What are evangelical Christians so afraid of?

Why conformity is so highly prized in evangelical culture, and why new ideas are such a threat.

Whenever I share a progressive take on any teaching or bit of theology (like my recent post about how Christians not only can but should celebrate Pride), I’m sent messages accusing me of being a false teacher. It’s not like I have a bazilliion followers or anything. I wouldn’t think I would be important enough to prompt people to argue with me.

Nevertheless, I was told recently that when I face the judgment of God, my friends will not be standing beside me because they’ll all be burning in hell, and I will have to give an account for misleading God’s people.

All I have to say to that is WOW.

I understand being passionate in your convictions. I understand that we all have different takes on how to read and apply what the Bible says, and therefore we come to different conclusions about God, faith, sin, judgment, and so on.

But every time I rock the boat by sharing a post that is controversial, at some point I sit back and have to ask, “What are they so afraid of?”

Why do people need to assure themselves that they are on the “right” side, that they are in the club and that I (or you, or anyone who disagrees with them) are most definitely in the wrong?

Why do so many Christians feel threatened by change and lash out at those who propose it?

Why are they so quick to throw accusations at me? Why are they so angry and hateful? Why won’t they consider that maybe, just maybe, they don’t know absolutely every last thing on the subject? Why won’t they examine whether there are other legitimate perspectives? I’m not saying I am always right, but it’s like people won’t even consider the possibility that there’s more to it than they originally thought. Also—why does everyone have to believe exactly the same thing? (I ask this whenever politicians want to turn their religious views into legislation regulating people’s morality.)

When I was fully a part of the evangelical world, I didn’t realize how deeply they prized conformity. So like a three-year-old who’s just discovered the word, I have to ask why. Why? Why? Why?

Here are some thoughts.

There is only one “Truth.”

Evangelical theology is founded on the idea that truth is absolute and found in the Bible, often taking the words of a Bible (usually the King James) literally and insisting every sentence is a promise for us today. From this perspective, there is one correct belief, one correct moral code, one correct way to live. If you deviate, you’re not just “different”—you’re wrong or in eternal jeopardy.

This kind of conformity is much bigger than whether someone belongs—it bears eternal significance. Questioning beliefs may be interpreted as rebellion against God, not just against a particular church or the greater church culture. People want to save you from hell (or so they believe), so they’re bold and passionate—and oftentimes, just plain rude.

Fear of “false teaching”

I am accused of this one a lot, too. Evangelical churches often emphasize unity in doctrine to guard against what they see as “false teaching.” There’s no room for people to stray from the accepted interpretations. Many Christians seem to be operating from a deep fear that too much questioning, dissent, or diversity of thought will taint the group and lead people astray, leading to God passing judgment on the whole corrupt community. Conformity in this instance is seen as a safeguard—protecting the community’s purity, identity, and witness.

Which might sound good on the surface, but if you’ve ever sat in a church pew and known that 95% of the people around you would disagree if they knew what was in your head, you would know just how alienating and disheartening this can be for a genuine seeker of God.

Group loyalty

Many U.S. church communities function like tight-knit subcultures. You’re in or you’re out, period. You should believe, act, vote, dress, and raise your kids a certain way. And listen to the right radio station, and cheer when someone on TV talks about God, and carry the right Bible translation to church on Sunday. Your acceptance in the group, whether you’re trusted in leadership roles, and even your own sense of spiritual self-worth may be tied to how well you conform.

You may even be told that rebellion is witchcraft—an accusation hurled at you simply for asking questions. Or you may be accused of being wooed by the world, rather than the kingdom of God, when you consider the potential truth of new scholarly teachings seen as progressive. In reality, they’re questioning your loyalty—yet if you weren’t loyal, you would have walked away a long time ago.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

Christians are taught that we should imitate Jesus—so it follows that the unspoken rule is that a “good Christian” will look/act/behave like everyone else in the church. When someone poses a problem, you can all provide the same solution. When someone starts quoting a scripture, the rest of you can finish it. It feels good, as though you have passed a test. It’s like a secret handshake.

But in reality, it can sometimes look a little like a cult and feel like being brainwashed.

Comfort and control

Most people want to belong, to identify as part of something bigger than themselves. That’s human nature. We all want to be the popular kid, the one who knows his place in the school cafeteria, the one people will make room for at the table. It’s comforting—as long as you find yourself in the “in” the club.

