Statues and their Worth

I’ve been asked to say some things about statues, and why, presumably, we should or shouldn’t topple them. In some ways, the answer is quite simple, but, as always, things are more complex than they seem. I’ll attempt to tease out some of that complexity here.


The statue of Saddam, being toppled.

It is unquestionably clear that statues of evil people should be toppled. On this, I believe everyone agrees. For example, I clearly remember the conclusion of the Iraq war, when a generation of jubilant Iraqis gathered to topple the statue of Saddam Hussein, symbol of their oppression and despair. I remember the fall of Gaddafi and the destruction of images of his power, whose insane reign terrorized Libya for a generation. I even remember the tumultuous years from 1989-1991, with the destruction of the Berlin Wall, the fall of communism, and the undoing of those symbols of Soviet power and civic authority. I’ve seen my share of statues and symbols fall—and each time I agreed with those who wanted it toppled. In each of these cases, a visible symbol of oppression and terror—a manifestation of government control and power—was unmade as a new era came into being. Nobody in Iraq, Libya, or Berlin is longing for a return of these oppressive images. Nobody believes that their removal is an erasure of history.

What we must keep in mind, of course, is that every statue is a form of propaganda. Don’t hear ‘propaganda’ and automatically assume bad things—governments need to disseminate information, and they have a vested interest in forming the opinion of citizenry. World Wars I and II were heavily influenced by government propaganda which directly impacted the morale and hope of average Americans, Britons, and other allies. A modern statue, then, is a form of propaganda—it embodies a civic narrative. Its highly visible presence in a public square declares to all citizenry who view it that “this is good and worthy,” this person deserves to be memorialized by the state. He or she is axiomatic. Be like him or her.


My favourite public monument.

The catch, of course, is that just because a government says something doesn’t mean that it’s true. Governments, of course, are not neutral producers of public art. Giant Soviet public sculptures were intended to say something about what it meant to be Russian, about the everlastingness of the United Soviet Socialists Republic. They remain now as ironic testaments to its failure and collapse. In America, it is the donations of individuals and foundations that often generate public art, rather than the impetus of a specific government narrative. Statues, in other words, often reveal their propagandic purpose by means of a money trail. Who paid for it tells us a great deal about why it’s there.Take, for example, the statue of Christopher Columbus in St. Paul, Minnesota, recently toppled by protestors.The protestors see in Columbus a figure of questionable historical value, an oppressor whose image reinforces a wicked American narrative. Ironically, the statue itself was designed by Italian-American immigrants, and represents the acceptance of Italians into the American mainstream. It is, in other words, highly pro-immigrant. The narrative of the protestors, in other words, is at odds with the narrative of why the statue exists.

Jefferson Davis Monument

Jefferson Davis, in Louisiana.

On the other hand, I struggle to imagine why there should be a public statue of Jefferson Davis anywhere—least of all in the South. Davis, president of the Confederacy, was the emblem of the losing side. He, and his policies, were and are anathematic to modern American identity. States may not own slaves. States may not secede from the union (under the guise of States’ rights) so that they may continue to own slaves. To these basic considerations may be added the provenance of a given statue’s creation. The one made for the Jefferson Memorial in Louisiana was, apparently, erected in 1911, for a “whites only” audience, which sang Dixie, and commemorated the 50th anniversary of Davis’s inauguration as president of the Confederacy. Clearly, the provenance of this statue is problematic—not only is it anti-American (as in, anti-Union), its proponents were explicitly anti-Black. This seems to me plenty of warrant to see it removed—which it was, by protestors, in 2017. In this case, to remove the statue is not to remove ‘history,’ per se, but rather the removal of bad history. Those who argue that removing statues is to erase history might too quickly forget that the statues themselves have a history.

Assuming, then, that we all agree statues of evil people—public symbols of oppression—should be removed, what are we to do with the statues of figures like Christopher Columbus, George Washington, Cecil Rhodes, and Theodore Roosevelt? It would seem to be a simple solution (too simple, I am afraid), to address each statue in a case-by-case basis. We need to know who the person was, what he or she did, who built the statue and when, and, very importantly, who paid for it. Once we’ve gathered the relevant information, we can make an educated decision on the value of a given civic statue and its ongoing function as public propaganda.

Head Removed From Christopher Columbus Statue In North End Of Boston

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS – JUNE 10: A statue depicting Christopher Columbus is seen with its head removed at Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park on June 10, 2020 in Boston, Massachusetts. The statue was beheaded overnight and is scheduled to be removed by the City of Boston. (Photo by Tim Bradbury/Getty Images)

But as I said, this solution might be too simple. Peter Drucker in his classic book The Effective Executive, writes about recognizing the difference between ad hoc decisions and generic decisions. Ad hoc decisions are those that are truly case by case, with no overarching implications, while generic decisions have to rely on an underlying principle or rule. A serious danger in executive decision making is the fact that “the incomplete explanation is often more dangerous than the totally wrong explanation.” In the case of statues, the individual character of the figure in question may be evaluated on a case-by-case basis; the real, underlying problem is one of a contest between civic narratives.

