There is an ancient story contained in the narratives
of the Book of Genesis in the Hebrew Bible that we call the story of
The Tower of Babel. It
begins like this:
Now
the whole earth had one language and few words. And as men migrated
east they found a plain in the
land of Shinar and
settled there. And they said to one another, "Come let us make bricks
and burn them thoroughly." And they had brick for stone and bitumen
for mortar. Then they said, "Come let us build ourselves a city, and
a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves,
lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the earth."
In
the story they do just that. But when God observes what they have
accomplished He is alarmed and says, "Behold
they are one people and they have all one language. This is only
the beginning
of what they will do, and nothing will be impossible for them."
To prevent this from happening God confuses their
language and scatters the people over the whole earth. One of the purposes of such a myth is to explain the way things
are. In this case at the most basic level it offers an explanation
for the complicated phenomenon of linguistics, and why there have developed
so many different languages. But on another level, the story reaches
deeper and offers an explanation for the seemingly endless conflicts
between human beings as well.
Taken
one way, the story parallels the ancient Greek myth of Prometheus.
It makes it appear that God
is jealous of human
creativity and technology and punishes men for their accomplishments.
Looked at from another perspective, however, the story actually celebrates
human creativity and ingenuity, but also warns that it is that very
capacity that tempts human beings to believe they are invincible, that
there is, as the story puts it "nothing that they propose to do that
will be impossible for them." That is to say, human creativity is one
thing, but pride is another; and it is pride that leads men and women
to overreach their appropriate limits, to begin to believe themselves
invincible and to assume god-like unlimited powers.
And so the story develops around two separate poles: "Come, let us make bricks, and burn them
thoroughly"— that is the essence of technology and human creativity. But also, "Come, let us build a tower
with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves"—that
is the essence of pride and human overreaching. In those two simple
formulas the story lays bare the tragic element in all human freedom.
Gifted with the capacity for freedom, like the Creator, we have the
capacity to use that freedom to both create and to destroy. And the
story even suggests what might be the motive that distinguishes one
from the other. Whenever humans set out to "make a name for ourselves," we
inevitably begin to assert power over other people. That is the beginning of how we lose
our soul.
We are becoming more and more aware how this happens
not only to individuals but to a whole people, to nations as well. For most of its history America has been
a beacon of hope for the way it developed democratic institutions that
demonstrated how a nation could ensure basic human rights and freedoms
within a framework of law and justice. We have never been perfect,
and at many times we have not lived up to our ideals. But time and
again we have lurched in the direction of justice. And for most of
our history we have combined strength with restraint and respect for
the rights of others in the pursuit of national goals. And for most
of our history we have been content to live within a constitutional
framework, albeit a somewhat clumsy and difficult ship to steer with
all its checks and balances, that appeared to afford the best possible
approximation of justice.
But,
in the aftermath of September 11, all of that seems to have changed.
And so rapidly has change
occurred, that we
are still dazzled and somewhat confused. At one time the name "America" stood
for "a nation of laws, not men." At one time the name "America" stood
both for generosity and for advocacy of human rights. At
one time the name "America" stood both for power and the restraint
of that power. But since the end of the Cold War, and
especially since September 11, most of the rest of the world has begun
to see us as a nation on a crusade to "make a name for ourselves" by
extending our power to every nook and cranny of the globe.
"We're number one," we
are fond of cheering. But there is precious little of human
value of which America can still say it is a genuine leader. At one time we led the world in humanitarian
aide to other countries, but not any more. We lag far behind most other
industrialized nations in the extent of health care our citizens can
afford. Our infant mortality rates are embarrassing in the midst of
such wealth. Of course we are number one in the world in the per capita
rate of obesity; we're still number one in the amount of money spent
on luxury items. We are the leader in consumption of the world's dwindling
reserves of oil—25% of it every year. We are first in the allocations
we make to military expenditures—more than virtually all of the rest
of the world combined. We lead the world in military bases—969 in the
United states alone, and 725 around the globe at last count (but that
does not include numerous bases that remain secret).
