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THE SHAME OF FGRM: BANKRUPTCY: A Sociological And Theological Investigation of Its Effect

on Rural Communities

by

Cameron Richard Harder

A thesis submitted to the Faculty of Theology of the University of St. Michael's College and the Department of Theology of the Toronto School of Theology

in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

awarded by the University of St. Michael's College

Toronto, 1999

8 Cameron R. Harder

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DISSERTATION ABSTRACT

The Shame of Farm Bankruatcv:

A Socioloeical and Tbeoloeical Investigation of its Effect on Rural Communities

by Cameron Richard Harder

A dissertation submitted to the Faculty of Theology of the University of S t. Michael's College and

the Department of Theology of the Toronto School of Theology in partial fulfillment of the

requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy awarded by the University of St. Michael's

College, Toronto, 1999.

The study is based on interviews with 64 people involved in f m bankruptcy, including 29

farmers and spouses who were insolvent or in a debt review process. The study notes that insolvent

fanners feel shamed by their inability to repay their debts and withdraw. The community, normally

supportive, also pulls back, feeling embarrassed and critical. The shame contributes to depression,

suicide, divorce and family breakdown. The author suggests that this shaming is part of a rural

culture of "honour and shame" similar to that found in other agrarian cultures. In a globalized,

capitalist economy, however, the shaming is unjust and counter-productive, hindering community

development. It is harmful to the community because it prevents bankrupt farmers (who have an

invaluable perspective) from participating in public conversation about the community's economic

problems. It is unjust because careful analysis shows that, although government and lenders were

directly involved in setting up the debt crisis, and also participated in the breaking of contracts (for

example, charging illegal interest, reneging on GRIP 91) only insolvent farmers have borne the

public shame. Mechanisms are identified by which farmers are prevented f?om protesting (for

example, exhaustion, secrecy agreements, coercive legal instruments, ineffective channels of

appeal)

The latter half of the study examines the honour code and challenges its assumptions. It

identifies core beiiefs and values as they are embodied in three metaphors: the "frontier," "the

promised land," and '?he pioneer." It notes ways in which protestant religious beliefs and practices

appear to reinforce the honour code and suppress public critique of it. This religious reinforcement

is challenged in the light of the church's own tradition-particularly the story of Jesus. His open

table fellowship with the shamed and his sharing of their suffering in his shame-full death form the

basis for a new defmition of honour. The study closes with three chapters devoted to enabling

congregations to act transformatively in times of fann crisis: to build bridges of support to farmen

in difficulty, to help them find their voice and to facilitate public conversation about the farm crisis.

The structure of this conversation (moving tiom empirical observation, to the making ofjudgments,

exposing underlying values and beliefs and exploring alternatives for action) is also the structure

in which the study as a whole is presented. The fmal chapter uses three segments from Jesus'

teaching as examples of how the Bible can be used by pastors to catalyse conversation about

economic problems in rural communities.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work reflects the contributions and support of many more than I can name. A special

thank you: to my parents Ewert and Eleanor Harder who helped me get in touch with my own

agricultural heritage; to my wife Dorothy and children Joel, Kristei and Ryan for moving with me

to Toronto to begin the work and for encouraging me to persevere when it threatened to bog down;

to Messiah Lutheran Church which provided the inspiration and a sabbatical salary for my research;

to the Alberta Heritage Trust Fund, the University of St. Michael's College and the Evangelical

Lutheran Church in Canada for substantial finding through scholarships and bursaries; to Roger

Hutchinson. my thesis advisor, and Lee Connie and Michael Fahey who have been mentors from

the start; to colleagues in the Saskatoon Theological Union who helped me reach the finish line. In

particular, thanks to those men and women in agriculture who took the risk of sharing their stories

with me, often in very painful circumstances.

Above all, thanks to God!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction ................................................................... 8 A . Rationale for the Study ................................................... 8 B . TheQuestion ......................................................... 10 C.Author'sContext ....................................................... 12

............................................................. D.Audience 14 E.AConceptualMapoftheStudy ........................................... 15 F.Methods .............................................................. 20 G.Limitations ........................................................... 24

SECTION ONE: EXPRESSING PAIN

Chapter 1-What has been tbe Effect of the Farm Crisis? Stories of Grief ................ 28 A.ACrisisoftheSpirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

1 . Loss of the %hoIe" self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 2 . Loss of purpose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 3.Lossofintimacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 4.Lossofhope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

B.ACrisisofComrnunity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 I . Breakdown in relationships with neighbows and church members . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 2 . Disintegration of community life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Chapter 2-Why Do Communities Offer So Little Support to Farmers in Financial Crisis? . . 39 A.Si1ence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 B . Shame and Withdrawal-a Social Discipline? ................................. 42 C . Honour as a Way of Life ................................................. 50

SECTION TWO: EXL4MIMNG THE FACTS AND M m N G JUDGEMENTS

Chapter %What Happened? Who Shares Responsibility for the F a m Debt Crisis? ....... 61 A . Three accounts of fann debt .............................................. 62

1.BobandHelene .................................................. 62 2.RalphandDiane ................................................. 63 3 . Ron and Nora .................................................... 64

B . What were the Critical Elements in the Farm Debt Crisis? ....................... 66 1 . Debt has been an historic component of farm management ................. 66 2 . Why has farm debt reached such unprecedented levels in the last thirty years? . 70

a . The political climate favoured "size" ........................... 75 b . Rapidly inflating land prices encouraged equity-based lending ....... 85 c . Competition bemeen lenders encouraged debt in a newly opened

creditmarket ......................................... 90 d . Inflexible credit instruments resulted in the loss of "Iand for iron" ..... 94

...... Chapter &If Many Contributed to the Farm Crisis. why are Only Farmers Shamed? 97 A . Farmers Are Perceived to be Poor Managers ................................. 97

I . The perception .................................................. 97 ...................................................... . 2 The reality 99

.................. B . Fanners Are Perceived to Be the Ones Who Broke Their Word 100 1.Theperception .................................................. 100 2.Thereality ..................................................... 101

a . Lenders broke loan agreements, charging illegal interest ........... 101 b . Governments broke their GRIP contract with fanners ............. 108

........................ i . The content of the new contract 111 ii . The process by which the new contract was brought in ...... 112

........................ iii . The results of the new contract 114 iv . The fundamental reasons for breaking the contract ........ 115

Chapter 5 W b y Do Farmers Not Protest the Selective Shaming and Blaming? . . . . . . . . . . . 123 .............................................. A . Mechanisms of Exhaustion 123

1 . Exhaustion of time and physical resources through overwork . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 2 . Exhaustion of financial resources needed to take a protest to court .......... 125

................................. B . Mechanisms of Disconnection and Isolation 125 .............................................. 1 . Secrecy agreements 126

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 . Isolated by proximity problems 126 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 . Shut out from channels of appeal 129

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C . Mechanisms of Intimidation and Coercion 130 ............................................. 1 . Personal intimidation 130

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 . Coercive legal instruments 132 3 . Mediation instruments that increase farmers' vulnerability to their creditors . . 134

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D . Mechanisms of Catharsis 136 E . The Effect of Suppressing Protest: Reduced Alternatives

............................... and the Stabilization of the Honour Code 137

S E C T . THREE: EXPOSING UNDERL YING VALUES AND BELIEFS

Chapter &What Is Really Behind the Shame? Understanding the Honour Code ......... 143 ................................................ A . Its Animating Metaphors 143

........................................ 1 . First metaphor: the eontier 144 ................................. 2 . Second metaphor: the promised land 146

....................................... 3 . 'Third metaphor: the pioneer 154 B . Its Core Assumption-Control ............................................ 157

Chapter 7-How Do Prot-nt Religious Belkls Interact With Bower Code Values? ..... 161 ................................... A . The Wealth and Righteousness Equation 162 .................................. B . Theological Support for the "Work Ethic" 166

......................... 1 . Self-control: the capacity for moral perfection 167 ............................ 2 . Self-denial: the nature of moral perfection 168

.............................. 3 . Hard work: the way to moral perfection 169 ................................ 4 . Success: the sign of moral perfection 172

................................................. C . Identifying Distortions 174 ....................................... 1 . Calvin's concept of election 174

........................................ 2 . Luther's concept of calling 175 ................................ 3 . Christian understandings of civil law 176

.......... Chapter %How Has the Church Avoided Public Critique of the Honour Code? 180 ........................................ A . The Suppression of Social Critique 181

........................... 1 . Suppressing the voices of critical leadership 182 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 . Undercutting the moral basis of protest 184

3 . Suppressing ecclesial conversation about political and economic matters ..... 185 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a The political captivity of the Reformation church 188

........... b . The Canadian accommodation between church and state 190 ............ c . The misappropriation of Luther's "two-kingdom" ethic 192

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B . Providing Pain-killers Instead of Cures 196

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter %What Does Shaming Mean in the Light o f Jesus' Stow? 201 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . My Approach to Interpreting the Bible 202

.................................. . B Jesus as the Healer of Broken Community 206 ............................................... 1.Redefininghonour 206

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Reassessing the wealth=righteousness equation 213 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Restoring the exiles to fellowship 214

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Shame ended by Jesus' shameful death 221 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Suffering shared-in the body of Christ 229

SECTION FOUR: EXPLORING AL TERNATIKES FOR HEALING COMMUNITY

. . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 10-How Can Congregations Build Bridges to Farmers in Dif!iculty? 236 A.OfferingPastoralCare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 . Listening and visiting 238 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 . Counseling in a faith context 239

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B . "Standing With" in Public 240 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C . Giving Voice to Pain 241

1.Inliturgy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 2.Inpreaching .................................................... 242

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D . Equipping the Congregation for Outreach 245 ................................. 1 .Through training in care-giving skills 245

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 . By organizing practical relief 246

...................................... 3 . By establishing support groups 247

Cbapter L 1-How Can Congregations Facilitate Community Conversation About the Farm Crisis? ........................................................ 250

.......................................... A . The Need for a "hblic Church" 250

.......................................... B . The Possibility of Public Church 254

.......................................... C . Reparing to Be a Public Church 256 ........................... 1 . Fostering a clear sense of Christian identity 257

2 . Fostering an understanding of lay vocation and mission .................. 257 3 . Balancing koinonia and diakonia in the use of the congregation's energies ... 257

........................ 4 . Intentionally seeking a diversity of membership 258 . ................... 5 Keeping pastoral and lay leadership in fhitful balance 258 . ....... 6 Offering its witness in publicly visible and publicly intelligible ways 258

.......................... D . Smcturing Fruitfid Conversation in a Public Church 258 ................................. 1 . Supporting weak or marginal voices 259

2 . Clarifying levels of discourse ...................................... 261 a . Beginning with stories ..................................... 262 b . Paying close attention to the facts ............................ 264 c . Making ethical judgements .................................. 265 d . Opening up beliefs and worldviews ........................... 266 e . Exploring alternatives ...................................... 269

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 12-How Do we Connect bbPalestinew and tbe Prairies? 272 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A . Comparing First-century and Modem Contexts 273

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Honour and shame as constitutive of social life 273 2 . Competition as a result of a perception of limited good .................. 277 3 . The accumulation of debt as a key factor in the destruction of community . . . . 278

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Legislation that favoured creditors 283 5 . Land as a focus for social power and destructive competition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286

B . Hearing the Story of Jesus in Palestine and on the Prairies ...................... 288 1 . Luke4:14-30 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 2 . Luke 11:M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296 3 . Matthew18:21-25 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299

C . Concluding Reflections: Grace as the Possibility of Genuinely Healthy HumanCommunity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendix B-Interview Consent Form 310

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311

INTRODUCTION

A. Rationale For the Study

Between 1994 and 1999, I conducted interviews with sixty-four people who have had experience with

farm bankruptcy in one role or another. Twenty-nine of them were farmers and spouses who had gone

through a serious debt review or foreclosure process in the eighties or early nineties.' What the farmers

shared was deeply disturbing. They expressed an angry helplessness at being battered about by large forces

over which they have little control. They related stories of systemic injustice in the lending industry and

government. They spoke regretfully of foolish debts taken out and operational judgements that went sour.

In weary voices they told of intolerable work hours filled with desperate attempts to subsidize full-time

farming with income fiom off-farm jobs. They recounted a sad elegy ofdeclining hope, abandoned homes.

lost legacies. Some told how, in a deeply painful ritual of farewell, they watched their machinery sold at

auction and left the farm. Others related the humiliation of being crofters-landless renters-on what were

once their own fields. Most indicated that the stress has left them with wide rifts in primary relationships.

Many said that depression and despair are daily companions. Some admitted to turning to alcohol for

refuge; others spoke of family or fiends who committed suicide.

Unfortunately, apart f!iom a five year period in the mid-nineties, things have not gotten better. As

these words are being written, Saskatchewan and Manitoba farmers are facing the largest net loss in farm

income in recorded history? Faced with aa epidemic ofbankuptcies fiom flooded land and disastrous hog

and grain prices, farmers in the southern region of the= provinces have taken to public protest in an effort

h he remainder were solvent fanners or people holding other positions in the agricultural economy. See Appendix A for a 1 1 1 description. I have permission from those whom I interviewed to use their comments, but I have changed names and minor details to protect, as much as possible, the anonymity of the people, places and congregations involved. I have also found and made use of a few videotaped interviews of farmers, lenders and farm families deveIoped as resources for nrrai communities. Their use is footnoted in this study.

2~griculnuc and AM-Food Canada projects an $89 million loss for Saskatchewan farmers and a $100 million loss for Manitoba farmers in 1999. The loss includes decrease in fann inventory. Reported by Joanne Paulson, "Farmers Hit Hard," The Star Phoenix, Saskatoon, 2 1 July 1999, h n t page.

9

to pressure the government into a positive response. They have been blocking the Transcanada highway

with equipment, holding a series of farm rallies, writing letters, physically and verbally jostling the federal

agriculture minister in public, lobbying MPs and senators, staging a sit-in at the provincial

legislature-capturing public attention in a variety of ways.

What is surprising about this protest is that it has not happened earlier. Canadian farmers have been

suffering a process of rapid attrition for the last thirty years from the same causes. Yet, except in these

periodic situations where most ofthe population in a region faces bankruptcy simultaneously there has been

a strange silence. Discovering the reasons for that chronic silence at the community level and addressing

it the light of Christian faith is central to this study.

A focus on the community is critical because that is where some of the barriers to protest seem to be

lodged and where successfbl f m protest in Canada has usually begun. In To Set the Captives ~ree,) Oscar

Cole-Arnai reminds us that agricultural reform has its roots in the vision and hard work of local leaden and

their people. On the prairies it began with a gathering of farmers in Indian Head, Saskatchewan, December

18, 190 1. They were convinced that the railroads, banks and government had entered into monopolistic

agreements that seriously disadvantaged farmers. The meeting led to the founding of the Territorial Grain

Growers Association and to similar organizations in other provinces. Eventually, under Ed Partridge of

Sintaluta, Saskatchewan it became a cooperative grain growers company whose success stimulated the

Wheat Pool movement of the 1920's and the formation of the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation

(CCF) as a political power.

in the post-war period, however, f m protest movements dropped out of public view and lost much

suppon. Although the attrition of f m s continued at a steady pace, there was little protest until the farm

crisis of the late seventies and eighties. During this latter half of the century it appears that only when the

number of bankruptcies begins to "saturate" a community do farmers feel that they can speak out about the

'0scar Cole-Arnal, To Set the Captives Free (Toronto: Between the Lines. 1 W8), 165- 168.

10

problem. That happened in the Bruce and Gray counties of Ontario when the first round of widespread

foreclosures hit in 198 1. Out of those communities a militant group called the Canadian Farmers Swival

Association was formed. After failed negotiations with bank and government they led demonstrations and

organized farm gate defenses (preventing seizure of foreclosed land, or buying land and machinery cheaply

at auctions and giving them back to the owner^).^ The movement lost steam in the late eighties, however.

Its spirit is only beginning to be felt again in the 1999 southern prairie protests as local leaders (such as

Sharon Nicholson and the Bengough Rally Association) have found the courage to begin public

conversations about political action and economic changes that their own communities can undertake.

This study is not intended to offer a template for restructuring the rural economy. It is meant,

however, to help communities overcome the barriers that prevent them h r n discussing the problems

locally and taking action to avert disaster.

B. The Question

One might ask why these matters are the concern of a theologian. For two reasons: first, because I

am convinced that the farm crisis is a spiritual crisis. By that I mean not simply that there are moral and

ethical dimensions to it, or spiritual effects-although of course there are these. Rather it is a spiritual crisis

because it seems that the failure of rural communities to address the damaging impact of the crisis springs

at least in part fiom a malaise of the spirit. Many potentially fruitful solutions to maintaining healthy rival

communities (for example land trusts, farrner-owned processing plants, cooperatives) have not been

adopted (to any great extent) at local levels. The reason, this study suggests, is that the nual

ethos-particularly in its post4970 form-has a peculiarly fragmenting quality. It separates community

members from one another, preventing them from the public conversation that would enable them to

develop and cooperatively test such alternatives.

' ~ l l e n Wil ford describes the history ofthis "survivalist" movement in Farm Gate Defense: The Stow ofthe Canadian Fmers Swive l Association (Toronto, ON: NC Press, 1984).

1 I

A great deal of that fragmentation is due to shame. This research suggests that other than times when

whole communities face bankruptcy together (and sometimes even then), f m e n in difficulty find

themselves isolated behind a wall of self- and community-imposed shame. The very people who are most

aware of the difficulties in the present arrangements-because they have been hurt by them-are excluded

fiom the common conversation. The converse of the shame-a competition for honour (social status) that

is based on "successful" farming-also isolates farmers from one another by encouraging independent, self-

rather than communi ty-enhancing behavior.

Secondly, these matters, though concretely visible in loan agreements, social behaviors and

government policies, are fimdarnentally religious. As we shall see, they have to do with the worth and

meaning of human life. It is precisely such concerns, David Tracy says, that are the province of the

theologian. Every theologim Tracy says, addresses the questions of human existence: "Has existence any

ultimate meaning? Is there a fundamental tmst to be found amidst the fears, terrors and anxieties of

existence? Is there some reality, some force, even some one who speaks a word of truth that can be

recognized and trusted?'

However, he notes, such questions can only be addressed to the pmtimiur conditions under which

particular human beings live. To be buthful, theology must reflect on a clear, empirical description of the

"conditioning factorsWunder which nal people live! Two types of analysis are therefore required. The

first is sociological. It explores (in this case) the situation in which insolvent farmers are living-the

particular behaviors, social patterns, historical events and processes, and econocnic structures that condition

their experience. The second is theological. It is concerned with the fhdamental questions provoked by

the situation ofbankrupt farmers. As Tracy notes, it asks questions about what responsible, self-respecting,

b v i d Tracy, The Analogical Imaeination: Christian Theolom and the Culnve of Pluralism (New York, NY: Crossroad, 1987), 4.

12

worthwhile human life might look like and how the conditions identified in the sociological analysis might

help or hinder that life. It asks what this social reality suggests about the meaning of human existence.

Following then are the particular questions explored in this study, the € i set sociological, the second

theological: 1) How are bankrupt farmers treated by their communities? How is this treatment related to

the farmer's actual responsibility for the problems they face? And how does that treatment affect the rbiliv

of rural communities to work cooperatively toward survival in a hostile economic climate? 2) What does

this treatment say about the bases on which farmers are valued? What does that valuation mean in the light

ofChristian tradition? And what alternative social behaviors might that re-framing by the tradition evoke?

C. Author's Context

I initially became aware of the community-destroying effects of the farm crisis in the late eighties

when one of my parish families lost their farm. Other Christians from the congregation and community

were involved in the mortgage debt, foreclosure, sale and purchase ofthe f m . The experience was painfir!

and divisive. As a pastor I felt that I had few theological or practical resources t~ understand the situation

or to be a redemptive agent in it. It was out of a desire to find some tools for addressing the hchrring of

community brought on by farm bankruptcy that this study initially emerged.

During the research I discovered that four members of my own family have endured the painful

process of farm bankruptcy. Although I was aware of one of them, I had never heard the family speak of

it. I was not even aware that the other three (which took place when I was young or before I was born) had

occurred. This silence surrounding farm bankruptcy mystified me and became an additional reason for my

undertaking this investigation.

My position as a pastor, with a family stake in the fann crisis, yet raised a "city boy" (that is, an

outsider) has tuned out to be helpful in the interviews. Fanners who had never spoken of their fmancial

problems to any community members said that they agreed to be interviewed because they saw me as an

interested, safe, trustworthy stranger. Lenders appeared to be open as well, recognizing that my interest

was primarily interpretive and pastoral rather than legal.

Of course the things that make me "safe" also make it difficult for me to interpret the experience of

farm banlauptcy authentically. I am not living in it, as a farmer or lender, in the way that they are. In that

sense I can see only with a partial and borrowed vision. However there are several reasons that I believe

the study is valid. First, it is a faithful expression of the impact that those interviewed have had on me. In

this matter I do have some expertise. Secondly, in telling me their stories they have reformed the context

of my life, made farm bankruptcy part of it. As Sharon Ringe points out,

Facts about myself cannot be erased at will, but they do not define the limits of my context, because others' realities have become part of it . . . . I have never been abused by a spouse or a lover, but women who have lived with that reality have taught me their stories so thoroughly that the syndrome ofdomestic violence has become part of my own awareness and therefore my context-the meaning and value-filled matrix out of which I live and view the world. Put another way, while neither set of experiences is part of my story, those stories are now part of my experience, and because of them, my world will never look the same.'

Thirdly, a large number (hundreds) of farmers, lenders and others in rural communities have had an

opportunity to listen to or read my interpretation of these stories and their feedback has helped to keep it

"on-line" and as faithful as po~sible.~

It will become evident in the reading of this study that my position is not a neutral one. My deepest

sympathies lie with bankrupt farmers. This does not mean, however, that I divide rural communities into

simple groups of "oppressors" and "oppressed." As a theologian who has roots deep in Luther, I have, on

the one hand, a profound appreciation for the conflict between God and the powers of evil in all arenas of

human life. On the other hand, with Luther, I am convinced that the battle line runs not simply between

classes, races and genders (though it is there too) but through every human heart. I do not therefore

exonerate farmers as if they had no responsibility for the debt crises of the last thirty years and lay it all at

7 Sharon H. Ringe, "Solidarity and Contextuality: Readings of Matthew l8:2 1-35,'' in Social Location and Biblical Inter~retation in the United States, vol.1, Reading From This Place, ed. Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert. (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 1995): 199-2 12, p. 20 1.

'see n. 1 I below and Appendix A for a fuller description of the ways in which this was done.

the feet of lenders, politicians, global markets, international corporations or bargain-hungry consumers.

However farmers cannot avoid public accountability. The foreclosure process, and the social shame that

accompanies it ensures that. Nor can they avoid the consequences. Tens of thousands have lost their

homes, their livelihood, their dignity and their communities. They have borne a weight of suflering

disproportionate to their own responsibility. What has been missing is an adequate recognition on the part

of the rest of us of our own complicity in the problems ofthe agricultural economy, a willingness to accept

responsibility publicly and the courage to redress the damage.

Having said this, my purpose is not to shame (that is withdraw kom, exclude or hold up to public

ridicule) bankers, politicians, agribusiness owners or others in the way that insolvent farmers often are. The

shaming does not appear to be helpful for anyone. Instead 1 want to help all of the community to engage

farmers in an honest, straightfonvard conversation about causes. solutions and the community's future.

To that end. I have discovered, as Roger Hutchinson holds, that "It is possible to be in solidarity with

particular participants in the debate and to keep one's position open to the scrutiny ofpersons with different

commitments, orientations and basic premises." The key to maintaining this 'bengagementldetachment'y

polarity Hutchinson says is ensuring that one is speaking the same language as one's conversation

partner-that is, talking on the same level of discourse. As claims about facts have been met with counter-

claims about facts, and stories met with stories, a clarity of positions has developed that has allowed us to

engage each other directly and honestly. A key conviction of this study is that facilitating such

conversation among people of various mles in rural communities is essential to the economic and social

recovery of those communities. 9

D. Audience

David Tracy points out that every theologian addresses three publics-the wider society, the academy

and the church. This, he says, is unavoidable because the "fundamental existential questions which

'~oger Hutchinson, Pro~hets. Pastors and Public Choices: Canadian Churches and the MacKenzie Vallev P i d ine Debate (Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 1992), 8. -

theology addresses" involve all three." To a significant extent all three publics have already had

opportunity to hear and respond to this study." Ultimately, I hope the work will be of value to rural

community leaders who are looking for ways of interpreting and responding to the erosion of their

communal life that farm crises have brought. Intermediutet'y, 1 believe that rural congregations, especially

their pastors and lay leaden, may be key figures in this process. As a systematic theologian responsible

for interpreting the church's religious tradition to itself in the light of its present contea I have had this

audience most directly in mind. Immediatel?, of course, the academy which will review this work and

hopefully critique and build on it is also addressed.

E. A Conceptual Map of the Study

The study is broadly structured in the form of a conversation. This seems appropriate for two reasons:

First, it seems to fit the nature of the task. Qualitative sociological research invariably requires a great deal

of conversation. It is only as many stories are told and details shared that a picture of "what is happening"

emerges. It is also the case, as Tracy suggests, that the theologian's attempt to discover "what this means"

can only really take place in conversation, where reflection on Christian tradition draws on a variety of

voices. Authentic conversation he says, is "deeply subjective yet intersubjective, shareable, public, indeed

hist~rical."'~ In other words, many voices are valued and heard, their stories and interpretations shared,

but none speaks in isolation. Only in such conversation is a genuinely truth-fidl and redemptive

understanding of the present situation likely to emerge.

I ?racy, Analopical Imagination, 5-6.

"~ortions or summaries were presented at a national health care conference in 1998 and the Regina farm rally in 1999 as well as on CBC radio (May, 1999). It has been shared in two workshops at a Lutheran conference convention (Fall, 1996), in a public lecture at a Lutheran seminary and a summary is being published as part of my involvement with Lutheran World Federation conference of theologians in Germany (Fall, 1998). A portion of it has also been published in an academic journal (Consensus), it has been reviewed in a preliminary way by my academic advisors and in depth by my thesis advisor. Additionally, it has been shared in written form with individual farmers, lenders and pastors, and a professor of agricultural economics, most of whom were also interviewees.

Secondly, this form seems appropriate to the material concerns that emerged from the socioIogical

research. It quickly became clear in interviews that the lack of fhitful conversation, induced by shame,

presented the greatest hindrance to a strong, positive, communal response to the dangers posed by the crisis

in agriculture.

In one sense this study is the concretion of a conversation between many playen in the agricultural

economy. Although they may not have met in person, they have encountered each other in contributing

and responding to earlier drafts of this work. Nonetheless, in the end the work is my own selection,

interpretation and presentation of their ideas; it reflects my personal commitments and beliefs (although

admittedly changed by the conversations I have had). In that sense it is my own contribution to the larger

conversation about these matters in the agricultural community.

I have tried to make this personal contribution one that is also "conversation-evoking"-in several

ways: First, in presenting and reflecting on the research, my aim is to move systematically through the

levels of discussion that Hutchinson suggests are essential for clear communication around difficult social

issues: that is, story-teiling, fact-gathering, making judgements (ethical clarification) and an examination

of underlying values and beliefs.I3 There is of course some overlap, some looping back to earlier

considerations. This is characteristic of conversations. It is also to some extent unavoidable. There are

for example no value-fiee (meaningless and neutrafly selected) facts and no genuinely fact-he (universal

and ungrounded) beliefs as many postmodern writen have pointed out. However the effort is made in each

chapter to focus on one of the levels. Secondly, I have used linked questions for the heading of each

chapter as a way of moving within and between these levels in a logical fashion. The questions are intended

to engage the reader's reaction and reflection. Thirdly, the study concludes with reflections on the

13see Hutchinson., Prophets. Pastors and Public Choices, 3 1-37,122,125-126. See also Roger Hutchinson, Study and Action in Politically Diverse Churches," in Christian ,Faith and Economic Justice: Toward a Canadian Perswctive, ed. Cranford Pratt and Roger Hutchinson, 178- 19 1 (Burlington ON: Trinity Press, 1988). Hutchinson identifies four levels. I have added a fifbthat of making plans for action. See chapter eleven, section 932" for more details.

17

successfbl efforts of some pastors to initiate authentic conversation about the f m crisis in their own

parishes and offers these as an encouragement to other pastors to do something similar.

The study then., strives to be an authentic conversation about the lack of such conversation in farm

crisis situations, what that lack means in the light of our Christian tradition and how that sort of

conversation might be facilitated in rival congregations and communities.

Following is an overview of the conversation. The first nine chapters move through Hutchinson's

levels of discourse with the questions that form the chapter titles leading us through each level:

In chapters one and two I tell my "story9'-that is, I give the reader a sense of my position as a whole.

Chapter one offers initial responses to farm bankruptcy, particularly focusing on intense experiences of

grief and community disintegration. It notes the odd fact that that suffering is kept reiativeiy hidden-that

insolvent farmers do not, to any significant extent, publicly discuss their own experience in relation to the

farm crisis. Solution-oriented community conversation is shut down. As a preliminary definition of the

problem, chapter two suggests that the silence is a protective mechanism intended to avert the social

shaming which appears to accompany public disclosure of farm bankruptcy in rural communities. This

practice of shaming and withdrawal is seen to be part of a sociai pattern and woddview which I call ''the

honour code."

Chapters three to five move into analysis of the factual claim that f m e r s are solely responsible for

their own insolvency and the ethical judgement that therefore, under the honour code, they ought to be

shamed. Chapter three addresses the factual claim by offering the details of three farm bankruptcies which

provide insight into larger economic patterns that contributed to the enormous escalation of farm debt.

In light of these facts, the ethical judgement that farmen ought to be shamed is modified. If

responsibility for farm bankruptcy is shared by all key playen, one must ask whether shaming is a useful

social tool. It is intended to discriminate between members on the basis of a dzfference in culpability,

I8

punishingthose responsible so that they will amend their behaviour. Ifall are culpable, shaming must give

way to a more common social analysis and repentance.

In fact, however, this did not happen-at least not publicly. Farmen bear the brunt of public shame

because it is perceived that, regardless of external pressures, they took out the debt. They went back on

their promise; they gave their word and broke it. Chapter four examines this matter by exploring two

representative cases of broken promises on the part ofthe lending industry and government, again adducing

evidencz for a broadly shared failure to handle financial contracts well.

If shaming is ineffective as a social discipline because "all have sinned" one must ask what purpose

it serves. Chapter five gives evidence suggesting that there are a number ofsystemic mechanisms in place

to suppress awareness of broad-based culpability. In other words, regardless of its original purpose, it

appears that shaming is functioning (whether intentionally or not) to protect from exposure the

responsibility of powerfbl players for the debt crisis. Chapter five concludes by looking at the way in which

these suppressive mechanisms also reduce awareness of inconsistencies in the honour code, allowing it to

continue to function as a legitimating framework for the shaming.

Chapters six to nine engage primarily in what Hutchinson calls "pstethical reflection." In this section

we move born looking at whether or not the honour code has been properly qplied to examining and

challenging the code itse[l: Chapters six and seven take a close look atthe content ofthe honour cde-that

cluster of common values, metaphors, assumptions and religious beliefs that emerged in the interviews.

It presents the farmer's ideal identity as that of the h e , self-reliant hntier man or woman, the plantation

owner in a fertile paradise, and the hard-working pioneer. Honour is gained through adherence to the

virtues of personal responsibility, hard work, and maintaining one's heritage. Shaming appears to be

related to a failure to live up to this identify. Embedded in that honour code is a confidence in one's own

ability to control production. It is reinforced by distortions of Protestant doctrines such as the holiness of

19

work, the visibility of the "elect," and the importance of moral order. Close attention is paid to the firm

in which these values and beliefs have been expressed in Canadian rural history.

Chapter eight asks about the relationship of Protestant rural congregations to the honour code. If the

Protestant beliefs that bolster the honour code are distortions of their original formulations what is it that

maintains these distortions and hinders congregations' ability to be self-critical? The dynamics of power

at the local level, and in historic relationships between the Protestant church and political and economic

institutions is examined. I note an historic (though waning) confidence in the ability of fmancial and

political institutions to act in the public's interest and not simply their own.

In chapter nine I lay out the theological assumptions that have informed my interpretation and

presentation of the research data to this point. First I describe in detail the sources that I rely on in

Christian tradition and outline the method that I use to interpret them. Then I examine the key elements

in the story of Jesus that shape my perception of shaming, lack of community conversation. and the

shrinking of rural communities as aproblern. I introduce these stories as a creative Wework for thinking

about the meaning of farm bankruptcy in ways that challenge the honour code and the practice of shaming.

In chapters ten to twelve the conversation moves to its final level. Here I move beyond clarifkation

to commitment and action. These chapters discuss practical ways in which the conversation that I have

been canying on with my readers may be fostered in rural congregations and communities. I set out

specific plans that a pastor or congregational leader may find helpful. Chapter ten looks particularly at

ways of reconnecting with bankrupt farmers so that they are able and willing to engage in the conversation.

Chapter eleven looks at the local congregation as a place where that conversation might take place and

gives specific examples of how Hutchinson's levels of clarification might be used in leading that

conversation. Chapter twelve focuses in on the postethical component of that process. While empirical

data can highiight inconsistencies in the application of the honour code, only another worldview can offer

a corrective.

However, making concrete, valid connections between the world of the Bible and that of prairie

f m e n seems to be notoriously difficult. On one hand, the story of Jesus is not engaged because it is

boringly familiar-in the tame form, accommoabted to the values of the honour code, in which it is

normally told On the other hand, when listeners are helped to hear with the ears of first century peasants,

it opens up a world of values very different from the honour code. That world may seem foreign and

distasteful. For some however it offers real hope. Some ofthose interviewed expressed a deep uneasiness

with the honour code out of which they live. They feel its tensions and spoke of its unfairness. Theu

efforts to articuiate a more gracious and egalitarian ethic indicated a search for a new h e w o r k of

meaning. The study closes then with some specific examples ofways in which one might engage the Bible

to imagine healthier forms of social and economic life in rural communities.

F. Methods

My theological method is dependent on the work of George Lindbeck (who in turn draws on Hans

~rei)." As I indicated, the method is described in detail in section*'A" of chapter nine. Without repeating

it here, it may be enough to say that the theological reflection in this work is informed by an evocative,

rather than prescriptive, use of the Bible. The Bible is treated as: a lens through one looks at aspects of our

world and sees them altered, re-interpreted; as a 'World" within which our own is placed and to whose

fundamental values it is re-oriented; as (in Hutchinson's words) a "scafTolding" within which one might

construct creative new options for human life." My intent is not to develop a biblical ethic of farm

economics but rather to identify a process by which fann communities can wrestle with the biblical story

themselves and discover the ethical implications of living in a world shaped by that story.

"see especially George Lindbeek, The Nature of Doctrine (Philadelphia. PA: Westminster Press, 1984); George Lindbeck, "The Story-shaped Church: Critical Exegesis and Theological Interpretation," in Scri~tural Authoritv and Narrative Internretation, ed. Garrett Green (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1987); Hans Frei, The E c ~ ~ D s ~ of Biblical Nmtive: A Study in Eiahteenth and Nineteenth Centuw Hermeneutics (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1974); Hans Frei, "'Narrative' in Christian and Modern Reading," in Theoloav and Didome: Essays in Conversation with Georrre Lindbeck, ed. Bruce Marshail (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990).

l s~utch irwn credits the term "scaffolding" to Line11 E. Cady, "Foundation va. Scaffolding: The Possibility of Justification in an Historical Approach to Ethics," Union Serninarv Ouarterlv Review 41 (No2 1987): 45-62,

In gathering and processing empirical dllta I have relied on the "qualitative" research methods of

Barney Glaser, Leonard Schatzman and Anselm Strauss. Their books The Discovery ofGrounded Theory:

Strategies for Qualitative Research and Field Research: Strategies for a Natural Sociology have been my

primary references! As they recommend, data about human experience is dram fiorn a variety of

sources: fiom historical documents and summaries, fiom economic statistics, court judgements,

anthropological and sociological analyses, government policy documents, newspapers. dramatic

presentations and documentaries. At its heart is the series of field interviews and observations that I carried

out between 1 994 and 1 999. Their eclectic approach to the gathering of data works well with Lindbeck's

use of an eclectic variety of interpretive tools in theological reflection. Both tend to produce a thickly

textured, biblically and empirically grounded description of human life and its meaning.

Strauss, Schatzman and Glaser generate theory out of this richly textured data by what they call a

method of "constant comparison.'' This involves 1 ) in-depth interviews, encounters and field observations

out of which one generates categories. properties and hypotheses about a general problem; 2) comparing

incidents (active or verbal) applicable to each category; 3) integrating categories and their properties; 4)

outlining the theory, and 5) writing the theory. The purpose of the method is not to test theory but to

generate it &om limited, but valid and grounded, experience. For that reason the study does not, for

example, set out to prove exhaustively that a certain percentage of bankrupt f m e r s have had shaming

experiences, or that a certain percentage of rural Christian Protestants hold religious beliefs that reinforce

the honour code. Another study might seek to do that. This study is a step earlier-attempting to develop

strong hypotheses about what is happening in rural communities hurt by f m bankruptcy.

While my data collection and processing methods (detailed in Appendix A) are dependent on Glaser,

Stmuss and Schatzman, I differ fiom them in their approach to coastructing theory, particularly their way

ofdealing with the universal and the particular. First, they have a tendency to reduce the rich variety ofdata

'%lamey Glaxr and Anxlm Strauss. The Discovery of Grounded Theorv: Stratenia for Qualitative Research (Chicago, IL: Aldine, 1967); Leonard Schat~nan and Anselm Strauss, Field Research: Strateaies fora Natural Socioloay (Engiewd Cliffs. NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973).

3 3 -- to self-contained and somewhat mechanical theoretical models of systems. My pastoral and personal

experience of farmers in crisis suggests that the dynamics involved are too complex and fluid to be easily

contained by such theories. Farmers seem to be caught in a web of cause and effect that stretches over the

globe. My task has been to identify some of the "nodes" and patterns of cause and effect in that web but

not to attempt to enclose them too carefully in rigid theoretical categories.

Secondly, "grounded theory" tends to look for universal principles through comparisons of stories

kom a variety of settings. While I do some of that (drawing some material fiom the United States, eastern

Canada and several Christian denominations), I am anxious not to lose the particularity of the stories.

Meaning is not found only in what is common, but also in the particular. As Michael Buroway points out

in Ethnography Unbound: Power and Resistance in the Modem Metropolis, " it is often the anomalies that

reveal how people resist the larger systems of which they are a part. A general theory about the way that

things are is not meant to be a prescription for what must be. The unique helps to point the way to other

(perhaps more liberating) possibilities. For example, it is those few congregations that have stood out fiom

the others in their courage to address farm crisis issues that have helped to inspire and guide my proposals

for pastoral action in chapters ten to twelve.

Thirdly, the interdisciplinary character of this work requires greater attention to the h e w o r k of

ultimate meaning within which the data is set than Glaser, Straws and Schatrman would allow. The two

disciplines of sociology and theology are brought together in Hutchinson's concept of a "conversation"

which explores an issue through several levels, some of which rely more heavily on sociology and others

on theological methods.

There is some danger to this. Treating the sociological and theological questions together limits the

scope of both. However I am convinced that doing SO is valid and important. I imagine Reality to be like

an enormous tapemy filled with patterns and figures, far too large for any person to see at once. To

"~ichael Buroway, Ethnamrhv Unbound: Power and Resistance in the Modem Metromiis (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 199 1).

23

understand any of it then one has a choice. One can pick a particular type or colour of thread and follow

it through a large section of the tapestry, noting its twists and turns. This would be a single-disciplinary

approach. Or one can choose a small section of the tapestry and look at many of the threads, discerning

the overall pattern of that piece. This reflects an inter-disciplinary approach. Both are limited. The former

cannot take adequate note ofhow the coiors and textures interact with each other. The latter cannot follow

any one thread too far and leaves many "loose ends." Neither can extrapolate in a simple way from single

long thread or small multi-thread patch to the pattern ofthe whole tapestry. Yet both contribute to a greater

understanding of the tapestry's design.

For the purposes of this study, I am not content to examine individual strands in isolation from their

context. Trying to be sensitive to the narural flow of narrative, my work follows patterns, attempts to

discern textures. However, for that reason, its edges are not neatly defined.

A particular benefit of an inter-disciplinary approach is that one can observe not simply the

conclusions of different disciplinary analyses but the interaction between them (the pattern they create).

For example a sociologist can describe shaming in detail and theorize that it serves as a social discipline

intended to restrain economic misbehavior. Close attention to the story of Jesus, however, challenges the

idea that any practice which attacks the hdamental worth of human beings because their business has

failed can be regarded positively. Theological reflection asks whether the ends achieved by the application

ofthis social code are worth having and provokes a closer look at the facts. One may then discover other

realities, overlooked in the sociological study as less important-ch as the accumulation of despair in

dying communities the hgrnentation of families, the decrease in cooperative behavior, and so on.

Conversely a theologian might regard farm foreclosure as a necessary exercise of "civil law9'-the left

hand of God restraining irresponsible behavior. SocioIogy helps the theologian to discover whether in fact

that end is actually being achieved. Is shaming really working to reduce the incidence of f m bankruptcy,

or does it serve a different social purpose?

23

To put it in more classical terms, the interaction ofthe disciplines helps us create a fit between means

and end. Sociology helps to determine what is happening and what ends are being served. Theology draws

on a revealed tradition about the meaning ofhuman life to identify which ends are valuable and desired and

to identify the general character (though not the specific design) of the means which are suitable to those

ends.

Out of this interaction comes the conclusion that the honour code serves neither the social well-being

of rural communities nor the Christian conviction that our value is determined by God's grace and not by

the success of the farm. Both analyses point to a need for an ethic that does not shame those who fail

financially but seeks to support, understand and engage them in fruitful conversation about better

alternatives for structuring the community's social and economic Iife.

G. Limitations

This study is limited in several ways by choices that I have had to make:

1. Important players in the agricultural economy were not interviewed. The role of very large

agricultural corporations has not been carefully analyzed, nor has the role of marketing on consumer

preference and demand, changes in long-distance transportation, biological engineering, the impact of

computers on the global trading of agricultural commodities, and so on. My research is not intended (nor

is it possible) to be a comprehensive assessment of the factors contributing to the farm crisis. It is intended

only to show, fiom analysis of limited examples in lending and government policy, that responsibility for

farm bankruptcy does not rest on farmer's shoulders alone, and that the shame that is both self-imposed

by fanners and imposed on them, is unjustified.

2. Those interviewed were not a representative, random sample ofthe population. This is unavoidable

because confidentiality of government and bank records ensures that bankrupt fanners cannot be identified

through a random process. This lack of representation is also apparent in other respects. Orthodox,

Mennonite. Baptist and other evangelical groups, Roman Catholic and people of non-Christian faiths are

25

not well-represented in this study. The study also focuses heavily on Alberta and Saskatchewan (although

I have made use of video interview data prodwed in Manitoba, as well as the United States). While there

is some representation of church denominations, both genders, regions of the country and farm-related

occupations, the largest group of interviewees were mainline Protestant white male fanners from Alberta

and Saskatchewan. Some non-white data was obtained through the interviews in the video "The Last

Harvest" which documented the bankruptcy of a Japanese farm family in southern Alberta.

Problems of representation always occur in qualitative research because of the small size of the

sample. One cannot do careful observation and in-depth interviews of thousands of people without far

greater resources. However, since the purpose of qualitative sociology is to generate testable grounded

theory, rather than to test it (which usually requires quantitative methods), the lack of representativeness,

while significant, does not invalidate the approach. It at least provides those who want to do funher

research with theory that has some grounding in empirical reality and has not been simply pulled out of the

atmosphere. Ln this study the fact that the majority of my interviewees are well-represented (by age,

gender, race and religion) in rural culture yet marginalized by virtue of their economic position is probably

an advantage both in hying to determine its ruling ideas and to some extent critique them.

3. There is also a certain imbalance in the study. For example, though I have included interviews with

lenders and solvent fanners I have not given them the same emphasis as those of bankrupt farmers. This

is not for lack of interest, but simply reflects a pastoral decision that the need to present and strengthen the

voices of those who are unable to speak appears to me to be the first concern in making a lively, and

balanced debate within agricultural communities possible.

4. I have decided not to prescribe ways in which farmers might organize for social protest or

restructure their communities to be more economically viable. I do not believe that reforms will initiaily

come from academics pushing personal and theoretical solutions (though these may have value at a certain

point ). I believe that change will come community by community, as particular people (like Sharon

26

Nicholson and the organizers of the Bengough Rally Association in Saskatchewan) have the courage to

begin public conversations about political action and economic changes that can be undertaken in their own

communities. It would not be helpful for me to offer a pre-designed template for the outcome of those

conversations. My aim is to facilitate that conversation by examining the factors that restrict it and by

offering a theologically and sociologically grounded pastoral strategy that rival congregations can use to

initiate it.

5. 1 do not deal with the differences in reactions to bankruptcy between male-only and female-only

operated farms. Most farms are headed by males alone or husband-wife teams. I encountered so few

women heading f m s alone that it was impossible to make judgements about the application of the honour

code to females in those situations. It would be interesting to see whether they become competitors for

honour like their male counterparts, or take a more cooperative role in the farm economy.

SECTION ONE

EXPRESSING PAIN

CHAPTER 1

WHAT HAS BEEN THE EFFECT OF THE FARM CRISIS?

A. A Crisis of tbe Spirit

I come from a land that is harsh and unforgiving. Winter snows can kill you and the summer bum you dry. When a change in the weather makes a difference to your living You keep one eye on the banker and another on the sky.

But oh I get caught by those wide open spaces Caught by the sight of those straight horizon lines Caught by the sight of those lined open faces Weathered over trouble and time.

Cause that big old flatland she doesn't suffer fools lightly. Watch your step if you're new around. Brown broke down in a blizzard last winter Tried to walk and fioze to death fifty feet from town.

But oh I get caught by those blue spring ditches Farmers seeding, hoping it will pay Hoping that July won't see their hearts caught in that topsoil Watching the wind blow it away.

You can work all year, you can get it in the bin There's no telling what price you get or if it sells. You just hope you can hold on so you don't end up Like the neighbows Him and her they're weeping as the auctioneer yells.1

In ''Harsh and Unforgiving," Connie Kaldor captures both the love of the land, and the fear of losing

it, that I heard so often in the voices of the fanners I interviewed. She reminds us that behind the curbin

of numbers that represents the farm crisis in many public portrayal~ommodity prices, debt loads, income

statistics-there is a deeply painful human drama being played out. The lives of those who farm in Canada

have in the last decades become characterized by chronic anxiety and, for those many who Fdce

'~onnie Kaldor. "Harsh and Unforgiving," fiwn lyric page, Wood River album (Coyote Records. 1992). Used by permission of Coyote Entertainment (given by Atley Cruikshank by e-mail, Jdy 10,1999) and Connie Kaldor (given by e-mail, Sept. 20, 1999).

foreclosure, by grief. It is a crisis of the human spirit. Several fundamental social, spiritual and

psychological elements of one's personhood are stripped away in the process of losing the f m .

I . Loss of the "whole" self

Michael said, "Farm families are connected to the lan&like a living body." Farmers report an intense

bonding with the land that may be difficult for non-farmers to appreciate. Marvin describes his attachment:

I like going out especially in the spring and the first trip over the summer fallow. The dirt, it's so nice and dark, especially when you get a rain when you need it. I like the livestock end of it too. Right now we have a bunch of new calves. When they're on the grass, it's nice to drive through them and watch what they're doing, watch them grow up.

Others talked about the intense satisfaction they derived from nurturing plants and improving livestock.

Edith is convinced that "there's no greater place to live than on the land." For her the land is the place

where her children meet God in God's gifts of sun, rain and crop. Together with an inter-penetration of

work and home life, this identification with the land encourages a complete, lifetime investment of one's

selfin the farm enterprise. Ron loves it: "It's not a great way to make a living, but it's a great way to live."2

For many farmers therefore, particularly those who have grown up on the land and have ancestral

links to i& the pain of farm foreclosure is almost physical. As Brenda expressed it: "We have the roots of

the land in us. Whether you are forced off the land, or choose to leave, it's like something that is planted

deep inside you is just being ripped out? The experience of leaving the land, especially by force, leaves

many farmers with feelings somewhat similar to those of war amputees-embarrassment at being seen in

public places, grief; a profound sense of no longer being whole.

2. The loss of purpose

Some sense a "call" to farming that seems written on their souls. Michael says "We are stewards of

the land." That calling, according to Clark, is the same kind one might have to pastoral ministry. To not

be allowed to farm, he says, is to be prevented f?om fulfilling one's deep purpose in life. In fact, unlike

*hother Family Fann, prod. Chuck Canton, 26 min (St. Paul, MN: American Lutheran Church-Division for Life and Mission in the Congregation, 1985)' videocassette,

3 Borrowed Time, (Toronto, ON: 49 North Productions, Inc., 1990), videocassette.

30

urban dwellers, who may engage in several different occupations over the course oftheir work career, most

of the farmers I interviewed could not conceive of themselves doing anything else. For some this reflects

an anxiety about their obiliw to do anything else. Some were convinced that if they had to leave the f m

they would end up on welfare. For others however, it was an identity issue. As Lori expressed if "If you

lose your plumbing job you're still a plumber. But if you lose your farm you're not a farmer anymore. You

lose your identity."

2. The Loss of Intimacy

Frequently one's self is so wrapped up in the farm that the fear of losing it paralyses a farmer's ability

to maintain intimate relationships. They find that they cannot talk about it even with spouses. In his work

as a debt review mediator. Kevin says that often when he went to talk to a male farmer the f m e r would

ask to meet in a restaurant-not at homebecause he had not told his wife about the farm's financial

problems.

When fanners are not candid about the financial situation as it develops their spouses find it hard to

be sympathetic. Perry said that his wife came fiom a non-farming background and simply could not

understand how this happened. He said that when he told her she responded, "Surely you could have made

payments. What were you doing with the money? If I ever get the reins hen, we'll soon control that."

When it becomes clear that the debt is overwhelming, the spouse may not be able to understand why

their partner continues to fight a battle that is destroying their lives with stress. Spouse and children usually

take off-fann jobs to help with the finances and they increase their contribution to the farm work. It

becomes an intolerable burden. Randy said that he and his wife were talking about the situation one night.

She was ready to say "the hell with it" and "walk out" and could not understand his reluctance to leave.

He told her that the farm has been home his whole life, and his father's and grandfather's before that. He

couldn't let the family down. Besides, he had rebuilt the place-"every granary, the shop and the machine

shed, corrals, dugouts." It was, in his words the "tangible evidence" of the value of his life.

The farmer's refusal to leave the farm is sometimes perceived (rightly or wrongly) by the spouse as

an indication that the most committed relationship is not to the spouse but to the farm? Sarah said, "I

wasn't sure where his loyalty stood-with me or with the farm." Sandy, recently separated, said "He was

married to the land. I was never the first one in his heart. It was the fan. He can let me go. But I doubt

he'll ever be able to let the farm go." She felt less like his wife than his hired hand. Connie and Rhonda

both felt that their husbands' first marriage was to the land. They saw their husbands' depression and

withdrawal from them as a normal consequence of divorce-tiom the land.

While retaining marital intimacy in f m crisis may depend heavily on where one's primary values lie,

it also depends on maintaining good communication about financial matters. For example. Ron and Nora

survived fire, drought, the death of a brother, the loss of their farm and the loss of a subsequent job as

managers of a recreational center in a short period of time. Yet they appeared to be among the best

adjusted of the couples I spoke with. The key, they said was that "we stuck together and never blamed

each other." They shared the financial details, made the decisions together and went to the banken

together. As Ron put it, "You hold together-and when the crunch is on, you really get together and you

find that inner strength within yourself even though it [the bankruptcy] is shameful."

Ironically, even in marriages where the communication has been reasonably good, impending

foreclosure sometimes shuts down conversation. On the one hand the husband's silence may be motivated

by concern for her well-being. He wants to protect her fkom the deep insecurity and anxiety that impending

foreclosure brings. He feels a sense of shame over not being able to provide for her and the family. On

the other hand it may also be motivated by the fear that if she discovers that their fann has been

'Note: while the analogy between farming and marriage is current in farm culture it has roots early in Canadian history and appears in Eastern Canada as well. French Canadian author Ringuet (i.e. Philippe Panneton) makes the comparison in his novel Thirtv Acres (set in Quebec): "On the first day [Euchariste Moisan] had come, fiftyfour years ago now, he had given himself to the farm, taken it in marriage, and had had no thought, or care or toil for anything but the f m , which now, thinking only of its fitfulness and indifference to the sower of the xed, was about to give itself to someone else." Ringuet, Thiny Acres, trans. F. and D. Walter (1938; reprint, Toronto, ON: McClelland and Stewart, 1970), 134.

32

"mismanaged" and their livelihood lost, she will leave. Marvin tells of a neighbour who lost his farm in

a very rapid foreclosure action. He said, "They cleaned him out and his wife left him."

3. The Loss of Hope

The farm crisis is particularly a crisis of hope. Diane told how a deadening sense ofhopelessness had

settled into her life: "I've gone from being terrified to 'I don't care anymore."' Wayne, a district

agriculturist, admits that the most difficult part of his job is watching fanners give up hope. He says that

they move fkom anger to blaming and finally a quiet despair. That despair is often deepened when

desperate efforts to keep the f m from sliding into foreclosure are not enough. Diane said, "We worked

harder and harder and harder, longer days and no help. We would do everything to try and make ends

meet. But it was out of our reach."

For farmers in their tiflies or older, the loss of their f m (often because they co-signed a loan for a

child who was trying to get established in farming), means the loss of a pension.5 The land was the equity

on which they were going to retire. Andy lost his farm in the process of trying to set up his two sons in

fanning. He co-signed their loans and when they lost their land, he also lost his. Lance, a fanner who had

been through debt review and wanted to help others in the same situation said, "I fought really hard to help

older farmers keep their f m s because I knew that they couldn't get a job that would put them in a

retireable position."

Above all, the hopelessness is connected to the loss of a heritage to pass on to one's chifdren. The

farm ofien represents the collective effort and wisdom of several generations working a particular piece

of land; the wisdom of managing it is part and parcel of the family's identity and its legacy for the k.

To lose it is to lose one's past and fbture simultaneous^^:^ Wayne sees the loss of his f m as the broken

'This concern is becoming particularly acute as the average age of fanners approaches sixty.

%or ~ociolo~ical studies on intergenerational farm conflict see S.C. Rogers, & S. Salamoh "Inheritance and Social Organization Among Family Fmen," American Ethnoloaist (October 1983): 529-550 C.S. Russell et al, "Coping Strategies Associated with Intergenerational Transfer ofthe Family F m , " Rural Societv 50 (3): 36 1-376; Randy Wiegel and Daniel Wiegel, "Identifying Stressors and Coping Strategies in Two Generation FamiIies," Familv Relations 36: 379- 384.

link: "My kids won't have any opportunity to be on the land. We're the ones that broke the chain, passing

the farm from generation to generation." Ron says, "An era has come to an end in our family and I didn't

realize how much that meant to me until this week."

The problem is not just the loss of the farm itself but the physical loss of the children from the

community. Many of the bankruptcies have been among young farmers getting started in the business.'

Clark feels that the "whole system is saying to young people, 'No, you can't farm!" John laments, "Here's

one of our most precious resources-our young peopleand they're gone, they're not coming back."

The young people themselves feel it. In a video produced by the teenage children of farmen in crisis

in Manitoba, the youth express their discouragement this way:

If we don't get something good to do here-if we can't make a decent living-if we've got no place to go and no one to turn to, then our only choice is to go to the city or keep running into the bush [that is, escape into drinking]. Either way a lot of us are never going to come back.'

Lynda Haverstock, a psychologist, Saskatchewan MLA and farm counsellor for many years, says that

farm bankruptcy is a process of bereavement. Coping with these losses is a painful form of grief work.

Comie said, "it's like a real death. It's every bit as stressful as a spouse dying." Ron qualifies by adding

"It's easier to cope with death than with what has transpired because this is an ongoing thing."

Unfortunately, because there is so little community support sought or given, the struggle to keep the

farm and family alive is lonely and exhausting. The threatened or actual loss of a fann can take as long as

six years including negotiations with the banks, farm debt review, quit claims, court appeals, foreclosure

or bankruptcy, a period of renting the land back &om the lender and final f m sale? As a result fann

'Mia faylor's study of farm bankruptcies in the '80's shows that in Saskatchewan for all sizes of farms the average age of those leaving was less than that of those staying. See Adiustine to the Financial Crisis of the 1980's in Saskatchewan Ag~5~l ture (Saskatoon, SK: Department of Agricultural Economics, University of Saskatchewan, 1993, 3 7.

'Ahnost Broadway Players. Where the Rose Grows (Sinclair, MB: Melita Rural Theatre Group, Malanka Productions, 1 990), videotape.

'ln Saskatchewan provincial law requires that following a foreclosure. the creditor who now owns the land must offer it for rent to the previous owner for a period of six years, foliowing which it may k sold, with the previous owner having first tight of refisal.

families are subject to prolonged and chronic stress. There is also a "futility factor" at work: the more

hours a farmer puts in on the farm. the greater the stress he or she is likely to feel. '"he increasing stress

and the loss of hope that it may be resolved usually leads to some degree of depression: ' ' Nora spoke of

the difficulty of simply getting up in the morning to face another day of anxiety and loss. "You're just

drained emotionally, physically and mentally," she said. The depression can be so paralysing that the

preparations necessary to fight for a good settlement or to prepare for an auction and a move simply cannot

happen. Doreen says, "I felt like the lowest thing on earth. We had completely blocked the sale out of our

minds. We didn't do anything to get ready for that sale."

Some inte~iewees admitted to turning to alcohol for refuge fiom the emotional pain; others spoke

of Friends or acquaintances who turned the shotgun on themselves. Lance noted that as the financial crisis

deepened in his area there was a rash of suicides: " I think we had 8 of them in a 50 mile radius" he said.

One farmer at the Regina farm rally in June of '99 told of a neighbour who dropped the keys to his f m

on his lender's desk, walked out of the bank and shot himself. Another tells of finding a neighbour in his

''This came out of a study done by sociologist Norah Keating and home economist Maryanne Doherty of the University ofAlberta who studied the relationship between farm debt and the stress reactions of more than seven hundred h men and women who are gain farmers in Alberta. They also found that stress was more intense when farmers still felt they had options open to them, because those options usually involved selling off farm holdings to pay debts. Reported in Val Farmer, "Broken HcartJand," Psvcholow Todw 20 (4): 61.

"Michael J. Belyea and Linda M. Lob, "Psychosocial Consequences of Agriculblnl Transformation: The Farm Crisis and Depression," Rural Sociolo~v 55 (No. l 1990): 58-75 found that over thirty-five percent of general US farm respondcats could be classified as sigdicaatly depressed, according to their responses to the Center for Epidemiologic Studies-Depression (CES-D) Scale. This finding showed a considerable rise over previous studies (see p. 69). They noted that depression was particularly likely when "highly desired outcomes are believed improbablen-i.e., when there is a loss of hope.

Val Farmer, in "Broken Heartland," 54-57'60-62 cites studies by sociologists William and Judith Heffernan which found that one hundredpercent of those leaving farming in a northern Missouri county were depressed. Even several years later, fifty percent of those men and seventy-two percent of those women were still depressed. Farmer also notes that the distress is not only tumed inward. She cites studies indicating increased levels of family violence in rural communities related to the farm crisis.

Molly J. Coye, "The Health Effects ofAgriculturd Production," in New Directions forA&culture and Anricultural Research: Neglected Dimensions and Emeraina Alternatives, ed. Kenneth A. Dahlberg(Totowa, NJ: Rowrnan and Allan, l986), 18 1-2 notes that several studies have found that mental illness is significantly higher in nrral than urban communities with approximately ten percent ofthe rural popdation defined as "those cases probably in need of psychiatric care." She argues that changes in agricultural structure engender changes in fann organization and in family work roles which have been found to be related to mental illness in other non-farm settings.

garage inside his idling car, overwhelmed by the disgrace of losing his farm equipment and possibly his

fm."

Even those who can stand the stressi3 wonder whether it is worth it. Marvin observed blackly,

The best thing a fanner can do is die. The successful farmers around here, their fathers died. Life insurance covers their debt. They leave their kids well OK I think about it.

B. A Crisis of Community

I . Breakdown in relationships wirh neighbours and church members

The effect of fann crisis is not only personal and psychological. It also has a shattering impact on

relationships in rural communities. Lynda Haverstock says that "In the thirties there was a camaraderie of

suffering. In the eighties it was horrible. The oompetition was intense. Everyone thought that the guy

down the road was getting a better deal." When the farm economy is depressed. it is often machinery

bought at cheap farm auction prices that allows neighbouring farmers to stay viable (though machinery and

other input dealers still lose out). To Bob, watching neighbours purchase his equipment was like watching

''the vultures come in for the kill.""

In other cases, it is not viability, but the opportunity to expand, that motivates the apparent

"cannibalism." Al spoke ofa neighbour with a large farm who said to him, "I'm not interested in buying

up all the land in the areajust the fields that join my property." A1 felt that some farmers were "waiting

for their neighbours to go broke so they can gobble up their land." Rod said, "The perception out there is,

'2This latter incident was reported in Marina Jimenez "Saskatchewan's Fields of Sorrow," National Post, 14 May, 1999, A3.

" ~ v e n apart h m personal financial crisis, the U.S. National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health ranks fanning in the upper 10 percent of 130 high stress occupations. See William D. Heffeman and Judith B. Heffeman "The farm crisis and the Rural Community," in New Dimensions in Rural PoIicv: BuiIdina Umn Our Heritape, ed. Dale Jahr. Jerry WJohnson and Ronald C. Wimberley (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1 %6), 273-80.

' ko t e that one in ten fmers reports having considered suicide, according to "Canada's Farm Crisis" Pmxis 2 (Fall 1988): 1-3 (no byline). The video production Borrowed Time claims that one in three male farm deaths is suicide. The fann suicide rate is twice the Canadian national average according to the Presbyterian Farm Crisis Committee (see their video Family Farm Under Receivership (London, On: CFPL-TV, n-d.). None of these claims are surprising considering the rates of depression cited in the note above.

ls~onowed Time.

'I wait for you to drop then I'll pull in and I'll pick up the left-ovm, and I'll get bigger. "' Farmers who saw

their neighbours benefit fiorn their foreclosure felt angry and betrayed.

There were also feelings of resentment on the part of neighbours who were in financial difficulty and

did not declare bankruptcy. For the sake of honour they worked hard to repay the debts they accumulated

in the eighties. It has been dificult for them to watch neighbours quit-claim their fann, buy it back later

at deflated prices and be in better fmancial shape now than they are.

When it is one's fellow church members who take advantage of one's foreclosure, the bitterness is

intensified. Jerry, the pastor of a rural church reports, for example, that when a young farmer in his parish

lost his land, "church folks lined up to get a piece of the action. One after another asked him or his wife,

'Are you planning to sell the elevator? What are you going to do with the combine? When's the back

quarter going up for sale?"' Harold spoke about the deep resentment that developed when his creditor sold

Harold's property to his Christian neighbour at well below market price. just a day or so before Harold

raised the money to pay off his debt. He and his wife reflected on what the experience had done to their

relationship with the neighbour:

Harold: When they [the buyers] had gotten sick, my folks had baked a fkesh batch of bread and had gone over and brought this batch of bread over to them. That's the way that neighbours had done in pioneer times. And then I'd gone over and pulled his daughter out of the ditch, and I took the tractor over and pulled him out of the ditch too one time. Cathy: Now you'd just leave him there wouldn't you? Earold: I probably would. Cathy: So your Christian feeling is gone maybe. Harold: Well I'm pretty hard.

In Harold's case. the creditor was also a fellow church member. The process of having his farm sold drove

a deep wedge of bitter anger into that relationship as well.

Harold's reaction suggests that when fellow Christians are involved in the foreclosure and sale the

anger may be intensified by a sense of betrayal. Some farmers in difficulty spoke of Christian neighbours

and lenders as "hypocrites." One said, "If you're a good Christian you don't do this." Interestingly, for

those farmers I interviewed who were not in financial difficulty, there seemed to be little connection

37

between accepted standards of doing business and the principles of one's faith. When financial crisis hit,

however, the disparities between their understanding of what it means to be a Christian community, and

their real experience of it came into sharp relief. It seems that they expected brothers and sisters in Christ

to find a way to forestall the legal requirements of unrepayable loan agreements and overlook the economic

opportunities present in a mighbour's foreclosure. They expected faith to change the way that business

was done and when it apparently did not they were deeply hurt.

The anger at church and community members was often difficult to contain. Haverstock says that she

is often surprised by how small the triggers are that ignite farmers' violence against lenders or family

members or self. It suggests that high levels ofanger and fear have been building for some time. Although

none of the f m e n I interviewed actually became violent with creditors or neighboun, the potential was

certainly there. Harold spoke of going to church where his lender was worshiping and said that he simply

had to stop going to worship: "I'm sure if 1 had kept corning here I would have nailed somebody in the head

and knocked them out. I was tight like a rattlesnake-ready to strike!" Lance spoke of visiting neighboun

who had large armament caches and Connie told of instances in which farmers had shot at bankers. Ryan

commented, "I always thought that if 1 could have shot a Fann Credit guy it would have done me a lot of

good." Rod tells of an older "teddy-bear sort of fellow" standing up at a fanners' meeting and saying that

he if he had a bomb right then he would be going over to the bank manager's office to blow him up.

The violent feelings reflected in such comments reveal something of the way in which some famen

view foreclosure proceedings. They see themselves at war, their homestead (castle) under siege and their

family's very survival at stake.

2. Disintegration of community lfe

Beyond the breakdown in personal relationships, there is also a disintegration of general community

life that occurs when a primary producer is in financial trouble, or leaves the area. Lance laments the loss

of neighborn: "There used to be four families on our telephone line. Now we're the only ones leR"

38

Driving into one prairie town where there had been several farm bankruptcies in the area, I was struck by

the air ofdesolation. A large number of buildings on the main street were boarded up. There was an empty

lot where a machinery dealership had stood, a vacant restaurang abandoned stores. For Ralph the

connection was clear: "Lots of the businesses in town have bankrupt since the farmers have gone

bac bards. "

The bankruptcy ofa f m has dramatic spin-offs for townspeople dependent on the farm economy. l 6

At the Regina farm rally in June of 1999, the president of an association of farm equipment dealers and

manufacturers described the devastating layoffs that were occurring in his industry-as high as 98 percent

of employees laid off in the worst cases. Many of those dealerships, even some of the manufacturers,

provide jobs for rural people. When farm income drops, unemployment in other sectors rapidly increases.

Churches lose their pastors as giving drops. Stores close. People move out. Dropping numbers often

means the loss of schools and hospitals.

In 1969, nine percent of the Canadian population lived on the farm; by 199 1 it was down to 3.2

percent.'' Bob MacKenzie, a fanners' financial consultant says: "People are being dispossessed on a scale

here that usually only happens in a revolution. It's a revolution-a social revolution-but a very quiet one

unfortunately in a lot of ways."18 The rapid decline in the number of farmers has been accompanied (in

areas outside the commuting zone of large cities) by a decline in rural dwellers of other occupations.

The consequences ofthis exodus-lost schools, hospitals, businesses, churches, cultural opportunities

and fiiends-take the heart out of a community.

-

'6~i l l iam Heffeman and Judith Heffeman document this effect in American rural communities in "Impact of the Farm Crisis on Rural Families and Communities," Rural Socioloaist 6 (1 986): 160- 1 70.

"~nless otherwise noted. any figures that I quote are from the Canadian Census of Adculture for the appropriate year.

faherview in Borrowed Time.

CHAPTER 2

WHY DO COMMUNITIES OFFER SO LITTLE SUPPORT TO FARMERS XN FINANClAL CRISIS?

A. Silence

Such pain ought to be the subject of much community conversation and media attention. But the

stories are not being openly discussed. One CBC agriculturai reporter told me that she found it almost

impossible to find farmers willing to talk about their experience of farm bankruptcy. The battle for survival

among those 1 interviewed took place in an eerie silence. Often close friends and immediate family

members-spouse, children, parents, si blingswere not made aware of the struggle going on. Ron and Nora

described how it effected their family:

Nora: Your brother went through bankruptcy about what, four years after we did? But he wouldn't come to us. We didn't know any of this until they had signed everything over to the bank. They just let them take it all. And then-was it about a year later?-he died. Ron: Why didn't he come to me? Maybe he thought, "I don't want to bother my young brother, you know. I've been the strength for all our family; I just have to have the courage and keep going." That was incredibly tough. Nora: It really hurts us that he went through this and felt that he couldn't come and talk to us. And then we say, like why hadn't we gone and talked to somebody when we were in that situation?

Dorothy told of a best friend who sold their land and moved away. They said that they were not

interested in fanniog any longer. But when Dorothy saw the rural municipality map, she discovered that

their land was owned by the bank. She and Henry were deeply hurt that their closest fkiends had not

shared any of their financial troubles. She wondered if it was something that they had done.

I discovered that even when folks are aware, discussion of economic problems is usually avoided as

though it cames a curse. Randy said that the subject was simply not brought up in his home and

neighbourhood: "It's considered bad manners. You could ask somebody how their foot is healing or you

could ask them how they're feeling, but it was unthinkable that you would ask them how their financial

situation is." Dorothy said that to talk about her farm's finances would feel like stripping naked. Every

interviewee agreed that a farm's financial woes were simply not a matter for conversation in rural

communities, even with one's closest friends.

The support systems normally available to agricultural communities have often been silent as well.

According to Clark, a leader in a national farm organization, some (not all) farm organizations are reluctant

to address the problem straightforwardly. He said that they 'put on blinders" "don't want to talk about it"

"it's like it didn't happen." They do not want to acknowledge that farmers are having serious difficulties,

he claims.

Looking for Canadian research on the social effects of the farm crisis I also discovered that academics,

especially in eastern Canada where urban concerns dominate, have had little to say about farm bankruptcy.

Its theological significance, particularly, has not been well explored except in relation to the ecological

problems it causes.

Sadly, but most significantly for me, I found that the "cone of silence" also extends to rural

congregations. The following conversation was one of several similar ones.

Cam: Let me take this into the church arena. When did the foks in your congregation find out about your financial problems? Ron: The church people don't realize it's so bad. Nora: They don't want to know too much about it. Cam: What gave you that impression? Nora: Because no one would talk to us about it. It was like people didn't know what to say to you so they chose not to say anything. Cam: Did you ever open up the subject with them? Nora: [to Ron] Well you did, with the pastor. Ron: But it was insignificant, really. Nora: You know, when you hear someone say, "Well the farmers borrowed the money, they have to pay it back," you think, "Oops, I guess there's no support there." So basically I guess, it's sad to say but we went through that with very little support from the church. Alm~st none. Cam: What do you wish that the church, or church members, had done during this time? Ron: I don't know. It just happened. All of a sudden there were more people in the same situation. There were so many people that just withdrew and didn't say anything. They had mega problems, too, but didn't say anything. Nora: I think I would have liked had there been, maybe not community support, but at least support fiom the pastor.

Both pastors and farmers told me that financial distress is simply not discussed in church. The pastors I

interviewed who were involved with the farm crisis reported that they did not get much cooperation from

their clergy colleagues. When Don attempted to organize crisis care in his area for farmers he said, "I

discovered that I was the only pastor in my conference that cared. Other clergy said 'that's good for you,

but I'm not interested."'

The pastors who did address the problem in sermons or public action were received with even less

enthusiasm by their people. Steve, a rural pastor, says

In the midst of the farm crisis, they did not want to hear bad stories. They wanted everything to be light and rosy. Because they knew they would have enough shadows on the horizon anyways. It was denial, great denial.

Ultimately, the silence places f m e n in a bind. The community is reluctant to ask about their

situation for fear ofembarrassing the farmer or having to confiont their own anxieties. The farmer will not

talk about the trouble for fear of community reprisal.

