The theology, both implicit and explicit, of being born again: An anecdotal report
The Experience of being born again
In 1945, I was ten years old, living in Essex, Iowa. I remember two momentous happenings that year. I bought a new, red Schwinn bicycle with money saved from delivering the Des Moines Register newspaper.
In addition I was born again, not once, but three times. Years later, at a campground meeting in Des Moines, Washington, there was almost a fourth when Carl Blomgren and I found ourselves entirely encircled with an assortment of ministers, deacons, laypersons and other true evangelicals holding hands and gradually tightening the noose around the two of us while the choir sang the refrain “Just As I Am” in perpetuity with great pathos. Fortunately Carl remembered the “flying wedge” from his football days at North Park and Augustana, and we lowered our heads and charged our way to freedom.
The format and the theology of these seminal conversion events were remarkably similar. Under the persuasive exhortations of visiting evangelists (our local pastors generally outsourced these endeavors) and the promptings of the Holy Spirit we came forward, publicly confessing our sinful natures and activities, acknowledging that there was only one way to be saved, claiming the promise of salvation through faith in Jesus Christ with the attendant rewards of entrance into heaven and escape from the tragedy of eternal punishment in hell, and pledging to live exemplary lives henceforth. The surety for the veracity of all of this was not the superior rhetoric nor intellect of the speakers, but every word of the Old and New Testaments, inerrantly recorded by chosen scribes.
Søren Kierkegaard ridiculed a contemporary philosopher whom he thought too abstract to be taken seriously by remarking, “reading Hegel is like reading from a cookbook to a starving man.” Our affirmative response to the plea to be saved was no cookbook diversion. It was impressed upon our young, receptive minds that this was the most important decision we would ever make in our entire lives and our emotions were commensurate with such an existential happening. Not only our daily living was at stake but our eternal destiny as well. This is serious stuff.
In retrospect, it seems to me that our born again experience was not only deeply personal, but also replete with several theological ideas which I think are worth articulation and reflection.
Five of these ideas were: 1) the biological transmission of original sin; 2) hell as retributive justice; 3) exclusivity of the “one way” belief; 4) Biblical literalism and fundamentalism; 5) our faith decision as necessary for salvation.
Here is my brief, personal, unsophisticated, anecdotal introduction to these five ideas.
1) The biological transmission of original sin
While doing graduate work “out east,” I was a supply pastor in the Wakefield United Methodist Church. Late one night, I rushed to the South Kingston County Hospital to visit a parishioner in the maternity ward who was possibly having a miscarriage. While waiting for admittance, I was joined by a Roman Catholic priest who was involved in the same kind of pastoral service. After the OB/GYN nurse gave him entrance, I asked her if she knew his mission. (Was I making sure he wasn’t invading my flock?) She replied that he came to the hospital practically every night to make sure that everyone whose mortality was in the balance, including newborns, were baptized. “I guess,” she continued, “that if persons die without being baptized they go to hell or some other horrible place.” Unless there were objections, the priest would baptize indiscriminately. Better safe than sorry. She wasn’t very nimble with theological terminology, but I took her to be saying that everyone is born with original sin, inherited from the first Adam who is the father of us all, and unless this sin was washed away in baptism, God would punish us regardless of our merit or lack thereof.
I think this was the assumption of the evangelists who preached so passionately to us. They did not suggest we chronicle our sins and then ask to be forgiven. They were not the custodians of a confessional booth. Our problem was much more serious. It was not our deeds, but our entire inherited “nature” that needed to be changed. The reason for this is that all humans are, as Thomas Aquinas wrote in his Summa Theologica, “parts of the first Adam,” the one who was responsible for the Fall and who forwarded its consequences to us.
Ironically, later in the Summa when writing about what constitutes venal/ mortal sins Aquinas clearly (and seemingly contradictorily) asserts that without intentionally, there is no sin.
