Various Christian Reformed congregations are beginning their forced march toward denominational disaffiliation, and various individuals find themselves on the way out of a job or leadership position. Both are seeking, among other ends, to avoid the tender mercies by which the 2024 Synod would have them retrieve their dwindling chance of salvation by repenting of God’s newest least-favorite sin, any affirmation that same-gender couples might live in covenanted, church-sanctioned relationships.
In the dissidents’ voices can be heard everything from outrage to exasperation to frustration to bewilderment. Sometimes a sarcastic note, as above. Others are relieved or downright joyful at finally being free from having to deal with (to their minds) a smug self-righteous cabal.
With many, however, there is also sorrow and regret, lament over what is being lost, over what happened to the church that had nurtured them, that had quickened them to the very view of the gospel for which they are now being ostracized. Matt Ackerman caught this well in his recent “Letter of Resignation,” and Heidi DeJonge, further along in the process, in her meditation on “making memories.” Then there’s Meg Jenista’s post yesterday, marked by balletic grace compared to the heavy tromping to follow.
Nurture
My own mind keeps circling back to that word “nurture.” In my own case, the deep nurture of 110 church services a year plus weekly catechism and Sunday School. Of Christian schooling K through college. Of Calvinist Cadets and youth group with the grand annual fete of the Young Calvinist convention. Of junior choir, teen choir, all-city boys’ choir, high school choir, and Radio Choir to provide music for the Back to God Hour.
We chafed at this level of saturation back in the day, especially the grind that made Sunday a “day of stress and madness.” Most of my grad school friends were astounded at my account of these things, although those reared Catholic nodded (grimaced?) in recognition. One Jewish friend, born to radical leftie parents, saw some similarities; a red-diaper baby, he spent summers at “Commie camp” in New Jersey.
The What of It
But in retrospect I’ve found that the what-and-the-where of this nurture redeems the how of its instillation. Many readers here, along with others, have named the better features of the what. A sense that the Reformed tradition is deep and strong enough to endure doubts and questions—actually, to invite questions so as to make its theology speak afresh to new challenges. The sense that the world really does belong to God and so deserves curious, good-faith investigation. The understanding that “righteousness” in Scripture means “justice,” and that justice entails more than God beating the hell into us, absent the intervention of Christ—it means fairness for all people, also non-Christian people, and our obligation, our invitation, to work toward social structures and not just personal soul-measures that make for full human flourishing. A political activism that demands a seat at the table without unseating people of other faiths or none.
These principles, put into practice, long made the CRC something of an anomaly on the American Protestant scene. The church took the Bible—all the Bible—more seriously than many progressive and mainline believers, and it took the mind and society more seriously than most Fundamentalists, later “Evangelicals” who are now not-so-covert Fundamentalists again.
The Counterpoint
To be sure, there was—and is—much in the CRC weighing against these impulses. The church was founded in a split from the Reformed Church in America, after all—the one of 1857—and it secured its future in the early 1880s when, coincidentally with the upsurge in immigration, the RCA came out for local option on the matter of secret societies while the CRC demanded a uniform ban across the denomination. (Dum-da-dum-dum!) Further back, its original leadership, and long its model of faithfulness, was the Secession of 1834 from the Netherlands’s national church.
Yes, these separations are lamentable, the pious refrain has echoed down through the years. But the very act of splintering shows vital concern for the truth and the collective courage to maintain it. Peter DeVries caught the sentiment perfectly in The Blood of the Lamb when a Dutch immigrant father answers his son’s complaints about endless schisms: “You can’t split dead wood!” Doctrinal fidelity and dogmatism, no difference. Theological orthodoxy as the spirit of Christ; no life of faith without the truth. First things first. And last.
Ethos
A good explanation of recent developments is that these contrary impulses remained in balance over the years but that changes in organizational structure and modes of communication (think television and social media) have disrupted the balance or sidelined the people in charge of maintaining it. The hostile version regnant in recent synodical meetings is that a smug elite of denominational leaders had gone a-whoring after woke gods, and that Synod was enabled by a most gracious Providence to intervene just in time to rescue things from perdition.
In the aftermath I rue most the loss of the ethos of faith as I came to know it, the atmosphere in which the edicts of catechism and education take root, struggle, bear fruit, get tested by blight and storm, and come up again, perhaps transformed but stronger for the fray. The ambience in which theology is made real on the long march of life.
