The Call For God

Despite an overabundance of words about prayer, it is not easy to give voice to our prayers. A steady stream of talk about prayer threatens to silence us. All the talk about the necessity of prayer, the power of prayer, the "value" of prayer, the importance of a "spiritual life," can have the effect of making it all the more clear that we cannot pray. Yet, of course, we do pray. When we come together in the worship of the community, we pray. We say the Lord’s Prayer. Perhaps we do this absentmindedly, halfheartedly, dispiritedly -- but we do it. What is it we are doing when, in spite of ourselves, we do in fact pray, out loud and in public? What is prayer after all?

A Sense of God’s Absence

The most astonishing aspect of prayer, though the one most likely to be forgotten, is that it is speaking to God. Prayer is not giving ourselves a "pep talk," nor is it a liturgical form for talking to ourselves. I cannot count the number of times I have sat in a pew and have heard a "pastoral prayer" addressed to the congregation, one that made "announcements" and told me what I ought to feel, think, believe and do. Is it any wonder we forget that prayer is speaking not to ourselves but to God? Is it any wonder that our prayers don’t seem to "go anywhere"? If we speak only to ourselves, we hear only echoes. Prayer has nothing to do with this echo chamber. It is speaking to, calling for God; it is focused not upon ourselves but upon God.

But which God? Are our prayers directed to some private deity or to the Lord of creation? To some passive god or to the God who acts? To some distant alien being or to our Father? To some anonymous supreme being or to the Father of Jesus Christ? To the grantor of our wishes or to the Savior of the world? To the great magician or to the One who for our sakes became poor, weak and mortal, even to death upon the cross? We have no reason to complain that our prayers are empty when they are directed to an idol.

The greatest obstacle to prayer is that it is too often addressed not to the One whom Jesus called Abba but to ourselves or to an idol of our fantasy. The second obstacle comes from the same source. It is the supposition that we must be pious, religious or "spiritual" in order to pray. We often think of prayer as based upon a keen sense of the presence of God. Thus, when folks do not feel this strong sense of presence, they may excuse themselves from praying. This notion is a complete misunderstanding. Insofar as prayer is rooted in our situation and in our sensibility, it is rooted not in our sense of God’s presence, but in our sense of God’s absence. Prayer brings to expression our need, our lack, our emptiness, and directs this emptiness to God. We pray not because we are strong but because we are needy.

This "neediness" is the basic character of human existence. In the Old Testament the word nephesh, often translated "soul," really means "throat" and designated the need to take in food, air, life. Prayer is the turning of this neediness and lacking toward God. It is the cry of the heart which protests the absence, the distance, the silence of God. It is precisely out of our godlessness, our godforsakenness that we pray (not our religiosity or our piety). It is this that we offer God. What else, indeed, do we have to give? In bringing to expression our godlessness and godforsakenness, in protesting the absence of God, our prayer joins with the prayer of Jesus: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Mark 15:34).

Holding God to His Word

Jesus, who cried out for God in his death, also taught us to pray -- for the coming of God, the reign of God, the Kingdom of God. What is this Kingdom of God for which we pray? Nothing else than God in person, nothing other than what God has promised, nothing less than the total transformation of the conditions of our life: the new heaven and the new earth. To the extent that we have become satisfied and settled down, we cannot pray for this radical transformation of the conditions of our life. But to the extent that we do pray, we identify ourselves as those who are fundamentally dissatisfied with "the way things are," with the brokenness of our world and our lives, with the absence of God and the delay of the Parousia.

The basis for this prayer is God’s promise. Our prayer is the audacious cry out of our godlessness for God, really God, to come to us. The basis for this audacity, this demand, is that God has promised himself to us, and promised us to himself. The character of prayer, then, is this: that we hold God to his word. We insist that God be true to himself, that God be God. God’s word of promise is the basis for what Calvin called the presumptuousness of prayer, as well as for Tertullian’s talk of prayer "vanquishing God." More recently Jacques Ellul has rightly spoken of prayer as "combat with God."

But how is it possible to take this word of promise in our godlessness as the basis for an appeal to God? The answer is provided by Paul, when he speaks of the Spirit in our prayer (Rom. 8:26). What he says is this: that of and by ourselves we cannot pray. It is in our incapacity for prayer that the Spirit comes to our aid -- the Spirit as the presence of that for which we pray. In the final analysis, only God can address God. Our incapacity for prayer is not a temporary impediment. It is a permanent part of our condition. Thus Augustine can rightly maintain that the simple and inarticulate desire to pray is the true prayer of the Christian: for the Spirit intercedes for us.

A final thing that needs to be said about prayer, is that it is always corporate. We often distinguish between private and public prayer, and to an extent this distinction is valid. But whether private or public, Christian prayer is always common, communal, corporate. All ‘Christian prayer is to our Father. In prayer we are united with our sisters and brothers, whether we are alone in our closet or together in our community; we are united to the whole church. The prayer of the community is not a collection of individual prayers; it is common prayer out of our common plight to our common Lord in our common hope. We pray as part of the communion of saints, joining the whole people of God in all of history and around the globe.

The expression of this dimension of prayer, that we pray together with the whole people of God, is brought to articulation in the liturgy, in the public prayer of the gathered community. This, liturgical prayer enables us all to pray together as one people, though separated in time and space. The form expresses our unity, our community, and reminds us that we are called not into chaos but into solidarity.

The Forms of Prayer

Such is the structure of our corporate prayer. Now a word about three forms of prayer -- invocation, petition and intercession -- which describe both the words of prayer and the life formed by prayer.

In an invocation we call upon God to be present to us. This is indeed the whole sum and substance of all our prayer. We call upon God to be God for us, as he has promised to be -- God with us, Emmanuel. At the heart of our prayer, at its beginning, we turn to God and direct to him our need. Whatever we may pray for, at bottom, we are praying for nothing else than this: for God to come to us. And this means that we pray for the Kingdom, for the reign of God, for the transformation of all things, for the new heaven and the new earth. We call for, long for the God who is absent to us. We need not have some special sense of God’s presence to call out. On the contrary, it is because of our need, our lack, our godlessness, that we call upon God. There is no pious or religious presupposition of prayer. Our prayer of invocation is prayer for the Spirit of God. We pray for the One who can give our prayer meaning, for in our godlessness we do not know how to pray as we ought.

It is in and through our petitions that our prayer takes on concrete and actual form. God promises to us to be no abstract God in general, but God specifically, concretely and in particular. It is in our concrete, actual and particular need" and neediness that God comes to us. This must not be interpreted in some spooky religious or pseudo-spiritual sense. It is for the resurrection of the body that we wait, not like the Gnostics for some ghostly liberation from body and world. It is, therefore, in our bodiliness that we turn to God, recognizing, in every particular need, our need above all for God.

Thus, we are taught to pray not only for the coming of the Kingdom but for our daily bread as well -- and if for our daily bread, then for all things else that we need. For in all the forms that the brokenness and neediness of our lives take, we turn to God, who promises us himself and thus fullness and wholeness of life.

It is at this point that the question of the answering of prayer most frequently arises. I fear that in this respect, partly because of this question, our prayers have become timid, showing that we no longer expect God to answer them. We may suppose this to be a sort of maturity, of growing up. We know that God will not give us a bicycle or cure our cold, and so we no longer ask. It doesn’t stop there. Haven’t we also forgotten to expect God, God’s reign, God’s transformation of heaven and earth, the resurrection of the dead, the abolition of dark and death and sorrow? And if we no longer expect these, then do we any longer expect anything? Are we then even afraid to name our need, our longing, our aching? And do we not then become unconscious of these things, merely irritable, impatient, no longer sure of what we need or want? Is this maturity, or is it senility?

Or perhaps we have determined to be wiser than God -- God is for our spiritual needs. So we exchange the resurrection of the body for the immortality of the soul. Instead of a new heaven and a new earth, we ask only for transport from the old earth to the old heaven. Or perhaps we give up both earth and heaven and seek in prayer only a soporific for our troubled spirit. What is the advantage of this over a beer and a TV set?

No, prayer has nothing to do with rendering us unconscious of our need, our pain, our longing. It is the articulation of this need, not just generally; but concretely, as we actually experience it, even if the occasion for it is the absence of a bicycle. We articulate our need and longing to the one who for our sakes became needy, became godforsaken, to the one who promises to us himself. So we pray for what we need, not because God is the great candy machine in the sky, but because God has entered into our need and has become needy for our sakes. Shall we then cover up that need?

Intercessory Prayer

We pray not only for our own needs but in intercession for the needs of our neighbors, our sisters, our brothers, our earth. In this act we give voice to the cry of our world for God, not only in general but also in particular. We do this because we know that what we need at heart is no different from the need of our neighbor and our world, and because we know we can never get what we need alone or apart from our neighbor’s crying and groaning. For what we need is not the salvation of our own soul but the new heaven and new earth, the reign and rule of God.

So the neighbor’s need is our need as well. The One to whom I turn in prayer is not only my Father but our Father, not my guardian angel but the Lord of heaven and earth, not the lover of my soul but the one "who so loved the world that he gave his only Son"; we pray not for my daily bread but for our daily bread.

Thus in intercession I turn my neighbor’s actual need to God. This means that I see my neighbor, my sister, my brother, my world from the standpoint of what God has promised to and for us. I see my neighbor in the light of God’s promise. I also see my neighbor in the light of my neighbor’s actual need and yearning. I cannot turn a deaf ear to his or her cry, for in prayer I myself utter that cry as though it were my own. So on behalf of the other and in the place of the other I give voice to the other’s need for God, both generally and concretely. It is here that for the first time we begin to bear one another’s burdens.

But here we need to heed a word of warning: I have no right to substitute my desire for my neighbor’s need. The terminally ill patient may desire healing and health. We may not believe this to be possible and may desire instead a peaceful and painless, or at any rate courageous or edifying, death. If we pray for and with the neighbor, we must give voice to the neighbor’s need -- not to our own halfhearted wishes. We may believe that the prayers will not be answered. This is none of our business. For 2,000 years we have prayed for the coming of God’s Kingdom. Shall we then balk at praying for life from the one who promises us life, at praying for healing in the name of Jesus who healed the sick? Shall we offer the stone of consolation to one who cries for wholeness and life? And if we then together confront the hard reality of God’s silence and absence, do we then cease to pray, and instead offer explanations and excuses for God? Or do we then for the first time pray in the name of him who prayed: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" and who taught us to pray "lead us not into temptation"?

Existing in Prayer

What does it mean then to exist in prayer? The oddest word the Scripture addresses to us about prayer is this: pray without ceasing. What is referred to here is a form or style of living which is itself formed as a prayer. Prayer forms our existence. It is the very skeleton of our existence -- not a part but our whole life, not only our life alone but our life in community, not only our life in the church but our life in the world, not our soul but our body. When our life in the world is formed by prayer, so will be our life in the church; when our life in relationship is formed by prayer, so will be our life alone. A word of caution: that our life is to be structured as a prayer cannot become another new and all the more intrusive form of law. Instead, it must be understood as a positive encouragement to the vocations of freedom.

