No Doubt? No Thanks!
Brian Bork
Laurier Chaplain
There’s a story in the New Testament where Jesus happens upon a man whose son is afflicted with terrifying convulsions. The man is, understandably, quite distraught. Jesus, enigmatic as ever, tells him that his son will be healed, if he has faith. The man, in response, cries out “I have belief! Help my unbelief!”
I love the man’s response, because I think it captures an essential quality of the life of faith: that it is mingled with doubt. This might not be obvious, given the way people talk about faith these days. On one hand, there’s a whole host of “New Atheist” types who misinterpret faith as something “blind” – untroubled by countervailing evidence, and free of those doubting dark nights of the soul. On the other hand, I often run into Christians who are excessively rationalistic, relying on empirical or positivistic foundations for their belief. Of course, faith and reason are, in many respects, good friends; in fact, they depend on each other. Yet it seems a certain segment of the faithful are looking to remove doubt and equivocation by positing overly-rational justification for belief.
I don’t think that I’m any less committed than they are to the great claims of Christianity. But I can’t declare – at least in a way that would satisfy a fastidious lab assistant – that there’s empirical proof for them. In fact, I think I would do my faith a disservice by trying to do so. To argue that my deepest beliefs are at core empirically demonstrable also makes them vulnerable to empirical critique.
I do, however, think I understand the impulse to want to have rational or empirical “proof” for faith. Doubt can be a brutal adversary, a faith-killer, the very thing that keeps you sleepless during those dark nights of the soul. Yet maybe the potential exists for doubt to be put to good use, to actually have some sort of positive effect in a life of faith. I’m coming to terms with the idea that I need to make doubt my friend, because as far as I can tell, it’s always going to be with me, so we might as well get along.
I’ve heard that Fyodor Dostoevsky claimed his faith was “formed in a great furnace of doubt.” I’ve always liked that claim, for its eloquence, but also for the comfort I get from knowing that one of the most luminously intelligent Christians wrestled with doubt. It makes me feel better about my own seasons where I’m unable to shake off the skepticism. I’ve always taken Dostoevsky’s “furnace” metaphor as a description of the pain of doubt – how it can burn intensely and unrelieved – and I imagine that’s the way he meant for it to be understood. But perhaps there’s another way to look at it. Maybe the fire that forged Dostoevsky’s hosannas was not just the agony of doubt, but the refiner of faith. Perhaps the flames of doubt fuelled the questions that pared down the nonessentials of his faith, and all the idols, the superstitions, the insipid metaphysical excess was melted away. Perhaps it was in that furnace of doubt that his faith was refined to something much more pure – a new, genuine faith rising from the ashes of the old one.
I have to admit I’m a bit uncomfortable with where this line of thought takes me, because doubt often does lead to a complete loss of faith. Then again, there are many kinds of faith, Christian or otherwise, that ought to be lost. There are many instances where unbelief may be preferable, because at least unbelief – when it is not dogmatic or fundamentalist as some forms of belief – leaves room for the possibility that something may grow in the absence. And, in the midst of doubt, I hold fast to the faith that something good can grow there.
I’m sure many of you experience your time at university to be one where your intellectual horizons are greatly expanded. This is wonderful, for so many reasons, but there’s definitely the danger that it can lead to a scorching case of know-it-all-ism. So whether you’re a New Atheist, an overly-rationalistic believer, or just confident that you’ve got it all figured out, may your certainty be shaken by tremors of doubt. I’d say that a little doubt is exactly what a bunch of know-it-alls need.

I love a good student newspaper. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of ‘em out there, but the Cord at Laurier is a great one. They’ve  a great vision for what a student newspaper can be, and the quality of the writing is often quite high.

They’ve generously granted me column space this year – I get to write about religious and spiritual matters on a monthly basis. Writing about Christianity in a very basic way has been fun and refreshing; it’s a challenge to get solid and distinct Christian ideas across in a jargon-free way, without resorting to cliches and platitudes. It’s also great to be able to write in a distinctively Christian way, which happens contrary to the expectations of a lot of people on campus. In my brief time here, I’ve noticed that many people think of the chaplain as a “generic holyman,” who exists to promote and articulate all faiths. I’m not sure why that’s the assumption — maybe it has to do with that subtly hegemonic way in which secularism tries to boil distinctions down into a universally palatable mush. Regardless, I’ve made it clear that I’m going to write from a Christian perspective, because I am Christian. Identity politics are huge on campus, and because of that, I think people are starting to understand that it’s ok for religious people to speak out of their particularity, too.

