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gravity and grace

#15 — Temptation and Energy

Friday 1 March 2013

The use of temptations. It depends on the relative strength of the soul and of time. To go on for a long time contemplating the possibility of doing evil without doing it effects a kind of transubstantiation. If we resist with merely finite energy, this energy is exhausted after a certain time, and when it is exhausted, we give in. If we remain motionless and attentive, it is the temptation which is exhausted — and we acquire the energy raised to a higher degree.

For a little boy, temptation is a simple thing; for a little boy who can move about under his own volition, it’s a simple thing that’s simply everywhere. Closets hold treasures. Desks sit over snaking cables and wires.

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Cabinets hold bags of flour, sugar, and other mysteries. Desk cabinets conceal pencils, markers, and other goodies. 

The Boy doesn’t resist temptation, reaching his pudgy fingers toward dangers and toys alike.

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But he’s at that lucky point in life when temptation is all about learning, and vice versa.

#13 — Humility and Humiliation

Wednesday 27 February 2013

humiliate ourselves before false gods

It’s sometimes easy for me to grow depressed about the world we have brought our children into. There are so many different calls for attention, so many things that people place in the center of their lives, things that at their heart are not only meaningless but actually harmful yet somehow seen as the ultimate good. It all falls under the banner of materialism and instant gratification, and the technology of today only heightens it. Indeed, the technology is often part and parcel of the whole game: smart phones to take pictures of unhealthy food to share with friends who have just posted pictures of the new car they bought that they really can’t afford; tablet computers that allow people to feed their obsession with sex, shopping, or whatever their fetish anywhere and everywhere; televisions large enough to cover most of a wall so we can see in painful clarity the details of our visual obsessions. Add to it the realization that children growing up today face new peer pressure to fit in by owning all these gadgets, using all these gadgets obsessively, virtually praying to these gadgets — and anyone who doesn’t fit in will faces a barrage of bullying, taunting, and rejection.

It’s not a world I would personally like to have to grow up in.

Weil speaks of these obsessions in terms of false gods:

We do not have to acquire humility. There is humility is us. Only we humiliate ourselves before false gods.

The fact that humiliate and humility have the same root is ironic today, considering how so many people humiliate themselves, all the while thinking they’re elevating themselves.

#12 — Natural Movements and Grace

Tuesday 26 February 2013

Michelangelo's painting of the sin of Adam and Eve from the Sistine Chapel ceiling
Michelangelo’s painting of the sin of Adam and Eve from the Sistine Chapel ceiling

Some Christians explain it with the doctrine of Original Sin. Muslims reject the notion of an inherently sinful nature in humanity but believe that pride (an unwillingness to submit) is humanity’s chief sin (ReligionFacts.com). Judaism seems to have no established doctrine on the matter, but the Jewish experience of the twentieth century — indeed, in most centuries — probably led many to believe in the tendency of humanity toward evil. Through countless rebirths, Buddhism  teaches, humans are to overcome a seemingly natural tendency toward attachment. Hinduism teaches that there is a reality beyond the everyday — the Brahman — that humans can achieve by changing not only their view but also their behavior, suggesting that the original state is an inferior state. Secularists use the term “human nature” to explain the simple fact that all religions recognize: the natural movement of the will tends to be downward.

All the natural movements of the soul are controlled by laws analagous to those of physical gravity. Grace is the only exception (Gravity and Grace, 45).

Yet life is generally about improvement. We want to become better people We want the “I” of today to be somehow more elevated than the “I” of yesterday and not quite so much as the “I” of tomorrow will be. Yet all this movement is relative to a standard. If we’re saying “better” and “worse,” it’s in relation to something. And even though we could say, “Well, yes: that ‘something’ is our former self,” that’s still not quite satisfying. We seem to have the desire to move toward an ultimate goal. It’s always about rising above the natural state we find ourselves in, and more often than not, it’s about detachment. The things that drag us down are things that we can leave behind, religions teach us, and the first step to rising is to make ourselves lighter. Gravity can pulls down harder on more mass; grace works to remove those weights and pull us upward.

While it sounds somewhat more Eastern — more Buddhist or Hindu than Christian — than Fr. Robert Barron, in Catholicism, points out that there is an element of detachment in Jesus’s most famous teachings, the Beatitudes, specifically the four, seemingly negatively framed Beatitudes. Barron begins by reminding us that Thomas Aquinas said there were four substitutes for God: “wealth, pleasure, power, and honor. Sensing the void within, we attempt to fill it up with some combination of these four things, but only by emptying out the self in love can we make the space for God to fill us” (43). The negative Beatitudes, then, are formulas for this emptying, and they form a perfect parallel with Aquinas’s four substitutes.

