I came of age theologically in a conservative evangelical environment. Canadians may know the name “Prairie Bible Institute” or “Prairie Bible College” (“Prairie College” now) as a bastion of evangelicalism— most often a conservative form of evangelicalism. That was my space, both physically and theologically.
I was a card-carrying evangelical—literally. I was a member of the Evangelical Theological Society for many years, an academic society more diverse than conservative evangelicalism but very often dominated by an American flavour of conservative evangelicalism. And yes, I had a membership card.
That was the world I occupied from the time I was twenty until I was thirty-eight—nearly twenty years of adult life, living and breathing and teaching evangelicalism.
During my ten years of teaching at Prairie Bible College, I began to shift in my theological views, but never so far as to venture outside of the evangelical fold. As I taught through the New Testament many times, as I worked on my Ph.D. focused on the Gospels, Jesus, and Paul’s theology, I became more and more Anabaptist in my theology. This is the way I identified myself during that time: first as a moderate evangelical, then an evangelical Anabaptist.
It was during those years, while serving as Associate Professor of New Testament and Chair of the Department of Bible and Theology at Prairie Bible College, that I had two encounters within the span of a week that I will never forget.
In the first, after a lengthy discussion about whether or not concern for the poor was part of the gospel, or even something Christians should be particular focused on, the man I was speaking with called me a “liberal.”
In the second, after an equally lengthy discussion about whether the Bible is inspired and authoritative for Christians, or if Christians could view other scriptures as equally inspired and authoritative, the man I was speaking with called me a “fundamentalist.”
Since then I’ve been called both “liberal” and “fundamentalist” several times—as well as “progressive” and “conservative,” “leftist” and “on the right.”
When people have used those words, most often they’re not just labelling me, placing me on their spectrum (or often, polarity) of political, social, religious, or theological views. No, when people use those words, they’re an accusation. The label allows them to slot me into a category and dismiss my thoughts without even engaging them. Even more, they seem to think that by simply calling me that term, I will be shamed, and maybe I’ll recant. After all, no one wants to be a “leftist” or a “fundamentalist.”
As I’ve reflected on this frequent experience, though, going all the way back to those paradoxical encounters at Prairie Bible College, I’m even more interested in my own response to these accusations-as-labels, these attempts at shaming: I don’t really care.
I get it. I understand the labels and how they’re used. I’ve used the labels myself, when words are inadequate to describe people’s views on X, Y, or Z, but you need something to tag them with, something to succinctly describe where they sit relative to others. And yes, on many theological or social or political issues I would be on the progressive side of the spectrum (though on others I’d be more conservative—hence the conflicting labels I get).
But while I understand those labels, and I will even at times use them, they don’t register for me as something I should be concerned about. I can’t be motivated by attempts to shame me by accusing me of being a “liberal” or a “conservative.”
Recently I most often hear the label “leftist” applied to me. I talk about getting vaccinated for Covid, or the plight of Palestinians in Gaza, or the absurd wealth gap between the richest few and the many poor, or the importance of acting on climate change, or the bigotry that LGBTQ+ people experience, or the devastation of gun violence in the U.S.—and I get labelled a “leftist.”
Categorized and dismissed. Accused and shamed.
What’s even more galling for some is that I’m a church leader and I’m “leftist.” Church leaders are supposed to be neutral. They shouldn’t enter into these politically charged debates, taking a side. They’re just supposed to love people, everyone equally.
Crank that shaming up a notch or ten.
But that just doesn’t work for me. I don’t particularly care whether someone calls me “leftist,” or even (still occasionally) when I’m dismissed as a “conservative.”
It might sound cheesy, it might sound self-righteous, it might be hard to believe, but what motivates me is seeking to be faithful to the way of Jesus as shown in the Christian Scriptures and especially the Gospels. I don’t really care whether someone labels me as “left” or “right.” If you want to engage me about what I say or do, talk with me about the life and teachings of Jesus.
Does that put me on the left? Yeah, sometimes. Does that put me on the right? Yeah, sometimes. But that simply doesn’t concern me.
Having said that, it’s not entirely true that I don’t really care. I do care when someone labels me in accusatory fashion a “leftist” or “conservative”—because that tells me something about them. It tells me what position they see themselves occupying on a left-right spectrum relative to how they view me. It tells me something about how they perceive the world, what it is that they value.
And if they’re a Christian, it tells me that this left-right spectrum, even polarity, which we have created to help us make sense of the world, may well be more important to them than following Jesus. And that saddens me deeply.
© Michael W. Pahl
I suspect many Christians go through that kind of process as they get older, whether consciously or not. But I think that’s especially true of those who grew up as I did within a more conservative stream of Christianity.
Michael Pahl 