Theological Reflection

Memorial Day: Finding Beauty in Remembering

For this Memorial Day, I am re-posting part of a piece first published in January.

The grave of Hamilton Sawyer, U.S.C.T. (a Civil War casualty)

 

A few months ago, I found an unanticipated beauty in a wintry place a short drive from my home. Port Hudson National Cemetery is easy to overlook, though one of many created by the Federal government during the Civil War to provide for proper burial of the Union dead. It helps us remember those who lost their lives during a prolonged siege along the Mississippi River in 1863.

Among several thousand headstones, some include the initials, U.S.C.T. Wondering about them, I discovered they signify membership in a former United States Colored Troops regiment. Hamilton Sawyer (died 2 Feb 1864), and Samuel Daniels (died 19 Jan 1864), were two of many young men about whom history seems to have preserved only these bare facts. And yet, as a nation we remember them. Away from home and family at the time of their deaths, they surrendered their lives to help secure freedoms already declared, yet far from actualized in the lives of so many. Obviously, no contemporary visitor to the cemetery could have known either of these men. But we can – if we choose to – remember their names, and for what they died. The beauty of remembering lies in how we make present what we value.

Not everyone appreciates the beauty we find in a National Cemetery. Though these burial grounds were created and are maintained to honor those who have served in our nation’s military, these settings do not celebrate armed conflict. Instead, they venerate the commitment of many fellow Americans to serve our country and its founding principles, and commemorate their willingness to put the interests of the wider community before those of self. Most of us can recognize this commitment and willingness, even if we are not all moved to prioritize these things among our choices.

Praiseworthy themes often characterize eulogies offered at funerals. On such occasions, people usually identify and highlight the admirable traits of those who have died, whose lives we seek to honor through acts of remembrance. When done well, eulogies provide portraits of people’s lives conveying an appreciation for ways that certain moral principles and spiritual values have been lived out by them. These occasions would be drab and shallow if they merely recalled how a person consistently obeyed civil laws or always observed proper manners and social etiquette. By contrast, we touch upon beauty as we seek to remember people when they were at their best. For as Irenaeus put it, “The glory of God is the human person fully alive.” This is how we desire to be remembered.

Here is something to notice. There is a discernible symmetry between the way different baptismal candidates wear similar white robes, the way that variously styled caskets are covered at separate events by the same pall, and the way our burial liturgies – sacred and secular – ‘clothe’ our departed with the same words, on occasion after occasion. We find a pattern similar to these examples at our National Cemeteries, in how formerly high ranking officers and the lowest ranking enlisted men and women all have essentially the same headstones. In life and in death, we are – in the end – all one. Remembering the people whom the stones commemorate, even those we did not know, makes bigger our appreciation for the beauty of God’s world, and our own place within it.

To remember, and be remembered, can be holy acts. In remembering – even with regret-tinged memories – we reflect our desire for things to become whole, and brought to their fulfillment by God.

 

Historical note regarding Port Hudson:

From the above information plaque: “In May 1963, Union Gen. Nathaniel Banks landed 30,000 soldiers at Bayou Sara north of Port Hudson {at St. Francisville}. A force of 7,500 men commanded by Confederate Gen. Franklin Gardner held the Mississippi River stronghold. General Banks’ May 27 assault on Port Hudson failed and nearly 2,000 soldiers died. Among them were 600 men from two black regiments–the 1st and 3rd Louisiana Native Guards.* The Port Hudson engagement was among the first opportunities for black soldiers to fight in the Civil War. Their determination proved to the North that they could and would ably serve the Union Cause.”

“Among those buried {at Port Hudson} are 256 men who served in the United States Colored Troops (USCT).”

*Additional note from an informative Wikipedia article: “The 1st Louisiana Native Guard was one of the first all-black regiments in the Union Army. Based in New Orleans, Louisiana, it played a prominent role in the Siege of Port Hudson. Its members included a minority of free men of color from New Orleans; most were African-American former slaves who had escaped to join the Union cause and gain freedom.”

