Christianity vs. Islam

Part I: The Games, 2025

A roar went up from the stadium and thundered in the locker rooms below the arena. Jean Belanger, aka the White Knight, fiddled with his white cloak. His sword lay next to him on the bench. The room was stark, little more than a set of banged up lockers and wooden benches for the participants. Beside him, Joe Brown, aka the Black Joseph, was stretching out his hamstrings with a series of yoga exercises. Jean watched his colleague, unable to hide his disdain.

“You know, if you weren’t the Captain and the crowd ever saw you stretching like that, they’d throw you into a Turban factory.”

Joe ignored him, moving easily from Warrior One to Warrior Two. The doors banged open as the rest of their colleagues sauntered in, their packs over their shoulders, laughing and yelling.

“This is it, boys!”

“Time to take down the Ragheads!”

Joe finished his stretching and picked up his sword. It was surprisingly light for its length, and he double checked the edges for any nics in its razor sharp blade. He’d never imagined himself as gladiator, but the times had been hard for his family, and if there was one thing Joe knew for certain, it was who to blame. The Muslims had been multiplying like rabbits for the past twenty years, and small wars had broken out all across the planet. His pastor had been right to warn them about the spiritual darkness that was Islam. Within a span of five years the Muslims had infiltrated the country with their blasphemous language and funny robes and war-like manner. The United States had resisted, thank God, as more and more Christians had armed themselves. Ten years of civil violence had led to the proposal and development of the Games. Leading clerics on both sides (though calling a Muslim cleric was ridiculous to Joe) had hammered out the details.

The rules were simple. Each year Christians and Muslims selected their twelve best warriors. They fought until all the members of one side were dead.

For the remainder of that year, the winning side’s religion received complete immunity from any pending lawsuit and was officially declared the State’s Religion. The Supreme Court had refused to even consider such a law when it was originally proposed, but the rising crime and lawlessness, along with the death of the three most vigorous judges on the court, had paved the way for the Games. Christianity had lost the first two years, but as the Games gathered momentum, more resources had been poured into training, and they’d won the past three contests. Warriors for The Right, so the Christians had named themselves, were considered heroes, and making the team considered a great honor.

Joe checked his blade. This year’s team was as strong as any he’d seen. As the lone survivor from last year’s contest, he was an easy choice for the Captain’s role. “Lord, bless my blade again this year.” He prayed softly. He thought about his wife and two young girls back home. He wasn’t worried about their well being, making the Team automatically gave them a healthy pension in the case of his death, he simply missed them. Training days were long, and he rarely saw them. The sound of clinking armor and the rustle of swords and curses reverberated through the locker room as he quieted his breathing. As the hour passed, the rest of the room became increasingly silent. Joe glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to show time.

He stood and waited until he had his team’s attention.

“Tonight we fight for more than a religion. We fight for our country. We fight for our faith.” He paused. “Tonight, we fight on God’s side!”

The locker room exploded with the rattle of swords hammered on shields and shouts from the men. He held up his hand and unsheathed his sword. The whisper of eleven swords joined his own.

“Honour. Life. Faith.”

“Honour. Life. Faith.” The men responded.

“Watch your back.”Joe said. “Don’t do too much. Stay with the team. If you remember these things you may live to fight another day. Okay, let’s pray.”

The men took a knee as Joe asked for God’s blessing. When he’d finished, he led them up the ramp into the bright lights of the new Texas Stadium.

***

I was sitting in the Gold section, about eight rows up with some of the guys from my Bible College. The stadium was over twenty years old, and the small plastic seats were chipped and worn, but nobody cared. Just to be able to get seats took either a lot of money or a special connection. Thankfully, the Bible College was always given ten seats, four of which my buddies and I had won in a school contest. The stadium was full, the crowd roaring and waving. Each year two blocks of tickets were sold; one for the Christians and one for the Muslims. I could see the enemy on the other side of the bowl, their turbans and hijabs and other strange head coverings unable to mask their anger or venom with which they yelled at the Christians. The bearded man man beside me was standing, along with his two young children, a boy and a girl.

“Go back to the desert, you stupid ragheads!” He screamed.

He handed his pennant, a cheap, white stenciled piece of foam that said “No God but Jesus”, to his little boy, who waved it vigorously to the delight of his father.

