Tolerance is the virtue of a man without convictions.

This is a brief summary of my faith in Christ written as the introduction to a brief paper on the subject for my theology class.

It is my opinion that Jesus Christ is the unique mediator of salvation. My belief in the necessity of salvation for humanity stems from reason and experience; the presence of undeniable evil in the world rationally predicates a need for salvation from said evil. That God exists and that he alone holds the means to our salvation I hold in faith, supplemented by reason such as Aquinas’ and Anselm’s proofs. The one system of belief that shares such an opinion about the need for salvation from evil and sin is Christianity, among whose central tenants is the confession that Jesus Christ, truly God and truly man, died for humanity’s sins and rose, redeeming us before our Father. One need not believe or know of Christ explicitly to attain the salvation he achieved, as the Gospels which give us our knowledge of Jesus suggest the universality of his sacrifice. A sincere discerning and doing of the good, which will inevitably be acting in love, is the key to meriting the salvation uniquely mediated by Christ.

Batter my heart, with a beer sauce

Something Awful is currently featuring a tour of the United States, whose official name is too crude for posting on a family blog. This week's entry is a tour of the Motherland, the Midwest, and includes a pretty-good summary of the Great City of Chicago and a dead-on, perceptive study of the Music Man's hometown, Gary, Indiana, which makes Flint look like Beverly Hills. A caveat: northeastern Indiana, that which hugs the lakeshore, is actually very nice and a desirable resort area. That being said, the rest is true.

SA: The Midwest

It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.

I just finished my third Raymond Chandler book, Farewell, My Lovely. Of his three books that I have read it was the weakest, but that is not to say it was by any means mediocre literature. Marlowe's characterization in Farewell does not match the inisghts of The Big Sleep, and the story was simply not as good as that of The Long Goodbye, which I consider to be his best work.

Of all modern American authors, Chandler is perhaps the most criminally underrated and unknown. Though I hope that somewhere, in some school, his work is taught, I know of no one who has studied him or even heard his mention in class. Whether there is some sort of stigma attached to hardboiled detective literature such as Chandler's or Hammet's I do not know, but I encourage anyone who wants to read genuine American literature to pick up The Long Goodbye and Red Harvest and enjoy their unique narration and mysteries.

The purpose of an open mind is to close it, on some issues.

Last night, as I was enjoying dinner at Martin's Tavern in Georgetown, I happened to tell a particularly humorous joke. During the laughter that followed, I was a little self-conscious about my noise level and looked around at the surrounding diners. I did a double-take, peering again at a familiar gentleman.

Senator Joseph Lieberman was staring right at me. I shut up.

Et in Arcadia Ego

Carlos Mencia is on the television right now, and I find concentrating on my paper is really hard. Thoughts of Machiavelli are pushed out by mental images of me spraying my brains over the wall next to me. Carlos Mencia is that horribly unfunny.

The facts that people watch this show, and that is has been renewed for another season, prove the existence of Satan.

America's Finest News Source

I remember reading this Onion article for the very first time, and dying of laughter. Somehow, I survived, and so I bring this to you, the greatest Onion article ever written:

Mortal Kombat Rumsfeld

Majesty Snowbird

Unfortunately, Sufjan Stevens' finest song has yet to be released on any sort of actual album, so we, his disciples, are forced to listen to crappy live recordings of it. The best one I could find was hosted by Pitchfork. Follow the link; at the bottom of the article right-click the link and save it.

Thanks to Pitchfork, whom we love dearly.

Majesty Snowbird

Islam and Peace

Before one is to discuss whether or not Islam can be accurately described as “a religion of peace,” one must determine what it means to be “a religion of peace.” I believe that there are two definitions that will be useful in exploring this topic: the first definition posits that a religion of peace is one that requires of its adherents a commitment to fostering peace and living a life of nonviolence; the second definition claims that a religion of peace is one that, when lived out properly, ensures peace and security for its adherents. A reading of the Qur’an tells one that Islam cannot claim the former definition, and its resemblance to the latter is debatable.