  1. Wealth: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Barron suggests a slight reformulation: “how blessed are you if you are not attached to material things, if you have not placed the goods that wealth can buy at the center of your concern.”
  2. Pleasure: Another negatively framed Beatitude becomes surprisingly apt for our culture when we reformulate it as Barron does: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” becomes “how blessed […] you are if you are not addicted to good feelings.” It’s easy, Barron says, to see this addition to good feeling in today’s society with its “prevalence of psychotropic drugs, gluttonous habits of consumption, and pronography” (44).
  3. Power: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.” Barron reforms this into, “How lucky you are if you are not attached to the finite good of worldly power” (44). We might be tempted to think this applies only to those with political power, but we all — even children —  have some degree of power and control over someone in the world.
  4. Honor: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” The polar opposite of honor is persecution, and while honor is good, “when love of honor becomes the center of one’s concern, it, like any other finite good, becomes a source of suffering” (45).

This is what Lent is all about: giving up some of the distractions and attachments that tend to pull us downward (often material objects) while paying special attention to the things that lift us up (often some form of giving). It’s a sacrifice of the things for which we often sacrifice everything, our little mini-idols that occupy unhealthy proportions of our thoughts — forty days of detachment.

#11 — Advanced Opinion

Monday 25 February 2013

opinion has an effect

Humility is the great sin of the modern age. Whether it’s “I’m okay; you’re okay” or “I’m the king of the world,” humility is on the other end of that spectrum. Many in the secular world find the notions of Christianity — Catholicism in particular — about the true, fallen nature of humanity to be distasteful because it offends the relatively modern sense of the inherent goodness in humanity. I think it probably has more to do with the humiliation of humility than it does with supposed dignity and inherent moral goodness. This is, of course, not to say that all individuals in today’s culture lack humility — just the prominent ones, the ones we as a society generally look up to.

Humility has as its object to eliminate that which is imaginary in spiritual progress. There is no harm in thinking ourselves far less advanced than we are: the effect of the light is in no way decreased thereby, for its source is not in opinion. There is great harm in thinking ourselves more advanced, because then opinion has an effect.

Having too positive an opinion of ourselves distracts us from the goal almost all religions set before us: the purification of our will. It not only distracts us; it deceives us.

#10 — Existence and Value

Saturday 23 February 2013

Illusions about the things of this world do not concern their existence, but their value.

Keeping a proper perspective about the value of the things around us — the everyday things in our lives, the this and that which are so much more than merely this and that — is probably made both easier and more difficult by the simple fact of having a family. Children and a spouse create routine, and routine risks monotony.

Therein lies the danger.

Saturday morning — breakfast, Skyping with Dziadek and Babcia, taking L to ballet, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, planning for the next week of school, correcting this or that assignment. This mix of truly the meaningful with the truly mundane risks making it all seem mundane.

Therein lines the illusion.

Weil is speaking the illusion that makes actions of inherent evil seem good in some circumstances, but the reverse is equally likely, and probably equally dangerous.

#9 — Sin and Favor

Friday 22 February 2013

I should look upon every sin I have committed as a favor of God.

It happens more often than I would really like to admit: the stumble, the trip, the knee to the ground. It’s never been something I would have thought to be thankful for. More often than not, stumbling into sin lands in humiliation of one sort or another, and humiliation is not something we usually look forward to or like to dwell on. Still, there’s a certain ageless wisdom in what Weil writes:

I should look upon every sin I have committed as a favor of God. It is a favor that the essential imperfection which is hidden in my depths should have been to some extent made clear to me on a certain day, at a certain time, in certain circumstances. I wish and implore that my imperfection my be wholly revealed to me in so far as human thought is capable of grasping it. Not in order that it may be cured but, even if it should not be cured, in order that I may know the truth.

Mistakes, sins, errors all mark progress.

#7 — Authority and Legitimacy

Wednesday 20 February 2013

Obedience to a man whose authority is not illuminated by legitimacy — that is a nightmare.

As a teacher, I think often about authority and legitimacy, and the simple fact that if I lack one, I lack the other. The problem with legitimacy, though, is that many of my students come with different definitions of what legitimacy looks like. I might just have two strikes against me from the beginning — two, or more. When our differing definitions collide, someone often ends up losing. Win-win is a lovely idea, but sometimes, it’s just not practical. Sometimes, the option seems taken before the situation even reaches a full head.

When I read Weil’s suggestion that authority without legitimacy is a nightmare, I realize that, from time to time, my classroom must be a nightmare for these students. It’s a difficult thought to accept.

#5 — The Source of Action

Monday 18 February 2013

To transfer the source of our actions outside ourselves

Motivation is everything. An evil act can be mitigated, somewhat, when we realize the motivation of the act, though a purely evil act can never lead to a pure good. The opposite, of course, is also certainly true: many a good act has been tainted by a less than pure motive.