Wednesday’s issue of the Cord has a religious focus, and there are a few students from various faith backgrounds writing on why they are members of their respective faiths. The editor asked me to write the Christian version of the article. “Why I’m a Christian,” in 700 words – now there’s a challenge. I’m not sure I answered that question, but here’s what I wrote:

Christianity: It’s All In the Imagination
Brian Bork – Laurier Chaplain

I remember in the wake of Bill Maher’s film “Religulous,” a few non-Christian colleagues said something of this sort to me: “I don’t like how Maher picks on religious people. If religious people get some sort of comfort from their beliefs, then they should be left alone.” Part of me wanted to say “thanks for the support,” but mostly it chafed a little to hear sentiments like this. I think they implicitly suggested that faith is just a sort of magical thinking, an artifact of a timid imagination, dreamt up by people who just can’t handle the grim thought of someday being dead and buried.
As far as I can tell, my faith isn’t a fantasy conjured by my imagination to give me comfort in an indifferent universe. I like to think I can share Marilynne Robinson’s sentiment when she writes “I felt God as a presence before I had a name for him, and long before I knew words like ‘faith’ or ‘belief.’” My sense of God’s reality has been abiding and genuine, even amid seasons of doubt. I understand that this all may sound like runaway intuition, but I’ve come to trust myself in this matter, and through my life, it’s grown more and more familiar and sturdy, even though as an object, God remains ultimately mysterious.
God is much more than a figment of the imagination, yet I’d say that Christianity is all about the imagination, just not in the make-believe sense of that word. Christianity requires an imaginative vision of reality – it requires a way of seeing, of perceiving the true nature of the existential backdrop of our lives. Christianity isn’t unique in this regard, because all of us, in one way or another, make assumptions about the underlying structure of reality.  But it’s the character of the Christian imaginative vision that makes it stick out in a culture where individualism, consumerism, and scientific fundamentalism are assumed to constitute reality. In a self-centred age, Christianity stands out sharply in declaring that the truth of the human condition is found not in the accumulation of wealth and prestige, but in the body of a tortured and crucified political dissident. Against the idols of rationality and the intellect (which have a natural home the university), it claims that God uses the foolish to shame the wise. In a culture where a popular career aspiration is to be “rich and famous,” it claims that it is the meek who will inherit the earth, that it is the poor who are blessed, and that the rich will be turned away empty-handed. In an age that prizes personal autonomy and individual liberty, it declares that true freedom is found in dependence on God and neighbour.
These things culminate in the most imaginative portion of the Christian vision, which is resurrection. Christians see the world through the lens of resurrection, which means that not only do they believe that Jesus Christ was once dead, and now lives, but that this resurrection is a sign post of a new age. It’s resurrection that has ushered in the real new world order, where life, abundance, and flourishing is what is hoped for, though at times unseen. That means that even though the world seems fraught with death, division, hatred, inequality and discord, that this isn’t the truth of the matter. When war and violence are justified because “that’s the world we live in,” Christians declare that no, indeed the world is not that way, because things have changed. And because they’ve changed, the possibility exists for humanity to live like things are truly different. This is how Christians see the world, in view of the resurrection.
Much of this is counterintuitive, and even quite scandalous, especially to folks who excel at being self-centered, individualistic, and vindictive. The Christian imaginative vision is a ruthless adversary of all human vanity and pretension. That’s probably why it is often reduced to mere metaphor, or a list of platitudes, or just ignored altogether, by the very people who call themselves Christian. It takes a great feat of the imagination to see the world as it truly is, and even greater courage, wisdom, and sagacity to live into that reality.

Some Thoughts at the End of My First Year of Campus Ministry

Brian Bork :: April 2009

It hasn’t quite been a calendar year since I started as campus minister at WLU and UW, but a whole academic year has passed. I have to admit that it seems a little strange to be reflective after what is a relatively brief amount of time; everything still feels new. I feel that whatever conclusions I can make will be tentative, scrawled in new cement, subject to change over the summer, or early next fall. I suppose that’s the way it goes with this sort of work.