In regards to the first definition, that a religion of peace requires nonviolence of its members, it is simply not applicable to Islam. Before Sura 2 is completed, the reader will find Allah exhorting the Prophet to tell his people:

“Fight in God’s cause against those who fight you, but do not overstep the limits: God does not love those who overstep the limits. Kill them wherever you encounter them, and drive them out from where they drove you out, for persecution is more serious than killing. Do not fight them at the Sacred Mosque unless they fight you there. If they do fight you, kill them- this is what such disbelievers deserve,” (2: 190-191).

Later, this same Sura includes such writings as “fighting is ordained for you,” (2:216). Such blatant calls for warfare, defensive or offensive, are simply not the hallmarks of what ought to be considered “a religion of peace.”

The second definition, which states that a religion of peace provides security to its adherents, is arguably more accurate than the first in regards to Islam. The Catholic Church, it must be said, recognizes the validity of such ideas as “a just war” and the necessity, however unhappy, of battle in order to preserve long-term peace. In terms of defensive warfare, Sura 3 tells of Muslims to whom it was told “Come, fight for God’s cause, or at least defend yourselves,” (3:167). Certainly, defensive battle to protect one’s life and property has a place even in the lives of peaceful men. This, however, is not the peace Muhammad seemed to settle with. Other places in the Qur’an tell of Allah’s will for Muslim domination (4:91); the history of the religion is parallel. After battle, it could be argued, that under complete Muslim subjugation of the globe, peace would be secured by the victorious Islamic warriors and their submissive dhimmi. This is, I doubt, what most people have in mind when describing a “religion of peace.” Textual evidence from the Qur’an, then, leaves one doubtful of the veracity of the claim that Islam is a “religion of peace.”

Death, a Stoic, and Augustine

This is a brief paper I wrote for my philosophy class last semester, exploring the intellectual relationship between the Stoic Epictetus and Saint Augustine.

Centuries before the birth of Augustine, a Stoic philosopher wrote his handbook for life, the Enchiridion. Around 135 A.D., this man, Epictetus, laid out a set of guidelines for behavior and thought that would lead to a happy, fulfilled life, free of the tyranny of misguided emotions. More than two hundred years later, this text or perhaps others like it were influencing the thought of the young student, Augustine, studying philosophy across the ancient world. Some of the most compelling portions of Epictetus’ Enchiridion are the discourses on death, and a man’s proper response to the inevitable event as it occurred to his loved ones. Augustine himself, as he tells readers in his Confessions, experienced two major deaths of loved ones in his life: that of his best friend, and of his mother Monica. Augustine’s respective reactions to these deaths provide interesting contrasts to the advice presented by Epictetus in the Enchiridion; the death of his friend is taken by Augustine in the exact opposite manner of the stoic’s advice. Augustine’s reaction to Monica’s death, however, shows a more nuanced and complex understanding. The transition in behavior and attitude towards his loved ones’ demises in Augustine displays both a partial acceptance and partial rejection of stoic ideas about death, suggestive of an Enchiridion touched by Christianity.

The Enchiridion contains advice and conjecture on far more than death, and much of Epictetus’ advice is taken and shared by Augustine himself. Long before Augustine taught his students about God as the infinite, highest good, and all other created gifts as good but lower things, Epictetus had this to say: “Aiming therefore at such great things, remember that you must not allow yourself to be carried, even with a slight tendency, towards the attainment of lesser things,” (Epictetus, 1). This theme of right priorities is central to Augustine’s discourses on the nature of sin and evil, which he would define as the choosing of a lesser good over the greater. This concept of evil reduces it to a lack of goodness or a disordered choice; evil’s existence as a substance Augustine denies. So to does Epictetus, who states “as a mark is not set up for the sake of missing the aim, so neither does the nature of evil exist in the world,” (Epictetus, 27). In Augustine’s later life, after his conversion, he spoke highly critically of the gladiatorial spectacles he tried to avoid but ended up attending in college; Epictetus also decries these events and encourages his reader to “avoid public and vulgar entertainments,” (Epictetus, 33). These consistencies and overlaps suggest that Augustine, during his studies, was greatly influenced by the writings of the stoics, if not Epictetus himself.

As written earlier, one of the Enchridion’s most controversial points is the advice to avoid grief after the death of a loved one. This point is best laid out as follows:

With regard to whatever objects give you delight, are useful, or are deeply loved, remember to tell yourself of what general nature they are, beginning from the most insignificant things… If you kiss your child, or your wife, say that you only kiss those things which are human, and thus you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.

