The Silent Night Within

       Silent Night is a Christmas carol that, if you think about it, is a bit odd. I mean, if Jesus really was born in a stable, with angels singing and cattle lowing and donkeys braying, and shepherds praising, the first Christmas probably really wasn’t that silent.

         Usually our Christmases are not silent, either. My kids visit, and the grandkids too. Friends come from as far away as Japan and Zimbabwe. My son David will make three times the necessary noise banging around pots and pans while cooking. Grandkids rip open presents with gleeful little screams, then tease each other loudly, and then ask me to read to them.

Once the kids are in bed, we adults stay up late laughing, shouting, talking politics and religion. The Homepod plays competing song lists.

But not this year. My house will be silent. Tonight, Irene and I will sit, a little sad, glad for each other’s company, in a living room lit by candles, alone.

Now, I understand that this year’s quiet, especially at Christmas, is not what any of us wanted. It is a disappointment. For some of us it is worse—what with the worry of infection, and the depression that goes on and on due to isolation or financial stress. All of these ills are ours this Christmas. But for me, there is also another angle, the one suggested by the carol, “Silent Night.”

You see, in normal circumstances, I love the silence. I cope with busy commutes by turning off the car radio. I get ready for the day by taking the dog for a long walk. I used to listen to podcasts on those walks. Now I just trudge in silence. No one calls out to me. I daydream. 

I love the silence. Max Picard, a Roman Catholic philosopher, writes in his book, The World of Silence, "Outside the forest, the flowers are like silence that has thawed, and glistens in the sunlight." I like that—“outside . . . the flowers are like silence that has thawed.” One of my favorite Bible texts—an important one for ministers, especially, to take to heart—is Ecclesiastes 6:11. "The more the words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?"

In my heart I'm an introvert. I know how to be with people, how to get my oar in during conversations at a party, how to do a “meet and greet at church.” And I enjoy all that. But I get my energy from being alone and silence is my reward. 

What about you? I know that we can’t all be introverts. We need both extroverts and introverts to make the world go round. But just as introverts need to learn to make their peace with noise, I think extroverts can learn to appreciate the gift of silence.

Here is why. We all have a secret place of refuge, a sanctuary, in our souls, that most of us don’t visit often enough. It is where we go to ponder the most difficult questions life throws at us. It is where we construct the meaning we spend our lives achieving. This sanctuary in our souls is where we cultivate gratitude for the good others have done for us and nourish the good will we need to love our neighbors.

And that sanctuary in our souls, since it is ours alone, is a place that can only be entered alone. It is therefore a place of silence: a speechless silence full of awe on account the miracle of the universe; a prayerful silence that yearns for peace on earth; a respectful silence that honors the mysteries of other—other people, other loves, other choices. The silent sanctuary of our souls is a refuge for those tossed to and fro on the violent and unpredictable currents of time and civilization—especially now, during Covid time. The silent sanctuary in our souls is one of the few places we can hear the still, quiet voice of God, if Her voice is to be heard at all.

            And in the end, that is how I take the Christmas carol, Silent Night. Not silent because the animals really were, or the angels lost their voice. But the song sings of a silent night because the story of Jesus’ birth takes are dumbfounds us with its suggestion that God is not just notion, not merely the answer to a philosophical puzzle, but God is really here, with us and in us, enlivening us, even now. 

            And so, we whisper, in response, this year to ourselves alone, “let all the earth keep silence, before him.”

My Ten Favourite Reads from 2020

          I find that the annual ten-best and hundred-best book lists are pretty boring. The lists have in common that they’re mostly made up of the same mass market bestsellers. I think there is a direct connection between the amount of marketing dollars the publisher spends and getting on these lists. These books are, by design, intended to have wide appeal, but that means many great “specialist” books and small press books get missed. So here is my very personal list—best books I’ve read in 2020, regardless of when they were published. 

          The list has several themes in common across the themes: religion, anthropology, and race(ism). Hope you find something here that you like!

NOVELS

1. Exit West, by Mosin Hamid. Such a unique and lovely narrative voice! I mean the writing! A melancholy and romantic book about what binds humanity together and what pulls us apart. Set in the Middle East and California, it follows a few characters who move around the world as doorways beyond the control of central governments makes the whole world’s population mobile. Magical realism here, and it works. 