Port Hudson National Cemetery on a summer day

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Pentecost: The Beauty of Unity Amidst Diversity

Peter Warden, Pentecost (1985)

 

Paul’s stirring words to the Ephesians assert an abiding truth: “There is one Body and one Spirit; there is one hope in God’s call to us; One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism, One God and Father of all.” Paul was focused on the God-given and true things that unite us, that hold us together, and which give us life. Yet, in contemporary American culture, everything now seems to center on how we differ from one another. How might we hold both insights together?

Some years ago, I discovered Peter Warden’s wonderful contemporary painting about the post-Resurrection Pentecost event, which reflects the presence of such differences among us as people. Warden’s painting is based on the well-know story from Acts, chapter 2. The painter portrays the disciples together in their upper room retreat. But, in this case, the first Christian community is gathered in a 20th Century Scottish attic! The painting seems to capture the disciples just at the moment when the mighty Spirit-wind and tongues of fire appear. In other words, the disciples – as Warden depicts them – are not yet bound together, and not yet ready for mission.

Though they are in the same room, these disciples show few signs of unity. They react against one another, as much as they may talk together. Notice how this is suggested by the alternating warm/cool color palette that Warden has used. We also want to notice the suggestively peeling wallpaper behind the group. Can you see the pattern that the artist has created with the lower part of the rendering of the wallpaper?

If you look closely, you can see how Warden has used his depiction of that scrappy wallpaper to suggest Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous painting of the last supper. Da Vinci’s painting has also suffered the fate of being on a peeling wall. Peter Warden portrays a group of people with a shared history, who were brought together by Jesus at their earlier supper with him. But now, after his death, they find themselves regressing, regressing to their before-knowing-Jesus identities, and falling back upon their differences from one another.

Yet, as the painting’s title suggests, in just this moment God’s Holy Spirit finds them. Just as, through the Church, God’s Spirit finds us. When God’s Spirit finds us, we are grafted into the Body of Christ. In the process, we come to perceive who we really are. For we receive a new baptismal identity in Christ.

Our new identity builds upon and transforms the uniqueness of our natural, biological-identity. Our baptismal-identity emphasizes a new way of seeing ourselves in relation to others. Now, we also celebrate what we share and have in common, rather than simply emphasize our practical awareness regarding how we are unique and different from others.

Through hearing and reading Scripture, and in our fellowship with others in Jesus’ beloved community, we learn something very important. It has to do with this matter of our identity. We learn that the “Who am I?” question cannot rightly be answered apart from the “Who are we?” question. And, in turn, the “Who are we?” question cannot rightly be answered apart from another question: “Who are we made to be?” Once we ask, “Who are we made to be?”, we are on the threshold of discovering, perhaps for the first time in our lives, who we are meant to be and become, both as individuals, and in community.

Here is the truth of the great feast of Pentecost: God’s Spirit has come down! God’s Spirit has come down upon, and within, people who are sometimes alienated, and who often fall short of God’s mission. Preoccupied with ourselves and our own pursuits, we are gifted with the experience of transformation. We are drawn into relationship. As we are, we find meaning and we find purpose. We discover who we are, as we discern what we are called to be and do together. The mission of God brings both mercy and meaning. In it, we discover a shared life in God’s Spirit-shaped Kingdom.

John Nava, Pentecost, 2012

 

The quote from Ephesians is from the Book of Common Prayer Baptismal Rite adaptation of Ephesians 4:4-6. I have featured Peter Warden’s Pentecost painting once before, though without reflective comment, in a post offering Family Devotions during Covid, on May 30, 2020.

Further note: last week I was fortunate to walk down the same central street in ancient Ephesus upon which Paul surely often walked, while – according to Acts – he was there for two years. In writing the words quoted above, Paul was likely responding to the Ephesians’ devotion to the fertility mother goddess, Artemis, and the great temple they had built in dedication to her.

Justice Embodies Beauty

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Among the over-used and under-defined words prevalent in everyday conversation is that of ‘justice.’

There are at least three facets of justice long recognized in the western ethical tradition. The formal names for them are distributive, commutative, and social justice. It is important to distinguish them because the word justice is often used as if its meaning is confined to merely one or another of what are at least three of its facets.

