#400: Who’s YOUR Wisdom Figure?

The 50^th anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington triggered a remarkable array of commentaries from all angles.

Many naturally focused on Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, some specifically singling out his vision of an America where character counts more than color.

Some argued that we should also remember that other leaders, like A. Philip Randolph, were also major figures in that event. Some sought to remind us that the event’s prime focus was not only racial equality but rather “jobs and freedom.” Some commented that the March’s call for greater rights and opportunity has relevance today, beyond the African-American community, for immigrants, gays, undocumented workers, and those suffering from our current economic malaise. Some, finally, reminded us that King’s vision later widened beyond civil rights to embrace non-violence in all its forms—including his controversial opposition to the war in Vietnam and his call for a non-violent spiritual revolution.

But amid this array of remembrance and interpretation one thing seems clear. The March on Washington, not just for those attending or viewing on TV, but for those who learned about it later, established Martin Luther King as one of the great—if not the greatest—wisdom figures in American life.

He is not alone:  Americans find wisdom in Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Susan B. Anthony, and others. But for at least 45 years (since his April 1968 assassination) King has stood out. He is now the only American honored with his own national holiday. His letters and speeches are treasured by millions and studied in schools across the land. His face is as well-known as any American in history, and his memorial on the National Mall is a rare honor for a non-president. His “I Have a Dream” speech—much of it improvised in a moment of inspiration—is often regarded as the greatest American speech of the 20th century.

King’s iconic status means that people admire him even if they know little about him. It means they are inspired by what they do know of his vision and values. It means they conform their vision of America—and of life—to his. It means that King’s opinions and convictions are largely beyond scrutiny and criticism for millions. In a secular society not given to devotion, he is venerated as former ages venerated saints.

In this he shares a rare popular status accorded very few individuals in the modern world. In Western culture, such iconic status is reserved for those who wield wisdom rather than power. Heads of state, generals, and corporate giants do not acquire such status. It goes instead to people like Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Albert Schweitzer, Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, and Martin Luther King.

For me this raises a point of personal curiosity. As we observe the March’s 50^th anniversary, I wonder: Who are the wisdom figures in each of our lives?

I ask this question for myself and my own generation, but especially for my children’s generation. And I ask for two reasons.

First, because any life without wisdom cannot be fully lived. The mystery of life is too complex and rich to savor without some insight into its true meaning and value. And few humans possess the personal tools to plumb that mystery alone, without the help of others. The “examined life” is not a solo performance. We need wisdom figures just to appreciate our own lives. So we turn to those who inspire us with insights that surpass our own.

Second, I ask because our times demand wisdom more than ever. Vatican Council II (1962-1965) absolutely nailed our current challenge when it observed that the human race had never acquired so much new power so fast as it had in the 20^th century. And it reminded us that such vast growth in power requires a parallel growth in wisdom. For only wisdom can harness power and steer it toward good; without wisdom, growing power risks growing dangers.  In the 50 years since Vatican II, the specters of nuclear war, climate change, international terrorism, ecological and economic disaster, genocide, bioengineering and technology run amok have all confirmed Vatican II’s view that our future depends on matching our expanding powers with expanded wisdom.

But where do we find such wisdom? Who offers it?

Of course, wisdom may be sought in literature, philosophy, and art as well as in our religious traditions. But most people find it embodied in exceptional individuals who point us to those other sources. The March’s anniversary reminds us that, for millions of Americans, that individual is Martin Luther King. And that is a good thing.

But I wonder still about many born since King died, raised in a world saturated with comfort and convenience yet consumed with anxiety about the future of their lives, their nation, and their world. Who offers them the wisdom they need?

Sometimes we read of the next generation’s search for heroes—but heroism is about achievement and character, while wisdom is about insight and vision. Athletes can be role models and heroes, but make unlikely wisdom figures.  Celebrities are known for their fame but not for their insight.  People in public office may be admired for their abilities and occasionally even for their courage, but politics is seldom seen as wisdom’s natural home. Corporate giants may be shrewd and powerful and even ruthless, but few of us believe that the bottom line reveals much about the fullness of life.

So if young Americans need wisdom figures—and they do—but cannot find them in sports, show business, politics, or the corporate world—where can they find them? (All evidence suggests, of course, that they will not even LOOK within religious institutions).

I think back to my own formative years, and think of the people who inspired me with their wise insights into life’s purpose and value.  When the pop song “Alfie” asked “What’s it all about?” I turned to the obvious figure from my own family religious tradition: Jesus. And as I came of age I found other figures to follow. Often these were people themselves inspired by Jesus, or else were following visions that complemented what I knew of Jesus’ wisdom.

Over time I was lucky enough to find many wisdom figures to inspire and guide me.

There was John XXIII, the pope who proved that our ancient faith and the contemporary world need not be estranged. There was Pete Seeger, the troubadour who made his music a voice for justice. There was Guy Leger, a Dominican priest who taught me that all true beauty, just like all goodness, is sacred.   

There was Dag Hammarskjold, UN leader who linked the

Dag Hammarskjold

spiritual life and public policy. There was Albert Schweitzer, who showed how crucial but how also how challenging it is to practice “reverence for life.” There was Gandhi, who proved that non-violent love could conquer hate. There was Bob Lindsay, a Jesuit priest who taught me to find reality beyond appearances.

There was Dorothy Day, who reminded us of the non-violent love at the core of Christian faith. There was King himself, who linked Gandhian non-violence with the gospel-fired flame of racial justice. 

