The Devil Made Them Do It?

Yesterday a former student from my “evil and suffering” class sent me an online news article in which it was reported that Father Gabriele Amorth, the Vatican’s chief exorcist  has claimed that Hitler, Stalin and all the Nazis were possessed by the Devil. The “caster out of demons” said on Vatican radio, “I am convinced that the Nazis were all possessed. All you have to do is think about what Hitler and Stalin did. Almost certainly they were possessed by the Devil. You can tell by their behavior and their actions, from the horrors they committed and the atrocities that were committed on their orders. That's why we need to defend society from demons."

According to Vatican documents recently released wartime pontiff Pope Pius XII attempted a "long distance" exorcism of Hitler which failed to have any effect. This of course begs the question, if Pius XII was so cognizant and so convinced of Hitler’s evil, then why was he consistently so silent in denouncing the Third Reich? Father Amorth said: "It's very rare that praying and attempting to carry out an exorcism from distance works. Of course you can pray for someone from a distance but in this case it would not have any effect. One of the key requirements for an exorcism is to be present in front of the possessed person and that person also has to be consenting and willing. Therefore trying to carry out an exorcism on someone who is not present, or consenting and willing would prove very difficult.” And as president of the International Association of Exorcists he should know.

My student sent the article to me because when studying Post-Holocaust theology he remembered my saying in class that it is a grave and dangerous error to judge Hitler and his generals as insane, as monsters, as demonic or pathological. To place the Nazis in categories that distance them from ourselves by making them so utterly different is to risk falling into comfortable complacency; it is to deny their humanity and as such to deny that simply by virtue of being human, we too are capable of “atrocities.” To ascribe to them characteristics and traits that fall so far outside the norm of human behavior that we cannot identify ourselves with them is to risk the naïve and erroneous conclusion that Nazi Germanywas an historical anomaly that can never be repeated.

One of the ethical consequences of claiming that the Nazis were demonically possessed is that such a claim exonerates them from moral responsibility. If they were “possessed by the Devil” then they cannot be held accountable for the acts they committed under satanic influence and power. The issues of moral choice and free will become irrelevant, for if their acts were directed and caused by an evil Being, then how could they not have done what they did? The Nuremberg Trials and the Eichmann trial become injustices committed against those pitiable, defenseless men whose moral agency was taken from them by a power beyond their control. And the world becomes guilty of convicting and executing the poor, helpless victims of Satan.   

To deny them sanity or moral self-possession is to deny the eye witness accounts of those who attended the Conference of the Undersecretaries of State, sometimes called the Wansee Conference. Held in 1942, in a house in the suburbs of Berlin, the aim of the conference was to discuss the effective coordination of the Final Solution; the total elimination of the Jews from Europe. Sitting around a table for no more than an hour and a half the men in attendance logically and deliberately discussed the “complicated legal question” of the treatment of “half- and -quarter Jews”—should they be killed or merely sterilized? They calmly discussed various strategies for the killing and offered opinions on the cost efficiency and man power required for each of the methods. Hannah Arendt, in her book Eichmann in Jerusalem, (a book that New York Times Book Review editor Barry Gewen has called “one of the great books of the last half century”) reported that Adolf Eichmann, testifying to the events of the conference said that the Final Solution was met with “extraordinary enthusiasm.” When the meeting ended the men retired to a salon, smoked, had drinks and lunch and according to Eichmann, they “did not talk shop, but enjoyed some rest after long hours of work.” And no doubt, they then went to their homes, played Wagner on their pianos and kissed their children goodnight.

During the trial Eichmann himself acknowledged that he held no particular animosity or hatred toward Jews. In fact, he counted a few Jews among his friends. He admitted that at the conference he had continuous “doubts about such a bloody solution through violence,” but since the inner circle of Hitler’s generals were in such unanimous accord and agreement, and in fact were vying and fighting with each other for the “honor” of taking the lead in the execution of the task, Eichmann allowed himself to be exonerated and exempt from moral responsibility in surrender to the heightened knowledge and wisdom of his seniors. He said, “At that moment, I sensed a kind of Pontius Pilate feeling, for I felt free of all guilt.” After all, who was he to judge? Who was he “to have his own thoughts in the matter?” Adolf Eichmann was not a victim of satanic possession. He was not beyond moral agency. Adolf Eichmann simply and too easily relinquished his moral responsibility to a bureaucracy that he did not question. He surrendered his own moral sensibilities and rationalities to unchallenged obedience. He was not a demon. He was just a man; a man who considered obedience to a higher authority to be his highest duty.

Hannah Arendt wrote, “…it would have been very comforting indeed to believe that Eichmann was a monster…the trouble with Eichmann was precisely that so many were like him, and that the many were neither perverted nor sadistic, that they were, and still are, terribly and terrifyingly normal.” 

To surrender one’s own thoughts and ethical independence to a higher authority, whether civic, political or religious is not demonic or satanic. It is quite ordinary. It happens everyday. The problem perhaps lies with how easily it is done. One can become so accustom to relinquishing one’s capacity for doubt and questioning that submitting to seemingly benign authorities becomes commonplace.  And so, when faced with a malevolent superior we hardly know anymore how to resist, how to fight, how to disobey. Oh no, what is terrifying about the Nazis is not that they were inhuman, but rather that they were so commonly and ordinarily, human.

