Based on his description of the atmosphere surrounding the conversation between religion and science, it’s hard to believe that Whitehead was writing eighty-plus years ago. Whitehead describes the “controversialists” on either side of the science and religion debate who feel that these two disciplines are so fundamentally pitted against each other that to embrace the authority of one is necessarily to reject the other. This is why the word conflict characterizes the relationship between these two behemoths. They seem to be the immovable rock and irresistible force of the modern world. However, Whitehead believed that science and religion could not only “get along” so to speak, but that they were actually mutually enriching. His basis for this perspective was grounded in an evolutionary view of both science and religion, which considered their principles timeless (the observation of natural processes for science and a focus on aesthetic and moral values for religion), but their doctrines as “...in a state of continual development.” (181) Whitehead goes on to list a few examples of this “continual development” beginning with the religious tradition.

Early Christians believed that the return of Christ and the end of the world would occur within their lifetime, of course later generations had to reinterpret and adjust their beliefs to fit reality. In the year 535 a Christian monk named Cosmas wrote a book titled Christian Topography which, based on a literal interpretation of certain biblical texts, deduced that the earth was a flat parallelogram whose length was twice that of it’s width. In the 17th century a Jesuit named father Petavius showed that theologians in the first three centuries of Christianity used phrases and statements that in the fifth century would have been deemed heretical. In the same century (17th) the doctrine of the rotation of the earth was opposed by a Catholic tribunal. In the 19th century the doctrine of an old earth distressed religious people, while in the 20th century it was the doctrine of evolution. Of course, it hasn’t only been religious thought whose doctrines have undergone numerous updates in years past, however Whitehead doesn’t delve as deeply into scientific examples in chapter twelve of Science and the Modern World for the simple reason that the majority of the preceding chapters were focused on this topic. However he does offer a quick summation with the following quip, “Science is even more changeable than theology. No man of science could subscribe without qualification to Galileo’s beliefs, or to Newton’s beliefs, or to all his own scientific beliefs of ten years ago.” (182) He goes on to discuss the insight that in both theology and science certain distinctions and modifications are made through the years so that when a statement is made today it’s understood quite differently than it would have been five hundred, or fifteen hundred, years ago.

For example, logicians assert that a proposition is either true or false – there is no middle ground. However, we now understand that reality is more complex. Often a proposition expresses an important truth, but it isn’t until later that we realize the “truth” was dependent upon certain assumptions which turn out to be misguided in one aspect or another. For example, Galileo said that the earth moves and that the sun is fixed; the Inquisition said that the earth is fixed and the sun moves; while Newtonian astronomers (adopting an absolute theory of space) asserted that both the earth and the sun are moving. Whitehead explains that each of these three statements are “true” provided that you have fixed your sense of ‘rest’ and ‘motion’ by the way required in whichever of the three statements above you’ve chosen to adopt. Another example, is the paradoxical “particle/wave” theories of light. Newton theorized that light traveled in a stream of particles, while Christiaan Huyghens asserted that light traveled in waves. In the 18th century Newton was believed. In the 19th century Huyghens was believed. In the 20th the debate continued as scientist’s awaited a wider vision that reconciles the two perspectives, which as we come into the 21st century, may occur based on changes in our perspective on matter and what constitutes reality at it’s most basic level.

Whitehead felt that we should apply this same principle of “waiting for a wider vision” to areas where science and religion overlap, and thus conflict, with each other. So rather than hastily abandoning doctrines that we have good reason to believe, which inevitably leads to mutual anathemas, Whitehead believed that a clash of doctrines (whether within religion, within science, or between the two disciplines) need not signal a disaster, but rather an opportunity. He states, “The clash is a sign that there are wider truths and finer perspectives within which a reconciliation of a deeper religion and a more subtle science will be found.” (184)

To summarize Whitehead’s position, he believed that science and religion really are two separate projects, focused on two different aspects of our lived reality. With that truth in mind, they should be willing to submit to the other’s area of expertise. Thus in all matters of the observation of physical phenomena, religion should submit itself to the findings of the scientist, and in matters of moral and aesthetic values science should leave that to the ruminations of the theologian (and perhaps – the philosopher). Of course, as the 21st century is showing, the trick is getting the “controversialists” on either side to agree to these boundaries in principle, and then to begin the messy process of negotiating where those boundary lines fall. I’ll close with a few quotes from Whitehead on this topic.

