“Last week, members of the History Students’ Association were in the Concourse, selling t-shirts bearing the likeness of notorious dictators, underlined with what aspired to be a witty slogan. Joseph Stalin’s portrait was on a shirt with the words “got purge?” underneath.

Conspicuously absent was Adolf Hitler, the 20^th century’s other famous mustachioed tyrant. His absence from the collection of quasi-humorous shirts drove home for me what I consider to be one of the peculiar aspects of our culture’s way of speaking about history: jokes about the Little Mustache are verboten, but jokes about the Big Mustache are still thought to be funny. Yet, on the ledger of human devastation, these men have similarly swollen accounts.

I don’t write this letter out of offended sensibilities, or because I wish to see the imposition of some banal aura of political correctness on campus. Rather, I write this letter as a student of history and a Christian chaplain, which means I am manifestly aware of the tradition in which I work, with its inquisitions, its persecutions, and its supernumary dead. It would take a particularly glacial callousness for me to gloss over these facts, or, God forbid, to joke about them. Instead, I feel it is my purpose to shed light on this past, to give voice to the victims of persecution. Their blood, as the writer of Genesis would say, “cries out.”

To do this – to reckon with and reveal the horrors of the past – is to tell the truth about history, and telling the truth is the fundamental task of both the Christian and the historian. To sit in the Concourse, at a half-century’s remove from these events, and joke about them seemed to do precisely the opposite: instead of telling the truth about history, with requisite solemnity and reverence, a dark part of the past obscured by being warped into comedy. Historians, of all people, should know that some things just aren’t funny. Is this what passes for historical inquiry at Laurier? I’d like to think not. Surely, we can do better.”

This is the text of a letter that I wrote to The Cord Weekly, the student newspaper here at Laurier, regarding the sale of some t-shirts that were, shall we say, in bad taste. I decided at the last minute not to submit it to the Cord; I’d heard that they’d already seized the issue, and were preparing a number of other articles about the matter. In light of that, I thought my letter might be overkill. Also, I think that the students in the HSA are decent folk; I didn’t want to add to any public drubbing they might receive.

Word got out, though, that I had confronted the students and had a lengthy conversation with them about Russian history and the ethics of satirizing dark parts of our past. A reporter from the Cord dropped by my office to interview me for the paper’s story. The first question from the reporter was “What offended you about the shirts?” I was taken aback by the question, because I didn’t feel offended by the shirts. The shirts frustrated me, because I don’t think that there’s anything funny about 20 million dead people. The shirts saddened me, too, because I thought that aspiring historians should know better than to make light of people like Stalin. But I wasn’t offended.

I suppose I should have expected the line of questioning to begin on the assumption that I was offended. In my short time on these campuses, I’ve come to see that the concept of offense is an important one in determining the parameters or boundaries of acceptable discourse. The quality of ideas, or whether they’re reasonable or logical doesn’t seem to matter as much as whether they’re “inclusive” of a broad array of perspectives, sensibilities or identities. If ideas are deemed non-inclusive, they are pilloried as “offensive,” meaning they are bigoted, out-of-date, or at least wholly inappropriate.

I understand what an “inclusive” culture might look like: a place where people from divergent backgrounds and perspectives can live in relative harmony, without fear of persecution or violent reprisals directed at them because of their difference. I think that’s a beautiful thing – an aspiration toward shalom, even – and it can allow people to flourish and live abundantly.

But I’m not sure I can see how “inclusiveness” can be applied to the realm of ideas, of discourse, of the public square. Maybe I should make myself clearer: I’m not sure if it can be considered a legitimate qualifier for ideas, because every time I’ve seen it applied, it’s come in the form of censorship. There have been several occasions on this campus (and on other campuses where I’ve spent time) that I’ve seen moves to suppress ideas that are considered unfashionable, non-inclusive, or politically incorrect. And, in the midst of it all, I’ve found myself the unwitting champion of freedom of speech – not exactly a position for which Christians are famous advocates.

I feel like I need to articulate what I assume(d) to be an intellectual commonplace: freedom of expression applies to all ideas, even stupid ones. What is more: a university, of all places, should be a safe haven – a city of refuge – for ideas. But the censorship continues, and “freedom of speech” is mitigated by adjectives like “responsible” or “inclusive.”

I understand that ideas can hurt; I don’t like seeing people hurt by opinions, especially if those opinions come from an ignorant bully pulpit. But it seems that as long as people are allowed to make up their own minds we’re going to have differing opinions on whatever matter is at hand. And the most inclusive space of all is the space that allows these opinions to be articulated.

I write this not to present myself as a crusader for freedom of speech, but because I find myself in a process of finding my voice on these campuses. I hold some opinions that may not be “inclusive” (“Jesus is Lord” comes to mind), but their unpopularity is not a reason for me to keep my tongue behind my teeth – I still feel compelled to speak (what I see to be) the truth.

The question, now, for me, is this: How then shall I speak?