No Angels or Devils

‘It’s complicated’ is not simply a trendy phrase

Who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys? 

This is a key question we ask on a regular basis, sometimes without even realizing we are doing it. This binary comes easily to us in everyday life, and it is only a slight exaggeration to say that this was how I learned to think about people in my education. From my teachers at different levels I learned that some people were important to know about because they are trustworthy and made the world a better place in some way. Others, by contrast, were important to know as examples of error—or far worse. 

To be fair, I do not think my many teachers ever made such a strong binary statement outright. And yet, as I learned about history and theology, this classification was regularly used to consider the relative importance of individuals, nations, and traditions. This approach readily put the subjects of our study into one of two boxes—the good box and the bad box; or heroes and villains; or, to get more quasi-theological, we might as well call them the angels and devils.  

Who was on the good team and (no less important) who was on the bad team in each situation or key event? Let’s start with the more obvious examples. In World War II, the Allied Forces were the good guys, whereas the Axis Powers were the clear villains. And as I began to learn about figures in the history of the church, I learned about heretics (bad) and heroes who defended the truth of the Christian faith (good). This way of looking at things seemed to work pretty well for a while. 

As I began to move toward doctoral work, I learned that it was possible for scholars to focus their research specifically on one figure—theologian or thinker. I noticed that sometimes scholars spoke of these figures—who became theirs in a kind of possessive sense—with great admiration and loyalty. This was the case not only for established scholars—I also observed fellow students who grew captivated with a particular individual. There is nothing wrong with such fascination, of course. Our encounters with notable contributions of past writers, thinkers, theologians can be very illuminating and helpful for the present. The problem is, sometimes we find a figure so illuminating that we have something like a conversion experience. This, to go back to the initial boxes analogy, is where things could drop into the bad box.

You see, with the above mentality, there is a risk that this subject of our study will become for us the one who will show us the best path toward our area of study. Or, in more extreme cases, this individual will become in our eyes the best path for living our faith and thinking about it. This is when a strange thing can happen to highly intelligent people: Although this confession might never be explicitly stated, the important figure on whom one’s research centered begins to take on the mantle of a messiah. 

Don’t get me wrong. I have never heard anyone call the object of their study (or personal obsession) a messiah, but I have observed that while no one actually puts them on the level with Jesus, the heroic figure can seem to be just slightly beneath him. When this happens, trouble will eventually arrive.

As I have written elsewhere, for me this kind of trouble arrived in my study of Abraham Kuyper. I found myself greatly enamored of Kuyper because he illustrated so well for me the basis for Christian public engagement. I had finally found the one. I doubt I am the only one with this experience, and like others who have this eureka moment, my next step was a deep dive into the work of this figure who was morphing right in front of my eyes into a kind of messianic guide. A lot of what I read seemed to confirm my enthusiasm and allegiance. Then came the big crash: I was faced with Kuyper’s racism. I had a major crisis on my hands, and suddenly my earlier way of putting figures and traditions in one of just two neatly labeled boxes was not up to the task. 

What happened to me was a gift I was not looking for. I learned that “It’s complicated” really is the truth about any figure besides Jesus. I call it a gift because this was the moment that showed me the great hazard of dividing the world into angels and devils. 

If we are honest, sometimes we learn that people who might be mostly wrong or unhelpful are not completely wrong and sometimes provide us with truth. Likewise, individuals we find very helpful and illuminating will inevitably show us that they too have many flaws, from blind spots to bad ideas to character deficiencies. Whenever we are lured into the messianic temptation, we somehow treat people who might be great in some ways as if they are completely sanctified in every way. If we do this, we are setting ourselves up for a big day of reckoning. 

Why write about this? Because there is a comfort in simplistic assessments of historical and theological figures (and many others) that we cannot afford if we are to make our way through life in this world with our eyes truly open. We cannot avoid being disappointed—sometimes even utterly devastated—by the failings of those who may have made great contributions, but who also, upon further inspection, reveal their great need for the one true messiah. 

The better path forward is the perpetual work of critically engaging the good and the bad, benefits and liabilities of individuals and groups, while we each make our own way down the winding, rocky path of life. Great figures are our companions, not little saviors. 

Vincent Bacote is Professor of Theology and Director of the Center for Applied Christian Ethics at Wheaton College (IL). His most recent book is Reckoning with Race and Performing the Good News: In Search of a Better Evangelical Theology.

^{Image Credit: Jay Ward Productions}