Sin: Catch It, Bin It, Kill It

There is usually a man standing by the roundabout as I drive to church on Sunday mornings. He wears a t-shirt that proclaims, ‘God Hates Divorce’. I fell to wondering recently whether we’d run out of denominations before we ran out of things God abhors, were we to dress every churchgoer in Stornoway similarly, listing a different object of divine wrath on each garment.

‘God hates gossip’ and ‘God hates lies’, or ‘God hates cheating’. Maybe even ‘God hates schism’ for someone edgy in the Church of Scotland.

Or, how about, in the interest of brevity, ‘God hates sin’?

I have been wrestling with sin myself lately. Sin is very much like . . . now, wait while I spend a convincing amount of time pretending to think of a suitable analogy. Hmmmm . . . erm . . . Oh, I know, just plucking one out of thin air: sin is like rubbish. We generate it; we have to be the ones to deal with it. And if we all took care of our own, there would be a lot less of it about for other poor souls to have to mop up.

When I fell victim to someone else’s badness recently, I was reminded of an old neighbour we had when I was growing up. Plagued by crows, plundering his garden and stalking his newborn lambs, he took matters into his own hands. Catching one, he killed it, singed it and nailed it to a fence post as an eloquent warning to other feathery felons.

It was in light of his display of native ingenuity that I finally agreed to report my foul-mouthed online stalker to the police. Make an example of just one loose cannon and the others will get the hint.

I made an error of judgement, though. Crows have the intelligence to recognise their own likeness, even when it is charred and nailed up and quite dead. Not so much with the keyboard warriors, though. They failed to see why, having reported one bona fide weirdo to the police I should not still go on submitting myself to their barbs and jibes as well. Oh, that person had gone over the score, some of them admitted – but not them.

They are, if you will permit me just one more Castle Grounds-related analogy, a little bit like the rhododendron ponticum. A great show is made, a display of concern, but every single one contributes to the toxicity of the environment. Each person who forcefully and repeatedly hammers home their opinion, and does so by naming names and making accusations that have no basis in fact, poisons the online atmosphere and makes it just that little bit harder for the fragrance of truth to break through.

You see, other people’s sin is much easier to spot than our own. I can see in the flamers and trolls that twisted humanity which enjoys humiliating and victimising their fellow man. If I could, I would make them t-shirts that read, ‘God hates bullying’.

But the point of bullying, like any other sin, is that we have to diagnose ourselves. Before we can don any garment emblazoned with our guilt, we have to own that sin, admit to it and meet it head on. I cannot do that for the many people – strangers mostly, but some who are not – who think that it’s acceptable to use a public forum to pillory and threaten me for having a different opinion to them.

That is actually their burden to bear; not mine. Besides, I think that someone who loses their dignity and their decency, ostensibly over the question of litter bins in a public garden, has bigger problems than poor online etiquette.

Episodes like this are distasteful. They upset the people who care about me and they persuade onlookers that public life in Lewis is a harsh and lawless thing. No one is encouraged into any kind of community service by witnessing my experience. Who would want to have their good name trodden upon for being . . . well, what? What am I that attracts such hatred?

I am a sinner – saved by grace, yes, but still a sinner. My wardrobe could be filled with t-shirts enumerating my guilt for the world to see. And that is for ME to deal with; it is between myself and God. It’s a daily struggle, and never more so than when I’m denigrated by strangers and have to remember one important truth. While that behaviour is theirs, and I have no control over it, or guilt for it, I DO have agency in how I respond. That’s the real test.

Do not, the Bible tells us, repay reviling with reviling. The world hated Christ to death and it shouldn’t surprise me to be loathed for his sake. I have looked on him, nailed to a cross, his human countenance marred by violence and hatred, made sin for our sake – and I have recognised myself.

It is simultaneously the lowest and the most exalted point in his story, and in that of any repentant sinner. You see what you are and what you have done, but at the same moment you realise that this is also the route to redemption.

From then on, the path is not smooth, as I have found out. Once you have seen yourself as you truly are, every day is a battle against that – but it’s a beautiful battle because of the template to which he is conforming us, little by aching little. What do I care, really, for lies told about me by strangers?

If there is any Christian looking on and questioning why I would expose myself to this kind of life – and I know there is – I can answer that very simply. He has called me to witness. I don’t serve an ungrateful community that hates me; I serve an incomparable Saviour that loves me. Christ loved me, as he loves them, before I ever knew his face. When they finally lift their eyes to him, as I pray they will, that understanding will become theirs too.