 

Good Night, Sleep Tight, Dream of Me

I know. I haven’t written anything in a while. And I’ve been back from Rhode Island for seven days. I haven’t written because I didn’t want to write the piece I had to write. How strange this is. There has been this narrative in me for a week and I couldn’t write anything else until I wrote it. But I didn’t want to write it. It is as if writing anything else would have been dishonest; to pretend that this thing I need to write doesn’t exist. I couldn’t write about Rhode Island or anything else because I cannot write about Rhode Island without writing about my mother. And writing about her is painful. My mother is 88 years old now and every year the aging process takes its toll. I watch this process with growing sadness and increasing respect for the woman she was and the woman she continues to be. My mother is 88 years old. She was born in 1918, the year WWI ended and the last year prior to 2004 that the Red Sox won the World Series. She was one of seven children and one of a set of twin girls. She and her sister (still living) have never lived more than five minutes from each other. They call each other everyday. And as they once shared the same womb, I suspect they share the same heart.

 

My mother lived through the Depression and saw widespread despair and poverty that you and I can only imagine. She was forced to leave school in the eighth grade to care for an ailing grandmother. She cried herself to sleep night after night because she loved school so much. But though her formal education stopped at age fourteen, she is one of the wisest and most intelligent women I know. She taught herself to play the piano. She could take kitchen appliances apart and put them back together again to make them work. Her practical ingenuity and problem solving skills rival those of MacGyver. She lived through WWII and married one of its Veterans. She worked at a time when sexual harassment had no name and its victims had no recourse but to tolerate it or leave their jobs. She left several. She married at age 32 and prior to her marriage she and her girlfriends would take week-long vacations toOld Orchard Beach in Maine.  She danced and dreamed. She gave birth to three children and had them at a time when mothers could not see their own children being born. She sewed our clothes and cooked our meals. And before it was fashionable to know about nutrition, she’d cook green leafy vegetables this many times a week and yellow ones that many times a week. We’d have red meat this many times a week and fish that many. We hardly ever had dessert unless it was Jell-O or homemade pudding. We had ONE junk food snack a week, on Saturday night. She’d buy the three-box pack of Cracker Jacks and my brothers and I would each get a box. And she’d ask us if she could have some of the peanuts. She had an accordion folder of envelopes in which she budgeted the precious pay my father brought home. She’d put a dollar a week in one envelope for shoes, and in another envelope a dollar for the dentist, another for life insurance and another for Christmas presents. Every night she’d sit the three of us in an overstuffed chair (I, inevitably on her lap) and read aloud.

 

She and I had a bedtime ritual of call and response. She’d say, “Good night.” I’d repeat it. She’d say, “Sleep tight.” I’d repeat. “Dream of me.” Repeat. I could not go to sleep unless we spoke these words to each other. Some nights I’d hug her neck to me so tightly and for so long, she’d ask me to let her go because her back would begin to hurt. When I was in the sixth grade she sewed three new school dresses for me. I’d wear one for two days and it would go into the wash. I’d wear another for two days and then it too would be washed. And so, this cycle until the New England weather required that I don snow pants to school. If I close my eyes, even now, I see the colors and patterns of those dresses and feel their touch; cranberry broadcloth, navy blue plaid cotton and the same plaid in red. Her sewing machine was always whirring. She made outfits for my Barbie. As a seamstress, I marvel now at the tiny sleeves, armholes and collars and the minute work and detail they required. When my daughter received her first Cabbage Patch doll, my mother made clothesfor it too; larger to be sure, but made with the same love.

 

She loved her Church and taught me to love it too. She is one of those Christians who rejects the letter of the law when it conflicts with its spirit. She lives her life as best she can according to how she understands the life and ethos of Jesus of Nazareth, even if her understanding of this seems contrary to the laws and doctrines of the Church. She prays everyday. She is a devout Catholic. And yet, fifteen years ago when I led a protest in front of the Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul in the Diocese of Providence, she asked if she could come. She wanted to see “what it was all about.” In reality, I believe what she really wanted to know was her daughter and how this passion for religion had changed so, from participant to protestor. As she stood there in Cathedral Square, someone shoved a protest sign in her hands and there she stood in solidarity with us, or perhaps just with me.

 

To say that her grandchildren are her pride and joy is a statement that may trip too easily off the tongue and on the page so that the reader may not consider enough the profundity of it. Her grandchildren are her pride. They are her joy. And she realizes that to have had the opportunity and pleasure to have been such a large part of their childhoods is a circumstance that many grandparents no longer enjoy in this age when generations move apart. And during the years of all of our travels, she keeps a map of the United States posted on one of her walls and makes a mark every time one of us visits a new city. And so she tracks us, like a mother bear her cubs.

 

She is 88 years old and rides a stationary bike every day despite the pain in her knees from loss of cartilage and subsequent use of a cane. She knows it is the only way to maintain mobility and health. She walks to the drug store and the dollar store, flips her mattress, vacuums, sews her own pajamas and never forgets a birthday, though she sometimes forgets what she has told you three minutes ago.

 

When I left Rhode Island for South Carolina, I know that I broke her heart but after the tears she told me that I was “brave,” and had to live my life and do what was right for me. She tells me still that all she desires is my happiness. She cries when I visit and when I leave. For the eight years that I have lived in South Carolina I have called her every Sunday morning.  Sometimes we cry, but most often we laugh and share with each other the details of our weeks and of our lives. We share our losses and our triumphs, our mishaps and burdens, our joys and disappointments.

