By John W. Morehead.
From Evangelical Foundations to Postfoundational Faith in a World of Deep Difference.
I did not become a postfoundational theologian in a graduate studies seminar, nor did I arrive there by reading philosophy of science or contemporary systematic theology. My journey began in a far less predictable classroom: across tables, in living rooms, in conference settings, and in difficult conversations with people my own religious tribe had often taught me to approach cautiously, if not defensively. Long before I encountered the work of J. Wentzel van Huyssteen, long before I knew terms like postfoundationalism, epistemic vulnerability, or transversal rationality, the realities of interreligious conflict and human encounter were already forcing me to ask questions my theological formation had not prepared me to answer. Looking back, I can say without exaggeration that conflict became my unplanned seminary, before and after formal seminary studies. It did not destroy my faith, nor did it loosen my commitment to Christian conviction. It did something far more disruptive: it forced me to reconsider what faithfulness itself might require in a world of deep difference.
I was formed within conservative American evangelicalism, and I remain deeply grateful for much of what that tradition gave me. I was taught to love Scripture, to care deeply about truth, to value doctrine, and to think seriously about rival worldviews. I was trained to believe that ideas matter, that theological error has consequences, and that Christian witness requires courage. Those were not small gifts, and I have no interest in caricaturing the tradition that shaped me. At the same time, I eventually came to recognize that I had inherited not only a theological tradition but also an epistemological architecture—one I did not initially know how to name. Only later did I discover that much of what I had absorbed reflected what philosophers call foundationalism: the assumption that knowledge must rest upon fixed and unquestionable foundations, and that theology, above all disciplines, must build upon those foundations with as little ambiguity as possible.
In practical terms, this meant that Scripture often functioned not merely as divine revelation but as an epistemic fortress. Theology frequently operated as a largely closed system whose central task was preservation—preservation of truth, orthodoxy, boundaries, and sometimes, if we are honest, preservation of tribe. Other disciplines were welcome in supporting roles. Archaeology could confirm biblical history. Linguistics could illuminate the original languages. Cultural and anthropological studies could help missionaries contextualize the message. But disciplines such as psychology, evolutionary theory, or sociology were rarely invited to ask questions that might challenge, refine, or reconstruct theological assumptions themselves. Apologetics often reinforced this pattern. Its goal was frequently framed as defending the faith, rebutting error, and protecting doctrinal certainty. There was sincerity in that effort, but over time I began to wonder whether theology in my tradition sometimes functioned less like a laboratory for experimenting with new ideas, and more like a museum, carefully preserving inherited truths behind glass, protected from contamination by outside influences.
My seminary training in intercultural studies began to open cracks in that fortress long before I had language for what was happening. Intercultural studies, almost by necessity, trains you to become a translator. It teaches you that people do not simply hold beliefs in the abstract; they inhabit worlds. They carry histories, communal memories, wounds, loyalties, aspirations, and visions of what constitutes a good and meaningful life. As my work increasingly drew me into interreligious relationships and moral rivalry, I found myself sitting with Muslims, Buddhists, Latter-day Saints, Pagans, Satanists, atheists, political ideologues, and fellow Christians whose assumptions about truth, authority, and identity differed sharply from my own. While my intercultural tools served me well, it quickly became obvious that many of the theological tools I had inherited worked extremely well inside the church, but they worked much less effectively outside it.
What I discovered in interreligious encounters unsettled me. Many of the apologetic frameworks I had been taught seemed highly effective at reassuring people who already agreed with me, but far less effective at persuading people who did not. Increasingly, I realized that much of what passed for “defending the faith” functioned less as genuine persuasion and more as in-group signaling. Arguments that appeared to be directed outward often seemed designed primarily to communicate loyalty inward. Denouncing rival worldviews, exposing theological error, and reaffirming doctrinal boundaries often served to strengthen tribal identity far more than they served to influence outsiders.[i] In other words, much of our “persuasion” seemed to be preaching to the choir. That realization forced me to ask an uncomfortable question: if our methods only persuade those who already share our assumptions, are we truly engaging the world, or are we simply reassuring ourselves?
Years later, when I encountered the work of J. Wentzel van Huyssteen, I experienced one of those rare moments in intellectual life when someone gives language to convictions you have already been living but have never been able to fully articulate. Reading his work, especially Essays in Postfoundationalist Theology,[ii] felt less like discovering a new theological direction and more like finding philosophical confirmation for a journey that conversation and conflict had already forced me to begin. Van Huyssteen describes postfoundationalism as a “third way” between the rigid certainties of foundationalism and radical relativism. Foundationalism says, “I possess certainty because my foundations are unquestionable.” Relativism says, “Everyone has their own truth, and no common rationality is possible.” Postfoundationalism offers a far more demanding alternative. It recognizes that all human knowing is contextual, embodied, tradition-shaped, and interpretive, yet still capable of genuine public reasoning and mutual accountability.