Weil’s aphorism seems to be one sure way to make sure our motives are as pure as possible. If the source of our actions is outside ourselves — whether in God or man — it seems less likely that we’ll be doing the right things for the wrong reasons.

First Sunday of Lent 2013

Sunday 17 February 2013

Technically speaking, the Sundays within the Lenten season are not fast days; Sundays, the Church teaches, are always feast days. Which means that theoretically, all the things one gives up for Lent are fair game. “Isn’t that cheating?” I’m tempted to ask.

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After all, I really didn’t sacrifice anything of real value — that’s sort of the purpose of Lent, that realization. What’s in my life that has any value remains: family. Cigars? Alcohol? Coffee? Sweets? These things are all relatively meaningless in the larger picture — again, what Lent helps us focus on.

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It’s not like I’m only just barely refraining from desperately grabbing at this or that. Sure, the things I give up for Lent give me a certain amount of pleasure, but they come with a price. Cigars, no matter how infrequently enjoyed, are in no way healthy. Alcohol is easily enough abused and doesn’t add much to life other than some relaxation and pleasure. Sweets? No problem: it’s not really surrender if you hardly ever do it. Coffee? Well, I thought in giving up coffee for the first time this year I might actually be sacrificing something I would really notice, and believe me, that first day without caffeine, I noticed it.

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But after that first day, it was no problem at all. (A small admission: I did drink coffee today. Couldn’t resist.)

Still, when taking into account all the things I could lose, voluntarily or not, I think most all Lenten sacrifices are fairly insignificant — again, a realization that gets at the heart of the whole point of Lent.

 

#4 — Goodness and Will

Saturday 16 February 2013

Good which is done in this way, almost in spite of ourselves, almost shamefacedly and apologetically, is pure. All absolutely pure goodness completely eludes the will. Goodness is transcendent. God is Goodness.

It started with a few, hard flakes that looked more like ice pellets than anything else. Perhaps it was ice. But I didn’t worry: it was good no matter what it was. I strolled back into the house and calmly told the girls, “You won’t believe what’s happening: it’s snowing.” Within a few minutes, the flakes were fat and heavy, a wet snow that accumulated quickly despite the relatively warm weather. L and I changed our afternoon swimming plans and got dressed as quickly as we could, both excited about the prospect of snow. By the time we made it outside, the flakes were enormous and plentiful, and I found myself watching both the snow and the Girl’s excitement with the snow.

Living in South Carolina, snow is such an unpredictable goodness. It’s so rare it can only be counted as a good: at most, it might disrupt traffic for a little while; it could close the school system down for a day or two; but even the most sour, pessimist in the Upstate must smile a bit to see the occasional snow.

Yet it’s so unpredictable. We can literally go for years without any snow, apparently. Every winter, we wonder: will there be snow this winter> Well, at least I wonder, K wonders, the Girl wonders.

First moments outside

First moments outside

I stood there today, though, marveling at the difference between our Upstate winter reality and that of southern Poland. Here, the question is whether nor not it will snow; there, the questions are when the first snow will come, how long it will last, and if it will melt completely before the next snow falls. There, the first snow fall is just the promise of more, just a whisper of what’s to come. Here, it’s the promise, the whisper, and the whole story.

Muddy snowball

Muddy snowball

Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to live in such a place with my family. Perhaps with that much snow, the Girl would come to take it for granted. Is that even possible? Can a child ever grow tired of making snowballs, of digging snow forts, of sledding?

And what of the good, the transcendent good that eludes the will? Perhaps sometimes that good comes from an unexpected change in the weather, a sprinkling of white in an otherwise gray afternoon.

#3 — Choice

Friday 15 February 2013

When we become conscious that we have to make a choice, the choice is already made for good or ill.

I often speak to my students about choice and habits. So many kids have such ingrained reactions that they’ve brought into the classroom from various environments — home, the street, the community center — which simply do not work in a comparatively-formal setting like a classroom. Perceived slights or insults must be avenged, for lack of a better term, and often very little thought has gone into the decision. These habits, I tell them, are going to get them into some serious trouble at some point in the future. “It won’t just be a referral from some teacher who’s fed up. It will be dismissal from work.”

Hanging on my wall is an almost-cliche but very succinct expression of the principle I’m trying to explain:

Be careful what you think, for your thoughts become your words.
Be careful what you say, for your words become your actions.
Be careful what you do, for your actions become your habits.
Be careful what becomes habitual, for your habits become your destiny.

Yet even when some of them try to break their habit, even when they begin thinking before speaking, there’s something in them that just compels them, despite the newly-formed warnings and whistles, to go ahead and say it. That’s the habit part, because hidden in every habit is a bit of an addiction. And so these kids are aware of the choice, but in many ways, by the time they’re aware of it, they’ve already made the decision.