My mother is 88 years old. I am her only daughter. And it is Sunday morning.

 

On the Rhode Again II

I don’t know why it is that states like to lay claim to being the “first” at doing something, or to possess the oldest something, but they do. I have never understood how it could be that the license plates of North Carolina could claim “First in Flight,” and the license plates of Ohio claim, “Birthplace of Aviation.” One would think that one claim would necessarily entail the other and that two states could not claim the same “first.” In addition to those “firsts” named in the previous entry, Rhode Island was the first to:

 

• hold an auto race, 1895
• Hold an open golf tournament
• Hold a circus

Rhode Island boasts the oldest:

• working carousel
• tavern building (The White Horse Tavern, Newport)

Per capita, (Rhode Island can only compete in the “most something” categories when measured per capita) Rhode Island has the most:

 

• Catholics of any state
• Coffee/Donut shops (RI is “Dunkin’ Donuts Land” and there is a DD around every other corner and definitely across the street from every church)

Rhode Island is also home to the Tennis Hall of Fame.

The language of Rhode Island or, Rhode Islandese is a distinct New England vernacular; not quite Bawston and not quite New Yawk. The addition of the French-Canadian (or “Canuck”) accent of Northern Rhode Island renders it even more interesting and recognizable. There is a tendency to indiscriminately drop the ‘r’ from the middle and end of words, as in “I fuggot my credit cahd numbah,” and “I went to da bubblah and goddah drink a’ wata,” and “I got a Millah Lite beeh at the bah.” And “Did you see Trot hit da’ Green Monstah yesterdee at Fenway Pahk?” But nevah to be considid wasteful, Rhode Islandahs always make shur that da ‘r’ will mystically turn up somewheah else wheah it doesn’t belong, as in “I have a good idear,” and “I want a root beeh soder.” “Sleepah sofer” is a special challenge as is (as I found out recently), “My jawr is saw.” We also do very strange things with the ‘o’ so that coffee becomes “cawfee,” Cape Cod becomes “Cape Cad,” and a word like “order,” well, fugget it. It begins with an ‘o’ and ends in an ‘r’ so becomes “awdah.”  Doire tangent: Cawfee seems to be the state’s favorite flavor. There’s the “most coffee/donut shops per capita" thing and more coffee ice cream is sold (per capita) in RI than any other state. There is even an Official State Drink: coffee milk, which is made from milk and coffee syrup, made and bottled in…Rhode Island.

 

I have been public speaking since I was 16 years old and it was then that I began a concerted effort to incorporate the ‘r’ into my speech. It was hahd.  But I think I am successful most of the time. Two weeks ago, a man at Starbucks asked me if I was Scandinavian because of my “accent.”  Scandinavian? Oh yeah, good call, Buddy. I have been placed in Pennsylvania, Delaware, the Midwest and smack dab in the heart of Boston (by very perceptive linguists no doubt). I have lived in the south for 8 years now and the southern drawl also makes its way into my speech. This makes for an interesting combination. “Ah’ll have faahv jawr breakahs, please.”

 

When I become especially excited while lecturing in the classroom, I am vulnerable to losing an ‘r’ now and then. My students notice immediately. I tell them not to worry because sometime later in the afternoon, inevitably the ‘r’ will appear somewhere else, most likely where it doesn’t belong. After a visit to RI, it takes at least two weeks for me to get my ‘r’ groove back.

The Fox show “Family Guy” takes place in a town in Rhode Island named Quahog. Every Rhode Islander knows that there is no such place. A quahog (pronounced "KOE-hawg") is the Narragansett Indian word for clam. Rhode Islanders “go quahogging,” and when they dig some up from the beaches that form the coastline of The Ocean State, they go home and make “steamahs” to eat with their “chowdah.”

Many people know that Rhode Island is small but just for comparison’s sake; Rhode Island is 1214 square miles. From its northernmost point to its southernmost, 48 miles; from east to west, 37. But with its inlets, jagged coast and islands it boasts 400 miles of coastline, hence the legislature’s audacity in naming it The Ocean State. In the census from 2005, the population was 1,076,189. Charleston County has 919 square miles and 330,368 people (also a 2005 census). So, Chas. County is roughly ¾ of the square mileage of RI, but RI has 3 times more people. When I rent a car in Rhode Island, I rent from Rent-A-Wreck. This trip I’ll save $190 by picking the cah up in Providence instead of the airport. When I sign the paperwork, I am instructed that I am not allowed to leave the state. In Montana, who would care? But in Rhode Island that means a significant travel restriction. One cannot even drive from northern Rhode Island to Newport, RI without driving through a portion of the state of Massachusetts! Don’t tell Rent-A-Wreck, but I do it anyway.

My brother Ben is the day manager and bartender at a great family restaurant/sports bar. On the first floor of the establishment is the family restaurant and on the second, the sports bar (where one can also eat, of course). The feature of the second floor is a beautiful square bar, handmade out of ash. From every seat at the bar one has a breathtaking view of huge plasma televisions that according to season, will offer the patron Red Sox baseball, New England Patriots football, Boston Bruins hockey and Boston Celtics basketball. I spent so much time there two years ago that I got the t-shirt. No, really…I got a t-shirt. I was tempted to wear it on the first day of school, point to it and say, "This is what I did on my summer vacation."

