Remembering My Boer Relative's Execution

            This past Sunday my church commemorated Remembrance Day, and that brought a story to mind.

            Many years ago, a relative of mine—my grandfather’s cousin, and so my first cousin three times removed—enlisted to fight in the Boer War, in Southern Africa. The Boer War was the first war that Canadians went overseas to fight. They did so for patriotism, for Empire, and for King, though probably not so much for Sir Wilfred Laurier, the Canadian Prime Minister at the time. Laurier would only send volunteers to South Africa because he didn’t want to offend Quebecers who thought fighting a war for England halfway around the world was just plain stupid. Maybe my fellow Canadians were right.

            The thing is, my grandfather’s cousin didn’t fight for the Canadians or the British. Pieter Schuil was a Dutchman who volunteered to fight for the Boers in a fit of righteous indignation at what the British were doing to the Boers. Tragically, Pieter was ultimately executed by firing squad. I have a letter written to Pieter’s parents, in Dutch, by the English Chaplain who prayed with Pieter on that last day, both on bended knee, Pieter with a Bible in his hands.

            There is more to Pieter’s story. It seems that he may have been unjustly executed, though this is disputed. The British claimed that while carrying a white flag, he came toward the British lines, and then suddenly lowered the gun and started shooting. At his court marshal hearing, Pieter claimed that it was no flag of truce, but just a hankie tied to his gun for no reason in particular, and that he never approached the English lines. He had been unhorsed, and was simply caught up in the British advance.

            And there is more yet to the story. This was a war for empire in its worst sense. The Boers had set up two small independent countries to get away from British rule in the Cape. What is more, they didn’t ask the Africans, whose land they conquered, for permission to set up those countries. After gold and diamonds were discovered in the one of little Boer states--which had made peace with Britain earlier--the British attacked in order to add the Boer territory to their own. It was an imperialistic land grab for the empire. Again, no one asked any Africans for their permission.

            When the British regulars defeated the Boer armies, the Boers refused to surrender and engaged in guerrilla warfare. The British responded by pretty much burning down every Boer farm they could find, inventing concentration camps, and then filling them not merely with soldiers but with women and children from the burned out farms. At least 20,000 Boers and an equal number of Africans charged with feeding the Boers died of hunger and disease in the camps. Pictures from the camps look eerily like pictures from Nazi concentration camps 40 years later. It was a dirty war that brought no honor to England, the Boers, or Canada.

            An interesting personal footnote is that forty years later, after the Second World War, my Shona daughter-in-law’s grandfather, a wealthy African cattle rancher, had all his land expropriated by the British so that they could give it to returning war veterans. Without land to range and feed his cattle, he sold most of his heard at a huge loss and became a refugee in what was then Rhodesia. No one ever asked him what he thought of the Boer War or the two World Wars. His descendants mostly grew up poor and landless and angry that white invaders had dispossessed them of everything they owned.

            War is an ugly business. So what do I do on Remembrance Day? Should I remember my family members who died at war, even if they fought on the losing side? Or when they fought for mistaken ideals? Or should I remember only Canada’s heroes, young men and women who fought with honor and courage, even if the wars they fought were sometimes unjust? Or should I have preached a sermon on how all war is hell and how we all ought to work like angels to make sure we don’t fall into another? After all, as Jesus once said, those who live by the sword will die by the sword, and “Love your enemies,” and “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

            And, by the way, who exactly is calling Christians children of God these days, anyway?

Spiritual Warfare? No!

           Not so long ago, a colleague of mine told me that his congregation was marching around their church’s neighborhood to claim it for Jesus, by prayer. When I questioned him further, he suggested that some demons were pretty territorial, and since the devil can’t stand up against prayer, the best way for his church to get a foothold in the neighborhood was by praying the demons away.

            Other Christians see a host of immoral activities—lying, cheating, bitterness—as evidence of demonic possession or oppression, rather than as acts for which one is personally responsible. In some Christian circles such problems are dealt with through exorcism or “binding of demons” rather than repentance and sanctification—Christian lingo for facing up to the wrong you’ve done and deciding to do something about it.

            This is the language of spiritual warfare and it is everywhere in Evangelical circles. From the demon-under-every-bush-fiction of Frank Peretti to the slightly subtler Nicolai of the “Left Behind” series to books on exorcism such as Francis MacNutt’s “Deliverance From Evil Spirits” or C. Peter Wagner’s “Supernatural Forces in Spiritual Warfare,” contemporary evangelicalism is awash with fascination for outsize evil spirit’s below and battling angels above.

