In his article in the February issue of First Things, “The Rise and Fall of Gay Activism,” Scott Yenor details the various waves of the gay liberation movement that, beginning around the time I was born, as an outgrowth of the sexual revolution both created and defined what has been the defining pastoral and theological issue for my generation of pastors.  Yenor’s article is a deep-dive on the subject, detailing the thinking and strategies that took same-sex relationships from forbidden, to fringe, to fraught, to front-and-center.  Same-sex attraction has in both the popular and scholarly imagination, gone from disordered to desirable in the space of living memory.  Indeed, among many young people it is seen as in many ways more desirable than heterosexual attraction, as it does not carry with it two great risks; the risk of navigating the natural divide between male and female ways of encountering and engaging reality and the risk of the life-changing effects of pregnancy and parenthood, which necessarily involves the curtailing of one’s own desires for the sake of the children.

“The love that dare not speak its name” is not only shouting it from every height and corner of the culture, but all who do not add their enthusiastic endorsement are publicly regarded with the scorn and opprobrium once reserved for Nazis and the KKK.  When I reposted a link to former New Atheist Aayan Hirsi-Ali’s now-viral essay “Why I Am Now a Christian,” all a high school friend, once a devout Roman Catholic, could reply in response was, “But Christianity still has no place for gay people.”

It was not worth responding to her that Christianity has all the room in the world for people who think of themselves as gay, it just has no ability nor authority to condone or bless same-sex sexual behavior… just as it has no room to do so for much (most?) of the behavior engaged in by heterosexual couples since the sexual revolution.  It was not worth saying that the church is full of sinners who struggle to live out, live up to, and live into the fullness of God’s revealed intentions for not just sex, but the whole panoply of human behaviors.

There was no point in responding because social media is not a place to do pastoral counseling or theology, but rather to engage in rhetorical pugilism and gather an observing crowd whose primary purpose is not to thoughtfully listen and reconsider their own position, but to cheer for the point of view they already espouse. 

In such contexts, truth is not the point.  A generation ago, in a book that still stands without peer or persuasive reply, Robert Gagnon’s The Bible and Homosexual Practice demonstrated using historical-critical exegesis that orthodox, Biblically-based Christianity not only cannot endorse same-sex behavior, but that there were few moral perspectives in the Scripture more consistently attested to in both Testaments.

Christianity also cannot endorse the central claim of the sexual revolution, the claim that sexual orientation and expression is central to human identity and flourishing.  Biblical Christianity insists that true human flourishing can only be found when one identifies themselves as “in Christ,” and that the human soul is only finally and properly ordered when it regards “everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus [as] Lord’ and gladly suffers “the loss of all things and counts them as rubbish, in order that [it] may gain Christ.” (Phil 3:8) 

As a colleague once helpfully summarized, “The problem is not just what the Bible says about sex, it’s what ignoring that does to Biblical authority.”  Put plainly, what it does is gut Biblical authority.  This may be why on a recent podcast, an ELCA pastor who is a top-notch systematic theologian with a high regard for Biblical authority confessed their dismay at the confession of several ELCA seminarians that most of what they learned at seminary “bashed” the Bible, clearly seeking to undermine its witness in every way.

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My purpose in this article is not to re-adjudicate the theological disputes that have divided not just the Lutheran communion in this regard, but every Christian communion functioning in the West.  It is also not to outline tactics or strategies to win the erstwhile “culture war”—Yenor does that in his article, and besides, in my estimation, Christianity has been decisively on the back foot culturally since it accepted what social historian Barbara Dafoe Whitehead termed “expressive divorce’ thirty years after the legalization of no-fault divorce.

My purpose is rather to point out that the Church needs to be not only teaching faithfully what Christian life entails, it must be preparing her members for the distrust, resistance, revulsion, and sometimes betrayal of those they love because of it, particularly in the area of sexual behavior.  I have had more than one person to whom I ministered and who at one time both embraced and professed the Christian faith reject that faith so that they could embrace a “sexual identity” or demonstrate public support for behaviors that are clearly at variance with the requirements of Biblical Christianity in the realms of sexual identity, sexual behavior, and the related area of the sanctity of human life.  Occasionally, such people have gone so far as to excoriate me publicly or cut off contact with me.

This hurts, and we do nobody any favors by pretending that it doesn’t.  In fact, we must prepare people as we teach them not only the negative demands of God’s Word regarding sexual issues, but also the exhortations of God to ongoing faithfulness and trust in that Word and the promises of God that He will both help us in that steadfastness and reward us for it in the fulness of time.

What this means is that the Church needs to be catechizing her congregants on how to be resilient, long-suffering, and loving toward those who reject them or their faith.  We must be teaching our people to have the trust and steadfastness of purpose that Monica, the mother of Augustine, showed for the twenty seven years that she prayed for her son’s conversion from sensualism and Manichaeanism.  Augustine ultimately became one of the greatest theologians in Church history, but he did not get there without the Lord working through his mother’s prayers.  We must teach our people to be a Monica for every Augustine in their lives… especially when they despair of that person ever changing.

