A Christian pacifist in the American Empire, Part 1: Embedded theology

Ted Grimsrud—September 13, 2023

At this stage in my life, retired but still trying to be productive with my research and writing, I find myself wanting to narrow my interests. I hope to find a level of focus that will enable me to reduce distractions and zero in on doing what I have left to do. The big theme that has my attention is trying better to understand why our world and, especially, the nation I live in are in such dire straits. I know that no matter how focused I might be enabled to be, this theme will be beyond me. But I hope that by putting my best energy into such a project I might be able to make at least a little progress.

So, I was happy to be invited to make a presentation on September 11, 2023, to the monthly meeting of the Anabaptist Center for Religion and Society at Eastern Mennonite University. I decided to share what I call a “theological memoir” that, I think, sets a personal context for my “Why is America in such dire straits?” project. By “theological memoir,” I mean reflections on what I believe are some of my important theological convictions in the context of the elements of my life that brought them forth.

I have divided the reflections I shared into three posts. This one is the first, and I will call it “Embedded theology.” It has to do with the context in which I grew up, both my family and my homeland in rural America, and what I inherited theologically. By “theology” I have in mind a sense of what matters the most, what rests at the top of our hierarchy of values. Certainly, our sense of “God” is theological, but even if we don’t self-consciously affirm God’s existence, we still have some kind of theology. All of us have a hierarchy of values, convictions about what matters the most, about what core beliefs shape our lives.

The second, “Jesus’s gospel of peace,” has to do with the transformation that happened in my theology in the mid-1970s. This was when some of the key elements of my embedded theology became crystalized, and I embraced them as a consequence of my encounter with Jesus and peace theology. I at that point came to an understanding of “peace” that I still have: Peace as having to do with the wholeness, with the health, with the wellbeing of the global community. This wholeness means the health and wellbeing of all creatures within the global community and of each sub-community. Such a sense of wholeness requires being attentive especially to the vulnerable and marginalized members of the community. It also requires a recognition that a peaceful outcome requires peaceful means at all stages—that is, violence, especially warfare, is not compatible with health and wholeness. The inspiration for my understanding of peace comes from the Bible, especially the biblical concept of “shalom.”

Then, third, I will touch on my political journey as a pastor and theology professor. I call that post, “The American Empire without blinders.” By the term “empire,” I have in mind a general sense of the United States as a superpower whose influence and engagement encompass a great deal of the world. I am not using “empire” in a particularly technical sense, but more in an everyday, general sensibility kind of way. By “American Empire,” I mainly mean, “America’s role as a dominant power far outside of its own boundaries.”

So, what was my embedded theology?

I was born in Eugene, Oregon, in 1954 and spent my first 18 years in the tiny town of Elkton, Oregon, about 60 miles southwest of Eugene. It was not exactly an intellectual hot bed—nor a Christian hot bed. I had a great time growing up, but in many ways, I was kind of on my own. My parents were outsiders—they went to Elkton as schoolteachers. They stayed there a long time, but didn’t put down roots and when they retired, they moved away. To illustrate my sense of being solitary: I had four sisters, no brothers. I was the only one in my class who loved to read. And I was an Oregon Duck fan surrounded by friends who rooted for Oregon State.

I think of what I call “embedded theology” as the beliefs about God and meaning and life and what matters the most that we absorb in our early years of life. These are the language we speak, the biases we take on before we even know what a bias is, the familial and cultural air we breathe as we grow up. A lot of unspoken perceptions and convictions. My own childhood embedded theology was especially unspoken. I received little overt direction from my parents. I’d say a key element of my embedded theology was simply, “think for yourself, decide for yourself, and do what you decide to do.” Certainly, there were plenty of important values that were lived in my family, if not overtly preached—honesty, kindness, simple living, how to get along with others. We rarely went to church, none of my friends did either. So, the embedded theology was not overtly theological.

There was another set of embedded theological convictions that were important. We simply assumed that we were proud and loyal Americans. My parents didn’t talk about this, but we all knew they were both World War II veterans. My mom was a recruiter in the Army, and my dad fought for several years in the South Pacific. He never talked about it. But he had no doubts about the value of what he had done. Only once did he encourage me to consider going into the military. When I was 17, he gave me a push toward applying to a military academy but dropped it when I said I wasn’t interested—part of his “decide for yourself” style.

