Reflections of a Somewhat Disillusioned "Prophet"
by Charles Wellborn
(Dr. Charles Wellborn is Retired Professor of Religion Emeritus, Florida State University, Tallahassee and for 20 years was Dean of the FSU Overseas Campus in London.)
This is a purely personal reflection. In the title, the word "prophet" is in quotes. In no way would I claim to be an Amos or a Joel or seek to class myself among authentic modern Christian prophets such as Martin Luther King, Will Campbell, or Carlyle Marney. I am a minor player in the league.
My only claim to the title of prophet arises from the fact that from my first day as a Christian, I nourished a then inchoate assumption that an essential part of the Christian minister`s job description was the role of prophet-not as a foreseer of the future-but as a thoughtful Christian critic of the present. My initial understanding of the task of the prophet has remained with me through the years.
I became a Christian-"born-again"-at the age of 23 in the remarkable southern youth revivals of the 1940`s. Already scarred by the unmentionable horrors of war service, I found my personal answers in a traumatic and emotional conversion experience. After more than 50 years, I do not question that experience. But it was a conversion brought about by an encounter with the Christ event, not a conversion to any human institution, creed, or organizational statement of faith. And that is important.
Less than five years after I became a Christian, following seminary study and a short spell of teaching, I was called to the pastorate of Seventh and James Baptist Church, located virtually on the campus of Baylor University in Waco, Texas. I accepted that call. In many ways it was a ridiculous decision. The church was a large one with a long and honorable history. I had never been a pastor, and I knew virtually nothing about the mechanics of church administration. One thing I thought I did know: that part of my job as a pastor was to try to be a prophet.
So it was that, within three months of assuming the pastorate I preached a series of Sunday evening sermons on "The Christian and Contemporary Issues." I tried as best I could to bring the ethical demands of the Christ event to bear upon race, war, economics, and the family. When I read those sermons now, I readily see how inadequate and immature they were, but, at least, I was trying. And I kept on trying. As an eager young pastor, I did not spare the horses. I was reckless, sometimes radical, often extreme. And, to be honest, I gloried in it. There was a sort of wild exhilaration in, as I saw it, preaching the whole truth, however unpleasant that truth might be. There was no diminution in the evangelistic thrust of the pulpit, but the prophetic note was sounded again and again.
And here I must say a word of gratitude to the patient congregation of Seventh and James Church. They listened tolerantly- more than that-to my rantings and ravings. I cannot judge how much some of them may have been honestly influenced by my sermons, but never once in my ten years as pastor did a member of my congregation advise me to "tone it down."
Race was the overwhelming ethical issue of the 1950`s. Both I and the church came finally to take our stand on the issue. In 1958, with hardly a dissenting voice, the church officially declared itself to be an "open" church, with no barriers to membership on the basis of race or color. The results were not dramatic. We did not have, as some of our people had suggested, a flood of new black members. In fact, for a long time, we had none. We lost almost none of our membership in protest. The most obvious result came in the somewhat pathetic outbursts of the local racial bigots-obscene midnight telephone calls, a crude cross burned in the front yard of the parsonage, one wall of the church sanctuary defiled with lewd graffiti. These events enabled me to rejoice in the role of a bit of a martyr, but I was not mature enough to realize the insidious temptation of spiritual pride which confronts all self-styled martyrs.
The church did well. Our membership steadily increased to the point that we were being tagged as the largest Protestant university church in the country. We baptized more than a hundred converts each year. We built a new sanctuary, seating almost 4,000, and virtually filled it for services each Sunday morning. In the process I was learning and maturing. Increasingly, I was convinced that my ultimate role in the ministry was not as a pastor, but as a teacher.
In 1961 a chain of what seemed to me almost miraculous developments opened a practical financial way for me to pursue further education as preparation for teaching. With a wife and two children I left, with great affection, Seventh and James, and began doctoral studies at Duke University.
The next few years were times of difficulty and personal tragedy. For a variety of reasons-some of them my responsibility, others not-my marriage failed. In the Southern Baptist world of that day, that marked the end of any effective preaching or teaching ministry within the ranks of my denomination. Fortunately I found my niche at Florida State University, first as chaplain to the university, then as professor of religion, and finally as dean or director of the university`s overseas campus in London, England, where I remained for almost 20 years until my retirement. The career opportunities which my own denomination could not afford me, a secular university did.
