it is finished

To finish up this first week of writing for Lent, I want to return to a hymn we sang during the Ash Wednesday service. The text is a poem by John Donne, “A Hymn to God the Father,” and is better than the tune, so that’s all I’m going to write about.

I.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Three main ideas here (as in each of the stanzas). First, Donne starts by inquiring about original sin. This is the guilt of Adam and Eve’s first sin, which is imputed to each of us as their descendants. Nothing to do for it except ask God’s forgiveness. Theologically, I don’t believe in original sin, although I do find the story of the Fall of Man a useful narrative. Let me briefly argue against St. Augustine. He famously declares (in the Confessions, Book I, chapter 7) that infants must be sinful, because they demonstrate such wanton selfishness. In support, he quotes David in Psalm 51: “I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.” Conception, therefore, is the point at which we become guilty of sin, hence Donne’s phrase “where I begun”. But infants are not moral beings. They are entirely dependent, and if they don’t cry out, they will suffer neglect. (Augustine mitigates his argument with the acknowledgment that he can’t remember his infancy, so he can’t remember what it was like to be that selfish.) And I don’t think Adam was a historical person. He represents our right relationship with God, which becomes spoiled by our self-worship. No sooner does consciousness arise but we start rebelling, which is where Donne turns next.

The second point of the poem gives more convincing evidence of what Calvinists call “total depravity”—we want to be good, we even try to be good, but we consistently fail at it. As St. Paul says in Romans (quite extensively, but a single sentence sums it up), “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.” This seems to be the main (extra-Biblical) argument put forth for the doctrine of original sin: why, if we are not naturally born to sin, would we keep doing it? Even if one posits the existence of a Satan, an arch-devil (which I do), this does not remove the responsibility and the guilt we bear for our persistent wrongdoing. I do not know why we do this. Paul doesn’t give an answer, either; he simply asks and answers, “Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! … For the law of the Spirit of life has set [me] free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death.”

But Donne isn’t there yet in this poem. Even once those persistent or occasional sins of which we are aware are forgiven, more remains.

II.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

We are all gateways. I don’t think even the most reclusive of us has no affect on other people. We are encouragers, for good or for evil. Jesus taught that when we tempt others, we are guilty if they sin: “Stumbling blocks are sure to come, but woe to the one through whom they come! It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were cast into the sea than that he should cause one of these little ones to stumble. Pay attention to yourselves!” Jesus declared Himself to be a door, as well, through which those who enter are saved, and the good shepherd who enters by the door. He guides us, His sheep, in good paths. We can do either: lead people rightly or wrongly. And when our sin leads others to sin, we are doubly guilty.

Perhaps we have made amends. Perhaps we have turned from some particular evil behavior. Or maybe we gave something up during some past Lent, had a good year where we were on better behavior, “proved” we could give it up and don’t need to prove it anymore. It’s still incredibly difficult to overcome the guilt of these sins. If even a moment of weakness can haunt us years later, what about protracted obstinance of which we eventually repent, but still can’t bear to think about the damage done? I think the Catholics and Orthodox are on to something in the human psyche with ritualized confession and absolution. If a human can hear our deepest secrets and forgive us, it’s conceivable that God will, too. Jesus said that we cannot love God, who is unseen, without loving our brothers and sisters, who are seen. Conversely, it is easier to feel loved or forgiven by God when we know we are loved or forgiven by people.

But again, even if these particular transgressions are lifted from our record, something remains. We are not good enough; our actions continuously make this clear. If we depend on ourselves to earn God’s grace, we are lost. If we depend on asking God at each moment to forgive each sin, and thereby show that we’re sufficiently sorry, we are lost. And we know it.

III.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.

Disbelief, lack of faith, doubt that God has fulfilled His own promise to us to save us—this is our final error and our final separation from God. It is interesting that at this moment of fear, Donne harks back to the pagan image of the spinning Fates, though he casts himself as one of the weavers. Paul tells us to run the race so as to receive the prize, but our strength is never enough. An athlete may deliver a perfect performance. We cannot deliver a perfect life.

Forgiveness—complete, eternal, and effective—is the light of Christ’s life and message. It is the “good news” after which the gospel is named. Jesus teaches us to live better lives, and we owe Him obedience to those teachings, but “what you should do to be nicer to people” isn’t news. That you are made holy by no work of your own—that is news. It is a glorious radiance for us to enjoy. It is the greatest sign of God’s love. I can hardly believe it. Indeed, on my own strength I can’t believe it. I need God’s illumination. I have the promise of it. I have God’s sworn oath that Christ will remain “a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek,” and the author of Hebrews adds, “This makes Jesus the guarantor of a better covenant.” Better than the law, which condemns us, that is. The law (“do unto others” and all that) is not abrogated; it is fulfilled, just not by us.