I’m not sure what kind of Internet access I’ll have during my short stay in Rhode Island, but rest assured that when I return, I will recount my experiences and adventures in Little Rhody…

 

On the Rhode Again

Next week I will visit my native state of Rhode Island.  If you don’t want to hear about the quirks and attractions and history of RI, then just skip this entry, but RI is a pretty cool place and if you’re ever driving from any point in the southeast to any point in the New England northeast, you wouldn’t want to blink your eyes and miss it.

 

Many people do not know what Rhode Island is, where it is, nor do they care. A few years ago I wanted to buy a gift for friends who had cared for my car and taken me to and from the airport when I visited my family in Rhode Island. I thought that some chocolate and a bottle of wine from Sakonnet Vineyards (a Rhode Island winery) would be a fitting gift. I went to a local Whole Foods grocery store and asked the “wine guy” if they carried wine from Sakonnet Vineyards in Rhode Island. He said, “We don’t carry wines from New York.” I said, “No, Rhode Island.” He said, “We.. don’t.. carry.. wines.. from.. New.. York,” as if I was stupid or deaf. I said, “Rhode Island is a state all by itself and it’s not anywhere near New York.” He said, “Well, we don’t care about those places up there.” (I am not making this up). 

 

Rhode Islandahs are very proud of their rebellious heritage and history. These are just a few of the more widely known (and little known) facts about Rhode Island:

 

* Rhode Island was founded in 1636 by Roger Williams who fled Massachusetts to escape religious and political persecution. He purchased the land from the Narragansett Indians and also established The First Baptist Church of America. Rhode Island and Massachusetts have since made up.

 

* Rhode Island is home to the first town established by a woman, Anne Hutchinson, who founded Portsmouth, RI.  Doire tangent: According to Harvard folklore, Anne Hutchinson also played a prominent role in the establishment of Harvard College at its site in Cambridge, MA. The story goes that John Harvard intended to found his college (to train young men for the ministry) in the city of Boston. But Anne Hutchinson (before she fled to RI), held weekly gatherings of women in her home to study and discuss religion and the Bible. John Harvard thought that the women’s ideas and Anne’s rebellious religious spirit would negatively impact his young men’s education so he moved the site away from Boston, across the Charles River to Cambridge, where it now, according to one of my professors, stands at the Center of the Universe. 

 

* RI was the first to renounce allegiance to Britain and declare its independence, thereby inaugurating the Revolutionary War.

 

* RI was the last of the original 13 colonies to ratify The Constitution because it demanded that The Bill ofRights be added (thank you, Rhode Island).

 

* RI is considered the “birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution” because in 1790, Samuel Slater opened the first water powered mill on the shore of the Blackstone River.

 

* Rhode Island’s Capital Building boasts the fourth largest marble dome in the world after the Taj Mahal, Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome and the Minnesota State Capitol (again…NOT making this up. Who could?)

 

* RI is home to the oldest surviving synagogue, Touro Synagogue.  Doire tangent: If you are ever in Newport, RI and visit Touro Synagogue, make sure you cross the street and say hello to my brother. He is the proprietor of the only flag store in Rhode Island, Ebenezer Flagg, which is named for a Revolutionary War officer who commanded the First Rhode Island Regiment, one of the first colonial regiments comprised of enlisted black freemen (if they were slaves and wanted to enlist, they would be awarded their freedom) and Native Americans. You can’t miss the flag store. It sits on the corner of Spring and Touro Streets and is built in the architectural style known as a “flatiron building,” which means the structure was built to maintain the integrity of the natural triangle formed by the meeting of the two streets. Colorful flags, banners and wind socks hang from the awnings. My brother’s specialty is custom made flags however, which he can be seen diligently (usually) sewing in the back of the store. If you go to Ebenezer Flagg, he’ll be the one who’ll greetyou with a nod of his head. If you’re lucky, he might even look at you and say, “Hey. Howz it goin.” But I guarantee, you will NOT hear, “Hello! How are you today? Is there anything I can help you find?” He’s not unfriendly; it’s just the Yankee way. Well, ok, maybe it's just HIS way. But tell him you know his sister, or you love the Red Sox and he’ll be friendly as can be. Doire tangent off a previous tangent: My two (older) brothers are the only people on this planet allowed to call me “Lou,” though my oldest brother more frequently calls me “Kid,” than Lou, as in, “Hey, Kid,” “How’s it goin’, Kid?” No matter how old you get, everyone should have someone in this world who still calls them “Kid.” Anyway, they’ve been calling me Lou for so long they don’t even know I don’t like it, so I let ‘em.  That’s how much I love them.

 

To be continued….

Harvey's Kazoos

Every semester, fall and spring, I try to begin every course with a narrative, a story of something that happened during the summer or something that I saw during the December break. Sometimes the narrative is course specific. Whenever I teach The Christian Tradition I tell the story of walking into Notre Dame Cathedral and seeing the “Beware of Pickpockets” sign. I then tell my students that as we study the Christian tradition we will read of the beautiful, the majestic and the divine, but we will also encounter the “pickpockets.” 

