Not That Kind of Christian: On Using the Power of Words to Reclaim Our Faith
When the list of disclaimers becomes too long, it’s time to get creative. (EDGY Christians)
A couple years ago, I flew to NYC to attend the wedding of one of my best friends from college. It served as a mini college reunion of sorts, and I found myself reconnecting with acquaintances I hadn’t seen in 15 years.
After the rehearsal dinner, we caught up around a tiny table in the cramped corner of a Brooklyn bar, old friends both disarmingly familiar and jarringly foreign after all these years. As for myself, I felt like a very different person from the one who had taken tequila shots in our dorm rooms and stayed up until dawn playing Dr. Mario between study sprints.
As I attempted to explain who I was now and what I did with my time, I faced a quandary: how could I include my faith and the fact that I worked at a small Christian school (something I would have shuddered to imagine even in my early days after converting) without giving them the impression that I was also all the (gross) things they associated with southern evangelical Christians?
After mentioning my job, I said something like, “Yeah, I consider myself a Christian, but I’m not that kind. I’m not, you know, the kind who believes in literal 6-day creation or tells people with different beliefs they’re going to hell.” It was as if to say, “Don’t worry, becoming a Christian hasn’t turned me into a judgmental, anti-intellectual, self-righteous lunatic.”
It was oddly reminiscent of my first days of college during freshman orientation week when I would introduce myself by saying, “Hi, I’m Mara. I’m from Utah, and I’m not a Mormon.”
I also told them about my experience of being “witch-hunted” out of my previous Christian school after having the audacity to ask students to consider counter-arguments for the pro-life debate. How fearful and therefore vengeful those parents had been, how sexist the expression of their vitriol, aimed as it was only at me and not at the male teachers who’d taught the same curriculum in previous years.
It felt good to speak freely about my mixed experiences with Christian culture and yet claim my faith commitment. Perhaps because of our shared background in a liberal arts education (liberal in all senses), once I clarified a few things that my new worldview did not include, they seemed to quickly accept the change in my faith as an interesting if slightly odd twist in my life journey.
However, the stereotypes surrounding American Christians have only worsened in the years since, and I wonder if my explanation would be met with such acceptance today. Certainly, the list of exceptions I’d need to name would be significantly longer.
It’s started to feel like the list of what my faith identity excludes has become longer than what it includes. I find myself defining my faith—and therefore myself—by what it is not.
Which runs the very real risk of leaving listeners wondering, subconsciously or consciously, “What’s left?”
And sometimes, in low moments, it leaves me wondering the same.
It’s started to feel like the list of what my faith identity excludes has become longer than what it includes. I find myself defining my faith—and therefore myself—by what it is not. Which runs the very real risk of leaving listeners wondering, subconsciously or consciously, “What’s left?”
The Character of Love
The problem isn’t new. I’ve been defending my faith from misinterpretation since I first became a Christian—just over 20 years ago now. After my (somewhat reluctant) conversion during a four-month stint in Spain shortly after graduating from Vassar, I’d faced the unenviable task of explaining that shift in my identity to my closest friends, all of whom had known me only as a disinterested agnostic feminist with liberal politics and an open mind about most everything besides Christianity.
My spiritual transformation was as bewildering to me as it was to them. It defied rational explanation, transcended it, you might say. All I knew was that God had revealed himself to me one afternoon on the Camino de Santiago, surrounding me and supporting me with a presence at once exhilarating and terrifying. And then, six weeks later as I read C.S. Lewis on a sun-kissed rooftop in southern Spain, the ineffable truth of the Way of Love crystalized like an apparition taking on physical form, resonating so deeply and perfectly that I knew I could never unknow it.
This was the answer to the longing that had haunted my youth, to that insatiable thirst for goodness and beauty, to that terrible tension between good and evil that I’d long felt warring within my chest. This was the Love I’d felt pulsing in the worship music (shared by a friend a few months before) that had captivated me, moving me nearly to tears with its palpable peace and joy. This was the way out, the way through, the way forward in a world in which I’d felt so utterly alone and adrift for as long as I could remember. I was home.
I have no idea how I attempted to communicate that to my friends at the time, only that I did. Each time, I tried to communicate in a simple way how my understanding of the world had been changed by my encounter with the Holy Spirit on the Camino and by coming to believe in the salvific vision of the Gospel, not as a rescue from punitive hellfire but rather as a path through and beyond the trappings of our humanity—and simultaneously to communicate that this change did not entail all of the political, social, and (anti)intellectual accouterments that they’d come to associate with the word “Christian.”