Let me try to make this clear: when it comes to statues, beneath the question of the individual who is represented there is a question of what narrative he represents. One narrative, the traditional one, regards these individuals as valuable, significant, and historically important. This is often why statues are defended on the grounds of ‘preserving history.’ The other narrative regards these figures as oppressors, wicked emblems of an ongoing plight. This, in turn, is why they consider them emblems of what is sometimes called ‘systemic racism.’ The conflicting narratives in turn produce conflicting accounts of morality. What is ‘good’ within one narrative may be ‘evil’ from within the new narrative. From one perspective, therefore, it is not at all clear that George Washington is as evil as Hitler, or that Christopher Columbus is as evil as Gaddafi. In brief, depending on our operative narrative, we likely don’t agree on what qualifies as ‘evil.’


A concatenation of messages make it difficult to discern which narrative to follow.

The removal of the George Washington statue in Portland a few weeks ago makes this question of civic narrative explicit. Images of the statue, hurled to the ground, clearly display the spray-painted numbers 1619. If you don’t know, the “1619 Project” was a series produced by the New York Times which attempted to re-tell the narrative of American history with specific reference to the role of slavery in its foundation (1619 is the first year slaves arrived in Virginia). The narrative implications are fairly clear: to continue to lionize a figure like Washington is to perpetuate a civic narrative that is emblematic of an ideology of oppression. The problem isn’t Washington, it’s the American civic narrative itself. From within this new narrative, figures like Washington, Jefferson, and even U.S. Grant are objectively bad guys. If we accept this argument fully then it follows that they are as bad as the Nazis and the Communists—worthy of erasure from the historical record. It is important to hear that behind the argument that these statues represent “systemic racism” lies a counter-narrative to American identity, and that behind the argument to “protect history” lies a defense of the traditional civic narrative. What is really at stake is a question of what it means to be American.

Here things get really complex. Governments have the right to propagate narratives of identity, to lionize certain figures and to minimize others. States where the citizenry have the power to select these figures have no less narrative power. At the same time, in most modern states citizenry have the right to critique those narratives. That is, in fact, the very business of history. Where those figures show ugliness (e.g., Washington’s slave ownership, Grant’s alcoholism), we should mark that ugliness appropriately. But we must also weigh that ugliness against the person’s historic value, civic value, and in light of his or her own time. It is exceptionally ironic when a given critique criticizes the power that allows them to critique. In other words, it is absurd for Americans to utilize the American tradition which was founded by Washington, Jefferson, and other Enlightenment thinkers—a tradition that enshrined free speech and public assembly in its constitution—to attempt to undo the legacy of the very figures who guaranteed those rights. To describe this as short-sighted would be generous.

Profanation of Notre Dame in the French Revolution

The desecration of Notre Dame

Many of the people toppling statues today, however, see themselves as revolutionaries, and it is worth remembering that revolutions feasts on symbols—they can gather, unite, and typify the message of the revolutionary. But revolutions rarely generate their own symbols—they leech, parasitically, power from existing symbols. They piggyback on existing power, attempting to hijack its prominence for their own message. Adherents to the French Revolution attempted to replace the church with the “cult of reason.” For this, they desecrated Notre Dame, and in its place elevated a local prostitute now dressed in the robes of reason. The new symbol sought to borrow from the significance and power of the old, while at the same time denigrating it.

Complicating this situation, mobs and revolutions thrive on black and white distinctions. We are all good while our enemies are all bad. Everything we want is right, while everything our enemies want is wrong. Our heroes are perfect, while the heroes of our opponents are literally Hitler. This absolutist approach to good and evil fuels situations like cancel culture, where a given public individual, found guilty of a thought-crime, finds himself or herself ‘cancelled’—Kevin Spacey, J.K. Rowling, Bill Cosby, etc. Their shows and books are removed because of the character flaws (real or perceived) in the person. It is, in its own way, another form of statue removal. Of course, the standards of judgment are erratic, and grace is rare. Martin Luther King Jr. keeps his statues despite being, in his private moral life, a pretty terrible person. His ‘goods’ are weighed against his ‘bads’ and he is allowed to remain. In brief, his goods match whatever is ‘good’ in the new narrative. No such evaluation—or grace—is extended to a George Washington.


But what is the ‘new narrative’ that powers these revolutionary impulses? What is to replace the traditional narrative? For some, there is no narrative but anarchy. A deep anger is manifesting itself in a hatred of all traditional sources of authority and power. At other times, the narrative looks a great deal like Marxism. To be clear, Marxism here means a way of interpreting the data of the world by means of certain ready-made categories. The Bourgeoisie against the Proletariat, the haves against the have-nots, the privileged against the oppressed. The problem isn’t in identifying disparity and saying that it exists and needs to be addressed. The problem, rather, is in the way that the disparity reduces complexity to simplicity. Individual cases don’t need to be addressed; if they fit the class, they are guilty by association. In turn—and this is a cruel feature of Marxist societies—a sense of shared victimhood provides identity for the oppressed class. (This is a process called ‘othering.’ I write about it more here.)

To make these matters worse, the Marxist narrative—in every place where it has been tried in the 20th century—has revealed a highly utilitarian approach to the truth. Words are tools to achieve ends, and promises are irrelevant—only the revolution matters. Action matters! Policy can be adjusted to match the truth later. Mao, Pol Pot, Stalin, Castro—each was a virtual case study in prevarication. P.D. Ouspensky, who witnessed the Russian Revolution of 1917, wrote of the Bolsheviks and their empty promises of peace. He diagnosed the hollowness of their words as follows: “They had no intention of meeting their promissory notes, therefore they could issue as many of them as they liked. This was their chief disadvantage and chief strength.” The revolutionary who does not care about the truth can say what he likes—it is the ends that matter, and only the ends that matter.