“On the one side there is the law of gravitation, and on the other the contemplation of the beauty of holiness. What one side sees, the other misses; and vice-a-versa. Consider, for example, the lives of John Wesley and of Saint Francis of Assisi. For physical science you have in these lives merely ordinary examples of the operation of the principles of physiological chemistry, and of the dynamics of nervous reactions: for religion you have lives of the most profound significance in the history of the world.” (184)

“Consider this contrast: When Darwin or Einstein proclaim theories which modify our ideas, it is a triumph for science. We do not go about saying that there is another defeat for science, because it’s old ideas have been abandoned. We know that another step of scientific insight has been gained. Religion will not regain it’s old power until it can face change in the same spirit as does science. It’s principles may be eternal, but the expression of those principles requires continual development.” (188)

“Religion is the reaction of human nature to it’s search for God. The presentation of God under the aspect of power awakens every modern instinct of critical reaction. This is fatal; for religion collapses unless it’s main positions command immediacy of assent.” (191)

“Religion is the vision of something which stands beyond, behind, and within, the passing flux of immediate things: something which is real, and yet waiting to be realized; something which is a remote possibility, and yet the greatest of present facts; something that gives meaning to all that passes, and yet eludes apprehension; something whose possession is the final good, and yet is beyond all reach; something which is the ultimate ideal and the hopeless quest. The immediate reaction of human nature to the religious vision is worship.” (191)

“The fact of the religious vision, and it’s history of persistent expansion, is our one ground for optimism. Apart from it, human life is a flash of occasional enjoyments lighting up a mass of pain and misery, a bagatelle of transient experience.” (192)

“The worship of God is not a rule of safety – it is an adventure of the spirit, a flight after the unattainable. The death of religion comes with the repression of the high hope of adventure.” (192)

—

I was Hope’s youth pastor for her highschool years and like many teens they were very challenging for her, however there were a few beautiful things that stuck out to me about Hope.

(As others have said) First, she was incredibly focused, hard-working and determined to get where she wanted to get in life. She had a clear plan and she was willing to put in the work to get there. I found that a rarity for someone her age, and I appreciated her tenacity.

But second, her tenacity was balanced by a deep focus on the relationships in her life. I think she realized that what really matters most is people, and so she loved all of you very much. I could go on about her life, but others before me have done a far better job of that than I ever could so instead I want to offer answers to, two questions.

The first question is this: where is God in our suffering?

Most of us believe in a God who is “out there” and in control of the universe. We envision the world as a big machine and so God is the person pulling the strings and adjusting the levers of the universe – keeping it all running. At times this idea of God can be very comforting to us, because it offers the idea that someone is in control: nothing is happening without a purpose, so within the craziness of life there is some sense of order.

This can be very comforting until tragedy strikes because then all of the questions come flooding over us. If God is “in control” then why didn’t he stop this? If God is really pulling the levers of the universe then did he in fact, cause tragedy to happen and if that’s the case, how can we really call him good? These are important and extremely difficult questions for people of faith to answer but I think we may have some insight in the Christian tradition by looking to Jesus. If we embrace the idea that Jesus, was in some mysterious way God among us, then this entire view of God as “out there” in the “heavens” somewhere is perhaps, not a very Christian way of thinking about God. Perhaps the problem isn’t our questions, which are all spot on, but actually the way we view God.  In Jesus we have a view of God that offers the following answer to the question, where is God in the midst of our suffering, “he’s right here, suffering alongside us.” In the Christian tradition God dies on the cross, God loses, God undergoes suffering. Obviously, this isn’t a rational argument that explains away suffering but is a way of viewing God that may bring us some comfort.

The second question I wanted to turn our thoughts toward today is: How can we better embrace the beauty of life here and now?

