Fighting has deeply human roots, think some. Instinct, competition, aggression, evolution, and all that. And, think some, those roots have been divinely planted. In our DNA, God bequeathed us bellicose proclivities. The teleology of a closed fist. For the faithful, so goes the logic, fighting reveals our Created-ness. A long-time voice in the wilderness crying out said logic is Mark Driscoll. Much more than words, however, Driscoll loved a good scrap. Here's a brief rundown of his past bouts, and his present fighting condition.
I love to fight. It's good to fight. Fighting is what we used to do before we all became pussified. Fighting is a lost art form. Fighting is cheaper than medication and more effective than counseling. Fighting always wins over compromise.
American culture had recklessly disregarded manly, human fundamentals. Alas, there was no outlet, no venue for the appropriate, godly expression of masculinity. Churchmen could not kick the asses that they so piously sought to kick. Robbed of beneficial beatings, American youths were lost and listless. They were strangers to pain, to reality, to human nature. They knew only pleasure, cultural artifice, and sentimentality.
While present in "most cultures throughout human history," Driscoll lamented, "rites of passage" were here lacking. But not in Mars Hill/Fight Club. Fighting was (and could be) instrumental. A Mars Hill men's community home resident promoted their theologically scrappy method. "We made a court of appeals to all confrontations," he claimed, "two pairs of boxing gloves." In that Mars Hill men's home, soft boys entered and hard men left. Driscoll himself was therein hardened. He and his housemates "bought gloves, headgear, and mouthpieces and began our own redeemed Fight Club," Driscoll said. Fist-to-cuffs were the Mars Hill way. For such was the Kingdom.
In a fallen culture where attorneys and bloggers exist, however, Mars Hill was not to be. But fighters never quit. Mark Driscoll has seized another opportunity, founding The Trinity Church in Scottsdale, Arizona. Things seem different now though. Sleuthing reveals no founding father Spirit of Fight Club. No pussified Arizonians have been threatened. Boxing gloves have settled no theological disputes. Driscoll spends his days preaching about vacation tips for dads, how to be a better friend, and the best ways to take a nap. The "Cussing Pastor" has even cleaned up his language. Docile Driscoll. Now 45 years old, he may have spent his youthful pluck. An aged lion sunning on the green golf-course plains of Phoenix's Club Retiree.
"My angry young prophet days are over," Driscoll told Mars Hill just before he resigned in 2014. Maybe. Or maybe his inner Fight Club is still inner. Lurking. The Trinity Church might not be another evangelical experiment in male agression. But stay tuned.