I don’t know whether it is conscious or not (and I trust not), but, in my observation, more and more of the discussion in Christian circles is generated by a concern to establish, and then develop, a market niche.
First, you have had a spate of books which are either manoeuvering for religious market share or debating theological angels on a pinhead. I don’t propose to list the titles, but those of us who keep track of such things can nod in agreement now at the numerous books of that form, as well, of course, as the many wonderful books being produced alongside. Then you have the ever-growing Christian conference season. Perhaps it is less pernicious in England, but on this side of the Atlantic while there are worthy conferences, and probably a need for more of that ilk, on the other hand you only have to sneeze to give birth to another conference which is pushing a particular niche brand of Christianity.
Fragmentation
I may be stunningly na•ve to feel ambivalent about such trends. And the historian in me realises that humans have always tribalised their experiences to generate commonality. Yet however wan I attempt to be, I can’t help but wonder whether what we are witnessing is another fragmentation of Christendom. While John Stott and Billy Graham were publicly advancing the cause of the ‘evangelical church’, unity — however skin deep — appeared real. Now it feels similar to the situation after Alexander the Great died. This massive empire, held together by loose ties of affiliation, was rapidly compartmentalised to various relatively smaller fiefdoms.
Marketing Christianity is nothing new. You could argue (and people have) that part of the effectiveness of the Reformation came through the innovations of the Renaissance, the technology of the printing press, and the Reformers powerful utilisation of those new developments. Some have also argued that the Great Awakening can be understood within the context of George Whitfield’s promotional abilities and his maximisation of the media. If one wants to be cynical one always can be. You could also argue that Paul made the most of his Roman citizenship and his Jewish learning.
Strength in weakness
But when you scratch beneath the surface you realise the true power of these movements came not from their strength but their weakness. Paul was a Jewish religious terrorist sent to evangelise Gentile pagans. Whitfield was always conscious of his somewhat humble background and his need to serve (not to mention how historically unlikely it is to find Wesley, the archetypal academic, reaching so many working class families). Luther was basically a rather intellectual medieval monk. Moody was a Chicago shoe salesman. Spurgeon was an Essex wide boy, if you’ll forgive the anachronism, without a college degree. And the nascent Christian church turned the world upside down despite its poverty of resources, not because of them. Is it true that revival has always begun among the marginalised? It is certainly true that there is a necessary attitude, a quality of poverty of spirit that Christ loves to bless.
I’m all for being practical. Let us, certainly, become all things to all people that we might win some. If that means creative use of modern technology and managing our message, so be it. But let our message be more than that. If it’s not, I guess that’s what scares me half to death. I’d like to look around the Christian movements jostling for position and find within them far more weakness.
Preaching self or Christ?
With an assertion of human strength there comes a necessary lack of divine power. When we are, and all of us are prone to it, in this modus operandum we tend to think more in terms of ourselves. We cloak worthy and spiritual efforts in a veneer of humanity that threatens to spoil the lot. I am grateful for anyone, anywhere, for whatever reason, who preaches the gospel, as Paul encouraged the Philippians to be. But the danger of this all too common tendency in our fallen souls is that we end up not really preaching Christ, but actually preaching ourselves.
As I say, it scares me half to death.
Josh Moody,
Connecticut