So, where does this leave us? Hopefully with one set of actions, and one real debate. The actions are to evaluate each statue by its own merits. This will take patience, investigation, a real commitment to history, and a commitment to honesty on both sides. If it can be shown that a statue was raised for wicked purposes, to reinforce bad narratives (i.e., to reinforce Jim Crow laws in the south), it seems to me that the statue should be removed. (And, for what it’s worth, I’d like to see cities put forth public hearings on a given statue, and then put it to the vote. That’s the most American response there is.)

And yet the deeper and more important debate is to query what is to happen to the tradition of the West. Will it survive, warts and all, with a fresh commitment to its core values of liberty and justice? Or will it be toppled by a mob that want something far more dangerous and destructive—either unbridled and undisciplined power, or an ideology inimical to the foundation of Western freedom. The choice, quite literally, is ours.

John Chau and the Moral Obligation to be Intelligent

John Chau died last week, on the shores of the Sentinel Island and at the hands of its inhabitants. Long and notoriously reclusive, the island’s people are protected by law, both out of a desire to preserve their way of life, but also to protect them from Western illnesses which threaten genocide. Chau, determined to reach them for Jesus, died there, studded with arrows, shortly after arriving on the shore and ‘hollering’ that “Jesus loves you!” His story has been awash in the news, and the details have been intensely galvanizing. Was Chau, like Jim Elliot, a martyr for a lost people group? Or was he just another colonizing Westerner, intent on destroying indigenous populations in the name of a dangerously inflated religious ego? The jury remains out.


There are things I want to say about Chau, and about how we Christians respond to him, but first I want to pause to consider more deeply these two competing narratives. On the one hand stands the Jim Elliot narrative. Elliot, passionate, moody, introspective, and compelling, felt a call to reach an Ecuadorean group called the Quechua in 1956. He, several friends, and their wives made their way down to Ecuador, fully knowing the dangers that might lie ahead. They made early contact with the group by means of flyovers. They reached out gently to meet the tribe and had initial success. Optimistic, they returned to continue their efforts. But something happened—we don’t know what—and there was a sudden change in the tribesmen. Instead of fellowship, without warning they began to cast spears. Jim Elliot, Nate Saint, Peter Fleming, Roger Youderian, and Ed McCully all died there. But such was not the end of their story. Covered by Life magazine, their example galvanized missions work in America. Not only that, but Elliot’s widow, Elisabeth, returned with the other widows to continue to reach out to the tribe, who eventually came to faith. Almost as a perfect statement on the whole story, Elliot had written in his diary, some time before, these compelling words, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.” The story of Jim Elliot remains one of the most tragic, heroic, and compelling in the history of modern missions.

Through gates of splendor

Elisabeth Elliot tells the story of Jim and the other missionaries in this iconic book. Well worth a read, if you haven’t heard of it.

Was John Chau another Jim Elliot? In the minds of many, the answer is a self-evident “Yes.” He is called, knows the risks, takes them anyway, and out of obedience and a radical love for Jesus lays his life on the line to share the gospel. He, a fool for Christ, clearly gives what cannot be kept (his life) to gain what cannot be lost. In the minds of many Christians, Chau’s heavenly rewards are certain and secure.

But there is another narrative, one that tells us how much the world has changed since 1956. In this narrative, Chau is an egotistical colonist, who cannot bear to leave an indigenous people alone, even if his presence means potentially wiping them out completely. He is a foolhardy maniac, openly defying the laws of India to take a gospel the Sentinelese haven’t asked for, and potentially don’t need, and force them into the 21st century by means of it. The discomfort may run even deeper—in an age of consent, Chau’s insistence on advancing into a people group without their consent may come to look even like a kind of cultural rape. Behold, in Chau’s smiling face is embedded the insane Christian ego, violating the culture and conscience of a people, all the while telling them that “it’s for your own good.” It’s a disturbing picture.

At this point, given the material I’ve read about Chau, and given my current understanding of the picture, I must confess I am more inclined to see his death more as a tragic misstep than a heroic martyrdom. This is a situation that both could, and should have, been avoided. Irrespective, however, of the merits or demerits of Chau’s actions, I want in these brief comments to focus attention on the responses of many everyday Christians. Over the past week I’ve encountered their thoughts both in published articles and comments in response to those articles, and among my Christian peers there is a common, if not unanimous, move to praise Chau’s obedience. In their responses it is his very folly that is the central node of praise—he did what others wouldn’t do, he was obedient where others were afraid to be obedient, and his body now lies as a testimony to the future Sentinelese. Who knows, after all, whether or not this action might be the very beginning of their coming to faith?! What these sentiments exhibit, and what I want to focus on today, is our general Christian confusion between the fool and the foolhardy. More explicitly, what I detect in us is a deep suspicion of intelligence.