From the outset, I conceived of this year as a time to get to know the culture of the two campuses. Doing so has been a challenge, but also a great deal of fun. The two campuses are separated by a couple of kilometers on University Ave., but there’s an even greater cultural divide between the two. Laurier is the politically-active school with a humanities and business focus, where students talk more about their volunteer work in various student clubs than they do about their school work. That’s not to say they aren’t studious, it’s just that extra-curricular activity seems to drive them as much as their classes do. It’s a smaller school, both in terms of the size of the campus, and of the student body (though from what I hear, the population has exploded as of late). That leads to a more intimate feel on campus – it’s rare to walk across campus and not run into someone I know, even after spending just a few months here. Because of the small campus, there are also space concerns – my office is an old bedroom in a residence hall, shared with two chaplains and some coordinators from the Women’s Centre. Occasional claustrophobia aside, working in close proximity with other people has been a great way to get to know the campus and its culture, and to participate in the work of other student organizations.

UW is a comparative giant. The campus is immense, and there is definitely a feeling of anonymity when I walk the halls. The students work really hard, and I get the sense from them that they all feel that a lot is riding on their performance. There’s also this thing called the “Co-op” program, where students spend one of their terms per year off campus, working in an industry or office related to their course of study. The Co-op program puts the student body in a constant state of flux, even more than the normal two semester/summer off schedule does. I met a lot of students this fall at UW; by winter quarter, more than two thirds of them were gone on Co-op. This will take some “getting used to” down the road.

I do have a great space on campus, though, in the Student Life Centre. It’s a large office that I’ve been turning into something of a living room as of late (better lighting, comfier seating, coffee maker). Students stop by every Tuesday afternoon for tea and conversation, and it’s been great to see how they feel welcome and comfortable there. Campus ministry can’t bloom without strong relationships with students, and without generous hospitality, those relationships have little to support them initially.

When I started back in mid-August, I assumed that Laurier would be my “home base” of ministry. It was the home base of my predecessor, and I assumed that it made good sense to keep it that way (pledging equal allegiance to two campuses would be like doing so for two churches, or two families; not the easiest task). I found as of late that I’m feeling called to UW. It’s easier to be visible presence at UW, especially since my office is in a highly trafficked area. There are great facilities nearby the office for group meetings, and that sort of thing. I’ve recently also begun to cultivate a relationship with David Johnston, the President of UW, and a devout Anglican who has a heart for campus ministry. I trust that the relationship will bear fruit down the road.

There’s also the compelling fact that there are far more Christian Reformed students at UW. Calvin and Redeemer etc. are competition for Laurier in a way that they’re not for UW (if you’re interested in the humanities, Calvin is as good a place as Laurier. If you’re interested in being an engineer or a physicist, UW is the obvious choice). I don’t conceive of my ministry as being solely directed toward the CRC students, of course, but I am loyal to and commissioned by that denomination, so I feel I should be where its action is, so to speak.

It’s been a great joy to get to know the Christian Reformed students at UW (and the handful I know at Laurier). I feel like there’s a natural affinity between us – no doubt, shared world views and assumptions make good conversation possible. Of course, before the good conversation happens, I have to convince them that I’m not the grim pastor, checking into their lives and tallying up their church attendance so I can report it back to the home office. Once they know that that sort of thing isn’t why I’m there, the relationship feels easy. I’ve had great conversations about theology (I’ve three students who want to study the Heidelberg Catechism with me this summer), about discipleship (the drinking culture of the U. comes up often), and the way that faith integrates with intellectual inquiry (and intellectual integrity). As of late, some students have sought me out for more pastoral issues, relating to the anxieties caused by the pressures of University life, or the perils of romantic relationships. Of course, I don’t wish adversity on any of my students, but it does gladden my heart to know that the relationship I’ve developed with them is worthy of these sorts of conversations.

