Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Lost Worlds

Reflections on a Visit to Pont du Gard

            On a recent study trip in Europe I visited the Pont du Gard.  It is a UNESCO world heritage site.  Fittingly, the visit provoked thoughts about world history.
In the first century, when the Christian movement was just beginning, the Romans built an aqueduct to bring water from a mountain spring to a “colony” town called Nemausus (Nimes) in what is now southern France.  The uneven terrain of the region required a winding route for the system, more than 31 miles, digging through hillsides and leveling out depressions, so that the water could flow downhill all the way.  The aqueduct had to cross a river valley (the Gardon River), so the engineers built a bridge, consisting of three tiers of arches, and the water flowed in a covered canal on the top.
            The Pont du Gard and its bridge are a marvel of precision.  The canal on top of the bridge descends about 1 inch, a gradient of 1 to 18,241.  The 31-mile aqueduct descends 41 feet over its whole length.  Once completed, this gravity-glow system provided Nimes with water for baths, drinking, and fountains.  And the system worked, with little maintenance, for four or five centuries.  (Would your city’s water system last that long?)
            But even Roman engineering breaks down with no maintenance.  The empire fell to invading Goths, Visigoths, and other barbarians.  Without periodic cleaning, mineral buildup clogged the aqueduct and the water ceased.  For more than 1000 years, Nimes, like other medieval cities, depended on wells or local streams for water.  In medieval times, cities often had higher rates of disease than the countryside, because concentrated populations depended on limited or polluted water sources.
            Many Roman structures were destroyed by people who picked them apart, one massive stone at a time, as resources for other projects.  The Pont du Gard, though it no longer carried water, continued to serve as a bridge over the Gardon valley.  Medieval lords could charge tolls for wagons and horse traffic, so they protected the structure from looters.  In the last two centuries, governments have taken care to protect it as a tourist destination.
            What did medieval people think when they looked at the Pont du Gard?  Century after century, it stood there, 160’ high and hundred more than 1000’ long, a massive and beautiful structure, far beyond the ability of any living man to design or any lord to finance.  Most likely, they knew that it once carried water, but probably none of them had any understanding of how precisely it had been built.  We cannot see inside their minds, but we imagine they felt some awe at the knowledge of the ancients.
            The world’s literature has many examples of the myth of the golden age.  The Greeks gave us the lost city of Atlantis, the Hebrews told the story of Babel, the Babylonians told of kings who lived for thousands of years, and there are similar stories in other cultures.  Common to such stories is the idea that our distant ancestors were greater than we are—richer, smarter, longer-lived, and/or more holy.
            It’s one thing to tell a story of the golden age.  It’s something else to see proof standing like the Pont du Gard over a river valley.  For more than a thousand years Europeans could see—not just at Pont du Gard but also at other sites—clear evidence that Roman material culture surpassed anything they could build.  The richest noble in his castle in 950 or 1250 lived much less comfortably than upper class Romans of the first century.  (Besides baths and fountains, the Romans built houses with heated floors—in Britain!)  Reflecting on the Pont du Gard and other such structures, Europeans knew there really had been a lost age, an age when people knew more than they did.
            We can suppose that belief in the lost age was part of a medieval worldview.  But not in the modern world!  The recovery of ancient texts, the discovery of the new world, and especially the development of modern science brought a new idea, fundamental to the modern worldview, the idea of progress.  It’s not that we are smarter than our forebears, but we build on their accomplishments.  So we know more than any previous generation.  In the future we will learn even more, so human progress is potentially unlimited. 
To get a sense of the confidence of a modern worldview, try the novels of Jules Verne, e.g. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.  The height of modern confidence in progress probably came in the 19th century.  Science and technology had produced railroads, telegraphs, electric lights, steamships, and inoculations and other ways to fight disease.  With the birth of scientific psychology and sociology, humanity could expect progress on “spiritual” problems as well.
The 20th century was not kind to the modern belief in progress.  People continued to make scientific discoveries and develop new technologies, but the uses of our technologies frighten us: nuclear and biological weapons, pollution of land and sea, totalitarian use of communication, eugenics, global climate change, and others.  Is it possible that people will come to look back on a lost age, an age when our ancestors did not know what we know or do what we can do, as better than ours?
Post-apocalyptic science fiction imagines a world like that of medieval Europeans.  A classic example is A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter Miller, a story of monks living in a post-nuclear war world.  That’s not the sort of story I have in mind.  Post-apocalypse stories parallel the medieval experience; in such stories, the ancients are envied because of their knowledge and power, knowledge and power we no longer have.  I have in mind the opposite, where the ancients are envied for their ignorance and lack of power.
Philosophy has always said that knowledge is a good thing.  The post-modern idea that knowledge may be dangerous or bad is philosophically revolutionary.  Without wisdom, technology merely provides power.  So some philosophers of the 20th century (Jacques Ellul, for example) turned their attention to the dangers of technology.  In the 21st century, with technological power in the hands of terrorists or tyrants, we face horrible possibilities.  Global climate change confronts us with not possibility but virtual certainty of hardships.
The Pont du Gard is a beautiful bridge.  It stands as a reminder that engineering can make good things, things that improve human life.  It also symbolizes a lost world, a world lost through the loss of knowledge.  We stand at a time when we may long for a lost world, a world lost by the acquisition of knowledge.


Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Power and Powerlessness

Reflections on a Visit to the Palace of Versailles

            In the early 17th century, a Parisian mob surrounded King Louis XIV’s palace when he was just a boy.  (His mother and her advisors managed the boy king’s affairs until he came of age.)  The young king was shaken by this experience and decided that when the time came he would move the royal court outside the city.  He chose his favorite hunting lodge at Versailles as the seat of royal power.
            Normal procedure for the Bourbon dynasty included a yearly round of kingly residences: a summer palace, the hunting lodge, the palace in Paris, and others.  The difference now was that Louis intended to make the Versailles palace his primary residence.  The king would visit Paris only when necessary; bishops, nobles, and courtiers would attend to him at Versailles.  The move helped Louis assert his power as absolute ruler of France, forcing the nobles to come to him.  No longer would he be vulnerable to a popular uprising or discontent among the nobility.  Furthermore, the new project gave Louis the opportunity to display his greatness to the world.
            “I am the state,” Louis said.  He intended that the Versailles palace demonstrate the wealth and glory of France—that is, himself.  He employed the best architects and designers available and spared no expense.  The palace included an opera, a private chapel, interior and exterior fountains, reception rooms, offices, bedrooms, the astonishing hall of mirrors, and many other features.  Gold, silver, crystal, inlaid floors, and hundreds of acclaimed paintings graced the building.  Outside the chateau, Louis’s designers turned his hunting forest into an enormous formal garden.
            Recently, I visited Versailles with a group of students from George Fox University.  Some of them remarked on the stark contrast between the opulence of King Louis’s palace and the poverty of 17th century French peasants.  Hardly surprising, they said, that the monarchy was eventually toppled by revolution.  Versailles pressed me to think about power and powerlessness, wealth and poverty.
            Ironically, our enjoyment of Louis’s palace was tempered by the mass of people crowding slowly through the rooms.  Too many people!  The indoor air became stuffy.  After a while I could hardly wait to get outside to the acres and acres of gardens, with refreshing shade and water fountains. 
What would Louis have said if he had known that millions of commoners would one day troop through his rooms, gaze at his paintings, and walk through his gardens?  More than anything, Louis aimed to establish his rule as absolute monarch; he resented the power of the nobility and worked tirelessly to bend the aristocracy to his will.  Commoners?  For Louis, ordinary people existed to work, pay taxes, man his ships, and serve in his army.  
How the world has changed!  The Versailles palace and gardens are now a national treasure, owned by the French republic, maintained for their historical significance and for the pleasure of tourists.  The crowds that file through Versailles symbolize a democratic spirit, a revolution in worldview that would have astonished Louis (so I suppose).
I am a child of that democratic spirit, schooled my whole life in republican values.  It’s easy for me, when thinking about Louis, to applaud my country for the moral superiority of democracy (and congratulate myself for applauding).  It’s easy to condemn the selfishness of a ruling class and an absolute monarch, because my political thinking starts with the moral worth of every person.  Louis and his ministers pursued policies aimed explicitly at magnifying Louis’s glory.  How could they not see that such vaunting pride was a vice?  How could they plan and praise such massive expenditures on one man while peasants died of starvation?
But that’s too easy.  We may be proud that republics (such as France or the United States) and other democratic states (such as the United Kingdom) have progressed beyond the injustice of absolute monarchies.  But before we congratulate ourselves too much, we should remember how far we have to go.  The moral foundation of democracy is the recognition of the value of every person.  And yet in our democratic states citizens still starve.  Victims of mental illness live under bridges and die of exposure.  Children grow up seeing visions of material luxury in entertainment and advertising with the knowledge they and the other children in their neighborhood will never enjoy those things.  In a word: inequality is a real and persistent fly in the democratic ointment.
Do we see inequality?  Are we troubled by it? 
Surely King Louis knew quite well that he had wealth and power far above any other Frenchman.  This fact did not trouble him at all.  Why should it?  In his mind, it was God’s will that he rule France.  And: “I am the state.”  Without any inconsistency, Louis could be indifferent to the poverty and powerlessness of others.
Citizens of democratic states can’t do that.  If we believe in the moral worth of each person, we need to do better.
Don’t misunderstand me.  I have said nothing about which public policies we ought to adopt in order to improve our democratic societies, nothing about how to provide for the poor or the powerless.  I’m just pointing to the right question.  My visit to Versailles reminds me that democratic republics ought always to ask how they will help those who have the least, those who cannot defend themselves.  Otherwise, future generations may shuffle through our buildings and wonder, “How could they not see…?”