I probably should apologize for this extended personal history. My excuse is that my present understanding of the prophetic task is rooted in and has been shaped by my experience, and I cannot ignore it. Throughout these years I have continued to preach, though not normally in Baptist pulpits. I have never lost my conviction as to the role of the preacher as prophet. My Christian faith is as strong as ever. And in spite of everything, I am still a Baptist by conviction,
So, in these 50 years since my ordination as a Christian minister, what have I learned about prophecy? Why do I class myself as "somewhat disillusioned"? I believe it is because I have had to face what I call the parameters of prophecy."
First, it is relatively easy to be a prophet so long as one confines himself to generalities and chooses his issues carefully Almost everyone, as Calvin Coolidge (and others) said is "against sin." When the Baptist pastor thunders in general terms against liquor, gambling, adultery, homosexuality, political corruption, and pornography, he can count on a chorus of "amens," especially from the choir. He may even reap tolerant and somewhat bemused approval from those members of his congregation who themselves drink, gamble, or even commit adultery, since in church circles that is the accepted, respectable public stance.
The difficulty comes when the preacher begins to take seriously the complexities of the problems we face. Does the angry denunciation of abortion take into account the genuine tragic dilemma of a pregnant teenager facing choices that include a loveless marriage or bringing into the world an innocent and unwanted child with limited chances of ever reaching social or psychological health and maturity? Does a ringing condemnation of homosexuality deal with any degree of compassion with the real problems of those luckless individuals who, as a result of either heredity or environment, have never had a real chance to work out their own sexuality? I use only these two examples. There are many.
And once one gets beyond the "safe" issues, the prophetic road becomes a rocky one. How does the preacher deal with the complexities of an increasingly greed-oriented, "me-first" economic system? Market economy and free enterprise ride triumphant in today`s world, even in crime and corruption ridden Russia, but the gap between the nation`s-and the world`s-haves and have-nots grows steadily wider. Feast and famine dwell side by side in the earth`s richest societies.
And what of race? Most of the legal barriers have gone, and we can rejoice in that. But the hard core of personal prejudice is still there. How does the prophet deal with that? And what of the thorny issues of affirmative action and race quotas, where the positive and negative arguments often seem almost equally convincing?
I could expand these areas endlessly. The basic thing is this: the prophet has comfortable ground on which to stand when he deals with generalities and confines himself to carefully chosen issues. Quite naturally, generalities and a cafeteria-like selection of issues are the more popular road.
A second parameter is this. Christian prophets are far better at denunciation than at constructive solutions. In my later theological education I was exposed to thinkers like Reinhold Niebuhr who taught us that "politics is the art of compromise." Positive compromise, yes, but, nevertheless, compromise. Crusades for the absolute ethic are seldom effective in changing the secular world. In that world almost all choices are, to be trite, not between white and black but between shades of gray. Black and white are the color spectrum of the Christian world, but gray is the prevailing shade of the secular arena. One valuable lesson of history is that moral revolutions, like political ones, in the name of a flaming absolute, often produce as much chaos and human suffering as have the evils destroyed in the process. Politically, the French and Russian revolutions are cases in point. On the social and moral level one can look at the "Great Experiment" of Prohibition and the resulting gangsterism, political corruption, and contempt for law that followed.
The Christian must constantly participate as a good citizen in political campaigns and elections. How does the prophet deal with these concrete mechanisms of government? The hard fact is that, when I go to cast my ballot, I never have a clear choice between a saint and a sinner but rather between two or more sinners of varying hue. The Christian citizen is doomed to leave the polling place with a rueful sigh, knowing that, at best, he has chosen the lesser of evils. He has been forced to compromise.
But, in the secular world, compromise is often the only road to progress. The prophet is faced with holding at one and the same time two conflicting stances. He must continue to proclaim the judgment of perfect Christian love upon the world about him while, at the same time, giving impetus and support to those gradual, unsatisfying, and imperfect political and social steps that may improve the real situation, at least a bit. It is a knife edge, and there is no easy escape. If the prophet does his job conscientiously, he is almost certainly doomed to cries of dissatisfaction and resentment from many quarters.