It’s been a great joy to get to know the non-Christian students at Laurier. I’ve felt for some time that my work at Laurier is a bit of a “mission amongst the gentiles,” and it’s been great to grow into that role, since prior to this, I wasn’t exactly a model student of the Great Commission. I’ve had the opportunity to develop working relationships with people in the Office for Student Diversity, the WLU Student Union, the Women’s Centre, and the student publications. I’ve had two students tell me that they “don’t get this whole young chaplain thing.” I’m not exactly sure what they mean by this, but I assume that they’re pleased that I’m not Jerry Falwell, and surprised that I’m not a vaguely-Christian Unitarian type. My opinion has been sought out in the pages of the Cord Weekly (the Laurier student paper – I was featured three times in one issue), and I was asked to be a founding member of LMAC (Laurier Men Advocating Change – a group that seeks to challenge the cultural assumptions of masculinity). I was even volunteered to be a part of a panel discussion on “Supporting Love at Laurier,” sponsored by the Rainbow Centre, just before Valentine’s day. I still don’t know who volunteered me to be a part of the discussion, but I’m glad they did. The panel was composed of folks from nearly every alternative sexual expression you could imagine, and then there was Christian Reformed me, at the end of the table. It was actually a very profitable discussion – no doubt, there’s a vast difference between a Christian sexual ethic, and the sort of ethic practiced and discussed at the university these days. But it was great to be able to articulate what I feel is so compelling about a Christian sexual ethic, and to be able to do so without relying on the authority of the church, or reverting to a suspicion about pleasure that seems to plague these sorts of conversations. Christian thought about sexuality was certainly a hard sell to the audience, but after the discussion I stuck around for nearly an hour, talking with students who wanted to tell me stories of being raised in Christian homes and struggling with faith as young adults.

I’m not sure what the summer will bring for the ministry. Laurier turns into a ghost town over the summer, but UW is more or less year-round, so I’m hoping to create some sort of fellowship over there, starting in May. I’ve big hopes for the fall, too, and I’ve a collection of plans, dreams and hopeful schemes that I’m praying will take off. I’m hoping to start a graduate fellowship between the two campuses, and I expect that my faculty/staff breakfast book club will continue. I’ve been working toward setting up a “Soup and Speaker” series at UW, where I can integrate food, faith and fellowship. Two students have signed on to help me with the project, and I hope to reward them with an “Emerging Leadership” grant from Home Missions. I’m also cultivating the discipline of remaining open to the prompting of the Holy Spirit. It’s been amazing to see the ways in which thoughts and dreams have popped into my head over the year, especially at times when I feel the ministry was stuck in a rut. I’ve taken to calling those bursts of inspiration “God moments.” God is faithful, no doubt. But God is also apparently fond of surprises, showing up when you least expect him. And God often shows up with people in tow. There have been several occasions where I’ve started to feel a little lonely on campus, and it has often been the case that when I allow myself to feel that way for too long, someone pops by the office unexpectedly, or sends me an email, looking to set up a coffee conversation. A couple of weeks ago, I was walking around the Student Life Centre at UW, and a student came up to me: “hey, you’re the new chaplain, right?” I didn’t know who he was, but for some reason he recognized me. These things happen more often than I expected them too, and I’m grateful for each time they do.

Patience is certainly a virtue in this line of work. If you don’t have it from the outset, you’ll quickly learn to develop it. A good deal of knowledgeable folks told me that it will take three years for this ministry to completely blossom. You’d think after hearing that several times that I’d get the hint. Still, I find myself wanting things to happen, to take off, and I get a little impatient when they don’t. I’ve even jumped the gun on a couple occasions, I’m sure. Last fall I tried to start a book discussion group with some students, and it fizzled out in the new year. I should have waited a little bit – given a little while, the relationships I had with the students would have been stronger, and I think that would have given the endeavor a little more endurance. Campus ministry seems to be a weird mixture of waiting and action. I think I’m getting the hang of it.

In the times that I feel a little impatient or anxious, I’ve found a lot of support. My committee has been wonderfully open and supportive of my ideas and my efforts, and I’m really grateful for that. I feel supported by Waterloo CRC, and have had warm receptions at every church where I’ve had the privilege to preach. If I haven’t been around your way yet, I hope to drop by soon.

I’ve no doubt that I’m in the right place – campus ministry is where I ought to be, and a number of supporters, colleagues, and friends have told me so. But I’m also feeling the abiding presence of God when I’m on these campuses, and take much comfort in the knowledge that somehow this little fledgling ministry of mine is working into the mystery of God’s providential scheme for these schools.

Outside my office at UW, I’ve affixed an orange plastic envelope to the window, with a label reading: “Free Provocative Ideas.” Every time I’m in my office, I stuff it full of essays, poems, and other printable musings I come across on my daily hyperspace jaunt.

