Tag: philosophy

  • Why I’m Writing Holy Wars

    Why I’m Writing Holy Wars

    Graduation Day, June 21 2006 at the University of Toronto. Noah and I sitting outside Convocation Hall with University College in the background.
    Graduation Day, June 21 2006 at the University of Toronto. Noah and I sitting outside Convocation Hall with University College in the background. At the time, I thought I was finishing a chapter of my life. Looking back now, I realize I was only writing the first page.

    Every writer eventually gets asked the same question:

    “Why are you writing this?”

    Over the last few weeks, a few people have asked me why I’m so interested in the Crusades, religious conflict, and Christian history. On the surface, it probably seems like an odd direction for someone who spends his days working in cybersecurity and his evenings writing about technology, AI, Dungeons & Dragons, and speculative fiction.

    It’s a fair question.

    The short answer is that Holy Wars has been quietly taking shape in my mind for more than twenty years.

    The longer answer is much more interesting.

    This isn’t simply a story about medieval Europe, knights, or the Crusades. It isn’t an attempt to defend Christianity, nor is it an attempt to attack it. It’s the culmination of a lifelong fascination with one question:

    Why do people believe what they believe?

    That question has shaped nearly every major decision in my adult life. It led me back to university. It influenced my career, my reading, and my writing. It challenged assumptions I had held since childhood. And ultimately, it became the foundation for Holy Wars.

    “Holy Wars isn’t the story of what I believe. It’s the story of why I’ve spent more than twenty years asking why people believe what they do.”

    It Started With Questions

    I grew up attending an Alliance church.

    Like many kids, Sunday mornings meant church services, Sunday school, and Bible stories. Faith was simply part of life.

    Then I became a teenager.

    Sports, friends, work, and life gradually replaced church attendance. I didn’t reject Christianity; I simply drifted away from it. By the time I entered my twenties, I wasn’t spending much time thinking about religion at all.

    That changed when I became engaged.

    I was marrying into a deeply Christian family, and for the first time I realized that inherited beliefs weren’t enough anymore. If I was going to build a life with someone whose faith was central to who they were, I owed it to myself—and to her—to understand what I actually believed.

    Not what my parents believed.

    Not what my church believed.

    Not what my friends believed.

    What I believed.

    And perhaps more importantly…

    Why?

    Choosing Questions Over Certainty

    Around that same time, I decided to return to school.

    I already had a college diploma and had spent several years working full-time in information technology, but I wanted to earn a university degree. After looking through the programs offered by the University of Toronto, one combination immediately captured my attention: Philosophy and Religious Studies.

    When I mentioned the idea to my pastor, he offered some well-intentioned advice.

    He told me not to do it.

    His concern was that studying philosophy and religion academically would destroy my faith.

    I understood where he was coming from. Universities have a reputation—fairly or unfairly—for encouraging students to question everything. From his perspective, that represented a spiritual risk.

    I appreciated his concern.

    Then I enrolled anyway.

    Looking back, I’m glad I did.

    Did university ruin my faith? No. It challenged it. It refined it. And perhaps most importantly, it taught me that beliefs worth holding should be strong enough to withstand honest questions.

    One of the things I’ve realized about myself over the years is that I can’t simply accept ideas because someone tells me they’re true. I need to understand them. I need to know where they came from. I need to see the historical evidence, hear competing viewpoints, and wrestle with difficult questions before I’m comfortable reaching a conclusion.

    That curiosity has served me well throughout my career in cybersecurity, and it served me equally well in the classroom.

    I left university with far more questions than answers.

    I also left with something much more valuable: the tools to ask better questions.

    Four Years That Changed Everything

    My undergraduate years at the University of Toronto remain some of the most intellectually rewarding years of my life.

    They were also among the busiest.

    Throughout my degree I continued working full-time.

    During my final year, life became almost absurdly busy. I was two years into my marriage. My son Noah had just been born. I was working a full-time job while carrying a full-time course load.

    Todd studying in 4th year university with a newborn in the house.
    Todd studying in 4th year university with a newborn in the house.

    Looking back now, I’m honestly not sure how I managed it.

    There wasn’t much free time.

    There were a lot of late nights.

    There was a constant balancing act between work, family, and school.