2. Homegoing, by Yaa Gyasi. Lovely and painful. A narrative dive into the lives of ordinary people who both fail and triumph. Most of the failures are due to hatred—systemic racism—and war and colonialism and ignorance, among other human shortcomings. But the way these people keep the flames of hope and love alive is inspiring and beautiful. The unique structure of the novel is also very interesting, as it follows two joined yet separate families through multiple generations. The writing is simple, pointed, and lovely. Best read of the year.

3. The Overstory, by Richard Powers. Well, I can find things to criticize here. The book is a bit too preachy; it reads, sometimes, too much like a botany text; and it is really long and could have used a bit of trimming. Still, this is a magnificent book. Powers creates believable characters who do, at turns, lovely and horrible things to save the world’s trees. Powers hears and shares the language of trees so that I can almost hear them.

4. A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr. I read this postapocalyptic book in high school, again in college, and then not again till now. It is a book worth reading for its humanity, for its sympathetic portrayal of religious people (perhaps a bit too sympathetic) and for its grand historical sweep. I can't say I share all of Miller's Roman Catholic sensitivities, especially in light of so many recent revelations. But as a study of the complex interplay between religious conviction, civilization, and politics, it can’t be beat. 

MEDIA

5. Reader, Come Home: The Reading Brain in a Digital World, by Marryanne Wolf. The great irony that weighs against this book is that those who might gain the most by reading it never will. They’ve abandoned deep reading for the mesmerizing screen. Wolf is a neurologist who explains in great detail the latest research into why reading is becoming harder and harder for most people in our society. A must read for ministers, teachers, and parents too. Wolf’s specialty is child development.

          A fine companion book to Reader, Come Home, is Digital Mini-malism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy World. After reviewing, briefly, much of the same material that Wolf describes in greater detail, and after explaining Silicon Valley’s corporate aims, Cal Newport offers a step-by-step guide to his media detox plan. I’m going to take it this January, when I begin my sabbatical!

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

6. Born a Crime: Stories of a South African Childhood, by Trevor Noah. As a regular visitor to South Africa, this book revealed, to me, just how much I've missed. I've been to the townships, both in the city and the countryside. I've visited Soweto, Cape Town, Johannesburg and many other towns. But I was always a tourist and I can see I missed mostly everything.

          This is a humane insider’s book about people trying to figure out a new thing with old prejudices and problems. They do better than you'd think, but it is quite a trip. Noah himself turns out to be a totally likeable, yet complex person. His mother? Well, she is a character who leaves me both impressed and sad. Read this. Surprises everywhere. Well written, too.

RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY 

(or, Doubt and Evil)

7. Unbelievers: An Emotional History of Doubt by Alec Ryrie. A well-written, engaging story with many vignettes along the way. Ryrie argues that as impressive as rational arguments for and against the existence of God might be, most people have become unbelievers for emotional reasons. 

          Ryrie names two that have ancient historical roots: anger (especially at religious institutions, rather than at God) and anxiety (especially surrounding how one can know this or that, given the many opinions out there). I thought his concluding analysis of our society’s turn away from church a bit weak, but for the most part a well-researched and engaging attempt to listen for faith voices other than those of the scholars.

8. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, by Hannah Arendt. I made a goal of reading ten classic works this year. Right now, I’m plowing through Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. Arendt’s book, I’m finding, is a fitting companion to Dostoevsky. 

          She examines the life and trial of Adolf Eichmann in order to try and understand what made him send so many Jewish persons, by rail, to their deaths during World War II. Arendt doesn’t think it was the devil. Her portrait of a man unselfconsciously stumbling into evil is disheartening and important—especially now, as nations around the world sees more and more strong men taking power and their sycophants helping smooth the way.

SCIENCES

9. Ancestors in Our Genome: The New Science of Human Evolution, by Eugene E. Harris. Human evolution has always been a fascination of mine. I sometimes think that career-wise, my greatest regret is that I didn’t become an evolutionary anthropologist.
          The genomic science is challenging for a lay person like me. But the subject is truly fascinating. We all know how DNA can be used to identify certain illnesses, potential relatives, criminals, and even rapists. DNA is a powerful tool for tracing our relationships to and contacts with others. But the same science and tools can be used to determine our evolutionary relationships too. This book covers when the homo sapiens line diverged from the last common ancestor of our us and our cousins, chimps and bonobos. It covers why we know that humans mostly evolved in Africa, and how we are related to other human species that are now extinct, including Neanderthals, Denisovans, and even earlier humans. I loved it.
          Runner up in the evolutionary biology category was Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art, by Rebecca Wragg Sykes. The title says it all. A marvellously detailed (perhaps a bit too detailed) look at many Neanderthal archeological sites and what we can learn from them.