Distributive justice can be simply defined as fairness in terms of results or outcomes. In a game of Monopoly, but also in processes or in policies of a more serious kind, the winner is generally determined by who has the most at the end of play. In current conversations where the concept of “equity” is invoked, distributive justice is often the reference point for evaluations of fairness as to social outcomes.

A second aspect of a Monopoly game then comes into consideration. In the way the game was played, did all players follow the same rules, especially in achieving the results they attained? This is what is meant by commutative justice.

The third commonly recognized facet of justice is social justice. With a game of Monopoly, the concept can be expressed in the form of a further question. Were all those who wanted to play the game provided a fair opportunity to participate?

As may be apparent here, these three facets of justice can be, and often are, interrelated. Indeed, the beauty that can be found in the idea of justice often appears when these several facets, among possible others, receive appropriate attention.

Clearly, beauty is never a merely visual phenomenon, recognizing that we find it in ideas expressed in poems, and in observations made by philosophers. The beauty I find in the concept of justice lies in the multifaceted nature of the idea, and in how it can bring enrichment to human relationships and communities.

One example can help make the point. In terms of the relationship between communities and individuals, justice is often expressed in terms of what communities owe to individuals, especially so that the needs of the latter are not overlooked or denied by the former. Yet defined merely in this mono-directional way diminishes the concept of justice when what individuals may owe to communities does not receive comparable consideration. There is beauty to be found in a two-way symmetry of respect and positive regard between individuals and their communities.

Justice along with beauty are significant aspects of human flourishing, given how both contribute to our wellbeing as people made in the image and likeness of God. We find beauty when we discern what appears to be a ‘right relation’ between or among parts or aspects of a work of art or architecture, as well as among members of a community. Thinking carefully about such perceptions of right relation can enhance our comprehension of beauty in daily life and work, and our practice of the virtue of justice in our social affiliations.

The Eastertide “vine and the branches” Gospel reading can deepen our appreciation for this fundamental dimension of justice conceived of as right relation. The ‘right relation’ of the branches to the vine is predicated on the revealed, and literally embodied, right relation between the True Vine and its branches, and their living connection in him.

James Tissot, What Our Lord Saw from the Cross

We should not overlook how metaphors based on justice play a significant role in the Bible, especially in the New Testament, regarding our relationship with God. Self-justification often forms an unattractive feature of our relationship with others. Yet, it has no appropriate role in our relationship with God. We may try to secure right relation with others through self-justification, but only God makes us right with God. Since our practice of the virtue of justice has no role in securing our standing before God, we can only seek in humility to reflect our gratitude for God’s generous and unmerited favor.

Paraphrasing Paul, we have been made ambassadors of the one who embodied the beauty of reconciliation, or of graced right relation.

Contradiction, and the Beauty of Paradox and Metaphor

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An observation, a statement, or even a casual comment, may strike us as involving what we call a contradiction. A contradiction involves at least two mutually exclusive claims. Something cannot be both true and false, we like to think.

Yet, with things like photos, we can observe that they may be both light and dark, or both clear and fuzzy looking. Or regarding a poem, we might say it is both meaningful as well as obscure in its meaning. Claims regarding contradiction therefore call for precision, and awareness of context.

One way of viewing objects of attention, and the appearance of contradiction, is to say these things involve paradox. A picture or a description of it , or a picture’s characterization, may also be termed as paradoxical.

Then there are metaphors, which can be beautiful. Especially when – with unanticipated insight – they juxtapose ideas that otherwise would seem to form unlikely pairings. Such metaphors can help us to perceive how apparently contradictory statements, observations, or claims, can each be true.

Not all metaphors do this. But metaphors help our perception and understanding. For this reason, metaphors play a significant role in the Bible, and not in just in the scriptures holy to the Judeo-Christian tradition.

From pastoral experience, I know that various selections from the Bible can strike readers and hearers as involving contradiction. Moving beyond a simple conclusion – that what has been read or heard is contradictory – can be a challenge, and this calls for intentionality. For beauty is not always immediately discerned. The challenge lies in learning to perceive how the same reading may involve paradox as well as metaphor, and that these aspects of the text are intended to be illuminative.