Friday, May 26, 2017

God is Not Done

Reflections on a Visit to Tintern Abbey

            Not long ago a professor colleague and I shepherded nineteen university students on a tour of sites in Europe.  Caitlin, the history professor, introduced us to the story of Tintern Abbey. 
            It’s a beautiful place in the Wye Valley, just over the border from England into Wales.  In the last two hundred years, poets and painters have celebrated the ruins of Tintern Abbey as a place to get back to nature, to appreciate wild country and perhaps to feel a bit of holy otherness.  I want to reflect on the abbey’s story long before it became a talisman for romanticism.
            Cistercian monks founded Tintern Abbey in the 1130s.  Cistercians followed the Benedictine rule for prayer seven times a day, but they differed from other monastic orders in their desire for simplicity.  Cistercian monasteries aimed at economic self-sufficiency.  The Cistercian community earned its keep through a variety of enterprises: farming, manuscript copying, production of books, and (perhaps most profitably) raising sheep for wool.  The monastery had a guesthouse for visitors and a hospital space for the sick.  People of the region could buy a medieval version of retirement home with hospice care; an elderly person could move to the abbey and know that the brothers would take care of him until he died.
            Over four hundred years, Tintern Abbey experienced good times and bad.  A magnificent gothic church was built, and as many as three hundred brothers lived at the abbey at one time.  At other times, plague or mismanagement brought the abbey population down.  But from the 1130s to 1536, the community persisted, ministering by means of prayer and hospitality to an out-of-the-way corner of Wales.
            In the 1530s, Henry VIII decided that if the pope would not grant an annulment of his marriage, he would endorse Protestant theology (some of it, anyway) and leave the Roman church.  Henry himself became head of the English Church.
            It was a politically charged and dangerous move.  Henry feared rebellion from Catholic loyalists, and the monasteries seemed likely threats.  So Henry dissolved the monasteries of England.  Seizing the monastic lands made Henry suddenly the richest man in Europe, and he used his new wealth to buy loyalty from powerful nobles by distributing church property to them.  The monks were displaced from Tintern Abbey, artwork and gold were shipped to London, and the abbey lands given to Henry Somerset, 2nd Earl of Worcester.  Somerset turned the abbey property into cash the quickest way possible: he stripped away the lead—including the roof—and sold it.  Almost overnight, the abbey community disappeared and the abandoned buildings became ruins.
            In my imagination I try to enter into the mind of a monk of Tintern Abbey in the 1530s.  Perhaps he came to monasticism as a youth, or maybe later in life.  He feels certain that God has called him to this life of prayer, simplicity, and service.  As a Cistercian he has misgivings about some church practices, for he has heard of the wealth and ostentation of Rome.  But he is convinced that Martin Luther and John Calvin, the Protestants, are worse, and he is appalled that King Henry has adopted Protestant notions.  For four hundred years the brothers of Tintern Abbey have been serving God by prayer and labor—and now they are turned out by the order of an English king!  My imagined monk might well have been tempted by despair.  How could God allow his church to suffer such injustice?  What possible good could come from Henry’s destruction of the monasteries?  The Cistercian monk might lament corruption in the church and yet lament even more the church’s destruction at Henry’s hands.  He could not know what we know: the long cold war between Protestants and Catholics was just beginning.  But he may well have felt despair over what seemed to be the death of Christianity.
            And yet…God was not finished with his church.  The Quaker renewal would not come for another 115 years.  John Wesley and Methodism a century after that.  Pentecostalism came 150 years later still.  There are many other examples.
            For me, the ruins of Tintern Abbey are more than a romantic poet’s wilderness.  These ruins speak to me of Christians whose world was broken, who had reasons to despair over the church.  And they remind me that even when the world I know seems to be going to hell, God is not done.

Monday, April 10, 2017

HB 17

15. Hoping for …

            Environmentalists are sometimes hard pressed to say what they are hoping for.  What is the “object-state” they desire?  It won’t do to describe some world where anthropogenic climate change never happened; that would be to wish for an impossible world.  Hope always aims at something possible, even if it is unlikely.
            Christians who pray for God’s kingdom to come face a similar problem, because shalom is such an all-encompassing object-state.  We pray for God’s will to be done.  But history—right up to today’s news—shows us a world where people freely accomplish much evil.  We might wish that people had acted differently yesterday, but the past is fixed.  We cannot hope that the past be other than it was.
            How can we hope when we are not sure what future object-state is possible?  What follows is an earlier essay I wrote that may give direction.

