Have a Blessed Passover or Holy Week

Here is the Passover moon, taken last night after leaving church services.

Call No One Happy Until He Dies

The ancient Greek historian Herotodus (c.484–c.425 BC) claimed that no one should be called ‘happy’ until he has died, for until then we can never be sure what misfortunes may befall him. According to Herodotus, “the powers above us are full of jealousy and fond of troubling our lot. . . . [O]ftentimes the gods give men a gleam of happiness, and then plunge them into ruin” (The Histories 1.32). In other words, no matter how blessed someone may seem, we shouldn’t proclaim them ‘happy’ because we never know how their story will end. Only when their happiness has continued until their death can we really be sure such a person deserved to be called ‘happy’ in life. This view, of course, sees happiness as a matter of material possessions and other temporal blessings.

To some, Herotodus seems singularly pessimistic, offering a glass-half-empty perspective. After all, happiness that doesn’t last is still happiness, isn’t it? St Augustine, however, agreed with Herotodus that happiness that doesn’t last doesn’t really deserve to be called happiness at all. For that reason, he believed that there is no genuine ‘happiness’ on earth, since everything earthly is by its nature temporary. True happiness is reserved for life after death, when nothing good can ever be taken away from us against our will.

It’s a powerful and tantalizing vision: All the good things we’ve ever enjoyed preserved from ruin, decay, diminishment, the ravages of time, the loss of life or vitality. All the best preserved at their best. Everything and everyone we value all together in one place for us to enjoy forever. Now that would be happiness indeed!

The Easter story puts a whole new twist on Herotodus’s perspective. If Christians were to say, “call no one happy until he dies,” it might have a completely different implication—not that we can’t be sure earthly happiness will continue to the point of death, but that true happiness doesn’t really even begin until death. Herotodus worried that we can never be sure how a person’s earthly story will end: Sure, they may be blessed and successful now, but what about later? Christians take an opposite view. Whatever a person’s earthly circumstances now—whether blessed materially or not—we don’t have to wonder how their story will end. Jesus tells us: “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself” (John 12.32).

Does this foreknowledge spoil the story for us, ruining our anticipation of the unknown ending? By no means. Knowing that our end is secure in Christ’s loving arms provides a sure foundation on which to stand when we are buffeted by life’s frequent storms—and when we rejoice in life’s multitudinous blessings. Knowing the end of the story gives us strength and courage to risk spending our time, talent, and treasure in service to others, not worrying that we may lose ourselves in the process. When temporal blessing is not our first concern because we know that eternal blessing is secure, we can devote ourselves to following Jesus’ teaching to “seek first the kingdom of God,” resting assured that “all these things will be added” to us as we have need (Matt 6.33).

No, knowing the ending doesn’t spoil the story. It makes a bolder, more courageous story possible. The happy ending of Easter morning came for Jesus only after the darkness and suffering of Good Friday. For those who follow his way of the Cross, the happy ending comes ahead of time, as we anticipate already what “eye has not seen nor ear heard . . . . The things God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Cor 2.9).

What Are You Hoping For . . . Do You Know?

The season of Lent is supposed to be a time for spiritual introspection, a time when we at least temporarily lessen our attention to the material comforts of God’s good gifts in order to focus more closely on things of lasting, eternal value. This six-week journey toward Easter anticipates that central mystery of Christian existence, the cataclysmic separation-point of human history marking the boundary between ‘before’ and ‘after’—between despair and renewed hope.

The theme of hope puts me in mind of the Theme from Mahogany—a movie less enduring than its lyrical accompaniment, as many movies are. The song is appropriate for Lent, as it is also introspective, asking:

Do you know where you’re going to
Do you like the things that life is showing you
Where are you going to
Do you know?

Part of the aim of a Lenten journey is to reexamine our lives and, if necessary, to make periodic course corrections, straightening ourselves out, regaining our bearings. Where are we headed? Are we spending too much time on autopilot, so much so that we’ve lost track of our ultimate destination—if we ever had one . . . . Often daily demands absorb so much attention and short-term goals loom so large that we feel incapable of considering the longer-term trajectory of our lives. It is enough if the kids are fed, the dishes washed, the presentation completed on time, the homework done, the car washed, the bills paid, etc. We have no more energy or time to push ourselves farther than clearing the most immediate hurdles.