Unfortunately, and obviously, it is very dificult for rural communities which are being devastated by

fann losses to work together to find ways of stabilizing their local agricultural economy1 if they cannot

discuss it openly. It is even more difficult to develop lobby groups which are able to compete with strong

corporate interests in gaining the attention of the government.

Finally of course, if there is no talk fanners cannot get any spiritual or emotional support. Those

whom I interviewed suffer in lonely silence. At the end, when the sheriff comes to auction the machinery,

even those choosing to express their support do so without words. Like stalwart mourners at a graveside,

those who care stand silently on the edges of the auction crowd indicating by their refusal to bid that they

grieve their neighbour's loss and will not try to gain fiom it.

- - - -

1 through locally -owned elevators, processing plants and transportation systems, for example.

B. Shame and Withdrawai-a Social Discipline?

Haveatock says that the initial silence on the part ofan insolvent farmer is essentially the same denial

that one experiences in the early stage of any "dying" process. She observes, "All of these people believe

that they can pull out of this and don't have to tell parents. They're afraid parents couldn't take it."

However. the duration and intensity of this silence on the farmer's part. and the lack of support on

the part of their community is puzzling. The latter is particularly odd considering the help that rural folks

reportedly give in crises of a different sort.' In close-knit rural communities roles are overlapping and

interdependent; people depend on one another. Caring for the neighbour is part ofensuring that one's own

needs will be met. It is this supportive community that develops around agricultural life that Pat says holds

her on the farm. In her experience,"Country people reach out to each other and give to each other that

support when you're in tr~uble."~

However, financial crisis is treated differently than others. Several interviewees insisted that

neighbours are quick to help out in a time of sickness. They will help a farmer rebuild afier a fire or take

over the milking if one broke a leg. But they also noted, as Perry put if that "if you are in farm crisis

they'll avoid you like the plague."

These folks seem to be saying that in farm communities financial failure has a different quality to it

than other types of calamity. It is a cause for s h e . The person in distress is regarded as being someone

or having done something that is morally repugnant, inherently dangerous to the community. Commonly

held myths and a certain kind of theology (which I will examine further on) reinforce the belief that one

gets what one deserves. Foreclosure particularly, is a sign that some sort of moral failure has occurred and

appropriate punishment is being exacted.

h s support is verified in the research of D. 0-tley, M. Barrera lr. & E. Sadal1a"Relationsbips Among Community Size, Mediators and Social Support: A Path Analytic Approach," American J o d of Community Psvcholom 9 ( 1 98 1 ): 637-651. Their research was done in the United States. However it is supported by interview data and my parish experience in western Canada.

3~nother Family Farm.

It may in part be a sense that justice is being done that allows some people in a normally supportive

community to withdraw their support or even to plunder a failing fann's resources. Bill observed,

Some people in the farm community want to stand back and say, "He must have been a bad manager; he made his mistakes. The sooner he's out of the business, the quicker I'll be able to sell what I sell for more money and more profit." We have lost the ability in the farm community to work together for a common good and a common god. There's a lot of cannibalisrnO4

Not only the community, but the farmers themselves, seem to regard their situation as shame-full.

Chris Lind, a Saskatoon researcher who has also interviewed farmers in crisis, told me that while farmers

may not agree on the causes of the farm crisis there is agreement on one thing-that it is a moral problem.

He said, "Everyone who has lost his or her f m feels deeply ashamed."

Shame experiences are reported in American farm crisis studies and Canadian anecdotal resea~ch.~

I found the same. Those going through bankruptcy, foreclosure, or even debt review proceedings spoke

of feeling "disgraced," "ashamed," as having "let my family and myself down,'' as having "betrayed my

f o b and my neighbours."

Interviewees repofled that a "shame-full" person is perceived to be a poor risk in

relationships-unworthy, not a good source of advice, not a good model of integrity or practical ability (as

defined by community values). Typically, therefore, the shamed one is isolated both by his or her own

choice and the tacit decision of the community. Robert, a bank president, notes that when financial crisis

begins there is a clear change in relationships with clients:

It was kind of a social life for people when they came to town. You know, they would like to come in and visit. But now they have a feeling that they shouldn't come here, that we don't want to see them or whatever and they just don't come. I think they're embarrassed by the situation that has happened to them. You know they were at the top for that period of time. They could come in and ask us for anything and now when they owe us money and they don't know how

%onowed Time. 5 See for example Mary Van Hook, "Family Response to the Farm Crisis: A Study in Coping," Social Work, 35 (Sept

1990): 425-3 I ; Sam Wright and Paul Rosenblatt, "Isolation and Farm Loss: Why Neighbouts May Not Be Supportive," Family Relations 36 (1987): 391-395; Marvin Anderson, "Going, Going, Gone: Setling the Family Farm," Our Times (March 1986): 26-3 l ; Val Farmer, "Broken Heartland," 54-57,6042.

they're going to pay it they just don't want to see us. And I think it's true with their other creditors6

A key element of the shame is a sense of being exposed-of being highly vulnerable. Nora said

Everybody knows, everybody finds out that you are the ones that are in trouble with the bank. And its devastating. It goes like wildfue in a small town. Well the letters from the bank go to your local elevator agent. I mean its all supposed to be confidential, but there are people in the community and coffee room who say [whispered] "Hey did you hear. . . ?" Its devastating. Its hard to walk in and hold your head up.

Adam says that with the shame comes fear and withdrawal: "You pull into yourself. You don't want to talk

to people. You don't want to talk to your landlord. You don't want to see your banker."' Part of the

reason for the withdrawal is self-protection. I f the community finds out about their financial situation,

some farmers fear that all the creditors will want their debts repaid at once, or will take the farmer to court,

or will damage the farmer's reputation so that no one will want to do business with him or her anymore.

Connected to this is a moral sense that one's wounds ought to remain hidden. Shame is closely related

to modesty. One's vulnerabilities are not to be put on public display. The public arena is a place where

one's strengths are advertised, where honour is contested, won and lost. The threatened loss of a farm is

a deep, almost physical wounding for the f m e n I interviewed. Since the extent of the wounding is

difficult to hide in public (as Nora wted above) the only option is to withdraw &om public view. Harold

told how he backed out of community leadership positions as his financial difficulties got worse. Of come

he was facing extra time pressures brought on by his attempt to raise enough capital to buy back his land.

However there was more to it than that. Harold admits that it was hard for him to hold his head up in the

community. Others spoke of quitting favourite sports, of avoiding neighbow in the town stores, of

dropping out of church. Connie said that they stopped visiting in neighbow's homes because there was

a sense of moral inequity: ''they were not in trouble and you were."

6Facmer and Lender. Working Throueh Crisis (Ohhe, Kansas: RMI Media Productions, Inc., n.d.), videocassette.

7 ~ a l Farmer, "Broken Heartland," 6 1.

Carolyn Stevens, a social worker for Lutheran Social Services in Minnesota notes the same withdrawal

on the part of f m e n in her area.

One of the most serious issues I see here is the isolation many of them are experiencing in relation to their neighbours, their church and their friends. The whole individual aspect of the family farm, people being their own boss, it being a family business-it leads to isolation when there's trouble. Many people have difficulty talking about or letting anyone know the dire financial trouble they are in, or the emotional problems they may be experiencing as a result of that.8

The sense that one ought to be in control of one's operation leads to shame when fmancial problems

develop. ironically though. one consequence of disengaging because of shame, particularly of avoiding

one's creditors, is a loss of control. The f m e r ends up Ietting others make the essential decisions about

the farm finances and serious economic damage may be done in any case.

It is also ironic that although creditors may be the last people f m e n want to see, they sometimes find

that a lender may be the only one they can really talk to (that is, the one who already knows all about the

problem). Ray, executive vice-president of a bank, told of a couple who came in to see him one afternoon,

very angry at the bank's pressing them for repayment of the loan. They insisted that time would heal the

problem, that they just needed to get their creditors off their backs. Then they left. The next morning the

husband was back in to apologize to Ray, very emotional about his situation. He was asking "What is it

that we can do to work together to come up with some solutions?" The farmer told Ray that they didn't

have anywhere else to go to discuss their problem and although they were angry at the b e they felt that

Ray was someone they could talk to?

The problem is not only that fanners withdraw from the community; many in the community also

avoid, even shun, the farmer. "People look at you fkom a distance; they ignore you; they don't ask how

you're doing anymore," Perry said. Several fanners said that they were treated as though they had a

contagious disease. "it's like you've got leprosy now," Marvin said. A radio news reporter who covers

'~rorn Another Family Farm, videocassette.

'~rorn Farmer and Lender. videocassette.

agricultural stories told me that she once convinced some bankrupt farm families to tell their story on air.

Months later she learned that when their communities heard of their difficulties these families were

ostracized. They were snubbed in public settings and other people's chiidren wouldn't play with their

children.

The most difficult aspect of this shunning is not that neighborn fail to give physical or financial

helpsometimes there is not much of the latter that a neighbour can offer. What seems to hurt the most is

the withdrawal of emotional support. Van Hook comes to the same conclusion in her own study of farm

families in crisis:

Although some of the help born family, fiends, and the church made an important difference in the financial situation of families, kind words and symbolic actions of concern were equally meaningful. Silence on the other hand was invariably interpreted as judgment or lack of interest. Receiving help generally strengthened relationships between the parties involved, and failing to help created further alienation. Numbers cannot describe the uplift created by supportive family and community members or the pain experienced when this help was not forthcoming.'*

The reasons for community withdrawal vary. Clark said. "it's like the plague." suggesting that some

may regard the farmer's misfortune as being "contagious": the "bad luck" may rub off, or the poor

management skills attributed to the farmer may be communicated in some way. Others may be a h i d that

theu own resources will be depleted in helping when there is no possibility that the one they help will be

able to reciprocate. Some in the community may want to help but do not have any community-sanctioned

rituals of support. They do not know how to help without violating the family's privacy and increasing its

shame. Most people are uncomfortable with the strong emotions that s m u n d fann crisis. ' ' Neighbows

who are land-locked and see a farm's impending foreclosure as an opportunity to expand their own

operation may distance themselves as a result of feeling guilt over disloyal intentions.

This mutual withdrawal from the community extends to the church as well. Farmen in crisis may not

experience much more supportive contact with church members than they do with the community at large

- -

" ~ a q Van Hock, "Family Response to ?he Farm Crisis," 429.

'!Sara E. Wright and Paul C. Rosenblatt discuss some of these matters in "isolation and Farm Loss." 39 1-395.

(often less). Randy claims that the churches he has attended have had "some very fine people" in them.

Yet, he says, "ifyou're having financial difficulties, stay the hell out ofthem, cause you're not going to get

a second worth of sympathy or a pinch of help born them."

Whiie I have not located Canadian studies of church response to the farm crisis, some have been

undertaken in the American context. " Rural sociologists William and Judith Heffernan found in the mid-

eighties that most American farm families did not find adequate support and undemanding within the wider

church structure or their local congregations. In fact, they were extremely critical of their churches'

unresponsiveness or at best lukewarm efforts to minister to their needs. l 3

United Methodist leaders in the U.S. found that efforts to train rural pastors in dealing with the farm

crisis met with a good deal of apathy and resistance on the ministers' part. They report that pastors lacked

understanding about the crisis, denied the existence of the crisis, responded inappropriately, withdrew from

families in financial trouble or expected that families in trouble would come to them, and often never

showed up when farmers were being sold out.14

As with the community in general, however, responsibility for this disconnection goes both ways. The

farmers in crisis I interviewed tended to reduce their involvement with the church. Marvin notes, "A lot

of the ones that were in big trouble, there would be poor attendance from them." Ralph admits, "Our

attendance has really dropped off in the church . . . . You look around at the church and the people that

aren 't there-and this is when I do g-I h o w the other ones are in the same kind of trouble."

'*see for example K. H-Graham "A Description ofthe Transition Experiences of 28 New Yo& State Farm Families Forced fiom their Farms: 1982- 1985,'' unpublished master's thesis (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, l986), described in Wright and Rosenblatt solat at ion and Farm Loss." 395.

"Fteferred to in tkmis Thompson. "A Flourishing ofFaithand Service:'Christian Social Action, June 1989. 1 was not able to locate the exact citation for this reference, Note that Thompson expresses the observation that churches in the United States. became more sensitive to this issue by the end of the decade. My research would indicate that, in Canada at least, there is a long way to go.

%ladys L. Campbell, -&Building Bridges of Understanding: National Program Division Responds to the Rural Crisis," Christian Social Action 1 (March 1988): 28-29.

Interestingly, Van Hook found that forty-five percent of the farmers in trouble did seek some son

of practical and emotional support fiom their churches; fifty-six percent regarded religious faith as an

essential element in coping with their financial stress. l5 While these numbers seem high, they are qualified

for our use by several factors: fmt, they are based on American figures, which may not be accurate for a

Canadian situation, since church attendance in Canada seems to be lower;I6 secondly, she admits that those

most hurt by the farm crisis rehsed to participate in her study, indicating that there might be a lower rate

of faith and church participation if they were included; and thirdly, all of the farmers who responded were

active church members. In this light it appears that, even among the most committed perhaps much less

than half sought help from their churches or even from their faith.

The tendency to avoid asking for help may be due to a desire to avoid appearing (or becoming)

dependent. Three farm crisis counsellors funded by a Canadian national church program told me that they

were rarely approached by h e r s because it was an admission to the community of one's dependence;

it was help that could not be repaid.

This suggests that a congregation's desire to help can sometimes intensib a family's sense of shame.

Van Hook found that when a congregation defined its support as "charity," it sharply increased the "high

cost of asking for help." " Families who desperately need support sometimes find that they would rather

suffer alone than endwe the humiliation of becoming ''welfare cases." Wallace Cason, in one of his case

studies of shame in the church, reports on a bankrupt farm couple who experienced this (he gives them the

code name "Three"):

Both the Threes were ashamed when certain church members helped them move from their home. They were also very ashamed, said Mrs. Three, when the church sent them money. To receive money fiom the church killed their sense of self-esteem. They could not accept the lowered status of "someone who receives money from their church." Mrs. Three was probably more deeply embamssed by the bankruptcy and the money gift than Mr. Three, who is a fighter

" ~ a r y Van Hook, "Family Response to the Fann Crisis."

%ee Reginald Bibby, Frmented Gods: The Povertv and Potential of Relieion in Canada (Toronto, ON: Irwin Publishing, 1987).

17" FamiIy Response to the Farm Crisis," 429.

in his approach to life. Peaceful [the name of the congregation] showed lots of loving concern, including visits and phone calls and helping with various needs; but the more concern that was shown, the less the Threes attended."

In its defence, this congregation is an example of a church that at least made an effort to help. I should

note that of the eighteen congregations represented in my interviews I had reports of four where the pastor

provided significant support (sometimes in opposition to the congregation's behaviour, however) including

two in which the congregation helped as well. (In the others there was either neutral or negative contact,

or not enough information provided to make an assessment). Unfortunately, these four seem to be the

exception, and their efforts in any case were at best only moderately successful.

For the most part, farmers in crisis avoided church because the church was a particularly painful part

of their shaming. Because religion assigns worth to human beings, its negative evaluation is a fundamental

assault on the self. In rural communities, faith is socially constructed so it is very difficult to separate one's

worth in God's eyes from the congregation's evaluation of one's self. Van Hook found that for actively

churched respondents personal religious faith was about as much help as congregational support in coping

with farm crisis. This makes sense if the two are essentially linked. I found that lack of connection with

the local congregation in their distress was experienced by some of my interviewees as abandonment by

God. Connie confessed to me: "I felt like I was cut adrift fiom God." Diane described a deadness that

came into her faith life: "I don't say it's all God's fault or anything like that. I just don't know if I believe

anymore. I don't care." Cason notes h r n his research on s h e and church "dn,pouts" in ruraf US:

It was as though church inaction was verification that the whole church agreed with and had taken the side ofthe victim's attacker. In fact, it was this inaction which in every single case was mentioned as what hurt the worst. The reason is obvious: the church inaction was taken by the victims as the agreement of the church that in fact the victim was somehow not worthy ofhaving the offense corrected. This was felt as a much larger shame than the original of f~nse . '~

''wallace B. Cason. Shame and the Church Drowut: The Effect of Embarrassment. Humiliation and Shame on Church Attendance in Small Rural Churches, D.Min. dissertation (Wihnore, KY: Asbury Theological Seminary, 1992), 77.

19~ason. Sham and the Church Dromut, 79.

Because church-imposed shame is particularly painful, fann families may also be more likely to avoid

contact with the church than other community gatherings. Grief over the loss of one's perceived worth may

be so intense that the desire to avoid any thought or personal contact that will activate it becomes

paramount. As time goes on, it becomes more and more difficult to return to church. If approached by a

pastor or congregation member they will often refuse to admit that anything is wrong.

C. Honour as a Way of Life

The devastating sense of grief and loss associated with farm bankruptcy or foreclosure, 20 the shame

and the isolation that result, can be accounted for if we respect the fundamental role that "farm pride" plays

in rural prairie communities. It is clear in the research that successful farm management is a matter of

public "honour." It has a social weight to it that places it in a different category than health problems or

natural disasters. Farmen told me how difficult it was to publicly admit to financial difficulty because it

would damage their pride. Lori admits. "The reason a lot of farmen don't ask for help is pride: 'We took

out the debt-we'll pay it back."' Don, a rural pastor, says that ''they feel it is better to go down on your

knees alone than admit to your neighbours that you've failed." "Pride" appears to be the personal correlate

to social honour. That is, pride is the farmer's perception of the honour (informal social status) attributed

to him or herself by the community.

It is not surprising that honour and shame play such key roles in rural communities. John Peristiany

has studied agrarian communities around the world and notes that this is a common feature of them.

Honour and shame, he says, are "the constant preoccupation of individuals in small scale, exclusive

societies where face to face personal, as opposed to anonymous, relations are of paramount importance and

where the social personality of the actor is as significant as his office.""

'()Note: I use these two terms somewhat interchangeably, although they refer to somewhat different realities. Bankruptcy is an action initiated by the farm; foreclosure is initiated by a lender.

"~eristian~ edited the research papers of thee Mediterranean conferences between 1 959 and 1963 in which honour and shame are identified as the organizing social principle fora number ofrural societies in the Meditemnean region. See John G. Peristiany, ed., Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (Chicago, IL: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1 966).

Many of the reactions to financial crisis that I have identified seem best understood if we regard

7 7 Canadian farm communities as honour-based. -- Symbolically, honour stands for a person's place in

society. their social standing. This "place" is marked by boundaries of gender. power and other criteria

which vary from culture to culture. Functionally, by assigning people to a specific social place, honour

serves to provide clear guidelines as to the kind ofbehaviour that is appropriate between people. Behaviour

towards those in a "hghei' place will be different than toward those in a "lower' or equal place.

Honour, however, is more than just a set ofrules for governing behavior. Honour comprises the value

of a person in his or her own y e s combined with the value that person has in the eyes of his or her social

group. In this sense. as William 1Miller points out. honour permeates one's conscioasness. it is reflected

in the carriage of one's body. it determines one's expectations for self and others. In such a context, kIiller

says. "Honour is your very being. For in an honour-based culture there is no self-respect independent of

the respect of others. no private sense of *hey. I'm quite something' unless it is confirmed

In some ways then, the honour accorded a farmer by the community constitutes his or her personhood.

This may not be easy for urbanites to understand. for a couple of reasons: First of all. city dwellers

tend to operate with the understanding that one's occupation is pan of a personally-controlled "career."

There is a sense. as Michael Walzer points out. that their lives are projects.

undertakings in which we ourselves are the undertakers, the entrepreneurs. the managers and organizers of our own activities. And the set of our activities. extended over time. planned in advance, aimed at a p a l (a respected place in the s o d stem or a conventionally recognized accomplishment)-this is what we mean by a career. . . . X

Rural dwellers. however, do not view their lives as an independently guided journey or "career"

through a number of jobs. Rather. theirs is a life rooted in a particular place and regulated by their

77

-Wallace Cason conciudes this also of US rural communities in his study Shame and the Church Dropout.

U ~ i l l i a m Miller, Humiliation: And Other Essavs on Honour. Social Discomfort and Violence(1thaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1993), 1 16. See also Gabriele Taylor's excellent discussion in Pride. Shame and Guilt: Emotions of Self-Assessment (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1 gas), 55.

24 Michael Walzer, Thick and Thin: Moral Armrment at Home and Abroad (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1994),23-24.

52

community. Although transportation and communication improvements have allowed rural dwellers

greater opportunity to choose with whom they will associate, the local community still provides the

essential context for their lives and influences their destiny according to a "code of honour." We will look

at the precise nature of this code in a later chapter.

Secondly, urbanites have come to rely on what Ernile Durkheim calls the "portable self."" In cities,

where one moves into and out of a number of unrelated social groupings-like nodes in a webthe "self"

is understood to be a private "self-contained" entity that is carried with one wherever one goes.'6

In rural communities, however, the self is continually dependent on social sources for its maintenance.

Pierre Bordieu, speaking from fieldwork among the Berber tribesmen of Algerian Kabylia, identifies the

relationship between honour and selfas one in which an individual always sees him or herself through the

eyes of others. Such a person needs others to grasp their own identity. One who has lost honour in such

a society, however, becomes invisible to others, and therefore to him or herself. Bordieu puts in bluntly:

"He ceases to exist for other people, and at the same time he ceases to exist for hirn~elf.'~

In an honour-based society the self is not a portable comodity. As Michael lamented in the process

of his foreclosure, "The land and community are a part of us. You can't just put your hearts in a suitcase

and move." In a red way, fanen who are forced off their land feel as if they are faced with extinction,

''~efened to by Christopher Lasch in The True and Onlv Heaven: Pmeress and Its Critics (New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 1 99 1 ), 44.

'%.any Rasmussen says that the portable self has developed from: I ) the capitalist need for mobility of labor and materials in order to rationalize production; 2) the transformation ofall things into portable, exchangeable commodities; 3) and the Protestant notion of individual moral personhood and of society as composed of individuals who "carried salvation as well as damnation within their agitated souls." For urban society at least, he says that community has been replaced by a society of individuals." See Larry L. Rasmussen, Moral Framents and Moral Community: A Prowsal for Church in Society (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1993), 35.

27~ierre Bourdieu, "The Sentiment of Honour in Kabyle Society," in John Peristiany, ed, Honour and Shame: 193- 241.21 1-212.

the dissolution of self. As a result, in spite ofthe shame of losing their land, the great majority ofthem fmd

a way to stay in the rural community.'*

In rural communities, the social self seems to grow through the accumulation of honour and the

avoidance of shame. Competition for honour is a normal characteristic of community life. As one fanner

from Newfoundland put it (in the federal government's 1998 survey of seven thousand niral Canadians),

"There is a rural mentality that if someone gets ahead, others get jealous and try to prevent them from doing

~ 0 . " ' ~ The "jealousy" has to do with the fact that honour is in limited supply. Only a few can be at the top

of the social ladder and so the honouring of one member may subtly reduce the social status of others.

Honour is attributed to groups or families, but there is normally one person in the family group who

represents and publicly defends the group's honour. The other members participate in the honour or the

shame of that

Gender roles play an important pan here. The public arena. in which honour is contested, has

traditionally belonged to the male. The private arena in which one's weaknesses are cared for and

intimacies nurtured (matters of modestykhame) has traditionally belonged to the female. This is changing,

but in the families interviewed for this study the dominant public member was almost always male

(husband, father, single adult male, or adult son in the case of a widow).

The fact that the dominant male carries the "weight" of maintaining public appearances may in part

explain why I found that they, much more so than the women, were reluctant to publicly admit to having

'?his was my observation among those whom I interviewed. Five had left the community, the remainder had stayed. A survey of Missouri h e r s who had bem forced out of farming between 1980 and 1985 found that 70 percent continued to live in the county and nearly half remained on the family homestead as n o n - h e r s . Referred to without citation in Val Farmer, "Bmken Heartland," 61.

2 9 ~ s part ofthe Canadian Rural Partnership initiative, from May to the end ofJuly 1998, about seven rhousand nual Canadians voiced their concerns and provided their input to the Government of Canada through a series of facilitated workshops and individual workbook submissions. The purpose was to identify key challenges and priorities of rural Canadians and to understand what rural Canadians expect of the federal government in regard to sustainable development of ml areas. A summary o f the findings is found in "'Rural Canadians Speak Out'-Sumrnary of Rural Dialogue hput for the National Rural Workshopn (Government of Canada website, accessed 19 July 1999); available at http~/www.r~ual.gc.ca~discpaper~e.html;_Intemet.

3 0 ~ e e Clifford Gcem "'Fmrn the Native's Point of View': On the Nature of Anthropological Understanding," in Meaning in Anthro~ology ed. K.H. Basso and H.A. Selby (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1976).

54

financial problems. The women sometimes expressed great frustration at their husband's reticence. Living

and working in the interdependent environment of the home, responsible for healing and nurturing, they

could not understand the men's apparent self-sufficiency. They felt that the men were too hard on

themselves, unable to accept failure and unable to accept help. "I have to force my help on him," one

woman said.

The men's reluctance to discuss financial difficulties reflects the constraints of several rural realities.

The f a already mentioned, is the practical fear ofhaving one's fmancial problems compounded by public

exposure. If, for example, the seed supplier discovers that one is having trouble at the bank, the company

may refuse to provide seed on credit. If the crop cannot be planted, there will be no harvest to help pay

off the bank loan.

Secondly, the men are designated "providers" for the family. (Several expressed embarrassment that

in the financial crunch they were facing it was necessary for the women to go outside the home to work.)

The adequacy of that provision is in some respects more critical for farmers than for city dwellers. It

determines where they will live. Ifan urban family's financial situation worsens dramatically, it will likely

remain in the city but with reduced opportunities. Hornelessness is possible but there is a safety net

(welfare) that ensures that one can continue living in the same community. However there is no such safety

net for farers. When they can no longer stay in business or afford to own property they often have little

option but to move into a larger center (where the net exists). They face not just the loss of some amenities

and opportunities, but the loss oftheu community and whole way of living. Therefore the risks associated

with fmancial trouble are greater and may seem so large as to be paralyzing. It is difficult to face the

prospect of a loss so large. If it is hard for a man to admit to himself that he is responsible for such a loss

it is much harder to admit to others.

Thirdly, f m s tend to be handed down from father to son. Prosperity is a sign of respect for one's

ancestors. It indicates that a man has been a good son, a faithful steward of the land and of the heritage

passed on from his father. How does he admit that he has disgraced his ancestors by squandering the

heritage that they worked so hard to build and now has nothing to pass on to his heirs?

Finally, farmers cannot "escape" their neighbours. They know that they will have to live with the same

people in their community for decades. A serious loss of face, particularly in relation to fmancial success

cannot be completely undone. Its spectre haunts a person for decades and is a serious threat to psychic and

social well-being. It is difficult to face the prospect of seeing one's questionable worth mirrored in the eyes

of neighbours for years to come-especially since one's own sense of value is determined by their

regard-knowing that you are the one responsible for that loss of face.

In regard to this last, one's actual financial situation is less important socially than external

perceptions. Since a farm's financial books are not open to public scrutiny, social honour is gained through

the public display of physical signs of prosperity. For the most part it is males who are primarily

responsible for the display. Lance said for example that. "a lot of guys buy a new vehicle when they are

getting into trouble. It's a sign to the community, and to yourself, that things are okay." Howard, a lender,

observes that

There is a lot of pressure to look like you know what you are doing . . . buying new equipment, driving a new half-ton, keeping the fields h e of weeds . . . . It used to be that when I went into a farmyard, ifeverything is neat, tidy and in a row and shiny, then he is someone you want to do business with. Now it's the opposite. If I see all that stuff then I think that he is over- committed."

The "honour code" then is essentially constructed around (though not exclusively maintained by)

males. As the caretakers of the home and of private matters, women appear to have somewhat more

kedom fiom the code. While they share the public honour gained by their husbands, they appear much

more willing to risk shame for the sake of obtaining help or working through family problems. Several

times during this study I have found myself in casual conversation with a farm couple at a social function.

If I indicated in some way the nature of this study, I would often see the wife give her husband a knowing

3 ' ~ a v e ~ t ~ k suggested that, in her experience. this equation of successful farming with fmcy equipment is more characteristic of farmers since the 1970's, especially those that entered during that period,

glance and then ask questions that led into some disclosure of their situation. One woman, on hearing me

describe what I was doing, turned to her husband and said, "See Honey. I told you you're not the only one."

While he flushed with embarrassment, she proceeded to tell me in a confidential voice that they were on

the edge of bankruptcy, but nobody knew it. (It seems that my position as a pastor, an unthreatening

stranger and a researcher made me a potential confidante. I do not suppose, for her husband's sake, that

she would have said the same to just anyone in their normal social or business circle).

While rural society enhances gender differences in the way that shame-inducing matters are handled,

Sandra Petronio '' found that some distinctions appear to hold generally in society. In her study, whether

they were the cause or the victim ofa wounding event, men generally showed agreater desire than women

to indicate publicly that nothing inappropriate happened. Women wanted the hurt publicly acknowledged.

If pretending that things were okay was impossible, men were likely to try to attach blame to circumstances

or behaviour rather than to anyone's person. In an honour society this has two benefits. A focus on

objective conditions allows them to avoid challenging another's personal honour when there is some risk

that they may not win the challenge. A focus on behaviour helps to keep the focus of blame away fiom

one's personal worth.

In Uncoverine Shame, James Harper and Margaret Hoopes contend that shame-and embarrassment,

its internal comlattarr quite different fiom guilt. Shame and embarrassment have to do with a negative

evaluation ofone's (socially constructed) seg (As one farmer said, "It was the embarrassment of &people

made you feel like you were a poor farmer.") Guilt, on the other hand, is a negative evaluation of one's

behmiour. Guilt is the easier to handle because it does not touch the core of one's life as deeply. Often

therefore, guilt is used to deflect shame.33 So the farmer berates himself for not repaying the debt, or for

"see Sandra Petronio, 'dommunication Strategies to Reduce Embarrassment Differences Between Men and Women," The Western Journal of Speech Communication 48 (Winter 1984): 36.

33~ames M. Harper and Margaret H. Hoops, Uncoverine Shame: An Awroach Intenrating Lndividuals and their Family Svstems (New York, NY: W. W. Norton, 1990), 3. See also Eunice Cavanaugh, Understanding Shame: Whv It Hurts. How It H e i ~ s , How You Can Use It to Transform Your Life (Minneapolis, MN: Johnson Inst,, 1989). 8.

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the decision to put in barley, or buy the extra combine. It is a way of distracting attention From the feeling

that he or she is a poor manager, a failure to the family, a failure as a fanner.

Petronio also found that when it could not be denied that an injury had occurred men tended to accept

personal blame more quickly than the women who were slower to apologize and preferred to have someone

else (rather than something else) volunteer to take the blame. In a rural context this may reflect a greater

sense of male responsibility for events. Women are not afraid to admit to injury or weakness (which is

acceptable for women in an honour society) but at the same time they do not hold themselves as responsible

for that injury. If they are found at fault, women in the study were generally more likely to invite sympathy

and to want others to share the shame or embarrassment. Men preferred to deal with it alone, apparently

feeling that public knowledge by others, even if sympathetic, increased the shame.

On the whole, Petronio's findings reflect the double-edged sword of our culture's general patriarc ha1

inheritance. It honours the men, but places them in competition with each other for that honour, isolating

them &om the support they need when honour standards are not met.

Women, on the other hand, although they receive less honour, are also less involved in the competition

for it, and therefore less isolated ffom each other by that competition. For this reason they may function

as a resource for male farmers when honour is lost. They may, for example, be more easily able to make

use of the process for congregational discussion of agricultural ethics that I outline further in this study,

which I believe helps to reduce shaming. The women seem to have a greater desire to involve the

community in their distress when crisis comes and may be key to breaking the silence about bankruptcy in

farm communities.

However, even if they do manage to bring the pain and the problem into the open* there is still the

honour code to deal with. It has been broken and requires retribution-the pain, under its aegis, is legitimate

and necessary. To refuse to pay attention to the code would be to act "shamelessly."

The negative tone to the term "shameless" implies a positive value to shame itself that we have not

to this point addressed but which will be important in our discussion of Jesus' treatment of shame fiuther

on. In honour societies, shame is not simply the change in social status that occurs when one breaks the

code. It also refers to one's concern for the code. Ln this sense it has a highly positive value. Bruce

Malina describes it:

Positive shame means sensitivity to one's own reputation, sensitivity to the opinions of othen. To have shame in this sense is an eminently positive value. Any human being worthy ofthe title, "human," any human group worthy of belonging to humankind, needs to have shame. to be sensitive to its honour rating, to be perceptive of the opinion of othen. A sense of shame makes the contest of living possible, dignified, and human, since it implies acceptance of and respect for the rules of human interaction. On the other hand, a shameless person is one who does not recognize the rules of human interaction, who does not recognize social boundaries. The shameless person is a person with a dishonourable reputation beyond all social doubt, one outside the boundaries of acceptable moral life, hence a person who must be denied the normal social courtesies. To show courtesy to a shameless penon makes one a fool, since it is foolish to show respect for boundaries when a person acknowledges no boundaries, just as it would be foolish to continue to speak English to a person who does not know the language at all.''

Shame therefore cannot be dismissed as a fonn of prejudice or community sin. In traditional honour

societies it functions as an informal sanction imposed by implicit and explicit forms of civil law. Rural

dwellers know what our criminal justice system is just beginning to discover-that public disgrace is often

a much more powerful deterrent to what is considered "abnormal" behaviour than the threat of official

punishment People in close-knit societies tend to be most concerned about loss of status, respect and

affection, especially fiom those they care about?'

34~ntce Malina, The New Testament World: hsiehts from Cultural Anthrowlow, rev.ed. (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1 993): 50-5 1 .

''~ohn Btaithwaite, an Australian criminologist, has reported good success in rehabilitating offenders using what he calls 'keintegrative shaming," a process in which a person's role models are involved in a process that denounces criminal behaviour and holds individuals accountabk, without degrading them as persons. It is followed by gestures of forgiveness or ceremonies that "decertify the offender as deviant." The research is reported in Uudate: The Church Council on Justice and Corrections (Winter 1997): 9. In a sense, however, this is not shaming as I have defined it, but mther "gui1ting"-that is, keeping the focus on behaviour rather than on personal worth. Also, and very significantly for our discussion of Jesus' relationship to the shamed, shunning does not appear to be one of the things that heIps to re- integrate the offender.

59

A key question then, as we move into an examination of the causes of the farm crisis, is whether rural

shame is in fact functioning as it has in other honour societies-as a selective (and healthy?) discipline for

those who threaten the community's well-being.

SECTION TWO

EXAMINING THE FACTS AND M?WUNG JUDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 3

WHAT HAPPENED? WHO SHARES RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE FARM DEBT CRISIS?

In other ages and societies, adherence to the community's code of honour provided structure and

permanence to agrarian life. Shame and honour were two sides of the discipline that kept the community

bound to the code. However, to function as intended, the imposition of shame requires two things: First

it must sanction those directly responsible for the problem. Secondly. those sanctioned must be in control

of the behaviour that led to the shaming and able to reverse it.

The fact that farmers continue to go bankrupt, or to sell out before they do, at a pace that outstrips the

influx of new farmers suggests that the shaming has not been effective as a healthy discipline in the farm

crisis. In fact, as we have seen, it appears to contribute to the ongoing deterioration of rural communities

by discouraging those in financial crisis from asking for the help they need to stay emotionally healthy and

on the farm. It also prevents the community fiom discussing possibilities for community renewal by

excluding kom the conversation those very people (the farmers in difficulty) who are most intimately

acquainted with the region's economic problems.

In this section, through the eyes of farmers, lenders, pastors and agricultural analysts, we will explore

key factors that led to the loss of a large number of farms in the period fiom the seventies to the nineties.

I will suggest on the basis of that analysis that: 1) responsibility for that social and economic devastation

is broadly shared by all of the players in the agriculnual economy and 2) that farmers had only a limited

control of their own economic success. This provides some insight into the ineffectiveness of shaming and

the continuing lack of reform in our agricultural system. It reveals shaming in this case to be not a healthy

community discipline, but essentially a form of scapegoating in which the failings of the many are absolved

by laying blame on a few, allowing those broad-based problems to continue unchallenged.

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Let us begin by looking closeiy at the stories of three farmers whom I interviewed. These, of course,

are related from their own perspective. Lenders and suppliers would not talk about particular clients and

so their perspective is missing. Recognizing the inherent one-sidedness of the stories, they nonetheless

present several elements common to most of the stories which I heard. These elements are corroborated

in a general sense by external data from lenders, court documents, pastors, studies and other research

literature which will be presented following the stories. However follow-up study of a broad-based

representative sample of the farming community would have to be undertaken to demonstrate the

importance of these elements in a more conclusive way.

A. Three Accounts of Farm Debt

I . Bob and Helene

Bob and Helene quit-claimed their land in 1 990. They had been farming for about twelve years. In

the late seventies the couple bought a homestead and quarter section of land close to the farm on which

Helene grew up. They shared labor and (older) equipment with Helene's father. The quarter section was

put into crop. A barn and pasture at the north end of the homestead supported a few head of

livestock-cattle, horses and chickens which, with a large garden, supplied the family's food and some cash

besides. The house was paid for and there was a small mortgage on the land. Machinery costs were kept

low by sharing and repairing Helene's father's o d e e q p e The operation did not make muchmoney

but it was generally in the black. Supplementary income came fkom off-farm work in a marby town.

In the mid-eighties Bob and Helene noticed that the quality oftheir water supply was declining and

they went to their provincial government agriculhrral lender (who offered a significantly better interest rate

than the banks) to borrow $10,000 to put in a new well. According to Bob and Helene, the lender said.

"We don't make loans that small. Besides your operation needs to grow if it's going to survive. You need

to get large enough to gain some efficiencies. If you want the money you'll have to borrow at least

$60,000." Bob asked what he would do with $60,000 that would provide enough income to cover the

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payments. The lender advised him to buy 80 head of sheep. "Where do I put them?Bob asked. "Buy

the 80 acres of adjacent land that has just come up for sale," the lender responded. Bob was reluctant, but

took the lender's advice and bought some sheep and the land. Shortly afterward the prices of mutton and

wool began to plummet. Bob and Helene had great difficulty making their payments. In addition, the value

of the new land they had bought began to drop precipitously. It no longer provided sufficient security on

their loan so they were asked to either pay out the loan or put up the quarter section as additional collateral.

They were not able to pay it out, so the quarter section was signed over. In the end, they lost everything

except the house and barn and are no longer farming.

Helene said that a number of friends in their area went through a similar experience. She claims that

in the "new farmer" program with which they were familiar, lenders began making large sums available for

loan. Land prices in the area rose immediately because f m e a with land to sell knew that those coming

into farming looking for land to buy had money. Of course the rise in prices meant that almost all the

money lent had to go into land and very little or none, was left over for machinery. Later, when the money

supply dried up, land prices dropped and the f m e a were left without enough equity for their loans. They

had to repay the full loan at interest, but the land was often worth only half of that.

2. Ralph and Diane

Ralph and Diane had a mixed operation-inostiy grain but about 175 head of cattle as well, later

replaced by some standard bred horses. The problems began in the early eighties when Ralph's youngest

brother Ken died. Ralph and his other brother Gary decided to cooperate in farming the land of all three

of them. Because Ken had had little machinery, they decided, in consultation with their bank manager to

purchase a truck, a combine, a tractor and some smaller equipment to fann the combined land. A three

hundred thousand dollar mortgage was taken out at twenty percent interest. Shonly after these purchases

Ken's widow married a farmer. He brought his equipment into the venture and suddenly there was more

equipment than the land could support and not much market to sell it.

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One day their banker came out to the farm and said that the machinery and land which they had put

up as collateral was no longer of sufficient value to cover their loan. The machinery was depreciating

rapidly and land values were plummeting. According to an agreement signed at the time of taking out the

loan (under Section 178 of the Bank Act) title on the clear land that Ralph and Diane owned was to be

turned over to the bank. If, at any time, payments could not be made, the bank could claim the title without

going through the normally extended foreclosure proceedings.

A series of difficult years followed-grasshoppers. a frozen crop, an intractable weed problem, rock

bottom prices for grain and for their horses. Ralph and Diane had not taken out much crop insurance so

it covered very linle of their losses. Eventually they had to sell the land they still owned to pay off part of

the loan, and the bank took the rest in return for the forgiveness of all principal and interest charges. Ralph

and Diane continued to farm, renting the land back from the bank under the (unique to Saskatchewan) law

that requires that creditors allow the original owners the first option to rent for six years after they

foreclose. Both now have off-farm jobs. At the time of the interviews they were close to the end of their

six-year period with no hope of being able to raise the money to buy back their land when the bank puts

it up for sale.

3. Ron and Nora

When they married, Ron and Nora began farming on six quarters that they purchased and a seventh

given by Nora's father. Keeping up payments on land and machinery required off-farm work h r n the start.

Ron did maintenance work and custom grain hauling with a semi-trailer that they owned to supplement

farm income. In the early eighties there was a fire in the shop which burnt the semi-truck, the shop and two

tractors parked beside it. The insurance they had taken out years earlier was, by now, far fiom sufficient

to replace what they had lost. They went to the bank for help and were told that they would have no trouble

getting a loan based on the amount of land they owned. In fact they were encouraged to take out more than

they asked for.

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With the loan, Ron and Nora bought new equipment. Their plan was to plant three summerfallow

quarters in canola to pay off the loan. However frost destroyed their uninsured canola crop. Realizing that

they needed to pay off the machinery, and that it was sitting idle a good deal of the time, they purchased

two more quarters. In their perception, the prevailing wisdom was that expansion would bring efficiencies

of scale that would increase their profits and allow them to pay off the loan. When they purchased the two

quarten they were also required to put up as collateral not only the land they purchased, but some clear land

as well. Land prices at that time were at their peak. The new land turned out to be infested with herbicide-

resistant weeds and chemical costs were high. At about that same time drought hit and for several years

they never got any significant crop off the new land.

In the mid-eighties, as loan payments became more difficult, Ron and Nora had serious difficulties

with their lender. One day Ron sold several loads of grain, deposited the money in the bank and began to

write cheques to his suppliers. They bounced. Ron inquired and found that the bank had transferred the

hnds to pay off their loans without notifying them. Then they received a notice indicating that one oftheir

loans was to be repaid in full. They had taken the loan out for $80,000 at a foted rate of interest, paid

$60,000 towards principal and interest over five years (about $1 1,000 per year as originally agreed) and

were now being billed for $96,000. The bank explained that, although they had taken out the loan at a

certain rate of interest, they had verbaily a@ to a floating rate. With the rapid escalation in interest,

compounding monthly, their payments had not kept up with the interest and none ofthe principal had been

repaid. Ron and Nora could not understand how this had happened, and pursued it with the bank. Their

local manager referred it to higher levels. This process took a great deal of time. They stopped payments,

not trusting the bank at this point, but the interest continued to accumulate rapidly. Eventually a manager

in Quebec gave a final decision on a settlement that would take the farm in exchange for full forgiveness

of outstanding debt. By this time, suppliers were aware of their problems and would not provide inputs

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for a new crop so Ron and Nora blt that they had to accept it. They lost their farm entirely and moved to

the city in another province.

B. What were the Critical Etements in the Farm Debt Crisis?

While there were clearly a number of contributing factors to the financial problems of the farmers I

interviewed, most to whom I spoke characterized it as a debt crisis. In this segment two questions will be

addressed: 1) Why are large debts such a common feature of modern farm management? 2) Why did

farmen accumulate such large wepayable debts in the last two decades? Examining the political and

economic climate and practices in regard to agriculture during that period I will try to show that

responsibility for the debt crisis was broadly shared and that to focus shame on farmers alone has therefore

been counterproductive to the welfare of rural communities.

I. Debt has been an historic component of farm management

Debt is nothing new to farmers. It has been the key element in farm losses since the beginning of the

century. Operating debt is essential to f m operations because of their seasonal name and the long period

between investment and payback. Except for the very few f m e n who enter the occupation with large

bank rolls, almost all rely on obtaining machinery and its servicing, seed, fertilizers, herb and pesticides,

he1 and other inputs on credit so that crops can be planted, livestock purchased and so on. This debt is

inevitably taken out on speculation with no assurance that there will be a crop at the end of the season and

no assurance that market prices wilt cover the debt that was incurred.

Of come there are some "risk-management" strategies that farmers can employ to reduce the need

for operational debt. Erwin, the manager for market strategies of agricultural and agribusiness banking of

a large Canadian bank pointed out to me that careful monitoring oftrends in international markets may help

in predicting which commodities will produce the best return on investment. He also noted that one can

utilize the market for futures on their commodity-that is, agree to sell a certain amount of the product at

a certain price later in the year when the product is ready for market. In that way one knows exactly what

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price one will get for their product and can plan accordingly. If, it does not seem possible to make a profit

at that price, one simply waits and does not produce that year, he said.'

Farmers responded however that while such approaches shift the risk they do not necessarily reduce

it. Predicting markets. as the domino effect of the Asian markets crash of 1998 has shown, is something

less than an exact science. Entering a furures contract puts a f m e r in the position of having to supply a

certain amount of product. If the harvest is poor the farmer must purchase additional product from others

at the current market prices to deliver to the buyer at the price determined in the contract made earlier. If,

in addition, market prices are higher than the contract price, the f m e r may lose substantially. Higher

market prices would also cause the f m e r to lose out in a good crop year. The contract can be met, but

the farmer will receive less under the contract than through the market.

Farmers also noted that waiting out a low price period results in losses as well. Even if no crop is

planted, or livestock bought, soil needs to be kept in good shape-cultivated weeded, etc.. machinery

tended and repaired, mortgage payments made and so on. They contend that while keeping a sharp pencil

and a close eye on one's finances is essential, successful farming over the long period often comes down

to fortune-puning in a crop which unexpectedly soars in price, getting out of hogs just before the price

plummets, being just outside the edge of a hail storm and so on. Ln their perspective, it is not possible to

prevent the occasional large accumulation of operating debt.

Cupit02 debt is also an historic feature of Canadian farming. In the early years, capital debt was often

incumd in relation to critical need. Harold tells how both his father and grandfather went into substantial

debt on the same land Harold farmed. Their debt was a result of the death of the plough horses, the barn

burning down, and the loss of crops to fkost, drought, weeds, disease and insects. The stories of Ralph and

Diane and Ron and Nora bear out the continued impact of such disasters. Because of the size and

kquency of claims, insurance can be so costly that it alone makes the difference between making a profit

1 See also Royal Bank, "Risk Management: Get a Handle on the What-ifs" (Royal Bank web page, accessed 19 JuIy t 999); available h m http.Jlwww.royalbank.co.Inlagricu1tdyelysk.h; Internet,

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and going in the red.' It may therefore not be purchased in years when the farm fmances are tight. If a

critical need develops in such a year, the lack of insurance often leads to the incursion of large debts to

rebuild, to replace machinery, and so on.

Foremost in the incursion of capital debt over the decades has been the relatively high cost of land.

The first pioneers were to receive a quarter of land fkee if they "proved it up," that is cleared the land,

prepared the soil and brought it to financial viability within a fixed period. Prairie historian Gerald Friesen

notes however, that in fact the pioneer homesteads turned out to be quite expensive.3 On the average, four

of ten prairie homestead applications were never proved up. There was a failure rate of twenty percent in

Manitoba ( 1 870- 1 905), fifty-seven percent in Saskatchewan ( 19 1 1 - 193 1 ) and forty-five percent in Alberta

( 1905-30). The hard-earned capital (generally gained fiom gruelling work on mine, railway. logging and

harvest crews) which was spent trying to prove it up was lost if they were unable to get a patent on their

land. Generaliy this amounted to several thousand dollars-very large sums for that time. This does not take

account of the cost of the labor they invested (or the loss to the natives whose land it was originally). On

top of that, those unable to prove up had to begin over with "bought" land. Friesen concludes that the

"free" land was costly beyond computation.

Over the decades since then, farmers who have managed to stay viable and to pay off their land have

been faced with a painful decision in regard to the next generation: Do they giw the land to their children

or sell it to them? If it is given, the farmer is left without a pension. This is due in part to the fact that the

return on one's investment in farming is often too low to accumulate pension funds. Most of the

consumer's dollar goes to pay for the value added in processing the raw materials produced by the farmer4

'crop insurance is also not useful in situations such as those faced in the spring of 1997 and 1999 by the f-en in southern Saskatchewan and Manitoba who have been flooded and could not get seed into the ground in time to have it insured.

3 Gerald Friesen, The Canadian Prairies: A History (Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 309. 4 At times the discrepancy between consumer prices and producer prices becomes ridiculous. According to Brant,

a broker of a large prairie firm tbat deals in farm commodities, hog producers received as low as 4 cents per pound for their animals in the fall of 1998. Prices in the 15 cent range were common. Production costs averaged about 40 cents a pound leaving producers with huge deficits. Prices in the stores however remained high at S 1 .SO to $5.00 per pound.

and so the amount farmers receive leaves, during stable economic periods. a rather thin profit margin-an

average 5.7 percent return on investment before any costs of servicing debt are taken into account ' Out

of this profit the farm must pay its debts and make improvements, leaving little or nothing for pension

savings. It is true that an increasing number of farmers are taking of€-farm employment to subsidize their

operations (forty-six percent of operators according to the 1996 Canadian Census of Agriculture) and it

may be that some money will be accumulated through pensions associated with such work (although the

extra time commitment creates serious stresses on the family). For the most part however, it is the equity

in the land that most farm couples have counted on living on in their old age6 If they sell it to their

children. it places the children in so much debt that they may not be able to make a go of it.

New farmers have had great dificuity getting into farming because the land cannot produce enough

to sustain the borrowing costs required for each generation to purchase the land and machinery over again.

Rod said he feels that there is no way that a young person can start up in f m i n g without a wealthy family

to subsidize him or her. Even then selEsufficiency is a long way off. Randy expressed the hstration he

feels over the debt created by land costs. He said,

You know like I've been in hock to the banks all my life. It's not a very comfortable thing, and be damned if I'm gonna let the next generation. My f m has been paid for by my grandfather, my father, and I've paid for it three or four times [in interest]. I've lost track now, still paying.

The problem here is not so much the consumer price, as the hct that there is no mechanism for sharing with h e r s the large profit that processors make in such circumstances as a result of having to pay so little to producers because of artificially low tuarket valucs. Packers are being investigated for price-fixing under anti-combine legislation, Some fartners who found that it cost more to transport their pigs to the packer than they were getting from the packer, slaughtered their own hogs. Othcrs, in protest, dropped them off on the steps of the legislature.

' The $22 Billion Problem: ODtions for the Financial Restructuring ofFarm Debt, Report of the Standing Committee on Agricultm, Geoff Wilson, chair (Ottawa: House of Commons, Canada, July 1988), 22. Income rate of return is defined as annuat farm cash receipts less operating expenses (excluding interest), less depreciation and an I8 percent charge against cash receipts to represent a return to management and unpaid family Iabour, expressed as a percentage of total farm assets at the beginning of the year.

6 ~ h e problem with relying on that equity for a pension is that several things must be assumed which oAen do not hold true: 1 ) that there will be constant inflation to keep the assets growing in value; 2) the land market will be active enough when the fanner retires that he or she can sell at a convenient time and good price; 3) that there will be a good financial mechanism for transferring the land to a child if so desired and still providing a pension; 4) that the child who takes over the farm will have the economic conditions, expertise and experience to pay the debt to the parent. See $22 Billion Dollar Problem, 76.

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It must be noted however, that kom the 1940's through the 196OVs, while farm debt was a difficult and

seemingly unavoidable part of agricultural life, most f m e r s were able to pay their debts. Wayne Easter,

a Member of Parliament and former president of the National Farmen' Union, notes that

Since 1945 FILA Farm Improvement Loans Assistance plan] loans financed intermediate-term investments of $4.6 billion at a cosf excluding administration, of $6.6 million in net claims, that is, 15 cents for every $100 spent. The obvious conclusion to which one is led is that farmers are reliable borrowers and credit risks. The rash off= bankruptcies that have taken place over the past four years are the result of economic conditions that extend beyond normal fm credit lending circumstances.'

2. Why has farm debt reached such unprecedented levels in the last thirty years?

As Easter observes, in spite of their strong credit history, fanners in the seventies through the nineties

set startling new records for defaulting on their loans. The bankruptcies follow a pattern of rapidly

escalating debt (Cansim figure D203626).

0203626: OUTSTANDING FARM DEBT RS OF DECEMBER 31

TOTAL FARM DEBT OUTSTANDING, CRNADA

' ~ m m the proceedings of the House Commons on the Farm Credit Arrangements Act, reproduced by Mr. Easter in an unpublished "Farm Survival Workshop" which he prepared for the National Farmers' Union in 1986.4.

71

Every farmer interviewed, even those still solvent, spoke of having incurred historically large debts

in these years. During the period ffom 197 1 to 1986 total Canadian farm debt increased five-fold fiom 4.6

billion dollars to 23.6 billion dollars.' In some provinces, the increase was even higher-a 585 percent

increase in Alberta and a 677 percent increase in Saskatchewan.

In 1986 the government of Canada asked the House of Commons Standing Committee on Agriculture

to investigate the growth of this enormous debt. In their extensive report the following history emerged.

If one uses return on agricultural investment as a measuring stick (that is, incomeg plus appreciation

of capital assetsi0) there are three sharply defined economic periods in Canadian agriculture between 1953

and 1987.' ' The first period, 1953- 1 97 I , was relatively stable. Income returned 5.73 percent oftotal fm

assets in cash from production and capital appreciation of those assets amounted to 6.4 1 percent. (Note

that these figures do not include the costs of servicing debt since we want to use them to see how much

money was available to service debt.) Rates of r e m in this period for both income and capital stayed

within a fairly narrow range-between plus two percent and plus ten percent. l 2 One indicator ofthe stability

- - --

*statistics on farm debt, unless otherwise indicated, are obtained from the Cansim data base, Matrix 110.5678 accessed April 5,1999; available at h t r p ~ l d a ~ t e r . c h a s s . u t o r o n t o . c a : 5 6 8 0 / ~ ; I n m e t . All Cansim data is h m this website.

'AS noted earlier, I am defining income rate of retun as the faded standing committee on @culture used hie., as annual firm cash receipts less operating expenses (excluding interest), Iess depreciation and an 18 percent charge against cash receipts to represent a return to management and unpaid famiIy iabour (to coverthe fhmily's living expenses), expressed as a percentage of total farm assets at the beginning of the year.

10~apital return is defined as the change in capital values over the year, adjusted for building repain and expressed as a percentage of value of total farm assets at the beginning of the year.

' I was not able to extend this analysis beyond 1987 since exact figures for comparison were not available. The original analysis was done by Agritrends Research fnc ofCalgary and I was unable to duplicate it for the period from 1987 to 1997. However Cansirn data of overall trends for farm income in this period indicate that during the period fiom 198 1 to 1997 income has fluctuated violently in two to four year cycles, sometimes reaching historic highs and lows in one cycle.

'Z~ctually the available data fmm earlier years indicates that similar conditions existed since the Great Depmsion ended-i.e., since about 1940. These then could perhaps be regarded as "normal" conditions for twentieth century Canadian agriculture.

in farm income during this period is the fact that government programs of all kinds contributed less than

ten percent to realized net farm income. 13

The second period, 1972 to 198 1 saw declining income with rapid appreciation in land values. In

these years the average return on investment dropped to 4.7 percent for income and rose to 18.3 percent

for capital. Income rose sharply in 1971-72 then declined steadily From a high of 8.6 percent in 197314

to 3.1 percent in 198 1. Capital appreciation fluctuated between fourteen percent and twenty-nine percent

per year. This fluctuation was particularly pronounced in Alberta and Saskatchewan. Alberta saw single

year appreciation of land and building values rise as much as forty-two percent ( 1 978) with an average

appreciation of 24.15 percent per year. Saskatchewan's land and buildings appreciated as much as 38.26

percent in one year (1979) with an average of twenty percent per year over the ten year period.'5

In the third period, 1982 -1 987, income fluctuated violently. To a large extent this seems to be due

to trade wan initiated during this period. The United States and the European Common Market were

jockeying to gain market share by selling commodities at reduced prices. In 1985 for example, the United

States dropped its loan rate from US $3.40 per bushel to US $2.40 per bushel pulling the world market

price down to that level. On top of that it subsidized exports to certain countries, selling even below the

52.40 price. The crash in world prices resulted in a $12 billion loss of income for prairie farmers in 1986.16

'.'see the analysis by Murray Fulton, Ken Rosaasen and Andrew Schmitz, Canadian Amicultural Poliw and Prairie Amiculture (Ottawa, ON: Canadian Government Publishing Centre, 1989). 69-70.

"Depending on the distribution ofcommodities produced, this peak came a little later for some provinces. It was 1975 in Saskatchewan, for example. In Saskatchewan incomes grew from 200 million in 1970 to 1.38 billion in 1975-an dmost seven-fold increase in six years.

'%ee Cansim labels D202245 and D202241 respectively.

'%ee A. Schrnitz and C. Carter, -'A Sectoral Perspective: Agriculture," in R. M. Stem, P. H-Truise and J. Whalley eds., Perswctives on a US.-Canadian Free Trade Amement (Washington DC: The Brookings Institution, 1987).

This fluctuation (illustrated in Cansim graph D200108 below'') has continued through the 90's as the

United States and Europe have regularly applied and withdrawn subsidies.

D200108: INCOME OF FARM OPERATORS, CANADR

TOTRL NET INCOME U R S

4800000

1940 1944 1948 1952 1956 1960 1964 1968 1972 1976 1980 1984 1908 I392 19% 2000 2004 YEAR

The result for this period was that average income renun on investment was only 2.25 percent. This figure

is much grimmer when one takes into account the fact that government subsidies rose sharply fiom 1984

to 1991 (declining rapidly thereafter)." Ln fact, if not for government subsidies, f m e n would have lost

almost as much in1 985- 1987 as they normally would have made in realized net income in other years. At

the same time capital depreciated an average of 4.12 percent per year leaving an average total return of

minus 1.87 percent.

"NO* the graph uses current dollars-i.e. does not take inflation intoaccount. It also uses realized net income which unlike the income figures I have been using, includes interest payments. However it gives an accurate picture of the violent swings in agricultural income that began in the eighties and still continue. As examples ofthe range of fluctuation: unincorporated farm incomes dropped fiom 1.48 billion dollars in 198 1 to minus 83 million in 1988 in Saskatchewan, fiom 606 million ddlars in I98 1 to minus 7 1 million dollars in 1984 in Alberta and fiom 393 million dollars in 198 1 to 24 million dollars in 1983 in Manitoba. See Cansim Iabel numbers D305890. D305919 and D305861 respectively.

"~ulton, Rosaasen and Schmitz, Canadian Aericultural Policv, 70. For post-1 986 figures see the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development monitoring and evaluation statistics (OECD website. accessed 14 July 1999); available at http://www.oecd.ordagr/; Internet,

74

During this third period then, if one takes into account both income and capital returns, farmers-on

the average-lost money each year (a loss that would have been much worse without government

intervention).

As a result farm bankruptcies rose dramatically in spite of several attempts to prop up farm incomes

through government intervention. In Saskatchewan, for example, Cansim statistics show that farm

bankruptcies rose through the eighties fiom eighteen per year in 1979 to a high of wo hundred and fifty

in 1990 with many times that number going through a debt review process. tn 1986,8.2 percent of farmers

in the west (13,744) were categorized by the House of Commons Standing Committee on Agriculture as

insolvent with an additional thirty-four percent (56,9 10) experiencing moderate to severe financial stress.

In the east, the situation was somewhat better with 3.8 percent (4670) of farmers classed as insolvent and

23.5 percent (28,786) experiencing moderate to severe financial stress.19

It appears to have been the second period, the seventies. that set up these debt problems. From 197 1

to 1979 the amount of long-term debt extended across Canada increased by an average of 3 1.7 percent per

year with an increase in the two-year period of 1973-74 of 156 percent.20 Strangely, however, from 1973

on the ability of farmers to cmry debt (their "debt capacity") was rapidly decreasing.

The real amount ofdebt that a farm can handle is determined by two factors: 1) the amount o f excess

income it produces each year h m its assets which can be applied to interest and principal payments ( it

is not determined by the equity it has tied up in those assets.); 2) the cost of carrying debt-that is the

prevailing interest rate. As interest rates rise, debt capacity decreases. As income rises debt capacity

increases. For example, a farm returning five percent income on a capital investment of $400,000 would

'9~inanciaI m s s is here measured by a combination of debt to asset ratio (.9 or more for insolvency) and debt service ratio-net income after operating expenses and living costs over principal and interest payments (.75 or less for insolvency). The figures are from the House of Commons Standing Committee on Agriculture Special Tabulation h m Statistics Canada (Ottawa, 1986).

''standing committee on Agriculture. $22 Billion Problem, 30.

have $20,000 in cash available to support interest payments. So it could cover the interest (not principal

though) on a $182,000 loan at eleven percent."

From 1973/1975 on, the debt capacity for most farms was decreasing as interest rates rose

dramatically and, on the average, farm incomes dropped. The huge new debts that were taken out during

this period therefore became essentially unrepayable. There was little income with which to pay them and

the interest rates made them very expensive. In fact one third of the debt accumulated in Canada turned

out to be "excess debt9'-that is debt above carrying capacity-and was eventually written off by government

73 and private lenders.-- These write-offs are reflected in the "dip" and then rather "flat" portion of the debt

graph (Cansim figure D203626 shown earlier) between 1986 and 1993. Since 1993 farm debt has again

climbed to historic highs at a rate of increase similar to pre- 1986, setting up Canadian f m e r s for another

round of bankruptcies (which, at the time of this writing, has begun.")

These facts, in their broad outlines, are well-known. The more interesting question is "Why did they

do it? Why were farmers incurring alarmingly high debts at the very time when their ability to handle it

(that is, their excess income) was decreasing?" When I posed that question to farmers, they often looked

sheepish, admitted that in retrospect they were foolish to have taken out such large loans and then told me

several things:

a. The political climate fmoured "size. "

The buzzword for the seventies was "Ifyou stop growing you start dying." Rod reflected the drawing

power of expansionist thinking. He went bankrupt as a result of the debt costs of his own farm's growth.

?he number was estimated by the H o w of Commons Standing Committee on Agriculture to be about 6 billion dollars in 1987 (See Standing committee on Agriculture, $22 Billion Problem. ix) With a large number of bankruptcies in the late 80's and early nineties this figure may now be twice as high-though I have not been able to obtain exact amounts.

%x 1999-2000 banhptcies wem to be more serious in that so many faren exhausted their equity in the eighties crisis that insolvent fanners of the late nineties are finding that there is no one who can buy their farms so they can pay off debts. As a resuit there has been a rapid increase in abandonment of f a n . See the report in Marina Jimenez, "Saskatchewan's Fields of Sorrow."

But he had trouble letting go of the philosophy. He said "Bigger isn't better. I used to think it was-but not

any more. And yet for me to survive I have to keep expanding. I can't sit and be."

Growth is promoted, interviewees said, because in farming "size matters." Profit is assumed to

increase with efficiency and efficiency is thought to be dependent on economies of scale. That larger

businesses are more viable than small ones is not merely popular sentiment but promoted policy. The 1969

federal government task force on agriculture declared that it was time to '%age war on fann poverty" by

increasing the size (and supposedly the efficiency) of Canadian farms. It was convinced that "only a third

or so [of Canadian fanns] are large enough, by today's standards, for long-run viability" and concludes that

the sooner the small operators are moved out of farming the quicker the industry will regain its health.14

The federal government's 198 1 Agri-food strategy was entit1ed"Challenge for Growth" and cited the need

to increase production to meet potential export demands (primarily from third world countries). It

acknowledged that agriculture means billions of dollan to the economy, directly and in spin-offs?

Growth is valued because of the efficiencies believed to be inherent in new technologies. In 1989,

Agriculture Canada released a booklet entitled, "Growing Together-A vision for Canada's Agri-Food

Industry." On page thirtysne it says, "We must recognize that modem technology . . . is the keystone to

modem agriculture" and "We should recognize that agriculture is not sustainable without . . . modem

technology." The latter statement is somewhat puzzling in view of the fact that agriculture has been a

feature of human life for thousands of year without the benefit of modem technology. What seems to be

the point is that increasingproduction levels are not possible without the benefit of modem technology.

Modem agriculture has come to be synonymous with such "growth."

It should be noted however that it is the enormous growth in production that has taken place in the last

few decades as a result of improved technology that has helped to drive commodity prices down and has

''~anadian Arzriculifuihue in the Seventies, Report of the Federal Task Force on Agriculture (Ottawa, ON: House of Commons, Canada, t969), 409- 10.

2s~eponed by Marvin L. Andenon in 'Yking, Going, Gone: Selling the Family Farm," Our Times (March 1986): 26-3 I .

been one of the factors that has reduced the profit margin significantly for many farmers, resulting in the

loss of many farms and a corresponding increase in the size of the remaining ones?

In regarding larger farms as the future of Canadian agriculture because they are deemed to be more

efficient and viable than the traditional 'Yfamy farm," the federal govemment may have been engaging in

a self-fulfilling prophecy. Its own Standing Committee on Agriculture notes that early subsidy programs

tended to be"untargeted"-meaning that they distributed cash payments to farmers according to acreage or

gross income and not productive efficiency or need?' More recently they have been targeted to help large

"successful" farmen much more than those who are struggling (for example, GRIP 92). This means that

the lion's share ofgovernment support has gone to help large, wealthy farms get larger and wealthier. The

Special Canadian Grains Program, for example, paid out at a fixed price per acre for each crop. The result

was that in 1985, of the money spent by the government, $1.1 billion went to high income f m e r s (an

average of $1 5,429 per farmer), $386 million to middle income f m e r s (average 553 1 1 ) and only $150

million to low income farmers (average $1029) who in many cases may have needed it the most. The 1999

A D A program helps only farmers who have done well in the three years previous to their claim?

This promotion of "size" is not a recent policy. Gerald Friesen notes that when the West was being

opened to settlement the government gave a h e quarter section to settlers who could "prove up," but made

sure it was adjacent to sale land that they could buy when they completed their residency. This made it

unlikely that a large number of small farms would develop in an area and gave the edge to farmers with

capital. The government also gave huge tracts of land to the railway, which then resold it to settlers.

2 6 ~ ~ l t o n , Rosaasen and Schmitz, Canadian Apricultural Policy, 82. In Saskatchewan, for example, between I98 1 and 1986,50% of fanns experienced a significant (15%+) increase in acreage, with a corresponding 37% decreasing significantly in sue. See Julia S. Taylor, Adiustina to the Financial Crisis of the 1980's in Saskatchewan Amiculture (Saskatoon, SK: Department of Agricultural Economics, 1995),49.

''$22~illion Dollar Problem, 84K

28~ronically, at the Regina farm rally June 5, 1999 fmers fed up with ADA's complex applicatiopdesigned to weed out b'undeserving" farmers and pay out only to "successfbl managers" who have had one bad year-called for a return to acreage payments. The better solution, however, would seem to be properly designed targeted programs (or acreage payments with a cap on size), The farmers' protest seems aimed at the fact that ''worthiness" or 'hanagement capability" is extremely difficult to assess accurately in a business controlled by an extraordinary number of unpredictable variables.

Normally it was those with capital wanting to amass larger holdings that could take advantage of such

sa~es.'~

The policy was intensified by the food shortage that resulted from World War I. The solution

appeared to be the adoption of farm technology that would allow for greater food production. The tractor,

the truck and the combine gained wide acceptance in the 20's. But they significantly altered the farm

economy. By increasing the farmers' need for capital, they gave a distinct advantage to farmers who

brought significant wealth into the enterprise?' By multiplying the acreage that could be handled by a farm

household, they also undercut the need for hired hands. Thus subsistence farmers, who depended on wage

labour to supplement their incomes (up to sevmty-five percent of the agricultural labour force in Alberta

as late as 1936) were deprived of an essential source of income and had to leave their f m s .

After WWII, hoping to increase production to meet the needs of a devastated Europe, the federal

government provided large loans for "mechanization" and "modernization"-a move which benefitted

larger farms which have a greater capacity to absorb and repay debt.

That social justification for economic growth still operates in Canadian agriculture as the

"breadbasket" motif. I heard the Canadian government, fmers and lenders all speak of the prairies in one

way or another as "the breadbasket of the world." Many seem to feel a genuine responsibility to increase

production for the sake of feeding the planet. There is a distinctiy missionary cast in the Canadian

government's phrase "the prairies are the world's breadbasket" or in the Royal Bank's "it's Canada's job

to feed the world.""

''~riesen, Canadian Prairies, 3 12.3 19.

''A survey conducted in Saskatchewan in the early '30's showed that those who s w e d fanning with about $7000 possessed almost exactly that amount thirty years later; those who started with $17-S 18,000 had doubled their net worth in that time, William Allen, W. C. Hope & F. C. Hitchcock, "Studies of Farm tndebtedness and Financial Progress of Saskatchewan Farmers Report no.3: Surveys Made at Indian Head and Balcams; Grenfell and Wolseley; and Neudorf and Lemberg," Universitv of Saskatchewan College of Anriculture Extension Bulletin (no.65 1935) cited in Friesen, Canadian Prairies, 3 17.

"see for example Challenge for Growth (Ottawa, ON: Canada Dept. of Agriculture, 198 1) and "Look at Your Farm h m a World Perspective," in The Royal Bank Countrv Guide Su~plement (Royal Bank web site, accessed July 1 9, 1 999); available at http:/lwww.myalbank.comlagricul ture/yeariy-1wk.html; Internet-

On a local level, economic growth is regarded as synonymous with one's ability to contribute to the

community. As we have noted, fanners going banlaupt often withdraw fkom church and community

involvements. Part of the shame that prompts this withdrawal is a sense that one can no longer contribute

to the community's well-being, but is a liability. While one could certainly continue to contribute in non-

economic ways to the community, it is clear that the economic contribution is the basis for the others.

Wealthy farmers tend to apply for and are offered the positions of leadership on community and church

boards. The controlling concept is that increasing production of wealth by business results in increasing

social well-being. Accepting this assumption, it is understandable that farmers who operate growing

"businesses" would be honoured by the community.

On a national level growth is also promoted for (apparently) practical reasons. Profit is assumed to

increase with efficiency and efficiency is thought to be dependent on economies of scale. Perhaps the most

telling example of the government's policy ofsupporting large farms and withdrawing support fiom smaller

ones was the 1969 federal task force policy report mentioned above. It concludes that one hundred to one

hundred and fifty thousand f a n families had cash incomes below conventional poverty line defhtions and

had m prospects of becoming viableO3* It notes that the great majority of these families lived on smaller

farms which it holds should never have come into existence. It was only bbhistorical accident," the repon

says, that so many thousands of families came to settle on farms. (The report seems to disregard the

federal government's very pro-active role in settling them there.) Essentially, it says, overpopulation has

divided the agricultural pie toa many ways and something like rural slums have resulted. It chides former

governments for legislation which it feels has helped to maintain mall farmsJ3 [n the end, it concludes

32~ederal Task Force. Anriculture in the Seventies, 20.409-410. Note: although the report recognized that it was using urban income standards to measure poverty-and not hkhg into account the tax free capital gains, lower cost of living (as a result of growing one's own f d for example), family use of farm vehicles, buildings, etc. that farmers enjoy-it continued to measure farm poverty by these standards, thus dismissing one-third of farmers as the "non-viable" poor and another third as marginal. The task force's only measure of viability was whether or not a f m produced an income higher than this questionably appiicable poverty line (below which many farms had been operating for decades)-p.2 1, n.8.

"bid, 273.