“That’s it, Johnny! One day that might be you down there!”

I nodded in approval, though me and the guys had refused to buy any gear from the proprietors. Bible College students were the intellectual force, or so we’d been taught, and were expected to show restraint. Despite that, the school offered a basic weapons course, and I’d chosen it as one of my electives for the coming fall.

The crowd roared as the participants entered the arena, and I stood with my feet, clapping and chanting as The Black Joseph led the men onto the field. When the Games had started five years earlier, I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I’d quickly bought in. Especially after the bombing in Phoenix. There was a significant difference between the two religions. Christianity was about ushering in God’s Kingdom, and Islam, as they’d shown consistently, was about the worship of a false prophet and violence. They were not interested in the welfare of others like Christians were. The tragedy was that it wasn’t even their fault. How could they become more loving if they didn’t know about Jesus? The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium.

“Please stand for a moment of silence and the Lord’s Prayer.”

As the reigning champions, the Christians had earned the right to pray before the game, and we all bowed in unison as the sacred words of ‘Our Father’ were repeated throughout the stadium.

“You ready, bro!” Mike said, standing next to me.

“Yeah! We’ll get ‘em!” I said.

The fight started quickly, as the two teams rushed each other before parrying off into groups of two and three. The action was fast and vicious, and blood soaked the sand within minutes. Six of the Christians had already fallen, and only three Muslims. My heart hammered in my chest. No. No. God, don’t let us lose! Black Joseph had managed to group the remaining Christians, and they fought back to back now, their swords flashing in the lights, the clash of steel and grunts magnified by the microphones embedded in the sand so every moment could be captured by the fans and the cameras.

Another Christian went down. Then another. Black Joseph had been isolated away from his teammates now, and his sword flashed desperately as two of the Muslims fought to destroy Christianity’s leader. As I watched, my heart began to sink. What would happen if the Christians lost? What would happen if the Muslims became the State religion again? Unwilling to concede my world to spiritual darkness, I turned and yelled at my buddies.

“Guys, let’s pray. We need to pray!”

They looked at me uncomprehendingly for a minute, their gazes filled with the violence of the fight, and then nodded. I pointed to our warriors.

“They need it!”

I grabbed Mike’s hand, bowed my head, and began to pray aloud. I felt a little hand grabbing my free hand, and I opened my eyes a crack as I realized that everyone around us had joined in. The young boy beside me didn’t look up even as he clenched tightly to my fingers. His eyes were squeezed tight, and I nodded even as I continued to pray. What I didn’t see was the sudden spread of what we were doing in our corner. In the midst of the battle, the Christians began to bow their heads and pray.

And it was working.

First one Muslim went down under the fury of Black Joseph’s sword. Then another. Soon enough the odds had evened up, and there was only four warriors left. Two Christians. Two Muslims. We continued to pray aloud, though most of us kept our eyes open now.

“Lord, we pray that your will be done!” I said, over and over, certain of what it meant and that it was about to happen.

Two more died, and it was all down to the two captains. I could feel my heart pounding in excitement. God would do it again. Once more he would pull his people from the fire and rescue them.

“Kill him, Black Joseph! You’re the Man!” I screamed, before starting once again to pray aloud.

The two men circled warily. Black Joseph was bleeding from his left shoulder and walking with a visible limp. Both men seemed to pause, and then… pounced. There was no other way to describe it. And suddenly the Muslim Captain was on the ground. Black Joseph paused long enough to take a breath and raise his sword for the killing blow.

“Yaaaaa! For God be the Glory!” The man beside me yelled, hugging his children.

Suddenly Black Joseph paused, his head driven back as if hit by something, and then stopped before collapsing on the field. The Muslim captain stood, his own rapier thrust high in the air even as the Muslim crowd went wild with delight. His short quick thrust ended the career of Black Joseph, and the entire Christian assembly sat in dejected silence.

“It’s not fair.” I said to Mike. “They cheated. Someone in the crowd hit Black Joseph with a rock.”

All around me I could hear those same murmurs, rising until they were full throated shouts and screams. The Muslims did not seem to notice until a Christian darted on the field and grabbed Black Joseph’s sword. He charged into the Muslim crowd, swinging wildly. A number of Christians followed him, and within minutes the entire stadium had erupted into a violent spree. Police officers flowed out of the tunnels, but ended up joining their side in the fight. Soon enough, gunshots rang across the stadium as the policemen emptied their pistols into the respective crowds.