Augustine puts a slightly different spin as to the origin of our lewd, lustful, lascivious, licentious character by quoting the Psalmist, “In sin did my mother conceive me.” Logic, as well as observation, instructs us that the effect must resemble the cause and since the very act by which we came into being is one of concupiscence, it follows that our depraved DNA ineluctably manifests itself in everything we are and do. No fault of ours but no matter how hard we try, we strike out every time.
What did Jesus really mean when he is reported to have said, “Let the children come unto me … for such is the kingdom of heaven?” Or, when he said, “Unless you become as a little child you cannot enter the kingdom of God?” In his invitation, did he discriminate between those who had been circumcised (baptized) and those who had not? Did he ever imply that it is just and fair to visit the children with the sins of their fathers?
2) Hell as retributive justice
Two summers ago the annual meeting of the Pietisten family was held on Vashon Island, Washington, just a week or so after the totally unexpected death of one of its noteworthy residents, Carl Blomgren. In his eulogy at Carl’s memorial service, one of his sons quoted his father as saying, “You can’t really live if you have a fear of death!” I think Carl lived out that conviction. As a kid, I had a great fear of death and of the final judgment because of the possibility of going to hell and having to endure God’s wrath eternally.
The evangelists who prodded me into coming forward were no “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” Jonathan Edwards types. But they made it clear that after life there were two places of residency: either Heaven with its endless charms and pleasures, or Hell with its never-ending suffering. “Tonight” might very well be the last chance I had to assure my final destination.
While on Vashon Island, a circle of our friends met Carl’s wife, Marcia, at a local coffee house for reminiscing about his extraordinary life. As I was entering the shop I noticed a lady reading a magazine which I recognized as a journal of the Quakers/Friends. The front page featured article was “Does God Punish His Children?” Since I infered she is a Quaker and in no way can embrace violence, I assumed the answer to that question is “No.” She observed my interest in her reading, seemed to anticipate my inquiry and offered, “Yes, God does punish God’s children. God is not merely permissive. But God’s punishment is not retributive, nor vindictive but restorative.” (By her language I could see she had pretty well mastered the article.) I read part of the piece. It advocated the belief that restitution is essential for justice and for healing of all parties involved. But it must be done in a manner which is consistent with God’s love for all persons. It must be remedial, not hateful nor destructive.
I like that word “restorative.” My concept of hell or punishment after death was never restorative nor remedial, but best described as sadistic. That’s what I learned when I was young and that idea seemed implicit (if not explicit) in the theology of those evangelists who were concerned about my soul. Although I can believe in God’s restorative response to our hurtful and sinful behavior, is this a metaphysical place, in which the only relief from endless, excruciating pain is annihilation?
3) Exclusivity of the “one way” belief
Is the evangelical experience compatible with pluralism, or is there only one way to be “saved” and to enter the kingdom of God?
If you asked me that question during my early formative years the answer was a no-brainer. The most compelling verse in the Bible was Jesus dictum that “you must be born again” and it was our affirmative response to that mandate, in both conviction and in practice, that distinguished us not only from other religions, but from other non-evangelical churches as well. All of my uncles and aunts were Evangelical Covenanters except one, and we felt a certain pity for her who, by marriage, was compelled to affiliate with another denomination. Even though she exhibited a Christian deportment, her salvation was always in question.
Still, I always felt very uncomfortable with the idea that only a small remnant of God’s children would be included in the plan of redemption – and those persons found themselves in that privileged state not by merit but by fortuity.