    But somehow, one assignment at a time, I made it through.

    When things became overwhelming, I found myself drawing on lessons I had learned years earlier through martial arts. In my early twenties, I earned black belts in karate, taekwondo, and jiu-jitsu. Beyond the physical training, martial arts taught me discipline, perseverance, and how to dig deep when every part of me wanted to quit. More importantly, it taught me to finish what I started.

    That mindset carried me through university just as much as any study habit ever did.

    More importantly, those years reinforced that learning wasn’t simply something I enjoyed—it was part of who I was.

    The Course That Started Holy Wars

    One opportunity during my fourth year changed the trajectory of my thinking forever.

    I was fortunate enough to complete a full-year independent study under the supervision of one of my professors. Rather than following a standard curriculum, I was able to design an entire year’s worth of research around a single topic of my choosing.

    I chose Christianity, Pacifism, and Just War Theory.

    Together, my professor and I built a curriculum that traced Christian thought on violence from the ministry of Jesus through the Roman Empire, Constantine, Augustine, the Crusades, the Reformation, and into the modern world.

    For an entire academic year, I immersed myself in one question:

    How did a religion founded by a man who taught his followers to love their enemies become intertwined with armies, kingdoms, crusades, revolutions, and wars?

    The deeper I dug, the more fascinating the story became.

    Nothing was as simple as I expected.

    History rarely is.

    The people involved weren’t cartoon heroes or villains. They were complex individuals making decisions inside political systems, cultural pressures, and historical moments very different from our own.

    That realization has stayed with me ever since.

    In many ways, Holy Wars began there—not as a novel, but as a question that refused to let go.

    I Thought I Was Going to Become a Pastor

    After graduating from the University of Toronto, I wasn’t ready to stop learning.

    In fact, I felt called to continue.

    I enrolled at McMaster Divinity College and began working toward a Master of Divinity degree.

    At the time, I seriously believed pastoral ministry might become my future.

    I loved studying theology.

    I loved church history.

    I loved wrestling with difficult biblical and philosophical questions.

    For a while, becoming a pastor felt like a very real possibility.

    Life, however, had other plans.

    My daughter Katie was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.

    Around the same time, my father was battling leukemia.

    Family responsibilities naturally became my priority.

    Eventually I made the difficult decision to put graduate school on hold.

    I completed roughly half of the degree before stepping away.

    I’ve often thought about going back.

    Whether it’s to finish an M.Div. or pursue something more focused on Christian history or historical research, I still feel that pull.

    I suspect I always will.

    What I Learned About Myself

    Ironically, the more I studied Christianity, the more I realized I probably wasn’t meant for pastoral ministry.

    Not because I lost interest.

    Quite the opposite.

    I discovered that what excited me most wasn’t preaching.

    It wasn’t leading a congregation.

    It wasn’t pastoral care.

    It was history.

    Research.

    Ideas.

    Questions.

    I love understanding how ideas evolve over centuries.

    I love seeing how theology intersects with politics, economics, philosophy, warfare, and culture.

    I enjoy following evidence wherever it leads—even when the answers are uncomfortable or incomplete.

    That’s simply how my mind works.

    So…What Do I Believe?

    People occasionally ask me where all of that studying ultimately left my own faith.

    The honest answer is…

    I’m still figuring it out.

    If you asked me today, I’d probably describe myself as agnostic. Some days that leans a little closer to faith. Other days it leans a little closer to skepticism. The older I get, the more comfortable I’ve become admitting that I don’t have every answer.

    Beliefs aren’t static.

    Mine certainly haven’t been.

    Different seasons of life have caused me to revisit old questions with new perspectives.

    Ironically, studying religion taught me humility more than certainty.

    And I’m okay with that.

    What Holy Wars Really Is

    Some readers may assume Holy Wars is intended to make an argument about Christianity.

    It isn’t.

    Others may assume it’s an attempt to criticize religion.

    It isn’t that, either.

    At its heart, Holy Wars is about something much bigger.

    It’s about what happens when human beings become absolutely convinced they’re right.

    Holy Wars isn’t about proving anyone right or wrong. It’s about understanding how beliefs shape individuals, civilizations and history itself.

    It’s about conviction.