(Epictetus, 3)

Epictetus continues several paragraphs later in the same vein, saying “Death, for instance, is not terrible… but the terror consists in our notion of death that it is terrible,” (Epictetus, 5). People would be so much happier, claims Epictetus, if only they did not take human life (and subsequent death) so seriously and gravely. By avoiding dangerously intimate relationships with other human beings, one can avoid the pain and overwhelming sadness that often comes with the death of a loved one, very much like the pain and overwhelming sadness that struck Augustine the student after the death of his best friend.

Surprised and somewhat offended by his feverish friend’s sickbed reversion to Catholicism, Augustine was ill-prepared to deal with the seemingly recovering young man’s death. Indeed, Augustine seemed to do everything wrong, according to Epictetus, in order to react properly to death. While Epictetus teaches that “if you wish your children, and your wife, and your friends to live forever, you are stupid” (Epictetus 14), Augustine admits that he had loved his friend “as though he would never die,” (Augustine, IV.6.11). This anti-stoic attitude proves just as disastrous as Epictetus himself would predict. Augustine describes his feelings after his friend’s death in no uncertain terms: “Black grief closed over my heart… I hated all things because they held him not… Weeping alone brought me solace, and took my friend’s place as the only comfort of my soul,” (Augustine, IV.4.9). The mourning continues for paragraphs, and Augustine shows no sign of improvement. “I simply mourned and wept, for I was beset with misery and bereft of my joy,” (Augustine IV.5.10). It is important to remember that Augustine wrote all of these things after his conversion, and at the time of authorship held a very negative view of his behavior at this time. The nature of his dismal life at this point he explains himself, saying “miserable… is everyone whose mind is chained with friendship by mortal things, and is torn apart by their loss,” (Augustine IV.6.11). Mortal things, by nature must die, and Epictetus seconds Augustine’s notion, stating that trying to control such things will end up badly, much like Augustine: “You will lament, you will be disturbed, and you will find fault both with gods and men,” (Epictetus 1).

After this traumatic event, Augustine continued his studies and eventually converted to Catholicism. It is after this conversion that his beloved mother, Monica, died. His initial reactions to her death seem to be more in line with the teachings of the Enchridion. In opposition to his wildly depressed behavior after his friend’s death, Augustine says “I was silent, holding back my tears,” (Augustine, IX.11.27), and “a huge sadness surged into my heart, tears welled up, but in response to a ferocious command from my mind my eyes held the fount in check,” (Augustine IX.12.29). Indeed, the reaction of his compatriots likens to that of ideal stoics: “We judged it unfitting to mark this death by plaintive protests and laments… customarily employed to mourn… death as complete extinction,” (Augustine, IX.12.29). So far, the difference from expected stoic reaction exists only in Augustine’s deep sadness, hidden to others. However, as this passage continues, the reader sees great variation with the stoics: “But she neither died in misery nor died altogether,” (Augustine IX.12.29). Regardless of Epictetus’ belief in an afterlife (or lack thereof), the Christian notion of heaven as it existed for Augustine is foreign to a stoic. As time passes after Monica’s death, Augustine can no longer bear the repression. “The tears that I had been holding back I now released to flow as plentifully as they would,” (Augustine, IX.12.33). This grief, however, is far more controlled than that he experienced after his friend’s death, and Augustine even chastised himself for feeling it so greatly as it happened: “I was perhaps guilty of some carnal affection,” (Augustine, IX.12.34) and “I chided myself with weakness for feeling as I did,” (Augustine, IX.12.31). In the end, Augustine declares his heart “healed of that wound,” (Augustine IX.12.34).

While Augustine mourned both his friend’s and his mother’s passing, the degrees to which he does each are strikingly different. As far as the reader can tell from the writings, Augustine’s reaction to Monica’s death seems to be formed mindful of both stoic advice and Christian piety, in a compelling melding of ideas that had the power to change the very nature of his reaction to the final human experience itself, death.

Saint Augustine. The Confessions. 3rd ed. Hyde Park, New York: New City P, 2005.

Epictetus. "The Enchiridion." The Internet Classics Archive. 11 Nov. 2006 .