Radical Hope

            Chief Plenty Coups of the Crow people lived his life in hope.  At least, that is the thesis offered by Jonathan Lear in Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation.  Plenty Coups hoped for a good future for the Crow people, a future in which they would keep their land and maintain their cultural identify as Crow.  And he held this hope in spite of his belief, grounded in visions he experienced as a boy, that the coming of white people to the plains would irrevocably change the Crow way of life.
            Lear says this is “radical” hope.  Radical hope looks forward to a good future even when the very concepts one uses to describe a good future have been robbed of their meaning.  The Crow people had a rich traditional way of life; centered on nomadism, buffalo hunting, and intermittent warfare against rival tribes.  Their traditions included religious rites (such as the boy Plenty Coups’ vision quest), sacred dances, celebrations of successful hunts and raids, and many other things.  White domination devastated the Crow way of life; by this Lear means not just that the Crow lost their independence but that they lost what philosophers call “thick” concepts of the good life that the future would hold.  Plenty Coups had only the “thin” concept that the future would be good after the storm.
Lear wants to make Plenty Coups available as an exemplar of wisdom for secular people.  He recognizes, of course, that Plenty Coups’ hope was grounded in religious beliefs.  Plenty Coups and the Crow elders interpreted the boy’s visions as messages from the Great Spirit, telling the Crow people to imitate the Chickadee, to listen and adapt.  Nevertheless, Lear denies that religious beliefs are necessary for radical hope.  He says that the goodness of the world is greater than finite people can possibly know.  Even secular people may rationally believe this.  Therefore, Lear argues, even secular people can hold to hope in times of cultural devastation.
Lear says nothing about which forms of cultural devastation that might threaten his readers.  What are the great anxieties of our culture?  Disastrous climate change?  Terrorists who obtain and use nuclear weapons?  A failure of liberal political regimes such that, when faced with terrorism, liberal states collapse into tyranny?  Technological horrors as depicted in science fiction dystopias?  A 21st century version of Big Brother?  Each of Lear’s readers is free to read Lear’s interpretation of Plenty Coups in light of her own deep fears.
Radical hope is not an ostrich-like denial that bad things may come.  Lear emphasizes the realism expressed in Plenty Coups’ visions (and the interpretation the elders placed on them).  Native American tribes had no way to prevent the onslaught of European invaders.  White trappers would be followed by white miners, white settlers, and white soldiers.  The invaders would bring their own definitions of justice, by which they forced the natives off their land, killing as many as necessary to take possession.  Crow leaders—to the degree they understood the situation in terms of realpolitik—knew that Plenty Coups’ vision was true.  The storm is coming, and we cannot stop it.
Our situation is different.  We do not know that any of the “storms” we fear are unavoidable.  It is possible, perhaps even likely, that the effects of climate change will be mitigated, that terror groups will be defeated, that liberal government will meet 21st century challenges, and that we will gain the wisdom to rightly use new technologies.  Nevertheless, we may say: it is possible that a storm is coming.  Radical hope enables one to look for a good future no matter how bad the storm.
But radical hope is not a Pollyannaish belief that everything will turn out fine.  The good future we hope for will be different that what we expect.  Lear underscores the depth of the disaster experienced by the Crow (and other tribes as well, but his focus in on Plenty Coups’ people).  The Crow had to learn a revised set of moral concepts.  Courage is still a virtue—but what is courage in this new age?  Courage no longer means planting a coup stick in battle.  It may mean facing a new age resolutely, even when many traditional behaviors no longer make sense.  As Lear understands him, Plenty Coups led his people to a new and deeper understanding of virtue and of the good life.
If one of our deep fears comes to pass, we will need radical hope.  The concepts we use now to describe human flourishing may need to change.  Jonathan Lear never says this explicitly, but I think it is implied by his argument.
Here is an example.
The dictator of North Korea threatened this week that his country has intercontinental ballistic missiles to carry his nuclear weapons to targets all over the world, from Seoul to Washington, D.C.  Does North Korea actually have this capacity?  Military and technical experts express some doubts, but it seems clear that North Korea aims to have such powers soon.  Does Kim Jong Un merely intend to bully his neighbors?  Would he actually use such weapons?  We may hope (a kind of extreme hope) that Un would have sanity sufficient to restrain himself and never use nuclear weapons.  But what if Kim Jong Un is as unstable as some news reports say he is?
Suppose North Korea fired missiles and destroyed Seoul, Tokyo, and Seattle (to pick a random North American city).  The international response would be immediate and overwhelming, for no political leader could tolerate letting North Korea fire a second round of missiles.  Let us suppose that retaliation, led by the United States, was carefully limited to strikes against North Korea.  (We may imagine that China endorsed retaliation against Kim Jong Un, so long as China was not attacked.)  But let us further suppose that somehow, either directly as a result of attacks on North Korea or because of sabotage by Korean fanatics, fifteen or twenty large nuclear weapons were detonated in North Korea.  What we are imagining is a North Korea turned into an atomic wasteland.
This scenario is not the doomsday story that haunted the cold war, the annihilation of humanity.  Most of the world’s people would survive.  But our future would be changed in unpredictable ways.  Nuclear fallout would hit South Korea, China and Japan first, but its effects would spread worldwide.  Radiation poisoning would affect tens of millions of people.  Just as important would be the social and political fallout—but we cannot predict what it would be.  What would governments do to try to prevent a recurrence of the Korean decimation?  What “lessons” would be learned by terrorist organizations?  How would ordinary people conceive a good life in a post-catastrophe world?
The Korea example is not the worst “storm” that might afflict our world.  Worse things are possible.  Nevertheless, we may hope.  We may hope for a good future, even if we are not sure what a “good future” might look like.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