I think too often we fail to embrace the beauty and fragility of life and it’s not until we’re sitting here that we’re forced to admit to ourselves that there will come a time when it will end. This is why death, especially of a young person can be so traumatic because it catches us off our guard, it blindsides us and at least for a moment it forces us to confront the idea of our own mortality. We don’t like to think about our own mortality. Which is why, we spend our lives suppressing and running away from the reality of death. It represents our greatest anxiety – something literally unimaginable. That’s scary and it makes sense why we avoid it. But here’s the trick, it’s not until we face that reality head on, that we’re able to fully embrace our life here and now.

What’s interesting is that Christian tradition which I embrace, has at our worst, been guilty of this as well, but in a different way. At times we’ve been part of the problem by saying something like, “This life is just practice, a warmup, or a dress-rehearsal for the one to come – life begins at death.” But the trick here is that by turning this life into a waiting room, we again drained it of it’s meaning and beauty.

So I want to reject both of the options above: the first being a refusal to embrace life because we’re pretending that it will go on forever, or in the second example, a refusal to embrace life because we’re saying life doesn’t begin until we die.

You see, I think we’ve approached the Bible, our religious traditions, and perhaps even this memorial service with the wrong question, we came asking, “Is there life after death?” when what we should have been asking is this, “IS THERE LIFE BEFORE DEATH?” To me that is the key question and I believe that in Jesus we see the answer, and it is a resounding “Yes!” Jesus said, I have come that you may have life and life to the fullest. So what might this life look like?

Perhaps it’s a bit simplistic and old fashioned, but I’d say life and God are best experienced in the act of love. When we turn to the people on our right and our left and say you are beautiful. It’s the times we spend lingering over a meal with the people that mean everything to us. It’s the moments when we take a stand for justice and peace and goodness in this world. At it’s best, the Christian tradition gives us hope in the face of death and the courage to embrace life.

Let us pray.

I’ve done some reading on the debate between those who hold to an inerrant view of Scripture vs. those who admit it has errors, historical fallacies, and even some diverse theological viewpoints. Again it’s an interesting debate but a good 50 years past it’s prime. Basically every professor of religion at every major University in the U.S. agrees that it isn’t accurate to speak of an “inerrant” Bible. This is also the position of the vast majority of seminaries in the U.S. and Europe. Most of these folks are Christians – just not the conservative variety. The question is no longer “Does the Bible have errors, contradictions, and differing theological viewpoints?” but rather, “What does it mean for our faith now that we know this to be the case? In what sense can we say the Bible the ‘Word of God’? How does this impact our search for Truth within it’s pages?” Difficult, but great questions.

I know some of what I’ve written above will be difficult, and potentially offensive, to many of my Evangelical brothers and sisters. However, my purpose in stating it in such a straight forward way is to help us realize how far out of touch we are with, not only the best minds of our culture (scientists, historians, philosophers, theologians, etc.) but the wider culture as well. I also realize that for many of us this is simply too big a leap to make. We literally can’t imagine a Christianity that is formed, not in opposition to the realities stated above, but with these truths fully accepted and integrated into the heart of the tradition. If that’s the case, then my final plea to you is this: if you’re not willing to go through the pain of integrating these ideas (and others like them) for yourself, then please consider doing it for your kids. Because when you raise your children in a way that causes them to be anti-science and anti-intellectual (either through overt gestures and statements or more passive means) then you’re setting them up for a difficult decision later in life (i.e. college or adulthood). This will be a situation where they may feel they have to choose between, on the one hand, a pre-modern world view (natural/supernatural distinction, three tier universe, and an anthropomorphic {human-esque} understanding of God) that their religious tradition adheres to, and on the other hand a post-modern worldview that’s moved beyond some of these concepts. I’m optimistic there’s a third way – namely, an understanding of Christianity that’s come to grips with a post-modern view of the world, however I don’t know think this is something we’re helping our children transition to very well.

–
P.S. This is in no way a secret post to my parents. Part of the reason I’m a Christian today is because they not only provided a great example of what love can look like, but the permission to think for myself and work out an understanding of faith that I can believe in.

