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!

The Ear of the Beholder?

Carl Jung used the term “synchronicity” to refer to a similar idea as that expressed in the maxim: “An ‘accident’ is a case of God choosing to remain anonymous.” Leaving aside the prickly theological questions of free will and determinism, I recently experienced one of those moments of synchronicity that made me think of God. I missed the original article, but I’ve been hearing the post-article ‘buzz’ about Gene Weingarten’s April 8th piece in the Washington Post Magazine on the “sociological experiment” he ran at a busy D.C. metro station during the morning rush hour with the help of the virtuoso violinist, Joshua Bell. (See http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/).

Bell (incognito), played a fabulous program at L’Enfant Plaza metro station. Astoundingly few commuters even noticed him or his music—so engrossed were they in their single-minded rush to the office. Even fewer actually stopped to listen for a while. The whole thing was recorded on video. Apparently children were somewhat more likely to notice than adults. You may be asking yourself: So where’s the synchronicity?

On the same day I heard about the Bell experiment, I also saw the movie (on DVD) “Music of the Heart,” a dramatization (featuring Meryl Streep) of the true story of Roberta Guaspari’s creation and struggle to maintain a thriving music program in Harlem in the face of school administrators whose budget priorities failed to appreciate the importance of an “extra” program in music education. (Incidentally, Joshua Bell also appears in the movie, along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and a host of other famous fiddlers.)

The synchronicity lies here: Children appreciated the music—whether offered by Bell or Guaspari—while most of the adults didn’t. How is it that grade school children who thrill to Bell and the violin grow up to become adults too focused on work to notice the beauty in their midst? (Indeed, many of those who passed through the station had classical music training; some were even violin players.)

I don’t want to get sidetracked in questions of relativistic aesthetics and western cultural hegemony. Yes, it’s true that people often enjoy a specific aesthetic even more when they have been educated to appreciate it more knowledgeably. That’s part of the premise of music education for children. But I don’t think, as one chatter proclaimed, that “no one can expect people who have no education in the subject to be able to pick out even a genius like Joshua Bell . . . . Beauty speaks only to those who know the language, no matter what the medium.”

I happen to believe that beauty is a universal language that God created all human beings to appreciate; it is, as it were a “native tongue” we are all born with. So the question is why so many adults overlook or tune out the beauty they appreciate as children. What happens to us as we ‘mature’ that makes us include music—and beauty more generally—among those “childish things” that we “put away” as we move into the “real world” of adulthood? Why is beauty considered expendable, but pushing paper and making money is not? Why have these two been pitted against each other, as if we face a forced choice: either “making a living” or having room in our lives for real beauty. It’s as if someone proposed that we choose between eating and sleeping. But it can’t be one or the other. To be whole we need both.

Many of the most poignant commenters on the Bell piece spoke of how distorted their priorities had become as adults—how much time they spend doing things they don’t enjoy, things that aren’t intrinsically rewarding or maybe even worth doing in the first place—things they do “just to pay the rent.” Weingarten reports that over a hundred people wrote to say that they cried when they read the article. What does it say about our society that such unlovely things bear such high economic rewards—that the price of material success often means the slow, tortuous suffocation of the soul?

Why are people who manipulate credit markets more valued than those who tend the sick or the elderly? Why is quantity more important than quality and value equated with ‘productivity’? Why are people asked to work beyond the point of exhaustion? I’m sure Michaelangelo could have generated a lot more paintings in his life if he hadn’t done such difficult ones—like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Do we criticize him for failing to “be all that he could be” or “do all that he could do”—or do we appreciate the exquisite beauty of those things he did manage to accomplish? Is Carmina Burana any less thrilling because Carl Orff was a “one-hit wonder”? We seem to spend so much time as humans doing that we have no time left as humans being.

Why is spying on fellow citizens and foreigners more rewarded in this country than tending and teaching the next generation of Americans? Why are buildings now designed primarily for utility, not beauty—as if we are forced to choose between the two? Think of the beautiful heritage left us by the WPA: Where are the stone masons and wood carvers and other craftsmen who took pride in making works of architectural beauty designed to last a lifetime and more—not structures destined to meet the wrecking ball in the next wave of ‘gentrification’? How many people today live in houses more than a generation old—much less many centuries old, as in Europe and elsewhere?