Moral obligation CoverRecently I read a fascinating essay by American educator John Erskine, “The Moral Obligation to be Intelligent.” Writing in 1915, Erskine presents, appealing to various literary sources, a crisis in the Western mind. He writes,

Here is the casual assumption that a choice must be made between goodness and intelligence; that stupidity is first cousin to moral conduct, and cleverness the first step into mischief; that reason and God are not on good terms with each other; that the mind and the hart are rival buckets in the well of truth, inexorably balanced—full mind, starved heart—stout heart, weak head.” (5-6)

Our habit, ingrained on his account from the time of the Saxons till now, is to distrust the crafty, and to trust the simpleminded; that somehow simplemindedness is in itself a virtue, while intelligence is always mere shades away from vice. We are programmed now to be suspicious of scientists, of experts, of people with letters after their names, and to prize (at least sentimentally) homegrown wisdom and certain varieties of ‘common sense.’

Erskine takes issue with the prevalence of these sentiments, and perhaps the centre of his argument is as follows:

But as a race we seem as far as possible from realising that an action can intelligently be called good only if it contributes to a good end; that it is the moral obligation of an intelligent creature to find out as far as possible whether a given action leads to a good or a bad end; and that any system of ethics that excuses him from that obligation is vicious. (17-18)

ErskineGoodness, he argues, is not an innate property of the simple. Nor is vice an innate property of the intelligent. Instead, a given action is good or bad if it leads to (and is connected with) good or bad ends, and only the virtue of intelligence can calculate the metrics of those goods and bads. There is no value in foolhardy stupidity, or in a gung-ho bulldozing through barriers and walls, or in blind obedience to a simplistic understanding. In fact, Erskine argues, “any system of ethics that excuses [us] from that obligation is vicious.” In other words, any system that allows us to ignore the obligation to be intelligent, to think through causes and effects, to know and love the good in our circumstances, is a system which allows us to justify our actions based on factors that aren’t good. If we refuse to be guided by intelligence, in other words, we will be guided by our desires (such as our desire to be well thought of), or our fears (such as our fear of missing out), or our false conclusions (such as our bullheaded refusal to admit fault and make things right).

To some, I imagine this may sound like a kind of grand casuistry—an excuse mongering which dodges the pure call to obedience. Chau was obedient, God will provide, case closed. And yet we do have a direct command in scripture regarding our intelligence—to be wise as serpents and harmless as doves. Pause and think about that first clause for a moment. Wise as serpents. The serpent was the most crafty animal God had made. So crafty, in fact, that it becomes nearly synonymous with the Devil himself. And we are to be like him in that way. Crafty. Devious. Plotting. Intelligent. All while remaining innocent and pure. Reading the ardent supporters of Chau, it is not hard to imagine that we’ve read the passage in reverse, and in obedience to our misunderstanding we are now wise as doves and harmless as serpents. Constitutionally stupid (doves), we commit harms on others (snakebites).

(c) Paintings Collection; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Sometimes we forget that the snake is itself a creation of God, and that this suggests it is part of the ‘good’ of the whole creation… !

Curiously, this very morning I read another scripture that seems to apply the same lessons—this time, from the mouth of that cranky prophet, Amos:

14Seek good and not evil, that you may live;
And thus may the Lord God of hosts be with you,
Just as you have said!
15 Hate evil, love good,
And establish justice in the gate!
Perhaps the Lord God of hosts
May be gracious to the remnant of Joseph. (Amos 5:14-15)

The warning, in other words, is to utilize our intelligence for the execution of just judgment—to evaluate our circumstances and make a choice based on our comprehension of good and evil. The danger of ignoring the good, and of neglecting the knowledge of evil as a possibility, is to fall to judgment. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

What judgment we make about Chau, and whether or not he is a martyr for the Christian faith, may have to wait on the perspective of eternity. What cannot wait for that eternal perspective, is our duty and mandate to access and exercise our moral intelligence. There is no value in the foolhardy per se, there is great harm to be done by being wilfully simpleminded. And those who urge obedience at the expense of careful, wise reflection, potentially urge us onto courses of destruction.

Toyohiko Kagawa, and Why You’ve (Probably) Never Heard of Him: A Warning for the (American) Church

When Toyohiko Kagawa visited America for a preaching tour in the 1930s, hundreds of thousands of people went to hear him speak. He would speak in multiple venues each day, while newspapers covered his travels extensively. For a time, he was a household name—a Japanese Christian of impeccable character and real, lived-out faith, who came to America to preach the gospel and share his passion for social change on the basis of that gospel. He was friends with E. Stanley Jones, and he met Gandhi, and he was regarded as one of the greatest Christians of his time. Why is it, then, that we’ve never heard of him?


Christianity and World Order

A short, fascinating little book.

I came across Kagawa when reading Bishop George Bell’s Christianity and World Order, a book published just before WWII that looked forward to the reconstruction of the world after another global conflict. Bell, well connected in the ecumenical movement, was Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s contact in England, and friends to other German luminaries such as Martin Niemöller, and it was clear in his little book that he also thought very highly of this figure, Kagawa, of whom I’d never before heard. Especially since I’ve got an interest in non-Western Christianities, I decided to check him out.