What we can be sure of is this; learning to face persecution, pray unswervingly, and love those who scorn us is the very essence of becoming more Christ-like in our character.  As an Orthodox friend once said to me (Orthodoxy has a rather more fraught regard for Augustine’s theology than Lutheranism), “We are pretty sure Augustine was a saint… we are POSITIVE that his mother was!”

The church’s pastoral ministry has always been long-suffering when it comes to helping people live into the Christian standards of chastity outside of heterosexual, monogamous marriage, and most pastors I knew prior to Obergefell and the concomitant liberalization of ecclesiastical disciplines that began to be officially enacted around that time were caring and deeply sensitive in their pastoral work with their LGB (T’s and Q’s were beyond the horizon as of then) members.  The Church can be infinitely patient with sinners, but it cannot redefine sin, for if we do, we end up proclaiming nothing but our faith in our own contemporary judgments—and such affirmations are deficient in their ability to console or  instruct when sin, death, and the devil inevitably come knocking, for they lack the substance of revealed truth, which is the heart of the Word of God.

For the sake of the wellbeing and comfort of both Her members and those who do not yet call Christ Lord, the Church needs to be preparing its members for misunderstanding, resentment, and even persecution from those who reject “the faith once for all delivered to the saints,” especially the people closest to them and especially in regards to sexual issues.  To do less is spiritual malpractice… and it will mean the eventual caving of orthodoxy to the spirit of the age.

Once the endless meetings, insulting slurs, character attacks, hurt feelings, and procedural difficulties involved in leaving one ecclesial community and entering another are over, the remaining congregation members are often fatigued. Yet they are often galvanized by the process’ inevitable conflicts and are more committed as disciples of Jesus Christ than ever. They hope that the Lord will reward their faithfulness by swelling their ranks, securing their sometimes-tenuous finances, and allow them to return once again to whatever is identified as the golden age of the congregation’s life.

The Lord, in His mercy, rarely does this, at least in any easily recognizable, straightforward way.  The process of reaffiliating for the local congregation is always, to a larger or smaller degree, a traumatic one.  Before a congregation is ready to properly disciple a significant number of people, there is usually work the Lord needs to do within us first.  There is a gap between what we were and what we will need to be for the mission the Lord has planned for us.  I want to encourage anyone facing this to GO intentionally into that GAP:

Go deep with God:  Lutherans confess that the Spirit uses God’s Word and Sacraments to create and sustain saving faith in the hearts of people and thereby constitutes the Church.  As Luther avers, it is only in this way that we are “called, gathered, enlightened and sanctified.”  Don’t do generic Bible studies but do some focused on God’s promises and power related to healing, mission, and yes, even vengeance upon those who persecute His people (having one’s character assassinated by people you love is a real, though mild, form of white martyrdom).  Let the Lord’s Word be a branch thrown into the oft unspoken tension, pain, and ennui of the bitter waters of church hurt and make them sweet.

Open your heart to the new thing the Lord wants to do:  Paul’s ministry changed radically after he was called by Jesus.  Your congregation has been called by Jesus too, and it is not likely that He has called it to do basically what it has done in the past, just with purer doctrine.  This is not because local traditions are bad or change is good, but because if Jesus has called you into a new denominational affiliation, it is for the purpose of mission, and the mission field is always in flux.  Indeed, learning that the mission field lies at our doorstep rather than in other countries is a radical thing for many long-established congregations.  Please note that what I am issuing here is not a call to radical change, but rather to radical openness to God’s leading.

Get to know your mission field: Don’t assume you know your community’s spiritual needs.  Remember, when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of U and ME.  As a Gen X’er I typically assume that Christianity’s chief rival is atheism.  For those under 40, it is paganism.  Does your congregation’s ministry take this into account?  What are the socio-economic pressures with which your visitors are dealing?  What are the most common family dynamics and dysfunctions?  Learn what people will need in your context to become good Christian disciples apart from orthodox doctrinal commitments.

Align yourself with what God is already doing: Ministry changed for me and my congregation when we stopped having a plan to reach people and started recognizing what the Lord was already doing with those He was gathering, then putting our time, talent, and treasures behind that.  “Unless the Lord builds the house, the laborer works in vain.”

Patiently wait for God, then move decisively: Don’t let anxiety about the future push your congregation to waste energy on mission to which the Lord is not calling you.  The Church’s only mission is the Great Commission, but your congregation is not the Church.  Your congregation is a church, and God is not calling you to do everything.  Instead of trying to reach some group or create some ministry that leadership thinks is essential to the congregation’s long term survival, trust the Lord with your future.  It may be that the ministry everyone thinks critical must have the foundation the Lord wishes to provide now.

