“If you’re going to write an article about ‘being woke,’ I think you should really lean into your personal experiences as a fundamentalist,” my wife suggested after reading the first draft of what would become this article.
“But I’m not a fundamentalist. I never was a real fundamentalist.”
“You don’t think you used fundamentalist rhetoric during the election?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me. I would know if I were a fundamentalist, wouldn’t I? I mean, I know fundamentalists. Most fundamentalists are proud of their beliefs. They stand by them. I’ve questioned, challenged, and changed my beliefs—many times. At this point, the second I make a declarative sentence of any type, I question it.”
“Hmm.”
“Which also means that, yes, I am currently questioning whether or not I might have possibly acted and spoken like a bit of a—”
“Liberal fundamentalist?”
Salvation
I was five when I was “saved.” It was a bit young, perhaps, but I was precocious. Actually, I think I wanted to be “good,” and I knew that to be “good” in my small midwestern town meant that I needed to get saved. Here’s what happened: I prayed. I called for my parents to come to my room. I told them I had “accepted Jesus into my heart.” A few weeks later, after some follow-up pastor’s classes, in which I confessed my sins and asked for forgiveness, I was baptized in my large Southern Baptist church.
I was thirty-one when I became “woke.” A bit old, perhaps, but I’d been on a journey. Really, it was right after the 2016 election, and I knew that in order to be considered “good” in my community in New York City, I needed to get woke. Here’s what happened: I fumed. I wrote a blog post. I declared that Trump voters “failed a basic morality test.” A few weeks later, after many long nights of catastrophizing with friends over red wine, in which I confessed my privilege and donated to the ACLU (and the NRDC, BLM, and NILC), I marched in Washington, DC.
In both moments, I was completely sincere, completely convinced of the righteousness of my actions and words. I believed I was saved. I believed I was woke. But the states of being saved and being woke are tricky to define—and are not as fixed as people make them out to be. And, when it comes down to it, I’m starting to think the terms do significantly more harm than good.
Why I Struggled to Stay “Good” in Missouri
The path from being saved to being baptized is fairly straightforward. It gets tricky after that, though. I learned at an early age that it wasn’t enough to be saved. I also needed to learn how to act and speak “like a Christian.” When I was nine or ten, I began going to a conservative Christian summer camp. My first year at camp, I threw myself into the activities with enthusiasm and abandon. I delightedly knocked people off an inflatable blob in the swimming pool; I quickly scrambled through the woods to be first in line to kayak or water ski, so I could get biggest “beads” for participation. At the end of the camp, they gave out awards. I was initially proud of getting the FUAGNEM award. (This stood for “Fired Up And Going Nuts Every Minute.”) But by the end of the ceremony, I realized that the important award was the “I Am Third” award. The award drew its name from the theme of the camp: “God first; others second; I am third.” At that moment, I realized I had entirely missed the point of the camp. The next year, I was more careful. I allowed myself to be knocked off the blob; I let others get in line ahead of me at the docks. It still wasn’t enough. The third year, I was even nicer. I didn’t really play on the blob at all; I stayed behind more to help on kitchen duty. I got the award.
I wish the award hadn’t been important to me. And honestly, it wasn’t the only important thing to me. The “I am third” idea is essentially a simplification–and, in my view, a misinterpretation–of what Jesus calls the most important two commandments: to love God with all your heart and to love your neighbor as yourself. The misinterpretation being that Jesus says to put a love for others equal to a love for oneself, not above. But my theology skills weren’t that refined at nine, and the “I am third” idea had a major impact on me—largely because it was reinforced with a competition. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to learn to be loving toward God and others—not at all. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t really want that award, too. I wanted to be recognized by others as a Christian—as a really good Christian. This was particularly important because right about the time I started going to camp, my family switched churches—from the large Southern Baptist Church that felt central to my hometown to the much smaller Methodist Church. My Baptist friends and their families expressed concern over this change. And while I agreed with my family’s reasons for switching, I wanted some assurance that I was still good. The award felt good.
In high school, my understanding of theology did become more nuanced. Among the many topics that my denominationally diverse group of friends and I would argue about was the question of who was “really saved.” The Methodist Church had a (deserved) reputation for being relatively lenient on their salvation requirements. They sprinkled instead of fully immersing for baptism, for instance. This made my “saved” status highly suspect for members of other denominations. Not impossible, but less likely. Lucky for me, I had been fully immersed as a Southern Baptist—and later sprinkled as a Methodist. So both of those bases were covered. (I joke, I joke!) The outward symbol of baptism, of course, wasn’t actually the important part for most people.
What was important was to be able to pin down what was happening inside the soul. This was determined through questions—questions that had right answers. A typical line of questioning might be:
“Do you believe that you are a sinner?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that He died for your sins?”
I would sometimes lose my footing here, but in my mind, I had an allegorical understanding of certain events, which enabled me to say the correct answer, “Yes.”
“If you were to die today, are you one hundred percent certain you know where you’d go?”
Again, my allegorical understanding of the afterlife allowed me to say, “Yes, heaven.”