"The most attractive answer to the problem of low incomes in agriculture is that labour move to

employment in other ind~srries"~~-in other words that these farmers get out of fming . The results would

be better for all: "Increased mobility out of farming helps to achieve a higher per capita net f m income

for those left in farming while at the same time obtaining better paid employment for those who leave

agriculture."'5

One might suppose that the steady loss of farms would have given it reason for confidence in the

future of farming, but the report is somber-it regards the rate of loss as much too low:

The continuing exodus from agriculture and in particular the declining number of small-scale farms (a drop of 100,000 in the five-year period ending 1966) encourages hopes that no special programs are needed to alleviate farm poverty. If one simply projects the 196 1 - I966 trend. the number of small-scale farms remaining in ten years time would be very small. Unfortunate1 a closer examination of the composition of this "trend" produces no grounds for optimism. 2

The task force warns that too many ofthe farmers in the non-viable category are in their middle years "with

low mobility into other occupations" (that is, with poor alternative job prospects) and are likely going to

try to stay on the farm. In addition, with the first baby boomers entering fming, the early sixties saw a

net gain in younger farmers. In view of these realities, they reluctantly admit that attrition alone will not

bring down the number of farmers at a fast enough pace: "it is evident that significant reductions in the

under 45 years class cannot be predicted unless there are much more effective policies to tahz men out of

fming" (emphasis mine)?' Too often, it cautions, solutions to this "small farm problem,"38 have been

hampered by agricultural leaders who were "loathe to recognize the need For a widespread exodus h m

"Ibid.. 4 1 1.

"Ibid.. 32.

36~bid., 4 10.

"bid., 41 1. It is interesting that in the mid-80's Canada introduced the $46 million Canadian Rural Transition Prognun designed to help 9,000 fanners find other work. Though the program was apparently designed to alleviate stress for farmers already committed to leaving the Iand, it also had the (intended?) side effect of encouraging those who were wavering to leave. See Anderson, "Going, Going, Gone," 26-27.

3aIbid., 21.

farming."39 if the problem was to be eliminated Canada would need to trim the number of farms by one-

third (preferably two-thirds).

In the twenty-five years that followed the one third reduction was achieved. The number of f m s in

Canada dropped thirty-tive percent fkom 430.522 in 1966 (the census figures used by the task force) to

280,043 in 199 l .'O In terms of farm population as a percentage of total population the two thirds figure

has been met. The Canadian Census of Aericulture indicates that in 1966 nine percent of the Canadian

population lived on the farm; by 199 1 it was down to 3.2 percent.

The "war on farm poverty" was essentially declared to be over in 1989 when Agriculture Canada's

1 989 policy statement noted that "the average income for farm families is now slightly above that of the

average Canadian family."" There is no mention however ofthe fact that this increase in the average has

been brought about by the removal kom the land of a large number of farm families with smaller incomes.

Andy lamented, "We've lost an awful lot of farmers because we've become productive to the point where

we only need half the farmers. Its put us in a position where we are cutting each other's throats by our

over-production." Clark cynically observes that if this keeps up, "dl you'll be left with by the year 2040

in North America is seven fanners."

Although it is impossible to draw simple cause and effect connections between government policies

and broad socio-economic trends, the report clearly regards the expansion of farms through the out-

migration of small fmers as highly desirable; one presumes this must have had some effect on the

subsequent drop in farm population. Evidence for this effbct may be found in the federal government's

strong movement away fiom suppon of agriculture in the nineties. According to the Organization for

Economic Cooperation and Development, the value of all subsidies on Canadian wheat dropped fkom 48

''bid., 336. See also the Canadian Census of Apriculture for 199 1 . Note that PEI has had an even more dramatic decrease in recent years-a loss of 48 percent of its farms since 1971.

rowin in^ or ether: A Vision for Canada's A&-food Industq(Ottawa, ON: Communications branch, Agriculture Canada, 1989). 12.

percent of gross receipts in 1991 to 10 percent in 1997 (the last year such statistics were kept).4'

Saskatchewan's transportation minister, Judy Bradley notes:

At the same time that the European Union and the US have continued to heavily subsidize their agricultural producers, the federal government has cut its support to farmers. eliminated the Crow Rate, deregulated the grain transportation system, and dramatically reduced its funding for agricultural safety

In a Saskatchewan government news release premier Roy Romanow details the dramatic drop in federal

support for transportation of agricultural products: "With the elimination ofthe Crow subsidy, farmen now

will have to pay about double the present fieight rate," Romanow said. "The average producer's fieight rate

in 1994-95 is $14.72 per tonne. This will more than double to about $3 1 per tome."

Romanow said a second phase ofthe federal government's changes to transportation policy will revise

the way the Canadian Wheat Board obtains revenue for movements through the St. Lawrence Seaway,

further increasing freight rates for delivery points in most of Saskatchewan.

The overall result, barring crop adjustments. will be a loss of $320 million a year in net farm income in Saskatchewan. This represents a drop in income ofabout 50 per cent for f m families and any shortfall in grain prices will compound their losses. At the same time federal safety net funding is to be cut by 30 per cent over the next three years, hurting the grain sector further.

Romanow added that Ottawa's changes to the rejplatory system mean that about 500 miles of light

steel rail lines, and another 3,000 miles of branch lines, will be abandoned affecting hundreds of

Saskatchewan communities. This fast-tracking of branch-line abandonment means higher trucking costs

and higher road maintenance costs."

Whether or not the federal government really regards Canadian agriculture as being riddled with bad

managers, its withdrawal of support has certainly had the effect of reducing the number of farmers.

'*cited by Leslie Pemaux, *'There's Fear on Sask. Farms," Star-Phoenix, 10 July 99. A7, Saskatoon, SK.

""~iens, Upshall And Bradley Call For Federal Action on US Durum Subsidy," Government of Saskatchewan news release 5 May 1995, accessed June 29, 1999; available at http://www.gov.sk.ca/newsreY 1999MayI 403.99OSO508.html; Internet.

"%limination of Crow Subsidy Will More than Double Freight Rates." Government of Saskatchewan executive council news release 14 March 1995, accessed 29 June 29 1999; available at http://www.gov.sk.cs/ne~~re1/199Srnar/ SARM 1 15; internet;

Whether that "wi~owing" is really leaving behind better farmers and stronger communities is highly

debatable, however. Embedded in the federal government's very narrow focus on size and gross

productivity, are two unfounded assumptions. The fmt is that life for people in a community where farms

are large is better than life in a community where they are small. In fact studies in Canada, the United

States, Australia and New Zealand document a strong correlation between improved productivity and

decline in the quality of community life. They show that as farm size increases there is: a decreased sense

of a shared interest in farming and an increase in competitive factions among farmers;45 the withdrawal by

both men and women fiom community participation into farm work or private consumption;16 the loss of

local leadeahip;J7 the loss of educational. health and social services, together with a decline in community

self-determinati~n.~~ Because a farm increases its income does not mean that the people who operate the

farm experience an increase in quality of life.

The second assumption is that increased productivity correlates with increased profit and efficiency.

Sadly, as Bob and Helene discovered, along with many smaller farmers in the eighties. expansion of one's

operation often results in a loss of both. Marty Strange, in his survey of United States farm efficiency

studies, found that bigger is not necessarily more efficient. The consensus of these studies is that peak

efficiency (lowest cost of production per unit) is possible on most types of farms when one or two people

are kept fully employed making full use of the best tecbmlogy.

Strange says (reflecting the American situation in the late eighties):

If most efficiency is gained at about $45,000 in sales, and nothing can be gained in effciency after about S 133,000 in sales, then most food in America is produced on farms operating very

4 5 ~ o b Stirling and J.S. Conway, "Factions Among Prairie Farmers," in The Political Economv of Arrriculture in Western Canada, ed. G. S. Baran and David Hay (Toronto, ON: Garamond, 1988), 73-86.

"janet Fitchen, Endangered Soecies, Enduring Places: Change. Identity and Survival in Rural America (Boulder. CO: Westview Press, 1991)' 28-41.

4 7 ~ . D. McLeod, "You Have to Be Tough to Farm in Saskatchewan," in Political Economv of Adculture, 34.

4'~eoffrey Lawrence, "Agricultural Restructuring and Rural Social Change in Australia," in Rural Restructurine: Global Processes and Their Responses, ed.Terry Marsden, Philip h w e , and Sarah Whitmore (London, UK: David Fulton, 1 WO), 1 1 7. The concentration ofland is W e r advanced in Australia and New Zealand and the social effects even more dramatic.

near or above peak efficiency levels. About seven-eighths of the food is produced on farms which market over $40,000 in sales. Moreover, since nearly half of the food is produced on farms marketing over $250,000, it is safe to say that half of the food comes from farms that are larger than they need to be to be fully efficient. From the point of view of the public, then, American agriculture must be considered big enough. There is really little public purpose in encouraging further farm-size expansion.49

Similar findings (apparently ignored by the policy makers) have been made in Canada by the Farm

Credit Corporation. A 1984 study by FCC showed that seventeen percent of the farmers in greatest

financial difficulty were, on a dollar for dollar basis, twice as productive as seventy-six percent of the

farmers in a high equity position. These small farmers, most of whom were young, were not being weeded

out because of inefficiency but because of their inability to support crushing debts.

From his broad experience in agriculture, Wayne Easter is convinced that those benefitting most from

increased f m productivity have not been fmen but ratherbthe entire support system in the agri-business

sector and the financial institutions upon which farmers have had to increasingly rely."s0 Easter's point

is that as farm production becomes more efficient commodity prices drop, food processors' costs therefore

are lower and their profits rise. Efficiency, in fact, is already so high that according to figures released by

the Ontario Wheat Producers in 1990 a box of breakfast cereal that costs consumers over $2.00 contains

"less than a dime's worth of wheatw-that is just 3.9 percent of the retail price of the cereal. A $3.59

package of cookies con- only 3 cents worth of wheat, less than 1 percent. Fanners' efficiency has given

agribusinesses tremendous room for making profit.s' Size benefits the small number of large supermarket

chains that dominate the Canadian retail food market and the increasingly concentrated wholesalers kcause

it gives them control of costs and prices. However its benefit to producers is not unqualified.

' 9 ~ a r y Strange. Familv Fanning: A New Economic Vision (San Francisco. CA: Institute for Food and Development Policy, 1988). 80-8 1, quote p.83. John Kenneth Gaibraith, a world renowned economist, notes that, even before the fall ofcommunism, the Russians were considering moving away born the large state-run Fanas because the smaller, family-run operations were so much more efficient. (See video, Borrowed Time.)

5%ational Farmers' Union Submission to the Government of Canada, presented at Ottawa, ON. Jan 22,1985. p.2.

5 ' ~ r o m an article in the Union Farmer (September 1990), cited in the National Farmer's Union Submission.

85

Size, in fact, may be much less important in profitable farming than other factors such as product

diversification ("mixed fanning"-not putting all of one's eggs in one basket), adding value to (processing)

the products before they are sold, effective marketing, wise management and luck

Of course, even if there was an illusory infatuation with size, the question still remains as to why the

seventies and eighties saw such unprecedented spending on expansion. What raised the interest in growth

to such a fevered pitch in those particular years that farmen would take on impossible levels of debt to

purchase larger machines, bigger buildings and more land?

b. Rapidly inflaring land prices encowaged equity-bused lending.

All of the farmers I interviewed., without exception, said that in the seventies and early eighties lenders

were anxious to lend them money, to the point-as Bob discovered-that they often refused to write loans

when the farmers asked for small sums. Farmers often came in to their lenders expecting modest credit and

were strongly encouraged to expand their operations aggressively. Ralph remembers, "I wasn't even

considering buying a bigger tractor and he told me I had to. He said, 'You've got to look at the amount

of acreage you farm. Are you going to ride a tractor all day for nuenty hours a day? Or do you want to ride

it for twelve like everybody else?'" Dan links the lenders' willingness to extend credit with their

confidence in size and efficiency: He says, "I went in to the bank to borrow $20,000 and they said,

"$20,0004ce $120,000. Expand your operation. You're not going to make any money unless you

grow." Connie said, "We had somebody who encouraged expansion-"Easy Eddie" we called him. But

he would give you more than you asked for every time. If you need some-'Yeah but you should have a

little extra,' you know." Ryan remembers how his loan expanded in his visit with his lender: "I wanted to

buy a half section. He said, 'Well we'll just give you a hundred thousand dollars, you know, and a combine

and tractors' and pretty soon you owe two or three hundred thousand-and then the interest rates went up."

Brian, however, connects the loose credit with confidence in the inflating equity values offarm land

and machinery. He says the banks were "really pushing" big loans on the basis of rising net worth. He

recalls how flattered he was when his banker said, "Oh, you've got a net worth that'll handle $150,000.

Take a bigger loan."

Lenders that I interviewed admitted that this "pushing" of loans did occur. Arthur, a government

lender, allows that "some of our policies were such that we actually encouraged people to take on more

than what they could handle-based on what the view of the b e was. And it tumed out to be wrong."

Erwin, a bank manager, admits that

The crisis of the eighties started with equity-based lending. Back then we did a lot of lending based on what the fann was worth. Now we lend based on the question, "can the operation service the debt-inake the payments on the loan?' I don't think that when we were making those equity-based loans we thought that interest rates would spike the way they did. People were doing things in good faith not realizing what was going to happen.

As property values rose rapidly both farmers and lenders began to assess a f m ' s economic future

according to its asset base. Some famen felt that traditionally there had been security in land-they were

depending on that security for their pensions-and therefore they could not go wrong by buying land at a

time when it was gaining in value. Others became caught up in the competition with their neighburs.

Howard said that some of his clients who came in for loans would say, "How can I not afford it? My

neighbour has the same amount of land and he's doing i t I can get it tomorrow at the John Deem dealer.

I've got land to secure i t Why should you say no?"

Lenders, although knowing that there was not the cash flow to sustain some of the loans they were

making, felt that neither farmer nor lender was at risk when they could sell the land at my time and recover

more than principal and interest on the loan by which it was bought. Essentially lenders viewed the

decision to lend as a process of evaluating their own security rather than a farm'sperfrmunce. Howard,

a bank leilder, said "we were lending on the basis of net worth. Ifyou had a net worth of 500,000 and came

in and asked for another 200,000 we'd almost automatically say yes. We didn't care-there were enough

assets to secure it."

The expectation that land prices would keep going up was heled by experts in government,

universities and farm-trade publications who were pushing f m e r s to plant all available acres to meet the

world demand. As a banker, Howard admits that he both facilitated, and was h t r a t e d by, some of this

"expert" advice. He gives an example h m his own experience:

We took over an account fkom another bank. This farmer was in good shape and wanted to purchase a larger combine. His statement looked strong. I thought it would be good to bring out an agrologist who can look at his operation. This fellow came out and told him, "you should be buying more land, expanding your canola crops. You should increase inputs." When the agologist was done with him he borrowed a lot more money, expanded. I questioned whether this was the right way. He was already successful; what was the point of getting bigger? We brought in people who were "experts" in farming but in my mind there are none unless you are sixty-five and have kept your farm. Yes, banks pushed for expansion and will continue to do that. Agrologists are brought in, but they are almost always optimistic. Agrologists try to make it look as though it should be possible to keep everything and grow. He would change the statements to look good-like "if we had a good year next year, if, if,"-too many ifs for me.

Such advice was one of the factors stimulating an economic spiral of land investment leading to rising

prices leading to more investment and even higher prices.

This is not to say that there were no voices predicting falling prices. However Ken Rosaasen, a

prominent Canadian agricultural economist, says that when he wrote an article in the Regina Leader-Post

predicting a downturn in farm income and land prices (when the government forecasts were highly

optimistic), he received angry phone calls from people who felt that prophecies of doom were the only

thing that could hurt the boom they were on.

For speculators, maintaining positive expectations was es~ential.5~ They were benefitting fiom high

inflation-partly due to the f k l price hikes that accompanied OPEC's artificial gas shortageand low

interest rates. In the early seventies one could borrow to buy land and pay off the loan with depreciating

'tb~pecdators" is a loose term. It includes some farmers who would not normally have bought land simply for the purposes of their operation but saw an opportunity to increase their equity through the purchase and resale of land. It also inciudes non-fmers who were looking for a place to get a good return on heir dolIar. Saskatchewan tried to limit speculation with the Saskatchewan Farm Ownership Act which placed restrictions on ownership of land by non-residents of Saskatchewan, especially non-Canadians.

dollars while the value ofthe land purchased was appreciating more rapidly than the interest one was paying

on the loan. It seemed like a no-lose investment.

In addition, the Canadian government allowed borrowers to deduct interest payments from taxable

income. Although their motive may have been to ease the burden of interest costs for borrowers in

difficulty, they effectively reduced costs for short-term speculators even further and created significant

problems for farmers who had bought land for long-term usage. Farm economist Ken Rosaasen explained

that fanners who were assessing the amount of debt they could handle often worked fkom a five-year plan.

In the first years of a mortgage almost all of the payments go to interest. Under the government plan this

generates a large tax deduction which can go back into payments. Essentially, the farmer is able to take

out a larger loan. However many did not foresee that in the latter years of the mortgage this income tax

deduction would be lost since most of the payment is then going towards principle. Some farms found

themselves caught unprepared for the drop in that deduction at about the mid-point of a fifteen year

mortgage. 53

Speculators were also helped preferentially by the large capital gains exemption the government gave

on land sales. This meant that speculators could protect most of their gains from income tax. It quickly

became the case that it was worth more to buy andsell farmland than to farm it. Farmers who did want

to farm the land of course received no capital gains benefit.

It was f i cu l t for many farmers to match the deep pockets of some who were investing in land.

Those just corning into farming had no choice but to accept the current land prices if they were to farm at

all. Others bought land for a variety of reasons, but most serious farmers found that thei purchases became

an albatross around their necks. The land cost component of their operation outstripped the land's ability

to produce, even with good commodity prices. Helene described what it was like in her neighbourhd:

The banks were making a lot of money available to farmers+specially the ones in the new fanner program. Well the land prices in the area rose right away because farmers with land to sell knew

s3~atcen from my interview with him.

that there was money out there. And pretty soon everyone wanted a piece of the action. Of course that meant that almost all the money had to go into land and very little or none, was left over for machinery. Later the money supply dried up and land prices dropped. The farmers were left without enough equity for their loans. They had to repay the full loan at interest. But the land was worth only half of that maybe.

In the end when the "bust" came those who were most hurt were I) young fanners coming into the

business with little equity and facing extraordinarily high costs for land and the money borrowed to buy

it; 2) middle-aged farmers who saw the easy credit as an opportunity to make a significant expansion of

their operation; 3) grain and oilseed farmers whose production is directly related, more than for other

fanners, to the amount of land they farm;54 4) farmers who were renting significant amounts of land and

were suddenly faced with steep increases in rent as land prices climbed. (Harold tells how the land he was

renting was sold to overseas investors with a subsequent tripling of rental costs. He was Ieft without land

to f m and with equipment much larger than was needed to f m the land he actually owned. The

remaining land could not produce enough to pay for the equipment.)

Having said that a land boom played a primary role in the rapid accumulation of farm debt in the

seventies and eighties still does not get at the fundamental reason for the boom itself. Land booms in

Canadian history have tended to be triggered by critical economic events or processes. Pierre Berton

chronicles several prairie land boomhust cycles in his book The Promised and." The k t big one was

in 188 1 when '%he golden highway of the CPR inflated land prices" and touched off a real estate craze.

A similar boom took place in 19 1 1-19 12 when a rapid influx of immigrants into the west led to

"boosterism"+ut-of-control efforts to attract residents and railway stations to one's own city. As Berton

notes, the boosters convinced authorities to sell land on margin, so that little down payment would be

required. This easy credit ignited the boom. and once the fieenzy began, people made millions in

speculation, fueling it until it reached the limits of peoples' interest or ability to pay. Essentially they

choked on their success. Berton says that,

5'$2213illion Problem, 64,66.

"~iem krton, The Promised Land: Settlim the West 1 8%- 19 14 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1984).

Like a celebrity who cannot cope with instant fame, it was done in by the pace of its development. Few had paused to consider that the miraculous expansion of the fmt decade was not limitless . . . . Anybody felt they could do an p g . . . because credit was granted promiscuously and with almost prodigal generosity.5

What then was it that touched off the farm land boom of the seventies and eighties? After extensive

economic analysis and interviews with representatives of various roles in the agricultural economy, the

House of Commons Standing Committee on Agriculture decided in its 1988 report that, as with boosterism,

the igniting element was the sudden extension of easy credit?'

c. Cornperition between lenders encouraged debt in a newly opened credil market.

The Committee notes that "much of the divergence between repayment ability and inflation can be

explained by changes occurring in the credit rnarket~."'~ Until the seventies, the long-term agricultural

credit market was dominated by government lenders, particuiarly the Farm Credit Corporation. Experience

during the Great Depression of the thirties left private lenders reluctant to offer credit to farmers for

expansion. Hundreds of farm bankruptcies had forced both the provinces and the federal government to

pass laws which would help hard-pressed farmers lighten their debt load with the banks. The federal Farm

Creditor's Arrangements Act of 1934 called for court arbitration of fann debt when banks threatened

foreclosure. The entry of governments into banker's temtory angered the lending agencies and increased

their risk. No longer assured of a good return on their farm investmen& they pulled out of farm lending

almost entirely .s9

In 1945, the government tried to help expand agriculture as part of the renovation of the postwar

economy by providing guarantees on loans made by private lenders to farmers. However the Federal

Government's Farm Improvement Loans Assistance Program set stringent limits on lenders. The

"standing committee on Agriculture. $22 Billion Problem, 298.

'%id.. 29.

5 9 ~ e e also Carok Giangrande, Down to Earth: The Crisis in Canadian Fanning (Tomnto, ON: House of Ananasi Press, 1985). 90.

maximum amount of loans outstanding per borrower was set at $3000 for a term of up to ten years at a

fixed rate of five percent and land could not be taken for collateral on these improvements. By the late

fifties most provincial governments had set up programs to lend money to farmers, but many of these

overlapped. In order to coordinate these activities, the federal government established the Farm Credit

Corporation in 1959.

At the end of the sixties, government lenders accounted for ninety percent of the credit extended to

farmen. By 1987 this figure had dropped to eighteen percent, with banks, credit unions, insurance

companies and suppliers picking up the remainder.60 Without actually withdrawing from lending,

governments gradually allowed themselves to be overtaken by private lenders in the direct provision of

loans to f'ers. They did this in two ways: First. they encouraged the expansion of private credit by

offering up to one hundred percent guarantees on private sector loans? Additional assistance was given

through the Special Farm Financial Assismce Program which refinanced $350 million in high risk private

sector fann mortgages into the Farm Credit Corporation's loan portfolio over its duration in the early

eighties. Therefore, when many of these loans began to default it was the government that picked up the

tab!' Second, the federal government amended the Bank Act in 1977 to allow chartered banks to make

long-term mortgage loans to fanners. Prior to that change, chartered banks could not lend on the basis of

mortgage security. In addition, the maximum interest rate chargeable on bank loans to farmers was set at

bank prime plus one percent. Loan limits were increased as well. Farmers could borrow up to S 100,000

fhm any financial institutions designated as a farm lender? The potential profitability and security of

agriculhual loans for private lenders was dramatically increased.

%tanding committee on Agriculture. 30.

6'~or example the federal Farm Improvement Loan program, or the provincial Livestock Loan Guarantee Act.

62~tanding committee on Agriculture. 522 Billion Problem, 33.

%ee "Farm Credit Arrangements," Minutes of Proceedinns and Evidence of the Federal Subcommittee, House of Commons, 5, April 19, 1983.3.

This willingness of private lenders to embrace an enhanced role in agricultural lending was partly due

to a sharp upturn in agricultural prospects at the beginning of the seventies. Farm incomes doubled between

I970 and 1973 (though as we noted earlier, they immediateIy began a long decline after that). In the grain

sector, this was partly due to a combination of high grain prices and (short-term) high yields. The high

world prices induced many fanners to intensively farm their land and to convert marginal pasture to grain

production. Combined with above-average growing and harvesting conditions this resulted in unusuai

yields (although the land could not sustain such practices for more than a few years).6J

With income high and interest rates still low, the debt capacity of f m e n briefly expanded to such

an extent that a beginning farmer could become established in the industry with almost no personal

investment of equity-that is almost entirely on borrowed money-and expect the farm to support the

payments.65 It seemed like a prime opportunity for a number of new people to enter farming or, as may

have been the federal government's interest, for established, middle-aged farmers to expand or specialize

their operations to make them more eficient. (In fact it is just these two groups that took greatest

advantage of the credit subsequently extended, and also suffered most when conditions reversed.?.

During this brief income boom, considerable pressure was put on the credit markets to expand their

financing. Farm organizations, farmers, financial institutions and the governrnent all lamented the lack of

sufficient debt financing. The Farm Credit Corporation was criticized for being too conservative, for

lending only on the basis of income &om production rather than asset values.67 In response to such

pressure the federal government introduced the measures identified above to stimulate private lending.

Chartered banks saw this as a chance to tap a now lucrative market previously made unattractive and

inaccessible by the government. Credit Unions began to enter the market in an assertive way. Amendments

-

?%inding committee on Agriculture, $22 Billion Problem, 9.

"bid., 26.

%id., 66

67The history of credit extension in these two paragraphs is summarized from Standing committee on Agriculture. $22 Billion Problem, 30-3 1. See also Fuiton, Rosaasen and Schmitz, Canadian Aaricultural Policy, 79.

were also made to the Farm Credit Act in 1975 to allow the Farm Credit Corporation to lend on market

value and to lend up to one hundred percent of the market value of land. Provincial governments

responded with their own programs or amendments, such as the Alberta Development Corporation's

Beginning Farmer Program which offered credit at subsidized interest rates.

The net effect of these changes was to create a highly-charged climate of aggressive lending.

"Pushing" loans was seen by bank managers as good salesmanship, rather than poor financiai decision-

making. Bankers told me that even when a loans officer knew that a f m could not sustain the loans that

were being taken out, he or she tended to offer the loan to keep another lender down the street from getting

that farmer's business. Howard said that ifthe loan was refused they knew the farmer would be able to get

credit somewhere else. In that case, he said,

you have lost control of his finances because he might be banking in three different institutions and no one really sees the whole picture. Bad for the farmer and for the bank. That was the bank's philosophy in those days-give the loan so at least you can stay involved with the farmer. A farmer could have loans out with an equipment dealer, a bank, finance for grain bins at the grain bin dealer, carry up to $200,000 with the fertilizer dealer. The suppliers can bury them. If the bank isn't keeping tabs, the bank wouldn't know what's going on until it's too late.

According to the Standing Committee on Agriculture, this competition persisted into the mid-eighties:

"Until t 983 and 1984, agricultural lending institutions concentrated on acquiring market s h e and

dominance, both within the private sector and also between government and private sector lenders." They

concluded that "much of the demand [for debt capital] was a r t ~ c i d ~ induced [emphasis

This is surprising becaw one would suppose that lenders, particularly private lenders, are nonnally

very alert to the real condition of the credit market since their company's profit depends on it. However

several factors appear to have induced them to believe that there was a greater market for credit than

actually existed. The Standing Committee on Agriculture points out that:69 1) Governments' subsidy of

interest rates to farmers lowered the cost of credit to levels that were unrealistic and encouraged farmers

'%tanding committee on Agriculture, $22 Billion Problem, 34,47.

69tbid., 48.

to invest excessively in capital. For example, in the early eighties, Grant Devine and the Progressive

Conservatives in Saskatchewan campaigned successfblly under the slogan "Land for sale-not for rent" and

a promise of low interest rates on land purchases. The Saskatchewan Farm Purchase Program resulted,

offering eight percent interest to new fanners purchasing land.70 2) In the early eighties, when real demand

for new credit had effectively shut down, refinancing of loans between and within the burgeoning number

of lending institutions gave the appearance that there was still a market for loans that would extend farm

production.7' 3) Provincial and government guarantees of private sector loans gave lenders a false sense

of security in their lending.

Untargetted government deficiency programs come under particular criticism by the Committee

because farmers tended to apply those government payments to loans. This simply moved the money &om

the government to the banks, benefitting financial institutions more than fanners and encouraging the taking

out of additional debt."

d. Inflerible credit instruments resulted in the loss of "land for iron"

As farmers bought additional land, they also invested in larger equipment to farm it. Earlier we heard

how Ralph and Diane bought new machinery to cover a bigger land base, lccking themselves into a

$300,000 loan. The problem with such loans is that if the machinery is put up as security the loan is usually

only given out on a short-term basis. However if land was used to secure the loan, it could have a much

longer term (with more manageable yearly payments). Of course, if the farm had a bad year and payments

could not be made for ninety days then it was not just the machinery, but the farm itself on which

foreclosure began. A prairie banker describes what happened to one of his clients:

70~rom an interview with Ken Rosaasen who worked with Grant Devine as an government agricultural forecaster at one time.

1986 60 percent of the credit being extended was for refinancing of existing. debt Standing committee on Agriculture, $22 Billion Problem, 35.

"[bid., 89. This is not to say that targeted programs are always appreciated by farmers. The 1999 federal AlDA program targets only farmers who have had good crops in the three years previous to 19% and a bad crop in 1998. As a result very few fanners in areas hit by recurrent bad weather (that is, those most in need of assistance) have been able to benefit.

It was hard with these t w d e y were honest, hard-working farmers. The second one was a long- time farmer who'd had the land handed down 6om his parents, and had had the land free and clear at one time. But he said the bank pushed him into taking a loan and putting up land for security. He bought machinery but couldn't make the payments because they are short term. In two to three years he would have had to pay out a $200,000 combine. This arrangement was with an equipment dealer. When he couldn't make the payments he came to the bank and asked if they would pay out the dealer and allow him longer term. The bank said yes, but we need land for security. Actually, the new equipment cost more than the land he was farming. After that he had two or three bad crop years. Then he couldn't make his payments again. Now he risked losing his land.

The banker stressed that they could not make long term loans on equipment because of its rapid

depreciation. On brand new equipment they were allowed a term as long as five years, but no more.

Farmen might protest that the life of their equipment would be twenty or thirty years. However the bank's

concern is security. If the machinery is seized it is the resale price, not the working life left in the

equipment, that determines its worth and this value drops rapidly in the first few years. Ron and Nora got

caught in a "land for iron" bind, as did Car01 and Dale:

Carol: It was "iron" as they say that we were paying for. Well, we had a land loan too but we'd take out money for machinery and when our operating loan would get too high he would want you to mortgage some land against it-which was a foolish thing-to mortgage land against machinery-but that was what he was after. Dale: Lots of us got caught when we did that. You know if we had just known and said "whoa, we're not going to do that," he could have come and taken some machinery and we'd all have owned our land. You know, we were very trusting and really naive.

It is aot that lenders had no options in terms of credit arrangements. There are a variety of profitable

instruments which might have been much better suited to the variability and peculiar realities of fann

income. For example the Standing Committee recommended: "shared-appreciation mortgagesy' in which

the lender offers the loan at a percent of market interest rates and receives the balance through participation

in the farmer's gross income, net income, asset appreciation or some combination; "variable payment

mortgages" in which the payments (and therefore the amortization period) fluctuate around market interest

rates according to the ratio of output and input prices for the farmer's product; "equity financing," in which

the farmer sells a portion of assets in the farm business to an investor (similar to shares) and then leases

96

back the assets on a long-term flexible basis with re-purchase options (This is not much different than

taking out a mortgage owned by the bank. One is essentially leasing fiom the lenderfinvestor in both cases,

except that now the risk is shared)."

I do not have the expertise to evaluate these. What is clear however, is that the credit instmments used

in the eighties were rigid and resulted in losses to both lenders, government and farmen. It may have been

that relative inexperience with farm income patterns on the part of private lenders who were just coming

into fann lending contributed to some of this inflexibility. Howard noted that the head office of his own

bank was in Toronto and that until the late seventies "farmers were a minute part of their business; they

didn't have experts in this field." Nonetheless a different kind of lending process clearly was required,

whether it follows the approaches identified above or not.

What is suggested by this admittediy brief examination of some of the stories and data from a very

complex economic period in agriculture is simply this: on an individual basis farmers certainly had full right

to say yes or no to a particular loan that was offered. However the business climate which government,

lenders and agrologists actively promoted, the aggressive competition for credit that led to the "pushing"

of loans by lenden, and the inappropriate terms offered on many of the loans clearly played a key role in

the overall development of the fann debt crisis.

CHAPTER 4

WAS IT ONLY FARMERS WHO GAVE THEIR WORD AND BROKE IT?

In a situation in which responsibility for a society-wide problem is shared by many (perhaps all) key

players. one must ask whether shaming is a useful social tool. It is intended to discriminate between

members on the basis of a d~rerence in culpability. punishing those responsible so that they will amend

their behaviour. In a situation like the farm crisis just described all are culpable in some way. Shaming

then seems less appropriate than open social analysis and a communal repentance.

In fact, however, this did not happen-at least not publicly. Publicly farmers. and for the most part only

farmers, have been shamed. They gave their word and have not kept it: they made a contract and they

broke it. It appears that the community trusted them with its money and the farmers wasted it.

Two issues seem to be at the heart of the shame that is imposed: broken trust and mis-managed

resources. We will deal with the latter first.

A. Farmers are Perceived to be Poor Managers

I . The perception

Among the decision-makers in government and lending institutions there appears to have been an

attitude that a large percentage of farmers are not particularly competent. The 1969 Federal Task Force

on Agriculture report provides an example. It was prepared for the purpose of informing government

policy in the seventies and perhaps beyond. In their research the task force met with a variety of politicians,

agricultural experts and farmers. Out of those interviews they concluded that those who operate non-viable

farms have simply not "kept up"; they have exercised poor management. Although the report refers to such

farmers as a "social problem" it hastens to protect their character: "It would be improper to criticize such

people as perverse." However it goes on to say that a high percentage of Canadian farms have been made

"marginal" and "sub-marginal" by technological developments that "changed the requirements to be a

successful farmer." It claims that one-third of fanners have become non-viable because they "could not

change as fast in their attitudes and capacities as did the economic and technological environment

surrounding (and partially submerging) them." According to the report, this third can be distinguished fiom

the ''farming elite of large-scale business-oriented., technically-experienced operators" by their lower levels

of education and experience. ' Nor does the task force think much better of those in the middle third of farm incomes. It regards only

the top third as viable in the long run and has little hope even for the middle group:

The only factor distinguishing this [middle] group from the 'poverty' level group below is that most of the present needs of its members are met, at least at a minimum level. There is no guarantee that ability, initiative or the spirit of co-operation is any more prevalent in the economically mediocre group than among the still less fortunate in the poverty group.'

Some farmers reported similar attitudes being expressed by their lenders. Rod said, "Well, when we

started out [in negotiations] the bank accused me of being a failure. Telling you that straight in your face!

So, it basically made you feel small, made you feel that you didn't do a good job, that it was your

fault-basically tried to place all the blame on you." Wendy noted the irony in the fact that " When they

gave you that money, you were in their eyes a perfectly good manager, and a good risk. And you were a

good person. And suddenly when the interest is at twenty-three and you couldn't do if you were suddenly

a poor manager and you're not good at what you do."

The perception of incompetence by lenders was particularly acute if the farmer was a woman.

Michael, for example, told of a widowed neighbour who found that the banks did not want to deal with her

regarding the farm's finances because they felt (without any comborating history) that she was simply not

capable of managing the business.

Arthur, a government lender admits that "the way we dealt with f m e a wasn't nice." However he says

that eventually they discovered that shaming farmers for their incompetence simply put them into a

defensive position from which healthy egot ti at ions became impossible. They found that "if we treated

'~ederal Task Force, APriculture in the Seventies, 20-23.

'lbid., 4 10.

99

people with respect and tried to work with them we ended up burning off less dollars" because ?hey

weren't in a defensive position and you didn't have to fight so hard." This pragmatic compassion on the

institution's part m&ut does not necessarily-indicate a change in the institution's view of farmers'

competence. It may also be simply a means of obtaining the institution's goals more easily.

2. The Reality

To use the 1969 task force language, those who lose their farms, or are even in financial distress, are

deemed to be there because of "lack of ability, lack of initiative or an uncooperative spirit." There is no

question that management ability varies among h e r s . Some are very poor, others excellent. However,

as the analysis in the previous section indicates, it is hardly lack of initiative that got farmers into difficulty

in the seventies and eighties-just the reverse. Too many were foolishly ambitious. Nor did the problem

ingeneral have to do with ability. I encountered several farmers who had won "farmer of the year" awards

for excellence in f a n management not long before they lost their farms. It was often a €ire or family crisis,

years of drought, an expansion just before crop prices suffered a deep plunge, or similar unpredictable

factors that intervened to destabilize the fann. Haverstock reports that this is increasingly her experience

in the farm crisis of the nineties: "Those who are leaving now are not those you would predict. They are

the people who nonnally rise to the situation, people open to new approaches, or people who have been

very stable because they have old money. Now the old money has run out."

As far as "lack of a co-operative spirit" is concerned, the report uses that term to refer to an

unwillingness to embrace prevailing economic wisdom in regard to fanning. In light of the fact that that

"wisdom"-as we have seen-is precisely what led many farmers into great difficulty in the seventies and

eighties, it may in hindsight be seen to be in one's best interests not to be b'co-operative" at all times.

B. Farmers are Perceived to be the Ones Who Broke Their Word

I. The perception

What is more difficult to deal with than competency, however, and what is really at the heart of the

shaming, is the matter of trust and its betrayal. Two people gave their word to each other and sealed it in

a contract. Now the farmer says that he or she cannot keep that word-cannot pay the rental on the money

borrowed, nor even return all of the money. This is a grave thing. Arthur, an active church-goer, observed

in this context that "just because you're a Christian, I don't think it means that you should back away from

living by a contract. If it says you owe me the money and you don't pay me. it doesn't mean that you get

away from it. This means that there's consequences to that by contract law." He goes on to say "Ifyou look

on the dotted line, the farmer ultimately signed on the dotted line."

This is certainly the "bottom line" for lenders. In a series of TV commercials for a large Canadian

bank aired in the fall of 1996 a variety of young people ask, "What would the world be like ifeveryone kept

their promises?'TThen they go on to add, "If I say I'll do something, I do it." At first glance they seem to

be ads simply extolling the reliability of the bank. But there is a touch of reproof that comes through as

well. They suggest. "We keep our promises to our customers. Unfortunately they often do not keep their

promises to &'-that is, "We give back the money they deposit with us. But they don't always give back

the money we loan to them."

Evidence that many are responsible in some way for the farm crisis has been offered in the previous

chapter. But that it was fanners who signed the forms and gave their promise, farmers who took out the

loans and promised to pay them back-and did not-that is where the shame and the pain really rest. That

is the matter that needs to be addressed at this point. I have no intention of smoothing over or down-

playing the seriousness of these broken contracts. In rural communities perhaps more than others, keeping

one's word is a grave thing, a matter ofhonour, for it is the basis upon which most community transactions

take place (often without any exchange of paper or signatures).

101

2. The Reality

In this section I would like to offer evidence that during the period from the early seventies to the early

nineties conditions were so severe that srrrvival rather than responsibility became the chief concem-not

only of farmers but also of government and lenders. Normal relationships of trust were broken on all sides.

In the previous chapter we examined some ofthe reasons why farmers gave their word and then found

themselves in situations where they could not keep it. In hindsight the decisions to take out loans during

a period of reduced debt carrying capacity were foolish. However this sort of behaviour has not been

characteristic of farmers. Earlier we noted the comment of Wayne Easter, former president of the National

Farmers' Union and a member of parliament who indicated that from 1945 until the eighties the rate of

default on farm loans was less than fifteen cents on one hundred dotlars ($6.6 million in claims on $4.6

billion in debt).' Historically farmers have kept their word. Now we turn to examine the other side ofthe

relationship-to the word given by lenders and government.

a. Lenders broke loan agreements, charging illegal interest

Farmers told me that until the eighties they had normally experienced their lending institutions to be

accountable and trustworthy in their dealings with them. Both farmers and lenders told me that lenders

served not just as a source of h d s but as the farmers' personal financial advisors. Some farmers, who had

fanned for years under relatively stable economic conditions, discovered that they needed much more

financial advice to deal with the volatile climate of the seventies and eighties. Howard said of his clients

"Farmen in the eighties were not sophisticated in borrowing and lending. I really saw this. Farmers were

naive." Rhonda, a Farmer, agreed, "Thing was, we were not smart enough then. This has really taught us

all a lot. You didn't read what you were signing. You trusted your banker and you just went in there and

"whist" you know, sign your name to another loan."

' "Farm Survival Workshop," 4.

102

Ryan notes, however, that the trust was not simply based on naivete. At the time it was simply

necessary because of the mathematical complexity of f m finances. Farmen often had dozens ofnotes on

different pieces of equipment, property, operating accounts, Land, and so on. Each one might have a

different interest rate. Then there was compounding, the timing of payments, precedence of payment

(interest before principal), overdraft interest, and so on to contend with. Only a t i e r with a very good

computer program (not generally available to farmers until the mid-eighties) or an expensive accountant

would be able to track what he or she should be paying each month. Of necessity they had to place a high

degree of trust in their lenders.

This trust was based not only on the lender's expertise and historic reliability but also on the intimacy

required of the relationship. As we have noted, in rural communities, financial well-being is a matter of

public honour. One does not therefore disclose one's financial weaknesses publicly. These, like other

vulnerabilities, belong to the home and one's intimates-the arena of "shame." Because farmers cannot

generally, in our economy, avoid disclosing their finances to their lenders, they are forced either to regard

their intimate life as now a matter of public scrutiny (which would be insufferably shameful) or to regard

their lender as having joined their circle of intimates (the preferable option)?

In the late seventies and eighties, many farmers unfortunately discovered, as we have seen, that these

trusted intimates had led them into unwise loans. More seriously, others discovered that their banks did

not honour the loan agreements they had made with them. The problems in this respect occurred primarily

as a result ofthe rise in interest rates during the seventies and eighties. Between 1935 and 1967 the interest

rate had remained virtually unchanged at four and one-half to six percent (fixed by legislation). When

changes to the Bank Act in 1967 allowed interest rates to float on the international market they began to

rise steadily, doubling to about twelve percent by 1980. Neither f m e n nor lenders had much experience

with interest rates in this range though undoubtedly the lenders adjusted more quickly than the farmers.

?his son of relationship was described to me by a number of intetviewees. It is also described in detail from an American context in the video Farmer and Lender.

However even lenders were not prepared to cope with the rapid escalation that occurred between August

of 1980 and August of 198 1. In those twelve months the Bank of Canada prime rate rose sharply from

12.25 percent to 22.75 percent.5 This put the banks in a tough situation. Erwin explained:

A lot of people felt that when they were paying twenty percent a year to the bank, how can the bank be hard hit. But actually it is your grandma who has the GIC at nineteen percent that is collecting the money. As interest rates are rising, banks get squeezed. People with loans fix their rates at these times, while deposit customers leave their deposits floating. So more of our obligations tend to be at higher rates with income at lower rates.

With the numbers as high as they were, this "squeeze" produced more than a little anxiety. The result

was that nervous lenders detached some of their farm loans from the tixed rate given on the notes and

charged interest at the new rapidly escalating rates, interest that was also compounded monthly.

This may seem difficult to believe. However several of the f m e n I interviewed reported such an

experience. Earlier, for example, I related Nora and Ron's story. They said that they had taken out a loan

for $80,000 at a fixed rate of interest, paid $60,000 towards principal and interest over five years (about

$1 1,000 per year as originally agreed) and suddenly found themselves being billed for $96,000. The bank

explained that, although they had taken out the loan at a certain rate of interest, they had verbally agreed

to a floating rate. With the rapid escalation in interest, compounding monthly, their payments had not kept

up with the interest and none of the principal had been repaid.

Kevin, in his role as a banker and later a farm consultant, said,

I ran into lots of that interest over-charging on the bank's part. They'd sign for a fixed rate, but when the charges came out &om the bank it was at an escalating rate. But most farmers didn't have the appetite to go to court It was foreign ground for them. They were very intimidated by that-even the farm debt review process. Most just settled.

Dennis, a Farm Debt Review Board mediator, also admits having encountered such situations. Larry

Whaley, who has been something of a vigilante in this matter, was a financial debt counselor for the

government when he discovered this practice. He writes,

People who borrowed for f' and business purposes while interes~ rates were rising often signed promissory notes or other documents which stated that fixed rates would be charged on these borrowings. The banks, however, ignored the documents and charged a floating rate of interest, resulting in unfair overcharges to the borrower. Many thousands of farmers have paid these overc harges6

Whaley went on to help dozens of farmers to calculate the overcharging and to punue recompense fiom

their lenders.

When I asked lenders about this matter, they said that the problem had to do with ambiguous language

on the notes that the fanners took out. Alex said that as he remembers it, the wording on the notes was

"You will pay a rate of prime plus one percent which at today's rate is seven percent." He said that the

bank took this to mean that the rate was floating and would begin at seven percent. The farmers who

protested said they understood that the rate for each note was frred at whatever the prime rate was the day

the note was taken out plus one percent, which in the case of this particular note was seven percent.

To sort out the arguments and understand something of the effect that these notes had it may be

helpfhl to look at it From the viewpoint of one of the judges who heard some of the cases that eventually

came to corn. Judge Galligan of the Supreme Court of Ontario presided over the case of the Royal Bank

of Canada (plaintiff) vs. John Allen Wilford and Wendy Jennifer Wilford (defendants). He rendered his

judgement on June L 1, 1986 with the following findings:'

The Royal Bank took the Wilfords to court to recover principal and interest on farm loans made

during the period fkom Nov. 1 977 to Nov. 1980. According to the judgement, the bank claimed that, based

on theu methods of calculating interest, the Wil fords owed them, as of Sept 2 1,198 1, $369,78 1. The court

determined that according to the written notes submitted by the bank, the actual amount owed as of

Sept.2 1, 198 i was $205,98 1-a substantial difference.

%.any Whaley. "Recovering tnterest Overcharges." in Fiehtine the Farm Crisis, ed. Terry Pugh (Saskatoon, SK: Fifth House, 1987): 75.

'.Judge Galligan, "Royal Bank of Canada (Plaintiff) vs. John Allen Wilford and Wendy Jennifer Wilford (Dekndants)," judgement rendered for the Supreme Court of Ontario, O.J. No.626 Action No. 150283, 1 1 June I986

That $205.98 1 owing was based on debts of less than $169,000 in principal (the precise figure is not

given). All except $10,000 of it was taken out in 1980. less than a year before the Sept 2 1,198 1 date on

which the judgement is based. Essentially then the Wilfords took out a series of loans and were asked by

the bank eleven months later to pay an amount in principal and interest equal to almost two and a quarter

times what they had borrowed.

In the en& the Wilfords actually had to pay out f 332,778 (that is, an additional $126,797 in interest

for the five-year period that the case was moving through the courts) plus court costs (since as defendants

who "lost" the case-that is, still owed the bank money even if it was much less than the bank claimed-they

were obliged to cover such costs).

In the judge's own words this is how the extraordinary escalation of interest oc~urred:~

The Royal Bank ofCanada gave the defendant a line ofcredit. It made advances or loans to him by way of promissory notes, the amount of which were credited to his checking account. When the checking account got into an overdraft position, so long as the credit limit was not reached, a signed blank note would be filled in and the amount thereof would be credited to the checking account. Each note . . . contained a specific interest rate, which in the case of the operating accounts was one per cent [or up to two percent on other accounts] over the Royal Bank prime on the date that the note was issued. Interest was calculated daily. . . and charged to the checking account once a month. (The same routine was followed with respect to the equipment and building accounts.) If the Royal Bank Prime changed between the date of the note and the date of an interest charge date, interest was charged (for the whole period) on the amount owing under the note at the changed rate and not at the rate set out in the note . . . . At various times during the period in question escalating interest rates led to the defendant being charged more, and often substantially more interest than was provided for in the notes. In case after case, the monthly interest charge (often charged at a rate higher than provided for in the note) would put the checking account into an overdraft position and trigger a new note to cover it. 7?wt loan open was substantially mado up of the prior interest chmges and the new note would be at the higher rate. Thus not only was the interest being compounded monthly, but in times of rising interest rates, at ever increasing rates. (Emphasis mine]

Note the double benefit the bank received in this process: It charged floating interest when it should

have been fixed; and then charged interest for each whole interest period according to the higher rate at the

end of the period.

'bid., 2-3.

On the largest of the Wilford's notes-$1 35,000 dated Nov. 12. 1980-Judge Galligan provides an

example of how the interest was dealt with:

That note provided for interest at fourteen and one-quarter percent. According to the evidence it would have been the Bank's practice to begin charging interest on the amount of the note at the rate of fourteen and t h r e e - q ~ e r s per cent on November 18,1980 because the Royal Bank Prime rate rose by one-half per cent on that day. On Nov 28, 1980, it would have raised the interest rate again to fifteen and one-half per cent; on December 5,1980 to eighteen per cent; on December 19, 1980 to nineteen and one-quarter per cent and so on until by August 7, 1980, it would have been charging twenty-three and three-quarters per cent. In my opinion the note did not justify the charging of any interest more than the fourteen and one-quarter per cent for advances under that note?

The judge then went on to note the devastating effect this had on the Wilford's finances:

The same procedure was being followed with the dozens of other notes of the defendant that were outstanding at the time. Not only was higher interest being charged than the rate provided for in many of the notes, but interest on interest was being charged, at a hi er rate than provided for in most of the notes. There was obviously a "snowballing" effect. ' P According to the court judgement, the bank broke its trust with the Wilfords in several ways: It

charged escalating interest instead of fixed interest, it took the signed notes that the Wilfords had entrusted

to the bank to cover unexpected operating shortages and used them as new loans to cover the excess

interest and then it charged escalating interest on these as well (even though the documents indicated fmed

rates) and it compounded all of that excess interest monthly.

The bank's defense in this case was that, although the notes had fixed interest indicated on their face,

the defendant had verbally agreed to allow the interest rate to float and conversations about the loan were

held on this basis. There is no indication in the judgement that the banks claimed that the wording of the

notes was ambiguous. The judge challenged the idea that the bank would set out two different agreements,

one written and the other verbal, and then proceed on the basis of the verbal agreement in contradiction

to the written one. Even if this was in fact the case, he insists that it is (as banks would normally insist) the

"dotted line9'-the written agreement-that is legally binding.

107

Was this an isolated incident? Alex, a Royal Bank Iender, reports that they dealt with many of these

cases in the eighties. Many of them they won because even with the rebate of the overcharging, the

fanners, like the Wilfords, still owed money. Lany Whaley reports that on the forty-four cases he had

investigated, there were overcharges of $1,8 15,907.0 1. He claims that at the time of the writing of the

book Fiehtinn the Farm Crisis in 1987 sixty-one cases of overcharging had been taken to court in the four

western provinces. Fifty-three had been settled, all recognizing some degree of overcharging. Ten of them

were against the Bank of Montreal. twenty- four against CIBC, nine against the Royal Bank and six against

the Toronto-Dominion, with individual cases against other banks. The average overcharge, as determined

by the courts, was $34,467.45 The average amount recoverable by the farmers (which included interest

due on the overcharging) was determined to be $54,643.16.

Two things suggest that this practice was widespread. First of all. banks tend to operate on the basis

of standard procedures. The forms on which the Wilfords' loans were drawn up were not specially

designed for the occasion. They were standard forms for farm loan notes that specified a fixed, rather than

escalating, rate of interest. Since fixed rate interest had been the norm up until that time, one would

suppose that such forms would have been widely used.

Secondly, the number of cases that actually went to court undoubtedly under-represents the actual

number of incidents of interest over-charging . As the Wilfords discovered, it is extremely expensive and

time-consuming to go to court. During the process, f m assets may be fiozen and the farmer's energies

diverted from farming. This alone, for a farm in difficulty, may be enough to send it into bankruptcy. In

addition, farmen who were in foreclosure proceedings were generally unable to obtain a loan to pay

lawyers and coun fees. Other lending institutions would not get involved if they knew that a fanner was

working out a foreclosure action with another lender.

As Alex, Whaley and several of the farmers indicated to me, such incidents were often settled by

negotiation. Frequently a settlement in the fanner's favour carried a "secrecy" condition that prohibited

108

the farmer from talking about it to others. As a result it is quite possible that significant numbers of

incidents occurred without being brought to public attention. Like Ron and Nora, farmers may have

ascertained that the interest on their debts was out ofcontrol without understanding why and without being

able to do the calculations necessary to figure that out. (Whaley recognized this and prepared a computer

program which some fanners were able to use to do just that.)

Alex noted that in the experience of his bank, overcharging was usually brought to the bank's attention

as a defense during a foreclosure action. This might reflect the fact that fanners knew that they had agreed

to a floating interest rate and so said nothing earlier; now that they were in trouble they were scrambling

to find some way to cut their losses. However it could also reflect the fact that it was not until debt review

proceedings began. and the books were very carehlly studied, that these problems were discovered.

Did this overcharging, on its own, result in the bankruptcies of these farmers? It is hard to know

without carefil examination of each situation. In some cases where the margin between viability and loss

was narrow it probably was. In many cases it may simply have been an extra charge on an already

intolerable debt burden. Either way, however, it represented a serious breach oftrust on the part of lenders

who did not take adequate care of their clients during a difficult time.

b. Governments broke their GRIP contract with formerrs

Throughout the eighties, as federal and provincial governments began to realize the extent of the

devastation in the farm community, they instituted a number of ad hoc support programs to help prop up

the agricultural economy. On January 1 1, 199 1 the federal government, together with ail the provincial

and territorial governments, announced the details of a new farm safety net program that would replace

these ad hoc programs. The program was designed by a national Grains and Oilseeds Committee made

up of nineteen producer representatives, seven federal government representatives and eight provincial

government representatives. The program was called the "Gross Revenue Insurance Plan ("GRIP").

109

What was most significant about this plan is that it was a revenue support rather than aprice support

plan and it was individualized for each farmer. Where a price suppon plan would address only one of the

factors that affects a farmer's income, GEUP ensured a certain level of gross income for each fmer

regardless of the factors @rice, weather or otherwise) that might result in a low return on one's harvest.

As Premier Grant Devine of Saskatchewan put it in his news release regarding the GRLP program (Jan. I 1,

1991 ) "With support targeted to individual farms, producers will know before seeding just what their

guaranteed revenue will be for eachcrop."l ' This allowed the farmer to calculate what his or her minimum

crop revenue would be in a particular year. The f m e r was therefore able to borrow money with less

collateral down since, in the case of wheat at least, the GRIP guarantee would be "bankable" meaning that

less property was needed for security. It became easier to plan farming costs so as to ensure a reasonable

profit at the end of the year.

Essentially GRIP was not a government payout but a subsidized insurance contract between producers

and a crown corporation called the Saskatchewan Crop Insurance Corporation (SCIC). According to this

contract, producers paid one third of the premiums and the federal and provincial governments paid the

remainder.

Just a year after its inception, the Saskatchewan government, and through its persuasion the other

levels of government, broke the contract and brought in a new GRIP program that returned $80 million less

to producers than the old GRlP would have. Fanners took the Saskatchewan government to court in a class

action suit (which is still being pursued in higher courts at the time of this writing) to prevent SCIC fkom

implementing the new contract. However Saskatchewan rushed in legislation to introduce retroactive

changes to GRIP and to removefiorn fanners the right to sue the government for any alleged breaches

"~uoted in Judge Laing, "Bacon and Svedceson vs. Saskatchewan Crop Insurance Corporation and the Government oCSaskatchewan," judgement tendered for Saskatchewan Court of Queen's Bench, case no. 1420,ll July 1997'5.

to the 1991 contract. What follows is a summary of the judgement rendered by Judge Laing in a case

parallel to that action. l2

According to the original GRW contract the payout to a particular f m e r was determined by

multiplying a farmer's average historical yield for each crop insured, or the average yield in the area,

whichever was more favorable to the insured, by seventy percent of a fifteen-year indexed moving average

price ("[MAP") for each crop. In 199 1 the [MAP was considerably higher than the current price for grains

and oilseeds because the fifteen year period included the last two of the high grain price years of the

seventies. 13

Because the insurance coverage was individual to each f m e r , the farmer's payout would not be

negatively affected by the production results of any other farmer (thus reducing competition with one's

immediate neighbows). That is. if one had the only field in an area that was hit by hail. that person would

not receive reduced payments simply because the neighbows did well. He or she would be compensated

to bring their income up to seventy percent of what the [MAP price would provide on a crop that for thar

farm was average.

Ln the fall of 1991, shortly after GRIP came into effect, Saskatchewan had an election and the

government changed. The new government was deeply concerned by the $14 billion debt that the province

had accumulated John Cook, the Saskatchewan government's financial advisor, advised the govemment

not to take on any new financial responsibilities. He was h i d that the govenunent's borrowing status

might be down-graded, resulting in higher interest rates being charged on its debt. Deputy Agricultural

minister Stuart h e r predicted that, in a worst case scenario, Saskatchewan could lose $250 million on

- - . .- - -

l2E!acon and Svenkeson. cited in the previous note. In the 1999 Saskatchewan provincial election campaign the opposition parties presented this breaking of the contract as a breach of trust with the fmers of Saskatchewan. That the farmers also saw it that way may be indicated by the fact that the every farming constituency in Saskatchewan was won by opposition candidates in that election.

"One wonders why the arbitrary choice of tifieen years. It creates an LMAP that is high the fmt two years-paying out well to producers and encouraging them to enter the program-and then drops rapidly afterward as the p r e r prices of the late seventies and eighties were factored in-resulting in lower payouts as the program progressed..

111

the GRIP program in 1 99 1 and felt that a repeat of that in 1992 would be disastrous. Time was growing

short before the second year of the program would have to be initiated. Although data was not yet in from

the first year of GRIP the new GRIP advisory committee (formed Nov 29, 199 1 jmostly the same people

as the old one with some significant changes in political personnel-felt that they had to act immediately.

They decided to initiate a process of amendment to GRIP for the 1992 year that would significantly reduce

the government's payout.

Essentially, as SCIC acknowledged at the trial, GRlP 92 changed the insurance coverage provided

by GRIP 91 from "a revenue insurance program that insured against producers' losses to a pure price

support program which guaranteed a certain payment per acre without regard to individual actual results."'"

Under the amended plan a fmer's individual insurance payout would be arrived at by multiplying the

farmer's seeded acres by a fixed price per acre (different for each region) and then multiplying that by a

management index (the fmer's long-term individual yielddivided by the long-term average yield for the

region). This would yield the amount that a fanner should be abie to realize on the crop for that year. The

amount paid out would be seventy percent of the IMAP price on the crop actually harvested., minus this

amount.

Producers felt that the government had broken trust with them in four respects:

i. The content of the new contract

Under GRIP 92, the fixed price that was to be paid per acre was determined by SCIC rather than an

independent body. It was to be a projection of h e prices based on market prices and area yields for the

nineteen eligible crops in twenty-three regions. As aprojection however, it was easy to manipulate up or

down to make the government's budget balancing easier.

In addition, the new formula benefitted producers who did unexpectedly well far more than those who

did unexpectedly poorly. It did not take into account how much a producer actually receives for their

"~acon and Svenkeson. 18.

grain. Individual producers who had an above-average yield for their crop would receive more money from

both the sale of the crop on the market, and from GRIP. The farmen who got hail or missed the rain (and

the regions were nowhere near small enough to be homogeneous in their precipitation) would find that their

payout was much less from both government and market. In other words, the new form of GRIP was set

up to benefit the most successfbl the most and the least successful the least. The rich got a lot and the poor

got a littie.

While Article 48 of GRIP 9 1 gave the governments the right to amend the contract, l 5 Judge Laing

agreed with producers that GRIP 92 was more than an amendment. He concluded that,

WhiIe Saskatchewan was successfil in obtaining an amendment to the federal-provincial agreement, it was not an amendment that was in conformity or harmony with that agreement. . . It follows that the amendments effected in 1992 were not authorized by Article 48 of the contract and as such were in breach of that connocr [emphasis mine].I6

ii. The process by which the new contruct was brought in

I ) Saskatchewan rushed through the changes in a way that alarmed the federal government. In letters

dated March 9 and 12, 1992, federal minister of agriculture Mr. McKnight said that "Saskatchewan was

rushing the changes, and expressed concern that the individualized component of the insurance program

was being done away with."" In a letter dated three days later he said, "your proposal virtually eliminates

the individualized, predictable, bankable protection which GRIP provided to producers last year. As well,

in the event of low yields, program benefits will be less."

However, by the date of that letter the province had managed to convince five other provinces to

amend the agreement and the federal government was not prepared to withhold Its consent (five provinces

and the federal government was the minimum required under the contract to make changes in the

- - -

'"'In accordance with the federal-provincial agreement, the terms and conditions of this contract may be changed from year to year. Additional crops may not be added to the list of eligi ble crops applicable to this contract without the consent of the insured." P. 23 of the judgement.

'68acon and Svenkeson. 30.

"bid.. 1 1 -

agreement). The formal amendment document for the 1992 crop year was completed eight and a half

months later on December 1, 1992.

2) The province did not get broad producer input for making amendments as it had agreed. In Premier

Grant Devine's letter of April 8,199 1, he enclosed a brochure with a heading "Can GRIP be changed?"

In that government brochure it says

GRIP can be revised by legislative changes or by amendments to the federaYprovincial agreement. However, governments have agreed to only make changes afrer discussion with farmers. . . . A formal review process will be implemented in Saskatchewan and at the national level during 199 1. Producers will have a major role in this review process [emphasis mine]. ''

The province apparently did receive some submissions from producers, and there were some informal

discussions by advisory committee members with farmers. However there were no extensive public

consultations with farmers because they wanted the new plan in place for 1992 and there was not enough

time before the 1992 spring deadline for changes to do a thorough investigation ofproducen' ideas on the

matter.

3)The government did not meet the 1992 deadline for changes to GRIP. Although there was a news

release of a general nature on March 13, 1992 the province did not inform the producers in writing of the

detailed changes in the contract before March 15, 1992 as required by Article 49 of the contract (letters

wen not even mailed until Mar.29). The result was that most farmers had already had to make their

decisions about seeding for 1992 by the time they received notice of the changes. (That much time is

needed to prepare the appropriate machinery, arrange financing, order seed and other inputs, etc before

spring seeding can begin.) The court concluded that

SCIC's failure to provide notice of changes to the 199 1 GRIP contract by March 15, 1992 as required by Article 49, means that the purported changes were not authorized by the policy for the 1992 year, and under the contract, such changes were not effective for the 1992 year. To the extent the changes were implemented in any event, such changes constitute breach of contract [emphasis mine]. l9

18Quoted in Bacon and Svenkeson 6.

191bid.. 3 1-32.

114

4) When the producers of Saskatchewan brought a class action suit against the government to prevent

SClC from implementing GRIP 92, (an action which was initially successful in getting the court to extend

the time available to opt out of GRIP 92 until further action by the court), the province passed legislation

entitled "An Act Respecting Amendments to Certain Farm Income Insurance Legislation, 1992, c.5 1"

assented to Aug 24, 1992. This amended the Agricultural Safety Net Act and the Crop Insurance Act

introducing retroactive changes to the 199 1 GRIP (p. 15) and removing the right to sue the government

for any akged breaches to the 1991 contract.

5) The government applied strong pressure to producen to enlist in GRIP 9 1 but made it difiicult

fbr them to leave when it changed the program. In other words it expected producers to show a deep

commitment to the program even though it readily broke its own commitment. The government attracted

farmen by asking for lower producer contributions in the first year ofthe program (twenty-five percent of

the total premium instead of 33% percent), and pressured them to come in early by applying penalties to

those who joined in the second or subsequent years. Once in the program fanners had to provide a three-

year notice to SCIC in order to opt out (or else reimburse SCIC for all payments received in the 199 1 year

in excess of the personal premiums they had paid). Under GRIP 92 the opt-out penalty was changed to a

smaller repayment. However the p ~ c i p a l that firm commitment was required of producers remained the

same. 20

iii. The results of the new contrac?'

Under GRIP 92 about two-thirds of the fanners received less payout than they would have received

under GRIP 91 and one-third received more (either because they grew a crop that was above average in

yield for their region, or one which brought an above average market price). As a whole, fmers received

$80.3 million net" less under GRIP 92 than they would have under GRIP 9 1.

Because of a turn-around in market prices, the plan itself did very well in 1992. Although GiUP lost

$100 million in 199 1 it made a $133 million surplus in 1992." This recovery was not due to the new

contract. Under GRIP 9 1 rules. the plan would have made $1 16 million in 1 W k n l y $1 7 million less.

Neither in 199 1 or 1992 did GRIP 9 1 meet Stuart Krarner's $250 million deficit predictions which supplied

the apparent urgency for change.

In 1993 and 1994 there were little or no GRIP payouts because the market price for grains and

oilseeds was above the fifteen-year IMAP price. The program was abandoned at the end of 1994 with a

surplus of 16782 million in the hnd. This surplus was distributed according to premiums paid. Provincial

and federal governments received two-thirds of it, producers one-third.

iv. The fundamental reasonsfor breaking the contract

This is perhaps what was most offensive to farmers. Ostensibly the contract was broken and re-written

because Saskatchewan felt that it could not afford GRIP 91 and that GRIP 92 would be much less

expensive?4 In faft, however, the difference between the plans w e d out to be only $17 million (and this

was spread over the whole country, not just Saskatchewan). This of course could be seen to be simply a

matter of poor prediction. However the GRIP advisory committee's report makes it clear that more than

that was at work.

U~~ 92 took in $95 million less in premiums, but paid out $1 12 million less to farmers. Of course the farmers only gained 33 percent of the drop in premiums (since the govenunents were paying the restbi.e. $3 1.7 million-but lost all of the drop in payouts-i.e.61 I2 million. Thus farmers, as a whole. lost about 680.3 million under the new plan.

? h e s e figures were provided by one of the GRIP lawyers whom I interviewed. The others are from the court documents.

*'SCIC also raised the concerns that individualized coverage increased administrative costs and increased program complexity. Some fanners also expressed this concern. However this seemed to figure as a minor concern in the reasons for abandoning GfW 9 1 and may have been addressable without losing the basic thrust of GRIP 91. See p.9 of the judgement.

1 I6

In its Feb. 1 l, 1992 report, the advisory committee indicated several reasons why it felt that the

changes were necessary. Almost all of the reasons given relate to a fear that f m e r s would begin to "take

advantage" of GRIP in some way, not taking care to exercise good management skills because they now

had a safety net. The report said it was concerned that because of the safety net:

1 ) Farmers would attempt to gain greater benefits fiom the prognm by reducing their use of fertilizer

and other inputs-essentially using less expensive f m i n g practices and trusting the program to pay any

difference in lower yields.

2) Farmers would pay less attention to market prices and conditions when choosing their crops and

would seed on the basis of what was easiest or cheapest for them to plant. Thus they might choose crops

for which GRIP would have to make a higher payout.

3) Farmers would turn pastureland and wetlands into seeded acreage to increase their payout fiom the

program (and would not be concerned about what those lands might produce. or what effect the loss of

such land might have on the environment).

4) Farmers might fmd a way to lie about their average historical yield in order to increase their payout.

The image of fanners projected by these concerns echoes those ofthe 1 969 Task Force on Agriculture

report-which essentially said that two-thirds of farmers lack initiative, have not got a strong profit motive

and are technologicdly-challenged,25 In response to these concerns Judge Laing noted t h e things:

1) Other than a few anecdotal nunours, the GRIP Advisory Committee had no actual evidential

support that GRIP 9 L had resulted in any such mismanagement.

2) The safety net operated only at about seventy percent of what fanners might expect to get if prices

turned out to be decent. This is hardly an incentive for poor management. The f m e r must still plant, and

25This appears to be a significant concern in the 1999 federal Agriculhue Income Disaster Assistance program (ADA). Advertisements for the program on the radio (for example on Saskatoon, SK's FM "C95" in July, 1999) encouraged fmers to apply, but only if they are experiencing serious financial problems "for which they are not responsible." The application has a complicated formula to try to determine their management histories.

ifprices in the fall were reasonable, the farmer could make much more from a well-planned crop than Born

a poorly-planned crop bailed out by GRIP.

3) GRIP 9 1 had premiums that were already higher than necessary precisely to account for this son

of "moral hazard" and "adverse election."^ In addition, the provincial government committees (which

served as liaison to the federal committee) were charged with the responsibility to "minimize the financial

impact of moral hazard by monitoring its incidence and implementing administrative procedures such as

pre-harvest appraisals or post-harvest pre-tillage inspections and assessing farm practices, such as seeding,

input usage and choice of insurable crops" (Section C, zgp7 Finally the concern about marginal land being

put into crops to gain extra benefits was already covered by a GRIP 91 rule that capped total seeded

acreage at one hundred and ten percent of the previous three year average of seeded acreage.?'

If both the costs of any potential mismanagement. and a mechanism to contain it were already taken

into account in GRlP budgeting one wonders where the "urgency" for revoking the GRIP 9 1 contract came

kom. Judge Laing concludes, "Viewed objectively, the reasons offered by the Committee do not match

the urgency recommended. Whatever motivated the Committee to recommend the changes as an urgent

matter is not directly in evidence" [emphasis

This is not to say that GRIP 91 was a perfect program. Farm economist Ken Rosaasen pointed out

that a good income support program will also support good managementO3O He too, was concerned about

the fact that in the first two years of GRIP which had a high MAP, it appeared that more money could be

made by not fertilizing one's crop than by fertilizing it. He also notes that the determination of the

individual farmer's historic yield was partly based on crop insurance ratings which gave fanners who had

26~acon and Svenlteson, 10.

"see Richard Gray, Ward Weinsensel. Ken Rosaasen. Hartley Furtan and Daryl Krafi, "A New Safety Net Program for Canadian Agriculture: GRIP," Choices 6 (no.3): 35.

29~acon and Svenkeson. 38.

301n his interview with me.

taken out insurance for many years without a claim an inappropriately high yield average compared to those

who had not previously taken out crop insurance (even if they had had good yields). His suggestion would

have been to amend GRIP 9 1 in these two areas by taking a combination of the farmer's real historic yield

and the area yield of a small (12 kilometer) region around the farm. Such amendments, however, would

have been in tune with the intention of GRIP 9 1 that it serve as an income, rather than a price support

program (as GRLP 92 turned out to be)."

The radical changes made instead suggest that both levels of government were loathe to put any plan

into place which would not reward the "successful" and wealthy more than those in difficulty. The

appearance at least is given that our government lost faith in its producers, assuming them to be lazy-less

interested in maximizing their profits than living on a subsistence. welfare-type of farming.

Interestingly, under GRIP 9 1. none of the hazards predicted by the government committees or by

Gray. et a1 resulted to any significant degree. Whether this was because of good growing conditions in

199 1 or simply an underestimation of farmers' moral fibre and wise management is impossible to determine.

The discussion of GRIP 92 is interesting because it raises the question as to whether institutions-such

as governments-must be held to the same standards of accountability as individuals. SCIC argued that it

did not-that "If there was a breach of contract, the legislative action of the government is sufficient to

defeat any action against the government because of it since they acted in g~od/aith."32 The fanners

responded that the "rule of law" is enshrined in the Canadian Constitution and essentially means that "the

law is supreme over officials of the government as well as private individuals!'33 Judge Laing responded

that this is in fact the case-that both the administrative and legislative arms of the government are bound

by their own laws and contracts. However he said that the rule of law does grant legislatures the right to

3 1 Gray, et al. "A New Safety Net" had additional concerns about GRIP 9 1 not being responsive to current market conditions (since farmers might be making decisions based on the 1 5-year IMAP price of a crop) and that it required such a high degree of provincial payout (essentially disadvantaging provinces with a high rwal/urban ratio and causing the already distressed farmers in those regions to bear more of the load).

' *~acoo and Svenkewn. 23.

change those laws as long as it does not do so arbitrarily. That is, it "prohibits action taken upon

inadequate grounds, or for an irrelevant purpose, both of which reflect an unrestrained exercise of power."

Laing decided that the government was justified in breaking the GRIP contract as long as they were acting

in the "public interest." He concluded, "There is nothing in the evidence that suggest the Government of

Saskatchewan was acting other than in the public interest of agricultural producers in taking the steps that

it did."34

While the judge's arguments make sense, it is difficult to understand how he arrives at that final

conclusion. Financially speaking, it is clear that SCIC did not act in the best interests offarmers, who, as

a whole, lost $80.3 million because of the change to GRIP 92. This may not seem like much because.

averaged, $80.3 million amounts to only about $285 per farm. What is more serious is the fact that GRIP

92 redistributed the payments. For a significant number of farms. particularly those who did not do as well

in the 1992 crop year. the difference between the GRIP 91 and GRIP 92 payouts was in the tens of

thousands of dollars. For example, in the case we have been considering, although the court did not award

damages since it found for SCIC on the basis of the constitutional question, it did calculate the damages

that should be awarded if it is found to be wrong regarding the constitutional question. Wayne Bacon and

Gary Svenkeson were awarded the difference h e e n what was received under GRIP '92 and what would

have been payable under the GRIP '91 contract plus interest-$37,501.00 for Bacon and $22,145.00 for

~venkeson?~ For some farmers close to the edge, amounts like these may have made the difference

between surviving the year and going under.