Wiesenthal's Sunflower and Forgiveness

A rather long paper for this semester's class on Personal and Political Forgiveness:

In Simon Wiesenthal’s reflective work The Sunflower, troubling questions about the morality of forgiveness are raised. While reading Wiesenthal’s own account of his encounter with repentance, and the various responses of sundry public figures it garnered, one is faced with issues such as the “appropriateness” of forgiveness, repentance’s nature to forgiveness and communal or “group” forgiveness. I will undertake to outline the opinions of familiar philosophers and authors on these issues, my responses to them, along with a brief study of Wiesenthal’s and his responders’ understandings of the issue, and my own response to Wiesenthal’s dilemma. This essay is not meant to debate or create a definition of “forgiveness,” as there is not enough space to do so and give fair time to the issues at hand. Therefore, the reader will have to understand “forgiveness,” as the term is used in this essay, in an unfortunately vague and only operative sense common, I assume, to most modern Americans. The reader shall find arguments suggesting that forgiveness is a positive end that should be seen as an eventual goal in all situations of wrongdoing, that repentance of a wrongdoer itself (or the lack thereof) should not influence the decision of a victim to forgive, and that one should have great hesitation to endorse ideas of group guilt and forgiveness.

In response to questions about the general appropriateness of forgiveness, philosopher Jeffrie G. Murphy provides moderately skeptical answers in his work Getting Even: Forgiveness and Its Limits. Murphy is a man who, I believe, would be greatly hesitant to repudiate Wiesenthal for his refusal to verbally forgive the repentant Nazi. Murphy summarizes his thesis in his preface: “We all know the cliché that ‘to err is human; to forgive, divine,’ but I think we also need to recall S.J. Perelman’s variation on this cliché: ‘To err is human; to forgive, supine.’ The message of this book is that the truth lies somewhere between these two extremes,” (Murphy, ix). In a chapter of Getting Even devoted to repentance, Murphy actually cites The Sunflower and one of its respondents, Cynthia Ozick, who says of the Nazi, “Let him go to hell.” After leaving the hospital without giving the Nazi his own form of potential absolution, Wiesenthal experiences significant pangs of doubt about his decision. This doubt, apparently, was so great that it compelled him to seek the advice of respected thinkers some two decades after the fact, and continually since then. It is telling that in such a situation, where a man having committed horrible atrocities is not explicitly forgiven by a man who is associated by heritage with the victims, still causes moral anxiety years later.

Murphy does to some extent value and even promotes forgiveness, but he does not at all believe it to be a universal mandate for victims. “Even at my most sympathetic attachment to forgiveness, however, I have tried to retain a sense of the legitimacy of resentment and other vindictive passions,” (Murphy, 115). This rather self-contradictory viewpoint provides Murphy with troublesome paradoxes throughout his work, and reflects its nature as a whole by providing his readers with a muddled answer, at best. Trudy Govier, in Forgiveness and Reconciliation, is a secular philosopher, unlike the Anglican Murphy, whose Christian faith’s emphasis on forgiving he finds difficult to reconcile with his tendency to legitimize vengeance. It is Govier, the secular writer, who holds a much clearer position on the issue, one that is overwhelmingly in favor of forgiveness, and set against Murphy’s defenses of retribution, referencing and refuting them often.

Govier makes it clear that forgiveness has positive effects for not only the offender, but also the forgiver. Referring to a hypothetical victim of wrongdoing, Govier states “although what she has suffered will always be part of her, she need not base her identity on the fact that she was wronged. In the process of forgiveness the victim comes to be more than a victim, and the offender is freed to become more than an offender,” (Govier, 48). This potential for human growth seems to be lost on Murphy and those responders to Wiesenthal who insist upon and appear moderately obsessed with the carrying out of justice; to use a cliché, “living in the past.” For Govier, forgiveness recognizes the wrongs of the past while providing for a brighter future: “Thus, what forgiveness requires is not forgetting. Rather, it is the firm locution of a wrong in the past, and the avoidance of partisan, grievance-oriented remembering,” (Govier 61). Without becoming ignorant to or condoning the committed wrong, this opinion actually focuses on the people involved, refusing to deny humanity for the sake of justice. It is this forward-looking nature, intent upon the growth of the individual, that places such a philosophy of forgiveness morally above the tepid approval of Murphy and outright embraces of vengeance found in some of The Sunflower’s essays.