“It’s crazy! Let’s get out of here!” I had to yell to be heard.

Everyone jammed into the aisles. Some ran towards the field. Others tried to get away. The acrid smell of smoke rose from somewhere, though I couldn’t see any fire. The stadium had turned into a cauldron of eighty thousand people in full panic, a boiling, wriggling mass of confusion and hatred. Two policemen pointed their guns in our direction and started firing. I dropped low, but not before the father beside me fell clutching his chest. I looked for his kids but couldn’t see them, and ducked my head again as another gunshot snapped overhead. I was breathing hard, flat on the ground, staring at the litter in front of my face even as the world ignited around me.

Oh God, what’s happening? Where are you? Why didn’t we win? How can this happen?

I lifted my head just as a scuffle broke out beside me. A boot lashed out at my head, and everything went black.

...to be continued

Books, Writers, and Other News

It's been a wonderful few weeks of weather lately, I wonder where that's been all summer? For those of you who have honoured me the past few years with your readership, I thought I'd bring you up to date on the latest news. As most of you are well-aware, my 'blog' really isn't a blog at all. At least, it doesn't look like most blogs I read. For the most part, I see it as a place for my work, some of which would be hard to classify or pinpoint in regards to a particular market such as a magazine or newspaper.

In book news, I am currently hard at work on a fantasy novel. I know that may sound strange, but when your primary passions are theology, philosophy, and politics (and you loved adventure novels as a kid), what better place to go than that of a novel which requires all three. That said, it's revealed itself to be an arduous task. World building sounds like fun... until you start detailing the history of a nation, complete with cultural idioms, language provisions, money type, government evolution, and so on. Still, its been an enjoyable process, and I hope to have a rough first draft done by Christmas. (Approx 140,000 words)

I now have my fitness site up and running (http://www.funfitness.ca/), and for those of you in the area, if you'd like to drop me a question about working out or nutrition or training, feel free to drop me a line.

I received a disturbing email recently, a Christian "Call to Arms", about the spreading "Spiritual Darkness" and "Signs of the Times." It was disturbing to read that many Christians actually believe the "end is upon us." We sell millions of dollars of crap related to this while people around us starve. Please try to avoid the Christian consumer trap. Spend your time and money more wisely than investing in these charlatans. If you need to escape, might I suggest the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan? Great, fun books that won't make you look at your neighbour and people of other cultures as if they're the devil. (Quick quiz: Anyone know how the Jehovah Witnesses started? The first person to shoot me an email will get Jordan's first book for free.)

As for my next "real" blog, I'll be posting later this week. Part 1 is almost done.

Until then, keep... eating... that chicken. :)

-Steve

Miserable… And Loving It

The classroom was about half full. About twenty five students scattered through the room patiently waiting their turn to introduce themselves to the class. Our professor had told us to give a brief introduction about who we were. I looked over at Mark and rolled my eyes. The idea was to stand up and give a few quick highlights, most importantly, or so I thought, was my name. Maybe my favourite colour. Or the name of my cat. Inevitably however, someone decided that anything less than their troubled childhood and road to redemption and how Jesus had set them free and how unique and wonderful their story was… complete with a signed book contract from Disney that would probably turn into a wonderfully inspirational story that everyone could relate to so that so many lives could be changed and oh yeah, did they mention how unusual their story was and how it had never happened before in the history of the universe and yet was still totally relatable to everyone… somehow wasn't enough. It was amazing, but some people actually believed we'd paid thousands of dollars to pursue our Masters to hear them, and not the Professors. Don't get me wrong, I liked meeting people. And in a class like Spiritual Formation, I knew the value of meeting people from a variety of theological and cultural backgrounds would be a boon to my faith. I just hated the introductions. So far however, things had been progressing smoothly.

Our professor called another name, and a blond, middle aged woman stepped up to the front. I groaned inwardly. Never a good sign when someone went to the front. Not in a class of twenty five when everyone could hear you if you whispered.

The woman was somehow bouncing while standing still, and she smiled at us all like she was addressing a class of curious five year olds. She said hello to the class. I wanted to say "Hi Mrs. Carroll" with the rest of the students, but everyone else was too busy listening. She went through her story, a three act drama that would have made Aristotle proud. And when she'd finished, she looked at us all, her adopted Sunday School class, and clasped her hands together.

