, A Wrinkle in Time). It stops being about personal salvation/achievement/discovery/transcendence, and becomes about keeping society harmonious (and keeping the folks in charge in charge).
Not a good thing. There are a lot of advantages to being the underdog.
Part of the problem here stems from what is known as the Great Mission, the part where Jesus told his followers to go and spread the Good News. Picking a number out of the air, there seem to be three ways that this gets implemented.
The first (and the mode I prefer, though I don’t think I explicitly do it as part of any Mission), is to Live a Good Life and pass on the Good News by example. I.e., “Think I have a happy, satisfied life? Ask me how.” That does mean letting folks know about one’s Christianity, and being open to discussing it, but that’s all. “They’ll know we are Christians,” as the song goes, “by our love.” It’s a quiet, passive approach, and has the great advantage of focusing on keeping one’s own house is in order before one starts moving around the furniture in another’s.
The second approach is more missionary. One makes a distinct, explicit effort to reach out, proclaim Christianity as the True Faith, and invite others to listen to the Good News. This method is a bit pushy, but it also can be an honest expression of one’s faith (see below).
The last effort is radical. It seeks to spread the Word by making sure that’s the only Word around to be spread. Stamping out “heresy,” mandatory education of religious precepts, suppression of disagreement, and on we go to the world of synchronized bouncing balls. This is the most likely to happen where, as noted above, society and a specific religion are tightly bound, where to dissent from one becomes an attack on both. In Christian terms, this model says it’s not enough to be proclaiming the Good News — you have to put down all those who are trying to proclaim deceptive, sinful, Satanic, and plain-ol’-wrong Bad News.
Having rhetorically displayed what I hope is clearly my distaste for those who are into that sort of things, let me offer an analogy in their defense.
Let’s say you see that my house is on fire. My death is imminent (not to mention the death of my wife and my child). Would it be merely enough to be demonstrating through your diligent removal of greasy rags from your closets, and your installation of fire alarms, and your regular family fire drills, that these are things I should be doing (or should have done), and, at that point, do nothing further? Most folks would say no. I hope so, at least, if I live next door to you.
Okay, so you run to my house and knock on the door. “Excuse me, Dave. Your house is on fire.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You’re in terrible danger.”
“No I’m not. Stop bothering me.”
Does that end your moral obligation to me? “Well, I warned him. Let’s sit back and watch him burn. Shame, that. Good neighbor.” Most folks, again, would probably say no, you should keep trying. Knock on the door again. Shout. Become more frenzied. The stakes are frighteningly high — being polite and non-confrontational is probably not what’s called for.
Would you be morally justified in kicking in the door and dragging me and mine out? And if I stood in your way while you were trying to rescue my child, knocking me down and taking her away?
Hmmmm. That’s a tough one. Firemen certainly do things of that sort, at times. I dunno.
So where does this analogy fall apart (as most analogies do)? Because it’s a lot easier to demonstrate that my house is on fire than that my soul is in peril of eternal damnation in the Fiery Furnace. Just as it’s a lot easier to demonstrate that I have a house than that I have a soul.
So at what point in simply thinking that my house may be on fire — smelling something burning, maybe an errant puff of what might have been smoke, a half-perceived flicker of orange light in the darkness — are you justified in telling me about it, warning me, urging me to some action? Most folks, I think, would indicate that some sort of warning would be in order.
And if I slam the door in your face?
And how would you feel if it turned out that there was a fire in my basement, and you did nothing, or did very little, to warn me of it? How certain are you of your (un)certainty? How much of a risk can you take? If not your brother’s keeper, do you still have any moral obligation toward your brother’s interests?
That is, I think, the conflict that a lot of Christians face. To them, the souls of millions, if not billions, face eternal torture and destruction (a topic for another day). They believe that, with a “moral certainty.” And, in that belief, they must act to at least knock on the door — if not to actually knock it down and drag you out, kicking and screaming, to safety.
There. Consider that an Apologetic and move on.
So why aren’t I stuffing tracts into the hands of folks who come to visit us at the Consortium? Why aren’t I wearing crucifix earrings, and decorating the house in Christian Modern?
A lot of reasons.
First is, while there are Things I Consider To Be True, I also know that a lot of people disagree with those things, and who Believe Other Things. And, where possible, I must extend them the same courtesy and respect I expect them to extend to me.
Second is, I don’t think it makes all that much difference. And here’s where I start to diverge from what most folks would consider orthodox Christianity.
See, I believe that life is a classroom. Literally. We are here to learn things. I don’t know if we are all here to learn the same things. I’m pretty certain there’s more to learn than we can learn during one lifetime, but when each class (life) is over, we get to review our work with the Teacher, cringe over our mistakes (I expect to cringe a lot), and enjoy praise for what we did right. And if we pass, if we’ve learned another sliver of the Truth, we get to move on to the next class (“This week — long division!”). And if we fail — we get to take the class over. Or take a remedial course over the summer. Or maybe get sent to a Special Ed class.
