Theme Address (revised for publication) given at the Annual Meeting of the Community of Concern, Ryerson United Church, Hamilton, Ontario, April 27, 2002

 

One of the things I most dislike is picking sermon titles, because I can almost guarantee that between Tuesday, when I have to have a title for the bulletin, and Friday, when I complete my message, I’ll have changed my mind so many times that there’s hardly any connection between the two.

 

As I worked on this address, which I have titled “The Future of the United Church”─a nebulous enough topic that could mean almost anything─I came to realize how difficult it is to talk about the future of anything these days, let alone something as volatile as the Church. Ultimately, its future is reconciliation to God, but what will it look like in 20 or 25 years? Sociology and demographics give us grounds for an educated guess: probably smaller and poorer. But as to its quality of life or its vitality, it would take someone much wiser than I to know the answer.

 

What I want to look at, though, is what role the renewal movement will play in the United Church in whatever future lies ahead. I speak from my experience with Church Alive, as I am not as familiar with the Community of Concern or the National Alliance of Covenanting Congregations in the hope that what I say will be relevant to everyone in the renewal movement.

 

Where we go is always closely tied to where we have been, and I want to begin by reflecting on the evolution of the renewal movement up to this point, starting with a very great irony─namely, that while the evangelical renewal movement believes it is working for new life, vitality and vision, those outside the renewal movement tend to have the opposite impression: We are seen as being against, not for, something and of being more interested in nostalgia than enthusiasm for new life. And it’s a sad truth that the renewal movement within the United Church has found itself very much on the defensive, expressing anger, pain and betrayal more than joy and confidence, lamenting that something precious has been irretrievably lost. That has made it very difficult to sustain a positive agenda. While we think of ourselves as renewers, others think of us as crabby, embittered, narrow-minded, judgmental and discontented.

 

It’s always dangerous to overly ponder how we are seen by others, especially if it leads to a betrayal of our true selves. But, listen, don’t we want to get a message across? Don’t we want people to listen to us? If that’s the case, then we need to pay attention to how we communicate and how those outside our ranks hear what we are saying.

 

In this age of polarization, however, there seems to be very little common agreement about even the most basic values and beliefs. People are separated by hugely different views on abortion, pornography, the role of government, globalization, biotechnology and a host of other issues. People have always disagreed, but what is new is that there no longer seems to be a common language with which disagreeing parties can discuss such divisive issues.

 

James Davison Hunter, in his book Culture Wars: The Struggle to Define America (1991), comments on the phenomenon—which perhaps exists to a lesser extent in Canada—of society being fragmented into opposing ideological camps who not only do not communicate with one another but who actually regard dialogue as a sign of capitulation. Because they regard themselves as engaged in a war for the soul of the nation, they see any communication with the other side as making themselves vulnerable. Their motto seems to be, “You don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

 

There also seems to be a growing feeling that communicating with those with whom we disagree doesn’t matter, it’s pointless. They won’t listen. Their minds are made up and nothing will change them. What’s important is what we say to people on our side. Unfortunately, in such a polarized climate, propaganda becomes the main mode of communication.

 

In his Modern Dogma and the Rhetoric of Assent (1974), literary critic Wayne C. Booth described the significant decline in the quality of debate on the campuses of American universities during the 1960s. His particular interest is in what he calls “rhetoric.” Now rhetoric has a bad reputation these days, and has come to be a fancy term for “empty words” or “propaganda.” “Oh, that’s just rhetoric,” we say. But rhetoric used to mean something quite different. Rhetoric was the ancient and honorable art of using language to persuade, of employing reasoned arguments to convince others to change their minds. This kind of rhetoric is an important tool in a civilized society because if you can persuade your adversary to see things your way, you’re less likely to resort to violence to force change.  

 

Professor Booth argues that we are losing the ability to change people’s minds precisely because we have lost the art of rhetoric. We’ve forgotten how to marshal arguments and reasons that are persuasive. It seems that people on opposite sides of the theological/political spectrum no longer even speak the same language; they see the world in such radically incompatible terms that it’s difficult to even get a conversation going. Instead of persuasion, insults are hurled like hand grenades from one camp to another. The point is no longer to convince our opponents but to enflame our supporters so they will become even more entrenched and unbending in their views.