What is the form and style of life in the world that is formed as a continuous prayer? Such an existence is, in the first place, formed by hope. It is an expectant existence, turned to the future, God’s future, the coming of God. It is, therefore, not unconsciously immersed in the everyday and day-to-day, but is a waiting for, expecting, yearning for, God, and thus for the transformation of all things.

An existence in prayer is also an existence without illusion. To live a life of prayer (contrary to the way we pray) is not to live with our eyes shut. A life formed by prayer is a life without blinders. This needs to be heard again and again: prayer is no refuge for wishful thinking, no flight from reality, no refuge from the truth. In prayer our eyes are open to ourselves as we are: to our neediness and brokenness, to our godlessness and to the world as it is. A life formed by prayer, then, is a life formed by the sober truth. It is a life which is an abiding in the truth, a doing of the truth. It is a life able to attend to things, just as they are, undistorted by fear or wishful thinking. Barth speaks of Christian existence as "seeing clearly"; it is thus attentive existence.

It is therefore a life without defenses. Most of us, especially those of us who are clergy, live in hiding. We hide behind our defenses, our pretenses. We pretend to be wiser than we are, stronger than we are, better than we are. But in prayer we come to see ourselves as we are: needy, lacking, yearning. Our secrets are discovered. The cat is out of the bag. How shall we exhaust ourselves in trying to rebuild those defenses, trying to be invulnerable? If we cannot hide from God, what is the point of hiding from one another? A life formed by prayer is a life in which pretense and posturing are no longer possible, because they are no longer worth the trouble.

A life formed by prayer is an open and honest life, a life of vulnerability to the other. It is on this basis that there can no longer be any separation of ourselves from the other, no longer any discrimination between rich and poor, pious and impious, moral and immoral. For in prayer "we are all beggars" (Luther).

Solidarity with the Neighbor

This means, fourth, that a life formed by prayer is a life of solidarity. It is as we know that we are sinners, and only then, that we know that we are sisters and brothers (Barth). The grace of God which justifies the ungodly can give us no vantage point from which we are in the right while others are in the wrong. If in prayer we address our godlessness to God, then we can have no ground for saying: "I thank God that I am not as other folk are." Our prayer can only be, "Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner." If that is our prayer, then it informs existence as solidarity.

The rule of a life governed by prayer is this: there is nothing human which is alien to me. I who am myself in need of God cannot separate myself from the ungodly, the needy. This solidarity is all the more apparent in intercession. In intercession I identify with the pain and brokenness of my neighbor and my world and offer these up to God. If I offer up this prayer, how can I live in contradiction with this prayer -- to flee my neighbor, to flee my neighbor’s wretchedness? When I learn to pray for my neighbor, to utter his or her cry, how can I flee my neighbor by escaping into a religious, pious, "churchy," moralizing ghetto?

The brokenness of my neighbor takes concrete form. This means that it also takes social, political and economic form. Insofar as I identify with my neighbor’s cry, I protest with my neighbor against a godless world, a world of suffering, a world of imprisonment, a world that enforces hunger and injustice. This I can do only concretely, not abstractly, because I articulate my neighbor’s need just as the need it is -- the need for justice and therefore for God. Just because the articulation of our need is a yearning for God’s rule to become concrete, so with the oppressed I protest the structures of oppression. If I do not do so, it is an open question as to whether I have interceded for my neighbor.

In our prayer we pray, "Forgive us as we forgive those who trespass against us." We ask that God deal with us as we deal with our neighbor. Our life in the world, in solidarity with the oppressed, with those who cry out for companionship, for healing, for justice, is a life of prayer. We may also turn this around in order to ask of our life: For what are we really asking when we ask God to deal with us as we deal with our neighbor? How do we deal with our neighbor? It is a dangerous thing to pray the Lord’s Prayer.

Also, I pray for the earth itself. For the earth’s very groaning, Paul tells us, is a groaning for salvation. The earth itself must be renewed. In our prayer we articulate the cry of an inarticulate earth. For we know that we are not saved apart from the transformation of the earth. The need of the earth is also our need. Can the earth then exist for us only as a storehouse of resources for transient needs?

In all of these ways, an existence formed by prayer is an existence that is worldly -- one that is fully in the world, in solidarity with the world’s cry, longing and need. It is not a particularly religious life, but a life before God in the world; in prayer we turn the need of the world to God and. claim God’s rule. This is what Bonhoeffer had in mind when he spoke of "religionless Christianity" -- that is, a Christianity that is no longer preoccupied only with the pious individual, or with a metaphysical, abstract, general God, but with a God who for our sakes became poor, who suffered the cross for the sake of the godless.

What shall we say then about a style of existence? The temptation is to separate our solidarity with the oppressed from a life of contemplation. A life style formed by prayer can never be content only with solidarity or only with contemplation but is able to put together these apparently contradictory ways of being. It is the juxtaposition or movement between prayer and involvement, between waiting and acting. This acting, involvement and solidarity are based upon and formed by our solidarity with the godlessness and godforsakenness of the world before God.

Learning to Pray

When we come together, we come to be taught to pray. But this teaching does not consist of instruction in the right attitude or right words. Instruction in prayer consists in this: that we pray. In the act of praying and only in the act of praying do we learn to pray. The gathering in prayer focuses and forms the praying of the people. If the praying done here is badly done, then the likelihood is that I will never know how to pray. If our people do not know how to pray, is this not perhaps because our praying in the congregation has become empty or distorted or formless?

Let me be clear here. People learn to be atheists not from too much contact with the world, but from too much contact with the church. No number of closely reasoned proofs for the existence of God will ever overcome the impression gained Sunday after Sunday that our prayers are addressed to ourselves. How often do we exhort ourselves when we pray: help us to know, help us to understand, help us to remember, help us to do? How vague, ephemeral, unreal must the God be who is addressed in this way. How often do the words we use in "pastoral prayer" in the congregation, the home, the hospital strangle both faith and hope? How often do our words silence the wild longing of the human heart for wholeness, for life, for justice, for peace, for those things which we can never give ourselves? How often do the words of our public prayer direct folk away from the crucified God to an anonymous Supreme Being, to the tribal deity of our institution or our nation, to the totem of our status quo? To what God do we pray when we pray for God to "defend, maintain and cause to prosper" institutions, statuses, and ways of life built upon the bleeding backs of those whom Jesus calls to his messianic banquet?

These questions indicate some of the ways in which our public prayers may deform or silence our prayer in general. It is in public prayer that we learn to pray -- or discover to our sorrow that we cannot pray.

Thus we may and must also ask of our prayer what style of life it forms. Are our prayers diffuse and amorphous and so incapable of forming a coherent way of life? Do they turn our attention upon ourselves or toward the One who delivers us from bondage to ourselves? Do they summon us to anxiety and busyness or do they cry out for God, the God who promises to come to us and has come to us in the cross and resurrection of Jesus? Do the prayers we pray summon us to the illusions of self-congratulation and ephemeral piety, or do they unmask our aching, our yearning, our call to God? Do the prayers we pray join us in solidarity with the groaning of our sisters and brothers and the whole of creation, or do they leave us finally alone in the echo chamber of our self-preoccupation? All of these questions are finally only one question: Do we know what it is to pray for the reign of God, on earth as in heaven, in the name of Jesus who cried out for God upon his cross?

When we lead the people of God in prayer, we demonstrate what it is to pray. And if it is not demonstrated publicly, how shall we know what it is to pray? And if we have not learned to pray, we have not learned what it is to live in the world before God.

We are confronted here with theological questions. They cannot be answered by a recipe for writing prayers. In the worship of the community, by the hospital bed, in the home of the neighbor we are confronted by our responsibility as priest-theologians. As we learn to take this responsibility seriously, we may learn the truth of Paul’s word, that we do not know how to pray. We may also learn to pray again the prayer of the disciples: Lord, teach us to pray. And that is the beginning of prayer.

Homosexuality and Christian Faith: A Theological Reflection

The question of the appropriate relation of the church to homosexuals and homosexuality has emerged as one of major importance in the deliberations of denominational bodies. The ensuing debate too often takes the form of a contest between defenders of traditional morality on the one hand and apologists for homosexual life style on the other. What is too often lacking in this conservative-liberal confrontation is attention to pertinent theological reflection. In what follows my aim is not so much to provide as to provoke that kind of reflection.

From the outset I should indicate how I became interested in this subject and what my biases are. I have, over the past several years had a number of friends and associates who were quite self-consciously homosexual. Many of these have been related in significant ways to the church. Some are committed laymen and laywomen, some are active clergy, some are seminary students. Some of these friends are extraordinarily talented and powerful people. Others are haunted by self-doubt and self-loathing. All of them share a concern to understand themselves in the light of Christian faith. As pastor and as friend I want these folk to know that the Christian faith is ultimately a word not of judgment but of grace. I know how difficult this is when the church, through its official pronouncements and its unofficial atmosphere, reinforces in them the impression that they are neither understood nor wanted, neither loved nor even to be “tolerated.” One of my biases is to want to defend these folk against the church. But I also have another bias: namely, that heterosexuality is a fundamentally superior form of sexuality to homosexuality.

As a theologian I have tried to ask whether either of these biases is appropriate or pertinent. I have had to discipline both my knee-jerk sympathy and my knee-jerk heterosexual certainty.

In the meantime the issue of homosexuals in the church has come to the fore in unexpected ways. I believe that the debate has both raised and obscured important issues, but it has seemed important to me that theologians address themselves to these issues in such a way as to help clarify them and to serve the church as it struggles to determine the appropriate stance.

What I will not do is propose a theology of homosexuality. That is, I do not intend to discover special principles which apply to this complex of issues in an ad hoc way. Rather I propose to ask how the fundamental principles of Christian theology illuminate this question or complex of issues.

God’s Grace and God’s Judgment

The basic principle of all theology, but one most forcefully brought to expression in this century by Karl Barth, is this: that in Christian faith we have to do with the gracious God whose one and supreme intention is to justify, save and redeem humanity not on the basis of a discrimination between better and worse persons but solely on the basis of God’s own gracious election. Followed through with consistency, this principle maintains that no human act or condition can of itself constitute an insuperable obstacle to God’s grace.

The violation of this theological principle places in human hands the capacity to effect our own salvation. But this is justification by works, and therefore a counsel of human pride whose end result can only be despair or self-righteousness. Thus whatever is to be said in “Christian ethics” must always stand under this first principle and cannot be allowed to rescind God’s gracious decree, election and activity in Christ in justifying the ungodly. With respect to the understanding of homosexuality, therefore, neither homosexual condition nor homosexual inclination nor specifically homosexual acts may be interpreted as excluding one from the domain of God’s gracious intention.