Notably, that’s a communal venture, ground zero of “the communion of the saints.” It is a theater whose sets are framed by doctrinal documents but whose drama is built up out of shared experience, webs of memory, doughty loyalty. Synod has pushed the sets to the front of the stage, obscuring the action and highlighting the harshest words. Gaze rapt on them, ye faithful. All logos of a shriveled sort, no ethos but of suspicion and judgment.
Losing the Jokes
The single most haunting sentence I’ve heard in talking to people about changing denominations is attributed to Barbara Wheeler, past president of Auburn Theological Seminary: “Nobody in the new room is going to get your jokes.”
It’s haunted me because of the two critical functions jokes serve. They invoke a group’s deep habits, quirks, absurdities. For old-school Midwestern CRCers like me: red jello at the meal of the week, dinner at Sunday noon, with a side serving of roast dominee. Making the bed before you check out of the motel. Peppermints during church, their number and flavor maybe reflecting your degree of orthodoxy.
But jokes are also built upon contradiction. They expose our hypocrisy, deflate bombast, find the best things hiding in the overlooked corner. Put theologically, they point out our very halting process of sanctification. They spotlight the juxtaposition, as our pastor put it in one sermon, of the clouds and the clods evident at Jesus’ transfiguration. We profess such noble ideals, claim such pure truth, inflict such pain, live so much by disregard. How do we not melt down in rage or hopelessness? By refracting it all through the prism of humor to then live another day.
Perhaps that’s why Peter DeVries is a leading CRC theologian, as Paul Schrader is its iron prophet. And that’s why at the eventual dinner with new denominational comrades my heart will shrink when they ask, Peter who?
So much conversation will be needed to weave a new ethos, and in time the old one will fade away as my generation crosses to a brighter shore. Some of the tribalism that is the cost of this steeping will go away too. Fine. The rising generation has not shared the deep steeping anyway; they are steeped, for sure, but in something else and their own new clan. May new circumstances refine that into its own gold.
Header photo: Oakdale Christian School, Grand Rapids, Michigan, circa 1930
A Song of Love is a Sad Song.
Humor, the willingness to self-reflect, has been lost in all of this. So many good reflections in this essay. Thank you!
An eloquent lament. What a sad prospect ahead, now that we can uphold the theology and ethos that shaped us only by leaving a denomination now under new management. But let’s not idealize the church of a half century ago. Along with three peppermints for three points, Sunday swimming and bicycling bans, and roast preacher at Sunday dinner came blindness to abuse in families and a locked closet door for gay Christians. In many ways the CRCNA had moved toward a more capacious and compassionate Reformed worldview until Synod shifted into reverse gear.
So good, once again. Thank you. “Can’t split dead wood.” My goodness. That’s something you can’t forget.
I found that splitting dead wood was much easier than freshly cut wood. What’s the message implied in “can’t split dead wood”?
My question too: why split a good piece of wood, unless it would be that it’s too large to be useful (a mother congregation splitting into mother and daughter).
Well and carefully said, Jim. You touched more than three bases, worth a whole box of Wilhelminas. After 40 plus years in another denomination I can say there are good and faithful people here, some of them full of humor for the foibles of the church. A gathering of folk with multiple origin stories is energerizing, encouraging, and fruitful.
So very well said in all that implies.
I’m RCA so standing outside looking in, but what has struck me of late as someone who was nourished in a similar Reformed cocoon is that it is because of my Reformed faith that I have come to be more open on the issues the CRC and more conservative members of the RCA (or should I say former members) have declared anathama. The idea of God’s all embracing, elective grace in the face of human recalcitrance seems to argue so.
I am in the Reformed (reforming?) tradition. I wonder if we all need to read more of Sietze Bunning. As Wes said, Sietze loving the traditions he laughed at.
Thank you Jim for your honest insights.
Thanks James for this hymn (and humor) of lament. I have served and mostly loved the CRC all my years, but I am sensing a shift in my spirit. My anticipation of what God is going to do in the company of disaffiliating post-CRC congregations is beginning to overshadow my sadness over what the synodical najority whippersnappers have done to the continuing CRC. .
Re getting the jokes:
Our different regional Dutchy flavors have their own sourced humor as well. W. Michigan has the Lake, Amway, and Meijers; “Chicago-land” along with its Garbios has its trinity of white-collar West side, blue-collar South side, and no-collar farmers (Illiana); those more knowledgeable of New Jersey/Iowa/California/Washington/ Canada can fill in their own character.