            This sort of preoccupation with spiritual warfare seems, to me, to be very dangerous. I think it rooted in a kind of pride in one’s own religious correctness that can—especially under the influence of the language of warfare—become destructive of others, whether locally or globally.

            It isn’t that you can’t find language that resonates with warfare images in scripture. Of course you can. Though not very commonly, the writers of scripture did sometimes use military images of the Christian life as a struggle against evil—even though more often, they wrote of Jesus as having decisively defeated Satan. Scripture certainly suggests the creature called Satan ought to be resisted—but that is a far cry from suggesting he ought to be warred against. Even the famous spiritual armor described in Ephesians—a breastplate of righteousness, shield of faith and even, somewhat ironically, feet ready to move in tune with the gospel of peace—all this armor seems better suited to turning the other cheek as the Christian way of resisting the devil than taking him straight on.

            But contemporary Christians persist in allowing the language of spiritual warfare to be one of their guiding metaphors. It reminds me of how the language of jihad has taken on a powerful and dangerous life of its own, too. In the shadow of 9/11’s destruction of the World Trade Center buildings, few words are so misunderstood and scorned in the West as “jihad.”

            The most common sense of the word “jihad" in Islam, has to do with the religious duty to “struggle” to become a better Muslim. In this sense “jihad” is similar to the Christian concept of engaging in spiritual disciplines like prayer, fasting, and study.

            But this most common sense of the word “jihad” has been eclipsed for us in the West because a misguided, militant minority of Muslims, who even call themselves jihadists, think of jihad as a struggle against the thrones and dominions, principalities and powers of the “Great Satan,” by which they usually mean the United States and the West in general. This minority of militant Muslims now uses the primarily benign concept of jihad as a religious cover for terrorism.

            Talk of Spiritual Warfare has the same potential for spinning out of control. In fact, in the history of Christianity, we have often channeled our spiritual energy into physical destruction of others who did not agree with us. Consider the crusades, for example, where hordes of Europeans trampled over the Near East carving out kingdoms for profit and spiritual indulgences. In the Salem Witch trials, the overwhelming sense that life was a spiritual struggle with Jesus on one shoulder and the devil on the other led to many innocents being killed in the name of spiritual warfare. More recently, preacher Richard Butler and his Aryan Nations movement used their twisted interpretation of the Bible to invite race war against people of color. And genocides against Jews in WWII or Muslims and Christians both in the former Yugoslavia were fueled by in large measure by spiritual pride that found expression in violence. Christianity has a long history of taking the offensive in the mistaken belief that the other side was demonic.

            So no more “Onward Christian soldiers as to war,” and no more talk of spiritual warfare or demons or even Satan. What should we focus on, instead? Well, that Christianity is really about trying to overcome every form of verbal or physical violence by “not resisting an evil person,” and “turning the other cheek” (Luke 5:39). Not spiritual warfare, but giving the coat off of one’s back, forgiving seven times seven, and refusing to judge others. Jesus adds that it is the meek who inherit the kingdom of God and peacemakers who are called children of God. Not spiritual warfare, but walking humbly with God. Not spiritual warfare, but self-examination as to whether or not the light of Christ lives in us.

            Faith has to be immunized against violence in word, deed or intention. Such faith ought to avoid the language of spiritual warfare.

Doubt Is a Road Less Travelled

         I’m a pastor who has changed denominations. And what I’ve learned along the way is that while certainty is easy, doubt is difficult.

         Certainty is easy because certainty is a child of the status quo. When you go along to get along you don’t have to entertain doubts. When we believe what everyone else in our community believes we are on the path of least resistance. There are no arguments, no conflicts over values, no disagreements about priorities. Such certainty has the added benefit of not requiring self-examination.

            But certainty is not merely a child of the status quo. It is also the psychic space all humans crave. No one wants to be put in “fight or flight” mode; being sure is much more relaxing. Nobel Prize winner Daniel Kahneman, in his book “Thinking Fast and Slow,” argues, in fact, that the brain will even make up “just so” stories to confirm biases and that it often makes quick intuitive judgments based on far too little evidence. To make matters worse, the slower, rational, deeply informed part of the brain that is supposed to keep odd beliefs and intuitions in check is usually far too slow and lazy to do so. Brains usually handle difficult or mysterious ideas by ignoring their inner complexities. No wonder Malcolm Muggeridge, a famous BBC host, once said: “The trouble with people who stop believing in God is not that they become atheists; it is rather that they believe anything."

