The Kind of Christianity I'm Interested In

An ancient struggle is rising up through the cracks. The teachings of an itinerant rabbi from Nazareth—his first students called themselves “The Way”—are being stretched thin between those who center love and service at the heart of the movement, and those who hijacked Jesus as the poster boy of their naked imperial power-grab. Trust me, as an outsider for most of my life I can tell you—nothing crushes the Christianity-curious faster than belligerent missionaries and ideological conquistadors who by any means necessary shove their religion down your throat by forcing you to pray in schools, by forcing parents to deny their children gender-affirming care, by banning books and school plays it doesn’t like, by teaching false “science” as fact, by lying about history and race and America and everything, and by—the greatest sin of all—warping Christianity into a religion of exclusion and repression.

All over America, and all around the world, progressive Christians are finding their voice. Maybe they didn’t want to—minding their own business is what real spiritual people do—but it is no longer possible to stay silent.

My Facebook friend the Rev. Dr. Jim Rigby, pastor of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Austin, Texas, is just such a leader. He didn’t pick this fight, but I have a feeling he’s going to finish it. Along with his amazing community. And not by literally fighting, but by simply doing the loving work he and his congregation have been doing for decades—ministering to those whom other more “conservative” churches have excluded and condemned. (I hate how the formerly respectable word “conservative” has been hijacked too, but that’s a topic for another day.)

Everywhere I turn progressive voices are growing bolder. Through their actions and words they are demonstrating the moral power of selfless service. By showing up the way they do—feeding the hungry, offering showers and housing the unsheltered, affirming the humanity of the marginalized, championing women, acknowledging past wrong-doing, inviting people into the mystery of their own sacred experience, and in others ways healing this wounded world— they change hearts and minds. Religion is not something you believe or say, it’s something you do.

Don’t tell me your religion—show me.

As the US Senate candidacy of James Talarico (D) ascends in his battle against disgraced former attorney general of Texas Ken Paxton (R)—the most corrupt politician in America, and that’s saying something—the full brunt of the MAGA universe is falling squarely on Talarico, and by association, on his minister and church: Rev. Jim Rigby and St. Andrews Presbyterian Church. A feature in the New York Times thrust St. Andrew’s into national prominence, and the blazing venom of right wing pundits, podcasters, and entire media corporations are aiming their canons and rallying their hordes against this mild-mannered candidate and church.

But neither Talarico or Rigby are in any way intimidated. In fact, as the intensity of the attacks increase, their Stoic forbearance and gracious humor remains intact. (Hmm, it’s almost like they’re showing us what real faith looks like.)

And unlike any other major candidate I can recall, Talarico is centering his spiritual values in his stump speeches, while still maintaining, like any good Democrat, a clear separation of church and state. He’s not afraid to identify as a Christian—a progressive Christian, which is what ordinary open-minded Christians are called these days. For Talarico, one’s religious life is not a private matter to be hidden from public scrutiny—it’s the deep and loamy soil in which one roots their values, integrity, and humanity. Loving-kindness is not a bumper sticker for Talarico—it’s a call to action and a way of being in the world.

There’s a deep hunger left unfed by the moral vacuity of Christian Nationalism, a movement that purports to be “The Way,” but deviates so far away from it as to become farcical. And leaders like Talarico and Rigby are setting the table. And whatever’s cooking in the kitchen smells really good. And they aren’t the only ones. Too many others to name are building the resistance movement church basement by church basement, nurturing the opposition to the toxic belligerence of Imperial Christo-Fascism. And honestly, I’m really excited about it.

To people outside the faith, religion is often characterized as the problem. But when you get closer you realize that the problem is ignorance and malevolence and the lust to control others, born from the depths of self-loathing and deeply dysfunctional dis-integration. But in the end you realize that while great harm has been, and continues to be, caused by religious institutions and bad actors, it is also true that the medicine for the disease comes from the same altar table. To re-purpose President Clinton’s famous line, there’s nothing wrong with Christianity that cannot be cured by what is right about Christianity.

In my meandering from the fringes of Christianity toward something within shouting distance of the center, (which is what my whole Substack has been about), I’ve come to experience Christianity in a number of surprising ways—ways I’d previously misunderstood, overlooked, or intentionally ignored.

I thought that to participate in Christian community I had to sign a doctrinal contract—something like the Nicene Creed—or be barred at the door. Turns out I was wrong about that. What else have I been wrong about?