Donne makes the usual wordplay on “Son” and “sun” as Jesus shines His light. It has been noted that the entire poem could be viewed as wordplay on “done” and “Donne.” (A weaker wordplay may be present in the word “more,” because Donne’s wife’s maiden name was “More.”) In the end, God has the poet, and the believer, and fear along with death and hell is cast away.

new mercies

Last night’s events led me to think about God’s faithfulness. And the more that happened, the more that seemed the right course for this reflection. Once when I gave a selection of hymns, I included Chisholm’s “Great is Thy faithfulness.” The inspiration for that hymn comes from one of the darkest books in the Bible, Lamentations (3:22-24). The author (probably the prophet Jeremiah), weeping over the destruction of Jerusalem, knows to look for God’s mercies at all times. Last night was not at all bleak, however, and it along with other times in my life leads me to contemplate another aspect of God’s faithfulness.

The events. (First, a notice: nothing here is as epic as the destruction of a city. My point will be to have an awareness of God even in small things in life.) Following dinner, Hannah needed to drive to the Lansing girls’ detention center for their weekly Bible study. I needed to go to the store to get ingredients to make a dish for a potluck tonight. My car isn’t working, so I was going to get dropped off at the grocery store, and would either have to walk (~25 minutes) or catch the bus (~5 minutes) home. Hannah and her comrades in the ministry had planned for an Ash Wednesday service with the girls. Time was rather important in all this. When we got out to Hannah’s car, however, we found the trunk was frozen shut. It contained the usual items for the Bible study—a basket holding a bell and an icon (it’s a Catholic study)—as well as Bibles they were taking to the girls and the ashes for the special part of the service. We tried for ten or fifteen minutes to get it open, which meant we were quickly getting late.

Finally, we gave up. Trying to pry the trunk was only bending the metal, and we had no idea where it was stuck. So we left; Hannah picked up the other woman going out to Lansing, and I was left at the grocery store. I did my shopping in about six minutes, and ran out to the bus stop—just in time to catch the bus to my house. No walking home with heavy bags for me that night. Now, I know that’s coincidence. But the fact of coincidence can obscure, I think, common grace. “Common grace” refers to God’s general work in the world, not for the individual or the church in particular. It is well summarized by saying, “God causes it to rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” Sometime God’s grace comes in rain, sometimes in not rain (like when that window of sunshine opens just long enough for you to walk home). Like I said, I don’t think all this is any sign of God’s favor (most of the time); these are signs of God’s love. Conversely, when things go badly, it’s not that God doesn’t like you. God wants you to be mindful of Him. In those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days, there is something else to be thankful for: that we only need God for contentment, not opportune weather. These different kinds of times are all jumbled up and come at random, it will be argued. But I ask, can grace not come even through randomness?

Hannah arrived at my apartment a couple of hours later and told me what happened with the rest of the evening. When they arrived at the detention center, she tried the trunk one more time, and it opened. They went inside, and a staff worker (whom they would not have encountered if they’d gotten there earlier) saw them with the ashes and asked if they were going to have an Ash Wednesday celebration; she had not been able to go the day before, she said. They said yes, and she was able to join them for a short while. Before telling me all this, Hannah prefaced with, “God is faithful.” And that sealed my decision to meditate on that phrase this morning.

holy, holy, holy

Today, I can hardly start any better than with the sermon we heard last night at Cornell’s Episcopal service. The priest, Barb Schmitz, spoke on “observing a holy Lent,” in keeping with the conclusion to the preface of Ash Wednesday:

I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God's holy Word.

She never defined “holiness,” so let me try to begin with that.

Etymologically, the word “holy” is related to the German “heilig” and the Greek “hagios” (as in “hagiology,” the study of the life of a saint). It doesn’t appear to be directly related to the word “whole,” but it does in origin mean that which must be kept whole, or must not be violated. I was raised with the teaching that “holy” simply means set apart and devoted, specifically to God.

Barb began by telling about an interview she heard a year or so ago with Nancy Pelosi. When asked if her parents would be proud that she was going to be the first woman Speaker of the House, she responded,

They'd be proud, but they didn't raise me to be the speaker. They raised me to be holy; they raised me to care about other people.