Although it’s a simple idea, the concept of hermeneutics (i.e. the study of the theory of interpretation), has profound implications for how we approach the text and our faith as a whole. During the enlightenment we adopted this idea that we could get beyond ourselves (emotions, histories, psychological makeup, cultural biases, etc.) and engage the text with pure reason: like a scientist approaching his experiment: cold, unattached, and uninvolved. In this way, we believed we could discern the clear meaning of a particular text. We could get rid of ourselves and crawl into the brain of say, Paul, John or whoever the writer may have been, and see what they “really” meant. However, at the heart of post-modernism is a deep critique of this idea of “pure reason” and, drawing on that insight post-modern studies in hermeneutics current thinkers have deeply questioned the ability we humans have to understand “the clear meaning” of texts – particularly complex scientific, legal, and religious texts. The reality is that we aren’t uninterested or passive observers – instead we’re readers who bring all of ourselves to the text.

There’s an important point that needs to be made at this juncture concerning religious text’s specifically, just because a text can read in many ways doesn’t mean that an infinite number of interpretations is legitimate. One example Peter Rollins gives in his book How (Not) to Speak of God is the difference between the set of numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… and 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4… If we take these numbers as various interpretations then in the former we see an infinite number of interpretations while in the latter we see a mathematical boundary that contains the infinite. In other words, the phrase “God is love” can be interpreted in many ways – and in fact has been interpreted differently down through the centuries of Christendom. Yet, we see the boundaries provided in the sense that the phrase “God is love” cannot be interpreted as “God is hate”, or “God is hurtful and embittered”.

In the same book, Rollins encourages us to approach the Bible like we would our favorite painting – the point isn’t to leave ourselves at the doorway and approach it purely from the mind of the artist – obsessively focused on what it meant to them. Instead, we bring ourselves to the painting, experience it, which in turn gives rise to our interpretations of it – sometimes multiple interpretations of it through the years. Yet, again we see a sense of boundary because a picture of two people clasped in a loving embrace wouldn’t give rise to interpretations of hatred or disgust. What’s strange is that the more we research a painting’s history and engage in conversation with those from the past (often via books) and those present to us now, we often find that it complicates the meaning instead of clarifying. I think this concept is largely lost on those within the church who refuse to admit that the Bible cannot be reduced to a single interpretation without doing massive violence to the text. The conservative Southern Baptist School I attend exhibits this belief by requiring all undergrads to take 2 semesters of Hebrew and Greek each. Why? Not simply because this will help us be better interpreters of the text (which is true), but rather because we’re operating under the mistaken belief that if we can learn the original languages of the Bible then we can get the correct interpretation. As someone who has taken 3 of 4 semesters required I can assure you that learning the original languages is no magic bullet to laying bare the plain meaning of any scripture. Actually, the opposite is true. It’s not until you immerse yourself in the original languages that you realize the challenging job translators have of taking words, sentences and concepts from one language and recreating them in another. Added to this complexity is the fact that words often have more than one meaning and, the fact that Hebrew and Greek don’t have a particular word order to their sentences as English words do. Instead we rely on endings attached to words to identify them as nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc. and then do our best to recreate sentences in the way we think the original writer meant them. This is why I can’t help but smile at people who say they want a literal interpretation of the Bible, because they don’t realize that it would literally be un-readable.

I don’t believe the above insights should cause us to throw up our hands in despair and state “Oh great! Now we can’t know anything about the Bible!” Rather I think the point is to realize that jumping into the Biblical text is no easy task and shouldn’t be treated as such. Rather, we should be humbled and driven to seek out communities of faith – not where they claim to lay bare the meaning of the Scriptures (that’s when you should smell a rat), but where we can seek to enter into the holy task of participating in the ongoing conversation with the Church of the past and present.

What if a church membership sheet read like the following:

If you own more than one coat, it must be given away.

If you own more than one car it must be loaned out or given away.

If you have a house with extra rooms they must be given to the homeless.

If you have extra money it must be given to charity.

Sign here: ___________________.

Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to attend, but still, that would be pretty kick-a.

—

P.S. Inspiration for this post came from a talk by Pete Rollins.

Question: “Doesn’t it make sense that our acts of obedience play a key role in our salvation? I mean I still believe in the grace of God – it’s just that I wonder sometimes if I have a bigger part to play.”

Answer: “Oh, that’s nothing more than 5th century Pelagianism.” a friend replies.

Question: “Sometimes I look around at the world and it seems so devoid of God. It’s just things, physical things that I can touch and feel. Doesn’t it make sense that this is all there is – maybe there’s nothing beyond the material world?”