I think of myself largely as an agnostic Christian. Religions all over the world use mythological storytelling to convey powerful glimmers of a transcendent realm beyond the five senses and the rational mind. I’m o.k. with that. In fact I get it. That trans-rational, mythological framework aligns well with my own mystical experiences, mostly outdoors in the forests and deserts of the American West.

Just don’t ask me to take myths literally. No I don’t think there’s a heaven or hell. Or that God sends people there depending on the way they conducted their lives here on earth. I don’t know what happens after you die. And I’m a little afraid of people who think they do. My own spirituality draws me away from certainty and toward ambiguity, away from answers and toward questions. The less I understand, the more I experience. Questions open me up. Answers shut me down.

That’s just me. You do you.

The divinity of Christ? The resurrection? His death on the cross cleansing us of our sinful natures? I just listen to those claims as I listen to strange music. Huh, that’s interesting I think to myself, maybe it’ll grow on me. Those are some powerful, amazing stories, and I see how they move people, and maybe getting moved is the point.

And to their eternal credit, Episcopalians not only tolerate me and all my skepticism, they seem to genuinely enjoy having me around. Maybe we’re both helping each other. There’s no coercion, no attempt to control, no attempt to convince. Our church is not a place where ideas are put on trial to be convicted or acquitted. It’s a place where people gather in invitation—the invitation to stick around and see what happens. Let Spirit take it from there.

So many of the folks who know me, whether personally or through my work, were puzzled when I became a member of St. Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral in San Diego six years ago, and my wife Lori and I have been attending every Sunday ever since. Some of my friends get it, but most don’t seem to know what to say about it. Trust me, no one’s more surprised than I am.

After a lifetime of being repulsed by most of the Christianities (and Christians) I encountered, and staying safely ensconced in my study of world religions, philosophy, and mythology, I occasionally bumped up against Christians and Christian communities that seemed alive with possibility. They had something I wanted. What had I missed?

Then eventually—not all at once, but incrementally—I felt my reticence dissolving, my interest piquing, and a new-found clarity beginning to emerge.

Today, in this space and time, at this albergue on the camino, this is the kind of Christianity I’m interested in:

The kind that challenges empire, not bows before it.

The kind that understands and embodies humility.

The kind that builds longer tables, not higher walls.

The kind built on inclusion, not exclusion.

The kind that loves so much that it forgets everything else.

The kind that doesn’t use Bible quotes to end conversations, but to start them.

The kind that laughs at pomposity, while still loving the rites and rituals.

The kind that is able to think in layers, and honor nuance.

The kind that thrives in the open space between the poles of paradox.

The kind that understands that wisdom slips the net of language and logic, but shows up in loving action.

The kind that respects scripture, all the while deconstructing it and telling the truth about context and culture, even the ugly bits.

The kind that practices evidence-based reason and rational discourse.

The kind that honors dissent and the autonomy of subjective experience.

The kind that distrusts authority, even if so much of the hymnal and liturgy positively drips with it.

The kind that shows its faith in actions, not passive-aggressive group-think and peer pressure.

The kind that understands faith as open-minded not-knowing, instead of cowering compliance to the hardened convictions of others.

The kind that respects the scientific method as much as mythological storytelling, and honors the pedagogical power of both.

The kind that understands the power of music and art and architecture and oratory and the choreography of communal ritual to lift us into experiences beyond the mind, beyond pedantry, and beyond the veil that separates us from the divine.

The kind that takes the fight to Christian Nationalism and other corrosive distortions of the teachings of Jesus.

The kind that stands with the marginalized, even when, especially when, some community members walk away.

The kind that builds meaningful friendships and collaborations with other faith communities—our Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, and Hindu friends down the street—as well as our agnostic, atheist, and spiritual-but-not-religious neighbors.

The kind that doesn’t just say, “All are welcome here,” but lives it, breathes it, demonstrates it, embodies it, and builds it into the core of everything they do.

The kind that doesn’t provide tidy doctrines, but invites everyone into conversation about the possibilities the ancient teachings and evolving interpretations engender.

And finally, the kind that gets out of the way of God, and lets God—whatever you understand that word to mean—do the work, blowing through the room like a ribbon on an unseen wind, high in the beams of light streaming in through the stained glass windows, gliding through the incense smoke rising from the censors, wordlessly calling to mind our own winding, circuitous paths through the landscape of our own immeasurable lives.