10. In a different corner of the anthropological world, I was completely absorbed by At the Bridge; James Teit and an Anthropology of Belonging, by Wendy Wickwire. James Teit was an overlooked, turn-of-the-nineteenth century anthropologist who lived with, studied, and advocated for the indigenous peoples of British Columbia and Northwest USA. 

          Wickwire examines Teit’s life, his participant-observer stance among the First Nations, his political engagement with Ottawa and Victoria, and his understanding of the systemic racism First Nations consistently faced. Every page is filled with fascinating stories and insight.

The Pieta, The Death of Wolfe, and Remembrance.

     Christian theologians and artists have always been in love with Jesus’ mother, Mary, who they named, Theotokos, mother of God. Liturgies, music, and prayers especially focused on her purity and suffering.

     One of the suffering moments—not actually mentioned in scripture—was when Mary first held the body of Jesus after it was taken off of the cross. This moment is called The Pieta, which can be translated as “The Pity,” or “The Compassion.”

     Here is an early example, the Rottgen Pieta from the fourteenth century. It is graphic and gritty and moves me. Jesus’ wounds still flow. He is emaciated, ugly, broken, just as you would expect a crucified holy man to look. Mary is shocked, on the verge of disbelief.

     The medieval Germans peasants who saw this Pieta in their church knew this kind of suffering for themselves. Medieval life was, as Thomas Hobbes said, “nasty, brutish, and short.” The Rottgen Pieta offered those peasants both a Jesus and a Mary they could identify with.

     But there is another, darker side to this and similar devotional sculptures. The sculpture suggests that suffering is holy. Mary and Jesus’ suffering here justifies suffering as a reality of life peasants had to accept. The Rottgen Pieta—and many more like it--was used by the church to teach, nurture—and control—peasant believers.

     Not so Michelangelo’s Pietá. It served a very different purpose for a very different audience. This sculpture, found in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, is one of the most admired works of art of all time.

     The earthy realism of Rottgen is gone, replaced unearthly Platonic idealism. Mary, even as the mother of a 31-year old man, is still a beautiful virgin, the prototypical perfect woman. And Jesus, even in death, is Adonis-beautiful, too.

     The story here is that Michelangelo was hired by the French Cardinal Jean de Bilheres to create this sculpture for two reasons. It was to serve—and for a while, it did—as Bilheres’ tombstone. But more importantly, Bilhere was in Rome as a French ambassador after a disastrous war between France and most of the small Italian Republics. It was a war marked by the brutal sack of Mordano, about 250 kilometers north of Rome. The French army put all its citizens, including women and children, to death. 

      Now, after this inconclusive but brutal war, Bilhere was supposed to help smooth things over. And so, he tasked Michelangelo, an Italian artist, to use a notably French and German theme, The Pieta, to sculpt a work of Italian marble to place in the French chapel of the first St. Peter’s in Rome, Italy. A peace offering that bound the two peoples together.

     With Michelangelo’s Pieta, the suffering of Mary and Jesus is a passing whisper—as Bilhere hoped the suffering of Mordano and Italy might be soon forgotten, too. The ugliness of war is here swallowed up by the stunning beauty of national reconciliation symbolized by Jesus’ reconciliation of humans to God, through his death. The Pieta is a stunning piece of political theater.







     Which brings us to a modern pieta, Pablo Picasso's Guernica. You've seen this painting. I don't know how to speak to its beauty--it is striking and compelling and abstract, though.

     Here Picasso painted the suffering of the village of Guernica during the Spanish civil war, just before WWII. The Nazi Luftwaffe bombed that little Basque village on a market day. There was no military target. The purpose was simply to sow terror. Two hundred and fifty townspeople died. It was a modern Mordano.

     Thus, like Michelangelo’s Pieta, Guernica is very, very political. But instead of trying to smooth over a war, it puts Nazi war crimes front and center, condemning them.

     And if you look closely, you will see on the far left, a pieta—Mary holding Jesus in her lap. It’s Rottgenall over, but in Picasso’s cubist style. Do you see it? On the left?

     In case you can't, here is a reproduction, done as a sculpture, by well-known American artist
Arthur Lopez, in the Mexican-American Santero style.

     I have one more pieta to show you, Benjamin West’s, “The Death of Major-General James Wolfe.”

     You remember James Wolfe. He was the commanding British officer during the French-Indian war. The French were besieged at Quebec, and tried to break through British lines with a surprise attack on the Plains of Abraham, that failed. The battle only took an hour, but during it Wolfe was shot and died of his wounds.