Money—and the ability to generate more of it—seems to be the sole measure of value in our society. Many have lost touch with the long western heritage of valuing lasting beauty. Yes, there are patrons of the arts and humanities who fight valiantly so save programs like Guaspari’s. But these are often rearguard actions whose long-term viability is only as good as the net from the next fund-raiser. There is little organized, ongoing support for beauty built into the cultural infrastructure—the way there is, for example, for war and other military expenditures.

The contemporary fascination with youth and sex is no substitute for a mature appreciation of enduring beauty that appeals to more than the libido. And if we are losing hold on true beauty—or, rather, if beauty is losing its hold on us—then what does this bode for the other transcendentals: truth and goodness? Is it any wonder our culture is losing hold on them as well?

The American theologian Jonathan Edwards (1703–58) taught that the human ability to appreciate the beauty of God’s creation is a form of worship; that in our conscious apprehension of God’s creation and our conscious admiration and gratitude for its beauty, the universe becomes conscious of itself and its goodness—which, of course, derives from the goodness of its Creator.

On Sunday, I sat next to a newborn child in the choir loft of my church (her mother sings in the choir with me). She is not yet three weeks old. She was awake and alert, but never once made a peep, despite the rather loud pipe organ right behind us. Her mother held her while we sang a psalm, hymns, and an anthem. Those who say people must be trained to appreciate musical beauty simply haven’t watched children closely enough. Knowing her mother, I’m sure this child will receive musical education to help her appreciate music even more. But that child already loves it—she was born loving it; in fact, she loved it even in the womb. She responds to it as a heliotrope to light, because that’s the way God made us. May she and all children retain this great gift as they travel the road to adulthood. And may those adults who have forsaken it find it again—and cherish it.

Peaceful Battles?

“If we are peaceful, if we are happy, we can blossom like a flower, and everyone
in our family, in our entire society, will benefit from our peace.” Thich Nhat Hanh

“The soul is matured only in battles.” Abba John, The Wisdom of the Desert

Are these two maxims, one about peace and the other about battles, really opposed—or is the conflict more apparent than real? Well, certainly peace can beget more peace and kindness, more kindness, just as war begets war and violence, more violence. But the outcome in both cases, at least in the short-term, depends upon the reception the original conduct receives.

A peaceful person may spread peace in an otherwise violent situation, by causing aggressors to reconsider their own actions and motives—as with white Southerners during the civil rights movement or the British in India. Even in a simple family or work environment, daily acts of peace and kindness go a long way in fostering a pervasive climate of peacefulness, provided they find a favorable reception.

But peaceful overtures sometimes (too often) meet with rejection—a refusal of real engagement, refusal to acknowledge the genuine humanity of those offering peace. Worse yet, peace can meet with reactionary aggression—not a mere ignoring of peaceful overtures but an angry attack against them, with words or conduct of violence.

Perhaps this is where a peaceful heart is most powerful. For we have a choice in this—as in every—circumstance: Will we, in turn, react with violence, so that violence begets violence; or will we, with a strength of soul matured only in precisely such battles, resist the invitation and temptation to reactive violence, instead choosing conduct that reflects our own highest values and ideals?

Reactive violence is not inevitable—not if we are committed to growing into "the full stature of Christ" (Eph 4.13). There are many kinds of battles, and not all of them involve bodies, blood, and killing. The fiercest battles occur within our own souls. Think of the temptations Jesus faced at the outset of his ministry from Satan and, again, in the garden at Gethsemane, the night before facing the cross.

These battles of the soul are the fire in which our fundamental inner character is forged. There is plenty of evil, hatred, fear, threat, and ugliness in the world. If we want excuses to react with violence, there are more than enough ready to hand.

But if we want to beget peace, we must first be peaceful; we must show people what peace looks like, how it acts: what it does and does not do, what it says and does not say, what it thinks and does not think—what room it leaves for misunderstanding, miscommunication, and forgiveness. Peaceful lives are imaginative, creative lives; they envision “a way out of no way” that God will make for us, if we ask for and trust in God’s guidance and care.

