Pack Your Bags?

      I'm going to say it right now so you can stop reading if you hate it: I like Thomas More's Utopia and his utopian vision. I really enjoy the Utopians' outlook on so many things. For instance, academics are an important element of society (great for bookworms like me); politics and private life are not allowed to mix; and priests may not occupy political positions, which prevents corruption.

      There are, of course, bad things. We have the Utopians sowing lots of assassination plots and other interesting forms of skulduggery amongst their enemies; encouraging suicide for medical purposes; committing genocide of the Zapoletes; and giving public honor for virtue.

… But I'm beginning to digress.

      The Utopian society seems so perfect and wonderful, but it's not. When I read this book last semester, I thought it was. Even when I sat down to begin this post ten minutes ago, I thought I was going to write some clever little letter from a Utopian railing against our society or some sort of post about how I'd like to take an extended vacation to Utopia.

      And then I remembered something: a utopia must have two halves, one internal and the other external (hello, Saint Augustine). See, the external world can look all pretty and perfect (Utopia), but the internal world can still be terrible.

...Perhaps I should tell you what the internal world is. It's you, or more specifically, your feelings and your state of being.

      Let me tell about two people I've had the opportunity to meet over the past year. I met one a few months ago. During the course of our conversation, she told me that she gets so depressed that she cuts herself. The second person had some serious anger management issues. Rather than confronting them, he would just lose himself in his addiction: Xanax. They were total strangers, and I was more or less powerless to help them.

      I thought if everyone in society moved to Utopia we would all enjoy life a lot more, but we wouldn't. These two people would still be self-harmers and addicts. They—and we—all look a little bit like this on the inside:

Moving to Utopia wouldn't change a thing.

      We can make the outside world as utopian as we'd like, but without work on the inside it's just a decaying shell.

(Train wreck picture from www.eccchistory.com).

Peace in Suffering; Unrest in Joy

There is one particular passage of Saint Augustine’s City of God that stuck out to me. Frankly, it opened my eyes. This chapter’s thesis – namely, that grief for a loss of some good (for example, salvation) is itself proof of a “good nature” – I found very theologically and philosophically profound. Even though it may or may not relate to utopianism, I still wish to share with you my thoughts.

Have you ever felt that you have failed? Have you ever felt that you have fallen short of some moral force? Whether or not we failed God, our family, our friends, our superiors, or ourselves, the same emotion is universally expressed: sorrow, distress, disappointment. We all feel a sense of suffering, and we hate that that feeling comes up. Wouldn’t it be better not to feel sorrow when we fail?

Augustine says that this feeling of suffering is, in fact, a blessing: “For a sinner is in a worse state if he rejoices in the loss of righteousness; but a sinner who feels anguish, though he may gain no good from his anguish, is at least grieving at the loss of salvation.” He continues on the same page, “Just as delight in the abandonment of good, when a man sins, is evidence of a bad will, so grief at the loss of good, when a man is punished, is evidence of a good nature” (871).

So, let’s say that I lost something dear to me. My family, my dog, my best friend, my salvation – take your pick. How would you expect me to react?

Like this:

http://ecoaffect.org

Or like this:

http://www.theboringrunner.com

Hopefully, the first picture is your answer. To Augustine, the fact that I am sorrowful about my loss is proof that I am good, and that there is still peace within me. Augustine says that my “grief arises from some remnants of that peace” (872). I distress over my loss because I still have good within me – evil or suffering cannot exist by itself (871).

On the other hand, if I were to react to my loss with joy, then something is clearly wrong with me. Some may even say that my reaction is wholly inappropriate and, frankly, monstrous. “But I’m staying positive,” I may reply back. And this is true, on the basic level. The actual emotion of joy and happiness is itself positive, but that fact does not negate that I rejoice over the loss of goodness.

This brings me to another related point: we must recognize that we have lost something. If I sit by idly with no recognition that I lost something, then I do not have inner peace. Grief is a reaction that shows that my “nature is still on friendly terms with itself” (872). If I don’t grieve, then I am not at war with myself – which can lead, as we learned, to hating one’s neighbor and one’s city (870; 876).

             

In order to connect this post to our reading of Saint Benedict’s Rule (and because I like sharing all things Latin), please find below the prayer Confiteor, here chanted for usage in the Benedictine Order (hence the addition of Saint Benedict in the list of saints). This prayer, which varied in length from century to century, was first used in the liturgy in the eleventh century. I believe it can serve as a perfect example of my post, With grief and sorrow, one recognizes their own fault before God, and hence, to Augustine, shows that they still have an inner peace of soul.

Please note: After the prayer (1:51 mark), starts a Greek prayer (Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison (meaning, “Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy”)).

Here is an English translation of the Confiteor:

“I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to our blessed Father Benedict, to all the Saints, and to you, brethren, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed: through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore I beseech blessed Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Saints, and you, brethren, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”