Timothy Stoner

Secret Handshakes

Posted on 01. Mar, 2010 by Tim Stoner in Blog

A friend was recently interviewed in a Christian magazine. He gave a brief summary of his conversion in which he mentioned how liberating it was to realize that God’s love was not depended on his goodness but on the goodness of Christ applied to him. At this point, the interviewer interrupted with what I thought was an odd clarifying question. He asked, “It’s imputed righteousness, not imparted righteousness?”

It jarred me and then, suddenly, I was taken back to my first post-collegiate job interview decades ago. I was applying for the position of Bible teacher at a large, church-based school in the South. It was a staunch and vocal fundamentalist institution. The interview was going swimmingly until a question was launched at me with the deceptive force of a tsunami. It was aimed with intent, like a fastball from an irritable pitcher.

“Do you believe in limited atonement?” was the missile that came hurtling at me.  This may not sound like much to you, but in the examiners’ minds it almost eclipsed my status as a Christian. My commitment to Christ paled into near insignificance next to what theory of the efficacy of His death I subscribed to. I answered diplomatically. Although I wanted the job I’ve never been much of a joiner, so I was not tempted to lie to my inquisitors. On the other hand, while I was not going to flaunt my colors, I did wish to critique the reductionist nature of the question and its tendency to obscure the complexity of the atonement.

My dodging and weaving did not win me any points. I was summarily dismissed moments afterwards with frosty glares and disapproving eyes. The truth of it is, when you get this kind of a question, what you are being asked for is the secret handshake. You either give it straight or not at all. After all, that is the main point: identifying quickly whether you are one of us or one of them. During wars–and codes were invented for wartime–it can be a matter of life and death. The response must be immediate and unequivocal.

What my friend was being asked by the interviewer was a throwback to the days of the Reformation in which how you answered might land you in very hot (even boiling) soup indeed. It was a carefully calculated means of ferreting out closet-papists. “Do you believe, and may I remind you that you are under oath, that the righteousness of Jesus is infused into you (by the sacraments) or, instead, that it is imparted to you (by faith alone)?” If you were being grilled by a squad of Protestant divines the expected answer was “by all means your honors, most assuredly and definitively—imparted.” If, on the other hand, your questioners wore the red capes of the Inquisition then you’d better respond by claiming undying allegiance to the doctrine of infusion.

 Secret handshakes are by definition reductionist. The middle finger bent backward as you grasp the hand of your co-conspirator, the red geranium in the button-hole, the accent on the last syllable of the key word (if you’re a Spanish spy), or the right finger stroking the left nostril, these are all intended to help determine who can be trusted and who cannot.

That’s why I hate secret theological handshakes. They are a ready-made, portable, litmus test which supposedly allow you to instantly (and infallibly) pigeon-hole the stranger in front of you. Rather than looking through the eyes of love we squint behind spectacles of theological precision. We narrow our gaze and hold back our affection.  We restrict friendship, we weigh, sift and calculate. We listen suspiciously, then once the code word is uttered, we exhale, smile broadly and welcome a new ally. There is a relaxation of tension. “You are one of us,” we nod approvingly, and the stranger beams knowing he has been granted access to the club. The secret handshake has become the right hand of fellowship.

This determination to distinguish friend from foe reminds me of an incident in the early years of Israel. For the first time in her history civil war had broken out. Two tribes, Gilead and Ephraim, had drawn swords against each other. After the battle, Gilead, the victorious tribe, took its position by a ford along the Jordan River where the defeated soldiers would try to cross as they fled back to their homes. Before letting anyone pass, the troops demanded that the survivors pronounce the word “Shibboleth”. It was well known that Ephraimites had trouble with the “sh” diphthong. So, when the speaker tripped over those letters and pronounced the code word “Sibboleth”, instead, he would be slaughtered on the spot.  On that day 42,000 Israeli brothers were killed.  

I was trained to be an agent alert for fundamentalist code-speak. Later, I was on the look-out for neo-Puritan, Dordtian-insider lingo. Since then the signals have shifted but the intent has not: identify and categorize who is in and who is out. But, over the years, having been “turned”, or better, after learning to appreciate the other side, such that I feel more like a double or triple agent, when I detect that questioning glance and surreptitious wink, I mostly want to cry. What I realize now is that most of our codes and handshakes serve only to fracture the body of Christ. They dishonor the unifying Eucharistic meal and declare civil war among brothers and sisters. In the past it led to bloody murder in the name of Jesus. Today the blood spilled is mostly from internal bleeding.

When we anathemize and marginalize members of His body, fellow disciples who happen to pronounce the theological “sh” sound differently than we do, we are biting and devouring one another. We splinter the holy, catholic, and apostolic church, we weaken its impact in the world, but worse, we grieve the Spirit and again wound the head of the church who gave His life for its unity. Certainly precision matters, but I find it incredible that the Son of God desires His body to be carved up based on distinctions 95 out of a hundred Christians have not the slightest clue about. After all, was it really God’s will that His church tear itself in half 1000 years ago over whether the Holy Spirit proceeded from the Father and the Son, or from the Son alone? How one answers that question is still, supposedly, the code that determines acceptance into either the Orthodox or the Catholic fellowships. Where is it written that that is to control access to the Eucharistic communion?

That is not to say that all codes are harmful. The early church had them, its most recognizable was a symbol—a child’s outline of a fish. It represented the one essential identifying criterion: commitment to Jesus Christ as Lord and God. For our forefathers, that was the beginning and end of the matter. For that they would live and for that alone would they die. With time the symbols and handshakes proliferated. But, the simple, silent confession of those two concave and convex lines remains to this day the one secret handshake that clearly and infallibly draws the line distinguishing who is in and who is out. That renders all other entrance codes superfluous.    

On the eve of the invasion of Canaan Joshua met a stranger with a drawn sword, and the untested general also wanted a secret handshake. ”Whose side are you on?” he demands. “Are you for us or are you for them?” Looking at the suspicious soldier with steady eyes, the Angel of the Lord answers clearly without equivocation: “Neither. I am not one who takes sides. I come as commander of the army of the Lord” (Jos. 5:14). When we are likewise asked to declare our allegiance, perhaps that is still the best answer. “I am neither Catholic nor Protestant, paedo or ana-Baptist, Calvinist or Arminian, I am on the Lord’s side, if you are on His, then we are fellow soldiers, we are brothers in arms. That is the only handshake we need.”       

Tags: creeds, division, exclusion, fragmenting, inner circle, secret codes, unity