“How do you know?”
“I accepted Jesus.”
This would satisfy most.
But the Missionary Baptists had an extra piece to it that always got me. They would ask, “How do you know you are saved?”
I never knew what to say. I remember feeling simultaneously frustrated with and jealous of the “saved” Missionary Baptists in my group—as they always seemed so confident in their answers. “You feel it,” they would insist. When I shyly asked what, exactly, it felt like, they would explain it in much the same way people explain what orgasms feel like: “Oh, you’d know if it happened. You wouldn’t even have to ask.” The question itself was revealing and damning. And that’s where I’d always get in trouble.
I have always been good at answering questions “correctly.” Once I figured out what the right answers were, I was happy to give them–and in doing so, would continually reinforce a story for myself and for the person asking the questions. My problem was that I could not stop myself from asking other questions. I kept on asking other questions, the wrong questions. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be good. I wanted to feel certain about being good. But I had questions.
Questions like: If I haven’t “felt” anything, does that mean I’m not saved? What if my intentions are sincere? How can we as humans judge someone else’s salvation? And why would an all-powerful, loving God condemn anyone, anyway—particularly on a technicality? What happens to people who have never heard about Jesus? What do you think would happen to you if you were born into another religion? Why would God make it so easy for some people and so difficult for others? Why would God say women couldn’t lead but also give examples of women leading? What happens if we women try to?
At a certain point, the questions led me away from the paths that many people in my hometown took. I decided to go to college in a part of the country where I believed people were asking the same questions I was asking. I moved to New England. Then to England. Then Baltimore. Then back to Missouri. Then to New York. Over the course of that time, my answers to some of the old questions changed as well. I went from thinking of myself as a “Christian,” to thinking of myself as a “liberal Christian,” to a “Christian liberal,” to a “liberal”—and eventually to a “liberal atheist.”
When I first set off for the Northeast, I thought being “liberal” meant that I was allowed to ask any question I wanted. I thought liberals were people who sought truth, even when it was uncomfortable or meant that they would have to rethink their framework or the framework of their communities. I thought it was no surprise that the major media outlets and universities tended to lean liberal, as they were the very institutions that were supposed to ask and wrestle with difficult questions. They had the experiences and the books that gave them real knowledge. After years of feeling restrained, censored, and put in a box by the Christian framework from my hometown, I gave it up in favor of a liberal framework—a framework that I thought prioritized “Truth” over “Faith.” But, of course, to believe that any group has a solid handle on “Truth” is already to be on the road to fundamentalism.
Why I Struggled to Stay “Good” in New York
I was thirty-one when I got ‘woke’
Granted, I had learned at an earlier age how to perform and speak basic liberalism. Early on, while still considering myself a “liberal Christian,” I connected with liberal opposition to the Iraq War (after all, “blessed are the peacemakers,”) so I tacked a rainbow “peace” flag above my bed for the decade following the country’s entrance to the war. I connected to the idea of fighting poverty, so I learned the language socialism, which seemed to be a more egalitarian and deeper fix than patronage. I believed deeply in public schools, so after college I spent three years teaching at a troubled high school in Baltimore. I also believed in the idea of taking care of the earth. My mom was a major promoter of recycling in my hometown community, and I have been an avid recycler since then. When I left home, I left my car behind and took public transportation, walked, or rode my bike until that was no longer feasible—and then I bought gas-efficient Toyota. I brought my own tote bags for groceries. And I donated to the New York Public Library, the Brooklyn Public Library, public radio—so my tote bag game was on point.
I wish the tote bags hadn’t been important to me. And they really weren’t the only reason I donated to those organizations. I sincerely believe in the importance of access to education and information. But I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wait until they offered the free tote bag to donate. It wasn’t entirely conscious, but I suppose I wanted others to know I was definitely on team Public Good. I was particularly in need of reassurance after I left my teaching job in Baltimore. Although I had plenty of valid reasons to quit, I felt the need to prove that I was still a good person. Tote bags felt good.
That said, my understanding of public good and the way it intersects with race, class, gender, sexuality has become increasingly nuanced over the course of the last decade—from conversations in Baltimore Public Schools, from movements such as Black Lives Matter and #MeToo, from interactions with refugees and immigrants. During and after the election, my New York community began loudly grappling with the idea of woke-ness. I was white and came from wealth, two factors that (deservedly) have a reputation for creating blind spots. My woke-ness was highly suspect. Lucky for me, I was also female and queer, so I had those bases covered. (I joke, I joke!) While many claim that wokeness comes more naturally for those who have not been as systematically privileged, I think most liberals would probably agree that people could be woke regardless of their identity.
What’s important is to directly face biases. This can be done through questions—questions that have a right answer.
“Do you believe you are privileged as a white person?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I benefit greatly from an implicit bias that most people in our country have received through various forms of social conditioning.”
“Do you believe you are privileged as a wealthy person?”
“Yes, I have many opportunities that others do not have—including (but certainly not limited to) my aforementioned fancy Christian summer camps and fancy liberal arts education.”