     The battle led, soon after, to France’s exit from New France. Wolfe has, forever after, been seen as Canada’s first war hero, and the epitome of the British Empire’s fighting spirit and military prowess.




     Wolfe’s painting, of course, is yet another version of The Pieta. West knew Michelangelo’s Pieta well from when he lived in Rome as an art student. Here, West lays out Wolfe as Michelangelo laid out Jesus. General James Wolfe is a sacrificial lamb who died to establish true civilization in the New World jungle. One commentator writes, “This deliberate visual association between the dying General Wolfe and the dead Christ underscores the British officer’s admirable qualities. If Christ was innocent, pure, and died for a worthwhile cause—that is, the salvation of mankind—then Wolfe too was innocent, pure, and died for a worthwhile cause; the advancement of the British position in North America.”

     In contrast to other paintings of Wolfe’s death from the same era, West filled his painting not with regular soldiers, but with military dignitaries. In fact, none of these men were actually there. West added them to add dignity to the scene. One of those watching is a First Nations warrior, looking on Wolfe adoringly—in stark contrast to how most First Nations would have felt about these European wars that kept dragging them in.

     But West has no time for such objections. He is making myths that justify the violence, greed, and visions of world domination that are at the root of all empires, including the British Empire. West here is an evangelist for wars on behalf of the crown and for territorial expansion.

     All of which brings me near to the end of what I want to say this morning. All of these works of art that I’ve shown you this morning served propagandistic ends. In each of them, the story of Mary holding Jesus’ body, a religious theme—was used to score political points.

     The Rottgen Pieta served the churches need to tell the story of Jesus to illiterate peasants who needed comfort, assurance—and who needed to be kept in line. It said, “shut up and embrace your suffering, like Mary and Jesus did.”

     Michelangelo’s Pieta was meant to paper over war crimes. It was an offer of arm’s length, platonic friendship as a substitute for war.

     Picasso’s pieta was exactly the opposite. It served as a condemnation of war by including a very Rottgen-like Pieta that represents the evil of war.

     And the question for us, of course, is this. Will we let Remembrance Day, as well as its rituals and music, use us in a similar way? Or will we see through some of the myths to the fact of war’s evil? To the actual pain and suffering of both soldiers and civilians? Will we, perhaps, use Remembrance Day to organize for no more wars?

     This week, we ought to remember the heroism of our boys; but we also remember Flanders Fields and the poppies their bodies fed. We remember the WWI sacrifices of Vimy Ridge and the Somme and Passchendaele, but we also now understand that ultimately, these battles were fought for the elites of a British Empire against the elites of a German Empire, rather than for any common good or high moral principle.

     We have fought other morally ambivalent wars. The Royal Mounted Police against the Metis. The first overseas deaths of Canadian soldiers in a totally useless Anglo-Boer war that mostly served to make the British Empire richer while brutally erasing Africans. But our boys also died fighting the horrific reality of Nazism in what is sometimes called the twentieth century’s only just war. Our boys liberated extermination camps and liberated my ancestors in Holland. In any case, whether the cause was just or not or just middling—our men were always true and valiant.

     And now I wonder, how will history judge our time in Afghanistan, after the Taliban is back in control, as they seem destined to be? Or our material support for Saudi Arabia and its ruthless war in Somalia?

     I do not know.

     But today, we nevertheless remember the Christ-like suffering of all our military martyrs. In their memory, and to prevent the need for remembering more soldiers in the future, we commit our Remembrance Day not merely to making glorious national myths, but to learning the hard lessons of history, history as objective as we can make it.

     Even good wars are hell. We must do all within our power to avoid falling for heroic myths that want to use us, and instead, as a nation, build lasting peace wherever we can lend a hand.

     I am not naïve. I know that hating war cannot end war. But I plead with you, as followers of Jesus, who gave his own life as a protest against both religious bigotry and Roman military occupation, I ask you, as followers of Jesus to use your social and political and economic gifts and powers to make peace.

     This is the most fitting Remembrance of all.

Is God a Narcissist?

Once upon a time, a pretty nymph by the name of Echo spotted a hunter, Narcissus, in the woods. Now, if Echo was pretty, Narcissus was gorgeous—a handsome, beautiful man. He was so sculpted and so fine, in fact, that just to look at Narcissus was to fall in love with him. And that is what happened to Echo.

