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March 12, 2008
Hello everyone,
The Oxford English Dictionary is perhaps the best source to consult when researching the etymology and use of English words, and it was precisely my starting point months ago for a talk I gave on the subject of hope. Yet looking up “hope” did not reveal any foreign words as I might have expected, though it nevertheless did reveal something quite interesting. In the first definition of the word used as a noun is the idea of “Expectation of something desired; desire combined with expectation.” We see then, a separation between desire alone—what we may call “wishful thinking”—and expectation, which implies an element of promise. In Acedia and the Royal Family—written just a week before I gave this talk on hope—you may recall that we identified acedia, or sloth, as the deadly sin of our age, and not pride, as is commonly thought. Perhaps it is more an observation of American culture than that of the Western world as a whole, but in the United States, at least, another element that often has unfortunate ramifications is the two-party nature of politics: when all views are pushed into a simple binary, it is no wonder that polarization tends to be the direct result (see footnote). However, a look at these disparate ends of the political spectrum can also prove telling. Let us see what, if anything, they can tell us about a viable hope.
At least here in the United States, when we think of the right of the political spectrum, a number of different synonyms present themselves to our minds: conservative, status quo, G.O.P., rearguard, and half a dozen other terms besides. And when we think of the left, we often think of liberal, avant-garde, leftist, socialist, and who knows what all else. There are two other main terms, however, that may prove very telling as we examine the right and left, and they are reactionary and revolutionary, respectively. “Reaction” and “revolution” are the key words here and they fit the stereotypes: the reactionary stereotypically upholds the status quo and comes unglued—reacts—when that is threatened. The revolutionary stereotypically wants to revamp the system and often goads and prods and shakes a fist in the air, living up to the “revolution” keyword. Again, playing on stereotypes, the reactionary is known for dogged stubbornness, digging in his heals and plugging his ears to any outside influence while humming loudly: the immovable elephant is a fitting symbol. The revolutionary, by contrast, is known to be rather arrogant combined with a tendency to push buttons, any buttons, so long as the end result is some kind of reaction: the jackass is a fitting symbol. One more round with our negative stereotypes: often because the reactionary wants to uphold the status quo, he or she attempts to censor dissenting opinion. Yet as much as the revolutionary decries censorship, the revolutionary also censors dissenting opinion by playing on pride: ostracizing, ridiculing, or quietly ignoring and dismissing opinions and views that run counter. The simple fact is, if I am a revolutionary, I am at cross purposes with the reactionary. I may in principle defend his or her right to be heard, but in practice, I consider his or her ideas to be dangerous and subversive in a truly unflattering sense.
We have presented all that is ugly about reactionaries and revolutionaries: after all, it takes two to tango, two bratty children constantly at each other’s throats occasionally reversing roles for good measure. Yet each have their strengths as well, and it is precisely here that we may glean something of a more robust and viable portrait of hope. What we hope—pun intended—to achieve, then, is to empty both of their negatives while keeping in either hand their positives. The right want to keep things as they are. The danger here is ossification, fossilization, and the refusal to sprout and grow. The left wants everything to change. The danger here is a total lack of rootedness, a blatant disregard for the lessons of history, a lack of direction or purpose because of having no anchoring point from which to extend. The simple fact is, if hope is to be realistic, it must be both rooted (pragmatic) as well as open ended (creative). It must draw from both worlds without falling into the faults of either; it must straddle between the stubborn, pig-headedness of the reactionaries and the incendiary, button-pushing nature of the revolutionaries. We must know where we have come from to understand where we are going; if we are to have any sense of destination or arrival, we must have clearly defined and contextualized goals against which we may plot our course. Hope, then, if it is to be realistic, must be both expectant (rooted) and desirous (forward-looking): it must see a clear vision of its future while simultaneously feeling the ground solidly beneath its feet. Hope must grow legs, yet it needs the soil to walk upon.