How many parents, she asked, would have holiness as their primary desire for their children? And what do we know about God’s desire for us? God has made us into “a royal priesthood, a holy nation.” St. Peter makes this description after talking about how Christ sets the foundation and the standard for the church, but it is still easy to reject Him. He lived a perfect life in this world, and we should seek to be holy as He is holy (as God commanded the people of Israel long before).

Barb pointed out that the Book of Common Prayer lays out the ways for us to practice holiness in the season of Lent: see the first quote above. The preface of the day also mentions that, historically, the penitential nature of Lent was in preparation for the celebration of Easter. That, for anyone who wonders, is why we have six weeks of fasting. But there is a greater resurrection ahead—the time when God will make all of us perfectly holy—and we should strive in the interim to become more like Jesus. Not to “prove” ourselves to God (or, for that matter, the world), but in awe and gratefulness.

orange crosses on the Cornell arts quad

When I got home last night, I hoped that phrase (the title above) would produce some results on Google. I was walking to choir rehearsal along the diagonal path that goes from the clock tower to Goldwin-Smith Hall, and saw the crosses resembling roadside markers where someone has died in an accident. (Except they were orange.) They had names written on them; the ones I read appeared to be Hispanic in origin—Sanchez, Morena, etc. They were clearly temporary, as a few were already fallen into the muddy ground. But I found no indication of what they were placed there for. Google, it turns out, didn’t help. So I don’t know their purpose and can’t share it with you.

Is it ever helpful just to be mindful of people? Not issues, but people you’ve never heard of, nor know anything about? I can imagine a half-dozen reasons for those crosses to be there, although I won’t post those particular speculations. If the crosses really were orange, and that aspect wasn’t just the result of my walking past them in the dark and rain, them there is conceivably a connection with orange ribbons, although I don’t see many convincing ideas in Wikipedia’s list. In the absence of such information, what do I do with those crosses and those names (besides internally chastise whoever organized to put them up with no additional information)? I can enter into prayer.

My regular prayer life is spotty, but since middle school I’ve tried to take time during brief flashes when I am made aware of the lives of others to pray for them. Each time I hear a siren going by, I pray for those involved: whose houses or lives may be endangered; who may be confronting a violent situation as police, victim, or perpetrator; who have come to a point I imagine must be confusing, terrifying, or infuriating. I don’t even have a name, just a noise, and I know they need God’s presence. Last night I had a whole collection of names before me, names that I couldn’t fully take in and whose unifying feature I couldn’t identify. Is it helpful for me to pray for them? I have to believe so. I have to believe God is wise enough to intervene magnificently in situations I can’t adequately address; I am of course strengthened in this conviction knowing that the Holy Spirit speaks for me when I can’t speak.

That said, if anyone knows why these crosses were there, please let me know.

Lenten writing

Today begins this year’s (very early) season of Lent. I’ve decided to pick up the discipline of writing something reflective here every day. Becky did this last year, with some really great results, and it seems very appropriate to spend time each day this month/40 days plus Sundays thinking intentionally rather than idly and sharing those thoughts in a hopefully productive manner. So here goes.

where to go part 6

On Monday night, Hannah’s family and I went to the Lyric Opera in Chicago to see Doctor Atomic, by John Adams. This is a recent opera, premiered in 2005 in San Francisco, about the first test of the atomic bomb; Chicago is presenting a revised version of the work. Major characters include the physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, his wife Kitty, his colleagues Edward Teller and Robert Wilson, and General Leslie Groves. Both Adams and the librettist/stage director Peter Sellars were present at the performance and took a bow at the curtain call.

The setting is June 1945, a month after V-E day but still a long while before V-J day. The bomb is hoisted onstage towards the end of the first act and remains present throughout the second act. (Compare the images from the article about the test and the article about the opera, linked above; the bomb looks exactly right.) The introduction of the bomb to the stage leads into the emotional (and, in a sense, Shakespearean) climax of the work, Oppenheimer’s soliloquy based on the text of John Donne’s Holy Sonnet XIV. This poem has long held deep import for me, and it’s somewhat surprising that I haven’t mentioned it here before:

Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,
Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely’I love you,’and would be loved faine,
But am betroth’d unto your enemie:
Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

