Sewell v. Metzger – The Tolerance of Intolerance meets The Intolerance of Tolerance – Part One

Some months ago I was party to a discussion regarding two blog posts. The first was by a luminary among Unitarian Universalists, the minister and writer Marilyn Sewell. (Her post, “Saying Goodbye to Tolerance,” is here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/saying-goodbye-to-tolerance_b_1976607.html) The second post was by our mutual friend, currently my doctoral program supervisor, Paul Louis Metzger. (His post, “Beyond Tolerance to Tenacious Love,” is here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/uncommongodcommongood/2012/11/beyond-tolerance-to-tenacious-love/) I remember at the time having the nagging feeling that something should be said about the irony inherent in the positions taken by each writer. But other discussions intervened, and I had a strong sense of being “out of my league,” were I to question well-respected, articulate, and (most intimidating to me) published authors.

"Wait, who's out of whose league?" he said.

Now, however, I am, perhaps, less humble, having recently been published in a peer-reviewed journal. (By invitation, no less! But there’s no need to belabor my fading humility.) Frankly, though, I would still consider this as “angels fear to tread” territory, were it not part of an assignment for that doctoral program. I have been asked to comment, specifically, on Dr. Metzger’s post. But in that post he recommends strongly a careful reading of Dr. Sewell’s post as well. In doing so, I believe I have identified what I found troubling in each during that previous discussion.

Metzger’s is the simpler conflict to identify. He writes, “I know of many adherents of various religious traditions, whether they be Buddhists, Muslims, Mormons, Hindus or Atheists who believe that their views best reflect ultimate reality and that my views are wrong. They are not morally culpable for holding their positions.” I believe that Metzger means that there is no moral failing represented by their contradictory position toward his beliefs. For them to believe as they do is, consequently, to oppose his beliefs wherever they diverge from their own. What is troubling to me is that I keep reading into his statement that they are not morally culpable for the beliefs they choose to hold. And, with that (which is, potentially, my own misinterpretation of Metzger’s position), I disagree.

Dr. Paul Louis Metzger: Tolerant Evangelical

I hold firmly, as I believe that Metzger does, that one is morally compelled to act in accordance with their beliefs. Therefore, in their perspective that Metzger is wrong, those he references are not morally culpable, but merely being morally consistent in the application of their beliefs in “an ultimate reality” that they hold is contrary to Metzger’s beliefs in a differing ultimate reality. But I also hold, as it seems Metzger would reject, that there is a moral component to the beliefs one develops or adopts. Logical consistency, historical accuracy, practical application, and societal implications are all part and parcel of the moral obligations carried into forming our beliefs, as well as those which stem from our beliefs.

It is in this light that I recognize what it is about Dr. Sewell’s post that troubles me. I can fully support her assertion that her beliefs compel her to “reject this tradition” (i.e., “conservative Christianity”) since she believes “those who teach it and preach it are doing great harm, and I in no way wish to be an ally.” Yet only because Christianity represents the dominant cultural influence over the society in which she lives can her position be defended against charges of being a “perpetuation of prejudice and hate,” as she claims against Christians who live in accordance with their conservative theology.

Dr. Marilyn Sewell: Intolerant Unitarian Universalist

In developing her beliefs about evangelical Christianity, she assembles some assumptions and stereotypes that, she admits, directly contradict her own empirical experience of an ongoing friendship with “a professor at a local conservative evangelical seminary” (she means Dr. Metzger). She rightly points out the irony of being “a liberal who is closed, in a relationship with a theologically conservative evangelical who is open.” The additional irony she intends is well-founded, too. She is expressing her intolerance for what she concludes is intolerance, despite her experience of something other than intolerance in those she accuses of intolerance. She cites some distinctly intolerant Christians in support of her claims. But what are we left to make of the intolerance of a Unitarian Universalist? May we make the same broadly sweeping generalizations about her tradition, on the basis of one minister’s attitude? Unitarian Universalism, according to Dr. Sewell, claims to “respect all religious beliefs.” The sole exception, as she explains, is the rejection of the beliefs of those who see a moral culpability in developing and adopting those beliefs as well as for the behaviors that stem from those beliefs.

