“Why does it bother them so much?” my husband asked me over dinner recently, referring to conservative Christians’ intolerance of gays in church and drag queens anywhere else. (He’s neither American nor Protestant; his question was genuine, not rhetorical.) I leaned back and thought, but I wasn’t sure how to explain it to him. I remembered that such things had bothered me in the past too, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
Twenty-seven years ago, I made Profession of Faith, the Christian Reformed version of the affirmation that might be known to Catholics (like my husband) as one’s confirmation. I believed in God and wished to be a member of the church and of this church, and I declared as much—in front of Him and our congregation. I barely remember that ceremony, but I remember well the catechism classes that prepared us for our Profession. I remember learning that it was absolutely true that there existed an Absolute Truth, and that we as Reformed Christians were among the blessed and preordained minority who believed Absolutely That.
Lucky us, I might have thought, had I not known that it was a sin to refer to luck. In a predestined world ever under God’s control, luck is a blasphemous concept.
I learned in catechism that my belief in our belief of the Absolute Truth was a necessary ingredient in the recipe for my salvation and subsequent eternal life.
From the little I know about other religions, the Christian faith is unique in its emphasis on the essentiality of belief—of precisely correct belief—to salvation. We believe that our correct beliefs can save us, or at least that our correct beliefs will avail God’s saving grace to us. A Hindu, managing expectations, might warn you that it could take several consecutive lifetimes of noble action, right thinking, and contemplation to accumulate the good karma and to exhaust the bad tendencies in order to finally escape this samsara—this endless cycle of mortal death and earthly rebirth. A Christian shares happier news: Jesus can come into your heart suddenly, almost as if on a whim. Jesus—and the salvation that is his travelling companion—might arrive instantly, having found you and your heart as you sipped Hi-C in a damp church basement during a youth group meeting on an otherwise unremarkable Sunday afternoon. Or he might alight just south of your aorta in the span of a single nanosecond in the 1980s, at one of Billy Graham’s stadium-packing Crusades. But Christianity’s upside potential is matched by a downside risk: Christians know that Jesus will only arrive if you believe, and he will only save you if you believe correctly. You must believe the right things in the right way. And you’ve only got this one lifetime to get it right. For Christians, there’s a lot riding on believing—and on believing correctly.
Recently, the Hesed Project published a study of the effects of the CRC’s 2022 annual Synod, in which the denomination’s intolerance of queer Christians was made clear—or clearer, depending on your point of view. While many of the study’s respondents lamented last year’s decisions, others rejoiced:
“Synod 2022 helped provide necessary clarity so that the denomination can be united…” one minister said. “Synod needed to simply make a decision and not throw LGBTQ people under the bus for the sake of getting along,” said another.
Someone else: “Members are enthused again and willing to serve. People are believing that the CRC has the will to remain faithful. I am excited, enthused, and encouraged.”
Another respondent said that their church is gaining members who “are heartened to join a denomination that has taken a stand.”
A church leader: “We’ve gained a member since Synod 2022 because they were shown Synod is able to make a principled stand and that is a denomination they can in good conscience belong to. Synod 2022 has given us needed clarity when doing work in our community. It was time for Synod to make a concrete decision…thankfully Synod overwhelmingly did.” [sic]
Those who lamented Synod’s decision spoke of its many negative effects, including the church’s inability to be a welcoming, safe place for queer Christians: “I'm a grandmother. I have a gay grandson. I would not want to see him barred from the church, or have judgment passed on him in the fashion of Synod 2022…” one respondent said.
But those who lauded the decision did not praise it for its ability to help the church fulfil what Jesus referred to as the Greatest Commandment1, nor for how it would help us act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God2. No, they spoke of decisiveness, of concreteness, of Clarity.
And I understand why. I know how I’ll answer my husband—or anyone else—when I’m asked why this issue matters so much. For Christians—particularly those who’ve fully imbibed an appreciation of their own guilt, wretchedness, and total depravity—the quality of their rest-of-eternity depends not only on God’s grace but also on their ability to believe correctly.
Some Christians believe that their eternal fate hangs on whether they successfully download and install into their feeble human minds an accurate apprehension of the Absolute Truth. And to those for whom correct belief is a prerequisite for salvation, disbelief is a nemesis—and doubt a dangerous Trojan horse.
If you ask me—as my husband did—I’d say that opening their arms to the queer community is not in itself what the conservative Christians find bothersome. What they’re bothered by is a perceived threat to the beliefs on which they believe their salvation depends.
This threat—the thought the bothered and unwelcoming Christians won’t allow themselves to entertain—is the fear we sense when we worry that our squishy, intangible beliefs might be adrift in a murky sea of unknowable uncertainty. What the Abiders fear—if I could be so bold as to psychoanalyze—is not the rainbow flags or twin-tuxedo weddings or allowing people to choose for themselves which restroom to enter. What they fear is what we all fear—our own vulnerability.
Our greatest fear as Christians—particularly for those of us convinced that eternal life will be gained or lost based on the sole criterion of the nature and quality of one’s belief—is that we might be mistaken. That we might believe incorrectly. That we might get it wrong. And that, as a result, we might end up in hell. Forever.
O God, I might be believing something that isn’t true. I might have to change my beliefs. And if some of my beliefs are wrong, then what about the rest of them? Might there be other beliefs I’m wrong about? Could they all be wrong? God, I need Clarity. Could you Clarify please which beliefs are the essential, salvific ones? Besides those, could you let me know which are the nice-to-haves? O Lord, how much more doubt can I harbor before I become a heretic, a heathen, a hell-bound unbeliever? Is it wrong to even contemplate this? Dear God: Please give me Clarity. Dear Synod: if He won’t, will you?
I know the feeling. I peer over the edge of the cliff of my beliefs. I see the floor of the Valley of Death far below. I become dizzy as the fear of falling nearly overwhelms me. This fear nearly fulfils its own prophecy. The height doesn’t bother me, but the unclarity is unbearable. It’s my doubt that nearly causes me to fall.
Matthew 22:36-40, NIV: “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”
Micah 6:8, NIV: He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.
Thank you, Daniel, for speaking of the underlying fear—of going to hell. I have felt troubled that it seems to be at the core of much of the demand for clarity and strict discipline. So sad. And so understandable to many of us raised to love the Lord—and also fear judgment. While reading your piece I thought of the verse “Perfect love drives out fear.” I looked to check its context and I was shocked. I know we read I John 4:16-18 often back then(Xian school 1st-12th + Sunday school and catechism) but I sure didn’t remember how that part of verse 18 directly connects to judgment. Or that John says “In this world we are like Jesus.”(!) My NIV Study Bible explains as we are like Christ in love, that is a sign that God, who is love, lives in us. I have heard “feelings” and “love” scoffed at by those desiring clarity, along with declarations that “real” love is making what is sin perfectly clear and threatening consequences for those “sinning” according to the “clarity” recently determined to have always existed. This passage sounds like love is far from that.
Daniel, You nailed it. That absolute need to be able to define sin, and theology. I recall one Cathechism question: What is true faith? The answer begins : A sure knowledge and true conviction....I don't recall the rest of the answer.