Kagawa, illegitimate son of a samurai family in Japan, converted to Christianity at a young age under the influence of a few Western missionaries. An avid, prolific, and wide reader he dug into advanced books of Western philosophy and theology, even translating some of them into Japanese as a young man. Convicted by the Sermon on the Mount, he decides to go and live in the slums of Kobe in order to live a practical Christianity among the poor. His experiences there change him for life—not only does he maintain and carry a sincere concern for the state of the poor, but he contracts trachoma and is affected by spells of blindness for the remainder of his life. At this time Kagawa came to realize that many people, because of their social condition of extreme poverty, would not be able to accept the gospel as good news until there was a change in their economics. This conviction motivated much of what followed in his life. In the midst of his astonishingly busy schedule working in the slums, Kagawa begins to write books, and from this time on he publishes several books each year of his life. Extremely successful as an author, he donates all the money from the sale of his books to his projects to assist the poor in Japan. After several years he travels to America to attend seminary at Princeton, where he meets and befriends E. Stanley Jones. He returns to Japan, and becomes a strong labor advocate. This, of course, is the early genesis of the labor movement, when strains of it are threatening to move into communism or socialism, but Kagawa’s focus is on a deeply Christian call for fair wages, healthy working conditions, and reasonable hours and pay. In the midst of this, Kagawa becomes enamored of co-ops as a model for bringing economic social change to what is still a feudalistically minded economic world in Japan. He advocates for better farming practices, teaching poor farmers about crop rotation and the planting of trees to protect against erosion. It is around this time that Kagawa comes to America for his national tour, and where he is so widely accepted and revered. In the following years, as the world began to gear itself up for another war, Kagawa advocates for demilitarization and peace. But this sets him against his own government quite starkly, and Kagawa’s calls for peace fall on increasingly deaf ears.


The biography I found was written by Robert Schildgen, a figure in the co-operative movement in America, who has written a somewhat hagiographical (with reference to early 20th century socialism) account of Kagawa’s life.

It is here that something startling happens. During the war, Kagawa was strongly censored by the Japanese government. Then, from within Japan, his tone began to change. He wrote, and spoke on radio, in defense of the Japanese empire. He began to speak about the war being rooted in “racial aggression,” by which he didn’t mean Japanese racial aggression against China, Korea, and the Philippines, but Western racial aggression against Japan. He became (and remained throughout the rest of his life) a strong supporter of Emperor Hirohito. The grim result of this period, of course, is the colossal loss of Japan and the unveiling of Japanese atrocities throughout East Asia.

After the war Kagawa became an advisor for Japan’s reconstruction, and he played an important role in advocating for the development of Japanese democracy. However, his name had been tarnished by his association with Japanese propaganda during the war, and at one point he was even considered by the American occupying forces for “purge”—that is, for the isolation and removal of those ultra-nationalists who had instigated the war in the first place. He avoided that purge on the merits of his pre-war work, but a shadow now hung over his name. In part because of this, a post-war American tour had little of the thrill of his pre-war efforts. For the remainder of his life Kagawa would advocate for world peace and nuclear disarmament. He died in 1960.


The most fascinating moment in Kagawa’s life is his meeting with Mahatma Gandhi. War is on the horizon, and Kagawa has explained to Gandhi that his opinions are not terribly popular in Japan—in fact, that he is a “bit of a heretic.” He petitioned Gandhi’s advice—what would he do? Gandhi’s answer is pithy and to the point: “I would declare my heresies and be shot.” This is an astonishing moment if only because this is precisely what Kagawa failed to do. When the crucial moment came, he capitulated.

Why don’t we know about Toyohiko Kagawa? I think there are two reasons. First, we don’t hear much about Kagawa because his version of Christianity is uncomfortably intermixed with early 20th century socialist politics. Now, from my (limited) read of Kagawa’s life and work, I think that those things for which he advocated are wholesome and good. He was possessed of a sincere desire to see the situation of the poor changed, and he saw in Christianity a model for that change which might give life to the world. He felt that a Christianity which didn’t address the practical needs of real people wasn’t much of a Christianity at all. To this, I give my full assent. However, the swing of labor movements away from Christianity in the intervening years makes it difficult to hear and accept his concerns today. Additionally, his presentation of Christianity becomes uncomfortably close to a political platform. The platform hasn’t succeeded, and unfortunately the Christianity has fallen alongside it.


Second, I think we don’t hear much about Kagawa because of his capitulation during the war. Before the war, he had stood for Christianity, the gospel, and for peace. During the war, he stood for the political ends of his government—for Japan, for their advances into East Asia, and for military aggression. What is worse, Kagawa used (or allowed) his platform as a minister of the gospel to advance the political aims of the day. That intermingling is simply corrosive to gospel witness. It is difficult to recover one’s authority when it has been abused in that way.

So, what’s the warning for the (American) Church? It should be obvious. When Christianity is intermingled with a political platform, the end result, if the platform fails, is the discrediting of the Christianity. Irrespective of the truth of the Christianity itself, defeat of the platform brings about the dismissal of the faith that infused it. You cannot serve both God and Mammon. Second, when Christians capitulate with the propaganda and rhetoric of their nation it does irreparable damage to their witness to the world. Christianity does not and cannot stand in support of political aims. It is corrosive to our gospel witness.

Toyohiko Kagawa was a fascinating, influential, but flawed follower of Jesus. I think it would be wise to learn from both his successes, and his failures.

