RonRolheiser,OMI

All Lives Matter

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Theodore Roethke begins his poem In a Dark Time, with these words: “In a dark time, the eye begins to see.”

 We live in a dark time, one beset with hatred, bitter divisions, and wars that, daily, are bringing death and incalculable trauma to millions of people. But are our eyes beginning to see?

Sometimes in a dark time, irreverent humor can help us see. Here’s an example: Recently I was leading a retreat at a renewal center near a beach. Taking a walk on the beach during one of our breaks, I saw three young men sitting on the back of a pickup truck. The truck’s stereo was blasting music that could be heard for hundreds of yards, and the three young men, their baseball caps turned backwards, were joyously hoisting beer cans and happily waving to everyone around them. And above the truck flew a large flag which read: Drunk lives matter! Their joyous irreverence lifted my spirits, as it did too for the retreatants when I shared the story with them.

Yes, sometimes we see that even drunk lives matter. All lives matter.

That all lives matter needs to be highlighted right now because today we are being given the strong impression from some of our top government officials and others that some lives don’t matter, at least not as much as our own and those of our loved ones. Here’s the point:

During the past weeks, the USA and Israel have been at war with Iran, a war that has destabilized millions of lives. During these weeks there have been 15,000 bombing strikes in Iran and Lebanon, and Iran has retaliated with countless strikes directed against USA and Israeli interests.

A number of American and Israeli lives have been lost and several hundred Americans and Israelis have been injured. And we have properly mourned those deaths and injuries, mourned that these precious lives were lost or injured. Our empathy let us see that these lives were precious and that some irreplaceable oxygen left the planet when each of them died. We recognized that their lives mattered. And that’s to our credit.

However, during this time, more than 2000 lives have been lost in Iran and Lebanon and hundreds of thousands have had their lives ripped apart irrevocably, and (at least publicly) we have not awarded them the same empathy that we gave to our own. For us, it seems, their lives were not as precious as our own.

Perhaps this can be excused (or at least understood) by the fact that we don’t see these other lives firsthand. They’re far from us, abstract, faceless, nameless, Iranians and Lebanese.

However, what’s not excusable is the very cavalier and callous way this war and those deaths are being talked about by some government leaders and others around them. Their language in the face of all these deaths and the dislocation of millions is the language of celebration; what one might hear at a football game when your home team is humiliating a hated foe. We’re beating them! We’re humiliating them! We’re bombing them into oblivion! Yay!

Where is our empathy for their suffering, for their dead, for the millions of lives that are now being torn apart by death, dislocation, and heartbreak? It’s as if Iranian and Lebanese deaths aren’t real, like the virtual killings in a video game. Even the title of this war smacks of a video game: Epic Fury! But this isn’t a video game. Real people are dying. Hundreds are dead and millions are living with hearts that are breaking or in despair.

We are called by what’s best in us is to touch that part of our heart where we care for more than only our own. We need to touch that deeper empathic part inside us that can say (and say out loud): Iranian lives matter! Lebanese lives matter! All lives matter! Every life is as precious as my own.

Of course, we also need to keep saying that American lives and Israeli lives matter.

All human lives are equally precious in God’s eyes. As St. Paul says in his Letter to the Galatians (3,28): “There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Jesus Christ.” In effect, that’s saying that in Christ there is no American or Iranian, no Israeli or Lebanese, no lives that don’t matter or matter less than other lives.

War is war and there can even be just wars, and understandably people die in wars. That can be accepted.

But, we have better hearts than falling into selective empathy. We have better hearts than to celebrate the death and the destruction of lives as we would celebrate the triumph of our favorite sports team demolishing a hated rival. We have better hearts than seeing the deaths and the destruction of countless lives as not fully real, like the dead in video games.

We’re better than that!

Reality’s Immune System

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Thomas Moore, the author of Care of the Soul, teaches that our most important spiritual task is to listen to the promptings of our own soul. If listened to in honesty, it will guide us, protect us, and keep us healthy.

I heard him present this to an audience in a church setting and after he had finished his presentation, someone voiced this strong objection: “I’m a married man, what if my soul tells me to have an affair?”  Moore responded to this effect: Your soul will never tell you that. Your soul is your moral and spiritual immune system. Just as your physical immune system will never prompt you to do things that are bad for your physical health, so too your soul will never prompt you to do things that are bad for your moral and spiritual health. Your soul, just like your body, has an immune system that protects your health.

What Moore says of the individual soul is also true for the soul of this world. Reality has an immune system, a moral arc, which protects our health and lets us know when it is violated.

This has various expressions. For example, Jesus teaches this clearly: The measure you measure out is the measure that you will receive. (Mark 4, 24) What’s implied here is that reality has a moral structure, ultimately grounded on love that cannot be violated without consequence. It gives back in kind, rewarding goodness with goodness and malice with malice. The air we breathe out is the air we will re-inhale (even true literally).

In Buddhism and Hinduism this takes expression in what they call the Law of Karma. In street language, the Law of Karma teaches that what goes around comes around. Reality is so structured that we always eventually reap the consequences of our own actions. When we act altruistically, good things will come to us, and when we act selfishly we will reap some unhappy consequences. In essence no one gets away with anything, and no virtuous deed goes unrewarded.

What both Jesus and the Law of Karma teach is that just as our physical bodies have an immune system that guides and protects us and that can never be ignored or violated without consequence, reality too has an immune system, an inviolable moral structure, that cannot be ignored or violated without consequences. Ultimately, we reap what we sow, with no exceptions. Virtue is its own reward, sin its own punishment.

