Central Abbotsford

Last week, our family had the opportunity to go on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation to Iceland. After enduring the red-eye flight, adjusting the kids (and ourselves) to the seven-hour time difference, and figuring out the local language (okay, we did not completely sort out the difference between an ð and a þ), we ventured into a new country for a week of exploring a part of God’s creation we’d never seen before. 

I am pleased to report that we had a wonderful time. From relaxing in a hot-spring heated stream after a hike, to getting drenched wandering behind a rushing waterfall, to exploring the world’s largest puffin colony in the remote Westman Islands, our days were as full as the nights were short (nothing darker than twilight the whole week). 

This Monday, as we started the second half of our week, we drove Iceland’s Golden Circle, a three-hour driving loop that features the town Geysìr (the one that lends its name to the geographical feature) and the majestic Gullfoss waterfall. The beginning of the Circle, though, and where we started the day off, is Þingvellir (anglicized to Thingvellir) National Park, about a half hour from our vacation home. 

Þingvellir is where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet and rise above ground, creating one of the rare spots in the world where you can walk between the rift created by two such plates. It also is, for all intents and purposes, the birthplace of the nation of Iceland (I couldn’t go on vacation without learning something about the history of the place!).

In Iceland’s early years, its local leaders gathered at Þingvellir to form the Alþing, Iceland’s parliament (and one of the world’s oldest). Late in the 10th century, the king of Norway intensified efforts to Christianize Iceland, whose people predominantly worshipped various Norse pagan gods. When missionary efforts were largely unsuccessful, Norway took a more military position, and Icelandic leaders were faced with a choice: fight or convert.

Well, the Alþing made the decision the only reasonable way they knew how – they delegated the authority for it to a pagan priest, who also happened to be one of the highest-ranking chiefs in the land, and was respected by many. He deliberated for a day and then decided that Iceland was to become Christian. He did, however, carve out three exceptions. First, Icelanders could still eat horse meat (this might seem off-putting today, but not necessarily a moral issue; however, medieval popes had long banned the practice). Second, Icelanders could still commit infanticide (this one’s still a moral issue today). Finally, Icelanders could still worship pagan gods if they wanted to – as long as they did it in private. Otherwise, Jesus was just alright with them.

My first reaction to hearing this story was to laugh at its evident discord. After all, how genuine is a conversion if it is only conditioned on the retention of practices clearly antithetical to the Christian faith? (Okay, maybe the horse one is a bit weird, but you have to consider the context.)

However, as I thought about it more, I came to the realization that there really isn’t that much difference between humans today and those in Iceland in the year 1000. Whether because of an unwillingness to let go of love of the things of the world, or simply sheer pragmatism, all of us have something (sometimes more than one thing) that we hold onto that is at least as contrary to the faith as eating horse meat. Maybe it’s uncontrolled (or barely controlled) greed. Maybe it’s a willingness to give in to lustful temptation. Maybe it’s the need to puff yourself up just a little bit by talking down about another brother or sister in Christ. We all have something we love just enough that the pain of giving it up to follow Christ fully is just too much to bear.

As it happened, on the flight home, I watched the recent film Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Spy, Assassin, which tells a version of the story of the famous German theologian Dietrich Boenhoeffer, culminating in his execution by the Nazis. One of Bonhoeffer’s quotes in his most famous work, The Cost of Discipleship, is “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” The movie, of course, uses this phrase to great dramatic effect in telling the story. While not all of us (Lord willing, none of us) will be called to the death that Bonhoeffer was, all of us are called to die (at a minimum) to the things that we love that draw us away from the love of God (not His love for us, but our love for Him). 

So, the call on each of our lives is sober self-assessment. Take an honest, prayer-soaked look at your life, your loves, your desires, and where they take you away from what God has called you to – devotion to, and enjoyment of, Him. Pray that He, by His Spirit, will cause those parts of you to die. The pain of this death will sting. Losing a love always does (even if it is a thing not worthy of love). Still, if you desire to honour and love the Lord your God with all your mind, heart, soul, and strength, the pain will be more than worth it.

And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.

– Galatians 5:24

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