“Are you open to the idea that you might be wrong?”
This is the question that I would want to ask if I ever debated or sat down to discuss biblical things with someone like Allie Beth Stuckey.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve watched clips and most of Allie’s “debate with 20 liberal Christians.” There are many things I would want to say to that sentence, but here are two quick notes:
Allie is an influencer, not a biblical scholar or academic theologian. She attended Furman University and received a degree in Communications. I think having her debate other “influencers” is fair.
I personally would not consider this format a debate, and consider the format of Jubilee debates to be abrasive, limiting, and oftentimes unfair.
If I can put on my observational hat for a moment, I might say that the physical posture and honest wonderings of some of the participants made me want to slow things way down. I see unregulated, hurt people sitting in those chairs. People who desperately want to be heard with kind ears—people who don’t need verses thrown at them, but who truly need to be listened to. I see people who are honestly seeking Jesus, but are holding on by a thread. My sensitivity toward the pain I felt in that room is going to be in these paragraphs because I cannot close it out.
Now, one might argue that the purpose of a debate is to present your argument as convincingly as possible and try to change the minds of your audience and opposition. However, I do think it’s worth noting that, as Christians, I think there could be better, more holistic, more honoring ways of engaging in debate—especially when our purposes can be motivated by deeper and more meaningful change.
I shared on my Instagram stories that I found Allie’s demeanor in many of the clips I saw to be jarring. Not because she was rude or abrasive, but because she was seemingly more subdued. I then read that her intent was to go into the debate with kindness as her lead, which seemed interesting to me, knowing her most recent book was titled “Toxic Empathy.” I do think Allie, in overt and covert ways, does what many influencers do, for good or bad, which is to play into what might rile people up, and I think she knew when she titled her book and presented her arguments, she knew people would be upset, defensive, and bothered.
And I think that while perhaps this is the point of this kind of debate, the points that Allie argued continue to fall into this category—biblical ideas lined with extra barbed wire. I don’t think Jesus needs more barbed wire. I don’t think the gospel needs more starkness. And I don’t think God needs more coldness wrapped around his words. That is already felt in our culture. People are already upset, defensive, and bothered. And I think, more than ever, we need the gentle wisdom of Jesus. More soft answers that turn away wrath. More walking and less charging.
But I learned all of this the hard way.
Street Preaching & Fortresses
In college, we were required to venture out to Millennium Park one Saturday to participate in “missions work.” We met our group leader on the corner of Michigan and Randolph and were given fake dollar bills with Obama’s picture on the front and a “gospel presentation” on the back.
I immediately began to feel my heart race. We were tasked with handing out the bills to passing tourists and Chicago residents, always keeping watch for when the group leader was going to stand on his stool, preaching and calling to the crowds to repent. Our mission was to pick one listener to target and strike up a conversation with them. I remember just standing in disbelief—completely uncomfortable with the rhetoric and talking points we were encouraged to spout out. I looked down at the fake bills and thought, “Why are we tricking people into Jesus, and what does any of this have to do with him?”
After a few awkward conversations and asking people about their days and trying to explain what I was even doing out there, I stuffed my full stack of bills into my backpack and threw them away in a city trash can once I was clear of the group. I went back to my dorm room frustrated and embarrassed.
What good was that, and was that the way Jesus calls us to? Was the point of evangelism to name all the wrongs we saw in strangers and those who don’t believe what we do? I remember thinking, we talked, they listened. We prodded, they retreated. We pressed, they left. And the feeling in our group was that of superiority. Like we held some truth that was elusive to the crowds, who probably just wanted to enjoy their vacations uninterrupted.
I was taught to talk, not listen. To ask leading questions, not to be curious. I was taught that we had cemented truth, but I was never challenged to look for truth and light, and goodness in the thoughts of those I was “witnessing” to.
Years later, in seminary, I would read Walter H. Principe’s work, The History of Theology: Fortress or Launching Pad?1 In it, he explores the imagery of a fortress and a launching pad, as they relate to how we practice our theology. I was challenged by his insight, humility, and willingness to unknow what previously felt known.