Answer: “Oh that’s just secular atheism. It’s intellectually dressed up rebellion against God.”

Question: “I’ve had these moments throughout my life when I feel like I’ve experienced something other than myself. I get this feeling when I walk into an old church, maybe it’s just nostalgia from my youth but I swear I feel like there’s something real and beautiful about it all.”

Answer: “Oh that’s just basic theism. It’s for people who need a crutch in life – need some big ‘other’ to look out for them.”

Question: “Don’t you think the Bible really could be this perfect revelation from God? Every time I open it’s pages I get something out of it. I think it may be the best book ever written.”

Answer: “That sounds like a key tenet of biblical fundamentalism and it’s naive at best. The Bible is riddled with historical errors, contradictions, and enough barbaric passages to make your head spin. If God were real, he would do better.”

Question: “Sometimes I read two bible passages and they seem to contradict each other. For Easter I read the 4 resurrection accounts and I realized that they were incredibly different. The other day I read a passage where God mandated the genocide of an entire people group. Sometimes I wonder if the people who wrote the Bible had their own agendas.  What if it really isn’t this perfect word delivered straight from the hand of God? How do I know what the truth is?”

Answer: “Those sound like the questions of classical theological liberalism. It’s for people who aren’t willing to bow the knee to Christ and submit to his revealed Word. Also, all liberal churches are dying, so it’s kind of for losers.”

Question: “I believe in the idea of truth but I’m not sure it’s as easily grasped as the radio preachers tell me it is. Like, what if all we have are our interpretations and temporal understandings of truth? So even if capital “T” Truth exists – we’ll never be able to fully grasp it in this life? What if what I think of as “the truth” is really just “my truth”? In other words, what if there is no absolute truth?”

Answer: “That’s relativism and it’s what’s wrong with America. Since you think you’re so smart let me ask you a question. Do you think you’re statement “there is no absolute truth” is true? Well if you do you’re an idiot because it’s a self defeating argument.”

—

This is what we do with people’s questions. We reduce them to “ism’s”. This allows us to not take them seriously, to write them off as brainless so-and-so’s – who wouldn’t know reality if it hit them in the face. It makes us feel superior and safe.

This is what’s wrong with our churches. We have no place for questions and honest dialogue.

This is what’s wrong with our politics. We spend all our time shouting and little to no time listening.

You know what it tells me? We don’t really love God, truth,  justice, or this great Country as much as we tell ourselves.

What we care about is being right.

This is a movement that’s been hammered by many. It’s been labeled “sinner sensitive”, chastised for catering to worldly people and for refusing to preach the “truth” in a straight forward manner. Normally when people use the word “seeker sensitive” to describe a church it’s a put down – not a compliment.

Although I think there is much to critique about the movement (as there is with every attempt to understand and follow God faithfully) at the end of the day I think the term seeker sensitive is a compliment. In fact, I think the term sinner sensitive is a compliment. If I were to start a church I’d work this phrase into our bylaws somehow – maybe even t-shirts for the staff.

WE’RE SINNER SENSITIVE!

Why? Because right at the very heart of Christianity – in the example of Jesus – you have a man who was sinner sensitive. One of the scandals of his ministry is that he was a friend of the most vile types of people: hoars, drunkards, etc. When everyone else judged and rejected them – treating them more like background scenery than real human beings – he gave them dignity and respect. That’s wonderful.

So if we’re going to critique the movement – let’s not take them to task for being sensitive and kind to sinners. It reminds me too much of Jesus.

• Dante’s Divine Comedy’s: Hell, Purgatory, & Paradise
• Plato’s Republic
• Paradise Lost
• Sinners in the hands of an Angry God
• The Communist Manifesto
• The Law
• Animal Farm
• Old Man and the Sea
• That Hideous Strength
• The Illiad, Odyssey, & Aienid
• The Plague
• City of God
• A Tale of Two Cities
• Sophie’s World
• Walden Two

The value I gleaned from this was simple: read the original works.

Textbooks are fine as an introduction, but nothing beats reading the original works of the best minds humanity has to offer.