 

One fall I began each class by recounting a scene I observed on a playground. Three little boys and one little girl were playing. The little boys were brandishing toy swords and imagining all manner of medieval deeds and acts of heroism. The boys ordered the little girl to stand perfectly still in a small area that they determined was the dungeon in which she was being held captive by an evil knight. The girl played along for a while but became bored just standing there, and in a surprising turn of events she swiped one of the swords out of a boy’s hand as he walked by and announced, “You're taking too long! I’ll save myself,” and she bravely fought and stabbed the imaginary foe in the heart, and walked on her merry, liberated way. I’ll leave you to guess how I utilized that story as an academic lead-in.

 

The story for the Evil and Suffering course is a tragic one about a six year old girl named Angela who took a walk with her mother and father on a beautiful New England morning in April. As they walked on the sidewalk in front of their house about to open the gate to enter their yard, a car jumped the curb, struck Angela and hurled her against the tree in her own front yard, killing her instantly. The theological questions that arise out of such an event, the questions one might ask about God’s role in human suffering are the same questions that constitute the traditional, philosophical Problem of Evil.

 

I think I have found my story for this semester. The background information I need not share with my students, but the story for this semester is provided by Harvard Magazine in an article on the fiftieth anniversary of the admission of women to Harvard Divinity School. The article describes the history of the long debate begun in 1893 when a group of HDS graduates submitted the proposal. At the inauguration of Caroline Hazard as President of Wellesley College that year, Harvard President Charles William Eliot presented his views on women’s education, which he described as “an experiment, wondering aloud about women’s intellectual capacities and about the ability of women’s colleges to inculcate good manners while providing an education that would not injure women’s ‘bodily powers and functions’” [Ann Braude, Harvard Magazine, May-June ‘06].

 

It took 60 more years for the original proposal of 1893 to be accepted by Harvard Corporation and in 1955, eight women enrolled at Harvard Divinity School.  In 1970, thirty women enrolled, almost as many as had graduated in the previous 15 years. In 1971 Mary Daly became the first woman ever invited to preach in Harvard’s Memorial Church, at which time she herself extended an invitation that has become legend in the field of feminist theology. For on that November day she urged all women present to join her in walking out of the church (literally and figuratively). She descended the pulpit, marched down the center aisle and out the door. Many followed, some to return and some not. In terms of a gender diverse faculty, two of my former professors marked milestones in the history of HDS. In 1983 Margaret Miles became the school’s first tenured female professor and in 1988, Elisabeth Schussler-Fiorenza became the first woman appointed to a named chair. I enrolled in HDS’ Master of Divinity program in the 36th year of its admission of women. I was 36 years old that September. 

 

Granted, the history of women’s education is much broader than the history of one school and yet the story that emerges from HDS provides an example of the struggle of many men and women to ensure that women be afforded the opportunity to study and learn in academic environments that encourage freedom of expression and doubt. I sometimes encounter female students who claim to reject feminism and feminist theory and so, I repeatedly remind them that had it not been for their feminist foremothers, they would not be sitting in my classroom on their way to soccer practice at period’s end. And certainly, I would not be their teacher. The directive expressed in the New Testament’s first letter to Timothy would have won the day, “I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent” (1 Tim. 2:12).

 

Women have made great strides in higher education and their recent collective success has begun to raise eyebrows. In the last few years the number of women accepted into college and the number of women college graduates exceeds the numbers for men. The cry that is raised is that men are being “left behind” by modern history’s emphasis on women’s education. I think this is funny and typically androcentric, of course. The conclusion reached is that if women are excelling at a rate greater than men it must be because men are being neglected, NOT because when given the opportunity women are talented, determined, organized, dedicated and just plain smart. Harvard Divinity School began to admit women 50 years ago; the Third Wave of the feminist movement in this country is just a few years younger than that. If women have shown such academic excellence and have made such advances in just 50 years, imagine what we will do in 100, or 150. 

 

The story I will tell to my students this semester forms a portion of this history of women at Harvard. In the fall of 1971 Harvey Cox (also a former professor of mine) was teaching a course entitled, “Eschatology and Politics.” Two students proposed that the seminar devote two weeks to the study of feminist theology and to make an effort in the classroom to stop the use of male specific language in reference “to people or to God.”

No one wanted to be the one to constantly point out when another student had violated the commitment, so the instructional budget of Harvard Divinity School dished out the money to buy each student in that class a kazoo, which would be sounded at the first recognition of androcentric language. The school was never the same again.

 

Just a few weeks from now, I will introduce my four classes to the methodology for the study of religion utilized in my classroom. I will give a lecture on historical/cultural criticism and literary criticism. I will follow that lecture with a lecture on the feminist critique of religion. And on that day, I will tell the story of a group of students at Harvard Divinity School who played their kazoos. And on that day  I will hand out 140 kazoos, one to each of my own students so that whenever anyone in the class speaks a gender specific male term in reference to God or humanity the little trumpets of liberation and awareness will sound once again.

 

Dental Records

Do you realize that most toothaches you and I have in our lifetime, would have resulted in our deaths in the middle ages? An abscess, a tooth infection would have killed you. There were no antibiotics to fight infections, which would have traveled through your bloodstream and signaled your demise; no antiseptic treatments for extractions or root canalling.

