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.

My 2019 Ten-Best (Maybe More) Books

         The first book I read this year was titled, She Has Her Mother’s Laugh: The Powers, Perversions, and Potential of Heredity, by Carl Zimmer. The best part of the book was its title. And a few nights ago I finished Carl Jung’s Modern Man in Search of a Soul. It’s been on my “must read” list for about forty years. Jung’s book is interesting in that it is both wrong on many counts, as new scientific developments have surpassed him; but irresistibly wise too, about the invisible currents that move us and shape our lives. 

         I read a book-a-week this year. It's what I do to unwind. I also have the habit of once starting a book, always finishing it. So I read some books this past year that didn't much impress me (Marcus Borg's Putting Away Childish Things was a theology book disguised as a novel. One Goodreads.com star.) What follows here, though, are some of my favourite reads from the past year. They are all five-star worthy.

Science Fiction

         One: I found Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments to be both a page turner and a wise, hopeful take on how we as humans might overcome some of our darker religious impulses. It was gripping, and a fitting conclusion to her Handmaid’s Tale. 

         Two: I also read a trilogy of books—Chris Beckett’s Dark Eden, Daughter of Eden, and Mother of Eden—about a human settlement on a planet with no sun, whose heat was all derived from a thermal core deep inside. It was a lovely exercise in world building. But the trilogy was an even more fascinating exploration of religion building, of class structure, and of sexual ethics. Science fiction is usually what I read for fun and escapism. However, all of these books—and Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time—also demanded serious reflection about our society and introspection about myself and my priorities.

Non-Fiction

         Three: A review in the New York Times led me to Silver, Sword and Stone: Three Crucibles in the Latin American Story. Author Marie Arana discusses how commerce, military conquest, and religion have shaped South and Central American society and culture. The picture she paints is not pretty. But her story telling is superb, and it is definitely a story privileged white people like me need to hear. 

         Four: I read several books about Canada’s First Nations. The first was Toronto Star writer Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers: Racism, Death, and Hard Truths in a Northern City. This book explored the suspicious deaths of several First Nation kids who attended high school far from their homes, in Thunder Bay, Ontario. The structural racism these kids faced by being forced to live so far from home to attend school, in a city where they were clearly seen as troublesome and expendable, in a school system that was much too short of resources for no good reason other than racism bears reading. Talaga tells her stories with compassion and flair, which makes this hard read also strangely satisfying and worthwhile.

         Jesse Thistle’s From the Ashes: My Story of Being Métis, Homeless, and Finding My Way tells a more hopeful story about how, in spite of beginning his life with many deficits, Jesse nevertheless somehow succeeded. A big part of the story here concerns the faithfulness of families, friends, and lovers. 

         Five: Tara Westover’s Educated is an amazing memoir about growing up in a Mormon family. Her parents are abusive, neglectful, and into survivalism. Tara is home schooled--barely. But she manages to make it to college and graduate school. 

         Six: I walked into Toronto’s best bookstore during the early fall—Ben Mcnally’s, on Bay Street near City Hall. Tragically, the store is being forced to relocate in order for its space to be redeveloped. But it’s a treasure of trove of books not necessarily best sellers, but all very fine. The book I found on my last trip there was Andrew Pettegree’s The Bookshop of the World: Making and Trading Books in the Dutch Golden Age. Given my academic interest in literacy this book about the Dutch book trade during its Golden Age was fabulous. 

        And since I’m of Dutch extraction, two other books were very interesting to me. Max Havelaar by Multatuli is a nineteenth century exposé of the horrors of Dutch colonialism in Indonesia that left the Dutch without excuse when it came to another hundred years of their racist and violent exploitation of that country. And Blacks in the Dutch World by Allison Blakely was an interesting account of the slow but growing presence of Blacks in the Netherlands from the fifteenth century on. The book covers the sickening role of Dutch slave traders in some detail as well. 

         Seven: Perhaps the most fascinating book I read, at least from a professional perspective as a preacher and theologian, was Ronald Hendel’s How Old Is the Hebrew Bible: A Linguistic, Textual, and Historical Study. I’ve read a number of books about ancient Jewish religion of late, and though this one was a bit technical when it came to Hebrew grammar, I could follow it pretty well. It was especially interesting when it discussed the evolution of Yahweh from a minor tribal god, to Israel’s chief god, to the idea that Yahweh was the one and only God—monotheism. 

