Part I

Several weeks ago, the leader of a Christian film ministry sent me a critique of the first episode.    I’ll just call him “Chad”, since my intent here is not to pick a fight, but just to use his commentary as an indicator of the faith has changed over the last 250 years.   My contention is that Christianity is weaker, less manly, less alive, less vibrant, less celebratory, less courageous and certainly less likely to have any influence on the making of public policy.

We have turned in Christ the King for Christ the small group leader.

Chad writes:

I thought that the film was willing to deal with edgier content than a lot of Christian films. To choose to tackle paternity issues in the 18th century was laudable, and there are clearly links to the problems present in contemporary culture. As a history lesson, then, the film works. As a moral lesson, however, it could be viewed as problematic..  I am imagining the optimistic, lovesick, and romantic daughter of a contemporary family seeing this scenario and wondering: “Well, he says we are going to get married, and he is going off (to war, to school, etc.). So why not.”

Chad means well.  He even has a PhD.  But Chad, like most of the church today, isn’t aware that Christianity was never intended just as a private meditation, or personal rule book.  It was intended to civilize, to conquer, to win over entire communities and to change not just the way individuals thought but the way the village and the nation did as well.

Of course, Sarah did the wrong thing.  She described herself as a “fool,” but unlike today, where Bristol Palin can land herself a reality TV show for having a baby out of wedlock, the 18th century took unwed parenthood very seriously.   Although rarely enforced, fornication was a crime that earned the lash, and bastardy cases attempted to make certain a father either married, or cared for the child.   Sarah’s indiscretion, in other words, was not just a personal choice;  it was a community affair.

The template for modern Christian redemptive cinema is quite different.  It doesn’t expect anything at all from the community.  It expects, in fact, the community to be a force for evil and all righteousness to be the product of pristine personal choice.    Chad’s ideal heroine would have faced a world entirely hostile to her mistake, a world that marked her with the letter “A” and left her, and her child to shift for themselves, but Hawthorne’s scarlet-letter hatred for his forebears is a half-truth.   The Puritan stock of New England did assign shame, but they also assigned responsibility as well.   Unlike Islam, the early congregationalists dealt out both judgment and mercy.     Why would a bastardy trial proceed, unless the community knew that a child deserves a father?    Of course, the entire community could be taxed for the child’s support, and that’s the way the “enlightened,” bloated welfare state does it, but is the dole the same as a dad?

Our ancestors knew better, even if our modern day pastors don’t.

Today, evangelical Christianity has taken on suburban respectability as a kind of idol.  An unwed mother — if she can’t afford a home, two cars, and a gym membership — is usually counseled to put the child up for adoption or make due with the state’s largess.    Our pro-life impulses are so strong we tend to shower praise on any girl who makes the choice not to kill her child — as we should, but on more than one occasion I’ve actually heard pastoral leaders say that 16 to 22 year olds are too young for marriage.  I’ve actually seen young couples encouraged to live together, with the baby, until they are steady enough for marriage.   (Mature enough to mate, but not to parent?) In many cases, no one even seems to be looking for the young dad.   It’s all about helping the single mom and rarely about creating a new family.  The Bristol and Levi story is not an exception.   When faced with parenting, many grandparents and many congregations just can’t seem to process the notion of a young couple starting out in life with less than $75,000 in their 401k.  Some would respond, of course, that they just can’t see their daughter taking up the Levis of the world — forgetting that it isn’t just the passage of time that matures a young man.   It can be the responsibilities of fatherhood itself.

That’s why Chad thinks the story needs to be ruthlessly about the individual, and not the community, because he knows the community is full of flakes.   He knows there is no such thing as a Christian township, with shared obligations and shared discipline and shared love and even shared law.  He knows there is no brotherhood of mature fathers, encouraging an errant dad to fulfill his obligations.  He knows everyone is building their own rule book, church-shopping their way around town.   Christian communities are not likely to have any standard, whatsoever, so you’re on your own.   Storytelling should reflect that danger on a purely personal level.

I disagree.   Our communities, and our theology, need some shaming as well.   I’d like to write about this reality over the next few months — the many differences between the way our ancestors saw the faith, and the way we see it.

For many of you, it’s going to be shocking.  For some it will be liberating.   Our New England Christian ancestors drank a lot of rum, smoked a fair amount of tobacco, kept a pretty rigorous Sabbath, sired a lot of children, and they weren’t waiting around for any rapture to start building the kingdom.

Maybe we can learn something from them.