HB 16

14. The Kingdom of God as a Global Hope

            The prospect of catastrophic climate change illustrates what I am calling “global” hope.  A global hope is, as one would guess, a hope for something big, something that affects whole cultures or the whole planet.  The environmentalists who contributed to Ecology, Ethics and Hope have the whole planet in mind.
            Three questions, identified last chapter: What is the “object-state” our hope aims for?  Second, how can a person hope when he knows that his own actions will contribute infinitesimally to the object-state?  Third, how can we avoid the vices of despair and presumption in regard to global hopes?  These questions interpenetrate each other, so that what we think about one affects how we answer the others.
            Hope for the Kingdom of God is a global hope.  It’s probably the most global object-state ever imagined.  We pray: “Your kingdom come; your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”  The Kingdom of God is that place or time where God’s will is done.  It is not limited to earth; if we ever visit other planets we will take our prayer with us.  We pray these words often, but what do we mean?  What does it mean for God’s will to be done?
            Biblical images come to mind: Isaiah’s mountain of the Lord, where lions lie down with lambs and children play with serpents without danger, or Revelation’s new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven to earth, or Jesus’ parables of feasting in the King’s presence.  Such images reinforce biblical themes of peace, justice, solidarity, hospitality, integrity, and holiness.  Or, as Paul put it: “The kingdom of God is righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.”  Perhaps the best word to describe the kingdom of God is shalom—peace/wellbeing/wholeness in the inner person, between persons, and in all creation.
            In one sense the kingdom of God is too encompassing.  We can’t get our minds around it.  When we hope for the kingdom, we hope for wellness, for healthy ecosystems, for material prosperity, for peace between nations, for the appreciation of beauty, for human solidarity, for peaceful communities, for interpersonal justice, for exuberant enjoyment of natural goods, and more.  The kingdom of God seems to include everything good—do we hope for all goods at once?
            In one sense, yes.  When we pray, “Your kingdom come,” we know that the rule of God both includes and transcends the particular goods we have in mind.  We hope for God’s universal rule to come. 
            That isn’t the whole story though.  In very many cases (I do not say every case), hope consists partly in actions.  Andrew T. Brei and his fellow environmentalists prize hope because it often sustains people in the pursuit of difficult goals.  Our climate change crisis demands radical change, they say, and it seems very unlikely—given social, economic, and political realities—that the human race will change its behavior fast enough.  The environmentalists think we must encourage hope so that we can sustain ourselves in a desperately hard struggle.
            But it is impossible for a single person to act toward all the goods implied in shalom.  No one person can feed the hungry, heal the sick, build communities, educate children, oppose aggressors, celebrate beauty, restore damaged ecosystems, reconcile enemies, and so on ad infinitum.  Necessarily, we focus our actions on some particular goods. 
            It’s not just that we are limited in our ability to act.  As finite creatures, we can’t thoroughly imagine the kingdom.  At times we may catch glimpses of the goodness God plans for us—in some spectacular beauty, in the wonder of worship, in the joy that comes when broken relationships are restored.  The New Testament says that the presence of God’s Spirit in our lives is a “down payment” or “first installment” of the glory of the kingdom.  Nurtured by such experiences, we hope for something greater than what we can comprehend or imagine.
            There is a sense, then, since we can neither act toward nor imagine God’s kingdom in its fullness, that the kingdom of God surpasses our hope.  Nevertheless, we can act and imagine in accord with our hope.
            An example: I hope that the civil war in Syria will end, and I hope that the refugees from that war will find new homes.  It seems that I can do very little to bring peace to Syria.  I cannot help tens of thousands of refugees.  I haven’t the ability and resources to effectively help even one refugee.  And even if I could do these things, achieving peace in Syria is a small part of shalom.
            But!  I can join the refugee resettlement committee at my church.  Together we can help a refugee family to settle in a nearby town.  After that family is settled, we can help a second family and more.  Our committee can cooperate with Catholic Charities and other groups to create a network of refugee help.  Because we are concerned to help refugees, we can petition our government to be more welcoming to refugees.
            My example illustrates a simple truth, often repeated: though you can’t do everything, you can still do something.  It’s better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.
            Our global hopes will all share this feature.  The object-state we hope for will be “too big.”  Sometimes we will wonder whether anything we do will be of real benefit.  We won’t know how to precisely describe the object-state.  Yet it will still be possible to hope—to license ourselves to think, imagine, anticipate, and work toward some aspects of the object-state.
            The kingdom of God is both “come” and “coming.”  To the peasants of first century Galilee, Jesus said the kingdom was “right at the door” and “within you.”  Through repentance and faith, we live in the kingdom now.  The New Testament also says we must endure until the Lord returns, bringing the kingdom with him.
            Hope is similarly double-edged.  We desire and look for some future good, and in doing so we experience a good right now.  We hope.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Cold Case