The way of violence is the easy way—it is the way of weakness, of worldly 'wisdom' that leads to the injustice of the cross. The way of peace, the way of the power and wisdom of God, is, paradoxically, a way of battle—a battle, however, that takes place inside one’s own soul. "For God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength" (1 Cor 1.25). The “foolishness of the cross” about which St Paul speaks as a “stumbling block” is just this (1 Cor 1.18-25): Following the way of the cross of Christ calls us to both the way of peace and the way of interior battles. May the God who calls us to peace also strengthen us to be peaceable, to beget peace by fighting, with integrity, our inner spiritual battles.

The Legend of the Pelican

I was reminded of the legend of the pelican twice over this Easter weekend: once by the statute in the photograph, which is in the courtyard outside a chapel; and again, by the back of a priest’s cope in the Easter processional, which featured an embroidered pelican. In Christian symbolism, the pelican represents Jesus, because both were believed to be self-giving in their great love, to the point of death.

Ancient people misinterpreted pelicans reaching into their pouches to extract food for their young as mother birds pecking their own breasts to provide a meal for the chicks. The obvious eucharistic symbolism of this ancient legend—a vivifying meal of flesh and blood—suggested its use to early Christian allegorists. The self-giving, nurturing, motherly love of Jesus is represented figuratively in the pelican legend.

The idea of sacrifice—especially self-sacrifice—has fallen into disfavor lately. Modern secular psychology is all about “self-realization” or “self-actualization” or “individuation.” It’s all about me.

When the founders wrote the Declaration of Independence, they expressed their concerns “for ourselves and our posterity.” In other words, they were explicitly thinking ahead—thinking about us. The sacrifices they made were not only for themselves, but for those who would follow after them.

I wonder sometimes what future generations will think when they think of us. We rarely seem to think of them. Astronomical budget deficits, continuing industry opposition to the development of clean renewable fuels, catastrophic degradation of the environment, schools that don’t educate, cities that are broken-down, government by the lobbyists and for the lobbyists; is this all we have to bequeath to them?

What or who is worth sacrificing for? The story of Easter is the startling news that we are worth sacrificing for--worth God sacrificing God's own self. It really is about us; but not so that we can become complacent in our comfort and security. Rather, the news that we are worth God sacrificing for is supposed to energize us to go out and share in such sacrificial labors for others. It really is about us--but it's not only about us; it's also about everyone else, too.

What motivates most of our actions? What risks do we take—and on whose behalf? Self-sacrifice doesn’t mean destroying your self. It means using your self in a way that benefits others while it also benefits you. Using your self in love for the sake of others. Like the pelican and like Jesus.

A Paschal Homily

Today we have a "guest" blogger: St John Chrysostom (c.347-407), the "golden-mouthed," who served the church in Antioch and as bishop of Constantinople. His famous Paschal homily follows:

"If anyone be devout and love God,
Let him enjoy this fair and radiant triumphal feast!
If anyone be a wise servant,
Let her rejoicing enter into the joy of her Lord.

If any have labored long in fasting,
Let them now receive their recompense.
If any have wrought from the first hour,
Let them today receive their just reward.
If any have come at the third hour,
Let them with thankfulness keep the feast.
If any have arrived at the sixth hour,
Let them have no misgivings;
Because they shall in nowise be deprived therefor.
If any have delayed until the ninth hour,
Let them draw near, fearing nothing.
And if any have tarried even until the eleventh hour,
Let them, also, be not alarmed at their tardiness.

For the Lord, who is jealous of his honor,
Will accept the last even as the first.
He gives rest unto those who come at the eleventh hour,
Even as unto those who have wrought from the first hour.
And He shows mercy upon the last,
And cares for the first;
And to the one He gives,
And upon the other He bestows gifts.
And He both accepts the deeds,
And welcomes the intention,
And honors the acts and praises the offering.