The change to GRIP 92 did not even serve the interests of the general public in a significant way.

Saskatchewan initiated the change to address their own deficit but in the end the plan returned only $17

million more than GFUP 9 1. That gain was spread over the whole of Canada-about a 57 cent benefit for

the average Canadian.

120

It is also difficult to accept SCIC's idea that "good faith" is enough to justify their actions if it means

only that one must think that one is doing one's job faithfully. While the provincial and federal

governments may have rhoughr they were acting in the public's best interests, their thinking appears to have

been based on a caricature of farmers that was not grounded in evidence or history. According to the GRIP

Advisory Committee the change to GRIP 92 grew out of a perception of farmers as lazy, unwilling to work

for what they e m , and quick to take unfair advantage ofthe system. My experience, listening to farmers'

stories is exactly the opposite. If anything, the honour code to which farmers hold seems to me to over-

value hard work and independent initiative. Those I talked to were offended by the idea that GRIP 9 1

might tempt them to do less than their best as farmers.

As I see it, "good faith" cannot be stretched to cover illusion and prejudice. Many great wrongs have

been committed by people in power who thought they were acting in the people's best interests, but in fact

were blinded by inaccurate perceptions.

At the time of writing, this matter is before the Supreme Court of Canada. I am no expert in judicial

matters, and it may be determined that in a technically legal sense the federal and provincial governments

had the right to do what they did. However, it is clear from the fanners' class action suit brought against

them that farmers apm'enced their dissolution of GRIP 9 1 as a broken promisea breach of trust.

Responsibility for broken promises then cannot be laid only on the shoulders of fanners. Private

lenders and governments were also caught in the debt squeeze of the late seventies through the early

nineties. Everyone at certain points seems to have become less conscious of their contracts with others and

more aware of a desire to ensure their own survival. As deplorable as this is, it is only to recognize that

"none are righteous"4at there is a need for accountability, and for grace, on all sides.

Certainly all parties in the crisis suffered its effects, though not to the same degree. Erwin says that

in the bank for which he works "we wrote off over fifty million a year in agricultural loans. We were in

red ink in agriculture for the better part of the eighties." However the chartered banks in Canada have

much deeper pockets than farmers and agriculture is only a small percentage of their total business. The

Royal Bank (which was the largest agricultural lender of the chartered banks according to Erwin) shows

in its 1991 annual report that between 1986 and 199 1 (the worst years for farm foreclosures and

bankruptcies), agricultural loans only constituted an average of 10.9 percent of loan losses. More than that,

these losses were unticipatedand more than oflief by increased fees for operating services (which, the bank

observes, do not seem to be affected by downturns in the economy).36

Where farmers-as a whole-saw income dwindle to historically low, even negative levels in some

regions in the eighties. the chartered banks-as a wholeshowed steady profits. Saskatchewan farmers, for

example, had a totai net income in 1 988 of minus $20.6 million-the first time since 1937 that the combined

total net income of Saskatchewan farmers was negative.37 Income for the chartered banks, as a whole.

reached a low between 1980 and 1990 of $1.4 billion in operating profits (1 982) and a high of $4.7 billion

(1 990). (Since then profits have soared to $1 6.5 billion in 1998.)~'

Governments felt the pinch in the eighties as well. The Farm Credit Corporation which had

historically been in a positive equity position lost so much equity in non-performing loans between 1983

and 1987 that it was almost half a billion dollars in arrears by the 1988 Annual Report-that is, technically

b a n k ~ u ~ t ? ~ However this did not result in large numbers of Farm Credit Corporation employees leaving

their jobs and communities. The losses were subsidized by the people of Canada in taxes and the

corporation moved on.

While government employees certainly felt the stress of the eighties, and rural bank employees had

to deal with the pain of watching fiends and community members go through the wrenching experience

of bankruptcy, at the end ofthe day almost all ofthem went home to family and a job. They had the buffer

3 6 ~ o ~ l Bank of Canada: Annual Remn 199 1 (Montreal. Quebec: Royal Bank Investor and Shareholder Relations) Part 2, 16 and Part 1, 15.

''cansim database. label no. D200209.

'"bid.. label no. D88606.

39$22 Billion Problem, 50.

122

of large institutions to protect them. Farmers operate independently with no such buffer. By the tens of

thousands, they lost their livelihood, their heritage, their community and their honour.

While all were responsible and all suffered, it was farmers who bore a disproportionate share of the

suffering of that period and carried most of the shame. They were the ones, not lenders or government

officials who were stripped of dignity, and excluded fiom the fellowship of the community. Like the

biblical scapegoat that was exiled into the wilderness with the community's sins on its back, the

"righteousness" of Canada's agricultural community seems to have been bought at the cost of farmers'

dishonour.

CHAPTER 5

WHY DO FARRWRS NOT PROTEST THE SELECTIVE SHAMING AND BLAMING?

If responsibility for the rash of farm bankruptcies in the last twenty years is as broadly distributed as

my interviews suggested one wonders why farmers put up with the shaming and the deterioration of their

industry. One might expect a clearer public protest. This is not to say that no protest has been offered, as

we noted in the introduction. However it is sporadic and curiously muted when weighed against the

numbers involved and the suffering endured.

I did hear however many private expressions of protest. Lance said, "The government set us up with

a set of rules that we made our plans on-then they went and changed the rules." Several spoke of having

been betrayed by the "system" which they had thought was supporting them. Connie said, "Our system let

us down." Clark was very hstrated with his experience of competitive lending in the eighties. He said,

"There's something wrong about the banking system. The whole system's making money out of you all

of your life."

When I asked fanners why they did not protest more vigorously it became clear that there were a

number of social, psychological and institutional mechanisms at work to suppress that protest. In general

they may be classified as mechanisms of exhaustion, of disconnection and isolation, of intimidation and

coercion, and of catharsis.

A. Mechanisms of Exhaustion

Farmers in difficulty often found that the resources they needed to mount a protest were being drained

by the effort to survive.

I. Exhaustion of time and physicui resources through ovework

When the books are in the red, both husband and wife are forced to invest extra labor into the farm

and to take off - fm jobs for extra income. They have little time or energy to gather and share the

information necessary to understand what is happening to themselves and their neighbours. As Brian put

it: "Most farmers are so busy chopping wood that they don't stop to sharpen their axe." The National

Farmer's Union is an organization that offers critical analysis of economic issues related to farming, as well

as personal and corporate support for f m e n in trouble. I attended one of their conventions and noticed

that most of the delegates were elderly. One speaker noted: ''The reason there aren't many young farmers

here any more is because they all have to work at off-fm jobs to keep afloat. They can't take the time

off."

According to the 1996 Census of Agriculture. forty-six percent of all farm operators were working

off-farm in 1996. For those under fifty-four years of age, the number rises to fifty-five percent. These are

not all hobby farmen. Twenty-six percent of f m operators are working off-farm even though they are

already putting in more than forty hours per week on farm work. Seventeen percent of farmers operate

one or more businesses besides farming. Under that sort of constant work pressure it is difficult to be an

activist or to explore alternatives to one's situation. All of one's energy is drawn into work.

Nathan and Sarah are a couple who found themselves caught in this bind. They were farming with

Nathan's brothers and their families. When the operation developed severe interpersonal and financial

problems Nathan and Sarah took on off-farm work. Nathan worked the oil rigs in the winter and waited

tables in his off hours. Sarah took a number of jobs close to home. When they realized that this was

getting them nowhere they took a course in personal development that helped them look at their core

assumptions about life. It was only then that they began to think that they might have other good

alternatives besides farming the way they had been.

Overwork can also lead to costly mistakes and accidents that Further drain one's resources.

Haverstock notes &om her counselling practice the increase in farm accidents and says:

Accidents and injuries have to do with people being inattentive, over-tired and unable to protect themselves. They take greater risks, have poorjudgment and put themselves in more dangerous situations. The government has just announced that more research is going into developing safer farm machinery. That's ridiculous. The problem is over-work.

2. Exhaustion ofthe financial resources needed to take a protest to court.

Nora described her negotiations with the bank this way:

If we said we were going to go to court, they'd have said, "Fine, let's go." But all of that costs us money. The interest clock is ticking. Lawyers do not come ke-they con big money. We were at this for at least 18 months. Lawyers cost money, trips cost money. We were 100 miles &om our lawyer. Every time you'd talk to the lawyer you'd have to drive in . . . . We have already noted the extraordinary cost of challenging interest calculations, or foreclosure

actions in court. In addition to the cost of lawyers, interest charges accumulate and assets are fiozen while

the case moves through the courts. Neither lenders nor h e n want to have to pay those costs. But

lenders are always able to pay them-farmers often are not. Larry Whaley claims that when his campaign

to help f m e n recover excess interest got well underway, the banks began to "stonewall" in negotiations.

Initially many lenders had simply negotiated a resolution to the problem with farmers. However once a

few ofthe legal decisions had gone in the bank's direction they felt that it was worth taking a risk in court.

Farmen who discovered the problem early were able to settle out of court. but many who came ir. later had

to fight the matter through the legal system. Being insolvent it was very difficult to fmd the money. or get

the necessary credit, to hire a lawyer. Whaley notes that those who chose to represent themselves in court

often lost because of poor presentations.

E Mechaaisms of Disconnection and Isolation

One of the most debilitating aspects of fmancial insolvency for the fanners interviewed was the

isolation it brought. Isolation stifles protest by preventing farmers f b r n gathering information about their

situation and networking with others about solutions and protest strategies. It reduces effective opportunity

to appeal one's case to those who have the power to make decisions. We have already seen that a good

deal ofthis isolation was self- and socially-imposed as a response to the shame that accompanies insolvency

in many nual communities. However there were some specific ways in which circumstances, institutions

or specific people in power functioned to reinforce that isolation.

I . Secrecy Agreements

Brian reports that when he went to the bank and said "I want out," the first thing his lenders said was

"Keep this between you and I. All we want is an orderly disposition of assets." Rhonda said that when she

signed her settlement she was made to promise that she would not tell anybody about it. Diane says that

the secrecy prevented her from involving knowledgeable fiends in her negotiations with the bank.

When we went though the bank the only way we would get the deal was to sign papers not to tell anyone what deal we got. So this is totally confidential because they don't want anyone else to know. They do not want or will not allow any outsiders. So, it's you and them is what it is. So, it can't be anything else.

The secrecy was not just a request-it was imposed. Marvin reports that when he was asked to keep his deal

secret he was also told that if word about it got out into the community the deal would be canceled.

The purpose of the secrecy, as farmers perceived it, was to avoid a "bandwagon" effect. It was to

prevent neighboun in difficulty with their debts from using each other as leverage to get write-downs of

their loans. They could not say, "John got a better deal than that from you. I'm not budging until I get

something similar." Lenders acknowledge that if a farmer was aggressive and knew her/his rights banks

were slower to engage in extended litigation which was expensive and cut into their profits. It appears that

instead they would offer a "good deal" on the condition that it be kept secret. The hope was that f m e r s

would not be training each other in how to deal with the banks.

Wendy notes that the secrecy created a serious problem for herself and her husband. They were

confused by the debt review process, unsure of what their rights and obligations were at various stages and

had little idea as to whether or not the deal offered by the bank was a "good" one (that is equivalent to what

was being done with other farmers in the region). They felt that they were forced to take it because they

did not know what else to do.

2. Isolated by proximity pro blerns-

Farmers often found that they were either too close to, or could not get close enough to, their

creditors. Farmers who had unrepayable debts with local suppliers found it very difficult to face these

127

people. These were regular business acquaintances, members of the same clubs and congregations, even

friends. Often the suppliers were private businesses that (unlike a large corporation) could not absorb many

unpaid debts without serious effects on the owners and their families. To be unable to repay a loan to

someone close, to have one's own difficulties become the source of another family's problems, was felt

to be deeply shameful. Too often it created a painful social rift that would last for years. Therefore, even

though there might be understandable reasons for their financial situation, farmers found it very difficult

to speak honestly about it to local supplien.

In the early eighties, when credit from large institutions was available the problem could be solved by

taking a loan out fiom a larger, more impersonal institution to pay off the local supplier. In the late nineties

however, as disastrously low farm incomes have returned but with less access to institutional credit, f m e n

have found themselves getting in deep debt to their suppliers. Jared, a f m debt mediator, says that the

destructive effects on community life of the resulting shame are multiplying. When a farmer with such

problems makes an application for farm debt mediation, Jared tries to address this by bringing all the

creditors, including suppliers, together at once so that suppliers can understand what has happened. He said

that a full disclosure may not change the financial situation, and it may initially increase the sense of shame.

However he feels that it helps suppliers and fanners to accept each other's situations, to work

cooperatively towards a settlement and to and live more comfortably with each other in the community.

As we shall see W e r on, not everyone agrees.

At the other extreme, when creditors are large institutions, farmers have oAen found that they have

not been able to get close enough to the people who were making the final decision about their financial

situation. Sometimes this was because the person they had been working with was suddenly transferred;

fkquently it was because the decision was "pushed upstairs."

Lenders explained the reason for the distancing. They said that during the period when bankruptcies

were particularly common bank managers and loans officers experienced a great deal of stress. It was not

easy for employees who had to live in the same community as those on whom they were foreclosing. Envin

notes,

In the eighties bank managers were moved every couple of yeambecause your kids were going to school with the customers' kids . . . . We had a Iot of bank employees have nervous breakdowns, go on stress leave during that period.

As a pastor I discovered how hard it was on lenders who foreclosed on families that they had known for

years. They found it painful to meet them in shopping centers and other public places.

Banks protected their employees fiom this stress in two ways: first, they moved their bank managea

and loans officers very frequently. Those to whom I talked suggested that four years was about the

maximum. Secondly, some institutions removed decisions about foreclosure fiom the hands of local

managers and assigned them to officials hrther away. Ron and Nora told how the decision on their prairie

farm was made by an executive they had never seen in Quebec. Arthur, an executive lender admits his job

is to handle those whose needs are not being met elsewhere in the system.

Unfortunately, those in the upper levels have very little experience with or personal investment in the

lives of the particular people about whom they are making decisions. They may not even meet face to face.

This makes it more likely that decisions will be made on the basis of abstract rules, or the institution's

profik than the fanner's wetfare. The decisions are clean, surgical. But they may not be fair or

compassionate.

It also makes negotiations difficult. Ron said that he was very fhstrated in his discussions with local

lenders because as soon as they thought they had reached a solution the lender would say "Yes, I think we

can do it but I'll have to, again, go back to my superiors." He felt as though they were playing a game.

Distancing not only curtails farmers' ability to protest effectively, face to face. It also insulates

decision-makers from the consequences of theu actions. It slows down the process of discovering

inequities and learning better ways of dealing with problems.

3. Shut out from chmnels of appeal.

To reduce leveraging by farmers of one official against another, some lenders attempted to

homogenize their approach to particular borrowers so that no cracks could be opened up between them.

Ray said,

We meet informally with the other loan officers almost daily to keep each other informed on what progress we've made with a borrower, or what the situation is with a borrower, because they may come in and not always talk to the same officer every time. The situations we are dealing with all have to be on the same wavelength, so to speak but it really wasn't important a few years ago. 1

This also seems to have occurred in the political system. Harold, who felt that he had been treated

unfairly in the loss of his farm, approached the people in government whom he presumed were responsible

for redressing injustice and instituting change-that is, the ethics commissioner, the provincial ombudsman,

the human rights commissioner and the farmers' advocate. After enduring a Frustrating journey through

their offices he made this observation about the way in which government appoints and controls mediators:

You take your problem to one person and he says you have to see someone else. And that guy says that he can only deal with things that happened after a certain date, and so on. Who is it that provides the resources for the land, building, offices for the ombudsman, etc? Who is it that writes the legislation for these guys? Who appoints them, pays them? Well they'll say its an all- party committee. But ail party committees . . . don't remove the biases . . . . Land, capital and labor and legislation-they control the whole process. Its like having the coyotes and wolves deciding what size the hole in the chicken house is going to be and not having any representatives 6.om the roosters or the hens.

Harold was the victim of at least one such conference between the "coyotes and the wolves." When

his protest efforts were blocked at a local level he wrote a letter of appeal to the premier. The premier

wrote to the local official who had refused Harold's request and asked how he ought to reply to Harold.

The local official drafted a letter which the premier signed, and then sent to Harold. Harold knows that

this took place because copies of the correspondence between the local official arid the premier were

accidentally sent to Harold. I also saw those letters. Clearly, in this case, the appeal process was rendered

' ~ m e r and Lender.

130

impotent because levels ofgovernment were more interested in protecting each other's backs than in getting

at the truth.

Steve noted the same collusion in his advocacy work with fanners. He says it is odd that it is the

government that appoints the people who mediate between its own lending agencies and the farmers:

"Basically what happened is usually the Farm Credit people would get together with the Farm Review

Board [the mediators] and they'd snow the farmer-and get the f m e r to sign off everything in sight for

some small token."

Dennis, a farm debt review mediator, disagreed that there was collusion between Farm Credit and the

Farm Debt Review Board. However, he noted that the review board's panel chairpeople were mostly

political appointees and former MP's.

C. Mechanisms of Intimidation and Coercion

I . Personal intimidation

Farmers said that they often felt overwhelmed by the size and power of the institutions that they faced.

They sometimes felt that protest was futile. Nora said, "You don't group together; a bunch of individuals

don't come together. So what are you? One person. Whereas the banks are huge . . . . They have the

backing, they have the money."

The problem was more than a matter of simply being daunted by the size and extensive resources of

their creditors, however. Some farmers reported very painful experiences of personal intimidation. Steve,

a pastor, stood in on several debt reviews. He said ''usua1ly there was swearing at and berating the debtor,

and calling them down." Kevin, a banker for 20 years said "Many bankers . . .just phone up Mary Jane

and swear at her and curse at her and tell her to pay up her debt." Kevin left banking in the eighties because,

in his words, "My supervisors were saying, 'you go at any cost, and collect that money.' It didn't matter

if the guy had a shotgun sitting there, ready to kill himself. It didn't matter. Human life didn't mean

anything." Arthur, a government lender admits: "We were unreasonable, we weren't flexible, we didn't

let people leave graciously. We went afier them after they were gone [from the farm]."

The intimidation could extend to those who dared help the farmers. One advocate, a pastor, angrily

recalls,

I could not even maintain a bank account in town . . . . When I had a payday, they would post my deposits to someone else's account, and then bounce a whole bunch of cheques, all around town, just to give me a bad name. I would go in and ask them where this happened. They would find it three, or four, or five weeks later and then they would say, "Oh it looks like it was an oversight." I would say, "Well are you going to correct it?" "Why? It wasn't our mistake." "Well, I'd say, it looks like that's my account, there, printed on your form." "Well, we're not going to correct it." They were mostly telling me you know, "you rub our faces in the dirt and boy we're going to cause you a lot of trouble." And every time that they would bounce a cheque on me, it was sixteen bucks. And, they would do eight or ten of them a month, for two, three months in a row, and say they were going to correct it, but they never would do it. One month I had four hundred dollars in service charges! And of course you know what happens. They're outside their banks and they're outside the Credit Union and they're talking to people saying: "Gees, he doesn't do anything but bounces cheques all over town."

Ralph and Diane claim that their lawyer (who was well known in the area for his aggressive support of

farmers' debt cases) was targeted by government lenders because of his ability to get good deals. In their

eyes his nervous breakdown and subsequent disbarring was due to "dirt that Farm Credit dug up on him"

to get him out of the way.

Lenders point out that efforts to intimidate went both ways-that physical and verbal use of staff by

farmers was not unusual. Gary said that their training as loans officers includes instruction in dealing with

physical violence. Secretaries are taught to listen for loud voices or noises from the officers' rooms and

to knock on the door or ring the telephone to defuse the intensity of the situation. He says that he has

watched one of his officers deal with four aggressive situations in one day and noted that it took a

tremendous toll on the person. "They are being stretched and pulled" he said; he was a h i d they would

bum out. He also noted that "the clerical people who are on the front line put up with a lot of discourtesy."

In the final analysis, of course. farmers' efforts to intimidate were largely ineffective. The high-

ranking cards were held by the lenders. Their anger in fact became self-defeating as it pushed lenders away

and made negotiations more difficult.

2. Coercive legal instruments.

h order to make lending to farmers more attractive, the federal government enacted legislation

(Section 178 of the Bank Act) which gives banks the right to hold the legal title to any property that is

signed over to them as collateral under the auspices of Section 178. This means that whatever fanners have

signed over as security can be seized immediately by the bank (since it essentially belongs to them) without

providing any notice of their intention to seize. This security can include a crop not yet sown at the time

of taking out the loan, animals not yet born, and so on. Section 179 gives the bank the right to sell

immediately any property that they have acquired under Section 1 7K2

Several farmers reported being shocked to discover that land. equipment grain, livestock or deposits

had been seized and sold without any notice being given. Their ability to protest was effectively silenced

by the speed with which the bank was able to act.

Some provinces have enacted legislation to prevent this immediate seizure of property without

warning. Saskatchewan, for example, in sections 19 to 36 of The Limitation of Civil Riehts Act requires

that any action to seize property must tint be brought before a judge who will determine it and under what

conditions, the property may be seized. However, in Supreme Court cases, this legislation has been

regarded as being in direct contradiction to Section 178 of the federal Bank Act and is superceded by the

federal law. Farmers who, wittingly or unwittingly, sign over their security under section 178, lose their

case if they protest in court.'

LThis is described in detail in Mod. "Security Under Sections 1 77 and 178 of the Bank Act" Canadian Bar Review 65 (1 986), 25 1, cited in the case of "Bank of Montreal v. Hall" in Su~reme Court Reports - Judgements, vol, 1, 1990, accessed 4 August 1998; avai1abIe h m http://www.droit.umontreal.ca/d0~/c~~-~~den/pub/1990/vo~ 1 htmY 1990 scrl-0 t 2 l .html; Internet.

'The Bank of Montreal v. Hall is one such case.

Section 178 was a very powefil security given to the banks. As Kevin notes: "If you read the fine

print, in actual fact the bank owns the security so it is very easy to realize on something you already own.

They just basically lent it and let you use it." The reason for the enactment of this legislation, according

to the supreme court judgement in the Bank of Montreal v. Hall is that the federal government saw that

This security interest met the pressing need to provide, on a nationwide basis, for a uniform security mechanism so as to facilitate access to capital by producers of primary resources and manufacturers. It freed borrower and lender £?om the obligation to defer to a variety of provincial lending regimes and facilitated the ability of banks to realize on its collateral. This in turn translated into important benefits for the borrower: lending became less complicated and more affordable.

We have already seen that the government's desire to provide inducements to the banking industry to get

them to ioan to farmers contributed to the overly aggressive credit market of the seventies and early

eighties and to an enormous accumulation of farm debt. In retrospect, that justification for using such a

coercive instrument seems very weak.

It is true that at the time of taking out the loan farmers signed an agreement to register it under the

auspices ofsection 178. Interviews indicate that some were aware ofthe full implications; others had only

a partial picture. Most felt that they had no choice but to sign if they wanted a loan.

Some lenders told me that in their opinion Section 178 functioned in the best interests of farmers who

were not viable. It brought a mercillly swift end to what is often a protracted, painful process and helped

the farmer move on to a new life. They said that farmers sometimes thanked them afternards for helping

them to move quickly through the foreclosure process.

Such statements however have a "kevorkianesque" quality about them. They assume that

life on the farm has no value if it is stressful. They assume that there is no value in waiting to see whether

a sharp upturn in commodity prices might improve the situation next year. Some farmers may indeed

discover that a "quick death" is better than a slow one. Others made it very clear that they value every

moment on the farm and would fight to stay as long as possible. Section 178 removed the choice.

3. Mediation instruments that increase farmer S vulnerability to their creditors.

In late 1986 the federal Farm Debt Review Board was established by the Farm Debt Review ~ c t . "

This act seemed to be a reprieve from instruments like Section 178. It required that any secured creditors

(for example those with Section 178 security) who wanted to seize a farmer's property must send notice

to that effect to the f m e r fifteen days before taking any action. During this fifteen days the f m e r could

complete a form requesting the intervention ofthe Farm Debt Review Board. When that application was

received, a creditor would have to wait thirty days before seizing any property and that could be extended

up to 120 days in total.

During this time the Farm Debt Review Board appointed a "guardian of the assets of the fmer."

Often this was the f m e r him or herself. However the act permitted the creditors to nominate this

guardian-who may be one of its own solicitors-and the guardian took total and complete control of the

farmers' assets. The guardian for example could prevent the farmer &om selling grain to buy food (thus

ensuring maximum assets remain to pay off creditors). This power in itself, whether or not the guardian

was that strict, tended to suppress any protest since the well-being of the farm family was very much in the

guardian's hands. Essentially, as with Section 178, this act may allow the creditor's representative to

become trustee of the farmer's assets without bankruptcy being declared.

When interviewed, those in the farm debt review board responsible for assigning guardians claimed

that this only happened once and was quickly corrected-that maximum attention was given to obtaining

a truly independent guardian. Audrey Brent, a lawyer who represents farmers in foreclosure proceedings,

claims that she has encountered situations in which the guardian works for the crediton.' She also pointed

out (as the board acknowledged) that whoever nominates the guardian pays that person's wages-that is,

either the creditor(s) or the board. It was therefore clearly in the board's best financial interests to accept

" ' ~ m Debt Review Act," Statutes of Canada, iI, c. 33. See pp. 1 109-1 1 18 especially articles 20-32.

'~nterview with me. See also Audrey Brent, "Faxmers' Legal Rights and Responsibilities," in Fightinn the Farm Crisis, ed. Terry Pugh, 54-70.

135

the creditor's nomination (to reduce its costs) and it was in the guardian's best interest to look after the

interests of the creditor (who was paying hisher wages). Ifthe board ended up nominating the guardian,

it was also in the board's best fmancial interests not to extend the waiting period (which would increase

the cost of wages paid to the guardian). In a time of severe government restraints, it is certainly

conceivable that such financial factors might enter into the board's considerations.

The benefit of the guardianship for the lender is that fmers, during the thirty to 120 days, have

sometimes disposed of assets in ways that will provide them with greater equity once they leave the farm.

By giving the banks control of the assets during that period, it ensures that the banks will suffer less harm

and that farmers will not be able to take advantage of or "farm" the system.

However the arrangement also makes it difficult for fmers to protest any treatment that they fee1

might have been unjust (for example the escalation of interest rates) knowing that during that fifteen day

period their lender may be holding all the cards. They did not want to alienate their lender and then find

that they had complete control and there was no position from which to negotiate.

The Farm Debt Review process creates problems as well. It requires (sec.20 of the Act) that all

creditors be notified of the action that the one creditor wanted to take. Brent says that very often fmers

had been keeping up their payments to local suppliers, who would have therefore been unaware of the

fkmcial problems. However, when these suppliers became aware of the impending action by another

creditor, they often became alarmed, withheld any further credit or demanded immediate repayment. In

addition, the farmer's shame was dramatically increased as a large number of local people became aware

of his or her problem.

Brent says that the major value in the Act for fanners used to be that the 120 day waiting period could

be used as leverage in negotiations with creditors-that is, if they did not come up with a reasonable offer,

the farmer would apply for the stay. Today, however, she says that the farm debt review mediators will not

apply the 120 day stay if it appears that the creditor is not willing to negotiate. This means that the creditor

can simply say "I'm not willing to negotiate" and the mediator says "there is nothing more we can do" and

leaves the farmer and creditor to work it out on their own. Of course by this time. as a result ofthe process,

the fanner has broadcast hisher financial situation to all the creditors and is in a much more vulnerable

situation than if he or she had never applied for mediation.

Dynamics such as these make the farm debt review process of questionable value as a form of protest

and resistance for some farmers (though clearly many others have nonetheless benefitted from it).

D. Mechanisms of Catharsis

Lenders report that after a few years of confrontational dealings with farmers, they discovered that

farmers value their "dignity" (honour) very highly and that if they were treated respectfilly and allowed

to express their feelings about losing the farm, that they were much more likely to be cooperative in

negotiations. Gary, a bank manager describes what he has done to reduce farmers' distress:

What I teach the staff to do, and what we spend a lot of time in our training on, is to treat that person respectfully, is to realize that you are carrying an awful lot of power over those people's lives. They need to treat them tenderly and building a trust relationship can be so cute because if they have that, the county officers who do have that, the cooperation they get 601x1 the borrowers can be tremendous and make their job so much easier . . .It is critical to develop cooperation between those two groups. I think that borrowers are becoming somewhat more sensitive to the lenders' plight?

Robert adds, " We have to be perceived as absolutely caring about that person. I don't know how else you

can do that except to listen and send the message that you are listening and you care."

The government was also coming to realize that the "shaming" of fanners was resulting in a potential

political backlash. Dennis, a farm debt review board mediator, says that when he began his work he was

told that a key part of the board's mandate was "to take the pressure off of governments. So the fanners

would have someone to tell their troubles to, rather than just being angry with people in government."

Sometimes, however, the build up of strong emotions is necessary to provide the energy to move

through the kind of obstacles I have described so that a protest can be registered. Simply listening

6~rorn video Farmer and Lender.

137

respectfully, without taking part in action that addresses injustice, allows farmers to blow off steam.

However it may also rob them of the anger needed to fuel efforts for change.

E. The Effect of Suppressing Protest: Reduced Alternatives and the Stabilization o f the Honour

Code

Together with the shaming that leads to silence, these mechanisms fhction to suppress those voices

who might give evidence that some of the hdamenta l principles and perspectives at work in the

agricultural community are destructive and operate from an inadequate understanding of reality.

In the second chapter I introduced a cluster of such principles which influence rural values and

behaviour that I called the "honour code." There I referred to the code primarily as a set of standards, or

rules for personal and community living. It is however more than that. The honour code includes a

profound and broadly-compassing understanding of the world and our place in it. It is a "worldview."

James Olthius (following foundational work by Michael ~o lan~ i , ' ) describes worldviews in general

as "integrative and interpretive fkrneworks by which order and disorder are judged, . . . the standards by

which reality is managed and pursued, sets of hinges on which all our everyday thinking and doing turns!

A worldview is a set of symbols, images and stories, broadly shared, which embody and legitimate the

values underlying a community's code of behaviour. Olthius suggests that these elements may be drawn

from several places. Some are contributed by the fXth community to which one belongs, others by one's

context, social status, emotional health, and cultural icons? Personal experience also has a critical role to

play. While each person's worldview will therefore be unique in some respects, the members of a cohesive

community will hold personal worldviews that have many elements in common.

' ~emnal Knowledne: Towards a Post-critical Philoso~hv. (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1958). See esp. pp. 266ff

'~ames Olthius "On Worldviews." Reformed Ecumencial Synod Theoloaical Forum 19 (1 99 1). 4.

'peter Berger and Thomas Luckmm present a classic description of the process by which this socialization takes place in The Social Construction of Reditv: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1966). especially part 111.

A worldview functions both descriptively (it tells us what is or what is not the case) and normatively

(it tells us what ought or ought not to be the case). It is both a sketch of and a blueprint for reality, a vision

oflife and for life. The significance of this is critical. David Bosch says that "as a vision rooted in faith

(any kind of faith) and experience, a worldview in its basic tenets is not argued to, but arguedfiom. It is

not the terminus of our quest for insight, but the place of our departure."10

To a certain extent a worldview may function to limit one's perspective. It may claim to embrace all

of reality and in this sense function as-in the language of sociologists of knowledge-a "plausibility

structure." It determines what beliefs are plausible and rules out even the consideration of optional

realities. Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann refer to it as "taken-for-granted realityw' ' A worldview is, of course, by definition an illusion. Human beings are not omniscient and cannot

attain anything that remotely resembles a wholistic grasp ofreality. A worldview serves as a handy though

pathetically incomplete synopsis.

Berger and Luckmann note that awareness of this relative and partial nature ofworldviews is growing

in industrialized societies. Advanced communication media have made it possible to encounter many

worldviews. Urbanites particularly tend to pick and choose material fiom these to construct one's self.

They can also access particular worldviews as a whole in order to play the role appropriate to one's

situation (business, church, sports) without necessarily identa3ing their self with the worldview that

accompanies it. Berger and Luclrmann admit that this leads to a certain cynical manipulation in the way

that one presents oneself publicly.'2

Rural communities however, while they have certainly been influenced by the rapid proliferation of

media, seem to be more resistant to such multiple perspectives. According to the 1998 National Rural

Dialogue rural dwellers feel that their "'close-knit' community can also be a 'closed-in' community,

'%avid Bosch, Believing in the Future: Toward a Missiolopv of Western Culture (Valley Forge, Pennsylvania: Trinity Press, 1995), 49.

' ~ e r ~ e r and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality, 3.

"Ibid.. 172-3.

preventing the emergence of new i d e a d 3 In my interviews Sarah described how her family's efforts to

do some creative things to help them survive financially were resisted in her community:

You're in this little picture and everybody else is in there . . . and all of a sudden you step out of the picture. And, they're going, "Hey you're crazy! You're supposed to stay in this little box; you're not supposed to go outside of that . . . . Everybody sees that we're doing something different, and if it's not what they are doing, it has to be bad.

Lance found that his attempts to bring alternatives to light were met with anger in the farm community:

"We [the National Farmen' Union] have also used radical means of drawing attention to issues. That

upsets communities-makes people feel uncomfortable. It brings the wrath of the community down on

you."

There may be several reasons why a worldview in a rural community takes on this son of objective,

exclusive reality that it might not have in an urban setting. The small number of residents results in a

reduction of voices and perspectives and frequent reinforcement of certain habits of thinking and behaving.

As noted earlier, rural residents also tend to be less mobile. Ifoneanticipates living with one's neighbours

for a lifetime their approval gains importance. They make decisions about one's credit line, ensure the

security of one's children, determine whether one or not one will have fiends. In rural communities it is

still face-to-face relationships that have the edge in shaping values-not the media.

However, as Kathryn Tanner convincingly argues in Theories of Culture, no worldview is perfectly

cohesive and internally consistent. Even rural cultures are dynamic and difficult to nail down. Its

worldview therefore will inevitably contain disconnected hgments and elements that are under negotiation

or in conf l i~ t . '~ The splits between "left-wing" and 44right-wing" farm organizations for example can be

clearly seen at any farm rally.15

l 3 '*Rural Canadians Speak Out"; Internet.

'*Kathryn Tanner, Theories of Culture: A New Agenda for Theology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1997), 38lT

"~onja Salmon has done some interesting work in regard to this particular tension in United States rural culture. She identifies a significant distinction between fann families of "Yankeen or "Anglo-Saxon" origin and fann families of "Germanic" or northern European origin. Yankee farmers she says typically use strategies that involve aggressive entrepreneurship and an unsentimental business orientation. Family continuity in farming is secondary to profits and efficiency. Individualism and personal autonomy often predominate over community participation and attachment, The

In fact, as we have seen, it is the deep tensions within the honour code and between the honour code

and the world's hard realities that are creating such suffering in the agricultural community. Normally that

would be a signal that its worldview is in transition-breaking up to reform into something more in touch

with reality. However for the honour code this process appears to have been slowed by the suppression

of voices that could give evidence that the code is inadequate. The silencing is effected not only through

shame but through the systemic mechanisms we have examined that work to smother protest. As we shall

see in chapter eight, these mechanisms also have religious reinforcement.

If those who are disadvantaged by the honour code are silent, one would not expect those who are

advantaged to speak out. They have deep, unshaken, life-time investments in the honour code. Walter

Brueggemam asks who it is that hopes for deep and lasting change. Not the managers of the status quo.

he says: "People excessively committed to present power arrangements and present canons of knowledge

tend not to wait expectantly for the newness of ~ o d . " ' ~ Not the f m e r s who are doing well; they are

satisfied. Not the silent sufferers; their silence is indication of the depth of their bondage to the code.

"Who hopes?' Brueggemann asks. It is articulate sufferers-"those who enter their grief, suffering and

oppression, who bring it to speech, who publicly process it and move through it and beyond. They are the

ones who are surprised to fmd, again and again, that hope and social possibility come in the midst of such

grief (cf. Rom.5:3)."

farming strategy of Germanic families on the other hand is more emotionally driven, fbelled by persistence, hard work, commitment, conservative fiscal management and close family participation. Salamon found that the more aggressively competitive "YankeesWwere more likely to get into financial trouble h m unwise expansion in the seventies and eighties. When they did, they experienced a strong sense of personal failure and received very little social support to buffer the stress. The Germanic families on the other hand, were less likely to be aggressive in their expansion (unless it was to bring children into the operation), were more likely to receive support when things were difficult, but experienced a much greater degree of social shame if the farm was lost. See "Ethnic Communities and the structure of Agriculture," Rural Sociology 50 (No.3): 323-340. While I did not find such simple distinctions between fitmilies based on ethnic background, the elements she describes were certainly present and in conflict-sometimes within a singie family, or even within a particular individual's perspective.

16~en is one of these managexs. He expresses his position this way: " Well. I think that in any part of our world, there are people or organizations that can be unjust, but, . . I can't see that the whole system can be unjust, itself."

141

An important element in bringing their grief to speech is coming to understand what it is that has

shamed them. In the next section we will look at the honour code more closely and the fhdamental values,

both "secular" and overtly religious that sustain it.

SECTION THREE

EXPOSING UNDERL YZNG VALUES AND BELIEFS

CHAPTER 6

WHAT IS REALLY BEHIND THE SHAME? UNDERSTANDING THE HONOUR CODE

Douglas John Hall suggests that a society cannot understand or enter imaginatively into the suffering

of its members until it understands the "spirit" that energizes it.' In this section we will explore the

character of that "spirit" in rural Canada by examining the worldview-the honour code-that embodies and

sustains it.

The honour code-or what fanners tended to refer to as "farm prideappears to have embedded in it

several deep convictions: 1) that farming and f m life in some way produce a better son of person-self-

reliant, loyal, community-minded, building towards prosperity based on hard work and common sense;'

2) that the land is an unfailing source of life, the fount of prosperity; 3) that owning land is the badge of

one's social acceptance; farming it successfully is the mark of one's virtue and strength and one's

responsibility to the hungry of the world. Those who fail are not deserving of its rewards. nor of the

community's esteem.

Comparing him or herself to such a code, the bankrupt farmer feels, "It was my fault. If only I had

worked harder, made better decisions. Now I have no place in this community and without the land I am

disabled. An essential part of me has been amputated. I am worthless, maimed, ashamed."

A Its Animating Metaphors

These values have close connections to the social and religious history ofthe Canadian prairies. They

are related to three metaphors drawn fiom this history which appear to have a peculiar power for

interpreting rural experience. In particular they are closely connected to the experience of immigration and

the immigration policies of the Canadian government.

'Douglas John Hall. God and Human SuEerine: An Exercise in the Theolow of the Cross (Minneapolis, MN: Augsb~rg, I986), 41-45, 101-103.

'see E.J. Tyler's comments on this in The Farmer as a Social Class:' in Rural Canada in Transition, ed. M.A. Trernblay and W.J. Anderson (Ottawa, ON: AgricuItural Economics Research Council of Canada, 1966), excerpted in The A&an Mvth in Canada, ed. R Wood (Toronto, ON: McCleIland and Stewart, 1975),17-18.

Canada's west was settled through five significant infusions of immigrants. The first wave came with

the fur trade born the early 1600's to the middle of the 1800's and resulted in the establishment of English-

and French-speaking metis settlements. The second was a largely British immigration that occurred in the

decades immediately following Confederation, bringing into existence an "Ontario-like" agricultural

community in the west. The third, and by far the largest, between 1897 and 1913, was a wave of

immigrants in somewhat equal proportions Grom Britain, Eastern Canada, the United States, and continental

Europe with a sprinkling of others fiom around the globe. The fourth, in the 1920's was an extension of

the third in terms of national origins, and the fifth occurred after the Second World war3 The metaphors

that are central to prairie farm culture were developed as a stimulus for and outgrowth of the first four

waves particularly.

1. First metaphor: the frontier

Because of Canada's vast area, relative youth. and small population, it has always had the image of

being a %ontier" country. British imperialism in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Britain focused

on such hntiers as the mission fields of the empire. Imperial adventure fiction (which became highly

popular in the mid eighteen-hundreds and crested with the writings ofKipling, Henty and Connor) gripped

the imagination of the British people and called them, for the sake of duty and adventure, to develop the

Canadian northwest.

One of the most influential writers in this regard was Robert Ballantyne, a British clerk who had

worked for a period in the fur trade for the Hudson's Bay Company. Impressed by the American

wilderness tales of James Fenimore Cooper and with fur trade experience to lend authority to his work,

Ballantyne wrote of the Canadian west as an "almost untrodden wilderness" where people could leave their

mistakes behind and make a new start. Here, he said, was freedom from urban bureaucracy and

government interference. Here a person's strength, intelligence and virtue determined their fate. Life on

the Canadian frontier was not easy but it was full, Ballantyne claimed, and it offered conditions for the

'~riesen. Canadian Prairies, 244-45.

pursuit of excellence that were better than any others in the world.4 This conception was reinforced by

"gentlemen travellers" who were looking for adventure in lands that not yet succumbed to industrialization.

Men like the Earl of Southesk Viscount Milton and especially Captain William Butler, gave stirring

accounts of life "on the margin of the empire." They wrote glowing stories of living close to the land,

surrounded by awe-inspiring beauty, facing each day as a challenge and an opportunity.5

Later, Frederick Jackson Turner articulated what is now a classic conception of the North American

frontier as a place that attracted the ambitious, innovative and self-sufficient-entrepreneurs out to make

their fortune in a new land. Assuming the frontier to be the great equalizer in human affairs. he pictured

it as the natural ground for healthy economic competition in which talent and industry would inevitably win

out! it is easy to see how attractive this might be to settlers who came From situations in Europe where

they were trapped on tiny crofts where ability was stifled by lack of opportunity. The dream of becoming

a large landowner was compelling.

The frontier metaphor (undoubtedly influenced by a broader European confidence in "progress"

generally and by young American capitalism) expresses a confident optimism about the future that prizes

growth and expansion. Pierre Berton says that Pat Burns, the Alberta meat-packer, exemplified its spirit.

He never looked back, never stopped working, set no finite goals for hirnselt seeing instead a future that had no limit to progress. In that sense he typified the west. . . . He became a western icon, the symbol of a nation within a nation where, it was devoutly believed, any man could rise to the top fiom the humblest beginnings if he had faith in the country and was prepared for hard work. To the Westerner anything was possible; there was no problem that could not be surmounted; the fbture was rosy and never ending.7

The core values of the frontier metaphor-self-reliance, rugged individualism, treedom, and

expansionist optimism continue to be important to prairie fanners (though the optimism has taken a serious

%or example, see R.M. Ballantyne, The Younp Fur Traders (London. n.d.).

'william F. Butler, The Chat Lone Land: A Narrative of Travel and Adventure in the North-West of America (London, UK: S.Low. Marston, Low & Searte, 1872). For a description of these writings see Irene Spry "Early Visitors to the Canadian Prairies," in Images of the Plains: The Role of Human Nature in Settlemen4 ed. Brian W. Blouet and Merlin P. h w s o n (Lincoln, University of Nebraska Press. 1975), 165-180.

%ee especially Turner's article "The Significance of the Frontier in American History," in Frontier and Section: Selected Essavs (Englewood Cliffs, NJ.: Prentice Hall, 196 I), 37-62.

'~erton, Promised Land, 261 -65.

blow in the farm crisis of the late nineties). In a study by H.C. Abell of Canadian farm women in 1959,

"being independent" and "being one's own boss" were identified as strong (for twenty percent of the

women they were the strongest) advantages to farm life.' Willits, Bealer and Timbers, in their 1990 study

of images ofnval life. found that 74.2 percent of both urban and rural dwellers agreed that farmers embody

the virtues of independence and self-sufficiency. Of all the attributes studied, these received the strongest

consensus among the participants as prominent features of farm life.' In her interviews Diane Baltaz

reports one farmer, Connie D., as saying

Farming has its advantages. I make my own decisions according to what I think is best for myself. That gives me many opportunities to do what I want to do with the farm as I see fit. That's what I mean by being your own boss . . .You can't put a price tag on the freedom you have on the farm. 'O

Martha agrees: "You can't place a dollar value on the independence we have.""

Several farmers, faced with leaving the farm, spoke to me despairingly at the prospect of having to

"punch the clock." Although most now had to do some off - fm wage work to make ends meet, they found

it hard to come to terms with the loss of self-sufficiency that entailed. Many, I noted, decided that they

would prefer being self-employed (that is, in another business in addition to the farm) even if3 meant being

poor to making better money as another's employee. One became a seller of Scandinavian heritage items,

another a manufacturer of a concentrated berry drink, another an independent insurance salesperson and

so on. The sense of being self-contained, of owning one's own land and being answerable to no one, came

through as one of the strongest attractions to farming in those whom I interviewed. It was accompanied

by a confidence that those who have enough foresight, determination and skill, may grow as prosperous

as they want.

'H. C. Abell, Opinions about the Rural Community and Rural Living (Ottawa, ON: Canadian Department of Agriculture, 1959).

ern K. Willits, Roben C. Bealer, and Vincent L. Timbers, "Popular Images of *Ruralityy: Data from a Pennsylvania Survey, *' Rural Socioloerv 55 (Winter 1990): 559-578

'O~iane Baltaz, Living Off the Land: A S~irituality of Fanning (Ottawa, ON: Novalis, 1991 ), 38.

"~uoted in Val Farmer. *'Broken Heartiand," 57.

2. Second metaphor: the promised land

Closely connected to the image of the northwest as frontier is its portrayal as the "promised land."

British, and later Canadian, business interests seized upon the "fertile frontier" as their hook for drawing

immigrants to Canada. The earliest public vision of the northwest in the English-speaking world was

constructed by Arthur Dobbs in the 1740's and 1750's. Dobbs was a publicist and entrepreneur detennined

to break the Hudson Bay Company's monopoly on trade and extend British commerce overseas. From

scraps of fur trader's stories he and his contemporaries put together an image of the land west of the

Hudson's Bay as a vast unspoiled wilderness, a fertile woodland punctuated by meadows extending

hundreds of miles to the west. Noting that the latitude of the western interior was about that of southern

Poland or Holland (and suppressing Henry Kelsey's description ofthe interior as ''Nothing but short Round

sticky grass"). Dobbs conjured up the vision of an agricultural paradise just waiting for far-sighted settlers

to seize their fortune. Tracts unconcerned with actual accounts of soil and climate conditions flowed with

fulsome praise for the fecundity of the land from the pens of armchair empire-builders.'2

Just over a century later, John Macoun's writings received prominent distribution in Europe. Macoun,

an immigrant fiom Ireland, wrote enthusiastic accounts of Canada's prairie fertility: "All that is necessary

is to procure the land, pitch a tent, and set to work," he said.13 Macoun claimed that the land was so fertile

that he had, with great success, simply sown seed on the bald prairie, then lightly broke the sod and let the

seed grow through its rotting d a c e . He gave the impression that all the land was of equal quality, that

every bit was accessible by railway and that profits were enormous. Macoun offers a convincing five-year

table depicting a return of $3,320 on an initial outlay of $660.

In the 1 880's, another writer, Hugh Fraser, who toured the whole country as an emigrant advisor, says,

The depth and fertility of the soil take the shine completely out of any we have in the richest regions of Scotland . . . It is no uncommon thing to see potatoes which weigh &om a pound and a half to two pounds each. You can see in the proper season cabbages which are fiom three to

I2see Doug Owram, Promise of Eden: The Canadian Exmsionist Movement and the Idea of the W a t (Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press. 1980) and Friesen, Canadian Prairies, 103ff.

"~ohn Macoun, Manitoba and the Great North-West (Guelph ON: World Publishing Company, 1882). 634.

four feet in circumference. A correspondent of the London Times says that he saw a cabbage measuring five feet one inch in circumference and a cucumber grown in the open air which measured six feet three inches in length.14

Not all reports were as positive. In fact, descriptions of the West's fertility tended to be highly ambiguous

and contradictory even when they were accurate. Some wrote out of experience in areas where climate and

growing conditions were favorable, others fiom experience of harsh prairie winters and short, dry summers

where only the prairie grass had much hope of survival. However by the late 1890's it had become clear

government policy to bolster the reports of fertility and suppress any to the contrary. Prime ministers

MacDonald and Laurier presided over the maturing of the vision of Canada as 'We promised land."

John A. MacDonald's dream for national growth hinged on attracting settlers to the West. He oversaw

the construction ofthe Canadian Pacific Railway for that purpose. MacDonald believed that the agricultural

products of the West "would provide the freight needed to ensure the profits of the C P R ; in turn its

demand for manufactured goods "would give eastern industry a long-awaited prosperity." That

"interdependence," it was assumed, would unify the nation (though clearly eastern manufacturers and the

railways-rather than the prairie settlers-were to be the chief beneficiaries of the relationship). '' MacDonald's efforts bore little h i t during his term in ofice. Between 1885 and 1895, emigration

f i 4m Canada exceeded immigration into it by 200,000 (mostly leaving for the United States). There were

several reasons for this: The Americans were promoting their land more aggressively, ocean rates fiom

Liverpool were cheaper to New York than to Quebec, and the Civil War had raised factory wages in the

United States to attractive levels. Also, while Upper Canada could offer only forest land, much of it pine

and far fiom markets, American land companies were offering land with "wood, water and hayV'and land

"ready for the plough." As a result, even many of those who were already in Canada were leaving for the

better opportunities in the United States. In addition to this exodus, the development of the American

railways in the 1860's and the resulting rapid growth of northern midwestem states population suggested .

!'see Hugh Fraser, A Tie to h e Dominion of Canada (1883) p.29,36 quoted in Robert G. Moyles and Doug Owram, Imwrial Dreams and Colonial Realities: British Views of Canada, 1 880-1 9 1 4 (Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 1988): 123-124.

'5~oylcs and Owram, huerial hams , 1 16.

to MacDonald that "the United States Government are resolved to do all they can, short of war, to get

possession ofthe western territory [that is, Rupert's Land] and we must take immediate and vigorous steps

to counteract them." '' Massive immigration io the west, and the building of a railroad, were regarded as the steps necessary

to secure Canada's west. By the end of MacDonald's term in 1 896, there was in the government an almost

frantic desire to attract immigrants 17-with perhaps a lessened concern about "truth in advertising."

It must be said, however, that by this time Canada had more to offer. Freight and transportation rates

were falling as the CPR became fully operational. New imgation technology made dry land farming

somewhat feasible. Farm machinery and grain varieties suited to the climate and growing season of the

prairies had been developed. Rising prices for wheat created a boom in agriculture generatingjobs in spin-

off industries.

Spurred by pressure from eastern manufacturers and by fear of the Americans, and with several new

economic carrots in hand, Wilfiid Laurier took up the post of prime minister in 1896 committed to the

promise ofhis Liberal government to "fill up the west." Clifford Sifton. the young Minister of the Interior,

was to be the architect of its hlfilment.

Sifton recognized that Europe was ripe for a promotional campaign as conditions deteriorated in some

countries and emigration became amactive. Russia and Hungary had experienced ethnic revivals that

resulted in linguistic and religious oppression for non-dominant groups. In many countries, the rise in birth

rates and drop in death rates associated with industrialization resulted in rapid population growth without

'6~ohn A. MacDonald. Correswndence of Sir John A. Macdonald, ed. Joseph Pope (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1 92 1 ), 225-6.

"~ven as early as 1867, many politicians believed that immigration would solve most of Canada's problems. In the confederation debates George Brown said "On this question of immigration turns, in my opinion, the whole future success of this great scheme [of Confederation] which we are now discussing. Why Sir, there is hard!y a political or financial or social problem suggested by this Union that does not find its best solution in a large influx of immigration." Vernon C. Fowke, Canadian A~ricultural Policv: The Historical Pattern, (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, l946), 140, quoting D. G. Creighton, British North America at Confederation: A Studv Prepared for the Royal Commission on Dominion-Provincial Relations, Appendix 2 (Ottawa: King's Printer, 1939), 47-48.

150

enough land or jobs for young people. In Britain deadening class restrictions and rival poverty created a

large group of farmers ready to consider life in a new country.

The Canadian West offered many European families their first oppormnity to own land. Chris Lind

relates what one descendant of those families told him:

I grew up on a f m . My parents were farmers. My grandparents were farmers. They were farmen in Ireland before they came over. Their parents were farmers and their parents were farmers and so on as far back as we can trace. When my grandparents homesteaded in Saskatchewan, they were the f iat generation to ever have title to their land. l 8

The time was ripe for a concerted propaganda effort that would induce Europe's landless to settle on

Canada's prairies. Siflon believed that he could convince immigrants that good land in the United States

and eastern Canada was scarce and expensive-that the Canadian prairies were the "best West" left.

Sifion acted decisively. He renovated the immigration department. expanding its presence in the

United States for example, from six agents to 300 and requiring them topursue recruits rather than simply

respond to inquiries. Under his leadership the department's budget ballooned from $400,000 in 1896 to

$4 million by 1906. In bold newspaper ads, glossy emigration pamphlets and highly embellished posters

plastered throughout Europe on the walls of railway stations and post offices, on the sides of buses, Sifton

left, as he vowed, "a trail of Canadianisrn in blood red characters across ~uro~e."'~ He put up dozens of

displays at regional exhibitions in the United States and Canada. In those places in Europe where

immigration propaganda was declared illegal, Sifton expanded a secret bonusing system through the North

Atlantic Trading Company whereby recruiters received a cash grant for every adult sent to Canada. He

negotiated with specific culturally oppressed groups in Europe and encouraged them to move as whole

colonies onto Canadian land set aside for that purpose.20

"~hris Lind. Somerhinn's Wronp Somewhere (Halifa, NS: Fernwood. 1995). 100.

I93ean Bruce, The Last Best West (Toronto, ON: Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 1976), 3.

'%ken, Canadian Prairies, 245K

The theme of the massive immigration campaign at the turn of the 20th century was simple and

misleading: Western Canada is a fertile utopia which has "layne fallow from rea at ion."^' Sifton's (and

his successor Frank Oliver's) propagandists promoted the west to would-be settlers as "the largest flower

garden on the continent." Posters displayed wheat too tail to see over, h i t a foot in diameter. One poster

shows an established farmer next to a new arrival. The latter has no horse, just a single-bladed plow and

a wife. The former has a large family, many workers, teams of horses and a huge plantation. "All this,"

the caption promises, "in just ten years." Another portrays an angel flying over fertile farms showering a

cornucopia of gold on the land with the title "Prosperity Follows Settlement in Western Canada." " In addition many full-length books-so-called "impressions de voyagev'-were written by professional

writers hired to assess emigrants' prospects, and by emigrants themselves recommending Canada to their

compatriots. They had seductive titles such as The Golden Land, The Land of Hope, The Wondrous Wesr,

Making Good in Canada, The Land of Opportunity and The Lost Best west." The assumption was that

prosperity was there for those who had the talent and industry to reach for it.

The reality, of course, was something else. Pierre Berton recounts the arrival of twenq-one hundred

Doukhobon in the winter of 1899 looking for Christ in this new land. They settled around Saskatwn and

Yorkton in three colonies. But less than three years later, nineteen hundred of them (the "Sons of God"

splinter group), discouraged by the harsh prairie conditions, abandoned their homesteads and began to walk

south. "We are going to seek Christ," they told Wes Speers, the government colonization agent for the

West. As Berton comments,

Christ, apparently, was somewhere in the southeast, somewhere in the land of the sun, far fiom the windswept prairie, in a country where the h i t hung thickly on the trees and vegetables were cropped the year round, where it was not necessary to use a single animal for labour, food, or ~ 1 0 t h i n ~ . ~ ~ ~

2'~orrowing a phrase h m the Hudson Bay Company's explanation for why it had diffreulty gmwing wheat on the icy shores of the Bay-i.e.that the very fertile soil overwhelmed the seeds. Friesen, Canadian Prairies, 103.

we posters appear in David ha, 'Secularization among Ethnic Communities in Western Canada" in Relieion and Ethnicitv, ed. Harold Coward and Leslie Kawamura, (Waterloo, ON: W i l W Laurier University Press, 1977), 13-1 7.

U ~ o y l e s and Chm, Imwriai Dreams, 1 17.

* '~mon, Promised Land, 79.

Published accounts of this son of disappointment were, for obvious reasons, not highly regarded by

the government. Some. in fact seem to have been suppressed. In 1907, Charles Watney, writing for the

British National Review, reported that immigrants were being "threatened through the Press" that if they

sent any reports to England or elsewhere which the h ig ra t ion authorities considered to be

disadvantageous to Canada, criminal proceedings would be taken against them. He also cited a successful

suit brought against a Mr. G.A. Hoagland ofTaber, Alberta who, according to the Toronto Globe was fmed

two hundred dollars for "occasioning injury to the public interest" by telling Americans that labourers were

not wanted in ~anada. '~ Not surprisingly. in Britain, suspicion began to grow that the Canadian

government, and particularly the railway and land company interests, were more interested in selling the

region than in accurately portraying it. E.B. Osborn writes:

Most people have seen the sort of thing-a neat little book with a gaudy cover, and ful l inside of glowing testimonies to the phenomenal fertility of the country. Ifthe people responsible for the issue and circulation of these pamphlets had ever seen them read and heard them discussed by a knot of experienced English farmers, the futility of the system would have been recognized at once?

Although the promotion of an Edenic West was initially very successful (prairie population swelled

from four hundred thousand in 1901 to two million in 1921), most immigrants became quickly

disillusioned. By 193 1 only eight hundred thousand of the two million that immigrated into the prairies

in the fm three decades were still there? Berton concludes,

Almost every immigrant had seen the West as the Promised Land, a phrase used more than once in the pamphlets of the Immigration Department. The Americans came for profit, the Slavs to escape penury and authority, the British to flee the smoky cities and return to the agrarian past. But the West was not the sylvan paradise for which so many had hoped; nor was it a get-rich- quick gold mine of a country. The farmer was not necessarily the noblest of God's creatures, and the 'garden city' of the nineteenth century was a long cry fiom the dusty, manure-befouled streets of Calgary and Edmonton or the wretched slums of winnipeg?

%wles Watney, "The Englishman in Canada" National Review (November 1907). Quoted in Moyles and Omam, Im-=rial Dreams, 1 28.

*%dward B. Osbom, Greater Canada: The Pasf Present and Future of the Canadian North-West (London. UK: Chatto and Windus? 1900), 67 quoted in Moyles and Owram, [mwrial Dreams, 123.

"J.H. Richards "Retrospect and Prospect" in P. J. Smith, ed. The Prairie Provinces (Toronto, ON:1972), cited in Canadian Prairies, 272.

Promised Land, 263-264.

Many of those who came seeking utopia left. Some stayed because they were held by ethnic or

kinship bonds to a particular colony. Others may have stayed simply to save face. Having left everything

behind in Europe to come to Canada-which had been presented to Europeans as a paradise-it would have

been difficult for some fanners to publicly admit that they could not make a living &om prairie soil. The

immigrant farmer faced the choice of appearing to be incompetent or, if the folks back home did accept

that the land was not what it had been touted to be, of appearing to be a fool for having been Yaken in,"

for gambling all on land that could not sustain a living.

Undoubtedly some stayed out of sheer determination to make the land live up to its potential.

Alexander Kindred reports his experience breaking the land in Manitoba:

[In 18851 we had only I0 bushels [per acre] of very badly-frosted wheat. 1 took some to Indian Head and traded it for flour, shorts. and bran. I had no money to pay expenses . . . . In 1886 we had 80 acres under crop. Not a drop of rain fell from the time it went in until it was harvested. I sowed 124 bushels and threshed 54. In 1888 we began to think we could not grow wheat in this country. I had now 120 to 125 acres under cultivation. We put in 25 acres of wheat, 10 to 15 acres of oats, and let the rest go back into prairie. That year we got 35 bushels [of wheat] to the acre! So we went to work and ploughed up again. The next year wheat headed out two inches high. Not a drop of rain fell that whole season until fall. We summer-fallowed that year [I 8891 for the first time, and, to show the optimism, we put in every acre we could. We had wheat standing to the chin but on the 8th July a hailstorm destroyed absolutely everything. My hair turned grey that night.29

One might think that experiences such as these over the decades would have permanently dispelled

the images of Canada as a "fertile paradise." Perhaps, especially in the twenties and thirties, it did. AAer

World War II, however, it gained some new cmdence as new and hardier grains, faster growing livestock

and new technologies for dry land farming were developed. In 1996, Larry Martin, director of the George

Morris Centre of Economic Research finds that he can still articulate the vision (if in somewhat more

subdued terms): "I can't think of any place in the world with as much opportunity as Canada has. We just

have to take full advantage of it. We have the highest land to human being ratio in the world, we have

relatively cheap land, good growing conditions, good managers and good infrastructure. "30

29~erton, Promised Land, 222 quoting Arthur S. Morton Histow of Prairie Settlement (Toronto. 1938). 86.

'%oyai Bank, "Look at Your Farm fmm a World Pmpective," (Royal Bank web page. accessed 28 July 1999); available fiom h ~ p ~ / \ k r ~ ~ . r o y a l b a n k . c o m / a ~ * c u l t u r e / y e ~ I ; Internet.

Even in Palliser's triangle, where climate and (normal) rainfall suggest that the land was never

intended for agriculture, h e n still bury thousands of bushels of precious grain in the ground each year

convinced that the land's fertility will bring it to harvest. They cling to hope in the land, sometimes it

seems more as the exercise of a spiritual conviction, than of economic reason.

Certainly the farmers I talked to took great joy in the land's fertility. They talked of the pleasure they

get fiom seeing the first green shoots of a new crop pushing through dark soil. They spoke of the

satisfaction of making subtle improvements in livestock.. Watching a calf struggle to its feet only a few

minutes after birth or standing under the vast flaming canopy of a prairie sunset on a harvest evening. they

felt that they were in touch with the heart ofcreation, even with God. Baltaz reports similar feelings among

the farmers she interviewed. 82 percent of them said they found something "spiritual" about farming and

admitted that they found deep satisfaction in "working with nature." One woman commented, "There's

cenainly a peace on the tractor when you're turning over the soil. You can smell its freshness. sense the

beginning of something new . . . ."j' There is a touch of millennialism in this fertility metaphor, a sense

that one is touching the borders of, if not Mly grasping, the fmal promised land.

3. Third metaphor: the pioneer

The "pioneer" metaphor is perhaps the most compelling of the three. Canadian farmers, particularly

in the west, are rarely less than two or three generations removed from the immigrant ancestors who settled

the land. The yearning of those displaced people for land of their own, for a place to put down roots and

a heritage to pass on to their children seems little diminished in their modem descendants.

Essential to this metaphor is the valuing ofheritage. In this regard, the metaphor is self-perpetuating.

A commonly observed characteristic of first-generation immigrants in Canada is the tendency to want to

preserve unchanged, customs, values and language fiom the particular period in the "old country" during

which they emigrated. This was particularly true for the pioneers, who often settled in unpopulated areas

31~altaz, Living Off the Land, pp42-43,48. Note that H.C.Abel1 found that bbcloscness to nature," "working with animals and crops," and "out-ofdoor', life were considered by the fann women to be strong positive attractants to farm life. See H.C. Abell, O~inions About the Rural Community and Rural Livina.

155

where there was no new culture to welcome them and little communication with the broader world. In these

situations, the heritage they brought with them From the old country was their only link to a set of symbols

that could give meaning and shape to their lives.

Part of the heritage that they passed on to their children was the "valuing of heritage9'-that is, the

pioneer metaphor itself. Children were taught that heritage is essential to survival. So stories about the

breaking of the land and the making of family and community continue to be treasured and handed down

to children, together with the injunction that they must also tell their children. Val Farmer writes out of

her counseling practice with farmers,

The farm represents the collective effort and wisdom of several generations working with a particular plot of land; the wisdom of managing it is part and parcel of the family's identity and its legacy for the fbt~re.~'

Howard, a lender, says that when he asks young farmers why they took out large high risk loans on the farm

during the drought years. they often say that they had to do something to insure that the heritage would be

passed on: "I was left with some land, and it's my mission in life to cany on and make a success of my

land, just like my Dad did."

Along with heritage came hmd work. Clifford Sifion despised the young, usually wealthy,

"gentleman-travellers" attracted to the fiontier by such publications as the British BOY'S Own as well as

the "remittame men," much maligned for their perceived laziness.33 The kind of person he was looking

for, according to his 1903 deputy minister's report, "is simply the able-bodied man who is willing to

work.'J4

The concern for hard workers was well-placed. My grandparents were pioneers in southern Alberta.

The early years for them were unremitting labour. (To his last days my grandfather refbsed to go to pioneer

32"~roken Heanland," 57.

"see Patrick Dunae, Gentlemen Emierants (Vancouver. BC: Douglas and Mclntyre, 198 I), 229, cited in Moyles and Owram, Imperial Dreams, 252, n.8.

34~oy ies and Owram, Imrwn'al Dreams, 1 17.

museums because the old implements reminded him ofthat endless toil.) It took head-down, hard-slogging

determination to build a home, break the land and survive the bone-chilling winters.

The valuing of hard work survived the pioneer generation to become a shining virtue in rural culture.

As Berton notes: "Hard times meant hard work, and that was the key to success. If a man was seen to have

worked hard he was admired . . . . ,335

With hard work (it was assumed) came associated values ofthrift, self-denial and restraint (sobriety).

This cluster of values forms what, in William Gordon's (Ralph Connor's) novels are referred to as "strong

character." Robert Kelly, in his analysis of Gordon's writing, notes that success is equated with strong

character as a central A strong character will seize the opportunities that come. not frittering his

or her energies away in wastefill living, and. though there may be difficulties to overcome, will eventually

be rewarded with economic and social success.

It is difficult to dispute the importance of hard work to successfbl farming-not only for the pioneers

but for today's farmers as well. Modem farmers work longer hours on the f m than most professionals

spend at their jobs. We have noted that almost half of them work off the farm as well (a figure which, if

those I i n t e ~ e w e d were representative, probably rises close to one hundred percent for farmers in financial

difficulty). It is a source of pride. Baltaz notes that

Long hours in the barn or in the field at harvest time for a proportionately lower income is a status symbol. Although all farmers agree they deserve more money for the hours of work they put in, they also agree their condition is the mark of being a farmer?'

Hard work was essential to survival on pioneer Evms and apparently still is.

The last important value comected to the pioneer metaphor is that of community. In this respect

Canadian values were perhaps somewhat different than those of American pioneers. Robert Kelly notes

"~mmised Land, 26 1.

''The Gospel of Success in Canada-William Gordon (Ralph C o ~ o r ) as Exemplar" (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Canadian Society of Church History, University of Ottawa, 29 May 1998). Typically, Kelly notes, such character is imputed to those of British descent. Catholics, hsh, Native lndians and Metis, and nomEnglish speaking immigrants (e.g. Ukranians and Poles) were viewed as being among those who were "slothhi and drank too much."

"~altaz, Living off the Land, 18.

157

that in the writings of American fiontier novelists such as William Thayer, Russell Conwell, and Horatio

Alger Jr, social problems tend to be solved by the actions of individuals of virtuous character. In Comor's

novels, Kelly discerns a stronger commitment to a social gospel which encourages cooperation-although

still insisting on the importance of individual character and action.38

Before mechanization made it possible for a farmer to plant and harvest the crop alone, pioneer

communities gathered in thrashing bees and barn-raisings. Before the advent of highways and rapid

transportation, they cultivated relationships with neighbours becaw they needed the social intercourse and

because they knew that any other help was a long way OK Harold remembers

When the Hanson's had gotten sick, my folks had baked a fiesh batch of bread and had gone over and brought this batch of bread over to them. That's the way that neighbours had done in pioneer times. And then I'd gone over and pulled his daughter out of the ditch, and I took the tractor over and pulled him out of the ditch too one time. When these people first came to the community he came over to us and asked us if we could help him put a fence down the quarter line of a new piece of land. We went over there and pounded a half mile of fence and never charged him a dime. That's the way the old pioneer spirit was. You did your neighbow a favour and maybe they'll do something for you sometime.

Loyalty to one another and a sense ofegalitarianism wen part ofthe pioneer community's spirit. That

equality (meaning social acceptance), however, only extended to those who owned land. Those without

land had no security and likely no pemanent place in the community. However, the fact that a quarter of

land would be given k e by the government to anyone who could "rove it up" upprnently made the option

of 1 1 1 community status possible for all.

B. A Core Assumptio.-Control

These metaphors capture something of the spirit of the fanners whom 1 interviewed. To a greater or

lesser extent, they value hard work and financial independence. They believe that one's destiny is in one's

own hands. They have a confidence in the land and the weather that is difficult to shake. They believe that

they have a God-given mission

community.

to feed the world. They find identity and worth in their heritage and

3k~ly, 'bGospel of Success."

This is farm pride. In many ways it has a wonderful strength and resilience to it. It has produced

people of courage who have been instrumental in constructing and maintaining the social institutions (such

as medicare) which sustain our common life.

Howeverthis spirit exists in significant tension with its globalized, largely urban world context. The

element that is particularly discordant, the one that seems to be most out of touch with modem economic

reality, is the conviction that one's destiny is in one's own handothat it is possible to have essentially full

control of the success of one's operation. It might seem obvious that drought, disease, global markets,

lending practices and government progams-factors outside a particular fanner's control-will all have a

dramatic impact on a f m ' s viability. However there is still an ethos supporting the belief that such control

is possible (and that the farmer alone bears responsibility if control lapses and the farm fails).

Government, lenders and most of the successful farmers whom I interviewed exuded confidence in

the power of "good management" to provide solid tinancial returns in agriculture. In 1989, as the f m

debt problem had reached its peak, and only two years away fiom historically low farm incomes (1 99 1-92),

federal government projections of farmers' ability to make a good living were buoyant and positive. In

Growina Together: A Vision for Canada's A&-food Industrv, Agriculture Canada paints a rosy picture:

The strength of today's Canadian agri-food industry is a result of successfid adaptation to decades of rapid and often difficult change. The resilience of the modem family fann business and the innovation of the Canadian food processing industry have positioned Canada well for the fiture. Adoption of new technology has led to enommu gains in productivity at the fann level and in the processing sector. Canadians in all regions of the country have shown a great capacity to respond to a quickly changing market-place. The ability of fanners, input suppliers, processors, distributors, retailers, exporters and dl others involved in the agri-food sector to respond to change has made our success possible . . . . I t is time now to push ahead aggressively and with confidence to build on our successes of the past and to choose some new directions for the future.'9

Such projections, which downplay the devastation ofthe eighties, send aclear message that there is nothing

wmng in the agricultural economy: the system is healthy and therefore all that a farmer needs to do to be

39~griculhlrr Canada, Growinn Together, 8.

successful is to implement wise farming practices. Just prior to the 1998 farm crisis, the Royal Bank sent

out similarly positive signals:

By all indications today is a time of tremendous opportunity for business-minded farmers who can position themselves in a dynamic, global marketplace. . . . For some it can be an intimidating time. But for farmers who are on top of their game, the next 10 to 20 years will be exciting, challenging and potentially very rewarding [emphasis mine]."

Sugimoto, Royal Bank's Manager, Agricultural Banking Services, in Alberta recently made it clear that

in spite of the uncertainties in agriculture, a capable farmer can control his or her finances as long as they

can assess all the risks properly.

