Virtue and Virtu

As I understand it, virtues (arete in the Greek), are those behaviors that lead to right actions. The moral system supported by the Christian virtues is that which has been revealed by God. He has set the standard and made it known to us through the two books of revelation: nature and Scripture. Virtue, therefore, is commonly understood to be a characteristic or habit that is in accord with God's moral will for the universe.

Roman Catholic theology even identifies seven cardinal virtues, in contrast to the seven cardinal sins. They are understood to be the hinges of a Christian moral life. They are faith, hope, love, prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. Of these, three have been understood as being infused by God. That is, if we exhibit faith, hope, or love, it is because they have been given directly by God, not acquired by natural means. Be that as it may, it is obvious that the Christian is supposed to exhibit virtue and not its opposite, which is surely vice.

All this becomes less clear when one reads the works of Machiavelli. I've been re-reading The Prince, as maligned a piece of political commentary as was ever printed. Machiavelli's work, which is now the best part of 500 years old, has been described as the most cynical, self-serving justification for immoral behavior. It is not a direct attack upon Christian virtue. In fact Machiavelli appears to have been a sincere Christian, even though he was drawn to the resurgence of pre-Christian philosophy associated with the Renaissance. Furthermore, Machiavelli's aim is not personal morality but the body politic. He wants to understand how a leader needs to behave if he is to create and sustain a stable, peaceful society. To this end, he encourages Princes to exhibit what he calls virtu.

Virtu, taken from the Latin root vir, which means "man", describes the qualities required by a Prince or leader. In contrast to the Christian virtues, these qualities include a certain ruthlessness. A "good" (or, more properly "effective") leader does not not think of others before himself. He is not modest or self-effacing. He is bold. And he should convey this quality to the state or nation of which he is the head. An effective nation, one which promotes stability and banishes anarchy, deals violently and mercilessly with its opponents. It has no business entering into treaties or making agreements that may end up not being in its own best interest. And it should break treaties if this will serve its purposes best. There is no room for weakness in diplomacy. The strong win.
Classically, virtu had been understood very differently. Cicero, for example, wrote that " virtu consists especially of always acting honorably and morally, because honesty is the best policy." Machiavelli disagrees. He thinks it inconceivable that any ruler could actually be like that, in a world dominated by men who are not good, and survive for any length of time. In his opinion, an effective ruler will not be merciful. It's interesting that, for The Prince, Machiavelli used his experience of Cesare Borgia who was an unutterably cruel man, but also the ruler who finally brought peace and stability to the Romagna.

An effective leader, according to Machiavelli, will be willing to do what is morally wrong in order to achieve a political end. He will either use force (like a lion) or cunning (like a fox) in order to get his own way. And the truly great leader will know how to make his actions appear to be morally acceptable, in a Christian sense, while using all the tricks in the book in order to achieve his ends. These ends, however, must not be oppressive. They should lead to security and freedom within the bounds set by the state.

It's easy to see why Machiavelli was condemned so roundly by contemporary theologians, and why he has been so beloved by those who have advocated authoritarianism as a means to stability and peace. There are those who say exactly the same kind of thing today. On the one hand they complain that Christian moral concepts have no place in international politics, usually adding that religion is an essentially private business. But then they also claim that they are acting in the best interests of the people. Usually they layer their pronouncements with protestations about personal integrity and honesty. They are quick to deny that they are acting in self-interest. Are they simply being Machiavellian when they twist the truth to serve their own purposes? Should we expect modern Princes to exhibit the Christian virtues any more than Cesare Borgia did?

The problem is that virtu is fundamentally derivative. If everyone was dishonest then there would be no advantage in being economical with the truth. If it was expected that everyone would be totally self-interested and that they would ignore the needs of others, then the Borgias of this world would simply be those who held the most power. It would just be a matter of degree. But how would Cesare Borgia rule a country where everyone was dishonest? How would he establish the value of currency, or standardization in weight, for example? If everyone had his finger on the scale, then there would be no standards from which to deviate. The only thing left would be power, the ability to dominate another by violence, or the threat of it. Who would want to live in such a world?

So, when our politicians tell us that it is naive to expect Princes and nations to take note of the Christian virtues, we should not believe them. We should not mistake power or popular acclaim for legitimacy. A politician who delivers may be popular; he may exhibit Machiavellian virtu, but he will know nothing of virtue.

Even Christians can become unduly cynical when assessing politics and politicians. We are sometimes so frightened of anarchy that we look for human strength and influence in our leaders instead of moral integrity. But is it really possible that God will bless a nation which does not seek to live according to His will?