      However, Narcissus was having nothing of it. He rejected Echo. She was devasted—so much so, in fact, that Echo melted away to almost nothing, until all that was left of her was a stuttering susurration in the wind.

      Nemesis, another Greek God, looked on infuriated and decided to punish Narcissus for rejecting Echo. So, Nemesis led Narcissus to a pool. When Narcissus saw his reflection in the pool, he immediately fell in love with himself, just as Echo had, before. All Narcissus could do was bow down, like this flower, and gaze upon himself in wonder and awe with worshipful abandon—so long, and so intensely, that he was never able to leave that pool again, until he finally died of hunger.

      In any case, ever since, narcissism has wound its way through Western literature. Consider, for example, fairy tales such as Snow White or Cinderella. Both feature wicked step mothers who cannot abide the thought that someone besides themselves should be the most beautiful, or beloved, or have the most attention from the king. Both Snow White and Cinderella are exiled so that the narcissistic stepmother can have all the praise and glory.

      Well, and it isn’t just Western literature. Politicians might be narcissistic. One in particular claims to be the smartest man in the world. He says, “in his great and unmatched wisdom,” that he is a “very stable genius.” His critics are, “enemies of the people,” and his congressional opponents should be, “arrested for treason.” Of the current world crisis, he says, “I alone can fix it.”

      Narcissism. According the DSM-V, the standard diagnostic tool of psychologists and psychiatrists, narcissism is “a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy.”

      And doesn’t that describe God, too—or at least, how God usually shows up in scripture? There, God (or his scribes) describes himself, rather grandiosely, as “creator of heaven and earth.” He demands that we should admire and worship him and him alone, so that there be no other Gods before him. God—rather unempathetically, I’d say—even sends all of Israel into foreign exile after tens of thousands of them die in sieges. According to scripture, God does this mostly because they were practicing freedom of religion and living a bit high on the hog.

      Doesn’t this God sometimes seem narcissistic, to you? As when, for example, Jesus says that the first and greatest command of God is that, you ought to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind?” Isn’t this just over the top? What drives this divine need to be the centre of our attention—even of our adoration?

      I’ve struggled with this self-centered, jealous God—jealous—another Biblical word for what God is like, by the way. And I eventually concluded that this picture of God must be flawed. What would the God of the universe gain, if there be such a God, by my groveling? So now I think that though the ancient writers tried to explain who God was, it was as if they were staring into too bright a light, with too much anxiety, and therefore ultimately offered a mistaken view of God.

      It’s a common mistake. Humans have long bowed and scraped before their gods, hoping thereby to gain their favour, just as politicians and lobbyists bow and scrape to gain the favor of presidents or emperors. Humans have long thought that if they adored God and worshipped God in the right way, wore appropriate vestments, waved censors with incense or chanted Latin, and sang songs of praise—Jews and Christians and many from other religions have long believed that God could be bent to do their bidding, and answer their prayers or (at a minimum) give them a passing grade on the way to a heavenly promotion.

      We Christians have long believed, deep in our hearts, that God the narcissist craved this adoration and attention and that we better deliver, or else.

      But now I think this picture—and even milder forms of it—is all wrong. Remember that Jesus once said that if we saw him then we have seen God? I think that is a better clue to God’s real nature. Thus, as his preaching ministry drew to an end, we see Jesus set his face for Jerusalem, where he sacrificed his life in an act of defiance against rulers who would be worshipped, and in an act of solidarity with the least and last who lived under the thumbs of their High Priests and Kings and Procurators.

      Explaining himself, Jesus said, more or less, that yes, the first great commandment is that you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind. But, the second commandment, which is like it, is this: you should love your neighbour as yourself.

      Because, you see, Jesus had figured out that the only way to actually obey the first commandment is by keeping the second. God never wanted formal worship—even if some writers of scripture thought so. Jesus corrected that notion by suggesting that worship is any act of love on behalf of our neighbours.

      If Jesus was right, then God is no narcissist who demands our burnt offering and calves a year old or thousands of rams or rivers of oil. Not at all. He (or she or they!) has told us what is really good, what he really requires of us. It is to do justice and love kindness and walk humbly with God, by bowing before and serving our neighbours.

      Not narcissism, but neighbours. No falling on our knees before a jealous God, but rather, rolling up our sleeves for each other. This is our true worship.

Living in Dangerous Times: COVID-19 and Our Mortality

            Every few years, Canadians collectively raise our eyebrows and notice that something quite out of the ordinary is happening, and . . . it might not be good. Do you remember, for example, the Y2K scare? The stock market crash of 2008 and 2009? Or SARS?

