“Orthodox scholars say: ‘In the heathen classics you find no consciousness of sin.’ It is very true — God be thanked for it. They were conscious of wrath, of cruelty, avarice, drunkenness, lust, sloth, cowardice, and other actual vices, and struggled and got rid of the deformities, but they were not conscious of ‘enmity against God,’ and didn’t sit down and whine and groan against non-existent evil. I have done wrong things enough in my life, and do them now; I miss the mark, draw bow, and try again. But I am not conscious of hating God, or man, or right, or love, and I know there is much ‘health in me’, and in my body, even now, there dwelleth many a good thing, spite of consumption and Saint Paul.”
Theodore Parker, quoted by William James in The Varieties of Religious Experience
“I observe, with profound regret, the religious struggles which come into many biographies, as if almost essential to the formation of the hero. I ought to speak of these, to say that any man has an advantage, not to be estimated, who is born, as I was, into a family where the religion is simple and rational; who is trained in the theory of such a religion, so that he never knows, for an hour, what these religious or irreligious struggles are. I always knew God loved me, and I was always grateful to him for the world he placed me in. I always liked to tell him so, and was always glad to receive his suggestions to me. . . . I can remember perfectly that when I was coming to manhood, the half-philosophical novels of the time had a deal to say about the young men and maidens who were facing the ‘problem of life.’ I had no idea whatever what the problem of life was. To live with all my might seemed to me easy; to learn where there was so much to learn seemed pleasant and almost of course; to lend a hand, if one had a chance, natural; and if one did this, why, he enjoyed life because he could not help it, and without proving to himself that he ought to enjoy it. . . . A child who is early taught that he is God’s child, that he may live and move and have his being in God, and that he has, therefore, infinite strength at hand for the conquering of any difficulty, will take life more easily, and probably will make more of it, than one who is told that he is born the child of wrath and wholly incapable of good.”
Dr. Edward Everett Hale, quoted in the same source
There was a type of man whom the Puritans never tired of denouncing. He was a good citizen, a man who obeyed the laws, carried out his social obligations, never injured others. The Puritans called him a ‘civil man,’ and admitted that he was ‘outwardly just, temperate, chaste, carefull to follow his worldly businesse, will not hurt so much as his neighbor’s dog, payes every man his owne, and lives of his owne; no drunkard, adulterer, or quareller; loves to live peacably and quietly among his neighbors.’ This man, this paragon of social virtue, the Puritans said, was on his way to Hell, and their preachers continually reminded them of it.
Edmund S. Morgan, The Puritan Family
William James, in his book, makes a distinction between the “healthy-minded” religion of the “once born,” people like Parker and Hale who have little struggle and consciousness of their own depravity, and the faith of the “sick soul” who needs to be born twice to be made whole.
My blog friend Hugo, despite his doubts about Augustine and the pears, seems to have more in common with James’ twice born than with his once born. When he tells his story, it is, like Augustine’s, a story of sin and redemption, of being rescued and transformed. Not for him Hale’s story of always finding it easy to be loved by God, but rather a “colorful past” (as he often calls it) of alcohol and drug abuse, sexual recklessness, driving his first two wives away from him, and multiple suicide attempts.
I think I’m actually somewhere in between James’ “once born” and “twice born” examples. I’ve had my spells of depression and severe self-doubt, and I’ve both doubted God and doubted my place with God far too much to give as cheery an account of my spiritual journey as does Hale. I’m not quite one of the sorts James describes “whose soul is of this sky-blue tint, whose affinities are rather with flowers and birds and all enchanting innocencies than with dark human passions, who can think no ill of man or God, and in whom religious gladness, being in possession from the outset, needs no deliverance from any antecedent burden.”