It is well-known that Oppenheimer struggled with the consequences of creating an atomic weapon. He later recalled being mindful of a passage from the Bhagavad Gita immediately after the test was completed: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” The whole first act of the opera portrays the moral struggle of the physicists—and the fear they held that all might go awry. In the staging of this aria at the end of the first act, at the phrases “to another due” and “betrothed unto your enemy”, Oppenheimer is kneeling and gestures back to the horrible globe suspended upstage. Whether or not Oppenheimer was religious (I don’t think he was), this shift from the devil to the bomb (by extension, the quest for violent power?) as enslaver was striking. (Some sources indicate that Adams and Sellars intended Oppenheimer to be a Faustian character.) I was reminded of the image from Asimov’s short story “Hell-fire”, where the face of the devil appears in a photo of a nuclear explosion. (The story is more of a position paper than a narrative, and essentially only lasts long enough to present this image.) Oppenheimer writhes under the text “knock, breathe, shine” and again at “break, blow, burn”. He flings his arms over his head in surrender at “o’erthrow me”. These small gestures were just a tiny contribution to a marvelous piece of dramatic music (which is much harder to describe than physical movements, and which I heartily recommend hearing whenever possible). I wish I were a baritone, so that I could sing it sometime.

It was not, however, the opera as a whole nor this musical setting in particular that prompted me to post this. It was the reference to a letter by Leo Szilard, read in the opera by Teller and included with a petition to be sent to President Truman:

Many of us are inclined to say that individual Germans share the guilt for the acts which Germany committed during this war because they did not raise their voices in protest against these acts. Their defense that their protest would have been of no avail hardly seems acceptable even though these Germans could not have protests without running risks to life and liberty. We are in a position to raise our voices without incurring any such risks even though we might incur the displeasure of some of those who are at present in charge of controlling the work on “atomic power”.

I’m not sure I agree with Szilard’s conclusion (or “inclination”) regarding the German people’s guilt. But this kind of situation keeps happening. We are again at a time when governments are acting in ways that are at best incautious and at worst reprehensible (I am concerned most particularly with ours at the moment), and the question of how culpable we are as citizens again arises.

I am appalled at the duplicitousness, arrogance, and incivility of our national behavior. Forget our unflagging support for Israel, which seems determined to uphold unstable and unfriendly relations with its neighbors. Forget the opportunism that accompanied the invasion of Iraq, or whether we should even have gone there. These are matters about which I know little, and which as far as I know could be justified or at least comprehended. Here are the actions to which I object: that we seem to have entered Iraq precipitously, with little idea of what to do afterwards, so that it now is smoldering in unrest and terror; that we cannot bring ourselves to acknowledge the rules of combat and the proper treatment of prisoners, so that we find words to excuse torture and means to obstruct due process (viz. Gitmo); that we frighten and abuse even ourselves with the threat of further terrorism if we fail to comply with arbitrary and superficial ways of addressing the problem. (Another blog last year phrased it well: “It’s easy to defend against what the terrorists planned last time, but it’s shortsighted.”)

In principle, these actions have been in the name of security and self-defense, but in practice they have mainly appeared to be displays of a kind of national Übermenschheit. During a recent gathering at my apartment, we pulled out a collection of Dr. Seuss’s political cartoons from World War II. Many are still relevant. I indicate in particular October 1, 1941, in which “America First” tells a tale of destruction of foreign children, but with the comforting moral that the listeners suffer no loss. We have lost much—I cannot rightly say whether it has just been in the last decade or over the last half-century—even on our own soil, even after 9/11. We have lost dignity and respect. We have lost soldiers. We have betrayed trust. I remember how after the attacks of September 2001 I wanted nothing more than to see and hear my president speak to rally our country. But they did not merit this thrashing about that we have done, like some wounded monster. Even if we had lost nothing material in the last seven years, we must seek the welfare of those “foreign children” and pay heed to their humanity. As Donne has written elsewhere, “[A]ny man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” May we, please, return to the fundamentals of civilized life, and act in such a way that our consciences will be clean and our world will indeed be safer.

where to go part 5

Guinea’s back, so to speak. Not everything got resolved—it never does—but the worst of the protests stopped, Peace Corps went back (some of the Volunteers, but not all, who had been serving returned, along with a new crop), and along with that is the excitement of my friend Annie traveling back to our village! Annie served with me at the Lycée Almamy Samoury Touré in Kérouané (the name of the town possibly comes from the Maninka word “kayira”, meaning happiness; the school is named after a Guinean national hero). I taught math; she taught English. Now she and her boyfriend Matt, another RPCV (returned Peace Corps Volunteer) have returned in the other direction, to work on some writing projects. Just thought I’d direct you to her blog. Just the effort of getting into the country has spawned some good stories, and the writing is quality stuff. (Here’s hoping you can get some of it published, Annie!)