In commenting on some of the effects of the Enlightenment, the Dutch Reformed theologian Herman Bavinck praised the humanitarianism but also faults it.
His praise: "...the Enlightenment of the eighteenth century introduced a milder assessment of sin and crime, abolished instruments of torture, moderated punishments, and aroused a sense of humaneness everywhere...". This "...idea of humaneness and the sense of human sympathy have had a powerful awakening and have put an end to the crulety that used to prevail, especially in the filed of criminal justice. ...before (the Enlightenment) the mentally ill were treated as criminals,..." (Reformed Dogmatics, IV, 704-8)
I think many people, regardless of their religious affiliation or convictions, would welcome the recognition that human behavior, whether deviant or virtuous, is far more complex than what we suspected pre-Enlightenment. A man may steal bread, and in doing so may be guilty of a crime, but he does not always do it from envy or greed: he may simply be starving. Thus, recognizing how easily we can be tempted to do wrong (i.e. steal) for good reasons (i.e. provide for hungry children) but also recognizing that in doing so he is guilty of a moral (as well as civil) law, the Poet pleads with God to intervene in such a way that he neither starves nor steals: "Remove far from me falsehood and lying; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that is needful for me, lest I be full and deny you and say, “Who is the Lord?” Or lest I be poor and steal and profane the name of my God." (Prov. 30:8-9) We may not throw out laws that prosecute such crimes, but we can sympathize with those who commit them and even work to alleviate the kind of suffering from which they may issue.
In Bavinck's words, there is another extreme toward which the Enlightened mind swings from its pre-Enlightened callousness: "...this humanitarian viewpoint also brings its own imbalances and dangers: whereas before (the Enlightenment) the mentally ill were treated as criminals, now criminals are regarded as mentally ill." Whereas before we had no catagories for the mentally ill rather than "criminal" (i.e. there were not thought to be psychological, sociological, or developmental explanations such deviant behavior), now, to think that there are any moral defects in a person that factor into such deviant behavior is a crime.
This is not to say that all mental illness is a fruit of moral defects per se; C.S. Lewis has a helpful chapter in Mere Christianity on Psychoanalysis in which he distinguishes between the "broken" mind that can't work right and the mind that operates fine but is put to wrong use. The former is in need of being "fixed" while the latter is in need of repentance. However, this is to say that we have lost our ability to see life in any moral terms and have adopted a more therapeutic stance; there's nothing morally wrong in crime, man just isn't healthy. Bavinck writes, "Before that time [of Enlightenment] every abnormality was viewed in terms of sin and guilt [this was not a good thing]; now all ideas of guilt, crime, responsibility, culpability, and the like are robbed of their reality [ and this is no better]. The sense of right and justice, of the violation of law and of guilt, are seriously weakened to the extent that the norm of all these things is not found in God but shifted to the opinions of human beings and society. In the process all certainty and safety is gradually lost. For when the interest of society becomes the deciding factor, not only is every boundary between good and evil wiped out, but also justice runs the danger of being sacrificed to power." (RD, IV, 708)
Man's conduct and behavior are complex: at times we are immoral and at other times we are subject to the limits of our own humanity, but often we are both simultaneously. This is what makes life so complex and difficult. The answer is not to throw notions of "sin" and "guilt", nor is it to ignore social, genetic, economic, or developmental factors at work in us. The answer, at least in part, is to look to the one who can explain us to ourselves. Everything else is just a powerplay: "And the same human sentiment that first pleaded for the humane treatment of a criminal does not shrink, a moment later, from demanding death by tortue of the innocent. Hosannas make way for a cross." (RD, IV, 708)
24 June 2008
Nietzsche: Getting More Than He Bargained For
As part of the requirements for a class I just completed, I've been reading Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols and C.S. Lewis' The Weight of Glory (the sermon within the book by the same title), and was struck by how much they both resonate with me, though for very different reasons. Nietzsche, of course, provokes a lot of well-deserved criticism from Christians, but some also not-so-well-deserved criticism from the same lot. He did, after all, seek to live life as consistently as possible as though God were really dead - this is no credit to him (not least because it's self-destructive). However, what many Christians have not appreciated is the value he assigned to the glories of aesthetic experience. In his usually ellusive manner, he describes it as having the "precondition of intoxication" that leads to the greatest of aesthetic experiences. Words like euphoric, enthralling, ravishing, intoxicating, exhilarating, passionate, and glorious all get at what he, and all people, find gratifying in life. Granted, he says that anything from bravery in conflict to cruelty to narcotics to sexual experience is a legitimate means by which one may pursue such intoxication that then leads to euphoria. What we miss, however, is how insightfully he has described our own experiences of pleasure and virtue: in a word, they are intoxicating, even at times addictive.