In the next couple of posts, I will look first at Dr. Sewell’s specific assumptions and stereotypes, and then address the fatal flaw in her argument in favor of rejecting those whose “covert permission is being given to those inclined to act violently on their prejudices.” To be sure, beliefs have consequences (unless they are merely a dilettante’s dalliances, in which case they should not be honorably labeled as “beliefs”). But just as she charges against conservative Christians, there are consequences to the position Dr. Sewell promotes here, and those consequences include their fair share of violence as well.

Standing in the Intersection: Ambassadors in the Traffic

At the risk of oversimplification: ambassadors are defined by a two-fold responsibility. First, they must develop and maintain relationships among those to whom they are sent. Second, they must also hold unswervingly to the values and message entrusted to them by those from whom they are sent. As one called to be a Christian ambassador (II Corinthians 5:20), this is complicated by the absence of diplomatic relations between the kingdom that sends me (I Peter 2:9-10) and the overarching government under which any other allegiances are organized (“the whole world” as explained in I John 5:19-21). We often express this as the challenge of being in the world, while not becoming of the world.

This past Saturday, privileged to observe the groundbreaking of the Dharma Rain Zen Center’s new facilities in Portland, Oregon, I stood somewhere in the intersection of those two responsibilities. My vantage point was not from the curb of the corner, but amidst the traffic flowing in several directions simultaneously.

On the one hand, I was anxious over the potential for inadvertently offending my hosts, especially since I was there as a guest of a guest (Dr. Paul Louis Metzger, head of the Cultural Engagement track in Multnomah’s DMin program was one of the featured dignitaries). On the other, however, I was anxious over the potential for participating in some portion of the festivities that might inadvertently communicate an adherence or agreement to the philosophy and spirituality of Zen Buddhism. One particular episode may illustrate that sufficiently for you:

After watching the rituals and listening to the mantras, hearing a few of the explanations offered (outdoor sound system difficulties are among the experiences Christians and Buddhists share, apparently), members of Dharma Rain moved throughout the assembled crowd, distributing paper cups. Recognizing that this would be a part of the ceremony, and having no idea what it may symbolize, I declined. And then another asked, and I declined again. Having watched me say, “No, thank you” three times, the fourth in our area offered again, saying, “But it’s just birdseed.” I have some ideas about what it means to throw birdseed, or rice, or confetti (though at our church, amidst fields of wild rice and vegan cattle, it would only be organic, biodegradable confetti). But the risk of offending my hosts collided with my allegiance to a pure message of my Lord—because there wasn’t time to merge, or swerve, or diplomatically inquire as to what was intended as the significance of birdseed throwing in this context. Thankfully, she seemed only puzzled and there was no diplomacy-breaching incident. But I feel strongly the need to learn from even this brief and otherwise inconsequential experience.

I want to commend to you and myself the value of standing in the intersection, fully recognizing both elements of our responsibility in being ambassadors for Christ: authenticity in representing my Sovereign, and as much accommodation of my hosts as is possible. In doing this, I believe there may be two outcomes, eventually, of this continuing endeavor. It may be, as one outcome, that I may become acclimated to the pace of the traffic and better equipped to respond more quickly in determining what it means to honor the relationships I am to build and the relationship I am called to represent. The other outcome, however, may be naïvely ambitious. But if I learn how to stand in the intersection well enough, I may slow the traffic, or at least be better prepared to turn some portions of that world toward the King who sends me into it.

Because no matter how accommodating I am to those under that other, oppressive umbrella comprising their subsidiary allegiances, my Sovereign-assigned mission is to seek their reconciliation with Him. There won’t always be time to sort through the data, to draw upon resources for cultural literacy, or even to simply ask for clarification. And so, when they conflict, the authenticity of representing my Sovereign must take precedence over my accommodation of my hosts.