A “game changer” occurred in my understanding of this exclusivity issue six years ago. I taught at Carnegie Mellon University in Doha, Qatar, for one semester. All but two of my students were Muslims, from such diverse places as Palestine, Syria, Egypt, United Arab Emirates, Indonesia and Nepal. Every student was an excellent scholar, as well as being an exemplary person, liberal and generous in mind and in spirit. Even though they knew I was an ordained Christian clergy, as well as a “secular” college professor, we gradually developed a rapport to the degree that during the last day of class I dared venture a little mild “trash talking.” I told them that this was probably the last time I would ever see them and I had really enjoyed getting to know them and also living in Qatar, but I had one serious concern: “Not enough Christians running around here and way too many Muslims. We need to follow Aristotle’s ‘Golden Mean’. Diversity, whether religious, cultural, or whatever, is where it’s at these days.” Then I stepped back in anticipation of the “slings and arrows” headed my way. Instead they laughed and replied, “Don’t worry. We’ll all get together on the other side.” “You think I’ll make it to your Paradise?” “Sure, you can come to Allah’s heaven but don’t expect to receive 72 soulless virgins for your pleasure. They are reserved for us!” Later I learned that many Islamic scholars say the Koran includes Christians and Jews as well as Muslims in the seven layers of Paradise. Christians will be judged by how well they obeyed the teachings of Jesus, Jews by following the teachings of Moses, and Muslims by their adherence to the teachings of the Koran. Of course, the finest places are reserved for Mohammad’s devotees.
Can it be that we can gain admittance to the Islamic heaven and they not ours?
4) Biblical literalism and fundamentalism
The absolute, indisputable authority implicit in the evangelical experience is the Bible. As one of my pious aunts used to say (claiming she was quoting Billy Graham, which may be the case), “I would believe that Jonah swallowed the whale if the Bible said so!”
The Bible is to be understood as plenary, inerrant and literally true – a kind of “everything you need to know in straightforward, ordinary language.” Years ago I took a course taught by Paul Holmer at the Yale Divinity School. In class, I ventured an opinion that Paul Tillich’s conception of God as “the Ground of Being” offered a somewhat attractive alternative (or supplement) to the theological anthropomorphism of the apostle Paul. The professor’s response was a sardonic laugh followed by this comment: “Mr Adell, let the Bible speak for itself.”
The conversion experience is grounded in the creedal conviction of the Covenant Church, which is reaffirmed in “A Covenant Resource Paper: The Evangelical Covenant Church and the Bible”(2008): “the Holy Scripture, the Old and New Testament, is the Word of God and the only perfect rule for faith, doctrine, and conduct.” However, the paper continues, “read and listen to the Bible faithfully, with a deep understanding of God’s Word and our differing interpretive lenses … and charitably, with regard to differing interpretations of Scripture.”
Can certain passages of Scripture be interpreted contextually and metaphorically while others be understood literally and propositionally? Do all of us have to interpret it the same?
My barber in Decatur, Illinois, was a pleasant woman who could adroitly cut one’s hair and engage in non-stop conversation simultaneously. However, on one occasion she was neither pleasant nor talkative. Halfway through the cutting she broke her taciturn behavior and told me she was thinking of transferring her church affiliation. It turns out that the members had elected her to serve on the church board. But when she showed up for the first fall meeting, Pastor W met her in the parking lot and informed her that she was not welcome because only males could be spokespersons and leaders of Christ’s church. He explained that this wasn’t his idea but the apostle Paul’s, who wrote to a youthful pastor Timothy, “I do not allow women to be teachers nor have authority over men. They must learn in silence.” Surely Ms. Barber did not want to go against the teachings of the Bible. The Bible must be interpreted literally as eternal, objective truths, not relative nor contextual.
All denominations face this dilemma. In l976, the Evangelical Covenant Church decided to ordain women in various ministries of the church, including pastorate roles. Obviously these females must speak publicly, as well as exert a certain amount of authority over males. In a recent issue of the Covenant Companion, an author addressed the apparent contradiction between Paul’s instructions to Timothy and the Covenant’s decision to allow women to be leaders. His response is to quote Mark Whitlock, a pastor in the African Methodist Episcopal Church: “Paul wrote these words to guide a troubled first century church, not to create a discriminatory church policy.” In other words, Paul’s instructions to Timothy were to be understood contextually and not propositionally. There is plenty of room for “differing interpretative lenses.” How does contextualism relate to the experience of being “born again?”
The Episcopalian Church offers a very impressive daily devotional, “Forward: Day by Day.” My wife and I read it faithfully. In a recent issue the author shares her feelings about going forward to the altar during weekly worship to receive the elements. Her language is strikingly similar to that used in describing my evangelical experience. She encounters God, senses the Holy Spirit, confesses her dependence on Christ for her salvation, and even remarks, “Each time I do this, I feel like I am born again. It happens almost every week!” Differing lenses for different persons belonging to different types of churches.