It is certainly true that my most gratifying experiences actually do follow from a kind of being "taken up into" or "intoxicated by" the moment. For instance, there's a kind of giddy thrill that can and often does come in meeting the need of another person, particularly when you both know that it's beyond repayment: and often such deeds of mercy carry more affection and emotion (for both parties) than any verbal statement could. And this is what Nietzsche is after in life: to get as much of these experiences as possible. What Christians disagree with in Nietzsche is not the pursuit of experiences of wonder and exhilaration per se, but in pursuing them at all costs and without regard for others. In fact, the Christian virtue Love is, in itself, the pursuit of such joys in such a way as to bring others into one's own experience of joy, not being indifferent toward or exclusive of the joy of others.
Enter Lewis. "If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us. We are far too easily pleased." With Nietzsche, the pleasures of this life are all that there are and we do well to maximize our experience of them. With Lewis, the pleasures of this life are not ends in themselves, though good; they are pointers to the Greatest Pleasure, God. Elsewhere Lewis says (almost as if he was thinking of Nietzsche), "Aim at heaven, and you'll get the earth 'thrown in'; aim at earth and you'll lose them both."
Nietzsche might have been wrong in big ways, and he may have been crazy, but he was not stupid, nor was he completely out of touch with reality. He knew what it was, on some level, to be human. After all, he (like every other human being) carried the image of God in his being, and we should therefore not be surprised when thate image finds expression, even though marred and distorted (as it is in all of us). As those who bear the image of God, we were made for God and for each other, and this expereince of fellowship will (and ought to be) intoxicatingly delightful. Nietzsche's problem was not that he sought experiences of passion and exhilaration, but that he sought them as ends in themselves. He was, as Lewis says, "like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." He was far too easliy pleased.
It is certainly true that my most gratifying experiences actually do follow from a kind of being "taken up into" or "intoxicated by" the moment. For instance, there's a kind of giddy thrill that can and often does come in meeting the need of another person, particularly when you both know that it's beyond repayment: and often such deeds of mercy carry more affection and emotion (for both parties) than any verbal statement could. And this is what Nietzsche is after in life: to get as much of these experiences as possible. What Christians disagree with in Nietzsche is not the pursuit of experiences of wonder and exhilaration per se, but in pursuing them at all costs and without regard for others. In fact, the Christian virtue Love is, in itself, the pursuit of such joys in such a way as to bring others into one's own experience of joy, not being indifferent toward or exclusive of the joy of others.
Enter Lewis. "If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us. We are far too easily pleased." With Nietzsche, the pleasures of this life are all that there are and we do well to maximize our experience of them. With Lewis, the pleasures of this life are not ends in themselves, though good; they are pointers to the Greatest Pleasure, God. Elsewhere Lewis says (almost as if he was thinking of Nietzsche), "Aim at heaven, and you'll get the earth 'thrown in'; aim at earth and you'll lose them both."