A second principle, closely and indeed inseparably connected to the first, has to do with the universality of God’s judgment in relation to which our fundamental human condition is disclosed as unrighteous whether as observers or as violators of “the Law.” Thus the negative import of the gospel of God’s grace is the radical undermining of all our attempts to establish ourselves in the pursuit of either “righteousness” or “unrighteousness.”

What this means is that no “natural” human condition or life style is intrinsically justified or righteous -- neither heterosexuality nor homosexuality, closed nor open marriage, celibacy nor profligacy. This negative assertion therefore stands against all attempts to argue for the autonomous or intrinsic legitimacy of any “life style” and against those who condemn homosexuality from the standpoint of an assumed righteousness of heterosexual marital fidelity or those who, condemning the obvious hypocrisies and oppressions ingredient to the institution of marriage, claim the autonomous validity of a homosexual life style.

These two principles in their interconnection (in which priority belongs to the first) make clear that no absolute or ultimate distinction can be made between homosexuality and heterosexuality. In both we have clearly exhibited the sinful condition of human beings -- which human beings in this condition are encountered in a shattering and redeeming way by God’s gracious will.

The use of the notion of “sin” in this connection frequently betrays a large-scale misunderstanding. As both Jesus and Paul make almost excessively clear, they address themselves only to “sinners” and the “lost.” One should therefore view with alarm discussions of this question which, discovering that homosexuals are sinners, conclude that they are unfit for the ministry and, almost, for Christian community. Are we then necessarily to conclude that since homosexuals are sinners -- and healthy heterosexuals are less so -- that Christ died for homosexuals but not for us? Out of our own self-righteousness we therefore have condemned ourselves.

The Otherness of the Other

Now if the matter were left here in the ultimate context of God’s judgment and grace, we would not have a Christian ethic. What we want but also what the Christian tradition provides is guidance in matters penultimate as well as ultimate.

I will begin here with another principle forcefully illuminated by Karl Barth. It is that our created, fallen and redeemed humanity is to be understood as cohumanity. This assertion derives from the clue of Genesis 1:26 that the image of God in us is expressed in that we are created male and female. I believe Barth is correct to take cohumanity, as evidenced in the two-gender character of our existence, to be the crucial determinant of our humanity.

This principle is applied by Barth and others in such a way as to place homosexuality in the wrong when contrasted with heterosexuality. Barth does not do this in a way that violates the first set of principles, but other theologians (e.g., Otto Piper) do. In either case we must ask whether this application is justified.

I believe the answer must be negative. That our humanity is cohumanity cannot be interpreted only in a sexual or genital way. If this is done, nothing remains of the symbolic and thus ethical significance of cohumanity. We then would have literalized the metaphor so as to deprive it of its general ethical significance. That significance is this -- that human beings differ from one another; that this difference is that which we constantly seek to abrogate, so as to make the other conform to our desire (on the sexual level this is lust, on the political level it is oppression). But the otherness of the other is God’s gift to us, by which gift we are summoned out of our isolation and into the cohumanity of love (Bonhoeffer).

Thus with respect to any relation the principle of cohumanity leads us to inquire: To what extent is this relationship predicated upon the reduction of the other to our own desire, and to what extent does it, however brokenly, embody the mutuality of cohumanity? Thus the principle of cohumanity does enable us to distinguish between better and worse relationships, but it cannot serve to dismiss homosexual relations as worse a priori.

Procreation and Family-Centeredness

A further principle often adduced in the discussion of homosexuality is that of natural law. As it applies to this context the argument goes: sexuality belongs to the law of nature, but it is ordered toward a particular purpose; namely, the procreation of children. Sexuality which does not have this end in view violates that order. Homosexuality is thus a perversion of the natural order and therefore of the law of God. This position, of major importance in Catholic moral theology, is also used in some Protestant discussions.

Obviously, all forms of human sexuality which do not have procreation as their goal fall equally under this principle: masturbation, contraception, nongenital sexuality between husband and wife, homosexuality. It is simply inconsistent to apply this principle to only one member of this set. Protestant sexual ethics in general have a more celebrative and less goal-oriented understanding of sexuality, and it is on this basis that contraception is not proscribed by Protestant theology. On what basis, then, can we revive this understanding of natural law to condemn homosexuality?

In the American situation the ghost of this natural-law principle lives on in the “sanctity of the home and family.” Christianity in American Protestantism has been linked closely with the preservation of the life of the family, and on this basis homosexuality is understood as a clear violation of the ideal of family life.

Now as a theologian I am inclined to ask whether the “family-centeredness” of American Christianity can be justified theologically, and here (against many of my own instincts) I must answer No. We have only to remind ourselves of how suspicious of family ties both Jesus and Paul were to see what an anomaly the identification of Christian life with family life is. But if this identification is an anomaly, then we certainly cannot argue that because homosexuality (as a permanent and exclusive sexual pattern) precludes marriage and family, it must be ruled out a priori as unchristian.

The Biblical Proscriptions

Let us turn to the scriptural passages which are frequently adduced to buttress the proscription of homosexuality. Of course a responsible application of Scripture cannot proceed from a mere collation of proof texts. If that were an appropriate procedure, then we would find it necessary to side against the liberation of women (including giving them a significant role in the church) and against modern science with its evolutionary perspectives. More seriously, perhaps, we would violate the clear hermeneutics of Scripture itself with its continual modification and correction of the traditions which are received in any particular stage of its development.

Thus we must ask in each case whether the passage in question brings to expression a central principle of the faith or is to be understood as accidental, peripheral or timebound.

In the space available here, I must restrict myself to the Levitical texts and Romans 1:26 f. (A more detailed investigation may be found in D. Sherwin Bailey’s Homosexuality and the Western Christian Tradition.)

The two passages in the Leviticus holiness code (Lev. 18:22 and 20:13) clearly condemn (and demand the death penalty for) acts of sexual intercourse between two males (apparently anal intercourse). We must note that no reason is given for the prohibitions; they are simply listed among a whole series of such prohibitions. Since these prohibitions are found in the ritual law and are apparently equal in severity with prohibitions against drinking the blood of an animal or having intercourse with a menstruating woman, or having an ox which gores one’s neighbor, their pertinence for theological ethics is generally disputed. It is sometimes asserted that the Old Testament proscribes homosexual acts because they are nonprocreative, but this connection is never made in Leviticus -- or elsewhere in Scripture. Thus we must ask to what extent we consider the proscriptions against homosexual acts in Leviticus generally binding upon the Christian conscience. Unless we understand ourselves bound to all Levitical proscriptions equally, then some reason in principle must be provided for discrimination among them. We have seen that principles normally invoked to make the proscription of homosexual acts binding do not in fact justify such a procedure. We must conclude that the Levitical texts do not provide us with sufficient grounds to enforce such a proscription.

With respect to the oft-cited passage of Romans 1:26 f. we must notice that Paul’s mention of anal intercourse between males functions as an illustration of the consequence of God’s having abandoned the gentiles to their own wickedness. Thus these acts are taken by Paul to be expressive as much of God’s judgment as of human depravity. In any case, it is clear that the aim of Paul’s argument in Romans is not to exclude those who perform homosexual acts from the sphere of God’s grace but rather to use the example of homosexual activity as an expression of the great need which all human beings have for the grace of God which justifies the “ungodly.”

So far our reflections have produced a somewhat negative result. I have argued that there is no theological principle which compels us to perpetuate the proscription of homosexual acts. Let us now turn to inquire whether there may not be in fact principles of theology which illumine the relation between the church and homosexuality in terms other than the proscription of homosexual acts.

Standing with the Outcast

One theological principle which has a clear basis in Old Testament prophecy and the teachings of Jesus is God’s identification with the poor, the outcast, the oppressed. In order to apply this principle to the case of homosexuals we must ask to what extent homosexuals in our society constitute a class of oppressed and outcast persons. I do not suppose that all clear-headed and morally sensitive Christians will come to the same conclusion here. After some reflection on the legal and social plight of homosexuals in our society, I have concluded that homosexuals do, to a significant degree, fall within this category. They are persons against whom existing laws are enforced capriciously and arbitrarily, persons who are continually threatened with exposure, with loss of job and social standing.

To the degree to which the principle of identification with the oppressed applies here, the church must stand with homosexuals against those sociopolitical structures that deprive them of the protection of the law and the rights and privileges of full members of society. This principle has been recognized by the United Methodist Church and other churches. Moreover, it has a lasting tradition in the history of the church, whose official position has always been to shield homosexuals from the application of civil authority. Existing laws against homosexual acts are derived from the attempt of King Henry VIII to divest the church of its power and to replace it with the state in the enforcing of moral legislation.

Thus it appears clear to me that the church appropriately allies itself with many of the aims and interests of gay liberation, as it also and for similar reasons may ally itself with the aims and interests of women’s liberation or black liberation. This is not to say that these expressions of liberation from oppression are equitable or stand on the same plane, or place the same demands upon us. It is rather to say that the way in which any of these movements places a claim upon us is by way of our responsibility to imitate the divine mercy which takes the place and the side of those whom society casts out and oppresses.

The Perilous Character of Sexuality

Further clarification of our problem may result if we consider the theologically ambiguous character of sexuality. I realize that many of us inside and outside the church have come to suppose that sexuality, both as condition and as act, is morally neutral at worst. In this case sexual activity, where it does not “violate the other person or oneself,” may be understood not merely as morally neutral but as morally positive as well. I have myself entertained this view, but further reflection upon the biblical and ecclesiastical traditions, upon philosophical and psychological interpretations, and upon my own experience and that of others to whom I am related as pastor or friend has led me to believe that this “emancipated” view is naïve at best and is even potentially damaging to any moral sensitivity at all. The more overtly sexual our relationships become, the more perilous they become as well. For in sexuality we are placed in the greatest physical and psychic proximity to one another, and thus it is here that we are most severely tempted to reduce the other to the instrument for the realization of our narcissistic desire.

Whatever proclivities toward a Manichean libel of God’s creation and its goodness we may discover in the “puritanical” streams of the Judeo-Christian traditions, and however much we may deplore and seek to correct these proclivities, we must also see that here at least the seriousness of sexuality was recognized. However much we may wish to assert the goodness and even the playfulness of sexuality (I remain persuaded that we both may and must assert this against all defamations of God’s gifts), we must not forget that we assert this in the face of a fallen condition in which sexuality has become perilous, fraught with the temptation to do violence to one another.

How then does this principle of the perilous character of sexuality apply to the question of homosexual “life style”? Its application means, first of all, that we cannot regard things like sexual life style or sexual “preference” as a matter of no importance or as an area in which the individual is to have free reign. These things are not morally neutral but morally ambiguous. By “morally ambiguous” I mean that they are heavy with the perils of temptation at the same time that they are or may be the good gifts of creation.