Let’s Have an Uneasy Conversation About Immigration

I must confess that I am uneasy. I am uneasy about the stories of immigration in the news lately. I am uneasy with progressive responses to those situations. I am uneasy with Christian responses to those stories. I am uneasy about the trustworthiness of news sources, the spin of commentators, and the histrionics of disputants. But beneath and throughout all of this uneasiness, I’ve felt especially uncomfortable with how Scripture is used when it comes to questions of the “immigrant,” the “stranger,” and the “refugee.” Some serious thinking was required, and the result is something of an uneasy conversation.


This uneasy conversation is rooted in the fact that immigration (both legal and illegal), refugees, and Christian responsibility come together in an awkward discourse, one that stretches the boundaries of any simplistic ethics. At the heart of the conflict are two, oil-and-water realities—the life of the Kingdom of God, and the existence of nation-states. Unclear thinking in both areas, to my mind, has created a great deal of misinformation and confusion. Perhaps one way to summarize the diverse dialogues and talking points is to pose a simple question: what is the Christian responsibility towards the immigrant/refugee?

The most common answers I encounter come from certain interpretations of Scripture. Consider two such interpretations now. In this first image Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are likened to refugees, fleeing Herod to Egypt. The message, implicit, is that the state of the refugee is crucially linked to the story of Christianity itself.

Immigration_Holy Family as Refugees_Kelly Latimore

An Icon of the Holy Family, by Kelly Latimore.

Another image lists a series of scripture texts, but pointedly translates the word “stranger” as “immigrant.”

Immigrant Scriptures_

I won’t take the time to analyze these images in depth, but where I want to focus is on their use of Scripture. Specifically, in both cases Christian Scripture (or an event) is used pointedly to address the current immigration/refugee issue in the US. Each is, in fact, a form of proof texting—here is a situation, here is a Scripture to address said situation, case closed.

Allow me to register a few concerns. First, modern labels such as “immigrant” and “refugee” are heavily freighted with meaning. While the Bible does indeed have things to say about the stranger in the land, they may not be the same kinds of things that modern commentators are making it say. Is the modern refugee really the same as Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fleeing to Egypt? Can these texts really be applied to our modern situation without interpretation or context? For instance, in order to claim that Israel’s stranger laws should directly inform America’s immigration policy we would need to establish that the nation-state of Israel is sufficiently similar to the nation-state of America. This is a deeply tenuous connection, and one that many commentators would not be so happy to make.

In light of this, a second concern. In addition to the quoted stranger laws, the Bible has lots of other things to say about how we treat one another, specifically from the same passages of text! For example, instructions in Leviticus 18, 19, and 20 shift almost breathlessly from laws about clothing of two fabrics, to rules about sex with slave girls, to the breeding of cattle, to forbidding homosexual relations, and to honouring one’s parents. Many of the same people who reject the Bible’s teachings on some of these issues (e.g., homosexuality), are presenting contextually linked scriptures as proof-texts for immigration reform. Furthermore, when they give reasons for why they are not bound by a scripture like Leviticus 18:22, they cite the fact that we do not observing other, contextually linked passages, such as the garment laws. The law of the stranger, then, is binding, but none of the others. I find this, at best, disingenuous.

Levicitus Clobber Text

While these flaws make me uneasy, they are not themselves an argument. They are bad rhetoric, and possibly poor interpretations of Scripture, but we still must examine the Scriptural claims about what, if any, is the proper Christian response to the immigrant/refugee. We’ll need to think about this from two angles—the nation-state, and the immigrant.

The Bible and the State
First, does the Bible speak to the circumstances of the modern nation-state? In a word, not really. The Old Testament offers instruction on the management of theocratic, then monarchic Israel. Many Christians believe that these instructions ought to shape the governance of their nations, but this is by no means a simple open-and-shut Scriptural case. For example, the text points to the role of boundary stones (Proverbs 22:28), of property management (Leviticus 25), of ethnic purity (Deuteronomy 7:3), and of economics (Leviticus 25, 23:22, Deut. 23). These are instructions for Israel specifically. It is worth noting, however, that when other nations stand in violation of certain aspects of God’s law they are judged, and even destroyed, based on those violations (e.g., Deuteronomy 18:9).

And yet, apart from these passages of judgment (for moral reasons) we get no instruction on secular civil governance in the Bible. Paul tells us in Romans 13 to “obey the civil authorities” (and he says this about Nero, mind you). John in Luke 3 tells the tax collector to collect just the right amount, and the soldiers to avoid harassing people and be content with their wages. If we wish to look to the Scriptures for advice on how to govern, manage, and maintain national borders, we are going to get precious little help. Furthermore, the concept of the modern nation-state—as a non-religious, non-ethnic social aggregate of disparate persons—is unheard of in ancient Israel, and certainly insufficiently like the Roman state for easy comparison with America, if only because no ancient person had a vote like modern persons do.


Emperor Maximiam offering incense to Jupiter.

In view of Romans 13, however, it is worth remembering that Christian obedience to the state clearly had limits. When the New Testament was written, the early Church had an uneasy but largely unchallenged relationship to the Roman government. But in the years following the writing of Paul’s letters this situation changed—the question of obeying Caesar or Christ became pointed, and the resounding witness of the early Church was to honour Christ, even if it meant death. Thus, when a given Christian stood before the altar to Caesar and was pressed to offer incense to him as a deity, that Christian refused to obey the civil authority. Death, by the very sword entrusted to those who govern, was often the consequence.