Agriculture is and always has been fraught with ambiguity and uncertainty. You can't get insurance against this, unless the inszuonce is your ownper$orrnance . . . . The farmer, truly at the top ofthe game, will have a favourable debt-to-equity ratio, steady cash flow. and strong profits. Added to this base, he knows and monitors the risk factors, and uses this advance warning system to stick-handle aroundpotential problems . . . . The further ahead a farmer plans, the greater is the likelihood of success in risk management. . . . Risk factors to monitor: commodity prices, supply and demand of commodity, f m programs in Canada & the U.S., worldwide production of commodity, local market, relation of local market to national market, demand for product (i.e. new health discoveries), year-to-year and seasonal pattern of demand [emphasis mine]

Sugimoto's identification of the myriad variables that fanners must track, forecast and appropriately take

into their operational plans suggests a measure of fore-knowledge and control that approaches the divine.

Haverstock reports that fanners who are solvent or only beginning to have difficulties cling to the

belief that they have this sort of precise control over their operations. She says

I cannot count the number of times that I spoke at rallies about farm bankruptcy and people came up to me and said, "he was just a bad manager, et cetera" and then some months later that penon turned up in my office with serious fmancial problems. They want to deny that they are like the others, that it can happen to them. They want to assert that they can stay in control.

This immaculate confidence is not shared by insolvent farmers, however. With rising frustration, Nola

and Don recited the litany of disasters-frost, grasshoppers. disease, low market prices-that forced them

out of business. Such farmers are ambivalent about the extent to which they can ensure their own success.

'O~o~al Bank, "Expand, Sell, Diversify: What's Your Next MoveT'(Roya1 Bank web page, accessed 28 July 1999); available h r n h~p://www.royalbank.com/agriculture/yearlyyexpand.htm; Internet.

4 I Royal Bruzk, "Risk Management"; Internet.

i6O

On the one hand, most feel that they ought to be able to manage their operations succrssfdly and feel some

shame that they are not. Eileen said, "You have no control over disasters like death. But you certainly do

have some control over your financial matters-at least that's the way people look at it."

On the other hand, most of these recognize that the decisions they made were generally in line with

prevailing agricultural wisdom and should have led to success. The fact that they did not led them to

question the premise of our agricultural economy that such control is possible-at least for primary

producers. (Some thought that in fact a great deal of control was able to be exercised by other players in

the agricultural economy-such as multinational corporations).

This is the catch-22 for insolvent farmers: On the one hand the metaphors that animate the honour

code suggest that this is a good, fruitful land that requires only hard work to provide a good living. On the

other hand, the reality is that there are large tinancial. political, corporate and environmentai factors that

impinge on a farm's well-being that an individual farmer cannot fully control. The consequence of the

second is that many farms will fail. However the culture assumes the first. As a result responsibility for

the failure is borne almost entirely by individual farmers while those in places of policy and decision-

making are relatively protected and the structural problems in the economy go unaddressed.

CHAPTER 7

HOW DO RELIGIOUS BELLEFS TIE INTO THE HONOUR CODE?

Clifford Geertz claims that the symbols (metaphors, rituals, objects) which embody the key values of

a worldview serve to connect its ethic (a way of life) with its metaphysic (a view of the deep structure of

reality that justifies that way of life). Those symbols, he says, are sacred. That is, they give authority and

transcendent (sacred) meaning to a way of life, showing how it conforms to the actual state of affairs that

the metaphysic describes. They also lend the weight of emotional conviction to the worldview by

expressing its power to comprehend that way of life.'

Geertz notes that in most societies the sacred function of such symbols lends them to management by

religious institutions. Unavoidably it seems, an intimacy develops between those who govern a society's

way of life (that is government, economic and social leaders) and those who just@ it (religious leaders).

In his Invitation to Sociolow, Peter Berger claims that, almost by definition, established religion tends to

justify the vested interests of the powerful in society. If it did not, the religion would quickly be

disestablished by those in power.2

According to Berger religion serves such interests in two ways: by legitimating socio-political

authority and by quelling any rebellion against it. In the interviews undertaken for this study, it was clear

that at times Christian congregations and beliefs fimctioned in both ways: to lend metaphysical justification

to the honour code, and to heal or even silence protest about any harm that comes tiom it. In this chapter

we will examine some interesting interactions between the honour code and prairie Protestant doctrine.

One cannot spend much time in prairie farm communities without becoming aware of the extent to

which religious life and values are woven into the social fabric. Pierre Berton's claim that for Canadian

settlers the west was the "promised land" reflects that interweaving. However, the religious reinforcement

'~lifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York, NY: Basic Books, 1973). 89-93.

'peter Berger. Invitation to Sociolom: A Humanistic Persuective (New York. NY: Doubleday, 1963). 1 14&

of social values can deepen the shame of those who find themselves in deep financial difficulty. Clark and

Perry express that connection when they speak of being influenced by the "Protestant work ethic":

Clark: I can remember as a kid growing up in our community, and even in our own home, that if somebody was going bankrupt, it was a terrible disgrace. Cam: Why would it be a disgraceful thing? Clark: I never understood it. Perry: It's the Protestant work ethic, if you will. If you keep your nose clean and do hard work * . . Clark: Keep your nose to the grindstone. Perry: . . .the Lord will provide.

A. The Wealth and Righteousness Equation

Haverstock claims that an older, less material form of the honour code, is present in rural Canada.

Older farmers, she says, tend to attach honour to their heritage and their shame in losing the farm has to

do with the loss of that heritage. In other agrarian societies honour has tended not to be attached to

financial prosperity in a simple way. Rather those who showed great prowess in battle or those who were

nobly born were often most highly honoured. Even when the possession and productivity of land was the

chief source of honour, however, the loss ofprosperity due to economic disasters (bad weather or markets.

for example) was accompanied by less loss of personal honour than it is in modern rural communities.

There was also a much greater reluctance to remove members h m the community by completely divesting

them of property.

Those interviewed for this study however (principally farmers under s i x t y years old) seemed to attach

their honour directly to the material prosperity of the farm. It was not viewed simply as a social status

symbol; it was seen as a sign of God's pleasure. Dorothy commented that when driving around the

countryside over the years, she and her husband noticed that in certain areas there were farms with

machinery that was much too big for the land that they were fanning. Often these farmers would attend

the same church. She said that status was determined not by who drove up in the biggest car (which w d

to be the competitive criterion) but who could boast about the biggest machinery. In Dorothy's

understanding "It's a competition to show who has been most blessed by God."

The religious justification of the honour code appears to have three elements. It assumes: 1) that

financial success is determined by individud effort (particularly hard work and hgality) rather than a

complex of individual, social and environmental factors; 2) that there is moral virtue attached to such

effort; 3) that God invariably rewards the virtuous with material well-being.

Apparent biblical support for such ideas may come f+om biblical passages such as these:

Misfortune pursues sinners, but prosperity rewards the righteous. The good leave an inheritance to their children's children, but the sinner's wealth is laid up for the righteous (Pr 13:2 1-22).

If you follow my statutes and keep my commandments and observe them faithfully, I will give you your rains in their season, and the land shall yield its produce, and the trees ofthe field shall yield their h i t . Your threshing shall overtake the vintage, and the vintage shall overtake the sowing; you shall eat your bread to the full, and live securely in your land (Lv 26:3-5).

There will, however, be no one in need among you, because the LORD is sure to bless you in the land that the LORD your God is giving you as a possession to occupy, if only you will obey the LORD your God by diligently observing this entire commandment that I command you today (Dt 15:4-5).

Happy are those who fear the LORD, who greatly delight in his commandments. Their descendants will be mighty in the land; the generation of the upright will be blessed. Wealth and riches are in their houses and their righteousness endures forever (Ps 1 12: 1-3).

The reward for humility and fear of the LORD is riches and honour and life (Pr 224).

Anyone unwilling to work should not eat (2 Th 3: 10).

Whatever your task, work heartily, as serving the Lord and not human beings (Col3:23).

In these verses there appears to be a hard connection between virtuous behaviour and the bestowal

of God's blessings. When appropriated into the honour code, the connection is made firmly in both

directions: virtuous behaviour will inevitably (based on the integrity of God's promise) lead to material

blessing. Conversely, if there is no material blessing, one can assume that there is not (or is no longer) any

virtue.

Without doing an exhaustive exegesis however even a cursory examination of the biblical text

challenges that simple wealth=righteousness equation. First of all, these promises given to Israel were

essentially given to a community rather than an individual. Only in a community where there is mutual

support and cooperation and attention to the health of the land-in other words a genuine obedience to

God's will for human life-would it be possible for the righteous to be wealthy.

Apart From such a community (which may not come into being until the Messiah returns) it would

seem likely that the righteous could find themselves in difficult financial circumstances for several reasons:

1) Like Job (or Ron and Nora) they may be caught in natural calamities for which they had no

responsibility. If there is not a community willing and able to help them rebuild (as there clearly was not

for Job) they may find themselves destitute. 2) They may be cheated or caught in oppressive economic

structures that would strip them of their wealth. Immediately after the apparent "prosperity equals

righteousness" assertion in Pr 132 1-22 (quoted above) the writer adds (vs. 23): "The field of the poor may

yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice" (or "Litigation devours the poor man's farm land,

And his dwelling is swept away by injustice"'). The Psalmist's recognition of the reality of injustice

almost reverses the equation: "Such are the wicked; always at ease. they increase in riches" (Ps 73: 12).

3) The righteous might choose a lifestyle that would bring them little financial reward. Neither Jesus nor

Paul, for example, prospered materially From their righteousness. Jesus left his business as a carpenter to

take on an itinerant ministry in which he had "no place to lay his head" (Mt 8 :20). Paul too chose to travel,

depending on the hospitality of others. Frequently he found himself "in toil and hardship, through many

a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked" (2 Cor 1 1 :27). There does not

appear to be any direct correlation between persono1 righteousness and individual wealth, though there

may be such a correlation in regard to whole communities (or in a global economy, in regard to the whole

of humanity). Certainly there does not seem to be biblical warrant for making spiritual judgements on the

basis of material weI1-being.

Secondly, the possession of wealth is regarded as dangerous, potentially damning, for a couple of

reasons: 1 ) One may give it a prominence that only God deserves. The psalmist warns"ifriches increase,

pp - - - - -

'R. 8. Y. Scott's translation in William F. Albright and David N. Freedman, pn eds., The Anchor Bible, vol. 18, by R. B. Y. Scott (Garden City, NY: Doubleday. 1965), 94. Scott chooses the textual variant rib'okel-"litigation'*+ver the masoretic text rab'okel-"much food."

165

do not set your heart on them" (Ps 62: 10). Pr 1 1:28 adds, "Those who trust in their riches will wither."

The psalmist visualizes, on the day of the Lord, shame being heaped not on the impoverished but the

greedy: ''The righteous will see and fear and will laugh at the evildoer saying, 'See the one who would not

take refuge in God but msted in abundant riches, and sought refuge in wealth! "'(Ps 52:6-7). Jesus follows

a similar course. In the desert Satan offers him all the riches of the world on one condition: "bow down

to me and they will be yours." Jesus refuses, saying 'you shall worship the Lord your God and him only

shall you serve" (Lk 4:8). Later he warns his disciples that one cannot serve both God and Mammon (Mt

624) and speaks of the "lure of riches" choking out the seed of God's Word (Mt 13:22). He goes so far

as to say that it will be very hard for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God (Mt 1 W3). 2) Becoming

rich at a neighbour's expense i s a form of disobedience to God who commands our mutual care. The

prophet Amos pointedly announces that in gathering wealth by fleecing the poor, the "cows of Bashan" and

the nobles lounging on their "beds of ivory" have also forsaken God (chapters four to six). Jesus treats

wealthy Zachaeus as one who has become "lost" by his greed-driven participation in oppressive tax

collection and needs to be "found" (Lk 19:2- LO). The writer of James enjoins those who acquire wealth

in oppressive ways to make restitution or risk being damned (Jas 5: 1-4).

Thirdly, wealth is relativized. One writer says, "Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the

food that I need, or I shall be full, and deny you and say, 'Who is the LORD?' or I shall be poor, and steal,

and profane the name of my God" (Pr 30:8-9). In the Sermon on the Mount Jesus similarly speaks of

material things as important, necessary for life, but penultimate ("Is not life more than food and the body

more than clothing?"-Mt 6:25) . Notwithstanding what Paul says in 2 Th 3: 10 (see above) he also seems

to indicate that the provision of basic needs is not a right that one earns by hard work but is a gift of God

that comes with being God's creatures ("Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather

into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"-Mt 6:26).

Even such a brief overview suggests that the Bible deals with wealth in its complexity and does not

support a simple wealth=righteousness equation. There are certainly admonitions to "work diligently, as

166

for the LordY'(Co 3:23). However the promise of God's provision comes as a gift of grace. It is a gift that

may certainly be hindered by one's own or others' sin. However it is not earned by any personal goodness.

The wealthy are therefore not to find in their wealth a source of pride (honourbl Jn 2: 14-but rather an

opportunity to help the neighbour ( 1 Trn 6 : 1 7- 1 9).

B. Theological Support for the 'Work Ethicn

How then do we account for the theological justification of material success in the honour code?

While it is difficult to demonstrate cause and effect relationships, it seems reasonable to hypothesize that

honoured (usually prosperous) community members would have greater say in the construction of local

theology. Assuming a degree of self-interest, it seems likely that they would draw from their religious

tradition those elements that could be used to reinforce the honour code. Undoubtedly the elements used

would vary between Christian denominations. While I am hesitant to tie the honour code to any particular

religious formulations, there are some suggestive connections that emerged in the interviews. I will focus

on the two religious traditions best represented among those whom I interviewed-the Methodist tradition

with its roots in Wesley and Calvin. and the Lutheran tradition. It was particularly easy to make contacts

with farmen f b r n these two traditions becaw the former is numerically well represented on the pairies4

and the latter tradition is my own. Following are some of the elements in these two traditions which, when

taken out of their original context (and therefore distorted) seem to have gained a particular resonance with

the honour code.

4 In relation to the United States, historian Sydney Ahlstrom claims that "If one were to compute (a percentage of Calvinist heritage) on the basis of all the German, Swiss, French, Dutch, and Scottish people whose forebears bore the 'stamp of Geneva' in some broader sense, 85 or 90 percent would not be an extravagant estimate." See Sydney E. Ahlstrom, A Religious Historv of the American Peo~le, vol. I. 169, quoted in Douglas John Hall, Thinkina the Faith: Christian Theoloay in a North American Context (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress,J 989)' 165. Canadian figures would undoubtedly be lower because ofthe French Roman Catholic influence and immigration f?om northeastern E w p e that centered on Orthodox traditions. However the Americans and British (especially British Methodists) comprised the majority of the prairie settlers and established themselves as the dominant social class in the west. Historian .I. Stahl comments that "Some of us take pride today in the description of our region and country as a cultural mosaic. It is a comforting illusion, at least historically. What really happened in Western Canada in the earIy decades of this country was a "melting pot" And it was the English majority who wrote the recipe and stoked the fire." See J. Stahl, "Prairie Agriculture: A Prognosis." in The A m a n Mvth in Canada, 86.

I . Self-control: the capacity for moral perjiection

Methodist theology takes a high view of redeemed human nature and its capacity to do good.

Methodism often draws on an Abelardian understanding ofthe atonement which understands Christ as our

great moral example who saves us by showing us how to live. This may translate into the assumption that

one can do what is right if one bows what is right. For some moral perfection is regarded as a real

possibility for Christians in this world.

This sort of anthropology gives a good deal of credit to the human penon, but demands a great deal

as well. It heightens the honour code's emphasis on individual responsibility while downplaying the

influence of restrictive or oppressive elements in one's social context (the continuing effect of "original

sin" in the corporate sense).

To the farmer it means that there are no Free rides, To have genuine control of oneself and one's

destiny requires that the world-and God-respond predictably to one's behaviour. Financial success must

not come without hard workand thrift. Failure must be the result of ineptitude or self-indulgence. Nothing

can be given which is not deserved. Anything that is taken away must not have been deserved. One need

not worry about undeserved calamity as long as one keeps oneself h e h m the snares of slothful, wanton

living.

Val Fanner notes fiom her work as a farm crisis counselor that

When a fanner goes broke, other farmers typically attribute the failure to personal mismanagement, thus preserving for themselves a measure of hope and a sense of control over destiny. And those who fail tinancially are very quick to blame themselves and their own miscalculations for their dificu~ties.~

This is one of the reasons why many fanners feel it is shameful to quit claim one's lanbbecause it is

an bbndeserved" reduction of responsibility. It is regarded as the breaking of one's word a violation of

the moral order. Some farmers, therefore, avoid quit claim negotiations until it is too late, preferring to try

to maintain their full payments but ofien digging themselves into a deeper hole ftom which they cannot

s ' 4 ~ k e n Heartland," 6 1.

escape. One of the farmers I interviewed accepted impoverishment for his family and a future of financial

bondage in his insistence on repaying it.

This is not to say that most farmers refused quit claim options. Many thousands of such agreements

were contracted in the eighties and early nineties. In some cases farmers hid assets (for example machinery

or cattle) in order to avoid losing them in the negotiations. In the situations I became aware of this was

done not because of a sudden loss of moral accountability but from a sense of being caught between a

moral obligation to the lender and a moral obligation to maintain the family and one's heritage. In

situations where shame was unavoidable, it was a matter of choosing the lesser of the two.

2. Self-denial: the nature of morn! perfection

With the assumption that it is possible to be righteous came a description of what it meus to be

righteous. Nurtured under the ascetic preaching of John Wesley, Methodist righteousness has tended to

stress the consistent practice of self-control and self-denial. Wesley preached against the dangers of "the

pride of life," "the pleasures of the senses," "fancy clothes" and drink! Piety and sobriety, hard work and

thrift were his hallmarks of true virtue. The fact that the city of Saskatoon -in the heart of prairie farm

country-was founded in 1882 under the auspices of the Temperance Colonization Society may reflect the

impact of that ethic. Benjamin Smillie notes that the temperance scheme was abandoned [under

government pressure] by 1886. "But," he adds, %e incentive to found a kingdom of righteousness built

on the pure moral life contin~ed.'~

Such ascetic ideals were often conveyed in interviews. Rural pastors and farmers spoke disparagingly

of farmers who went south for part of the winter as though the luxury were immoral. (Interestingly

urbanites speak of "snow birds" with envy rather than reproof.) Diane expressed her dismay that even

though they had not lived luxuriously, the fann was still going under-almost as if God had an obligation

to reward personal restraint with financial success.

-- -- - -.

$enjamin Smillie, ed. Visions oftheNewJerusaIem: Reli*ous Settlement on the Prairies (Edmonton. AB: Newest Publishers, I983), 78,

h i d . , 79.

Some f m e n said that when they were having financial trouble there were rumors going around that

they had lived indulgently ("bought too many lottery tickets, took too many trips to Hawaii"). Brian

wonders if it was luxurious living that coa them their own farm: "In November every year my wife and I

travelled somewhere-England, Mexico, the mountains. I think that's why our marriage has survived as

well as it has-and maybe why the farm failed!"

3. Hard work: the way to moral perfection

In his classic analysis of the relationship between capitalist economics and Protestant doctrine, Max

webe? notes that puritan Protestants (including the Methodists, various groups of Pietists, Quakers and

others) believed that the purpose ofhuman life is to glorify God and to make sure ofone's election. Since

the span of human life is shon, every moment must be spent working towards this end. There is no place

for sloth: "We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can

work" (Jn 9:4). The urgency of using one3 time well is intensified in puritan thought, Weber says, by the

idea that moral failure is cumulative. The rhythm of confession and forgiveness found in the Roman

Catholic church is minimized here.

It may be this son of theological justification of hard work which, when associated with the value of

self-denial leads to the apparently incongruous conclusiowfien implied in the interviews-that one ought

to spend one's life in the vigorous pursuit ofone's occupation, becoming as successll in it as possible, but

without wasting any time enjoying its hi ts . The work is to be done as a moral obligation-not in order that

one may purchase personal iwuries. Among older farmers this attitude is obvious fiom a glance at the

home quarter. I have often seen a two hundred thousand dollar combine sitting in a farmyard where the

farmhouse is worth one-tenth of that. It is understood that farm profit should not be used for personal

luxury or leisure but must be plowed back into the operation.

-

ax Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the S~ir i t of Ca~itaiism, trans. by Talcott Parsons (New Yo*, NY: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1958). While later critics (and Weber himself to some extent) rightly question the degree to which one can assume causal connections between puritan theology and capitalism, Wekr's description of the "Protestant ethic" tracks a way of connecting faith and work that is certainly amenable to the honour code's assumptions.

The importance of hard work is reinforced by its "holiness." Weber sees in both Calvin and Luther

a de-clericalization of ministry-an effort to raise the everyday work of lay people to the status of a sacred

callingOg Erna Troeltsch describes Calvin's contribution this way:

The Calvinist concept of "calling". . . raised the ordinary work of one's profession (within one's vocation) and the ardour with which secular work was prosecuted to the level of a religious duty in itselt from a mere method of providing for material needs it became an end in i w l t providing scope for the exercise of faith within the labour of the "calling." That gave rise to that ideal of work for work's sake which forms the intellectual and moral assumption which lies behind the modern bourgeois way of life."

Luther, according to Weber, not only exalted the value of everyday work, but also believed that

whatever occupation one found oneself in had been given by God and ought not to be changed. While (as

discussed below) it seems that Weber has misunderstood both Luther and Calvin to some extent, his

description of their theology resonates with some of the religious elements of the honour code.

There was no question among the farmers whom I interviewed that they see their work as imbued with

adeep spirituality, even a holy responsibility. ' ' However this raises the cost of failure. One's fundamental

worth and life purpose is linked with the success of the farm's operation.

A key feature in understanding farming as a holy calling is the way in which the settlement and

farming of the prairies has taken on the character of a divine mission. Smillie notes that Methodist

"covenant" theology supported the idea that Christians are those whom God has elected to be the vanguard

of the kingdom on earth. Smillie also cites historian Walter Ellis who notes that there was a strong

movement among wealthier "social gospel" Baptists on the prairies toward a progressive view of history

in which humanity was advancing steadily towards the rnillenial reign of c h r i d 2

Such perspectives made it easy to see the settlement ofthe west as the holy work of God's elect

ushering in the reign of God in the Canadian west. The Canadian immigration propaganda that this was

'weber, Protestant Ethic, 79.

%mt Tmeltsch, The Social Teachings of the Christian Churches (New York. NY: Maernillan, 193 l), 609-10.

"~iane Baltaz discovered the same in her interviews with 130 Canadian farmers. See Living Off the Land.

en Smillie. Bevond the Social Gosml: Church Protest on the Prairies (Saskatoon, SK: FiAh House Publishers, 1991), 130-1.

the "promised land"" was firmly reinforced. Those who broke the land became God's agents establishing

"His Dominion" on the prairies. " As the 1883 Methodist Church General Conference report stated:

It is the hour of highest privilege and duty. We are laying the foundations of empire in righteousness and truth. The heralds of the Cross must follow the adventurous pioneer to the remotest settlement of the Saskatchewan, the Qu'Appelle and the Peace River and the vast regions beyond." l 5

These kingdom dreams became concrete in the social gospel movement. On the one hand this

movement brought significant reforms to the agricultural economy. On the other hand, it allowed some

farmers to justify their wealth as the culmination of a divinely blessed process of social and spiritual

evolution-as the fruit of the in-breaking Farmers who were not growing wealthier were

regarded as out of step with the mission of God.

Today the "mission" is broader. Since the food shortages of the second world war particularly, there

has been an evangelical sense among many Christian farmers that they are called to feed the world with the

bread of life-not only spiritually but physically." They see themselves as having been entrusted, as

stewards, with certain gifts that the rest ofthe world needs and cannot obtain for itself. It depends on them

for its well-being. Therefore they must continually expand their capacity to produce so that the world may

be fed,

The conviction that one is part of a sacred mission raises the stakes for farmers. If expanding one's

operation to "feed the world" and to demonstrate the provident reign of God on the prairies is a divine

"see chapter 6, and &rton, Romised Land, 263-264 for examples.

"see for example Neil Sernplc, The Lord's Dominion: The Historv of Canadian Metbodism (Montreal, Quebec: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1996), William Thomas Gunn, His Dominion (Toronto, ON: Missionary Education Movement, 191 7), Leslie Tarr, This Dominion His Dominion (Willowdale, ON: Fellowship of Evangeiicai Baptist Churches in Canada, 1968) and Ben Smillie ed., New Jerusalem.. For the beginning ofthe demise of this vision see Keith Clifford, "His Dominion: A Vision in Crisis" in Reiikon and Cuiture in Canada ed. Peter Slater (Waterloo: Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, 1977).

'"1883 Report of General Conference of the Methodist Church of Canadb' in The Relieious History of Saskatchewan to 1935, ed. Edmund Oliver (Saskatoon, SK: StAndrew's College, United Church archives, 1935). Unpublished manuscript. No page numbers.

'%tough Smillie notes in Beyond the Social Gosoel, 130-13 1. that the poorer Baptists tended to support a more "dispensational" theology which saw history less in progressive and more apocalyptic terns.

"see p.77, n.3 1 for references.

calling, then those who fail in some sense feel that they have failed God, the community, even the world.

The shame is heightened. The successfid however feel a correspondingly greater satisfaction.

4. Success: the sign of moral perfccrion

Claiming that some people are chosen by God for salvation and others are chosen to be damned, the

Calvinist doctrine of predestination seems to offer a theological justification for the many fmancial losses

that result from competition in a "free" market. It supports a kind of social darwinism that regards such

losses as the "sacrifice" that some (most it turns out ) must make for the sake of the whole. It is assumed

that competition and adversity in agriculture will ensure that only the healthy survive to pass on their skills.

thus keeping the economic community strong. For example, at the turn of the century James Woodsworth

could say ofthe hardships imposed on farmers by Canadian weather that they were "relieving Canada of

the Negro problem and keeping out the lazy and improvident white."18

Still today I found in interviews that several lenders and solvent farmers gave a social darwinist

rationalization for the huge losses that prairie communities have sustained over the last sixty years. They

said that the bankruptcies have been unfortunate but are keeping the agricultural community "lean and

mean."

To this apparently humanitarian process of'zvinnowing out the weak," the doctrine of predestination

adds the sanction of God. The fact that some compete successfully may be taken as an indication that they

have superior moral character. This character is a reflection of their elect status. Farmers who lose their

operation may feel that they are under God's judgment because they didn't work hard enough, or

squandered their earnings, indicating by their lack of character that they are not one of God's chosen.

They are the goats that must be separated from the sheep; they are the "prodigal sons" or daughters who

-

"lames Woodsworth, Thirtv Years in the Canadian North West, unpublished document o f the Methodist Church in Canada, Young People's Forward Movement, 1909, 124-5, quoted in Ben Smillie and Norman Threinen, "Protestants-Prairie Visionaries of the New Jerusalem: The United and Lutheran Churches in Western Canada" in Bevond the Social Gosxl, 75. In the same article, p.76, Smillie quotes Robert Haliburton, a member o f the "Canada Firstw movement as saying "May not our snow and fiost give us what is more value than gold or silver, a healthy, hardy, dominant race." The quote is taken fkom Carl Berger, "The True North Strong and Free," in Nationalism in Canada, ed. Peter Russell (Toronto, ON: McGraw Hill, 1966), 3,6. Smillie adds, "Ironically, Haliburton's lecture had to be given in the summer because ill health forced him to spend his winters in warmer climates!"

173

have squandered the family inheritance through "ioose living" and no longer deserve to be called children.

They are the "unrighrighteous leaven" contaminating the lump.

While Lutheran Pietists, with whom I am most familiar, do not generally hold to predestination in the

same way, they have held an equally vivid sense of the possibility of damnation and the importance of

verifying one's salvation by extemal signs. Luther understood one's relationship to God to be ultimately

dependent solely on the grace of God ("sola gratia7'-the Reformation rallying cry) and not hdamentally

determined by our "good works" or lack of them. Lutheran pietisd9 grew out of the concern that in the

century following the reformation "sola gratia" became not a living trust in God's grace but a "dead"

confidence in assent to orthodox doctrines and external use of religious rituals. Reliance on baptismal grace

became highly suspect as an easy escape from obedience to God.

In its concem for renewal of life Pietism insisted that "saving faith" will inevitably manifest itself in

external signs. In the prairie version owaugean Pietism in which I have worked, many ofthese signs have

historically had to do with personal morality, especially in the negative. One was to avoid alcohol, movies,

card-playing, dancing, pool halls and other activities that were associated with wasteful or wanton living.

There was also however a positive endorsement of prevailing cultural values related to hard work,

independence and involvement in religious activities. One ' s salvation was something to be "worked out"

with 'Year and trembling" (see Phil 2: 12) and not simply left up to God. The work of one's hands was the

sign of the condition of one's heart. If that work led to bankruptcy, it was suspected that dissolute living

and/or a failure of faith lay behind it.

In some Pietist communities this concem for signs led to a culture ofdoubt and judgment. One would

be constantly doubtful of one's own salvation, on guard against sin, and very alert to the signs of spiritual

I9~ere I am using the term rather generally. Certainly there were significant differences between the German and Scandinavian versions of Lutheran Pietism. In the questions raised here, however there was relative uniformity, particularly in its Canadian expression.

decay in the lives of others. I still encounter elderly pietists who are devout believers and have been active

in the church their whole life, but are deeply insecure about their relationship to ~ o d . "

C. Identitying Distortions

To say that Christian traditions such as those described above have interacted with and reinforced the

honour code is not to say that they created it. Relationships between elements in a culture or worldview

are complex and multivalent. Influence rarely works only in one direction. In Canadian history particularly,

church and social struchves have tended to be mutually reinforcing." To a significant extent the uses of

concepts such as "election," "mission," "calling," "covenant," and "sacrifice" reflect distortions of the

original doctrines that have occurred (to some extent at least) as a result of this cultural-religious

interaction. The distortions seem to appear as a particular element in the doctrine resonates with a cultural

emphasis and thereby becomes disproportionately or exclusively emphasized. Although later chapters will

deal with these theological questions in more detail, it may be helpful to note several examples at this point:

I. Calvin 's concepl of "election"

Calvin regarded work as a means of ordering the natural world so that it might bring glory to God.

However Calvin did not connect his doctrine of election to the intensity ofone's work life. He felt himself

to be chosen of God and suggested that we depend on that implicit trust in Christ which is the result oftrue

faith. He rejects the idea that one can know who is chosen or damned on the basis of their conduct.

Outwardly, he says, the elect do not differ from the damned."

'?his is not simply a problem with Lutheran pietists, or even just with Canadian rural churches (though I suspect that the problem is mom pronounced in the latter). Peter Benson and Carolyn H. ELkin, Effective Christian Education: A National Study of Protestant Conmxations-A Summarv Remrt on Faith. Lovaltv and Congregational Life (Minneapolis, MN: Search Institute, I990), 13 and 69 n.2 found that two-thirds of mainline Protestants in the United States "evidence difficulty in accepting that salvation is a gift rather than something earned."

2'~eymour Martin Lipset, Continental Divide: The Values and Institutions of the United States and Canada (Toronto, ON: CD Howe Institute, t989), 80 claims that "Both the Church of England the Roman Catholic Church. in return for government support, endorsed the established political and social orders up to the post-World War fl era." Donald Posterski, in his review ofreligious influence on Canadian social structure concludes "As a counter-revolutionary society, Canadians took security in a relatively established church. Both linguistic groups sought to preserve values and cultures by reacting against liberal revoIutions and supporting astrong role for both the church and the state." See Donald C, Posterski and lnvin Barker, Where's a Good Church? (Winfield BC: Wood Lake Books, 1993), 12 1.

%ee for example his letter to Bucer, Corn. Ref 29,883K

2. Luther 's concept of "calling"

The particular way in which puritan prairie Protestantism's understanding of work as a holy calling

expresses itself in the honour code is a distortion of Luther's position. Luther speaks of being called '30

serve God and keep his commandments," but distinguishes that from one's station (the life place in which

one exercises that calling) which may be that of "husband or wife, boy or girl, servant, . . . prince," and so

on. In fact, we may have multiple, over-lapping and changing stations, moving for example from the

station of "boy" to that of "man" over time, or holding the stations of "blacksmith," "church leader" and

"son*' sirnultane~usl~.'~ For Luther our social positions, including the station of our daily work, are not

hallowed in themselves but are an opportunity to show love for the neighbour and to keep God's

commandments.

On the one hand then, Luther raises the profile of daily work in a way that makes it a vehicle (or

"mask") of divine activity. This emphasis has been retained by the honour code. On the other hand,

Luther, much more than those who followed him, stresses the element of God's grace in our daily work,

and rehses to tie hard work to salvation.

What else is all our work to Gob-whether in the fields, in the garden, in the city, in the house, in war, or in government-butjust such a child's performance, by which he wants to give his gifts in the fields, at home and everywhere else? These are the masks of God, behind which he wants to remain concealed and do all thin s . . . . In all our doings He is to work through us, and he alone shall have the glory h r n it. 2%

In this same section Luther can say, "God wants no lay idlers. Men should work diligently and faithfully,

each according to his calling and profession, and then God will give blessing and success." He also says

that God will eventually take away from the lazy and arrogant the good things that have been given them.

However. he does not infer that if one has lost everything that means that they are among the lazy and

See "Luther's Church Postil," in The Precious and Sacred Writings of Martin Luther. ed. John N. Lenker (Minneapolis, MN: Lutherans in All Lands Co., 1905), 242-243.

24~art in Luther, "Psalm 147." trans Edward SiRler, in Luther's Works, Americanedition, genecis. Jaroslav Pelikan and Helmut T. Lehmann (St.Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, and Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1955-86)' vol.14, 1 14. (References to Luther's Works American Edition will be designated "LW "hereafter.)

arrogant. This is where the distortion occurs. Luther recognizes-where some later Lutherans have not-the

reality of systemic injustice. Some, he notes, gain their goods at others' expense.

It is certainly true that when someone is in prison, or where one wants to starve a person into submission and take away his property, as the peasants, the nobility, and tyrants are now doing to the clergy, there lean and hungry bodies will result. Therefore it has surely been the blessing of God, not our labour, effort and cunning, when a city is full of people, prosperous and flourishing.25

3. Christian understundings of civil law

Traditional Christian conceptions of the role and value of civil law become exploitative and oppressive

when there is no room for grace. The honour codelike the ethical framework of all societies-reflects a

general human concern for moral order. Larry Rasmussen says,

Most people want a firmly grounded moral life in a world that adds up and aids and abets their survival and interests . . . . What most people will not tolerate for long is moral relativism in a world that isn't making any sense and is militating against their welfare . . . . Indeed if there is no moral securi and no sensible cosmos available, we wilI conjure them up and inflict them on

?6 our neighbours.

The reason human beings tend to impose moral order on their society with such vigour, according to Jiirgen

Moltmann, is that it enables people to "defend themselves politically and psychologically against chaos,

evil and death." This order is expressed in what we call "law." The irony is that often in the very act of

enforcing law we disseminate some ofthose very things law is intended to prevent-that is, chaos, evil and

d e a d 7 Our blueprint for community turns out to be the agenda for its (at least partial) destruction.

This happens, Moltmann claims, because human law is based to a large extent on "reciprocity." Law

maintains its authority by publicly imposing suffering equivalent to the wrong committed-an eye for an eye.

Wendy reflected something of its spirit when she told me

It was the embarrassment of it or something. Because people made you feel . . . like you were a poor farmer. It was your fault, you managed wrong, you got yourself in this mess, so you live with it. And, a lot of people made you feel that way. You overspent, you got yourself in this, so ....

'%my Rasmussen. Monl Framents and Moral Community. 24.

''~iirgen Moltmann. The Church in the Power of the S~irit: A Contribution to Messianic Ecclesiolow, trans. Margaret Kohl (New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1977), 88.

177

According to Moltmann this public vengeance works in two ways to stabilize the social order?

a. On the human level it is intended to deter further wrong-doing by terrorizing the populace so that

they do not act against the social structure. Farmers know that when they break the law by failing to return

the money they borrowed, along with the substantial interest that they agreed to pay, reciprocity will be

invoked. They have watched their neighbour's material means taken fiom them. The sheriff ordered a sale

of their property. A public auction was held, and the family watched in shame as the material substance

of their life and heritage was distributed to the community, and the proceeds to their creditors. They were

made an example of, before the community and before God. The presumption of moral order is that the

community was protected by having the offender removed tiom their midst, initially by silence and

withdrawal, eventually by a physical move. To do otherwise, in the eyes of the law-abiding, would be

immoral (shameless).

Essentially the farmer in debt is "sacrificed." The concept of sacrifice justifiesreciprocity. After all,

how can repayment of evil for evil do anything except multiply evil unless one believes that the sacrifice

of the "evil-doer" is necessary to preserve the community? "It is better that one person die than that the

whole people perish." This is the way that the high priest expressed this philosophy when he was

considering what to do with Jesus.

b. On the cosmic level, the public punishment serves as a way ofpropitiating and securing the support

of the god(s) who order the universe. This is "sacrifice" in its original sense. Certainly there is a clear

theological stream in the Bible and in Protestant theology that understands civil law as in some way derived

fiom God. The breaking of it can be understood as an insult to God that must be atoned for by the paying

of "tribute" (a sacrifice). The failure to repay a debt therefore becomes a spiritual matter-an injury not only

to society but also to the society's relationship with God. Foreclosure proceedings therefore become a

community's way of propitiating God by excising the one (supposedly) responsible for the insult.

28.Jiirgen ~ o l b n m * Jesus Christ for Todavbs Worid, trans. Margaret Kohl (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. 1994), 61.

178

To take this sort ofaction, however, one must assume that aperson's responsibility to the marketplace

and its rules can be equated with one's obedience to God. Julio de Santa Ana feels that this is exactly the

assumption made by western capitalism. The result, he says is that the marketplace has been

sacrilized-given divine sanction.29

Any absolute adherence to the sacrificial demands of moral order as found in the honour code or any

human expression of law (explicit or implicit) distorts the biblical witness in two ways: first, it fails to

recognize the extent to which human self-centeredness (sin) shapes the codes by which we live. They are

drafted by privileged elites who cannot avoid making rules that are most beneficial for people like

themselves. Rules tend to be made which can be kept if one has the sort of resources (social,

psychological, financial) that the rule-maken have at their disposal (for example money for lawyers). They

are also rules which tend to make life most pleasant for those in situations similar to the rule-makers

(changing GRIP to protect the government's budget may be an example). The sacrilization of the

marketplace requires the untenable (and unbiblical) assumption that human beings are able to step

completely out of their own social location in order to make rules that have a God-like objectivity and

universally beneficial intent.

Secondly, the idea that laws stabilize a community by making the populace afkid to break the law

assumes that all people are equally afhid of the coosequences of law-breaking. In fact, however,

significant elements of the population have resources and privileges that allow them to avoid the worst of

these consequences (as we have noted in the case of broken contracts on the part of banks and the

government). Because of this, the deterrence can become a tool of injustice, selectively punishing a certain

element of the population. It can also be de-stabilizing, making it appear that because some are being

punished the problem is being dealt with. In fact however, and this is the crux of the matter in the fann

2 9 ~ ~ l i o de Santa Ana "Sacralization and Sacrifice in Human Practice" in Sacrifice and Humane Economic Life (Geneva, Switzerland: World Council ofChurchesT Commission on the Churches' Participation in Development, l992), 32-33.

179

crisis, the whole populace may be implicated in the problem. In that case punishment becomes

unenforceable.

What is missing (though present in the biblical witness) is grace. Grace does not destroy moral order.

In fact, to be grace. it requires the recognition that a trespass has occurred. Grace is unearned favor,

release that comes though one has no grounds to demand or expect it. In one sense grace destroys

honour-at least that which is earned under the conditions of the honour code. It places one person at the

mercy of another. However it takes a community beyond the simple cause and effect requirements of law.

It provides for the possibility of a new beginning when failure has occurred. It recognizes that law serves

the life and well-being ofthe community (as Jesus put it "'the Sabbath was made for human beings, not

human beings for the SabbathLMk 227) and that when rigid application of the law threatens to destroy

the community, some other means must be found.

CHAPTER 8

HOW HAS THE CHURCH AVOIDED PUBLIC CRITIQUE OF THE HONOUR CODE?

A church which engages in this mode of theology may no longer ask abstractly about the relationship of church and politics, as if these were two separate things which must be brought together; rather, this church must begin with a critical awareness of its own political existence and its actual social k t i o n s [Moltmm].

We have discussed the religious reinforcement of the honour code. Buttressing cultural ideology is

perhaps the most obvious ofthe social roles that Peter Berger assigns to religion. The other, though equally

potent, is somewhat less visible. According to Berger, religion also serves to suppress any protest from

those who are disadvantaged by this validation of the dominant order."

His assertion is essentially supported by this study. While a few of those interviewed indicated that

they had found in their Christian faith the courage to protest agricultural injustice, most had done so in the

context ofa support group of some sort that was either peripheral to, or outside their congregation.3 (There

are a few important exceptions that will be dealt with in the last section.) To a great extent, in their

experience, mainstream congregational life suppressed protest.

It seemed to do this in two ways. First, it assisted in the coverup of inconsistencies in the honour

code. Secondly, it soothed the pain that the application of the honour code may create. Max Weber calls

this latter the "theodicy of sufTe~g"-the process of transforming suEering fiom a vehicle of revolution

'~Qen molt ma^, On Human Dirmitv: Political Theolom and Ethics, trans. Douglas Meeks (Philadelphia. PA: Fortress Press, 1984). 99.

'peter Berger, Invitation to Socioloa 1 148. Roben Kelly discusses some of the tensions that this ought to raise for Lutherans in his article entitled "Lutheranism as a Counterculture? The Doctrine of Justification and Consumer Capitalism," Currents in Theology and Mission (December 1997): 496-505.

3The series of farm rallies organized in Saskatchewan in 1999 by the Bengough Rally Association are a good example. At two of these (Regina and Prince Albert), I heard a farmer publicly admit to his own insolvency. It seems that the presence of the support of others in difficulty, public critical recognition of widespread responsibility for the probierns in the agricultural industry and awareness that in the 90's farm debts have not been taken out with the same foolish abandon of the 70's and 80's has made it easier to speak out.

into a vehicle of redemption.' In both cases, the effect of the church's influence was to reduce the

likelihood of social change.

A. The Suppression of Social Critique

As we noted in chapter five, the honour code is not a neatly integrated package of values. There are

tensions. fragments, contradictions within it. For example, the impulse to expand, to feed the world, to gain

status through wealth is often at odds with farmers' love for the land and their respect for its need to rest

and regenerate. Their general concern for community is in tension with the valuing of financial

independence and the desire to gain honour at others' expense.

Farmers who are caught in a financial crisis notice the contradictions because they experience their

painful effects directly. Ifthe code wasa well-integrated whole, then the shaming that followed the failure

of a farm wculd be painful. but it would be felt to be right. However many of those interviewed felt that

their community's response was not only painful, but it was wrong. They sensed that there were deep

contradictions in the rules that govern that interaction. Most were especially unhappy with church

members' involvement in the buying up of foreclosed land, with the shaming and the isolation of fanners

in trouble. Although they knew that such behaviour was sanctioned by implicit elements of their social

ethic, it felt at odds with the heart of their faith. Referring to this practice, Clark said, "I find a lot of

hypocrisy in the church. What they practice on Sunday morning in church and what happens the rest of the

week is so different." Randy said, "We call them the 'Amen Charlies.' They say 'Right on, brother' but

five minutes after they're out the door then it's back to business as usual."

Sometimes their comments reflected bitter disillusionment Having personally experienced the loss

of his farm to a neighbour, Harold said

You think that Sunday School and Confirmation is a process of instilling values and principles. Then you see this kind of thing happening and you think that these people who embody these principles and values would see this injustice happening and would speak out and do something about it. But a book came out-The Comfortable Pewand sometimes you feel that people just want to dress up nice on Sunday morning and come to church and shake hands with people and

' ~ e r ~ e t , Invitation to Socioloa 1 15. The reference to Weber comes from here. No citation is given. There are simiiarities here to governments' use of ombudsmen, or lenders' use o f staff trained in counselling techniques.

make their presence known and then go home and they've done their good part for the week and then go on and do their hellery that they do the rest of the week.

From one perspective, such comments do not make sense. The church members they criticize are

doing what their community's social code, and popular Christianity, have taught them is right-to work

aggressively to expand one's operations, to shame those who fail. However these farmers sense that

embedded in their religious experience there is another way of understanding the world that calls such

practices into question.

Unfortunately, this ''other way of understanding" seems to have been rendered relatively impotent in

their congregations. This happened in two ways. There were strong traditions (and strong people

supporting them) that controlled first who can speak in church and second what can be said.

I . Suppressing the voices of critical ieadership

Decently-trained pastors can and usually do see through the wealth=goodness illusion. One would

think that they would be the ones to break the silence about it because their status in the community is not

dependent on financial success. However they hold their position on the basis of the congregation's

approval. Often it is the wealthy who are the chief contributors to their salary or at least the most influential

shapers of opinion in the congregation. It is difficult to remain in a position for long if one continually

undermines the principles by which one's chief supporters maintain their status in the community. Clark

observes,

A lot of the ministers and priests don't want to rock the boat. That's something I've always said to the ministers, "Don't preach to be popular." That's difficult. It's easy to say, but it's not all that easy. You can get preachy and lose all your congregation.

Nathan and Sarah saw the pressure applied to their own pastor. They referred to him as a "puppet." They

said "As long as [the pastor] did what they wanted him to do, when they wanted him to do it, then it was

wonderful. But as soon as he questioned something, then look out."

Sometimes efforts were made at the national level to address the farm crisis in a redemptive way and

pastors felt caught between national policy and their parishioners. Perry said,

The Anglicans have a statement, a very strong statement on farm crisis-healthy food and who should be producing if and farm families doing it, and so on. But as [the Bishop] said, "I can say that; I can send the papers out to the churches. But the buck stops at the fellow that's shaking hands at the ends of the door. He may go to the pulpit and he may preach my message, but if he gets bad critique on the way out, generally speaking they're not around that long.

This is not to imply that the church hierarchy is uniformly supportive of pastoral efforts to address the

f' crisis while the laity are resistant. Sometimes the pressure to avoid speaking about the crisis came

fiom Bishops and presidents who felt vulnerable to criticism. One pastor who wanted to get involved in

a direct way with f m e r s said his national leader made it clear to him that "Ifyou don't do anything wrong

he's behind you-then you're okay-and he'll back you to the degree; but if you do something wrong, then

he'Il cut the branch."

In spite of varying resistance from above and below, there are a few clergy. I found, who have been

willing to take the risks. Steve was one of them. He actively intervened for farmers at Farm Debt Review

Board meetings. He also organized a support group for f m e n in crisis. But he notes that it made his life

in the parish dificuit:

There was a push on between the second and third year to get rid of me because of my involvement with farmers in crisis. The congregation were of the opinion that 1 was helping everybody else, like those Anglicans and those United. They thought no Lutherans would be in that kind of trouble.

The number of pastors who engaged the suffering of insolvent farmers in a serious way does not

appear to have been large-at least among Lutherans. Steve observes, "I stood alone with the exception of

about a dozen pastors, twelve in the whole province. I was the only Lutheran, to my knowledge." Even the

pastors who spoke out about the problem in a significant way (I only found two) had difficulty remaining

in a particular congregation for long. Gail says that her activism requirrd such large amounts of physical

and emotional energy that she simply could not keep it up and took another call. Steve reports that the

persistence of shame in the people he helped made it hard for him to stay in the community:

I had to leave there because I knew too much, about too many people. 1 could not be in a conversation with them. I knew everything about them-how much money they had, where they spent if you know, their foolish mistakes (when they made mistakes). I knew too much! They avoided me. Not some, but many.

2. Undercutting the moral basis of protest

A second way in which the institutional church silences those who might be open to an alternative

perspective is by undercutting the moral basis of any protest they might make against prevailing attitudes

and practices. It places farmers in a double bind. It shames them for their failure to be successfil under

the present economic system but then also criticizes the way in which their efforts to survive under this

system have brought injury to their families and the environment. Steve comments, for example, that while

our Lutheran church did very little in the eighties to address the injustices of the farm debt crisis, it was

outspoken about the ecological crisis:

Well [the church] aiwaysgets around to blaming the farmer forthe environmental problem. But if we didn't have a farm crisis we wouldn't have an environmental problem. And that's not the farm crisis; farm crisis is a debt problem. Our Church shoved the environment at farmers when they were bleeding. They told them it's your own fault and you're poor managers and you've caused your own downfall. Our Church did not stand with them.

Peny points out that the abuse of the land is directly connected to the problems in the agricultural

economy: "the first thing to be caught in a farm crisis is the land." Randy describes the dilemma that he

found himself in as his finances became desperate.

Then's a lot of us that are farming that are using fanning practices that we know are wrong, and we do it because we have w alternative. We use all this chemical and big equipment, drain wetlands, or break up woodlots. Squeeze a little bit more money out. It's not doing you any good at all; it's damaging the next generation's chances of inheriting a decent world

Clark insists "Most farmers want to look after the soil, want to look after the environment and that, but the

system doesn't allow that anymore." The expansionist policies which led to the oppressive debt loads of

the last two decades have induced farmers to extract greater returns (for less input) from their land in order

to stay afloat financially.

When the church separates consequences fiom causes, f m e n are shamed for what they (in concert

with government, agribusiness and consumers) have done to the land, without recognition being given to

the forces that have brought them to that place. Faced with the choice between more expensive land-

friendly farming methods that would force him into bankruptcy, and exploitative approaches that are more

185

profitable in the short run Clark chose the latter. It increased his sense of shame: "It's almost like you know

when you go out on the land, you're sinning everyday."

Shame breeds silence. The shamed do not feel like telling their story. Even if they do, their voices

are not respected. So their sorrow and grief, their insight into the injustices of their context is not heard.

I discovered that even congregations where a substantial proportion of the congregation are in difficulty

may not address the problem sympathetically because people do not break the silence about it. Sarah says,

"I think a lot of the times, we feel really isolated with our pain, and if we don't ever talk about it, we don't

know that other people are going through the same thing."

It is difficult to break through such barriers ofshame and silence. As we noted in the second chapter.

in many cases the simplest course for farmers in crisis is to drop out of church.

The sad thing is that by withdrawing from the Christian community the influence of these f m e r s and

pastors diminishes. leaving the congregational climate to be determined more and more by those well off.

Since their interests are best served by affuming the status quo-that one's moral character is determined

by wealth-the congregational climate may shift towards an increased tendency to judge bankrupt farmers

harshly. This in turn makes it even more likely that they (and others in shame-111 situations) will stay

away.

3. Suppressing eeclesia~ conversation about political and economic matters

If (as we will see in the latter chapters) alternative perspectives are embedded in the biblical witness,

then any organization that uses the Bible regularly can hardly avoid coming in contact with them, even if

the voices of those most open to such perspectives have been quieted. However a powerful mechanism

functions to censor what can be said in church. In rural society generally and in some Christian traditions

particularly, there is a prohibition against using the Bible and Christian tradition as a source ofcritique for

our fundamental social and political structures. Clark says of his own region:

The churches were avoiding social, economic and political issues that are such a part of our lives. It's not just the church. It's a much bigger picture, and it seemed to be a climate there that that's just the way things are and the church doesn't get involved in all this.

Darold Beekman, Lutheran bishop of a southwestern Minnesota district, said that the same is true in the

American situation.

We still have a lot of nrral churches which are ignoring the [farm crisis] or denying that it exists and are simply not dealing with it. It is also important that we as a church recognize the faith dimensions of this and the moral dimensions. There are still too many people who think we can separate this from our faith, that somehow the church shouldn't be involved because this is only an economic issue. It's much more than that. I think it is one more symptom that we as a nation, and as a people are at risk of losing our souls. And if there is any point at which the church needs to have a voice, a moral voice and an ethical voice, it is at a time like this.'

Jack, a financially stable f m e r , explained that he felt it was inappropriate to try to connect faith and

"politics"6 because they are a dangerously volatile mix. When I asked him whether farm issues should be

raised in the church he responded

Absolutely not! Politics is too uncertain. That sort of thing really doesn't have to do with the divine architecture of the church. Its not sacred. It doesn't belong there. Besides I've seen too many instances of religious zeal leading to bloody revolutions. There were wo revolutions in the 18th and 19th centuries that were led by religion.

In Steve's situation, his attempt to intervene on farmers' behalf provoked intense

resistance fkom his congregation. According to Steve it was because the congregation perceived

his work as an illegitimate mixing of the sacred and secular. He said,

The congregation hated the idea. They hated the idea that I was an ouupoken advocate for fanners. &cause we had a separate organization. They kicked us out of the church. We could not have our [farm support p u p ] meetings in the church because it almost got politid.

One couple who were in the support group that Steve organized, and members of Steve's congregation,

agreed.

Mawin: There was a lot of people in there [the congregation], that resented what he was doing. Wendy: They thought what Steve was doing with the farm groups, he shouldn't be doing that. Cam: Really. How come? Marvin: Well, they thought he should be visiting the congregation and . . . Wendy: Spending more time on the . . . Marvin: The evangelical work, I guess they call it-instead of worryingabout our finances.

5 ~ t h e r Farnilv Farm, video.

%OX intewiewedoflen used the term *politicsw to refer to political, economic and social matters in general-things having to do with "public life".

187

The irony of course, as we have seen, is that the honour code by which secular rural life operates is

already very much a mixing of religious elements and structures that support economic interests. In the

previous chapter I mentioned that while honour codes are common in agrarian societies it is unusual to have

honour attached in such a crass way to material production. This may be associated with what Jose

Casanova refers to as the general "cotonization" of the political, religious and economic spheres of life in

Canada and the United States by capitalism. In urban centers the market's influence on religion seems to

be visible in what Reginald Bibby refers to as "consumer spirituality" or "religion a la carte," and in the

strong movement toward "church marketing." In rural centers, its seems to find expression (particularly

for those who entered farming in the last thirty years) in the attachment of honour to material success.'

"Colonization" does not mean that the values of Canadian and American society have been

standardized by the market. Our cultures still contain a variety ofbeliefs-both between and within urban

and rural society-which often clash with each other. However Robert Kelly contends that "these

' ~ o s e asa an ova, Public Relipions in the Modem World (Chicago, MI: University of Chicago Press, 1 994); Reginald Bibby, Unknown Gods: The Ongoing Stow of ReliPion in Canada (Toronto, ON: Stoddart, 1993). For some good examples of modem evangelism that exemplifL religion in its urban capitalist form see George Bama, Marketing the Church: What They Never Tauaht You About Church Growth (Colorado Springs, CO.: NavPress, 1988). Barna says, p.26, The Church is a business. It is involved in tfie business ofministry. As such, the local church must be run with the same wisdom and sawy that characterizes any for-profit business . . . . For us however profit means saving sods and nurturing believers." See also Norman Shawchuck, Philip Kotler, Bruce Wrcnn & Gustave Rath, Marketinn for Conacenations Choosing to Serve People More Effectively (Nuhville, TN: Abhgdon Press, 1992); and Robert E. Stevens and David L. Loudon, Marketinn for Churches and Ministries (New York, NY: Haworth Press, 1992). For some solid critique of this capitalist approach to Christian mission see PhiIip D. Kenneson, "Selling [Out] the Church in the Marketplace ofDesire," Modem Theology 9 (October 1993):3 19-348; John Kavanaugh, follow in^ Christ in a C o m e r Society, rev.ed (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1991); and Douglas Webster, Sellina Jesus (Downers Grove, Illinois: Intervarsity Press, 1992).

In the integration between North American religion and capitdism there are indications that not only has religion taken on a capitalist fonn, but capitalism has also taken on a religious form. Franz Hinkelammert documents the extensive use by western economists of pseudo-religious ianguage in their economic discussions. He discerns a religious structure for our economy in which money, commodities and capital serve as the sacred objects. The central ritual in which these idols are honoured, and their importance to all of life reinforced, is marketing. Life rotates around this core activity according to ethical principles related to profit and competition. The priests of this economic religion-those who order its affairs and lead its worshipare financiers, including government ministers, bank governors and presidents of large international corporations. See Franz Hinkelammert, "The economic roots of idolatry: entrepreneurial metaphysics," in Richard PabIo et aI, eds., The Idols of Death and the God of Life, tran. Barbara El Campbell and Bonnie Shepard (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1983): I 65- 193.

188

contradictions are resolved on the basis of the central myth of our societyy'-which he claims is capitalism's

b'justification through material success by hard work and the luck that comes to those who work hard."'

What is critical to note is that while religion is permitted, even cannibalized for useful symbols and

ideas, to support the socio-economic structure, it is not allowed to critique it. The insistence on a

separation of religion arid "politics" comes into force when Christian tradition is used to oppose the current

trends in public life and policy. In other words, an essential integration of religious and socio-economic

values has taken place; but it has occurred "by the back door" so to speak with little up fioont reflection on

the nature of the church and the story that sustains it. An informal integration is protected by a formal ban

on conversation that might expose and critique it.

In the Protestant tradition with which I am most familiar, it is possible to discern some hints as to the

roots of this arrangement in the history of the nruggle for control between the political and economic

powers that began in the ~efonnation?

a. The political captivity of the Reformation church

The Refonnation began with a good deal of energy directed toward social critique. Luther, for

example, spent most of his adult life in some form of social dissent. Much of it addressed economic

injustice. He protested Rome's economic oppression of the German poor through church taxes and

indulgences. In his article "On Trading and Usury" he criticized irresponsible merchants who were

enslaving people in debt with high interest, and proposed government controls to halt unfair commercial

and labour practices. Against lax public officials and stubborn parents he fought for educational reforms

and community chests to replace the illiteracy and begging so prevalent in his day ("On Keeping Children

In School" and "Preface to an Ordinance of A Common Chest"). In the German Peasants' War of 1525,

-

'~obert A. Kelly. "Lutheranism as a Counterculture?," 499-500. Kelly is drawing on the social theory of John B. Thompson, Studies in the Theory of Ideology (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1984).

9 See Jose Casanova, Public Relinions in the Modem World (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 2 1 ff. This is not to imply that a similar struggle has not taken place in other Christian traditions-history makes it obvious that they have.

he sharply critiqued the princes for robbing the people and called the peasants to task for resorting to

violent measures to address the problem.'0

Unfortunately, Luther's Protestant descendants took a far less involved approach to social reform.

The reason is straightfonvard. In many respects the Reformation was a stroke of luck for European

political powers in their centuries-long struggle with the church for dominance. The Reformation

fragmented the church and dispersed its energies into competing factions. Shortly after Luther's death these

factions began a war of mutual annihilation that ended only when the territorial princes seized absolute

control of their territories and completely integrated church and state. The consolidation made churches'

political and economic survival contingent upon upholding the sovereignty of the reigning prince.

Lutherans, at least were quick to comply. ' ' Political law began to be treated as something immutable,

like the seasons of the year-not to be resisted or altered, but adapted to and obeyed. The trend was

reinforced in the early nineteenth century, as the French Revolution brought criticism of the monarchical

orders. A h i d of losing the nobility's financial support, representatives of confessional neo-Lutheranism

(e.g. Vilmar, Uefoth, and Stahi) and some of the Erlangen theologians (e.g. Harless) vigorously defended

the orders ofthe nobility as eternal orders ofcreation. They claimed that the existing order is always from

~ o d . l2

In the twentieth century, this integration of church and state bore its most shameful h i t s in Nazi

Germany as Hennann Giilner, spokesman for the "German Christians" wrote, "It is because of Hitler that

Christ, God the helper and redeemer, has become effective among us."13

"~orn~liance appears as early as the Apology to the Augsburg Confession, Anicle XVT, 6, where Meianchthon writes: "The Gospei does not Iegislate for the civil estate. . . . it not only approves governments but subjects us to them, just as we are necessarily subjected to the laws of the seasons and to the change of winter and summer as ordinances of God. See The Book ofconcord, ed and trans. Theodore Tappert et al. (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. 1959), 222-223.

'*see Ulrich Duchmw, Two Kingdoms-The Use and Misuse of a Lutheran Theolorical Concept (Geneva, Switzerland: Lutheran World Federation, Department of Studies, 1977), sec UA3-4.

I3 Geffi-ey Kelly, Liberatina Faith: Bonhoeffer's Message for Today (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg, I984), Z.

b. The Canadian accommodation between church and state

In Canada, the struggle between church and state resolved itself in an arrangement in which the

government permitted the existence of several denominations (allowing for religious choice but ensuring

that none would become too powerful) and developed strong bonds of loyalty with the largest p u p s .

According to historian Seymour Lipset, this ensured that the state and economy would ultimately hold the

upper hand with the church playing a favoured but supportive role.I4

Donald Posterski says that the American War of Independence had a significant influence.

The War of Independence in the United States was fought in the churches as well as in the countryside. Some churches preached revolution, some preached loyalty. The conflict drove a wedge between patriots committed to American independence and congregations loyal to King George. Most of the "Loyalists" fled to Canada as the Revolution swept through the American colonies. Those who came helped ensure that Canadian Protestantism would remain closer to European patterns. The Church of England developed the faith of most English-speaking wonhippea in the British Colonies that eventually would be united in Canadian Confederation. "

With the Roman Catholic church deeply bound to Quebec's political structure (at least until the Quiet

Revolution) and the Anglicans (and later Methodists and Presbyterians) "loyal" to the crown, Canada's

governments have had a mutually reinforcing relationship with the major churches. With the possible

exception of pre- 1950's Quebec the balance of power in the relationship has been held by the government.

For the most part, it seems that Canadians have been happy with such an arrangement. As our

constitutional slogan indicates "peace, order and good government" are core values. When the church

supports the social structure and its governing elite, security (especially for the elite) is enhanced. In certain

respects we may be seen as a counter-revolutionary society that has little interest in alternative perspectives

that may upset the status quo. The "Mountie," perhaps our mod powerful national symbol. epitomizes our

reverence for institutions (church. government, business) which ensure security. We have not thought it

I4~ipset, Continental Divide, 80, quoted in Posterski and Barker, Where's a Good Chwch?, 12 1 . See also Roger O'Toole, "Society, the Sacred and the Secular: Sociological Observations on the Changing Role ofReligion in Canadian Culture" in Canadian Issues/Themes Canadiens Rel iaionlCdture, vol. 7 ReligiodCui ture, ed, William Westfall, Louis Rousseau, Fernand Harvey and John Simpson, (Association for Canadian Studies, 1985) who identifies some ofthe ways in which this arrangement is changing.

Is Posterski and Barker, Where's a Good Church?, 120.

in our best interests to pit those institutions against one another. Political critique by churches has therefore

tended to be regarded as a form of national disloyalty.

In farm communities, churches' reluctance to "interfere" in political matters reflects this strong

Canadian respect for authority. l6 Chris Lind, interviewing farmers in connection with the farm protest rally

in Rosetown, Saskatchewan (October 199 1)' noted the great reluctance of those involved to use the term

"protest" or even "rally." Any sense of rebellion against the government was scrupulously avoided (except

perhaps by National Farmers' Union members). As Lind put it, "They worked on the assumption that if

the politicians in Ottawa and Regina understood the facts of the case, they would take action to rectify the

situation."17

This confidence in the political and economic "powers" may help to explain why farmers who do not

pay their debts are shamed, while others in positions of authority who have helped to create and maintain

a social and economic system that encourages (sometimes coerces) farmers into unrepayable debt are not.

To shame the latter would call the system itself into question and undermine some of our fundamental

securities.

When the powers are deemed in this way to be under God's authority and control, social protest may

be seen as a fonn of rebellion against God." Spiritual conflict is relegated to the heart. Sinful individuals,

not social structures, come to be regarded as the source of social problems.

This focus on the individual in him or herself seems to have fostered in western Canada what Peter

Berger refers to as "ethic of disposition." It is concerned about the moral development of the individual

%ichael Adams' Envimnics study of Canadian values suggests that there has been a recent shift toward distrust of institutions among Canadians. Distrust of the government he claims has come about because we accepted the line that ifwe tightened our beits financially there would be a "party when the books were balanced" and everyone would benefit. However, now that the books are balanced, it seems that only a few are benefiting-the party that is being held is an exclusive one. Adam says that this has created a "culture of resentment." His poll does not discriminate between urban and rural residents. however, and my research would suggest that respect for institutions is still relatively high among d residents (though it is dropping as the government fails to respond adequately to the 1998-99 farm crisis). See Sex in the Snow: Canadian Social Values at the End of the Millennium (Toronto, ON: Viking, 1997).

"~ind, Something's Wmnn Somewhere, 24.

'%o the first international union of Lutheran churches, heavily influenced by German Lutheranism. included in its c b e r this statement: "The Lutheran World Convention abstains h r n all political involvements."

rather than the welfare of the neighbour (which would be an "ethic of responsibility"). Social issues tend

to be dealt with according to the way in which a behaviour "stains" an individual and is inherently

"immoral" rather than the way in which it (personally and communally) harms the neighbour.

It appears that the hogour code has appropriated something of this "ethic of disposition." It isolates

individual farmers fiom their larger social and economic setting, seeking the reason for their financial

difficulties in their personal character or lifestyle (for example. assuming laziness or extravagance). Shame

is imputed to the bankrupt fanner on the basis of a presumed personal moral lapse. However there is no

shame imputed to the community for its failure to support the farmer, for developing lending legislation,

government policies, and global trading practices that set him or her up for failure, or for benefitting (from

auction sale bargains for example) by that farmer's loss. Berger says that such an ethic tends to

concentrate attention on those areas of conduct that are irrelevant to the maintenance of the social system, and diverts attention from those areas where ethical inspection would create tensions for the smooth operation of the systern.19

c. The misappropriation of Luther 's "two-kingdom " ethic

JIirgen Moltmann says that theological justification for the church's avoidance of social critique has

been found in a distorted form of Luther's two-kingdom ethic?' The distortion begins with the name of

the ethic. Luther says that God wages battle against Satan through the use of two "regiments" or "fonns

ofgove-ce.*" According to Luther, God's chief aim is to change human hearts so that they do God's

will joyfully and freely. This "spiritual" governance God exercises through the Gospel as it is spoken and

sacramentally enacted by the church in the power of the Holy Spirit. Through the proclamation of the

I9~erger, Invitation to Sociology, 1 14.

'Osee ~ ~ r ~ e n Moltmann, On Human Dimi% 65. For extended discussions ofLuther's ethic, to which I am certainly indebted even when I have not drawn directly &om them, see (in order of influence) Gordon Jensen, The Significance of Luther's Theology of the Cross for Conternwrarv Political and Contextual Theoloaies. Ph-D. diss. (University of St. Michael's College, Toronto, 1992); William Hordem "Political Theology," in Political Theoloa in the Canadian Context, ed Benjamin Smillie (Waterloo, ON: WilGed Laurier University Press, 1982):43-60; Eric Gritsch and Robert lensen, Lutheranism: The Theoloeical Movement and Its Confessional Writinas (Pbiladeiphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1976); Kart Hertz, ed,, Two Kingdoms and One World (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg, t 976).

2 ' ~ ~ 45: 91.

193

Gospel, received by faith, God liberates human beings from sin and the powers of evil and leads them to

do, from the heart, what is good.

However, because this is a slow process, and becaw not all people will respond to the Gospel and

those who do respond are still sinners, God preserves our bodies and the outer world from self-destruction

through a form of ?temporal" governance which operates in the dimension of "works" or outward human

behaviour through the Law. As in the spiritual governance God gives faith to appropriate the Gospel, in

the temporal governance God gives "reason" as the means of receiving and applying the Law. For Luther,

reason is roughly equivalent to a sense of, and participation in, that which is good and true, which promotes

sharing in the good of all, and gives proper stability and order to life.

While Luther may refer to the Law as God's "secular" form of government, and while he may

sometimes calls these two forms ofGod's government "kingdoms," it is clear in his usage that they are not

refemng to separate groups of people, or separate arenas of life, but rather to different modes of God's

operation in the world. Law and Gospel, reason and faith. operate through the "orders" which God has

established to facilitate the preaching of the Word and the preservation of society: that is, the church, the

state and the economy. Although Luther identifies the work of the Gospel more clearly with the church.,

and the Law with the state and economy, he insists that God's two modes of governing are operative in all

three of them. All three have an inner aspect (Paul's concept of "spirit") in which God rules through the

Gospel, and an outer aspect (Paul's concept of"flesh") in which God rules through the law. All three are

established through reason but are responsible to be oriented to the service of human need.

The church, Luther says, is responsible to witness to what is true and right and to expose the powen

of evil, both in its own life and in the life of the other hue orders. The three orders as well as the persons

who inhabit them are constantly endangered by sin and therefore in need of critical witness and action to

bring them back to their intended purpose. The orders stand under God's Word in its dual form of Law

and Gospel and they are there to encourage and challenge each other. Luther says,

Now if a preacher in his official capacity says to kings and princes and to all the world ''Thank and fear God and keep His commandments" he is not meddling in the affairs of secular

government. On the contrary he is thereby sewing and being obedient to the highest government . . . . For He is one God, the same Lord of all, of the one as well as of the other. Therefore they [the church and the state] should all be identical in their obedience and should even be mixed into one another like one cake, everyone of them helping the other to be obedient. . . . 22

In other words, Luther felt that Christians must call the state (and he included the economy under that

since it was so firmly in the grip of the princes) to be obedient to God, and point out strongly when it is

not-as must the state ensure that religious disputes are settled peacefully and the church acts as a good

citizen in society (that is, no abuse in the name of God). The two are meant to work together interactively

under God to oppose Satan's rule, and both are responsible together to God.

Moltmann notes that Luther's understanding of Law and Gospel as two modes of divine governance

has been transmuted into an ethic of two "spheres" or kingdoms (church and secular world) which operate

by different principles and have little to do with each other. Where Luther envisaged two divine

"regiments" working together under God to oppose the forces of evil in all arenas of human activity-in

church, economy (which includes the family) and state-his successors disengaged the two and assigned

them to separate spheres.23

The concept of separate spheres-though in fact a denial of the actual integration between the three

orders-was developed essentially as a form of self-protection for the churches. It enabled them not only

to avoid the political repercussions of social critique, but also to retain some intellectual dignity under the

assault of nineteenth century rationalism. Theologian Christoph Luthardt and Protestant thinkers such as

Rudolph Sohm, Ernst Troeltsch and Max Weber attempted to ensure that religion was not pushed out of

human experience altogether by reserving the private sphere-the sphere of opinion and emotion-as the

place where the Gospel takes root and bears h i t . Practical matters, even those having to do with church

organization-were relegated to the secular sphere and excluded f?om the purview of the Gospel.

=LW 13: 195. Seealsop.196.

U ~ o ~ t r n a ~ . On Human Dimitv, 66-73.

Ulrich Duchrow notes that the dualism inherent in this ethic is often disguised today.'4 The church

avoids economic and political involvement by assuming that the secular realm operates by special laws to

which only "experts" can speak. Insofar as they have the requisite skills, individual Christians are alleged

to have "secular" responsibilities, but the church as such is not. It is assumed that the Gospel will supply

personal motivation for world involvement but does not address the content of what is done. If the church

speaks publicly about political or economic matters it does so in a very general (and impotent) way.

However it does not speak to or act directly in concrete situations (unless, perhaps, its own institutional

75 interests, or those of the group who holds power in the church, are threatened!).-

in one sense the wariness that I heard From some rural Christians about getting the church as a whole

involved in concrete action to change social structures is understandable. Such action a1 ways requires

committing to panicular organizations and strategies. It puts the church at risk of investing in a project that

may turn out to be unwise or mismanaged (thus compromising their public credibility), of offending

members with vested interests in the status quo, or of offending the governments that provide their tax-

exempt status. In facf it is almost certain that churches who make such commitments will experience some

failures and loss of public respect. What is also certain however, is that if the church refuses to make

political and economic commitments, it surrenders a key element of its reawn for being as Luther saw it.

It leaves injustice to be addressed not by gospel and law working in a dialectical partnership under God,

but by the inadequate resources ofthe law alone. Perhaps in dealing with farm foreclosures and the future

of rural communities, the theological descendants of Luther (myself included) might benefit from a return

to our roots in Luther.

