CHRISTMAS 2024 -- FINDING GOD IN DARK TIMES
We are always being told to remember the original message of Christmas.
It's not supposed to be about the gifts and the parties, the cards and the carolers, the tree and the lights. It's not supposed to be about the long lines, crowded airports or frenzied families traveling to and fro. It's not supposed to be about the twelve days or seven fishes or eight reindeer.
Or the stockings hung by the chimney.
Or St. Nicholas.
It's supposed to be about a visit.
By God . . .
To this world . . .
At a Roman backwater . . .
In a small tribe . . .
As a real man.
And when you think about that seriously, and park all the seasonal tinsel and tumult, the claim is either the most important and earth-shattering thing to have ever happened in human history . . .
Or it is completely nuts.
Each side has had its proponents.
There have been times in the last two thousand plus years when individuals actually looked back in complete shock at the importance of the event. Upon his own death in 363 CE, Emperor Julian (the Apostate) reportedly lamented the death of paganism and early triumph of Christianity with "Galilean, you have won." Others were in awe. Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel. Hopkin's wrote God's Grandeur. In the former, the Galilean becomes part of a biblical world order painted on five hundred square meters of a vaulted ceiling, in the latter the light that dispels the dark as the trinitarian "Holy Ghost over the bent/World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."
There have been other times -- more prevalent of late -- when individuals looked back aghast at the irrationality of the claim and the disasters created in its name. This era's so-called Four Horsemen of New Atheism -- Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett -- are (or, in the now-deceased Hitchens and Dennett cases, were) contemporary spokesmen for this view. With Hitchens and Harris, the principal gripe is with organized religion; to the extent God dies in their world, it is more on account of what His followers have authored in His name. With Dawkins and Dennett, however, whether He was there in the first place is the question (they think He was not).
Looking for evidence that God exists is, in my mind, a futile endeavor.
Evidence of something entirely out of this world cannot really be found in this world.
The Christian paradigm, of course, contests this claim. Its fundamental contention is "No, the real, actual first century (CE) Jesus of Nazareth in this world is evidence that God too is here. He is the one who came, saw and conquered, albeit in ways Caesar could never have imagined". But the so-called evidence for this God-man is the Resurrection. Which its proponents admit is a miracle. And which, therefore, more or less removes it from the realm of evidence (at least of the this-world sort).
So . . .
I look elsewhere.
In 1968, Hannah Arendt published Men In Dark Times. It is a collection of essays she wrote over twelve years about individuals who lived in the dark time of the mid-twentieth century, a time "when there was only wrong and no outrage".
Though "there was," she wrote, "nothing secret or mysterious about" that dark time, "it was by no means visible to all" or "at all easy to perceive". To the contrary, she explained, "until the very moment when catastrophe overtook everything and everybody, it was covered up not by realities but by the highly efficient talk and double talk of . . . official representatives who, without interruption and in many ingenious variations, explained away unpleasant facts and justified concerns."
In this "camouflage[d] . . . public realm", she concluded, the function of which is to otherwise "throw light upon the affairs of men" to "show in word and deed, for better and worse, who they are and what they can do", darkness comes "when this light is extinguished by . . . speech that does not disclose what is but sweeps it under the carpet, by exhortations, moral and otherwise, that, under the pretext of upholding old truths, degrade all truth to meaningless triviality."
It was odd for Arendt to find my God in that time and place.
But, nevertheless, there He was.
The subject of Arendt's third essay is Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli. Known to the world since 1958 as Pope John XXIII, Arendt titles her essay with the Pope's given name. My guess is that was intentional. Unknown and unsung at the time Catholic church elders could not agree on Pius XII's successor, they thought he would be "provisional, transitional" and "without much consequence." Throughout his life, however, Roncalli "made Christ his model".
The "suffering" Christ.
The "gentle and humble" Christ.
"Knowing perfectly well," as Arendt, quoting the young Roncalli, explained, "that to be 'similar to the good Jesus' meant 'to be treated as a madman'".
And so . . .
The John who became a pope was simply the Roncalli who had been a real Christian. He talked (endlessly). And to everyone. He laughed (fully). And with anyone. He cursed (mildly). But never in God's name. "Shit" was acceptable; "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" was not. He was not patronizing. He was the fourth (and first son) of twelve children raised by farmers and molded by late 19th century Catholic Action, the church's alternative to the unstable state (from which it was then estranged) that created the cooperatives and credit banks Catholics like the Roncallis used to buy their farms. Born in 1881, he was a seminarian at 12, a priest at 22, and a Bishop at 43.
Throughout his career, he was loyal to the institutional church.
But his loyalty never interfered with his ability to see and tell the truth about its leaders.
Or his country's . . .
Or the world's.
The popes he most admired in his lifetime were Leo XIII (1878-1903) and Benedict XV (1914-1922). These two were sandwiched between all the Piuses, Leo between Pius IX and X and Benedict between the latter and Pius XI (and then XII). Leo and Benedict became famous, respectively, as the worker's pope and as a peacemaker.