         Doubt, on the other hand, is difficult. Doubt is restless. Doubt dwells on the complexities of life, gnaws at them, and is unsettled until they reveal themselves. Doubt takes issue with the status quo, and so doubt often leads down paths less travelled. It’s lonely. When I began to doubt the things I had been taught growing up, very few people were willing to completely open themselves up to my struggle—though I thank God for the few good friends who did. But I quickly realized that when I spoke of my doubts, most people reacted by minimizing my doubts while suggesting that the issues I had with my tradition were actually not as deep as I myself thought they were.

         Eventually and inevitably, I found that I couldn’t keep up doctrinal appearances without feeling hypocritical. This led to anguish and anxiety. At what point does one submit to one’s doubts? At what point do you actually say, “I can’t go along to get along anymore.” At what point does one go public, and in doing so, part paths with a community one loves?

         I couldn’t dismiss my doubts. I tried to bury them. I tried to address them. I prayed about them. Along the way I remembered how my brother, who died of ALS after a short and intense struggle, used to say to me, “every morning, when I wake up, I have this terrible moment when I realize it isn’t all just a bad dream. I’m really dying of ALS.” Well, doubt isn’t nearly as tragic as ALS, but I’ve often woken up to the disappointing realization that I’m still wracked by doubt.

         I do not mean to suggest that every certainty is misguided or every doubt is worth embracing. Nor am I suggesting that the certainties of conservative or evangelical Christianity ought to be doubted. I’m sure some—like Malcolm Muggeridge himself, or more famously, C.S. Lewis—have travelled the path of doubt the other way. My journey is my own.

            But as I go on, I cannot shake doubt. So rather than fight it, I have decided to try to make the best of it. And as I do so, I’m encouraged by Canadian Margret Avison’s poem, “The Swimmer’s Moment.” In it Avison describes swimmers who refuse to contest “the black pit” of the whirlpool. These swimmers, says Avison, will also never find, "The mysterious, and more ample, further waters."  That’s the trouble with choosing certainty over doubt.

Avison goes on to write, however, that a few swimmers “who dare the knowledge” plunge into the rapids and actually win “the silver reaches of the estuary.”

That’s what I’m shooting the rapids of doubt for. I’m not sure I’ll make that far shore. Avison points out that many don’t. But I’d love to set my heart at rest, some day. And in the meantime, for all its difficulties, the road less travelled also turns out to be a fascinating, illuminating adventure.

Where is God? Reflections on Post-theism.

(I have never posted a sermon before, but I had a few requests for this one, so here it is. It begins with me carrying a ladder to the front of the church, and setting it up so that it reaches into the rafters!)

When I was little, I knew heaven was up there. So I suppose it was only natural that when I came to church, I expected that if God was anywhere in the building, he must be up in the rafters. I always wished, as a kid, that I had a ladder, to check it out.

            Well, I'm a minister now, and if I want to fulfill my childhood fantasy, this is my chance. So I've brought this ladder into the sanctuary. I’ll climb it to see if God is up in the rafters. This is a very high sanctuary, after all. (Minister climbs ladder placed at front of sanctuary).

            And I'm afraid I have to tell you that now that I’m up here, I can't see God. Where is God? God must be hiding. Is God hiding from you, too?

            This is an especially good question for us, here at Lawrence Park Community Church, because we’ve been discussing post-theism. The root words of post-theism, from Latin, mean “after God.” I’ve been asking around the congregation what they mean by that phrase. And I’ve heard three different answers that are not mutually exclusive.

            For some people, “post-theism,” is a kind of strong agnosticism, almost atheism, about God. And in fact many things do argue against God’s existence. The universe seems to be explainable by the laws of science. On average, Christians who pray don’t seem to live longer than people who don’t pray. Evil still runs riot everywhere.

            Even Bible writers are frustrated by God’s absence. In Psalm 42, the Psalmist writes: "When shall I come and behold the face of God? My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, `Where is your God?'" Or, "Your way is through the mighty waters,” says the Psalmist in 77, “though your footprints were not seen.” Isaiah writes, at one point, “Truly you are a God who has been hiding himself, the God and Savior of Israel” (Is 45:15).

            So I have sympathy for people who identify post-theism with strong agnosticism or even atheism. This is, in its own way, a Biblical sentiment. Important questions for such people include these: “Why should we still pray to God? Worship God? Bother with God at all?” Or is it just that ritual or old hymns are comforting? Perhaps, in the absence of God, we still go to church for community or discussion times?

            A second definition of post-theism that I’ve heard here suggests that post-theism refers to society’s disappearing belief in God. For these people, post-theism means that whoever or wherever God is, he or she obviously isn’t very important to most people in our secular society. God is, in fact, irrelevant and that is what we have to come to grips with in church.

