Far Eastern Economic Review, Issue cover-dated June 13, 2002
A New Crusade
Many Christians are turning to the simple certainties of evangelical faiths, a
development that mirrors the rise of militant Islam. Christian fervour is adding yet more
heat to an already simmering cauldron of religious tensions
By Dini Djalal/JAKARTA
ON A MONDAY EVENING in a Jakarta office tower, several dozen executives in suits
and ties are seated around a conference room. Their meeting has nothing to do with
profit margins or product launches. It's about something much more basic: banishing
fear. Says 25-year-old banker Thomas Sutanto, clutching a Bible as he attends his
first prayer group: "Being amongst other Christians makes me feel safe."
Men like Sutanto are part of a much wider upsurge of Christian activity in Indonesia. In
major cities across the country, weekly evangelical groups are booming. On university
campuses, thousands of students are enlisting in Christian networks. One evangelical
congregation, Bethany, is so popular that it can fill the Jakarta Convention Centre five
times over every Sunday. Meanwhile, television shows featuring American-style
preachers are holding their own on local channels.
But while Christian denominations traditionally describe themselves as being inspired
by love, in Indonesia the rise of evangelicalism--with its colourful services, fiery
preaching and prohibition of smoking, drinking and extramarital sex--is driven by a
more basic emotion: fear. Indonesia's tiny Christian minority feels intimidated by
Islam's increasing stridency, most frighteningly exemplified by the extremist Islamic
Laskar Jihad, which is accused of waging war on Christian communities in Ambon in
the Moluccas, and in Poso in Central Sulawesi. "What's happening has crystallized a
lot of the Christian community's fears," says Sydney Jones, Jakarta representative for
the International Crisis Group, a Brussels-based think-tank.
In response, the Christian community is turning to its own fundamentalists--both
preachers and soldiers--and away from mainstream society. For Indonesia, the
upsurge in Christian militancy represents one more threat to an already delicate
religious balance.
In some ways, the rise of evangelical Christianity is merely a mirror image of what's
been happening to the country's Muslim majority since the fall of the authoritarian
President Suharto in 1998. Increasingly vocal in asserting their identity, radicals
among the moderate Muslim majority have succeeded in pushing through major
political changes. Earlier this year, the troubled province of Aceh introduced sharia, or
Islamic law. Now, Muslim politicians in West Sumatra and South Sulawesi are
clamouring for similar legislation in their provinces.
The rise of evangelicalism is also a response to a more immediate threat: Under
Suharto, there were an average of a dozen attacks a year on churches in Indonesia.
Since his downfall, more than 400 churches have been razed, bombed, or ransacked.
Many Chinese-Indonesians are seeking asylum in the United States, not on the basis
of racial discrimination, but religious persecution as Christians.
The year 2000 was particularly brutal. That October in North Maluku province, more
than 100 Christians were confronted with a deadly choice: convert to Islam--with both
men and women undergoing painful circumcision--or be killed. That Christmas, a total
of 19 people, including some Muslim passers-by, were killed in church bombings
across the country.
In the eyes of many Christians, the fight is now one for survival. "The conflict has
amalgamated all the churches into one body with a common cause," says John
Lindner from Christian Aid, a U.S.-based organization campaigning against
anti-Christian violence. "They have laid aside their doctrinal differences for the sake of
their survival."
Some have also taken a more direct approach. In the largely Christian province of
North Sulawesi, black-clad Christian militias patrol through towns, ready to take on
members of the Laskar Jihad. But Poso's Christian warriors are as feared as the
Laskar Jihad; they are widely suspected of massacring 500 Muslims in May 2000.
In Ambon, which is half Muslim, half Christian, some militants have called for
secession from Indonesia, and more and more Ambonese are expressing sympathy
for the movement that wasn't there two years ago.
Christians from Ambon and Poso claim militant groups appear "spontaneously"
whenever clashes break out, and are formed only in self-defence "because the
government can't protect us," says Jopie Wattimury, an Ambonese active in the
Forum for Maluku's Reconciliation and Rehabilitation. Despite denunciations by
mainstream Christian denominations, including Roman Catholic and Protestant
leaders, many ordinary Christians believe the militants have no alternative. "Is it
radical to want to protect yourself from killers like the Laskar Jihad?" asks new
convert Sutanto.
There's another worrying side to the changing face of Christianity: The communities
gathering in hotels and assembly halls are getting a reputation for being cagey and
withdrawn. Bethany, arguably the largest of the congregations, bars photography and
the presence of journalists during its functions, which fill up dozens of ballrooms every
weekend.