But a life forever lived engrossed in these necessary daily chores falls afoul of Socrates’ famous dictum: The unexamined life is not worth living. More importantly, perhaps, it falls far from the Christian goal of a life lived in intimate relationship with God. Abraham is said to have “walked with God,” and Moses is described as “a friend of God.” Yet every Christian is promised the same opportunity for divine intimacy that these favored patriarchs enjoyed. All it takes is time, attention, and desire.

Many Christians have recognized the importance of desire in growing closer to God. The medieval monastic reformer Bernard of Clairvaux, for example, thought that the motivation underlying Christian life involves a predictable metamorphosis of desire from the servile fear of God (and the threatened punishment of hell) to a kind of elementary love of God for God’s good gifts to us (a self-interested love of God) to a pure love for God that springs from a clear-eyed recognition and ardent appreciation of God’s own goodness and love (an unselfish love of God). For Bernard, this maturation of desire describes the arc of the true Christian journey. If you were to ask Bernard where he’s going, he’d answer: “to God.” And if you asked him how he hopes to get there, he’d say: “love.” Love is the path to God.

The Theme from Mahogany goes on to ask another question: “What are you hoping for—do you know?” Our hopes have a lot to do with the direction our lives take. What we hope for reflects what we love. Love can be the path to God if, with Bernard, we truly see the sheer wonder and immensity of God’s love for us and, in return, fall in love with our Creator. But the great theologian of love, St Augustine, plainly taught that love can lead in other directions as well. If a mature Christian love leads toward God, other loves can lead away from him. There are as many loves as there are objects of desire, and it is the objects we desire that determine the trajectory of our lives.

We hope for what we love—a new car, a great job, professional recognition, an ace on the final exam, the perfect mate, acceptance in the right college or the right social circles, health, long life, a fat bank account, lots of grandchildren . . . the list is endless. All of these things can provide some form of satisfaction for a season—that’s why we desire them. But this satisfaction is also doomed to end, often more quickly than we imagined. This satisfaction is also—though we secretly doubt this—less fulfilling than the highest and best satisfaction we human beings can experience. What are we hoping for? What are we really hoping for?

The real hope underlying all of these other chameleon-like hopes that distract us by enticing our attention to the myriad ‘things’ that lure us, the real hope is something that does not satisfy us just for a season and then vanish; it does not trick us into seeking it, only to yell “gotcha” as our satisfaction fades away. No, the real hope underlying all the kaleidoscopic objects of desire that blanket contemporary society is a hope so basic, so simple, that we rarely dare to trust it.

But for 2000 years and counting, in every time and every place, people throughout the nations have found this hope to be so astounding, yet so real that they are compelled, like the fisherfolk to whom it was first proclaimed, to drop their nets and go running after it, clinging to it so fiercely that they never let it go. This hope, however fragile it may sometimes appear, is a hope strong enough to look the world full in the face, denying none of its evil and injustice, none of its corruption and crime, yet all the while affirming that there is a power greater than all of this: There is a love as strong as death, a light that shines in the darkness, a Lover who will never abandon the beloved.

What are Christians hoping for? As we mark off the slow, solemn weeks of Lent and the lingering darkness of winter, waiting for the heavy stone to be rolled away from the tomb of our hearts and the new light and life of Easter’s springtime to enter in, let us take time to ponder this question anew, remembering that our hopes have everything to do with our desires, and that what we love sets the trajectory for our lives. Let us seek the only hope that does not disappoint in the only love that never ends.

Becoming All Flame

In this time of growing darkness, many people decorate their homes with festive lights—trying, it seems, to hold back the “gathering gloom.” In this Advent season of waiting for the Lord, as each week we light a new candle on the Advent wreath, I am reminded of the interplay of light and darkness imagery in the Bible. Take, for example, the first words God speaks: “Let there be light!” (Gen 1.3), followed by the declaration, “And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness” (Gen 1.4). Sometimes it seems God still hasn’t finished separating the light from the darkness—or, is it that God is relying on us to help him do that?

Jesus unambiguously announces his role in the interplay of light and darkness in our world: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8.12). Paul connects Jesus’ role as the Light of the world with God’s initial act of creation, calling light into being out of nothing and separating it from the darkness. According to Paul, it is the same “God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Cor 4.6).

John the Evangelist editorializes: “And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil” (John 3.19). Nevertheless, whatever the shortcomings in our human response to the first Advent, “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1.5).

God’s light continues to shine across the ages for those with eyes to see, and the persistence of evil does not overcome it. Isaiah foretold the coming of this light in one of the most beloved of Advent readings: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined” (Isa 9.2; cf. Matt 4.16). Despite appearances to the contrary, Christians continue to affirm that “the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining” (1 John 2.8).