Certainly, to a greater or lesser extent, the same is true for almost all of us. The awareness of this tendency, though, like the awareness of an addiction, is the first step toward correcting it. Or so we tell ourselves.

#2 — Drawn to Chains

Thursday 14 February 2013

We are drawn toward a thing because we believe it is good. We end by being chained to it because it has become necessary.

Certainly the image of being caught in chains or wire is a common image, but for me, the most vivid comes from Legends of the Fall, definitely the most vivid because of the conscious decisions of the writer and director, who juxtapose two such images in the film. The first comes during the First World War: a brother struggles to free another brother, tangled in barbed wire and blinded by mustard gas, as German troops prepare to fire on the helpless young man. The second appears later in the film, as the surviving brother tries to free a calf from a barbed wire fence on his father’s ranch, thus triggering the painful war memories. In both cases, the greater the struggle, the tighter the barbed wire held. It’s probably why sin — or its modern, secularized equivalent, addiction — is so often pictured as a chain.

But the more telling part of Weil’s thoughts here is the phrase “because we believe it is good.” I don’t know where I read it, but a couple of years ago, one of those deliberately incomplete statements meant to be somewhat initially provocative: no one ever commits evil. The knee-jerk reaction is simple: “But of course they do! Just look around the world!” What’s left out in this initial formulation is simple idea that every act we commit we justify until we think everything we do, in some way or another, is good. Even the sadist, who commits awful atrocities against others, somehow thinks his actions are good — at least good for him. Even when we say to ourselves, “I know this is wrong, but I’m going to do it anyway,” we’re adding elliptically, “But in this case, it’s good, not evil.” And thus we are drawn to all sorts of evils because we believe all our acts to be good. Soon, this so-called good becomes necessary, just like nicotine or caffeine.

That’s what I love about Lent. It forces me to look at those things in my life that I have come to regard as necessary and try to loosen the chains a little by simply abandoning them. Lent encourages me to hit a cosmic reset button on myself — inasmuch as that is possible, or even exists, without supernatural aid.

#1 — Gravity and Grace

Wednesday 13 February 2013

It might be an odd choice for Lenten writing: a book by a Jewish thinker, a woman who spent a significant amount of her life under the banner of “radical leftist.” Yet in later life, Simone Weil came as close to converting to Catholicism as one can without actually crossing the line.

Born in France in 1909, Weil studied philosophy before doing the fairly typical leftist “live like the proletariat masses” move. It’s easy to slight that, to suggest that because she had an upper-middle class family to return to it somehow invalidated her effort. Yet reading Weil’s later work and knowing how she died, I’d suggest it was genuine.

For a while, early in World War Two, she stayed on the farm of Gustave Thibon, a philosopher and farmer. It was due to this time spent on the farm that we even have any writings from Weil: when she left for America in 1942, she left a satchel of notebooks with Thibon for editing. She later wrote a letter that informed him that, if he didn’t hear from her for three or four years, he should consider the contents of the manuscripts his own. He didn’t hear from her, and after editing the manuscripts, he published them as Gravity and Grace.

For 40 Things this year — I am trying it yet again — I will be sharing passages from Gravity and Grace (one of the most remarkable books I’ve read) and the thoughts they prompted.

God in the Dative

Sunday 10 February 2013

We must not help our neighbor for Christ, but in Christ. […] In general, the expression “for God” is a bad one. God ought not to be put in the dative.

One of the more difficult, perhaps the most difficult, challenges to learning Polish was getting accustomed to its inflected nature. In English, we tell who did what to whom in a sentence by syntax, where it appears in relation to other words. In the sentence “The dog bites the man,” we know who is doing the biting and who is being bitten by the order: subject verb object; biter bites bitee. Polish and other inflected languages determine these things by adding endings (inflections) to the words. Instead of meaning coming from word order (subject verb object), it comes from word endings. The different meanings are called cases. The subject of a sentence is in nominative case. The direct object is usually in accusative case in most inflected language, but Polish is an odd ball because some direct objects are in genitive case, and all direct objects of negative verbs are in genitive case. Indirect objects, to whom or for whom (i.e., “We gave the dog some treats.”), are in the dative case. In Polish, that usually means adding “-owi”, “-ze”, “-u”, or “-i”to the end of the noun. In English, we just slip it between the verb and the direct object.

So what puzzles me about Weil’s contention that we shouldn’t put God in the dative is how it seems to fly in the face of so much we hear in contemporary Christianity in America. We have “10 Things Young People Can Do for God” and “How to Work for God Effectively” and “Working for God in the Public Square” to name a few articles one can find easily enough. Indeed, it seems to have a Biblical basis. So I wondered what Weil might mean. Perhaps it’s a case of not limiting oneself to the dative case but also the instrumental, accusative, genitive, locative, and vocative cases.