GO into the GAP without fear, for it is not the valley of the shadow of death, but rather God’s way of teaching you trust on the way to the green fields and still waters for which He has claimed you.

It is 2025—an auspicious year.  We are a quarter way into the 21st century.  The Lutheran Reformation is just beginning to essay its second half millennium, and just as the printing press projected the ideas of a firebrand priest named Luther across the continent before a decadent hierarchy could crush him as they did Jan Hus a century before, so now the internet can empower the Church to reform and retool for the changing challenges of ministry.

I know, I know; from shadow-banning, to AI, to the identity crisis in young people, to the manipulation of the masses through algorithmic engineering, the internet actually seems to be the source of most of our ministry challenges.  Fair enough.  I do not mean to downplay any of the challenges theological or pastoral that this new and increasingly ubiquitous reality presents to the proclamation of the gospel, the cultivation of genuine Christian discipleship, and ultimately, the salvation of persons.  The kinetic component of the spiritual warfare that has always been the province of the Church now seems to be moving at a speed that is dizzying and whose geographic boundaries are less clear; the narratives the Church would historically recognize as spiritual propaganda used to largely be “over there,” as the world was divided into Christendom and the mission field.  Now we carry these narratives around in our pocket via the raucous voices of not just traditional pundits, but social influencers and YouTube “experts” whose probity and veracity are vouched for primarily by the number of subscribers they can capture and retain.

Complicating the picture further is the fact that this technology was born in the bosom of Western culture precisely at the moment that Nietzsche’s “death of God” made all things possible and French post-structuralism was teaching anyone college-educated that right and wrong were merely social constructs meant to obscure what was in fact the raw exercise of power, and that this logic informs the programming of not only the Artificial Intelligence about which we are all concerned, but the search engines we use to learn about them.  Social observer Ted Gioia estimates that we have at most twelve more months within which the average, well-educated person will be able to tell what is real from what is computer-generated in their news feed, and historian/social philosopher Mary Harrington has noted that functional literacy—the ability to focus on, digest, and synthesize information gained through long-form reading—is already plunging so precipitously that it will soon be at medieval levels, despite the ubiquity of text in our lives. Clergy may shortly become “clerics” once again, an elite defined by their competency with written language.

“Where is the good news in this?” we may well ask.  It is that the Church has some unique opportunities before Her at this time.  This past weekend, like an incarnation of Robert Jenson’s prediction in his October 1993 First Things article How the World Lost Its Story, a couple from a Pentecostal background visited my church for the first time precisely because they discovered on our worship stream solid Biblical preaching married to the singing of the Kyrie and Gloria.  The husband had been discovering through YouTube videos what he may never have discovered even 20 years ago, when the only spiritual voice was that of his pastor; he was learning that the mode of worship he had grown up with was novel, not apostolic, and he was seeking a firmer foundation for himself and his family.  For my part, I am excited at the prospect that the fervent piety that characterized their upbringing might leaven the at-times stolid, business-as-usual daily demeanor of central Pennsylvania Lutheranism.  I am hopeful that it can do this without fueling Lutheranism’s historic pendulum swing from Pietism to Neo-Orthodoxy since they come seeking, not escaping from, the liturgical, Sacramental life of the historic Church. 

Can you imagine what the fervency of such piety married to orthodox Biblical faith grounded in profound liturgical formation might look like?  I can.  Think Polycarp, Maximos the Confessor, Francis of Assisi, Martin Luther… There is much more to say in future articles about the opportunities that this historical moment affords the Church, but one at least is the healing of some of our historic divisions through wider mutual knowledge and appreciation.  John Paul II prayed that the 3^rd millennium of Christianity would be the millennium of healing our divisions.  Wouldn’t it be just like God to use what is seemingly a great weapon in the hands of our ancient Enemy to accomplish that seemingly impossible task?

Editor’s Note: The image above shows soldiers harvesting and cooking a fallen horse. Brett writes, “While originally written in regards to Western culture generally, the thrust of this poem more particularly applies to the Christian orthodoxy at the heart of that culture suffering at the hand of theological progressivism within the Church.” Please also check out his blog, The Faith Conservationist.

The soldiers spit and then decry
The rottenness of all their feast,
Snarling as they’re nourished on
The living flesh of dying beast

Whose labor brought them hitherto
With much travail and sacrifice,
And spared their feet the journey so,
Though all its strength could not suffice

To keep its feet unfaltering
On treach’rous pathways sought afresh;
Each misstep now recounted as
They glut themselves on tired flesh.

The horse that drew the wagon to
The edge of revolution’s field
Though scorned by révolutionnaire,
In death its final strength does yield.

So nourished, soldiers soldier on
And never dream in their dull lives
How brave the heart that perished there
Beneath their cool, assuming knives.