Fiction

         Eight: Another New York Times book review led me to Cara Wall’s The Dearly Beloved. How could I not love this book about two clergy families? Two young ministers, one a social activist and the other an intellectual pilgrim, arrive together at a New York church as co-pastors. They struggle through the upheavals of the sixties to forge a close relationship in spite of very different spouses, beliefs, and family challenges. It’s about faith, the realities of being a minister, and the inner lives of people facing huge challenges. Beautifully written, too.

         Nine: A young woman who used to be my neighbour, Mariama Lockington, wrote a challenging, sad, but ultimately hopeful book for teens entitled For Black Girls Like Me. The book has received a lot of recognition and many awards. Although the setting is the United States, it is well worth reading by Canadians dedicated to making our multi-cultural society work.

         Ten: Esi Edugyan’s Washington Black is a strange book touched by just a bit of magical realism. It is about a slave boy who escapes his destiny in a balloon, finds himself by passing through both the arctic and deserts, and has an abiding love of sea life. He escapes slavery, falls in love, and finds himself. What could be better than that? This book also offers many insights into racism, slavery, and trauma along the way.

         Eleven: The strangest but most lyrical book I read this year was another one touched by magical realism—in this case a lot of it. It’s Murmur of Bees by Sofia Segovia. Set in and just after Mexico’s civil war, this is a story about how a foundling saved a man from living a meaningless life. He—the foundling—had a thing for bees too, or rather, the bees had a thing for him. Lovely. It led me to read a non-fiction book about bees that was pretty interesting too, Thor Hanson’s The Nature and Necessity of Bees. 

        

The War on Christmas (or, Tired of Muscular Christianity)

            Let’s be honest. If our children or grandchildren thought that three wise men visited Baby Jesus on Rudolph, the red-nosed camel, we would smile but hardly be surprised. 

            Or, if the kids thought that angels serenaded shepherds in the field with jingle bells, we would  smile, but hardly be surprised.

            Christmas, the religious celebration of Jesus’ birth, is pretty much history. The Grinch has stolen it, big retail has monopolized it, and now Santa delivers it. 

            Starbucks knows this. A few years ago, they began celebrating the season by serving its Ventis in red cups. Some sippers were outraged, claiming that this—failing to mention Christmas on the cups—amounted to war on Christmas.

            Donald Trump addressed the cup controversy on the campaign trail. “Maybe we should boycott Starbucks,” he said. “If I become president we’re all going to be saying Merry Christmas again, that I can tell you.” Maybe. Maybe not. But this year Starbucks cups say, “Merry Coffee.”

Hipster Christmas Creche

            I liked the Hipster manger controversy even better. As soon as Irene, my spouse, saw it, she had to have it. Mary has a Starbucks in her hand. The Wise Men bring baby Jesus Amazon packages on Segways and Joseph is taking a selfie with his iPhone.

            Casey Wright, who created this product, told CNBC about how people react.  “It’s usually, ‘This is hilarious. I need one.’ Or ‘This is sacrilegious, I hope you burn in hell,’ and almost nothing between those two extremes. 

           How do you feel about the commercialization of Christmas? We could fight it. This Christmas we could be muscular Christians ready for a fight.

            But personally, I am not interested in a Christianity forever offering its theological biceps to be felt, thumping its “holier than thou” breast, thanking heaven that it will, ultimately, with an inquisition or two, finally enforce religious uniformity and make North America great again. 

            Similarly, I am not interested in a Herod-type Christianity that insists every wise guy must worship at his alter, in obedience to Fundamentalist pressure politics. I am not interested in a Gilead-type Christianity, as described in Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments, where what you sing, and how you dress and what you are allowed to think is decided by politicians merely pretending to be religious. 

            I’ll be blunt here. Religious power corrupts and absolute religious power that coerces people either by law or social pressure corrupts absolutely. Too much power for religion looks like residential schools training First Nations kids to pass for white. Too much power for religion looks like social mores that force LGBTQ people or atheists into their closets. And absolute power for religion looks like crusades and pogroms and prison for unbelievers and nonconformists.

