The Curse of Being Reformed--A Theological Exploration

I thought I would never write an essay so titled. Indeed, for most of my adult life I have considered a "Reformed identity" to be a distinct asset. For those of you not theologically aware or interested, the Reformed tradition of Protestant theology owes its origin to John Calvin (1509-65) in Geneva. The soaring categories of his thought, captured in his five editions of the Institutes of the Christian Religion, as well the passion with which he exposited the glory of God, the predestining grace of the divine, the role of holiness in life, the centrality of study and the central importance of the church for individual and communal Christian nurture sunk its hooks deeply into me as early as my college years. I consciously wanted to be Reformed, and I studied and lived the tradition as I understood it. During seminary days in MA, I would spend Sunday afternoons studying "the Catechism" (the Westminster Confession of Faith). While teaching at a Presbyterian college in the Midwest in the 1990s, I encouraged students to memorize the "Shorter Catechism." Successful completion of this task, which included recitation to fellow students, would earn the student a $1,000 prize. During my teaching and pastoral ministry, I would often speak on the "distinctives" of the Reformed tradition, emphasizing the role of faith in the "transformation" of culture. I believe I was happy when I did these things; I don't regret any time I spent on the task.

But as I have matured, I have tried to assess critically the forces that have shaped me intellectually and emotionally over the years. When I turned to my theological tradition, I began to see certain surds in it, surds to which I had been deaf over the years but which began to speak with a deafening and insistent fremitus in the late 1990s and this decade. Three things began to bother me.

I. Perspicacity when Nothing Was Clear

A cornerstone of the Reformed approach to Scripture is that the Scriptures are perspicuous or "clear." This doesn't mean, of course, that everything is easily understood or even that everything taught in the Bible is clear; it does mean, however, that all things needed for salvation are clearly presented and, in fact, the Scriptures are "substantially intelligible." A quick Internet search will confirm that this is not only a central doctrine for Reformed folk, but it is embraced with zeal today. But, this doctrine began to fall apart for me in seminary, though I quashed my doubts, and then collapsed completely a few years ago. If everything was clear, I wondered, why is there so much confusion among Christians? Why isn't everyone in the world Reformed if all is so clear? I also noted that those who believe in the perspicacity of Scripture never believe that it isn't clear to them, though it probably is unclear to other people. But I began to recognize this as nothing other than parochialism of a typical sort in the history of religions--everyone who believes there is THE TRUTH believes also that s/he has it.

But, more than that, I began to see that the focus on perspicacity of Scripture kept me from enjoying its playful obscurity, its suggestive double-meanings, its irony and humor, its allusive quality. Indeed, I began to want to see the Scripture not as a book of clear truths but of nuanced signals that made me want to return to it again and again to hear its different sounds each time.

So, I have given up the "doctrine" of Scripture's perspicacity, though I have a "secular" remnant of it in my writing and thinking. I am utterly committed to trying to make as simple and clear as possible the fruit of human thought and investigation. I think scholars are often trapped in linguistic boxes, in soundproof phonebooths shouting into disconnected receivers, in such a way that they confuse more than illumine. My task on earth, as long as I have breath, clear mind and energy, is to try to be clear. The tradition taught me this, even though I have abandoned the doctrine which the tradition wanted me to adopt.

II. Preferring the Head over the Heart

When I began to evangelize seriously in college, I used a tract that was popular in its day among Fundamentalists, called "The Four Spiritual Laws." I was told, in introducing Christianity to people, to stress that faith was about fact and not emotion. Emotions are fickle, but the fact of God's love for us was unchanging. So, dutifully, I emphasized the intellectual content of the Gospel, the propositional statements that seemed to capture the "truth" of the Gospel. This is a very Reformed way of looking at life--as if life could be captured in propositional statements which one can affirm. I began to think that if I just had the right words, the right conceptual framework, that I would have understood faith. But that is all wrong, I now know. We are hearts, and we also have a head, but I never really knew this until I began to question the Reformed emphasis on the head over the heart. Learning to live and honor the heart for me now is almost like trying to speak a second language. I can get along in it passably, but I have to consciously think about the importance of the heart in order to draw it out of myself and others. Doctrine isn't the most important thing in life; a heart that interprets life and loves others, that tries to bring the riches of knowledge to the throbbing realities felt by people in our day--that is the goal of my life. The Reformed tradition certainly helped me to bring to life my intellectual desires and resources. Indeed, perhaps the "secular" result of my commitment to this principle is that I am, today, a polymath--one of the few I have met in our day. But I regret that the heart never entered into my work until just a few years ago. It is a good and strong heart, a heart that knows how to enter now into the lives of others. But it is still quite undeveloped.

III. Thinking in Threes

Finally, the Reformed tradition got me to think in threes. Every message I gave had to have its three points. So must this essay. I don't do that anymore, even though I have secularized this skill in my legal training when I write legal briefs and give arguments to courts. Some have said that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people and those who don't. I think that the Reformed tradition made me think in threes. So did Dr. Seuss, now that I think of it. It has its utility now, even in this essay, but I won't do another three-point sermon as long as I live...

So, there it is. I can leave the tradition as easily as I can peel off my fingerprints. And, it has bequeathed a heritage to me, but it has, also, "cursed" me. I suppose I will never be able to get away from its rhythms, even if I tried. But I teach its glories no longer. There is too much else to learn and explain in the world.

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