This forgiveness, a personal, emotional and intellectual decision by an individual, does not by any means deny the right of punitive measures or abrogates justice. Govier never claims that by forgiving one gives up the right to redress the wrongs committed. But it should, perhaps, give pause to those who claim to “forgive” and seek extraordinarily harsh punishments. While Murphy and others claim that forgiveness may not give suitable dignity to the victim, such is a third-party viewpoint that does not actually consider the victim, but the appearance of his or her actions. For if one truly forgives, it is then that they have validated themselves and their inherent worth that was attacked by the wrongdoer in their uniquely human action of forgiving.

Wiesenthal seems to believe that the Nazi who asked his forgiveness was sincerely repentant, and was sorry for his crimes. Even so, he was not swayed to forgive the dying SS man. All of the authors cited so far recognize and understand as important the notion of repentance. Murphy claims that the interior mental act of repentance “may be seen simply as the remorseful acceptance of responsibility for the evil that one sees in one’s character, the repudiation of that evil, and the sincere resolve to do one’s best to extirpate it,” (Murphy, 41). I find this to be a suitable operative definition to keep in mind. Murphy also believes that “sincere… repentance might reasonably be made a condition of forgiveness,” (Murphy 39). This belief is certainly not shared by all of the thinkers whom with we are familiar.

Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the former head of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, passionately defends forgiveness, and specifically political “group” forgiveness, in his book enlighteningly titled No Future Without Forgiveness. The operation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission involved the granting of political amnesty to any person who came before the Commission and confessed to their crimes under apartheid. This system was widely criticized, not infrequently because no repentance need be shown or admitted to by those confessing to the crimes. Tutu, although initially wary, defends this system as the most fair: “For if the applicant was effusive in his protestations in being sorry… he would have been condemned for being totally insincere… If, on the other hand, he was somewhat abrupt and merely formal, he would have been accused of being… not really repentant,” (Tutu, 50). As far as political forgiveness is concerned, Tutu believes that it is simply not practical or wise to demand repentance for amnesty. However, even were an applicant to successfully gain amnesty, he is by no means guaranteed to actually be “forgiven” by his immediate victims or the rest of the population he oppressed. Repentance only marginally concerns Tutu, and never as a prerequisite for forgiveness.

Govier shares Tutu’s opinion that repentance should not have to precede forgiveness. She too recognizes the dangers and impracticality of waiting for remorse from the offender, and approvingly quotes Margaret Holmgren: “’[T]he appropriateness of forgiveness has nothing to do with the actions, attitudes, or position of the wrongdoer. Instead it depends on the internal preparations of the person who forgives,’” (Govier, 62). It is obvious that in several cases, requiring repentance before forgiveness is impossible; when the offender is dead, unreachable, or unable to communicate there is no way to forgive them if one requires the offender to show remorse. Yet this does not make it easier for a victim to forgive when their offender shows no remorse or, even worse, gloats and is pleased with his deed. However, I maintain, with Tutu and Govier, that it is wrong and harmful to forgive only when the offender is repentant.

Forgiving before remorse, if possible, can be beneficial for both the victim and eventually the offender. Govier explains, “no victim will benefit, psychologically or morally from clinging to a resentful sense of her own victimhood and dwelling in the past,” (Govier, 63), even, she believes, when the offender is unrepentant. Secondly, there is no way to know that the offender, while indifferent now, will not one day feel remorse for his actions. Were such a day to come, it might actually have been partially facilitated by the knowledge that his or her own victim had already forgiven him, and recognized his own humanity. Like the universal appropriateness of forgiveness, such an understanding is positive and future-looking for both victim and offender.

Wiesenthal’s great hesitation, I believe, in forgiving the Nazi was his doubt in his actual ability and “place” to do so, as he was not nor was he related to any of the victims of the SS man’s actions. While my own response would have differed from Wiesenthal, his hesitation is perfectly understandable and reasonable, for the Nazi’s request raised frustratingly difficult questions of group guilt and forgiveness. Wiesenthal retells his camp friend Josek’s reaction to the story: “You would have had no right to [forgive him] in the name of people who had not authorized you to do so. What people have done to you yourself, you can, if you like, forgive and forget.” Wiesenthal counters: “But aren’t we a single community with the same destiny, and one must answer for the other,” (Wiesenthal, 65).