The Misery of Company Promised and Withheld

Let me apologize to the entire Greater Portland Metropolitan Area’s inhabitants up front: I’m an outsider. An envious outsider at that. There are aspects of Portland, Oregon that remind me of the fondest of my memories of being an adolescent (with no apologies to Mark Driscoll for using that term—maybe we could talk sometime?) in San Francisco during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Yet there has been a significant passage of time since I last dwelt in an urban area, or even a moderate-density population area (i.e., suburb). Truth be told: the other day I was thrilled with myself that I still remembered how to successfully parallel park.

With that said, I think I may have advantages in anthropological and sociological distance, but severe liabilities when it comes to my few samples of “Life in Portland” over the past few years. Still, I believe my observations have some value, if not actual merit, and they have proven instructive to me for a specific purpose in my life and ministry. Perhaps you’ll be able to plow through the potentially offensive mistaken impressions I’ve gleaned, and recognize that there is some validity to the conclusion I’ve drawn, despite the faulty lenses through which my limited data is viewed. If you find the length too daunting, though, you can skip down to the paragraph that begins: “So, in short….”

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 It shows up in a variety of places here: “Keep Portland Weird.” I’m in town studying issues related to diversity, and it’s a perfect place to do so. There appears to be little to which the adjectives common, normal, average, or (especially) ordinary would apply. There’s even concern expressed over another concept, “Portland Cool,” as though that would become a standardizing commodification (branding, packaging, and promoting a static paradigm) of some aspects of Portland Weird. In fact, even if all aspects of Portland Weird as it exists today were included in Portland Cool, it would fail to account for new and stranger developments yet to come, perhaps as early as tomorrow, or even later tonight.

Here’s how I came to be at the intersection of Portland Weird and Portland Cool today.

First, as I drove to the church in which I chose to worship today, I determined not to arrive in the full array of clergy vestments current to my tradition. And so, my shirt had long sleeves, and it was tucked into my pants. I even wore a tie, as I do every Sunday. While this successfully differentiated me from all participants on the worship team, it was also unique among the several hundred who attended that worship hour. This, coupled with my age (I’m significantly outside the 18-34 year old demographic.), may have created a kind of anthropological distance in others, turning them toward either observation or avoidance mode. (Xenophobia is discussed in a previous post.)

Second, however mistaken my perception may be (that I managed to dress outside the range of what is acceptable under “Portland Weird”), I did experience “Portland Cool.” Thankfully, there was ample room within this church’s meeting place. I admit to taking up all of the one seat in which I sit (though the weight loss continues to go well). But the buffer zone of several seats in either direction, extending as it did into the rows before and behind me, might also play a part in seeking to ensure that similar visitors never return. There simply wouldn’t be room to allow the same size boundaries to be drawn around more than a handful of visitors in any given service.

As you read this, I would agree with your reasonable conclusion that I am a nitpicking whiner. My inadequate justification (that, on those very few Sundays when I have respite from my responsibilities, I want the excellent experience offered on the websites of the churches I carefully research) is exactly that: inadequate. The grace I hope God extends me through visitors to the congregation I serve is sometimes in short supply through me when I am the visitor. When my needs to simply participate among a congregation in which I hold no leadership responsibilities—when these are condensed into only three or four Sundays a year, I can tend to expect a great deal more than is possible in any one service. And this service held a great deal of blessing, and some truly extraordinary elements of great importance to me. It should have been a simple matter to overlook the perceptible distancing and the sideways glances. And I believe it would have been, if only…

If only the first words spoken directly to me by another human being were not, “Excuse me,” as they moved past during the communion service. And if only the last words, “Good morning” as I was leaving, hadn’t been followed by an immediate turn to say the same to another. And if only there had been any other words spoken to me at all by anyone, except those spoken to the congregation of which I was, most definitely, not a part. (And, frankly, my perceptions would have been kinder if only I hadn’t been left to research and mapquest a congregation for myself. If only there had been any invitation to any church by any one of the dozens of Christians with whom I had interacted during the prior week…I might have been feeling more gracious.)

