That got your attention, eh? Yeah. . . . probably not what you think. But confession is good for the soul, right? Let’s hope so. And I’d thought I’d give those curious rubber-neckers something really fun to print out and pass around. ;)

At first, I only tentatively studied the history of fundamentalism while at IU. A lot of the classic historians published in the tradition of Perry Miller, writing with a sort of jaundiced cynicism that fetishized separatists and just left me sad. Martin Marty is the better standard with his “carapace” metaphor for fundy communities. “No, no, no!” I thought. “Fundyism isn’t hermetically sealed like that. It’s not hard-shelled. He’s just a modernist!”

Then Stephen Stein introduced our class to Nathan Hatch, George Marsden, and Joel Carpenter — all three believing and conservative Evangelical scholars, all three well-published and sound historians, and all three saying (in sum) “Yeah, I was a fundamentalist once. But then I got over it.”

I remember telling my major professor all that and responding with “Yeah, I was a fundamentalist, and I’m not over it. I’m still a fundamentalist.” I had great hope for fundyism. I thought it could be beautiful. I mean, taking the Bible seriously is a good thing, right? A very good thing.

Now, taking the Bible seriously is still a beautiful thing! Don’t get me wrong. I guess, however, that I was a little too serious about the Bible. A little too earnest about being a woman of the Book.

But about everything else? I was naive. I was too optimistic. And I was wrong.

I was trained to be a “productive critic of rhetoric.” That means that you don’t just observe, you judge. You don’t just spit out facts, you produce something that can change the world. I was taught to assume that as human beings there’s always room for improvement! Everything we do is flawed (yes! the Academy agrees with the Church), and we must talk (rather than fight) our way to bettering ourselves.

I remember sitting in the IU Union looking at our department’s building from across the street and vowing to God that I would not waste the wonderful training I was getting. I asked God to help me put it to work. I didn’t want to just forget it. I wanted to use it. I wasn’t there to just make my employer look good; I wanted that education to change me.

At my oral comprehensive exams, one professor asked me point-blank, “How can you be a rhetorician and go back to a place like . . . Bob Jones?” The disdain dripped from his lips. I was flabbergasted and irritated, but I responded, “How can I not? Believers have always been a dominant force in the discipline of rhetoric since Augustine. Finding practical solutions with our words from the Word fits perfectly!”

I still believe it does.

I don’t know yet what happened or how to digest it. I was an apologist — and a good one. I was fully committed — loyal to the core. God had to actually push us out of the subculture — our “slice of Christendom” as I always called it.

I guess change was unwanted or feared. Apologia was considered unnecessary. Or . . . independent apologia was distrusted. I really don’t know. I was clearly “othered.” I’m coming to believe that everyone “in” fundamentalism fears that they’ll be “out,” and that fear drives them to rigidly maintain the boundaries. Everyone’s at risk. Everyone may be “out.” So when someone’s just a little bit different, when someone doesn’t fly far enough “under the radar” (as they say in Reality TV), it’s easier to vote them off the island than try to stretch the frames of acceptance to keep them there.

I had great hope for my “home” as I always called it. But my home isn’t in a movement, thankfully. It’s in a Savior. I can’t get the two mixed up.

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cklewis on December 2nd, 2007 | File Under Speak, Think | 12 Comments -