How, you may ask? It is true that “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all” (1 John 1.5), but this is not so for us humans. Even those who try to follow Paul’s advice to live “as children of light” must grow into this calling anew each day, working over a lifetime toward the perfection promised us in eternity. Nevertheless, the Bible testifies that these human actions of goodness in the world function as part of the light God shines in the darkness for others.

The Old Testament has many laments about human injustice. Job complains: “When I looked for good, evil came; and when I waited for light, darkness came” (30.26). Isaiah echoes him: “Ah, you who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!” (Isa 5.20). “Therefore justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us; we wait for light, and lo! there is darkness; and for brightness, but we walk in gloom” (Isa 59.9).

These laments find counterparts in prophecies of impending judgment against wrongdoers. Micah warns, “Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy; when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me” (Micah 7.8). Job affirms that, by God’s light, he has walked through darkness (Job 29.3), and the Psalmist offers thanks to God for being his light: “It is you who light my lamp; the Lord, my God, lights up my darkness” (Ps 18.28).

The prophets’ voices are unanimous: God does not leave his faithful helpless. In the midst of the darkness of human injustice and oppression, God sends help—a light in the darkness so that we will not stumble, for “‘if you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going’” (John 12.35). What are these lights, you ask? They are you and me. We are the lights. God asks us to be lights to each other.

Isaiah teaches Israel: “If you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday” (Isa 58.10). Jesus exhorts us: “Let your light shine!” (Matt 5.16). We are made children of light for a purpose—not to hide our candle under the bushel-basket, but to set it on a stand so that “it gives light to all in the house” (Matt 5.15). God has called us “out of darkness into his marvelous light” (1 Pet 2.9) to live as children of light so that we can “lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light” (Rom 13.12).

Living as children of light means taking on the properties of Christ, the one true Light. How do we do that? Jesus was clear enough in his instructions: “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13.34–35). “Whoever says, ‘I am in the light,’ while hating a brother or sister, is still in the darkness” (1 John 2.9).

Angelic tidings of “Peace on Earth” are on many lips this time of year. It is a welcome message conveying a heartfelt desire that the whole world cherishes with eager longing. Yet this season is also a time when it is worth remembering what the prophets tell us about the Advent to come. Amos, for instance, warns, “Alas for you who desire the day of the Lord! Why do you want the day of the Lord? It is darkness, not light. . . . Is not the day of the Lord darkness, and not light, and gloom with no brightness in it?” (Amos 5.18, 20).

The prophets anticipate the pain of a judgment of condemnation because too often we do not hold fast to the ways of the Lord. Perhaps few people today actually think about that ultimate judgment, when we will see God “face to face” (1 Cor 13.12). Yet the testimony of Scripture is clear enough: If the day of the Lord is to be a welcome and joyous event for us, we are called to live as children of light here and now—feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, healing the sick, and visiting those in prison. We are to respond to the needs of each of these, “the least of our brethren,” realizing that, in doing so, we are responding to Christ himself. There is more than a little of Ebenezer Scrooge abroad in our world just now. Our hearts of stone must become hearts of flesh so we can learn again the lessons of compassion for those naked children, Ignorance and Want.

The Sayings of the Desert Fathers contains advice from Abba Joseph. A brother came to him, much like the man in the Gospel who asked Jesus how he could be perfect (Matt 19.21). The brother reported all that he had done to be a good monk: saying the daily office, fasting, praying, meditating, living in peace, and purifying his thoughts. The brother asks, “What more can I do?” Abba Joseph “stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, ‘If you wish, you can become all flame’” (7). May we, too, become “all flame.”

And Our Posterity

In the past, American school children were taught certain historic speeches by heart that served as a common fund of knowledge and tradition instantly recognizable across the nation and the generations: "Four-score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." Recognize it? It's the opening line of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address--a mere 278 words in total. (Who said you have to be wordy to be effective?)

Here's another one : "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America." Easy, right? The Preamble to the U.S. Constitution, written in 1787.

Notice for whom the drafters understood themselves to be acting: for "ourselves and our Posterity." You can't accuse the Founders of being a "me" generation! They expressly considered the effects--the costs and benefits--their action (or inaction) would have, not only on themselves, but also on later generations.