[1]
We are number one in armaments sold to the rest of the
world (nearly 45 billion from 1997-2001. The next largest exporter of arms
during that same period was Russia—17.3 billion).
[2]
In short, America has rapidly begun to "make a name for
itself" as a militarized society whose goal is apparently to extend its hegemony
to every corner of the globe.
In
the process we Americans have seen a rapid shrinking of our commitment
to human rights, and to our own
democratic checks
and balances. Though it has taken us time to wake up to what is happening,
these trends have not been lost on the rest of the world. As one recent
commentator put it, "Hard as it may be for Americans to grasp, much
of the world no longer sees the US as a force for good."
[3]
That is how a nation begins to lose its soul when
it sets out to "make a name for itself" as a hegemon over the affairs
of all other nations. In Madrid, a very senior and rather conservative
Spanish diplomat
recently put it in this way:
We
grew up under Franco with a dream of America. That dream encouraged
us to imagine and later to build
a different,
better Spain. All dreams must fade—but not all dreams must become
nightmares. We Spanish know a little about political nightmares.
What is happening to America? How do you explain Guantanomo?
[4]
Of course, in the current climate, to raise questions
like these is to invite the charge that one is unpatriotic. But I feel
close to the perspective of Albert Camus who once asserted,
"I
would like to be able to love my country and still love justice."
i
This morning we have participated, as part of our
morning service of worship, in the beautiful rite of dedication. The dedication of a child is always such
a rare privilege. It is
the moment in which we are invited to celebrate together with the parents
and godparents, the gift of new life. But
it is also the moment when we are all reminded of a simple, but profound,
truth:
None of us is merely the child of specific parents
or a specific household. We are also, each one of us, a child—as Kahlil
Gibran in his meditation on children with which we always preface the
service stated it—a child of "life's
longing for itself." In
more traditional language, we are each a child of God.
To many of us, that thought resonates. But whether or not you consider yourself
to be a religious person, I invite you to reflect for a few moments
about the meaning of that phrase, "a child of God," or, if you prefer, "a
child of life's longing for itself."
To those of us who take seriously the symbolic importance
of that phrase, it suggests, for one thing, that our identity is a
far more mysterious and comprehensive notion than any one of us may
ever completely grasp in an entire lifetime. And we point to the heart
of that mystery when we come to the part that is embedded in every
service of dedication. That central moment consists of a question and
a deceptively simple response:
What is the name of this child?
This morning we heard the answer: Isabella De Luca.
At the heart of every ceremony of dedication, or—as
in the Christian churches—the rite of baptism, lies this simple yet
profound act by which the community of faith witnesses the conferring
upon a child of his or her name. This
means, among other things, that we believe the conferring and receiving
of a name to have sacred significance. It means, among other things,
that our identity, our sense of self—that we signify by a name—comes
not from our own efforts alone, but from beyond us. It
is conferred upon us in the same way our name is conferred upon us.
And so let us meditate for a few moments on this mysterious notion
of "selfhood" that is contained in the idea of a name. Let
us take up Juliet's famous question, "What's in a name?"
ii
You
will remember that Juliet asks her question early in Shakespeare's drama. She has been smitten with love. Unfortunately
for her and the prospects of her relationship, the object of that love,
Romeo, is a Montague, while she belongs to the family of Capulet—two
families engaged in an ancient and bitter feud that makes them sworn
enemies to one another. But love is apparently stronger than
this tradition, and the two lovers pursue their affair in headstrong
defiance of their families. It is in this context that Juliet cries:
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Defy thy father and refuse thy name
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love
And
I'll no longer be a Capulet.
[5]
It
is difficult for us moderns to fully grasp the shock of that sentiment
to its original hearers. To a Renaissance
audience
the idea of rejecting one's name would have constituted supreme heresy.
Juliet is advocating that Romeo foreswear the primary source of his
identity, as a member of a family. It was by one's family that one
was known, and how one knew his or her place within the social order.
To do what Juliet suggests would have been like defying the laws of
gravity.