Nietzsche might have been wrong in big ways, and he may have been crazy, but he was not stupid, nor was he completely out of touch with reality. He knew what it was, on some level, to be human. After all, he (like every other human being) carried the image of God in his being, and we should therefore not be surprised when thate image finds expression, even though marred and distorted (as it is in all of us). As those who bear the image of God, we were made for God and for each other, and this expereince of fellowship will (and ought to be) intoxicatingly delightful. Nietzsche's problem was not that he sought experiences of passion and exhilaration, but that he sought them as ends in themselves. He was, as Lewis says, "like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." He was far too easliy pleased.
13 June 2008
Flannery O'Connor, Dogma, & Mystery
The Catholic novelist Flannery O'Connor has recently been very encouraging to me. It has been said that historic Protestant orthodoxy has more affinity with Roman Catholic dogma than with liberal Protestantism's theology. Without having had reason to doubt this assertion, I have now tasted it, and agree wholeheartedly.
I recently read her Spiritual Writings and was surprised at how much I resonated with her thought. With respect to dogma and mystery she writes, "Dogma can in no way limit a limitless God. ... For me a dogma is only a gateway to contemplation and is an instrument of freedom and not of restriction." (p. 87) Elsewhere, "Christian dogma is about the only thing left in the world that surely guards and respects mystery." (p. 97) What strikes me in such claims is how unabashed she is in asserting them and in doing it often. For many today, theology with both wonder and clarity is either impossible or unfortunate, but for O'Connor (as with her British contemporary C.S. Lewis) the two not only coexist but the one (dogma) protects the other (mystery).
In the end, it becomes a question of which framing of life is most compelling. One wonders how to marvel with the heart at that which is not apprehended with at least some clarity with the mind.
I recently read her Spiritual Writings and was surprised at how much I resonated with her thought. With respect to dogma and mystery she writes, "Dogma can in no way limit a limitless God. ... For me a dogma is only a gateway to contemplation and is an instrument of freedom and not of restriction." (p. 87) Elsewhere, "Christian dogma is about the only thing left in the world that surely guards and respects mystery." (p. 97) What strikes me in such claims is how unabashed she is in asserting them and in doing it often. For many today, theology with both wonder and clarity is either impossible or unfortunate, but for O'Connor (as with her British contemporary C.S. Lewis) the two not only coexist but the one (dogma) protects the other (mystery).
In the end, it becomes a question of which framing of life is most compelling. One wonders how to marvel with the heart at that which is not apprehended with at least some clarity with the mind.
05 June 2008
Trees as Teachers
I reclined beside my 3 year-old daughter the other evening on the back patio while she finished her dinner. We had all finished eating, and the rest were cleaning up. As I lay there looking toward the sky, I noticed something I rarely stop to consider: the tops of the pine trees swaying in the breeze. They looked pleasant and lazy, bending with the wind.
Down the tree line behind my neighbor’s home, I noticed among the green tree-tops a brown tree-top: a fully mature tree that was thoroughly dead. And then I saw how still he was against his neighbors. At that moment, I marveled how much like the dead tree I am and how much like the green trees I want to be. If breezes are like small trials (you know the kind: inconvenient, troublesome, try-your-patience kind of troubles), then most of the time I’m like the hard, inflexible dead branches whose leaves make no pleasant rustle in the breeze, but instead are brittle and may only break off if the wind is strong enough. Green, life-filled branches are so much more pleasant to watch and learn from. Here’s a prayer: Lord, make me green with life, not hard and dead.
Down the tree line behind my neighbor’s home, I noticed among the green tree-tops a brown tree-top: a fully mature tree that was thoroughly dead. And then I saw how still he was against his neighbors. At that moment, I marveled how much like the dead tree I am and how much like the green trees I want to be. If breezes are like small trials (you know the kind: inconvenient, troublesome, try-your-patience kind of troubles), then most of the time I’m like the hard, inflexible dead branches whose leaves make no pleasant rustle in the breeze, but instead are brittle and may only break off if the wind is strong enough. Green, life-filled branches are so much more pleasant to watch and learn from. Here’s a prayer: Lord, make me green with life, not hard and dead.
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