My day started in a whirlwind. First in a flurry of construction and chaos, I spent hours wandering Columbia’s campus attempting to finish all my registration materials for the fall and conquer the vast wasteland of Butler library. Anyone who has visited my new campus can appreciate the gravity of these goals; Columbia is known for neither efficiency nor usability.
Thus, in my disoriented state I rushed to Hamilton Hall with time to spare before my Attic Greek class began, breathing a flustered sigh as I sat next to my classmate to await our instructor’s arrival.
If only the story of my confounding day could end here.
What started as an innocent conversation with my classmate erupted into a tailspin of accusations, confusion, and disapproval. I was ambushed by fundamentalism.
“You said you study Judaism and Christianity, but you’re not Jewish, so are you a Christian?”
“Yeah sure”
Here is when I should have backed away slowly. I hate answering that question “are you a Christian?” to strangers because I never know what images or ideas they will associate me with. Yes I am a Christian, but some people wouldn’t consider me a Christian, but I call myself a Christian, but I’m not like some Christians…how does one answer a simple question with a simple answer?
“So how does supersessionism influence your Jewish studies research?”
“Supersessionism? That theology needs to disappear from Christian rhetoric.”
“What?! How can you call yourself a Christian if you don’t believe in supersessionism?”
This is when I knew my already long day was about to get a bit longer. Soon there ensued a barrage of accusing questions,
“But what about what St. Paul says?” “Do you even believe “homosexuals” are Christians?” “How do you interpret Leviticus and St. Paul?” “What about St. Paul?!”
And then the final blow,
“Do you believe that Jesus Christ is your Lord and Personal Savior?”
Those words sent a rush of panic clawing at my throat. I was transported back to my childhood Sunday School classes, where my answer to that question dictated which side of my teacher’s illustration I would go— to the fiery dark hell on the left or the golden heaven on the right. The barrage of questions had made my head spin; already off my game from a long day of dealing with campus bureaucracy, I had plopped down next to my classmate unprepared to have my salvation judged. I tried to deconstruct the question, but my classmate just smirked and shook his head saying, “You can’t call yourself a Christian.”
I’m not sure I can convey the pain those words caused. I had just written a post last week entitled, “Dear Church, I’m Sorry I Can’t Trust You,” and here again I was being violated.
I am describing this event to you because it is actually a well worn story. Conversations like this have happened to me many times, and they happen to many of you. This isn’t just my story; it belongs to many who find themselves in an ambiguous relationship with Christianity. And I think we as the Church can do better.
First, we can stop defining Christianity as an effortless checklist of Accept Believe Confess.
I hate to spoil anyone’s thunder, but Christianity is more than a few beliefs. The history of Christianity is complex, varied, encompassing a vast array of perspectives and practices. Christianity is just as much about practice as it is about belief, and failing to check mark a belief does not negate a life of practice. When my classmate was reading St. Paul, he should have compared his texts to James; the issue of belief, faith, and practice is far from simple. We must make room for the various shades of belief.
Second, we can ask better questions.
If I had answered my classmate’s final question with “I’m not sure” or even worse “no,” would that suddenly dissolve my identification as a Christian? When we ask pointed questions, usually with one implied “right” answer, what are we hoping to accomplish? Instead, when we inquire about another person’s religious practice, we can ask insightful questions that hope to discover the other person’s perspective. And we can be prepared to listen.
Simply quoting “St. Paul” will not sustain the Church. Simply asking trite questions on our checklist will not save anyone.
So what do we do when someone says, “You can’t call yourself a Christian?” Personally, I took to Twitter where I knew I had a community of people who understood and supported me. Twitter responded with a flood of humorous and encouraging tweets:
As hurtful as conversations like the one with my classmate are, I’m reminded that I’m not alone. Instead of being defeated and walking away from the Church, I will fight to ensure there is space in the Christian community for people like me who can’t answer those questions or match certain beliefs so easily. I’m not giving up the label without a fight.