The way sexuality as a thoroughly ambiguous and perilous phenomenon in the fallen creation has been correlated to a restored and redeemed humanity is through the notion of vocation. Protestant Christian ethics have made the category of vocation central for an understanding of the Christian life. In this setting, vocation is a comprehensive designation for all that characterizes the relation of the Christian to the world of nature and society. Traditionally this notion has been applied to sexuality in terms of two vocations: marriage and celibacy. Under the protective signification of these two vocational stances, sexuality has been understood as restored to or attaining a positive status.

The Question of Sexual Vocation

Now we must ask how the category or principle of vocation applies to the situation of the homosexual (that is, one who is inclined or driven to seek persons of the same sex for sexual gratification). It is possible to argue that an unalterable tendency toward homosexuality, when it means the impossibility of traditional marriage, must also mean that one is called to celibacy (the renunciation of sexual activity for God’s sake). This stance is regularly presupposed even by Protestants who do not otherwise have any use for the vocation of celibacy (e.g., Billy Graham).

The difficulty of such a position is that it equates the vocation of celibacy with the condition of homosexuality without any clear basis for doing so. In fact such a view misunderstands the character of celibacy as vocation, which is never to be confused with mere abstinence nor founded upon some “natural” inclination.

A further possible application is to agree (as Norman Pittenger does) that celibacy is not a category to be applied a priori to the situation of the homosexual. In this case Pittenger then suggests an ethic for homosexuality which approaches as closely as possible the vocation of marriage; i.e., permanent, monogamous relationships integrating sexual activity together with serious regard and love for one another.

A third possibility is to inquire whether marriage and celibacy exhaust the possibilities of an obedient sexuality. Here we are on relatively new ground, I think, but it is terrain which must be explored (even if not finally colonized) if we are to be able to respond constructively not only to the questions of homosexuality but to the questions of sexual life style which confront us again and again under such headings as “open marriage” or “new morality.” It is only with an understanding of vocation and the question of sexual vocation other than marriage and celibacy that a responsible Christian sexual ethic can be elaborated which is neither reactionary nor soft-headed, neither simply orthodox nor simply enlightened, but a genuine application of Christian moral insight to the contemporary setting.

It is with this principle of vocation that we enter most fully into the situation of pastoral counseling and moral guidance. The deployment of this principle here means first to insist that the homosexual is not abandoned by God or by Christ’s church. The homosexual (I mean here the full range of homosexual inclination from exclusive to subliminated: this range therefore may include all of us) is confronted also as homosexual by God’s grace and judgment and is summoned to a comprehensive vocation inclusive of his or her homosexual inclination.

Obedient Responses

To what use then is one of homosexual inclination to put this homosexuality? What is the vocational character of homosexual inclination? How is this inclination to be put in service to Christ? Here, I think, no a priori answer is appropriate. Here there can only properly be careful probing, conscientious questioning and obedient response.

Is homosexual inclination an obstacle to be overcome -- a training ground for the will in the discipline of renunciation which prepares one for some further obedience? As a pastor I cannot rule this out, but I also cannot impose it. (Placing homosexuality in this context calls into question behavioral modification schemes for remedying an unruly homosexual inclination. Vocation entails obedient freedom, not conditioned response. I am unable to understand at all how Christian pastors can possibly recommend this “remedy” to homosexuals.)

Should a homosexual inclination be placed in an order similar to that of marriage? Here homosexuals may ask themselves whether their homosexuality is to be placed in the service of God through the establishment of a committed and enduring relationship. Such a relationship may then be understood as a witness in a world of broken and impersonal relationships to the God-given possibility of and provocation toward fidelity and trust among persons.

If we are persuaded that there may be a third category of sexual vocation, then the homosexual may further ask: How is my homosexuality to be acted out in such a way as to contribute to God’s purposes for me and my fellow human beings? What are the features of a homosexual pattern of relationships which point toward or bring to expression the lordship of Christ? Responses to such a question are possible only on the part of persons who understand themselves as claimed by Christ in their homosexuality.

The kinds of responses which are made to this question on the part of Christian homosexuals will have great importance for all of us. For these responses may help to illuminate also the situation of heterosexuals for whom neither marriage nor celibacy, as traditional categories of sexual vocation, function to clarify their situation of concrete obedience to Christ.

The Forms Temptation Takes

Exploration of the question of obedient vocation in relation to homosexuality is an urgent pastoral task. It can be most fruitfully explored if we church people attempt to understand more clearly the moral ambiguity of the situation in which the homosexual is placed. We must become sensitive to the peculiar forms which temptation takes in this sphere if we are helpfully to interpret an understanding of Christian vocation in this same sphere. Let me suggest a few questions about the peculiar form of temptation to which a homosexual life style may be open. These are leading questions -- not to be permitted to become a priori pronouncements about the condition of persons of homosexual inclination, history or intention.

1. Is there a peculiar form of a temptation toward relational irresponsibility here? To what extent is the choice (if it is that) of a homosexual life style a refusal of the responsibilities which others bear in connection with ongoing relationship, marriage and family? (To what extent is this temptation the obverse of a temptation, characteristic of a straight, middle-class life style, to become all-responsible as a means of self-justification?)

2. Is there a peculiar form of a temptation toward irresponsibility concerning oneself here -- the temptation to blame one’s genes, one’s parents, one’s culture for one’s choices? Is there here a refusal of freedom which results in one’s sinking back into sensuality?

3. Is there here a refusal of the genuine otherness of another expressed in the flight from women, from straights, etc., which results in a “community” of persons who are the mirror image of one another? Is there here a peculiar form of that temptation we all share to associate only with “our own kind” -- religious, racial, etc.?

4. Is there here a temptation to reduce relationships to the most trivial possible form of encounter, severing sexuality from its integration with comprehensive relationality? (This would be the obverse of the way in which a straight marriage presents the temptation of total personal subjugation of the other person on the basis of sexual ownership.)

Now, as even this brief and arbitrary list of questions should indicate, any illumination of the peculiar temptations of a homosexual life style may also serve to illuminate the peculiar temptations of a heterosexual life style and the commonality of temptation for both. Moreover, the illumination of the peculiar forms of temptation is the necessary corollary for the illumination of the peculiar forms of vocation pertinent to a homosexual life style. By keeping the questions of temptation and vocation together, we avoid the twin dangers of simply issuing a priori denunciations of homosexuality on the one hand or a priori justifications of homosexuality on the other. Neither attitude is a way of taking the other seriously. To take another seriously is to understand the other in the light of Christ as one who in his or her concrete situation is a sinner claimed by God’s grace for the vocations of obedience and freedom.

The views which I have put forward as my own in these last few paragraphs no doubt require considerable amplification and clarification. I have been able to suggest only the outline of a position -- and it is also very much a position “on the way.”

I would be very surprised indeed if the position I have outlined does not also need correction from various quarters. Theology functions not in a vacuum but in a dialogue with many voices. It seems to me that these corrections may come from two directions -- from the Judeo-Christian heritage and from a better understanding of homosexuality (which includes above all the context of dialogues with gay men and women).

The position which I have articulated therefore is, like all other positions in matters theological, an attempt to see through a glass darkly. In these matters our capacity to see is only as great as the mutuality of aid and of correction in which the church bears witness to its hope for that dawning of apocalyptic lucidity in which we shall know even as we are known.

 

Achievable Miracles in Subsidized Housing

Since 1968, some 400,000 rental units of publicly subsidized private housing have been constructed to fill the void left by the failures of the conventional U.S. public-housing program. Restrictions in site selection, mismanagement, and inadequate policies for tenant admission and eviction have, however, often plagued these privately operated projects as well. Too often relegated to urban slums, the projects have suffered from a concentration of extremely poor families and a disproportionate level of black occupancy. Many have already failed, and others are apparently on the road to foreclosure.

Nonetheless, a substantial number of these projects have succeeded, far more than is the case with the conventional public-housing program. Two projects operated by Ade Realty Management of Chicago deserve attention because they have traveled the road toward ruin and have returned to solvency. Their stories can provide a guide to the methods of turning near-failures into successes.

I

Crestview Village, with 132 low-rise apartments, is on the outskirts of Kankakee, Illinois -- a community of 31,000 located some 40 miles south of Chicago. Edgewood Commons, with 150 two- and three-story apartments, is in Danville (population 42,500) in central Illinois, not far from Champaign-Urbana. Both projects, occupied in 1969-70, consist of well-planned garden apartments attractively laid out on approximately ten acres. Both projects have the same private financial sponsor who allows the management virtual autonomy -- an important element in successful operation.

Still, only two years after their construction, the projects signaled trouble for the tenants, the community and the owners. In contrast to most subsidized projects, which have only 10 per cent large apartments (three or four bedrooms), 20 per cent of the units at both Crestview and Edgewood were large apartments -- and high density was a potential source of problems. In addition, the projects had become heavily populated with problem families, very poor families, and too large a proportion of black families in a community struggling with the realities of integration. Fewer and fewer people applied, and the upward-striving tenants began leaving. Only two years after their construction, both projects had declined in public esteem and had become undesirable and unprofitable.

These publicly subsidized, privately run projects were beset by the very same problems that had doomed conventional public housing. Sidney Freedman, president of Ade Realty Management, recalls that after one full year of operation, 25 per cent of Crestview’s tenants had multiple social and psychological problems; 75 per cent were delinquent in rent; over half the families received public assistance; and about one-fourth of the apartments were vacant.

To many public-spirited persons involved in social welfare, moral questions were raised by any attempt on the part of managers of publicly subsidized housing to limit the admission of families receiving public aid, one-parent families headed by women, and families with serious antisocial behavior. Although these families have been shown to constitute a high percentage of problem tenants, the primary criteria for admission utilized by most management firms have been financial eligibility and need.

Only a few firms have openly pursued a policy of selective admission of those families deemed to be more adaptable. Many managers have been fearful of criticism from the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) if they deviate from a first-come, first-served admission policy. The courts, especially at the state level, have been reluctant to evict tenants even for a child’s or adult’s serious antisocial behavior, confirmed alcoholism or drug abuse that interferes with project operation.

II

The question of denying admission to families with a high probability of failure or of evicting tenants who have been unable to make the adjustment seems to trouble the administrators and judges far more than it disturbs the residents, who deal with the problem in practical terms. A young black woman living with her husband and children in a project discussed the propriety of a selective admissions policy: “I know it’s undemocratic, but it has to be done to preserve the housing for the remaining tenants.” A black unwed mother with three children in a Chicago housing project recalled: “You know, when I moved in here, most of the families had husbands and children, and it was good for my kids; now, out of ten families on the floor, there are only three men. That kind of situation isn’t good for my kids or for the project. And there are too many children. I am going to have to move.”