Reflections on the Death of My Brother:
Thirty-Five Years Later

            Early this month, the Chelan County Sheriff arrested two people, a man and a woman, and charged them with first degree murder in the death of my older brother, Steve Smith.  35 years ago, Steve was living in Cashmere.  He disappeared, and his body has never been found.  Apparently the sheriff has uncovered new evidence in the case, evidence sufficient for him to bring charges against the accused.
            I instinctively think of Steve as my older brother.  But he was only 30 when he died.  I’m 62, shaped and changed by three and a half decades of experience since Steve disappeared.  It’s strange to imagine him dying so young.  I wonder what life might have taught him had he lived.
            Growing up, Steve and I weren’t close.  Three years older, he attended junior high when I was in elementary school; he entered high school when I reached junior high.  When I was a high school freshman, he was a senior preparing to graduate.  And our interests were different; I liked school and loved books, while Steve barely tolerated school and loved cars.  I ran track and played basketball; Steve wrestled.
            He graduated high school in 1970, which meant, for a young man with no college deferment, receiving a letter of “greetings” from Uncle Sam.  Fortunately for Steve, in the Nixon years the Vietnam War was winding down.  Steve served his time in the Army without going to Asia.
            After high school I saw Steve less than ever.  I left the valley for college about the time Steve was discharged from the service.  Two weeks after college graduation, Karen and I married, and in three months we left for California.  From a distance we learned that Steve had “settled down,” marrying Dawn.  On a vacation to the valley—1980 I think—we met Dawn, the only time we ever saw her.  Later Steve and Dawn had a daughter, Crystal.  In 1982, a few months before Karen and I moved back north, Steve disappeared.  In the meantime, a divorce proceeding granted Steve primary custody of Crystal; Dawn had visitation privileges.  I can only guess as to the reasons for that arrangement.  After Steve disappeared, my parents were given custody, and later they adopted Crystal.  Crystal is at once my niece and my sister.
            Absent a body, my parents hoped for a time that Steve would turn up.  Gradually they accepted the almost certain truth, that he was dead.  Other challenges took over their lives.  Mom was diagnosed with leukemia, and after four years of struggle she died.  In 1989 a new woman entered the picture: May.  I had the privilege of performing their wedding.  Dad’s second wife took on the task of stepmom to Crystal.  I will always be thankful for May, for her love for Dad, and for her mothering to a little girl who had lost so much.
            There is another, worse, aspect to the story.  After Dawn and Steve divorced, Dawn married a man named Bernie Swaim.  According to the Sheriff’s account, Dawn and Bernie conspired together to kill Steve.  Sometime later, they separated.
            In her life’s first decade, Crystal’s father was murdered and her grandmother/mother slowly lost her battle with cancer.  Her birth mother faded from her life.  And now that woman is accused in her father’s death.  You can see why I am so grateful to May and why I pray for Crystal every week.
            I hope that Bernie and Dawn receive a fair trial.  More than that, I hope that the process of the trial produces incontrovertible evidence of what happened to Steve.  Ideally, Bernie and Dawn would tell all that they know and take responsibility for whatever they did.  I hope that somehow, in the course of the trial, whatever its outcome, there can be freedom and healing for Crystal.  Other than memories and a few pictures, there is nothing that speaks of Steve’s years on Earth.  Nothing, that is, except his daughter.
            Like me and unlike Steve, Bernie and Dawn have lived the last 35 years.  Judging by their arrest photos (published in the papers), the years have not been kind to them.  I imagine they’ve lived hard lives.  If the sheriff’s accusations are proved, they may well spend their remaining years—the years sometimes called “golden”—in prison.  Washington state taxpayers will supply their retirement facilities, quite probably until they die.  Is there an irony here?  If so, it’s heartbreakingly sad.
            It is no surprise that human beings often do stupid and evil things.  We pray that divine grace will take our brokenness and redeem it.  After 35 years I don’t know how that might happen in my brother’s story.  Nevertheless, I pray for a triumph of justice and love.  When we pray for God’s kingdom to come, we’re not just imagining a far-away neverland.  I hope for some measure of healing for Crystal (and others, including Bernie and Dawn) in this life.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