I suppose I could save paper, and just email the links around to people who I think would be interested in what I’ve come across. But people (especially students) have enough to read these days (whether they read enough is another issue), and I think those emails would more or less just be ignored.

I think the envelope works better, because it allows the potential reader to take the initiative — instead of receiving didactic “you oughta read this” emails from me, it allows her to take or leave the essay. It’s less “in your face,” I guess. Plus, there’s far more pleasure in holding what you’re reading, as opposed to squinting your way through the computer’s flickering refresh rate.

The things I stick in envelope always disappear, and I’m probably going to go through a lot of ink trying to keep up. A few good conversations have been birthed by the essays, too, and I’m hoping there’ll be more. The folks I share the office with tell me that people stop by from time to time, asking for more.

One of the mainstays of the “Provocative Ideas” envelope are the “Ten Propositions” of Kim Fabricius. Fabricius is a campus minister in Swansea, England, and from time to time composes these propositions, usually numbered 10, about theological matters. They’re published over at the fantastic “Faith and Theology” blog.

I imagine that most people who read this aren’t often on the UW campus, so I’d encourage you to check out these lively and splendid little homilies on the web. If you do happen to come by my office some day, I’d be happy to chat more about them. Coffee is always on me.

Today things are still a little quiet on campus, as most students seem to be walking around with syllabus shock and that dazed look that comes from realizing Christmas break is over. But it’s good to be back on campus, and I’m looking forward to what this semester has in store.  It almost feels like I’m starting over in a lot of ways, especially in my work at UW. Most of the students I got to know there last semester have left campus for a co-op term, and won’t be back until the end of April.

I’ve come to learn that the campus parish is in constant flux: people are always coming or going. I suppose “normal” churches have their own ebb and flow, too, but it’s probably rare that half the community takes off for the semester. If seasons have their rhythms, then campus life must be polyrhythmic – the meter of the academic year moves alongside that of the church year. That can be a little jarring, especially for those of us who want to keep time with both.

Still, the time off over Christmas was great. A lot of it was spent reading:

Young, Restless, Reformed by Collin Hansen. I saw an ad for this book in Books and Culture and was intrigued by the title. I suppose I’m still young, and I’m Reformed, and I’ve had my bouts with restlessness, so I thought I might find some commiseration in the book. As it turns out, the book is an extended treatment of what is ostensibly a new subculture in protestant churches in America: the young Calvinist. The book grew out of a 2006 article Hansen wrote for Christianity Today about the growing interest in Reformed theology among folks in their early twenties.  The article was infamous in my West Michigan circles, because it contained a dismissive quote from John Piper about Grand Rapids (and presumably about the CRC and Calvin College). There’s a lot to like about this new Reformed subculture, but I think there’s even  more to be wary of. Expect a more extended treatment of the book on this blog soon.

Pagan Christianity, by Frank Viola and George Barna. Normally I reserve my dismissive criticism for John Shelby Spong, but this is a dreadful book. Barna and Viola seek to show that most of what we consider to be “Christian” practice is, in fact, a contamination of the New Testament ideal by pagan ideas. Things like church buildings, clergy, seminaries, and infant baptism are not properly Christian, and they have less than noble roots. I’m not sure how prevalent these ideas are among Christians, but I’ve heard at least a couple of students articulate something similar to me this fall. I suppose there’s something seductive about such thinking, seeing how it’s transgressive and all, and I’m sure some of these ideas are to be expected in light of some of the excesses of the institutional church. But to articulate them in a book like this – one that makes a mockery of logic and is historically naieve – doesn’t really help the case of the authors. If you do end up reading the book, make sure you check out Ben Witherington’s review (it’s in four parts, and almost as long as the book itself).