A young white podiatry student living in another Chicago project said: “The only difficulty in this project is some of the families that the management has admitted and then permitted to remain. The management must be firm if it intends to maintain a good development.” Similarly, Monsignor Vincent Cooke, former administrator of the Catholic Charities of Chicago, said some years ago: “No public housing project, let alone a private one, should accept too many families who receive public assistance. Children and families on welfare should have a chance to live in a community where most of the families are self-supporting and upward-striving.”

In discussing the problem of selective admissions, Freedman explains that a successful rental development, particularly a subsidized one, must attract and keep good tenants and evict unmanageable ones. “I don’t make improvements by computers or amortization tables. The name of the game is people: manager and tenants.” Crestview was almost destroyed by problem tenants because, said Freedman, “in the beginning Crestview had a poor manager. He accepted, retained, and was unable to handle his disruptive tenants. I fired him and hired Sam Warren, who is manager there today.”

“The first thing we did,” Freedman explained, “was to identify the troublemakers. First there were families with destructive kids. We had our share of these. Then we had families where one or more of the adults were addicted to drugs or alcohol, or had serious emotional and marital problems that resulted in antisocial activity disturbing to other tenants. These kinds of residents are more difficult to evict in Chicago because of the attitude of the courts. The courts in both Kankakee and Danville are more understanding of our problems, at least with our publicly subsidized units.”

Today Crestview Village, which at one point had been more than a year behind in mortgage payments, hopes to be completely current within the next few months. It is now considered a fine investment by its sponsors; it is one of HUD’s prize projects. There is only one vacancy, and rent delinquency is down to 3 per cent of the rent roll. Residents who decide to move out do so because they cannot afford the rent on their present income, because they are moving out of town, or because they are buying a house. Crestview provides a remarkable example of a housing project that almost failed and has now recovered.

III

According to Russ Cadman, resident manager of Edgebrook Commons, “Crestview Village was far easier than Edgebrook to revive as a profit venture because Crestview never had ‘location’ to fight.” Crestview was built on the outskirts of Kankakee next to a large shopping center in a sparsely populated white area. Across the street stands a 13-story middle-class high-rise apartment building whose residents are white. Edgebrook, on the other hand, is in a transitional area of Danville adjacent to Fair Oaks, a 700-unit public-housing project occupied largely by blacks, the majority of whom receive public assistance.

Cadman at first made no attempt to limit the number of difficult tenants at Edgebrook. According to Freedman, Cadman is a man of goodwill but “as a manager, he was carrying his efforts to help the needy too far.” Until a year ago, about half the tenants were behind in their rental payments, and many families were still being admitted and retained who received public assistance but were habitually delinquent in rent. Vacancies had risen to 30 per cent, and mortgage payments were falling further and further behind.

Under Freedman’s guidance, Cadman came to realize that if the project were to be preserved for the majority of low-to-moderate-income families, he would have to take a firm stand against problem tenants as well as those who were not paying their rent. He began to evict these tenants.

“Such tenants. have to learn that you are not going to mess around,” Cadman explained, “and the courts have to do their part -- which they are now doing.” He has had some difficulty with the local public defender’s office, which came to the aid of a problem tenant whose lease Edgebrook refused to renew. In attempting to protect the tenant, the lawyers overlooked the problems created for other residents and the project itself. However, with Cadman’s persistence and the aid of tenants, the offending tenant moved without the necessity of court action.

According to Freedman, Cadman’s new “hard-line” policy has made Edgebrook a much more successful project. Rent delinquency has been reduced to less than 5 per cent. Fewer than ten of the 150 units are vacant. Families receiving public assistance represent 20 per cent of the residents. Cadman attributes most of the present turnover to rising rents and unstable employment. He admits that those tenants who have to move back into substandard or public housing suffer, but “it is about the only way we’ll survive. One housing project can’t solve all of society’s problems.”

As far as possible within HUD policy, there is now at the time of application a more careful scrutiny of the family-child relationship, bill-paying habits, and housekeeping characteristics of prospective tenants. Recognizing that a prior bad credit rating is not adequate grounds for rejection, Cadman differentiates between the individual who habitually avoids paying rent to live above his or her means and the person who falls behind in rent through a sudden change in fortune. In the latter case, the credit rating is not regarded unfavorably, though admission will depend on a demonstrable source of income.

IV

Edgebrook so far is winning its battle to preserve its reputation. Cadman says that even the public-housing manager is coming around to his way of thinking in regard to tenant composition. And Edgebrook’s future may well depend on whether Fair Oaks, the public-housing project, can survive.

In these projects, says Freedman, an active tenant organization is one of the most effective safeguards against unacceptable tenants. In Kankakee he spent a considerable amount of time getting an organization started. “I told Sam Warren, ‘Let’s get five or six of our best families and have a meeting in the community hall.’ We took off our coats figuratively and literally and started a tenant union. A tenant organization needs a spark plug, and Crestview had one in Laverne McClendon, a young black woman who provided the kind of interest, intelligence and follow-through that was required.”

When residents in Crestview Village have a complaint about the noise another tenant is making or about the behavior of a neighbor’s child, they bring these problems not to the manager but to the organization, which either solves the problem or recommends eviction to the manager. According to Sam Warren, the union also helps keep out applicants whose ability to adjust is doubtful -- tenants can be tougher on screening than a manager would dare to be. Needless to say, union and management do not always agree, but when it comes to unacceptable tenants, they usually see eye to eye.

Probably the key to survival for both Crestview and Edgebrook is diversity of tenants. In view of the proportion of large families among the poor, it is necessary to provide low-rent housing for this market. However, it is also essential to house the elderly and young marrieds, and both these groups often serve as a stabilizing element as well as a positive force in tenants’ organizations.

In terms of family composition, 50 per cent of the two projects’ tenants are families with children. Of these, about half have both mother and father. The elderly compose 30 per cent; the remaining 20 per cent of the tenants are singles or young couples without children. Perhaps the real advantage of the relatively large proportion of elderly, singles and young couples is the consequent reduction in the project’s population density. In terms of racial make-up, between one-fourth and one-third are minority families.

V

No selection or eviction policy designed to produce a diverse group of residents can work unless there is a waiting list of applicants. The challenge facing the manager who seeks to improve a project’s desirability by evicting problem tenants is the lack of prospective tenants to replace them. Overcoming a bad reputation becomes more difficult if, in addition to obtaining better tenants, it also involves changing an 80 per cent black project into an integrated project of 20 to 40 per cent blacks -- a ratio acceptable to both white and black communities.

Sam Warren relates how he proceeded: I went to all the agencies I could -- churches, the YMCA, the Red Cross, the Community Chest, libraries, even factories -- anyone who might be likely to know of families who needed housing. I said, ‘send me good applicants, particularly white families, elderly families and young couples.’ I even gave special treatment to tenants for bringing me their friends as applicants. Perhaps 40 per cent of our vacancies are filled with applicants who knew one or more tenants.

“Now, after we have used all these techniques, the lookers must be converted into renters. This requires careful explanation and hand-holding, in view of the conditions of the project during the transition. In the case of the elderly, I had to make extensive use of rent supplements.”

“I don’t think many more than half of the families obtained in this manner worked out permanently. But we achieved a modicum of racial balance. Then we had to evict those who couldn’t adjust to project living and to substitute better families for them. But by this time we had less difficulty in attracting good families of any race to apply.”

Frequently the process of reducing the density of a project or keeping it diverse in family composition and income requires a broad interpretation of HUD rulings. For example, accepting families who are technically eligible though they plan to take on increased employment that may soon make them ineligible, or admitting small families or couples to larger apartments if they have a reasonable need and can pay the rent, or delaying action on rent increases to retain families who contribute positively to the project -- all these are delicate decisions.

The problem of racial balance is even more difficult. In Kankakee, where only 15 to 20 per cent of the city population is black, these figures could represent a guiding ratio for the project. But blacks generally have lower incomes and poorer housing. Said Warren: “We find we can manage the project with as many as to 40 per cent black families, and the bulk of white families will not move because of racial factors but just that percentage, no more. However, since there is always some turnover, if any especially desirable black or white families apply, they can always be accommodated within a reasonable time, since we have no absolute ratios.”

According to Freedman, salvaging a housing project is a three-step process. First, a manager must evict the “unassimilable” tenants. Then, in projects where the ratio has become unbalanced, some minority families must be replaced with white families, gradually changing the social balance in one part of the project at a time. Finally, having altered the racial balance enough to attract both black and white families, the manager must evict the newly admitted tenants who have failed to adjust.

This process can work best in projects located in new, largely vacant neighborhoods, in sparsely occupied areas that are racially mixed, or occasionally in transitional communities. It does not seem to work in settled all-black areas. Ultimately, the success of the process will depend upon fair and firm management, a cooperative community, and tenants that want it to work.

Crisis in Science and Spirit

In both cases realism and even honesty were overshadowed by our desire for unbridled movement onward in a quest for success and publicity. Neither Baby Fae’s parents nor the public were adequately informed of the double-barreled danger of host-graft rejection and organ destruction from medication.

Neither Schroeder nor the public were adequately informed of the danger that blood coagulation on the artificial heart might cause stroke-producing clots, or of the danger from bleeding caused by the anticoagulation medication. We the public didn’t want to hear of these tragic side effects of our technological prowess. In both cases we confessed our faith in medical science, health professionals and institutions but at the same time, we betrayed a moral bewilderment grounded in spiritual impoverishment.

At the year’s end we witnessed a curiously parallel event in Bhopal, India. Here in an unprecedented technological tragedy we saw the disastrous effects of an industrial policy contemptuous of life, committed to technological production at any cost.

I think I am beginning to understand why we put ourselves in situations of moral ambiguity where we seek to do good but end up doing evil. We are Puritans gone wild. We pursue the Puritan vision of comprehending and utilizing the earth’s secrets and energies but have lost the Puritan corrective value of ecological justice. We are driven by the Puritan ambition to subdue the earth but have lost the redeeming virtue of stewardly respect. We serve the Puritan virtue of prolonging life but have lost the chastening value of providential death. In sum, we are animated by a desire to enhance life and build the earth, but we do not know why. Orwell’s technical and political nightmare is brought on by a crisis in soul and spirit. Reviewing a volume of essays titled 1984 Revisited, edited by Irving Howe, Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., writes: "Orwell’s vision was of a society absolutely controlled by absolute power using absolute terror to remove the human soul" (New York Times Book Review [September 25, 1983], p. 20). Our crisis reaches from our technical activity to our political policy to our moral commitments and dispositions of soul. Let us describe in some depth the dimensions of our scientific and spiritual crisis and then prescribe a more sensible approach.