Similarly, some of the native Americans who inhabited this continent long before the British arrived followed the rule of "seven generations": No action may be adopted in the present unless it will be right and good for at least the next seven generations. (In typical capitalistic fashion, this foresighted rule of communal responsibility has been coopted by a commercial brand selling "eco-friendly" products. But that's another story . . . )

I thought of the phrase "for us and our posterity" recently while visiting a public botanical garden created over a century ago (probably with oil baron money) and dedicated to the preservation and cultivation of natural beauty in the midst of an otherwise crowded cityscape. I thought of it because the generation of Americans who founded this garden, whatever other faults it may have had, was not entirely a "me" generation either. This generation, though amassing enormous profits for the few while trampling on the welfare of the many, was also capable of great generosity (some of it, no doubt, guilt-induced).

This was the age that founded great research universities and liberal arts colleges, endowed generous humanitarian and cultural foundations, set aside thousands of acres of unspoiled public lands for preservation, and established excellent public museums, libraries, and art galleries, often with private money. These civic and cultural impulses were clearly forward-looking; they were oriented not only to "us" but also to "our posterity."

In her book Living with Contradiction, Esther de Waal quotes from Sister Maria Boulding, who reminds us: “The earth is not so much inherited from our parents as borrowed from our children. We owe a debt to the next generation” (75).

These older generations--our American ancestors--seemed to understand, to some extent, that they were not owners but stewards. They realized that they bore a responsibility to us to hand on--at least intact, if not improved--what they in their turn had received. Of course, in a larger perspective, we are stewards not just for future generations but, ultimately, for God. We are answerable to God for our care (or negligence) toward what we inherit.

I so thoroughly enjoyed my time at the botanical garden that I found myself very grateful for those who cared enough about me--about us, their posterity--to make the effort of establishing this place that would bring so much joy to so many people for so long into the future. I was grateful too for all who over the years have continued to support it with volunteered time and talent, as well as treasure. It made me wonder what we are leaving for our posterity.

Are we consciously considering the costs and effects of our actions on future generations? Are we even aware of what our legacy will be for those who follow after us? Maybe at an individual level people do pause to consider, to some extent, how their own actions will affect their children and grandchildren. Maybe they try to choose wisely, so that their children will enjoy a life at least as blessed as their own. Maybe.

But as a nation, as a collective community, how are we doing? Can we really say we are living up to the example set for us by the Founders? Let's look at the legacy our posterity can expect to receive from the current American government:

• a deficit so large that it will be buried with debt (owned largely by foreigners, especially China), when only eight short years ago there was a budget surplus;


• a social "security" system designed for an age when there were multiple workers for every retiree, not multiple retirees for every worker, and when retirees lived many years less than they do now;


• a country that, alone among "industrialized" nations, still does not provide health care for all its citizens;


• a country where the American dream has become an American nightmare for those on the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder, as the gap between rich and poor widens rather than narrowing and equal educational opportunities disappear;


• a government where political influence as a commodity for sale to the highest bidder is "business as usual";


• a legacy of international resentment and backlash at the government's imperial hubris and unilateral rejection of well-established international political norms (e.g., blatant violation of the Warsaw Conventions on torture, "preemptive" war, "extraordinary rendition," etc.);


• a massive wealth-shifting program that has "privatized" warfare to operate under the profit-motive, but without capitalism's competitive restraints (e.g., Haliburton, Blackwater, KBR, etc.);


• broken families and psychologically stressed servicemen and women who have borne almost the whole brunt of the personal cost of the government's "war on terror";


• serious erosion of basic constitutional rights and infusion of the "justice" system with partisan political motivations and goals; and


• exacerbation of terrorism and inflammation of precisely those anti-American fundamentalists who inspired the amorphous war on "terror."

Of course there are many other legacies that could be mentioned--some good and some bad. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, for example, has the potential to make some serious inroads against disease in developing countries. This is good news for posterity. Joan Kroc, widow of McDonald's founder Ray Kroc, left many millions to charitable causes on her death several years ago.

Maybe if such efforts received greater publicity it would be easier to be more optimistic about the current generation's effects on posterity. But as I look around me, I see little evidence of concern for "our posterity." Even the recent push to fight global warming seems fueled more by self-interest than concern for future generations.

Maybe it's time to take a look at another one of those historic documents that we used to memorize. It goes like this: "We hold these truths to be self-evident:

• that all men are created equal;


• that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights;


• that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness;


• that to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed;


• that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness."

Sound familiar? (It's from the American Declaration of Independence.) Not if you look around you today, I'm afraid. If governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed, why are we fighting a war to which the governed do not consent? If all men have certain unalienable rights, why are there people in Guantanamo Bay who have never been charged with any crime or given their day in court (much less people in secret "undisclosed" detention centers around the world)?