"And now, with Jesus, it's just joy all the time! Joy, joy, joy! All of the time!"

Dr. Sherbano thanked the woman and she sat down, somehow bouncing as she did so. I looked over at Mark, my eyebrows raised. What? Was she serious? Whatever she'd had, and I don't mean faith, I wanted.

Mark and I would joke about that class – and that introduction – for months after. Though we always laughed, there was a sense of sadness in it too. Both of us believed that God was not only real, but that he loved people. And both of us believed that the church, while flawed, could play a valuable role in the world. Unfortunately, this consumer ideal of perfection, this idea that what we attach to happiness sells better than what we attach to sorrow, was an indefatigable force in the Seminary. A stroll through any Christian bookstore revealed that it was the same in the churches. On some level, it was understandable and even logical. Who would invest in a faith that promised heartache and misery? People would move to the next section of the bookstore, the self-help section, and find something. They would miss the gospel! We must make the church relevant and positive! What saddened Mark and I was that positivism, whether connected to the church or not, eventually faded in the light of real sorrow and human life. And when that occurred, the bouncy positivists had two choices: Reject the notion of "Jesus Happy" as being true and leave the church, or reject the reality of pain and leave the world. In my years since ministry, I'd seen both, and neither one ended well.

*****

"C'mon, Diane, ten seconds more. You can do it."

I glanced at my stop watch and back at my client, who was lying forward on her elbows and toes in what was called a Plank.

"Done, great job." I said.

She collapsed on the mat and slowly rolled into a sitting position. I smiled and looked at the time.

"All done, girl. Good job today."

She nodded and wiped her face with a towel.

"Did I tell you my friend got a trainer back in November. She hasn't lost a single pound. What a terrible trainer."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she hasn't lost any weight. She looks exactly the same."

"Diane, a trainer has one hour a week. It may be that her trainer is incompetent, but more likely she has not used the 167 of 168 hours she's on her own the way she should."

My client was silent for a minute.

"Yeah, I guess."

From that day on, I noticed an improvement in my client. It was as if it finally occurred to her that the endgame was the process, not the reward. Paying for a trainer was a good idea, but only if you were willing to put in the time on your own, if only you were willing to be miserable without someone holding your hand. It is ironic that North America, a rich culture more affected by depression and loneliness than any in the world, hasn't figured out that the way to happiness isn't through pleasure, but misery.

*****

Perhaps more than any culture in history, the Western belief structure is built on the ideology that happiness is tied to pleasure. That more is better. These are not anthropological or sociological assumptions, they're marketing visions for multi-national corporations. Promulgated by the "success" of the mega-church movement, this secular ideology is reflected in the church by the "Jesus Happy" movement that dominates the Christian bookstores and media. The wide swath it cuts across the Western landscape is both awesome and destructive. Even a critic can not help but admire the largesse and gall of those authours and speakers who mouth happy stories and miracle living with dentally correct smiles, perfectly parted powder white hair, and thin, blonde women who sit beside them nodding in agreement. There is no talk of misery. Or sadness. At least, not without an "upper" story to follow. (Redemption, God's Grace, New Ministry, etc...) It is the perfect storm of a child's ideals, happy endings, cool new stuff, condescending simplicity to opposing viewpoints, and reaffirmed uniqueness of the individual.

It does leave a few questions though, like what happens when I'm miserable? How can we be positive and "joy, joy, joy-ing" when we've just suffered a death or lost our job or watched a family member self-destruct? Those are the moments that reveal the "Jesus happy" movement to be completely in touch with consumer society, and completely irrelevant to humanity.

The key to contentment is not pleasure or bright smiles or shiny cars or the latest six step formula from pseudo theologians like Bruce Wilkinson (The Prayer of Jabez). The true source of contentment… is misery.

****

I found a table near the outlet in the far corner of the café and set up my laptop, a 1996 model that weighed more than a small car. A long piece of tape was wrapped around the side that kept the CD drive from popping out. I glanced at the other shiny laptops in the vicinity, most of which were sleek silver things that looked like something out of the latest science fiction movie and glanced at my own, which would have looked new in the original Star Trek series. I shook myself for being so self-conscious and grumbled inwardly at my self-pity. I hadn't felt like coming in tonight, but it was time to write. I'd spent the morning working on my novel, and after working out and spending some time doing work for my clients in the afternoon, it was time to write again. I didn't want to write, and knew I was being petulant about it, which only made me feel like more of an idiot.

