Finding Fundamentalism in Non-Religious Spaces

Idealogical purity can exist in anything

When I was a young Christian wife, I thought fundamentalism was something only found in the Middle East. It was after 9/11 and America was at war.

“Fundamentalism” was synonymous with religious extremism, but not my religion—theirs. The Taliban. Muslims. Al Queda. We Southern Baptists lumped every Islamic group together, smearing the lines between the various expressions, and ignored the resistance of “not all Muslims” the same way I hear evangelicals insist “not all Christians” today.

There were foreign terms (Sunni, Shia, Califate) and places (Baghdad, Bashur, Al Dawr) increasing the mystique and othering, as well as customs and clothing we insisted were oppressive.

But one day it dawned on me that my denim jumper in Christian homeschooling and Bill Gothard’s Institute of Basic Life Principles (IBLP) achieved the same goal as the Muslim burka: extreme modesty intended to make women invisible to men. Suddenly there was a crack in the facade of all that othering. One by one, similar teachings of extreme patriarchy started to line up. The fall of women’s rights. Strict gender roles. Men in charge. Isolation. Ideological purity and power.

I understood then that fundamentalism was synonymous with religious extremism—theirs and ours. Where this realization frightened me most was that I knew the IBLP beliefs included dominionism—the teaching that Christians are to take over and dominate the world in the name of Christ.

What would it mean for the planet when religious zealots were in charge of everyone? Religious zealots like me and the church that I came from?

Religion is an idea.

A zealot is a person who is fanatical and uncompromising in their pursuit of ideological purity. We’re used to using this term to describe radical religious or political types.

The definition of religion is the belief in and worship of a deity with superhuman powers, especially a God or gods. It’s a range of social and cultural systems, with dedicated behaviors, morals, worldviews, texts, sanctified places, ethics, prophesies, and organizations that pertain to spirituality.

Religion is our human effort to explain the mysteries of the universe and we call upon our faith and reason when we contemplate and inquire. Throughout human history, those who think they’ve found the best explanation form a following and a system of beliefs they offer to others, with sacred rituals, sermons, and narratives to reinforce how right they are. The largest four of these are Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism—but there are over 10,000 organized religions in the world today. Clearly, the most powerful rise to the top, creating tension between who will win. If it feels like we’ve been fighting the same war forever, it’s probably because we have.

Separateness that entails moral purity is called holiness. When Christians are attempting to “be like Christ,” they’re attempting to live with such purity that they become a peer with Christ. They are holy like him. They are sacred—worthy of reverence and respect among believers.

It’s their willingness to be set apart from the rest of society coupled with their dogmatic adherence to religious behaviors that earns them this respect. To be respected is to have power, not because they’re directly correlated but because to be respected is to be admired. Sought out for answers and guidance. It’s the attention of that admiration that leads to power.

In the late 1800’s Lord Action was credited as saying “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

I understood then why Christian Fundamentalism was as corrupt as any other form of religious extremism: we spoke in absolutes. Our leadership had absolute authority. Bill Gothard used an Umbrella of Protection to demonstrate his model of authority—top-down and patriarchal, masked in the guise of “protection.” But the protection we needed was from those with absolute power—the men above us in control.

Fundamentalism is an approach. A method, not a religion.

It was an argument about parenting styles when I first recognized that fundamentalist purity could be applied to any idealogy. Fundamentalism is the pursuit of ideological purity—and where it becomes harmful is when that purity is more important than people. When the parenting argument and purity of the idea being debated became supreme, and more important than the parents or children invovled, my body recognized the same rigidity I’d felt in both watching the war and in Christian Fundamentalism.

That was the day I simplified my own definition: fundamentalism is valuing ideas over people.

Ideas can be pure. Humans are messy. Fundamentalism promises to solve the pain of the human experience with formulas, rules, and stark binaries—and that’s true for more than matters of faith, spirituality, or eternity.

As a Christian at the time, I knew ideological purity conflicted with Jesus’s message of love and his personal behavior as described in the Bible. Later, as I encountered fundamentalist thinking in everything from yoga to nutrition to gender binaries, I was shocked to realize how easy it was to spot in non-religious spaces.

The day came when I recognized fundamentalist thinking within myself—and had gained the self-awareness to hold it. Binaries are comforting, especially in times of chaos. This and that. Black and white. Good and bad. When I’m confused or uncomfortable sitting in uncertainty, I crave a strong, simple answer. “Just tell me what to do,” I’ve said when feeling overwhelmed. I hand my power and autonomy over to someone else and follow their instruction—because that clear top-down authority is familiar to my nervous system. It regulates me.

Never is this more obvious to me than when someone asks me if I’m still a Christian. Immediately, younger parts of me perk up internally. Oh! Here we go! She’s finally going to label our box! She’s going to offer a finite answer! Younger me dances with glee. She loved belonging to a group. She loved knowing our lane. She especially loved the relief on another Christian’s face when they signaled you’re one of us.

It’s a yes or no question; a binary applied to a fluid, gauzy, mystery: spirit. Religion is our human effort to explain the mysteries of the universe. But spirituality involves the recognition of a feeling or sense or belief that there is something greater than myself, something more to being human than sensory experience, and that the greater whole of which we are part is cosmic or divine in nature. Spirituality is ephermal, the non-physical seat of emotions, character and soul. Spirituality is not a yes or no question; it moves.

I still love belonging. I still love the clarity of a simple rule, especially when overwhelmed, and I love the relief when someone opens their arms to me and says you’re one of us.

That doesn’t sound so bad until I remember to examine the fruit of fundamentalist thinking. Inflexibility. Gracelessness. The fruit of fundamentalism is rancid with bitterness, hate, and division. Dangerous group-think. Fundamentalism chews people; it doesn’t love them. It’s anathema to anything Jesus said. Fundamentalism creates war, not peace. It others. Us versus them.

So my answer has become that I’m spiritually-private. My first defense against fundamentalist thinking is to resist labeling myself. I must allow movement and mystery to thrive. I must allow curiosity and wonder. I must resist binary rules and rigid schools of thought. I’m no longer a young Christian wife; I’m the older and wiser voice of experience deconstructing what led her into fundamentalism in the first place. I found it at church. But it didn’t stay there. And unless we’re keen to recognizing where rigid thinking exists, it won’t stay there either.

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