I have always considered myself a faithful American. But I agree with the slogan that "Dissent is patriotic"--or at least it can be, depending upon what one is dissenting against. Our own founders acted under this principle, enshrined in the founding document of our nation: "Whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness."

The People did alter the government's composition (not its form) in the last election, but it seems to have borne little fruit in altering the government's destructiveness to life, liberty, and happiness in this nation. Our lives are more than ever at risk from terrorism because of the blind bravado with which this administration plunged the nation into war in response to the genuine tragedy of 9/11. Our liberty has never been more threatened than now, as the executive branch's continuing grab for power threatens to unbalance our carefully constructed branches of government. Our happiness--collectively, as a people--has certainly never been more imperiled, as greater and greater portions of our collective wealth are apportioned to fewer, more affluent people.

No, I am not overlooking all the advances in medicine and technology that help make many lives in America more enjoyable, less pain-ridden, more productive, and longer. But these "advances" come at a high price: The happiness of the few for the suffering of the many. Earlier American generations had (sometimes greatly) unequal wealth, but the long-term trend was closing that gap until recently; now it has reversed itself.

Moreover, earlier American generations of the wealthy--like the generation, say, that founded the botanical garden--understood themselves as under an obligation to use their private wealth for the common good; this was, in large part, the impetus for the civic and cultural institutions they founded.

What's different now is that many in this new generation of wealthy Americans seem more than willing to use their private wealth for strictly private pleasures. They have little or no sense of public responsibility to use their unequal wealth to contribute to the common good. They are unfamiliar with the biblical teaching that "to whom much is given, much is required" (Luke 12.48). Perhaps this strictly private focus simply highlights a larger erosion of communal connection or fellow-feeling within the nation as a whole.

I remember speaking at length with a woman who volunteered in various ways during World War II to help support the troops. The thing that really stuck with her about her experience of wartime (she was in her late teens) was how the country came together. The whole country was engaged in various practical tasks directly aimed at supporting the troops. And the two sides in the war seemed very clear; an unambiguous choice between good and evil. It seemed that, the more the country fought, the more it came together.

I have met other people from this generation who had similar feelings of nostalgia for WWII. This really puzzled me, because I can't imagine a war being good for the country. Then 9/11 happened. I discovered the potential for tragedy to bring out the best in people. I felt for the first time what it might be like to have a real sense of "us" as Americans--what it might be like to see ourselves as "all in it together."

Interestingly, this communal feeling was not confined just to residents of the United States. People all over the world identified with our loss simply because they, like we, are human beings and they, like we, feel the tragedy inherent in the loss of innocent life. As someone said, "We're all Americans now." Of course, this solidarity was gone--both internationally and domestically--almost before we could even register it.

Very soon, we were back to our old divisions and differences. Americans no longer seem to think of ourselves as a united "us." Is there still one identifiable group called "the American people"? Or are we divided against each other in a 21st-century civil war of "red" states and "blue" states? Or as various ethnic, racial, or gender constituencies fighting one another in a zero-sum game for scraps from the public pork barrel? If we no longer hold anything in "common," it shouldn't surprise us that no one is stepping up right now to do anything for "the common good."

Does our government act like "all men are created equal"--or like all dollars are created equal? Do we Americans act as if we believe that "all men are created equal"--not all Americans, all 40-year-olds, or all working people; not all people in developing countries, all civilians, or all citizens. Just all people.

The Founders spoke of America as an "experiment." It was (contrary to the expectations of Qoheleth), something genuinely "new under the sun." The experiment is still underway; we don't yet know how it will turn out. Of course, in the long run, the odds are against us--all empires sooner or later fail. Yet, the United States may still have a good, long run ahead of it--depending upon our actions today.

If the Founders were conscious of the responsibility they owed to posterity, it is also true that we who benefit from their sacrifices owe a responsibility to them to give our best efforts to see that the experiment does not fail. That is what Lincoln was getting at as he ended his Gettysburg Address, dedicating a civil war battlefield and in turn calling the nation to "be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us . . . that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Shame on Us? Thinking Well of Ourselves Again

There has been much talk about America’s loss of the “moral high ground” since Abu Graib, Guantánamo, warrantless searches, renunciation of habeas corpus, and other highlights of the “war on terror.” Usually such talk focuses on America’s loss of political or strategic leverage: Other peoples and nations are less likely to follow our lead now, because they don’t trust us to “do the right thing,” as Spike Lee said. This might be called the realpolitik view: Our moral defaults have become a detriment to us because, having been caught in them, we have lost some political or strategic advantage in the world.