The picture of the palm tree is not a new one: we have referenced it before. The palm tree is not only a symbol of strength, the palm tree is also a symbol of hope. Put differently, the palm tree is a symbol of hope precisely because it is a symbol of strength. Its roots delve deep into the earth and its trunk stretches far up into the sky. Deep roots quench its thirst and, firm and immovable, allow it to grasp the earth like eagle’s talons. Yet high above, its majestic trunk is submissive and pliant to the wind, bowing first this way and then that as the winds command, not thinking more highly of itself than it ought, not haughty and proud. The winds come and puff and rage and storm and the palm tree withstands them by its submissive nature, and then in time the winds grow tired and blow themselves out and the palm tree again stands fully erect, resilient, having taken care that it does not fall. The palm does not have to boast of its native strength: hidden deep beneath the storms of life it is anchored, drawing the life-giving water up and through its branches. Pride comes before a fall, but the palm defers and says, “What is mine is yours: take my place in the sky and I will incline myself toward the earth. Make yourself comfortable and at home.” Hope, then is both desirous and expectant. Its branches reach in expectation high into the sky toward the sun, moon, and stars, even as its roots remain anchored deep in the earth below, lending solidity to its desire.
Perhaps, while we are still thinking in terms of metaphor, we should turn our attention to Martin Buber. Though Buber was criticized by those on both sides of the issue for his refusal to adopt either extreme—among other things, he worked actively for reconciliation between the Arabs and the Jews and did not see the modern institution of Israel as a purely political enterprise but believed that the nation must be grounded in a true spiritual renaissance—he nevertheless was a Zionist who supported the founding of the modern nation of Israel. He believed that the nation must be grounded in a true spiritual renaissance; the very identity of Israel, Buber believed, was bound up in the Torah. We see this clearly in his 1934 essay Teaching and Deed, where he is most anxious to preserve the ancient spiritual heritage by the proper education and transmission of the Hebrew Bible. The metaphor that he uses is really quite insightful.
Buber suggests that while Israel is predicated on the ancient tradition, “teaching” alone is not enough but must be embodied in the “deed.” That is, one must give wings to the teachings, if they are to have a life of their own. And by way of metaphor, he speaks of parents giving life to their offspring. Every child that is born is completely and totally unique, yet every child that is born simultaneously is the direct result of the generation that came before. Male and female come together and beget a new creation; they transmit their heritage and teaching to this new creation, and the new creation must embody it in a way that is completely new, fitting to its uniqueness, just as its own life—though given to it from the “old”—is nevertheless completely new and completely unique. Thus, like the palm tree, a child is a symbol of hope, the past and the future embodied in the present, combing both the world of expectation and the world of desire into one body. But when we say that our hope lies in the next generation, do we often really understand what we are saying? Buber’s closing paragraph summarizes the idea well:
Again we are confronted with the concepts of continuity and spontaneity, the bond of transmission and begetting. The teachings themselves are the way. Their full content is not comprehended in any book, in any ode, in any formulation. Nothing that has ever existed is broad enough to show what they are. In order that they may live and bring forth life, generations must continue to meet, and the teachings assume the form of a human link, awakening and activating our common bond with our Father. The spark that leaps from him who teaches to him who learns rekindles a spark of that fire which lifted the mountain of revelation “to the very heart of heaven.” (Teaching and Deed)
Yes, generations must continue to meet, for the past begets the present—there is no other way—and the divine spark must leap between the gap. That is the nature of hope: it is rooted in the past, but it cannot remain there, for if it remains there, it has no life of its own and will soon wither away and die. Rather, it must draw sustenance from the past even as it looks expectantly toward the future. That is the story the dour biologists tell with their stilted and technical talk about meiosis and Mendelian genetics, of “two little chromosomes sitting in a tree / k - i - s - s - i - n - g / first comes love, then comes marriage / then comes a baby in a baby carriage.” The child is a picture of hope, for in it the old merges and is reborn; in the child (even if nowhere else), the two literally become one flesh. And each person is absolutely unique, yet everyone is intricately connected, which leads us to the question of the one and the many.
To the Eastern mind, the problem of the one and the many is rarely a conundrum, as the two are easily enough reconciled in paradox. To the Western mind, however, it has long since haunted us with our many dualisms and dichotomies and our tendency to cleave the world in twain and to favor one side to the expense of the other, to insist on “either/or” rather than “both/and.” We certainly do practice synthesis, just as the Eastern way of conceiving the world practices analysis. But that is not the native way of either cultural expression. Our native way is to break into the smaller parts of analysis whereas the native way of the East is to combine smaller parts analogously into synthesis. So it comes as no surprise to learn that the ancient Greek philosophers, to whom the West owes a great debt, were deeply troubled by the question of how things must ultimately interconnect, yet are perceived as discrete entities. We have, then, the problem of “the One” on the one side and the many on the other.