A fortress creates walls—sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. Do we build stone enclosures around beliefs because we don’t want them to be questioned? Or do we protect something that was never meant to be handled with fragility? There is a longing there for those who build theological fortresses. Some want to protect sacred beliefs, yet oftentimes, we are prone to building fortresses high, not to protect, but to keep out anyone who dares to wonder about our intentions. Principe so helpfully states, “The history of theology and the notion of tradition seem to be able to be manipulated to fit the purposes of those who hold the fortress.” The more I have reflected on my time in the church, the more I see this fortress mentality. In my experience, there was an intense passion to protect historical traditions and preferences of the past, yet it seemed like there was little attention given to seeing how things shift and change as the church and world grow in understanding and knowledge. Particularly when it came to acknowledging harmful interpretations of theological truths.
Principe states, “For instance, the hermeneutics of suspicion has led theologians to investigate the masculine and patriarchal bias of ecclesiastical documents and theology; it has led liberation theologians to question doctrinal decisions and theological positions supporting privileged groups in society. Along these lines, a recent study of the medieval theology of the papacy led me to such a hermeneutics of suspicion regarding the views of some of my own favorites, Bonaventure, Albert, Aquinas, and other Mendicant theologians. That is, I was led to ask whether their strong advocacy of universal papal power in teaching and jurisdiction arose at least partially from the fact that the Mendicants were the popes’ favored communities, with special privileges for preaching and teaching, privileges that at times brought them into conflict with pastors and university teachers in the local churches. These and other hermeneutical principles need to be applied universally to past conciliar documents, to past official pronouncements, indeed to all the works of past theologians.”
We are prone, when we create fortresses around our understanding of biblical truths, to be defensive. Shooting arrows at those who come too close or those who ask questions of our tall walls. We must ask, what are we really protecting, and what are we missing out on by keeping the questioners out or silenced?
Therefore, we must move through theology with humility, willing to see the way in which even the theologians we love to learn from have had biases and fortressed beliefs. We, in many ways, have to be okay with change, with reassessing, with unknowing what we previously thought was securely knowable.
With the launching pad metaphor, we are asked to continue to observe and reflect, and look for fresh solutions to contemporary issues. This acknowledges that as culture changes, there is a need to reflect, explore, and consider changing the way things are done and understood. We still launch out of our core understanding and beliefs—we are not throwing out biblical truths, but seeking to apply them with nuances and new understanding.
In Creative Ministry, Henri Nouwen offers a helpful perspective when he shares how learning can become a “violent process” when “knowledge is no longer a gift to be shared, but a property that should be defended.” Instead, Nouwen suggests a “redemptive teaching” approach, which is characterized by its evocative nature. As he explains, “Only the student who allows access into his or her own personal life experiences a source of insight and understanding.” To describe the way this looks, Nouwen states that the teacher will hear from the students: “ ‘That reminds me of…’ or ‘I could add something to that.’” In this way, learning becomes less about transference and more about transformation.2 With these categories in mind, it is helpful to revisit how we see our beliefs as Christians in the public sphere.
I don’t want to be wrong
A middle child, the only girl, an explosive father, constant fear of hell, and a tender heart. Can you imagine with me how hard it was for me to be wrong? I wanted to be the good girl. The girl who didn’t cause problems. The girl who didn’t get in trouble. To be right was to be saved. To be right was to be on God’s side. To be right was the highest and holiest of callings.
It became easy then to separate everyone else into categories of right and wrong. For instance, it’s easier to dismiss a Christian who says they can vote for a democrat if I believe Christians only vote for republicans because I can now view them as other, lesser, even far off and lost. There is usually no room for nuance, just plain readings and understandings, as you named.
Young earth—right
Evolution—wrong
Republican—right
Democrat—wrong
Long dresses—right
Short skirts—wrong
The list goes on and on—preferences or personal convictions parading as law, parading as holy.