One of the divinely intended purposes of the Bible is to help us perceive, to perceive more than we do now, and therefore to perceive more wholly. The primary purpose of the Bible – and of, we may charitably assume, the sacred scriptures of any religious tradition – is to help us perceive what is holy.

Robert Lentz, The Holy Trinity (featuring Creation, and astronomical images)

These insights may therefore be just as important for Christians as they read the scriptures of other peoples, as they are for when we read the Bible.

For there is one God, who in love shares self and wisdom with the whole cosmos.

Here is a relevant paradox. God may in love share self and wisdom with all the peoples of the world. Yet, it may be that God does not share self in the same way with all people, nor the same wisdom. If this is so, then the reason why ultimately lies in the inscrutable wisdom of God. Yet, possible reasons for why God does or does not share self and wisdom in the same way with different people are suggested in our own scriptures.

Perceiving this, we are moved to listen and read the Bible, and especially our lectionary readings from it, attentively and with a well-founded expectation of spiritual fulfillment.

 

 

Pointing Toward Perception

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We live in a world filled with “data.” Disconnected bits of information, especially in great quantity, overwhelm our ability to see and to think. Accumulating additional data or more information does not produce knowledge. Knowledge has to do with seeing the connections between bits of information. When we see the connections, we begin to see a picture, we begin to hear a story, and we gain understanding as well as wisdom.

The unrecognized fellow traveler on the road to Emmaus asks the two disciples, ‘what are all these things you are talking about?’ The answer he receives from them amounts to information. But his question is pointed toward understanding, especially in relation to ‘the big picture. He is challenging them to discover something bigger. He is really asking something like this: ‘All these things’ that have happened… What do they have to do with what God has been up to, all along?”

Here is a basic Christian truth that we find in the Emmaus Road story: Things take on meaning in relation to the risen Jesus. It happens when we see events in our lives in relation to him. It happens also with things like bread and wine as we gather at table. And it happens with people like you and me as we gather in community.

Jesus helps our perception on the road to Emmaus, and reveals something even more profound at the inn. This ‘inn,’ unlike the one where he was born, has many rooms, many mansions. When we see things like past events and the bread in relation to him, we discern more about what they were or are, and what they yet can become. When we see ourselves in relation to him, we better discern who we really are, and who we are called to be.

Prayerfully, we can look around, between things, and within. We can look for the connections. When we do, we see and discern. We see more because we see more wholly. Then we see the holy.

 

The above painting, Supper at Emmaus (1958), is by Ceri Richards, and is used by permission from the Trustees of the Methodist Modern Art Collection (UK). The penciled notation at the base of this guache painting on paper suggests that it was intended as a study for an altarpiece painting for the chapel of St. Edmund Hall (or College), at Oxford, England. The Emmaus story can be found in Luke 24:13-35, and it is a traditional Eastertide Gospel reading.

This post is adapted from one first published in 2014.

The Believing Eleven

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Peter Paul Rubens, The Rockox Altarpiece, 1613-1615 (center panel)

 

It is evening on the day of Resurrection-discovery. John tells us that ten of the disciples are hiding behind a secured door out of fear. Judas is deceased, and Thomas is away.

Jesus suddenly appears to the unprepared disciples, and shares with them his peace. He shows them his hands and his side, and then – as a direct consequence of seeing the places on his body associated with his death – the ten disciples rejoice when they see their Lord. In other words, their recognition of him, and that he was somehow alive again, brings them joy by restoring their belief in him.

When hearing this story from John’s Gospel on the second Sunday of Easter, we may be prone to considering it apart from what happens just before it. The disciples, who are hiding out of fear, have already received an eye-witness to the resurrection of Jesus. Mary Magdalene, to whom Jesus revealed himself at the tomb that morning, had come and told the ten the Lord was alive, and that he had appeared to her. Clearly, and prior to Jesus’ unexpected appearance, the ten disciples are still doubting her personal witness. Even after receiving what should have been trusted testimony from Mary Magdalene, a fellow follower of Jesus.

So why – in popular imagination – isn’t this well-known Gospel reading from John 20 commonly referred to as the “doubting disciples” reading? Why should Thomas be singled out, when his joyful recognition of the risen Jesus depended on nothing more or less than what the 10 had needed, and received, before him?