So, in short, there appears to be a limit to the range available in Portland Weird, at least within one congregation that is seeking to identify with a more indigenous (and/or younger, and/or untucked) population. And yet there seemed to be a perfectly fulfilled breadth to Portland Cool, at least where it applies to the attitudes of Christians toward…well, not the weird, of course. Maybe just toward me.

And it’s that conclusion that I believe is absolutely untenable.

I was greatly blessed by my experience at this church, despite the issues I raise above. But I say all this as a reminder to myself, for repentance beginning next Sunday, when I return to where it is that I am, still—after ten years—in many ways, weird. (We mostly tuck our shirts in. But there are only two of us who regularly wear ties.) In the other blessings of this morning’s worship service, for the tangible presence of Christ in that body, for the demonstration during the announcements of what some consider the third ordinance (church planting) in addition to the celebration of the Lord’s table, and numerous baptisms…I came away feeling like I had been touched by the very grace of Christ, spoken to by His Spirit, and reminded, and even deepened, in my experience of the Father’s love. But I also came away feeling like my brothers and sisters in Christ were at least indifferent to me, and perhaps even averse to whatever my age and attire represented to them.

But here’s what bothers me most: I know that there are those who have left services in which they have worshiped with the congregation I love like life itself…facing similar experiences, and carrying the same concerns about us.

May God help me, it won’t happen again.

A Treatment for Xenophobia

As I previously promised, here’s a little more on xenophobia (fear, and even hatred, of anything strange or foreign). The anxiety of possibly offending, being offended, or worse, often allow us to buttress our avoidance of “The Strange,” despite the clear benefits of pursuing greater, deeper community with a wide range of other individuals and groups. At the moment, I am embarking on a wonderful new challenge…from which I feel compelled to flee, simply because it is unfamiliar.

In my last post I mentioned that asking questions is a key component to letting others guide and tutor us into an understanding of their circumstances, thus diminishing the possibility of offense and its consequences. Sometimes that requires us to ask those questions of many individuals before we find someone who will even answer us. But there’s reason to persevere. Here’s why.

I’m familiar with the techniques of some of our missionaries serving “creative-access countries.” These are places where great risk accompanies any admission of Christian faith, much less any activities that may be considered proselytizing. In these environments, missionaries hope to find a “man of peace.” (Luke 10:6) This is one whose hospitality allows them to learn and adapt to the culture of a particular group or village. The relationship with this one person can become the basis for some excellent service to the entire community, where there might be little or no response to less patient approaches.

For you to understand how important a “man of peace” can be, even in a very mild case of xenophobia (my personal anxieties over the strange and new experience of my doctoral program), let me share some of the contrasts I’ve faced the past day or two.

The Familiar: At home, I have to drive more than twenty miles from home to stop at a stoplight. From Fall River Mills, the Glenburn Road goes to Glenburn. From there, the McArthur Road goes to McArthur. Everything else is along Highway 299. If you want to get lost, you have to go off-road to do it.

The Strange: Here in Portland, despite the fact that you could drive in almost any direction and still have pavement beneath your wheels, I’m always on the wrong side of some river, usually because I’ve missed an interchange or exit.

The Familiar: I have served ten years in a small rural congregation in Northern California where I am usually the solo, and only occasionally the senior pastor. Our most recent electronics purchase was a laser printer almost five years ago.

The Strange: Among those in the program are pastors and leaders of sophisticated structures in large, multi-staff urban and suburban churches who regularly incorporate the latest technologies in their service to Christ and others. (On two walls of the classroom are eight-foot flat screens showing our fellow students from another campus engaged in the same discussions and lectures with us.)