            When the Y2K scare happened, Irene and I, as well as our friends Nick and Nandy and our kids, loaded a large picnic cooler with mementoes of our lives—tapes and a tape player, articles we had written for journals, pictures, newspapers, awards and even a coin collection—we loaded it all into the cooler, wrapped the cooler up in multiple layers of plastic, and on New Year’s Eve, before a roaring bonfire, we buried it, at midnight. We left maps for our grandkids to find it back and open it in the year 2050. It was our way of thumbing our noses at Y2K.

            And yet, given our raised eyebrows, we also socked away several jugs of water and a few weeks’ worth of canned food, rice and beans at home. You can’t be too careful.

            When the stock market crash happened, in 2008, we again did as all the experts suggested. Nothing, this time. We didn’t panic. We didn’t buy gold or sell our stock portfolio. You can’t be too careful.

            And now we are all collectively raising our eyebrows again, this time on account of the COVID-19 virus. We don’t know how serious this epidemic will be, compared to, say, the 2003 SARS outbreak. It spreads more easily but fortunately the COVID-19 virus is less dangerous than SARS, if you catch it. The vast majority of people who catch COVID-19 will be fine.

            So, we are now washing our hands more often and bumping elbows in church and wondering about whether or not we should travel. Irene and I have cancelled a vacation to Baja, Mexico. We were supposed to fly out March 18. But you can’t be too careful. We’ll have a staycation, instead. Our dog, Jex, will thank us.

            Still, if we’re honest, our eyebrows are raised and it is all a bit unsettling. What can I say? I’m not a doctor. I see guidelines for washing-hands everywhere. We ought to be religious about following them!

            The elephant in the room when it comes to COVID-19, of course, the thing we’ve all thought about more than a few times, even if only briefly, is death. I read a nice little story about death this week. It goes like this:

            Once some tourists from Canada were visiting Poland. They had heard about the famous Polish rabbi Hafez Hayyim and managed to receive an invitation to visit him in his home.

            When the tourists arrived, they were surprised to see that the rabbi’s home was only one simple room filled with books. His only furniture was a table and a bench.

            “Rabbi, where is your furniture?” they asked.

            “Where is yours?” replied the rabbi.

            “But we are only visitors here,” answered the tourists.

            “So am I,” said the rabbi.

            When it comes to life—and death—we are all tourists. That is why as a minister in a United Church I have made a point about preaching sermons about death regularly over the years. But preaching about death is challenging for me.

            In part, it is challenging because the members of the church I serve hold to a variety of views about what happens when we die. For example, some of my parishioners have beautiful traditional beliefs. They hope that when they die they will go to heaven. They are with the Apostle Paul when he writes, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us,” And, “We wait for the redemption of our bodies,” he adds, in case we were not sure what he was talking about.

            But other members of my congregation are much less certain about all that life-after-death stuff, or maybe don’t even believe in God at all, or believe in some very different kind of God, as “post-theists.” These members of my congregation take what Paul says about life after death with a large grain of salt. They are more with the Psalmist who says, “In death there is no remembrance of Yahweh; in Sheol, [the afterlife], who can give you praise?” These parishioners believe that death is simply the end of the road. And there are many, many positions in between.

            What do I think? Well, I am okay with the uncertainty.

            Many Christians, and for that matter, many Hindus and Buddhists and Muslims and Pagans have come up with 101 detailed explanations for what happens when we die. In Christianity, for example, we talk of intermediate states, and resurrection and judgments, of New Earths coming down out of heaven and meeting Jesus in the sky. Who knows? Maybe one group of Christians or Pagans or Hindus actually got the post-life map exactly right. 

            But what is more interesting and alluring to me than the details different religions differ on is the near universal sense that most humans have always had that there is more to this life than just this life. That seems important to me—and mildly hopeful. Whatever the ultimate truth about death is, I like the title of Julian Barnes’ beautiful book, nothing to be frightened of.

            But when people try to put me on the spot about life after death, I answer, “I hope so. When I die, I hope that I will awake to a grand adventure. I really like that idea. But, if not, when I die, I will get my best night’s sleep ever.” 

            What strikes me as more important than “I’m not sure,” however, is that following Jesus is for the living and not the dead. Remember that story I told you a few minutes ago, about being tourists? The rabbi’s name was Hafez Hayyim, which means, “responsible caretaker of life.” In the spirit of that insight I offer two pieces of advice for anyone who has thought of death since the COVID-19 epidemic began.