Reading Hugo’s many accounts of his past and his conversion, though, make me realize how much of the “once born” is in me. It’s not, exactly, that Hugo and I disagree about sin and redemption; as far as I can tell, when we lay out our theology, we use many of the same words, and would find, for example, many of the same areas of agreement and disagreement with Augustine. It’s more that we’ve experienced our journey differently, and therefore, perhaps, have different ways of coming to terms with that old story told in Newton’s song “Amazing Grace,” the one about being saved from wretchedness and blindness.
I have a “colorful past” of sorts, in the sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll sense. I’ve slept with more than one person before the one I actually married. I’ve tried both magic mushrooms and cocaine. I’ve spent time in the lesbian community, which for some people could, all by itself, give me ample grounds to set myself up as a repentant sinner (except, I’m not particularly repentant about that, since the actually hurtful sexual choices I’ve made were heterosexual ones). I’ve ridden on a motorcycle in the San Francisco Gay Pride parade, and I’ve attended a clothing optional neo-pagan equinox celebration dance.
But you know, most of these things were “colorful” in the “I Never Do Anything Twice” vein than in the “I keep hitting my head with a hammer and can’t figure out how to stop” vein. I took cocaine once, and saw it ruin (or take) the lives of certain friends who took it more. I made a couple of sexual choices that were hurtful, but my total “number” is lower than Hugo’s number of wives and live-in relationships alone (if you only count “going all the way,” I don’t even beat out his number of wives), never mind his more casual affairs. And when you add in that some of my “colorful” acts were basically harmless, well, it was always pretty easy, when a preacher showed up on campus to denounce “sin” in the form of sex and drugs, to grade myself on a curve and count myself good. After all, there were a heck of a lot of people handling sex and drugs more recklessly than I was.
I remember one of those preachers vividly. She was a woman, and she spoke with great drama about how we were headed on “the wide road to destruction.” As I listened to her warn me about the dangers of frat parties (which I didn’t attend), where the men would “get you drunk, and if they don’t get you drunk, they’ll get you high,” I found myself attending, not so much to the meaning of her words, as to her style. Such cadences! Such gestures! Had she studied drama? Was she perhaps some theater student, playing a part? Where had she learned this style of preaching, for surely it must be studied, no one has these things down like that off the bat. And then my friend Matt Nicodemus came up, and whirled me around the Quad in a dance, and I quit analyzing the preacher’s speaking style.
And yet, there are experiences that sometimes make, well, not “total depravity,” but at least some sort of “original sin” make a kind of sense to me. It’s not been so much in my sexual experience that I’ve gotten this sense (though, believe me, I’m conscious of individual sins there), but elsewhere. It’s in moving between Chappaqua and Harlem, and observing the differences, that I’ve gotten the sense that maybe there can be kinds of sin that you’re born into, before you even reach the point of making your own individual choices. And it’s more stuff like racism (sometimes called the “original sin” of our country) than “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll” that helps me understand why someone could see human nature in a light rather less optimistic than James’ healthy-minded souls.
That hymn by Newton, with the lovely words about “Amazing Grace” and the line about “saved a wretch like me” which many of my friends (those who don’t particularly see themselves as wretches) want to substitute with “saved a soul like me”? Newton was a slave trader, before he converted. To my mind, that is a wretch, and when I sing the line, I think of his slave trading, and think of God as the one who can turn to repentance even slave traders (as well as the one who can liberate slaves).
And here’s where I come to that quote from Morgan about the Puritan denunciations of that “civil man” who was “outwardly just, temperate, chaste,” etc. For the Puritans, a lot of this was about rejecting works righteousness, and affirming their radical dependence on the grace of God. But there’s another way of thinking about these things. In fact, “civil men,” who are, by the lights of their time, “outwardly just, temperate, and chaste,” commit all manner of wrongs. Such burned witches, such upheld slavery and Jim Crow, such now defend torture. How many wrongs might I partake of, while being “outwardly just, temperate, and chaste”? How many times have I, in fact, been convicted of my own blindness to wrongs done to others, while being outwardly “good” in the obvious ways to people immediately around me?