In the 1880 novel The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky offers a sobering diagnosis of the societal and political ills of his native Russia at the time: namely, that the people had forsaken religion in favor of post-Enlightenment nihilism. In his estimation, when people abandon belief in good and evil, the world becomes divided simply into those who dare and those who do not dare; in Nietzschean terms, it is the strong versus the weak. Religion, in this worldview, is a crutch for the weak.
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| A portrait of Dostoevsky. |
It doesn’t take a genius to draw parallels between Dostoevsky’s Russia and our own modern world. Moral relativism is an American pastime as favored as baseball, and there is no shortage of Hitchenses, Mahers, and Dawkinses prophesying the impending end of religion, which will usher in the glorious age of Reason and Science. As Jesse Ventura so bluntly put it, “Organized religion is a sham and a crutch for weak-minded people who need strength in numbers.” Our modern culture, much like Dostoevsky’s, has long perceived religion as a set of ideals preached by idealists who are out of touch with human suffering.
So what’s a Christian to do? How do we preach Christ to a world that doesn’t want to listen?
This, too, is the question that Dostoevsky seeks to answer. The great conundrum faced by many characters throughout the book is that having love for the general mass of humanity can be logically reconciled, but personal charity makes no sense, and is even abhorrent. According to one character, “The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular.”
Dostoevsky’s prescription is a Christianity that continually returns to its namesake, a religious practice that, in true imitation of Christ, loves all people. And this love must not be abstract social charity, but rather a personal and intimate love of neighbor. It is a Christianity that does not seek to exercise power over the other, that is radically able to separate sin from sinner and fiercely love the latter, that regards each person as an ineffable mystery inherently worthy of love.
This Christianity is, of course, no small undertaking. It is much more comfortable to love humanity in general than concretely. It is much more comfortable to see Christ present in life’s more obviously beautiful moments than in the darker places of the human experience. It is much more comfortable to sustain a check-the-box approach to our faith life.
Last week I gave a talk to some adults in my parish about the Stations of the Cross. In reflecting on and speaking about this devotion, I realized what a bizarre practice it must seem in the eyes of the world. On Friday nights we get together to commemorate the final hours of this betrayed, condemned, tortured man. We solemnly celebrate this historical event, not as a mistake to learn from, but as something to be emulated.
The fact that we do this speaks to the powerful insight that in the Incarnation, Christ forever changes what it means to be human. He takes the things of this world and transforms them through love. Take, for example, crucifixion, which since its invention, has been a powerful symbol. In the ancient world, it meant intimidation, fear, and worldly power. It wasn’t for nothing that people would be crucified along public streets. It sent a message: this is what happens if you are an enemy of Rome. When we look at a cross, however, we see the opposite. We see a sign of hope, freedom, and a love that drives out all fear. We see, too, what is asked of us.
The cross is uncomfortable.
Flannery O’Connor, in her discerning way, remarks, “What people don't realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe.” The cross is the uncomfortable, beautiful, terrifying center of our faith. Our faith tells us that we are supposed to be like Christ on the cross, that we must identify ourselves with this wrongly condemned, marginalized, abandoned, hated man.
It is at the foot of the cross, I believe, that we can begin to undertake the programme of love that our world so desperately longs for and, I also believe, is able to receive. The cross is not a place of religious argument or proselytizing. It is not a place of abstract love, but is intensely concrete. The cross does not seek to explain away the mystery of human suffering, nor does it affirm suffering as a good of itself. There is an imposing silence of the cross. It is this silent self-gift that we must imitate.
So what’s a Christian to do? How do we preach Christ to a world that doesn’t want to listen?
This, too, is the question that Dostoevsky seeks to answer. The great conundrum faced by many characters throughout the book is that having love for the general mass of humanity can be logically reconciled, but personal charity makes no sense, and is even abhorrent. According to one character, “The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular.”
Dostoevsky’s prescription is a Christianity that continually returns to its namesake, a religious practice that, in true imitation of Christ, loves all people. And this love must not be abstract social charity, but rather a personal and intimate love of neighbor. It is a Christianity that does not seek to exercise power over the other, that is radically able to separate sin from sinner and fiercely love the latter, that regards each person as an ineffable mystery inherently worthy of love.
This Christianity is, of course, no small undertaking. It is much more comfortable to love humanity in general than concretely. It is much more comfortable to see Christ present in life’s more obviously beautiful moments than in the darker places of the human experience. It is much more comfortable to sustain a check-the-box approach to our faith life.
Last week I gave a talk to some adults in my parish about the Stations of the Cross. In reflecting on and speaking about this devotion, I realized what a bizarre practice it must seem in the eyes of the world. On Friday nights we get together to commemorate the final hours of this betrayed, condemned, tortured man. We solemnly celebrate this historical event, not as a mistake to learn from, but as something to be emulated.
The fact that we do this speaks to the powerful insight that in the Incarnation, Christ forever changes what it means to be human. He takes the things of this world and transforms them through love. Take, for example, crucifixion, which since its invention, has been a powerful symbol. In the ancient world, it meant intimidation, fear, and worldly power. It wasn’t for nothing that people would be crucified along public streets. It sent a message: this is what happens if you are an enemy of Rome. When we look at a cross, however, we see the opposite. We see a sign of hope, freedom, and a love that drives out all fear. We see, too, what is asked of us.
The cross is uncomfortable.
Flannery O’Connor, in her discerning way, remarks, “What people don't realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe.” The cross is the uncomfortable, beautiful, terrifying center of our faith. Our faith tells us that we are supposed to be like Christ on the cross, that we must identify ourselves with this wrongly condemned, marginalized, abandoned, hated man.
It is at the foot of the cross, I believe, that we can begin to undertake the programme of love that our world so desperately longs for and, I also believe, is able to receive. The cross is not a place of religious argument or proselytizing. It is not a place of abstract love, but is intensely concrete. The cross does not seek to explain away the mystery of human suffering, nor does it affirm suffering as a good of itself. There is an imposing silence of the cross. It is this silent self-gift that we must imitate.
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