New ebooks From Canadian Indies

Excerpt from The Question of Peace in Modern Political Thought edited by Toivo Koivukoski and David Edward Tabachnick

From the Foreword by John Gittings

The voice of philosophy has a lot to say about peace, and in the present age we need to hear it more than ever. In a world that is globalized in its economy but still far from cosmopolitan in its outlook, the forces of prejudice, intolerance, and misunderstanding increase tension and generate conflict, both between and within nations. War, or the danger of war, exists at many levels—quite literally: on the ground, where ethnic and religious enmities spill over into violence, and in the upper atmosphere, where the cloud of nuclear war still hangs over us. Philosophers may not be the legislators of the world, but they can help us to clarify moral principles, understand reality, and distinguish true from false knowledge. That is what they are good at. The advice that past philosophers have offered on war and peace is still relevant today.

A group of these were the itinerant Chinese philosophers of the Hundred Schools of Thought, who would sit at the city gate of some small principality during the Era of Warring States (475—221 BC). Their role was to advise the ruler on strategy, such as whether or not to take advantage of a neighbouring state's weakness and invade. Most of the main Schools— the Confucians, the Mohists, and the Daoists (Taoists)—counselled against war, on both moral and practical grounds. Confucius's disciple Mengzi (Mencius) warned that wars to capture cities or territory always lead to disaster: they are a way of “teaching the earth how to eat human flesh. ” Mohists would cite Mozi (Mo Tzu) himself, who held that states should cooperate for their universal advantage: “If rulers love the states of others as their own, no one will commit aggression. ” A Daoist might quote his Master Laozi (Lao Tzu): “The ideal relationship between states is one in which they are so close that they can hear their neighbour's chickens squawk and dogs bark, and yet they leave each other alone. ” All these philosophers would urge rulers not be seduced by the rival school of Strategists, who claimed to know the secret of victory.

From Chapter 1: By the Grace of God: Peace and Martin Luther's Two Kingdoms by Jarrett A. Carty

The Reformation began in Germany with Martin Luther's protest against the sale of indulgences in 1517, and shortly expanded into a general schism within the Western church. Reform, Luther soon discovered, needed the cooperation of government, in which the civil authorities had a crucial role. Luther also needed theoretical justification for his Reformation, and guidance on its proper jurisdiction and limits. He looked for this guidance to the Bible and to the time of the apostles, believing that temporal government had once been independent of spiritual authority—and that the political tumult of his age was the result of spiritual authority having usurped government. True and lasting peace, he felt, could only come about through a proper respect for both of the distinct yet complementary “two kingdoms. “ The spiritual realm was ruled by Jesus Christ, through his Word; the secular realm was ruled by kings and civil authorities, through law and coercion. Its responsibilities were maintaining law and order, ensuring the protection of life and property, and promoting peace.

Luther held that wherever peace did not reign, and rebellion, war, or chaos, prevailed, the fault lay with the confusion of the two kingdoms— and the corruption of the spiritual by the temporal. The peace he sought, though, would prove to be tragically elusive. During his career, two major political controversies erupted: the Peasants' War of 1525, and the Protestant resistance against the Holy Roman Empire that began in 1530. And after his death in 1546, his views were challenged by the hardening of confessional church doctrines, and by the civil control of the churches in the wake of the Peace of Augsburg (1555).

Chapter 1: 1954

The words drift over on the wind to the family of three sitting on the beach at Matlock. They don't know where the words come from. Sounds on the beach are tricky. You can hear a laugh or a bark from a mile away. But sometimes the words of the person lying next to you get lost in the waves.

The mother slathers cocoa butter on herself and tells the boy to do the same. When he's done, he smoothes some onto the back of the little girl.

"Don't waste it, Ray," the mother says. "There's not very much left in the jar. Your sister doesn't really need it."

"Yes she does." He keeps on till she is well covered. "There's still lots left."

Ray is seven and he wears two hats. One is a black cap with the name Gophers embroidered in gold thread. Gophers is the name of his peewee ball team. Ray plays first base. He chose the cap when the mother told him to be sure to bring a hat. He didn't know she was talking about sun protection. She has placed one of her big straw hats on top of it. He doesn't seem to mind.

Squinting into the sun, the girl smiles up at her brother. He smiles back and removes his hats to go for a swim.

"Be careful out there!" the mother shouts as Ray dives into the waves. "A little boy drowned here last year, ya know."

Her words vanish before they reach Ray's ears but the girl hears them and shivers.

"Time for some sand cakes," the mother says, and helps her daughter cut out tiny squares from the damp sand near the shore.

"Mmm," the mother says and pretends to eat one. "You now. Take a bite."

The girl sits in the wet sand with the water lapping around her. She is three, going on four.

"I don't want to, Mummy. I don't want to eat sand."

"You know you have to, so just do it," the mother says and smiles up at the people walking by. "And don't forget to chew."

It scrapes against her tiny teeth, grinds in her ears. It's louder than the waves. She gags on sand and tears, feels as though her head is made of sand and she could just lie down and be part of the shoreline.