            No. we should not defend any attempt to officially put Jesus back into Christmas. There is a reason, according to our stories, that Jesus was born in a barn and laid in a manger. There is a reason he had, according to Isaiah, no form or majesty that we should desire him. There is a reason Jesus chose to be despised and rejected, a man of sorrows, who suffered and died rather than submit to the power of the priests or Romans. There is a reason Jesus fled to Egypt when Herod roared, instead of calling F-18s with angel pilots to blast him away.

            You see, the very character of Christianity is that its persuasiveness never lies in power as Herod or Franklin Graham or Justin Trudeau might conceive of it—the power of a lobby or a union or a corporation to coerce.

            No, Christians choose to sing Advent songs in a minor key. Christian persuasiveness turns on a voice crying in the wilderness. 

            The Christian way, when it comes to the war on Christmas, is to do as Jesus did, to turn the other cheek while clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, and providing good-paying jobs in vineyards. Christians choose to let their care and concern turn heads, if there are heads to be turned.

            Christianity is no longer the religion of the mostest for the apparently holiest. Our faith is being marched out of the public square. But that’s okay. We don’t need to be a politically or culturally powerful religion to change the world. Christians are invited, rather, to imitate Jesus, wherever and whenever we can—to bring Christ’s values to our families, workplaces, corporations and politics. With kindness for the leastest and lastest left over.

            So never mind about the war on Christmas. It isn’t a battle Jesus would fight. In fact, I’d say that if you can stand it, you may as well try to enjoy a month’s worth of “Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolph the Red-nosed Camel.” In fact, go shop till you drop and open gifts on Christmas morning. Why not enter into the general frivolity and generosity of the most secular season at its best? Tis the season to have fun and family and festivity and who could argue with that?

            Just do it all with the attitude of Christ in your heart rather than with a “Jesus is the reason for the season” chip on you shoulder.

            

Beware: Community Ministry or Focus Won't Save Your Church.

            I have been to half-a-dozen “denominational-visioning” meetings over the past few years. My own congregation organized one, a few years ago, on church amalgamation. A month or two ago it was a meeting about “innovative” ideas for ministry. This morning it was a gathering to consider what to do with our valuable but decaying Toronto church buildings. We are all property rich but cash poor.          

            And at all these meetings, participants usually talk about doing ministry for and in their local communities as the long-term basis upon which the survival of their congregations depends.

            They are wrong. It is actually the other way around. Only churches that survive—and thrive—can do great ministry in their local communities.

            So first, a caveat. I love how, in the United Church of Canada, I am continually bathed in excitement to do local neighborhood ministry. We do soup kitchens and ESL, host the homeless and offer incubator space for startups; we house schools, provide community space for AA and ratepayer meetings, and we sponsor foodbanks and cafes. We send our members out to lobby for the homeless, protest US immigration policy, attend Gay-Pride parades and make space available for community gardens. And on and on and I love it all. 

The Food Bank at East End United Church,
Toronto

           But meanwhile, many of the churches that these activities are sponsored by are shrinking and dying. Community ministry is a necessary component of any church’s ministry. But—with perhaps the rarest of exceptions—doing community ministry cannot sustain a church.

            Why not? Well, the reasons are myriad, but there are a few key ones. 

           First, churches are much emptier than they used to be because many fewer Canadians go to church. As late as 1965 more than half of Canadians could be found in a church on Sunday morning. Now, less than fifty years later, probably less than ten percent, not more than thirteen, might be found in church. Community churches like mine, “Lawrence Park Community Church,” used to fill with neighborhood people who walked to church. But now, with only one fifth of the Canadians going to church compared to fifty years ago, it is as if four out of five of those local homes people used to come to church from are empty. What's more, the remaining houses have far fewer people in them due to demographic trends such as people having fewer children now compared to fifty years ago.

Can this congregation survive? Do ministry? Change?

            Second, this means that no Toronto neighbourhood has enough people to support a church that draws its membership solely from that neighbourhood, or especially from the even smaller number of people the church ministers to in that neighbourhood. Besides, every neighbourhood also has churches from different denominations—or synagogues or temples or mosques—vying for the same dwindling population of religious adherents. It’s a church-eat-church jungle out there.

