...when we get to the point where the teachings of Jesus himself are seen as subversive to us, then we're in a crisis.

– Russell Moore, editor of Christianity Today

Dr Moore's alarm that modern 'evangelicals' (I'm sure they know what they mean by this word but I don't) refuse to play the game by pretending to follow the teachings of Jesus – instead opting to, in the words of the young folk, 'say the quiet part out loud' – has been a talking point recently. After all, Christianity Today is an influential publication, I guess. I used to read it when I was at university. I remember when they interviewed Cornelius van Til. The no-nonsense Dutchman interpreted Anselm of Canterbury's ontological proof thus: you either believe it or you don't, so there. Unfortunately, a whole lot of people in pews on Sunday don't believe it, not really. They think their neighbours do, and they're pretending.

What upset Dr Moore was that more than one pastor told him that they'd had the same disquieting experience.

Well, it was the result of having multiple pastors tell me essentially the same story about quoting the Sermon on the Mount parenthetically in their preaching – turn the other cheek – to have someone come up after and to say, where did you get those liberal talking points? And what was alarming to me is that in most of these scenarios, when the pastor would say, I'm literally quoting Jesus Christ, the response would not be, I apologize. The response would be, yes, but that doesn't work anymore. That's weak.

Note that what upset the theologian and 'ethicist' was not that people who go to church don't live by the teachings of Jesus. That's nothing new. Nor that they don't even try to. Also, not new. It's the fact that they openly scorn those teachings.

This sort of thing is alarming to 'moderate' Christians. You know, the ones who go along to get along and hope God won't notice that they're trying to give everyone their due but if the truth were told Caesar's been double-dipping. You know what I'm talking about: the teachings of that radical hippie everybody pretends to follow don't sit too well with the success-oriented. A lot of them are coming out and saying so.

Somehow this reminded me of Reverend Levin, the Jewish Baptist revival preacher. And why my friend Rob almost fell off the front pew of a Baptist church, which was a weird place for him to be to start with. Thereby hangs a tale.

Rob was a good Catholic from St Eulalia, or thereabouts. The small towns of northwest Pennsylvania abound with the descendants of Bavarian Catholics. Places like Fryburg and St Mary's provide surprise old-world charm, hidden among the Scots Presbyterians like that. Like many US Catholics of his generation, Rob had grown up with a genteel approach to religious tolerance: yes, we know they're all wrong and going to hell. But we're too polite to mention it.

However, this was the early 70s, the tail end of the 60s, if you will, and there were such things as Jesus Freaks. There was also a strong Catholic Charismatic movement. Catholic Charismatics were very radical: they liked to meet in church basements, sit on the floor, and sing along to acoustic guitar. They knew way too many verses of 'Michael, Row the Boat Ashore'.

Maria von Trapp (yes, that Maria von Trapp) was an enthusiastic member of this movement.

Sometimes the Catholic Charismatics even deigned to join the rest of the Jesus Freaks over at the Presbyterian church on Wednesday nights. Where the otherwise staid mainstream Protestants met in the basement, sat on the floor, and sang along to acoustic guitar. They didn't sing 'Michael, Row the Boat Ashore', though: the Protestants couldn't figure out what Michael and his boat had to do with anything.

I had a somewhat broader perspective, having grown up in a church that taught religious history. Growing up, I had also experienced more or less the full spectrum of Appalachian religious expression. My relatives were theologically eclectic, ranging from Primitive Baptists to Seventh-Day Adventists to, heaven help us, Jehovah's Witnesses. One cousin horrified me by becoming a Mormon and moving west.

I'd seen most of it except snake-handling. To my vast relief, none of my kinfolk had ever had dealings with snakes – at least not for religious purposes. My grandmother took a hoe into the garden in case of copperheads. She did not intend to pray over them, other than to exclaim, 'Oh, Lord!' before cutting their heads off.

On the particular occasion in question, I'd got a call from the Baptists out in the Pittsburgh suburbs. Their organist was out sick: could I play for a revival service that night if somebody drove into town to pick me up? I could. Overhearing, Rob was interested. Could he go with me? Why, sure, I said. The more, the merrier. So off we went.

I played, we sang stuff like 'Revive Us Again'.

Hallelujah, thine the glory,

Hallelujah, amen...

I sat down on the front pew – I had to be ready to play again for the altar call. Rob sat beside me, taking it all in. I'd warned him that the front pew was conspicuous and he had to behave – but he was afraid to be alone amongst all these heretics, so there he sat, as exposed as I was to whatever surprises the guest speaker had in store.

Brother Levin was a Baptist preacher. But he came from a Jewish background. His approach was to inform the congregation that, having started from a grounding in Torah, he understood things about the Bible that Baptists tended to take for granted. He, Brother Levin, intended to challenge them to study harder. Frankly, he was a bit belligerent about it. The congregation listened politely as he harangued them about their supposed ignorance.

'Y'all think Moses was a wimp!' he thundered.

Rob shot a puzzled look in my direction. I shrugged slightly. I had never heard anyone allege any wimpiness on the part of Moses. As far as I knew, most Baptists probably thought of Moses as looking something like Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments. This was a sore point with me. One of my earliest cinema experiences had been viewing the Parting of the Red Sea from the back seat of a '57 Chevy. For some reason I was convinced that, whatever Moses looked like, it wasn't Charlton Heston. I was also annoyed at finding Edward G Robinson in that movie. I kept expecting him to pull a gat on Pharaoh.

Back to the sermon. 'Moses was no wimp!' asserted the preacher. 'Moses was a tough guy!'

Another glance from Rob, seeking reassurance. Was this how it was supposed to go? I shook my head.

'Moses was tougher than Genghis Khan!'

I refused to look in Rob's direction.

'He was tougher than Attila the Hun!'

I disguised my reaction as a cough, still refusing to look at Rob.

'HE WAS TOUGHER THAN GUNGA DIN!'

I grabbed Rob's arm just in time to prevent his sliding to the floor. 'Shh!' I hissed.

Somehow we made it the rest of the way. I played 'Shall We Gather at the River?' and we made it out of there more or less intact.

Back at the dorm, Rob thanked me for an enlightening evening. I later heard his account of the experience second-hand from Elektra, who was still laughing.

I don't know how wimpy Moses was or, I suspect, wasn't. Or how he would have reacted to being compared to Gunga Din. I do know this: the goal of the exercise is to follow the teachings of Jesus. And they are subversive. They subvert the notion that the purpose of life is to die with the most toys and to enrich yourself at the expense of your neighbour. The purpose of life, according to Jesus, is to become fit to live in the kingdom of God.

Oh, and you can do that whether you play acoustic guitar or not. It doesn't matter how many verses of 'Michael, Row the Boat' you know. But once you realise that loving your neighbour is a radical idea, you've made a start.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

28.08.23 Front Page

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