Sin is like rubbish. It is we who produce it, and it is we who must dispose of it. No one is asked to manage other people’s sin; only their own. Ignoring it is not a solution, nor is dumping it on others.

God hates sin, and he’s asking us all to deal with our own, leaving the rest up to him.

Bringing it all back home . . .

This week, I have a returning guest blogger, Mr Roy Macdonald Murray. He is a collie of no profession, and shaping up to be a great voice in social policy and community politics. Here, he muses upon the issue of where community ownership interfaces with the disposal of waste:

Myself and the Blone were out for our constitutional at Traigh Mhòr the other night, and I had to answer a call of nature. Instead of letting it go at that, she started this weird ritual that I’ve always been meaning to ask her about – she collected my . . . ahem . . . leavings . . . in a bag, wiped her hands with some wee cloth that smelt of strawberries, and then put the bag and the hand thing into another bag. Obviously the look of incredulity on my hairy face was sufficiently eloquent, because she tried to explain.

‘It’s okay, balach’, she said (‘balach’, indeed – I’m eight years old), ‘it’s not a weird hobby; we’ll take it home and bin it’.

Yeah, see, she’s said this before, and I’m still no clearer as to the thinking behind it. Maybe it’s just a sign of the vast difference in our upbringing – me on a farm in Sandwick, her within a stone’s throw of the Black Water, probably in a tent – but I always thought that’s what servants were for. What is the point of having minions to clear up after you if you do it yourself? Why have a dog and bark . . . but I’m going off topic.

The more I thought about it, the more it bugged me. I mean, when I do a poo, I don’t really want to see it again – that is rather the point of me leaving it on the machair. Then, the people whose lot it is in life to gather other people’s waste will come along and sort it. Actually, she could find herself in trouble with the Servants’ and Minions’ Union for taking work from their members. Extraordinary, really, that I should have a better grasp of how socialism works than she does., when you DO think about the difference in our social spheres.

When we got home that evening, the cat was sitting on the windowsill. She looked marginally less murderous than usual, so I thought I’d canvas her opinion. I pointed out that the Blone is always poking about in her litter box as well, with a sieve shaped like a shovel. The cat continued to stare at me.

‘For me’, she eventually replied, ‘it is less disturbing to see her remove my droppings into a bag, than to watch you treat it as your own personal snack tray’.

I wilted a bit at this. The cat can be very cutting.

‘But’, I persisted, ‘it’s the job of the servants to pick up. We leave stuff, they dispose of it. Everyone knows their place’.

The cat sighed. She closed her eyes. There was a very long silence. I almost gave up, and was about to walk away when she spoke again, in a bored voice.

‘The Blone IS the servant’, she said, ‘that’s why she picks up after us. It’s the lot of those further down the food chain to pick up after cats, and keep things nice for us’.

This was really no help. It explained part of the predicament, but not the rest – yes, cats are superior to almost every living creature on the planet, except the man who makes Schmackos; but why would she pick up my waste when there are people for that? It made no sense.

I thought and thought until I went cross-eyed. Sometimes, she takes me to places where the sniffing is new. There’s one, with a whole lot of trees to pee on. If I poo there, she does the bag thing and sometimes we take it home, but other times she puts it in a wee box next to one of the trees. Probably the fairies collect it. Or the servants. Either way, it’s not our problem, and we don’t have to take it back in our nice car, all the way to Tolsta.

She must see how illogical this is – the woman has a degree, I believe. It comes back down to that Stornoway Truss again. Remember, I explained it to you last time? The land belongs to everyone in the whole community. That means if your dog poos on Truss land, it’s not your problem, it’s theirs – that, apparently, is what ‘community ownership’ means. The Trussees own the poo, and they, or their slaves have to get rid of it. Frankly, I think it’s such a great system that I might have to become a socialist myself, if that’s how it works.

Come to think of it, the machair in Tolsta belongs to the community too, so I suppose the Truss should really send their servants there to pick up after me. Then again, it’s common grazing, so maybe we should let the local shareholders have the privilege. It’s either that or some French multinational will sweep in and take advantage: coming over here, helping themselves to our waste . . .

I don’t know how to tell her that she has not properly understood what community ownership means. She bangs on about collective responsibility, and everyone doing their bit. She hasn’t grasped the fact that what it ACTUALLY means is that whatever happens on Truss land, becomes the Truss’s problem. My poo is their poo, and I just get to walk away. It’s our land, but their problem. Fair enough.

It’s like the good old days in Sandwick, when I was a dog of consequence. And she’s spoiling that illusion by bringing the poo back home.