            I also resonate with this answer. Many people, even those who say they believe in God, just don’t go to church anymore. Prayer has long been eliminated from our schools and workplaces. The old rules we used to go by—you can’t have sex before marriage, you can’t drink, you can’t preach if you’re a woman—these old rules that go with the faith of our fathers just seem stupid to most people, and proof that Christianity will be forever irrelevant.

            On the other hand, even if the religious right isn’t a moral majority, it is a powerful force in American politics. And the violent conflict between the fundamentalist kinds of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, strongly suggests that theism is still a very powerful force in our world. It is just not our kinder and gentler theism. But the bottom line here is that only segments of society and only the rare world culture is truly post-theist. In most places round the world, God matters very much.

            A third kind of answer I get to the question of “what is post-theism” is not atheistic, it is not about where our society is at, but it speaks to our old-fashioned ideas about who God is. So, for example, here are some excerpts from a pious poem that portrays God as a Zeus-like big guy in the sky.

It's a good thing God above,

Has never gone on strike

Because He wasn't treated fair,

For things He didn't like.

If He ever once sat down,

And said, "That's it -- I'm through!

I've had enough of those on earth,

So this is what I'll do.

I'll give my orders to the Sun:

Cut off your heat supply.

Turn off the oxygen and air,

'Til every breath is gone."

You know that He'd be justified

If fairness was the game

And yet He carries on and on,

with all the favors of His Grace.

            If this is how we think about God, then it is obviously high time for us to update our thinking. We need to stop imagining that God is sitting in heaven, tapping his toe in frustration because we don’t pray enough or are not good enough. I think we all agree that we need more mystery, more grace, and more spirit when it comes to our ideas about God. We need fewer lightning bolts and more mystery and humility when it comes to our ideas about God.

            Anyway, the notion of post-theism has been a part of the discussion here at Lawrence Park Church for a while now. And let’s be honest—the discussion has the potential, at least, to be a minefield. If we line up behind one answer or the other and dig in our heels the way Christians have traditionally lined up behind doctrinal distinctives, we’ll fight. We’ll fight about the liturgy, about the prayers, and about who is right and wrong. None of us wants this to happen, of course. But humans are humans. We’re stubborn. And, ironically, the things we are most uncertain about are often the ones we shout the loudest about. I’m reminded of a preacher who once wrote in the margins of his sermon manuscript the words, “Very weak point. Pound pulpit.”

            So where does this variety of answers to the question, “who is God,” leave us? Well, Jesus’ suggestion, from our text in Mark 9:37, is that if we want to find God, we can find God in Jesus, and if we want to find Jesus, we should look to the child. Or, to shorten the formula, we see God best in the child among us. Like in the Pat Green song we heard sung earlier in the service. We’re:

         For the inner city teacher

         With her heart stuck in her throat
         [who] Can still see God in every child
         And never gives up hope.

            What is it about a child that the child should stand in for God in the eyes of a parent, or teacher, or neighbor? Well, Jesus doesn’t say, exactly. Using almost poetic, and very evocative language in our text, Jesus leaves it to our imaginations. But in the rest of his life and teaching, Jesus made it clear he wanted us to pass on all the old, “orthodox,” ideas about God—that God is in his temple, that he is an old man in the sky, that God is mostly angry and righteous, and that God’s name must not be spoken. Not so for Jesus. Instead, Jesus tells us that God is not far away. God is close to us, approachable, in and with us. God waits for us, just as a little girl might wait for her mother to gather her up in their arms.

            Of course, saying so doesn’t make God easy to understand, or less mysterious, or put God in a box. Still, if we see God in the waiting child, it does mean that we can relax and enjoy the search for God—even make a life-long game of it.

            What I mean is illustrated by a little story. There was a rabbi once, whose son came running to him, crying inconsolably. Between sobs, he said, "Father, I've been playing hide and seek with the other children. It came my turn to hide, but after I found a good place, I sat there in the woods for hours waiting for the others to find me. But no one came. They got tired of looking and just quit playing and never even told me. They just left me there, all alone."

            The boy's father, the rabbi, put his arms around the child and held him close, rocking him back and forth. "Ah my son," he said, "that's how it is with God, too. God is like a child gone hiding, hoping people will come seeking him. God is like the child who wants to be found and embraced. So we must not give up the search. We must play till he is found.”

            My ladder looks slightly ridiculous, I know, but it symbolizes something that we ought to be busy with—not “or else,” but for the joy and wonder of it—we ought to be busy looking for God as we might look for a child playing hide and seek with us. We ought to look for God for pleasure of it. And all those thoughts about post-theism: interesting, fascinating, important. But not as lovely as playing the game of hide and seek with God. The search is the thing. Because, remember the promise of the gospel in another place, is “seek and you will find.