Our tendency is to spend our free time interacting with the ideas of people who will not challenge, goad, provoke, or grow us. We read small books written by small minds.

Here’s my challenge: take the next year and interact with the best thinkers of the past and present – even those you’d disagree with, heck, especially those that you think you’d disagree with. In other words, replace Max Lucado & Jon Bevere with John Calvin and N.T. Wright (add Karl Marx & Richard Dawkins for the brave). And as you read them, make sure that you have not only an eye to critique, but a heart to learn and a mind that loves truth, no matter where it’s found.

I think you’ll find your faith challenged and enriched.

P.S. If you’re a Christian leader then this isn’t optional.

This post, dear reader, is the wince face coffee confession we’ve never had. I am compelled by the idea that I need to confess and that you need to understand.

I used to believe in a God I could talk to. He heard my prayers in the morning and my songs of praise in the evening. He was closer than the air I breathed. I had a passion for Him, an intimacy with Him. The most important thing in my life was to be in a relationship with Him. I also had a knack for being on stage, so from about the age of 14 I led people into his presence with singing and his courts with praise. The wonderful community church I grew up in placed a very high priority on our contemporary worship time. I played base guitar but, after our worship pastor left, got a promotion of sorts to being one of the lead singers. We raised our hands and swayed to the music, feeling the Spirit sweep through the room. It was emotional, we worshiped until we had tears in our eyes most days. It was exhilarating, those times in the Spirit – almost transcendent, like walking on the clouds. God whispered in my ears during those times – of that I was sure, well at least pretty sure. Sure enough to go over and give my friend an encouraging word from the Lord. Sure enough to tell the people over my microphone what I was discerning. It was usually about big things, like Revival. I was captured by the idea of Revival. I’d read about oversees missionaries who had something we didn’t. You see the wind of the Spirit blew in special ways in places like China. People were being saved by the thousands every day. The Spirit was certainly up to something. Soon it would be our turn. If we’d pray a little harder, believe a little longer, then our church, town, State, and eventually the country would be awash in revival. I was going to be a big part of it too. I was told countless times that I was going to be an important leader to “bring this generation back to God”. My generation was something that concerned me very deeply. I was sketchy on the details, but my generation basically meant all young people, both churched and unchurched, who didn’t have a relationship with God like I had. They needed this intimacy more than anything. It was the only way America would be brought back to God.

Revival, my generation, intercessory prayer, the Spirit, fire, miracles, undignified worship, abandonment, passion, and intimacy with God: these were the buzzwords of my young Christian evangelical faith. But I had a secret, a secret I’d scarcely admit to myself. For all of my talk, I was experiencing very little, if any, of these. I wasn’t convinced I had a secret relationship with the divine. I was plagued by doubt, but I blamed myself. I hadn’t fasted enough. I hadn’t spent enough time with the Lord – soaking in His presence like a warm shower. My personal worship times weren’t long enough. Clearly the problem couldn’t be with God, who like the popular song said, is a “God of Wonders beyond our galaxy – holy, holy”. No that couldn’t be it, it must be me, so I redoubled my efforts and left for Bible College.

My freshman year I prayed longer than I ever had. Not as long as those Christians in China who could pray all night, but a torture-some long time for me. I also played piano and worshiped longer than I ever had – just doing my best to soak in His presence. This would be the time of my break through – the semester when it all became real.

I remember lots of tears that semester. Not because God spoke to me, but because He didn’t. Were there times when I “felt His presence” or “experienced God”? Well, if you’d asked me then I’d have said, “yes” because it had to be a yes – I couldn’t bare the thought that this was all a sham – that I was alone – that I would never experience the intimacy with God that everyone else seemed to experience. I’m sure this makes me sound like a terribly emotional person and a downright fake, but you have to know it was deep waters for me. My faith was so central to who I was that, as I mentioned earlier, I would scarcely have admitted this to myself, much less my friends and family. It was a tough year. I still refer to it as my “forgotten year” because I went out of state for school so I was mostly alone outside of some extended family who lived in the area.

My forgotten year: the year where I left to find God and came back disappointed. So what did I do next? Well I took the obvious step and went into full time ministry as a youth pastor at a church called New Hope. “Why the hell did you do that” you ask me? Well, I still loved God, I wanted to serve Him, it was a great church and while at a deeper level the seeds of doubt had started to take root, at a conscious level I was still full steam ahead.

