A culture of political correctness threatens to undermine the Progressive Christian movement before it can even gather steam.
On August 9th, I took the service at West Hill United Church. Before the service began, something interesting happened. I had selected music that spoke to themes of beauty and prayer. The choir director approached me and said that we had to change one of the hymns. She loved the music (Gustav Holst’s most famous hymn), but we couldn’t sing the lyrics (by Michael Perry) because they included certain words, like “Saviour” and “from death has set us free” that don’t quite fit in with West Hill’s theology. I was miffed but bit my tongue.
Almost a year ago, I posed a question of Progressive Christianity and said to myself that I would keep my eyes and ears open to see what I could discover. I wondered if PC wasn’t inadvertently promoting a culture of political correctness all its own which might prove just as stifling as the traditional church cultures to which it stands as a reaction. After my Sunday morning encounter, I’m not sure that I have laid the question to rest. Or, perhaps I am getting an answer to my question — just not the answer I want.
From the PC perspective there are several reasons why we don’t call Jesus “Saviour”, and they are good reasons. Most importantly, churches have often manipulated the notion of salvation (soteriology) to assert power over and against its members rather than to empower them or to be a liberating force in their lives.
But any church, even one that professes Jesus as Saviour, can offer this critique, because this is a critique that looks to what churches do instead of what they say. To be technical about it, this is a critique based on praxis. But more is needed because a critique based on praxis gives neither a necessary nor sufficient reason to censor a member’s choice of words. To distinguish the PC perspective, it must claim that there is something wrong with the theology of salvation.
I do have problems with theologies of salvation. They presume my sinfulness, and while I am not arrogant enough to claim that I am faultless (just ask my children) even so, the notion of sin has no more theological grounding than the existence of Mickey Mouse. As PC’s are adept at pointing out (and I accept this as far as it goes), salvation and all its related notions, like sin, crucifixion, atonement, resurrection, arise from a communally authored myth which began with the story of Eden. But these are not pointless ancient stories that should be discarded. Although it is difficult to access their meanings when we, in the 21st century, are used to writing like this and to reading rational sentences with a structure that conforms to a syntax of reason, nevertheless our ancient texts do have meaning and follow a syntax all their own. Theirs is more the syntax of poetry—which is no surprise given that much of these texts was written through poetic forms. But the syntax of poetry has not so much to do with form as it does with ways of meaning—speaking ideas through metonymy, or even refusing to speak in ideas at all (in the same way that a painting may speak meaningfully to us without meaning anything). And so I find myself reading ancient stories in two ways simultaneously. It is this mode of reading which leads me to the paradoxical credo that “I do believe in sin, crucifixion, resurrection, salvation,” and “I do not believe in ~ .” Reading through poetic eyes, it is all true; it is all literally true. Reading through the eyes of reason, it is all impossible, it is all literally false; but the traces of its meanings lie everywhere.
We might call the PC problem the revolutionary’s dilemma: how do members of a group successfully challenge the group’s authority without replicating the structural sins they so vehemently oppose? I am beginning to think it is no accident that my initial response to worship at West Hill was amazement at how much it is like other churches. It knows no other forms, and so, even in its reaction against traditional church, it retains the look and feel of the traditional church service. I do not write this in denigration of West Hill and its leadership, but merely to point out a fact of human behaviour. Teenagers rebel against their parents almost as a matter of course, but by the age of 25 or 30, they have settled into patterns of living that closely resemble those they knew in childhood. The same holds in our patterns of believing.
