jabel

I may not agree with everything Charles Eisenstein says in this column, but I totally agree with his conclusion:

The mindset that demonizes one’s political opponent is the same one that demonizes a foreign enemy to make war, or that demonizes a population to facilitate ethnic cleansing. Left unchecked, it will erupt into civil unrest, violence, and then tyranny. It may even lead to World War Three. I speak here as an American, but the same dynamics are rampant across the West. My country is not exempt from what it has sown in the world. The fate of Libya, of Iraq, of Venezuela, of Ukraine, of Syria, of Yugoslavia, of Lebanon, of Gaza could easily become our own.

What allows political authorities to commit heinous crimes against humanity? They are not, after all, superhuman. They don’t have special powers like Magneto or Darth Vader. So they must turn the population into willing accomplices in their own oppression. They instigate wave after wave of fear and hate, and ride each to new heights of power. As the Nazi Hermann Goering put it, “Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.”

There’s always a bogeyman. The insane escalation in Ukraine requires the bogeyman of Vladimir Putin leading the resurrected corpse of the Evil Empire (the Soviet Union). The wave of surveillance and censorship and persecution of dissidents in the West requires the bogeyman of “MAGA extremists” or “Russian agents” or “domestic terrorists” or “spreaders of dangerous anti-vax misinformation.” The razing of Gaza and slaughter of its people requires the bogeyman of implacable hate-crazed enemies of Israel thirsty for the blood of Jews.

Every hateful word, every dehumanizing smear, every note of mockery and contempt, every denunciation and condemnation that we put into the public square feeds the powers that would manipulate us into war, genocide, and fascism. And so, politicians and media set the example of hate for us to follow. It isn’t even deliberate — that’s the thing. It is just the way things are done. I don’t mean here to set up politicians and media as the new evil. “Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do.” But that is what they do. They divide us. They teach us to hate each other.

Don’t fall for it. That’s my request. Don’t fall for it. Instead, enter the political sphere with the questions that come from compassion and lead to love. That is the only revolution worth having.

The Given Life, part four

Just beneath my skin is a religious zealot, full of fierce denunciation, austerity and ecstasy. Twenty years ago, I tried to kill him with intellectual ambition and respectable religion–and then finally with atheism. The attempt failed and, over the past few years, he and I have begun talking again. But that’s a story for another time. Today’s story is about the birth and early years of my inner zealot.

As I said in my last post, my teen years at Hilltop were busy. In addition to all the usual teenage activities, we were always traveling to revivals or special services or youth camps or campmeetings. We even flew to some of the more distant youth camps; for most of us, it was our first experience on an airplane.

*This Bible traveled with me throughout my teenage years.*

It’s not surprising, then, given my personality, that these repeated high doses of potent religion made me into one of the most committed Christians in my youth group. At some point, I began reading Leonard Ravenhill and A.W. Tozer, who both became heroes of mine. I was, often enough, a typical teenager (all the usual awkward, hormonal silliness) but throughout those years there was always within me a passion for genuine encounters with God.

*Adventures in self-publishing. Plagiarized some of my favorite sermons. No, I won't let you read it.*

I framed this longing for religious experience in terms I learned from Leonard Ravenhill: revival. Many of our churches, I believed, were moribund; we needed more passionate worship and life-changing experiences. In addition to the booklet above, I wrote many articles for our church newsletter on these themes. I recorded interviews with a few of the elders in our church to get their stories of the “good old days”–because I was certain that in those days our churches had more frequent and consequential contact with God.

(This documentary footage of Holiness worship is the best I’ve found. There are more modern recordings but they don’t have the same manic energy. This one is perfect. The exhortations and gestures of the singer. The piano player–both his playing style and the way he’s backing up the lead singer. The simplicity and relentlessness of the song. (It was a favorite in our churches.) The dancing and speaking in tongues and shaking fits. The crowning glory is the final shot of the child sleeping through the chaos; I remember being that child, drifting in and out of sleep as the Holy Ghost walked among the pews, touching this person and that.)

While my local church never quite lived up to my impossible expectations, youth camps and campmeetings were the highlights of my year. A week of three or more services daily with great preachers in attendance and rollicking good music–it was heaven on earth. One time we heard a sermon on Hell, illustrated with a piece of hamburger dropped into pot of boiling water and closed with an audio recording of the camp choir acting out the fate of the damned, screaming and howling as they remembered all of their opportunities to repent. Another time we heard a message in tongues and its interpretation that called out the hidden sin of one of the preachers on the stage. Another time we saw the exorcism of a gay teenager who was told he was demon possessed; those of us who had not been baptized in the Holy Ghost were ordered to go to the back of the church, out of exit trajectory of the demon.

I could tell you a lot of stories, good and bad. I’ll end this part of the story with one of my experiences. One year at our local youth camp, my friend Andy sought for the baptism of the Holy Ghost in every service, to no avail. Finally the night came: Brother Mike B preached on “The Key to the Corn Crib” (about Joseph and his brothers, if I recall correctly). Andy prayed and prayed, sweating through his silk shirt, until finally he began to speak in tongues. The group helping him pray erupted. I became what we called “drunk on the Spirit.” Needless to say, I had never tasted alcohol to that point; needless to say, I’ve tasted plenty since then. My experience was exactly like being very drunk. I stumbled when I tried to walk. My speech was slurred. Everything seemed to be in a haze. I was slow to understand when people talked to me. At no point was I faking it. I was sufficiently delirious that it didn’t occur to me. I don’t recall exactly how long it lasted but it was on the order of a half-hour or more. Finally the experience began to fade. Reluctant for it to end, I began to try to make it last by faking and it immediately ceased. Stone cold sober.

Was that experience real? Of course it was! Is such an experience unique to Pentecostalism or even Christianity? No. Stuff like that happens all the time. Like every account of the strange or miraculous, it doesn’t prove anything about the truth claims of the religion in which it occurs. Personally, I hold that and some other strange religious experiences loosely in my hand. I am thankful for the experiences but I don’t place too much emphasis on them. They are fingers pointing to the mystery at the heart of things.