Why were these events so provocative? Why has every person (at least in the industrialized, media-saturated world) had to respond to these cases? They are compelling because they speak to us of our births and deaths -- of our assault on circumstances and our acceptance of limitations. The dramas mirror our own critique of or complicity in the principal political project of the waning years of this millennium: scientific technology and biomedicine. Our culture is asking a searching question: Where in our commitment to ameliorate the tragedy of life (Francis Bacon, "Relieving Man’s Estate") to enhance and improve life, to protect and develop our substance -- where do we run amuck and begin to devastate the very purposes we pursue?

Two books are on my table in these early days of 1985. Preparing for his visit to Chicago, I am rereading Ivan Illich’s Medical Nemesis. And, pursuing a promising lead as I try to understand our magnificent yet often misguided sense of national destiny, I am reading The Puritan Origins of the American Self by Sacvan Bercovitch. Illich uses a Greek image to convey a biblical truth:

The Greeks saw gods in the forces of nature. For them, nemesis represented divine vengeance visited upon mortals who infringe on those prerogatives the gods enviously guard for themselves. Nemesis was the inevitable punishment for attempts to be a hero rather than a human being [Medical Nemesis (New York: Pantheon, 1975), p. 35].

The greatest American hero is one who breaks the sound and sight barriers but is always falling on his face. Using terms more easily understood by our technological-industrialized generation, Illich speaks of the "counter intuitive behavior of large systems" and the "self-reinforcing loop of negative feedback." This of course is sociological language for the biblical truth of being unable to avoid doing the harm we know perfectly well we are doing (Rom. 7:15).

Bercovitch quotes Emerson’s version of the Puritan vision:

"The Genius of Destiny of America is a man incessantly advancing, as the shadow on the dial’s face, or the heavenly body by whose light it is marked. . . . Let us realize that this country, the last found, is the great charity of God to the human race" [R. W. Emerson, "Young American," "Divinity School Address" and "Fortune of the Republic," quoted in Puritan Origins (Yale University Press, 1975), p. 136].

Here we see the source of our genius and our crisis. The myth of manifest destiny, when joined to the myth of scientific progress, endangers the spiritual and physical health of individuals and societies. Bluntly put, we must stop thinking of ourselves as God’s chosen people and think more about our opportunities and obligations among the community of nations. We are not an innocent and inspired people; like all the earth’s folk, we are tired and treacherous but also capable of the sublime and sensitive. Only when we grasp the chastisement of divine justice and the guidance of divine will on our work can we hope to participate in redemptive purpose. The materialization of a moral vision is as dangerous as its spiritualization. "Beware the man whose god is in the sky," wrote George Bernard Shaw.

The materialistic degradation is most poignantly seen in the Indian crisis: As lawyers and industry representatives talked with Bhopal residents about compensation, the following insightful comments were heard:

If only I could get 10,000 rupees ($850) I’d be very happy," said one woman who had lost family members.

"India is a spiritual world. We don’t understand millions. Americans started all this talk of compensation," said another.

Mr. Patel, whose wife and 17-year-old son died said, "I am a man not an animal. Money cannot give you satisfaction. Purity of soul is satisfaction. Suppose I would have died, this body would be thrown away." He looks up, eyes tearing. "Reality is God! Do Americans believe in God -- tell me?" [Wall Street Journal, (December l9, 1984), p. 16].

Our technological crisis is at root a moral and therefore a spiritual crisis. What would the shape of a more appropriate ambition be? We should require that technological momentum be carried on carefully and well. A primary stipulation of the Nüremburg code of laws is that our work be good science. A cardinal principle of religious medical ethics is that high-risk, innovative procedures be undertaken only by the highly competent -- those most likely to have knowledge, experience and collegiality of expertise.

Careful research, sensitive prognosis and negative-feedback assessment must accompany our scientific ventures. Such innovative, experimental work as transplants and therapeutic biomedical engineering should occur in the great nonprofit university centers, where there are deep traditions of scientific excellence, clinical rigor and human protections.

Where life and health are concerned, human good must not be subverted by the profit motive. Publicly formulated guidelines from Health and Human Services, the Office for the Protection of Human Subjects in Research, the World Health Organization and World Scientific and Technological Associations should stringently guide all technical endeavor -- especially when there is a temptation to act solely in terms of the profit factor. Indeed, where any extraneous ambition -- whether it be profit, prestige or scientific intrigue -- threatens to contravene the primacy of human benefit, some structure of disinterested advocacy must be set in place.

Also, the procedural value of scientific truthfulness and disinterested advocacy must be enhanced by the normative verifies of justice and mercy. The technological project in general and the biomedical project in particular should be guided by the imperatives of justice -- i.e., equity, simplicity and sensitivity. We should make available to all those rudimentary provisions for particular needs. We should concentrate our technological work much more on basic provisions for the many than on the exotic interests or needs of the few. Simple devices to replant deforested ground might serve human health better than artificial hearts. Recombinant DNA procedures might be better used to attack the global scourge of malaria than to concoct human growth hormones to make the short tall.

Justice ultimately calls us to respond to the personal need of each. Those who succumb to catastrophic medical crises, for example, should be borne up by the community. Our insurance, social security and welfare mechanisms must be rescued from their present for-profit, entrepreneurial captivity and devoted to broader human service.

Finally, just as the meaning of freedom is ultimately found in sacrifice, the deeper meaning of justice is found in mercy. Padwel Sitarz, the 16-year-old son of poor Polish immigrant parents, died just before Christmas. He did not tell anyone about the prostate cancer that had spread to his stomach. He knew his parents "couldn’t afford" treatment. Can our society continue to "afford" this disgrace? The pre-eminent value guiding scientific technology and medicine should be the spirit of gracious benefit to man need and potential. This spirit alone -- not vengeance, anger or even security -- should guide our scientific venture from the macrocosmos of space to the microcosmos of molecular and cellular medicine.

In sum, the scientific project must be guided by truth, disinterest, justice and mercy. Truth is the safeguard against deception; advocacy, against vested interest; justice, against favoritism; and mercy, against resignation. I have argued that spiritual malaise has opened up a moral crisis in our civilization. This crisis in turn has allowed the scientific-technological project to go on wildly, fueled only by its own momentum (if it can be done, it will be done). Only a restored sense of spiritual destiny -- and a moral vision derived from it -- can now rescue us.

The Giving and Taking of Life: New Power at Life’s Thresholds

As spring breaks across the country and pushes north, two events remind us of humanity’s ascending powers in the realm of nature. Kenneth C. Edelin, M.D., is convicted by a Boston jury of the manslaughter of an anonymous emerging life born to an unknown, unwed black teen-ager -- a 24-week fetus. In Princeton a renowned educator, Henry "Pit" Van Dusen, and his wife, living in the descent of life with powers waning, decide to take overdoses of sleeping pills. Mrs. Van Dusen dies immediately; the former president of Union Theological Seminary lingers two weeks. Nature has always sent its springlike burst of joy at birth and its muted wintry chill of death. We have passively accepted, as if from God’s hand, what nature gives. Now nature and providence are challenged by our assertive will at those once-sacrosanct thresholds: life’s inception and life’s demise. Yet we remain uneasy with our intrusions.

The events cited above are not unique. Thousands of such actions have gone before and thousands will follow, but these two have arrested our attention because of the present state of our scientific powers and our resultant moral quandary.

Technology, Free Will and Moral Ambivalence

Both events stand in bold relief against the background of new technology. In Massachusetts v. Edelin sophisticated perinatal technologies come into play as viability, life-support and fetal research emerge as the key ingredients in the case. Some say that the state’s indictment was initiated when investigators, checking into research on dead fetuses, discovered the fetus Edelin had caused to be aborted some two months past. The introduction of technology at critical life thresholds has precipitated an HEW-imposed moratorium on fetal research until more satisfactory guidelines for biomedical and behavioral research can be developed. Many inquisitors are now making rounds.

Technology is implicated also in the matter of euthanasia. Reflecting on the Van Dusen case, John Deedy asks whether suicide should be reconsidered in the light of today’s life-prolonging biomedical technology (New York Times, March 2, 1975). The Van Dusens saw this considered, self-determined act as morally preferable to the customary American way of death, in which disease forces finally overwhelm technical medical management, leaving the dying person and those around him exhausted and resentful -- the grace of dying with one’s boots on long since gone.

The moral ambivalence of the new medical and scientific achievements also explains the public fascination with the two events: "Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21, KJV). It may always be that we enter and leave this life naked. But the giving and taking we want our own way -- at least we think we do. Primal religious emotions reminiscent of those expressed by Job are evoked in these two situations in which the tragic must be rationalized. Respectful resignation to the ways of God and nature is one response. The Catholic "right to life" mentality and the broad Middle American ethos it symbolizes hold that human life is a sacred trust, that its meaning is anchored in transcending mystery, and that it should therefore be received and protected with awe. Let us acknowledge that this moral point has force, despite the belligerent insensitivity of its proponents tactics.

Another view stresses human initiatives and determination. This perspective emphasizes the physical aspects of the case and argues that they are normative: grams of weight, weeks of gestation, neurological and respiratory criteria. "Products of conception" is a term used in pediatric rounds: the abortus, the fetus, the placenta, the tissue. In the pregnant woman, focus is on the mechanics of the saline injection, the hysterotomy, the tearing of the placenta from the uterine wall, the psychiatric sequelae, the social stigmatization -- these are the important facts, medically and morally. Even Joseph Fletcher’s more thoughtful "Indicators of Personhood" (Hastings Report, November 1972) are similar criteria, taken from an observable, empirical, verifiable starting point. And while these factors are critically important for the ethical analysis, they are not sufficient.

Yet another view accents the plight of the woman who undergoes an abortion: her right to privacy, the tragic necessity imposed by unwanted pregnancies, the sociocultural milieu with its polarized emotions. These factors, of course, prevail in public-policy determination in a secular-pluralistic society. Perhaps they should, but that does not preclude their being morally objectionable.

Diverging Viewpoints on Euthanasia

The multivalent moral quandary is present also in the euthanasia issue. In the case of the Van Dusens, some would see suicide as murder. Time (March 10, 1975, p. 83) introduces its comment on the case with the striking words of the Westminster catechism -- a document written in the amazing Cromwellian age of Protestant orthodoxy when moral absolutes were thought to be not only propositional but "in the nature of things."

Question: What is forbidden in the Sixth Commandment?

Answer: The Sixth Commandment forbiddeth the taking away of our own life, or the life of our neighbor unjustly . . .

Blackstone, in his great commentary on English law, says:

Self murder, the pretended heroism but real cowardice of the Stoic philosophers who destroyed themselves to avoid those ills which they had not the fortitude to endure. The law of England wisely and religiously concurs that no man hath a power to destroy life but by commission from God, the author of it, and as their suicide is guilty of a double offence, one spiritual, in evading the prerogative of the Almighty and rushing into his immediate presence uncalled for, the other temporal against the King, who hath an interest in the preservation of all his subjects [Blackstone, Bk. 4, Ch. 14].

