What is Worth Living For is Worth Fighting and Dying For

In his poem "On Seeing the Reformation Monument, Geneva," the Hungarian poet Gyula Illyes, writes (What You Have Almost Forgotten, p. 67) in connection with religious wars, such as the Thirty Years' War, of a famous Hungarian riddle:

The net result, written upon the blackboard --
-- the continent you wiped clean with your armies --
was the mere answer to a foolish riddle,
and that only possible in Hungarian,
where Protestants call themselves 'keresztyen'
and Catholics call themselves 'keresztyeny'
both meaning 'Christian'. And so the riddle runs:
'Why is a keresztyen more than a kereszteny?'
Did you really require the blood
of so many millions dead, before
you could distill this particle of sense,
this little 'y', and when, forgetful of
your duty, you took up the sword and hacked
the Gordian knot of Christian brotherhood,

Many look at history, with its religious wars, crusades, Irish Troubles, and all the spilled blood in the name of Jesus, and ask, Why should anyone fight for religion? In nomine Domini incipit omne malum—In the name of the Lord begins all evil; or so the saying goes. The spectre of the Catholic Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Islamic Taliban, and most especially, an "old Testament God," are all often invoked whenever the concept of fighting for religious liberty is addressed in modern discourse.

The image of conversion by the sword, though it has no historical connection to Calvin's Geneva, Knox's Scotland or Winthrop's Massachusetts, is a powerful lens through which myopic moderns view all religious wars of the past. Forgotten is the defensive nature of the Dutch and Puritan Declarations of Independence, forgotten is the tyranny which the Huguenots resisted with their lives for the sake of conscience, forgotten is the fact that Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor, wished to impose Catholic uniformity of worship upon his Protestant subjects, which provoked the Thirty Year's War.

There are those who believe that it is unlawful for any Christians to take up the sword in defense of anything. There are also those who question whether it is worth fighting for or dying for anything.

Albert Camus:

There are causes worth dying for, but none worth killing for.

I would contend, however, that whatsoever is worth living for is worth fighting for (lawfully) and, if need be, dying for. Life, liberty, true religion, these all matter enough to fight for and die for.

Aragorn (The Fellowship of the Ring):

If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.

A good man will give his life for his friends, John 15.13; Rom. 5.7. According to the Scriptures, a man, even an unbeliever, who gives his life for his friends, family or country, or even a stranger, has done something noble, a civil good, and is therefore a hero.

William Wallace (Braveheart):

Aye, fight and you may die. Run, and you'll live... at least a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willin' to trade ALL the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!

On a personal as well as a national level, there are many reasons to take up arms. It is a matter of wisdom, and certainly many foolish reasons, often rooted in pride or the love of money, have been the basis for many bloody conflicts throughout human history, often with a veneer of religious justification attached to them. The Anglo-Dutch trade wars of the 17th century, between two ostensibly Protestant nations were a disgrace and a grief to the godly of that age. In our day, the spectacle of wars in the Middle East over oil is repugnant to most of us, and rightly so (I speak in general not necessarily of the current conflicts in Afghanistan or Iraq). National pride is a terrible reason to sacrifice the precious blood of its heroic men.

Chariots of Fire:

Lord Cadogan: Hear, hear. In my day it was King first and God after.
Duke of Sutherland: Yes, and the War To End Wars bitterly proved your point!

Duke of Sutherland: A sticky moment, George.
Lord Birkenhead: Thank God for Lindsay. I thought the lad had us beaten.
Duke of Sutherland: He did have us beaten, and thank God he did.
Lord Birkenhead: I don't quite follow you.
Duke of Sutherland: The "lad", as you call him, is a true man of principles and a true athlete. His speed is a mere extension of his life, its force. We sought to sever his running from himself.
Lord Birkenhead: For his country's sake, yes.
Lord Birkenhead: No sake is worth that, least of all a guilty national pride.

The use of Jesus' name to justify the unlawful taking of human life is a matter of grief to all who count his name precious. It should be remembered that just because his name is put forth as justification for the taking of life -- which is not even the case with the Taliban -- does not mean that it is done according to the mind of Christ (ie., with respect to the sixth commandment). Yet, where he has called us by his Word and Providence to protect that which is good and precious, we have a duty to fight and, if need be, to die in defense of the good.