Focusing on the practical political or strategic impact, however, overlooks a much more important and lasting consequence: America’s abdication of its status as the preeminent moral example of what ordinary people can achieve when they decide to cooperate in a free, democratic society threatens to alter the fundamental character of our country. The founding fathers embarked on an experiment unique in the history of the world, with no idea how that experiment would turn out in the end. We are living that experiment still. Now, however, the variables have been drastically altered, with little or no thought for the long-term result.

America—the land, the idea, and the political experiment—has captured the imagination of a multitude of different kinds of people from all over the planet: the well-educated gentlemen of the Enlightenment, the zealous nonconformists pushed aside by the English Reformation, hundreds of thousands of poor and oppressed seeking a new opportunity for economic security and political freedom, young and old, rich and poor, the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” and the self-made millionaires who emigrate to “the land of opportunity.” Why has America been able to appeal to so many people, for so long, from such diverse cultures?

I think America offered what other societies had not: An opportunity for ordinary citizens to feel good about themselves and their place in the world—to enjoy a dignity not dependent on royal honors or economic privilege, but upon the mutual commitment to live honorably in a society dedicated to maintaining a just peace. Religious dissenters could feel good that they were not compromising their consciences by kowtowing to a government-enforced religion in which they did not believe. The merchants, farmers, and their families who settled the rich, fertile land could feel good about themselves because they saw themselves as living out a unique opportunity to “start fresh,” to establish fruitful lives in an unspoiled land that offered beauty, opportunity, and economic reward without exacting fraud, graft, collusion, or other assaults upon the conscience. (I leave aside entirely, as moral problems largely unrecognized at the time, issues of “conquest,” slavery, and the treatment of ethnic minorities and women.)

The point is that Americans could think well of themselves and share a fundamental dignity, not because they were blind to their debasements, but because they were sincerely dedicated to common moral ideals of justice and equality, to an extent never before prevalent in western society. Sometimes people today claim that being able to think well of oneself and what one does to stay alive is a luxury we no longer can afford. The hard facts of life, they say, dictate that we “grow up,” and that means getting our hands dirty. Living in the world is for sinners, not saints. Nobody gets anything done without kicking up a little mud now and then.

This kind of moral pessimism informs the cultural background assumptions under which something like Abu Graib and all the rest of it— intentional government leaks, lying to the public, paying to plant fake news stories, stonewalling in the face of undeniable evidence confuting “official positions,” etc.—can take place. When the communal ethos has already given up on the possibility of lived morality, it will not be long before leaders openly do so too. Oh, they may try to preserve the appearance of being do-gooders, but no one is really surprised when scandals come to light because “everybody’s doing it”—they just don’t all get caught.

But, at their best, America’s leaders—backed by the great multitude of its citizens—have, in the past, believed in moral conduct as a worthwhile, if not wholly achievable goal; something we are always obliged to aspire toward, for our own sake and for the greater public good. When Lincoln mused on whether America was “on God’s side” in the Civil War, he was voicing our historic dedication to the good, the true, and the beautiful. Of course we haven’t always attained these transcendent ideals; indeed, it would be truer, perhaps, to say that we’ve rarely, if ever, attained them. But we always held ourselves accountable and, because of that, we could hold our heads high, repenting of our sins, and vowing to do better next time, with God’s help.

America was a beacon because it was a place where the lowliest need not feel ashamed of their place in society and the fortunate recognized a clear obligation to use their resources and those of the government for the common good, so that “a rising tide will lift all boats.” The tide seems to have shifted lately. Perhaps the accelerating economic inequality in America is related to the accelerating loss of moral idealism. After all, fairly distributed social burdens and benefits are part of the “good” at which morality aims.

For those of us who came of age after the rebellion of the ‘60s and thus were too young to experience the cohesion of America during World War II, social fragmentation is the norm. We have no memory of a time when everyone was “in it together.” Well . . . almost no memory. There was one time when I caught a brief—all too brief, as it turned out—glimpse of the potential America still has for truly good conduct, for living up to that ideal of moral goodness that lifts hearts, informs minds, and brings hope to all who witness it in action. When was this? 9/11 and the days immediately after it.

I was truly shocked by the outpouring of compassion and practical support from all over the country—and even the world. I wasn’t prepared for it at all. I remember the Red Cross having to turn people away because they had such an excess of blood donors. Imagine that happening today! Living fairly close to the Trade Center site, I first saw this event primarily as local. Terrible, sure. But high-jacking was nothing new. I had witnessed plenty of that before, sometimes with devastating results.