Wherefore, enter ye all into the joy of your Lord;
Receive your reward,
Both the first, and likewise the second.
You rich and poor together, hold high festival!
You sober and you heedless, honor the day!
Rejoice today, both you who have fasted
And you who have disregarded the fast.
The table is full-laden; feast ye all sumptuously.
The calf is fatted; let no one go hungry away.
Enjoy ye all the feast of faith:
Receive ye all the riches of loving-kindness.

Let none bewail their poverty,
For the universal Kingdom has been revealed.
Let none weep for their iniquities,
For pardon has shown forth from the grave.
Let no one fear death,
For the Savior's death has set us free.
He that was held prisoner of it has annihilated it.

By descending into Hell, He made Hell captive.
He embittered it when it tasted of His flesh.
And Isaiah, foretelling this, did cry:
'Hell,' said he, 'was embittered
When it encountered Thee in the lower regions.'

It was embittered, for it was abolished.
It was embittered, for it was mocked.
It was embittered, for it was slain.
It was embittered, for it was overthrown.
It was embittered, for it was fettered in chains.
It took a body, and met God face to face.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took that which was seen, and fell upon the unseen.

O Death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?
Christ is risen, and thou art overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in the grave.
For Christ, being risen from the dead,
Is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be glory and dominion
Unto ages of ages.

Amen."

Thorns and Roses

If nature is a book written by God, one thing it teaches is that, in this world, we often encounter good things mixed together with bad—roses with thorns. While few people seek out the bad, it often accompanies the good we do seek. Even our own hearts are a mixture of thorns and roses. But the good news of the Cross is that the power of God’s love surpasses any of the bad things we experience. The new life that Jesus brings does not shield us against the thorns of life; but it does promise that, whatever evil we may find, it need not have the last word because “all things work together for good for those who love God” (Rom 8.28). Of course, this does not mean that we should put God to the test by doing evil “so that good may come” of it (3.8). But it does hold out hope for the triumph of good in the midst of any evil, and it alerts us to look for the roses hidden among the thorns we stumble upon. It gives us a faith capable of renewing our confidence and strength in the face of adversity, like Daniel facing the lions, the three young men facing the fiery furnace—or Jesus facing the Cross.

Tradition

This is the night on which Christians commemorate Jesus’ celebration of the Passover with his disciples, when he first introduced the Eucharist—sometimes called the Great Thanksgiving because the Greek word eucharisto means “to give thanks.” That is how the early Greek-speaking Christians understood what they were doing in the liturgy of the table: giving thanks to God for saving them from destruction.

When Paul tells the Corinthians about the Eucharist, he describes the process of “handing on” the good news of Christ. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you: that the Lord Jesus, on the night when he was betrayed, took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Cor 11.23–26).

The Latin term for this process Paul describes of “handing on” knowledge of the mystery of God is traditio, from which we get the English word “tradition.” The Eucharist (and the gospel more generally) are treasures “handed on” from one generation to another, one people to another—a traditio now more than two millennia old. In fact, the story underlying the Eucharist and resonating with even more ancient meanings is far older—a tradition handed on faithfully across the generations from the time of Moses. The Jewish tradition of the passover of the Lord and the exodus from Egypt prefigure, shape, and inform the Christian tradition of the Eucharist and salvation from sin.

Why do people “hand on” anything at all? Why do we have traditions? Isn’t it better just to let people figure things out for themselves—why burden others with all the things we think? Why not just let them think ‘for themselves’?

I hope you can hear the irony in these questions, but in case not, let me spell it out for you. Why do people hand on things to others? What kinds of things do they hand on? Sometimes physical possessions with special meaning: family heirlooms, photographs, jewelry, books, buildings, farms, animals, businesses. Also things without a material form, such as “old wives’ tales” and other advice, ideas about right and wrong, social and political customs, family celebrations, and so on.

Usually people want to hand things on to others because they treasure them. They hope that by sharing the things they have loved they will spread to others the joy these treasures have given them. Of course, it’s true that people have different personalities and tastes—what one person treasures is not necessarily treasured by another. A grandfather’s bequest of his violin may not be appreciated by a tone-deaf grandson.