 

Of course, the starkest example of this tactic is the collision between Western culture and militant Islam. How can we imagine sitting down and having a meaningful conversation with Osama bin Laden? We are from different planets, different galaxies even. For one thing, bin Laden would regard the very act of dialogue as a betrayal of his cause─the annihilation of the West. There is only one approach that makes any sense to him: a fight to the death.

 

Now, let me be clear. I’m not comparing the differences that divide evangelicals and liberals in the United Church to those that divide the Bush administration and al-Qaeda. Indeed, one of the reasons that conversation is proving so difficult between adversaries is the readiness to use overblown comparisons. For instance, the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A. recently likened the newly formed covenanting association of evangelical Presbyterian congregations to Islamic fundamentalists. It would seem that the only purpose of such a remark would be to harden the “battle” lines, in the hopes that one side will defeat the other.

 

In recent years, the United Church has been deeply affected by a similar decline in civil debate, where it is becoming increasingly rare to hear adversaries engage in honest and open discussion, as they try to change each another’s minds.

 

Committed Christian Stephen L. Carter, Professor of Law at Yale University, and a highly respected member of the African-American community, has written extensively on the place of religion in American society. A common theme is that democratic societies must take religion seriously and not trivialize it by banishing it to a realm of private choice. He argues that for religion to play a vigorous and constructive public role in society, religious diversity must be allowed to flourish. This truth is often not appreciated, especially when religious groups who say they favour freedom of expression deny the same freedom to others. Other groups take the opposite view, and blame religion for causing intolerance and incivility. Professor Carter denies these allegations and  insists that religions represent alternative visions of reality and these alternative visions must be allowed to have their rightful public place in any vigorous democratic society, even when, or especially when, they run counter to the prevailing views of the majority (The Culture of Disbelief , 1994; Civility, 1999).

 

Tolerance?

 

Ironically, we often find that those who talk the loudest about diversity and inclusiveness are often the least tolerant of those with opposing views. In the United States, the American Civil Liberties Union has taken the lead in attempting to banish religion from public view. Feminists, claiming to speak on behalf of all women, preach tolerance and the “freedom to choose”─just as long as you don’t oppose women’s right to abortion. While Canadians seem to do everything with greater moderation, there have been similar attempts to force one universal religion of secularism on everyone.

 

Turning our attention to the Church, this kind of intolerance is most often exemplified in certain kinds of radical feminism. Now, let me be clear. I regard feminism as a positive force in society and in the Church; constructive feminism that believes in the full flourishing of all human persons has made an enormous contribution over the last 100 years and none of us remains untouched by it. But the kind of radical gender feminism that argues that civility─the observance of basic rules of respect─is just another tool of patriarchy to keep women docile and submissive is counterproductive, and as illustrated in Christina Hoff Sommer’s book Who Stole Feminism?, contributes to the dearth of healthy argument and debate. In my opinion, radical feminists have a lot to answer for in the decline of civility in the Church. They have introduced a kind of take-no-prisoners approach that makes mutually enriching conversation very difficult to achieve.

But it’s all too easy to lay the blame for this trend solely at the feet of feminists. The truth is, people of any theological stripe can be guilty of incivility, where verbal blitzkrieg is substituted for thoughtful and reasoned argument. We in the renewal movement need to do our own soul-searching. We may not be able to do anything about the established leadership of our Church or the radical feminists in our midst, but we can search our own hearts and ask, “Have we done anything to contribute to the climate of polarization we accuse our opponents of fomenting?” We need to remember that our Lord teaches that true renewal always begins with true repentance. 

