One
of the most
surreal days of
my adult life
was spent
sitting in a
Presbyterian
church in San
Antonio,
listening to
several hundred
church officials
discuss the
state of my
soul.
Throughout
my childhood I
attended a
Presbyterian
church, trudging
off to Sunday
school as a
youngster, then
to church
services when I
got older. I
don’t want to
be overly
dramatic, but
this early
experience with
church was
life-threatening—I
was bored,
nearly to death.
My participation
in this social
ritual was
decidedly not
voluntary; I was
told to do all
this by my
parents, which
was not unusual
in the world in
which I grew up.
Not
surprisingly, I
fled from church
as soon as
possible,
intending never
to look back.
Three
decades later I
decided to take
another look,
with an eye on
the future, not
the past. After
meeting Jim
Rigby, the
radical minister
at St.
Andrew’s
Presbyterian
Church in
Austin, I
started to think
about the
possibilities of
a Christian
theology that
left behind
supernatural
claims about a
supreme being.
After
recognizing
there was a way
to explore the
stories within
that tradition
that could be
politically and
spiritually
enriching, I
joined that
congregation in
December 2005,
making a
profession about
the nature of
God, Christ, and
the Holy Spirit
that clearly
rejected
Christian
orthodoxy. I
also wrote about
the experience,
on the hunch
that others
might find their
own struggles
reflected in
mine. Given the
tradition of
Christian
atheists (for
example, Thomas
J.J. Altizer,
famous for his
role in the
“death of
God” theology
in the 1960s)
and Christian
existentialists
(such as the
influential
German-American
philosopher/theologian
Paul Tillich), I
didn’t think
that my writing
would stir up
any trouble.
But
I underestimated
the fervor with
which
traditional
forces in the
denomination
would feel a
need to police
the boundaries
of faith. Before
too long,
conservative
Presbyterian
websites and
bloggers had
picked up on
what I had
written and were
making noise
about how St.
Andrew’s had
gone too far in
admitting an
atheist. And so
the theological
battle was on,
enlarged from
just St.
Andrew’s to
the presbytery,
which is the
first level of
bureaucracy in
the Presbyterian
Church (USA).
The Committee on
Ministry of
Mission
Presbytery,
responsible for
setting policy
for 157 churches
in south and
central Texas,
dispatched a
“listening
team” to meet
with St.
Andrew’s
members. The
report of that
team—which
seemed to do
more talking
than
listening—resulted
in censure
motions about my
case that the
full presbytery
took up at the
next scheduled
meeting a few
months later.
The
meeting finally
came in June of
2006. I had
never pondered
what a
modern-day
heresy trial
might look like,
but this
collection of
presbytery
delegates—mostly
middle-class and
informally
dressed, without
any visible
trappings of an
Inquisition
proceeding—didn’t
look too
threatening. As
I sat down in
the pews open to
non-delegates, I
really
couldn’t
believe this
gathering could
find my
meandering
thoughts about
religion
interesting
enough to
debate.
After
representatives
of the Committee
on Ministry
presented the
“evidence”
of St.
Andrew’s
errors and my
heresy, Rigby
was given
fifteen minutes
to respond and
then delegates
to the
meeting—ordained
ministers in the
presbytery and
lay
representatives—were
allowed to speak
from the floor.
Weeks before the
meeting,
presbytery
officials had
made it clear to
Rigby that I
would not be
allowed to
speak, either
from the podium
or from the
floor, though no
clear reason was
offered. My
membership was
the subject of
the debate, but
presbytery
officials
decided I must
remain mute
during others’
assessment of my
faith, which
ranged from
angry
denunciations
(not just of me,
but also of
Rigby and St.
Andrew’s) to
loving support
(not just of me,
but of all who
doubt and seek).
Some people
concluded I was
no way, no how,
any kind of
Christian, while
others described
me as struggling
to find faith.
One woman, near
tears, said she
believed that I
had already been
born again.
As
I sat with a
dozen St.
Andrew’s
members and
listened, it
became
increasingly
clear the whole
charade had
nothing to do
with me. It was
an assertion of
dominance by
those who
wanted—or
needed—clear
answers to
inherently
perplexing
questions about
the meaning of
the label
“Christian.”
I assume the
reason I was not
allowed to speak
was that those
in charge of
policing the
boundaries of
acceptable
answers to those
questions did
not want
delegates to see
me as real
person; better
to keep me out
of sight so that
I could remain
an abstraction
in people’s
minds.
Whatever
the motivations
guided the
defenders of
orthodoxy, they
carried the day.
By a vote of
155-114, the
presbytery
instructed St.
Andrew’s to
review their
membership
practices and:
a.
Declare
that
the
reception
of
Robert
Jensen
into
active
membership
was
“irregular”
and
thus
void.
b.
Direct
St.
Andrew’s
session
to
move
Robert
Jensen
to
the
“Baptized”
Role
[a
status
typically
reserved
for
children
awaiting
confirmation].
I
can’t say that
I put much stock
in the
presbytery’s
opinion of me,
but the
discussion that
day and the vote
did have an
effect. When the
presbytery vote
was announced,
many of the St.
Andrew’s
members I was
sitting with
were angry and
frustrated. At
that moment I
was calm,
reassuring
people who
reached out to
support me that
I was fine and
they need not
worry. But as we
filed out of the
church, I
slipped away
from the group
to look for a
place to be
alone for a
moment, to sort
through my
reactions and
start crafting
my response.