On the other hand, sometimes we treasure things handed on to us by others simply because we know how much value they found in these things—how much joy these treasures gave them. It is a sign of respect for the people who hand these things on to us—respect for others’ assessments of their value, even when we ourselves fail to appreciate it.

Maybe there is something that has escaped us. Maybe others have been able to see something that we haven’t; maybe we’ve overlooked something. Maybe we have a blind-spot that prevents us from seeing what is clear others. The world is far too big and complex—and we are far too limited by sin and creaturehood—for us to figure out everything for ourselves.

First of all, there is no “self” apart from others to begin with. We are created from the substance of two other human beings and are literally (and then figuratively) joined to other people for nearly two decades of our existence. There is no such thing as a “self-made” man (or woman). We exist from the very beginning already thoroughly embedded—entangled, if you will—with the rest of creation.

Moreover, even if we had an “independent” self, the requirement that we figure everything out “for ourselves” would become an oppressive burden leading to much pain, suffering, and even death. How many of us would come up with penicillin on our own? What about the computer chip? How many would figure out which herbs add spice—not poison—to our food? How would we even know what our “food” is—what is safe to eat?

Trying to actually carry out a proposal to do everything “for ourselves” quickly reveals how preposterous the notion really is. How many of us would prove capable even of discovering how to make (and control) fire? We can’t do everything for ourselves—and even if we could, why should we spend our time that way? The basic structure of the universe reflects the intricate interconnection of all of creation. Depending on each other is what God designed us to do. Fighting against it is not laudatory “independence” but prideful hubris—and a failure to acknowledge who we are and where we fit in the overall scheme of things.

So if we can’t figure everything out “for ourselves” (or wouldn’t want to even if we could), what sorts of things are worth taking the time of “handing on” to others? Material possessions may be passed on by greed or covetousness or other vices (as well as virtues such as stewardship). But what about immaterial possessions: ideas, stories, values, practices? Why have so many people taken the trouble to preserve the knowledge and love of God throughout all these centuries?

Christian tradition is a testament to what has been of highest value to people—individuals, institutions, cultures—for many long centuries. This “handing on” preserves life-giving answers to some of humankind’s most fundamental questions: Who are we? Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is real? What really matters? Of course each generation needs to answer these questions anew: Honoring a tradition is not the same as submitting to a tyrant. But whatever gains one generation or people makes can help smoothe the way for future generations or peoples.

Yes, traditions need to be adaptable to novel situations, and occasionally they become garbled and distorted in the transmission process. These errors must be rooted out if the tradition is to preserve its salutary value. But if a tradition is truly in touch with some deep reality and is passed on to others who care enough to study and preserve it intelligently, much that is good, true, and beautiful will remain in the tradition, even in new settings.

If Newton saw more because he stood on the shoulders of giants, how much do you think he could have seen with his feet planted firmly on the ground? We grow in knowledge, both individually and as a species, because we can build on the achievements of others. Rejecting everything that others take to be true—the basic premise of the Enlightenment “method of doubt”—is a misguided reaction to the sometimes painful truth that what was thought to be true is in fact not true or no longer true; or at least that, what others have taken to be true can no longer be seen to be true by some people.

“Handing on” what we have received from others is a natural and inevitable part of what we human beings—we social animals—do. The Enlightenment got it right, in part: Sometimes what is handed on must be revised and improved. We should not be so lazy as to mindlessly repeat what we don’t understand as if it were true. It is one thing to preserve a tradition out of respect for its authors and their assessment of its value; it is another to blindly repeat the mistakes of previous generations.

If we are unable to understand fully the traditions we inherit, this is not a sign that they should be rejected; rather, it indicates that more diligence and imagination are required from us to understand what others saw in these traditions that made them worth preserving. American constitutional democracy is one example of a tradition preserved over decades, yet subject to ever-new adjustments and adaptations designed to fit it to current contexts. No matter how valuable the American experiment, this honorable tradition will not prevail if new generations fail to invest the time and effort necessary to understand the noble ideals that motivated the Founders and to commit themselves to actions embodying these ideals.

