Judgmentalism: The New Heresy

By Derek Penwell

Judgmentalism.  It's one of the things Christians do best according to those outside the church. 

Unfortunately for the church, emerging generations find any kind of judgmentalism off-putting. Consequently, they tend to seek the broadest possible parameters for what previous generations would call orthodoxy.

Now, let me just say that some of what passes for non-judgmentalism is simply an unspoken social contract in which I promise to keep my nose out of your business if you agree to keep your nose out of mine. I want to be clear that I’m not suggesting Christians should approach faith and morality as a laissez-faire proposition—in which the church, to avoid appearing judgmental, agrees to keep its mouth shut about important matters.

What I am suggesting, however, is that no matter how the church feels about being labeled judgmental, it would benefit mainline churches to think carefully about the way they come across.

Growing up as a religious conservative (an Evangelical, I would have said) I took it as an article of faith that salvation was like an obstacle course. Once you began to move toward the goal, you couldn’t go back, and every step was a potential hazard, threatening to disqualify you from finishing.

I was convinced that having the right beliefs about God was of equal importance with doing the right thing. In fact, having the wrong belief might be even more problematic than doing something wrong.

If you screwed up and said “Dammit!” because you bent your dad’s driver trying to hit rocks in the back yard, you could always repent and ask forgiveness.

Wrong belief, on the other hand, assumed a kind of intentionality, a willfulness that was much more difficult to recover from. You couldn’t accidentally believe in evolution or that the Bible might contain some mistakes in it.

Additionally, I believed that among the barriers Christians must negotiate on the obstacle course of salvation the need to “save” other people was a high priority:

If you observe a toddler wandering into the middle of a busy intersection, you have a responsibility to try to protect the child from being hit by a bus. Looking the other way is sin of omission. In the same way, if you see someone boarding the express train to perdition, you have a responsibility to help jerk them back onto the platform. Not to do so is to have saddled yourself with the responsibility for someone else’s damnation. You get enough of those lost souls in your column and the sheer weight of them might just drag you down, too.

Now, I’m willing to admit that my description of my childhood beliefs doesn’t necessarily represent all of Evangelical Christianity. However, they were my beliefs, and they are often the same things I hear people describe as “what Christians believe.” It’s important to name the reality that “Evangelical Christianity” has largely become a placeholder for “Christianity” in our culture.

That Christianity has become known by many people more for its beliefs than for what it actually does is problematic for the church in an emerging world.  Part of the way I read the common charge against the church as “judgmental” has to do with the conviction on the part of emerging generations that Christians tend to believe more than they actually live.

That fact, turned back upon the individual is hypocrisy   (another post) —that is, “I believe this, but I don’t think that means I actually have to make it a part of my life.” 

Turned outward, however, that conviction about believing more than you’re willing to live, often expresses itself as judgmentalism—that is, “I believe this (and I’m right); and therefore, I’m holding you responsible for living up to my expectations.”

Hint: The combination of hypocrisy and judgmentalism is deadly for the church, since it communicates an inordinately high opinion of oneself and one’s abilities to determine what’s right—an opinion of oneself that isn’t mapped onto reality, and therefore, need not be taken seriously by the individual.

At the heart of the criticism of judgmentalism lies an accusation that Christians feel themselves superior.  In other words, when people look at the church what they see is a collection of overweening know-it-alls who assume that everyone is breathlessly awaiting a word about how to improve themselves.  Any deviation from “Christian expectations,” these observers believe, cannot but be met with moralizing opprobrium from those who “know the mind of God.”  Christians, on this reading, have nothing better to do than to think up rules for everybody else to follow—then set about in earnest being exceedingly disappointed in everyone else when the moral revival doesn’t take shape.

“That’s not fair.  I think people ought to live right, but I’m not the judgmental person you so sarcastically describe.”

In the absence of information to the contrary, I’m perfectly willing to concede that that’s not a fair description of you.  I don’t even know you, after all.  That’s not the point, though.  The people who believe you’re judgmental, probably don’t know you either.  As far as they’re concerned, if you’re a Christian, they already know as much as they need to know about you. 