By the time I grabbed my coffee, my computer had finally come to life. As I bent to my work, the two high school girls in front of me started arguing. The one, a stout, long haired girl, had draped her legs over the arm of one of the big sofa chairs. Her friend, a self-conscious brunette, sat close by, playing with her hair.

"Is it Callie? Does she know?" Said the one in the sofa chair.

"I can't tell you."

"What about their relationship?"

"I can't tell you."

"Does Jillian even know?"

"I can't tell you."

For a full two minutes, the one girl peppered the other with questions, who always answered with the same "I can't tell you." You rarely see that kind of doggedness outside of Bob Woodward or fundamentalism, and even I, in my grumpiness, couldn't help but admire it. Even more surprising was how engaged the girls were every time the one asked a question. "I can't tell you" was delivered each time like it was a new line. Realizing that perhaps it would be a while before any new revelations about Jillian's rocky relationship with her boyfriend would be revealed, I plugged in my MP3 player and turned on some music.

The idea that misery is a good thing is counter to the definition of the word, especially here in North America. In our culture, we tend to define our lives by what we own, the importance of our job relative to the perceived hierarchy and class structure inherent within any society, and the amount of leisure time we are able to incorporate into our schedule. In fact, happiness is most often equated with leisure. Our vacations. Our new purchases. Our time spent doing what we want. The end result is that we try to cram as much leisure and pleasure as we can into our lives. We work hard so that we can relax well. We tolerate the work we do so that we can squeeze joy from those few moments when we live on our own terms, those few minutes or hours or days when we answer to no one save ourselves. After that, it's 'back to the grind'.

And it's all a load of crap.

No wonder the evangelicals teach this constant joy, joy, joy. This idea that to be a Christian is to be bouncy and happy ALL THE TIME. Who wants to merely tolerate the parts of our life that make up the majority of it? To that end, they have the right of it. Unfortunately, it's more like a bandage on a broken leg than a real solution to the real sorrows of life.

The truth is that we will be miserable. That we will experience great sorrow and great tragedy. That we will suffer losses and hurt and mourn and question God's existence and our own. And it's in those times that we need to accept the misery, acknowledge it, and live anyway.

I don't mean paint a false smile on our face and pretend all is well because we're afraid people will think our faith is weak or that we're weak. What we need to do is learn to accept the misery, accept the sorrow, and do what we're supposed to do anyway. I'm convinced a person has not experienced real contentment until they've beat back the forces of misery by pursuing their life goals and dreams without accepting the shallow sentimentality you find in the stores.

In fact, most misery comes not from the sorrows of life, but the self-wrought tragedies orchestrated by our own hands when we fail to do what God has called us to do. Whether that's art or business or charity or writing, when we ignore our own giftings and passions we set ourselves up for a lifetime of misery and drama. We have bought into the 300 billion dollar lie that we should be happy at all times. And so, we refuse to work through the necessary misery of real life because we are afraid to try something different. Afraid to fail. Afraid to succeed. Afraid to offend our parents or family. Afraid that people will not understand us or will forget us. We work very hard to maintain the status quo, and instead of happiness, find that we spend more time congratulating ourselves on how great things are. How joyful we are because of whatever new thing or new idea we discovered the past week.

Real contentment is found when we pursue our passions in the face of misery; when we thumb our noses at a society that keeps trying to sell us shiny new things and tell them that the reward is in the work, not the reward. Most people do not pursue their dreams because they fall short, but because they refuse to embrace the misery necessary to get them where they're supposed to go. Somehow they feel the universe, that God, should grant them a free pass from the Valley of the Shadow simply because they believe the right things or say the right things. Somehow we've forgotten that real growth occurs in the hard parts of our lives.

The problem with North American Christianity is that it has adopted "happiness" as it's 'raison d'etre'. The purpose of our lives is not happiness. We were not created to feel good all the time, no matter what mantra we mumble on our way to work in the morning. The purpose of our lives is to discover the passions unique to each one of us, be it an entrepreneur or a writer or a father or a combination of different things, and do that. The purpose of our lives is not the reward of heaven but the work of our calling.

