On True Sacrifice

Over the past few days, I've been engaged in several discussions with theists on the subject of Easter and the story of Jesus' sacrifice which, as most would argue, was the most significant event in the history of Christianity (notwithstanding the fact that the Gospels make a holy mess of corroborating the details surrounding the event). Unlike Christmas, the other big Christian celebration, Easter tends to be decidedly more sombre, as well as generally less commercialized, and is usually treated as a time of quiet reflection as opposed to joyous celebration (notwithstanding the fact that Jamaica Carnival - a hit with local Christians - actually occurs around this time). But just like Christmas, any attempt at interrogating the tenets on which the holy day was founded tend to be met reactions which range from dismissal to outright rage. Such was my experience when I questioned the authenticity of Jesus' alleged "sacrifice."

Incidentally, what sparked my online discussions was a question from a Christian, one not uncommon around this time of year - "Why did Jesus have to die?" A simple and honest question, one which I imagine any well thinking Christian would've asked upon first introduction to the horrific and macabre episode which is the crucifixion. As the Bible shows, Jesus' sacrifice follows a long line of blood sacrifice practised in Hebrew mythology for atonement from sin - whenever you incurred the wrath of the Hebrew god Yahweh, an animal (or humans a few times apparently) had to be sacrificed to appease his anger. In Christian mythology, Jesus represents the last sacrifice; a pure "lamb" lead to the slaughter for the remission of the sins of all mankind, everywhere, forever more. The whole foundation of Christianity is hinged on this death - asking why it had to happen cuts right through to core of the belief system. The answers tend to be well rehearsed platitudes regurgitated from Sunday school lessons - "he did it because he loves us so much", "there can be no forgiveness without the shedding of blood", "sin is so awful that a life had to be sacrificed on our behalf" and so on ad infinitum. From where I stand however, no sacrifice took place.

Assuming we are using the standard definition of sacrifice - which is to give something up to gain something else - what exactly did Jesus lose? We know it was not his life. The story indicates that Jesus went into his own crucifixion knowing full well that he would "die" on Friday evening but be up and about in time for Sunday brunch. Additionally, if we accept Catholic dogma, there was no break in the continuity of his life - he went from the cross, to the underworld to preach up a storm, back up to the surface to say goodbye, then flew off into heaven. So, technically speaking, Jesus did not sacrifice his life - he appears to have sacrificed a couple days on planet earth. And, how genuine could such a sacrifice be anyway when you are fully aware, without a shred of doubt, that what you lament about giving up will be returned to you after two sundowns. You cannot claim to have sacrificed a thing, but yet it still remains firmly in your possession. Jesus gave nothing up.

So why then did Jesus have to die? My alternate explanation is that this is just how the most enduring hero epics are written - the hero dies a martyr. What better way to accomplish the following:

1. Adding instant credibility (if not outright vindication) to your cause - your life, after all, is no easy thing to gamble with. A hero however sacrifices their life since the cause is more valuable than the life of any one person, including the hero. 
2. If there was any doubt among followers about the authenticity of the hero, martyrdom removes it. 
3. Related to the point above, followers are now imbued with the necessary confidence and certitude to carry the cause through to completion. Indeed, many heroes have accomplished more by their death than they could've ever accomplished in ten life times. 

Who could deny the appeal of such a story? Which believer would not be stirred to action by such a brave act? The "Passion" story, like several other hero epics before it, all follow the same general melodramatic template - a tumultuous adventure filled with conflict and strife, culminates in a climatic finale where the hero of the story must forfeit their life for the greater good of the cause.  It is literary gold, even if historically it never actually happened. Such appears to be the case with the Easter story - a sacrifice which never was, for a cause which, at present, seems to be in decline. 

Cool Dude. 

Coming Out… “Ole’Eathen!” by Sharon Smith, guest blogger

My Mom was a believer, she believed in the love of god and that he was everywhere.  She didn’t get too caught up in the dogma of the different denominations.  She was content to attend which ever church was closest or convenient regardless of denomination.  So I was well schooled in Christianity, in all its forms, before I hit puberty!

Mommy grew up catholic and raised my brother and I as such when we were young.  I remember going to classes (catechism lessons), rehearsals and what I remember most was the frock… so many frills and oh even my underwear had frills!  Then there were the white shoes and socks, again with the frills!  Eeew! I felt like the doll my brother and I used as target practice while honing our bingy skills (aka sling shot, similar to what David used to slay Goliath).  When the First Communion Day came I put on the dress, scratching and nervous but excited!  I was going to receive the body of Christ and with any luck get some of that wine too!!!  I can totally understand the vampire culture… I was excited about drinking the blood/wine or maybe I was a boozer at seven!  Hmmm?

Later when we moved to Mona, some friendly Jehovah Witnesses came knocking and soon we were off to the Kingdom Hall on Trafalgar Road.  Somehow the street walking and lack of a Christmas celebrations got to my Mom (she loved Carols) or perhaps it was just that during the street walking she came across the Mona Church of Christ worshipping at the old Mona Theatre… just walking distance from our home.  This one was non-denominational and by my tenth birthday I had been baptized in another white dress sans frills!  This meant that I went to church not only on Sundays but Wednesdays for Bible Study and Fridays for Youth Choir.

It was somewhat of a relief to move to Barbican, with no churches within walking distance and somewhat secularist neighbours (you’ll come to appreciate this shortly).  Soon our visits to Church of Christ grew fewer and fewer and we became like many normal families who attended church at Christmas and Easter.  That did not last very long as my Father retired from the Police Force and before I had time to hit puberty I was going to classes again to be confirmed Methodist.  