Joy and Foolishness

I came across these wise words from Frederick Buechner:

To worship God means to serve Him. There are two ways to do it. One way is to do things for Him that need to be done - run errands for Him, carry messages for Him, fight on His side, feed His lambs, and so on. The other way is to do things for Him that you need to do - sing songs for Him, create beautiful things for Him, give things up for Him, tell Him what is on your mind and in your heart, in general rejoice in Him and make a fool of yourself for Him the way lovers have always made fools of themselves for the one they love... Unless there is an element of joy and foolishness in the proceedings, the time would be better spent doing something useful.

Justice Inverted?

There's a very strange story today in the English press, from Blackburn, my old stomping ground. Apparently, a couple of sixteen year old youths, with nothing better to do, made their way into Blackburn Cathedral where they proceeded to deface hymnals and prayer books with anti-Semitic words and symbols, and to desecrate a cross. They did about $4,500 of damage. They were caught, which is hardly surprising given that they had written their real names in the visitor's book. Shortly thereafter the boys were taken before the local magistrate, a certain Mr. Austin Molloy JP, who berated them for their behavior. He sentenced one boy to an 18 month supervision order, and to pay the equivalent of $2,200 (at ten pounds or fourteen dollars per week). The other boy got a twelve month supervision order and a fine of $145. “This court is disgusted by the mindless destruction you have caused," the magistrate said. "Normal people would consider you absolute scum. If it was in our power, we would have you both stand in front of the congregation at 10am on Sunday and explain your words and actions to them to see if they could understand it, because we can’t.”

This is where it becomes interesting. The court recorder, Christine Dean, interrupted proceedings at this point to accuse the magistrate of inappropriate language. A complaint was made that Mr. Molloy had no business describing the young men as "scum" and that he ought to apologize. Now, an enquiry is being held into the magistrate's behavior. The case could go as far as the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Chief Justice. Mr. Molloy could be dismissed from the bench. It seems likely that, at the very least, he will be told to moderate his language or face disciplinary action. The odd thing is that a father of one of the youths has come out in support of the magistrate. The overwhelming response in the local press has been in favor of harsher penalties and in support of Molloy. But, still, he faces an enquiry.
How strange, that the judge should end up being judged! The original offense seems to have been forgotten in the rush to be politically correct. And the emperor has no clothes.
Now, while admitting that Mr. Molloy was less than judicious in his choice of words, he clearly should have the right to express the revulsion he feels at the behavior of the young men. Whether or not he should have done this from the bench is really beside the point. If the law, and its representatives, cannot denounce evil, who can? Maybe God? Perhaps we shall end up putting Him in the dock, too!


In this photograph, from the Lancashire Telegraph, the cathedral's head verger, Mark Pickering, looks at the statue of Jesus and John the Baptist that was damaged.

Shadows

We've been in San Antonio for a few days, following Nathan's graduation for Texas State. He is now, officially, as he says "All educamated." While we were there we decided to do something we have often talked about, but never done - we went for a ride on a boat on the riverwalk. Big mistake. I don't know how hot it was down there, but it felt like 100 degrees. Babies were crying, old ladies were wilting, and we turned a lovely shade of lobster. The contrast between the full force of the sun and the shade beneath the bridges was dramatic. It made me think of the Psalmist's prayer, "Hide me under the shadow of Your wings."

Shadows are sometimes described as fleeting and insubstantial. Human life, always uncertain and sometimes very brief, has often been likened to a shadow. Life is, according to the Talmud, "as the shadow of a bird's wing in its flight," and the Psalmist added, "my days are like a dying shadow." Shelley says that the despairing move "in the shadow of a starless night." Or, perhaps you know James Shirley's lines, that "the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things."

On the other hand, there's a lovely verse in the Song of Solomon, in which life is pictured as rich and thrilling because of the prevailing shadows: "My beloved is mine, and I am his; he feeds among the lilies. Until the day breaks, and the shadows fall away, turn, my beloved, and be like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether." In fact, there is beauty in the shadow, and the Bible writers, living in a land where the sun is scorching, often think of shadow as a place of rest. "I sat down under the shadow with great delight," says the Song of Solomon. Isaiah, describing the perfect friend (and therefore, God) says he is "as a hiding place from the wind and a covert from the tempest: as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land."

Unlike the Greeks, for whom the half-light was tinged with danger and regret, the Hebrews valued the opportunity to escape from the noonday sun. After all, even the darkness of the grave holds no terrors if God is there.

Beneath the cross of Jesus I fain would take my stand,

The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land;

A home within the wilderness, a rest upon the way,

From the burning of the noontide heat, and the burden of the day.

O safe and happy shelter, O refuge tried and sweet,
O trysting place where Heaven’s love and Heaven’s justice meet!
As to the holy patriarch that wondrous dream was given,
So seems my Savior’s cross to me, a ladder up to heaven.

There lies beneath its shadow but on the further side
The darkness of an awful grave that gapes both deep and wide
And there between us stands the cross two arms outstretched to save
A watchman set to guard the way from that eternal grave.