The third and final parameter is this: the hard fact of universal sin. I am not theologically a Calvinist. I cannot live with the cold and heartless logic of Geneva. But through the years I have been forced to deal with the realities of what the Calvinists call original sin and total depravity. I have my own understanding of those doctrines. I do not believe that a just God ever punishes any of us because of the sins of our ancestors, though their sins, like ours, always have consequences for the innocent. I do not believe that any person is totally evil. But I cannot help but discern what someone has called "the greasy thumbprint" of sin in everything that I, and others, do.
In this regard the stance of the prophet is problematical, for he is always and everywhere a sinner speaking to other sinners. The most subtle of temptations for the prophet, caught up in the exhilaration of condemning the evil in others and in society; is to forget, at least for the moment, the evil in himself `W`e are all without exception participants in the world`s sin, not simply observers and critics of it. I often wonder how seriously most Christians take the confession of the Apostle Paul when he declares, "I am the chief of sinners." Was that simply literary hyperbole, or did the Apostle actually mean it? And if he meant it, what of us?
I have said that the temptations to the prophet in this area are subtle. Perhaps nowhere can this be seen more clearly than in what we call "the power of the pulpit"? The preacher has the totally legitimate mission of proclamation and persuasion. But where do we draw the line between this legitimate task and the crude but skillful use of rhetorical devices to override the free wills and minds of the congregation? I dare say that most honest preachers would admit that sometimes they have felt that satisfying surge of personal power that comes when one realizes that he holds his listeners in the palm of his hand. True, the Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways. But, if clever oratory, personal charisma, or simple bombast bring members of an audience to the place where pure emotion overrides the sober intellect or a mild form of mass hysteria infects a congregation, have we not in some measure failed to rely on the Holy Spirit? Is this not a clear mark of that "greasy thumbprint"? And if, as a preacher, I glory in it, am I not then "chief of sinners"?
Power is, of course, a key word here. The lust for power is a vital and universal ingredient in the human psyche. It creeps in insidiously everywhere. Many of us have watched with growing pain the internecine squabbles of Southern Baptists over the past few years. I have, metaphorically, squirmed in my pew as I have listened to leaders on both sides of the conflict descend to character assassination, personal diatribe, and pious shibboleths. I have suffered by proxy with countless good men and women whose
lives have been stunted, crippled, and defamed. And I venture to say that almost any objective observer would say sadly that what we have seen has not really been any great crusade for doctrinal purity or creedal conformity but a squalid struggle for power and control-the "greasy thumbprint".
Do the combatants in this supposedly titanic struggle ever listen to the lessons of history or the teachings of their own ancestors in the faith? Or do they only respond to the all-too-human dictates of original sin and total depravity? Do they ever remind themselves that the greatest of our patron human founders, Roger Williams-always fighting against catechismic conformity-died, not as a creedal Baptist, but as a self-styled "seeker after truth"?
The lust for power is the most deadly-along with sexual lust-of human temptations. To ignore it, especially in oneself, is the road to hypocrisy, self-delusion, and uncompassionate self-righteousness.
So I am "somewhat disillusioned." I am not disillusioned about the prime necessity of the prophetic task. But I have come to recognize some of the magnitude and difficulty of that task. The preacher must be prophet. There is no escape. But the preacher must recognize the realistic parameters of his mission, and, above all, he must approach that task with deep humility and a sense of his own inadequacy. Only God can empower that mission. And God deals, I believe, most generously and gracefully, with those who come to him in earnest consciousness of their own sin. Perhaps it helps to remember that one of the true heroes of the faith is that man in the New Testament who responded to the Christ, simply and honestly, "Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief" The strange mixture of faith and unfaith is a reality in all our lives.
God is the only true and final judge of human affairs. God through Christ gives us the "living water." Preachers are called to be dispensers of that water, but the water is always channeled through rusty pipes. In a world of ethical ambiguity and prophetic uncertainty, the prophet must strive, ever conscious of his limits, to point men and women to the final imperative of perfect love.