The Beauty of the Infinite by David Bentley Hart. I understand about half of this book, but the parts I can grasp leave me in a swoon. Hart is amazing; a man of peerless erudition, wonderful prose, and theological acuity. He gives a hard time to all the right people (Tillich, Bultmann, Gore Vidal, even dear old Calvin), and has helped me understand more about Gregory of Nyssa and Friedrich Nietzche. I’m about a quarter of the way in, and I get the sense that he’s still just revving his engine. I haven’t encountered his main argument yet, but I’ve enjoyed the detours along the way: great discussions of aesthetics, ethics, and the juxtaposition of Nietzche’s “will to power” with Christianity’s “ontology of peace.” Hart has two books coming out in the new year, with more appeal to casual readers, I’m sure. The first, “In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments” is a collection of reviews and essays, including a devastating takedown of Daniel Dennett. His next book “The Christian Revolution,” is coming in March. It was originally to be an historical overview of how Christianity was a liberating force in a world suffused with fatalism and haunted by animism, but I hear he’s appended a criticism of the “new atheists.” Oh, to be able to hear a debate between Hart and Hitchens.

A and I have also been reading aloud The Brothers Karamazov. It’s great to hear it out loud; I can really hear the “polyphony” that Rowan Williams is always talking about. I’ve also been wondering what would happen if John Piper and those young Calvinists with their mechanistic understanding of predestination got into a tussle with Ivan Karamazov…

Ok. That’s it for now.

“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?

the comforts of home

i’m a reformed christian, which means the idea of “comfort” means a great deal to me.

during my oral comprehensive exam at seminary, i was asked which insight or idea arising from the protestant reformation was the most significant. there’s a lot of correct answers to this question: the reformation helped europe buck ecclesiastical oppression, it helped winnow down the metaphysical excesses of western church doctrine, it ultimately gave rise to the enlightenment era in european history, etcetera, etc.

inspired by my church’s catechism, i chose to answer “comfort.” the doctrinal and cultural disputes of the reformation are fascinating and important, of course, and i think that if i had delved into any of those areas, my answer would have been acceptable. but i think “comfort” was the better answer because it demonstrates that theological disputes of the reformation were not just dispassionate intellectual exercises, but were spiritually and emotionally significant to people. for instance, the doctrine of god’s sovereignty is a fine topic for theological discussion, but its real importance lies in how it brings comfort to people who may otherwise experience life as nasty, brutish and short.

those three things certainly characterized life in 16th century europe, with its warfare, its diseases, and its sense that the world was rife with hostile spirits. things aren’t that much different today, either, which is why the comfort that comes from reformation insights into the nature of god is still so relevant.

considering all that, it might seem a little ironic that i find so much discussion of the comforts of faith to be bothersome. i find it a little frustrating because i think a lot of it comes from a condescending attitude held about religious people.

i’ve often heard people defend the dignity of religious people by saying things like: “i don’t like how hitchens/dawkins/maher pick on religious people. if religious people get some sort of comfort from their beliefs, then they should be left alone.”

on the surface, the folks who say these things are defending people of faith, and i suppose that means they are, in some way, allies. part of me wants to say “thanks for the support.” but still, it chafes a little to hear sentiments like this, because i think they contain an implicit suggestion that faith is little more than a metaphysical teddy bear or security blanket — something to cling to in order to feel secure, despite the fact that it doesn’t really have any real, measurable effect on the world around them. maybe it comes from some quasi-freudian idea that faith is mere wish-projection, a fantasy dreamed up to give comfort in an indifferent universe — faith as mere fairy-tale, something held on to by simple-minded people who lack the stoic resolve to stare down the pointless cosmos.

so, after saying “thanks for the support,” i feel compelled to add: “but faith is about so much more than comfort!”

what is it about, then? i suppose one could say “everything,” like st. paul does when he commandeers epimenides’ poem in acts 17.28. but that’s pretty broad, and maybe not the most interesting answer. i need a better answer – something that would help people understand why i think christianity is such a big deal, why it’s important for reasons other than an insipid kind of comfort.

i’ve been reading this book, and i think it’s giving me an idea of what to say.

if people ask for an “in a nutshell” answer to what christianity is, i think i’ll tell them that it’s about coming home.

home, when it functions as it should, evokes so many things: being welcomed, being understood, being fed, being supported. it evokes warmth and familiarity, qualities that come from being brought into the presence of those who care and love.

human beings, ushered into a loving presence: this is the very core of what salvation is.

that homecoming is a fundamental characteristic of christianity is evident from the way we structure our worship. the liturgy contains all the elements of home: we are greeted, and we welcome others. we are understood through the confession and assurance. we share our joy and sorrow in the reading of psalms. we are fed in the eucharist.

there’s comfort in all of this, but it’s of a different sort. it’s not the comfort of a fairytale security blanket, but the comfort of being welcomed, known and loved, here, in this world. the comfort of being brought near. and it moves beyond comfort, too: at the end of the liturgy, we are sent. we’re sent out, sometimes as sheep amongst wolves, to help show the way home to fellow travelers, displaced folk, and other itinerants.

christianity as homecoming. i think there’s something to it. maybe that’s what the evangelist was getting at when he wrote about the word becoming flesh, and making his home among us.