Should it ever happen that the eucharistic tradition Paul handed on in his turn (as it was handed on to him) no longer can be readily understood by existing generations or peoples, I hope they will have enough respect for—or even mere curiosity about—the saints who preceded them to preserve it, in the hope of discovering what it meant to us: why it was that millions of Christians all over the globe, all across time, faithfully and carefully handed on this practice of gathering with friends to give thanks to God for salvation from destruction.

Imagine what it would look like if we could see the human chain—or web—of people who have handed on Christian knowledge of God. Imagine Moses and Joshua, David and Solomon, Ruth and Esther, Mary and Elizabeth, John and Matthew, Paul and Irenaeus, the Cappodocians and Chrysostom, Benedict and Cassian, Augustine and Aquinas, Hildegard and Julian, Teresa and Catherine . . . on and on up to this very day. This living web of tradition is the great “cloud of witnesses” Paul describes to the Hebrews—those who follow the example of their Lord in enduring hardship “for the sake of the joy that was set before him” (12.1, 2).

The Real Easter Gift

Today Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad announced the release of 15 captured British sailors as an Easter “gift” to the UK. The facts of the alleged incursion remain disputed, despite GPS monitoring data placing the UK personnel outside of Iranian territorial waters. Even the initial Iranian complaint plotted the Brits beyond Iranian waters, and their revised position is inside them by only half a kilometer (the length of about five football fields).

Moreover, if there was a real incursion, the British claimed authority for their actions under a UN mandate. This incident, then, is yet another example of Iran refusing to recognize UN authority. If Britain has, indeed, pledged “that the incident would not be repeated,” then the UK has essentially renounced its legal authority to continue enforcing this UN mandate.

The so-called confessions are clearly morally and legally invalid, as they were induced under the duress of custody (if not of torture or other physical abuse). Of course everyone should be glad that the service men and one woman have been released unharmed through diplomatic measures. But the question remains, by what right can Ahmadinejad call this outcome an Easter “gift” to Britain?

What seems most outrageous is the impression of magnanimity that Ahmadinejad obviously wishes to create. By foregoing prosecution despite their “confessions” and by asking Tony Blair not to punish the sailors, the Iranian president has framed the situation as one involving a wrong generously forgiven—a forgiveness that the transgressors had no right to demand under rules of justice.

As with any repressive regime, Ahmadinejad operates with a tailor-made version of events. Rather than conducting an open judicial inquiry into the disputed questions of fact or recognizing the legitimacy of a UN-mandated exception for incursion, Iran’s president served as judge, jury, and would-be executioner. But, like a Roman emperor or a medieval monarch with no accountability to a rule of law and justice, he impersonates a just and merciful ruler by graciously conceding a reprieve to the sailors.

In St Augustine’s time, Roman law provided that no executions would occur during Holy Week. Pilate, you may recall, wanted to give Jesus a reprieve on account of the Passover festival. It is not uncommon for absolute rulers—people with virtually unlimited governmental discretion—to make such gestures of “goodwill” to the people at special times to show how “kind” and “generous” they are. These farces serve only as façades to the more usual brutality that permeates their regimes.

The real Easter gift is not a false sugar-coating meant to disguise the bitter taste of tyrannical rule. It is not a case of brutality blaming the victim: “Why did you make me do this to you? OK, I forgive you.” Fulfilling the mandates of justice is not grace—it is justice, something we are due as rational human beings made in the image of God. Justice is not a gift, but a duty we owe to every human being.

A gift can never be earned. As St Paul pointed out, grace is not grace unless it is free—that means unowed, unearned; something to which we are not entitled. Only if the British sailors were fairly judged guilty according to reliable evidence presented in a court that presumed their innocence could we talk about a “gift” or reprieve of punishment due. Only upon proof of their guilt would it be possible for Iran to give Britain an Easter “gift.”

The real Easter gift is a true gift precisely because it is not owed or merited. It is real grace: free, gratis. It is not something we could have achieved for ourselves. There is no quid pro quo by which we earn it. The only proper response to a true gift is gratitude. Maybe that’s why Tony Blair didn’t say “thank you.”

