During one of the times in my life
that I have been in therapy, my counselor at the time pointed out to me that I
have a tendency to be an extreme thinker.
I tend to frame my choices in life in terms of an “either/or” proposition. “Either I choose this or I choose that.” Somewhere along the line I learned to only
give myself two distinct choices rather than to look for some kind of middle
ground or compromise. Life is at times
clear cut, but more often life is messy and choices can be found that integrate
disparate options. In my experience
finding a “both/and” often is a liberating experience, because limiting my
worldview to the “either/or” paralyzes me with indecision.
I’m not sure where I learned to
frame the world as “either/or,” but I’ve decided that it’s Plato’s fault; that’s
right, Plato, the ancient Greek philosopher.
I’m no expert on Plato, and I suspect my knowledge of his writings is
based upon other people’s faulty interpretation of him, but nonetheless I have
to blame somebody, and blaming an ancient Greek philosopher is easier than
taking responsibility for my own thoughts. I read Plato’s Dialogues in grad school and studied how Platonic philosophy
influenced early Christianity, so I know something about Plato—probably just
enough to be dangerous.
Last week, Michael Smith, our CCCUCC
moderator, invited me to speak to one of his political science classes at
Emporia State University. I’m not sure
what this invitation says about Michael’s judgment, but I agreed to do it. The class had read some of Plato’s political
stuff, as well as some of what Augustine had to say about politics. I was supposed to talk about how platonic
ideas had influenced Christianity in general and western understandings of how
religion and government mix.
I
didn’t have time to make the drive out to Emporia, so we decided I would speak
to the class via Skype over the internet.
I had never Skyped before, and although when we practiced beforehand
everything seemed fine, when it came time for class I couldn’t get it to work
right. The class could see my giant
melon talking to them in real time projected on a screen in the classroom, but
I couldn’t see them on my computer. So,
in the end I couldn’t tell if there were college students present or if it was
just Michael changing up his voice to sound like half a dozen co-eds. For all I know they were shooting spit wads
at the screen while I blathered on about how Augustine misread the Apostle
Paul.
What struck me most about returning
to Plato and then Augustine’s use of Neoplatonism centuries later was the
dualism. Reality according to Plato is
split between the material world we live in and the world of forms or ideas,
the spiritual world where all is perfect.
Everything in the material world is a mere shadow of its perfect
analogue in the realm of spirit. (Think
about Plato’s story of the cave where people inside sat staring at the shadows
cast on the wall instead of turning around and looking at the things that cast
the shadows. We live merely looking at
shadows and never seeing what is real.)
This dualism between the spiritual (i.e. the perfect, changeless and
superior) and the material (i.e. the imperfect, changing and inferior) pervades
ancient Greco-Roman thought. Forms of it
are deeply woven in the New Testament and early Christianity, as well as
Judaism and other religious thinking around the first century C.E. (the Letter
to the Hebrews is probably the best Christian example of this worldview).
When you play out the logic of
spiritual/material dualism—which Augustine does in terms of violence,
sexuality, government, etc.—you end up in some very dangerous territory. If our world is by its nature imperfect,
impermanent, deteriorating and inferior, it is not too far a stretch to
describe our world in negative moral terms.
What is mortal is equated with what is sinful. Augustine takes the Apostle Paul’s
description of sin entering the world through Adam and having power over
humanity and develops the idea that since humans are of the material world they
are utterly depraved. Humans are born in
sin, live in sin and die in sin. Only that
which is spiritual can be moral.
Augustine developed the idea of what
would later be called “Just War,” and he felt free to preach that warfare
against heretics was not only justified but to oppose destroying the opposition
was to side with the sinners. Better to
destroy the sin of heresy than to let it infect the spiritual purity of the
church. In addition to unorthodox belief,
Sexuality was inherently sinful. If only
the whole world would end up celibate, so then this corrupt world would come to
an end through lack of reproduction!
This either/or dichotomy between the
spiritual and the material plays out still today in American Christianity,
usually mixed with an apocalyptic furor.
Why bother being concerned about climate change? This sinful world will be destroyed by God
anyway. Why be concerned for those we go
to war with? They are on the side of
evil? Why try to prevent extreme poverty
or disease? Saving souls is what really
matters. When this kind of either/or
thinking dominates a person’s or community’s worldview, a sort of fatalism or
nihilism ultimately results.
As my counselor reminded me,
sometimes we can have “both/and” options.
Is it not possible to believe there is more than what we experience of
the universe and at the same time recognize the sacred beauty present in the
universe? Why can’t we admit that
sometimes aging sucks and the deterioration of our bodies is worth grieving
over while at the same time acknowledge that our own mortality can lead us to
cherish the sacred in each day of our finite lives? Can we acknowledge that the same forces of
nature that can cause suffering are just as likely, if not more likely, to
inspire awe? Must we only see the flaws
of humanity without also seeing its capacity for goodness? Why can’t the spiritual exist within the
material? Is there not something of the
image of God in each of us and in all of creation?
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in The Quest for
God about our efforts to find the sacred here in this material world. He wrote, “To pray is to take notice of the
wonder, to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine
margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable
surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which
we live....Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers wiser
than all alphabets--clouds that die constantly for the sake of God's glory--we
are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and
complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature.”
Grace
and Peace,
Chase
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