Among emerging generations, “Christian” is metonymous with “judgmental.”  That is to say, for many people the sentence, “Derek is a Christian,” is a shorthand way of communicating that “Derek is judgmental,” since “Christian” is merely a placeholder for “judgmental.”  Whether it’s true or not, the perception is, for my purposes, what matters.

Why is it the perception that matters?  Because, as a very wise man once told me: “The difference between reality and perception is that reality changes.”  If you want perception to change, you must work not only on the reality, but also on the perception. 

Not only must the church adopt a positive understanding that it is called to be something for the world not just believe something about the world, but it must do so in a way that communicates its own humility.

After all, in our culture judgmentalism is the new heresy. 

And for Christians used to occupying the role of heresy hunters, being the target of the new hunters of heresy is going to be extraordinarily uncomfortable.

We're Christians, and technically we don't believe in karma . . . but, dang!

Do I Really Have to Forgive

By Derek Penwell

I had a conversation with a parishioner one time that still vexes me. At one point some years prior, she and her husband had opposed me on the issue of homosexuality. A wealthy and influential couple, they were convinced that I was leading the flock down the road to perdition. I was a young pastor at the time, so their opposition proved particularly worrisome from a vocational standpoint. But, after a great deal of work, we mended fences--unfortunately, without ever really addressing the hurt I'd experienced.

A few years after the controversy, we were sitting in my office speaking candidly with one another--about what I don't remember. But I do remember feeling like it was important for me to say something out loud about the kerfuffle we'd had. So, apropos of nothing we happened to be discussing at the time, I said, "Gladys, you know that whole big thing we had a few years back over homosexuality?"

I saw her eyes widen. She nodded her head, perhaps more as a warning gesture than an affirmation. "Yes," she said.

Gladys was a true southern woman, one who did not like to engage in direct interpersonal dust-ups. She was the kind of person who preferred never to attack a problem head-on. Instead, she preferred to circle it for a while, sneak up on it, then strike passing blows--hoping, I think, to wear it down and force it to surrender. I, on the other hand, grew up in the North thinking that speaking directly is a virtue. Two different ways of communicating, the conflict between which often trips me up still.

"Well," I said, not picking up on the signs, "I felt very hurt by you and Henry in that whole thing."

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I guess I hoped she would say, "I know, Derek, and we're so sorry about that. I hope you'll forgive us." Or, "Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I wished that had never happened." Or maybe even, "Mistakes were made."

Instead, what she said was, "That's behind us now. We don't need to talk about it."

I wanted to object: "No. It's really not behind us. Otherwise, I wouldn't bring it up."

What I said instead, however, was . . . well, not much of anything.

I've been thinking about forgiveness. There are things in my life I need to forgive, things for which I need to be forgiven. But what exactly does that mean? Say, for instance, you've been involved with an addict, who's left a trail of devastation behind. This person has done some work to get clean and work through the process of recovery. What now, though? What does forgiveness look like in this situation? I don't think Gladys' response that "that's behind us now. We don't need to talk about it" is the answer. Forgiveness is not willed forgetfulness.

On the other hand, I realize that forgiveness at some point means taking a chance on getting hurt again. When is it time to take that chance? If I'm the offended party, is it up to me to decide when is the right time? This seems right to me.

But what if I'm content to nurse my wounds, to savor the wrongs? Does the offender ever have a right to say, "I've said I'm sorry every way I know how. I've tried to regain your trust, but you won't let me near?"

I'm torn because I realize that some hurts are so grievous that getting past them seems impossible. The offender has a difficult time regaining the moral high ground in this interchange.

But as someone who follows Jesus, who regularly preaches that forgiveness isn't part of the optional special off-road package upgrade, I think the offended has certain responsibilities to the offender.

(I'm a thoroughgoing liberal, so let me just say, that last sentence scares the crap out of me—since this sounds eerily like what the powerless are often urged to offer the powerful who've hurt them.)

What does that forgiveness look like? When, and under what circumstances should I offer it? I wish there were an algorithm into which I could plug my experience, the depth of the hurt, the nature of the offender's remorse and recovery, and have it spit out answers to those questions.