If your church is following the three year lectionary, Lent begins on Ash Wednesday with 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10.  Officially, the pericope begins, “We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (2 Cor 5:20b–5:21, ESV) In light of the fact that he is addressing established Christians, what Paul is obviously driving at here is the ongoing need for even the most committed Christians to realign their lives with the will of God.  “Be reconciled” implies that these already-converted Christian believers are not in a conciliar state with God; in fact, Paul is addressing them for a third time precisely because while claiming Christian identity, they are behaving in ways inimical to God.

At a recent gathering of primarily conservative clergy, I got some hostility but engendered much more fantastic conversation when I brought up the danger of Christianity being coopted by conservative politics. In the end, everyone agreed that Christians need to be on God’s agenda first, offering critique as well as necessarily-conditional support to any ideology, political party or strategy. This is what it means to be “the light of the world” and the “salt of the earth.”

A wise mentor once told me that people’s politics are always influencing their theology, but that the great conversation that is the inner life of the church over time corrects—and when necessary, excises—the errors that people of any given time and place incorporate.  Because of the fractured nature of the Church’s communion and witness, amplified by social media, there is a real danger of these much-needed course corrections being significantly delayed or not even engaged in.

The solution to this is to heed Paul’s words to “be reconciled to God,” which is of course, what the season of Lent is all about. The difference between the orthodox Christian construal of these words and the progressive Christian one is that for the orthodox Christian, the Bible provides the content of what being reconciled to God looks like—a detailed road map for discerning where one’s life is out of sync with the life of the triune God.  Conversely, for the progressive Christian, the Bible provides abstract theological principles, but the content comes from elsewhere, sources deemed more relevant because they are more contemporary, scientific, progressive, or whatever.

The outcome of these two approaches is what yields at least some of the divisions observable in contemporary Christianity, where people united by confessional traditions like Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, etc. have radically different ideas of what makes for faithful Christian living.  While both agree for the need to reconcile ourselves to God, one group sees God as telling us what would constitute alignment with God, the other believes that God is “just” or “forgiving” or “love,” but asserts that what those words mean is not what Christians have traditionally thought they mean, based on the witness of Scripture.

What this means in practice is that the progressive Christian lacks any tool whereby to critique their own politically-influenced positions, for they have no data by which to evaluate them.  As long as the principles they have gleaned from Scripture seem to be met by the ideologies and morays acceptable within their own narrow cultural conditioning, they are living as God intends and no reconciliation is necessary. Conversely, for the orthodox Christian, while perceiving one’s own biases is always notoriously hard, the Scriptures provide actual canons against which to measure cultural assumptions and political prescriptions… and the exhortation to do so.

Paul goes on, “Working together with him, then, we appeal to you not to receive the grace of God in vain.” It is important that we not consign the persistent warnings of the New Testament about spiritual disqualification to the dustbin based on our theological principles, no matter how venerable or new. We can receive the grace of God in vain, and only the lifetime of persistent Christian repentance (realignment) that Luther called for in the first article of the 95 Theses can stave off that terrifying reality. So, since we cannot hope to be perfected in theology, holiness, or piety, let us be perfected in repentance, and let the Scriptures dictate to us what that should look like… furthermore, let us start today. “For [God] says, ‘In a favorable time I listened to you, and in a day of salvation I have helped you.’ Behold, now is the favorable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.” (2 Cor 6:1–2, ESV)

In my last article I detailed a way you could tell that “Progressive Christianity” was in fact an alternative to Christianity, namely that it held different things sacrosanct and considered other things blasphemous than Christians have since Apostolic times.  This month I will note another way in which we can see this truth demonstrated—to whom and for whom progressive Christians feel responsible.

In a recent Core Christianity podcast, Pr. Adriel Sanchez detailed an encounter he had with a “progressive Christian” pastor.  According to Pr. Sanchez, this pastor (who goes unnamed in the broadcast) was the author of a book arguing that the Bible does not proscribe homosexual behavior and that the Church had used the classic prooftexts in this regard to abuse same-sex attracted people since its inception.  Since the pastor was a neighbor, Pr. Sanchez had acquired and read the book.  His critical evaluation was that the “way in which he was approaching the Scriptures was incorrect; that rather than just letting them speak for themselves and understanding them in their context, he was twisting them and allowing—essentially—the current cultural social ethic to drive his interpretation of the Bible.”

Nothing too radical here.  This kind of critique of another theologian has characterized necessary dialogue within the Church in every era, from Irenaeus to the present day, on issues as diverse as whether Christians can ethically serve in the military to the nature of Christ’s Deity.  Indeed, though Pr. Sanchez has the advantage of time since the incident and not being engaged in a debate while presenting his story, he shows no non-verbal animosity while presenting his critique.

