“The man with an experience is never at the mercy of the man with an argument,” said the Holiness preacher. This line keeps coming back to me this year.
It can and did indicate anti-intellectualism. I prefer to frame it, however, in terms of anti-rationalism, the critique of the idea that the rational mode of thought is, or at least ought to be, the clearest path to truth.
Fresh out of Holiness churches during my cage stage Lutheranism, my parents, Rachel, and I were having Sunday dinner. I recall saying something about how Lutheran theology covered so much more of the Bible than Holiness teaching ever did. I mentioned the verse, “Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” and described the theology of confession and absolution.
My dad was not impressed. In turn, I challenged him to tell me what he thought that verse meant. He struggled, and I pounced, “You can’t just ignore whole sections of the Bible. That’s the problem with the Holiness churches.” He got angry and stormed off.
To my shame, I did not realize until some time later what an ugly thing I had done. I had humiliated him and—because this always spikes the punch—I had done so in an act of religious superiority. Ain’t no high like self-righteousness.
By the standards of intellectual warfare, I had won; in every way that mattered, I had lost. I was playing a game—and let’s not fool ourselves: intellectual argumentation is a game—while my dad was holding the life preserver of his experience. He had come so far from his origins in an alcoholic home. He revered his in-laws like saints, and their religion was good enough for him.
I was a young punk who thought I had found the truth. I put on theology like a suit of clothes: well-tailored, pressed, and respectable.
Looking back now, I see how the simple faith—riddled with however many contraditions you care to name—held by my dad, grandparents, and who knows how many others of my ancestors, carried them through hard times my 25 year-old self knew nothing about. He was never at my mercy.
I imagine myself watching that moment in the dining room, whacking that young punk on the back of his too-full head with one hand and catching my dad with the other. I don’t know what I’d say, except to insist that the one should stay and the other should shut the fuck up for a minute.