Since my post three weeks ago on New Wave Complementarianism, there has been a, well, wave of responses, rejoinders, and surrejoinders. I won’t take time to link to them all; they are easy enough to find. I am grateful for the thoughtful reflections from my brothers and sisters.
I don’t have a lot to add, except to offer a few suggestions that perhaps may help the continuing discussion be a fruitful one.
One, let’s make sure we are all talking about the same thing. No one has trademarked the term “complementarian,” and I understand these labels can be quite fluid. But the best place to start by way of definition is the Danvers Statement. If we are all complementarians having this discussion, we should have some semblance of a definition of complementarianism. Historically (and I realize it’s not a long history), Danvers has provided a useful starting point. Complementarianism, as a definable “ism,” arose in response to a set of concerns (e.g., gender confusion, ambivalence about motherhood, physical abuse, women in unbiblical leadership roles, hermeneutical oddities) and a laid down a set of biblical affirmations (e.g., men and women are equal as divine image bearers, they have distinct roles, redemption reverses the curse of male and female sin, certain ministry roles are reserved for men, there are countless ministry opportunities in the world for both men and women). These concerns and affirmations are not the last word on complementarianism. But if we want to be sure we are talking about the same thing, they should be among the first words.
Two, I would drop the language of old and new. I’m not sure of the best phrase, but “new wave complementarianism” (or even a “new wave of complementarianism”) implies that there is an old school that’s grown stale. The phrase pushes the conversation into historical reconnaissance and leads much of the conversation to end in “Well, those aren’t the complementarians I know,” or “I think that’s what good complementarians have always said.” Maybe we should call this an “intra-complementarian conversation.” Clunky and uninspiring I know, but it describes what I think everyone is trying to accomplish.
It seems to me the current conversation is mainly about two things: abuse and application. Where have complementarian principles been abused? How are complementarian principles best applied? Those are fair questions. There are black and white issues, but just as many gray ones (which is why Danvers is thick on principles and thin on specifics). We should be able to talk about the applications without assuming that everyone to the right of us is an authoritarian wacko and everyone to the left is a closet liberal.
And as for abuse, we should all be mindful of our own experiences. It’s easy to read our past into everyone else’s present. Those who have suffered through bad pastors or bad churches can assume their unique experiences are pretty much the norm. Conversely, those who haven’t been in hard-edged complementarian contexts can forget that others have. I realize, as a pastor in a mainline denomination, I write as one who has rarely had Christians to the right of me on this issue. Complementarianism was not taught in my college. It was a debated issue in my seminary. And it’s practically a dead issue in my denomination. I don’t see many abuses of complementarianism. I’m just thankful if someone will admit to liking John Piper.
Three, let’s be specific as possible. I’m glad to see this already happening in many posts. We ought to talk about particulars. Does Christianity have a manly feel? What can women do in public worship? How should we think about boys playing with dolls or wearing pink? Does complementarianism have anything to say about the right or wrong of women politicians? Should women be deacons? Can they teach men and women in a conference setting? Can women work outside the home? Can dads stay at home with the kids? Complementarians can disagree on all these questions, but that doesn’t mean the questions are unimportant or that we shouldn’t make our case in these matters (or respond to those who do). Most of these questions are more difficult than we imagine and require more nuance and more attention to definition and detail than can be captured in rants and tweets, or even in blogs.
Which leads to my final point: let’s realize what can and can’t be done well through blogging. The longer I blog the more I realize it’s only one medium for discourse and hardly the best one for every controversy. If we want to argue an exegetical point or debate a specific point of theology or application, blogging can be effective. Like most public forms of communication it works better with concrete issues, the kind everyone can see, understand, and respond to. Blogging is less effective when there are untold issues in the background, when there are frustrations, questions, or disagreements that concern specific people or institutions in our lives. This isn’t to say we can’t talk about these publicly. It’s simply to say that we can’t expect others to know what experiences we have privately.
Even though I used the word “conversation” earlier in this post, blogging isn’t really a conversation. In a conversation you have immediate back and forth. You can hear tones and (hopefully) see faces. I try my best whenever I write to remember that I’m interacting with real people, brothers and sisters with families and friends and hopes and dreams and hurts and fears–people just like me. But none of us can know all of that just by following the thread in a blog discussion. We are bound to respond mainly to ideas and arguments because that’s what the blogosphere can give us effectively. Person-to-person, heart-to-heart, situation-specific, listening-generated, empathetic counsel and mutual correction–the kind of caring conversation to be expected when meeting with your pastor or having a cup of coffee with a friend is a near impossibility through blogging.
All of which is to say, as the “conversation” continues, we would do well to realize that the most important discussions probably won’t happen online and the words that do get written on our screens are limited by the medium that carries them.