 

As many of you know, my wife, the Rev. Diane Walker, is Senior Editor of Fellowship Magazine. In the March 2002 issue, a letter appeared from the Rev. Wayne Hilliker of Chalmers United Church in Kingston, the kind of letter we need more of these days─ honest, straightforward and thoughtful. He was lamenting what he sees as the divisive tactics that evangelicals in the United Church use to get their points across. Specifically, he was concerned about comments attributed to Brian Wilkie of Dominion-Chalmers United Church in Ottawa who was quoted as saying, “The United Church is a model of the consequences of unfaithfulness.” In taking exception to this comment, the Rev. Hilliker remarked, “Comments such as these reveal an intense underlying dislike and condemnation of those who see things differently. It is rhetoric [there’s that word] that serves only to fuel the fire of intolerance within the church. When diversity in theological outlook and biblical interpretation is constantly viewed as a demonic threat to the church’s faithfulness, then obedience to the purity of dogma has won out over faithfulness to the integrity of love.”

 

Forcefully put. A challenge that we evangelicals should take seriously. But a point I want to make is that so-called liberals in the Church often fail to recognize the rich diversity of opinion within the evangelical community. The all-too-prevalent stereotype paints evangelicals as crazy people who insist that everyone march in lock-step to the same drummer and that people check their brains at the church door. Those of us who are evangelicals know from experience that this stereotype is not true. Another point is that Mr. Hilliker’s taking Brian’s comments, which were made in a particular context for a particular purpose, and using them to characterize the entire evangelical movement in the United Church is less than fair.

 

But I want to spend some time with the specific accusation in this letter which seems to be that to strongly criticize one’s Church and to passionately dissent from the course it is taking is to be intolerant, dogmatic and, indeed, disloyal. This view reveals a double standard in our Church: When the Church establishment accuses the more conservative elements in the Church of faithlessness, they consider that they are being “prophetic,” because they’re speaking out against the three cardinal sins of racism, sexism and homophobia. When evangelicals, however, declare that the Church is unfaithful because it has departed from the historic faith, they’re labeled as “intolerant” and “hateful.”

 

If anyone feels condemned for seeing things differently and for being a “demonic threat” to the Church’s faithfulness, it’s us evangelicals. Most of us, I’m sure, have felt the sting of being dismissed, put down, trivialized, misunderstood, judged and excluded because our vision of the Gospel differs from the prevailing ethos of the United Church. Meant as a joke, a group of colleagues said to me, when I mentioned that I would be speaking here today, “Oh-oh, now you’ve done it. You’ll never get a job at Head Office.” Except that it isn’t really a joke, is it? It’s the truth. I simply take it as a given that were I ever to apply for any position of leadership in the United Church of Canada, my involvement with Church Alive and my editorship of Theological Digest and Outlook would automatically disqualify me. And I challenge anyone to look me straight in the eye and tell me that that’s not the case. Ironically, for all our talk about the exclusion of women, gays and minorities, nothing shuts a person out of places of influence faster than a public profession of evangelical faith or identification with a renewal group.

 

This kind of corporate “selection” happens in every human organization. But I want us to appreciate the limitations of the charge of “intolerance” as a constructive argument. I had one of those moments of clarity while reading Wayne Hilliker’s letter, when I realized that what he is attributing to “us” I have often attributed to “them.” I had this vision of two groups staring at each other across a great chasm, each saying, “They’re intolerant. They’re exclusive. They reject us. They judge us. They condemn us.” And I was struck by the utter futility and pointlessness of the accusations evangelicals and liberals level at each other in order to claim the moral high ground. Both groups point the finger and accuse each other: “You refuse to tolerate diversity.”

 

Grounds for Dialogue or the Tower of Babel?

 

And, sadly, it all gets us nowhere. The fact is, when you think you’re right, then obviously, those who disagree with you are wrong. The obsession on both sides about who the actual excluders are has contributed to the fragmentation of the Church, where it’s no longer possible to passionately disagree with one another and stay in the same house. It’s like we have come to the point where the only people we can stand to be with are those who see things the way we do. If I say to someone, “You know, I really and truly think you’re wrong,” then, somehow, I am seen to have attacked their integrity and it is no longer possible to have authentic fellowship. We have come to the point where we simply cannot tolerate people who see things from a perspective different from ours. This is the reversal of the miracle of Pentecost in which barriers of language and communication and culture were brought down by the power of the Holy Spirit. And the more we focus our strategy on such dead-end tactics─as arguing about who is more intolerant─the more we contribute to the fragmentation of Christ’s Church.

