The Church at War

As I Was Saying is a forum for a variety of perspectives to foster faith-related conversations among our readers with the goal of mutual learning, even in disagreement. Apart from articles written by editorial staff, these perspectives do not necessarily reflect the views of The Banner.

Eighty years ago, as a little boy, I experienced the sadness and the sin of a church split.

It was 1944, and World War II raged. I wanted the fighting to stop. I wanted Holland to be free again. I needed a world where people got along, where no one needed to be afraid anymore.

But now the church was at war.

No guns were used. The Bible was used for words to shout at each other, to prove right and wrong, to condemn, to call each other nasty names. In this way, the Bible was used as a gun.

My dad’s elder meetings lasted until midnight. He wrote letters to theologians late into the night. I noticed the deepening lines on his forehead and the weary look in his eyes. It was because the Synod of the Gereformeerde Kerk decided to make an interpretation of infant baptism (presumed regeneration) confessional. Officebearers who disagreed would be immediately released—and that included our pastor and my dad, who had been serving as a leading elder.

The Sunday morning after synod’s decision found me staring through the window at the people passing by. I knew those people. Some were our neighbors. One was my best friend. All were heading for our church, which was no longer our church.

Instead, our family and some other dissidents were gathered in the town’s pub for worship. As I watched the people through the window, I felt deep shame. I heard some boys chant, “Har, har, har—they go from church to bar.”

My dad said it happened because synod forced everybody to accept a belief about baptism that wasn’t biblical. But I didn’t understand it. I think a lot of people didn’t.

And I didn’t understand why Christian people threatened by a terrible war were now threatening each other and taking each other to court over church property. I didn’t understand why as kids we couldn’t spend time with our friends anymore, why my dad’s business lost so many customers, why a lot of people didn’t talk to us anymore. I didn’t understand how any of this was possible among people who believed in a God of love, who listened to the Ten Commandments every Sunday, who sang the Psalms together, who prayed together for a new heart, who were supposed to love God and each other.

The world became more confusing, more frightening to a 10-year-old in the pub that Sunday. The war and hate had entered the church and were tearing it apart. They were tearing couples in love apart (including my sister) and were tearing families apart.

I felt betrayed, and for a long time I found it hard to pray. For a long time, church was not God’s house anymore.

A New Home

The Christian Reformed Church became my restoration when we joined a congregation in Lynden, Wash., as newly arrived immigrants in 1948. In fact, I think I can rightly say 
that it became my spiritual mother.

I became an avid catechism student, a participating Boys Society member, a church usher, eventually a Young People’s Society president, a song leader, and—as years went by and we joined Neland Avenue CRC—a catechism teacher, an elder, a CRC college teacher, and a CRC synod delegate and officer. The CRC was my home, my identity, and I loved her as a son loves his mother.

The son now experiences the pain of his mother’s rejection. The CRC can no longer be my home. It has put up a sign that hurts to look at: “You are not welcome here.”

But I feel blessed that, in contrast to my childhood experience, the sign in the church building that has been my place of worship and service for more than 60 years now features a different message: “All are welcome in this place.”

I feel blessed on a Sunday morning when I am surrounded by a growing number of spiritual brothers and sisters who lift their voices in professing their faith in the Father of heaven and Earth who sent his Son to tell us and show us that we are loved—every one of us.

*This article was first published in a Neland Avenue CRC church newsletter. It was adapted in part from the narrative in the author’s memoir, A Life Examined, which is available in the Neland Avenue CRC church library.