Attitudes like that, say some Muslims, are provocative in Indonesia's already tense
religious climate. "How can we watch all these prayer groups and not feel like they're
trying to Christianize the country?" asks Agus Achmad, 28, an activist with the
Islamic Students Association.
Claims that Christians are actively proselytizing in Indonesia are not new. An outbreak
of communal riots in East Java in 1997 was blamed on the perception that an
evangelical movement was being overly aggressive in traditionally Muslim
communities. And like many Muslim hardliners, Achmad believes that foreign groups
are funding local Christians, a charge Christians deny.
Ronny Mandang, 46, head of Carmel Congregation, a much more open group, isn't
keen on church meetings at hotels, which he says can be perceived as exclusive. But
though Mandang prefers to hold court at a chapel, he says he understands why some
groups use hotels. According to Mandang, it's almost impossible to get building
permits for churches. Developers refuse to build churches at locations where
mosques do not yet exist, while churches already under construction often have
permits revoked--with politicians' support. "Politicians talk about religious harmony,
but we still haven't felt it," says Mandang.
The charismatic pastor then calls out an exhaustive list of what he says are
anti-Christian policies: The government limits the amount of overseas financial
assistance churches can receive, while foreign missionaries may live in the country
for no more than 10 years unless they become Indonesian citizens. Ministerial
decrees also prohibit Christian teaching in non-Christian schools, the rule being that
"one is not allowed to preach to another who already has religion."
Many hardline Christians even claim that Indonesia's Christian population is actually
double the official number of 20 million--but, "we don't own the census," says one
church official. Many poor Christians, claims the official, pretend to be Muslims in
order to receive government aid or be accepted into its resettlement programme.
Whether or not these claims are true is largely unimportant. What matters is that they
are widely believed by Christians, and are driving the rise of Christian militancy.
Indeed, preacher Mandang insists that these perceived obstacles are only
strengthening the determination of the Christian community. As evidence of this new
spirit, he says he now spends his lunches and dinners preaching to
Christian-managed companies seeking "spiritual guidance," and recently attended the
induction of 10 professionals into evangelical ministries. Such events, he says, would
have been unheard of a decade ago. "History teaches us that where there is
persecution, there is greater militancy," he says with visible pride. "We will become
more strong and more determined."
It's ironic, then, that Mandang and other evangelicals owe their current revival--at least
in part--to an increase, rather than a reduction, in religious freedoms. In January 2000,
the government lifted a ban on the non-Christian Baha'i religion, while 18 months later
it removed restrictions on a Christian sect, the Jehovah's Witnesses. Student
groups--sectarian and secular--are now free to operate with relative freedom. Recently
more than 10,000 devotees turned up for an all-night prayer session at a soccer
stadium with hardly a raised eyebrow from the government.
Some Christian leaders believe that the evangelicals are taking unnecessary risks.
Ishak Pamumbu Lambe, head of the umbrella Christian group, the Indonesian Council
of Churches (PGI), complains that such gatherings outside churches aren't helping
the image of Christians. "They create more trouble for the community," he says.
Lambe, who has been criticized by church activists for being soft, believes Christian
leaders need to reach out to Muslims, not barricade themselves behind hotel doors.
He points out that some PGI members are active in political parties, even
predominantly Muslim ones, as part of the Christian community's effort to protect
itself. And rather than taking to the streets, they are also working behind the scenes
to thwart politicians lobbying for the implementation of Islamic law. Says Lambe: "Just
because we don't appear publicly does not mean that we are not doing anything. We
are strengthening our relations with nationalist groups, we tell them that radicals
threaten not only religious minorities but national unity."
Still, Lambe shares the fear of other Christians that unless the government does more
to protect the Christian minority, Ambon won't be the only province to have a
separatist movement. But when asked what the church can do to stop such conflicts,
he answers: "The church does not have the power to force anyone; we can only give
moral support. We are not a law-enforcement body."
Yet if church officials are blaming others--evangelical groups, the government--for the
growing religious tensions, other religious leaders say the church too must share
some of the guilt. Sirotua Nababan, a fiery cleric now active in the World Council of
Churches, headed the PGI for decades and was reviled by the Suharto regime for not
cooperating with it when it wanted church leaders to stop public protest against the
regime's authoritarianism and ingrained discrimination. The evangelical movement, he
says, is a reaction to the churches' inability to provide leadership, protection and
guidance to their flocks. "Religious leaders have to admit that we have failed," says
Nababan. For Indonesia, that failure threatens to have very serious consequences.
Copyright ©2002 Review Publishing Company Limited, Hong Kong
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