    Identity.

    Power.

    Tribalism.

    Politics.

    Fear.

    Hope.

    Love.

    Violence.

    Forgiveness.

    These aren’t medieval questions.

    They’re human questions.

    They’re just as relevant in today’s polarized world as they were a thousand years ago.

    History simply gives us enough distance to examine them honestly.

    Why Historical Fiction?

    The story I’m writing isn’t a history textbook.

    Nor is it fantasy.

    It’s historical fiction because history already provides an extraordinary foundation.

    The facts are remarkable.

    The people are fascinating.

    The events are almost unbelievable.

    Historical fiction simply allows me to weave those threads together into a narrative that, I hope, helps readers experience history rather than merely observe it.

    I’ve spent years reading, researching, outlining, and quietly connecting ideas that first emerged during that independent study course at the University of Toronto.

    Little by little, those ideas have grown into something much larger than I ever imagined.

    The Story Has Been Waiting

    For years, the final paper from that fourth-year independent study has remained alive in the back of my mind.

    Not literally.

    But intellectually.

    Every book I’ve read.

    Every documentary I’ve watched.

    Every historical rabbit hole I’ve wandered into has added another piece to the puzzle.

    Eventually those pieces began fitting together into something unexpected.

    A saga.

    One that spans centuries.

    One that blends carefully researched history with compelling fiction.

    One filled with twists, unexpected connections, and the reminder that history is often stranger than anything we could invent.

    That story became Holy Wars.

    Whether you share my beliefs, reject them entirely, or are still asking your own questions, my hope is that you’ll find something worthwhile in the journey.

    Because Holy Wars isn’t ultimately about proving anyone right or wrong.

    It’s about understanding how beliefs shape individuals, civilizations, and history itself.

    And perhaps, along the way, understanding a little more about ourselves.


    I’d love to hear from you.

    Have you ever had a book, a class, or a conversation that fundamentally changed how you think about the world?

    Leave a comment below. I’d genuinely be interested to hear your story.


  • Tension in Tolerence: A Review of Brian McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy” – Part IV

    While I do value the dynamic nature of McLaren’s system, I am concerned with how it is conceived. McLaren’s grounding is not clear. Are we to start with scripture? If so, how are we to interpret it? Or are we supposed to start with our own intuition? Or do we abandon established belief in favour of a new mash-up that includes socially acceptable rules while doing away with the more unpopular ideas?

    I do support the idea of cross-denominational collaboration. And by extension, I also support the idea of inter-faith dialogue as well. McLaren’s approach lends itself well to generating the kind of humility that is required to open up a positive dialogue between competing denominations. The current decentralized model of Christian ministry and mission are valuable in terms of covering a wide variety of causes and needs, but I often wonder how much more effective some Christian ministries would be had they aligned or pooled their resources with other Christian denominations to accomplish the same goals. The impact of these “coalitions” would be tremendous.

    And while I do appreciate McLaren’s attempt to adapt Christian thought with contemporary issues like postmodernism and secularization, I do find myself drawn to the “Radical Reformation” approach of the Anabaptists, whereby they forgo many of the progressive technological advancements in favour of a simpler way of life as a conscious decision to focus more on community than on “speed, style, technology, convenience, efficiency and mechanization” (McLaren, 230). To me, the Anabaptist approach of making Jesus Christ central and keeping uncluttered lives makes a great deal of sense. And, that ideal seems to be unchanged over time, which suggests that theological adaptations to contemporary issues are not required.

    The urgency of discerning an appropriate worldview has recently been on the front burner for me. My father has been struggling with a blood disorder for the last year and it has just recently manifested itself in acute leukemia. This affliction is terminal and it will soon result in my father’s death. Thus, the need for “an accurate orthodoxy” in my life is quite pressing. Ultimately, we cannot be certain of any of our beliefs. McLaren offers a hopeful enterprise by suggesting that we simplify our approach to theology by focusing not on the divisive aspects, but instead focusing on the similarities of different denominational attitudes. I like this approach, as it suggests an inclusiveness that we can all participate in. I find this particularly settling for me as I contemplate my father’s destiny as he negotiates his peace with God.