And why have so many painters in the Western tradition privileged Thomas’ purported unbelief in the Risen Lord, rather than depict the earlier reluctance of the ten others to arrive at joyful confidence about the Lord’s astonishing return? Apparently, in many painters’ eyes (especially Caravaggio), more visual drama was to be found in images of a doubter’s hand placed within an open wound.

Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, 1601 (a famous traditional presentation of the event in John 20)

A further detail to notice, which our familiarity with so many paintings helps to obscure, has to do with how Thomas responds to Jesus. According to John, Jesus appears to the not-yet-believing ten, and – unbidden – shows them his hands and his side. Seeing the traces of his wounds on his risen body brings them joy. Jesus then appears unexpectedly a week later, this time showing himself to the one not present on the prior occasion. And just as he had done previously, Jesus offers Thomas the same opportunity he had provided to the others.

We should therefore not be misled by Thomas’ oft-quoted comment to the other disciples, prior to his own epiphany, about what he needed in order to believe. According to the text, Jesus – upon appearing in the same house a second time – bids Thomas to touch him. Yet, Thomas immediately responds to Jesus’ words without any mention in the Gospel of him having physical contact with the risen Lord’s wounds. Jesus then asks Thomas a rhetorical question, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” Naturally, Thomas’ implied answer is ‘yes.’

For all these reasons, we will do better to find a different and more positive descriptive phrase by which to refer to this well-known passage from John 20. “Jesus meets the disciples according to their needs,” though wordy, would do better.

P. Steffensen’s altarpiece painting behind the altar of Zion Lutheran Church, Copenhagen

 

This post is based on the traditional Gospel reading for the second Sunday of Easter (April 7 in 2024), John 20:19-31. The story within it concludes with these words: “Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed’.”

Note: The altarpiece paintings by P. Steffensen and Rubens provide an interesting counterpoint to the prevailing tendency of painters to focus on Thomas placing his hand in the side of the Risen Jesus.

 

I Will Take You To Myself

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Fra Angelico, Noli me tangere

 

In the intimacy of his physical embodiment, the disciples and the holy women want to hold on to Jesus. It is the only way they have known him.

Mary is then found by the One she is looking for, in the garden by the tomb, on what becomes the Resurrection-discovery morning.

”Don’t try to cling to me,” he tells her, for he has not yet ascended to where he promises to take us.

We want to hang onto to how we have best known him. He promises to hold us to himself in what will be an even greater intimacy.

It is just beginning. Alleluia!

 

Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” (John 20:17)

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:3)

Once and For All

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Salvador Dali, The Sacrament of the Last Supper (detail)

 

With his life, and in his death, Jesus offered himself. In accepting crucifixion, he offered himself and the whole Creation to the Father, in the Holy Spirit. He did this once and for all. Yet, in every Eucharist, and for all who remember him on any day, he continues to make present and real in our experience what he did, once and for all.

He acted, once and for all. Yet – and this is the paradox – he still acts for all… for all time, for all places and things, and for all people. What he is still doing now does not in any way signal an incompleteness to what he did then. For he continues to offer the gift of including us in what he did then, when he did what he did, once and for all.

So what does it mean for him to include us now, in what he did then? That is the question for the holy three days of our Paschal Triduum, which begins on Maundy Thursday evening.

One way into the many answers to our question can be found in Salvador Dali’s painting, The Sacrament of the Last Supper. It is not a painting of, or about, the Last Supper. Instead, this is a painting inspired by the Last Supper, and by what it came to mean in the broader context of all that happened during those three days. For the painting is about the sacrament in which the Risen One now makes present the result of what happened on the Cross, in the Resurrection, and with the descent of the Holy Spirit.

The Book of Common Prayer service for Good Friday is in fact not a Eucharist, just as the Last Supper in that Upper Room was not a Eucharist. The Last Supper prefigured the Eucharist, but could not have been one. For Jesus had not yet died, nor yet Risen from the Tomb, and the Spirit had not yet descended at Pentecost. And neither are the sacramental services on Good Friday intended to be Eucharistic celebrations. For in the wisdom and tradition of the Church we do not celebrate the Eucharist on this most holy day, though we may receive the fruit of it, and all its benefits, when Communion is offered to us.