Yeah, you can call it reincarnation if you want. Though I don’t know that it’s restricted to this world, or what we would consider life, or even in any sort of chronological sequence. Because, hey, eternity is a long time. And I suspect there’s a lot to learn. And what happens when we graduate, I have no idea.
I just know (or believe very, very deeply) that the Creator has a purpose in the Creation, and that the purpose is benevolent, and therefore nobody ever ends up spending eternity in the Fiery Furnace. Nobody. Even if they have to repeat 8th Grade twenty thousand times. Because what would be the point otherwise?
So, am I preaching some sort of moral equivalency here? Are all beliefs true? Are all moral codes equally valid?
I don’t think so. I don’t see how that’s possible (though when dealing with Eternal Verities, terms like “impossible” should be used with great restraint). I think I’m doing a better job at what God wants me to do, in the way I should be doing it, than Pol Pot did. I think. I hope.
But that doesn’t mean that the superiority of one code, or belief system, or religion or philosophy over the others is obvious. And it also doesn’t mean that it’s all nearly that simple.
Frankly, if Truth is at the top of the mountain, we’re all still sitting down in the parking lot. Some of us maybe haven’t gotten out of our cars yet. Others are out, our packs are on, our canteens are full, and we’re deciding which of the trails will lead us there — or whether we want to cut cross-country. Others are complaining about how our shoes hurt. Some are drinking a beer. Some are wandering off aimlessly. Others are purposefully headed where they think the mountaintop is, even though it’s not really visible through the trees and clouds. Some of us are fumbling with maps that others have drawn for us.
Some of us may have made more progress — in a few aspects — than others. But none of us are so far up the mountain, or so sure of our direction, or so free of scrapes, cuts, blisters, or raging bouts of poison oak, that we should feel that much superior to anyone else.
Really, to my mind, the point is trying to learn what we can while we’re here, keep moving along, keep trying, and trying to do what we can to help each other. If we work on keeping our own feet on the path, lending a hand when we can to others to help them over a rocky patch, I think we’re on the right course.
So that’s probably why I’m (if I may pat myself on the head) a pretty tolerant person when it comes to other belief systems. I mean, I have friends who are Christians, Jews, Muslims, Druids, Wiccans, Agnostics, Atheists, Buddhists, and I know I’m leaving out some others, not to mention those whose faith systems I don’t even know. I can talk with them about day-to-day things. Or I can talk with them about religion. And I manage to avoid coming to blows with them in either context.
Maybe that’s in part the folks I hang out with. Maybe in part it’s because US society has become a lot more heterogenous. Out of the rebellion of the 60s, the cynicism of the 80s, and the retrenchment of the 90s, we’re in a period when it’s easier to believe differently, and to criticize the dominant paradigm, than ever before.
Which gets back to that concept of it not being cool to be Christian. I’m not going to get into a litany of “reverse discrimination” whining here. But I know of people who are much more open about their faith (or lack thereof) in ways that, if they were Christian, would be considered flaunting and aggressive or pushy or disparaging of others’ beliefs.
So what do I do? I’m not particularly interested in “converting” anyone (for reasons I hope are already clear), let alone being considered aggressive or “Nyah, I Know the Truth and You Don’t, You Soon-To-Be-Sizzling Sinner” about it. On the other hand, my faith is (rightly so, I would hope you’ll agree) an important part of my life. Editing out all references to it would be a lie, not to mention a pain in the neck, and a betrayal of those beliefs.
So I don’t. I mention it when it seems appropriate — particularly in my activities — and don’t when it’s not. “Yeah, Margie’s been cooking for this Christian Ed class we’ve been taking — boy, is she pooped.” “Can’t make it over until this afternoon — we’ve got church in the morning.” We’ve some home decor that could be considered Christian, but we have a lot that’s not — all chosen because we like it, not because it does (or doesn’t) proclaim a faith system. If folks are visiting from out of town over a weekend, we’ll mention that we’re going to church Sunday morning, invite them to come along if they want (and make it clear it’s in no fashion obligatory), and go on from there.
And, of course, I’m willing to chat about religion and the like at the drop of a hat.
And when it comes to discussions about religion, I try to make clear that my own opinions are just that — my opinions. Informed, perhaps, by a “small, still voice within,” but not confused with something demonstrable and empirical — or even confused with something applicable to anyone besides me. But that they are my opinions, whaddaya think?
And, maybe, that’s cool enough.
Thus Endeth the Lesson (and one damned long blog).