In a recent post on postmodernism, I commented on the timidity of many who will not handle their discontents in a scriptural manner. This ties in with postmodernism because of the primacy of feeling in postmodern subjectivism. Interestingly, after posting that I got an (anonymous) critique that acknowledged the truthfulness of part of what I said, but then went on to defend the practice of anonymous charges. (I am looking forward to the publication of an anthology someday — The Collected Works of Anonymous: Man of Many Moods.)
Some of the things mentioned were simply recycled charges that could be readily answered — if we were answering someone with a name. But along with the predictable stuff (and some venting) was an interesting point, a point that, despite the anonymous origin, warrants a serious answer. “You argue better than anyone. And you are very articulate. People . . . know that if they come to talk with you that they will not win.” Related to this was the charge that I will not admit to sin (ever), and so what’s the use?
These are all issues that relate to authority, objectivity, certainty, and the rest of it. My interest here is the practical theological question, and not the details of this particular person’s grievances. For that to be resolved, we would need to have a biblical, person-to-person conversation, and that means we would have to have our names attached. But what about the general point?
When people have accused me of “always being right,” it is striking to me that almost never do they preface the accusation with an introduction that says, “I know that I might be wrong about this, and I may be misjudging you . . .” No, this kind of charge (“You always think you’re right!”) invariably comes rolling toward me like an exercise in papal dogmatics. Those who think that an excessively confident person is “always right” are typically the kind of person who will take mortal offense when their assessment of the situation is questioned in the slightest degree. In short, the charge “you always think you are right” is not made by people who think they are wrong about it.
This is not a word game. It is true that I always think I am right, but I don’t think I am always right. The former is not a function of me having a peculiarly dogmatic personality; it is a function of being a human being who believes things. Everyone thinks he is right in what he is thinking at that moment. And everyone, upon reflection, knows that this moment-by-moment sensation is sometimes wrong. And when the confirmation of such errors is brought to us the only honest thing to do is admit it straight up the middle.
Second, in such interactions, it is frequently clear that an emotional collision (or meltdown) is occurring, and the situation as described does not at all represent what is actually happening. I have been in conversations with people where I have specifically sought their forgiveness for something, only to have the charge arise (later) that I never ever seek forgiveness. If I were to point out (for example) that I did seek forgiveness from them just a little earlier, the whole thing is treated like another infernal debating trick. “Man, he’s smooth! Cleverly admitting himself to have been in the wrong, he once again has shown himself to have been right!” Well, perhaps. But perhaps the charge is false. If someone came in to see me, complimented me on my necktie, and later in the conversation rebuked me for never wearing a tie, I might be excused in thinking something weird is going on. And if I defended myself by pointing to the tie, I hardly think this is an example of my Ciceronian abilities getting me off the hook yet again.
And last, it embarrasses me to think how many times over the last thirty years I have been wrong — wrong in public, wrong in the pulpit, wrong in print. In fact, this could be the basis for a plausible charge against me. I don’t think it would be a fair charge, but it would have more surface plausibility than the absurd charge that I never admit to being wrong. “No sense talking to Wilson — he never admits he has been wrong about anything” is silly on the face of it. Far more plausible to say something like, “Better be careful what you say to him! Careful about what books you loan him!” During the course of my adult ministry I have publically acknowledged certain convictions and doctrines (that I held to and taught) to have been (to use an old-fashioned word) wrong. They include, but are not limited to, my views on: baptism, Calvinism, church music, communion, ecclesiology, eschatology, liturgics, sanctification, and more. The list is alphabetized for ready reference. And this does not include all the practical mistakes, sins, and missteps for which I have sought and received forgiveness.
But I will hasten to add that I have never sought forgiveness from an anonymous accuser. Further, I am not going to. Neither am I going to receive correction from liars. Where does the Bible say that fear is ample justication for attacking anyone secretly? This point can only be persuasive because we live in an era when subjective feelings (including fear and timidity) are always taken at face value. In our postmodern era, this is the case whether there is any foundation for the fear, any reason for it. In our day, feelings need no justification. And where does the Bible say that we should give credence to liars for the sake of appearing humble? If someone charged me with shoplifting at WalMart, I don’t need to reflect on the charge to see if there is possibly something to it. And I don’t need to act as though I am thinking it over so the liar will be impressed. Who wants to impress liars?
“Aha! Gotcha! But since you admit to all these past errors, why do you preach and teach so confidently now?” Two reasons. One is that God requires Christian leaders to lead in faith, and this means confidence. Do we deserve to be confident? Of course not. But are we required to be? The apostle Peter requires that the one who speaks should speak as the very oracles of God. Second, God is kind, and the process of theological sanctification should not be confounded with the unstable process of lurching from one opinion to another. In short, this has not just been a process of unlearning. It has also been a process of learning. Post tenebras lux.