When he happened to have a chance meeting with this author in a local coffee shop, it seems that the conversation he engaged was handled civilly, if coolly, until Pr. Sanchez challenged the author on an issue core to their identity as pastors rather than mere theologians, pastoral rebuke as an expression of spiritual care.  Pr. Sanchez asked him, “As a pastor, when you have someone in your church whom you believe is doing something that you do think is sinful—maybe they’re abusive to their spouse or maybe they’re stealing or whatever it might be—how do you confront them lovingly as a pastor while challenging the sinful behavior?”  At that point his interlocutor after a moment of apparent shock said, “I can’t believe you asked me that question.  That was an offensive question to ask me, and [essentially] you should be ashamed of yourself.”  When Pr. Sanchez then tried to explain that he really did want to understand the other pastor’s position, the supercilious author declaimed, “No; you need to understand that you are offensive, and you need to accept that… and this conversation is over.”  Upon which he stood up and left.

I do an extensive treatment of this episode in my own podcast, but to summarize my observations, the pastor who walked away from the conversation with Pr. Sanchez clearly did not feel accountable to him as a fellow clergyman or Christian, a member of the “One Holy Catholic [Universal] and Apostolic Church.”  The issue of how to deal with these texts is a lively issue throughout the worldwide Church with most Christians (read: non-Western Christians) siding with Pr. Sanchez, but the other pastor still presumed to speak to him as a person possessing authority over him; “you need to understand… you need to accept.”

In what hierarchy did the author of the book possess more authority than Pr. Sanchez?  Clearly not the hierarchy of the Church. To what community standards did this pastor feel accountable? Whose good opinion did he crave or perhaps fear losing? Again, not those of a Church whose existence preceded him and that will endure until Christ “comes again in glory to judge the living and the dead.”  Did he by walking away from a conversation with a fellow bearer of the name of Christ show love for him, reason together with him, or even engage him in the sort of loving rebuke Pr. Sanchez queried him about to such great offense?  Did he even from his own point of view show love for the same-sex attracted individuals whom Pr. Sanchez might encounter in the course of his ministry?

No, the community to which and for which this pastor felt accountable was clearly not the “beloved community” of those baptized into Christ, but rather defined in some other way.

Though they were heretics, Arius, Valentinus, and Pelagius knew that their primary accountability was to the Church of Jesus Christ.  Though history has judged them to be in error, they fought for what they seem to have sincerely believed was its good and perhaps even what was necessary for the salvation of its members.  Indeed, they garner the appellation “heretic” only because they so earnestly fought for and remain accountable to the life of the Church Herself—because they are at least erstwhile Christians.

I believe that Progressive Christianity functionally (if not formally) quickly ceases to be Christian in any historically recognizable way precisely because of what this pastor’s behavior demonstrated, that it considers itself—and more importantly, the Church’s proclamation—accountable to standards that originate outside the Church and people whose lives are lived beyond its bounds.

As a friendly commenter noted, my last article needed some serious editing. It is never good for me to find myself writing too close to a deadline; the result is always technically correct but dense, jargon-heavy prose that obscures what it seeks to clarify.  My apologies to all.

To restate succinctly what I was driving at in my last installment, in contrast to what any group might claim, we can tell what that group truly holds sacred on the one hand by what things, actions, and speech they extol and prescribe, and on the other, those at which they take offense.  Sacredness is defined for a group by what they revere and what they revile.  That which is prescribed constitutes the group’s dogmas or orthodoxy.  That which is proscribed or treated as blasphemous is like a photographic negative of the same thing, defining the sacred by contrasting it to its inverse, the profane.  This is a sociological and functional, not theological, definition of the sacred.

I ended my last article by saying, “Progressive Christianity quickly ceases to be formally Christian precisely because it holds different things to be sacred than does the Biblical, Apostolic faith … it represents a different religion, not a different way to be Christian.”

Though I differ with his work on many points, one thing that the enormously popular psychologist Jordan Peterson has helped me understand is that human thought is intrinsically and inescapably hierarchical.  Believing that we can actually think in a truly egalitarian manner is not merely logically, but neurologically incorrect; our brains could literally not handle the amount of incoming sensory data presented to it by the rest of our nervous system if it did not prioritize some information over others.  Thinking hierarchically is identical to thinking at all.

In a hierarchy, whatever occupies a higher position determines the relative value of everything beneath it.  Why in CPR training do they use the acronym “ABC”—airway, breathing, circulation—to anchor the care provider in the moment of crisis?  Because while the heart is needed to pump oxygen to the rest of the body, the lungs must be filled with oxygen before it can get to the heart, and the lungs can only be filled by artificial respiration if the airway is in turn clear.  The operation of that which is lower in the hierarchy is contingent upon the proper function of that which is higher.

What is true in an operational hierarchy is equally true in a conceptual hierarchy.  In fact, you can determine an idea’s place in a conceptual hierarchy precisely by identifying whether another idea is dependent upon or foundational to it.  Within a religious schema, this translates to what is holy, holier, or holiest.

