About that Contretemps on Piers Morgan

Introduction

So on Monday I was slated to appear on a panel with Piers Morgan and, having done so, I encountered what passes for enlightened discourse these days—you know, in the twilight of our Republic.

Piers was the host, and did an okay job trying to be the host, and I shared the panel with Tim Miller of The Bulwark and Wajahat Ali, who has a Substack newsletter, The Left Hook. When I say we “shared” the panel, that way of putting it is kind of misleading. The word sharing might make you think that it was a feast of reason and flow of soul, which it more or less was not, and when I say more or less, I mean less more than more. If you know what I mean. Michael Knowles was supposed to join us but was providentially prevented somehow. With him missing, it was three against one, which I think Piers felt a little bad about. The conversation started out reasonably enough, but it wasn’t too long before my fellow guests decided to descend to personalities.

Here is the show, if you want to verify what I say for yourself. Our segment starts around 16:15.

When Agreement Doesn’t Cut It

One of the marks of someone who is being fanatically loyal to his ideological tribe is that if you are outside that tribe, he won’t let you agree with him. About anything. During the course of the interaction, there were a number of things that we actually agreed on . . . believe it or not. The reason you might be excused for not realizing that we agreed on anything was that nobody there acted as though we agreed. Except for me, of course. I was trying to be reasonable.

We agreed on the blasphemous image of Trump as Jesus. We agreed that his Easter tweet was not good. We agreed that the IDF soldier who desecrated an image of Christ had done a really bad thing. We agreed that if Trump campaigned against endless war in the Middle East and wound up presiding over an endless war in the Middle East, this would be utterly inconsistent and really bad. But did this cause any of the rancorous discourse to calm back down? Not a bit of it. The more we agreed, the more agitated things got. It was the kind of thing that would make intelligent observers go huh.

My colleagues on the panel did not say anything like, “Well, I am glad to see that we agree that endless war in Iran would be terrible. It would seem that we have isolated our disagreement then . . . you don’t believe this will be an endless war. Have I understood you correctly?” No, no, nothing like that.

And So All the Puppies and Kittens Came Out to Play

So Piers Morgan has something of an audience. At the time of posting this, that particular show has half a million views on You Tube, and lotsa lotsa comments (almost 6,000). And if the comments don’t reveal a great deal about our fin de siècle era, they at least reveal a great deal about the thought patterns of American basement dwellers.

After having taken something of an unscientific sampling, allow me to divide the comments into two broad categories, while recognizing that there are a few lonely voices that don’t fall into these categories. The first is the kind of fan who enjoys watching professional wrestling, and the second is the kind who tries to climb into the ring himself.

The first is the type who cannot distinguish a rant from an argument. The mere fact that these two gents independently launched their own respective diatribes at me (e.g. “you hate everybody,” a “wolf in sheep’s clothing,” and a purveyor of “hate and bigotry”), is taken by these adoring fans as sufficient evidence that these belligerents cleaned my clock, stole my lunch money, and swabbed the floor with me. Now to be fair, if name-calling were sound argumentation, they did take the trophy home. But it isn’t, and they didn’t.

The second category would be made up of those who simply noticed that a signal had been given, such that they felt invited to turn, all the way to the left, the valve of their own personal spleen-vent. And it turns out that, in many cases, the tank was full. Perhaps they perceived that the name-calling on the show was inadequate and was not achieving the full effect that they wanted, and so they surmised that the best thing to do would be to utilize the comments thread as the place to ladle more opprobrium over the top of my head. Or perhaps the word I am looking for is calumny . . . whichever it is, they ladled a bunch of it.

The Divine Art of Not Giving a Rip

As stewards of the grace of God, we need to be accountable to God for every form that this grace might take. And if we have been reading our Bibles carefully, we should have noticed that if it is for the sake of His name, it is a grace to be disgraced, and an honor to be dishonored.

I was recently reading this passage in Richmond Lattimore’s translation, and really enjoyed his rendering of “leap for joy,” which was the Lord’s instruction that we frolic. When unbelievers unload on you, and throw every manner of dead cat at you, in that day we are instructed to rejoice and be exceedingly glad. You may have noticed that there was a time or two in our discussion, if you want to call it a discussion, when I laughed.

Now I know that there are some fastidious Christians out there, not a few, who will pounce on my use of the word if earlier. If it is for the sake of Christ . . . but, they hasten to add, you’re not being attacked for the sake of Christ. You’re being attacked because you hate everybody. Please notice that this is not a case of Christians explaining why unbelievers are attacking, but is rather a case of Christians joining in on the attack—for reasons best known to themselves.

One of the, um, theses that my fellow panelists advanced was the idea that I should not be called a pastor. They were willing to scare quote the “pastor,” but would rather just dispense with the word altogether. How can I be a Christian pastor when I am clearly not even a Christian? You know, like the pope? And the reason I could not be a Christian is that I disagreed with their politics.

My reply was that I had been what they called a “pastor” for just shy of fifty years now, and so I asked how long would I have to continue in the work before I could be a real pastor, the kind they approve of. I have been preaching, counseling, marrying, burying, hospital visiting, comforting, encouraging . . . half a century. And yet unbelievers, full of bile, throw all that away because I differ with their leftist politics. And numerous Christians, not full of bile themselves but rather full of timidity, nod at the assessment. They are not full of bile but they sure are afraid of those who are. When we invite such Christians to come out and visit us, at our expense, they shake the head slowly. Alas.

Somebody might call them a bigot. Somebody might accuse them of misogyny. But I would merely take this opportunity to remind them that not giving a rip is a fruit of the Spirit.