            First, and most responsible of all, make sure your affairs are always in order enough so that in case you do die those who survive you know what to do next. As a minister I have too often seen family grief compounded when the persons who died refused to plan for that eventuality. Most importantly, have a will and an advanced care plan or directive. Married or not, make sure that your bank accounts and credit cards and mortgages and insurance are all in order. Leave a file behind, where it can be easily located, with your will and on your computer—a file entitled, “In case of death.” Fill that file with the practical information people will need to tie up your affairs in a gracious manner that does credit to you. 

            Doing these sort of things isn’t merely responsible; it is also spiritual, because doing them is kind and loving.

            But there is one more, more inspirational piece of advice I also have for those of us, who as Bruce Cockburn once sang, live in dangerous times.

            It is this. No matter what your age or risk category, though perhaps especially if you are elderly, remember: now is always the right time to do wonderful and beautiful things with your life. We are called to be responsible stewards of our lives; but not merely responsible. If we are tourists, it is because we wish to take delight in the journey and with our companions, just as Jesus did with his disciples. So, now is the right time to do wonderful and beautiful things with your life! Now is the time to say that you are sorry. To give a gift to someone who is beloved or to donate to a cause that matters to you. Now is always the time to embrace a child or grandchild or an elderly parent and to be truly present to them, even if it takes time and energy. The apostle John writes, "My children, our love should not be just words and talk; it must be true love, which shows itself in action." 

         In the end, before the end, be responsible and love no matter what what the flu season does or does not bring.

Two War Stories--1917 and Ehud the Benjaminite

(If you would like to read the scripture where you can find the Ehud story, go to Judges 3:12-30. I'm going to be posting more of my sermons that deal with contemporary issues here, on the advice of my communication team. This is a sermon on this year's Oscar nominees, preached against the Judges story for comparison and contrast.)

            Before we read today’s scripture, I invited the children to leave for Sunday School. You see, our scripture for today was a war story, a particularly violent war story. I didn’t want to have to explain it to the children or apologize to the parents.

            And the movie that I’m going to review today, 1917, was rated “R.” That means anyone under the age of 17 who wants to see the movie has to be accompanied by an adult. 1917 is very violent.

            Why do we like these stories? Why are we such suckers for violence, murder and mayhem?

            So, first, the story of Ehud and Eglon. Not only is it violent, but ironically, this story is also supposed to be a divine comedy. Unfortunately, most of the humor gets lost in translation. I'll try to give you a taste of it, though. 

            Ehud is a Benjaminite, which means, in Hebrew, "son of my right hand." But we are also told that Ehud is a left-handed “son of my right hand.” Right off, the audience wants to know how the left-handed son of a right-handed people will take advantage of this confusion. 

            What is more, the obese King Eglon's name sounds like the Hebrew word for "fatted calf." So, now Hebrews are asking themselves how a left-handed son of my right hand is going to slaughter the fatted calf. 

            As it happens, after Ehud delivers Israel’s war tax, or tribute, to King Eglon, Ehud manages to trick the King’s retainers into leaving, so that Ehud is alone with the King. Then Ehud grabs his sword, successfully hidden on the wrong-right side of his body and buries it in Eglon’s belly. 

            Ehud then dumps the dead King in a bathroom, shuts the door, and runs. In Hebrew what follows literally reads: "The servants came and saw, look, the doors of the upper room are locked, and they said he must be relieving himself. They waited a long time and look, he's not opening the doors of his room, and they took the keys and opened them, and look, their lord is sprawled on the floor, dead.”

            Next, the Israelites take on the Moabite army. The Moabite soldiers are said to be “vigourous and strong,” though the word used can also mean "fat." So, in a neat little parallel to the fate of their master, all the "fat" Moabite soldiers are struck down too. 

            This story, whenever it was read, had Israelites rolling on the floor with mirth and laughter. When they finally quieted down, one of them would only have to say, "he was relieving himself," or "they were all vigorously fat soldiers" or “look,” and everyone would break out in laughter all over again. 

            The Oscar nominated 1917, on the other hand, isn’t funny. Not at all. 

            In brief, two British soldiers, Schofield and Blake, have to cross no-man’s land to warn 1600 isolated British troops to call off a doomed attack.

            It’s a death trip, underlined by images of burial, bottomless pits, and a hellish inferno.