I saw my task as being one of showing them what was essential to Christianity and what was not—what human cultural movements had added to the core of the faith over the centuries. At the time, I had hope that movements like the Emerging Church would soon reclaim that simpler Gospel message, free from the trappings of modern theological and socio-political distortions.
Like many of my college friends, I grew up thinking that Christians were closed-minded, anti-intellectual, and self-righteous, but when I converted, I thought that, since those things didn’t fit the character of Jesus I encountered in the gospels, maybe that was a stereotype that didn't actually fit the majority of Christians either. Like
, I thought maybe there were enough of us who didn't fit that description that we could (continue to) shift the tone in a more positive direction.How naive I was.
What’s in a Name?
Over the past two decades, I’ve noticed that stereotypes of Christians seem to fall into two categories, both of which land shockingly far from what I understand to be the calling of Christ.
One version is a pale, passive facsimile of the vibrant, revolutionary love Jesus offers—a benign if underwhelming reproduction. The other is downright antithetical in emphasis and practice to the Gospel, despite claiming to be its fullest embodiment. While the second iteration is much more problematic, I don't want to be associated with either camp.
Thankfully, such assumptions can usually be corrected when I’m able to form a real relationship with someone. Once we engage in conversation of any depth, they quickly begin to realize that I don’t ascribe to many of the patterns of thought and behavior that I (and often they) find repugnant.
But it gets trickier when extended conversation isn’t an option, such as when an initial (incorrect) impression is so off-putting that people don’t stick around to learn more.
That’s where I find myself wanting to say, “I’m Christian, but not that kind of Christian.” But then what? List all the kinds of Christian I am not? That not only ends up being incredibly inefficient but also risks offending people by naming one of their own beliefs as something I stand against. I’m not afraid to ruffle feathers when the situation calls for it, but accidental affront ends conversation, which is the opposite of what I want.
This is why, as
wrote about recently, many who share my frustrations are deciding to abandon the term “Christian” altogether. Why not follow suit and simply allow my words and actions to speak for themselves?For the most part, that’s exactly what I’ve done (or tried to do). But there are situations when that’s not enough. Ever since my conversion, I’ve felt that loyalty demands I claim my allegiance to Christ boldly, despite potential embarrassment. I’m not a classic evangelizer (at least not that kind of evangelizer), but I do think faith is meant to be shared, meant to be more than a private conviction—it would be selfish to keep something so powerfully freeing and life-giving to myself.
That wedding weekend in Brooklyn, my primary goal was to protect my reputation and portray myself accurately to those new and old friends. But in the years since, I’ve come to recognize a deeper motivation. At least in part, my urge to defend (or at least distinguish) myself is based in my desire to defend Jesus from slander—to protect the message of love He died to share.
Not that he needs defending—he’s in no way threatened by anything any of us do here on earth. But the more those distorted and diluted versions of Christianity are put forward and left unchallenged from within the faith, the more people turn away—sometimes, understandably, in disgust—and direct their spiritual search elsewhere, or abandon it altogether.
And that’s a tragedy. Perhaps (depending on your theology), it is inevitable that some people will reject the Gospel, but how tragic for them to reject something they think is the Gospel but is not—to mistake culturally loud imitations of Christianity for the real thing and, as a result, miss out on the transformational joy that Love Incarnate offers.
The more those distorted and diluted versions of Christianity are left unchallenged from within the faith, the more people turn away—sometimes, understandably, in disgust—and direct their spiritual search elsewhere, or abandon it altogether.
So, what can we do? First and foremost, we can share our stories. We can voice our views. Quietly but forcefully, we can present our perspectives, and in so doing, we’ll find others like us.
Second, we can give ourselves—our movement, if we dare claim that power—a name. Giving a cultural sea change a name “increase[s] its robustness, its resilience, . . . [and] its power to transform.”1 And it helps prevent the movement from becoming defined by people who don’t understand it.
I've been chewing on this problem for a couple of years now, wishing I had a term to use to describe myself (and others like me) that felt more accurate than those I’d encountered thus far.
All existing/commonly used terms or modifiers either still smack of problematic connotations or simply don't fit. For example, I haven’t rejected a former way of believing, so terms like “exvangelical” are out. One friend suggested I might consider “mystic Christian,” which I do like in many ways, except that it sounds a bit too detached and esoteric for my taste.
After a lot of mulling, I came up with a modifier to place before the word “Christian” to denote a certain, less usual kind of Christian. It's certainly not perfect, but it's the best I've been able to find.
How tragic for them to reject something they think is the Gospel but is not—to mistake culturally loud imitations of Christianity for the real thing and, as a result, miss out on the transformational joy that Love Incarnate offers.