And explosions weren’t new—even before the Iraq war, they were a fairly common way to get political attention. While any loss of innocent life is regrettable, the number of casualties did not seem to loom all that large—at least not in the grand scheme of terrible world events. (Compare, for example, the people killed by the Asian Tsunami, displaced by Katrina, or made casualties of the Iraq war.) So I was just not prepared for the magnitude of the emotional and, especially, practical response the bombing drew.

More importantly, I was not prepared for the goodness Americans showed in those first few days. From the bravery of the first responders, to the daily ministry of aid workers, to convoys of construction workers from across the country, to the massive monetary donations generated in record time, I had not believed that my fellow Americans “had it in us” to do this good work. I’m sorry to have to say it but, yes, I really had already formed such a negative opinion of my fellow citizens that I believed that the vast majority of us were no longer interested in “doing the right thing.” “Greed is good” seemed to have become the slogan of the day—as we were shortly to find out in the succession of corporate scandals: Enron, Tyco, et al. (The bigoted reactions against innocent ethnic and religious minorities—though, of course, inexcusable—were also less widespread than I had feared they might be, and the solidarity of government officials and Christian organizations against such oppression was greater than I would have anticipated.)

Seeing such universal expressions of care and generosity in the American people as a whole, however, profoundly changed my view of what America could be, because it profoundly changed my view of what America is. The average American is still capable of acts of great kindness and decency. The average American is still willing to sacrifice for the welfare of people outside their own circle of companions—someone they don’t know and will never meet. The seeds of good are still alive and well; they were just dormant.

But if this is what Americans still are—basically decent, capable of good, willing to sacrifice for others in a worthy cause—then the hope of what America can be also must have survived. Despite the betrayals we have suffered in the weeks, months, and years since 9/11, I don’t think the American people are happy to have forfeited that initial opportunity of thinking well of ourselves. For a brief moment, I saw—and the world saw—what it is that America really stands for, and what it is that Americans are really capable of: And it was good. It was very good.

But things have changed greatly since then. It didn’t take long. If we have great potential, we have greatly wasted it. “To whom much is given, much is required.” Because we do still have the capacity for real goodness, it is that much more disheartening when we turn our backs on good and embrace the merely expedient—“whatever it takes,” “whatever works,” “any means necessary.”

Yet, I don’t believe that the American people, deep down, really want to turn our backs on goodness. I think we want to be able—like our ancestors—to think well of ourselves because we do good. The American reputation for “doing the right thing” is not a luxury to be cast off lightly in times of real national challenge. If we don’t cling to our fundamental identity when faced with a genuine threat, when will we? Tough times are precisely when we most need to live into our full potential to lead by example—to show the world what goodness really looks like.

Our leaders may have betrayed us, but I don’t believe that the American people have yet betrayed themselves—certainly not irretrievably. I don’t think Americans really want to be torturers. I don’t think most of the soldiers at Abu Graib wanted to be torturers. I don’t think the American people want to tell lies, engage in corrupt practices, violate human rights, or sell out to lobbyists. This may be what some (most?) of our leaders want to do, but I don’t think it’s what the American people really want. Maybe it’s not what our leaders want either—if they were not too blinded by power to see some other way forward.

The worst part of losing “the moral high ground” isn’t just that we’re no longer so influential in the big wide world. And it isn’t, as John McCain and others have warned, that “as you do unto others, so will it be done unto you.” The worst thing is that we’ve lost our identity as Americans; you know, the ones you can count on to be the “good guys”—or at least we’re in danger of losing it. And all because some of our political leaders decided that we can’t afford the “luxury” of thinking well of ourselves because we do the right thing, not merely the expedient thing. Through our leaders, we have harmed ourselves as much or more than the foreign peoples who suffer daily for our blunders. The question is whether it is too late for us to turn back; whether we can still reclaim that vision of moral goodness, the transcendent ideals that lit the way for the founders and so many generations preceding us.

Can “We, the People,” regain charge of the moral leadership of this country—or has it passed permanently to a political-corporate class wholly uninterested in the good, the right, and the just? I believe that the vast majority of American citizens still wants to be able to think well of our country and ourselves, because we do right here. But will our corporate and political leaders let us? Will they lead us? Only time will tell . . .