The older generations have often said that people nowadays do not know how to work, that they spend too much time worrying about silly things. That may be true, but to work for the sake of work, to repeat yourself over and over each day because the job is secure or because you're too afraid to find out what you love or try new things, is just as bad.

The challenge of life is to understand that misery is not only part of it, but that it is a good thing. It helps us figure out who we are. It gives us a mountain to climb and a valley to travel, which, upon completion, gives us an even fuller sense of self.

My prayer this week is that you will see through the shallow nature of 'happy' movements, that you will take time to consider exactly what it is that you love and aim your life towards it, and that you will know the misery that leads not to sadness, but fulfillment.

-Steve

Why Young People Leave the Church

There wasn't a lot of space in the dorm rooms, but five of us had squeezed in, literally draping ourselves over the chairs and across the bed for our break between classes. Textbooks and binders lay scattered haphazardly across the floor. The next class was Greek, and while we all loved our Prof, Brother James, it was spectacularly boring. However, it was something we all had to do to become pastors, so we sucked it up and did what we were taught. During the week, we sang hymns at the beginning of class, went to the optional Monday night worship services, and attended chapel six times. As was often the case, the conversation in the rooms was more interesting than our classes.

"Did you see Heidi today? Man, she looked hot in that skirt."

"She's dating Phil."

"I like in her in those pants, you know, those tight green ones. She's got a great-"

"She is not as hot as Vanessa."

"I heard Vanessa was sleeping with Phil."

A burst of laughter circled the room.

"Phil? Phil's a loser!"

We chatted for a while, until it was time, and with a collective groan picked up our books and headed to class. Walking through the hallway, I felt a surge of solidarity with my classmates. It was nice to be a young male and talk about guy stuff without someone looking over your shoulder and telling you that this was inappropriate and that was inappropriate. Some of the students at Eastern were like that, but we didn't hang around them much. We called those guys the Righteous Brothers. They used the word "Jesus" like my high school football teammates dropped the f-bomb, and they were always saying "praise the Lord."

"How are you doing today?" "Just fine, praise the Lord."

"I'm sorry, I heard about your mother." "She's in heaven, praise the Lord."

"How's it going with that essay?" "Jesus has given me words, praise the Lord."

It was pretty hard to have a conversation with someone who insisted on talking like that, so I left the Righteous Brothers alone, and found a few guys, like me, who just wanted to be regular pastors. Even then, it was pretty exhausting. Most of us were already working in churches in some capacity, and we'd learned the boundaries. Every word and comment to the congregation was filtered through a system of common acceptance. For example, you could say that you struggled with lust, but you couldn't define what that struggle was exactly. You could make jokes about sex, but they had to be shaded so little kids wouldn't understand them and placed within the context of marriage, at which point everyone acted like sex was the greatest thing on earth. Still, if you did joke about sex, the next comment needed to be something serious about missions or people converting or something you discovered in your devotions. You were expected to live a "holy life", just a bit holier than the congregants. That made sense to me, though. If I couldn't live a certain way, I couldn't exactly ask the people I was shepherding to do it.

Rhetoric was encouraged as well. Statements like, "you are the only Jesus some people will ever see", or, "God hates sin but loves the sinner". These phrases were often met with reverence and awe, but even I didn't understand them. Or how to apply them. (If God loves the sinner, shouldn't we have more sinners in church? And am I still a sinner, or am I a different kind of sinner? If I'm the only Jesus some people will see, does that mean God screwed up if they don't see in me what they needed? Does that mean God loves certain people less by giving them a poor example to hear the gospel from?) Mostly we learned to toe the party line. And if you didn't, you were put in your place pretty quickly. Fortunately, I was fine with the rules. The church had given me this exciting mission, had told me how important I was, and I was willing to go through a brick wall to make sure we got it right. There were still moments though; twinges when I'd notice an "unbeliever" downtown and my conversation would change. No talk of sex or women or beer, only the difference Jesus could make in one's life. That seemed right, on the surface at least, because he'd changed my life, hadn't he? It wasn't those times in the dorm rooms that eventually caught up to me, it was the ones with my congregants, the ones with my youth, where I knew I couldn't give them the truth because it wasn't allowed. Where I felt like I'd suddenly joined a political party. That was the reason I left. Unfortunately, it's the reason why so many leave, especially young people.