The problem is multifaceted: the Nazi had probably done no particular harm to Wiesenthal, but his identity as an SS man (an identity of choice) was reason on top of his actions to be resented. Wiesenthal, as stated before, was not one of the victims of the SS man’s cruelty. However, the SS man did indeed harm him in a far more subtle sense; his victims’ only crime was being Jewish, their punishment was for being Jewish, and Wiesenthal was, of course, Jewish. The Nazi’s crime was perpetrated only because these people were members of a certain community, the same to which Wiesenthal belonged, and their very value as human beings was denied because of it. Therefore, the Nazi had, in a way, denied Wiesenthal’s own human dignity and value, and harmed him. In this way, Wiesenthal did have something for which to forgive the dying SS man, but I do not believe that he was focused upon this. He was, very understandably, disgusted by the SS man’s actions and confused about his own ability to forgive the man for them, rather than for the indirect attack on his own dignity.

I believe that Wiesenthal should have simply told the man “I forgive you.” Whether there was enough time in that makeshift hospital room to actually come around to forgiveness I do not know, but it should have been a goal for Wiesenthal. The Nazi, after all, just wanted to hear these words from a single Jew. He understood the enormity of the task he was asking, and perhaps knew that the Jew he would beg mercy from would not have the ability to forgive him on the part of those he killed. But the fact that he recognized he needed forgiveness from a member of the Jewish community was in itself a realization of his crime as one against the entire community. The Jew, Wiesenthal, could very well have forgiven him for this denial of his dignity as a human as the result of his Jewish heritage. Such an opinion is shared by the majority of The Sunflower’s Christian responders, such as Cardinal Franz Konig, and Martin Marty.

It seems to me that Wiesenthal had this capacity to forgive the man because he was, indeed, a Jew, but that his forgiveness of the man (were it to have occurred) would not have been by any means forgiveness by the group, the Jewish community. Reading some of The Sunflower’s Jewish responders, such as Cynthia Ozick, proves this fact. Wiesenthal’s forgiveness would have been just that, his own, but it would have eased the (deservedly) tortured soul of the German. As a Catholic, I have to believe in the goodness of mercy, including such small mercies as this. And my belief in the afterlife and Judgment by God also makes the forgiveness of other humans, at the moment of death, insignificant in a cosmic sense. However, divine forgiveness is a topic for another paper.

Groups, especially large ones such as the Jewish community, or Germans, or black South Africans, are necessarily large and made up of a myriad of individuals, each with his or her own beliefs, values, and attitudes. When one speaks of group forgiveness, it is naïve to believe that all members of a wronged group will forgive an offender, or perhaps that even most of them will. When is it correct to say that a group has forgiven? Does it occur when 100% of its members pledge forgiveness? A simple majority? Perhaps two-thirds? One can speak of most or many members of a group having forgiven an offender, but not the group itself. Such topics also beg the idea of group guilt. Were all “Aryan” Germans and Afrikaners guilty of oppressing Jews and blacks? Should the group somehow apologize? Who should be the one to apologize? When Desmond Tutu accepted an apology on the behalf of his church, there was a furor. Would this not be so for the one doing the apologizing? Certainly not all Germans or Afrikaners oppressed the victims of hatred in their country, and not all probably sat by idly. For such large groups, whose membership is not by choice but by birth or nature, applying blanket guilt and blame is wrong. To do so is not only to commit injustice to those who did fight the system, though they were not oppressed, but also lets those truly guilty off easy by lumping them with their perhaps more innocent populations. Individuals can apologize; this happened, in some form and in some cases, in Tutu’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Such groups cannot.

I would like to point out some special exceptions. There exist, of course, groups in which membership consists of a choice to belong. Political parties, special interest groups, sports teams and to an extent, faiths belong in this category. For my purposes, I shall use the example of my own faith, the Roman Catholic Church. It is an undeniable fact that the Church, being both its hierarchy and lay membership, has fostered in its history recurring themes of anti-Semitism. Thankfully, the modern era and papal declarations such as Paul VI’s Nostra Aetate have freed the Church from overwhelming anti-Semitism and prejudice against Jewish “Christ-killers.” However, Pope John Paul II publicly acknowledged the Church’s historical guilt in such beliefs and apologized for them, although he himself did not hold them, nor did any truly representative proportion of the flock he led. “As bishop of Rome and successor of the Apostle Peter, I assure the Jewish people that the Catholic Church, motivated by the Gospel law of truth and love, and by no political considerations, is deeply saddened by the hatred, acts of persecution and displays of anti-Semitism directed against the Jews by Christians at any time and in any place,” (John Paul II).