Behind the
building I
leaned up
against a stone
wall and slid
down to the
ground to sit
and catch my
breath. And
there, after
just a few
seconds of being
alone, I began
to cry. At first
I assumed it was
an
understandable
release of
emotional energy
after a long and
intense day, but
the tears
didn’t stop.
It wasn’t just
that I had been
rejected, though
rejection of any
kind can hurt,
even when it’s
political or
philosophical
and not
personal. I
don’t think my
tears were about
me. I was crying
for something
that I think had
to do with a
fallen
world—something
that I didn’t
quite grasp in
that moment and
still don’t
fully
understand.
After
the dust settled
from the
presbytery
meeting, St.
Andrew’s filed
an appeal with
the synod, the
next level up in
the bureaucracy.
That appeal was
denied on
technical
grounds, but in
the meantime, a
variety of
people in the
presbytery
realized that it
might be in
everyone’s
best interest to
find a way to
resolve the
dispute without
forcing a
full-scale
doctrinal
showdown.
Because I had
been confirmed
in a
Presbyterian
church as a
youth, the
presbytery could
recognize the
transfer of my
membership from
one congregation
to another,
conveniently
removing the
issue of my
status. So, on
that
technicality, I
remain a member
in good standing
of St.
Andrew’s, for
the time being.
None
of this should
have been
surprising, for
my membership
and profession
of faith
highlighted two
basic aspects of
Protestantism
that are
inherently in
conflict. Unlike
the Catholic
Church, no
hierarchy exists
in Protestant
churches to
threaten
excommunication
and impose
orthodoxy of
belief. The
notion of a
“priesthood of
all believers”
has meant that
Protestants
define their
faith in an
individual
relationship
with God, in the
context of local
community;
congregational
autonomy is
highly valued.
But it’s also
obvious that any
group (religious
or otherwise)
that is to
remain a
recognizable
group has to
have some
standards for
membership, or
else membership
becomes
meaningless.
This tension
forces questions
that many would
prefer not to
face: What does
it mean to claim
to be a
Presbyterian, or
a Protestant, or
a Christian?
Does it require
one to believe
the term
“God”
describes an
identifiable
force, entity,
or being in the
world? Does it
require one to
believe the
resurrection of
Jesus was a
historical fact?
Or can one be a
Presbyterian, a
Protestant, or a
Christian and
believe, for
example, that
God is simply a
term for the
energy that
gives rise to
life and that
the resurrection
should be
understood
symbolically?
What
if we were to
walk through the
Protestant
churches of the
United States
today,
especially the
centrist-to-liberal
churches, and
ask such
questions of
every member?
How many would
be left in the
pews if all had
to profess a
belief in the
supernatural
claims about God
and Jesus? I
won’t venture
an estimate, but
my hunch is that
the collection
plates would be
considerably
lighter if
churches were to
expel all the
skeptics and all
who held
non-orthodox
views. I can
only speculate,
but my guess is
that these
observations are
commonplace,
which is why the
boundary police
from the
Committee on
Ministry
initially felt
it was important
to punish a
congregation
that
acknowledged the
more complex
reality of the
contemporary
church. Only
when it appeared
that their plan
would backfire
did they step
back,
recognizing the
danger of
raising such
questions. But
even with that
danger, orthodox
forces
couldn’t let
it rest.
My
basic beliefs
about the
concept of God
haven’t
changed much
since I joined
St. Andrew’s,
though I no
longer use the
terms
“atheist” or
“agnostic”
to describe
myself. That’s
in part because
the terms have
been so much
associated with
“new
atheists” like
Richard Dawkins,
Daniel Dennett,
Sam Harris, and
Christopher
Hitchens, who
strike me as
smug and leave
me unsatisfied.
So, for now,
I’ve settled
on label
“radical
Christian.”
What
keeps me going
to St.
Andrew’s most
of all, though,
has simply been
my positive
experience
there. I
continue to
read, think, and
discuss these
issues with my
pastor, fellow
church members,
and a wider
public. I am
fascinated by
Rigby’s
ongoing efforts
to return
periodically to
these ancient
texts to
struggle with
translation and
interpretation.
In the adult
Sunday class, I
love the debates
we have over the
application of
these ideas to
modern life. Is
capitalism
consistent with
Christian
ideals? I
vigorously argue
it is not; some
of the business
owners in the
class defend the
system. I have
had engaging
discussions with
a number of
progressive
thinkers from
other faiths
that have
deepened my
identification
as a member of a
Christian
church. My
conversations
with progressive
Muslims, for
example, not
only expand my
understanding of
Islam but help
me push the
boundaries of
Christianity. In
short, my core
beliefs
haven’t
changed much,
but I don’t
feel like an
atheist or
agnostic.
At
the same time
that my
understanding of
theology has
deepened, so has
my understanding
of the nature of
the crises we
face in this
world and my
awareness of
their magnitude.
Those political
and ecological
concerns have
made me even
more interested
in theology, out
of the belief
that we humans
face problems
that will
severely test
our capacities
in the coming
decades. No one
person or
tradition has
the answers we
will need to
cope with
what’s coming.
I’ll take any
insights I can
get.