 

I wish to declare right here and now, that I single-handedly hold the record and win the prize for possessing The Worst Dental Story Ever Told; the dental story from hell. I defy anyone to claim otherwise. When I was thirteen years old and in the 8th grade, I reaped the consequences of having sometime in my past sustained a blunt trauma to an upper front tooth. No one can know what this was. The effects of trauma to the teeth can rear their ugly heads years later. I suspect it can be traced back to the time my brother opened a door into my face. The immediate results were two black eyes, the latent results probably the abscess in my front tooth.  The abscess could also have been caused by a line drive that my glove missed while playing co-ed neighborhood baseball with enough kids to actually form two teams, each with a “bench.” My fielding skills improved enough so that eventually I would become the first-string third baseman (that’s right, the “hot corner”) for a New England championship CYO team, but when I was 10, or 11 those skills had not yet been perfected. 

 

As a result of the abscess, I found myself in the office of Dr. Fogarty, my childhood dentist. The infection was so advanced and my mouth so swollen, Dr. Fogarty decided that to administer a Novocain shot to my mouth would risk sending the infection into my bloodstream, a possibility far more dangerous than the initial infection. So, on that afternoon I sat in the dental chair. My mother was asked to sit in a chair beside me. Dr. Fogarty proceeded to perform maxio-facial surgery and a root canal without benefit of any anesthesia. Let me make this clear. Dr. Fogarty took a scalpel to my upper gum, to relieve the infectious matter. He cut a one and a half inch incision and then performed a root canal on the underside without giving me any anesthesia.  I think my mother cried more than I. Oh, don’t get me wrong, my tears flowed in an endless stream, but I didn’t move. Not a muscle. I didn’t flinch or cry out or scream for it to stop. I grasped the arms of my chair until my knuckles turned white and I exhibited the courage of Joan of Arc. And I don’t care how boastful that sounds. To have endured that procedure the way that I did at 13 was a mark of tremendous courage. One would think that after this experience I would possess such a fear of dentists that I would never darken their doors again. Just the opposite is true. There is nothing any dentist could ever do to me again that could equal what I experienced that afternoon. At birth my first child weighed just one ounce shy of nine pounds. If someone said to me tomorrow that I have to make a choice; have a nine pound baby or two or three, OR repeat the dental procedure I had when I was 13, I’d say, “Get me to the delivery room.”

 

Whenever I had a cavity there would be no Novocain. The dentist drilled and filled without it and I thought it normal. When Dr. Fogarty retired and in my twenties I went to a new dentist, Dr. Sadwin, at the first hint of a cavity he was ready to administer a shot when I said, “I don’t need that.” As I recall he said, “What? Are you crazy?” I told him I just never had it before. I don’t know if dentists take the Hippocratic Oath but he refused to treat me without the shot. He took very seriously the vow to “do no harm.” I thought Novocain a beautiful thing.

 

Just a few years ago I went to a dentist here in Charleston who recommended root planing, a procedure that entails cleaning the teeth at the root, below the gum line. I was told that we could try it without Novocain but some patients experience “discomfort.” I didn’t think it hurt at all. At one point the dentist walked into my room (the hygienist does the procedure) and said, “So, how is my masochistic patient?” I don’t consider myself to be masochistic. I simply have such a high tolerance for dental pain that what would cause others to be raised three feet off their chairs has no effect on me.

 

This weekend I had a toothache. Before I started to drink my coffee through a straw, some of the hot liquid struck one of the affected teeth at which point I really did rise three feet off my chair. The pain was so intense I couldn’t even determine which tooth was the culprit. The whole area hurt. I went to my dentist yesterday and the x-rays showed “nothing.” He referred me to an endodontist, a root canal specialist with whom I had an appointment today. I am amazed at the specialization that has occurred recently in the area of dental care. One must go to one doctor for a filling, to another for a root canal, another for an extraction and yet another for implants. My new endodontist discovered that I did not require a root canal. I needed two. We did one this afternoon and will do the other tomorrow. 

 

Does anyone know who discovered or invented Novocain?

Because today, I’d like to lay some flowers at the grave.

Toothache?

I haven't written in a few days. I had a very busy weekend.

 

Yesterday and this morning I have a pain in my jaw. I don't know if it's a toothache or simply stress that makes me clench and lock my jaw at night. It feels like a toothache. I'll have to get in to see the dentist today. ouch.

 

A toothache is like having a baby: you forget how much it hurts until you have another one.

 

The Maid of Orleans

I have three Joan of Arc t-shirts. Three. Does that seem excessive? Maybe.

I am thinking of cutting one up and appliquéing Joan to the back of a new Doire designed denim jacket, which I will then embellish by hand sewing beads, sequins and ribbons. It’s one of the things I do to express a different kind of creativity. I have a Bob Dylan jacket and a Joni Mitchell jacket. Strangers stop me on the street to comment on them. They ask where I got them. For friends and relatives I have made among others, a Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club jacket, Klimt’s The Kiss jacket, a Janis Joplin jacket, a Billie Holiday jacket, Marilyn Monroe, Mona Lisa, and Boston Red Sox jacket (no beads or sequins on this one). Maybe it’s time for a Joan jacket.

 

In my office I have two huge posters that feature different artistic renditions of Joan in full armor, in addition to a photograph of a sculpture of Joan by Anne Huntington. I have a photograph of myself walking away from the statue of Joan at the chapel dedicated to her at Notre Dame Cathedral; this last photo taken surreptitiously by my best friend after I lit a votive at the saint’s feet.