            You might wonder, of course, if some newer high-density neighbourhoods are different. With many more people per square kilometer, perhaps neighbourhood churches are possible in such communities. Maybe. But these high-density neighbourhoods, such as Toronto's hip Liberty Village, also tend to be full of younger people whose church attendance is even lower than among older Canadians.

            Third, with increased immigration, the ethnic makeup of many neighbourhoods is also changing. Two of the larger ethnic groups in my church’s neighborhood are Iranians and Chinese. Many are well-to-do. They are wonderful people whose wide range of experiences and cultural capital are a gift to Canada. However, very few of them are Christian. And, if they are, they tend to go to ethnic-enclave churches. There isn’t much opportunity for growth there.

            Fourth, local ministry often and rightly means ministry to marginalized Canadians—the poor, the homeless, the distressed, and recent arrivals trying to fit in. This is as it should be. But these same people should not be mistaken for the people who can financially sustain a church, even in large numbers.

            Fifth, property redevelopment is not a panacea either. At the meeting I went to today, we discussed the possibilities. The idea is that some churches may be able to both improve their worship space and maintain their local ministries by working with developers to transform their old church into new condos or office buildings or schools or retail space.

How about condos in an old church, including
some new worship space for that dying congregation?

            This could be all well and good, except that by the time churches choose for such options, they are already tiny, tired, and full of members thinking of moving out of the GTA to retire in Collingwood or Cobourg. And, a lawyer who works with developers told us, most redevelopment plans take ten years from start to finish. In such cases will anyone be left in the redeveloped church to turn the lights on for the first time?

            So where are we at? I have a few thoughts. 

            A. Churches that survive—whether they are Fundamentalist, or Evangelical, or Mainline—draw their adherents from far beyond their local neighbourhood. These “destination churches” offer people good reasons for travelling some distance in order to attend and belong. And usually, these “good reasons,” are very intentional and well thought out. 

            Not always, of course. Some destination churches draw people from longer distances almost by accident, as it were. Ethnic churches, for example. The Christian Reformed Church—a church made up largely of Dutch immigrants—will attract people from a distance because ethnicity is its strongest glue. A very few churches will have that one-in-a-million preacher that people travel far and wide to hear. Very conservative churches may use theological guilt memes about hell or shunning to continue to draw people from a distance, after they have moved away. But ultimately, if congregations want to stay strong, they are going to have to be very smart and very intentional about drawing people from far away into membership and mission.  

            B. Destination churches do local ministry because they are healthy churches. But they do many other kinds of ministry too. They give to national and international causes. They reach out not only to the marginalized, but also to those who are not. 

            A key ministry healthy churches engage in is the ministry of giving meaning and purpose to people who are looking for it to use in their workplaces, their distant neighbourhoods, and when they sit in front of TVs to watch the news. 

            Does our relentless focus on community engagement distract us from other important ministries? Such as offering people “meaning?” When Jesus saw the crowds that followed him around the lake, he had compassion on them. But what did he do next? The text is clear—he taught them. Only after that did he (according to the story) feed them. Today, people are hungering for meaning, for insight about how to morally apply the levers of power that they have their hands on, for how to make sense of tragedy and loss, for how to raise children or fight the racism (or sexism or LGBTQ hatred) they feel is directed against them.

            To me this is one of the more important truths we need to hang onto. Ministry is not just doing—our ministries need to cover heart and mind and hands. And for all the priority we place on hands “doing” sort of ministry, we should not forget that however we now frame it, the church was founded as a locus of good news that transformed the hopes and dreams of people. We need both Martha and a Mary sides to our ministry and it even appears that Jesus prioritized the Mary-teaching side (though I recognize that this is a favourite area for scholarly debate). Churches must be incredibly intentional about sharing this “gospel.” What churches have on offer must speak to the longings and confusions of our current society in a compelling way that keeps people on the edge of their seats. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, years ago, “If a man can write a better book or preach a better sermon, or build a better mousetrap than his neighbour, you will find a broad hard-beaten road to his house, though it be in the woods.”  