The Familiar: After a bachelor’s and two master’s degrees, I am well-acquainted with the expectations and intrigues of my alma mater. Though I am, at times, dismayed, the dysfunctions are at least consistent.

The Strange: Nothing in this new environment has been quite according to expectations yet, and some of the developments (Dr. John Perkins’ illness, for one) are upsetting as well as unsettling.

Now, in the midst of all this strange, the familiar here has a name: Dr. Paul Louis Metzger. We became acquainted when he served as an adjunct professor in my second master’s program. He was the first to introduce to me the possibility of pursuing this doctorate through this university. And he’s heading up the track in which I’m enrolled. In several meanings of the word, he is a man of peace. And I know that as I find more questions, he’ll patiently help to reinforce the bridge between what I so comfortably already know and do, and the next section of strange to which God is calling me.

In Defense of Xenophobia

On one of my first few days in High School, three slightly older teenagers approached and asked if wanted to “buy some grass.” I declined. “Then you must already have some,” they reasoned, “so give it to us.” I didn’t have any, but I caught on to their assumption. This wasn’t just a stairwell, but a marketplace of sorts. So I turned to leave. They objected. I probably had some cash on me, they decided, and it shouldn’t go with me. When two of them tried to take hold of me, I remembered a tutorial on bullying I had received in Junior High School.

The primary lesson had been, “You don’t have to win a fight with a bully. Just hurt them; they’ll bully someone else next time.” Among the corollaries, however, was this axiom: “If there’s more than one, hit the biggest one first. Hurt that one, and the others lose interest.” That was the corollary I applied.

Surprisingly, at the time, having applied those “rules of engagement,” taught to me earlier in Southwest Ohio, I now faced unintended negative consequences at my school in San Francisco. I was now a member of one of many minorities, rather than the white majority. And nearby were many more “persons of color” (a term I’d recently learned) than any of my fellow “Dumb White Boys,” as I was being called. (As in, “Hey! Come get hold of this Dumb White Boy!”)

To be clear, though, I was not attacked because I was White. Nor was it because I was a Boy (although females of the “wrong” ethnicity were subjected to other, more severe behavior). The direct cause of my altercation was being Dumb. And I still am. I’m capable of learning from experience, and blessed with an excellent and continuing education. But there were basic rights and wrongs of which I was entirely ignorant.

I was in the wrong place, and slow to notice. My former rules of engagement were obsolete in this new environment. The tribal contracts that apparently require defense of any fellow member of your minority were not as binding among Dumb White Boys. And, despite having effectively discouraged the primary threat (the big guy in the middle), I could not have imagined how many reinforcements would gladly “Come get hold of this Dumb White Boy.”

This episode came to remembrance this morning amidst a bout of xenophobia (fear, and even hatred, of anything strange or foreign). I’ll say more about that later, but for now here’s what I’m recognizing. I have learned to be in strange places. I have also learned that in many of those places I am “The Strange.” I believe much is to be gained by more quickly recognizing how very unfamiliar we all are to one another. But sometime in the past several decades, I’ve grown accustomed to overcoming those anxieties by asking questions.

Who knows how disarming it would have been for a Dumb White Boy to ask, “Isn’t this the way to the second floor? Or is it just for drug dealing?” The outcome (a loose tooth and a couple of bruises) may have been the same. Perhaps even worse. But more often than not, I’ve found that asking questions about the circumstances others are facing allows them to bridge the gap between the familiar and strange (both theirs and mine) by becoming my guide, my tutor—the one who informs me of their perspective, and maybe even their fears (if not their hatred).

Like I said, there’s more to say. But for now, I plan to honor my xenophobia as a reminder to ask questions, and to thus overcome my anxieties about all these people I don’t know by letting them become my guide into their lives. Maybe in doing so, they’ll give me a chance to explain my strangeness to them as well.