Job Description

i don’t think that campus ministers are a rare breed; most universities have some sort of christian presence, whether it’s through staff chaplains (especially at colleges with a christian heritage), student organizations (intervarsity, campus for christ), or itinerant chaplains who are employed by their denomination, and roam across one or more campuses (me).

still, a lot of people are really curious about what campus ministers do. i’ve been asked about my work by a lot of people since moving here, and i’ve given a variety of answers. i’ve told people that campus ministers:

a) are like regular ministers, except that their parish is a campus, and not a church congregation.

b) are here to help students, staff and faculty integrate their faith with their role at the university.

c) work to facilitate dialogue about matters of faith, to enable worship on campus, to offer pastoral care and support to on-campus folk, and to be a missional presence on campus.

these answers are all fairly similar, and i think they provide a decent foundation for understanding the work of a campus minister. yet, they are also a little vague. they’re vague because they offer a basic description of what all campus ministers do, but don’t really get at the heart of what i do.

so, what am i doing here? i think my answer would vary from day to day — some days i’d say “i have no idea what i’m doing.” other days i’d say “i had four cups of coffee with four different students, and now my heart is palpitating.” other days i’d say “i had a fortuitous chat with a muslim student for over an hour this afternoon, and then i spent the rest of my time on campus reading about islam.” some afternoons i’d say “i had the luxury of explaining to a curious student why i find st. paul/john calvin/fyodor dostoyevsky to be such a fascinating and essential figure.”

those answers vary from day to day, but on every day, i’d give this answer: “i’m trying to get to know this place.”

i can remember sitting in classes at seminary, hearing people talk about “casting their vision.” these conversations always drove me a little nuts because they seemed so fatuous – here we were, in the comfort of our classrooms, talking about the nature of our ministries at places yet to be determined. the conversations never really seemed to consider that such ministry was going to take place amidst the baroque complexity and occasional messiness of real live human community. and that’s not even to consider unexpected alleys and detours our God would lead us down in our parishes. it was as if we could take our conceptions of ministry formed in the classroom, and snap them neatly into place upon arriving at a particular community.

there’s something industrial about such thinking – the idea that communities are like machinery, with interchangeable parts and processes, that community is something stamped out uniformly on an assembly line.

this manner of thinking is seductive because it is intellectually manageable. there’s a perverse comfort in thinking that the techniques and practices used in one community will work in another. regardless, it’s impossible to square away with even a modest acquaintance with a particular group of people or institution.

each community is sui generis, a fact that should encourage humility, patience, and a desire for understanding in newcomers. those things need to come long before a specific vision is cast.

humility. patience. understanding. that’s what i’ve been trying to work on here, so far. some days it’s pretty hard, but most days i feel like i’m discovering more and more about the campus. most days, i think i can get my fingers on the pulse of the place, even though it usually comes through in faint tremors. but when i feel them, it makes my pulse quicken. it’s exciting to see the ways in which my ideas match what people are seeking on campus.

speaking of pulses, there are already some signs of life:

i have had lots and lots of cups of coffee with individual students.

i am working with the wlu office of student diversity to present speakers and films that explore the intersections of faith, gender and sexuality.

i am part of a committee to create a group on campus for men impacted and alienated by the perils of masculinity (an organization that will find itself at odds with much popular contemporary theologies of masculinity, no doubt).

i am reading “the death of adam” with a faculty/staff/grad student book club.

i am reading “jesus wants to save christians” with an undergraduate book club.

i am working with a church to figure out the healthiest ways to welcome students into the body of christ.

these things are all really exciting to me, and i hope they’ll bear good fruit. yet they are all still tender shoots, and i’m aware that some of them may not grow past that stage. i may need to uproot them and plant something new in their place. thankfully, the Spirit provides verdant soil, which gives me hope and confidence.