Is there then, such a thing as historical guilt? Did John Paul actually have anything for which to apologize? In most other cases, I would say “no,” such as modern white Americans apologizing for slavery. However, Catholic belief in the communion of saints and the Church being made up of all its members, living and those living in the afterlife, makes appropriate John Paul’s seeking of forgiveness. Though I do not deny that there may be other such examples out there, this is the only time I can think of in which apologizing for historical group guilt may be justified and helpful. It should not be expected that all members of the white community seek forgiveness when a Klansman assaults a minority, as the Klan is not representative of mainstream white culture. A group can only be guilty if a wrong was committed on its behalf and according to its beliefs, such as individual cases of Catholics oppressing Jews in the past, during periods of accepted anti-Semitism. In such a case apology ought to be sought. When a wrong is committed against a person due to their membership in a certain group, that entire group is also wronged, and its individual members have the ability (and responsibility) to forgive.

The issues broached by Simon Wiesthenthal’s The Sunflower are many, and I have attempted to provide better understandings to those which I found most compelling. Forgiveness is always appropriate and beneficial when performed truly and sincerely, and should have been so for Wiesenthal and his dying Nazi. The repentance of a wrongdoer should not be a prerequisite for forgiveness, and group forgiveness and guilt should be approached slowly and cautiously, to ensure justice for both the innocent and guilty. Such is my belief and the belief of my Church: Forgiveness offers all people betterment, as all people both offend and are offended.

Bibliography

1. Wiesthenal, Simon. The Sunflower. 1997, 1998. Shocken Books: New York.

2. Murphy, Jeffrie G. Getting Even: Forgiveness and Its Limits. 2003. Oxford University Press: New York.

3. Govier, Trudy. Forgiveness and Revenge. 2002. Routledge: New York.

4. Tutu, Desmond. No Future Without Forgiveness. 1999. Image Doubleday: New York.

5. Pope John Paul II. “Speech at Yad Vashem.” 3/23/2000, accessed 3/13/2007. < style="">

Divine Love and Eros

A paper for this semester's medieval theology class:

It could easily be argued that modern society, both its secular and religious aspects, is uncomfortable associating eros, a longing and perhaps romantic desire, with humanity’s relationship to God. Far more common is it to relegate the love of God to a more abstract and impersonal or “appropriate” human model. However, two great Christian philosophers, Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite and Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, embrace the notion of divine love as eros. Both men, in The Divine Names and On Loving God, respectively, describe God’s love as a desirous, self- perpetuating goodness that comes to humanity of its own generosity, and wills for its return by creation. This return is a key aspect of God’s yearning, for is not erotic love only fulfilled in reciprocity? This is not to suggest any weakness or dependence in God’s nature; rather, it highlights both Pseudo-Dionysius and Bernard’s belief in the necessity of humanity’s devoted response to it. Each author’s adherence to this thesis and their slight deviations from it are here discussed.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension many would have in regards to labeling God’s love as a desire, Pseudo-Dionysius spends much time referencing Scripture and Church Fathers in defense of his naming of divine “yearning.” “So let us not fear this title of ‘yearning’ nor be upset by what anyone has to say about these two names for, in my opinion, the scared writers regard ‘yearning’ and ‘love’ as having one and the same meaning,” (Ps. D., 709B). Bernard, in turn, looks to the overtly romantic Song of Songs for implicit approval of naming the divine love eros, and furthermore licensing explorations of that theme.