The Piuses IX and X were either reactionary or paranoid. Pius IX became a prisoner of the Vatican after the Italian revolution and the fall of the papal states and forbade Italian Catholics from participating in politics; he was also the pope who shepherded the specious doctrine of infallibility though Vatican I, the council he more or less rigged to vote his way. Pius X manufactured the so-called "modernist heresy" designed to insulate Catholicism from religion not aligned with papal dictate or science and history not the product of medieval scholasticism.
Fortunately for the later church, however, Roncalli grew up under Leo and, upon ordination, became secretary to a modernist bishop -- Giacomo Radini-Tedeschi -- who Pius X had sidelined to Angelo's hometown.
Radini-Tedeschi was the anti-pope.
He was a fan of Catholic Action (which Pius X despised), supported striking workers, introduced science labs to the educations of future priests, and thought "authority" (papal and otherwise) had to be "harmonized" with "freedom" rather than deny it.
The young Roncalli became an ardent supporter.
He found his own historic models in the Counter-Reformation's Charles Borromeo and Cesare Baronius. Through the sacrifice, service and scholarship of the first (a rich nobleman who gave it all up and reformed a debauched church) and the rational historic analysis of the second (who told Galileo, before the latter's trial, that "The Bible teaches us how to go to heaven, not how the heavens go"), he avoided the intellectual poverty of anti-modernism without succumbing to the moral poverty of scientific positivism.
By the time he became a Bishop, he was fully formed.
And so formed, he spoke truth to power in his dark time.
He did not let the Vatican's efforts in negotiating and securing its own state (in the Lateran Accords) stop or limit his condemnation of Mussolini's fascism. And when he did it from the pulpit, he was given a one-way ticket out of Italy and exiled to Bulgaria as an apostolic visitor. He spent ten years there. Nor did he let the Vatican's later hesitancy with Hitler get in the way of his own honesty with German diplomats. During World War II, he was the Vatican's Apostolic Delegate to Turkey; Franz von Papen was Germany's Ambassador to Turkey at the same time. When von Papen sought his help in securing Vatican support for Germany once it was at war with communist (and therefore anti-Catholic) Russia, Roncalli bluntly asked "And what shall I say about the millions of Jews your countrymen are murdering in Poland and Germany?"
His opposition was also more than just talk.
Throughout World War II, his "baptisms of convenience"; "immigration certificates to Palestine"; refugees list from Istanbul Rabbi Markus; and personal interventions on behalf of Bulgarian Jews, Romanian Jews, Hungarian Jews, Italian Jews, orphaned Transnistrian children on a refugee ship, and those held in the Jasenovac and the Sered concentration camps, literally saved thousands from the final solution.
And later . . .
As Pope . . .
Long after it was over and just before he died . . .
He begged for forgiveness.
Invoking the last words of the Jesus he imitated, he wrote a prayer to be delivered in Catholic churches throughout the world :
"We are conscious today that many, many centuries of blindness have cloaked our eyes so that we can no longer see the beauty of Thy chosen people nor recognize in their faces the features of our privileged brethren. We realize that the mark of Cain stands upon our foreheads. Across the centuries our brother Abel has lain in blood which we drew, or shed tears we caused by forgetting Thy love. Forgive us for the curse we falsely attached to their name as Jews. Forgive us for crucifying Thee a second time in their flesh. For we know not what we did."
Roncalli's courage and witness to the truth in his time did not make him God or establish that there is one. It was evidence, however, of the power that imitation -- in his case, of Christ -- can have, the good it can do, the barriers it can break, the evil it can block, even the (just) wars it can win.
It is, unfortunately, taken seriously by the world as a whole only (or mostly) after the fact. Before the moment "catastrophe over[takes] everything and everybody", when the imitator is being "treated as a madman", the world's default position is to ignore the witness, soften and even deny the truth. In Roncalli's time, it meant sending him to Bulgaria lest he get in the way of "normalizing" the Vatican's relationship with Mussolini's fascist Italy. In ours, it means bowing to Donald Trump, pretending (illegal) immigrants are inhuman, pretending truths about him are defamatory, ignoring or accepting his pathological lying and misogyny, prosecuting his enemies, attacking the free press, killing critical stories or editorials, abandoning Ukraine and rubber-stamping appointments to high positions of those whose first (and in some cases only) qualification is a sycophantic obedience to Trump himself.
So much of this is exactly what happened in Italy in the 1920s and Germany in the 1930s. Fascism was immoral long before the Holocaust.
And it also could have been stopped long before then.
"'Do not obey in advance' is the main lesson of the twentieth century," says Tim Snyder. In his book On Tyranny, it is also "the first lesson". "Most of the power of authoritarianism," he explains, "is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what is more repressive, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do."
Roncalli wouldn't do that in his time.
But his time did not listen until it was too late.
Nor are many, perhaps most, in ours.
And that, in a strange but not un-Biblical way, may be even more "evidence" for my God.
Because . . .
In His time . . .
The Galilean was ignored too.
Merry Christmas.