The other source for my patriotic embedded theology was simply my culture. My childhood actually was notable for not having many direct pro-military influences—no nearby military bases or weapons manufacturers. And we were isolated in that time and place—no cable TV, only a few AM radio stations, no internet, no pre-recorded movies. So, we were not inundated with war imagery or propaganda. But it was in the air. And this is crucial to my experience as a Christian pacifist in the American Empire. I was subtly but persistently socialized to be a loyal patriot. Probably more than anything that meant to affirm the wars of America and military spending. For this positive disposition to war I use the term “warism.”

Unquestioned assumptions about war

I was socialized not to question the warism. My parents did not question the call they answered during World War II. One of my uncles had also answered the call, served as a fighter pilot, and lost his life in conflict in Greece in 1947. I’ll say a bit more about this later, but when I was a kid all I knew was that he died doing his patriotic duty. There were not a lot of glorifications of war and the military, but everyone affirmed the American way of a strong military and necessary interventions—again, as an unquestioned given.

We kids played games about war a lot. I still remember the cry, “bombs over Tokyo,” amidst our fun. I learned by heart the popular hit, “The Ballad of the Green Berets” and would sing it with my friends at school. I still know the words though I haven’t heard the song for over 50 years. My big thought now in relation to all this is how pervasive and unquestioning it was. It was simply part of our identity—American patriots and war-affirmers. I have settled on a term for that mentality: “the blank check.” We give the state a blank check when it calls during wartime. The military draft was in play during my growing up years. I had never heard of anything like conscientious objection and certainly could not imagine anything such as draft resistance. I knew when my dad spoke to me about the military academies that I didn’t want to do that—but I definitely accepted that I would go into the military if I were drafted.

It is actually interesting that no one that I knew of in Elkton would question being drafted. Because it turns out this tiny, isolated town actually had brushed up against conscientious objection before. Just across the river from town, one of the major Quaker camps for COs to perform alternative service in the Civilian Public Service program during World War II had operated from 1942 to 1946. By the time I came along, though, memory of this camp had vanished. There was not even any physical evidence left of its existence.

Christian faith and continued warism

A key event in my life shortly after my 17^th birthday opened the door for a big change in my sensibilities regarding war and the American Empire—I became a Christian. However, at first the impact of this decision actually strengthened my acceptance of the blank check. Right after my conversion, I became immersed in the life of a local Baptist congregation. I was welcomed with a lot of love toward me personally, and that love helped strengthen my faith. However, I was also taught what I in time came to see to be a deeply problematic theology.

We were “Bible Baptists,” but I learned virtually nothing of what the Bible might say about going to war or not. The main message I got from the pastor was how God blessed his own war experience in the US Navy and how God blessed the American nation. With the Vietnam War, the possibility of going to war was in the air. I did want to stay out of the military, but I thought that would just come down to luck since I had no reason not to go if drafted. I never expected my new church and my new faith to offer any guidance beyond simple acceptance of whatever the state decided about my life. And it didn’t—for the next several years.

As it turned out, I was spared. I was just young enough to miss out. I registered for the draft when I turned 18. However, the next year when I turned 19 and could have been liable to being called up, the draft ended. I went away to college, which put me around some anti-war ferment for the first time, but I remained mostly oblivious to it. At that point, my Christian faith told me to give the US government a blank check concerning war and the American Empire.

Perhaps the first important movement toward a change in my perspective started when I learned to know some returning Vietnam War vets the summer after my second year in college. I played softball on a team made up mostly of returning vets. And I worked closely in a small logging operation with another returning vet. What I heard was distressing. And what I saw. All of these guys were obviously showing negative effects of their war experience, PTSD, I suppose—heavy drinking, emotional instability, lives seeming just a bit out of control. And they told distressing stories of things they had seen and even things they had done. And none of them seemed at all supportive of the war itself. That made me start to wonder.

Part 2 of this three part blog series, “A Christian pacifist in the American Empire,” will tell the story of my change in perspective.

Part two: Jesus’s gospel of peace//Part three: The American Empire without blinders

More Theological Memoirs blog posts