 

I used to enjoy going to Conference and Presbytery meetings because you knew people would mix it up over things they cared about deeply. Today, I find these meetings about as exciting as watching paint dry. Now, the only thing that gets people going is the budget. I noticed a definite change after 1988, when a great many of the evangelicals left the Church, taking their vigorously argued viewpoints with them. Many of us who were left were so bruised by the experience that we had no stomach for further conflict. So we gather together to talk among ourselves and commiserate over the sorry state of the Church, and rarely sit down eyeball-to-eyeball with our adversaries and say, “Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, why this causes me so much pain.”

And let’s be honest. Isn’t one of the reasons we don’t enter into dialogue because we’d then be obligated to listen to their stories with an equal degree of respect? I have to confess, I stayed away from the recent meeting of Niagara Presbytery to which members of Affirm had been invited as guest speakers. “I don’t need this,” I said. It would have been more courageous, however, had I gone and spoken the truth in love. But I didn’t.

 

The Church today is in the grip of a Manichean spirit. In the early centuries of the Church, the Manichees were the extreme dualists, who divided the world into light and darkness, black and white. The universe was a constant battleground between the forces of good and evil, and people were either on one side or the other. You were either a child of the light, in which case you could do no wrong, or you were a child of the darkness, in which case you were beyond redemption. My only obligation towards you was to hate you and work for your defeat.

 

As a young man, the great St. Augustine flirted with the doctrines of the Manichees, but with maturity, he realized how such a dualistic outlook actually denies the grace of God.  He also recognized that this outlook gives too much credit to the powers of darkness and evil and places far too little confidence in the supremacy of divine love which, Augustine believed, is the driving force behind the whole of God’s creation.

 

The fact is, Christians can’t be Manicheans. They can’t go around dividing the world—or the Church—into good guys and bad guys. For, as the Apostle Paul makes clear, there are no good guys: Liberal and evangelical, feminist and traditionalist, even gay and straight—we all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. None of us has any ground for boasting of our own righteousness. Our only hope is the Cross of Jesus Christ. It is the Gospel itself which exposes the lies behind self-righteous dualism.

 

If we reject the Manichean spirit, then I believe we have no choice but to reach out and communicate with those on the other side of the wall. Do we want to do this? Or is it easier and more satisfying to build the walls higher, accentuating the divisions, fearing that if we get too cozy with our adversaries we will be contaminated by their errors? Do we end up talking mainly to ourselves, using rhetoric to entrench and enflame rather than to persuade, or—this is the real risk—to be persuaded?

 

Listening

 

In actual fact, do we want to understand what our adversaries are saying? Or do we only want to listen in order to oppose them? As I mentioned earlier, I hear first-hand what’s happening at Fellowship Magazine, and was surprised by the reaction of so many people when FM published interviews with a member of the gay community, with the Moderator and the Executive Secretary of the General Council. I wasn’t surprised that readers took exception to what they said. I would have been more surprised if they hadn’t objected. What did surprise me was the attitude that by publishing these interviews, FM must be in agreement with the views of those interviewed and that FM must be promoting their views. But the point of publishing these interviews was precisely not to say, “We agree with these views,” but, “Let’s give these people an opportunity to speak so that we can see clearly where our disagreements lie.” Listening to opponents is not always for the purpose of coming to agreement. Sometimes it’s helpful for seeing exactly where you think they are wrong.

 

But, of course, there’s a danger in listening to our opponents. Because when we listen to them, they suddenly have a human face. It’s a lot easier to consider them as anonymous, faceless, cardboard-cut-out-members of a group, so that we can dismiss them with a wave of the hand: “Oh, they’re just feminists or liberals or head office bureaucrats or gay activists”—or on the other side, “Oh they’re just backward, intolerant, conservative dinosaurs,” with both camps concluding, “What would you expect?”

 

What I want to argue today—and this is really my main point—is that if we retreat into an evangelical fortress, we give up the possibility that those with whom we disagree—“they”—might be persuaded by what we say. I speak from experience. My journey of faith has taken me from the heart and soul of establishment liberalism to evangelicalism, not by a lightning bolt from God but by the integrity and persuasive arguments of conservative Christians whose voices you could still hear prior to 1988. How will today’s graduates of Emmanuel or Queen’s, or those who rush out to buy Bishop Spong’s latest book, have the same opportunity? They won’t—unless the evangelicals in our Church are heard.