HB 15

13. Global Hopes

            Many of our hopes are small scale, personal hopes.  We hope for a new job, for rescue when stranded, and for better relationships.  At a slightly larger scale we might hope that our school or business prospers, or that our city government solves its budget challenges.
            Recently I’ve been reading essays edited by Andrew T. Brei, in Ecology, Ethics, and Hope (Rowman and Littlefield, 2016).  The thinking in this book emerges from the intersection of environmentalism and moral philosophy.  The authors are convinced that human destruction of nature, primarily through anthropogenic climate change but also exhibited in less extreme environmental ravages (air and water pollution, desertification, extinctions due to habitat loss, etc.), is either an accomplished fact or inevitable result of industrial society.  They all agree that climate change, caused by human release of carbon monoxide, will be an existential threat to civilization in the current century.
            What can we hope for in the face of global climate catastrophe?  But wait!  Before answering, let us consider other catastrophic possibilities:
1.     Since the mid-1950s human beings have had enough thermonuclear weapons to eradicate our species—and probably most other species as well—by means of heat, radiation, and nuclear winter.
2.     We’ve also invented non-nuclear weapons of mass destruction, such as chemical agents.  Such weapons, if used on a large scale, could depopulate vast areas.
3.     No one outside of government can know how far research has “progressed,” but many of us worry that bioengineering will enable the production of super-germs.  If released, either by accident or act of war, bio-weapons could kill almost everybody.
This list could be extended.  We are familiar with science fiction movies and novels that frighten us with economic collapse, race wars, totalitarian states, or meteors smashing into Earth.  Our apocalyptic imaginations range from pure fancy (invading aliens) to the very real threat of nuclear holocaust. 
Catastrophic climate change is different, say the contributors to Ecology, Ethics, and Hope, because climate change is not a mere possibility.  Anthropogenic climate change is already happening.  Given the extent of carbon monoxide we have already pumped into the atmosphere, even more drastic climate change will occur in the decades ahead—even if we could somehow stop producing greenhouse gases immediately.  But much of the general public, encouraged by certain business and political leaders, does not believe the scientific consensus.  And there are other people who, knowing that climate change is real and accelerating, have despaired that anything can be done to stop it.  So a great many people respond to the global climate change crisis with disinterest or lethargy.
As the title of his book suggests, Brei and his fellow authors recognize the situation as a moral crisis, not just a matter of scientific or technological expertise.  Our planet’s environmental crisis demands immediate and extraordinary action, they think, and such action is much less possible when people despair.  When preaching to the general public, environmentalists must offer people hope; without hope, people are very unlikely to take the dramatic actions needed to stave off disaster.
So we return to the question: How should we hope in the face of global catastrophe?  A number of other questions lie under the surface of this first one.
First: what is it we should hope for?  What is the “object-state” we desire?  Environmentalists differ in their answers.  At a minimal level, we should desire and work for a global environment that supports human life and civilized societies.  In some scenarios, climate change so devastates the natural world that industrial society collapses, decimating human population and leaving the survivors in a new stone age. 
More likely (though how can we estimate probabilities for a world fifty years hence?), industrial and technological civilization will survive.  Rather than depending on the natural world for resources (food, clothing, building materials), humanity will fabricate most of what it needs by means of genetic engineering, 3-D printing, and new inventions.  We would survive, and in some ways thrive, by using our technology to adapt to shifting climates.
Environmentalists have a word for this homo sapiens dominated world: the anthropocene period.  It is a new age of the earth, with a climate driven by the activities of one species.  Authors in Brei’s book say that we have already entered this new phase of our planet’s history. 
And that’s bad, they say.  These authors agree that nature—the wild, untamed world—is a good thing.  In the anthropocene era, nature ceases to exist; the whole world is controlled, used, polluted, fenced, or (possibly) protected by humanity.  The object-state we should desire and hope for, these environmentalists want to say, is one where nature is still nature, where our species lives symbiotically with other creatures and the natural systems of earth.
They want to say that, but many of them believe that it is already too late.  A pure “nature” is lost.  The best we can hope for is to minimize negative effects of the anthropocene.  So there is division among environmentalists.  They may agree that we need hope, but they disagree about the object-state we should desire.
Second: as a global crisis, climate change affects everybody, but no one person’s actions can bring about the desired object-state.  When an individual thinks of a pathway to a goal (e.g. taking a college class to get a better job) and acts on it, she often feels more hopeful, and her feelings help sustain her along the path.  But the only pathways toward solutions to the climate crisis involve hundreds of millions of people.  The contribution of any other person is so small compared with the need that it approaches zero.  How should we hope when our hopeful actions are infinitesimal compared to the task?
Third: the authors in Brei’s book identify despair as a vice.  Some of them admit to struggling with despair in their own lives as they think about the magnitude of climate change.  They do not use the word “presumption,” traditionally used to describe another vice related to hope.  (In Aquinas, despair is the vice of abandoning hope because the object of the hope is too hard, while presumption is the vice of assuming that hope’s object is already or easily attained.)  The environmentalists do recognize that some people have convinced themselves, without good reason, that “everything will turn out okay,” and thus fail to take necessary actions.  Though they don’t use the word, the vice they describe is presumption.
I think these features of environmental hope can be found in other cases of global hope.  In particular, the questions of object-state and individual action will attend to hopes in regard to eliminating poverty, preventing war, ending starvation, extending education to all, and other worthy “global” hopes.  What is it that we hope for in such cases?  What role, if any, does action play in such hopes?