 

I have been captivated by the story of Joan of Arc since I was a child. Then, I was in profound awe of her courage and audacity, and sheer magnitude of her deeds. I was deeply saddened by the injustices she endured. In my own childlike way, I admired her dignity and her strength. She stands unique in history as a National hero, saint and woman. There were other women elevated by the Church who also made deep impressions; Mary, the mother of Jesus of course, and Saint Agatha, the patron saint of my neighborhood parish. In that little church, stood a larger than life-sized statue of Saint Agatha, virgin and martyr. She was rendered with long blonde curls, perfectly proportioned, porcelain colored face and long blue and white robes. In her hand she held a curious implement; a two-pronged claw that sat atop a thick metal handle. One day when I was very little, I asked my mother what she was holding in her hand. My mother told me that she held a pair of primitive pliers. Pliers? Was she a carpenter? Or a plumber? Did she make her own jewelry? No. My mother proceeded to tell me that the virgin maiden caught the eye of a public official who lusted after her. He intended to have her but because of her faith, she refused. Her punishment was to face death by public torture. Her breasts were ripped from her body with a pair of pliers. Imagine the impression that made upon me! I was horrified and could not imagine the excruciating pain, even though at that tender age, I did not yet have breasts. As I got older I wondered at the wisdom of her choice and judged virginity to be a small price to pay in exchange for life.

 

I am now teaching a course on religion and film and two of the films on the syllabus treat Joan of Arc as their subject, the 1948 version with Ingrid Bergman and the 1998 film, The Messenger, which depicts what I consider to be, “psycho Joan.” I fear that my students are not as enthralled with her as I. But the Joan films allow me to extend discussion and lectures into areas that might not immediately be self-evident. These include the religious experiences and phenomena of visions, voices and revelations. I include the four elements of mysticism as described by William James in his Varieties of Religious Experience and consider some of the issues of epistemology in general. How do human beings know things? How do we know what we think we know? Can we really know anything? And when knowledge is located in a source claimed to be outside of ourselves, by what criteria do we judge its authenticity? The 1948 movie assumes Joan’s “counsel,” which she identified as Saint Margaret of Antioch, Saint Catherine of Alexandria and Saint Michael, to have been “real.” The 1998 movie calls them into serious question. It suggests that Joan’s voices were products of psychological anomalies, delusions of grandeur, etc. It further suggests that Joan’s voices may not have been divine at all, but rather, demonic. Whether or not we believe Joan’s voices to have been authentic, one thing is clear, she believed that they were and as a result, she succeeded in leading men into victorious battle, ignited a renewed hope for a struggling France, led a king to coronation and secured the love and devotion of millions since her burning at the stake in 1431 at the age of nineteen. Her crimes as determined by her court were heresy, schismatic, sorcery and blasphemy. That she dressed as a man was mentioned in her charges five times. 

 

Joan as subject also allows for an examination of the European persecution of women. My students know that I refuse to refer to that 400 year period as “the witch hunts,” or “the witch trials.” There were no witches. There were just women, the scapegoats for all the sufferings, wars and plagues of medieval Europe. They were the victims of an Inquisitional frenzy and heretic-phobia. I can think of no other time in history that can be characterized by the term gendercide (and no, that isn’t a real word. I just made it up).

 

The hagiography of Joan of Arc presents the opportunity to study the story of a woman who renounced patriarchal authority, who rebelled against the gender role expectations of her time and who stood strong in the face of day after day of interrogation by 47 intimidating Inquisitors. Surely her story, which was constructed through 500 years of interpretation, must be understood as a product of both historical “fact” and human imagination, but the actual transcripts of her trials are available for reading and what emerges from them is a portrait of a young woman of remarkable intelligence, extraordinary conviction and unswerving faith. As I read the transcript, her voice reaches out from the 15th century and reminds me that in every age there were women like Joan; surely not so famous but remarkable women nevertheless, who changed the course of history, who fought side by side with men for freedom, who built nations and cities, and ignited the human spirit if not for 500 years then at least, for their own moment in time.

 

Yes, it’s time for a Joan of Arc jacket.

Little Sneakers

There was a time your little feet

wore sneakers, red or blue.

They helped you run and ride your bike.

So fast you almost flew!

 

But then you'd fall, I'd kiss your knee,

Sometimes there'd be a scar.

I couldn't help how fast you'd go,

But only just how far.

 

Farther and farther, you'd venture forth,

Fearless as Athena were you!

But though Athena  wore HER helmet,

I couldn't get you to.

 

Wear your hat! Wear your helmet!

No season left you free.

In winter to shield you from the cold,

In summer, from the tree.

 

You grew as fast as you could run,

A little girl no more.

You went to school so far away,

Much farther than before.

 

Red sneakers still upon you feet,

And still, your favorite ones

Four years gone by, so quickly passed,

How lovely you've become.

 

With secret pride and mother's joy,

I'll watch you cross that stage.

I'll wonder where the time has gone

and marvel at your age.

 

A little smile I'll also wear,

As you pick up your degree,

For on your head, despite yourself,

A little cap there'll be!

 

(written on the occasion of my daughter's college graduation)

Jus ad Bellum

I am sick. I am sick of seeing dead children on my television screen.

I am sick of seeing mothers hold their dead infants and toddlers in their arms with the desert as their backdrop. I am sick of watching doctors cry because even they, who are trained in blood cannot endure the carnage. 

 

I have forgotten who hit who first; who called who a bad name; who took each other’s property or who is the bad guy and who is the good guy. I have no particular loyalties.