When life feels chaotic and unpredictable, or even downright terrifying, there’s comfort in having clear rules and being able to predict behavior and outcomes. These guidelines conjure a feeling of safety and control—unless you are different, struggling, or deconstructing, in which case the guidelines can make you feel silenced, exiled, or judged.

Fear of criticism of their own choices

When you’ve been part of a close-knit church group that values conformity, it’s like a vote of confidence in you and your beliefs when someone new comes into the fold. On the other hand, though, when someone leaves, it may feel like a criticism of your choice to stay or judgment of the way you do things. When you make a different choice, they conclude that you must therefore disapprove of their choices.

I think these feelings of rejection stem from insecurity more than anything—but from my own experience and that of other people I know, it makes those of us on the “outside” feel rejected, too: If they had truly cared about me, they would talk to me. They would reach out to be sure I’m okay. When they don’t, it convinces us we never belonged in the first place. Which may or may not be true, but the feelings seem pretty universal.

You may wonder what I mean when I talk so much about “evangelical culture.” I’m not necessarily pointing at my former church. I spent years building my “platform” as a “Christian writer,” trying to extend my reach. When people requested me on Facebook, I said yes. When other writers promoted a book, I shared it and left comments on their posts until they knew who I was. I went to conferences in service of my writing goals, meeting people and making connections. I joined teams to promote other ministries, and I promoted myself. I collaborated, and read widely, and took every opportunity to point people to those I admired. I jumped at every chance to share my faith, across denominations and in many settings that weren’t specifically Christian.

In short, I completely immersed myself in that world, to the point when I could no longer separate what my church taught from what some woman posted on Facebook to what some preacher shared. This is what I mean by the culture. I have seen the things I write about play out in so many different ways—and I eventually felt suffocated by it, even when much of the behavior is framed as “love.”

Even though I’ve deconstructed and in many ways turned away from that community, I still have followers who are steadfastly in the middle of it by choice. Because I want to hear both sides of different issues, and because I still consider myself a believer, I haven’t unfriended everyone with whom I disagree. In some ways, it’s good for me to know what we’re up against. But in other ways, it tortures me to see and hear so much opposition.

I was talking with a friend yesterday. She was surprised by the vitriol I received in response to my post about loving the LGBTQ+ community, and said she hadn’t believed some of the polls that said 38% of people still supported the administration and their actions. I replied, “Yep, and apparently I’m Facebook friends with all of them.”

What I can’t stop thinking about, though, is this: I chose to make that post. I knew people would disagree, and I felt it was important enough to share it anyway. I was able to make a choice and decide that I was willing to withstand the criticism. (It’s really starting to get on my nerves now, but still.) But people in the LGBTQ+ community don’t get to make that choice. They have to live with it, all the time. I’m criticized for supposedly misleading people. They are condemned simply for being. How messed up is that?

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Now, I need to make it clear that all evangelicals don’t act or believe this way. These stereotypes apply to many but there will always be exceptions. Still, though, things become stereotypes for a reason. Which brings me back to my questions.

Why are people so threatened by the inclusive love of God?

Is it because they can’t control it? Is it because it lets in people they disapprove of? Does it make what they’ve found feel less special?

Don’t they realize that God’s love is big enough for everyone?

Don’t they know that when God loves someone else, it doesn’t take away from how much love God has for them?

Don’t they understand that God’s grace levels the playing field—putting us all on equal par, no one of us more valuable or important than any other?

Don’t they know that God loves us so much that any one person cannot contain it all? Truly accepting the bountiful love offered freely by the God of love means it will absolutely overflow, that it can’t be contained, that it will spill over beyond our individual lives into the whole wide world.

Let’s be real, though: I could be completely wrong about so many things. Really. I could be interpreting scripture the way I want the world to be, not how it is. I could be misleading people.

But here’s the thing—when I do stand before God, is there any scenario you can envision in which God says, “Oh, sorry, Kelly, you loved too much. You loved people that weren’t worthy. You loved people I didn’t approve of. You gave too much, you twisted my words for the sake of love. You let them feel hope, and you let them have dignity, and you were wrong?”

I would rather be condemned for loving and offering grace than for standing in the way of someone feeling welcomed by God.

Maybe I’m sinning by not pointing out the supposed error of people’s ways. But isn’t it God who is supposed to convict us of our need to change? Isn’t it a love for God that will lead us to repentance? I can’t make someone change by telling them they’re wrong.

Perhaps I’m being too free with my grace. It could be that I think too highly of myself.

But is it possible that perhaps they don’t think highly enough of their God?