Some of those people I was blessed to know. The others I was blessed to know about. I am still eager to find new wisdom figures: since finishing two recent biographies of Francis of Assisi, I suspect I may soon add his name to my list. All told, it is a good list: robust enough to fuel much reflection on my life and living.

But the main thing is to HAVE such a list, to know the answer to the question: “Who is on MY list? Who are MY wisdom figures?”

That question is also important to those you love: where do they seek and find the wisdom that enriches their lives and nurtures their spirit?

Celebrating the 50^th anniversary of the March on Washington, countless observers spoke of  "progress” to measure that event’s legacy. How they assess our “progress” seems to depend on their interpretation of that event’s meaning. So they measure racial justice, or the range of freedom, or economic opportunity, or social equality, or even the strength of our hope or the scope of our national vision.

But for those who now see wisdom in the figure of Martin Luther King, perhaps “progress” is more personal, and must be measured more by the vitality of our spirits than by the prosperity of our land, more by the peace in our hearts than by the turmoil in our world. For King never spoke without preaching, and behind all his preaching was the gospel of peace.

  Bernard F. Swain PhD 2010

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#297: Does Credibility = Conformity?

EXCERPT:
It is always tough to take issue with Emmanuel Charles McCarthy. But I have a problem with his recent critique of Hans Kung’s April 17 letter calling for Church reform (see the site http://www.jesusradicals.com/a-credibility-crisis-reform-by-emmanuel-charles-mccarthy/ for his article “A Credibility Crisis? Reform?). He complains that Kung overlooks the problem of Church support for war and violence. For McCarthy, justifying killing as "faithful discipleship" amounts to a "severe credibility crisis" that "most of humanity sees as obvious."

The Church’s problem, he says, comes from "the discordance between what Jesus teaches and what the Church teaches on violence and enmity." For him, real "reform" requires "restoring conformity to what Jesus command that the church to teach and to obey," and thus "following what Jesus taught by word and deed."

This idea of conformity to Jesus in all respects is so obvious to McCarthy than any other views seems simply irrational. Indeed, McCarthy believes that Jesus' example offers, not just a good way to do things, or an ideal way, but "the only way of doing what he did."

Now, I have no problem with McCarthy’s take on the gospels. Nor do I quarrel with his history. I do not even have a problem with McCarthy’s ethics--I lean toward some form of Christian pacifism myself,and I regard non-violence icons like Dorothy Day, Gandhi, M.L. King, and Nelson Mandela as the moral giants of our day.

My problem is with his whole underlying notion that a credible Christian faith requires conformity in all respects to Jesus and his immediate followers. That is his entire basis for arguing that only a commitment to non-violence can constitute credible reform.

There is a strong case to be made against the just war theory, and an equally strong case to be made for Christian non-violence. But McCarthy has made neither case, and he does both our credibility and faithful discipleship a disservice by equating them with rote conformity.

I simply reject the idea that faithful discipleship equals rote conformity. The problem is this: not only is such a restoration a practical impossibility, but even its most ardent champions (including McCarthy himself) refuse to consistently carry it out.

The simple truth is: for such conformity to be consistent, that would require us to treat Jesus and the first Christians, not as people of their times, but as timeless arbiters of our ethical, spiritual, and even intellectual standards.

This would mean that, to be credible Christians and faithful disciples, we must embrace whatever they embraced, accept whatever they accepted, tolerate whatever they tolerated, and reject whatever they rejected. In short, we must accept the boundaries of their outlook and practice as our own boundaries.

Such a theological principle quickly leads to absurd results--for if, to be credible Christians, we must consistently conform ourselves this way, then we must, like them:

Expect Christ's imminent return and reject any long-term vision or strategy for life on earth; become practicing Jews; abstain from all involvement in politics; not resist our oppressors or occupiers; be silent about slavery and be content to convert slaves to the Christian faith; be silent on many cruelties typical in the Roman Empire, among them torture and crucifixion; share all goods in common and have no private property; regard marriage as a last resort for those unable to maintain celibacy until Christ returns; blame the “Jews” for rejecting Jesus; drop teachings they did not proclaim, such as Christ’s two natures or even the Trinity; drop practices they did not practice: Christmas, infant baptism, ecumenical relations; have bishops and deacons but no priests and no parishes; observe the Jewish Sabbath in synagogue or temple, and then break Eucharistic bread in homes; have no churches; not promote practices or policies they did not have: priests (men or women), acceptance of gays, contraception, etc.

Instead of all this, Christians believe that, as historical conditions change and offer new insights, they may develop their teachings and practices in ways that outstrip the boundaries set by Jesus, the Gospels, and the early Christians. We believe, in other words, that Jesus and his followers were, like us, people of their times -- whereas our faith in Him is a faith for all times.

So we proclaim Christ as the second person of the Trinity, a claim neither he nor his disciples ever made. And we commit the faith to building a better world over the long haul of history (already 100 generations since Jesus, and still counting)--something they never imagined. In fact, Christians began adding and dropping and changing elements of the Christian life as early as 100 AD.

Was Jesus committed to non-violence? Yes. Were the early Christians "pacifists"? Probably yes, at least in some sense of that term. Is Christian non-violence a good and important principle even today? Absolutely!

Can you make a case that all Christians should be pacifists? Sure -- but not by simply arguing that conforms to Jesus.

Can you also claim that Christians who reject pacifism are “not credible Christians”? No -- that is, not unless you are prepared to abandon much of what we today call Christianity and sign up at your local synagogue. But in that case, be prepared to hear someone mention "an eye for an eye"!