All Creatures Great and Small

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I,” sings Ariel in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. It turns out that contemporary science confirms the truth of this whimsical line. Discovery News reports that “About one-third of the human diet comes from insect-pollinated plants, and the honeybee is responsible for 80 percent of that pollination.” This is just one more example of the delicate dynamic equilibrium existing between human beings and the many often unseen and certainly underappreciated fellow living beings on our planet. According to these figures, bees indirectly provide us with more than a quarter of the food we consume—not including honey!

So why is Discover reporting on this intriguing but obscure fact? “An unknown pathogen is pushing the industrious insect to the precipice of disaster as scientists scurry to figure out what the cause is.” We notice what’s happening to the bee because it affects what will happen to us. When more than a quarter of our food supply is threatened, suddenly we become aware of the humble honeybee.

I wonder how many other small, unseen creatures contribute to human well being? From the microbes that aid digestion to the bacteria that facilitate biological recycling, we truly do depend in a very literal, material way on our fellow creatures. The intricate web linking all life on earth is held together with such apparently ephemeral strands as the role of the honeybee in fostering human nutrition.

Since food—at least up to a point—is a necessity in human life, we do sometimes perk up and notice the role smaller creatures like the bee play in our lives. But what about those things that, strictly speaking, we do not usually count as “necessities”: birdsong, for instance?

I recently spent over an hour resting on a grassy slope listening to an absolute cacophony of birdsong. Atop an isolated mountain on an (otherwise) quiet spring morning, I detected more than eight different songs competing with each other across the nearby airwaves. Some were loud and raucous, as if bragging or challenging the others for dominance. Then there were some faint continuous warblings that never changed rhythm and never stopped. A distinctive sweet cheeping poked through intermittently, while an elaborate aria rang out, answered by a much more muted one farther off. One of the birds kept asking a question to the others, but no one seemed to answer. The cycle repeated, over and over. I was lulled by the regularity of the cycle, yet alerted by the distinctive voices. I also heard the frequent buzzing of bees . . . .

I suppose I could listen to birdsong on a CD, but there was something especially uplifting about experiencing the real thing in person—along with all the accompanying environmental sensations: the faint fresh scent of newly opened spring greenery, the warmth of the sun beginning to beat through the arboreal canopy overhead, and the muted sight of distant grey-blue mountains across a hazy expanse of rich, fertile bottom land.

This is the sort of thing that is supposed to be an “extra”—something dispensable in our lives; a luxury, not a necessity. And yet I wonder . . . is it really? The lift I felt in my overall mood and perspective after communing with nature in this brief, but intimate way was far more sustaining than popping an anti-depressant, for example. How many businesses today depend on us relying on medication of one sort or another to enable us to “buck up” under the pressures of unbalanced, overscheduled lives?

Another thing I noticed in the mountains was the more laid-back pace of life. In major urban areas, everything is possible: whatever you want, whenever you want it. Got a craving for Chinese food at 2am? No problem. Don’t want to go out and get it yourself? Just have it delivered. Need to send something to Tokyo by tomorrow morning? Just take it to FedEx. The city never sleeps. That’s not true in the country.

In the country, people actually set limits on their lives—and keep them! Stores shut down when it gets dark. There aren’t 50 choices of coffee—just one or two (caf or decaf). You may have to wait awhile for something you need to arrive by special-order. When the repairman says he’ll be out to fix your plumbing “soon,” that means sometime before next week.

Of course there are costs to setting limits on our lives. The quality and availability of medical care, for instance, is much below what you’d find in a major urban area. In life-or-death circumstances, such differences can have a material effect on the outcome. But there are surely benefits of setting such limits, as well. Another thing I noticed, for example, was the sweet, fresh, cleanliness of the mountain air—and the acrid, offensive, inflammation-inducing smog of the city when I returned.

How much is too much? How much is enough? How can we tell the difference? The answers to these questions vary with time, place, and other circumstances. But, given the intricate web of earthly life, it’s too much when the activity of one species threatens the welfare—much less the existence—of other species. It’s too much when our lifestyle “works” only with the aid of caffeine to pump us up in the morning (and afternoon) and alcohol or sleeping pills to wind us down at night.

It’s not enough when we hear real live birdsong so infrequently that we can’t recognize their individual songs. It’s not enough when we’re too focused on our own frantic agendas to notice the mortal peril facing a fellow creature—unless its death has practical consequences for our own continued life.

I’ve written before about the Book of Nature as one of the two books of God’s revelation. It’s also one of God’s ordinary means of grace and healing. Make sure you’re getting your daily dose . . . and keep a watch out for the birds and the bees. They’re God’s creatures too!