Instead, all our focus is upon Him, who died and rose again for us, once and for all.

These are some of the reasons why Dali paints the disciples as recognizable, physical, and historically-anchored, people. And why he yet paints our Lord as present in his mystical risen glory.

We gather in his name and in his presence on particular occasions, in particular places, at particular times. Yet he is now present at and on all occasions, in all places, and at all times. We – who are rooted in time and place – receive him who transcends and yet is present within all times and places. Grace infuses nature. The timeless One imbues time with glory.

The Sacrament of the Last Supper (full image)

On the cross, Jesus lifted up the whole Creation to his – and now our – Father, once and for all. Just as he lifted up our human nature in his Ascension, which in a sense then became our Ascension. And yet, he continues to lift up the whole Creation – including us, and including all the uncertain and unfinished aspects of our lives. So, the One who is the source of all purpose and meaning continues to bring meaning and purpose to us, and to all that we lay before him, here and now. Time and again, he brings completeness and wholeness to all that is lacking, so that we might live more fully in his glorious fulfillment of what it means to be human. For all this, we offer our deepest thanks and praise.

May these ‘holy three days’ (Maundy Thursday evening — Easter Eve) in the Church’s Christian observance of Passover be a time of blessing for us and our loved ones.

 

This post is adapted from my (2024) homily for Good Friday, which may be accessed by clicking here.

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The Beauty of Sister Wendy

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Paul left us with some of the most remarkable words in the New Testament: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” And so, we ‘behold the beauty of the Lord’ in each other. Especially If we have died with Christ in Baptism, and risen with him in his Resurrection. For we now live in him, and he in us. I am reminded of these truths when I see images of Sister Wendy Beckett’s face.

Readers familiar with this blog website will have guessed at the sense of affinity I feel when I see Sister Wendy’s videos, or read her books. Discovering her work, and gaining a sense about her perception of her vocation, have been a source of encouragement for me. She has glorified God by helping me to perceive and give thanks for beauty. And not just in art, but in faith and life, and in all the world.

We are often blessed with companions as we journey through our lives in this world, some familial and or some spiritual, some more proximate to us and others further away. When asked about these people, we are likely to offer praise for what they mean to us and for what we have received from them. Sister Wendy has been a companion for me because of what she represents: a life well-lived, one attentive to what is most important, while less distracted by that which is ephemeral.

I like a biblical metaphor with which to think about how things will be when we – as people like to say – ‘pass through the veil,’ ‘get to the other side,’ and experience being ‘in the nearer presence of our Lord.’ It is to consider with whom I might want to sit at table in the kingdom of heaven, along with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, with whom Jesus promised many would come to be present (Mt. 8:11). And at table with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, with whom Jesus dined at an occasion commemorated on Monday in our Holy Week lectionary. Of those not personally known to me in this life, Sister Wendy is one near to whom I want to sit.

Here is a proverb I like to quote, which applies to much of life: we move toward what we are looking at. In addition to the weekly texts from the lectionary and their related readings, I spend a lot of time looking at images of beauty, in its many forms. Having started my adult life as one aspiring to work in art and architecture, and then largely setting those things aside when pursuing ordination and theological work, I now find myself returning to my starting point. But with new eyes, and a wider horizon.

Sister Wendy, and the example she represents for me, have played a quiet but very important role in my growth and aspiration toward greater wholeness.

Thank you, Sister Wendy, for helping me and us see beauty, and by this to know God’s love in a fuller way.

 

During these forty days of our preparation for the Paschal feast, I have been finding quiet joy and peace in Sister Wendy Beckett’s, The Art of Lent: A Painting a Day from Ash Wednesday to Easter. The quote at the outset from Paul can be found in 2 Cor. 4:6.

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The Beauty of Gandhi’s Example

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Mahatma Gandhi remains one of the most revered and idolized figures in modern history. And yet, also, one of the least imitated. His life and thought provide a compelling example that may not be well understood. Asked about this, he might have said, “It’s all rather simple,” and summarize his life’s work with a Kantian principle derived from Jesus: treat one another as you would have them treat you.