For me, this was not merely an abstract philosophical insight. It was deeply personal. Van Huyssteen did not convert me to a new theology. He confirmed intuitions that years of intercultural engagement, conflict work, and theological wrestling had already begun to form. He gave me permission to believe that theological conviction and epistemic vulnerability are not enemies. He helped me see that faithfulness does not require epistemic isolation, and that deeply held beliefs do not become weaker when exposed to disciplined conversation with other fields of knowledge (let alone worldview “others”). In fact, they may become stronger.
One of van Huyssteen’s most influential concepts for me has been his idea of transversal reasoning. Put simply, transversal reasoning suggests that different disciplines retain their unique identities while entering shared spaces of inquiry around common human questions. This is not reductionism. Theology does not become psychology, and psychology does not become theology. Biology remains biology, anthropology remains anthropology, and philosophy remains philosophy. Yet all of them can overlap at points of shared concern: What does it mean to be human? Why do we fear one another? How do moral communities form? Why do rival groups so quickly perceive one another as dangerous? What gives rise to our deepest moral convictions, our loyalties, and our experiences of harm?
This framework fundamentally changed how I practiced theology. I began engaging not only biblical studies and systematic theology, but also moral psychology, social identity theory, evolutionary psychology, cultural anthropology, affective neuroscience, cultural emotions theory, and conflict transformation studies. I stopped asking, “How can these disciplines support my theology?” and began asking a more unsettling question: “What might faithful theology become if it risks being shaped through disciplined conversation with these disciplines?” That shift was profound. I no longer saw psychology or anthropology merely as tools for ministry. I began seeing them as genuine conversation partners in the theological task.
To my surprise, my strongest resistance did not come from secular academics or religious outsiders. It came from fellow Christians. I cannot count the number of times I have been asked, often with genuine concern and sometimes with subtle suspicion, “But what about the Bible?” At its best, that question reflects sincere theological accountability. At its worst, it functions as a boundary alarm—a way of signaling that someone has stepped outside the approved intellectual territory. Over time I learned that there were at least two kinds of gatekeepers. Some were open, cautious, but willing to engage. With them, Scripture itself often became a bridge. Passages about humility, neighbor-love, hospitality, self-examination, and Paul’s reminder that “now we see through a glass dimly” (1 Cor. 13:12) created space for honest theological reflection.
But there were other gatekeepers with whom no meaningful conversation was possible. What they heard in interdisciplinary engagement was not curiosity, humility, or faithfulness. What they heard was threat.[iii] Syncretism, compromise, and boundary erosion. Over time I came to realize that some theological arguments are not primarily about truth at all. They are about belonging. They are about tribal cohesion, identity preservation, and the maintenance of sacred boundaries. For those whose theological identity depends on certainty, epistemic vulnerability can feel like betrayal.
And yet years of moral rivalry work, interreligious engagement, and interdisciplinary inquiry have convinced me of something deeply counterintuitive: vulnerable theology is stronger theology. Not weaker—stronger. Vulnerable theology moves theology from assertion to contribution, from private insider language to public discourse, from defensive posturing to intellectual credibility, from attempts at conquest to mutual persuasion. If theology is true, it should not fear the public square. If theology is true, it should not fear social psychology, anthropology, sociology, neuroscience, or evolutionary theory. And if theology is true, it should certainly not fear the honest presence of religious and ideological rivals.
This conviction eventually shaped my work with the Foundation for Religious Diplomacy and our development of rivaltrust. I gradually came to see that human beings do not merely disagree over isolated facts. They engage in rivalry over visions of truth, justice, sacredness, identity, beauty, and the good life. When those visions collide, disagreement is rarely experienced as merely intellectual. It is experienced as threat—threat to identity, community, moral order, and to what people hold sacred. That reality cannot be addressed by theology alone. Nor can it be addressed by social psychology alone. It requires disciplines that remain distinct while entering shared spaces of inquiry, correction, and mutual influence.
Let me be clear. I did not leave evangelical faith. I did not abandon Scripture. I did not stop believing in truth, nor did I stop believing in the uniqueness of Christ. What I left was the assumption that faithfulness requires epistemic isolation. I left the assumption that theological certainty is the highest virtue. I left the assumption that apologetics is primarily about winning arguments, and that “the other” exists primarily to be corrected.
What I discovered instead is something both harder and, I believe, more faithful. Truth can remain truth while risking encounter. Conviction can remain conviction while remaining open to influence. Faith can remain faithful while standing vulnerably in public. And perhaps the future of theology belongs not to those who build higher walls, but to those willing to sit at a public table with others—deeply rooted, intellectually vulnerable, and genuinely open to mutual persuasion.
[i] This was one of the major arguments my colleagues and I advanced in Encountering New Religious Movements: A Holistic Evangelical Approach (Kregel Academic, 2004).
[ii] J. Wentzel van Huyssteen, Essays in Postfoundationalist Theology (William B. Eerdmans-Lightning Source, 1997).
[iii] Many times, these critics engaged in extreme ad hominem attacks, demonstrating the high stakes involved as evangelical identity and sacred narrative is threatened by a postfoundationalist theological method and outcomes.
John W. Morehead is the Executive Director of the Foundation for Religious Diplomacy, and the Director of its Evangelical Chapter (Multifaith Matters). You may contact him
at johnwmorehead@msn.com at johnwmorehead@msn.com.