"tn two studies of Lutherans. separated by 20 years. in the United States Merton Strommen's research in the early 70's found that a large percentage of Lutherans agreed that "CIergy should stick to religion and not concern themselves with social, economic and political questions." See Merton Strommen, et al. A Study of Generations (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg, 1972), 390-391. More recently, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America commissioned Kenneth lnskeep to do a study of 400 Lutheran congregations. He found that both the clergy and the council members ranked the discussion of social justice issues as one of three areas in which they are least erective. See Kenneth Inskeep, Effective Ministry and Membershiv Growth (Chicago, IL: Evangelical Lutheran Chmh in America, 1996). I am not aware of a similar study in Canada.

196

B. Providing Pain-killers Instead of Cures

The church has not only contributed to the coverup of inequities in the honour code by suppressing

social critique. It has also enabled such inequities to persist by soothing the pain that they generate. When

I asked fanners how they felt that the church could help in the farm crisis, most suggestions were not

related to social action, or even physical relief(receiving "charity" would be shameful). Rather, the focus

was on inner healing. Several said that they were looking for peace, a sense of God's presence, comfort

in their distress. One said that the church is "a cushion if you need it"; another said that it is a place ''to

feel protected and safe and accepted." One man, somewhat embamssed, confessed to me at the end of

our interview that in spite of the church's comfort, "I'm still kind of angry about the whole thing" (that is,

the debt crisis his farm went through). His manner suggested that he thought the anger was inappropriate,

that worship and prayer should have been able to exorcise it from his soul. but that he just could not get

rid of it.

Moltmann says that this understanding of worship is based on a "coca-cola" philosophy: worship is

the "pause that refreshes." Such a philosophy regards the world of work as the only real world, one

without much joy in it. But, it holds, there are pauses-like worship, or reccreaation-which refiesh us and

allow us to go back to work with more vigor and commitment. Rather than being an expression of an

alternate reality, a joyous preview of the new creation, worship becomes no more than a break h m reality.

Where it could make us restless for change ("the chains hurt when freedom comes near," Moltmann says)

it serves instead the functions of "unburdening, venting and compensation" and as such has "a stabilizing

effect for work and domination." It reinforces the status quo and releases negative emotions that otherwise,

combined with a hopefbl experience of a real alternative, might lead to

Now it is certainly understandable that f m e a who are in a daily struggle with weather and creditors,

and live in an exhausting whirlwind of off- and on-farm work might be looking for the church to provide

a place of refuge and peace. When reality is intransigent, when the cause of a problem cannot be fixed in

26~[lrgen Moltrnann, The Passion For Life: A Messianic Lifes~Ie, trans. M. Douglas Meeks (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1977), 70-72,75.

the shon t e n , such a refuge may be the only reasonable option. When the action taken to foreclose on

farmers is swift and sometimes brutal (as it has tended to be in Alberta) individual farmers can do little

more than trust in a God who "in everything works for good with those who love God" (Rorn 8:28). Their

faith is an anchor of hope in a hopeless situation.

However, when mosr individuals in crisis choose a retreat from pain, the community's anger never

reaches the critical energy level necessary to bring about change-focused protest. Pain serves the critical

function of directing attention to a wound so that it might be treated, not only for individuals, but also for

societies. Only when treatment is underway are painkillers appropriate. The reduction of congregational

ministry to spiritual "anesthesia" treats effects while ignoring deep-rooted causes.

In one sense I was surprised to find this tendency in the Haugean pietism in which I have my roots.

Hans Nielsen Hauge was a businessman in Norway in the 18' century who became deeply concerned about

the religious and economic oppression of the Norwegian peasants. His conscience led him to break the

law-the Conventicle Act-in order to organize peasants for Bible study and social critique. He organized

two cooperatives, a book bindery and a saw mill, owned and run by unemployed bonder. In these

cooperatives he integrated regular Bible study and wonhip with work and communal living. Profits were

held in common and a trust fimd was established to care for those who could no longer work. Hauge

ensured that everyone had an opportunity to work at a job that suited their abilities and provided an

adequate living. He called his approach "joint stewardship." It subordinated profit to the good of the

community and provided care for the aged and idinn. Respect for the land was emphasized and all was

to be done according to "the design of the Creator . . . for the fulfilment of the human race" as he put it.

Eventually Hauge's cooperatives became an effective model for social and industrial reform in Norway.

At the time however, they were illegal. Hauge spent many years in prison as a result, eventually dying as

a consequence of the hard labor required there?'

2 7 ~ e e And- Aarflot, Hans Nielsen Haune: His Life and Message, trans. Joseph M. Shaw (Minneapolis. MN: Augsburg Publishing House, 1979) or Magnus Notvedt The Rebirth of Norwav's Peasantw: Folk Leader Hans Nielsen Hauae (Tacoma, WA: Pacific Lutheran University Press, 1965).

198

It seems, however, that Hauge's revolutionary social consciousness did not cross the Atlantic with his

followers. Although North American Haugeans have been active in relief efforts to help "innocent"

sufferers, vigorous action aimed at challenging the heart of systemic social problems has been avoided.

Worship in particular has tended to be directed toward anesthetizing pain rather than vigorously engaging

social problems.

Hauge's life suggests, however, that the church should not too quickly rob farmers of the energy of

pain and the anger it generates. The Bible portrays the anger of God as the energy of love aroused to action

by injury to the beloved. When people are hurt God's ire is raised. It seems then that sometimes going to

church, encountering God, ought to increase our anger and focus it in appropriate action. not simply soothe

it away.

It may be that Hauge's perspective has succumbed to the "survival of the fittest" philosophy that I

have encountered in both prairie theology and in the agricultural economy. This philosophy leads people

to believe that it is inevitable, even necessary, that the honour code leave victims behind. They may feel

a vague guilt over their own contribution to unhealthy economic practices, or over those who have suffered

directly or indirectly as a result of their involvement. However they are not seized by any deep sense of

injustice, or any dangerous anger. Worship helps to assuage any lingering guilt with the promise of

forgiveness, leaving them 6ee to carry on as always. A pastor who spent a number of years in a rural parish

commented:

If you're the banker you may have your conscience eased by saying, "Well what can I do? I'm just a little cog in this big bank machine; what can I do?" And I go and I pray for confession and forgiveness because I know its not right. I know I've had a part in that, but what could I do? And I hear God's promise of forgiveness and I am able to continue on.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests that this is a caricature of grace. Instead of being the world-transforming

mercy of God, grace is tumed into a justification for living the way the world lives. He laments: "Yet the

outcome of the Reformation was the victory, not of Luther's perception of grace in all its purity and

199

costliness, but of the vigilant religious instinct of man for the place where grace is to be obtained at the

cheapest price.'"8

Worship is not the only way in which the church releases tension around injustice. It also appears to

do so through forms of inconsequential discussion. Interviewees suggested that when the talk takes place

on a superficial level, in low-risk national rather than local settings and when generalities rather than

personal stories are shared, the talk is not likely to lead to action. In fact it may lull churches into believing

that by vague talk, even written statements, they have taken action-that they have done what they can. Any

Spirit-induced restlessness is quelled. Steve says that at the last synod convention ofhis church "I spoke

up and said that it was time for us to become more rural-friendly. and we aren't. We've passed some things

to do but our church hasn't done it yet. Nor does it look like we're gonna."

This approach to social injustice has, in my observation, often been characteristic of my own

denomination's behaviour. We tend to have a heated argument about the issues (often without hearingthe

stories of people personally involved), we make a statement at a convention (which alienates a large number

of members because it is a compromise and satisfies very few), and then, the feelings vented, we sit back

satisfied that our work is done-and the injustice continues.

Perhaps we need to understand the healing power of our faith not as a means of dulling human

sensitivity to pain, or ofgiving humans just enough care so that they can hobble back into unjust structures

to be hurt again, but as the provision of deep courage and an ultimate security that allows the taking of the

risks necessary to bring about change. Marx offers a memorable image of both. His phnw "religion is

the opium of the people" is commonly interpreted in the first sense. In fact, however, in context, it refers

to the second. Donald Palmer notes that in Marx's day, opium was regarded as a healing medicine, not an

escape into anesthesia. He gives the quote in its context (without citation) this way: "Religious distress is

at the same time the expression of real distress and the protest against real distress. Religion is the sigh of

*~ietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Disci~Ieshi~, trim. R H. Fuller, 2nd ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1959). 52.

200

the oppressed creature. the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of an unspiritual situation. It

is the opium of the people."29 Farmers must recover their voices if they are to contribute to the healing of

their communities. Perhaps our rural churches can recapture an ancient tradition of giving voice to the

voiceless.

Before we explore options for doing that, let us briefly review what our limited examination of the

experience of farm bankruptcy has suggested3' to this point: First farm bankruptcy is accompanied by a

deep experience of personal failure that is reinforced by community shaming. Secondly, the shaming is

part of a social partem of honour and shame common to close-knit agricultural societies. Thirdly, the

church participates in supporting the honour code around which this structure is built and in preventing any

critique ofthat code. Fourthly, the shame is unhelpful because it singles individuals out for blame when

in fact the global village-all players in the agricultural economy-have a part in the failure of each f m .

Finally, the isolation of those in financial difficulty, the failure to address these matters together, is

resulting in the gradual dissolution of rural community.

''Donald Palmer, Lookinp at Philoso~hv, 2nd ed. (Toronto, ON: Mayfield Publishing, 1994), 246.

3 0 ~ use the term "suggested" as a reminder that the qualitative sociology that I have been doing with these very limited samples is intended to develop theory which others may be interested in testing on a representative sample using quantitative methods.

CHAPTER 9

WHAT DOES SHAMING MEAN 1N THE LIGHT OF JESUS' STORY?

At the foundation of every worldview are unprovable assumptions about human life. We have

examined some of those upon which the honour code is based. To open this section, I expose my own

core assumptions, which have directed the interpretation of the data in this study: I believe that what is

happening in our agricultural economy and in run1 communities is not a benign and natural process of

social change. I see it as a serious departure from healthy human life. I am convinced that humans were

made to be in loving relationship with each other, with creation and with God. yet the structures of

agricultural life are tearing people, families and communities apart. The process which I believe to be

necessary to begin rebuilding rural communities is based on what I perceive to be the impetus behind Jesus'

ministry and the hope that emerges from his death and resurrection: that is, the reconciliation of all

things-in God.

That process has at its heart the drawing together of people from various places in the community

economy to tell their stories and to wrestle together with the painful-and shame-full-issues of the farin

crisis. I admit that, considering the barriers we have identified., such a process is difficult and hught with

dangers. Smillie ' s warning against a "liberal plural ism" that is convinced that "everyone, whether

oppressor or oppressed, can work out their differtnces if their 'heart is in tune with God"' is important to

heed. ' Nonetheless, several convictions and observations encourage me to find a way to make community

conversation happen: First, the conversation is already happening in some places. Not all communities

are being eroded. Some have found new life through cooperative, and imaginative action at the local level.

Because of the highly interdependent character of rural society, that cooperative action at the local level

is essential to solutions that last. "Power plays" alone do not seem to be effective. Secondly, in terms of

acruol responsibility for the farm crisis there is not a clear line between "oppressors" and "oppressed" at

the local level. All contribute in significant ways. There are, however, dramatic distinctions between

m mil lie, Bevond the Social Goswl, 125.

202

members as to the amount they suffer from, and are blamed for, the crisis. Open conversation (with

sufferers appropriately protected and prepared) allows for the stories of pain to be told, and the facts

examined. It creates the possibility (not certainty) that some people's perspectives will be stretched or

converted. Undoubtedly the conversation that results will be heated at times; "all the differences" will not

be worked out. However without it, I am convinced that the future of rural comunities as healthy, human

places to live is in serious question. Fourthly, my assessment of our biblical tradition is that, whatever

preliminary steps one needs to take to help the voiceless find their voice (including partisan rallies and

small group separation), some movement in the church towards a genuinely open conversation is central

to our mission.

The process for de-shaming the farm crisis and facilitating community conversation that will be laid

out in later chapters is reframed and informed by my understanding ofJesus' ministry. In this chapter I will

describe the biblical hermeneutic that I have used to develop that theological frame (and which I will

commend to rural pastors), then proceed to set it out in detail.

A. My Approach to Interpreting the Bible

The key to a Liberating relationship with the Bible seems to be not in managing its truth, but in being

opened by it. Normally we tend to reduce and manage biblical stories so that they will fit smoothly into

our life-space. Our class, race, age, job, affiliations and loyalties become the context for the interpretation

of the Bible and its meanings are narrowed to support our personal worldview. George Lindbeck, however,

suggests that the real power of the Bible is in the reverse-in allowing the Bible to become the context for

our lives. When our culture, economy and personal situations are "inscribed" into the Bible, viewed

through the hmework of its narrative, the Bible speaks 'bmulti-vocally," opening up many possibilities for

human life.

This "inscription" of one's world into the Bible does not happen simply by learning a few Bible verses.

or reading it through. It happens as one "lives" in the Bible, constantly reviewing its stories, appropriating

its images, wrestling with its strangeness and its difficulties.'

Building on the philosophical work of Wittgenstein and the theological method ofHans Frei, Lindbeck

regards religion as a "cultural and/or linguistic framework or medium that shapes the entirety of life and

thought." Religion, for him, is not primarily an array of beliefs or a set of symbols expressive of basic

attitudes or feelings (though these will be involved). Rather it is a linguistic "idiom" that makes possible

the description of reality in new forms.

When Christians converse about the things that are important to them they have available a language

that Lindbeck believes has unusual power to transform our thinking in creative and ideology-resistant ways.

This is the language of the Christian text-the Bible. When this language is used to h e reality, the claims

made are, in Lindbeck' s terms, "intratextual."

Speaking intratextually requires biblical literacy. The Bible is read closely to gain an intimate

knowledge ofboth the scope anddetails of its narrative. This is not the same thing as a general theological

education. Lindbeck says,

Biblical literacy does not consist of historical, critical knowledge about the Bible. Nor does it consist of theological accounts, couched in nonbiblical language, of the Bible's teachings and meanings. Rather it is the patterns and details of its sagas and stories, its images and symbols its syntax and grammar, which need to be internalized if one is to imagine and think scripturally. 3

A community that practices intertextual speech tells and re-tells the stories of the Bible, constantly

bringing them to bear on the hopes and struggles of their people. Training in the disciplines of prayer,

worship and service is biblically informed and shaped. Doctrinal instruction in what Lindbeck calls the

"regulative grammar" of the Church's discourse is a part of catechesis, being used to draw attention to the

Bible rather than away fiom it:

L~indbeck, Nature of Doctrine, 1 18.

'Cieorge Lindbeck, "The Church's Mission to a Postmodern Culture," in Postmodem Theolow: Christian Faith in a Pluralist World, ed. Frederic Burnham (San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row, 1989), 4 I .

4 Ibid., 54.

The interpretation of the Bible in such a community is learned, Lindbeck says, not by reference to

hermeneutic theories, but as an applied skill in the practical contexts of worship and everyday life. For

Lindbeck the causal relations between world and text are not as important as the fact that they interact

powerfully. Hans Frei puts it this way: "The coincidence of the recital of one '.s own story with the recital

of a "disclosive" or "reinterpretive" moment in theparadigmutic story-usually that ofJesus on the cross-is

the equivalent of revelation-os-e~ent.''~

Lindbeck suggests that biblical interpretation in such a community will be:

Christ-centred Lindbeck claims that the Bible's primary f ic t ion is to reveal the character and

identity of God-not by an ontological description but through the accounts of God's ongoing interactions

with humanity. The centre and focus of this narrative, its typological fulfilment and its unifying heart is

the life, death, resurrection and return of Jesus, the Messiah.

Canonical. Unified by its Christ-centre, the various parts of the text from Genesis to Revelation

interpret and interact with each other. This interaction allows fkee play to imaginative intertexual and

intratextual interpretations.

ComrnumI. Lindbeck believes that faith is a "communal phenomenon" that shapes our subjective

experience! Allowing the Bible to reframe our situations is not a matter of listening to clergy deliver

pronouncements about what the Bible means for every ethical dilemma. Rather the laity are trained to use

the text regularly in their everyday lives with a sense of confidence in their ability to interpret its "literal

sense." The "competent practitioners," those who have a sense of the Bible born of long use, do not act

as authorities but as guides, identifying the keys to interpreting and making use ofdifficult or contradictory

passages.

Mulri-vocal. The Bible is used in endlessly varying ways to imaginatively interpret the worlds in

which its readers live. To a great extent this multivocality has been lost in our day principally because of

'~ re i , "Narrative,"160.

kindbeck, Nature of Doctrine, 33.

'bid., 4 1.

the Enlightenment emphasis on facts-getting at the actual historical, social or literary meaning of a text?

Lindbeck says that "After the Reformation the Bible became more and more exclusively an object of study

with fixed and univocal meanings. It was no longer a language with many senses, a dwelling place of the

It should be noted that Lindbeck does not reject the use of historical or literary critical methods.

Because the Bible's meaning is found in its communal use, and not in its correspondence with some

historical (or other) referent, the Bible's history or science can be challenged without negating its power

to reveal the divine and human character. Intratextuality is less concerned with analysing the text for its

'7mth" yield than with allowing the text to order our world, to make it a meaningful, satisfying place to

live. Lindbeck encourages the use of any tools that will make the text more accessible to the reader.''

However he refuses to restrict it to a single meaning. For this reason, the preferred interpretive tools

are those that most readily bring the world into the text, that open doors in the text for the world to enter.

Some that do this well, when wisely used, include:

TypologtLOld and New Testament events and images, as well as the events and images of our present

lives, are seen as types of Christ and his coming kingdom. Typology is not a matter of finding correlations

in the Bible between its stoq and ours but rather of coming to understand our story as being ordered and

given meaning by the biblical narrative.

'~ indbak Lels that univocality has been imposed by the modern concern with the text's referent, whether it refen to the fbith of the community that wrote it (Rudolph Bultmann), to universal archetypes of the literary community's consciousness (Northrop Frye), or to a modeaf-being in the world (Paul Ricouer), or does not refer and gets its meaning h m its mimetic "likeness" to history (Eric Auerbach), or its universal narrative structural features (Vladimir Propp) or the differences between the words of the text (Jacques Derrida). For some discussion of this see Frei, "Narrative,"l49- 164. Note also John Searle's contention in "The World Turned Upside Down," The New Yo& Review o f Books 30 (October 27 1983): 77-78, that both those who insist on reference and those who insist on no reference are trying to ground their reading of the text on some kind of universal theory.

Lindbeck, Nature of Doctrine, 43. Lindbeck feels that the Bible can serve a s a common home for human imagination even when it is not "believed." He says, "Once Diblical texts] penetrate deeply into the psyche, especially the collective psyche, they cease to be primarily objects of study and rather come to supply the conceptual and imaginative vocabularies, as well as the grammar and syntax. with which we construe and construct reality." See Nature of Doctrine, 39-40.

lo Lindbeck acknowledges that his hermeneutic is not unlike that which the Church u x d for centuries until the modern period. This affinity to pre-modem interpretation does not mean that it is pre-critical however.

206

Historical and literary-critical methods-These are employed in a non-legalistic way to evoke

forgotten or hidden meanings in the text. In my own study, analysis of the social context of the Bible is

particularly useful.

Midrusk-In this typically Jewish way of commenting on the Bible, non-biblical stories are told in

order to exhibit biblical meanings (some of Shakespeare's plays might be an example).

Allegory and figuration-Used carefully, with the Christ-centre as the interpretive key, these

imaginative ways of connecting our story to the biblical story can provide a mythical framework for

community action.

Appropriation ofother tars-The biblical story has historically taken into itself even the sacred texts

of other religions. This was true in its formation. Genesis absorbed and transformed the Gilgamesh epic,

the New Testament did the same with the classics of Greece and Rome. Still today the iiving text enters

into conversation with the epics of secular society.

Essentially Lindbeck's approach avoids a simple proof-texting of the Bible. It draws the reader into

an experience of the biblical narrative as a whole, allows one to experience its character, its deep themes,

and plot structure. It is in this way that the Bible speaks with the richest voice. It is not reduced to a few

strands that support one's personal position, but opens up a world of possibilities that may challenge,

change, and save us, personally and corporately.

My assumptions about shame and farm bankruptcy, laid out at the beginning of this chapter, were

formed through this sort of encounter with the Bible. Let us take a closer look at the particulars of that

encounter, beginning with what I consider to be the Bible's center-the life of Jesus.

B. Jesus as The Healer of Broken Community

Jesus brings about reconciliation and renewed community by:

I . Redefining honour

The honour code threatens the fabric of nrral relationships. Jesus approaches honour in a way that

has great promise for rebuilding community. He lays it out in his inaugural address. He says "The Spirit

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of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me . . . to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour" (Lk

4: 9 ' The nature of the "Lord's favour" and the way in which it is given, as Jesus understands it,

reframes our understanding of honour.

"Favour" in Lk 4: 19, or "favorable" as the NAS translates, is the Greek adjective G k ~ t o c 6om the

verb 6C~opal meaning to "accept." It is interesting that 8 4 ~ 0 p a 1 is also the root of ~ % o ~ i a - ' ~ ~ o o d

pleasure9'-and ~ 6 6 0 ~ k h b ~ ' t o be well-pleased"-terms which also have to do with being found

"acceptable." The Lord's favour is announced three times in Jesus' life. At his birth the angels use

~680lCh to announce God's pleased acceptance (Lk 2: 14); ~ t 6 o ~ C o is used at Jesus' baptism by the

voice From heaven to announce God's pleasure (Mt 3: 17; Mk 1 : 1 I ; Lk 322: 2 Pe 1 : 17); and it is repeated

by the voice of God at Jesus' transfiguration (Mt 175, Mk 9:2).

In each case God makes it clear that Jesus has found favour with God. This is not surprising. More

interesting is the fact that in each situation Jesus is in peculiar solidarity with us. We become part ofhis

"kin-group," sharing his honour or shame. The favour of God expressed in these passages therefore comes

to rest not just on Jesus, but on those with whom Jesus is in solidarity. Thus the angels cap their joyfbl

announcement of the Saviour's birth with a benediction on a hurnanity6'with whom God is pleased." That

this is not a reference to some select, morally perfect minority is indicated by the repetition of God's

pleasure at Jesus' baptism. The baptism that Jesus receives fiom John is a baptism for sinners. Yet Jesus

accepts it as his own, identifying himself with us. Moments later, the Father honours the Son, declaring

this self-declared sinner (and, by solidarity, all the brother and sister sinners to whom he has joined himself)

to be acceptable-the object of God's favour and pleasure: "This is my beloved Son in whom I am well-

pleased." Finally, at his transfiguration, Jesus announces that his fate will be that shame-filled death which

the Romans reserved for those whom they regarded as subhuman, that death that so many Jews have

already died-crucifixion. In the wake of this announcement (Mk 8:3 1-33) we hear once again the

"~nless otherwise indicated, all biblical references are from the New Revised Standard Version.

208

expression of God's favour, extended through Jesus' solidarity to those most shamed and outcast in his

society: "This is my beloved Son in whom I am well-pleased."

The year of the Lord's favour then is the year in which humanity is made fully acceptable to God

through Christ. It is the year in which all human standards of righteousness which stoke our pride, which

inflame the competition for honour, which justify the exclusion of the shamed and destroy human

community, are revoked.

Let us look at this carefblly, for it is a deep challenge to the honour society in which Jesus lived.

In Judaism those who "found favour" with the community-that is, those who were honoured-were

referred to as righteous: "Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life and honour" (Prov

2 2 I ) Those who were not acceptable, because they paid no attention to, or failed the standards of

righteous living, were referred to as sinners: "A bad name incurs shame and reproach; so it is with the

double-tongued sinner"(Ecc1iasticus 6: 1 ). Jesus is not a h i d to use this sort of honour society language:

"Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine

righteous persons who need no repentance" (Lk 15:7), he says. However he challenges the human-

centered, power-based orientation of that language and redefnes it.

In doing so, he draws on his heritage. In Israel's deepest traditions righteousness was not understood

to be a thing one possesses or a standard one achieves. Unlike the very personal, pietistic sense that we

have often attached to the term in modem Protestantism, righteousness in Judaism was a way of being in

community. It had to do with the quality of one's relationships rather than personal characteristics or

adherence to a personal standard of clean living. Elizabeth Achtemeier observes that in the Hebrew

scriptures righteousness is understood essentially as the fulfilment of covenant responsibility. One is

"right" not in relation to a code but in relationship to people. Righteousness is being in right relationship.

Each relationship, whether with people or God brings with it certain demands and responsibilities. It is

- - -

I2The intemreter's Dictionary of the Bible, 1962 ed., s.v. "Righteousness in the OT," by Elizabeth Achtemeier, 80.

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the fulfilment of these that constitutes righteousness. Because the demands of concrete relationships vary,

righteousness in one situation may be unrighteousness in another.

Honour is the social "value" attributed to the righteous. " That is, value is ascribed to those members

of the community who are perceived to have kept their obligations to the community, who are perceived

to have acted righteously.

Israel's scriptures identify characteristic patterns of living that promote the community's well-being.

That penon is regarded as righteous who cares for the poor, the fatherless and the widow (lob 29: 12-1 5;

3 1 : 15- 19; Dt 24: 13; Pr 29:7), even defending their cause in the law court (Job 29: 15; 3 1 :2 1 ; Pr 3 1 9).

Such a person gives liberally (Ps 37:2 1-25-26; Pr 2 1 :26), providing also for the traveler and guest (Job

3 1 :3 1-32), counting righteousness better than any wealth (Job 3 1 24-25; Ps 37: 16; Pr 16:8). The righteous

is a good steward of the land (Job 3 1 :38-40) and work animals (Pr 12: lo), treats servants humanely (Job

3 1 : 13) and lives at peace with neighbours (Job 3 1 : l - 12), wishing them only good (Job 3 1 29-30; 2924).

The righteous one is an immovable factor for good (Pr 10:25,30; 12:3,12).

Jesus does not challenge the assumption of his society that honour and righteousness are fundamental

to one's being. In line with his tradition, he also regards righteousness as having to do with right

relationships. For example, in the parable ofLk 16: 1 Jesus refers to a steward as ''unrighteous" because

he is WlfaithfbI in his relationship to his employer (as perhaps also was the employer in summarily

dismissing him). In Lk 18:6, Jesus calls a judge "unrighteous" not because the judge refuxd to heed the

pleas of the woman (he does eventually vindicate her) nor becaw his judgements were unjust. Rather he

is called "unrighteous" because he "neither feared God nor regarded others" (1 8:2). That is, the judge paid

no attention to the demands of his relationship to God or to people. He acted only out of self-interest

(getting the woman off his back).

In Matthew 5, the author is at pains to show that Jesus does not dismiss the concept of righteousness.

That is, Jesus is not shameless. He has not forsaken all standards, all concern for honourable relations

he Greek ~tpfi-translated "honour" or "glorynin the New Testament-has to do with one's value or worth.

210

within society. In fact, he can say in XMff that 'your righteousness must exceed that of the scribes and

Pharisees."

However, the way in which he uses the term "righteousness" indicates that he understands it

differently than the religious leaders. The standards of righteousness held by the scribes and Pharisees

divided between people on the basis of their ability to perform legally prescribed duties. These standards

were based on a code that was much easier for those with leisure, power and wealth to keep. Jesus,

however, recalls them to their biblical roots. Righteousness is not fundamentally about rules but

relationships he says. Rules are meant to serve the well-being of relationships. Actions that break rules

may be necessary for the sake of healthy relationships (as when Jesus ignores the Sabbath work proscription

to heal the sick or feed his disciples-Jn 59-16; Mk 223-28). Actions that are permitted may be avoided

when they harm relationships (as when Jesus notes that, though there is no rule against lust, its

entertainment already distances oneself From the other and harms the marriage relationship-Mt 5:27-28).

In recalling relationship rather than nrfe as the heart of righteousness Jesus is simply exegeting Israel's own

scripture.

What is radially new, however, is the way in which he interprets the hoe ofrighteous relationships.

It is this re-interpretation that challenges Israel's, and our own, understanding of honour and shame.

First, Jesus identifies God, not human beings, as the One who makes righteousness happen. God is

also therefore the one who bestows honour, value, on the occasion of righteousness. God's

righteousness-that is, God's right behaviour in relationship to us-rather than our righteousness, our right

behaviour in relation to God or others-is determinative.

In the parable ofthe wheat and the tares (Mt 13:43), Jesus connects the "good seed" sown by the Son

of Man with the 'righteous who will shine like the sun in the kingdom oftheir Father." This righteousness

does not seem to flow from some special trait of the people involved, nor any action that has earned them

merit. Rather they are righteous because they have been "sown" by the Son of Man. Their righteousness

is a Divine gift.

21 1

Similarly Jesus comes to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him (Mt 3: 13). John protests "I need

to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" However Jesus answers. "Let it be so now; for it is proper

for us in this way to fblfill all righteousness." Accepting the baptism of a sinner, identifying with sinners

and then, in solidarity with those sinners, being pronounced acceptable to God-this is the fulfilment of all

righteousness according to Jesus. Why? Because it establishes the proper relationship between God and

humanity. That proper relationship is one in which God takes the initiative to make things right. God's

righteousness has to do with making us righteous. God is faithfbl in relationship to us when God takes

whatever steps are necessary to keep us connected to God and each other. That means incarnation.

embracing us in our stubborn resistance. being with us in spite of our desire to be apart. Jesus' baptism

fulfills "all righteousness" not because it reflects some special merit on John's part but because it

inaugurates a new relationship with God based on God's initiating grace rather than human achievement.

It is God "making right" the Divine-human relationship.

Secondly, Jesus challenges the current understanding of human righteousness. He treats it as a result

of, and response to, God's righteousness. As the result of God's righteousness, it is forensic. That is, God,

acting righteously, declares us righteous. This righteousness is "objective." However, it becomes true of

us subjectively when we respond righteously to God's declaration. The response that is "right" for our

relationship to Ood is faith. We trust God to be God If God determines our existence then we act

righteously when we trust God to do that and refuse to take the final responsibility for our lives into our

own hands. So Jesus says in Mt 6:33 "Do not worry about the needs of your body [as if you alone were

responsible for these things] but seek God's reign and God's righteousness and these things will be yours

as well." Jesus encourages us to trust God to be righteous-that is to sustain our life.

It also follows that if God determines our honour then we have no right to claim it for ourselves.

Jesus criticizes the Pharisees who

do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long. They love to have the place ofhonour at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have people call them rabbi. (Mt 23:5@

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Jesus insists that we are to refbse human honours because ''you are all students" and "children" (Mt 23:8-

1 1 ; see also the parable of the wedding guest Lk 14:7- 1 1 ). There is only one who deserves honour and

gives it- the "Father in heaven" (Lk 14:9; Jn12:26). Even Jesus does not presume to claim honour for

himself (Jn 850) but leaves that to God.

To claim honour for ourselves tums righteousness into a human enterprise and opens it up to

competition with the neighbur. In Lk 18:gffJesus tells a parable to prick the bubble ofthose who ''trusted

in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt." He describes a Pharisee who,

standing before God in the temple, dares to claim honour for himself on the basis of a righteousness

narrowly focused on maintaining certain religious practices. The Pharisee compares himself with

satisfaction to the sinners around him: "thieves. rogues, adulterers, and this tax collector." The tax

collector he mentions however, is not even able to face God. He can only beat his breast and cry, "God,

be merciful to me, a sinner!" It is this tau collector whom God declares righteous, Jesus says, because he

lets God be God. The tau collector acknowledges that only God has the right to determine who shall be

honoured and who shall not; he confesses that he cannot claim honour on the basis of any lawful standards

and he calls on God to judge mercifully. We are truly righteous, in Jesus' eyes, when we trust God to be

righteous-that is merciful-toward us.

By removing righteousness and honour fbm the context of human competition and achievemen4

Jesus challenges his own and our modem honour societies-oot in their valuing of honour, but in their

understanding of its source and purpose. He imagines a world in which neighbours would not dare to

declare each other righteous or unrighteous, worthy or unworthy of honour, especially on the basis of

religious or economic behaviour, but would leave that judgement to the grace of God.

The code that shames farmers is called into question as lenders, solvent farmers, agribusiness

executives, politicians and consumers are found to be in as much need of God's mercy as the insolvent

farmer. And insolvent farmers are restored to honour by the One who treats them with the same honour

given the Son.

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2. Reassessing the wealth=righteousness equation

It was assumed in Judaism that the Lord's favour rested on the righteous. It was assumed t h a t 4

things being equal-those who were faithful in their relationship to God and the community would reap the

(natural) benefits of that faithhtness. The righteous are therefore promised blessing (Pr 1 O:6;) and full life

(Ps 92: 12; Pr 10: 16; 1 1: 19; 12:28), posterity (Ps 37:37) and prosperity (Pr l3:2 1,22,25; l5:6; Ps 1 12:3;

Is 48: 18), the fulfilment of their desires (Pr 10: 24, 28; 11:23), and deliverance fiom trouble (Pr 1 1:8;

12:2 1 ; 24: 16). As we have noted, it is this association of prosperity with righteousness that constitutes the

religious justification for the modem rural honour code.

The problem, of course, is that all things are not equal. This description of the blessings that come

to those who act appropriately in their relationships to God and others assumes that they are in a position

to benefit from that behaviour. That is, they must be in a position of authority, or live in a community

where the authorities are benevolent and neighbows are equally selfless. In a situation in which there is

oppression or severe competition, the righteous may simply be taken advantage of.

Israel recognized that because of this, one could not, in a simplistic way, identify the righteous by their

wealth. Achtemeier says of the ancient Hebrew "Not only is he righteous who fulfils the demands of a

relationship, but also he who has had his right taken away b m him within such a re~ationshi~."'~ The

Psalms often convey the righteous cries of the oppressed, seeking vindication by God from their enemies.

Here the righteousness ofthe one who has been unjustly injured, for no failure in meeting the (God-given)

requirements ofthe relationship with the neighbur is set over against the unrighteousness of the oppressor.

The community, operating from standards set down by the powerful or unaware ofthe htll dynamics of the

situation, may assume that it is the afflicted one who has been unrighteous and is receiving the

consequences ofunrighteous behaviour. In this situation God acts righteously-that is, according to God's

covenant responsibility to save-by declaring the afflicted one to be "in the right."

14"~ghteousness in the Of," 83.

Jesus recognizes the righteousness of those who have lost all they have to powers or systems that are

not just. However he goes beyond recognition of the "innocent" poor. In Mt 25, the Son of Man retuned

in glory says that those who visit people in prison are visiting him. The prisoners are not distinguished on

the basis of their innocence but are identified simply by their imprisonment. Since many, perhaps most,

of those in prison were there because of unrepayable debt, the Son of Man is identifying himself with

debtors (and with the hungry, thirsty, naked sick and the strangerj regardless of the reasons for their loss

of wealth and social status. He shares their poverty, they share his glory.

In this way, Jesus restores their honour. He makes it even more explicit in Lk 6:20: "Blessed are you

who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God." The Jesus seminar translates p a k d r p ~ o ~ not as "blessed"

or "happy"-the more conventional translations-but as "congratulations": "Conptulations, you who are

poor!"'S This is the language of honour. Jesus honours those who have lost their wealth and tbeir social

standing. He does this because it is precisely these who have come to the end of their resources, who may

be most likely to reach out for God's. It is among those for whom the competition for honour has resulted

in failure that openness to a righteousness not based on wealth becomes possible. It is these who may be

most likely to let God be the one who determines their being, rather than their economic achievements.

These will experience the "reign of God."

3. Restoring the exiles to $I lowship

A common feature of honour societies is the presence of a strong connection between food and

identity. Two simple principles are assumed: "you are what you eat" and "like eats with like." In other

words, holy people eat holy foods; holy people eat with holy people.'6 The first principle is reflected in

"~oben Funk. Roy Hoover and the Jesus Seminar, The Five Gosoels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus (New York, NY: Scribner, 1993), 289.

16~xcellent information on fim century customs regarding meals can be found in Dennis Smith. "Table Fellowship as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke," Journal of Biblical Literature 106: 61 3-38; Jerome Neyrey, "Meals, Food and Table Fellowship," in The Social Sciences and New Testament Internretation, ed. Richard Rohrbaugh (Peabody, MS: Hendrickson, 1996): 159- 182; Jerome Neyrey, ''Ceremonies in Lk-Acts: 'lhe Case ofMeals and Table Fellowship."in Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation ed. Jerome Neyrey (Peabody, MS: Hendric kson, 199 1 ): 36 1 -387; Scott Bartchy, "Table FelIowship,"in Dictionam of Jesus and the Goswls 1992, 796-800; KathIeen Corley, Private Women. Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Svno~tic Tradition (Peabody, MS: Hendrickson, 1989).

the purity laws regarding the selection and preparation of foods; the second is reflected in rules regarding

"commensa1ity"-that is, with whom one eats and shares one's food. The two are intimately connected,

though ultimately it is this latter that is particularly significant for our understanding of both the social

isolation that bankrupt farmers face and possible solutions. The significance of commensality in first

century Judaism is well expressed in a passage fkom the Clementine Homilies quoted by Jerome Neyrey:

Nor do we take our food fiom the same table as Gentiles, inasmuch as we cannot eat along with them, because they live impurely. But when we have persuaded them to have true thoughts, and to follow a right course of action, and have baptized them with a thrice blessed invocation, then we dwell with them. For not even if it were our father, or mother, or wife, or child, or brother, or any other one having a claim by nature on our affection, can we venture to take our meals with him; for our religion compels us to make a distinction. Do not, therefore regard it as an insult if your son does not take his food along with you. until you come to have the same opinions and adopt the same course of conduct as he follows."

This passage makes it clear first that who one ate with was a matter at the core of Jewish faith, and

secondly that it was a potent expression of group boundaries. Gillian Feely-Hamik says that food for

Judeans functioned as a metaphor for the Word of God. It was a manifestation ofthe Lord's ability to give

life-spiritually in the case ofthe Word, physically in the case of food. Feeiy-Harnik says that it functioned

as a concrete form of the Worbthat is, as a language for expressing the nature of relations between humans

and God and among human beings. Eating expresses people's unity with the Lord (if they accept the food

God has given them) or their separation from God (if they are eating food that God has forbidden). Eating

was a holy act and therefore the purity of the food and of those who ate it was paramount.'8

The Hebrew scriptures place great emphasis on distinguishing between the holy and the common, the

clean and unclean (Lv 10: 10) both in terns of food (Lv 1 1 ) and people (Lv 12-1 5). One must not defile

this "communion" with God by eating with those who normally pay no attention to God's law (Gentiles)

and who do not eat pure food (because, for various reasons, they are unclean when they touch it, or eat

forbidden food or food that has not been properly prepared).

"~lementine Homilies 1 3:4. quoted in Ne yrey, "Meals. Food and Table Fellowship," 1 59.

biilian Feely-Hamik, The Lord's Table: Eucharist and Passover in Early Christianity(PhiladeIphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 19% 1 ). 72.

216

Jesus' hearers therefore would not have been surprised to hear about the elder brother's attitude

toward his recently returned younger brother in Jesus' parable of the lost son (Lk 15: 1 1-32). Ln his ill-

starred quest for the life of a high-roller the younger brother had flouted the law of God by dishonouring

his father and (according to the elder brother) "devouring his property with prostitutes." To eat with him

would indicate approval of his actions and bring dishonour on the elder son. The eldest maintains honour

by staying apart. He is very angry however that the father (defender of the family honour) has not done

so also.

In fact, the father's behaviour is scandalous. He runs out to meet the reprobate, abandoning his

dignity, and then immediately orders a meal to be shared with him-a banquet in fact. Unwilling to allow

the effects of rebellious behaviour to divide his home, the father sacrifices his own honour to re-establish

fellowship with the younger son. He does it again by going out to the older son to beg him to join the

party. In his passion to maintain the integrity of the family, the father seems shameless and the hearers may

have begun to wonder about Jesus' morals as well.

Table fellowship in first century Judaism was not simply about maintaining respect for the law of God.

however. It was also an expression of social status. Certain groups of people (shepherds, prostitutes, tax

collectors, for example) were regarded as being chronically unable to maintain proper purity and therefore

came to be avoided at table as a matter of course. In the Graeco-Roman world around them, it was social

status alone, with no concern for spiritual purity, that determined table fellowship.'9 Influenced both by

their own tradition, and by their broader context, fm century Judaism had come to treat table fellowship

as essentially a marker of social, not simply spiritual, boundaries.

One of those boundaries involved women. Women who appeared in public at meals were social

anomalies. They bore the stigma of "public women9'-and were generally regarded as courtesans or

prostitutes.20 In Lk 7:36ff, such a public woman approaches Jesus while he is sharing a meal with a

19~ennis Smith, Social Obligation in the Context of Communal Meals. Unpublished Th.D. thesis. (Harvard. CT: Harvard University, 1980), referred to in Neyrey, "Ceremonies in Luke-Acts," 365.

'Osee Kathleen Corley. Private Women. Public Meals.

Pharisee. She is a "sinner" Luke says. Jesus should have avoided contact with her and sent her away

promptly. However the Pharisee is shocked to see that he not only allows her to remain with him at the

meal, but allows her to touch him intimately, bathing his feet with her tern, wiping them dry with her hair,

and anointing them with perfume. In private, these would be the actions of a lover. In public, with a male

stranger, they are the actions of a prostitute. Jesus accepts her presence and her love without censure.

Interestingly. in this encounter, Jesus equates the forgiveness of debts with the ability to love. Since

for Jesus righteousness-right relationship to God and the neighbow-is characterized by love (Mt 22:36-40)

he seems to be saying that the one who has been forgiven much debt is the one most likely to be

righteous-that is, most likely to love. Jesus leaves the reader wondering: if meal companions are to be

chosen by their righteousness, whose presence at the table is really in question: that of the woman, or the

Pharisee?

Actually, Jesus advocates a method of choosing guests that was outrageous for his culture. He

assumes that one would eat frequently with friends, family and "rich neighbours" and does this himself.

However he suggests that when drawing up the guest list for a special meal particular attention should be

paid to those normally forgotten-to "the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind" (Lk 14:13). What is

preposterous about this suggestion is that the status of such people is not just low, but negative. Neyrey

notes that according to Lv 21 : 16-20 they are prohibited h m worship in the temple and are not allowed

to eat at the sacrificial table ofthe Lord. In a culture where eating is a holy act, a symbol of unity with God,

he seems to be advocating sacrilege. Yet Jesus insists that they are God's chosen guests. He encourages

the elite members of the community to give these outcasts fill welcome and equal status by sharing a holy

meal with them?'

Jewish meals were ordered not only by a social map of who eats with whom, but also by a map ofwho

sits where." Normally there would be a leader ofthe feast, a host, who presided over the meal, seated the

guests, poured the wine and led the conversation. The right hand of the host was the traditional place of

2'~eyrey, "Ceremonies in Lk-Acts," 379-380.

%id., 364.

218

honour for the guests, reserved for high-ranking people (Lk 20:42) although there would be other places

ofhonour for distinguished guests as well (Lk 14% 1 1; 20:46), often ranked in declining order by distance

from the host. Jesus refen to this tradition when he asks (Lk 22:27) "Which is the greater, one who sits

at table, or one who serves? Is it not the one who sits at table?" Then he adds the startling statement: "I

am among you as one who serves." At a meal with his disciples shoaly before his death (Jn 13 : 12- 16),

Jesus4early the host-goes so far as to take up a towel and wash the feet ofhis guests (the disciples). This

was the work of a slave, yet Jesus takes it for himself and instructs his disciples to do the same.

What does this do to distinctions of honour and rank? In the traditional sense it eliminates them. If

the host's place is at the wash basin in the doorway then the one seated at the head table to the right of the

host's seat is now the most distant fkorn the host. At the same time the host is closer to less worthy guests.

Ifthe host chooses the place ofthe slave, how can even the most distinguished guest claim special privilege

at the table? The only way to gain honour in such a company is to forego it, Jesus says. It is only as we

take the lowest place that we hear the host honour us by saying "Friend, come up higher" (Lk 14: 10).

When his disciples begin to compete for the place of honour Jesus upbraids them. Later he reminds them

that honour is not something to be won but a gift that he gives (Lk 24:29-30).

In fact, Jesus's behaviour shows that he bestows the honour oftable fellowship indiscriminatei'y. He

refuses to choose meal companions on the basis of social righteousness. He eats frequently in the home

of Pharisees (Lk 7:36-50; 11:37-44; 14:l-7), eats with friends and disciples (Lk 10:38-42; M k 2:23ff.),

with sinners and outsiders (Lk 5:29-32; 15: 1-2; 195-17), even with mixed Galilean crowds that

undoubtedly contained Gentiles, shepherds, peasants, perhaps even Roman soldiers, as well as curious

members of Israel's elite (Mk 6:35-42) .

Oakman suggests that Jesus' occupation as a carpenter prepared him in a peculiarly effective way for

a role that crossed social boundaries. In one chapter of Jesus and the Economic Ouestions of His Dav,

Oakman explores the role of "brokers" in the first century Palestinian economy. Brokers were people who

crossed normal social boundaries in order to facilitate economic transactions between wealthy "patrons"

219

and (usually peasant) "clients." Patrons were those who owned key resources-land for example-and

clients were the workers able to process the resource.23 Oakrnan examines evidence to show that JesusT

occupation as a carpenter would have required him to do a good deal of traveling. His journeys would have

taken him to other villages, perhaps to the large estates in the Esdraelon plainz4 and in all probability also

to the major urban centers of Palestine. This mobility gave Jesus opportunity to make a broad variety of

social contacts that would have cut across social, religious and economic boundaries. He would have been

responsible to connect patrons who needed furniture built with clients who could cut and deliver the wood.

Such contacts became indispensable when Jesus began his ministry. His vision of human life under

the reign of God is one in which clients and patrons, rich and poor, religious and irreligious, are drawn

together to deal with their differences and to construct healthy human community. In his indiscriminate

table fellowship, that vision achieved a measure of reality.

The problem, of course, is that Jesus takes the role of broker far beyond anything permitted in his

society. Jesus violates particularly deep taboos in his openness to sharing fwd with Gentiles and enemies.

Gentiles were, almost by defhtion, those who had little interest in the law of God. To eat with them was

to welcome their lawless way of life. Yet in L k 4:25, Jesus speaks approvingly of Elijah who could have

gone to help any of the starving widows in Israel, but is sent instead to share (and multiply) the last meal

ofa Sidonese Gentile woman. Jesus' hometown., to whom he was speaking, is ready to throw himoff a cliff

for his implication that God approves of fellowship with the lawless (and might choose it at times above

fellowship with the b'faithful").

Jesus goes on to actively imitate Elijah. In that same region that Elijah visited, Jesus encounters a

Gentile woman of Sidon and does not (as his disciples urge him) send her away. He raises the question of

the appropriateness of fellowship with her ("It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the

dogs") but allows her answer ("Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters'

%ouglas Oakman, ksus and the Economic Questions of His Day (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1986). 1 94ff.

24~akman notes that Jesus' experience of the Esdraelon Plain shows up in his parables.

220

table") to sway him. In welcoming a conversation with a woman (a gentile woman), engaging her in

theological debate and letting her win, and framing the question, through the introduction of eating

metaphors, as a matter of comrnensality (that is, who belongs and who does not) Jesus brings great honour

and welcome to this outsider. Undoubtedly, however, he dishonours himself in the eyes of other Judeans.

The wisdom of avoiding intimate contact with enemies was (and still is) even more self-evident than

the sanctions regarding Gentiles. The natural human instinct for self-preservation is buttressed by Israel's

tradition. The Psalms are replete with prayers for the destruction or at least the hindrance of the enemy.

(Ps 7%; 8:2; 17:9; l8:37,4O; 2 1 :8,9; 54:4,7; 56:2,7; 59: LO; 68:2 1 are a few examples.) The writers implore

God to bring shame, disgrace and scorn upon the enemy (Ps 35: 19-26; 7 1 : 13; 132: 18). The enemy is to

be prevented from eating one's food (Is 62:8) or uny bod (Ps 3:7 "For you strike all my enemies on the

cheek; you break the teeth of the wicked."). There is a minority voice that speaks of treating the enemy

kindly, though the primary aim seems to be the induction of guilt (essentially "killing with kindnessw-Pr

25:2 1 ). However Jesus goes even beyond this in his dealing with those who threatened his life, particularly

in his treatment of Judas. At his last supper Jesus knows that Judas has already betrayed him to the

authorities for thirty pieces of silver. Yet according to John (1 3:26) he invites Judas-now his enemy-to

share his last meal. He even dips his bread and feeds Judas in an intimate gesture of love, acceptance and

honour.

Jesus' indiscriminate gathering of people fiom all strata of society, his shameless crossing of social

boundaries, models the approach that I believe is necessary to help nval communities to begin to heal and

grow. if the elite and the outcast, the proud and the humiliated, the oppressed and their oppressors, the

friend and even the enemy are welcome at Jesus' table, I feel compelled to set that same table today with

a place for all of them. In that encounter with each other-not easily, not naively, but in the presence of

Christ4 believe that there is hope that rural communities will be able to address their problems

redemptively .

4. Shame ended by Jesus ' shamefit1 death

Jesus' redefining of the terms of honour and righteousness does not go unnoticed by those in

authority. He is charged with being a glutton and drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners (Lk

7:33)-that is, with breaking down the carefully constructed boundaries that supported Israel's social and

moral order. These social standards and sanctions served to protect the public from the ills that particular

people or groups might represent.

In the eyes of Israel's leadership, there were two such threats, one political, the other moral. The most

immediate threat was Rome. Jesus' charismatic popularity with the crowds and the disaffected suggested

the possibility that a popular revolt, or at least enough social unrest to attract the angry attention of Rome,

was brewing. Their concern was not unfounded. Agrarian unrest was at the heart of many of the rebell ions

that Rome faced during this period.'5 Jesus' statements regarding the forgiveness ofdebt might have been

seen as aimed at fueling dissatisfaction with the aristocracy. In addition, as Moltmann points out. there

were certain features of Jesus' ministry that could have led Roman observers to believe that he was a

Zealot, intent on arousing the passions of an increasingly impoverished peasantry to revolt. Like the

Zealots: he preached that another kingdom was at hand and understood his own mission as that of

anticipating and bringing in that kingdom; he used a Zealot form of political criticism in calling Herod a

".fox"; he challenged imperial rule in his rejection of the concept of human lordship (Whoever would be

great among you must be your servant"); he chose a Zealot for a disciple ( S i m o ~ L k 6: 15); some of Jesus'

followers were armed (Jesus says "Let him who has no sword sell his mantle and buy one9'-Lk 22:35-38-

and Peter has a sword in the garden of Gethsemane); his entry into Jerusalem and cleansing of the temple

were very similar to Zealot symbolic protest actions?

In a time of high tension generated by an unstable economy and Roman oppression it was not

unreasonable to suppose that Jesus' actions could have ignited a powder keg of violence. Memories of the

U~akman, Economic Questions, 2 1 1.

2 6 ~ ~ e n ~oltrnann, The Crucified God: The Cross ofChrist as the Foundation and Criticism ofChristian Thedony, trans. R. A. Wilson and John Bowden (London, UK: SCM, 1974), 136.

222

brutal repression of social unrest by the Roman legions in places like ~ e r a s a ~ ' had taught Israel's

authorities to fear: " If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come

and destroy both our holy place and our nation" (Jn 1 1 :48).

The other concern raised by Jesus' ministry was its challenge to the mots of the fmt century honour

code. The Torah was understood to be the true expression of the will of God. The nature of rightness in

relationships (righteousness) was determined by reference to the Torah. In practice, therefore righteousness

came to be attributed to those who respected the Torah, and eventually to those who respected the host of

codified laws that "fenced" the Torah. In his teaching and behavior, Jesus challenged the traditional

understandings of the will of God with a sovereign authority that seemed blasphemous.

Moltmann identifies several respects in which blasphemy was apparent:" First, in his teaching Jesus

reveals God in a way that is related to, but goes much beyond the understanding of the law, the tradition

and its guardians. He places himself above Moses and the Torah, even above the prophets. He acts not

as a rabbi, but with the independent authority reserved for God. Jesus goes so far as to declare the

forgiveness of debt and sin. It is one thing to forgive a debt owed to oneself. It is quite another to declare

that the debt one person owes to another is remitted, and it is another again to declare the Jubilee year of

remission for d l . As Moltmann notes, "The right of showing mercy belongs to the judge alone. When a

man who cannot but be under the law arrogates to himself this exclusive right of a judge, and puts himself

in the judge's place, he reaches out his arm towards God and blasphemes the Holy one?'

Secondly, and perhaps even more significantly, Jesus' claim to authority, his arrogation to himself of

the righteousness of God, is not matched by evident power and position. That a carpenter's son &om

Nazareth, without ofice or dignities, vulnerable, poor, should make such claims was an insult to God and

to the present ofice-holders who had been appointed to speak for God.

"see Ched Myers, Bindine the Stron~ Man: A Political Reading of Mark's Stow of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988), 191.

"~olttnam, Crucified God, 1 28-32.

291bid.. 129.

223

Finally, Jesus reveals God in a way that threatened to bring chaos into Jewish society. His preaching

Moltmann says, "does not anticipate the kingdom for the righteous and judgment for the unrighteous, but

paradoxically promises the kingdom to the unrighteous as a gift of grace, and leaves the supposedly

righteous outside of it."30

These latter two are a challenge not simply to Israel but to all human codes. It is always those who

have power in a society who decide what the standards of good and bad will be. The "good" becomes their

possession-something they define and control as they like. Normally, of course, those in power define

themselves as god, and others in contrast., as "bad." The advantage to this is obvious: if only some are

"good" then there is a way to justify distributing social privileges unevenly without provoking the masses

to violent measures to get ''their share." So the good get extra food. extra respect.3'

If then, in this sense the "good" people in a society need "bad" people to be bad. it follows that they

may make people bad. Those with the power to make rules and define social boundaries place some

people in situations where they will inevitably end up labeled "bad." This may not be intentional of course.

In the context of the farm crisis we have already discussed situations in which a creditors' need to stay

competitive in an expanding credit market moved them to urge large equity-based loans on fanners who

did not have the cash flow to sustain them, at times refhsing to lend at all unless such large loans were taken

out. Although the fanner had a "choice" in the matter, there is clearly a pressure applied that contributes

to the farmer eventually becoming a "bad" insolvent debtor (the creditor, however, retaining the high moral

ground).

In Jesus' culture one can see that dynamic at work in several ways. Many single women, for example,

end up as prostitutes. Their husbands have turned them out of the house. or have died, or the women ran

away-and their society gives them few options for making a living on their own other than this trade. The

woman with the flow of blood (Mk 5:25@ has been mode poor because doctors who could not help her

31~eyrey. "Ceremonies in Lk-Acts," 364-365 notes that it was not uncommon for participants at the same meal to be given different foods or amounts of food depending on their social status.

224

took her money anyway, and because no one would hire her on account of her uncleanness. The "unclean"

who must sacrifice at the temple to cleanse themselves, using temple-sold animals only, purchased through

money exchanged by the temple at usurious rates, are the chief source of income for the temple. Without

the unclean, Herod's enormous (and self-glorifying) project would have died for lack of funds. Using

levitical law, women, gentiles, the sick and others are therefore defined as unclean so that their efforts to

regain clean status can fill the temple coffers. Jesus dramatically attacks such practice, routing the temple

businesspeople and denouncing the trade as "robbery" (Mk 1 1 : 15- 1 7).

Jesus' attack on traditional social boundaries was perceived to be a threat both to the peace of Israel

and the privileged positions of those in power. As a respected rabbi. he was expected to uphold traditional

standards of righteousness. His indiscriminate behaviour is regarded as shameless. He seems to have no

standards. no "conscience." In all societies it is these, not the standard-breakers, who are regarded as most

dangerous. Today we call them "sociopaths." In many countries in the world, still today, they are

executed. It is not surprising then that Caiaphas concludes " it is better for you to have one man die for

the people than to have the whole nation destroyed" (Jn 1 150). Following the temple incident, Mark

writes, the chief priests and scribes began ''looking for a way to kill him" (Mk 1 1 : 18).

When Jesus is ultimately tried, then, it is on these two matters: the question of blasphemy, dealt with

by the Sanhedrin, and the question of inciting to rebellion (treason), dealt with by the Roman governor.

Although the trial is sometimes portrayed as a kangaroo court trumped up by jealous Jewish religious

leaders, there was good foundation for both charges. We have seen that Jesus does in fact act in a way that,

for any Torah-respecting Jew, would be blasphemous.

He also acts in ways that apparently gave Rome cause to be concerned about the peace. It is Roman

temple soldiers who arrest Jesus (fearing revolt?). It is on Pilate's order that he is taken to the High Priest

to determine whether his execution may cause the Jewish people and authorities to rise against Pilate. At

his trial, the Romans treat Jesus as being on the same level as Barabbas, a Zealot (a ''rebel captured in the

insurrection"-Mk 1 5:7). The punishment the Roman court orders for him-cruci fixion-is that reserved for

escaped slaves and resistance fighten, those who commit crimes against authority, against the state.3' The

title placed on the cross over Jesus' head to identify his crime points to treason-"king of the Jews."

Jesus dies then as a law-breaker, tried in a way that was not completely orthodox perhaps, but which

fell within the bounds of accepted legal practice. In Christian hindsight, of course, the legal system and

its servants appear to have been dreadfblly wrong. Jesus appears not to have been a blasphemer but one

in whom divine authority actually was vested. Rome appears to have overlooked the fact that while Jesus

broke with status quo, as the Zealots did, it was a different status quo. The Zealots sought to purify Israel

of their idolatrous Roman oppressors by violent overthrow of the government. They believed that the

coming righteousness of God could be anticipated by the punishment of the godless now. In this sense the

Zealots were little different than the Romans. Both were caught in a world-system enslaved to law and

violence. Both sought to impose their own sense of law by banishing law-breakers or punishing them with

the use of force.

Jesus however, rejected the values ofthis world-system. Like the Zealots he critiqued the divination

of Caesar ("render to God the things that are God's") and condemned social injustice, including the

economic injustice perpetrated by the rich (Lk 6:24; Lk 12: 16ff). However, he did not call upon the poor

to seek revenge upon their exploiters, to become the oppressors of their oppressors. Instead he

recommended breaking the pattern of oppression by "loving your enemies and praying for those who

persecute you." Jesus demonstrated a righteousness based on grace as he healed the child of a Roman

centurion, as he asked the Father to forgive his Roman crucifiers. Most significantly, perhaps, he invited

a Roman oppressor-a tax collector-into his intimate circle of disciples, putting him cheek by jowl with the

Zealots he also called.

In so doing, Jesus opens up to us a new concept of God. As Moltmm describes it,

God comes not to carry out just revenge upon the evil, but to justify by grace sinners, whether they are Zealots or tax collectors, Pharisees or sinners, Jews or Samaritans and therefore, also whether they are Jews or Gentiles. This liberation f?om legalism, which was bound and is always

32~oitmann, Crucified God, 136.

bound to lead to retribution, by means of a disarming delight in God's law of grace, can indeed be called the 'humane revolt' of ~esus .~ )

The Pharisees (of whom the Zealots were essentially a radically legalist subgroup, according to

~oltmann~') were no more ready for this sort of revolution-a revolution of grace, one that would bring

them into a relationship of radical equality with the Romansthan were the Romans. They protested: "He

is a fiiend of tax collectors and sinners" (that is, a fiiend of those who break God's laws-a fiend of God's

enemies). To initiate such a relationship in the name of God was blasphemy to righteous Jews just as it

spoke of rebellion brewing to powefil Romans. Together in this at least., Jews and Gentiles plotted and

carried out Jesus' execution.

It was an execution designed to publicly shame this one who dared to offer these ultimate insults to

the community. Martin Hengel writes,

In Roman times crucifixion was practiced above all on dangerous criminals and members of the lowest classes . . . , groups whose development had to be suppressed by all possible means to safeguard law and order in the state . . . . [Tlhe crucified victim was defamed both socially and ethically in popular awareness . . . . The chief reason for (the use of the cross) was its allegedly supreme efficacy as a deterrent; it was, of course, carried out publicly . . . . By the public display of a naked victim at a prominent place-at a crossroads, in the theatre, on high ground, at the place of his crimtcrucifixion represented his uttermost humiliation . . . . With Deuteronomy 2 1 :23in the background "anyone hung on a tree is under God's curse"] the Jew in particular was very aware of this? 5

Whatever the modem church says in its worship of Jesus, it must be clear that by the standards of his

community, he was a law-breaker-a shameless sinner-who suffers the humiliating fate of all who have ever

been caught breaking the law.

In his context, Jesus' death was deeply sharnefid6 Why then speak of it as "shame-ending? Because

the resurrection of Jesus twists the judgement of the cross and throws it back on his crucifers. The

resurrection of the dead was, in Jewish theology, to be the time ofjudgment when the good are rewarded

'31bid., 142.

"hid., 140.

artin in Hengel, Crucifixion (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1978), 87K

h he writer to the Hebrews uses ~ iaxuvq- 'publ i c disgracem-when he says that Jesus "endured the cross. disregarding its shame" (Heb 1 2:2).

and the bad handed over for punishment. But instead of being raised to eternal punishment, as the form

of his death indicated he ought to be, Jesus is raised to glory. What does that say about the system that

crucified him? I believe it says that the code which created the separation between the "good" and 'bbad,"

the "friend" and the "enemy," has been repudiated and overcome. The shamed one, the law-breaker is

"declared to be Son of God with power. . . by his resurrection fiom the dead" (Rorn 1 :4). Moltmann says

that if the resurrection of Jesus. in the eyes of the church, is the sign of his divinity then this creates a

problem within God that, paradoxically, opens the way for the reunion of a humanity separated by shame.

He explains, focusing on two key phrases:

a. The first is Jesus' cry of abandonment on the cross: "My God why have you forsaken me?" Jesus

dies, not as a righteous martyr, but as one fiom whom people 'turn their faces," as one who was

godforsaken. cut off from the people to whom he had been sent and from the One who sent him. He cries

out, not only in self-pity, but for the Father's sake.

Ultimately, in his rejection, the deity of his God and the fatherhood of his Father, which Jesus had brought close to men, are at stake . . . . The cry of Jesus in the words of Ps 22 means not only "My God, wh hast thou forsaken me?" but at the same time, "My G o 4 why has thou forsaken thyseflw3 7

This abandonment has taken place within God. God is set against God.

What does this mean for the separations that honour codes create between people? It means that they

no longer have any moral ground. The old friend-enemy pattern of earthly relationships is de-legitimized.

If the Father can be in conflict with the Son (who together share the greatest possible intimacy) then how

can any lesser intimacy be called friendship? If the enmity of God with God (which is absolute

abandonment and hell) can be overcome then how can any humans separated by lesser conflict be called

(or continue to be) enemies? Moitmann says that in the incarnation and the cross, God "stretches" to

embrace the Godforsaken space in which humanity dwells. God makes this world God's home3' In so - --

37~oltmann. Crucified God, 15 1 .

'%ee l@en Moltrnann, The Wav of Jesus Christ: Chrislolow in Messianic Dimensions, trans. Margaret Kohl (London, UK: SCM Press, IWO), 302: "So creation does not return home to God in order to be absorbed into the divine eternity h r n which it has come. On the contrary God enters the world, making it the dwelling place which corresponds utterly to him."

doing God brings human conflict into the relations between Father and Son. but God also opens the

possibility that conflicted humans may share in the divine fellowship of the Trinity: "What is salvation?

Only if all disaster, f o r ~ a k e ~ e s s by God, absolute death, the infinite curse of damnation and sinking into

nothingness is in God himself, is community with this God eternal salvation, infinite joy, indestructible

election and divine life.*'39

b. The second key term for understanding how Jesus' death draws separated humanity together,

according to Moltmann, is rcapa61bdva1. "To deliver up," he says, is to hand over a law-breaker for

punishment. This is the ancient theology of "surrender." Paul says that God surrendered the Son, made

him to be sin for us, a "curse" for us. Moltmann concludes,

Thus in the total, inextricable abandonment of Jesus by his God and Father, Paul sees the delivering up of the Son by the Father for godless and godforsaken man. Because God "does not spare" his Son, all the godless are spared. Though they are godless, they are not godforsaken, precisely because God has abandoned his own Son and delivered him up for them."'

This is not to say that the surrender is a form of sadistic sacrifice on the Father's part. The surrender to the

curse is also the Son's active will, shared with the Father and the Spirit. The Trinity, as a whole, absorbs

the impact of that curse.

In so doing, Moitmam says, the godless are no longer 'bgodforsaken." Ic in the resurrection, God so

honours the Son, who has violated human law, can other law-breakers (to whom the Son has bound

himself) be treated differently? In other words, the breaking ofthe "law" is not enough to separate us from

God. This is true even ifthe law is just (in, for example, holding accountable people who are truly foolish

in their financial dealings) because, as we have seen, righteousness does not hdamentally rest with us,

but with God. The resurrection is the fundamental demonstration of God's righteousness. God chooses

to honour Jesus, not on the basis of any special goodness in Jesus that human standards could recognize,

but as an expression of God's own will to save.

3 9 ~ 0 1 ~ , Crucified Go4 246.

%id., 242.

How does this apply to us and to bankrupt farmers? As we have noted, in honour societies there is

one person who represents and defends the honour of the kin group. The biblical story suggests that Jesus

became o w representative, our defender of honour, and we became part of his kin-group. In his

incarnation the Son became inextricably bound to human flesh. Because, as Divine Wisdom and Word,

the Son is understood as giving form to all creation, this change in the Son affects all creation-including

humanity. Our destiny is wrapped up in Jesus'.

Jesus' representation of sinfhl humanity is made public in his baptism. In the cross, he suffers its

consequences. In the resurrection, we experience its saving benefits. As God honours ("glorifies"'") jesus

in the resurrection, so also God honours those who are in Jesus' kin-group, that is, the world's sinners. As

God exercises God's righteousness, human shame is undone.

5. Suffering shared-in the body of Christ

It might be easier if the story of Jesus had ended in Palestine two millennia ago. Then it could simply

be told on Sunday mornings as a comfonable communal memory. There would be no need to get involved

in its struggle ourselves. However, with Hall, I am convinced that

. . . the story goes on. It is a tale of the continuing movement of God towards the world, of conquest &om within. It involves in a central way a people, grasped by grace and compassion, searching out and identifying themselves with other people-especially with history's victims (Matthew 25). Not that this people possesses a special talent for compassion or vicarious suffering! Not that it alone, and under the nomenclature church, provides the 66~~mfony ' (Isaiah 40) that suffering humanity needs! Whatever capacity the church of Jesus Christ has for king a community of suffering, where the very sharing of the burden can constitute the beginning of the healing process, is a capacity which it is always itself receiving from beyond its own possibilities. It is a case of the comforted comforting, the healed healing, the forgiven showing mercy. The principle of grace, therefore, is strictly upheld. But what must not be upheld-what Christianity at the end of the Constantinian era must at last root out-is the kind of spectator spirituality which, having taken to itself in some domesticated form "the benefits of his passion," is itself able to exist in a suffering world without either passion or

%om that both "honour" and "gloty" are used in English versions of the Bible to translate the Hebrew IIZ$ The references are to the honour/glory of both God and human beings: Hos 4:7, Num 24: f 1 ; 1 Ch 29: 12; 2 Ch 1 : 12. See "t'la?' in The New Brown Driver Brims Gesenius Hebrew and Endish Lexicon, 1980 edition, 458. In the Greek New Testament, rip4 (king valued) and 66Ca (being held in high opinion) are also used somewhat intmbangeably to trrursIate "honour" and "glory."

4 2 ~ a l l , God and Human Suffering, 1 4 1 -42.

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However we understand Jesus, I think it is fair to say that if the church is to beparsionotely involved

in the story of Jesus it means we must position ourselves at the place of Jesus' passion. This is the place

in society where crosses are erected, where people are sacrificed to the smooth fhctioning of respected

social systems.

Our baptism reminds us that "when we were baptized into Christ Jesus we were baptized into his

death" (Rom 6:3-4). To me, this is more than an expression ofpersonal destiny. As Christ became one

with us, sharing our suffering and our dying, so we are joined by Christ to all othen in their suffering and

dying. This means that in the double sense of the word Christians are ''martyrs." A martyr (literally

"'witness") is one who suffers or dies for the sake of Christ and "witnesses" to the world in doing so. What

is this suffering for the sake of Christ? For most of us it in Canada it has Little to do with being tortured

to renounce our faith. Rather it is the suffering that we bear as, in Christ, we are joined to the suffering of

others. It is our solidarity with those who are suffering and shamed, the suffering that we bear with and

for others, that is our most potent witness to the world. Hall observes,

Strange, paradoxical, and even offensive as it may seem to the world, the presence in it of a community which, without having to, enters into solidarity with its suffering may be a better sign of hope for the world than are the schemes of those who promise paradise?3

Our baptism then ushers us into what Hall calls a "martyriological process.'" The Spirit's desire is

to engage the church in an ongoing process of being conformed to the crucified image of Christ This

conformation does not happen through retreat into personal piety or a world-avoiding worship. Rather it

comes as we risk identifying ourselves (in both work and worship) with those with whom Jesus identified

himself-sinful, suffering, shamed humanity.

In one sense this solidarity with sufferers is an involuntary thing. In Christ, we ore (not just "ought

to be") joined to others. Their suffering does affect us deeply. If we choose a-pathy ("no suffering") and

turn our face away, we suffer nonetheless. The refusal to recognize our own investment in the suffering

23 1

of others leads to a destructive spiral of suffering. In rural communities it manifests itself in several ways.

We have already noted the simple economic reality that input and machinery dealers who fail to do what

they can to help farmers stay viable, soon fmd themselves with too few customers to stay open. Lenders

who do not pay attention to their clients' need to maintain some honour when they are in financial

difficulty, may find themselves and their families with few friends in the community.J5

In smdi rural congregations, this unavoidable solidarity is intensified by the fact that each member

has a significant influence on the health of the church. These congregations function like a kin group in

which honour and shame are shared. The shame of one person, unattended, may become a silent source

of embarrassment for the whole church. Cason's study revealed that "The rural church that has an

offended, hurt, embarrassed, or ashamed member and does not minister to that person will find that the

church itself loses its self-esteem-*shame begets shame."'J6 Feeling this sort of second-hand shame,

congregational members may turn away from a sufferer, hiding from the source of their embarrassment.

In my own and Cason's studies inaction or turning away is inevitably interpreted as a sign that the member

was not worthy of care. The message sent to other members is clear: "if you get in trouble you may find

that you are not worth caring for either.''47 The whole congregation's sense of self-worth piummets rapidly.

Just as seriously, an a-pathetic congregatiowne that ignores its wounded-becomes particularly

vulnerable to the forces that have harmed their member. By refusing to solicit the sufferer's story and to

learn fhm it, they continue to support the status quo. Oblivious to the danger, like a herd of deer being

stalked by wolves upwind, they are picked off themselves, one by one. When a community's economic

issues are not publicly addresseda larger percentage of families find themselves in serious distress without

help. Some will be forced to move away. When the emotional issues are also not addressed some of the

"one bank supervisor told me that he had to transfer a local bank manager because his children were being ~ v e r e l y picked on at school because of his role in foreclosing on the farms of his children's classmates.

"cason, S b and the Church Dmmut, 146

"bid.. 79.

232

families will break apart, initially placing a heavy responsibility for care on the pastor, and ultimately often

resulting in the loss of the family from the church. The congregation may gradually die.

If a congregation chooses to engage the suffering of its members in aparsionote solidarity it begins

to participate in its own redemption. There are several ways in which this happens: First, when members

begin to turn from their own interests to attend to the need of others, love springs up. The life of the

congregation becomes more vibrant, intense. Members become deeply aware ofthe h ide of each other's

lives. When members do not know what is going on inside others, they tend to compare their own (often

turbulent) insides with the (apparently) calm exterior of others. A self-focused anxiety keeps each one

worrying about maintaining an equally positive external image and hiding the less attractive internal reality.

When members become aware of the pain in others' lives they are relieved of the sense that they are

"frauds." A spirit of honesty develops that frees all members from anxiety about their image. and allows

them to share solutions to the problems they share. This does not mean that tension and conflict disappear.

While commonalities will surface, differences will also emerge in sharper clarity and must be dealt with.

Love, however, has the courage to address hard things. Such a congregation, while not always a

comfortable place to be, begins to feel truly olive.