“Simple” is sometimes another word for “naive.” In Gandhi’s case, it is otherwise. His journey through life, well-depicted in Richard Attenborough’s fine film, taught Gandhi many things and led him to a wise integrity few others seem to have attained. He learned much through arduous experiences. Gandhi’s uniqueness may lie in how he synthesized his learning with the result that he achieved greater maturity and a resoluteness of character. His personal growth involved a practiced disposition toward honesty, reasoned adherence to principles, and a profound simplicity of manner in life choices.

Gandhi in conversation with his friend, and India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru

For many, Gandhi’s life story brings to mind the word ‘pacifism.’ More nuanced is the label, ‘non-violence.’ Yet both terms need further qualification. Pacifism and a non-violent response to aggression often reflect a belief that violence (and therefore war) is not governed by reason, and therefore cannot be disciplined or limited by principled reflection and deliberation. Hence, according to this view, no matter how destructive violence may be, responding in kind – even if proportionately – always compounds the evil.

Gandhi’s approach to the evil he apprehended and experienced was indeed reasoned and principled. It was shaped around a resolve that active, non-violent resistance must be distinguished from passive non-resistance, precisely because the former can provide a compelling witness to reasoned propositions. In this sense, Gandhi’s non-violent resistance serves as an active approach in antithesis to a passive, non-violent, approach of non-resistance.

Gandhi – demonstrating active resistance – deliberately harvesting salt in violation of British dominion law

James Douglass’ book, Gandhi and the Unspeakable, helps us understand Gandhi’s adherence to the concept of satyagraha, or truth-force. For Gandhi, this principle nullifies the pursuit of social and political ends through violence. Identified by Thomas Merton in an essay on Gandhi, satyagraha is conceived of as a universal, rather than individual, feature of what it means to be human, articulated in the words, “truth is the inner law of our being.”

This truth-force is manifest in substantive rather than sentimental love. It can be discerned and honored within oneself, while it can – and must be – discerned and honored within others, especially as one confronts evil in human relations. Because this is so, one who seeks to enact this principle can honor all others with trust. Even – counterintuitively – to honor one’s opponents and sworn enemies, because one’s trust becomes anchored in our shared humanity rather than in a calculation of the probable harm that may result from engagement with those others.

Giving primacy to this principle provides the courage to believe that we can die to all that puts us against one another, and therefore the courage to face the death that others may plan for us. Merton and Douglass find this truth-force embodied in the person of Jesus, and with Gandhi, see it as a powerful example of what can profoundly transform human social and political relations. As Douglass explains, Gandhi knew his assassins, and even invited the man who eventually killed him to live with him following that same man’s earlier attempt on Gandhi’s life.

Perceptive hearers of this past Sunday’s Gospel reading from John might wonder what Gandhi would make of Jesus’ actions in the Temple. John tells us that Jesus made “a whip of cords” and drove out those selling animals, or exchanging Roman coins for money acceptable as offerings in Israel’s house of worship. The ambiguity of John’s account makes clear that Jesus at least threatened violence even if he did not resort to it. For his whip was directed not simply to scattering the animals of those selling them, but also against the money changers. Readers may note that some actions of Jesus in the Gospels may have been intended less to model ethical conduct for his followers, and instead to give evidence of his providential and messianic role in history. Much may be inferred from this brief “Temple-cleansing” story.

Given how our culture encourages us to see life in an either/or way, we may be surprised to discern how much the Hindu Gandhi seems to have learned from reading the Gospels. We may also be surprised by how Gandhi’s beautifully lived example – regardless of his personal strengths or failings – may help us discern what the Gospels have yet to teach us.

 

The reference to the Gospel reading is from John 2:13-22, which helpfully can be compared to its Gospel parallels. James Douglass, with his personal history as a religious scholar of spiritual approaches to questions related to conflict, violence and war-making, brings an informed and insightful perspective to the study of Gandhi, as he did earlier to the wide-ranging circumstances leading to the deaths of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcom X, and John F. Kennedy.

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