While in seminary, one of my professors quoted one of his own graduate school mentors, lauding to us the sage wisdom that “your theology can never be any better than your anthropology.”  I made a phone call that afternoon to a mentor of my own, a double Ph.D. whose own generous but well-defined orthodoxy had catapulted him to a position of great responsibility in his own Christian tradition as an ecumenical theologian, to check whether my response was too reactionary.  “That,” he said, confirming my intuition in the carefully measured tone of voice I had come to associate with him at his scholarly best, “seems to me to be precisely backward.”

The sentiment commended by my professor placed humanity (or humanity’s assertions about God) above God’s revelatory self-disclosure.  In fact, its effect was to negate any possibility of the latter by placing humanity above God epistemologically.  This professor’s spouse, when presiding at the Eucharist during the final worship service I attended at that school, began the Lord’s Prayer with the unbiblical and self-congratulatory phrase, “Our father and mother in heaven.”  I refused to receive Communion that day not because her ego was out of control (the sins of the presider do not invalidate the grace of God) but because I was no longer sure it actually was the Eucharist, and that was because I was no longer sure the Christian God, the God that commanded His people to “have no other gods before Him,” was in fact being worshiped in that space.

If Christ is not “the image of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15), if it is not true that “if we have seen [Jesus], we have seen the Father” (John 14:9), and the Bible is not in fact a revelatory portrait of that Christ to us, something—in this case humanity—must replace the Triune God in the highest position within the religious hierarchy, whether historically Christian vocabulary is used to describe it or not.

By definition, that is some other religion than Christianity.

Although the appellation “woke”—used by Ricky Gervais to the Hollywood establishment at the Oscars as “insider” language just a few years ago—is eschewed by progressives now that cultural conservatives have fastened onto it and redeployed it as a demeaning epithet, its inception in progressive circles originally indicated a true stance of religious conversion that Christians should recognize.  As the Church year winds to its eschatologically focused close and begins the new year in Advent, both Jesus and John the Baptist exhort us to “wake” up to the reality of our spiritual situation. Such an awakening is at once a combination of intellectual recognition and a posture of preparation for incipient action. “Woke” originally meant to the true believer in progressive ideals much the same thing that “newly illumined” meant to the just baptized in the early Church; it signaled the passing of a liminal threshold and the adoption of such a substantially new interpretation of age-old data points and orientation to the challenges of life as to be only capturable in the proclamation of a new identity.

It is by now not particularly provocative or insightful to interpret the constellation of ideological commitments that goes variously by the names woke, postmodern, poststructuralism, or social justice as a religion, but it is helpful to explore why this is formally rather than merely experientially the case. If religion is defined sociologically as a set of communal behaviors rather than as a set of metaphysical beliefs or commitments (a hopelessly Western definition in any case), this progressive set of beliefs above-labeled clearly functions as a religion for its adherents.

Channeling the work of Émile Durkheim, Jonathan Haidt helpfully identifies the sociological characteristics of a religion. By designating something as “sacred” a group of disparate people can have a sense of unified identity. You know you are in the presence of a thing (or value system) that has been designated by a group as “sacred” when that thing must be defended at all costs from even ridiculous or accidental insults. “Jokes, insults, and utilitarian trade-offs” cannot be tolerated if they impugn the honor of the thing held sacred because they threaten the fundamental social cohesion of the group’s acolytes. When what is at stake is the sacred, blasphemy codes dictate the range of acceptable expression, and such cannot be challenged by rational objections.

In a lecture at Duke University,[1] Haidt identified six groups that are now identified as sacred in the social justice milieu: the “big three” of blacks, women, and LGBTQIA+ along with a secondary group deemed slightly less sacred consisting of Latinos, Native Americans, people with disabilities, and more recently, Muslims.  Comments or ideas that are deemed less than laudatory of people in these groups or their behavior are met not only with outrage but disgust, an emotional response whose purpose is to get us to avoid things that are potentially poisonous to us—contagions and pathogens.

I spoke in last issue’s article of not permitting the pain of a student in my care—very real pain for which I had genuine empathy and wanted to see healed—to colonize my theology, coming to exercise a controlling influence over it. Viruses colonize their host by hijacking the cell’s DNA reproduction system, turning its very system of replication and renewal to its own purposes. The reason why progressive Christianity quickly ceases to be Christianity at all is that the Church’s ministries of renewal and replication—catechesis and evangelism—are necessarily reemployed in service of the new objects that are, in fact, now deemed sacred.

In the case of progressive Christianity, the aforementioned victim groups replace the orthodox objects of worship (the Triune God, revealed by the life, teaching, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ) as the center around which the group’s identity revolves.  In the same way, the holy tasks of pursuing an amorphously defined and ever-mutating sense of justice for these sacred victims replaces the orthodox tasks of preaching the stories of Scripture and celebrating the Sacraments commanded by God’s Sacred Victim, as well as the repentance, conversion, and amendment of life according to the revealed will of God to which these lead. Progressive Christianity quickly ceases to be formally Christian precisely because it holds different things to be sacred than does the Biblical, Apostolic faith. I will have more to say on this in the next issue, but for now it is enough to note that it represents a different religion, not a different way to be Christian.