I’d say “thanks” (??) for this, but I’m not at all grateful for the reality you describe. I too was nurtured in the CRC. Not with the length and depth of yourself and so many others, but 35 years ago I was a 17 year old freshman at Calvin College from a fundamentalist/evangelical (what’s the difference anymore?) background ready to check out of church, if not faith entirely, when I discovered at Calvin an expression of Christian faith that was (at its best) courageous, curious and compassionate. Now, sadly, that expression of faith is being euthanized to be replaced with a self-righteous, certain and cruel false religion. RIP CRC. It was good knowin’ ya while it lasted.
Similar story, MB.
Me too.
Me, too.
Thanks Jim. I appreciated your call,” Gaze rapt on them, ye faithful. All logos of a shriveled sort, no ethos but of suspicion and judgment.” So sad and so true.
Thank you, James , for your eloquent lament. Unlike you, my first acquaintance with Christian education was at Calvin College, where among many great teachers and their teachings, I also experienced very negative impressions of some American CRCs. Unfortunately, many such impressions have stayed with me since. I realized then already the enormous chasm that separates parts our denomination. Not that Canadian CRCs are saints, but they have largely remained more open to the wider society. These are generalizations, I admit. but these differences are well encapsulated in humor, as you put it. I have served the CRCNA for many decades in various capacities, but I no longer want to be associated with the current (increasingly fundamentalistic) American version, I regretfully admit. I apologize to my American friends for any hurt feelings, but I do not feel I have to repent of the sin of loving all Christian believers.
I have no words….I thought I was over the feeling of loss and deep into my new life, especially since this happened to us 25 years ago. But this website and what has happened this year in the CRC have broken open every wound I thought was even past the scarring stage.
My husband and I talk about the jokes so often. We come home on Sunday (from our “new” church, 25 years now, remember), and toss back and forth the CRC jokes but the laughter is hollow. Yes, you will miss/lose a lifetime of memories, indeed you will lose pieces of who you once were. I cannot lie.
Thank you Jim. I love how you are sounding like Sietze Buning. It helps get through the pain.
James, thank you for this essay. I believe that it qualifies for the designation “Poetry” under the definition given to me by my Eastern Christian High School English teacher, Ms. Lilian Eiten. ” Much conveyed, few words.”
Two fundamental challenges here, Jim
First, I think the punch line might have been “You can’t split ROTTEN wood,”
+ I could be wrong. I mean, I should not be challenging a historian here!
Second, and more importantly, PdV (my recollection) SET UP the punch line. His straight man had bragged that, unlike the CRC, his own Unitarian church had not had a schism in 300 years. Hence the target: “You can’t split rotten wood.”
Great essay, Jim (and co.)
But don’t quit your day job for stand up comedy.
I can’t top the poignancy of the many comments above. So I’ll instead say that this RCA boy will promise to try and keep up with the jokes. Love your work, Jim.
Thanks James, You covered the subject well. Losing the jokes, Dutch Bingo, perceived theological eliteness, and “if you’re not Dutch….” attitude will hopefully broaden minds, stretch circles, and even now instill empathy for those who didn’t “get them” when they dared to join the CRC. Some CRCers may be in similar situations in the days ahead.
I often think back to the time when you said that the most influential “theologian” in the CRC was James Dobson. I wonder if we didn’t take the meaning of that seriously enough, and if we could have launched a more winsome theological effort at that time. But of course, it is too late. But there are beautiful blue skies ahead.
Oh Jim. Thank you. I am continually surprised at my own grief over all this. My prayer is that Calvin University can hold on to some semblance of what was beautiful about that fruitful tension of warm, healthy piety and intellectual curiosity. I don’t want to idealize those old days in the CRC, but there was something precious there. Nothing lasts forever, of course, and that’s fine. I just wonder who will be the keepers of those good memories.
Thanks, Jim. I was contemplating the very thing Debra Rienstra mentions in her last sentence. Who will be the keepers of the memories of a church that, at its best, sought to be “the ambience in which theology is made real on the long march of life.” (my favorite line in your essay!) Why is my heart strangely warmed these days when I think of Tevye’s anguish in Fiddler on the Roof?
Thank you, Duane.
You’ve always been a voice that I’ve deeply respected. I hope this is sort of a hug telling me that God still wins, that the best of reformed theology remains in spite of the CRCA. Thank you for your faithfulness, James. My heart is full.
Thanks, Jim. I left the CRCNA years ago to join more progressive denominations in the Reformed tradition [first the United Church of Canada and now the Presbyterian Church (USA)]. But I share your sorrow and wish all of my former Calvin colleagues renewal and strength.