I’ve been curious about what’s feeding Doug Wilson’s recent ruminations on food, the spirit, and Christian maturity on Blog and Mablog. “Curious” is only part of it; “appalled” and “angered” go with it like butter and syrup atop a pancake, spreading and sinking in as time goes by. I can’t comment on how Wilson concludes what he does about this or anything else — how his mind and conscience work is far beyond my field of expertise — but I’m eager to explain why this pastoral error matters. Wilson often goes where angels fear to tread and veers off the path science and medicine have already cleared, and once again his lack of training fails to slow him down, just as a surplus of arrogance keeps him going. The stakes are a little higher here — this time, in dispensing bad counsel and presumptuously diagnosing the spirit within, they could pose a significant stumbling block to his congregation.
I’ve had probably a dozen pastors in my life. What I eat has never been an issue, but I suppose there might be occasional pastoral need to encourage healthy eating, particularly for a group as devoted to feasting and fudge as Wilson’s, and I guess I’d want a pastor to gently chide me if my Lay’s potato chip habit spiraled out of control. At least we would agree that while potato chips aren’t a moral issue, they do constitute a less-healthful snack than, say, an avocado, a glass of soy milk, or a slice of whole-grain toast. IF the issue came up — and that’s a big IF — we’d both be on the same page, and I would then munch away with the assurance that my spiritual leader, while not a nutritionist, pretty much agrees with those who are. If he involved himself in my dietary choices, I’d know he was basing his counsel on science, Scripture, and a humble recognition of his limitations.
Overstepping the bounds of the pastorate, butting in on matters of individual conscience, is unfortunate; doing so with counsel that flies in the face of common sense and science is truly disturbing. Most of the rest of the world concurs that food in its least-processed state is generally better for you than food barely traceable to its origins. It really can’t be, in an ecclesiastical setting, a point of discussion, much less contention, that while wheat is wheat, its ending up in a loaf of Panhandle Artisan ciabatta is preferable to its being molded into a Twinkie. My hypothetical pastor would be a humble kind of guy who knows what he doesn’t know and trusts in the expertise of others, and I would presume that he would encourage whatever reasonable decisions I made on what to feed my family. We know that Wilson mocks those who abstain from wine at Communion, pointing out that there are, at the table, a few cups with grape juice — the sign of a feminized, watered-down Gospel — for anyone who promised Grandma on her deathbed that they’d never take alcohol. It’s hard not to miss the Snarkiness Factor here; it’s harder to believe it comes from a pastor. But I would, perhaps, have nothing to fear at the Table. I enjoy wine, although I enjoy respect more. On the other hand, if I, a hypothetical Kirker, went all-organic or cut out refined sugar, I’d take a pass on worshiping with with a pastor who would presume to diagnose from my diet a gaping wound in my relationship with God.
Hypothetically, it doesn’t seem too much to expect; in reality, it isn’t, either. But Wilson has a different message and a different approach to pastoral counsel, one that sets him apart from most pastors. A theology of God’s goodness and a near-obsession with feasting has led him, it appears, to conclude two things: One, that he’s qualified to pontificate on the science of nutrition, and, two, that he’s welcome to diagnose an individual’s spiritual state based on food choices, particularly those that reasonable people would judge as prudent.
He derides label-readers and food-avoiders, those who want to eat “natural” and avoid chemicals, and those who generally just show concern about the healthfulness of the things they choose to eat. It’s quite an odd pastoral bent, and wouldn’t be truly Wilsonian without both mockery and judgment. He doesn’t disappoint as he issues his verdict: Food fretfulness is silly and immature, and its cause is, like most things in the Kirk pastor’s universe, a deep-seated Father Hunger, an inability to grasp the abundant lovingkindness with which our God provides for us, a spiritual vacuum made real by the failings of the men around us and remedied, or kept in check, by blissful liberty at the buffet.
Well, then. Blame it on Dad, the dads around me, the Father I don’t know, and pass the fudge.
The root of it all, Wilson says, and says as a strong male pastor in a hierarchy of strong patriarchs, is a yearning for Abba/Father — for the Celestial Dad. Undeniably, too many Christians view God as a stingy, cold Father, and I even agree with Wilson that Christian men — and I’d say Christian women — have often failed younger believers by not demonstrating a truly Christ-honoring approach to both Biblical teaching and Christian character. Given the unfortunate sexism in Christiandom, men must take the blame for many of its failures. So Wilson and I are two peas in a pod on this: The Church in many ways has slipped from its moorings, and individual believers are often left hurt and confused.
Whether a symptom of ecclesiastical harm and spiritual darkness is evidenced, however, in a believer’s decision to eat less bacon and more spinach is debatable.
At best, it’s a curious indictment of sincere believers; at its worse, it’s a bullying, controlling verdict issued by the unqualified and unearned by the congregant. Scripture enjoins the Christian to be sensitive and gracious when around people who have differing ideas about what to eat and what to avoid. When those choices are demonstrably wiser and healthier than their alternatives — fruit juice over Mountain Dew, for example — affirmation should abound. When the choices are unwise and unhealthy, gracious counsel ought to as well. And common decency dictates that people for whom food choices are life-and-death be encouraged to make the kind of choices in every part of their lives that lead to good health. The pastor’s own empirical experience and limited knowledge wouldn’t dictate the seriousness and respect with which health-imperiled congregants are taken.
But rather than respecting that Kirkers can make well-informed, rational decisions on what to eat and what to feed their kids, and do so without his interference, the Bishop of Bluster barrels in to dismiss with a blithe arrogance the concerns of those who do read labels, opt for “natural” or organic foods, cut out things that aren’t good for them, and generally try to eat well and in moderation. What possible concern of his is a congregant’s concern about pesticides on apples? How does it harm the congregation if a mother tries to keep her kids away from soda pop? If someone wants to go vegetarian, is Wilson bothered that he, too, will be forced to pass on the pot roast, or is he offended that someone dare exercise Christian liberty — as much the freedom to not partake as to partake — without running it by him?
If I had food allergies, I’d run like hell from Wilson’s pulpit. If I were an abstainer from wine, I’d decline the opportunity to worship with people who mock my teetotaling. If I were a vegan, or trying to eat less fat, or watching my weight, I’d expect my pastor to not cause me to stumble, maybe even applaud my imperfect-but-sincere efforts to honor the Temple of the Spirit represented by my body.
And if I had a deep regard for Scripture, ecclesiastical fellowship, and my health — and I do — I’d warn everyone who would listen to stay away from men who try to entice and seduce with ignorance, who confuse discernment and discipline with despair, who cannot accept their own limitations in expertise, and who dare diagnose a spiritual hunger in those on whose consciences they trample.
You’re a Christ Church member or faithful blog reader. You walk in communion with your Savior. You read labels on the food you buy and prefer organic produce, because you want to do what’s best for the family God has given you. From that, from your concern about fat and salt and chemicals, your pastor pronounces that you don’t know how to receive God’s fatherly love — but only after he’s mocked you and people like you.
Isn’t it time to ask why such a man is called “pastor” at all?.