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

HB 14

Retrospect and Prospect

            Can one write a philosophy book as a series of short essays?  Perhaps only in draft form; so far what I am calling the “Hope Book” seems choppy and disjointed.  I’ve adopted this mode of presentation as a way to squeeze writing into the school year.  I’m able to average about 1000 words a week.  The project certainly needs editing.  In anticipation of that task, here is a progress report, a look back and a look ahead.
            In chapter 1, I described the basic structure of hope: that it combines a desire for some good thing that is judged to be possible, neither certain nor impossible.  Chapter 2 listed four categories of hopes: immoral hopes (e.g. Don Juan’s hope to seduce his neighbor), innocent but unimportant hopes (e.g. that the Mariners win the pennant), morally praiseworthy hopes (e.g. Bernie’s hope to provide for his children after he dies), and the theological virtue of hope (which, for Aquinas, focuses on eternal friendship with God).  I mean that list to be suggestive, not definitive; there may be other important kinds of hope, and particular examples may lie in the imprecise boundaries between the four kinds.  In chapter 3, I introduced C.R. Snyder’s hope theory, which defines hope as entirely cognitive and claims significant therapeutic success.  Chapter 4 presented Adrienne Martin’s “syndrome” account of hope, which makes hope something more complicated than Snyder’s formula: pathways + motivation = hope.  Chapter 5 recounted an argument by Simon Critchley against hope—that is, an argument that many of our hopes are irrational and unwise.  In particular, Critchley complains about hope’s bad influence on public policy.  If the subject is “audacious hope,” Critchley sides with Nietzsche, not Obama.  In chapter 6, I turned to Adrienne Martin’s “incorporation thesis” to defend the rationality of hope against the philosophers’ typical modern criticism of hope, which Critchley illustrates.  Martin argues that there are two judgments in hope: a probability judgment that some outcome is possible and a practical judgment that the desired end is important enough to “license” oneself to hope for it.  Martin concludes that hope for very unlikely things can still be rational.
            Chapter 8 introduced Michael Bishop’s theory of positive causal networks, which he intends as a paradigm theory of positive psychology.  PCNs are “homeostatic property clusters,” says Bishop, and they are a real feature of the world.  In chapter 9, I dealt with a side issue.  Bishop’s theory will be controversial among moral philosophers, because he explicitly argues that wicked people can have happy lives, that human flourishing and moral goodness do not implicate each other.  Whether or not Bishop adequately defends his thesis on that point, in chapter 10 I argued that Bishop’s PCN theory gives helpful insight into hope.  Bishop’s book rather cavalierly treats hope as merely hopeful feelings, but his theory actually fits Martin’s syndrome account of hope very well.  Hope is complicated; it includes perceptions, beliefs, attitudes, and actions—and more perhaps.  The various parts of hope reinforce each other just as Bishop’s PCN theory says the parts of a causal network reinforce each other.
            Having noticed the likeness between PCN theory and the syndrome account of hope, in chapter 11 I moved to the question of how we can develop hope.  We can learn to perceive the world in accord with knowledge, as when we train ourselves to see the world turning beneath a stationary sun.  So we can, I suggested, train ourselves to perceive the world in a hopeful way.  (Thick masonry prison walls become not just a barrier but also an escape route.)  Chapter 12 pressed the point a bit further.  We can attend to the world with hope, as the wounded hiker listens for any sound of a passing vehicle.  Chapter 13 returned to Snyder’s hope theory.  While the hope theory definition of hope is too simplistic, it does point to ways we can grow in hope: by thinking of pathways around barriers and by recognizing in ourselves motivation to use those pathways.
            I want to discuss at least as many aspects of hope in the succeeding chapters, but of course, since I haven’t written them yet, their contents are not yet determined.  In a preliminary way, here are upcoming topics:
            *Should a person prioritize his hopes?  Soren Kierkegaard wrote about hope as a “task.”  He thought a life could be concentrated into a central hope.  He suggested examples from literature and imagination of a life’s central hope.  But as a Christian, he also criticized many possible central hopes.  Our “task” of hope, he wrote, is to build a life around the right central hope.
            *Kierkegaard wrote as a Christian.  Does his notion of the task of hope square with biblical teaching about hope?  Is there a doctrine of Christian hope in the New Testament?  N.T. Wright, a bishop in the Church of England and a well-known Bible scholar, says there is.  He also complains that many contemporary Christians seem ignorant of the Bible’s teaching.  Many church people today, Wright says, have adopted notions of hope from popular culture rather than their own tradition.
            *Wright and Jurgen Moltmann try to describe an “ethics of hope.”  So far this book has focused on hope as a virtue in the lives of individuals.  Is it possible that hope could be an organizing principle in a social ethic?  What is the “ethics of hope”?
            *Is hope—as related to social questions—a purely Christian concern?  Jonathan Lear writes about “radical” hope, based not on Christian theology but on the observation that the goodness of the world is greater than our conceptual grasp of it.  Is Christian hope, based on a transcendent God, a version of “radical” hope?
            *It seems to me that Lear’s argument for a secularized radical hope ought to be paired (conceptually anyway) with “radical” fear.  I’m not enthusiastic about this idea, but it may need attention.
            *Thomas Aquinas identified two vices that contend against hope: despair and presumption.  Since I have written a few chapters about how to hope, perhaps I should have already included comments on these vices; how not to hope.  But the vices of hope impede our social hopes as much as the hopes of our individual lives, so reflections on despair and presumption will be appropriate at that time.
            I’m pretty sure that won’t be everything, but it is enough for now.