Christian Ambiguity
I was scrolling through my Facebook feed today when I came across a post by an old friend from church. The post she’d shared was a poem, and the poem represents, to me, an element of the modern Christian culture that I find quite frustrating. Here’s the poem:
What made me love Christ
Wasn’t that all of a sudden
– I started figuring out
How to do life.
What made me love Christ
Is that when I was at my worst,
When I absolutely could not
clean myself up – and there was nothing
Anybody could do with me,
Right at that moment, Christ said,
“I’ll take that one.
That’s the one I want.”
– Matt Chandler,
Relevant Magazine
If you’re a Christian reading this, you’re probably wondering what’s so bad about this poem. What could it be about this innocent piece of literature that frustrates Justin so bad? Perhaps it’s the devil in me that can’t handle the Holy Spirit at work… not likely, but I’ll grant you the possibility. More likely, however, is that it represents the ambiguous language that seems to drive and validate so much of the modern church these days.
Consider this - the poem is meant to be relatable, right? I mean, it’s published in Relevant Magazine after all. But truthfully, who could honestly relate to this? If we are to take it at face value, the narrative hiding in the subtext of the poem is a narrative of deep sorrow, shame, and justified anguish. It acknowledges a low point in which “there was nothing anybody could do with me,” a low point in which “I absolutely could not clean myself up.” And it indicates that this is a singular moment - that this low point is a recognizable data point on the Y-axis of time intersecting with the X-axis of misery in which Jesus Christ himself personally rescued them.
To me, the narrative seems to correlate most strongly with the Apostle Paul on his pre-conversion journey to Damascus. The low point being a man traveling to a city with the singular intention of murdering every professing Christian within it. While this murderous savage was trekking across the desert road of the ancient Middle-East, the light of Jesus Christ literally blinds him with its glory, and the voice of God selects him for a perilous mission. Relatable, right?
And that’s it. That’s the problem. It’s not relatable, and it’s not readily apparent what this poem could possibly mean. But here I see it’s gone viral on the social media sphere - thousands of Christians sharing it and professing just how true it is. But really - bear with me here - can we just break this down line by line? Can we just take a closer look and try and parse out what this poem is actually saying?
*What made me love Christ wasn’t that all of a sudden I started figuring out how to do life.*
On the outset, we have some assumptions being made. The way that this is phrased indicates that the readily apparent answer to the question of “what made me love Christ” is “that all of a sudden I started figuring out how to do life.” Or, put differently, the implication here is that a common misperception behind the reasoning for Christians loving Christ is that they suddenly made a realization.
Here’s the issue - this poem is already starting out under the false premise that anyone is assuming Christianity starts out as an epiphany of fortune. When you build the entirety of your poem on a false premise, you’re able to avoid answering the more difficult questions. You circumvent reality by creating your own reality and hoping your audience will just go along with it. This only works when your audience is predisposed to your bias, for those who do not agree that Christianity is an example of properly “figuring out how to do life,” the poem is a non-starter.
(For those wondering, a good example of a difficult question this poem is avoiding might be: How big of a role did your upbringing play in your current beliefs?)
* What made me love Christ is that when I was at my worst, when I absolutely could not clean myself up, and there was nothing anybody could do with me…*
My big question: What does this mean? For the Apostle Paul, it meant going on a murderous rampage. For the modern, American Christian sharing this post on Facebook, I’d guess it means when they cheated on their math test? Or let’s go a bit darker, perhaps they cheated on their significant other. Perhaps they committed tax fraud. Perhaps they did a thing we can all agree is egregious and wrong. But really… to what extent do you think this setup is relatable? How many Christians on Facebook are reading this and pointing to a specific moment in time where they felt unconscionable shame? Where they committed something so egregious that “there was nothing anybody could do” with them. Call me a skeptic.
*Right at that moment, Christ said, “I’ll take that one. That’s the one I want.”*
And BAM. There’s the ambiguity. The gut punch of the poem. The line that we’ve all been waiting for from the outset. The answer to the question that was never asked. Because really, what does this mean? In this deep, dark moment of shame Christ spoke to you? What does that look like? How does that work? How can we claim a line like this is relatable in any way? For the non-Christian, it appears as nonsensical. Does the author expect any of us outsiders to really believe that Christ spoke to them?
But for the Christian, for whom this type of ambiguity has become the norm, it is expected. It is right. It presents their God as a caring, loving, forgiving individual who sees us in our lowest of lows and chooses us anyway. And that’s beautiful! It’s a wonderful idea, a powerful concept. But again…what does it actually mean? Did the author of this poem experience a Saul-like conversion while on his own metaphorical road to Damascus? Doubtful. Did the person who shared this poem on Facebook experience that? Doubtful. But that’s the point, right? It doesn’t matter that this didn’t happen. It just matters that the audience who receives it, in this case Christians, finds it validating. It portrays their journey as a difficult journey. It portrays their faith as the result of a miracle. It portrays their God as an active communicator. And anything good about Christ, anything “glorifying” to his name or his purpose, is worthy of sharing.
But to be frank, it reads as dishonest to me. Not to say powerful conversion stories aren’t a thing, because I believe they certainly are. Shoot, I’ve even witnessed them. More so to say this ambiguous conversion story shared by thousands as true, relevant, and relatable? Not believable to me. Not appealing to me. And, I imagine, eye rolling for the many non-Christians who see it in their feed.