Secondly, a passionate congregation discovers its dependence on God. When a neighbour whom one

has always respected suddenly puts their farm up for auction it can seem as though the world has tilted.

One is tempted to dismiss the difficulty as bad management. This leaves intact the illusion that we can

secure our own htures with enough hard work and wise decision-making. However, when the neighbour

is embraced, cared for, listened to, the larger factors that contributed to the problem become obvious.

Members begin to suspect that "it could just as easily be me next time." Their confidence in the false

promises of the honour code begin to erode. If the gospel is heard clearly at this point they may discover

an unassailable confidence in God. The story of Jesus tells us that Christ has taken up our suffering into

himself. All that we suffer now we suffer in Christ. So the suffering is bounded. It cannot destroy us

unless it destroys Christ first. It is no ultimute danger to us.

233

Thirdly, a passionate congregation discovers its own captivity to idolatrous values and systems.

Listening carefully to those who are losing their farms, a congregation discovers that, to some extent, it has

been these folks' adherence to accepted social values, not their departure fiom them, that has led them into

bankruptcy.

One congregation I interviewed experienced something ofthis when their pastor began doing advocate

work with farmers in crisis. They were shocked that he would spend his time on such "nonevangelical"

or "political" work. The outcry was such that he was afraid that he would lose his job. However he

realized that those most vocal were assuming that the bankrupt farmers must be outside the congregation:

"Good Christians wouldn't renege on their debts." Before the annual meeting, the pastor spoke to the

f m e r s he had helped and said that ifhe was to have much hope of remaining their pastor, they would have

to identify themselves and their problem publicly. They did, to the great consternation ofthe congregation.

Parents, relatives, friends had no idea that these ones they love were in such difficulty.

Suddenly their own gracelessness was brought into sharp relief, along with an increased awareness

of the deep weaknesses in the agricultural economy. They knew that most of these farmers were good

managers, so if they could not survive in the system, then there must be something wrong with the system.

That awareness gave others in trouble the permission to seek help more quickly. It also encouraged a new

humility. Financial success lost some of its lustre as a sign of God's favour. "Failure" was swallowed up

in love.

When those in pain tell their stories, there is judgment. The wrongs on all sides are brought to light.

But if the stories are told in the context of Jesus' "open table" it is a gracious judgment that can lead to

justice. There can be a turning away (conversion from) one's selErighteousness and exploitation of the

neighbour. There can stir in congregations a passion to be involved in the struggle for systemic change.

In a significant way then, those who are suffering may be a "means of grace" for those who (at the

moment) are not. It also works the other way-the congregation may be a means of grace for those who

suffer. It can provide a gracious space in which the voiceless can be helped to speak (this may require some

restraint of strong voices), where the hurting can be healed (this may require the strong to acknowledge

their involvement in the injury), where those who have been wronged can express their anger and grief

without fear of retaliation, where those who have failed-by whatever standards-may be received without

judgment and where the standards themselves can come under the judgment of love.

Whether or not a congregation ignores its sufferers, or passionately engages them, the congregation

will suffer. But a passionate solidarity has the potential to lead to transformation for both the well and the

hurting.

These then are the convictions and the underlying theological method that have shaped my approach

to the first part of this work and which I commend to rural congregations in the remainder. It has been my

experience that this perspective changes the way that congregations deal with the effects ofthe farm crisis.

Loss and suffering are treated as opportunities for solidarity, rather than separation and shame. They are

not content to let the pain of others go unnoticed or uncared for, no matter how shameful it may perceived

to be in the world. As they persistently and non-judgmentally tend to the pain of their community they

create a climate in which people can disclose their suffering (in appropriate ways and contexts) without fear

of that disclosure being used against them.

When this happens, a marvelous encounter takes place. Jesus describes it in Mt 25. In Christ's name,

as ~hr is t ,~* we go out to those beset by bondage to debt (in prison), by hunger, homelessness and so on,

and are surprised to discover Christ in those we care for." In this encounter of Christ with Christ it

becomes clear to the whole community that none are outside of Christ-that the fellowship of the healthy

and the hurting is one fellowship embraced in full measure, in every respect, by our crucified and risen

Savior.

Let us now turn our attention to the practical consideration of how this might be encouraged to happen

in our rwal communities.

"AS Luther put it.

4 9 ~ o l t m ~ refers to this as the "double brotherhood of Christ.'* See The Church in the Power ofthe S~irit , trans. Margaret Kohl (New York: Harper & Row, 1977), 128.

SECTION FOUR

EXPLORING ALTERNATIVES FOR

HEALING COMMUNITY

CHAPTER 10

HOW CAN CONGREGATIONS BUILD BRIDGES TO FARMERS IN DIFFICULTY?

How does the restoration of a farm community happen? My conviction-and my experienctis that

it begins as pastor and people initiate contact with those who are shamed and gently, persistently, but

honourably draw them out of isolation into an "open table" fellowship. It is validated in worship as their

stories are recognized in the prayers, symbols, preaching, and songs. It gains insight as the congregation

engages in the difficult task of doing social critique together in the context of biblical faith. It reaches

beyond itself when it takes that conversation into the wider community to publicly discuss those things

which threaten their common future.

The first step a congregation makes in opening itself to the suffering induced by the fm crisis is to

reinforce (or rebuild) its bridges with those who are in financial distress. This can be unexpectedly

dificult. First of all, it is not immediately obvious when someone is in trouble; farm finances are not a

matter of public record. Awareness of a member's problems will tend to come late-as auction notices are

posted, as neighbours see machinery being sold and so on. One of the clearest warning signals is the

withdrawal of that person from church activities.

Secondly, honour societies require reciprocity in giving except between close kin. To give assistance

to a neighbour when that person cannot return it shames the neighbour because it makes them dependent

on "charity." Unrepayable help can be given best without shame by family members. It may help if a

visitor clearly identifies their assistance as the sort of thing one does for "farnily"-that is, for sisters and

brothers in the family of God. Pastors can help in preaching, teaching and worship, by encouraging

congregational members to view each other as kin (who are not constrained by the same concerns for

honour and shame).

Thirdly, church members may be as committed to the work ethic and honour code as anyone else.

Without a framework of grace within which to understand a member's bankruptcy, they may feel that it is

237

appropriate to leave that member to suffer the consequences of their "failure." These attitudes will likely

change only as the pastor or others who do not hold them as strongly, begin to open up the conversation

about the farm crisis in the congregation.

Fourthly, even church members who would like to help are not sure whether they can handle what they

will encounter if they approach this person. There is a good chance that they will be met by denial-"we're

doing fme." This makes the visitor feel embarrassed. If there is some expression of difficulty, they may

not feel equipped to handle the other's anger and grief. The visitor may also feel that the other's fmancial

problems are so large that it would swallow up their own limited resources if they tried to help. The pastor

can help by talking through these fears with the visitor, helping them to understand some of the dynamics

at work, and to reassure them that it will be their persistent presence and support, not their counseling

skills or financial assistance, that will be most needed. ' From her own experience of farm crisis, Pat says

that what she needed was "just to know that you're there, that you care, that you'll lend an ear to listen-that

you don't judge us-that we're a part of the church just like you. We need all of you. Don't run away."

If a congregation has not had a history of openness in dealing with farm crisis matters it seems likely

to me that the pastor will have to take initial leadership. Robert Smith makes use of an ancient image that

captures some key features of pastoral ministry to distressed farmer families. He tells of the "knee

woman? This was the person in an Irish village whose task it was to represent the community's care at

times of birth and death. She would be on her knees by the bedside of a dying person to comfort and

reassure and then after death to keen the laments, giving voice to the griefofthe community. She was also

the local midwife. She was to be on her knees by the bedside of the woman in labor, again to comfort and

reassure and then to bring her skill, strength and wisdom to the task of bringing new life into the world.

'I found that Fdrm families rarely expected that neighburs would be able to "save" their operation. What they were looking for, first of dl, was care. Mary Van Hook found that 76% of farm families in crisis said that they needed more emotional support, 60% said they needed more information, 12% wanted political help md 7.5% needed instrumental assistance (money, labow). See Mary Van Hook, "Family Response to the Farm Crisis."

'~obert ~mith."The Knee Woman" in Hintedand Shcolow in an Eelonenical Context, ed. Michael Bourgeois, 126- 134 (Saskatoon, SK: St. Andrew's College, 1995).

238

Among the pastors I interviewed I found several "knee women." They served to connect the

community with suffering families in several important ways:

A. Oftering pastoral care

1. Listening and visiting.

Being present regularly in homes creates the opportunity to observe what is happening and gently raise

questions about a f m family's emotional and financial health. Larry, who is both a pastor and a farmer

suggests: "One of the most important things I find is stopping by maybe four and five times and asking

them 'How are you doing?'not 'How is the situation doing?"' That's hard for them, but eventually they

start to say how they 're feeling."3

It may be, as I indicated in the second chapter, that farm women will be more open than the men to

express their family's nerd to the pastor and more willing to receive emotional support.' in my interviews

men were often embarrassed by their wives' admissions, but once things were in the open they were willing

to discuss the problems. Often I found the men initially looking for information on government programs,

for legal advice and other forms of practical help. While the pastor should not presume to become the

expert on these matters, it helps a great deal if they learn in some detail what resources are available in their

area and assist in making connections.

Visiting in homes also helps to broaden the pastor's focus fkom the h e r to the whole family.

Spouse and children are deeply affected and often have needs and emotional responses very different h r n

the family member who is running the farm.. Some spoke to me ofa deep resentment towards the farm for

the way in which its hold on the fmer was keeping them locked into a hopeless and highly stressful debt

problem.

nothe her Familv Fann, videocassette. 4 Van Hook found the same in her study. See "Family Response to the Farm Crisis."

2. Counseling in a faith context.

Many families that admit having serious financial difficulty to their pastor will end up needing formal

counseling. They will require help to overcome communication barriers in the family and build family

support (this is often the most critical and difficult task). Counseling may address issues of despair and

one's sense of purpose in life, marriage breakdown catalyzed by stress, feelings ofhaving failed the family,

alienation from extended family because they did not help, fears about coping with an off - fm world that

appears to require unfamiliar skills and other concerns.

Community counselors can also offer substantial help with these matters. However as a bearer ofthe

church's faith traditions the pastor has something unique to offer-a world of sacred meaning into which

their experience can be inscribed. and assistance in working through the spiritual impact of the crisis.

Randy and Daniel Weigel. in their study of farm stress noticed that by far the most effective coping

mechanism for farmers under stress was a factor they called "Faith and Attitude." This involved several

strategies for mentally "re-framing" the stresson. They included accepting unchangeable realities,

analyzing problems to discover those things that con be changed, encouraging each other, and having faith

in God. Of these, faith in God was the most frequently used coping strategy? Niebuhr's well-known

"Serenity Prayer" seems to sum up the approach that many nual families adopt:

God grant me the grace to accept those things I cannot change, the courage to change those things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Haverstock, a rural psychologist, notes that pastors have an additional advantage in counseling.

Pastors traditionally have access to people's homes. Normally, as well, it is not shameful to come in to talk

to a pastor. She says, "They don't seek out [secular] counselors. You pull yourself up by your bootstraps,

slap yourself in the face and keep going . . . . The farm crisis lines are getting more calls now. but they are

a tiny percentage of the people in trouble." The sad thing, Haverstock says, is that most rural congregations

co and^ weigel and Daniel Weigel, "Identifying Stresson and Coping Strategies in Two-Generation Farm Families" Famiiv Relations 36 ( 1987): 379-384.

no longer have their own pastor. Many churches have closed and the pastor often lives in another

community. The sense of being isolated, without support that one can access easily, is increasing.

B. "Standing with" in public

As the church's chief representative, the pastor's public behaviour in regard to families in difficulty

can have a potent impact on their relationship to the congregation. In one community a group of farmers

in crisis whom I talked to felt disconnected from the church. Their solution was to approach several local

clergy to establish a "farmer-clergy working goup." Peny relates,

The farmer-clergy working group was formed because the f m e n didn't see the church being a part of the consoling, if you will, and the understanding part of it. Because pre-judgments cannot enter into the situation when a farm family comes to the pastor for help . . . . At that particular time there was a farm family that was going through farm crisis. Their farm was being sold by public auction by the sheriff and there was one lone priest in the crowd, standing with the farm family, and he was observed by the f m e r s that were there also in support of that f a n family. There's a need, there's got to be more than just a presence, there's got to be a sense of caring, sharing, understanding and getting the message out.

Chris Lind suggests that a key role for the church in the farm crisis is that they ensure that no one

has to go through the debt review process alone. By standing with as witness at foreclosure proceedings

the matter is changed f+om a private affair between a farmer and a lender or sheriff to one that is open to

public scrutinyO6 Not just the fanner, but also those more powerful are made accountable. Secret deals

are inhibited. The working of the honour codes becomes available to public critique.

Farmers in difficulty told me that the church's presence at other times was also important: in their

homes, on theu farms when goods were seized or the auction was held. Gail described how she stood with

a parishioner:

Derek and I went out the day that they were coming to take their hogs away. We were just with them, and also watching to make sure things were done properly . . . . And then one of the brothers did something and was taken to court so we went to court on some of those things. I guess in some ways they were little things, but they were signs of moral support to those people and I think it was a sign to people in the community that you can't just write these folks off.

'~hristo~her Lind "The Role of the Churches in the Farm Crisis." PMC: The Practice of M i n i m in Canada (November, 1992), 1 8.

For good or ill, the church is regarded as the keeper of society's moral code. By offering someone

(whether the pastor or a lay person) to stand with the farmer at these times the church does two things: fmt,

though it does not remove the shame, it shares it. When the church's representative indicates solidarity with

a shamed one, it calls into question the practice of isolating one who has broken the code.

However, standing with farmers may have certain costs for the church representative. We have

already noted the stories of the pastor whose bank bounced his cheques and found that his congregation

did not understand his effom to stand with bankrupt farmers.

C. Giving Voice to Pain

One of the responsibilities of a knee woman is to "keen the laments." The keening brings to the

community the expression of pain on behalf of those unable to express it themselves. One of the most

valuable ways in which a pastor can give voice to the pain of those caught in the f m crisis is through the

weekly liturgy.

In too many cases, as we have noted, the liturgy functions as little more than a painkiller. It insulates

worshipers h m the problems outside its walls and anaesthetizes ovenvrought nerves and scarified

emotions. Worship however has the potential to do more than provide an escape fiom reality-it offers the

possibility of tmmforming it. Moltmann claims that the key is publicly expressing pain and hope in the

context of the cross:

The memory of Christ's suffering and dying forbids our using the feast as an escape from the miserable conditions of the world. Rather it makes silent suffering a conscious pain. But the hope ofthe resurrected and coming Christ also forbids us simply to complain about suffering or simply to indict its causes. In this feast the joy in freedom is deeply bound up with pain over experienced unfieedorn, for the ecstatic rejoicing leads into ever deeper solidarity with an unredeerned world.'

A pastor who has listened to and stood with suffering parishioners has the opportunity to bring that

pain to community awareness in the way that he or she designs worship. Songs and prayers can give voice

and legitimacy to the anguish felt by people in various community roles who have been hurt by the farm

' ~ o ~ t m a ~ , Passion For Life, 75.

242

crisis. Litanies can help to desacrilize ow economic structures, presenting them as human constructs, not

as "orders of creation." Shame receives a great deal of its potency from the religious legitimation that

social values are given. Brueggemann says that liberating liturgy adopts a "posture of refusal" indicating

that God's people will not submit to these contrivances as if they were di~inel~- ins~ired.~ Banners, stained

glass, art, and sculpture (even children's worship projects) can become vehicles for the expression of

symbols of suffering, protest and hope that are drawn out of the lived experience of rural families.'

Each of these elements of worship can bring a breath of the new creation. They can hint at other

modes of life. new forms of justice, alternative assumptions about what is most important, that may

energize a congregation toward change. At the very least they can let the sufferer know that what she or

he is going through matters.

2. In preaching.

Preaching is a critical part of this "giving voice." It establishes the basis for receiving the sufferer-not

as one who is worth less, or God-forsaken, because of their suffering but as a full and valued member of

the community. It makes clearthat one's "net worth" is not determined by f m income but by the gracious

acceptance of God in Christ.

I found that while pastors were willing to talk about God's grace in general terms in their preaching,

they were reluctant to make specific reference to the economic pain being experienced by farmers in any

way that might imply a critique of the economic structure. Part of the reason, 1 suspect, is the dificulty

of preaching to a "mixed" congregation. Those listening occupy several different locations in the farm

economy and paston feel pressure not to ignore or upset any of them.

%meggemam, HOLE Within Histow, 12.

'The prairie grain elevator, fast disappearing, is one symbol that seems to make a powerful statement about the hopes, the suffering and the identity of farmers. See Brock Silversides, Prairie Sentinel: The Stow of the Canadian Grain Elevator (Calgary, AB: Fifth House Publishers, 1997), 4 or Terry Johnson, "Twilight of a Prairie Icon," Canadian Geopsaphic (SeptembedOctober 1997): 28.

By "location," I am referring not only to the fact that different people hold different jobs in the farm

economy, but also the fact that, in regard to different aspects of the farm economy, individuals may see

themselves as both disadvantaged and privileged, as powerless and powerful.

Farmers, for example, may suffer because of unjust monetary policies, commodity pricing and

banking laws. Butthey are also the owners ofmillion-dollar businesses contributing to the overproduction

of food which drives down prices and which robs the soil of its fertility for the next generation through the

overuse of herbicides and fertilizers.

Similarly, lenders not only contribute to an economic system that has oppressed fanners in significant

ways, they are also constrained by it themselves. The vice-president of a government lending institution

said,

I find there's a lot of internal politics within the organization. Some level ofrurfprotection, some level of competition to see who is better than the other person, who's going to get the president's attention . . . . The person with the lower level of arrears is certainly judged in our system which is made up of classifications-who's better, and who's not, who's the best and who's the worst. The person with the lower level of arrears is seen to be doing a better job.

In different ways, fanners, lenden, input dealers, processors and consumers benefit fiom and are

victimized by the present economic structures. This is not to gloss over the reality that some suffer much

more than others, some have less power or opportunity to change the structures, some receive more wrong

hrn the system than they give, some have greater freedom than others. It is simply an acknowledgment

that preachers find it difficult to know how to address these complex ambiguities.

The most common approach to the farm crisis, it seems, is to preach hope in a general mode. This

appears to have little effect. Those who, on the whole, feel advantaged by the present arrangements do not

have a need for hope in a general sense. Those who are afflicted need a word that clearly addresses their

partinrlor bondage and r e - h e s it in the Gospel. When hope is preached only in a general mode it

obscures the fact that specific behavioun of some must change if hope is to be realized for others.

Some take a law-oriented approach. Sermons may focus on admonitions to love one's neighbour.

When these are delivered in a general, de-contextualized way they do not seem to have much effect.

244

Unspecified "duty" is easy to avoid, and "duty" in general seems to have lost ground as a motivator for

people today.'' Even when the exhortation to love one's neighbour is made very specific-"help your

neighbour get his crop in and don't lend at unrepayable rates of interesty'-the impact may be minimal. The

call to duty must overcome the desire to maintain the benefits of the status quo. Also sermons full of

"ought" and "must" and "should" often raise more resistance than compliance.' ' The temptation for the pastor, if the description of duties alone is inadequate, is to introduce terrors

of one sort or another, either explicitly or implicitly suggesting that there will be divine retribution if the

people fail to act in a caring way. However, preachers who do this inevitably undermine their own intent.

They reinforce the law-oriented idea that we must do certain things to please God and that we will be

devalued, punished by God ifwe don't. This concept is a key element in the honour code. The advantaged

then are being told that they ought to be ashamed (devalued by God) for shaming others (who also don't

measure up) in some way. In other words, the advantaged are being judged by one measure (works=Divine

approval) for not treating the afflicted according to a different measure (Divine approval as a gift of grace).

The contradiction is not likely to lead to change for the advantaged, and the afflicted are more likely to hear

the tone of judgment and to hide their suffering.

The third, and I believe truly liberating option, is to simply express, without judgment, the concrete

grief of those who are losing their farms. This can be a potent experience of grace for the uflicted

a. It says "Your suffering has not devalued you. In fact, you are valued so much that we think the

whole community should hear your words. You can give us an insight into what is broken in our world and

help us cooperate with God in doing something about it."

"see William Easurn. Dancing with Dinosaurs: Ministw in a Hostile and Hutinc World (Nashville: Abingdon, t 993).

' ~rue~~ernann says that what he needs is not "more advice, but strength. I do not need new information, but the courage, fkedom and authorization to act on what I have already been given in the gospel." Finally Comes the Poet: Darina Smech for Proclamation (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1989), 84.

245

b. It says. "You are not alone-othen have the same or similar hurts. They may understand and listen

compassionately, without judgement. They are potential allies with experience that can help in your

personal situation or in efforts to change the system."

It can also be a life-changing experience for the advantaged

a. The sharing of one's hurt, even through the pastor, is a difficult act of vulnerability. It is a

demonstration of trust and brings the offense to light without threat. When grief is expressed without

judgement the listeners are not forced into a defensive stance but are able to focus on the need ofthose who

are hurting. Compassion has a chance to grow.

b. The advantaged may be helped to see that aN is not well, even if they are. This enables them to be

wary of the ''traps" in our social systems. By withdrawing unreserved (that is, idolatrous) trust from the

system they "gain their soul," and (though this is not always possible) may avoid becoming one of its

sacrifices. Conversion may happen.

c. They may find themselves relating the grief of those afflicted in one area to their own pain in some

other area. A new respect for each other, a greater mutuality, may take root. Those who are willing to risk

being identified as sufferers may come to be a present or future resource for others in their suffering.

Community is strengthened.

D. Equipping the congregation for outreach

I. Through training in cure-giving skiIIs.

While programs cannot substitute for a healthy congregational culture, they can serve as a step towards

it. Pastors can be catalysts and trainen in programs that offer training in care-giving skills. Ste~hen

Ministries, for example, is an intensive one-year program that helps people to recognize the signs of

othen'distress, to identify one's own barriers to reaching out, and to listen empathically to those in

difficulty. It also includes an excellent component on listening and responding to their "God-shaped

needs."

2. By organizing practical relief:

The support that congregations can provide may primarily be emotional and spiritual, but there is

practical help that can be offered as well. When a farm is in crisis the adults are usually working unusually

long hours off farm to help keep the farm afloat. Since it is younger families, relatively new to farming,

who are most vulnerable to financial problems, this generates a significant need for child care. OR-farm

work also reduces the number of hours available for seeding, feeding livestock, harvesting and so on.

Neighburs who are able to spare some time from their own work may be organized to seed or harvest part

of a field, or assist with chores for a period.

The stress is particularly high when the farm goes up for auction. At a time when a great deal ofwork

needs to be done, Farm families often feel paralyzed by weariness and shame. Doreen tells about her

experience of neigh bour care:

The last week before the sale, Steve and 1 hadn't been talking much-1 felt like the lowest thing on earth. And we had completely blocked the sale out of our minds. We didn't do anything to get ready for that sale. Then David came over on a Tuesday night to ask us if there was anything he could do to help us get ready for the sale. Well, the last thing in the world you're ever going to admit to a fellow farmer is that you need help. That's just not fashionable. You handle your own problems-you don't need help firom anybody. Well, that's just what Steve said, "We'll manage." David said, "Well them's less than a week and maybe you could use . . ." "No, uh, uh, we're just fine." Well David went home and told Faith. What he said stuck with me and next morning I was in the milkhouse, milking and it was like someone hit me on the head with a sledgehammer that we've got so much work to do it was unbelievable and it was five days to the sale. And 1 knew for a fact that that morning I was going to have a breakdown. And Steve came into the milkhouse and I was crying. "Does a person know when they're going to crack up? Because I know today's the day." Steve just stood there. He said, "Woney why don't you lie down for a while." I said "I don't r i d to lie down. I need help." Then I saw the neighbour's pickup pulling up beside the machine shed. I guess that wasn't so unusual, but then there were two or three more pickups and I thought, "This is all I wed today-I'm getting company on top of everything else. Well that company turned out to be about thirty-five of the neighbows that had come to help us get ready for that sale. The women had brought food; they set up a little cafe in the garage. And I didn't do a thing all day long except walk around and cry and thank people for coming. I was just in shock. It's such a dog-eat-dog world and everyone looking out for number one-but that's not true. I couldn't believe that there was that much goodness, but it was all right there in my neighburhood and I didn't even know it. Oh, it made me feel so good that day. I went to bed with a peacefbl feeling in my heart for the fiat time in a long time. I've said it a million times-that group of people gets credit for reaffirming ow faith in the human race and saving our marriage-because the plan up till that morning was that I was going to live with my mother and Steve was going up to Garry's to work. After twelve, thirteen years of marriage

we were going to split. I say thanks to that bunch of people because after that day we thought "Gosh if they think that much of us as a couple there's got to be something there we can build on or patch up. We're working on it; we're all right.I2

3. By establishing support groups.

The greatest support, understandably, comes from others who are in the same situation. Support

groups can literally be life-saving. Sharon Nicholson is a farmer in Big Beaver Saskatchewan. In 1998 she

joined a "suicide watch"-a group of eleven young farm families in southeastern Saskatchewan who are

experiencing the wont farming crisis for their area since the 1930's and have reached the edge of despair.

Each day they phone each other to make sure that no one has "pushed the panic button." From time to

time, she reports. they have to talk each other out of suicide?

Of course the value placed on independence and the high degree of shame related to financial crisis

makes the formation of farm crisis support groups a difficult (though no less important) undertaking.

Simply attending such a group initially carries with it some shame since the location ofthe group's meeting

tends to be known and the community can often tell by the vehicles parked out fiont who is at the meeting.

Carolyn, a Lutheran Social Services worker said "I worked with one gentleman almost a year to get him

involved in a support group, because he saw himself as such a failure that he thought everyone would judge

him that way, and make judgments on him because he would get involved in a support group." She was

successfui however: "He now goes faithhlly and finds that it is very helpful for him in keeping hLn going

h m week to week and he contacts other group members in between times."

Like this professional, pastors can have a key role ia establishing support groups. Initially they may

provide the bridge between farmers facing similar crises who would normally be unaware of each other,

or too ashamed to approach each other. They can help potential participants anticipate what such a group

might offer, publicize it (if desired), recruit and train leadership and assemble useful resources. In the

'*~rorn an interview in Another Familv Farm.

'3~eported in "Troubled Farmers Keep an Eye on Each Other," The Star Phoenix 13 May 1999, Saskatoon. SK, h n t page. See also Marina Jimenez, "Saskatchewan's Fields of Sorrow."

beginning they might also help with logistics-arranging for facilities, setting up meeting times, lining up

childcare and so on (though the group should assume responsibility for these as soon as possible).

However the pastor's role once such groups are underway should be limited. It is easy for a pastor,

because of greater social confidence and specialized knowledge, to jump in and "take charge." This can

create a dependent and passive group with little internal leadership, or result in the pastor's being ousted

in one way or another. Roger Williams suggests that the appropriate role is that of a "midwife" (like

Smith's "knee woman") who assists in bringing a new group into the world, helps to nurture it in its first

hours and then transfers care to the natural parents (lay leaders).I4

Once a group is on its feet the pastor's role may become that of a consultant and resource-one who

refers potential participants to the group. one who links the group to other similar groups or important

resources, one who helps the group evaluate its progress, and so on(depending on the wishes of the group).

It seems that the agenda for such groups is probably best kept simple. The risks are fairly high when

one shares in close-knit communities where one hopes to live out the rest of one's life. Farmen reported

that their fint attendance at such meetings was difficult. They did not know what to expect and were very

reluctant to open up. Rod said, "At first when we got together, only one or two would say anything for the

first half an hour. But that changed as our situations got worse, and also we started to ma each other.

Now, within five miautes of starting of the meeting ninety percent of the farmers have said something."

A participant in another group said that they simply went around the circle each week and told what was

happening in their lives at the moment and closed with the Lord's prayer.

For such a simple, unstructured experience the positive effect reported by the f m e n was remarkable.

First, it helped to reduce the suspicion and isolation between farmen caused by years of (often vicious)

competition. Cooperation was expressed tangibly. In one group they shared equipment to help get the crop

in. In another they intervened to prevent an act of violence against a lender on the part of one of the group

'%ee Roger Williams. "Organizing Community Support Groups." in the Rural Pastoral Care Reader (Toronto. ON: United Church of Canada, Division of Mission in Canada, 1 29-32.

members. For each group, the opportunity to exchange information was important. They could help each

other identify the stages of foreclosure and decide whether action or patience was the necessary course.

Small groups also give f m e n a place to gain confidence in telling their own stories. In a public

setting that may be liberally sprinkled with one's creditors it can feel as though one is sitting naked among

porcupines. The group is a relatively safe place where courage can be gained and where the perspective

of the wounded is given authority and honour.

Perhaps the most profound effect that I discovered was the startling reduction in the experience of

shame, both in relation to the community and God. Having encountered so much of it, I asked one f m e r

(who happened to be in a suppon group) "When you were going through this crisis did it feel like you were

a less moral, or less upright person somehow or other?" He answered,

I can't say we did, because we had so many people in our group. Because you realize you're not the only person. When you look across and you know that guy is a well-known person in the community, and he came to the meeting last night-well, you know you're not alone and that makes you feel a lot better.

One woman in a farm crisis support group said "It actually brought me closer-to understanding that He

(God) really is there."

CHAPTER 1 I

HOW CAN CONGREGATIONS FACILITATE COMMUNITY CONVERSATION ABOUT THE FARM CRISIS?

Nothing is more needfid in our culture than a f o m for the open expression of the experience of negation that as a people we darkly suspect but do not, seemingly can not, allow ourselves to admit, to voice, to feel . . . . What is needed is a vantage point, a h e of reference, a "place" a system of meaning through which people within this repressive society could experience a certain permission to tell themselves and one another of the suffering they dumbly sense and labor to forget.'

A. The Need for a "Public Churchw

A rural congregation that dares to care deeply for those suffering in the farm crisis will, as Hall says,

give them a place to express that pain. That expression has the greatest healing potential when it not only

allows one's groans to be heard and felt by the community, but when it points clearly to the causes of the

pain. It must move into social critique.

This is not, as Boltanski and Thevenot point out, a job reserved for specialists. All people-not only

pastors and ethicists+zxercise the "common complaint." In families and friendships, in coffee shops and

feed stores rural folks are always undertaking the "everyday discernment of justice and liberty locally

understood." The social awareness gained of course, is self-consciously contextual. It does not pretend

to be the "universal" (that is, unbiased) truth that experts may seem to claim (fallaciously of course)?

While it may be short on easy solutions, and it is not easily generalizable, the common complaint's

grounding in lived experience gives it a profound validity that rural communities sorely need as they

grapple with destructive forces.

all, God and Human Suffering, 4647.

See Luc Boltanski and Laurent Thevenot, De la Justification: Lcs economies de la grandeur (Paris: Gallirnard, 1 Wl), cited in Walzer, Thick and Thin, 5 1. See also Ellen Messer-Davidow's provocative article "Know-how," in (En) Genderina Knowledae: - Feminism in Academe," ed. Joan Hartman and EIlen Messer-Davidow (Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, t 99 1 ), 28 1-309.

his tendency probably arises because they have a stake in the status quo which is protected by giving the impression that their world view, which supports the status quo, is the only one. See Immanuel Wdlerstein, "Truth as Opiate: Rationality and Rational*~zation." in Historical Capitalism (London, UK: Verso Witions, 1983), 75-93.

25 1

Unfortunately, those down-to-earth observations about the agricultural economy that fanners make

as they encounter its kinks tend to get discussed in relatively private venues. It has been rare in the last few

decades (though the Saskatchewan farm rallies of 1999 may indicate a change coming) to have public

conversation in rural communities about the particulars of the social forces that are eroding their life. Yet

unless this happens, communities are not able to regain control of their own futures. Without concrete

agreement on their goals, too many communities have already been driven rudderless by the gales of global

forces into oblivion.

In several small towns I heard the stories of farmers going under, of businesses folding, people

leaving. Scattered throughout those towns in churches of different denominations, small, sometimes

dispirited groups of people sang songs to keep their faith alive. Outside the churches, in the curling rink,

on the baseball diamond. others gathered in small groups to relax and keep relationships alive. What might

happen if the whole community were able to pray for, debate and dream about its economic future

together?

The bind of course is that the individuals most directly affected by destructive economic forces are

too ashamed to discuss them publicly. The very social analysis that would help to remove some of that

shame is difficult to do because of it.

This is when, ironically, fhrm crisis support groups offer an important first step-"ironically," because

in one sense they are a W e r segregation. There is admittedly danger in this. Sometimes homogeneity

of membership and social interest leads (as it has in the case of some farm support groups in the United

States) to a tight consensus with a severe loss of perspective. Volatile feelings have been reinforced to

the point of violence. I suspect that this happens when groups become isolated 6om the church and the

community. Suspicion grows-both by group members of those outside, and by outsiders ofthe group.

This is what occurred in the case of the farm support group I mentioned earlier which was regarded with

great suspicion by the congregation whose pastor had started it.

Perhaps initially, some of that is unavoidable. Certainly any social critique developed by farmers in

such groups will be one-sided. However it enables them to get past debilitating shame and begin to work

out their positions and perspectives before venturing them in "mixed" company. As they exercise the

common complaint eorn the viewpoint of people who feel under siege by weather, creditors, market forces

and government policies, certain feelings and judgements will undoubtedly intensify ("As we spent more

time in the group, we got more angry.") However, there may also come an awareness of their own

commitment to the reigning ideologies and with it the possibility of change. For example, one said,

You maybe change some of your values, on for example, is land worth that much? You start out with the idea "I'm going to do everything and anything to keep that land." But I'm just a tenant for a short period of time and I might have my name on it, but what does that mean? Is that the most important thing?"

In the end the difficult step of moving the conversation beyond the support group must rake place.

That farm support group I mentioned eventually risked sharing their situation with the congregation. It led

to a genuine renewal of relationships and perspectives. It gave me encouragement that in spite ofour recent

history of avoiding economic and political matters, congregations may offer one of the best places in rural

communities for public conversation about social issues.

A number of authors have spoken to the need for a "public church." Although the term is nuanced

differently by each writer, the common thread is a recognition that a local congregation serves as a

voluntary mediating structure between the individual and larger social, economic and political systems.

It can offer several important functions. Martin Marty, in The Public Church, suggests that the church can

contribute from its tradition to the "ordering faith" of the public, that is toward clarifying and caring for

''the common good."" Congregations can provide a space in modern society where ordinary people have

an opportunity to engage freely in public discussion about values and social policies. They can exchange

ideas and practice the skills of listening and persuasion that are necessary for life in public.

Ronald Thiemann points out that congregations also offer an essential public space within which

individuals can explore alternative worlds of meaning. He is convinced that "Without these alternative

' Martin E. Many. The Public Church: Mainline. Evaneelical. Catholic (New York, NY: Crossroad, 1981).

public spaces, citizens cannot develop modes of thought and behaviour independent of those encouraged

within the governmental and economic spheres?

Roger Hutchinson describes three important contributions that the churches made to the public debate

on the Mackenzie Valley pipeline. First they gave legitimacy to less powerful voices in the debate and

withdrew legitimacy fiom the dominant stmctures, allowing for a more balanced and democratic debate.

Secondly, they expanded the ethical debate from a simple discussion of consequences to a consideration

of rights and values. Thirdly, they helped to solicit the involvement and support of the wider community.

He notes that this contribution was made even though church members and groups took different sides

in the Although Hutchinson is speaking primarily of the contribution of church coalitions,

congregations were key places out of which the energy and membership of the coalitions developed.

On the one hand, the need for piaces where the community can discuss its common life increases as

local autonomy comes under assault by global forces. Over twenty years ago. Richard Semen was already

lamenting the retreat ofthe general populace fiom participation in the public arena. He saw the early signs

of globalization and suggested that North Americans were being intimidated by the large size of their

institutions, by the costs and risks of electoral politics and were becoming absorbed in the consuming

demands of work and private life (the "tyramy of intimacy"). Effectively, he said, we are leaving public

life to the control of smaller and more insulated elites whose behaviour we watch (as entertainment)

through television sets.' Chris Lind agrees that there has been a loss of democratic voice (and subsequently

grassroots confidence) in our institutions. He says that the globalization of the marketplace has removed

economic decision-making fiom local hands and has encouraged governments to restructure institutions

according to market principles. The latter moves institutions away fiom their primary strength as places

where relationships are built and cooperation is nurtured, to goal-centered associations in which people are

5~onald F. Thiemann, Relieion in Public Life: A Dilemma for Democracv (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 1 W6), 153.

6~utchinson, Pm~hets. Pastors and Public Choices. 136.

'~ichard S e ~ e t t , The Fall of Public Man (New York: Vintage Books. 1978). See also Parker Palmer, Commv of Stranners: Christians and the Renewal of America's Public Life (New York: Crossroad, 1981).

replaceable and instrumental. The renewal of our institutions and the formation of new ones, according

to Lind, are essential to rebuilding healthy community?

On the other hand, to a large extent the rural church itself (like the urban church) has become one of

those institutions restructured according to market principles. For example, conversations about a

congregation's viability almost always revolve around finances-as ifthe congregation would cease to exist

without income, buildings and paid clergy. Yet our theology suggests that the "ground" of the church's

being (to use Tillich's phrase) is God, not its income. More significantly for this study. rural churches have

reinforced an honour code which revolves around a core belief that humans are justified by material

success. How is it possible for such an institution to become a place where the commodification of life is

critiqued and resisted?

I have suggested that the church has two great resources-both of which unfortunately have been

muzzled in the farm crisis. The first is that large group of people who are suffering under the present

economic arrangements. We have explored the possibility that reconnecting with them may expose the

painfbl problems in the economy. It may arouse the anger ofcompassion and prepare the church for more

critical reflection.

The second great gift is the voice of the Bible which raises questions about cherished assumptions,

opens new perspectives, calls society's decision-makers to account. In the fmal chapter of the study we

explore ways in which the Bible may be ungagged to goad society into growth and change, to keep social

structures flexible by constantly challenging their assumptions. With Thiemann, I believe that "an active,

public role for religion would seem to be one of the preconditions of a vibrant, democratic life."9

B. The Possibility of f ublic Church

In the limited sample of this study, the communities where positive change occurred to resist the

crippling effects of the f m crisis were those that did not respect traditional boundaries between church

and community. Peace Lutheran is a good example. Gail, the pastor, was committed to dealing with the

'~iaci, Something's Wmne Somewhe=, 92E

9 ~ e m a n n , Relipion in Public Life, 153.

255

farm crisis in a public way. She assumed that the place to begin was by raising awareness of the suffering

it creates and empathy for its victims. Contrary to the congregation's past tradition she began to gently but

persistently raise farm issues in her sermons. She told some ofthe painful stories and explored their causes.

She stood with a family while the police confiscated their livestock She rallied the congregation to collect

food and clothing for an extended family of three brothen and twelve children whose land was foreclosed

on. She contacted a community psychologist through social services and asked for her help in setting up

a workshop on coping with farm stress.

Gail solicited other churches' cooperation to promote the workshop and was successful in getting out

a group of about thirty-five. The format involved a large group presentation by the speaker and then

discussion in small groups. The workshop generated excitement and concern. From that group came ideas

and resources for further forums. The churches cooperatively organized another on family dynamics and

communication. They also brought in by satellite an educational video presentation on the effect of farm

stress on children.

As community support began to solidify, Gail took a bigger risk. A fanner who had constructed a

dinosaur out of old metal parts asked if he could put it up on the church lawn with a sign indicating that

this (extinct) is what f m e n would become if some action was not taken. Gail agreed. The dinosaur

generated a good deal of controversy; however it also served to publicize the next forum that the church

spotwred. This was a panel presentation. A dairy farming couple spoke first, describing how theu loans

were called in after they had had a fue, even though they were covered by insurance. The wife in particular

shared the emotional impact-their sadness at losing their life's work, their disbelief that it had happened,

anger at a system that they felt took advantage of them, and concern for others going through the same

thing. Then a local banker responded. He expressed sympathy for the situation of farmers in crisis, then

described the restrictions that he operates under-the lending criteria, the semi-annual inspection of records

to ensure that they are not making too many bad loans. According to Gail, his perspective was, "we'll do

what we can and we'll do everything we can but there's certain legal guidelines and ifwe don't follow those

256

we get closed down and we can't serve anyone in this community." A lawyer described the legal rights of

creditors and farmers. He explained the meaning of various legal actions, what to watch out for, what

should or should not be signed. A pastor tried to frame the experience of bankrupt farmers in a theology

of grace. After the panel had spoken people were divided into small groups and had a chance to process

what they had heard.

The panel generated growing interest. An ongoing support group for farmers in crisis formed. It was

a place where emotional care and strategies for resistance and coping were shared. where social critique

and prayer and Bible study helped re-frame their struggle. Seed money was raised to begin a group that

could put pressure on the govemment for changes in legislation and a forum was held dealing with current

farm legislation that was coming before the government. The implications ofthe legislation were discussed

and the leaders supplied examples of who to contact to express their opinion, how to write letters, and so

on.

Aside Born the (considerable) benefit of these forums in simply allowing community members to hear

eachother's stories, two important developments took place. First, farm bankruptcy lost some of its hidden

shame and became a matter of public conversation. Secondly, an informal network of people who were

ready to act on important community issues emerged. So when the government came in some time later,

wanting to put a nuclear fuel dump on local farmland (where the water table was only three feet down!) the

network was quickly mobilized for dramatic (and ultimately successful) protest.

In this, and two other situations I encountered where effective community connections were made,

it was clergy-initiated but involved key lay people. It mobilized a broad cross-section of community

churches and agencies and was aimed at meeting broadly-recognized community needs, rather than

sectarian agendas. This is public church.

C. Preparing to Be A Public Church

Not all congregations responded to their pastor's efforts as Gail's did. It seems that there are certain

conditions that help congregations to undertake their role as "public church." These are related to its sense

of identity-its understanding of its own nature and purpose. When one congregation became upset because

their pastor was going with farmen to their debt reviews and not sticking to the "evangelical" work, they

were expressing their sense of that purpose. Clearly, they did not see themselves as a public church. To

prepare a congregation for a greater role in public discourse then, a pastor might do some of the

following: lo

I . Fostering a clear sense of Christian identity.

This does not mean that the pastor, or past tradition, imposes orthodox perspectives on the

congregation. Rather it means that a congregation comes to "a shared agreement about where authority

for community life and faithfulness is located." That is, the congregation learns its history and culture,

including its biblical, denominational and congregational stories and mines them for powerful metaphors

and values that have the power to shape its hture in life-giving ways. James Fowler says that from this

forms a "spine" of identity that enables Christians to convene with each other and with non-Christians

honestly and non-defensively. It also supports a commitment that can sustain a congregation through the

"ambiguities of public Christian vocation and witness." We will discuss the role of scripture and faith in

social debate fkther on.

2. Fostering on understanding of lay vocotiun and mission.

The Spirit calls and equips Christians for service and conversation that will take place for the most

part outside church walls. A congregation is responsible to train its members in both understanding the

world (social analysis) and in relating to the world (that is, in "civility"-the ability to express deep

convictions and address controversial concerns without having to decimate or control one's conversation

partner or withdraw from the discussion.)

3. Balancing koinonio ond diukonio in the use of the congregation 's energies.

The congregation's members need to be nurtured in the disciplines ofprayer, liturgy and sacrament.

They also need to be led ac the church out of the sanctuary into active engagement with the world (as

'%me are adapted and loosely drawn in par! fkom James W. Fowler, Weaving the New Creation: Stages of Faith and the Public Church (San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1991).

individuals, of course, they are always engaged privately).

4. intentionally seeking a diversity of membership.

When people of various ages. abilities, genders and races, participate fully the congregation gains a

more comprehensive understanding of reality. Its attempt to speak to that reality out of Christian tradition

has the potential to appeal to a broader segment of a pluralist society.

5. Keeping pastoral and lay leadership infi.ui@l balance.

This includes giving lay leaders access to the resources for social analysis and biblical interpretation

that clergy use (not retaining a "hidden wisdom" to insure the indispensability of the clergy).

6. Offering its witness in publicly visible and publicly intelligible ways.

This includes supporting corporate and individual action in public service, advocacy and protest. It

also means that the language and imagery that congregations use to communicate are publicly

comprehensible.

D. Structuring Fruitful Coaversation in A Public Church

A key benefit of any truly public conversation is that it rakes place W e e n people who hoold very

different social and economic roles. However, it is a difficult thing to engage in open-ended public

conversation in a mixed group about issues as painful as the farm crisis, not least because the power

imbalances inherent in such diversity are difficuit to address. Of those I interviewed, only Gail's

congregation succeeded to any degree.

No matter how difficult the undertaking, though, I am convinced that it is essential: First, because in

small rural churches fmers sit next to banken and implement dealers in church pews. That is not likely

to change. If their Christian fellowship is to be anything more than superficial glad-handing and the

congregation is going to make any claim to being an instance of a church that follows Jesus, it must address

that diversity. Secondly, because those diverse roles are inextricably intertwined. When one member

suffers, there are repercussions for the others. If a f m dealership fails, farmers have to travel much

259

further for equipment service and their own costs rise. When farms fail, lenders and dealers lose money.

The community's health depends heavily on the well-being of all its members.' ' In spite ofthe obstacles we have identified, and an oppressive history, congregations are sustained by

a common story that I believe has the power to undergird and transform the conversation and by a common

Spirit who has the power to keep them committed to one another through the process. Early in the church's

life, Paul witnessed to the gospel's ability to draw "Jew and Greek, male and female, slave and free" into

a union stronger than their differences (Gal 3:28), to "break down the dividing wall of hostility" and

"reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross" (Eph 2: 14- 16). Still today the weekly confession

of faith, the regular affirmations of our common baptism, attest a relationship to each other that is deeper

than our political. social or economic ties. Our social positions will not disappear. However they are

relativized by the prior fact that we are brothers and sisters in Christ.

Though the difiiculties of constructing an effective public conversation in a mixed group are very

large, some things can be done to minimize power imbalances and maximize clear communication:

I . Supporting weak or marginal voices

Discussion about what happened, who is responsible and what really matters may evoke strong

feelings. Those who are suffering may be provoked by anger to strong expressions of emotion (especially

in situations where a high percentage of farmers are in serious difficulty-such as those in southeast

Saskatchewan in 1999), or (more often the case) kept silent by shame or uncertainty. The voices of the

powemtl and socially righteous may seem to carry the weight of reason. When the voices of fanners in

crisis (or other socially disadvantaged participants) falter the discussion leader will need to support their

right to speak and to be heard-that is, serve, or encourage others to serve, as their advocate.

I ' In a 1998 federal survey of 7000 rural Canadians. respondents expressed a strong concern that there was a need for better cooperation between f m and non-fm interests in local communities. They also were convinced that rural areas have an unusual capacity for such community spirit if there is the Ieadership to encourage and direct it. See the summary in "Rural Canadians Speak Out"; Internet.

260

This may happen in several ways. Ronald Kraybill notes there are a variety of advocacy roles. " The

simplest is that of "Observer." If the pastor and some congregational members have been "standing

byWsufferers, they will have become close enough to the sufferer's situation to see what is happening. They

will have stood by in debt review meetings, on the farm to assist in various ways, perhaps at the fmal

auction. An observer is able to pubIicly corroborate a sufferer's stories and facts, draw them out on detail,

assist them in remembering.

The leader or other members may also advocate by acting as a "LegitimatorY'-helping to establish the

credibility of the weaker voice by affirming the value oftheir contributions, appropriately reinforcing their

comments or perspectives, giving credibility to what they say in the eyes of others who may be skeptical.

Kraybill identifies a third role as that of "Sustainer"-locating resources (research data, for example)

that might help insolvent farmers to present the facts of their own situation more filly, clearly and

forcehl ly .

Still others (normally not the leader ofthe discussion) may act as full "Advocates," speaking openly

on behalf of the farmers in crisis, helping them to articulate their position. Advocates will tend to speak

in clearly partisan and sometimes judgmental terms. Kraybill notes that discussion leaden may be quick

to silence this sort of "prophetic" speech because the tone can be hostile and seem to feed dissension. He

insists however that their presence is essential to authentic agreement because they "arouse energy which

can be channeled toward constructive change."

In this regard Thiemann notes that when marginal voices are fust raised there will almost certainly be

some degree of confrontation. Debate becomes more strident, sharpedged because questions of power

and privilege are at stake. When the excluded challenge the prerogatives of those who hold power, the

established wi 11 often develop a defensive posture against such protests. However, Thiemann believes that

passion, even stridency, may be signs of the robustness and inclusiveness of a community rather than

"~onald Kraybill, Reoairin~ the Breach: Ministering in Communitv Conflict (Scondale. PA: Herald Press. 198 I ). 17-21. I am adapting fiom his model for resolving conflict in congregations.

26 1

indications of its decay. l 3 It may help raise the emotional investment of group members to a place where

change and action become possible.

2. CIar$ying the levels of discourse

Participants often talk past one another because they are speaking at different levels of discourse.

Roger Hutchinson offers some help in this matter. As noted in the introduction, Hutchinson distinguishes

between four levels of analysis in discussing social issues: a) nanative-the telling of one's story in relation

to a particular issue including one's initial responses to it and definitions of the problem; b) factual

clarification-dealing with claims that can be refuted or supported by appealing to empirical evidence; c)

ethical clarification-weighing rights, duties, consequences and ways of life to determine where

responsibility lies, making judgements about what is good and what is not; and d) postethical

clarification-exposing the framework of ideals, convictions and worldviews that inform these judgements.

This are the levels I have used in carrying on my own conversation with the reader in this study. I have

added a fifth element in the process. It is the one in which, at this point in this study, we are presently

engaged-that of commitment to action. This involves determining, on the basis of the above, what it is

right andfimible to do in the given circumstances and applying wisdom to the formation of concrete plans.

The discussion leader has the task ofhelping participants to move from one level to another together,

clarifying the type of discourse being used. Hutchinson calls it "gearing in"-ensuring for example that

empirical claims are being met with empirical counterclaims rather than with stories, ethical judgements

or theological statements.

Although for the sake of definition I will describe these as if one would move through them in a linear

manner, Hutchinson stresses that real debate never does that exclusively. Participants will review their

stories in the light of new facts, facts may be viewed differently once one's deepest values are brought into

'3Thiemm, Relinion in Public Life, 148.

the light, judgements may be revisited by careful conversation around biblical stories and beliefs, and so

on. 14

However there is a certain logic to beginning with stories and facts and ending with plans for action.

The levels follow something of the normal human process for developing relationships between strangers.

One can see it in something as apparently unrelated to our subject as coumhip. Two strangers begin to tell

each other their stories at a party. As interest develops they pay closer attention to the details of each

other's behavior-the way he listens, the way she walks. Soon they begin to make value judgements:

"You're wonderful; I think you're the greatest!" They begin to reflect on the larger meaning of their

relationship, often symbolizing it in "sacred" memories, jewelry, songs. and so on: they say "I think we

were meant to be together." Finally come plans and commitments "I love you-let's get married."

Five levels: storytelling, fact-gathering, judging-evaluating, offering post-ethical interpretations.

committing to action. As a community moves through them, there is real potential to find a new level of

unity and understanding (or at least clarity about the differences-not all courtships lead to marriage!)

a. Beginning with stories

Encouraging participants to tell their stories and define the problem as they see it seems the natural

place to begin. In analyzing the way in which public consensus develops around certain issues, Michael

Walzer notes that initially people often come together on the basis of very broad (what he calls "thin")

principles: for example "the farm crisis is hurting our community; something ought to be done about it."

Human society, however, does not live and is not changed at the level of such principles. As he notes,

societies are pmticukr. They are made of particular members each with unique memories of their own

and the communal life. Humanity in general, however, has no such memories, no rituals, no shared

understandings about what is good. While all humans have such things, there is no one way of having

them. Our humanness is rooted in our particularities. And yet we seem able to find a way, because we are

I4~oger ~utchinson, ~ro~hets. pastors and Public Choices. 3 1-37,122,125-126. See also Hutchinson, 'Study and Action." 178- I9 1 .

263

human, to "acknowledge each other's different ways, respond to each other's cries for help, learn fiom each

other, and march (sometimes) in each other's parades."'5

Social critique therefore, according to Walzer, naturally begins not with discussion of universal

principles, but with particular stories. It is "homegrown." Each one's distinctive reality is

"thickly"described in its colou-hl concreteness. In the stories it becomes apparent that different definitions

of the problem are, as Hutchinson puts it, "rooted in different experiences, different responsibilities and

different loyalties."16 It may happen, however, that the participants discover an area in which their

perspectives converge-an "overlapping consensus"out of which common action may later take shape.

A significant advantage in beginning with narrative discourse is that everyone is an expert on their own

experience. Those with less honour may be able to begin with some confidence (particularly if they have

had some experience telling their story in homogeneous small groups). The listeners also recognize that

the story-teller has this authority and are less likely to respond with reactive argument. The story-teller

invites the listeners into his or her personal space. This vulnerable posture helps to reduce the need for

listeners to assume a defensive stance.

Story-telling may make it possible for some to feel what it is like to be in the narrator's shoes.

However the latter is not the primary purpose of the narrative. Susan Thistlewaite notes fkom her

experience with women's groups how difficult it is for the advantaged to really put themselves in the place

ofthe afflicted Rather than idenufLing with the afflicted, pretending a homogeneity that doesn't exist, she

suggests that the advantaged be encouraged to discern and describe their own experience of oppression in

the system. The anger that this creates, together with an analysis of the conditions that generate the

injustices, may provide the best glue for partnership in action."

- - - - - -- -

L5~alzer, Thick and Thin, 8.

'%utchinson. Pmohets. Paston and Public Choices, 1 17.

"see Susan Thistlewaite, Sex. Race. and God: Christian Feminism in Black and White (New Yo& NY: Crossroad, 1989). chap. I .

264

6. Paying close attention to the facts

When ail have told their stories, it becomes possible to begin building a picture of the "facts." As I

discovered in listening to the many stories of farmers, lenders, pastors and others, certain themes and

concrete facts recur fkquently. These need to be explored to discover their precise parameters. Other facts

will be in dispute. These will need to be reviewed and additional information may have to be sought.

All participants should have an opportunity to tell which facts they regard as important for

consideration. A list of empirical questions close to the local situation could be developed to begin the

discussiowfor example: "What are actual production costs and grain prices and interest rates for our area?"

"What lending policies are in place'? What changes are occurring in financing practices?"'What really

determines whether one f m e r makes a profit in this area and another does not?" "What impact has the

closing of our local elevator actually had on transportation costs?" "What is happening to local businesses

in town as a result of the fm economy?" "What is happening to the f m population in our area?" and

SO on.

The questions may then be broadened to include characteristics of the wider economic system-for

example: "How much did banks gain or lose on their loans to farmers in the last ten years?'' What is the

balance between the taxes that fanners pay and the benefits they receive?' "What are the present and

historic levels of subsidy? Who derives the greatest furancia1 benefit fiom the present fonns of subsidy?"

There probably will not be agreement on all the details but at least each will have the other's perception

of the 'Yacts" to correct his or her own.

In exploring the "facts," several cautions are important. First of all, any decisions based on the

projection of the facts into the hture (that is, prediction of fbtwe trends and consequences) requires the

assumption that present headings won't be altered by unseen funw events-hardly a safe assumption.

Secondly, some of the most important historical data can only be accessed through memory and its

interpretive functions-for example, "To what extent did lenders encourage farmers to take out loans

beyond their means?" Such questions may have significant bearing on how responsibility for an unpayable

265

debt should be distributed. but hard answers, unaffected by personal perspective. are impossible to come

by. Thirdly, there is a disputable relationship between truth and facts. One may know an isolated fact

about another person, but because that fact is only part of the picture, the person is caricatured and the

b'whole" trtith is obscured. That which one does not know may be more important for grasping the heart

of the truth than what is known.

c. Making ethical judgements

In conversation about "what happened" or "is happening" it will become evident that participants are

operating from some findamentally different assumptions. They value the facts in different ways-some

regarding certain features of the situation as unimportant or positive while others see them as important or

disastrous. For example, some may note the exodus of farmers from the land and see this as an admittedly

difficult, but necessary and ultimately positive transition to a new and stronger agricultural economy.

Others may view it as deplorable.

Fundamental values about self-reliance, free enterprise and the honour code may be in conflict. The

conversation cannot proceed unless these are brought to the surface and assessed. l 8 This wn of discussion

of course has a higher potential for conflict. It is also more complex. There will be a need to move back

and forth m e e n levels, re-examining particular facts as a reality check on ideals, bringing up new material

fmm one's story to illustrate particular values or challenge ethical judgements and so on. The facilitator's

job is to help the group identify the kind of claim that a member is making (for example, a factual

claim-"banks charged escalating interest on fixed rate notes" or a value judgement-"the growing size of

farms is a sign of a strengthening agricultural sector") and respond in kind ("most banks did not charge

escalating interest" or "larger farms means fewer people and a weaker community life"). The facilitator

will also press the group to treat each level fully and not skip through the facts, or make value judgements

lightly or use biblical material in a flippant or authoritarian way.

''see Hutchinson, "Study and Action:' for further description of the way in which confession of each one's deepest convictions helps to clarifL debate at this point and move it forward.

266

Hutchinson suggests that ethical reflection requires at least two different kinds of questions.'9 The

leader may help the group to formulate questions about consequences-for example: "What are the social,

financial, and personal costs ofan agricultural economy in which there are large fluctuations in income and

periodically high rates of bankruptcy?" "What are the long-term effects of the rise in the average age of

farmers?" "What are the long-term consequences of moving to larger, more mechanized farms-for the

soil? for the life of the community? for farm profitability? "Who benefits most from the present

arrangements and why?"

Generally, however, questions about consequences won't bring agreement on action unless the

consequences are given similar weight and value by all participants. Therefore questions about rights and

responsibilities must also be solicited from the groupfor example: "Who has the right to farm?" "What

rights do the generations that will follow us on the land have?" Does everyone have the right to an equal

opportunity to make a living at those things they are most suited for?" "Who is responsible to ensure when

loans are taken out, that the borrower has the ability to repay?" "What levels of interest do lenders have

the right to charge?"'Can fanners expect investors and creditors to share in the risks of their fanning

operation if they do not receive its profits?" "Do farmers have the right to expand their operations at their

neighbur's expense? Do they have the right to expect their neighbur's help?"'To whom does land really

belong?"

Some of the questions about rights are legal in nature and may require more factual research.

However not all rights are enshrined in constitutions or legislation and not all citizens agree that all the legal

rights so enshrined are morally "right." This requires a move to a final type of analysis.

d. Opening up beliefi and worldviews

It has been the thesis of this study that shaming-and some of the social and economic behaviour

related to it-is rooted in people's worldview. Deep beliefs and convictions about the meaning of human

-

I9see Hutchinson. *Study and Action." l84ff for his discussion o f comequentiaIist ethics, which determine the rightness ofpolicies based on the calculation ofconscquences, and deontologicul ethics which evaluate justice on the basis of rights and duties.

life, about ideals and the roots ofevil, are woven into human behaviour and judgements. This is not to say

that everything we do springs directly born grand visions. Much of our behaviour is simply habitual,

instinctual and reactive. However these behaviors are often (after the fact) given broader meaning in an

over-arching frame work.

Ln some ways discourse about these matters is the most difficult. Community members who are not

part of groups (for example churches) in which worldviews are articulated clearly may fmd it hard to

describe the larger picture of reality that frames their behaviour and informs their values. Others who are

adherents to churches or ideological groups may be tempted to use their convictions in a way that shuts

down debate. Since we are suggesting that the church may serve as a public forum for discussion, let us use

the Christian tradition to illustrate how these "postethical" views may instead serve to further healthy

debate.

In Prophets. Pastors and Public ~hoices,?' Hutchinson says that our Christian tradition serves us most

effectively when we treat it as "scaffolding." It forms a framework of stories and symbols within which

the issues at stake may be viewed (or as Lindbeck would say, "a world within which our lives may be

inscribed.") It does not offer definitive "'answers" about social issues; rather it provides a broad vision of

human life under God which reorients us and suggests that the status quo may not be adequate. That

vision challenges us to find new ways of organizing our life.

It does this as our personal stories are "written in" to the larger biblical narmtive. James McClendon

says that each of our individual stories "is inadequate, taken alone, and is hungry for another to complete

it. . . ." As they are shared, individual stories become our story-the community's story. But, McClendon

adds,

our story is inadequate as well: the story of each and ail is itself hungry for a greater story that overcomes our persistent selfdeceit, redeems our common life and provides a way for us to be a people among all earth's peoples without subtracting from the significance of others' peoplehood, their stories, their lives. 3 I

2%ut~hinson, Pro~hets. Pastors and Public Choices, 118ff

".lames McClendon. "Narrative Ethics and Christian Ethics," Faith and Philoso~hs 3 (October 1986): 383-96.

268

The biblical narrative embraces ours by leaving a "space" for us. It begins at creation, moves through

Israel, Jesus and the early church and then jumps over our time to show us where us where the plot

ultimately leads. That "gap" is the opening through which our own stories become part ofthe larger story.

To begin to locate themselves in that gap discussion participants might be invited to notice what that

narrative reveals about the broad themes of the biblical "plot," the character of its principal players (the

Trinity and humanity), some of the details of its setting. They may then be asked "if this is what is really

going on-if this is what God is up to-then how does our behaviour in the fann crisis, our values, our own

story fit in? Does it fUrther the plot or take us on a detour? Is it in tune with the basic character and

intentions of the One who is moving the narrative forward? How does the honour code (or particular

economic policies. or an individual's behavior) fit as a ''write-in" to the biblical story? Does it match

seamlessly, or is it an ugly, ill-fitting patch?

Two things need to be said about this process of rearming, or writing in: 1 ) Initially the members of

a mixed group discussion may be attracted to and find common ground in certain of the Bible's ''thin"

principles-that is, in love for the neighbur, God's concern for all, and so on. This helps to bind the group

in a sense of common purpose and conviction. However these principles tend to operate at a very general

level. As Hutchinson notes, for example, ''the claim that everyone is of equal worth, and that God is on

the side of those whose worth has been denied through unjust social structures, leaves open a number of

questions regarding what ought to be done in a particular case to aftirm someone's worWY

Such principles are what Walzer refers to as "minimalist" morality. Tbey are derived from the thick,

but contextual morality of particular situations (those of the biblical writers) but are often broad enough

to connect across cultures, roles and times. Minimalist morality identifies the commonalities, the single

aspects, the superficial abstractions that we have in common with other worldviews and allows us to

cooperate or combat or dialogue with them on this common gound? It also allows people who operate

aPro~hets. Pastors and Public Choices, 1 19.

%e Walzer, Thick 1 8. Max Steakhow identifies w h t he regards as ten of the most impottant of these 'rhin" principles in the Bible in Max Steakhouse. "What Then Shall We Do? On Using the Scripture in Economic Ethics," Interpretation 41 (October 1987): 382-397, 394-395. They include (in paraphrased summary) such principles as

out of very different worldviews to nevertheless take action together-setting up a farm crisis line, for

example.

2) The process of r e - W n g proceeds inductively fiom detail to larger picture. While it is agreement

on the Bible's thin morality that enables a mixed group to feel comfortable about holding a discussion of

practical options for our agricultural economy in the light of their fundamental values, the discussion itself

cannot really begin there, or at least dwell there for long. To get past superficial agreement on general

principles, to discover practical alternatives for modem living, requires an "intratextual" experience (to use

Lindbeck's language) or 'Wick" description (to use Walzer's language) of the Bible.

Participants can only step into the biblical world through its concrete details, including its social

context. As they enter and sense the particular colors and movements of that world, they also begin to

discern its heart. Some understanding of the way God encounters it and of the Word God addresses to it,

emerges. At the same time connections between the two worlds (the ancient and one's own) become

apparent. It becomes possible to sense how that same God is continuing to act in one's own life and

community-how the present is part of the larger story. Some assumptions about what is "good" and

"normal" will be challenged. Some possibilities that the present armngement excluded from consideration

are brought to awareness.

Chapter twelve offers examples of how participants might be helped to r e - W e their stories of farm

debt in the stories that Jesus told.

e. Ekploring alternatives

When participants understand each other and the issues well it is essential to move the conversation

into change and action. It is the time to raise questions about what is possible andfeosible. This requires

"everything belongs to God and should be treated that way," "honour is not given because one has p w e r and riches but because one loves mercy and walks humbly with God" "authority must not be used for extortion or personal gain,'"Torced poverty and greedy accumulation of wealth are damaging to the community," "do not lie, sted, cheat or covet," '%eat the stranger or foreigner as equitably as an intimate" and "the heart of injustice is in the hearts of people and injustice will therefore be present in all structures we build; those structures are necessary because of it, but must not be made into idols." While such principles are not exhaustive, and beg for definition, they do reflect the sort of thing that the members of rural communities could use as connective values in their public conversation.

270

a sound awareness of the functioning of present economic and political systems. However, it needs

something more-the awareness of alternatives not provided for in the present arrangements. It calls for

thinking "outside the box."

We humans have a tendency to reduce the options God has given us. We multiply rules-restrictive

do's and don'ts-as the way to restrain evil and promote healthy human life because we do not want to have

to do the diffrcult work involved in developing character and learning moral discernment. This has the

effect, unfortunately, of tending to limit our view of what is normal and good. It also multiplies the

incidents of law-breaking and enforcing. Our attention becomes focused on "fences" rather than on

exploring the landscape around them.

Entering the biblical world in the way that Lindbeck suggests. one discovers that instead of being

resmcted, possibilities are opened up. It is interesting that in God's Sinai covenant with Israel only ten

broad parameters were given-ten pitfalls that we ought to avoid. Jesus reduced this even further to the

simple, positive requirement that we love God and our neighbour. Recognizing the utter impossibility of

keeping such a commandment in the absolute sense, and the need for civil law to constrain dominating self-

interest, it nonetheless suggests that God intends for us a great deal of freedom.

This is the time in the conversation to play with that freedom-to brainstorm proposals for financial

anangements, for community relationships, for economic structures that might enhance rural life. It is also

the time to make commitments to specific concrete action. One might ask, "What are we going to do to

help this particular fanner or business person?" "What could we do together to process some of the things

we produce?" "What specific proposals are we going to bring to the government and how are we going

to lobby for them?"

To say that the biblical world opens up new possibilities for the construction of human communities,

however, is not say that all proposals will be suitable. It will insist, for example, that every social

arrangement be conformed to love for God and neighbour. Personal gain at the expense ofthose who have

less, monopoly of decision-making processes by those with power-such ways of constructing community

will not fit into the fwdamental dynamics of its new creation life. Hutchinson observed the effect of

biblical scaffolding in the context of Project North:

[qhe use of the Bible evoked a common memory that God cares for the oppressed and for the resources of the earth. Project North was tapping the disclosive power of biblical stories and symbols to generate an openness to new possibilities and to call into question existing assumptions and priorities. These appeals created a moral ethos in which only barbarians would refuse to care about justice for natives and stewardship of nowenewable resources?

In the final chapter, I will give some examples of how a discussion leader might help a mixed group

to make connections between the social and economic world of Jesus and their own that could have that

sort of disclosive power.

asto tors. Pro~hets and Public Choices, 128.

CHAPTER 12

HOW DO WE CONNECT "PALESTINE" AND THE PRAIRIES?

To illustrate how a discussion leader might introduce a mixed group to conversation about the farm

crisis in the light of the biblical worldview I am going to focus on the story of Jesus as the key to the plot

of the larger biblical narrative.

One enters Jesus' world by exploring the details of his fmt century social situation. Jesus' words and

actions were directed toparticular people. He was not simply spouting propositions about human life in

general or demonstrating universal principles. It was particular practices and attitudes reflected in first

century Palestinian life that came under judgement in the light of Jesus' vision. As we have already

noticed, it was the very pointed, particular bite of Jesus' ministry that so offended those responsible for

maintaining the social order that they had him executed.

John Kloppenborg insists that Jesus' ethical sayings, for example, should not be dealt with simply in

terms of their intellectual antecedents (earlier sayings which he took over) or their theological context.

They must be heard f?om the sociaVpoliticaVeconornic standpoint of their hearers. Those hearers, as he

describes them are "peasants and day iaborers, the petit gens of the villages and small cities of Galilee,

Judaea, Gaulanitis and the region of the Deeapolis; and perhaps a handful of elite who served as retainers

for the Herodian dynasty, the Romans and the hienmacy in Jerusalem." He gives an example of how the

hearers' social location must have affected their interpretation of Jesus' words:

"You cannot serve both God and Mammon" (Q 1 6: 1 3 b) would mean one thing to Luke's urban, probably amuent and certainly cultured audience who would. . . draw fiom it the conclusion that the wealth of the Christian should be used in acts of benefaction and reconciliation.. . . But the saying would sound quite different to a Galilean smallholder or day labourer, or to the urban non- elite of Sepphoris, who found themselves victims to the predatory lending practices of urban and southern elites and to the multilevel forms of taxation. These person experienced at first hand the effects of the servitude to other people's mammon.'

'see John Kloppenborg, bbAirns. Debt and Divorce: Jesus' Ethics in their Mediterranean Context," Toronto Journal of Theoloqy, 6 (110.2 1990): I 85.

273

Behind Kloppenborg's assertion that "religious*' statements such as ''you cannot serve God and

Mammon," would have socio-ethical impact is his awareness that in ancient agrarian societies religion was

"embedded" with economics in the life and social patterns of people. Faith" and "politics" had a profound

effect on each other. This study suggests that this is true to a large extent in modem rural communities as

well. It seems that in small, relatively stable communities built around kinship relations it is difficult to

"compartmentalize" one's life the way that urbanites are sometimes able to do. Roles overlap, and the

importance of maintaining one's social position affects all aspects of one's life.

There are two implications then: fust, it seems fair to assume that Jesus was concerned with the social,

political and economic implications of the reign of God since his hearers would not have been able to

extract a purely "spiritual" message from his proclamation. Secondly, the interpretation of Jesus' words

in modern rural communities must similarly take into account the actual matrix ofeconornic. psychological

and power relations between its members because they too. will extract more than a purely spiritual

message Eorn it. When those real relations are obscured, the biblical material can be used to bring bondage

(as for example the work ethic) rather than good news.'

This is not to say, however, that the social implications drawn by modem rural dwellers would

necessarily be the same as those drawn by first century Israelites. That depends in part on the congruity

between their particular contexts, to which we now turn.

A Comparing B n t century and modern contexts

Following are some features ofthe social setting of Jesus' hearers in which discussion participants may

find interesting connections (similarity and contrast) to that of a modem rural community gripped by a farm

crisis.

I . Honour and shame as constitutive of social l$e

Clifford Geertz notes that the modem western urban concept of person as a "bounded, unique, more

or less integrated motivational and cognitive universe. . . set contrastively. . . against its social and natural

'on this see Shamn Ringe "Solidarity and Contextuality," 208.

background" is a rare and peculiar idea in world culture It is not surprising then to find in

accounts of first century middle-east life a sociaf constmction of identity through honour and shame similar

to that which we have documented in modern farm communities." Such an understanding of human

personhood has been the historic norm to which the urban "portable self' is a modem exception.

Kloppenborg claims that in Israelite society (as in f m communities today) the group was valued

above the individual and the individual derived his or her identity fiom the group. Honour (ascribed by

birth or social position or acquired by worthy acts) and shame were pivotal values. Honour was a

combination of a person's self-estimation of worth and the societal recognition of that claim?

A discussion leader might invite group members to examine parallels and differences between the

ancient and modem experience of honour:

a. In ancient societies dominant males were expected to defend the honour oftheir family. Is that true

today in farm communities? Do the men feel the weight of farm bankruptcy differently than the women?

Is it changing? If so, how?

b. In Palestine, an injury (verbal or practical) became a challenge to one's honour only when it became

public. In situations where the injury was greaf but hope of getting "satisfaction" for the injury was not

gwd, there was a strong pressure not to let the challenge to one's honour become public. Courts, therefore,

because oftheir public n a m , tended to be avoided6 Is that still the case today? To the extent that it is,

what are the reasons that modern farmers tend to avoid the courts? Is honour a factor? For example if a

farmer has been injured by global markets or government policies or lending practices, they cannot "get

- --

'~lifford Gee- "'From the Native's Point of View': On the Name of Anthropological Understanding," in Meaninn in Anthropolo~y, ed. K.H. Basso and H.A. SeIby (Albuquerque, NM: University ofNew Mexico Press, 1976), 22 1-237.