J.W. Campbell:

I think it is true to say that religious truth, being the greatest thing in the world, is worth fighting for, and if attacked should be defended at all costs.

The kingdom of God, though spiritual, is not at odds with civil liberty, but rather it alone provides the true basis for it. And those charged with upholding civil liberty -- magistrates, and the soldiers and law enforcement officers under them, in the lawful exercise of their just duties -- bear the sword not in vain to protect the good and punish the evil, Rom. 13.4 (hence we pray for kings and all those in authority that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness [first table of the law] and honesty [second table of the law], 1 Tim. 2.2).

John Kennedy of Dingwall:

[The Establishment Principle is not only] worth living for, but a principle worth dying for.

Of all the causes to fight and die for, those of life and civil liberty and, most especially, true religious freedom, are most excellent. To fight and die for the life and freedom of others, when called upon by Providence, is noble and virtuous; to fight and die in defense of the Lord's cause, when the circumstances are just and appropriate, is truly "precious in the Lord's sight" (Ps. 116.15).

Patrick Henry:

What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

The Scottish Covenanters who fought -- defensively -- for Christ's Crown & Covenant were also heroes. They took up arms not for personal gain, nor for economic profit or clannish pride, but for the prerogatives of the true head and king of the Church. True religion is the most precious of causes for which to fight and die, "For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it" (Matt. 16.25; see also Matt. 10.39; 16.26; Mark. 8.35; Luke 9.24; John 12.25; etc.)


Robert Burns, The Solemn League and Covenant:

The Solemn League and Covenant
Now brings a smile, now brings a tear;
But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs:
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

Apostle of Virginia

On January 1, 1761, thirty-seven year-old Presbyterian minister Samuel Davies, known to history as the "Apostle of Virginia," preached a sermon at Princeton, New Jersey, on a text from Jeremiah 28.16: "this year thou shalt die." He said, "Perhaps I may die this year… It is of little importance to me whether I die this year or not; but the only important point is that I make a good use of my future time, whether it be longer or shorter." It was said later that he preached his own funeral sermon. He died just one month later on February 4, 1761 of pneumonia. Today marks the 250th anniversary of his translation to a better country.

In such a short lifetime on earth, he managed, by the grace of God, to leave a legacy that is worth remembering three centuries later. He was born in Delaware, on November 3, 1723, and educated in Pennsylvania; he traveled to England on behalf of the College of New Jersey (which ultimately became Princeton College), where, as a dissenter, he was nevertheless invited to preach before King George II, to whom he gave a memorable rebuke (when the king heard him he was amazed at his eloquence, and spent much time whispering that fact to his advisors, until young Davies told him bluntly: "When the lion roars, the beasts of the forest all tremble; and when King Jesus speaks, the princes of the earth should keep silence."); and is forever associated with the Dominion of Virginia, where he was the first non-Anglican licensed to preach as a circuit minister. He succeeded Jonathan Edwards as president of the College of New Jersey, and is remembered as America's first notable hymn-composer, leaving behind a body of hymns and poems that exude the love of Christ. He mentored James Waddel, and preached to Patrick Henry -- all three of whom are considered to be among history's best orators. He was married twice -- his second wife, Jean or Jane (née Holt), is immortalized to history as "Chara" -- and left behind five living children. His eloquence is legendary -- he wrote in his journal that "It is sin, alas, that intimidates me. To be miserable and to be a sinner is the same thing, and I feel that I can never be happy till I am more holy"; he wrote to his brother-in-law in Williamsburg that "I am as happy as perhaps creation can make me. I have a peaceful study, the venerable dead are waiting in my library to entertain me. I very much question if there is a more calm, placid, and contented mortal in Virginia"; he told Virginia recruits who would serve in the French and Indian War to "Fly to Jesus on the wings of faith - all of you ... that are now about generously to risk your lives for your country. ... What can do you a lasting injury while you have a reconciled God smiling upon you from on high, a peaceful conscience animating you within, and a happy immortality just before you?"; and he exhorted his student body that "Whatever be your place, imbibe and cherish a public spirit. Serve your generation." Like Stonewall Jackson, he taught Virginia slaves to read the Bible. He believed that eternal life was found in the Word of God, that is, Jesus Christ, who was at the center of his ministry, his poetry, and his life. His sermons live on, as Matthew Poole said "Ministers are living Books, and Books are dead Ministers; and yet though dead, they speak. When you cannot heare the one, you may read the other." Remember Samuel Davies, the "Apostle of Virgina," today, a man who lived a short time on earth, but who redeemed the time, giving all for Jesus, with whom he lives even now, and for ever and always.

