Missing the point

Yesterday’s blog post was really problematic. I’m not taking it down, because I think full transparency is always best, but I wasn’t happy with it when I posted it, and I’m not happy with it now. What’s the problem? It’s not that what I said was wrong—I don’t think it was wrong. The problem is that I don’t think it was really helpful in a couple of ways.

First, if you read it, and you’ve been reading this blog, it probably wasn’t useful to you. I probably didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know. Maybe you agreed with me, maybe you disagreed, but I doubt what I said actually changed what you thought at all. I wrote it because I’ve actually had students who were raised Catholic and who actually really sincerely struggled with the decision I talked about, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to speak to their struggle. But I don’t think yesterday’s post even did a good job of that.

I struggled a lot with why I didn’t like yesterday’s post, and two main points emerged. One is that government is an emergent phenomenon, which means that we can’t control it. But it emerges from us, and so how we are, and how we think, affects how government operates. And if we don’t take responsibility for that, then what emerges can be quite awful.

The second point synergizes with the first. There are lots of government interventions that various people have considered to be good policy in the past. The war on drugs is one. Outlawing abortion is another. Our foreign policy is a kind of intervention, and it often turns in directions that aren’t helpful. What came to mind last night is a verse from the Christian New Testament that you’re probably familiar with, even if you’re not Christian, because it’s so commonly spoken at weddings, as if it is about marital love. It’s not. I’ll quote the King James version, which correctly uses the translation “charity” for the Latin “caritas,” which comes from the Greek “agape,” and doesn’t confuse it with “eros" (romantic love) or “pragma" (committed love):

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

This is good practice advice for a Mahayana Buddhist, or really any Buddhist. But let’s think of it in terms of government policy for a moment. Suppose we decide that we want the government to intervene in peoples’ personal choices. Would we not want that government to act with the care that these verses of Corinthians exhort us to have? (Note that “care” is another word that comes from caritas!)

And so, if we are going to propose that the government intervene in life and death health decisions for women, or for that matter intervene in the question of whether or not a person should take recreational drugs, don’t we have a responsibility to first make sure that the government really was capable of acting out of a motivation of caritas rather than, for example, capricious cruelty?

Let’s consider our actual government. Do we ordinarily see it acting out of such a motivation when it intervenes in peoples’ lives? I don’t mean to impugn the virtue of individual government workers—I’m talking about the government as a whole. Is it in fact acting out of care for the people in whose lives it intervenes?

To me, at least, the answer seems clearly to be “no.” The government may sometimes act in the interests of its citizens, but certainly when it actively intervenes in their lives, the result is often capriciously harmful.

And so is this a government into whose hands we should put various responsibilities that currently are in the hands of individuals? Should we trust the government more than we trust doctors, for example, to make health care decisions for persons who are pregnant? Honestly, even if you really sincerely believe that abortion is wrong, you are putting a loaded gun with the safety off into the hands of an angry toddler when you ask this government, the one we have now, to get involved in such a decision.

It is tempting to turn back to cynicism at this point. So many people who are “pro-life” do not seem to be sincere. I have some observations about this. First, when people seem insincere, there’s probably something they’re not communicating that, if you were to understand it, would make clear why they are behaving as they are. It might simply be that they never grew up—that they are still basically toddlers with a lot more responsibility. I think that’s a real phenomenon. What sort of response works with toddlers?

Secondly, although there are such people, there are also people who are sincere in their beliefs. Is it possible to reach those people with an argument that they might be able to hear? I don’t know. This essay is partly written with that goal in mind.

Thirdly, I refer you to the last verse that I quote above: “Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”

If our aspirations are grounded in idealism, in beliefs about policy, then it’s hard to have hope, because even if we somehow manage to enact the policies we want, what good does it do if we’re asking an angry toddler to implement them? When I look at the political landscape that is populated with people whose policies I tend to agree with, it’s not a hopeful sight. People who all want to make the world a better place seem to be able to argue and criticize each other viciously, to the point where it’s hard to imagine them working together. Any excuse for difference is honed in on. Any common belief is taken as not worth discussing, because after all we agree about that.

So. As an involuntary participant in the emergent phenomenon called government, what can I do? Not rejoice in iniquity—I can reject division, reject exclusion, reject ends that supposedly justify the means, but never quite manage to.

I can rejoice in the truth. So much of what is said by politicians, whether they are “mine” or “theirs,” is untruth. I can pay attention to untruth, and take it seriously. If I have a choice, I can vote against politicians who try to win by misleading us. I can think about and validate what I read before I repeat it. I can refuse to use untruth or even half-truth as a way to get people on my side.

I can take responsibility for my part of the emergent phenomenon. I have no control over whether government emerges, and I only have a small say in what emerges. But I can have that say, and not just stand back and expect it to work itself out on its own.

I can believe that it’s possible for it to work, and I can share that belief. That is, I can let go of the cynicism that I definitely have, that says “this is impossible—there is no way that this can ever work.”

When I’m voting, or doing my part in other ways, I can hope. If I don’t, I’m not going to do the dirty work. And let’s face it, a lot of times, participating in our somewhat inaccurately named democracy is dirty work. I get to vote for people who I think are harmful people, because if I don’t, people who are even more harmful will emerge instead.

Reform is not a quick process. We are in desperate need of reform, and someone has to do it. That someone is us. Hope is what can carry us through, because we will have to endure a lot of defeats on the way to things getting better.

Anyway, I still don’t feel like this is done, but I hope it’s an improvement over yesterday’s attempt.