 

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that we’re completely at fault if we’re not being heard. I’m not downplaying the extent to which the powers-that-be have deliberately silenced the evangelical voice. But because of the vacuum left by large numbers of departed United Church evangelicals, it has become much easier for the establishment to close ranks and to quarantine the evangelical virus so that it can’t infect the Church.

 

Can We Learn from the Historical Wisdom of the Church?

 

Evangelical Christians, who often seek inspiration from historical role models, tend to see themselves as embattled latter-day Martin Luthers, standing up for the truth of the Gospel with his famous words: “Here I stand, I can do no other.” We also tend to draw on images of heroic conflict in the face of fierce opposition. Such paradigms are supported by the Scriptures, which offer the examples of Daniel or Jeremiah or St. Paul or the Lord Jesus himself.

 

These heroic examples need to be balanced, however, with models which teach us of Christian virtues such as humility and openness. I would like to suggest, I hope with Christ-like humility, a couple of historical models who have helped sustain my commitment to the truth of the Gospel.

 

The first is the great Karl Barth, often revered as the scourge of liberal theology and lionized as the leader of the German Confessing Church which opposed the Nazis in the 1930s. Liberals tend to see him as haughty and arrogant, when he was, in reality, a man

of deep humility—humility that comes from knowing that his only hope is in the Cross of Jesus Christ.

 

In his great work Protestant Theology in the Nineteenth Century, when describing an attitude to which certain theologians are prone, Barth conjectured what they would say: “Everyone else before me missed the point, but now I have discovered the truth.” He says of those who hold this attitude—I am right and you are wrong—that “it is all too evident that the authors are not guiding us in a shared investigation of what the men of the past may be saying to us; rather, the one who has already made his discovery, who has done with listening, directs us with vigorous gestures to the position where he is now standing…There is no question of being on the way.”

 

For those who have already made their discoveries, who have done with listening, who direct us with vigorous gestures to the position where they are now standing, there is no sense of “being on the way.” I fear that Barth’s words describe many of us: “Here I stand. I’m not moving.” We act as though defending a theological position were the same thing as being a disciple. A position is by definition stationary and fixed, a place to stand. But a disciple is never someone who stands in one place. A disciple is always on a journey, and has answered the call of Jesus to “follow me.” These two views of faith—“I’m not moving” and “I’m on the way”—are fundamentally different.  

 

Barth was never one to shy away from stating his views with conviction. There was nothing wishy-washy about him. But he never lost the sense of being “on the way,” as evidenced in his life-long admiration of the work of Friedrich Schleiermacher, the granddaddy of liberal theology (whose theological legacy has greatly influenced The United Church of Canada). And Barth passionately disagreed with Schleiermacher, once quipping that Schleiermacher’s saying “God” meant saying “man” in a loud voice. Even though Barth accused Schleiermacher of reducing Christian faith to religious feeling, and theology to the study of the Church’s beliefs rather than submission to the Word of God, he never ceased to listen to Schleiermacher, to appreciate his greatness and to sharpen his own convictions on the stone of Schleiermacher’s work. If Barth had said, “Schleiermacher? A liberal. I’ve no use for him!,” his own work would have been immeasurably poorer.

 

How much more wholesome, more productive, more stimulating and mutually enriching is this spirit exemplified by Karl Barth than the prevailing approach of today, which says, in effect, “Why would I listen to them? I don’t agree with them”—as if there is value in listening only to those who think as we do.

 

A second example comes from J.N.D. Kelly’s description of a reconciliation achieved between two warring parties in the fourth century, in his classic work Early Christian Doctrines. The debate about how to describe the relationship between Jesus Christ and God the Father raged through most of that century. (It isn’t that important to remember the details of this argument, except to note that it was a watershed in the history of Christian theology.)