Edgy Christianity
The term I came up with to name my faith identity is EDGY Christian, based on the following acronym.
EDGY Christians are Christians who are . . .
E – emotionally aware/engaged/intelligent
We know that psychology and neuroscience are powerful tools to support spiritual development and that emotions are a vital aspect of the spiritual walk.
D – diverse, both in demographic and interests
We value difference while always seeking common ground based in our shared status as image bearers.
G – generous in looking for the good
We are slow to criticize, eager to understand, and quick to serve, approaching others with a posture of welcome and true humility.
Y – young at heart
We are open to new ideas and perspectives, looking always for beauty and joy, willing to laugh at ourselves and revise our views.
I believe each of these qualities represents the character of God as revealed in the Person of Christ.
Practically, this looks like
being committed to the foundational principles in the Nicene Creed but otherwise holding doctrine loosely and in subordination to the Person of Jesus Christ as revealed through the gospels and personal experience
staying alert to the myriad forms of idolatry that threaten to usurp the primacy of Jesus in our lives, including the idolization of certain behaviors, denominations, church(es), political/social positions, and doctrines
focusing our spiritual and practical efforts on developing and nurturing relationships based on curiosity and vulnerability, rather than focusing on appearance, performance/behavior, or intellectual assent (“right belief”)
seeking to learn and grow, not judge or critique; cultivating the attitude of discerning pupils rather than self-satisfied critics
welcoming questions and doubts without fear, trusting the holy spirit to guide us to an ever deeper understanding of God, even in ways that might surprise us
This is a kind of Christian I could feel comfortable being, a group I would be proud to belong to, a way of life I would be eager to share.
Now, I recognize that the word “edgy” has several connotations that are less than ideal, among them (a) nervous energy and being “on edge,” (b) trying to be different just to be cool, and (c) “avant-garde,” which means new and experimental. I think these are worth addressing.
I certainly don't like the connotation of being nervous (a), but I do think the idea of “discomfort” fits. EDGY Christians are deeply uncomfortable with the way the faith is being co-opted for messages of judgement, control/oppression, political partisanship, and general rigidity. Plus, comfort leads to complacency, which, I’m convinced, is the enemy of true faith. So a degree of discomfort (though not anxiety) is essential to the authentic Christian life.
I definitely don't think Jesus was trying to be cool (b)—quite the opposite! But he was clearly counter-cultural in the sense of disregarding and disrupting the cultural and religious norms of his time. So in that sense, I think he was pretty edgy.
I don't like the connotation of EDGY Christianity being new or experimental (c) because in many ways it's exactly the opposite. It's meant to be a return to a simpler iteration of the Gospel without all the distractions and distortions that have been added in recent centuries and by American Protestantism in particular. However, I wouldn't choose to emphasize that aspect because I'd hate for the term (or my own thinking) to fall into the trap of believing that I/we know the original intent of Jesus better than others. That's the opposite of the posture that EDGY Christianity aims to cultivate. Maybe it’s ok to be seen as experimental since faith is always an experiment in a sense: it’s always a risky endeavor with an uncertain outcome, something each of us has to work out for ourselves “with fear and trembling” (Philippians 2:12).
There’s no perfect term. Human language always fails eventually. But there might be something there.
Comfort leads to complacency, which, I’m convinced, is the enemy of true faith.
When Devotion Requires Redefinition
When I first shared this idea with a smaller group about a year ago, one person asked whether I might be deconstructing my faith. Deconstruction, in case you're not familiar with it, is the fairly recent term used to describe people who are questioning and usually rejecting most if not all of the tenets and trappings of (evangelical) Christianity, sometimes but not always leading to a total renunciation of the faith.
I have many thoughts about deconstruction that will have to wait for another outlet, but considering this question helped me articulate an aspect of EDGY Christianity that I think is an important distinction.
For me, and I'm guessing for many of you too, it's not that my beliefs or priorities or relationship with Jesus have changed. Quite the opposite. My convictions and sense of what's at the heart of the Gospel haven't changed at all (other than a natural maturation).
Rather, what's changed in the 20 years since I became a Christian is the set of connotations and “requirements” that seem to go along with the label in general usage. The religion has become synonymous for many with institutionalized abuse, narcissistic leaders, oppressive patriarchy, and hate-filled propaganda.