            I am not, by the way, here arguing for nothing but traditional sermons. There are other ways to share the gospel, from discussion on Sunday mornings to classes on Wednesday nights. And I am not arguing for an old-fashioned orthodoxy either. Meaning is not singular. It isn’t just one sanctioned teaching and no other that I care about. Meaning is something we make together as congregations on the way, with the insights—scriptural or not—that we all bring to the process. No one would ever mistake me for orthodox when it comes to Christianity’s old creeds! But Jesus' story is the good news deep in my bones that inspires my hands to get to work.

            C. Similarly, worship matters. There are 101 United congregations doing variations of Anglican-light liturgy and music and vestments and litanies and rituals. Fine. We need all that to be a part of our denominational mix. But Anglican light is not the language of a majority of the people of Toronto. Indeed, it may be impenetrable to people who rarely go to church. So, what are you or your congregation doing about that? How will you change the worship in your congregation without falling into worship wars? 

            D. Destination churches invest in getting out the word about their preaching, their worship, and their ministry opportunities for involvement. They experiment with new forms of bringing good news to people far and near. And when, through amalgamation or endowment they end up with a pot of new money, they don’t sit on it, or use it to fix their buildings (a renovated building never brought in a new adherent)—healthy destination churches use these resources to become more relevant, more engaging, more focused on sharing their take on the good news, instead. 

          All healthy churches engage in evangelism. In our mainline setting, this won't be evangelism based on the idea of getting people to choose for heaven (or not). It will be evangelism based on offering good news for people who are looking for meaning, understanding, a supportive community, healing, and all the other things our tradition has to offer. 

            E. As long as we have one or two United Churches in every city neighbourhood, we simply have far too many churches to expect that more than a tiny handful will ultimately survive and thrive. And until they die, in most of these neighbourhoods, these United Churches will be in competition with each other for the same neighbourhood members. They will all struggle with diminished resources at just that time they need more to offer robust reasons for new members to join. 

            So, many, many city churches must now amalgamate before they enter into almost absolutely irreversible death spirals. They must amalgamate while they still have imagination and people energy and financial resources to do D, above.

            We all know that the prognosis for people who have had CPR resuscitation to restart their hearts is never going to be as good as it is for people who haven’t had a health emergency. But the same applies to churches. We must take up healthy amalgamations long before churches need CPR to survive. Our world and neighbourhoods, our transportation systems and culture, our resources and preoccupations are way different now compared to 100 years ago when walking or a tram were the only ways to get to church. 

          Still, in spite of all the societal and city change, we too often expect the worship and architecture and music and locations of the past to still work seamlessly in this new setting. None of it will, however. So among all the other things we ought to do, we must cut back on the number of churches we have. We must amalgamate them to focus our resources—and the best locations—on taking on today's challenges instead of early-twentieth-century challenges. There are many models for healthy amalgamation: multi-campus, multiple-point, satellite locations, shared staff, re-launch, and so on. The trick is that they all work in inverse proportion to how soon two or more congregations get busy with such amalgamations. 

            F. If people are going to attend destination churches rather than a church they can walk to, they must have parking, and lots of it. Because when you attend a church you can’t walk to--a destination church that has figured out it needs to reach beyond its immediate neighbourhood--when you attend such a church you will usually drive. Transit may be an option for some, but people coming in from the further suburbs don’t always have great access to quick transit out there. Too many of our churches have no parking, or little parking, or force their aging adherents to walk ever longer distances to find street parking. This is not sustainable, and such churches will eventually close, no matter how much great neighbourhood ministry they do!

Even churches with access to transit need parking
for those coming from the suburbs.

            This means that one of our best options might be deciding to build a new amalgamated-church building in order to locate somewhere where both parking and transit are available. This relocation might not be to a church. Perhaps a former retail or industrial site? A mall that is closing (most are, for some of the same reasons churches are). 

            There is more to be said. And, I admit, this has taken the form of a Jeremiad—a sermon that is basically a rant. I sound like I know it all. The truth is, in my later ministry, some of this is just starting to dawn on me, and some of these actions are just in the experimental stage. Still, it now seems to me that these are the sort of things we need to talk about, whether my diagnosis is right or wrong. Because doing more local neighbourhood ministry with smaller, older groups of people is not a solution to the troubles we face.