***

The auditorium was packed. We knew that today was a special chapel service. The senior pastor of the biggest church in the city would be giving a talk, a popular one he'd given before, on alcohol. As Pentecostal Bible College students, we'd all signed forms upon our acceptance that we would not partake of any alcohol, tobacco or unmarried sex, among other things. We'd read the books and heard the lectures, everything from David Wilkerson's "Sipping Saints" to various treatises on holiness. Today, Reverend Patrick would break it down for us theologically why alcohol was wrong. Something we would be able to teach our congregations and youth groups and those we would witness to outside the church.

The students became quiet as we prayed and Pastor Frank stepped up to the podium.

"Did Jesus turn water into wine? Did he turn it into alcoholic wine?" He asked. Pastor Frank was tall and bearded, an ex-cop who'd made the transition into a mega-church pastor. I'd been to his church a few times, and wasn't a huge fan, but he seemed like a nice enough man. Only now I puzzled over the question. Was there another type of wine other than that with alcohol? Did he mean the non-alcoholic stuff we saw in Loblaws?

"In the book 'Bible Wines,' the author, William Patton, discusses four methods that the ancients used for the preservation of grape juice." Pastor Frank said. He told us it was common for people in the first Century to drink grape juice, and that even without refrigeration, you could prevent the drags from fermenting by storing the juice in extreme heat. Judea was a very hot, tropical like climate, he said, and the people often stored a thick concentrate only to add water to it later, like they did now when you bought the concentrate in the stores. The real miracle of Cana, Pastor Frank told us, was that Jesus surpassed or transcended the normal amount of time and the natural process that it takes to produce and harvest grape juice. That, which normally takes months, took Jesus but a moment.

I nodded my head, trying to absorb this new information. It sounded right. Especially when he moved on to the important reasons why there was no possible way Jesus could have turned the water into alcoholic wine.

"Think about it this way. The argument for drinking alcoholic wine goes like this: 'Since Jesus produced alcoholic wine, it is morally right for a person to drink it.' However, notice that their logic takes them further than most of them want to go. Since Jesus produced alcoholic wine (as they claim), then not only would it be morally right to drink it, it would be morally right to produce it, sell it, distribute it, and make a living from it. But since that would most certainly cause someone to stumble, then it must be morally right to cause someone to stumble. However, the logical consequence of their argument would oppose the Lord's teaching, as we find in Luke 17:1-2. No, the reasoning is a foolish argument that has no foundation in scripture."

I'd long since pulled out my notebook and was scrambling furiously to write it all down. This was such good stuff! I finally could give an answer to people about why we didn't drink, and why they needed to make the same commitment. Pastor Frank went on for about forty minutes. He reminded us that God was holy and perfect, and that if Jesus was God, than he could not have produced something so destructive. He reminded us that the Greek word for "wine," implied both alcoholic wine and non-alcoholic wine. (I made a mental note to pay more attention in Greek class.) And then quoted liberally from the Old Testament about the destructive nature of wine. (Absently, I wondered if the Hebrew word for wine also included non-alcoholic wine. I'd have to ask that question later.)

When he'd finished, he got a long round of applause from the student body. I stood, with everyone else, as we clapped our appreciation for all this new information. I was so excited! Finally, I could answer those people who insisted that Jesus had turned the water into wine. I had an answer for them when they told me that even in the passage it stated that usually the best wine was served first – the guests would be too drunk to notice the difference later. The fools, I thought, anything to justify their sinful lifestyle. Wait until they get a load of this!

***

The heat hit me like a hammer as I stepped outside the hospital. The sun was low on the horizon, but the humidity made it feel like a tropical swamp and I flicked my shirt in an effort to cool as I moved to a bench near the entrance. We'd been at the hospital all day. Bethany had not been feeling well, and after eight hours – most of which was spent waiting – we'd learned that she had a bad case of the flu and a minor infection. Both relieved and tired, I sat on the bench and tried to relax. Nearby, a heavy set woman with pale legs and coarse face was lighting a cigarette. Not far from her was a young woman in a tight skirt talking excitedly on her cell. The hospital was never a fun place to spend a great deal of time. Too much sadness. A bit earlier in the day a group of native women had broken out in tears and sobbing behind us in the waiting room when their pastor had informed them of a death in the family. I sighed and sipped the remains of my coffee. In front of me, a man with a long blonde pony tail and light beard walked by. He was wearing a hospital gown and sandals. Jesus in the hands of modern film makers, I thought.