The arguments for the waging of “just war” continue and the principles of appeal are voiced in such a way so as to convince that war is reasonable, or that it is unavoidable given so and so circumstances. 

 

Many of the conflicts taking place in the world today occur among members of the three Biblical traditions that all point to the figure of Abraham and call him Patriarch; Abraham, whose descendents “numbered as the stars” because he welcomed the stranger in the desert. According to the story, Abraham’s welcoming of the stranger in the desert approximately 3800 years ago was so unique and such an unusual thing to do that the visitors he welcomed made it possible for Isaac to be born. Welcoming the stranger became a foundational ethic for the Biblical traditions, as well as the protection and care of the widow and the orphan and to walk humbly with God, to seek after justice and to extend mercy. One could only wish that the commandments of the Bible had included one more, “Thou shall fight fair.”

 

I am not a statesman, a politician, a national leader, or a general.

I may indeed be naïve and others may tell me that I do not understand what is at stake; how long the history of animosity; how so-and-so has a right to defend themselves; how blah, blah, blah, blah. The arguments that I hear are appeals to the justification of the waging of war. But I hear no one defending the ways by which war is waged. No one rushes to the defense of the tactics, the means, the strategies and the execution of war once war has been declared. No one defends because all are guilty of violating the sensibilities of playing fair and fighting fair that one learns when one is four years old.

 

Why is it that after thousands of years of warring some of us are still horrified at the means by which war is waged? I believe this is so because many of us sense deep within ourselves that there are (or should be) rules to the waging of war. That even in the midst of humanity’s most uncivilized behavior there should be efforts made to be civil and humane.  And there are. And although we may not know by rote the principles of Just War Theory, we know the difference between playing nice (or fighting nice) and not. We know who should be left to the fighting and who should be left out of it. We know what a sucker punch is and we know when the innocent are being trampled. We know what disproportionate means are and we know when a punch has been answered by a shotgun.

 

There are those who would contend that there is no such thing as a “just war,” and those who would declare the term an oxymoron. Just war theory has a long philosophical history which is most often cited as having begun with Augustine of Hippo (who argued that a legitimate use of violence could be justified in the protection of the weak and innocent, or to make others 'more good'), but the earliest treatments extend back into classical Greece and Rome with Aristotle and Cicero. Sometimes the principles of just war theory are identified as “Christian just war theory” because its most notable formulators include Augustine and Aquinas, but the use of this term would be misleading if it created the impression that only Christians are bound by its rules. For the principles of just war theory have been affirmed and adopted by international governing bodies including The United Nations Charter, The Hague and, particularly as regards the involvement of civilians in war, by the Fourth Geneva Convention.

Just war theory is usually divided into three parts. These parts are: 1) jus ad bellum, which concerns the conditions under which a government may resort to war in the first place; 2) jus in bellum, which concerns the conduct within war, after it has begun; and 3) jus post bellum, which concerns the obligations to the restoration of peace and the reconstruction of war zones. Just war theory is studied at “war colleges,” it has been the topic of many published volumes and of numerous doctoral dissertations. But for the sake of space, these are, “in a nutshell,” the principles of jus ad bellum and jus in bellum. I will not list the requirements of jus post bellum because in order that they be relevant, war must cease and at this point that seems unlikely:

Jus ad bellum

1. War must always be a last resort, to be used only when all peaceful means have been exhausted.

2. There must always be a just cause. War can only be used in self-defense against an aggressor to protect the innocent who are being violated. It can never be used simply to expand one’s wealth, power or territory.

3. War must always be declared by legitimate political authority.

4. The goal of war must always be attainable. It is wrong to risk lives if there is no hope of success.

5. The ultimate objective of war must always be the restoration of peace (note: NOT vengeance).  Comparative Religious Ethics, Darrell Fasching, 2000.

Jus in bellum

6. Just War conduct should be governed by the principle of discrimination. The acts of war should be directed towards the inflictors of the wrong, and not towards civilians caught in circumstances they did not create. The prohibited acts include bombing civilian residential areas that include no military target and committing acts of terrorism or reprisal against ordinary civilians.

 

7. Just War conduct should be governed by the principle of proportionality. The force used must be proportional to the wrong endured, and to the possible good that may come. The more disproportional the number of collateral civilian deaths, the more suspect will be the sincerity of a belligerent nation's claim to justness of a war it initiated. Just War conduct should be governed by the principle of minimum force. This principle is meant to limit excessive and unnecessary death and destruction. It is different from proportionality because the amount of force proportionate to the goal of the mission might exceed the amount of force necessary to accomplish that mission. The Encyclopedia of Philosophy

 

I think the world has forgotten them. I think it needs a reminder. I think it would be a very good idea if on one appointed day in the very near future…Oh, I don’t know. Pick one. Pick a date. How about Australian Father’s Day on August 28, or Canadian Thanksgiving on October 9, or Gandhi’s birthday, October 2 (which also happens to be mine) or Veteran’s Day, November 11? On that appointed day may every newspaper in the world print them on its front page, may every magazine display them on its cover; and every local and national television station present on our screens for two minutes the terms of engagement of war that humanity has agreed upon. Perhaps then, those who are guilty will be shamed, those who violate them will be exposed and those who affirm them will be moved to insist on their observance.

 

And yes, I know. You may say I’m a dreamer.

But I’m not the only one.