    I believe that McLaren’s strategy is viable, helpful and constructive. It provides an inclusive nature in which anyone can recognize their own denominational strengths, while also marginalizing their weaknesses. One can only hope that the strengths continue to be accentuated while the weaknesses are actually suppressed. As a whole, I enjoyed the book. It does present a tension that cannot be easily settled, but I believe that this tension is part of the beauty of the book. Without addressing the tension between denominations, the hope for interfaith fellowship cannot be attained. And without a central discussion, the kingdom of God cannot be fully realized nor can Jesus’ directive to live in love be fully experienced.

    Todd Dow

  • Tension in Tolerence: A Review of Brian McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy” – Part III

    McLaren’s response to these critiques is contained in the closing paragraphs of his final chapter, entitled “Why I Am Unfinished.” (McLaren, 339):

    So here’s the tension: we must always be discontented with our portraits of orthodoxy, but we must never, in frustration, throw the Subject of our portrait out the window. Otherwise, the revolution fails and falls, sprawling facedown in the dirt, and the whole whirling adventure is over. Until God’s kingdom comes in fullness, the revolution of generous orthodoxy must continue: “In the upper world, hell once rebelled against heaven. But in this world heaven is rebelling against hell. For the orthodox there can always be a revolution; for a revolution is a restoration”. And so for this reason also, the adventure of generous orthodoxy is always unfinished (McLaren, 339)

    Thus, McLaren avoids condemnation by claiming that his theology is always unfinished, a veritable moving target that pursues Jesus Christ and God’s kingdom without abandon. This makes McLaren quite slippery because it leaves him unable to be pinned down or typecast. But is this really a bad thing?

    There are advantages to this approach. McLaren speaks of a tension between different views of orthodoxy. This tension is present with all claims of knowledge. How can one discern whether or not the claim is in fact truthful? Perhaps the answer is to live in tension. Rather than striving for black and white answers, why not live in shades of grey? The tension experienced when one gives up any claims to absolute truth can be discomforting at first, but over time, it can become a comfortable place to exist. Without the chains of absolute claims of divine truth, the individual is free to explore various experiences of God using various different methods of worship and revelation.

    Anecdotal evidence suggests that some people cling to their denominational beliefs out of a sense of fear or insecurity about giving up their particular grounding in faith. McLaren suggests that some Christians carry on the Protestant ideal of protesting in an effort to “prove themselves right and others wrong” (McLaren, 138). Regardless of the motivations, many people cling to their denominational affiliations in order to remain validated in their Christian walk. Leaving the comforting confines of a congregational confession of faith suggests leaving behind the protection, purpose and destiny that is offered by that particular worldview. Should denominational change be viewed as a step backwards, or is denominational drift an acceptable part of the Christian faith?

    Up next: “Personal Reflection and Final Wrap Up”

  • Tension in Tolerence: A Review of Brian McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy” – Part II

    The main problem with McLaren’s approach is that it fails to provide a concrete vision or set of beliefs that believers can attach themselves to. This “generous orthodoxy” turns into a “personal denomination” that is determined by individual preferences. McLaren does a great job of grabbing the good stuff from each of his denominational or thematic flavours of Christianity, while failing to address the shortcomings or contradictions that are bound to present themselves in such a model.

    For example, McLaren offers competing stances on childhood baptism. In chapter 13, McLaren discusses adult baptism as a form of religious expression from the Anabaptist movement. He downplays the importance of the “how and when” of baptism in favour of the more important “why and whether you live the meaning of your baptism” (McLaren, 228). In this section, McLaren provides an encouraging place for Anabaptist beliefs to reside. And yet, in chapter 15, McLaren provides support for a catholic belief that subscribes to a sacramental faith and a respect for tradition that clearly, from a catholic perspective, supports infant baptism. McLaren clearly articulates the Anabaptist position pertaining to personal commitment, yet reinforcement of the catholic sacraments and traditions (without supporting each sacrament by name) does little to quell the uneasy cohabitation that this particular issue is bound to introduce.

    Several other examples could be gleaned from the text, but for what point? It is sufficient to agree that Christianity has become segmented because of the sharp denominational lines that have resulted from the numerous protests that have brought us to this “Protestant soup” that we find ourselves swimming in today.

