The Credibility Gap

By Robert Meyers

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     Some letters in my files puzzle me greatly. They come from ministers respected as "sound" and "orthodox" in the Churches of Christ, yet they affirm convictions which would dissolve that reputation overnight if they were made public.

     I am not pretending when I say that this causes me no end of soul-searching, for I am not sure how I ought to think about it. If I plead for such men to speak their convictions boldly and with unmistakable clarity, I may only be rationalizing a temperamental peculiarity of my own. If I ask whether job security affects the content of their pulpit messages, I feel guilty in remembering that I always had job security apart from congregational pay.

     Many of these men who speak their real convictions only to trusted friends are able to justify themselves. They speak persuasively of being prudent, of keeping peace, of considering the backward state of their flock, and of the need to stay hitched to the train if they are to pull it.

     When I reply that there is also a case for speaking with forthright candor from the pulpit and printed page, they point out that they will lose their pulpits, forfeit the trust in which they are held, and soon be unable to lead anyone anywhere. When I argue that dishonesty (they object, and I amend to "carefulness" or "caution") may be the real bane of modern pulpiteering and that all of us might be surprised at the new vitality which fearless expression would bring, they only smile tolerantly at my idealism and tell me that such impracticalities would ruin all their relationships.

     The trouble for me is that my heart and mind are on both sides of this problem, even though my practice tends to be consistently in favor of open and clear statements of what I believe. The issue is delicate and I hesitate to charge anyone with hypocrisy or cowardice or cupidity. Yet my mind forever swings back to the classical examples. Before Socrates, Anaxagoras came to Athens. Men thought that the sun and moon were gods. Anaxagoras could not keep quiet. He said he thought they were made of earth and stone. He might have said, "Gentlemen, the popular theory has much to recommend it; far more, perhaps, than any notion some thinkers might in some degree or other express, yet I should venture tentatively the possibility that the substance of these heavenly bodies may be other than has been commonly held"--but he had not learned the art of talking so that some could understand and others couldn't.

     Anaxagoras was wrong, but he was nearer right than the masses. He lost his teaching position, was tried for heresy, and had to leave the city. Was it worth it? I do not know, but I ponder the fact that his name and his honest and fearless effort to get at truth are still remembered. No one now can tell you the names of those who stopped his mouth.

     Socrates was executed in 399 B.C. for being irreligious. He was, actually, quite religious but not in the popular manner. He was accused of corrupting the youth, and this was true. He taught them to think, with the result that they embarrassed their fathers. Those who tried him in court hoped he would agree to live in exile, but he refused. He might have saved his life by agreeing to fall silent, but he refused again. His obstinacy cost him his pulpit and his life. Was he right to speak so candidly, or was he merely imprudent in letting himself be uncoupled from the train he sought to pull?

     Aristotle fled Athens to avoid getting into the same trouble. He said he did not want the Athenians to "sin twice against philosophy." Unable to hold his pulpit without hypocrisy, Aristotle chose to forsake it. I keep wondering whether such actions are only for rare men of ancient times, or for us all.

     Perhaps Socrates was afflicted with a martyr complex. In our wondrous day of

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complexes, this is the standard explanation for every man who suffers from opposing the crowd. The plump face composes itself fatuously, the knowing mouth shapes the regretful words: Some men like to suffer, you know; they've a touch of masochism; they want to be martyrs. There is no way of stopping them; we must let them go on to their crosses, driven by their strange compulsions.

     At such moments I invariably remember a poem by Stephen Crane. It tells of a man who toiled on a burning road, never resting, and of how once he saw a fat, stupid ass grinning at him from a lush green pasture. The seeker cried out in frustrated rage that the ass should not deride him, that it would not be enough for it to live perpetually in the knee-deep pasture. "It will not suffice you," the man howled. But the ass only grinned at him from the green place.

     I suppose it is futile to tell men who are knee-deep in Texas or Tennessee pasture that they should toil on a burning road. They know better. At least they think they do. Perhaps they are wrong. Perhaps audiences have changed since they last looked at them carefully. It may be that today's listeners are weary of being patronized, like the working men of whom Sherwood Anderson once wrote:

     "I think it would be infinitely better in all cases to be perfectly frank with the workers. When they are licked, tell them so. Treat them like grown men and women. Great God, they have been patronized enough. It is the worst form of patronage to think that they cannot take a licking when they have to."

     Substitute "church members" for "workers" and this advice is as relevant as this morning's breakfast. I think that an astonishing number of Church of Christ folks are tired of condescension. They are pushing the pablum away and reaching for the new enriched stuff, even if the labels are unfamiliar.

     I am regretfully convinced that many men who now refuse to share more tolerant and liberal views with their congregations would do so in a moment if they could speak from the sanctuary of another job. Let them become insurance men or lawyers or merchants, and you would at once see them speak out more boldly. When they no longer had to fear loss of prestige or sinecure, they would expose with relief the questionings they formerly dared share only with trusted friends.

     And inevitably they would then find people much tougher of mind than they had thought. Far from being irremediably wounded by pulpit honesty, people are more likely to respond with exhilaration, declaring that the same problems have long perplexed them. They are so delighted to find they can share their own hidden ideas that they experience a new surge of interest in religion. Dull Bible class drillbooks give way to exciting dialogue wherever fearless preachers and teachers prove that they prefer open forums to catechizing.