I’ve noticed a strange little quirk of white American Evangelicalism the past few years. Every so often, a patient’s family member has come to me with some variation of this concern: “I just don’t know if they really know the Lord. Could you talk to them and make sure they’re saved?” No matter how many times I get this request, it’s always awkward. I didn’t become a chaplain to proselytize. I recognize the vulnerable position my patients are in, and I’m not about to take advantage of that by forcing my views on them. Still, I’m always more than happy to check in with people about how they’re doing emotionally and help them explore spiritual resources which could help them navigate their illnesses. So far, the vast majority of these “but are they saved?” referrals have resulted in my helping a patient assess their own spiritual needs, hopes, and resources, and, funnily enough, 9 times out of 10, these patients turn out to be professing Christians who attend church regularly anyway.

This begs the question: If so many of these patients turn out to be Christian already, why don’t their own family members know it? Well, the most charitable answer would be that there must be some sort of disconnect between patient and family member that makes the subject of religion uncomfortable, and that, as a figure with some religious authority, I’m seen as trustworthy to have those tough conversations. (I’ve had this scenario a handful of times.) A slightly less charitable answer would be that the family member may already know the patient identifies as Christian but judges their Christianity to be somehow deficient. (Unfortunately, this is more common.)

Look, from where I’m sitting, if someone says they’re a Christian, they’re a Christian. It’s not my job to police that, and I’m very relieved not to have that kind of authority. That is a judgment seat I do not want! I’ll happily delve into the areas where my faith doesn’t quite sync up with someone else’s, but if someone says they’re a Christian, I take them at their word. Not every Christian sees it this way though, and at this point, it may help to consider a political concept called The Overton Window.

The theory goes that a society only has a range of acceptable ideas (that range being the titular Overton Window), and the beliefs at the very center of the window (i.e. the most agreed upon beliefs) become policy. Now, the location of the window is not set in stone, and by introducing extreme ideas, it may be possible to shift the window incrementally (and thus also affect policy). For example, if I live in a society where guns are highly prevalent, and I want to see more common-sense gun reforms put in place, one strategy would be to propose gun laws so radical that people would have to meet me in the middle. By introducing an extreme idea (#BanAllTheGuns), I’ve made milder gun reforms seem like a reasonable compromise, and I’ve stretched the Overton Window enough that my original position is closer to the center. Neat, huh? Before we move on though, one of the tricky things about the Overton Window is that different cultures have different windows. Hell, in America, our two main political parties have two very different windows. And where these cultural windows do or don’t overlap is a source of significant political conflict.

So, what happens when we look at different Christian movements through this lens?

Well, every Christian denomination has its range of beliefs, and most denominations have a significant degree of overlap. For example, pretty much every Christian denomination is going to agree on the divinity of Christ, God’s love for humanity, etc. On the other hand, take an issue like speaking in tongues; some denominations see it as just barely within the window, while others see it as not only acceptable, but mandatory. In this vein, some denominations are more strict about church attendance, human sexuality, biblical interpretation, the list goes on. So what happens when two Christians start talking and realize that their windows of acceptable Christianity don’t overlap as much as they would like? Well, that’s where a lot of the “I’m not sure he’s really saved” conversations start, and —all cards on the table— the only people I ever hear this line from are white American Evangelicals.

Rather than expanding the window (like the earlier example about guns and politics), I feel like white American Evangelicals keep whittling their window narrower and narrower. Every year, there’s some new litmus test added:
– Do you accept The Gays?
– Do you adhere to strict gender norms even though they’re largely made up?
– Do you oppose abortion on “moral grounds” but also think covering up sexual assaults by ministers and seminary presidents is peachy keen?
– What’s your stance on Israel?
– Do you attend church at least twice a week? What about the weekly men’s prayer breakfast? Parents’ group? Knitting group? Annual marriage retreat? Weekly accountability partner check-in? Tuesday night bible study but like a cool bible study that meets at a brewery?
– Do you believe Genesis, Revelation, Job, and Jonah are all literal, but all the stuff Jesus said about the rich was just a metaphor?
– Are you in total denial about white American churches’ historic opposition to the Abolition of Slavery and the Civil Rights Movement? (Though, for the record, that’s white Christians in general, not just the Evangelicals.)

At this point, to be a white American Evangelical, you have to squeeze through a pretty tight window, so it makes sense that this particular flavor of Christian would constantly question whether others can pass their bevy of highly specific purity tests. By these criteria, it doesn’t matter that someone is a lifelong Episcopal lay leader who prays every hour on the hour and reads the Bible cover-to-cover every year; are they saved according to my checklist?!

Of course, this worldview necessitates a lot of anxiety and projection to maintain. The more litmus tests there are, and the more of them I pass, the safer I can feel, right? It ignores all the beautiful mystery of faith and instead seeks to create a false sense of security for an increasingly smaller in-group, and nothing keeps up attendance and tithing (and voting) quite like the fear of failing one of these litmus tests and being cast out. The anxiety becomes cyclical though; these kinds of Christians will inevitably start to doubt their own salvation or else have to double down and create even stricter guidelines, which will cause them to judge and doubt the salvation of their neighbors. And, unfortunately, there are more than a few preachers and politicians out there who will happily feed into this system, since greater anxiety grants them influence and wealth.

Of course, all this is pretty much the exact opposite of what Jesus preached.

Jesus didn’t narrow windows;
he toppled walls and turned over tables.
Jesus didn’t obsess over who was or wasn’t saved;
he looked at everyone and said “Follow me.”
Jesus didn’t toe the political and social lines of his day;
he shocked the authorities with who he chose to include.
Jesus didn’t come up with nitpicky little litmus tests;
he ordered us to care for the vulnerable in our midst.

At the end of the day, Jesus hung out with the roughest of the rough,
so who are we to judge who is “Christian enough”?