It was not just the ancient Greeks, however, who set us up for such a way of looking at our world. The ancient Hebrews did something radically different with their scriptures, and the Western world—and in particular the world of science—owes it a great debt of gratitude. What did the Hebrew scriptures suggest about the world that was so radically different from other cultures of their own time? They suggested that in the beginning there was the One—God—and that the One created the heavens and the earth. Do you see why this idea is so radical? We have just very clearly delineated the boundary lines between the one and the many, the source and the many tributaries, the substance of Spinoza’s philosophy and the many monads. The debt that science owes is that of separating out a material world from a transcendent source. Stephen Barr makes precisely this point in Retelling the Story of Science; he writes: “The Book of Genesis was itself in large part intended, scholars tell us, as a polemic against pagan superstition. For example, whereas the sun and moon were the objects of worship in pagan religion, the Book of Genesis taught that they were nothing but lamps set in the heavens to give light to day and night: not gods, but mere things, creatures of the one true God.” He continues:
It is true that the Bible is overwhelmingly supernatural in its outlook and literary atmosphere. However, what is critically important is that the Bible’s supernaturalism is concentrated in a God who is outside of Nature, and radically distinguished from the world He has made. Therefore the world of nature is no longer seen as populated by capricious supernatural beings, by fates and furies, dryads and naiads, gods of war or goddesses of sex and fertility. The natural world has been “disenchanted.” But whereas many give credit to science for this, the distinction belongs in the first instance to the monotheism of the Bible, which by depersonalizing and desacralizing the natural world helped clear the ground for the eventual emergence of modern science. (Retelling the Story of Science)
The bible may not today be seen as a virile force, yet without its influence, our culture would undoubtedly be different than it is. The Koran, too, has been influenced by the idea of the Creator and his creation, and the Islamic world also has streams in the Western world with similar results, even if modern events tend to caricature that historical precedent. If it were not for Turkish scholars migrating in the droves to Western universities where they could escape religious and political turmoil and bringing their humanist texts with them, there likely would have been no European Renaissance. To large degree, it was the Islamic scholar who awoke the West from its troubled slumber.
The matter-of-fact beginning of Genesis, with which the Koran has no major grievance, adds its own method of explaining the one and the many, and perhaps more satisfactorily than the solutions of the ancient Greek philosophers. Yet in the very fact that it does distinguish between God and his creation, the point tends to be lost in a secularized age, leading many to speak of a “post-Christian” world. And, secularized or not, we still have to answer the question of how we, as single persons, fit within the framework of the whole. This question of the one and the many may invert the process: two came together to create one, and now the one must find out how to give back to the whole that gave it birth. Or, put more abstractly, rather than running from the top down, our new question looks from the bottom up, but it is still one we must ask: “What is our place, our purpose?” We are one, yet the world teeming with life is many. Or, better still, we are but one part of some larger whole, we are among the many who comprise the one.
When the question of the one and the many came up in my talk about hope, I drew on a favorite analogy, one that finds biblical warrant, certainly, but one that I knew would also be understood in the non-religious setting in which I was presenting. If we are to find meaning and purpose in our lives, we rightfully celebrate our individualism and diversity. We are who we are, and who we is unique: it gives us our value. But that value is entirely wasted if our individuality does not get plugged into the grander scheme of things where it can go to work for the greater good. Just as our parents gave us life, we too must give back what has been given us. The analogy of which I speak, then, is that of the jigsaw puzzle. Any given piece of a jigsaw puzzle paradoxically has value on two fronts, both in its individuality as well as its contribution as it interlocks with the puzzle at large. It would be of little value if it were not completely different from all the other pieces, but it would also be of little value if it stubbornly refused to join them, taking its part in the whole. It must be both unique and connected in order to have real value. In fact, Precisely All the Pieces and Not One Less, written within just a few weeks of this lecture on hope, offers this summary paragraph:
There are different kinds of puzzles, of course, yet in most instances, even if two pieces should happen to be the same shape, they are rarely the same color or size. Every piece of the puzzle is unique and if it were to lose that uniqueness and its identity it would not serve any useful purpose to itself or to the puzzle as a whole. No, the individual pieces are unique precisely so that they can come together, each taking its own place and interlocking together to form the collective whole. Even as we deservedly pride ourselves in our uniqueness, thankful to the God who created us so, we simultaneously find our proper purpose and place as we come together in unity with our fellows. Each piece is deservedly proud, yet no piece can boast of being any more valuable or any less dispensable than the rest. The analogy is a simple one, likely not unique to me, but it is one that I think has great power and a certain beauty as well. Further, some pieces may be rather dark, others warmer, some even dominated by the light. Some are cooler and some, in themselves, appear to have very little to offer at all. When the ministry of reconciliation is completed, however, and all creation—a new heaven, a new earth, and all that is above, below, and in between—is made new, it will take precisely all the pieces and not one less to roll out the resplendent tapestry and proclaim the glory of God throughout to all the tribes and nations.