One group said that Christ was of the same substance as God the Father, and were accused by their opponents of obscuring the humanity of Jesus. The other group said that Christ was of a similar substance as the Father, and they, in turn, were accused by their opponents of denying the fullness of Christ’s divinity. The bitter and acrimonious debate nearly tore the Church apart.

 

Two great theologians, Athanasius and Hilary of Poitiers, helped to bring this conflict to a resolution. Athanasius, Kelly writes, “made a conciliatory gesture, saluting [those on the other side with whom he disagreed] as brothers who in essentials were one with himself.”  His conciliatory gesture emphasized the very great essentials that united them versus the inessentials that divided them. He sought common ground on which they could stand together.

 

Hilary’s own gesture was equally impressive. He courageously acknowledged the possible dangers of his own position—the same-substance position—which could lead to confusing Christ with the Father. He then acknowledged that his opponents—the similar-substance crowd—might hold valid viewpoints, even though he didn’t fully share their position. He sought the value in his opponents’ position.

 

Kelly goes on to describe the Council of Alexandria which met in the year 362. Because the council recognized that much of the conflict seemed to be over differing interpretations of words, the importance of establishing exactly what each side was saying was agreed upon. The Council declared that “what mattered most was not the language used but the meaning underlying it” (Early Christian Doctrines, p. 253.) Each group was free to use its familiar language provided that it did not obscure the truth of either Christ’s divinity or his humanity.

 

It seems to me that these illustrations offer us some very good guidance on how to coexist with those with whom we disagree. First, each side looked for common ground. Secondly, they were prepared to be self-critical, to look for the weaknesses in their own arguments. Third, they were open to the validity of their opponents’ views. Fourth, they emphasized substance and meaning over mere semantics.

 

It seems to me that there is tremendous wisdom in these examples. We could elevate the level of discourse in the Church if, instead of simply assuming we know what our adversaries mean, we took the time to say, “Is this what you mean when you say such-and-such? Do you really mean to say this?” Wayne Hilliker could ask Brian Wilkie, “What is it exactly that you mean by ‘unfaithfulness’? If you mean it in a certain sense I might be able to agree with you. But not if you mean it in another sense.” Through this kind of dialogue we could clarify exactly what it is our opponents actually believe. If we were to do this, we might find that, on certain points at least, we’re not as far apart as we thought.

 

On the other hand, we might discover that the gulf between us is as wide as we had suspected, and that our differences are so great that there is no possibility of genuine fellowship. But with authentic dialogue, we would discover this in a climate of Christ-like humility and respect. These models for dialogue—Barth’s deliberate interaction and sustained dialogue with those with whom he disagreed and the early Church’s method of clarifying the deeper meaning of words—could offer us guidance today.

 

Let me be absolutely clear: I am not saying that the only thing that matters is that we get along, or that all disagreements are rooted in mere misunderstanding. I am not suggesting that we should embrace goddess worshippers or those who perform same-sex blessings, as if they were on the same wavelength as we are. Nor am I suggesting that genuine and irreconcilable differences should be ironed out to achieve an amorphous inclusiveness. In fact, I am doing quite the opposite. I am suggesting that genuine dialogue between parties in the Church will make our convictions all the clearer, possibly even accentuating our differences over our similarities. It might mean that what we hear is simply unacceptable to us and that we aren’t able to have fellowship in the name of Christ. (Certainly, there are individuals and groups in the Church today that I would be hard-pressed to call Christian, not because they are wicked people but because they have so greatly departed from the faith of the Church.) But arriving at such a verdict would not be taken lightly for polemical or emotional reasons, but in fear and trembling.

Above all, I am making a plea for a vision of the Church in which people of genuinely differing views, passionately held, can find a place where the uniting power of the Holy Spirit can deal with our most deep-seated differences. I am calling for the renewal movement within the United Church to make its voice heard in whatever way it can, and with as much persuasive power and as much Christian charity as we can muster, to continue to put the evangelical case to the whole Church.

 

If there is any future for the United Church of Canada, it will be in its ability to forge a genuine inclusiveness, not merely the inclusiveness of the like-minded and the theologically correct. Can we evangelicals participate in such a future? I believe we can. Let us pray that God will lead us to constructively participate in such a venture.