My alienation began in 2016. President-to-be Donald Trump claimed he had never needed to ask for forgiveness and James Dobson declared Trump was a baby Christian and—along with so many others—continued to support him after the Hollywood Access tape was leaked. The seminary I was at took an apolitical stance to the election and didn’t make any statements about Trump’s Evangelical support before November 8th. However, a few days after the election—after Trump had secured the presidency—an international student was accosted at a local grocery store, another patron telling her that it was a matter of time before she would be sent back to where she came from.
It was only after one of its own students was verbally assaulted that the seminary made a statement.
So, it was against this backdrop that (1) I began what I lovingly refer to as my “angsty Christian phase” and (2) I discovered theology from the margins.
Theology from the margins is theology not written by people like James Dobson or me. It is written by people who are not white and do not hold power in society. I discovered this field of theology through a seminary professor who—as a Black man—warned me that white, Evangelical audiences will be concerned with my theology should I embark on this field of study. Yolo, I figured.
Theology from the margins dared to ask and answer what the Gospel looks like for those whom Jesus blesses in the Beatitudes, those on the margins of society. It was not looking for the latest strong man to provide it a semblance of cultural power but was looking to a refugee who died and rose again, subverting worldly power and offering life.
It was a Gospel of grace; it believed the Bible was contextual and spoke to marginalized communities shivering under Roman occupation; if I held the Bible up to American history, I was the Roman and the countless Black men and women held in bondage and lynched from southern trees held the face of Christ in their defeat; this was not a suburban Gospel but one filled to the brim with necessary correction and conviction towards a history of misapplication by white people.
God used theology from the margins to rekindle my spirit.1
As I read, I looked at my bookshelf and only saw white faces staring back at me. All the theological education I had received—by this point a bachelors in theology and a fourth of a masters—was out of the minds and mouths of white men. It’s not that white men cannot write theology (I hope not!), but why did it seem there was only white voices on my bookshelf and in our seminaries?
So, as I’m prone to do, I wrote about it, eventually publishing my thoughts on Relevant Magazine.
After that piece went live, my childhood pastor DM’d me to express his concerns. He did so kindly and thoughtfully, but it was clear—to him—that I was in danger of walking away from the faith. I tried to reassure him, telling him I was attending a small Baptist church in Massachusetts, but in his response he warned me that he had never seen anyone pursue the path I was on and remain within a “small country church” paradigm. “Something will have to give.”
I didn’t know what to do with this information, but I felt that I no longer belonged. Belonged to what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. I felt cast out.
It has been five full years since that warning, and I have not left the faith. I still consider myself historically Evangelical, some days if only to not allow others to define what that term means (especially as research comes out which points to “Evangelical” being less and less a religious label than a political one.) My theological views put me at odds with both political parties; despite feeling more confident in my beliefs, I often feel a bit homeless within the broader American church landscape.
Which is why I'm so grateful for
and her book Orphaned Believers: How a Generation of Christian Exiles Can Find the Way Home. Part memoir and part journalism, she recognizes an entire group of people who feel isolated from the church structures we grew up within.How does a theology borne out of the Left Behind series, the Moral Majority, and the greedy 80s lead to President Trump? Why is the evangelical right so white? And why are so many Gen X, Millennials, and now Gen Z Christians searching for new forms of Christian worship? She answers these questions by tracing the development of the religious right and its effects on the offspring generations. And in this tracing she carves out a space for us, she helped me realize I’m not the only one feeling adrift.
She writes that the political Evangelical church—the one that is predominantly white and stands knee-deep in culture war ideology—is not what heaven looks like. Rather,
the gospel message speaks to a homegoing. God is preparing a place for us. In heaven we will be part of
“a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (Rev. 7:9-10)
It’s forward thinking, the biblical idea of our forever home….There are no red lines on maps but seats at one endless table. Our true home is a place we long for, a place we know we’re going even though we’ve never seen it. (156)
We might feel orphaned from our spiritual upbringings, but that does not mean we are without a home. Perhaps the margins of life provide unique perspectives on faithful living.
All of this reminds me of Hagar in Genesis 16. She has just become pregnant by Abram in an attempt to rush the promise of God. Abram’s wife Sarai “dealt harshly with [Hagar], and she fled from her.”
The angel of the Lord found [Hagar] by a spring of water in the wilderness….And he said, “Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?” She said, “I am fleeing from my mistress Sarai.”
So many of us have been in Hagar’s position, dealt harshly by the church and deciding to run, not knowing if we will ever find another place to fit. Abuse, manipulation, gas lighting, theological disagreement, whatever it might be. We decide to run because that feels like our only option.
The angel of the Lord said to her, “Return to your mistress and submit to her.” The angel of the Lord also said to her, “I will surely multiply your offspring so that they cannot be numbered for multitude.”
God found me fleeing from the church structures I grew up in, afraid of not finding a home, afraid of what I might find if I returned. But, just as the angel asked Hagar to return, God asked me to return to the church.
For me, that return looked like discovering a church home in Anglicanism, in a diocese which holds to the importance of diversity, of justice, of the callings of women. God has seen my struggle, discovered me in the wilderness, and brought me to a place of rest.
So [Hagar] called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, “You are the God of seeing,” for she said, “Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.”
Hagar—the outcast, the one on the margins—is actually the first person in the Bible to name God: El Roi, the God who sees.
I don’t know where you are in your journey. I don’t know if you are in the wilderness, orphaned and feeling abandoned by the church you grew up in, or if you are in a season of celebration and rest. Either way, I believe God’s eyes search the wilderness. I believe God sees you. We’re in this together.
I’m hesitant to write about theology from the margins with me in the middle because, clearly, this theology was not written with me in mind. However, because it played such a central role in my development, it’s important I include it and how it influenced me. But I hope that does not communicate an assumption on my part that it centers me.
“My theological views put me at odds with both political parties; despite feeling more confident in my beliefs, I often feel a bit homeless within the broader American church landscape.”
This.
So good.