We see the revolutionary’s dilemma played out in Progressive Christianity’s affinity for Gnostic writings. Newly discovered texts have excited many believers by pointing to alternative modes of faithful living. This is particularly true for feminists who see traditional views of Mary as oppressive to women and find inspiration in the expanded role of Mary Magdalene. It has become increasingly apparent that orthodox believing is a function of power—not truth. The canon reflects the paternalistic predilections of the Church fathers. And the first creed is the play thing of an emperor who was trying to unify his political might. Gnostic writings bring to light possibilities that were struck down by men who sought to entrench their positions of authority. But Gnosticism has a dark side all its own. Gnosticism has it own dangerous ways of asserting power over those who would be its followers—secret knowledge, rites of initiation, inclusion and exclusion. Perhaps Gnosticism failed to take hold not, as many would suggest, because it was so thoroughly suppressed by the early church, but because it lacks the depth to ground an authentic mode of faithful living. In fact, Gnosticism, as a psychological impulse, cannot be suppressed because it reflects a tendency we all possess. Although early Gnostic writing may have been suppressed, Gnostic-ish influences have repeatedly appeared — in Kabala, in freemasonry, in the poetry of William Blake. But it has never taken hold because—well, let’s be blunt—it’s socially immature: “Come, let me tell you a secret …” or “Come, let me tell you how things really work …” We see then that one problem with Gnosticism is praxis—precisely the problem which caused us to flee orthodoxy in the first place.
Most mainstream liberal churches (including West Hill) like to offer an account of themselves through stories of where they come from and how they help people, through cute taglines on their signage, through buzzwords that pop up in their Sunday morning bulletins. They like to pat themselves on the back and announce to the world that they are a welcoming church, an open church, a place where anyone can walk through the door and kick back and feel safe. But, universally, such claims have as much credence as the ancient myths that are read from the pulpit; they belong to a grand narrative whose truth lies elsewhere. In the case of West Hill, my welcome may in fact be conditional—I must leave my Christology at the door. This is common denominator believing—paring things down to a few simple principles that no one will find objectionable. But it fails to honour creative faith formation. Creativity, whether in painting or in scientific discovery or in believing, comes about through the collision of unexpected disparates. It begins with questions like “What if…?” and “What would happen if…?” and “Suppose I try this…?” It isn’t afraid to play strange chords on the keyboard to see if the dissonant notes can live together. It mixes peanut butter and chocolate to see what the result tastes like. And it doesn’t mind holding ideas up to the light to see if they sparkle. But none of these experiments would ever happen if people were told outright that certain chords cannot ever be played, or certain foods should never be tasted, or certain ideas must never come to light. Such an account of tolerance becomes, instead, an account of self-inflicted impoverishment.
But this is not the only version of tolerance. If intolerance is understood as the forcible imposition of one will upon another, then tolerance is that set of conditions which does not allow such forcible imposition to take hold. Tolerance then permits the expression of any idea, no matter how outlandish, so long as the idea remains “in the air.” This makes for rich and lively conversation and this conditions something far more important than tolerance—it conditions a healthy faith formation. What could be a more fitting end for a faith community?
Finally, it occurs to me that this entry will likely be read by members of West Hill who might wonder: if you’re so critical of PC concerns, why do you keep showing up on our doorstep? A few comments: first, I do not write to persuade anybody of anything; I do not write in a canonical spirit, trying to fix ideas in words to stand for all time. Instead, I offer readers a glimpse of a man in process, working things out, jotting some ideas, but only provisionally. In a few years, or even in a few months, I may revisit these words and wonder: I wrote such things? Second, I do write to provoke a response. Do you disagree with me? Tell me so. But tell me why. In telling me why, you have to dig deep inside yourself and you have to work to clarify thoughts and feelings. If you dig deep, then I have to honour your response. In the process, we are both enriched. Third, there are things about West Hill that are worth noting. In particular, there is a level of engagement that you just don’t find in other faith communities. Many, many people are actively working things out, asking difficult questions, stretching themselves as believers. Just being present in such an environment is energizing.
At bottom, the problem is an age old problem that arises from our intuition that believing happens both as a private mode of being and as a communal expression of who we are. Both private and communal are necessary to wholeness in our spiritual lives. But how do we do our communal believing in ways that continue to honour our private selves in our foibles, our limitations, and our unique experiences?