Though the king’s interest and expediency today might be better served by the demise of one or another of his subjects, the conserving tradition argues that we should welcome life to its last moment, see it as opportunity rather than burden, and fashion a society that will protect, sustain and preserve it with unfailing energy. The undergirding theology of this viewpoint is that life is a trial, a testing ground, an arena where purification and redemption are achieved through endurance and courage. In this view, stoics from Seneca to Van Dusen deny life that more profound depth which may be afforded by continued experience -- even suffering experience.

A diverging viewpoint emphasizes technological factors and human controls: irreversible coma, isoelectroencephalogram, diminished cerebral coherence, motor incapacity, incontinence, etc. Death -- or "unlivable" or "valueless" life -- is present when certain physical, neurological or sociological criteria are not met.

Our attitudes toward suicide and euthanasia are shaped also by extremely influential sociocultural values. Hemlock parties were common in ancient Greece. Hippocrates knew of them and apparently condoned them within his holistic concept of medicine. Indian societies like that of the Eskimos or the nomadic tropical tribes enacted great life-cycle rituals wherein the elderly would be set adrift on ice floes or would fail to ford the swift river with the rest of the tribe during a migration back to the mountains. The deep taboos and symbolic meanings surrounding birth and death linger even in our technically demythologized modern culture.

Defining Personhood

Though our moral ambivalence is disclosed in the diverging viewpoints -- theological, mechanical and sociocultural -- the basic uncertainty is deeper. The ethical and emotional crises that we experience today in relation to the thresholds of birth and death, the uncertainty as to where "personal" value may be located and anchored, and the resultant confusion in the realm of public policy and law are symptoms of the fundamental intellectual crisis of modern humanity.

"We look upon life these days from two opposing points of view," writes Carl F. Von Weizsäcker, "from man, and from physical science" (The History of Nature [University of Chicago Press, 1949], p. 122). The legacy of the modern scientific and philosophic revolution has been the isolation of value from material nature. The only common denominator between the "is" and the "ought" realm of human experience is the principle of uncertainty. While the Heisenberg principle gets us closer to the real nature of physical things, moral uncertainty is confusing and debilitating. Weizsäcker finally concludes that there is coincidence between what humanity believes and what science eventually learns. If his view is correct, then our deepest affirmations of the transcending values of life will ultimately coincide with our scientific determinations.

In order to resolve our present ambivalence we need to clarify what we mean by a "person" protected by the 14th Amendment. In order to find Dr. Edelin guilty, charged Judge McGuire, the jury had to determine that the aborted fetus had become a "person." The primitive mechanical criteria of extrauterine respiration was repeatedly invoked as the index of "personhood."

We need first to distinguish two definitions of personhood which interplay in our culture, rooted in two perspectives on life. One view locates person-hood in the biological, neurological and sociological criteria posited by our society. The other tradition -- rooted in Judeo-Christian practice transmitted through Roman, medieval and common law, then through European philosophy to the American Constitution -- stresses what E. J. Corwin has called "the higher law background" of our legal tradition.

Basic to American constitutional law and its growing tradition is what Corwin calls the American’s deep-seated conviction that the U.S. Constitution is an expression of the higher law. It is, in fact,

imperfect man’s most perfect rendering of what Blackstone saluted as the "eternal, immutable laws of good and evil, to which the Creator himself in all his dispensations conforms, and which he has enabled human reason to discover, so far as they are necessary for the conduct of human actions" [E. J. Corwin, "The Higher Law Background of American Constitutional Law," Harvard Law Review, 1928-29, Vol. XLII].

In this tradition human dignity or the endowed inalienable rights are secured by transcending purpose, not by calculated human determination. The theological traditions which constitute America’s moral heritage argue that personal value is bestowed, endowed, given by the Creator. Contra Freud, the faith behind our legal tradition holds that human beings do not project personality onto the transcendent but that transcending personality creates personhood in human beings. "I am prepared to affirm," writes Albert Outler, "that the primal origins, the continuing ground and final ends of human life are truly transcendental" (Perkins Journal, Fall i973, p. 30).

It is the discrepancy between this noble theological and constitutional vision and the harsh reality of the pragmatic that generates our moral bewilderment. In a like manner, ideal and compromise come into conflict in our psychological structure, creating ambivalence. In this area of "feticide" and elective suicide, our culture is vacillating, or even oscillating wildly. Public opinion wavers between the Roe v. Wade decision and an opposite pole in Massachusetts v. Edelin. Life-prolongation with a vengeance generates its polar opposite: "living-will" advocacy. Depending on one’s moral persuasion, we are either weaving downward to some final degradation or ascending by stages to a greater moral maturity.

Looking to the Future

I prefer to hope that our moral anguish will prompt us to coordinate our scientific knowledge with moral wisdom, so that the present crisis can be truly a crisis in a biblical sense -- a transformation which brings new faithfulness to God and a derivative humanism.

Science should soon yield a satisfactory birth-control pill, device or technique and/or an acceptable abortifacient. Although it seems that the human body resists our efforts to modify the endocrinological processes, we may be approaching the development of agents that mimic our body’s own inhibitions to conception and implantation. The Federal Drug Administration has recently authorized use of DES (diethylistilbestrol), a strong estrogen which functions to influence uterine contractability and to diminish the receptivity of the endometrium to implantation of a fertilized ovum. But this drug and the prostaglandins can have a devastating side effect -- vaginal cancer. Thus we still lack the gentle, nontoxic, publicly acceptable controls of fertility, conception and implantation that may one day obviate the tragic interim necessity of abortion.

The global picture should be alarming. Abortion is now one of the most widely practiced methods of birth control in the world. The Population Council reports that 10 million abortions are performed in the Soviet Union each year -- 2.6 for every live birth. In the U.S., 900,000 abortions were performed last year -- approximately three for every ten live births (New York Times, March 2, 1975). From another perspective, Bangladesh, the world’s eighth most populous nation (with .0003 of the earth’s land), has reduced its death rate to 17 per thousand (from 50 in 1900); its birth rate remains constant at 48 per 1,000. Chronic starvation and unconscionable misery will remain the lot of the people unless population control can be achieved by means of massive emergency aid, agricultural assistance, long-range development and education. Responsibility requires that we exert balancing controls at the thresholds of birth and death if we are to save the planet from "popullution" and its inhabitants from complete degradation.

Finally, an observation at the personal, familial and community level: Although the global problems are compelling, we cannot expect to resolve them without first reforming our personal values and life styles. Would it be possible to move away from the destructive anonymity that a "do your own thing" culture degenerates into and to construct new forms of supportive community and family life? Could the church and the secular society recover some sense of their constitutional obligations and care for unwanted children, or at least care for weary and harried mothers and fathers until they can renew the capacity to care? Could we recover the blessedness of bearing one another’s burdens, thus finding release from the obsessive grabbing, consuming, defending posture that has rendered our lives so shallow and sad?

Luther said the child is saved when the congregation "means" its baptism. Even in our secularized world each birth should not be regarded as a privatized, mechanical expulsion but viewed sacramentally as a baptism in which a life is claimed from the depths and lifted into our obliged presence. This kind of recovery of the value of generativity, to use Erikson’s phrase, would certainly ennoble our intervention and our caring at both thresholds of life. This manner of watching with one another at life’s thresholds is surely the will of the One who guards our coming and going.

Intending Death: Moral Perspectives

The morning news, Monday, September 27, 1976:

New York city: An elderly Chinese couple today took the proceeds from the sale of their laundry -- some $100,000 -- ignited it into a small bonfire in their apartment (an ancient ritual investment in immortality for oneself and one’s ancestors), then with their daughter leaped from their window to their death.

Sun City, Florida: Doctors gave George Beysle, a 77-year-old cancer patient, only a few days to live. His devoted wife could not bear the thought of being left alone. They called their daughter to the apartment and then sent her out on an errand. She knew something was up. While she was away, Beysle placed a mat on the floor, lay down, shot his wife, then himself, in the head. When the daughter returned, she found them in a death embrace on the floor.

And the news January 17, 1977:

Salt Lake City, Utah: After two unsuccessful suicide attempts, Gary Gilmore has been granted his wish to die. Convicted of murder, Gilmore had begged the state to shoot him in what has now become the first execution in the U.S. since 1967.

Dramatic examples of “intending death.” Public response to such events is ambivalent. Whether the persons be renowned -- like former Union Seminary president Henry Pitney Van Dusen and his wife, Elizabeth, whose “suicide pact” made headlines -- or just common ordinary folk, we experience strangely mixed emotions. We feel sad and proud. We see the acts as horrible and courageous. We feel sympathy: Why did it have to happen this way? -- so young -- we didn’t know they were lonely. Often we feel strangely triumphant: ‘You pulled it off, Gramp. You really pulled it off! You beat the system that says the natural way to die is under intensive care.” We should not be shocked at these conflicting emotions. They are fully human. Love of life and its undercurrent fear of death, along with the subconscious fear of life and yearning for death, are present in all persons -- all creatures.

Will to live and willingness to die abide in tension in every living organism: Lebenslieben and Todeslieben, biophilia and necrophilia. To follow the Freudian. picture, there is oral receptivity -- openness to life, to the new, to the future. There is also the desire for closure, going back, nostalgia, retention, stillness. Tropical birds, René Dubos reminds us, present this dual intentionality: the cocky and strutting male of the species is brightly colored -- red, purple, green, blue. His beauty ensures ongoing life and death -- attracting the mate for procreation but attracting the predator as well. The female’s dull plumage serves to protect both the mother and her nest of eggs or offspring.

So in the human being: a highly developed cortex and nervous system make possible both ecstasy and suffering. Aging seems to be written into the genetic code which is the secret of growth. Cancer can be seen as life gone wild. The treatments must be antilife. One of the most dramatic agents used to fight cancer -- methotrexate -- is an antivitamin. In humanity life and death intermingle. Conception is a kind of death. So is birth. Dying is a kind of birth.

Thwarting the Death-Desire

The moral heritage of our culture finds the intention of death unacceptable. It is alien to the tradition. To take one’s life, to wish one were dead, to request death for one whom we represent is -- medically, legally and spiritually speaking -- a sickness, a crime, a sin. Medical doctors and psychiatrists are trained to identify death-desire as abnormal: the result of disrupted body chemistry, drug influence, debilitating pain, temporary insanity or the green apples you ate. They are licensed to thwart this intention with injections, psychotherapy, behavior modification, or straps, straitjackets and padded cells. So far as the law is concerned, although suicide no longer carries the punishment of decapitation, disinheritance and burial outside the Friedhof, the place of peace, we are most reluctant to give people the right or the liberty to die. Our confused jurisprudence, which results in inconsistent law, is reflected in the “now this -- now that” of the Karen Quinlan case, and the numerous euthanasia cases, most recently the Zigmaniac case in the U.S. and the Hammerli case in Switzerland where the mercy killers were convicted, then pardoned. Legislative policy is similarly confused. The new California Natural Death Act, signed on October by Governor Edmund G. Brown, Jr., after weeks of prayer (that he thought he had left behind in the seminary), is the sole right-to-die law in the Western world undergirding both medical and legal thought. Similar proposals have been defeated in at least two dozen states.