My Dad had always been a Methodist and really didn’t share my Mom’s sophisticated attitude towards other denominations.  He was, while he was working, a consistent once a year visitor to Saxthorpe Methodist Church.  Now that my Dad was retired he decided to become a Local Preacher in the Western St. Andrew Circuit with Red Hills Methodist Church as our home church.  By then we had moved to Forest Hills, and I had no idea how much my life would change.  It was really great to move across the street from St. Hugh’s sisters, one of whom was in a few of my classes but their Dad was one of the Deeper Life Ministries Leader and my Mom experimented with the Charismatic Movement at the same time that my Dad was doing his Local Preacher thingy.

What this meant for me was I would go to Stephanie Hall (Holy Childhood) every Saturday with my Mom and neighbours for Deeper Life Ministries’ all-day activities.  Soon I was singing, rhythmic clapping, beating tambourine and drums, dancing and signing (yes sign language chile, there were some deaf members) but remained in awe of those who would/could speak in tongues, prophesy and slay in the spirit (or as we would chuckle in the back… drop like ripe breadfruit!)  Not to be outdone, my Dad would drag me off to at least three different Churches one Sunday a month (Red Hills, Sterling Castle and Rock Hall) in the Circuit where I would read the same scripture during each of the services and listen to my father’s sermon over and over again.  

On the other Sundays we worshipped at Red Hills, then we did the Church books after the service. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse for me, my Dad took on the responsibility of ministering to “shut-ins” or elderly folks who could no longer come to church.  That meant that those Sundays when he would preach, we would leave home at 8:30 am and return after dark because in addition to three services we had to make home visits.  Those who were missed on Sunday had a mid-week visit.  These home visits were particularly taxing, as it was a two or if my Mom joined us, three person recreation of Sunday service.  Not only did I have to read the scripture but I would have to sing or play some musical instrument depending on the season.  I would play either the recorder or pianica, thankfully I could not blow and sing at the same time nor did we have a keyboard to cart around.  When my Dad suggested I learn to play the accordion, I truly felt victimized!  Did I mention my Dad repeated shortened versions of his sermon in the homes too?  This had to be child abuse!   

Eventually I started bringing some of the Charismatic moves into the Methodist Church, they were not welcomed by most, not even the tambourine or rhythmic clapping, go figure!  My spirited attempts to stay awake caught the eye of one of the mature youth leaders.  We became fast friends to the delight of my Dad, as her Mom was a well-respected Local Preacher.  She had a car and shared my love for Manning Cup and Champs so I helped her with the youth program, organizing skits, lively songs with modest clapping even some drumming and dances while also generally recruiting support from teenagers in the area… one of these teens “mek mi kin ketch a fya!”   It was not so tortuous going to Church three or four times a week anymore, except for the Sunday’s when my Dad would preach, it was actually fun! 

In sixth form when we were introduced to Comparative religion, I became exceedingly curious about other religions and had the perfect opportunity because one of my best friends is Hindu so I would attend the Diwali Festival to support her and her younger sister and would overwhelm them and their parents with all kinds of questions about their beliefs and practices.  In my afro-Jamaican consciousness period I became very aware of obeah, I continue even today to speak of paying the obeah man (for it is never good to owe yu obeah man), ‘nointing wid de oil an generally call on de spirit of our ancestors during sporting events in particular… watch out fe World Cup! 

This fascination with religions and culture was turbo charged when I moved to New York where I cultivated my love of all things cross-cultural and was provided with the tools to become a participant observer through my doctoral studies.  Not to mention that the doctoral program and the faculty who taught us were so diverse.  So I sampled Islam, Reform Judaism and Buddhism (a non-theistic religion) and dragged my Mom to partake as well.  She remained curious but never quite comfortable with these other religions.  I took from each experience of these religions and culture something that informs my life even today.  From Islam, the notion of jihad as a struggle against injustice, I use it in my approach to gender and racial equality.  From Reform Judaism, I take the skepticism, they question everything and apply reason and logic to it all.  Reform Jews are very tolerant of differences and also have a long history of support for LGBT and reproductive rights, I embraced that too.  From the Buddhists, I learned to meditate and practice yoga and often still refer to karma, though not quite the same way that they do. 

My Mom encouraged my participation and was always welcoming to all my friends from school whatever their orientation, race or religion.  When she died I had an interfaith service to celebrate her life which pissed off my Christian family!  My cousin especially who “forbid me” from distributing keepsakes with a beautiful quotation from Thich Nhat Hanh’s “No Death, No Fear,”  did I mention my younger son also recited it during the service.  Then dear old Dad, who could not believe that I had my “multi-national friends” read from Bhagavad Gita, Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet,” in addition to the Bible but no sermon and the service was not in a Methodist Church!  There was lots of singing, musical tributes – piano and flute, dance and even some drumming… my Mom would have loved it!  I sure did!

This feud gave me the courage to “come out” as an agnostic atheist… I don’t believe that god exists because I have not seen evidence nor do I believe it is likely knowable… or as my family refers to me “ole ‘eathen!”  What a relief to be out of the closet… frees up my time for so many other pursuits, like Air Me Now, Yardie Skeptics and activism!

[Sharon, an "ole heathen",  feminist skeptic, and proud Swan (alumnus of St. Hugh's High School) is a Jamaican resident in the USA, and the recent recipient of a Yardie Skeptic honour: permanent dedication of Singing Sandra's "Die With My Dignity": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egi0ahIti4E]  Sharon is also a regular panelist on our all-woman show Air Me Now, which will be launch its second season on May 8, 2014]