However, this doesn’t always appear to be true on the surface of things. Sometimes it looks like sin is being rewarded and virtue is being punished. But that is mostly at the level of our emotions. Emotionally, it’s natural to envy the amoral. Nikos Kazantzakis puts this rather colorfully: “Virtue sits completely alone on the top of a desolate ledge. Through her mind pass all the forbidden pleasure which she has never tasted – and she weeps!”

We see this kind of envy in the older brother of the Prodigal Son. He resents the fact that his younger brother gave himself over to sensuous hedonism, while he himself stayed the moral course. To him it seemed his younger brother had grasped life, while he, in timidity, had missed out on it.

However, his father’s words to him are meant to dispel his (and our) envy of the amoral. The Prodigal Father, God, tells the older brother not to envy his younger brother’s promiscuity and hedonism. From outward appearance it may have looked like life, but in the father’s words: Your brother was dead!

There is a moral arc inside all created reality, a moral immune system, that is meant to protect the universe and all of us in it. Virtue is its own reward, sin its own punishment. Both the Law of Karma and Jesus assure us that the measure you measure out is the measure that you will receive. No good deed goes unrewarded and no selfish deed enhances one’s life.

I did my doctoral thesis on the proofs for the existence of God. I examined Thomas Aquinas’ famous Five Ways, Anselm’s intriguing Ontological Argument, Descartes’ take on this,and numerous commentaries on these various arguments that attempt to prove the existence of God. In the end, I concluded that we cannot prove the existence of God, as one might prove a truth through a mathematical equation or a strict scientific hypothesis.

But this doesn’t mean that these proofs aren’t helpful. They work in another way. They point you to a certain way of living, namely, where you don’t look to find the reality of God at the end of an equation, but where you look to experience the reality of God through living in an honest, moral way.

There’s a moral arc inside all of reality, an immune system, that, I believe, is a clear proof for the existence of God, for it tells us that a personal, altruistic love lies at the basis of everything and it may never be violated.

Storms We Cannot Weather

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In the musical Les Miserables, there’s a particularly haunting song, sung by a dying woman (Fantine) who has been crushed by virtually every unfairness life can deal a person. Abandoned by her husband, sexually harassed by her employer, caught in abject poverty, physically ill and dying, even as her main anxiety is about what will happen to her young daughter after she dies, she offers this lament:

But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So much different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed.

For centuries, in our popular mind, despair was understood as the ultimate and unforgivable sin against God and against nature. We weren’t always sure how exactly to define despair, but we saw it as someone giving up on life, on God, on love, and on meaning. Suicide was often seen as its prime analogate, ultimate despair.

This notion needs to be radically rethought, not just for own consolation when we see loved ones collapse into seeming despair, but also because it belittles God.

The popular notion that someone who seemingly gives up on life and God and dies in that state is guilty of a sin that cannot be forgiven and is condemned to an eternity outside the community of love, is based on some serious misunderstandings. What are those misunderstandings?

First, what’s best in us doesn’t believe this at all. What’s best in us understands human weakness and the anatomy of a collapse of soul. And what’s best in us reaches out in empathy to those who collapse in this way, not least because we understand their weakness.

Second, the notion that a certain collapse of soul (seeming despair) is somehow an act against life itself and against the God who gave us life, is theologically false. It goes against the foundational principle running through all of scripture, namely, that God has a special, preferential love for the weak, for those not strong enough to stand, for those who have collapsed under the burdens of life.

Even more important, the notion that someone who collapses in this way puts himself or herself irrevocably outside of God’s mercy is an insult to God, a belittling of God’s person and God’s love. It’s predicated on the misguided belief that if we do not hang onto God, God will not hang on to us. If we give up on God, God will give up on us. That’s utterly false, and a belittling of God’s person and God’s fidelity.

At the very heart of what Jesus incarnated and revealed about the heart of God lies the truth that God does not abandon us, particularly when, crushed in body and spirit, we give up on God. God will never abandon us because we are too weak and wounded to hang on to God.

Moreover, as Christians we believe (as we affirm in the Apostles’ Creed) that Jesus descended into hell, not just once after his death on Good Friday, but forever afterwards. Whenever Christ sees someone whose circumstance and wound have landed him or her in a private hell from which he or her can see no way of escaping and instead surrenders to hopelessness, Christ never says, since you gave up on me, I give up on you! No, that’s not the God we believe in. Rather Christ descends into that hell and breathes out forgiveness and peace. There is no hell, no collapse of soul, no despair into which Christ cannot penetrate and breathe out peace. If there is anyone in hell, he or she is there because of arrogance, not because of weakness.

It’s not incidental that the Church canonizes certain people and declares them, by name, to be in heaven, whereas it has never, by name, declared anyone to be in hell, not even Judas who betrayed Jesus with a kiss and then (seemingly in despair) died by suicide.

In a book entitled Peculiar Treasures, the renowned novelist and spiritual writer Frederick Buechner reflects on the death of Judas. Buechner, who had lost his own father to suicide, speculates on the reasons Judas dies in what outwardly looks like despair. He suggests that perhaps Judas chose suicide out of hope instead of despair, that is, he felt dammed and counted on Jesus’ mercy after death, thinking that perhaps “hell might be his last chance of making it to heaven.” 

Imagining Jesus meeting Judas after death, Buechner writes: “It’s a scene to conjure with. Once again they met in the shadows, the two old friends, both of them a little worse for wear after all that had happened, only this time it was Jesus who was the one to give the kiss, and this time it wasn’t the kiss of death that was given.”

Passing strange, for someone utterly crushed by life, hell might be his or her last chance of making it to heaven.