"Clean yourself up now, before your brother sees you all grubby and dirty."

The little girl leans over the shallows and splashes water onto her face. She peers into the lake, hoping to see a fish or some smooth stones at the bottom, hoping to see anything. But the lake is cloudy and dark. And the darkness settles inside her narrow chest.

Chapter 2: The Present

"Greta Bower found a baby in her rain barrel," Gus said.

Frank Foote turned cold. He stepped out onto his front porch and closed the door behind him. "What?"

"Well, I guess, technically, I found it," Gus said. "She asked me if I could come over and give her a hand with her rain barrel." He gave his head a shake. "It was awful."

"Is it alive?"

"No, Frank. It's dead. Real dead."

"Oh, God." Frank clutched his thinning hair in both fists. "Whose baby is it?" he asked. "Where did it come from?"

"I don't know. It hardly looks like a baby anymore. It's been in the barrel quite a while I guess." Gus sat down on the top step. "I think maybe it wintered there."

"I'm sorry, Gus. Let me get you a glass of water. You're as white as a sheet."

"No sheet of mine, that's for sure. Since Irma died mine just keep gettin' grayer and grayer."

Frank returned with the water. "So Greta doesn't have any ideas on it?"

"She doesn't seem to. She just started to shake and hasn't stopped."

"Where is she?" Frank asked.

"I took her to my place." Gus took a sip of water and spit it out. "She wanted to get away from it."

"I don't blame her." Frank sat down on the step beside his friend. "Are you sure it's a baby?" he asked. "Maybe it's a raccoon or a squirrel or something. Sometimes foxes come into town."

"It's a baby all right," Gus said. "I think I can tell a human being from a fox. Jesus, Frank."

"Sorry, Gus. Just hoping, I guess."

The morning was cool, too cool to be sitting on the porch in shirtsleeves the way Frank was. Chilly sweat slid down his sides and a gust of wind brought goose bumps out on his forearms. "Where is it now?" he asked.

"It's still in the bottom of the barrel. I drained it. Ya see, her water had been cloudy lately and got to smellin' kinda funny. That's why she asked me to come over and have a look at it for her. After the water was emptied out I stood on her ladder to take a peek inside."

"God, I'm sorry you had to see it, Gus. I don't expect it was a very pretty sight."

"I've seen plenty of death in my time, Frank. I grew up on a farm. But yeah, this is the worst I can remember."

Frank put his arm around the thin shoulders of his next-door neighbour, just for a moment. "Who the hell has a rain barrel around here anymore?" he asked.

"Greta Bower. That's who. She's pretty upset, Frank. I should probably get back to my place. I just kind of put her on the couch and left her."

"Yeah, you're right, Gus. We better get moving. I'm just going to have a word with Emma and then I'll come over. I don't want my kids to know about this."

"Thanks, Frank. I'll see ya in a few minutes then."

Frank brushed his teeth and spoke to Emma, who agreed to watch Garth and Sadie.

"It's Sunday," she said. "I thought this was your day off."

"Yeah, it is, but there's a little problem at Greta Bower's place. I'm just going to check it out and then I'll phone the station and get someone else out to clear it up."

"Was that Mr. Olsen at the door?" Emma asked. "What happened? Did someone die?"

"Don't worry about it, Em. I'm sure it's nothing."

Greta was a wreck. Gus had given her a mug of brandy even though it was just mid-morning.

She explained about the rain barrel. "It's just always been there. It was there when I was a kid and well, I like it. I use the water for my plants and my hair and that's about it. The water got kind of yucky looking lately, and it had a bit of a stink to it, so I quit using it. I thought maybe the barrel needed cleaning or something. There's a filter on top to keep out biggish things and I did have it covered with lengths of wood over the winter, but I figured maybe lots of small insects added up, or maybe some kid did something. Oh hell, I don't know what I figured."

Greta gulped down the rest of her brandy and Gus poured her some more.

"The filter is really just resting there," she said. "Anyone could move it if they had something to stand on. Could you please make it go away, Frank? I'd really like to get it cleaned up in a hurry. It's supposed to rain tonight."

"You're surely not going to use it again after this?" Gus said.

"Why not? It's just a little baby. What could be more natural than that?" She laughed. "Maybe it'll give my hair new life."

She's lost her marbles, Frank thought. Maybe it's just temporary, from the shock. Or, maybe she belongs in a loony bin.

"You're thinking I'm crazy, aren't you?" Greta said. "I can tell by the look on your face." She started to cry.

Frank felt terrible, the way he always did when women cried, as though it were his fault and it was up to him to fix things. He touched her shoulder and gave her a handkerchief.

"No, Greta. No one's thinking you're crazy. It just surprised me is all. Most people would probably want to get rid of the rain barrel after something like this. But you're right. A poor dead baby is nothing to run from."

Gus didn't look so sure. He fetched a glass and poured some brandy for himself.

Frank left the room to phone the police station.