[1] https://youtu.be/Gatn5ameRr8?si=5elvFmZJAPTJyapK

“What’s all this ‘Father’ stuff about in the Lord’s Prayer?  Why should we call God ‘Father,’ anyway?” she intoned petulantly, fixing me with a stare that clearly thought no reasonable answer was possible.  It was my first year in ministry.  I had converted to Christ but a year before and now found myself teaching Luther’s Small Catechism as part of my youth minister duties at a largish program-style Lutheran church.  From my undergraduate background in the arts and my wife’s current graduate school studies, I was utterly familiar with the post-structuralism that informed her question, but despite the self-consciously progressive, university-dominated atmosphere of the town I served, I was still shocked to hear the sentiment from the mouth of a seventh grader.

I would not be shocked today… not anywhere in the United States, let alone a college town.  “How do we know God is ‘Father?’” challenged the former PASTOR of one of my parishioners in an adult Sunday School forum.  Such pugnacious personalities litter the Christian landscape of the modern West, pseudo-intellectuals who, because they came across the concept of apophatic theology in seminary, now feel they can use it to undermine Scriptural authority and thence refashion the Christian faith in a manner more congenial to their modern WEIRD (Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, Democratic) presuppositions and biases. 

In my last article I made the case that a specific, seemingly innocuous use of inclusive language for human beings had unexpected but potentially devastating side effects in the realm of pastoral care and Christian self-understanding.  Tinkering with Christ’s chosen address of God may have similar side effects.  Progressives like Rosemary Radford Reuther and Sally McFague purport to give us reasons we need not address God as Father.  Conservatives like Dennis Prager give us reasons we must. Still, it may well be that the question “Why should we call God ‘Father?’” may be like Job addressing God on the question of suffering, to which God responds in a way that lets Job know that he has no possible idea of full import of what he is asking—that Job lacks the capacity for God to respond in a meaningful way to such a question.  “Stop clucking in such a self-important way. You cannot possibly understand what is at play here.  Consider yourself blessed to know Me at all,” might be an apt summary of God’s speech in Job 38-41.  To address God in any other way than that revealed by God may have ripples that redound to the harm or even damnation of others and should so be avoided.

Which is why I believe that the answer that I gave the young lady mentioned above in my theological naivete is still the correct one; we call God “Father” because we are disciples—followers—of Christ, not His instructors.  If we think of Jesus as someone who merely cracked open a door on God that we can now wedge open a little wider by our own enlightened efforts, we misunderstand Him utterly as “the Word become flesh” who “dwelt” (in the Greek, skenoō or “tabernacled”) among us, who in my favorite modern translation “is in the bosom of the Father” and hence alone has the capacity to “make Him known.”

As time went on, I discovered that this young woman had good reason for negative associations with the word “father;” her own dad was an addict who had been emotionally and often physically absent until two years before when he had cleaned up and was endeavoring to “make good” in his role in her life, an effort she perceived as “pushy” and presumptuous.  What a privilege it was to teach her—as I hope I have taught my own daughter—that she has a Father in heaven who we earthly fathers can only hope to palely imitate as providers, nurturers, and self-sacrificing protectors. (Ephesians 3:14)

Had I let her indubitably real pain colonize—exercise a controlling influence—over my theology, she could never have found what I would later hear theologian Marva Dawn refer to as “the true liberation of being a woman who can without reservation call God ‘Father.’”

Grappling with Scripture as the revealed Word of God and the Apostolic faith that has informed that encounter has preserved such liberation—true liberation—for us all.

In my office hangs my ordination certificate.  Across it is emblazoned the name of the ordaining body, the body whose confessional commitments I pledged to uphold on the day I knelt and made my vows.  An adult convert to the Christian faith who settled in Lutheranism as the place where I would live out my “mere Christianity” after reading a church library copy of the Augsburg Confession, in the spring of 2016 I had served that denomination in various roles for twenty years.

This spring marks the eighth year since I called my bishop and informed him that I would be serving in a new church body.  Even as an adult convert, I know how painful the process is of leaving a church body you have called home; to cause further fracture to the Body of Christ, to disappoint My Lord by ensuring that His prayer that all His disciples might be one as I will become yet one more piece of living evidence of how little the truth of the gospel seems to change the lives of those who believe it, to serve at least in part as another stumbling block for people who—as did I at one point—hold the Christian faith in contempt, was an exquisite pain… I can only imagine how hard it is for a cradle member of a communion to make a similar choice.

