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.