            At one point, a German airplane crashes, Lucifer like, out of the sky. After rescuing the German pilot, the pilot plugs a knife deep into Blake’s belly and kills him—an echo of Ehud and Eglon. Only Schofield is left. So, we all pray, with Jean Valjean, “Bring him home. Bring him peace. He is only a boy.” 

            And that morning, after navigating Hades and bullets, Schofield gets to the 1600 isolated troops. And some of them survive.

            So why do we throng to see 1917? Why are we such suckers for this violence, murder and mayhem? 

            You are probably thinking, “well, we like these stories because they have deeper meaning, a moral.” Maybe. But just because a story has a meaning, is it the right one? Consider Ehud and Eglon again. It is quite clear that this story is told—as are all the stories in Judges—to convince the Israelites to worship Yahweh, and Yahweh alone. If they do so, God will give them health, wealth, and peace. If they do not worship Yahweh, however, God will abandon them, and they will be conquered.

            The problem, of course, is that this isn’t true. Whether or not the Jewish people have been faithful over the past twenty-five-hundred years, their history has almost always been, regardless of their piety, one of suffering, persecution, exiles, pogroms and holocausts. Even now, anti-Semitism is on the rise, and most of the nations surrounding Israel want the Jewish state quashed. It is ugly.

            Meanwhile, sadly, the State of Israel has responded with military occupation and illegal settlement and confiscation of conquered Palestinian territory, a universally recognized war crime and not peace at all.

            So, it isn’t true that when Israel walks with the Lord, in the light of his word, what a glory he sheds on their way; it isn’t true that while Israel does his good will, he abides with them still, and with all who will trust and obey.” We used to sing such meaning for ourselves too, but that is not how the world turns. Sometimes, often even, evil nations, like evil people, prosper. And nations trying to do the right thing, fail.

            And what is the moral or meaning of 1917? That heroes triumph over adversity? That something as hellish as war cannot stop brave men? That to do one’s duty is the main thing? That today is a good day to die? I don’t know. For all of its macabre beauty 1917 left me feeling depressed about the human prospect. 

            So why do we throng to see it? Why are we suckers for violence, murder and mayhem?  Well, maybe such stories excite our basest, most ancient fight or flight instincts, without actually putting us in danger. Plus, there must be 101 reasons philosophers could give for the appeal of violence as an artistic subject. 

            But here’s the thing. If nothing else, both of these stories reinforce something that we all know but all too rarely focus on. War is hell. 

            

            I do not mean to say that when we are up against some final wall, and it is a matter of war or death camps, or basic freedoms—I do not mean to suggest we should never fight back. I am, at best, a half-baked pacifist. 

            But I am saying that those who live by war, countries that make war a habit, that find provocations easily, who cannot refrain from using violence to further what they think of as being in their national interest—those who live by the sword will die by the sword. This is another Biblical meaning than the one in Eglon and Ehud’s story, a very different one, and it is, I think, much closer to the truth. 

            I sometimes fear that here in Canada, as a neighbour of the USA and a partner with NATO, we are at risk of forgetting that war is hell, that it is not the answer, and we have begun to buy into the myth that might makes right, and anyways the West will never lose.

            We live in an era where, for meaning, we are inundated with half-truths and excuses and propaganda and fake news. I invite you to remember that even the Bible—as in the story of Eglon and Ehud—even the Bible gets meaning wrong sometimes. Think critically. Especially about military affairs and war.

            We live in an era where our neighbour to the South, the United States—a country of which I am a citizen—has intervened militarily in the affairs of its neighbours to its South, in Central and South America, over 80 times in 100 years, mostly in the name of democracy. Well, then, Central and South America should be among the most democratic places the world.

            We live in an era where our neighbour to the South, the United States, has been at war in the middle East continually since 2003—a good part of that time with our Canadian help. For all such violent interventions, this is still one of the most dangerous places in the world. 

            I don’t know how to fix these geopolitical matters. You don’t either. But, at the very least, when it comes to our prayers, we need to be with Maya Angelou, who prays, “Father, Mother, God, you, the borderless sea of substance, we ask you to give all the world that which we need the most: peace.” 

            Except that we must pray this prayer having learned from Ehud and the Israelites that ultimately God chooses to answer our prayers for peace only by making us humans responsible to make it so. It’s our job and ours alone. There is no “trust and obey God” path that guarantees peace, no “but we’re a Christian nation,” narrative that secures our superiority. We should try to learn, instead, how, by our voting and investing, in our politics and locker-room conversations, in our schools and churches—we could learn how, not merely to pray for peace, but to wage peace, ourselves. 

            You know. What Jesus wanted.