“Do you believe you have suffered or experienced trauma because you are a woman?”
“Yes, I have had men in a position of authority take advantage of that position in sexual and otherwise manipulative ways.”
“Do you believe you have suffered as a queer woman.”
While I actually think my life has significantly improved since I started my relationship with my wife, I can still honestly answer, “Yes, I was afraid to come out to my extended family and a little afraid to go home. Neither my wife nor I feel particularly comfortable holding hands in our hometowns.”
These answers (which I give quite genuinely) would satisfy most liberals. But it’s not always enough. There is a denomination of fundamental liberalism that pushes the rhetoric further: “Do you understand that the white, patriarchal systems of our country attempt to maintain white, male power by depriving everyone else of freedom and opportunities?” This is a hard one for me—not because I don’t think that many of our systems benefit white men, but because of the evil intention that the question implies, and the lack of agency that question gives to non-white, non-men. “Is this a useful framework for viewing the world?” I might ask, if I were brave. But the question itself would betray my complicity.
For a long time, my continued desire to be “good” meant that I gave the right answers and stayed quiet when I disagreed. I might not have been a liberal fundamentalist at heart, but I often let them speak for me. Still, even if I didn’t dare ask them publicly, I had questions.
Questions like: Why are we making generalizations against any group? Who are we to judge a stranger’s privilege? Do we really know what’s going on in the lives of others? Do people who have spent their entire lives in New York City really think they can judge the motives of southern and non-coastal regions? Do we ever really know what opportunities people in other communities have? Does intention really not matter? Do our labels free us or put us in boxes? Whom are we defining and whom are we allowing to define us? Are we really condoning censoring speech from people we don’t agree with?
It’s easy to ask hard questions of the group that you’re not part of. It’s easy to see where the thinking of others goes awry. What’s hard is asking questions of the community you are part of—asking questions of yourself. But it must be done—and it must be done first. There’s a Bible verse that says that before you can remove the speck from someone else’s eye, you have to take the plank out of your own. And so it is I’ve come full circle. The liberal atheist is back to finding Truth in Christ.
Why “Good” May Be Bad
The problem with thinking of ourselves as “saved” is that it implies that we think of others as condemned. The problem with thinking of ourselves as “woke” means that we think of others as un-woke. It’s too easy to dismiss or even vilify those outside the group. And while a common enemy might be the quickest way for a community to bond, it doesn’t make for a very high quality of life within the community. Everyone within a community that is united by fear of an enemy is necessarily scared and angry. “Stay angry” was the advice passed around the liberal community after the election. And I followed it, for quite a while. I was ungenerous to the conservative wing of my family; I dropped the f-bomb in a blog post directed at my hometown community; I self-righteously defended the use of said f-bomb when a fourth grade teacher from my elementary school questioned its use. I was angry. But once the anger died down, the questions crept back in, including the most recent one from my wife. Nothing keeps fundamentalism and fundamentalist rhetoric in check like a good question. Instead of advising community members to “stay angry,” I would suggest that we “keep questioning.”
If we focused on open questions instead of questions with right answers, we would have much more interesting and productive conversations—across supposed political divides.
Questions like: How can we remove barriers to success and happiness from all children—whether they grow up in Sandtown, Baltimore, or trailer parks in the Ozarks, or anywhere else—without creating barriers for other people? How can we protect women’s rights to make their own health and life choices—without dismissing concerns for a life growing inside of them? How can we greatly reduce the need or desire for abortions to begin with—without appointing ourselves, or anyone else, as the judge of where “life begins”? How can we tackle crime–without pinning all of our hope and frustrations on police and jails? How can we reward hard work fairly—without creating major power imbalances? How can we address a major and growing gap between the wealthy and everyone else—without incentivizing counterproductive behavior? How can we better understand and communicate with those from other cultures and backgrounds—without assuming that we ourselves are the sole bearers of Truth?
I don’t expect that the answers to these questions will be “moderate” in nature. Quite the contrary. Difficult questions–questions that include, rather than dismiss, the concerns of people with different frameworks–often generate radically creative, innovative, empathetic, and nuanced answers. Answers that I expect will require not simply a change of political policy but (perhaps more importantly) a major shift in the narrative we tell ourselves about ourselves.
I’ve gone from calling myself “Christian,” to “liberal Christian,” to “Christian liberal” to “liberal” to a “liberal atheist”—and now? Well, I don’t really like labels. Don’t call me “woke” or “saved,” either—in case you were, for some reason, tempted. The more labels we pile on ourselves, the more we separate ourselves from our neighbors, and the easier it is to dehumanize them. If we are “good,” then others are “evil” or some type of “‘ist or ‘ic”—”racist,” “misogynist,” “homophobic,” “idiotic,” etc. But it’s all oversimplified rhetoric. “Good” isn’t a thing. No one is “good.” And no one can really be defined by its many opposites, either. Not really.
But here I’ve gone and made a whole slew of declarative sentences. It’s probably time for more questions.