In an age of pervasive “spin” and wobbly “truthiness”, it is important to be clear about the difference between justice and gift—in particular, the gift of forgiveness. Forgiveness, like any gift, cannot be earned, merited, or compelled in any way. No matter what I do, if I truly have transgressed against you and thereby incurred guilt, I cannot put you in my debt so as to coerce forgiveness from you or put you under a duty to forgive me.

On the other hand, justice also is not something that we “earn.” Justice is something that is due to us from the mere fact of our existence as rational human beings made in the image of God. This is important to recall: Justice is our due as human beings. No matter what we do, we cannot lose our right to justice.

This truth is often overlooked in the heat of passion over especially heinous crimes. The human temptation to vengeance arouses a desire to overlook the humanity of the transgressor—and thus to deny him justice. St Augustine taught that it is wrong for even a just end to be achieved by unjust means. (Here is an area in which America's actions of late bear serious scrutiny.)

In ancient Rome, application of the legal system varied greatly, depending upon the relative socioeconomic and political status of the defendant. Judges held tremendous powers of discretion, with little or no judicial accountability for the quality of its exercise. There was “justice” for the nobility (a relatively high standard for its time) and “justice” for commoners and slaves (much lower).

Ahmadinejad’s misrepresentation of his actions as a “gift” of “forgiveness” ignores the inherent human rights of the British sailors—just as his government systematically ignores inherent human rights of his own citizens (e.g., freedom of expression and freedom of religion). If we are to speak of an Easter gift, the place to look is not in Iran, but on the cross of Jesus. There is the evidence of a clear injustice suffered. There is a transgression—an outrage against dignity, both human and divine. There is a crime. There is something only God could forgive. That forgiveness—extended freely to all people—is the true gift of Easter. For this we can truly give thanks.

The Interior Teacher

All of the early Christian writers stressed the importance of teaching and learning the truth about God—not just through liturgy and preaching, but also through formal training (catechesis) and informal reflection on Scripture and moral life. They firmly believed that this knowledge has the power to change lives for the better. St Augustine of Hippo thoroughly developed a theory of learning, which he expressed in a number of works, including The Teacher. For him, learning happens only if we are taught by the one true Teacher: an inner teacher who knows us better than we know ourselves because this Teacher is also our Creator and Redeemer.

Augustine thought that human teachers can be useful instruments of God—that’s why he worked so hard as a teacher himself. But teachers—even at their best—can offer only an opportunity for learning; they cannot guarantee that learning is achieved. Actually learning something requires engagement of the human learner and the interior voice of the divine Teacher, which allows us to recognize truth for ourselves when we encounter it: “He shows you in your heart that what is said is true” (ep. 266.4). As one of his correspondents admits in a letter to Augustine about his lack of progress in learning, “I begin to realize that, for learning other things that I also desire to know, it is not that the teacher is not there for me but that I am not there for the teacher” (ep. 12*).

Although Augustine was a dedicated teacher, he rejoiced when members of his flock advanced in Christian learning to the point that they did not need to depend so much upon his instruction in their spiritual journeys. As he told them, “It is a singular consolation for our labors and perils when you make such progress that you come to the point where you need no human teacher. . . . Hence you should know that I rejoice . . . the less you need to learn not only from me but from any human being” (ep. 266.3–4).

In fact, he tells human teachers who do not aim at their own obsolescence that they are not true teachers: “For the time being you are superior because you are the teacher and [another] is still learning. If you do not wish him someday to be equal to you, he will always be a learner. If this is your desire, you will be an envious teacher; but how then can you be called a teacher at all?” (ep. Ioan. 8.8). In this respect, human teachers resemble human parents—their authority derives from the temporary needs of a dependent, but they aim to transcend that dependence by helping to impart personal empowerment.

Here is where human parents and teachers differ from our divine Parent and Teacher: While we may grow beyond the need of formation and guidance from other human beings, we never outgrow our need for, and dependence upon, our divine inner Teacher and Parent, the one who promises to comfort us as a mother comforts her child (Isaiah 66.13) and to woo us with the beauty of wisdom. Let those who have ears to hear listen to the interior Teacher.

A Thousand Words

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll let my pictures do the talking today. Here's a quick view of what's going on around here.