It follows, then, that because there are no Christian states, properly speaking, but only states with proportions of Christians serving inside them, no civil ethic ever aligns perfectly with a Scriptural model, whether Old or New Testament. The default ethic would appear to be some form of Romans 13:1-7 (to honor civil authorities), combined with some form of 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 (to lead a quiet life). However, in those situations where the state stands opposed to Christian teaching, then we side with Christ, even if it means our imprisonment or death.

The Bible and the Stranger
Second, does the Bible speak to the situation of the stranger, the immigrant, or the refugee? In a word, yes—quite a lot, actually. While the image macro of Scripture texts above bent matters a little for its own benefit, each of the texts do speak about treatment of the stranger in the land. Exodus 22:21-24 is one of the clearest and most poignant:

21You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. 22 You shall not afflict any widow or orphan. 23 If you afflict him at all, and if he does cry out to Me, I will surely hear his cry; 24 and My anger will be kindled, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless.”

Slaves in Egypt

Israel, as a people who were formerly strangers—immigrants, if you will—in Egypt, are called to remember at all times their former status and to treat others accordingly. Note: the text makes no provision for the ethnic heritage of the stranger, nor for his or her religious background, nor for his or her quality of life, language ability, or socioeconomic status. It does not matter if the stranger is a qualified worker or a slave, he or she is to be treated justly. Leviticus 24:17-22 makes this explicit:

17 ‘If a man takes the life of any human being, he shall surely be put to death. 18 The one who takes the life of an animal shall make it good, life for life. 19 If a man injures his neighbor, just as he has done, so it shall be done to him: 20 fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; just as he has injured a man, so it shall be inflicted on him. 21 Thus the one who kills an animal shall make it good, but the one who kills a man shall be put to death. 22 There shall be one standard for you; it shall be for the stranger as well as the native, for I am the Lord your God.’

(Note: similar passages can be found at Leviticus 19:33-34, Deuteronomy 24:14-15, Deuteronomy 27:19, and Jeremiah 22:3-5.)

In light of these passages, does the situation of the modern immigrant and refugee correlate to the biblical picture? It certainly seems so. Central to the story of the Bible, Jacob and his sons flee economic hardship in order to reside in Egypt, where they are immigrants. In the book of Ruth an Israelite woman (Naomi), on account of famine (a natural disaster) emigrates to Moab. After her sons die, she returns with Ruth (now an immigrant) to Israel, where they live, essentially, as economic refugees. Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus do indeed flee a situation of political hostility (the government, Herod, wants to kill them) and reside as political refugees in Egypt. Central to the story of Christianity is that of displaced people seeking safety and hope in foreign lands, and crucial in God’s ethics towards displaced persons is our responsibility to be hospitable to the stranger in our land.


Van Gogh’s Good Samaritan

At this point someone might object that for those stories, their movements were ordained by God as part of His story and plan. That is true enough, but it was on account of those stories—and especially the original story of Israel in Egypt—that we receive the clear commandments from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy to care for the stranger in our land, irrespective of that stranger’s ethico-religious identity. Whatever the origin of the story, now we have inherited an ethic which governs our treatment of the displaced.

An Uneasy Ethical Balance
This, then, is the heart of our uneasy conversation about Christianity and immigration: on the one hand, we have a clear, Scriptural ethic to care for the stranger, and on the other hand, we have no clear Scriptural ethic about how to be a Christian in a secular nation-state. In light of this, I think the following, provisional conclusions are in order:

1) A Christian perspective does indeed carry ethical obligations toward the immigrant/refugee. If we take the Bible seriously, we must care for the stranger and seek justice for him or her.

2) To the degree that America is, in fact, a Christian nation, then it bears a Christian responsibility toward immigrants/refugees. By implication, Christians should be as pro-immigrant as they are pro-life.

3) To the degree that America is a Christian nation, to that same degree it bears economic, religious, and moral responsibilities as well. This will cover homosexuality and poverty, land reform and honouring the Sabbath.

As I close, let’s acknowledge two crucial factors. First, while conclusion #1 is unambiguous, neither #2 or #3 is in any sense ethically simple. Neither of the premises for #2 or #3 are clear (that America is a Christian nation), therefore the implications are necessarily murky.

But second, I’ve left aside one, looming question: what about illegal immigration? To answer that question, we will have to further consider the role of boundaries and self-identity in secular nation-states. For that discussion, we will need to return next week.

Phil Robertson’s Real Success

Happy_Happy_Happy_CoverI have a confession to make: I recently read the autobiography of Duck Dynasty’s Phil Robertson and I really enjoyed it. Happy, Happy, Happy was fun, winsome, informative, illuminating, and also, interestingly enough, instructive.

On the surface, Robertson’s book presents the backstory to an immensely popular and likable family. Beyond this surface enjoyment there are deeper pleasures, because not only does it document a genuine rags-to-riches story (what I think is fair to call the American Dream), it also speaks about real transformation—of Phil, Phil’s family, and Phil’s land (which I think is fair to call the American Need). Still yet—even further beneath these—there is something else which comes through—the most instructive lesson of all—because the true allure of the Robertson family is not their novelty, nor their redneckerry, nor even their explicit faith, but their contentment. Phil Robertson’s is a success story in the truest sense of the word.