The passage in The Divine Names which most nearly approaches the thesis, namely, that God’s love is a desirous, self- perpetuating goodness that comes to humanity of its own generosity, and wills for its return by creation, reads as such: “the divine longing is Good seeking good for the sake of the Good,” (Ps. D., 708B). The proper “Good” here refers to God, while the common “good” is his creation. Therefore, this desire, while seeking out creation by its nature, is itself separate from and independent from creation. God himself, the perfect Trinity, does not actually need humanity to exist. The fact, then, that Almighty God deigns to not only give Himself for but in fact desires the love of humanity is a cause for both gratitude and worship. When one considers that all creation, mankind included, is itself the product of God’s love, devotion is the only appropriate response. Says Pseudo-Dionysius: “And, in truth, it must be said too that the very cause of the universe in the beautiful, good superabundance of his benign yearning for all is also carried outside of himself in the loving care he has for everything,” (Ps. D., 712B).

For Pseudo-Dionysius, the reasons to love God in return are self-evident. “’For from Him and through Him and in Him and to Him are all things,’ says holy scripture. And so it is that all things must desire, must yearn for, must love, the Beautiful and the Good,” (Ps. D., 708A-B). In much the same vein, Bernard states: “Surely he deserves to be loved in return when we think of he who loves, whom he loves, how much he loves. Is it not he to whom every spirit confesses, saying, ‘You are my God, for you do not need the goods I have’?” (Bernard, p. 50). The vast majority of The Divine Names is, save for several passages such as the former referenced, a metaphysical examination of the nature of God’s love. Bernard, however, spends more time examining the appropriate and practical human response to this love, which he outlines in a four-step process.

Bernard believes that this response begins with man’s love for himself for his own sake. Besides fulfilling the desires of ones own body and mind, including emotional needs, Bernard includes the love of other human beings in this same category. “It is wholly right that he who is your fellow in nature should not be cut off from you in grace, especially in the grace innate in nature,” (Bernard, p. 74). Divine yearning, having come from God to the human soul, then begins its process of returning itself to itself. The soul begins to love God for it’s own sake. So far, this process was left relatively untouched by Dionysius, and as far as the two authors are concerned, is uniquely expressed by Bernard. It is in the third stage, when the soul loves God for God’s own sake, that the reader begins to again sense Dionysian themes. This develops from man’s love of God for his own sake, for as he prays for his own good he discovers greatness of God, or, as Bernard says, “to discover by tasting how sweet the Lord is,” (Bernard, p. 76). This stage is proper reciprocation for the desiring of God, “he who loves in this way loves as he is loved,” (Bernard, p.77), but it is not the completion of the cycle for all humankind. Indeed, Bernard once again goes beyond Dionysius by describing a fourth stage, when man loves himself for the sake of God. “To love in this way is to become like God,” (Bernard, p. 79). This stage is vastly different from the other stages, as it is suggested that it can only occur after the death of the mortal body. “So it is in a spiritual and immortal body, a perfect body, beautiful and at peace and subject to the spirit in all things, that the soul hopes to attain the fourth degree of love,” (Bernard, p. 80). The completion of this yearning-cycle is the returning of God’s love by the soul in its own ascent to the realm of its Maker and Lover.

Pseudo-Dionysius’ idea of Divine Eros’ proodos and epistrophe is reflected in both his Divine Names and Bernard’s On Loving God. While Pseudo-Dionysius deigns to explore the nature of this yearning, Bernard extends this exploration into the human response. While they diverge perhaps in the detailed understanding of human response (nowhere, for instance, does Pseudo-Dionysius suggest that the soul loving itself is ever beyond its loving God), both thinkers present the reader with a living, vibrant God, whose love is ever given in a flow to mankind, from Itself, and returning thence by our own love.

Paper Alert

From time to time, I will post my brief academic works on this website for popular perusal and feedback. I am currently an undergraduate at Villanova University in Pennsylvania, studyin all manners of the liberal arts. Let this post serve as fair warning.

[Edit] I realize this will occasionally result in a lot of scrolling; get over it.

This one doesn't count.

I should add that I hope to title as many of my posts as possible with a quote I find particularly enjoyable.

You worship God in your way, and I in His.

This, I admit, is not my first attempt at blogging. I do hope, however, that it will be my most successful and lasting. As the title of this blog should suggest, my interests are varied and "eclectic" (get it? Haha!), encompassing American , international, and theoretical politics, religion, cultural criticism, film, and music. There is surely more, but that sentence was just beggining to drag. Thank you for reading; I appreciate comments and love conversing, so please tell me your thoughts.