Upon that cross of Jesus mine eye at times can see
The very dying form of One Who suffered there for me;
And from my stricken heart with tears two wonders I confess;
The wonders of redeeming love and my unworthiness.

I take, O cross, thy shadow for my abiding place;
I ask no other sunshine than the sunshine of His face;
Content to let the world go by to know no gain or loss,
My sinful self my only shame, my glory all the cross.
Elizabeth Clephane.

Everyman

I have just finished Philip Roth's Everyman, the story of a secular Jew who tries, and fails, to make sense of his existence.

Roth is a good writer. I appreciate his skills, even though I could live without some of his rather graphic descriptions. In this book he weaves a thoughtful tale around the life of a self-obsessed man who spends almost his entire life terrified by thoughts of his own mortality. The story begins at his graveside. The dead man's relatives share memories which slide seamlessly into the narrative. They represent different eras of the man's life: two estranged sons, a distraught daughter, an ex-wife, a still-faithful older brother. He is buried beside his parents in a semi-derelict Jewish cemetery. In the annihilation of the grave, he is 'everyman.' His fate is universal.

Lacking any kind of religious faith, despite the piety of his father, the man seeks meaning in his work in an ad agency. He is successful, but eventually retires, only to see his colleagues fall, one by one. He seeks meaning in family, but fails to control his passions, and so becomes only a serial husband and a part-time father. He seeks meaning in sexual conquest, indulging in behaviors that come close to being abusive. In the end, he is left ogling young women as they jog on the boardwalk near his New Jersey home, remembering the man he had been and no longer was. Tormented by ill-health, in later years, he resents the vigor of his older brother and distances himself from him. He is horrified by the loneliness, boredom and pain of old age. Finally, at a time when he doesn't really expect it, still making plans, he dies on the operating table.

Is he really 'Everyman'? I sincerely hope not. He may be a poster boy for the hopelessness of life without Christ. He may be a fitting illustration for a sermon about Ecclesiastes. He is not everyman. He does not possess the intellectual courage to question his prejudices. He never seriously challenges the easy atheism he adopted as a youth. He does not have the moral backbone to think through the consequences of his frequent, damaging lies. He is pure subjectivity, unable to prevent himself from harming those he loves, thinking, in the end, only of himself.

Towards the end of the story, he visits his parents' graves and seems to hear his mother's words of encouragement, "So, you lived, then." He also hears his father's advice, "Atone for what you have done and make the most of what time you have left." It is advice he chooses to ignore. Faced with the reality of his increasing frailty, the loss of passion, and the inevitability of death, and having no concept of judgment, he struggles to survive, if only for a little longer. "So long, Pops," says his still-angry, adult son, as he throws a clump of soil into the grave.

In the middle ages, an anonymous Roman Catholic writer wrote a mystery play known as The Summoning of Everyman. In it, God sends death to earth to seek Everyman, in order that he might give an account of himself. Despite it's pre-Reformation allegory, which makes it difficult for modern Christians, the play makes sense of death by placing it within the context of divine judgment. The Summoning of Everyman comes from an age when life was cheaper and considerably shorter than today. But it succeeds where Everyman fails, because it takes seriously not only our mortality, but also our homesickness for heaven.

On the Surface

I helped to deliver flowers to a wedding. The "Chapel" wasn't a real church, but it was made to resemble one. So, having a little time on my hands, I took a look around.

I discovered that the weathered stones were acually veneer stuck on breeze-blocks; the columns were just for show - they didn't reach to the roof so they didn't support anything; behind the scenes rebar protruded from unfinished cement work. In terms of decoration, the interior was a cross between bordello and Disney. Yard sale architecture, a collection of unrelated oddments, gave an illusion of antiquity. In the entrance, a fake icon showed fake Greek on an open book. An angel stood nearby, looking for all the world like a refugee from a cemetery.

A large room, with Mexican tiles on the floor, had a large, Italianate altar against the far wall "in the Eurpoean style" (according to the brochure). Candles were everywhere, on low walls, in sconces, and, wrapped in ivy, upon the altar. The coordinator was not satisfied with the effect. "There's something missing on the altar," she said. "How about a cross?" I suggested, and was met with a glower.

Still snooping I ascended stone steps that led nowhere. Half-way up, for effect, a stained glass window was set, rather crudely, into a wall and illuminated from behind. It had obviously once graced a church. Its subject was a palm branch emerging from a golden crown. Beneath the crown were the names of those in whose memory the window had been given.

At least the ceremony was Christian. Scripture was read. Prayers were said. God's blessing was invoked. But, the setting wasn't real. It was a metaphor for superficiality. It was all effect, all surface. Is this the future? What happened to community? Will postmodern spirituality require nothing more than a stage setting for the sacred?