But I don't have such an algorithm. All I have is a community. So, let me ask you: What does forgiveness look like? When, and under what circumstances should I offer it? Do I really have to forgive?

Give Yourself a Bre

By Derek Penwell

I played baseball in college. The first half of my freshman year went fairly well. At least I didn’t embarrass myself too much.

The second half, though, was a nightmare. I got into a terrible slump that I couldn’t get out of. I changed my batting grip. I changed my batting stance. I changed my batting gloves. Nothing worked.

After some weeks, I’d completely lost patience with myself. I was pressing … hard.

One of my coaches, who hadn’t said much to me throughout my struggles, finally took me aside and said, “It looks like you’re trying to hit two home runs in one at-bat. You’re thinking too much. Let your body do what it knows how to do. You’ve practiced and practiced. Now let your body do the work.”

And I said, “Yeah, but what if that doesn’t work? What if I don’t ever get another hit?”

Coach said, “You can’t control what happens to the ball after you do what you’ve trained to do. Muscle memory. You can only control the swing you’ve practiced. And if you’ve done it correctly—and you have, because I’ve made sure of that—it’ll eventually work itself out. You’ve got to quit thinking so much. What? Do you think you're Ty Cobb?  Give yourself a break.”

I over-think just about everything, and I’m not good at giving myself a break.

Writing is the same way. You do something you really like, and some other folks seem to like it too. Then, the next thing you do (which you also like) barely raises a yawn. Then, you produce several yawners in a row, and you start to think that maybe you’ve managed a couple of flukes, but now everybody has wised up and can see what a fraud you are. And you’re convinced that they’ll never read anything you’ve written again. (I’ve been assured by other writers that this is a thing—that it’s not just me.)

The temptation when you hit a dry patch in writing is to try to think, think, think of something new and important to say—something that will drive page views or book sales (or whatever measuring stick for success you happen to be employing).

You start pressing, start trying to hit two home runs in every at-bat. So, you write stuff like “Fourteen Reasons the Church Needs to Be More Like Lady Gaga.”

But writing also has its own version of muscle memory. Writers write because they can’t not write, which means that they write for the love of the act writing and not for the results writing produces.

Why?

Because you can’t control what happens after you push “submit,” after you send your work out into the ether. You trust that your writing muscles will remember what to do, and do it. And you trust that what comes from that will be a good representation of all the time and energy you’ve sunk into throwing words up on a screen. What people do or don’t do with it, you can’t control.

Struggling congregations often look like slumping hitters who can’t catch a break or writers who believe their best words have already found their way onto the paper. They press. They catastrophize. You can smell the fear of failure, the neediness for approval all over them.

Congregations in decline start thinking how they might change their luck (“because, you know, we’ve got to do something or we’re going to die”). Rather than trust themselves, they start thinking about gimmicks that will break the slump.

“I heard about a church out in Kansas that did this thing on Tuesday nights with a calliope, a tattoo artist, and bears on unicycles. Maybe we should check into that.”

But, assuming you’ve thought and prayed about the ministries you engage, and that you have something to offer, what you need to focus on is remaining faithful to your best lights.

When it comes to congregations, what do I mean by “remaining faithful to your best lights?”

Here’s what I mean: congregations should spend time discerning where God is leading, and then head in that direction. If the community is convinced that it’s the right way to go, then go and quit worrying that somebody else knows a shortcut that you don’t know.

You have to get over the mistaken notion that you can engineer the results you want. Muscle memory. You do what you do the best you know how to do it, and then you let God take responsibility for the results.

Does that mean if something’s obviously not working you shouldn’t change?

Let me take a different tack for a moment. Don’t confuse tactics with strategy. Strategy is a direction. Tactics are a path. If you’re headed east, several paths may take you there. If you find that one path doesn’t work, don’t feel guilty about stopping and heading down another one. But you need to remain convinced that east is where you need to go.

That’s a lot of metaphors for one post. The point is, congregations need to look to God for the kind of work they need to be doing. Then, they need to do that work as often and as well as possible. Finally, they need to let God worry about results.

Give yourself a break.