Schism in Kampen

My home town of Kampen is a very pretty, small town near the mouth of the river IJssel in the Netherlands. In Reformed circles it became famous because of the seminary founded there by the “separated congregations,” one of the two branches of the Afscheiding of 1854. During the time I lived in Kampen, there were in fact two seminaries: one Vrijgemaakt and one Synodaal. As I later discovered, there also were two theological libraries, both well supplied.

The cause of this unfortunate situation was a church split in 1944, the so-called Vrijmaking, that divided the denomination, churches, families and the seminary and library as well. Vrijmaking means something like the process of setting oneself free. But of course, what the majority of the Dutch were eagerly anticipating in 1944 was a very different kind of freedom: liberation from Nazi occupation. It seems absurd, and perhaps it was, to have a church split during such troubled times. The pain that followed was certainly real.

Signs of life

The seminaries are now both gone from Kampen. Still, Reformed Kampen has by no means lost its vitality. Since November, the Open Hof community has been hosting a Church Asylum, a 24/7 worship service to protect an Uzbek family of asylum seekers. The congregation argues that the family’s children are rooted in the Netherlands, having lived here for 11 years, and would be unreasonably harmed by deportation. Not everybody agrees and the success of this effort is far from assured, but to me this appears exactly like the kind of argument rooted in reality that a church should be making. Groups from all over the country have covered time slots to show solidarity.

Another sign of enduring life is provided by the monthly cantata services in the historic Burgwalkerk. These are services during which a cantata by the great J.S. Bach is performed in full. Cantatas are demanding pieces of music, requiring a choir, soloists and orchestra with professional standards, but people make it happen. Again, questions can be asked – great music may attract the faithful and pagans alike – but Bach’s setting of Scripture (John 16:20 this past month) sets an incredible standard of beauty and proclaims a powerful message: “You will weep and mourn, but your sorrow will be turned to joy.”

A place for orthodoxy

As I write, the CRC synod will soon convene in Ancaster, Ontario. Most likely, Canadian CRC members are dreading new hurts and disappointments. Being far, I cannot fully empathize with the sentiments on either side. What inspires me instead is the witness of the late Pope Francis, who playfully chose a rainbow-inspired motif for the logo of the Year of Jubilee that is 2025. (Does that finally prove him a heretic? If so, I guess I’m one too.)

The Christian Church cannot live off of music and social action. I completely agree. There is a need for orthodoxy, even if in the eyes of academics it might be nothing more than a linguistic construct. Orthodoxy requires distinguishing between our society’s deeply felt desires and the teachings developed by Scripture. If there is no tension, something is likely wrong. But if orthodoxy divides or is used to divide, it stops being orthodoxy and quickly becomes something much more sinister. This has happened time and again.

Paradoxically, growing up in Kampen has set me on the path to the Roman Catholic church, a church professing to be a sign of God’s love and of the unity of all humankind. For that vision to become a reality, we will need more truth, more justice, more beauty and a better sense of reality. May this hope also inspire the delegates at Synod as they gather.