Christians can create lines (walls to their fortresses) with clarity and pride because it feels sure to them. God fits neatly in a box. Everything is either black or white. And we, as his mouthpieces, are to proclaim that blackness or whiteness loudly and harshly.
Because the alternative might be disobedience, it might be getting something wrong, it might be the last straw that leads us to hell. And that would be really scary if that were true.
This is a kind of theology that needs protection because it is fragile. If God is fragile, the box we’ve placed him in shouldn’t be shaken or poked, and it shouldn’t be asked questions or moved. And I think the God that Allie proclaims and defends becomes a fragile God in a box, one that I think she fears questioning or changing.
But I think the Lord invites us to a different way of engaging with him and the world.
Jesus invites you not to know
When I was broken open, the harshness began to fade and the black and white lines I had created began to blur. How could I tell someone in the midst of depression that it was wrong for them to no longer go to church? How could I conclude that painful, life-threatening medical interventions to save the life of a mother were murder? How could I defend that it was unbiblical to sit empathetically with those who had been hurt mercilessly by the church—even if we disagreed on theological understandings?
Pain changed me. It made me less rigid. It gave me weathered eyes and a more tender heart. It’s not that I don’t think right and wrong no longer exist. And it’s not that I don’t believe in doctrines that ground the Christian faith throughout history. But it does mean that I don’t cement myself or my beliefs in ways that I can no longer listen, be curious, or extend empathy to those who don’t share my faith or beliefs. It means that I keep looking for Jesus in every person and in every corner of this earth.
To be sure of Jesus and who he is can be mystifying. We may find ourselves wary of the ways people have tried to pin him down, tie him to their flags, and wave him high in the sky—so sure that he would support a particular thing, person, or idea.
Ancient followers of Jesus had ideas and ideals about who Jesus would be, what he would look like, what he would do with his time on earth, how he would come in adorned glory and loud thunder. Yet, in many ways, Jesus was uncontainable. Surprisingly gentle, yet fierce. Seemingly wayward, but true. Somewhat unclear, yet the clearest anyone has ever been.
He challenged those on both sides of the coin, called all to believe, and touched, dined, and drank with the lowly and the proud. What the God of Abraham and Isaac seemed not to do, Jesus did—seeing us with human eyes, flesh on flesh, bones cracking with bones cracking, tears flowing down cheeks in grief and anxiousness. Did God change, or did we change our understanding of who we thought he was? Did God become more tender in these moments, more vulnerable? What did the God-man learn from walking on dirt roads, fishing by the sea, and losing his loved ones to the human sting of death?
Here, I come to the road alongside Job, the rich young ruler, and the disciples who hold more questions of Jesus and God than the answers he provided—at least in the ways that are obvious to me.
If I am sure of anything, it’s that Jesus captivates me—drawing me in through delight and sorrow, causing my neck to bend in awe, wonder, and sometimes confusion. And I am sure that a god who is willing to come near, to break through flesh and break his own, continues to invite me to come, with questions and also with wonder, imagination, curiosity, and a chance to throw all preconceived notions to the wind.
I’ll sit in the storm with his deep belly presence, call out to him in the chaos and curse the storms his breath can tame, and then follow him down the road that holds more questions than answers because with him is a love so deep and calm and true—a love that invites me to not know.
I have become a person of curious faith—someone who longs to never stop learning. I want to see where my biases lie. I want to be surprised by the faith of those I am prone to dismiss. I want to argue, not with my opponents, but with my own long-held beliefs.
So, I keep asking myself and you, “Are you open to the idea that you might be wrong?”
And if so, can we invite God to hold that weight? Is he sturdy enough to let us question, and wrestle, and not know? Will he continue to hold us when we are wrong?
I think yes.
file:///Users/Jessica.Fadel/Downloads/nadams,+19880615_43_019-040.pdf
I borrowed this paragraph from Eric’s paper on the same subject, as we were in class together, where we both read Principe’s work. I like how he framed this—used with his permission. :)