The problem of ourselves as one and our place in plethora of many is remedied in this way. We are of value precisely because we embody something completely unique and different from all else that has ever come before us or that will ever spring from our loins, yet our uniqueness and difference is entirely wasted if it does not in turn interface with the collective whole. We must achieve the paradox of being both individual and united in order to achieve harmony and to find purpose for our lives. That is directly related to this entire talk on hope. Not only will we then find fulfilment, purpose, and hope for our lives, we have also said that hope must have deep roots and flexible branches. Hope too is a paradox. In fact, the totality of the spiritual life is a paradox, meeting together on the two disparate points of the cross, as John Sanford writes:
Christ’s life could only end upon the Cross. Men were not yet ready to accept such a radical solution as that which God offered. So Christ had to be crucified on a Cross. The outstretched arms of this Cross express symbolically the opposites which unite at the center. The four-armed Cross is an example of a mandala, a design or symbol expressing totality through a circle or square. But unlike Eastern mandalas, which are more abstract designs, the Christian symbol is rooted in the earth. For Christianity emphasizes that the totality of the psyche is to be accomplished in this earthly life and not by release from it into “heaven.” Christ was crucified between two thieves, the one who repented and the other who did not; heaven and hell, the motif of the opposites thus being carried out to the bitter end. (The Christian Problem)
I did not, of course, cite John Sanford in my talk. But it is no less true that all of the spiritual mysteries revolve around paradox. And though Sanford does not make explicit allowance here, Eastern paradox also seeks to tether itself to the earth while taking its pattern from the heavens. The points may not perfectly meet on the beams of a wooden cross, but the paradox of opposites is no less present in every culture and race upon the earth, whether gracefully assimilated in conjoining synthesis or creating troublesome perplexedness in dissecting analysis.
The perfect balance rests not in contradiction, but in paradox, and therein lies hope. As Hebrews 11:1 suggests, this time bringing faith into the picture: “Now FAITH is the substance of things HOPED for, the evidence of things unseen.” As we have said before of the three spiritual virtues that cap the four classics, faith, hope, and love see not only what presently is, but what ultimately will be. The life of faith and hope, then, is always grounded in two worlds, the world of the unseen as well as the ever tangible world where real people live real lives day by day. The life of faith sees both what is and what lies beyond and therein lies its great hope, or, to say the same thing a different way, therein lies its great strength.
God bless,
Eric
Footnote: Regarding the two-party political system of the United States, Ryan McGinness, one of my former students, perceptively notes in his well-written though untitled specialized information essay:
Considering the disdain the Founders showed for political parties, it is ironic that they are a necessary consequence of our Constitution; consider Duverger’s Law, named after a 19th century French political scientist that informally states that a plurality election will necessarily drift towards two main political parties. To understand why, remember that plurality elections have a winner-take-all condition to them, within the confines of that district. So, necessarily, the two parties will strengthen themselves as much as they can, incorporating fringe elements and movements into their own, lest the other side exploit them. For concrete examples, consider the big tent of the modern Democratic Party, easily the more disjointed of the two. Environmentalists, social progressives, civil rights advocates, and gay rights advocates all lean heavily towards the Democratic Party despite the lack of a common agenda. As an example on the other side of the fence, consider the Religious Right and business wings of the Republican Party. While there is a compelling argument to be made that environmentalists and civil rights advocates will often share the same liberal outlook (as for social conservatives and free-market advocates) they are distinct factions, represented by their own single issue interest groups that are very powerful in the party caucuses. And we see that political parties absorb fringe movements and gerrymander districts for the same reason: to strengthen and maintain their grip of power.
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