Phil Robertson is best known as the heavily bearded patriarch of the Robertson family, that clan of unexpectedly famous Louisiana Rednecks who hunt ducks, make duck calls, produce television shows, pray before their meals at the end of each show, and are currently milking the merchandizing cow through A&E and Walmart for all its worth. But before he was famous, Phil Robertson was poor—really poor. And the story of his journey out of poverty is just one arc of the many remarkable events he relays in his autobiography. Truth be told, although he appears to be only one man, it seems to me that he is actually composed of four different geniuses. There is Phil the hunter, who loves the outdoors, loves the land, knows (because of his family poverty) how to live off the land, and who has labored to essentially terraform and rehabilitate the property he owns in Louisiana. There is also Phil the evangelist, saved by faith from his own drunkenness and depravity and now passionate to reach as many people as he can with the good news of Jesus Christ, baptizing guests in the river behind their house, taking every speaking opportunity given to him as an occasion to preach the gospel. (Note well that Phil has probably told more people about faith in Jesus than a roomful of pastors.) There is also Phil the creator, who can imagine how to build a better duck call and then laboriously perfect it, a craftsman and visionary. And lastly there is Phil the entrepreneur, who can turn his own river into a successful fishing business, his own duck calls into a multi-million dollar organization, who sees in his land the potential to hire out the space to others. Phil Robertson is one remarkable man.

Reading about the four geniuses of Phil made me look closer at my own life. Phil loves his land—what have I done to love my own yard lately? (Answer: I went out and cleaned and mowed after reading the book.) Phil loves the Lord and wants to tell people about Jesus. How am I considering the opportunities to share the gospel? Phil is a creator—how am I working to maximize the creative gifts God has given me? And Phil, of course, is an entrepreneur—am I doing all that I can to provide for my own family? Each of these were solid queries to the status quo of my life, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to ask them.

Of course, if you are familiar with the television show then these facets of Phil’s personality take on even more clarity, because each of these four Phils has been implanted in his four sons. Alan, the eldest, is a minister in the church—i.e., Phil the evangelist. Jason, the second, is Phil the hunter, building duck calls. Willie, the next, is Phil the entrepreneur—taking Duck Commander to its present fame. And Jep, the youngest, is Phil the creator, responsible for much of the video work for the show.

So much Redneck!

So much Redneck!

Despite all this, the Robertson family seem an unlikely set for television fame. Phil himself is an avowed Luddite, and the family’s redneck sensibilities and overt Christianity jar against the world-saturated content of their television contemporaries. There’s no sex or swearing on the show. No drama to compete with other so-called ‘reality’ shows. There are no demeaning insults and nobody gets kicked off. Consequently, the mystery of their popularity has confounded many. Some claim it is the novelty of rednecks on television—except that when you watch the show and read about them they don’t seem so much novel as, well, normal. Originally it may have been a producer’s thought that this family would be funny to viewers like a circus show is funny, but time has shown that they are funny because, well, they’re really funny people. Perhaps it is the American ethos they convey—Walmart shopping NASCAR watching red-blooded hunting Americans are drawn to this display of down-home sensibilities. While doubtless some of the sensibility of Phil and family appeals to viewers and readers, I don’t think it’s the main thing that keeps people coming back. I would guess that others from the disposition of the Christian faith conclude that the Robertson’s are popular precisely because of their faith. At a time when kids can’t pray in school, the Robertson’s are praying on A&E, and something of the rightness of that appeals to the American sense, even implicitly. But I don’t think that is the reason either.

I think the real reason for the appeal of Duck Dynasty is Phil Robertson’s success. Now, by success I don’t mean his successful business ventures, nor do I mean his wealth. I mean that Phil has achieved, and exhibits plainly, a sense of success and contentment with his life that is unheard of today. He is a mystery, not because he wears a long, flowing beard, but because he is genuinely happy, happy, happy.

Robertson Family Praying

This happens at the end of every episode.

There are a variety of reasons for his happiness—the first, and deepest of course, is his faith. And while some have taken the overt signs of Robertson Christianity as the markers of their faith, the real marker is the peace and contentment with which he lives life. There is no striving with career, or making, or worldly ideas of success. There is love between family members. There is love between husband and wife. There is the ability to rest and enjoy hobbies both passive and active. There is joy, and peace, and, yes, happiness. These are the real fruits of the Christian life as manifest in the Robertsons.

But another reason for this happiness is that Phil is genuinely a success in the truest sense of that word. ‘Success,’ you see, is linked to the word ‘succession.’ The primary idea behind success is to hand off to someone else the work you have done—to take pleasure in seeing someone else do well what you have trained and equipped that person to do. That Phil has been successful with his four sons is self-evident—he is at ease, they are at work, and they also are learning the lessons of true contentment and happiness along the way. These things, more than anything else, set the Robertson family apart, and I suggest are the ground of their wide appeal. The real reason we watch is because we ourselves want for a measure of their contentment.

And as a test of this contentment, remember that the Robertsons know fame is fleeting. They are enjoying it while it lasts, but they do this knowing it won’t last. And if they were to lose their fame, they would still be happy. If they were to lose their business, they would still be happy. If no one were ever to speak the name of the Robertsons again, they would still be happy. And maybe it’s the fact that they don’t really care about their fame that makes them most mysterious of all.