    A second, and equally troubling problem for McLaren, is how to reconcile the postmodern bent that asserts, almost ironically, that absolute knowledge is unattainable. Early in the book, McLaren argues that “certainty and knowledge” are problematic in a postmodern worldview (McLaren, 28) and thus, one cannot be absolutely certain that they know right from wrong. This epistemological puzzle forces one to wonder how McLaren can be so sure that his solution is the right one. While McLaren does overstate his “completely unqualified” (McLaren, 38) status in the realm of theology, this does not excuse him from responsibility for his claims. At the very least, McLaren has provided the reader with a contradictory argument, first suggesting that we can know nothing with certainty and then offering a way forward that expects fellowship. Shouldn’t McLaren’s postmodern epistemological argument invalidate his suggestions entirely? How can his claims be discerned under this cloud of skepticism?

    Thirdly, how would McLaren discern the conflicts and contradictions that present themselves in his “cherry-picking” of denominational best fruits. How can one be certain that McLaren was accurate in choosing certain denominational traits over others? And further, doesn’t this collection of denominational best practices contradict McLaren’s earlier suggestion to marginalize denominational distinctions (McLaren, 36)? Why does McLaren focus so much on those denominational best practices if his ultimate goal is to flatten the Christian experience into something that can be palatable to everyone?

    Up next: “Responses to these objections”

  • Tension in Tolerence: A Review of Brian McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy” – Part I

    In this four part series, I’ll be providing a book review of Brian D. McLaren’s “A Generous Orthodoxy“. Today, I’ll provide an introduction and overview of the book. Next, I’ll provide some objections. From there, I’ll respond to some of those objections. And finally, I’ll wrap up with some personal reflection and a summary. So, stick around and be sure to provide comments and feedback!

    In the book “A Generous Orthodoxy”, Brian McLaren presents an approach to Christianity that is both positively refreshing and troublingly devoid of a solid doctrinal foundation. While McLaren can be applauded for his inclusive approach to Christian practice, this also appears to be his biggest challenge. McLaren’s writing highlights the tension between dogmatism and the freedom and variety of Christian expression. Ultimately, the book is an inspiration to those that appreciate the loving inclusiveness celebrated and championed by Jesus.

    McLaren has written a brilliant treatise that speaks to those who value the spiritual gifts of Christianity but who frown upon the doctrinal divisions that have split the church. McLaren speaks to the postmodern objection to certainty and knowledge by inviting a spectrum of religious worship in its many forms, perspectives and expressions of faith. McLaren argues that Christian orthodoxy, defined as “right thinking and opinion about the gospel” (McLaren, 35), is to be humble, charitable, courageous and diligent (McLaren, 34). The goal of this “generous” inclusiveness is to affirm “the importance of orthodox doctrine” (McLaren, 36), while placing doctrinal distinctives “in their marginal place.” (McLaren, 36) This “generous orthodoxy” not only encourages cross-denominational Christian discussion, but it also extends the olive branch to other faiths, allowing for interfaith dialogue and collaboration.

    McLaren’s Christian vision centres itself on the understanding of Jesus as revealed in the Gospels. This view minimizes the doctrinal and theological extensions that have been generated through centuries of theological discourse and gospel-filtering. This vision demands that the practitioner appreciate the truth claims in competing religious experiences. McLaren, speaking of the “Seven Jesuses he has known”, asks:

    Why not celebrate them all? Already, many people are using terms like post-Protestant, post-denominational, post-liberal, and post-conservative to express a desire to move beyond the polarization and sectarianism that have too often characterized Christians of the past (as we’ll discuss in Chapters 6 and 7). Up until recent decades, each tribe felt it had to uphold one image of Jesus and undermine some or all of the others. What if, instead, we saw these various emphases as partial projections that together can create a hologram: a richer, multidimensional vision of Jesus? (McLaren, 74)

    Instead of focusing on the differences as divisive details, McLaren suggests that we embrace the differences, wrapping ourselves in a quilt of diverse and multifaceted perspectives. Ultimately, according to McLaren, we should “enjoy the feast of generous orthodoxy” (McLaren, 74) that such an all-encompassing perspective generates.

    Up next: “Objections to McLaren’s Generous Orthodoxy”