You see, the paragraphs above make everything more neat and tidy than it actually was. This is me looking back, analyzing myself in hindsight and doing my best to recall everything as I experienced it – an impossible task of course so cut me some slack (see my wince face coming back).

Being a leader in any church is an interesting phenomena because in many ways you believe for the people. You’re a sort of fill in for when their faith runs out. Throughout high school my doubt was held at bay by the leaders in my life – they were the pillars upon which my faith could stand secure – even when I was tossed about by tumultuous seas. The irony is that by going on staff I became one of these people for others and I got to know personally some of the folks that had served as pillars for me. You know what I found out? They’re astoundingly wonderful people, but they’re human beings through and through. They have their own struggles and worries. They don’t float on cloud 9 all day.

Full time ministry was a slow 4 year process of coming back to earth for me. While I still talked and walked a version of faith very similar to the one in my teen years, it became more mellow. Increasingly I wasn’t quite as fiery or sure of myself as I’d once been. I was immersed in the Bible many days a week preparing for sermons and there were parts that were quite different from the faith I’d grown up with, parts that made me uncomfortable because they didn’t fit with my version of faith.

I was also attending the Criswell College (a conservative Bible College in Dallas) at this time and I was being introduced to the intellectual side of our faith. I remember the most awkward day in school was the day we learned how the Canon (N.T. Scriptures) were put together. It was all so human sounding to me. I think it played into this skeptical side of me, the part that had been birthed in my first year of college. If I was so wrong about my highschool version of faith, If I’d fundamentally jacked up what it meant to know God, if i had misunderstood what it meant to follow Jesus back then – what was I wrong about now?

I was ripe for change.

It was around this time that I came across two books that changed my life forever. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller and A New Kind of Christian by Brian McLaren. These books gave voice to my frustrations and fears. Each chapter was like a counseling session. I can remember sitting on my bed with tears running down my nose and dripping on those hallowed pages. But more than anything they gave me hope again. Hope that I could discover a different version of faith than the one I’d outgrown.

From Blue Like Jazz I began to learn to let go of the fear that had gripped my religious life – especially the fear of what other people thought of me. Here was a man who drank alcohol, said curse words, and went to a godless secular college just because all of his leaders said he shouldn’t. And when he got there, instead of telling the students what wicked sinners they were and how they deserved the hell they were going to get – he apologized to them. Literally setup a confessional booth where when sinners entered, ready to confess their own sins, the tables were turned and the priests apologized to the sinners. Apologized for the ways the church hasn’t been the best reflection of Jesus’ love through the years, apologized for the historical atrocities committed in the name of God, apologized for how Christians had treated them on campus: judging and rejecting them instead of loving them for the beautiful (albeit imperfect) people they were. It was glorious.

In the book A New Kind of Christian I found a mentor in Brian McLaren. Here was a man in his fifties, who was a former Charismatic (like me) and a former pastor (soon to be me) and he was asking questions about faith that I had always thought, but had never dared to ask because I was too scared. The most important thing he gave me was permission. Permission to ask fundamental questions about what it all means – and by it I mean the Christian faith as a whole. He was the first Christian writer I ever read who believed in Evolution. EVOLUTION! Are you kidding me? He questioned whether everyone from other religions would go to hell. He questioned the inerrancy of the Bible? He had friends who were Catholics and he actually spoke of them with respect (unlike every conservative Bible College professor I’ve ever had). He had friends who were theological liberals (far more so than he is) and he spoke with respect and appreciation for them to – even as he disagreed with them (again, unlike my professors). At the end of the day, Brian McLaren gave me permission to be intellectually honest and it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. Once you see someone bravely saying, “You know what, I simply can’t conceive of a loving God torturing people for millions of years in hell. If that’s who God is I don’t want anything to do with Him.” That’s powerful.

These books were a conversion experience for me.

Now I know many of you are quite disappointed in me by now because I’ve articulated a journey that has me going from “I want to be a generation changer for God” to “EVOLUTION! Are you kidding me?”