'~ruce Malina is an author who has done a good deal of research into honour and shame in first century Palestine. See, for example, The New Testament World: Insights fiom Cultural Anthropolony, rev.ed. (Louisville, KY: WestminsterIJohn Knox Press, 1993); Windows on the World of Jesus (Louisville, ICY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993); Bruce MaJina & Richard Rohrbaugh, Social Science Cornmentaw on the Svnoptic Goswls (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1992); John Pilch & Bruce Malina, eds. Biblical Social Values and their Meanings: A Handbook (Peabody, MS: ff endrickson Publishers, 1993). All of these have valuable sections on honour and shame.

5 Uoppenhrg, "Alms, Debt and Divorce," 1 86- 1 88.

6~alina, The New Testamem World, 44-45.

275

back" at the ones who have challenged their honour. If one cannot get "satisfaction" for the injury one loses

honour irrecoverably. Do they avoid going to court to keep the injury hidden, thinking that it is better not

to let others know that the challenge has taken place? Or are there are other dynamics at work (for

example, the cost of going to court?)

c. In Palestine, if a person became separated from their kinship or other "in-group" and was unable

to assert and defend honour or to secure a defender of honour (because of illness, financial destitution,

bereavement or other reasonskthey are not only shamed (a temporary state) but become sheless-that

is, incapabie of significant social relations.' Bruce Malina contends that when the New Testament speaks

of "the poor" it is referring to these shamed or shameless ones who have lost social standing and are not

able to maintain their honour. He infers the meaning of the term from its use in parallel with other terms.

In Lk 4: 18 (quoting from Isaiah) he notes that the poor are those who have lost their freedom as a result

of debts (imprisoned in debtor's prison). Mt 5:3-5 and Lk 690-2 1 include those who hunger, thirst and

mourn among the poor. Mt. 1 1 :4-5 lists the blind, lame, lepers, deaf, and the dead with the poor.' Thus,

Malina claims, "from the viewpoint of the vast majority of the people, the poor would not be a permanent

social class but a son of revolving class of people who unfortunately cannot maintain their inherited

status."9 People would have used the tern "poof'to refer to those who had encountered unfortunate life

circumstances. In the NT context, according to Malina, "rich" and "poor" then designate two poles of

society-those who are able to maintain elite status and those unable to maintain their inherited status (of

any rank)*

Who in the modem context would be comparable to the "poor"? Malina notes that North American

society is structured around the economy and uses the term "poor" to refer primarily to the destitute.

Mediterranean society, however, is focused around kin and political relationships and refers to those who

-. -. . - - - - - -

'see Joan Pitt-Rivers "The People of the Sierra" in John Peristiany, ed. Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (London, UK: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1966): 4 1.

'see also Lk 14: 13-21 ; 21 :2-3; i6:20-22 (Launrs). Mk 12:4243, ims 2:3-6. Rv 3: 17 speaks of the poor as wretched, pitiable, blind, naked.

' ~ l u c e Malina, "Wealth and Poverty in the New Testament and Its World," Internretation 4 1 (October 1987): 356.

276

have suffered great loss in these arenas. So in Meditemean village Life. wealthy, "sonless" women whose

husbands have died are referred to as "poor" widows, even though they have no economic problems. An

imprisoned debtor would be regarded as one of the poor not simply because of a lack of economic strength

but because he was cut off from his family. Should biblical references to "the poor" be applied to farmen

who are unable to maintain their social standing because of bankruptcy (even if they are not in fact

completely indigent)? Do they want that term applied to them? If the term ''poor" is misleading in a

modem context, is there a better term to identify farmers who, though still possessing some resources, have

lost social status?

d. Honour in ancient societies was in scarce supply. Honour is only worth something when it is not

distributed indiscriminately. An increase in one's honour therefore was likely to come at the expense of

someone else. As a result there was competition for honour. While social transactions were generally non-

competitive within the family or in-group where the roles were relatively fixed and accepted. they were

highly competitive outside the family or in-group. The preservation and defense of the family's honour

was a pervasive characteristic of public social tran~actions.'~

It was in regard to its contribution to honour that wealth had its primary value in ancient

Meditemean society. One's principal enjoyment was not in the things one bought but in parading those

things before an approving community. As Plutarch commented: "With no one to see or look on, wealth

becomes lackluster indeed and bereft ofradiance."' ' Relationships o f m d exchange were based not on

contract but on one's sense of honour and shame. Often elite persons supplied non-elite with loans and in

addition to the payments the non-elite returned loyalty and public praise (this was the principal reason for

having wealth-to use it to gain public honour).'*

'kloppnborg, "Alms, Debt and Divorce," 188.

"on Love of Wealth, 528A; LCL VII, 37, quoted in Bruce J. Malina. "Wealth and Poverty," 366.

'*see Malina, New Testament World, 80.

The leader might ask the group whether there are similar dynamics in their own community. On what

bases is honour ascribed? Does age make a difference as to which criteria (for example heritage or wealth)

are regarded as imputing the most honour?

2. Competition ar a result of a perception of limited good

Anthropologist G. Fonter comments of agrarian societies that they have an "image of limited good."

He says that agrarian life is patterned in such a way as to suggest that they view their world as one in which

the desired things of life-that is "land, wealth, health, Wendship and love, manliness and honour, respect

and status, power and influence, security and safety" are always in short supply and there is no way to

increase the available quantities.'3

Ramsay MacMullen notes that this was probably not just perception but reality. Those who had

wealth and social influence could multiply it considerably but there were very few rags to riches stories.

The structure of the ancient economy made it virtually impossibie for a peasant or artisan to "make it": supplies ofraw materials were never in sufficient quantities to allow the expansionof production, markets were not available even if it did expand, and underemployment was rampant. The elite could gain or lose a fortune; the non-elite (excluding, perhaps, freedmen of affluent households) could hold their own or lose. This means that the saying preserved by both Mk (4:25) and Q (1 W6) - "to the one that has will more be given, and fiom the one who has no even what he has will be taken"-would not seem a paradox: it was bitter economic reality. 14

Within this son of social perspective, envy and competition became an intense and pervasive characteristic

of social relationships, especially among peasants. Those who became suddenly successful were deemed

to have done so at the expense of others (since goods are assumed to be limited) and their newly acquired

prosperity was resented, envied by others.1S

The pastor might ask the group how the concept of limited good relates to the modem context.

Superficially, it appears to be much different. One of the fundamental assumptions of modem capitalism

is that wealth can be created-that is, that the development of new technologies, the discovery of new

' 3 ~ . Forster, "Peasant Society and the Image of Limited Good," American Anthrowlo~ist 67 (1965): 296. See also Bruce Malina, New Testament World, 7 1-93.

%unsay ~ a c ~ u l l e n , Roman Social Relations from 50 B.C. to A.D. 284 (New Haven. CT: Yale University Press. 1974): 100-101, 119-120.

Issee Bmce Malina and Chris Seeman, "Envy" in Biblical Social Values, 55-59.

resources of material and energy, makes it possible to generate unlimited growth in c mmodities, consumer

items and money. One might think that this assumption would lead to cooperative economic arrangements.

If there is more than enough for all, why not help each other to produce as much wealth as possible? Why

is there so much competition?16

Participants might share something h o r n their own contexts about the reality of living day to day in

a "free" market economy. How does one get the capital to enter farming or to expand one's operation?

How much freedom is there in the local area to choose between input dealers, lenders, and so on? How

does this affect the prices at which inputs are sold? Is the overall wealth in the rural economy increasing?

If so, who is benetitting? How does the market set limits on production? How do the costs of raw

materials and tools and the constrains of debt aiTect one's ability to expand?

Leaders also might want to explore the effect of competition at the local level. How does the

promotion of one's own interest-an essential element in capitalism-interact with community solidarity?

On the one hand capitalism promotes the perception that unlimited expansion is possible and desirable.

However the base resource of farming-arable land-is a controlled quantity (in contrast to the limitless

"promised land" image of the unbroken prairies). It is only available when a neighbour goes out of

business. To increase one's social standing in the community therefore (by purchasing larger equipment,

for example to signal the f m ' s prosperity) means that one must acquire additional land at a neighbour's

expense. Do farmers who expand aggressively gain social honour? Are they ngarded as having betrayed

a neighbour if they purchase additional land as a result of the neighbour's foreclosure?

3. The occurnulation ofdebt as o key factor in the destruction of community

Douglas Oakman says that the historical context of Jesus reflects a social and economic situation in

which "exploitative urbanism, powefil redistributive central institutions like the Roman state and Jewish

Temple, concentration of land holdings in the hands of the few, rising debt, and disrupted horizontal

'6~limpws of such a perspective can in fact be seen in the writing ofearly Christian capitalists. As Emst Tmltsch comments: "Labour and profit were never intended for purely personal interest. The capitalist is always a steward of the gifts of God whose duty is to increase his capital and utilize it for the sake of society as a whole, retaining for himself only that amount which is necessary to provide for his own needs." Troelsch, Social Teachinns, 644-45.

relations in society were becoming the nom."" He notes that in the century and a half preceding Jesus,

agrarian unrest created a revolutionary atmosphere in the Graeco-Roman world. Tiberius Gracchus,

Aristonicus, and Lucullus were among the reformers who attempted to reverse or escape Rome's

imperialistic and exploitative agrarian policies and the socially disruptive effects of debt. Tiberius saw the

decline of a Roman peasantry conscripted for the Punic wars, their lands taken over by the wealthy. He

passed an agrarian law designed to restore expropriated lands to their former owners. However Tiberius

was murdered. His aims were carried forward without ultimate success by his brother Gaius. The social

order of Rome became dominated again by a landed aristo~racy.'~

It appears that similar agrarian concerns lay close to the heart ofthe unrest in Palestine. John Dominic

Crossan notes that the Jewish revolt against the Romans that began in 66 C.E. had a massive peasant

involvement. What would account for such widespread discontent? While it is possible that the millennia1

prophets common during that period may have raised the expectations of peasants who generally lived

barely above a subsistence level, Crossan says that there must have been some change in their economic

situation in order for such preaching to be grasped with revolutionary vigor.I9

His contention is supported by Oakman's research. Oakman notes Josephus' comment that one of

the initial actions of the Jewish insurgents in the war was the burning of the ofice where debt records were

kept: " m e rebels] next carried their combustibles to the public archives, eager to destroy the money-

lenders' bonds and to prevent the recovery of debts, in order to win over a host of gratefbl debtors and to

cause a rising of the poor against the rich . . . m2.247)."

What brought about such high levels of peasant debt that it touched off this agrarian revolt? Martin

Goodman suggests-and rejects-a couple of possibilities.'0 He notes that the tax burden, while onerous (the

"~akman, Economic Questions, 2 1 1 .

" ~ o u ~ l a s Oakman, "Jesus and Agrarian Palestine: The Factor of Debt" Societv for Biblical Literature: Seminar Pawrs (1 985): 59.

'9~ohn Dominic Cmssan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York, NY: HarperCollins, 199 1 ).

'%artin Goodman, "The Fim Jewish Revolt: Social Conflict and the Problem of Debt" Journal oflewish Studies 33: 417427. -

peasants paid up to two thirds of production in tax), had not increased.'' Goodman also notes that there

were several bad harvests, but suggests that like the taxes, these were a chronic feature of agrarian life and

not likely to spark a revolt. What then changed?

The disruptive economic factor, according to Goodman, was a rapid influx of new investment capital

into the region around Jerusalem. He cites several supporting facts. First, the general peace imposed by

Rome (Pax Romana) allowed for increased trade and travel. Combined with Herod's rebuilding of the

temple, it stimulated an influx of pilgrims into the Jerusalem area. A great deal of money was spent on

offerings at the temple and for goods and services within the city. Secondly, the Herodians were the

primary beneficiaries of the new income and spent it lavishly stimulating a rapid growth in the size of

Jerusalem and its population. While the effect should have been beneficial to ail, in fact only a few

benefitted. Most of the new money ended up in the pockets of the wealthy. The rich, especially rich

priests. became richer and so did those with Temple monopolies or a function in the service industries.

However. because there were insufficient opportunities for employment (due to the fact that Judeans

preferred to buy imported goods &om the empire rather than those domestically produced-which would

have created local jobs), then was no real mechanism for channeling wealth towards the more needy

elements of the population except in the form of charity.

Thirdly, the rich had few opportunities to use their capital. Many luxury items (like art

collections-idolatrous) were forbidden to Jews. They had a large unconsumed surplus. Some was stored

in the form of metal or deposits in the Temple treasury. The rest needed to be invested. Unfortunately

Judean manufacturing was not doing well because, as mentioned, Judeans preferred to import their

manufactured goods. Also, there is little evidence that the surplus went into long-distance trade. Instead

it was invested in either land or (often land-secured) loans. Land was the safest investment since rentals

lewish peasants had b n n heavily taxed for almost 500 years-by the Persians, the Ptolernies, the Seleucids and now the Romans-double taxed in fact because the Jewish temple tax was always added on. Oakman carefilly analyzes rents, tolls and taxes in first-century Palestine and conciudes that the taxes amounted to between one-half and two-thirds of peasant production. See Economic Questions, 72. Yet it seems that this was no different than during previous foreign oppressions.

brought in a steady income without risk to capital. Most aristocrats during this period, like their

counterparts in Greece and Rome, became large landowners with estates fanned by tenants. It is not

surprising then, that every rich person in the gospels whose source of income is identified owes their wealth

(with two unusual exceptions) to agriculture: Mt 1 3 :3-4; 2 1 :28; 25: 14-30; Lk 19: L 1 -27.'2

Land however, could not absorb all of the capital because its availability was normally quite limited;

it tended to be kept within the family. That availability was fbther decreased by the influx of new people

into the area, many of whom were attracted to ancestral plots. The only feasible solution for the remainder

was to lend cash to others. In Israelite society lending by the wealthy to those of a lower status brought

an increase in social honour. The debtor was obliged to give loyalty and public praise to the lender, raising

the creditor's prestige as a prosperous member of society.

Goodman claims that there were two major effects on the peasant economy. When small farmers lost

their land, for whatever reason, it was often quickly bought up by urban speculators who rented it out.

Oakrnan's research indicates that by late in the first century, nearly half of the arable land in the entire

region of Galilee had been accumulated through foreclosws by just three families. In fact the entire

population of a whole village (Bene Hassan) had become indebted tenants of one these absent landlords.

Gradually the composition of peasants in the area moved fiom owners to tenants to day-laborers and even

indentured slaves.

The second factor mentioned by Goodman, tied in with the fmt, is that the peasants themselves were

experiencing pressure to gain more land. Land was often divided among their sons and so plots tended to

grow smaller. The owners of divided plots (whether they were long-term residents of the area or some of

the new arrivals) needed to buy extra land to render their farms viable. With competition in the land market

from aristocrats who could afford high prices, peasants needed to borrow from those same aristocrats in

order to make such purchases. With more loan capital available, peasants borrowed to cover costs of

operating and new purchases and debts increased dramatically. When it was impossible to pay, the land

?he exceptions are the merchant who finds the pearl of p a t price (Mt 13:45) and Zacchaeus the tax collector (Lk 19: 1-9). Both are atypical.

was forfeited to the creditor. Although the peasant had the option of selling himself or his family into

slavery for a period of time to pay the debts, this option was not popular among the creditors if the peasant

was Jewish. Jewish slaves had special laws to protect their dignity and cheap Gentile slaves were

abundard3 If the debt could not be repaid by the sale of land and goods, the debtor was put into prison,

as Jesus' parable in Mt. 18:23-25 illustrates. Bmeggemann, in fact. fmds that the primary reason for prison

in the ancient world (and many parts of the modem world) was to hold poor people locked up for

indebtedness." Families were shattered as those shamed by irreparable debt were locked away.

The discussion leader might want to explore similarities and differences between the first and

twenty-first century experiences of debt. Clearly modem capitalism diverges significantly from the first

century economy and one probably ought not to read proto-capitalism formations into it? Nonetheless

there are suggestive connections that may open up helpfd conversation. For example: Arc there

connections between the infusion of new credit capital into our banking system as a result of the opening

of the agricultural lending market in the seventies and the influx of money into the Palestine region as a

result of Herod's building projects? How similar are the effects of land speculation then and now? What

ere the dynamics of the boom-bust cycle similar? To what extent did the lowering of protections for

borrowers contribute to the debt problem in both eras? What difference does it make that modem farmers

operate in a globulired economy? How was the slide into debt in the seventies and eighties affected by the

expansionist fever of those years in a way that is similar to or different f?om the first century debt crisis?

What difference did Palestine's high rate of land rental make on the peasant's situation compared to the

%oodman cites E.E. Urbach's research in the Talmud: "The Laws Regarding Slavery as a Source of Social History o f the Period of the Second Temple, the Mishnah and the Talmud," Papers o f the Institute of Jewish Studies London 1 (1 964): 1-94,27-28.

24~al te r ~rue~~ernann, Finaliv Comes he Poet: Daringspeech for Proclamation (Minneapolis. MN: Fortress Press, 1989) 105. (The debtor's prisons of England are a reminder from our own not-sodistant past). See Mt 18:23-35. When the one servant can't pay the other. the first has him Iocked up in prison (vs.30).

=I am indebted to Chris Lind for pointing this out to me. He referred me to debates on this matter by Karl PoIanyi, Conrad M. Armsberg, and Harry W. Pearson, eds., Trade and Market in the h l v Empires: Economies in History and Theory (New York, NY: Free Press, 1957) and Colin A.M. Duncan and David W. Tandy, eds., From Political Economy to Anthropolonv : Situatinr Economic Life in ~ a s t Societies (Montdal, QB : Black Rose Books, 1 994).

283

higher modem rate of land ownership? How do federal and provincial subsidies affect Prairie farmers who

operate with much more government support than first-century peasants? How do modem government

subsidies for agricultural bank loans affect the degree ofrisk that lenders are willing to take in giving loans?

Is there any modem parallel to the ancient "putting away" of debtors?

4. Legislation that favored creditors

Goodman notes that according to Mosaic law, Jews were not supposed to lend to each other at

interest (Ex 22:25 and Deut 23 2 0 ) . In addition, all debts between Jews were supposed to be canceled in

the seventh year and in each fiftieth year land was to be returned to the families who originally owned it.

It is not likely that this "Jubilee" law was enforced after the exile (if it ever had been) because the Israelites

returned to find strangers occupying their land. The sabbatical year could only work in a closed system

of landed patrimony, where the original land of Israel was under the control of all twelve of the original

tribes of Israel (so they could get back their ancestral Iand, if they lost it, in the fiftieth year). Many wealthy

Jews therefore simply ignored the laws and lent at interest or collected on debts in the seventh year. Others

took a more "legitimate" but even more oppressive route to circumvent the laws. Loans were commonly

made without interest. However, according to Goodman, they were granted for very short periods of time

with heavy penalties payable to the lender ifrepayment did not take place in the stipulated period-generally

around twenty percent of the principal, or repossessioa of the (appreciating) land, or enslavement of the

debtor and his family? Thus one could do much better with this arrangement than one could by charging

interest.

For those wealthy more concerned with keeping the letter of the law, there was a third avenue

available. While the Sabbath laws forbade individuals fiom demanding repayment of a loan in the seventh

year, nothing in biblical law forbade courts fiom doing so. Thus (apparently under the great rabbi Hillel)

the rabbinic solution was the creation of the "prosbul." The prosbul allowed loans to be assigned to the

'bThe First Jewish Revolt," 423-4.

court, which was not held by the sabbatical law and could collect on unpaid loans in the sabbath year, and

then to be reassigned back born the court to the original lender. in other words, it enabled the lender, by

a legal fiction, to act as though his debts had been taken over by the court; in fact however it was the lender

who colIected the debts-not the court.

The purpose of the "prosbul" is debated by scholars. David Novak insists that the prosbul enabled

a changing economy-one in which loan capital was increasingly needed for crafts and trading in addition

to agriculture-to continue to operate. He says that the jubilee laws were composed in very different social

conditions than those of first century Israel. Ifthey had continued to be kept the economy would have been

crippled because creditors would have refused to make loans in the years immediately preceding a sabbath

year (though that withholding was also prohibited by the same laws)."

Calvin Beisner claims however that sabbatical law did not in fact require the canceiZation of debts

during the sabbatical year. He also says that it was not intended as a normative way of doing business, but

was in fact a relief measure, essentially designed for those in difficulty. His translation of Dt 15: 1-3 is "At

the end of seven years you shall make a release. And this is the form ofthe release: every creditor who has

lent anything to his neighbour shall release it." Beisner reminds us that 'h1ease"-nDW-is also used in

Ex 23: 1 1 where its sabbatical reference refers to "releasing" a field h m work in the seventh year and

letting it lie fallow. The nature of the release, for land and for workers, is temporary, not absolute. So also

in Dt 15, he contends that the intent is not to entirely renounce what has been lent, but rather to release the

debtor f?om the obligation for a year-to let it rest, not pressing for repayment. Observing the law then

simply lengthened the time needed for debts to be repaid. Though it might not please lenders, this would

not likely dry up all loans.

Beisner's claim that the release is temporary is perhaps challenged by the time designation "or the end

ofseven years" which implies a single event. If an interval was intended, the phrase "in the seventh year,"

which is used in Lev 25:4 to describe the land's rest, would seem more appropriate. However his second

27~avid Novak, "Economics and Justice: A Jewish Example," in The Caoitalist Soirit: Toward a Religous Ethic of Wealth Creation ed. Peter Berger (San Francisco. CA: ICS Press, 1990). 3 t -50.

contention is weli-supported. It is clear from the context that the law is intended as a relief measure for

those in dif'ficult circumstances. The verses immediately preceding (1 4:28-29) speak of sharing with the

Levite, the stranger, the fatherless and the widow. The verses immediately following prohibit borrowing

in general but encourage lending to the poor. If the lending was understood as an emergency measure for

the poor then the prosbul eviscerates the law by enabling lenders to collect debts even from the poor during

sabbatical years.

Goodman supports the contention that the prosbul was introduced as a way of enabling the wealthy

to recover their loans in the year in which borrowers in difficulty were to be protected. It was not intended

as a means for ensuring the continuation of ordinary commerce. He notes:

Loans to friends would not need a prosbul, for the moral obligation to repay loans after the Sabbatical Year, even without a prosbul (mShebi. 1 O:9), would be enough to ensure repayment at the risk of social stigma, while, similarly, no rich trading colleague could afford to [renege] on his debt if he hoped for further credit. The prosbul institution was, then, enacted for loan agreements in which the creditor and the debtor lacked social ties to bind them, and in the absence ofprofessional money-lenders re "iring state and legal backing to secure such loans28 such creditors must be the rich of Judea, 8

Goodman's contention then is that the motive for introducing the prosbul was not to protect would-be

borrowers fiom the withholding of credit that often occurred at the end of each seven year cycle3* but

rather to ensure that there would be a safe market in which those who had control of the excess money

flowing into Jerusalem under Herod could invest.

This raises some interesting questions about lending rules in the modem context. In what way does

present legislation protect lenders, farmers? Is there a modem equivalent to the prosbul? How do

participants feel about Section 178 ofthe Bank Act which allowed lenders to collect on loans signed under

its auspices without going through the normal foreclosure proceedings? How do they feel about the

"~oodman cites A. N. Sherwin-White, Roman Societv and Roman Law in the New Testament ( 1963) 14 1-142 for gospel evidence, which Goodman says is supported by tannaitic texts such as the Judean Desert loan documents, to show that loans are private affairs between individuals.

29~art in Goodman, T h e First Jewish Revolt," 424.

30~ithough this is the reason given in the Mishnah- mShebi 10.3. Goodman says that it is a weak explanation because it was not characteristic of the rabbis to change the Law just because they found that people were transgressing it

286

extension ofthe foreclosure process that resulted from Saskatchewan legislation that required lenders who

foreclosed to rent back the land to the one on whom they foreclosed? Did it make things better or more

difficult? Was the courts' treatment of the bank's charging of escalating interest on fixed rate notes fair?

Who benefits f?om the modem distancing of lenders fiom borrowen who are in default? Is it similar to

or different fiom the distancing that occurred in Palestine by placing the courts and the prosbul in between

borrowers and lenders?

5. Land as a focus for social power and destructive competition.

The Jubilee law reflects the importance in Israel's history of stories relating to the settlement,

cultivation and appropriation of land. The stories of pre-rnonarchic lsrael in particular describe

organization around an egalitarian land-tenure policy that was distinctly different fiom the stratified

societies in the region. lsrael was a group of marginal people who had never benefitted fiom the Egyptian

economic structure. They left behind a society in which control of land and food was in the hands of a

small elite.

In the midst of a culture of nations whose Iife was hierarchically ordered, God undertakes with these

Hebrews a social experiment-the pilot project of a social revolution. It is focused around the conviction

that land is essential to well-being and that all have the right of access to land. Therefore, as the Hebrews

settled the land it was divided more or less equitably according to tribes and families, rather than military

or some other strength.

This arrangement was apparently meant to be permanent. The Jubilee year laws required the retum

of land to the original families in a fifty-year cycle. Whether or not they were ever actually enforced, their

presence in the Torah attests to this intent. So also does the last of the "Ten Commandments." Marvin

Chaney makes an excellent case, based on linguistic parallels with Micah 2:2, that to "covet one's

neighbour's house" means essentially to either expropriate or desire to expropriate his means of making

a living. He demonstrates that "house" (npf) has primary reference to an economic unit ofproduction and

includes one's fields, cattle, and residence. This commandment was forged as an expression ofYahweh's

desire that the egalitarian land experiment would not be destroyed by debt, greed and power.3'

Israel quickly discovered, however that a social revolution of that kind is very difficult to maintain.

Chaney notes that by David's time the Philistines had conquered most of the city-states of Canaan and had

developed military strategy for conquering the hill country in which Israel was settled. Now that Israel had

cultivated the land, it was a prize worth fighting for. Unfortunately, Israel's loosely organized peasant

militia was not able to defend itself against Philistine arms. In its struggle to survive, the monarchy was

born.

King David defeated the Philistines and extended ismel's land base to include the alluvial plains. In

doing so, however, he incurred debts. His military retainers expected to be rewarded. He needed

bureaucrats to run his empire and they had to be paid. The alluvial plains were given to these people who

thus became Israel's aristocracy.

As the monarchy's bureaucracy grew, another source of funding was required; taxes seemed to be the

only option. The surplus food production of peasants began to be syphoned off to the palace. As a result,

however, the surplus was no longer available to tide them over the periodic droughts. In bad years their

only alternative was to borrow f?om the aristocracy on the more fertile plains. High interest rates insured

fmluent foreclosures and previously independent peasants became landless day-laborers or debt-slaves.

Gradually more and more of the land (Yahweh's land, as it had once been regarded) passed into fewer

and fewer hands. Hill country plots were foreclosed on and joined together to form large estates. Mixed

farms supporting single families were combined into singlesrop olive orchards or vineyards because these

items had a high value for their weight and could be traded easily for desired luxuries. 1 Ki 4: 1-30 reveals

that there is an elaborate system of "forced labor" and heavy taxes in place by Solomon's time. (In fact it

is these policies that inspire a popular uprising under leroboam and eventually split the kingdom1 Ki l2:4-

17.)

" ~ a r v i n Chaney, *'You Shall Not Covet Your Neighbour's House," Pacificlheoloeieal Review 15 (Winter 1982): 2- 13. The historical material in the following paragraphs is a summary of his analysis.

288

As a result ofthe expropriations, a new class of landless day-laborers arose whose employment in the

fields (once their own) was only seasonal and did not provide enough income to buy the food they used

to grow for themselves. What little they could buy was reduced by rigged scales (Hos 12:7-8; Am 8:4-6;

Mic 6: 10- 1 1, for example). Debt became a way of life for them as well. Perhaps worst of all, grievances

(based, for example, on illegal forms of interest) were turned aside by courts which had become cormpt.

In light of the failure of Israel's egalitarian ideals regarding land, a leader might want to look at the

history of the area in which the congregation is located. What sort of attitudes towards "social equality"

did the first settlers come with? How were these related to the ownership of land? What effect did it have

that land could be gained simply by "proving it up"? What has happened to the dreams of the settlers?

What role did personal and corporate greed, government policy and legislation. and economic structures

play? What power is there in the "local place" today to change economic structures and political policies;

do global injustices have to be addressed by global powers or can change begin at a local level?"

B. Hearing the Story of Jesus in Palestine and on the Prairies

As a brief illustration of how experiencing Jesus' impact on his hearers in an ancient agrarian

community might open participants to discovering his presence in their own community today, I would like

to offer three texts which might generate fruitfbl discussion in a mixed group.

I. L& 4:14-30

This text. I believe, sets the stage for the other two. As we have already noted, in Luke 4 Jesus

establishes the the agenda for his ministry. He formally declares that he has come to announce good news

to the poor-to those who have lost their honour and social standing. Fulfilling the vision of Is 6 1 2, his

ministry, he says, inaugurates "the year of the Lord's favor."

Sharon Ringe makes a compelling case that "the year of the Lord's favor" was originally a reference

to the final Jubilee. If so, then Jesus' hearers would have assumed that he was committing himself to its

32~oger Epp offers some interesting reflections in suppon of the affirmative in "Whither Alberta? Political De- skilling, Globalization, and a Democratic Politics of Place," paper presented to the Parkland Institute Conference "Globalization, Corporatism and Democracy," Edmonton, AB, 6-8 November, 1997.

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final

In chapter nine I spoke of Jesus' ministry as one in which the "Lord's favour'' is extended to the

dishonoured. In light of Israel's history. that restoration of honour takes place in the context of Israel's

highly ambivalent relationship to

Exploring that ambivalence with a rural congregation may provide an excellent introduction to these

three texts. On the one hand Israel clearly recognized that land, as the source of food and sustenance, is

our lifeline. Israel's story begins with humankind (adam) being formed out of ground (adamah) from the

womb of the earth. The leader might note that that comection persists in modem English in terms such

as "human" and "humus." "eadf ' and "earthling." She could ask whether the farmers in the group still

feel that visceral attachment to the land.

It would also be interesting to explore ways in which there has been a modem disconnection from the

land. What do huge, hermetically-sealed, air-conditioned machinery do to farmers' relationship to the dirt?

How does agricultural school training in farming as a business change one's perception of the land? What

about the towndwellers and urbanites? A decreasing number have grown up on farms. What happens

when food is obtained only fiorn grocery stores? Do they forget that "we are dust and to dust we shall

return"?

What about ownership? Do farmers feel that the land belongs to them-or do they belong to it? Is it

essentially a source of profit, a legacy, a trust or something else? What would happen to land speculation

and approaches to land use if we wen deeply aware that our life is bound up in the land?

On the other hand, awareness of the land's life-giving nature can lead to an over-dependence. The

powerful of Israel treated land as the ultimate source of human security and well-being. The prophets

- -

331saiah's 'yearof the Lord's favour" has often been interpreted as a reference to ~ r n fmm exile. However Ringe makes a strong case that it represents the re-installation of the Jubilee law. See Sharon Ringe, Jesus. Liberation and the Bi blicaI Jubilee (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1 985).

34~or an excellent identification of these tensions in Israel's life see Walter Bruegpmann, The Land: Place as Gifi, Promise and Challenae in Biblical Faith (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1977) and "The Earth is the Lord's: A Theology of Earth and Land" Soioumers (October t 986): 8-1 2.

counter by insisting (as Jesus does later) that even land is not Israel's ultimate security-Yahweh is. So

Israel's training as a nation includes forty years of landlessness. As the prophet reminds theml

He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD (Dt 8:3).

Gathering food each morning that they did not grow, food that perished in a day and could not be

accumulated or traded. Israel learned that for both highborn and low, it is ultimately Yahweh not land,

who is the source of life. Several centuries later, when trust in Yahweh hits an all-time low in Israel, the

land is taken away again. The purpose of that loss, according to the prophets, is that they might get back

in touch with the Land-Owner.

What does this mean for modem farmers? When they lose their land is it an opportunity to depend

more deeply on God? Or is it God's judgment on a f m e r who has become over-dependent on the land?

There is a significant difference between the two; who is qualified to decide which it might be (ifeither)?

In my interviews some of the farmers who had left their land reported that the experience, though

deeply painful, had some liberating qualities to it as well. They realized that they could live without being

on their land-that God was in the city too. Many who were still on the farm, however, and in danger of

losing it, expressed deep fears about life off the farm. Leaders could explore some of these fears. They

might ask about the affect that these fears have on farm management practices, on decisions regarding how

to deal with farm debt, on the family's emotional and spiritual well-being and so on.

It would also be interesting to ask lenders how they feel about the enonnous accumulation of land by

lending institutions that occurred in the eighties. Is land really the "security" it once seemed to be? How

do lenders look at land and their own relationship to it today? Does land "ownership" mean something

different to lenders than to farmers?

Israel also exhibits in its history a great deal of ambivalence toward the sociai value of land. On the

one hand, land provided for Israel a sacred "place" to house God's holy community. Darold Beekrnann

notes that central to Israel's confession of faith for generations afier its entry into Canaan was the

29 1

conviction that God "gave us this land" (Dt 26: 1'9). This gift of place, he says. was entrusted primarily

to the community-the extended family or tribe-rather than to individuals as a private possession. It

provided a setting for the community's life and faith and brought a measure of stability, security and rest

(Dt 12:9-1 I).)*

I suspect that there is still a profound sense of the social importance of land in rural communities. In

my visits to out-of-town parishioners I would often hear references to the "Jacobson place" or the "Hoyme

place." This seemed to be more than a reference to ownership of the land. When someone spoke of the

"old Johnson place" they were not talking about present ownership but about people's stories, about

relationships and memories that bound the community together. They were talking about the place that the

land provided for life to be lived, for faith and love to grow. Leaden might want to explore with

participants the ways in which owning land is equated with social entitlement, with an honoured place in

the community and a sense of "home" where one belongs. They could ask whether land owners feel

differently about the social position of other land ownen than they do about those who rent their land or

live in town and work for a salary. How does the impending loss of land affect their feelings about their

"place" in the community? How do town people feel about the social status of landowners vs. non-

landowners? What effect does the amount of land have on social position?

On the other hand, Israel learned that over-valuing land as "place" can lead to competitive land-

grabbing in which social privileges come to be restricted to those with the power to acquire and protect

land. Brueggemann identifies in Israel an imperial ideology 36 which claimed that land ownership is the

right (and sometimes responsibility) of a few. It is earned by the strong and capable, or is assigned to an

elite who, by virtue of their birth into nobility, have been appointed by God to rule. The story ofNaboth's

vineyard in I Ki 2 1 is a tragic example of the way in which those in positions of social power may come

to regard land (whatever land they desire) as their right.

"~arold Bcekmann. "Sacred Land, Sacred People. Sacred Trust*' Lutheran Theolo&il S e m i w Bulletin 78 (Winter 1998): 10.

'%ee Brueggemann. "The Eanh is the Lord's."

In the face of this ideology, Yahweh's prophets hctioned to maintain the Mosaic vision of an

alternate way oforganizing economic life. They reminded Israel ofher covenant with Yahweh. They called

to mind the original purpose of the tenth commandment and condemned those who sought to circumvent

it. Micah says:

Alas for those who devise wickedness and evil deeds on their beds! When the morning dawns, [that is, when court convenes-Zep 351 they perform it, because it is in their power. They covet fields, and seize them, houses, and take them away; they oppress householder and house, people and their inheritance (Mic 2:2).

He continues (with imagery reminiscent of the "cannibalism" language some farmen used in my

interviews):

Listen, you heads of Jacob and rulers ofthe house of Israel! Should you not know justice?-you who hate the good and love the evil, who tear the skin off my people, and the flesh off their bones; who eat the flesh of my people, flay their skin off them, break their bones in pieces, and chop them up like meat in a kettle, like flesh in a caldron. Then they will cry to the LORD, but he will not answer them: he will hide his face fiom them at that time, because they have acted wickedly (Mic 3: 1-4).

Micah warns (2:4) that the land will be redivided, with the coveters excluded, not even able to attend the

meeting in which it is re-parceled out. He also claims that there will be no safe land in the community until

the massive commitment to anns (spears and swords) is overcome (4: 1-5). Isaiah has a similar reproach:

"Alas, you who join house to house, who add field to field, until there is room for no one but you, and you

are left to live alone in the midst of the land!" (Is 5:s).

Amos is particularly incensed at the wealthy's callous disregard of those who have been dispossessed:

Alas for those who lie on beds of ivory, and lounge on their couches, and eat Iambs fiom the flock, and calves fiom the stall; who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp, and like David improvise on instruments of music; who drink wine &om bowls, and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph! (Am 6:4-6)

Elijah cares intensely about Naboth's confiscated land and pronounces judgement on the powerful who

have taken his land and brought about his death (1 Ki 1).

h the face of Israel's defection eom Yahweh's vision, the prophets reaffirm that Israel's land is a ~ u s r

fiom Yahweh, given not to some but to all. Yahweh recognizes their need for a place-to grow food for

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nourishment and social exchange, to grow community and anchor identity, a place to call "home." God

graciously provides the land-but not as their righr, rather as agift of love. It is not given because of one's

noble birth, business acumen or morally uprightness. Apparently, one does not have to earn land or deserve

it; one does not have to be wise or strong enough to defend it. This gift of social security is rooted,

according to the Torah, not in intrinsic human wonh, but in the sovereign ownership of God: "The land

shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine; with me you are but aliens and tenants" (Lev 2523).

All things, all land., belongs to God.

Discussion about these matters could go in several directions. The leader could ask about the

relationship between God's ownership of land, and our claim to land ownership. Are the two in

contradiction to each other? Or is the latter simply a responsible form of stewardship of that which

ultimately belongs to God? The leader might also ask whether the concept of land as an "unearned" gift

that should be available to all is one that has any possibility of realization in our society. From whom is

the land to be taken if it is going to be given to the landless? How does one deal with ownership? On the

one hand land titles and other legal instruments protect the modem Naboths fiom expropriation. On the

other hand such titles become security for debts and are easily lost to c~ditors.

A third option would be to explore ways in which land in nual communities has become a focus for

competition and the exercise of power. To what extent are such practices due to the valuing of land as a

“right" and ''personal possession* rather than a gift? Some fanners spoke to me of being "cannibalized"

by their neighbows. Is this a common image? What does the use of that term say about those who use it

in terms of their relationship to the land? When one feels pressure to constantly expand one's operation,

what attitude toward the land does that reflect? What role do corporate fanns and lenders play in the

concentration of land in the hands of a few? Is this ultimately healthy for the community (keeping the

industry viable) or unhealthy (dispossessing many fiom the land)?

Another way of getting at the social value placed on land might be to ask about the intensity of

Belings that farmers have when they are dispossessed. Joseph Amato tells the tragic story of a

dispossessed farmer who murdered two Minnesota bankers in 1983. He describes James Jenkins and his

son in the following terms:

They no longer had a place or community . . . . James persisted in believing he should have a place on the land and respect in a community . . . . A farm for him meant independence and respect, place and family . . . . Returning to the farm was James' sustaining story. When his belief in the story died, there was nothin left for him. It was at that point that he surrendered himself to his son's belief in weapons. 2

What does the violence felt or enacted by farmers who are losing their land say about the kind of value they

place on the land?

In light of the above, then, what significance do we attribute to the fact that Jesus sets the agenda for

his ministry in the context of Jubilee? Is he renewing the vision ofthe prophets before him that no family

should be without land, or the honour and security in the community that come with it? Or is he stretching

the understanding of Jubilee to including the honouring now of a growing population of the landless?

The leader might ask whether there is significance in the fact that Jesus finds himself (chooses to be?)

among those who are "dis-placed." Jesus is born in a town that has no place for his mother to bear her c hild.

(We have only a reference to a cattle trough to indicate the location of his birth-Lk 2:7-but at best it was

in animal quarters; it may have been in the street) Not long after Jesus' birth his family is forced to flee

to Egypt to save his life, permanently leaving his ancestral home in Bethlehem. While his family eventually

does settle in Nazareth, the life he would have led as an apprentice and master carpenter would have been

relatively nomadic. Douglas Oakman gives detailed evidence to show that villages tended to specialize in

a craft and that a tiny village such as Nazareth could not possibly absorb the work of Jesus, Joseph and

other carpenters itselt He shows that carpenters did a variety of tasks, providing implements for farmers,

boats for fishers and tools for various crafts, constructing buildings in growing cities such as Tiberias and

making furniture, cabinets, c o f f l , gates, and household items for both wealthy and peasants. In addition,

it appears that carpenters cut their own wood fiom forests to the north.

"joseph Amato, When Father and Son Cons~ire: A Minnesota Farm Murder (Ames, [A: Iowa State University Press, 1988), 208, quoted in Beekmann. "Sacred Land," 12.

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All the above would have required a great deal of traveling on Jesus* part.'8 Certainly Jesus* final

ministry is itinerant. He takes up the life of those who have no land, leaving one place after another,

connecting with friends here and there, but essentially homeless. When a scribe expresses his desire to

become Jesus' disciple, Jesus says "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man

has nowhere to lay his head"(Mt 820).

The discussion leader might ask why Jesus shares the life of the displaced. What does it say to them

about where they wilI find their "place"? Jesus tells the story of the man who gave a great feast and invited

many in the community to come, but discovered that community Iife mattered less to those invited than

their possession of the land. So he gives the gift of community instead to the landless. those living in the

streets and lanes of the city (L k 14: 1 5-21). What cherished attitudes toward land does such a parable call

into question? How do participants react to hearing it in today's context? By embracing the dis-placed and

giving them a place in his fellowship, is Jesus saying that the solution to economic inequities is aspirituol

and not a physical one?

This latter question is perhaps addressed by a second critical element of Jesus' inaugural address.

Jesus says that the Spirit of the Lord has anointed him to "proclaim release to the captives-to let the

oppressed go fke." The leader might ask what kind of imprisonment Jesus is speaking of here. If it is (at

least in part) physical, who are the imprisoned that would be freed? In light of what we know about the

population of prisons in Palestine (that is, that the majority of prisoners were peasants put in jail because

they could not pay their debts39) how might this announcement have been received by those of various

social positions? How is it received by the modem group's hearers?

The leader might explore the following implications: 1) economic. What would happen in our

economy, practically-speaking, if those caught in unrepayable debt were forgiven? Is that not what the

"0akmm. Economic Ouestions, 1 78- 18 1.196.

'%sus is reflecting this reality when he says in Lk 1258-59 "Thus, when you go with your accuser before a magistrate, on the way make an effort to settle the case, or you may be dragged before the judge, and the judge hand you over to the officer, and the officer throw you in prison. I tell you, you wilI never get out until you have paid the very last penny," See aiso the parallel in Mt 5 2 5 . Creditors hoped that the imprisonment wouId force the debtor to release hidden assets or force the debtor's family to come up with the money.

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bankruptcy act is for? Who loses money when debts are not paid? 2) Social. Debt is a form of social

bondage in which one's security-and ultimately one's honour-is in the hands of another. Failure to pay

results in the removal of the person fiom the community-the ultimate dishonouring.

For Jewish peasants, Brueggernann says that this was really good news.

Israel understood the powerful dehumanizing tendency ofa credit society (cfDeut 15: 1-1 8). The great saving event of forgiveness is debt cancellation whereby the poor are permitted to reenter the public life of this community as respected participants. Leviticus 25 [the Jubilee laws] presents forgiveness as God's massive program of social healing that concerns economic debts that Yahweh either pays or voids. 40

The leader might ask the group to respond to Brueggemann's comment. Is credit dehumanizing or is it a

means by which the community temporarily shares its resources with a person so that they can get

underway in business? How are those who get caught in debt treated by our communities? Where there

is harm, what measures do we have for their healing and restoration? What needs to change?

2. Luke 1 I : / - 4

Jesus begins the Jubilee ministry of reconfiguring social attitudes toward debt by teaching his

followers how to pray. He prays "forgive us our sins as we also forgive everyone who is indebted to us."

The Greek a@(qpi (usually translated "forgive" here) is a cognate of B@E~IC in Lk 4: 18 (‘'freedom for

the prisoners," "releare for the oppressed"). Patrick Miller's analysis of the tenn in Lk 4: 18 and in the

Isaiah passages h m which it is drawn, provides convincing support for an understanding of the term that

would have been economic as well as spiritual.41 This appears to be the case with the use of the tenn in

the Lord's prayer as well. To translate rather literally, Jesus says ''release us fiom our sins (apapria~)

as we release all indebted (64eilovn) to us!' It appears that that from which one is released in Lk 1 1 :4

'Owalter Brueggernann. Finally Comer the Poet: Darine S~eech for Roclarnation(Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. 1989), 1 03-1 04.

"patrick D. Miller Jr. "Luke 4: 16-21 ." Internretation 29 (1975): 41 7-21. Miller notes for example, that the Septuagint version ofisaiah 58:6, h m which Jesus' proclamation is in part drawn, uses the term in conjunction with other verbs which emphasize the loosing of social and economic, as well as spiritual bonds.

is both sin and debt. Oakman notes that this dual meaning is present in the A m a i c "hobah" which Jesus

probably used?

The leader might ask how such a prayer might be interpreted in a context in which there is a debt

crisis. How would it sound to those who had lost or would be in danger of losing their land to urban

0akmanJ4 suggests that the prayer's contextual meaning may be found in the conjunction of the

petition for forgiveness and the petition for daily bread. He proposes that there is a "material link,'' a

"synonymous parallelism" between the two. In asking for daily bread we are also asking for a social order

that can supply those basic human needs in a consistent manner. Crippling indebtedness, however, disrupts

the ability of the social order to provide daily bread. Rather than asking simply for forgiveness for sins

against God then, the prayer may also be heard as a petition for release fiom earthly shackles of debt.

Whether the prayer is eschatological (an expression of our hopes for the coming kingdom) or present-

oriented, that material concern is still clear.

The petitions that follow may also include a material reference. Oakman argues that the fmal petition

of the Lord's prayer (Mt 6: 13) "Save us fiom the time of trial but deliver us fiom evil" might be heard by

a peasant as a cry that he or she not be hauled into a debt court in front of a corrupt judge (the "evil one"?)

whose verdicts would give land expropriation the force of law. Certainly that same cry "release us h m

indebtedness" has been heard on the Canadian prairies many times in this century.

For modem readers does such a material interpretation of the Lord's prayer make sense? Would

praying for release fiom debt be seen as a way of avoiding responsibility to one's neighbours (those who

through the banks or government had lent you their money)? Does it make sense to hinge the forgiveness

J2"~esus and the Factor of Debt," 72.

"w. Stegemann. The Gos~el and the Poor, tmn. D. Elliott (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. 1984) makes a strong case that Jesus' ministry appealed particularly to those forced off the land into beggary, prostitution, tax collection or other occupations not directly linked to working the land.

"'lesus and the Factor of Debt," 72-73. See also Douglas Oakman, "Forgive us Our Debts: Agrarian Debt and the Original Meaning of the Lord's Prayer." UnpubIished Paper, 1987. Summarized in Richard Rohrbaugh, ed. Social Sciences and New Testament Inter~re~tion. (Peabody, MS: Hendrickson, 1996), 6.

of our sins by God on our forgiving one another's debts? Who would the "unrighteous" be if that was the

case?

The conjunction of the petition for daily bread and release from debt is also significant in that the

request for daily bread addresses two of the core causes of indebtedness. Human needs have a tendency

either to grow unchecked, becoming insatiable and over-valued, or be neglected, undervalued. In both

cases the problem is that we fail to see bread as the Lord's prayer does-a gift from God.

Jan Lochan notes that the Czechs call bread "Bozi dar" "God's gift" or in the diminutive with a

suggestion of tenderness "Bozi darek." If a piece of bread fell Fram the table in a peasant's house, the

custom was to lift it up very carefully and to kiss it reverently.45

Jesus comes From a similar tradition. He knew the wilderness lessons ofthe manna which came from

the hand of God, enough for one day at a time. He would undoubtedly have been familiar with the Jewish

meal prayer which said. "Praised be thou, 0 Lord our God, King of the Universe, who dost feed the whole

world by thy goodness. In grace, love, and mercy he gives bread to all flesh . . . .M ' ' ~ In teaching his

followers to ask God for their bread he re-establishes its place in human life. On the one hand, it is not God

(a caution to ambitious farmers) but a gifr fiom God . On the other hand it is not just bread, but a gift fkorn

God (a caution to bargain-minded coosurners). The prayer for daily bread limits both farm greed and

consumer gluttony: we ask only for what is needed "this day," for "daily" bread. Bread is not the be-all

and end-all of life; but it is necessary.

Jesus provides some vivid imagery around daily bread as God's gift in Lk 12: 1 5ff He tells the parable

of s farmer who has just laid plans for the expansion of his farm, feeling that he has fmally "arrived" and

is utterly secure. Yet that very night he dies, discovering that bread is not God; it cannot keep us from

death. "Life is more than food" Jesus concludes. But then he goes on to say "Your Father knows you need

these things" and describes how God provides for the ravens and the lilies. Separated from the hand of

'?an Milk Lochman, "The .Holy Materialism': The Question of Bread in Christian and Marxist Perspective," Princeton Seminarv Bulletin 1988: 144-1 53.

&P- Billerbeck, Kommentar zum NT aus Talmud und Midrasch (Munich: Beck'sche, 1928). 653 1. Quoted in Lochman, "The 'Holy Materialism"'l49.

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God the making and eating of bread leads only into the bondage that all idolatries bring. Received fiom

the hand of God, it sustains life and provides economic ties that bind a community together.

In reflecting on the meaning of "daily" bread the leader could explore several options. She could ask

how people in various roles in the agricultural economy might be tempted to under-value or over-value

food. Do farmers get caught up in the desire to expand and produce as much food as possible so that they

will receive more of the good things of life themselves? Do consumers get caught up in the desire to have

as much as possible at the cheapest price, not recognizing the sweat and the rain that went into creating it?

How do we end up with overproduction of food sold on the world market at prices which often do not

cover the cost of production and yet so many can still not atTord to eat? How is it that expanding one's

ability to produce food so oHen creates debt that cannot be repaid by market prices, putting the producer

out of business?

The leader might also ask what seeing bread as a gift of God does to its place in the rural competition

for honour. Is it really a gift if one has to work so hard for it? Why do so many clearly not get enough

daily bread? If it is a 6ee gift that God at least intend all to have ("God's rain falls on the just and the

unjust") what does that do to "farm pride''? Can the making and eating of bread then be a matter for

security or honour (or shame or suicide?) Is there a place for making judgements based on one's ability

to "put bread on the table"?

3. Matthew 18:2l-25

The year of the Lord's favour proposes a new way of relating not only to God but to the neighbour.

The petition in the Lord's prayer links the two: "Give us freedom from our sins as we h e others fiom what

they owe us." It suggests that the grace shown to me by God cannot be withheld from my neighbour.

Jesus makes this connection explicit in his parable of the ungrateful servant (Mt 18:2 1-25). Jesus

addresses hearers who (then as now) live in a world which is ruled by law. Those who incur a debt must

repay it or lose what is precious to them (land, possessions, liberty, even family). The servants in the

parable know this law and accept it as the framework for their lives. Both of them are indebted, yet neither

asks forgiveness for his debt-only for more time to repay it. Jesus' listeners would have understood: debts

must be repaid or one suffers the consequences. That is how the system works.

Within such a context of contracts and responsibilities, the leader might ask, how would Jesus' parable

be received? While the group will have their own responses, the leader might draw attention to some

elements of the parable that might have been surprising-ven shocking-to Jesus' hearers:

The fust is the unexpected behaviour ofthe king toward the first servant's enormous debt:' At great

cost to himself (about eleven times the total taxes that King Herod gathered in a year"s) the king absorbs

the debt and releases the servant.

The leader might ask why the king did such a thing. Was it because he knew there was no way to get

that kind of money out of his servant and so just gave up and dismissed it? If so, what does that do to the

rule of law within the kingdom? Are there parallels in the quit claim mechanism that lenders offered

farmers when their debts far exceeded their assets? Or does this go beyond that? What kind of a kingdom

could operate on grace of that scale?

A second possible shock is the way in which the first servant behaves when he happens upon a fellow

servant who owes him one hundred denarii (14 0,000 of one percent of the debt he had been forgiven by

the king). Just the sight of his debtor enrages the fvst servant (who is perhaps thinking that he would not

"11 is difficult a know bow to regard the 10,000 talents. C. Spicq's research in 1960 fim uncovered Josephus' comment that one Joseph, son ofTobias offered to collect taxes totaling 16,000 talents from Coelesyria, Phocnicia, Judea and Sarnaria on behalfofking Ptolemy Philadelphus ofEgypt-reported in Dieu et I'Hommc Selon le Noweau Testament (Paris: Cerf, 1 %0), 54, n.3. This suggests that the king's servant may be a ''tax-farmew governor or satrap responsible for collecting taxes on behaif of the king. J.D.M. Derrctt "Law in the New Testament: The Parable of the UnmerciW Servant," Revue Internationale des Droits de I' Antiauite (3d series) 12 (1 %5): 3-1 9 agrees as does Bernard Scott, "The King's Accounting: Matthew 18:2334," Journal of Biblical Literature 104/3 (1985): 42942). Martinus De Boer however points out that if the first servant is a tax-farmer vs. 34 doesn't make sense. It says that the master consigns the unforgiving servant to the torturers ''until he should repay everything which was owed." Clearly a man being tortured could hardly collect taxes. Nor could the sale of the servanh his wife. children and possessions possibly gain enough to repay the debt. De Boer notes fiorn Jerernais' research in Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus: An Investigation into Sociaf and Economic Conditions durine the New Testament Period (Philadelphia, PA.: Fortress Press, 1969), 347 that at best they might realize 10,000 denarii for such a sale This would be a miniscule return on 100 million denarii (the equivalent of 10,000 talents)-i.e .0 1 % return of the principal. De Boer suggests that Matthew has inflated the sum owed to the king in order to make it clearly refer to the relationship between God and humanity. See ''Ten Thousand Talents? Matthew's Interpretation and Redaction of the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant (Matt l8:23-35)," Catholic Biblical Ouarterly 50 (April 1988): 2 14-232.

''set Bemard Brandon Scott, T h e King's Accounting: Manhew 18:23-34," Journal of Biblical Literature 10413 ( 1985): 429-442,432.

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have been so humiliated in front of the king-that is. better able to repay- if those who owed him had not

welched on their debts). He grabs the debtor by the throat, rehses his plea for even an extension of the

repayment period, and throws him into jail.

The leader might ask whether the group sees the fmt servant's behaviour as outrageous or common

sense. Did the king really mean to completely redefine the basis upon which debts are dealt with in his

kingdom? Or was his forgiveness of the first servant aglitch in the system-a temporary and unrepeatable

exception to the world of legai rights and claims? It seems that the second servant, in begging for mercy,

assumed it was the latter. Just because forgiveness on a large scale has been granted topartinrlor modem

farmers, does that mean that all debts must come under review? Is there any connection with lenders'

desire to have those forgiven large sums keep that fact secret? And what difference does it make that the

one who forgives the enormous debt is the one who makes the rules-that is. the king?

A third possible shock to Jesus' hearers is the king's behaviour when he learns ofwhat the first servant

has done. We have been re-oriented to expect mercy from the king. But this time the king's treatment of

the servant is anything but gracious. He pronounces him "wicked," unrighteous (something he had not

done when the servant fvst told him that he could not pay his debt). The king berates him for not showing

the same grace to his neighbour that he had been shown by the king and then the king orders him tortured

until he pays the whole amount.

How does one regard a king who punishes others for their lack of grace? Listenen, ancient or modem,

may find it highly incongruous. The leader might ask the group to brainstorm possibilities for

understanding the king's behavior. Can his original forgiveness be understood in terms of a "special"

dispensation for this particular servant? Or was his action towards that servant to be understood as an

official action that re-aligns the system for aN? Who, by the king's standards is the "righteous" one in this

parable? Most difficult of all, why does the king act so harshly? Does he regard gracelessness as the

unforgivable sin? Why or why not? Why does the king seem to revert to the original standards of law

under which the parable began?

302

The parable ends with a somber warning "So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if

you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart?" What is the choice here? To live in a world of

legal demand (in which the hammer may fall on us as much as others) or a world of grace? If so, is that

a real choice? Given human nature and the need to protect the weak from the strong, how could law-with

its penalties and responsibilities-simply be set aside?

The possibilities in this passage might be opened by inviting participants to locate themselves in the

parable. Who do they identify with? Many perhaps will identify themselves as a debtor. The debt may

not be financial. But a careful examination of any life reveals the extent to which what we have has been

built on what we have been given-gifts of genetic ability, educational and familial training, serendipitous

encounter, inherited wealth (if only in physical support during childhood) and the Spirit's equipment. If

there is room for grace, then these are gifts. If not, they must be viewed as loans-to be repaid with interest

to parents, teachers. society and God. None of us could raise the funds. Perhaps if there is room for grace,

then our debts do not damn us and neither do they damn the neighbow indebted to us.

What possibilities for the renewal of lat ti on ships in rural communities does this perspective offer?

What might change in our definitions of "success" and "failure"? What might happen to the way we deal

with matters of honour and shame?

C. Concluding Reflections: Grace as the Possibility of Genuinely Healthy Human Community

It seems to me that in his teaching and ministry Jesus offers a serious challenge to the ancient honour

code. It will have to be decided by those who live in Canada's rural communities whether he is posing the

same sort of challenge today. I think it needs to be said that even in the challenge to his own social

structure, there is not a complete rejection. Rather Jesus draws on elements that have been weaker, less

prominent, to challenge others that have become dominant and oppressive.

Grace is one of these elements. As Joan Pitt-Riven points out, even in honour societies there is an

understanding of "grace9'-that is, the notion of "something over and above what is due, economically,

303

legally or morally. It stands outside the system of reciprocal service^.""^ Grace often appears in an honour

society at the end of a competition for honour. After establishing his honour the victor is then expected

to demonstrate the opposite: generosity, moderation, forbearance. Thus the king in the parable, having

established with the first servant his right to be repaid, graciously concedes the debt.

As a mode of life, however, grace is characteristic not of men in honour societies (on whom the

competition for honour rests) but of women. Pitt-Rivers notes that in honour societies there are

two opposehand ultimately complementary-registers: the first associated with honour, competition, triumph, the male sex, possession and the profane world, and the other with peace, amity, y e , purity, renunciation, the female sex. dispossession in favour of others, and the sacred. 0

It seems that Jesus, in defining what it means to be righteous-that is, in right relation with

others-draws these traditionally feminine virtues into the forefront of the definition. He does so because

these values are the only ones on which we can stand in relation to God. Who can compete with God to

gain glory for themselves? The parable of the two debtors suggests to me that if we abandon grace we

abandon the basis upon which we can exist in the presence of God and are destroyed. Grace is the

foundation of our life. Therefore, in relation to God the values traditionally assigned to males must be

renounced if one is to be righteous and we are to live honourably.

This is also true in relation to our neighbour. The Matthew 18 parable (and other sayings of

Jesus-"Forgive . . .as we forgive," "Love the Lord . . . and love your neighbour . . .," "Blessed are the

mercifid for they shall obtain mercy. . ." and so on) emphasize that our relationship with God determines

the nature of our relationship with others. This suggests to me that Life is one fabric. If grace is the

operative dynamic of the reign of God then it, rather than the competition for honour, also determines our

relation to our neighbour.

4910an Pin-Rivers. "Postscript: The Place of Grace in Anthropology," in Honour and Grace in Anthrowlow, ed. J.G. Peristiany and J. Pitt-Rivers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 23 1.

'%tt-~ivers, "Postscript," 242.

Of course, for Jesus' hearers the Lord's prayer and the parable of the debtors may raise somewhat

more celebration that it does for us. Most modem Canadian readers (farmers included) are middle-class.

We put money in savings accounts (essentially lending it to others through the bank) and expect that it will

be returned to us with a guaranteed rate of interest when we want it. Some work in banks and credit

agencies and know that their pay cheque is dependent on a regular return on the loans that have been

written. The world that Jesus opens for us here may make us nervous-it makes me nervous. At best it

seems imaginary-at worst chaotic and self4estructive. An ethic motivated by grace and founded on love

for the neighbour in response to God's love for us seems doomed to encourage irresponsibility. Certainly

it would throw a wrench into the machinery of our present economic system.

Grace however does not set aside moral order or economic structure per se. Rather it places them at

the service of-not in sovereignty over-healthy relationships in the community. Some form of moral order

is necessary for human life. Luther regarded law as God's gift to sinful humanity providing some defense

against chaos. However, he notes that when law reaches beyond its assignment to "keep the peace" and

assumes the place of God, assigning fundamental worth to people on the basis of their law-keeping, it

becomes a tyrant, restricting rather than enabling healthy living. I am convinced that this has happened to

the honour code.

An ethic may become oppressive for several reasons. It may be constructed with the best interests of

only a few in mind-nomally the powerful. In that case it tends to be closed, restrictive, replete with rules

that only those with power can keep. It may support these few with a parasitic form of life that is fed b r n

the lifeblood of those who are disadvantaged or unsuccessful in some way. Jesus angrily attacks such

morbid forms:

The scribes and the Pharisees . . . tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them . . . . Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees. hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith (Mt 23:2-4,23).

305

An ethic may also be oppressive when it values social harmony more than justice. As Larry

Rasmussen points out, this happens when people who regard difference as deviance form tight communities

which exclude those who do not fit. Such communities may be close-knit, with a clear moral character and

fin commitments, but they are formed around an ethic of bigotry and apartheid." Again, this ethic offers

life only for some.

Nonetheless, while moral oppression is repugnant, moral chaos is not God's will for us either. The

Bible regards the uncontrolled behaviour of the Noahic period as a moral disaster. When God later brings

an unformed mass of Hebrew slaves out ofEgypt they are immediately sent to Sinai for moral instruction;

they need "Torah." Jesus too, gives shape to the moral chaos of his day. However the order that Jesus

envisions is not based on rigid contracts andUan eye for an eye." It aims to constrain those human impulses

that would lead to bondage and death so that space might be freed for all human life (not just the

privileged).

It does so in a unique way. First, it turns the privilege/responsibility codes upside down: "Whoever

wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be fim among you must be

your slave" (Mt 20:26-27). Jesus constrains the k d o m of those who have power-not because he wants

them to be in bondage, but because their social position gives them a greater range of activity which can

be used as a means of bringing life and fhedom to those with little power. He channels their power, so to

speak drawing their fieedom into service.

Secondly, Jesus' ethic maximizes freedom by refusing to reduce moral order to an endless

proliferation of rules. When asked to set out his moral code he said, "'You shall love the Lord your God

with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.' This is the greatest and first

commandment. And a second is like it: 'You shall love your neighbour as yourself.' On these two

commandments hang all the law and the prophets"' (Mt 22:37-40).

" Rasrnussen. Moral Fragments, 107.

306

Jesus places moral order at the service of humanity by democratizing it. When the rules for living are

determined by those with many resources, they tend to be rules that only those with many resources can

keep. It is easy to make rigid regulations about debt repayment if you are a creditor or have no serious

debts to repay. Jesus sweeps away the many rules of those who would protect their turf and their exclusive

status with legal fences. He simply identifies the hdamental direction that healthy human life must take

and then opens the floor for all to have a say in determining exactly what that means for particular

situations.

Thirdly, Jesus' ethic rejects the sacrifice principle which makes retribution possible. When the

Pharisees were offended that Jesus refused to shun those who broke their religious code. he told them "Go

and learn what this means. 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.' For I have come to call not the righteous but

sinners" (Mt 9: 13). Jesus presents God as one who is concerned that none are lost-who goes looking for

the one in a hundred that has been cut off from the rest (Lk 15).

What might this mean for the way that we organize our agricultural economy? At present those who

do not survive in the business appear to be treated as "chaffwhich the wind drives away." Their voices are

muted. The important contribution they can make to understanding and addressing the problems is being

lost. Decisions are being made far from the people who are feeling the impact. The computerization of

global markets has given powerfbl, detached, risk-oriented players freedom to impose rapid and

devastating vacillations on market prices that can act in a dominoe fashion to destabilize economies around

the world. It places fmers in situations where large debts must be incurred simply to cover the losses of

a single season's price collapse, where it is cheaper to kill and dispose of one's animals than to m s p o n

them to market.52

Is there any hope then for agriculture other than a high-level restructuring of the global economy? I

think there is. Self-determination will not likely be handed to o w rural communities by the groups who now

-

SZThis was the case with the fall '98 hog market in which hog prices reached as low as 4 cents a pound. With production costs at 40-SOcents per pound and transportation at I O-t cents per pound, it simply did not pay to take them to market.

exercise control. However, every large structure has cracks in it. I am convinced that there are options for

resistance and renewal that could make a substantial difference locally if mi people could find the grace

and courage to work together. Josh Storey of Pathlow, Saskatchewan for example has developed a

carefully thought-through proposal for "agri-parks"-nine-township integrated agricultural units in which

the products of agriculture are processed within the agripark and consumed there or sold outside.53

Whether the agri-park or other creative alternatives to the present system (such as "land trusts" or

"New Generation Co-ops" or equity-financing5') are workable I do not have the expertise to judge.

Undoubtedly some experimentation will have to be done, pilot projects launched to test proposals. There

is some federal money presently available for such projects.

They will not happen however, until a sufficient degree ofcooperation, vision and energy is developed

at local levels. A critical first step is dealing with the crisis of the spirit in rural communities. The deep

divisions must be addressed. If we can find a way to stop shaming and start supporting those who fall

between the cracks of the present system, if we can begin talking with them publicly, honestly, in the

context of our faith, I am convinced that an energy for healthy change will be aroused.

1 3 ~ h e proposal places an emphasis on value-added processing (rather than simply the export of raw materials) creating jobs and an economic cushion when commodity prices fall. It supports recycling of the waste materials h m one form of processing for use as inputs or energy mums in other forms-for example, animal manure as I c l for greenhouse vegetables and small hit , straw h m grain production to be used for particle board ("agriboard") production, grain production used as input into ethanol plants or food for cattle, the use of shelter belts for wood product production and soil protection, legumes for soil rehabilitation. The agriparks would also be capable of receiving and processing solid waste f b m cities for ethanol production and recycling of glass, paper, plastics and metals. Some of the bipmducts of the ethanol processing could be used in feed lots and fish ponds. The proposal suggests that agriparks could sustain a significant and stable human population involved in the production and processing ofagricultural products and in services to its own people and to urban populations. Josh Storey, "The Rural-Urban Agipark: An Economic and Environmental Strategy for Saskatchewan," submission to The Task Force on Municipal Legislative Renewal (Pathlow, SK: 1999)

5.1 See chap. 3, p, 94 for a description of "equity financing" and other lending alternatives. See also William Brown, Richard Gray and Pauline A. Molder. A Community Based Land Trust Model for Saskatchewan Amiculture (Saskatoon, SK: Dept. of Agricultural Economics, University of Saskatchewan, 1993); Bert Adema, "We Are But Sojourners: A Look at the Concept ofLand Trusts," Earthkeeoinq (April 1991): 16; Saskatchewan Economic Developrnenf New Generation Co-operatives for Aaricultural Pmessina and Value-Added Projects: A Develo~ment Guide (Regina: Saskatchewan Economic Development, 1996); A. Harris, B. Stefanson, M. Fulton, New Generation Coowratives and Coooerative Theory (Washington, DC: National Council of Farm Cooperatives, 1996). Jerome Martin, ed., Alternative Futures for Prairie Anricultural Communities (Edmonton: University of Alberta Faculty of Extension. 199 1 ). Resources are also available at the Centre for the study of Cooperatives/AgricuI Economics at the University of Saskatchewan.

APPENDIX A

FIELD METHOD

Initial interviews were conducted in JanuaryRebruary of 1995 with additional interviews camed out

periodically until the summer of 1999. Sixty-four participants were interviewed, including: thirty-six

fanners or farmers' spouses (representing twenty-five families-all except two unrelated), six pastors, five

private lenders, two government lenders, two farm debt mediators, one farm commodities broker, one

district agriculturist, one professor of f m economics, one psychologist specializing in f m crisis

counseling, one church official responsible for rural life ministry, one farm organization crisis committee

chair, one farm financial consultant, one CBC agricultural commentator, one farmedrural development

consultant and four lawyers who specialized in cases related to the farm crisis.

Twenty-nine of the farmers had gone through a serious debt review or foreclosure process. The

remaining seven were solvent at the time of the interviews. About ninety percent of interviewees were or

had been active in a Christian church; of these all except one were Protestant with Lutherans the largest

group (followed by United Church). Forty-four are males, twenty are females. Twenty-two participants

live in Alberta, thirty-four live in Saskatchewan, one lives in Manitoba, four in Ontario, two in Prince

Edward Island and one in British Columbia+

I have also made use of interviews conducted by journalists or other researchers. In particular I have

drawn on the videocassettes "Another Family Farm," "Borrowed Time," "Farmer and Lender: Working

Through Crisis," "Family Farm Under Receivership" "The Last Harvest," and "Where the Rose Grows"

(a drama-documentary produced by farm teens) and the book LivinnOff the Land by Diane Baltaz These

are footnoted where they have been used.

Participants were contacted primarily by word-of-mouth. Bankrupt farmers are generally not easy to

find because they value anonymity. I obtained referrals from my own parishioners? fiom attending a f m

rally and a National Farmers Union convention, &om leading discussions on the topic at secular and church

conventions, from serendipitous connections in my pastoral ministry, fiom pastors and other professionals,

309

and from the participants themselves. In the case of insolvent farmers I asked the one making the referral

to contact the f m e r and ask if they were interested in speaking with me. To that point I normally did not

know their name. If interested I was given the fanner's name and number (or the f m e r was given mine)

and we set up an appointment.

Interviewees were asked to sign an "Interview Consent Form" (see Appendix 8) indicating that they

understood the purposes for which I was using the research and that I would protect their anonymity. Some

agreed to sign the form. Many insisted that it was unnecessary or felt uneasy about signing anything even

if it was for their own protection. I did not press those who felt uncomfortable. I have been careful to

protect the anonymity of names and places in the study, except in those cases where the interviewees

preferred to have their own names used (for example Lynda Haverstock and Ken Rosaasen).

Interview data was collected either by audiotape (which was later transcribed) or by computer note-

taking as close to verbatim as possible (I am a rapid typist.) In about half a dozen cases for situational

reasons notes were taken with pen and paper. Interviews with fortyeight ofthe people were conducted in

person and by telephone with sixteen. Interviews averaged about one hour in length (range kom half an

hour to three hours).

Feedback on the materials was gained at several points in the process by sharing them privately with

several of those interviewed (farmers, pastors and lenders) and through several public media: an academic

journal article (Concensus 1995), two workshops at a Lutheran conference convention (Fall 1 !I%), a public

lecture at a Lutheran seminary (Spring 1997), a national health care conference (Winter1 998), a Lutheran

World Federation conference of theologians in Germany (Fall 1998), CBC radio interview (May 1999),

Regina f m rally (June 1999).

APPENDIX B

INTERVIEW CONSENT FORM

DATE OF INTERVIEW:

PLACE OF INTERVIEW:

PROJECT:

This project is an effort to understand what happens to fmers ' relationship to the church when they go through a financial crisis. The project is based on interviews with f m e r s and church leaders. Its intent is to help rural churches do a better job of maintaining a supportive community in times of farm crisis and to help town and city churches reach out to farmers who have left their land.

In signing this consent form it is understood that:

A. The interview will be taped.

B. That only the interviewer will have access to the tapes and the tapes will be stored in a safe place.

C. All data provided in the interviews will be strictly confidential in the sense that no names of individuals, churches or towns will ever be revealed.

D. Given the above assurances of c~~den t i a l i t y , the respondent gives consent to the use of the interview material in the written products of this project (some of which may be published).

E. The respondent does not have to answer a question if he or she chooses and may withdraw fiom the interview at any time.

Name (printed) 1. Name (printed)

Signature Signatwe -

2. Name (printed)

Signature

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