In his classic study of what causes massive shifts in a mindset, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Thomas Kuhn details how it takes a superabundance of contrary evidence to get people to rethink their fundamental commitments, coining the terms paradigm and paradigm shift.  A paradigm shift, when it occurs, is more than a reordering of the furniture in one’s mental office or even changing offices due to corporate restructuring; it amounts to moving out of the building, watching that edifice be razed, and having a new foundation poured upon which you must tentatively build a new place from which to conduct your business.

It is for this reason that I am uncertain whether my decision to leave the ELCA represents a true paradigm shift or not.  In the words of a Roman Catholic mentor whose specialty was ecumenical theology, with whom I shared the pain of my process, “You aren’t leaving your church; your church is leaving you.”  Though hopefully my thinking has become more refined and nuanced, my fundamental commitments in some ways have not changed since I first knew myself to be a Christian in 1995 and a conscientious son of the Lutheran reformation by early 1996.

Yet once such a choice is made—the choice to leave the home that has nurtured you during your most formative years—once the evidence piles up so high that you cannot ignore it, you begin to rethink many things.  Aspects of your identity you thought unassailable become things you question.  Commitments you thought unshakable bedrock you begin to recognize as issues of secondary and sometimes tertiary importance… sometimes you come to know them as even detrimental to keeping the most fundamental commitments of all.

Such for me has been the issue of inclusive language in ministry, whether for God or people.  The sine qua non of both my undergraduate and graduate education, I have come to question not just its utility, but its very ability to communicate the Word of God, which in turn means its very ability to foster human flourishing… especially for women.

By the time I was being formed in seminary, the use of inclusive language for human beings was a matter of basic politeness and the use of such language for God became mandated as a “justice issue” while I was away from campus on internship.  My early training conditioned me to be okay with the former; indeed I had chosen to pursue ordination in the ELCA over the LCMS because of a precommitment to women’s ordination, a commitment I still hold but should not have then, before I could possibly know the Biblical or theological issues at stake.

My conviction in Christianity as a revealed religion prevented me from embracing inclusive language for God.  Because of an encounter with a cult in my early twenties, I have a sensitivity to when I am only being told one side of an argument, so the aggressive insistence on the agenda second-cum-third wave feminism and the lack of critical presentation of any other perspective set off a voice in my head: “Danger, Will Robinson… Danger!”  The special prominence of this in my liturgics class, where we failed to learn the rudiments of using The Minister’s Desk Edition, made me begin researching the best arguments on the other side.

I was surprised to often find these arguments to be robust rather than reactionary.  An honest reader could disagree with these arguments, but not accuse the writer of bad faith or barely disguised animus against women.  Particularly compelling was an article by Jesuit Paul Mankowski (who often wrote under the pen name Diogenes) entitled Jesus, Son of Humankind? The Necessary Failure of Inclusive-Language Translations, which I found in a now out-of-print journal.  (It is still available on the Touchstone magazine website for subscribers.[1])

There is one issue central to our salvation that inclusive language translations of the Bible obscure—even those translations that only use inclusive language for human beings, like the NRSV—that I have never seen referenced in any scholarly work, so I would like to address it briefly here.

“No one comes to the Father but by me,” says Jesus in one of our most beloved funeral readings (John 14:6), but how exactly does Jesus get us to the Father?  “For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ,” joyously declares St. Paul. (Galatians 3:27)  Elsewhere he adds, “For if we have been united with [Christ] in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” (Romans 6:5)  We have been united with Jesus.

A robust Sacramental theology teaches us that as regards our eternal inheritance, this means that when the Father regards us, He sees Christ, with whom we have been united, and whom we have donned like a mantle.  In other words, He sees not Joe or Sally, merely created in the image of God however pious or penitent, but Jesus, His Son, God Himself, for Whom the entire realm of created reality and uncreated glory is the rightful inheritance.

What this means in contradiction to the polite niceties of post-Christian American cultural religion, each of us is, properly speaking, a child of God only when we share in the sonship of Jesus Christ through Baptism.  It is for this reason—not the misogynistic cultural baggage assumed by feminists of whatever wave—that St. Paul in his letters addresses both the male and female objects of his correspondence as “brothers.”  We are all brothers because we all through Holy Baptism share in the sonship of Jesus Christ.

Inclusive language translations that render St. Paul’s address as “brothers and sisters” obscure this important salvific truth, esteeming the demands of feminist-defined justice as greater than the actual Biblically depicted mechanism of salvation.  Further, it propagates its own fundamentally irreconcilable war between the sexes into the very “beloved community” that is to be the home of “the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:18), fomenting disunity in the Body of Christ. Under such conditions, the uniqueness of Christ as the way to God is necessarily veiled and universalism will proliferate to the loss of the evangelistic impulse.

I count this as a very serious way that the very inclusive language that is purported to be a justice issue for women actually does worse than underserve them; it may fail to call them to Christ and so be positively opposed to their ultimate interests.

[1] https://touchstonemag.com/archives//article.php?id=14-08-033-f