So while I don't want to be or seem reactionary, I do want to demonstrate—both with my life and with my words—that one can be both devoted to Christ and unwilling to condone the laundry list of wrongs being committed in his name. Indeed, not seeing that option is what leads many deconstructors to abandon the faith, throwing the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak.2
That’s why I’d love to keep the term Christian (with some kind of modifier like “edgy”). I’d like to signal that this isn’t some other religion but rather a different (better) way of engaging with that original faith. After all, I am still a Christ-follower, and there is still good within the various forms that the religion has taken. In the words of Sarah Bessey,
I still believe that the name “Christian” holds within it the most extraordinary promise: the very hope of the Gospel that God loves us, calls us friends and beloved children, restoring us all to goodness and grace. That is the vision that I choose to follow. Or try to, anyway.3
Ultimately, I wish we didn't need a label. And in many ways, we don't. But in other ways, labels are important, if limiting.
Names have great power to bring something into the realm of reality (see Genesis 1). We are part of a great tradition that imparts significance through naming, and this Path of Love is too important to go unnamed. Or perhaps more accurately stated, the Path of Love is too important to continue being misunderstood as a result of sharing a name with a way of being that is so fundamentally opposite to the way revealed by Jesus.
If I allow myself to hope (and I’d better, since hope is at the center of the Gospel), my dream is that, together, we can redefine what it means to be a Christian in today’s world—articulating and enacting a way of life that emphasizes compassion, humility, and integrity over dogma, judgment, and cultural allegiance. One that focuses on the transformational and unconditional love of God embodied by the Man of Suffering who defended prostitutes, dined with tax collectors, and embraced lepers. One that values listening more than speaking, serving more than correcting, and learning more than knowing.
In short, a faith someone might deconstruct to rather than deconstruct from.
My dream is that, together, we can redefine what it means to be a Christian in today’s world—articulating and enacting a way of life that emphasizes compassion, humility, and integrity over dogma, judgment, and cultural allegiance. . . . One that values listening more than speaking, serving more than correcting, and learning more than knowing.
Let Our Argument Be Love
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that the best defense against the distractions and distortions that threaten to destroy (or at least dilute) the Gospel is to focus on getting to know the Person at the heart of it. When I tune out the noise and focus on the words and actions of Jesus, the gulf between his calling and our culture becomes painfully clear. As does the simple teaching at its core: “love one another.”
That commandment is repeated throughout the gospels and epistles, but my favorite iteration is found in 1 John 4:7. It reads, “Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God” (ESV).
To know Christ and emulate his way of being—this is both a privilege and a responsibility. It’s an invitation to joy-filled freedom but also a call to sacrificial love, to a lifelong process of refinement, often painful, as we allow the Holy Spirit to strip away the clamor of self-interest, shame, and fear, replacing them with an unshakeable sense of our own belovedness and the interconnectedness of all things.
In this sense, my hope is that the acronym I offer here can remind us of not only who we are but also who we aspire to be: emotionally mature, genuinely curious, and profoundly humble.
I'll end with the following quote from A Severe Mercy:
The best argument for Christianity is Christians: their joy, their certainty [read: hope], their completeness. But the strongest argument against Christianity is also Christians—when they are somber and joyless, when they are self-righteous and smug in complacent consecration, when they are narrow and repressive, then Christianity dies a thousand deaths. But, though it is just to condemn some Christians for these things, perhaps, after all, it is not just, though very easy, to condemn Christianity itself for them.
Let us be the kind of Christians who offer with our lives the “best argument” for Christianity—one that draws weary wanderers closer with the gentle power of unconditional love.
Let us be a voice in the wilderness, articulating a quiet yet stubborn hope—a way through the aching loneliness and brutal injustice of this life.
Let us use the power of words to reclaim the Christianity we know and adore, courageously reflecting the Light of Infinite Love into the world.
Wishing you a luminous Holy Week and Easter (or simply a wonderful third week of April).
Thank you for reading to the end! I’d love to hear how this lands for you.
If you consider yourself a Christian (of some sort), how do you navigate the complex landscape of faith in our culture?
If you consider yourself outside the Christian faith, do these stereotypes repulse you as much as they do me?
I used this idiom a couple years ago with my high school students, and they looked at me like I had four heads. They’d never heard it! In case that’s you, too, please know that I’m not discussing infant homicide. “Throwing the baby out with the bathwater” just means discarding something valuable along with the stuff that’s undesirable.
I’ve been a Christian for over 50 years … and when I tell you I never saw all this coming … I truly never saw it coming. But Jesus did. And he is enough. Honored to be mentioned in such a thoughtful, challenging, and provoking post.
"Comfort leads to complacency, which, I’m convinced, is the enemy of true faith."
Comfort numbs what trial awakens.
If you’re never stirred, never pressed, never disrupted—you might mistake safety for surrender.
But Jesus didn’t call us to cozy lives. He called us to cross-shaped ones.
This was great. Thanks for sharing.