The Blind Preacher

The father-in-law of Archibald Alexander was James Waddel, for whom his son James Waddel Alexander was named. James Waddel was an Irish-American minister who became blind at the age of 48, but despite his handicap, he is remembered as one of Virginia's most famous Presbyterian preachers. His preaching skills were so legendary that the great orator Patrick Henry ranked him with Samuel Davies (who mentored Waddel) as the two greatest orators he had ever heard. And thus the account of his preaching we have by William Wirt, Patrick Henry's biographer, gives us a picture that is probably closer to non-fiction than fiction.

William Wirt, The Letters of the British Spy, pp. 80-86:

It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the road side. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling through these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. Devotion alone, should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation; but I must confess, that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man...his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy, and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions which touched my breast, were those of mingled pity and veneration. But ah! Sacred God! How soon were all my feelings changed! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament, and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times: I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose, that in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic, a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever before, witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame to shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour...his trial before Pilate...his ascent up Calvary...his crucifixion...and his death. I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so coloured! It was all new: and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases, had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews...the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet...my soul kindled with a flame of indignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clenched. But when he came to touch the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Saviour...when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to Heaven...his voice breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do"...the voice of the preacher, which had, all along, faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief.. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive, how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But...no: the descent was as beautiful and sublime, as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God!!" I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before, did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable preacher...his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance, the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses...you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody...you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised...and then, the few minutes of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house...the preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence..."Socrates died like a philosopher"...then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to Heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice..."but Jesus Christ...like a God!" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. Whatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity of Massillon, or the force of Bourdaloue, had fallen far short of the power which I felt from the delivery of this simple sentence. The blood, which, just before, had rushed in a hurricane upon my brain, and, in the violence and agony of my feelings, had held my whole system in suspence; now ran back into my heart, with a sensation which I cannot describe; a kind of shuddering delicious horror! The paroxysm of blended pity and indignation to which I had been transported, subsided into the deepest self-abasement, humility and adoration. I had just been lacerated and dissolved by sympathy, for our Saviour, as a fellow creature; but now, with fear and trembling, I adored him as..."a God!"

If this description gives you the impression, that this incomparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical trick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have never seen, in any other orator, such an union of simplicity and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an accent, to which he does not seem forced, by the sentiment which he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too solicitous, and, at the same time, too dignified, to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a man can be, yet it is clear from the train, the style and substance of his thoughts, that he is, not only a very polite scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. I was forcibly struck with a short, yet beautiful character which he drew of our learned and amiable countryman, Sir Robert Boyle: he spoke of him, as if "his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of all influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh;" and called him in his peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, " a pure intelligence...the link between men and angels."

This man has been before my imagination almost ever since. A thousand times as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation from Rousseau; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded that his peculiar manner and power, arose from an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which no human being could justly copy. In short, he seems to be altogether a being of a former age, or of a totally different nature from the rest of men. As I recall, at this moment, several of his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide with which my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of the emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's introductory picture of his Bard.

On a rock, whose haughty brow,
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair,
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air!)
And with a Poet's hand and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

Guess my surprize, when, on my arrival at Richmond, and mentioning the name of his man, I found not one person who had ever before heard of James Waddell! Is sit not strange, that such a genius as this, so accomplished a scholar, so divine an orator, should be permitted to languish and die in obscurity, within eighty miles of the metropolis of Virginia!