Of course, we all modernized Jesus. Most guilty of it seemed those of us who insisted that we did nothing of the sort. They insisted that we had the original Jesus, that they had all the answers, that the Bible, specifically the New Testament, was not only both the first and last to that equation, but that their interpretation was also correct. It was a lot to assume, and to my eyes, particularly arrogant. I smiled and sipped my coffee. Religion had a funny way of doing that. Sixteen years earlier I would have told you why it was wrong to drink. A year ago I would have defended my position on alcohol. That there was nothing wrong with drinking wine. I would have mentioned that the arguments against 'alcoholic wine' were silly, that no historical records showed anything other than fermented wine, although they did comment on watering it down. I would have gone out of my way to mention that most of these arguments against Jesus turning water into wine referenced an uneducated preacher who wrote a book nearly a hundred and twenty years ago with no historical basis. The people who railed against drinking wine in the church had a sphere of influence, but by and large they were uneducated men. (I offer this paragraph, by Bruce Lackey, a Tennessee preacher who taught this notion that Jesus turned water into grape juice, as an example. When confronted by the Scripture regarding Paul's instruction to take a bit of wine for the stomach when not feeling well, Lackey responded this way: "We do not know what Timothy's specific infirmities were, nor do we know what kind of healing properties there were in grape juice. Maybe Paul was saying that Timothy should not drink the water, since in many parts of the world it is not pure and would cause a healthy person to have trouble from amoebas, etc. One who already had stomach problems would only multiply them by drinking impure water. Paul might have been recommending that Timothy drink grape juice only. In any case, we can be positive that he was not telling him to put alcohol in a bad stomach!")

I could only shake my head at Lackey's "amoebas in the stomach", a statement which would cause much laughter amongst a gathering of first year university science students. What I knew, having spent over fifteen years working with young people, was this: so long as the church, particularly the evangelicals, condoned intellectual dishonesty, young people interested in the truth were going to walk away. For them, as with many of us, it was better to be absent from truth than involved with a lie. At some point, the church needed to stop supplying wrong answers and start asking the right questions. I knew this because I was guilty of it, and as I sipped my coffee, I asked God to forgive me my arrogance.

***

I won't lie. It was absurd to me this notion that a Jewish Rabbi in the first century would turn water into grape juice, but what I realized was that I was still arguing for a Jewish Rabbi for turning water into wine. In other words, I was arguing for the likely preposterousness over the ridiculous preposterousness. I was, in fact, guilty of the silliest of all charges and the reason why faith in God seemed so ridiculous to many people. I was willing to fight with a fundamentalist about Jesus turning water into wine, and arguing for the specifics of the wine. Why not argue the vintage and year? I took another sip of my coffee and watched the sun as it slowly dipped behind the buildings. If only I was so arduous in my pursuit of God's love. If only I was so willing to make the sacrifice of my time when it really mattered, and worry less about the perfect proportions of my religion.

Young people are less worried about doctrine than they are lifestyle. Not piety, but sincerity. They judge us by our patience and love and self-control. This is what they see and mark, and what often makes them better judges than fully realized adults. It is one reason that I have always loved them and appreciated them

I moved from the bench and headed back inside. Recently I looked online, and amazingly, the water into wine argument persisted. When I was young, I would have snarled and defended my non-alcoholic stance. A few years ago, I would have scoffed and laughed at the idea that Jesus turned water into grape juice. Now, the entire debate saddens me. It saddens me that we waste the time and space on such silliness. Thankfully, there are examples in Scripture that people haven't changed, that even in the time of Jesus people worried about silly things. In Corinth, some Christians thought it okay to sleep with their in-laws. In Jerusalem, they worried about their diet. None of this is new or unusual, and so much as it is a very human thing to make big the pillars of unimportance in our lives, our faith can survive human frailty. That said, I still hold out hope that we can see beyond our humanity. Not always or even consistently, but on those rare occasions, when we realize that the thing we believe does not affect who we are or what we love, that we can find in ourselves the spark of God's nobility and love, and act in the manner for which we were designed, with or without wine.

-Steve