5) Our faith-decision as necessary for salvation
In his article on Purgatory, published by The Christian Century, John Stackhouse Jr. asks the question as to what role humans play in the process of salvation. He contrasts two opposing views as to whether we have the mandate and the capacity to cooperate with God in our redemption. “Synergists” maintain our salvation is the result of interaction of human will and divine grace. Without the act of faith and the willful decision to be born again God cannot reclaim us as his children. On the other hand, “Monergists” deny that we play any role in being saved, although we can contribute significantly to the process of applying God’s grace to our daily living. This position maintains that salvation is by grace alone and by his death and resurrection Christ defeated “sin, death, and the devil” – all the forces of evil – once and for all.
I recall reading somewhere about a young man who responded to the altar call by going forward to be saved, showing great remorse for his sins, and tearfully acknowledging total dependence on God’s grace. However, when he returned to his seat he asked his parents, “How did I do?” From monergist to synergist!
I can empathize with that young man as perhaps some of you can as well. Was this conversion experience adequate? Did I perform my role correctly? Kierkegaard wrote “truth is subjectivity.” As subject, did I express the requisite passion and faith for deserving God’s deliverance from hell and God’s reward of eternal life in heaven?
As a kid in the fourth grade I responded to the altar call at least three times, wanting to make sure I qualified for all the benefits God had to offer. I was definitely a person who insisted that God’s grace needed my concurrence to be efficacious. Faith was a “work” which acted as a necessary catalyst for God’s gracious redemptive plan. Finally, a deacon in my church who knew of my several responses to “just as I am” said to me: “It’s not about you. Accept it and say thanks.”
Karl Barth, the great theologian of the 20th century, was accused by some of being a universalist because he insisted that God, in grace, chooses and therefore saves all humans. Barth neither affirmed nor denied universalism. In deference to the complete sovereignty of God he remarked, “Who am I to tell God what God must do or not do with His grace. It’s God’s decision, not mine.” Nevertheless, Barth did affirm the “possibility” of everyone being saved ultimately by stating, “as the electing God, Jesus elects all humanity in Himself. All who are in Christ are elect in Him.” Non-believers simply have not realized nor accepted this unfathomable truth.
It seems to me that evangelical theology and reformed theology intersect at this point: the experience of being “born again” is the realization and recognition that in Christ, without our concurrence nor assistance, God has unconditionally chosen each of us. It is not our faith nor our decision but God’s affirmative love which saves us.
Epilogue: Faith, doubt and certainty
It’s a gray, rainy April Sunday morning in Chicago, so Karen and I must take a taxi to the Fourth Presbyterian Church for the 11 o’clock service. Even though the route our driver takes is typically a bit circuitous, we arrive on time. Worship at Fourth Pres. is an inspiring experience. The sanctuary, the music, the preaching, the parishioners all contribute to an excellent aesthetic as well as spiritual happening.
On this particular Sunday, the front of the bulletin offers us a thoughtful and somewhat provocative quote from Jay Bakker.
“Certainty isn’t faith. We ought to use the phrase ‘losing your faith’ to mean ‘gaining belief.’ Faith is not belief. Belief wants to have certainty, so it puts faith aside. But faith is an affirmation of something that hasn’t been seen, that can’t be grasped. It’s not certainty. If you’re certain about something, you don’t need faith. When you believe in something you think you’re right about it. When you have faith in something, you’re open to the idea that you might be wrong.”
Or, as my friend and colleague Ralph Sturdy often reminds me (quoting Tillich among others), “The opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty.”
The five ideas presented in this article are not “certainties.” Nor are they revisionist alternatives. But they are expressions of faith and it behooves us to respect differing expressions as well. In Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis says, “Imagine yourself as a living house where Christ intends to come and live. When you have reached your own room, be kind to those who have chosen different doors and to those who are still in the hall.” Such is the attitude of faith.