Juliet goes on to challenge this orthodoxy by further
reflection: "What's in
a name?" she famously asks, and goes on to provide an answer:
We of course see what she is driving at, and we identify
with her struggle. Even
the Elizabethans saw that and sided with her as well. They just had
a deeper sense of the conflict to which she bears witness than do we.
"What's in a name?" we
ask with Juliet, and we sense in part that she is right. A
name is after all a social convention, a label, that can easily be
exchanged for another. What
really counts is the essence of a person—his or her formative qualities,
his or her inner integrity. And
yet. . . and yet, here lies the mystery. In what does that essence,
that integrity consist? And why do we continue to connect that
essence, that integrity, to the name? After
all we value a person who has established a "good name." And by that
we mean something more than a mere label or a social convention.
One way to look at it is this: We start at the beginning
of life with a blank slate. Little
by little we construct an identity, a self—for good or ill—much
in the way we might construct a palace—brick by brick. But
there is another
way to look at it. This is the perspective provided by our
religious and spiritual imagination and traditions. Our self
is not an entity
that we construct by our efforts alone. Our self is conferred
upon us at birth, much in the way a name is conferred upon
us. It is not
so much that we construct a self as that we undertake a long
and sometime arduous process to discover that self that has
been there all along.
That also takes effort, and imagination, and patience, and
at times, great suffering.
But
when we approach the idea of the "self" in
this way we have a deep sense that it has a significance far beyond
anything
that our mere effort alone could account for.
It
means that we feel responsible for our life, responsible for our "self," responsible
for our
name. And it means that we also feel accountable for our life, our "self," our
name as well. It means
that intuitively we believe our deepest sense of self is rooted in
something transcendent and ultimately mysterious. Every time we dedicate
a child and confer upon him or her a name, we bear witness to this
deep intuition, to this second way of understanding what we mean by
a "self." We bear witness that our truest "self" is something conferred
upon us by some other source, much in the way our name is conferred
upon us. Call that source whatever you may—God, Creator, Spirit of
Life, Mysterious Other, or even "Life's Longing for Itself." What we
imagine is that a true sense of self may only crystallize in relation
to a sense of transcendence, in relation, that is, to that or to whom
we are ultimately accountable.
iii
The
contemporary playwright Robert Bolt understood this same mystery
and explored it in depth through
his portrayal of
Sir Thomas More in his drama "A Man For All Seasons." More,
who was Lord Chancellor to King Henry VIII was also a devout Christian
and the lone person among the king's closest advisors who refused to
sign an oath recognizing his right to divorce his queen, Catherine.
Henry threatens to execute More on grounds of high treason, but More
holds firm. His closest friends and family all beg him to relent, to
sign the oath yet keep his private counsel about his true beliefs.
In a poignant dialogue with his beloved daughter Margaret, who has
made the last appeal to sign the oath, he responds:
When
a man takes an oath, Meg, he's holding his
self in his hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers then—he
needn't hope to find himself again. Some men aren't capable
of this, but I'd be loathe to think your
father one of them.
[7]
There
are two ways to understand what we mean by "the
core of our being"—our true self. One is the way of Thomas More and
those like him, who believe that a self is a precious gift for which
each person must remain ever responsible and accountable. It is this
way to which we bear witness every time we confer a name upon a child.
The second is the way of self-construction. It
is the way we point to whenever we say a person is out "to make a name
for himself." And just as we imply whenever we use that phrase, we
suspect that such a person has gone a far distance in losing himself
in a dangerous quest for prestige and power over others. Pray let us
make the choice between these two ways with true wisdom and humility.
Amen.
[1]
Chalmers Johnson, The Sorrows of Empire:
Militarism, Secrecy, and the End of the Republic
(New York: Henry Holt,
2004), p. 154.
[3]
Tony Judt, "The New World Order," The
New York Review of Books, July
14, 2005, p. 18.
[4]
Cited in Tony Judt, op.cit., p. 18
[5]
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet,
Act 2, Sc, 2, ll.33-36.
[7]
Robert Bolt, A Man For All Seasons, (New York, Vintage Books, 1962), p. 81.