I know what you’re thinking because I’ve been there before. I had the strong faith in God. I believed He whispered in my ear. If the Bible said it, it was good enough for me. I wanted to be a missionary for Christ’s sake (literally, I’m not using the Lord’s name in vain). Granted, I was about 16 years old, but still I’ve been on the side of the Truth.

You see, I know what you’re thinking and that tempts me. It temps me to give you a rational explanation for why I’m a liberal Christian. It temps me to delete the saga above and replace it with the post I started out writing which was titled, “Biblical inerrancy: 10 contradictions in the Bible that give fundamentalists fits”. I want to convert you to my way of thinking. This makes me feel better about myself. I’m much more happy when there are hundreds of little Brett Tilford’s running around with my version of faith. But it’s weakness on my part, and mostly pointless for me to try to convert my conservative evangelical friends – they’d never relent on a rational argument alone and hey, I don’t blame them, because neither would I.

This post is a confession of sorts so here goes nothing. I agree that in many ways (heck maybe most ways) my liberal version of Christianity isn’t as good as the conservative one I grew up with. That was a faith that people could really rally around and get pumped up about. It was the truth – delivered straight from the hand of God himself. I can’t compete with that. All I have is a weak faith that’s stumbling and bumbling along. It’s easy to judge and dismiss as just a bunch of liberal tripe. Fair enough. I agree it is tripe. I agree that in many ways I’m making this up as I go – granted I’m reading and doing my best to make wise decisions – but by asking some of the questions I’ve asked I realize that I’ve jettisoned myself from the authority of the church and the authority of the Bible. I think this is what frustrates people about me sometimes. I know they’re thinking, “Brett do you realize what you’ve done?! I can’t believe you’ve left the faith for this liberal tripe” and my answer is, yes. Yes, damn it. I know what I’ve done. I know much of my faith is Brett Tilford concocted tripe. But what I’m thinking in the back of my mind is this: the only thing worse than a stumbling bumbling – man trying his best to reach the divine – version of faith (aka liberal christianity) is a stumbling bumbling – man trying his best to reach the divine version of faith that doesn’t realize it’s stumbling and bumbling at all! (aka conservative evangelical christianity).

One idea I’m trying to communicate through all of this is that for me, the case is closed on the Protestant Evangelical Christianity of my youth. I’ll never return. As I stated above, this is for both intellectual and experiential reasons (this post focused on the experiential aspect but my previous and future posts will likely be intellectual so I’m trying to bring some balance).

So for now, although I realize it’s a weak faith and tentatively held, I’m content to attempt the construction of my liberal version of faith – knowing that for now – it’s all that stands between me and no Christianity at all.

The second is Historical Theology which was made to be read alongside the systematic book. This is filled with stories about why certain important theological people (Augustine, Calvin, Jonathan Edwards. etc.) came to the conclusions they did. Here are a few examples, which while overly simplistic, still echo the stories I read in the history book.

Martin Luther was a tortured monk, terrified by the thought that the justice of God would send him to hell, terrified that he couldn’t measure up – could never be good enough. It was from that psychological basis, for better and worse, that he embarked on his voyage to understand the book of Romans.

Jonathan Edwards was part of a revival that seemed to be completely out of his control – he just showed up and people started freaking out, repenting, and passing out. These experiences had a profound impact on his Reformed theology – a theology that emphasizes the sovereignty of God and minimizes the will of man, in the process of salvation.

Charles Finney was a revival preacher who worked hard at his craft. Unlike Edwards experience, people weren’t falling out of their seats begging to be saved from the get-go. They had to be persuaded and cajoled to come forward and participate in the workings of the Spirit. With these experiences in mind he tended to emphasize the will of man in the process of salvation.

All of these people read the Bible and attempted to base their theology on it, but clearly their experiences played a significant role in what parts they emphasized and how they interpreted those parts.

I think this is the reason systematic theology feels a bit suspect to me. I’m left wondering how we made the leap from messy narrative to pristine unquestionable truth. Reading the systematic book lends to overconfidence, until the history book rips back the curtain on the awe inspiring Mr. Oz of systematic theology. It’s then that I realize we’re all immersed in our own histories, struggles, and experiences and these have a profound impact on our theological reflections.