Theology inherits the Sinai tradition, much compromised especially by those who wear the badge of Sinai and Golgotha: Thou shall not kill!

“The Lord gives -- the Lord takes away.” At a black Baptist country church in Texas the pastor says in his eulogy: “Death’s angel comes for each of us -- we can’t hurry it, we can’t delay it.” I’m afraid that is true only at a very profound level. It appears that we can hasten or delay death’s call. But should we? Does our dominion extend over our own body? The heart of this whole tradition is that death stings because we love life. We feel obligated to protect one another from inflicted and intended death. This impulse roots our social contract. To illustrate the shape of the traditional prohibition, let us recall Sir William Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Law of England:

Self murder, the pretended heroism but real cowardice of the Stoic philosophers who destroyed themselves to avoid those ills which they had not the fortitude to endure. The law of England wisely and religiously concurs that no man hath a power to destroy life but by commission from God, the author of it, and as their suicide is guilty of a double offence, one spiritual, in evading the prerogative of the Almighty and rushing into his immediate presence uncalled for, the other temporal against the King, who hath an interest in the preservation of all his subjects [Commentaries, Book 4, Chapter 14].

Departing from Inherited Wisdom

Today there are reasons to modify this composite tradition; to differentiate qualities of the “intention to die”; to open up options in medical practice, legal practice and pastoral ministry to understand, allow, perhaps even encourage and help persons who wish to die. This should be done only with the gravest reservation and deepest reverence for personal life. There are times and circumstances when we must recognize exceptions to our inherited moral wisdom. What developments make this necessary? I mention four reasons: (1) life-prolonging techniques, (2) the economy of living, (3) iatric disease (disease caused by ourselves) and (4) common sense.

1. One such development is the panorama of life-prolonging techniques, ranging from functional supports like mechanical respirators to sophisticated abilities to supply and control the elements of vitality: electrolytes, metabolites, salts, fluids, nutrients, blood components. Sometimes medicine can slam the door on death’s face for the time being with these techniques. At other times death keeps its foot in the door and our ministrations only prolong dying. Some would argue today that, with thousands of Karen Quinlans lying near and far, we have for the first time in human history made it possible for people to outlive themselves.

2. The second argument must be used with utmost caution. It has to do with the economy of life. We live in families, in towns, in societies, on a globe with limited resources. Savings run out. Anyone under the age of 40 who has any confidence that Social Security, Medicare or Medicaid will still be there when we retire is a fool. Should society expend so much of its youth, its wealth, its energy in attending the dying? Should college plans be dropped, family life destroyed, the lives of caretakers shortened because of the sheer weight of attending a loved one? The desire to do everything possible is a questionable motive. Sometimes wanting the very most, the very best for our dying friends and relations is only easing our own guilt for ignoring them while they were living. We very likely need to learn the first skill of lifesaving, which is self-preservation, and not feel guilty about it. We may need to hear afresh the command in Jesus’ words “Let the dead bury their dead.”

3. A third circumstance that renders death-acceptance or death-election a different kind of question today is the changing face of disease. Much illness today is iatric, human-made. We have polluted all that we breathe, drink and ingest. Our indulgent, indolent and frantic life styles have triggered the new plagues of vascular disease, cancer and the now epidemic depression and senile dementia. In some future day we might find that all our illnesses and deaths are self-elected. In light of this possibility it might be argued that if we have already chosen modes of self-destruction, it would be absurd now to introduce at death’s threshold heroic countermeasures -- costly, caustic extensions and intensifications of the suffering we have deliberately chosen.

4 Fourth, there is the wisdom of simple common sense. Futurist Herman Kahn announces that some day people will live for 150 years, immunized against all diseases, anesthetized from all pain, able to hibernate for decades or centuries if they desire. He looks for ecstatic glee in our response and finds only a shrug of the shoulders. It sounds boring and sad. People don’t want to be immortal, at least when the wish is actualized. In a story from Greek mythology, Tithonus is granted the gift of immortality by the gods, yet he spends the rest of eternity yearning that he might die. Seneca, in his tract on suicide, wrote: “The wiseman lives as long as he should, not as long as he can.” And George Bernard Shaw, that saintly cynic of a much later generation, writes in The Doctor’s Dilemma: “Do not try to live forever, you will not succeed. Use your health even to the point of wearing it out. That is what it is for. Spend all you have before you die, and do not outlive yourself.”

Dangerous Tendencies

There are certain inherent dangers in the movement toward qualifying the tradition and welcoming death. Let me cite several developments that signal the shift. There is a widespread tendency in our culture to naturalize death and to discern the dying process in terms of predictable stages. Simple schemata are as dangerous for petty functionaries in health care as in education. They start believing in the stages. The Beatrix Cobb -- Elisabeth Kübler-Ross sequence of pre- and “post”-death stages has been criticized for its Greek naturalism, which strips death and immortality of their rich senses of terror and mystery -- meaning implicit in Hebrew-Christian thought. Studies show that today’s physicians do not fear death as did their fathers. Withdrawal of some life supports has been allowed in the Karen Quinlan case. The California Natural Death Act has also been mentioned. We might see in these developments a maturation of our views, a diminishing of our repressions; a step forward. Why do I suggest implicit danger?

Thomas Hardy paints the plight of modern “unnoticed” man in his 1890 novel, Jude the Obscure. Jude and Susan have just discovered the lifeless bodies of their three children hanging in the chamber room of the inn where they are staying. The older boy, young Jude, has left a note saying “Done because we are too menny.” Susan blames herself because she spoke with young Jude of the enlarged impending burden with a new child on the way.

 “No,” said Jude. “It was in his nature to do it. The doctor says there are such boys springing up amongst us -- boys of a sort unknown in the last generation -- the outcome of new views of life. They seem to see all its terrors before they are old enough to have staying power to resist them. He says it is the beginning of the coming universal wish not to live.”

Important sociological studies today are showing that the technological cultures of the West, shaped by the secularistic world views derivative of Protestant religious traditions, are dramatically shifting the balance of “intended death” away from homicide to suicide. Death claims us in three ways: accidents, natural death from illness, and intended death -- homicide and suicide. Of the total mortality, intended death is increasing in percentage along with accidents, which have certain affinities to both suicide and homicide. Death from disease, natural causes alone, is diminishing proportionally.

One might interpret this statistic as a profound cultural phenomenon related to certain biological adaptations to environments having limited carrying capacities. In any animal population, crowding results in diminished fertility and heightened violence, including self-destruction.

The import of this point is to show a tendency in our culture to rationalize the wish to die or the intention to bring death to others as something natural, even noble. Awareness of this phenomenon should heighten our critical scrutiny of right-to-die proposals in the spheres of personal life choice and public policy.

Confused Motives

We must also examine the emotional structure of human life. Here also we find reason for caution as we seek to affirm morally the “intention to death.” Often, though not always, wanting to die proceeds from the collapse of hope. Hope is born in self-esteem, seeing one’s life as meaningful, having a sense that one’s existence has purpose. Jürgen Moltmann has shared, in a recent conversation, his experience as one of the 15-year-old recruits to Hitler’s army during the waning days of the Third Reich. They were willing to die, courageous, blind to danger because they hated themselves. Those not afraid to die often have “love failure” -- the joy and sustenance of loving and being loved has collapsed. Death comes quite smoothly, naturally to those who have fallen out of love.

Understanding human emotions, wherein love and fear of death are joined, as are loss and willingness to die, helps us to be personally more sensitive and tough. Sometimes the statement “I wish mother could be spared this pain and suffering” means “I’m weary and want to go home.” Sometimes the cry “I’m sick to death and am going to end it all” means “Help!” There are times when the intention to die, the willingness to die, even the merciful desire to end one’s misery or that of another, flows from mature decision, love of life and self -- not hatred. Here we should stand near in support. But often the motives are mixed and confused. Here we need the staying power to struggle through the conflict with another. Sometimes the motives are sheer selfishness, expediency, institutional efficiency, or creature comfort. The worst thing we can do is applaud this “sickness unto death.” Here we should resist and rush in with aid, knowing the enduring bitterness and pain of conscience that result from such decisions to let go.

Awareness of this point would have important bearing on public policy. It is estimated that from 150,000 to 300,000 young men evaded the draft or deserted during the Vietnam war. Studies indicate that the vast majority of these were conscientious objectors by disposition. But because of an outmoded Selective Service understanding of psychic-emotional structure and the failure of religious sanctions, we took the “life lovers” of one whole generation and labeled them “cowards.” And we wonder what is the source of moral emptiness in our culture. One way to put this tragic era behind us would he to revise our amnesty program, which has been a complete flop. Only 27,000 exiles have re-entered the country. Recognizing the moral legitimacy of the will to live and the intensification of Lebenslieben in the hundreds of thousands who now live in Canada, Sweden and elsewhere, why not require of these young men two years’ voluntary service as ombudsmen for welfare recipients as our amnesty requirement? I believe we would discover that the human qualities of these men would assist thousands of the down-and-out with their specific life problems -- employment, housing, child-rearing, crime, drugs -- and would significantly relieve the national plagues of millions of dispossessed, angry and disengaged citizens.

Death as the Enemy

Sweet death comes hard. Theology has always known this. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote from Spain: “It is only when one loves this life and this earth so much that without them everything would be lost and gone -- only when one cherishes this life can he believe in the resurrection.” Pagan notions of immortality still tease our culture. How many times have we been assaulted by our parishioners when we challenge the notion of the immortal soul. Death for the Christian is total, final; body and spirit. The soul does not float out to rejoin the great soul. We affirm the resurrection of the body.

Oscar Cullmann has sketched the differences in Socrates and Jesus by contrasting their deaths. Plato’s account of the death of Socrates in the Phaedo sublimely expresses the Greek notion of the immortality of the soul. The essence of the belief is that the mortal physical body must be shed as an outer garment, that the essential soul can then be liberated to its eternal home. Death is good and natural because it releases the soul from its prison in the body. The body can be destroyed; the soul is eternal. Those who describe the natural stages of death, and speak of death as a part of life, are invoking once again this Greek sense of immortality.

Jesus, by contrast, approaches his death with trembling and distress (Mark 14:33; 15:34; Luke 12:50). He is afraid of impending death, sharing as he does humanity’s natural fear. In the Semitic perception, death is dreadful and terrifying. Jesus cries to be released from “this cup” (Mark 14:36). Death is an enemy of humanity, an enemy of God. It is the last enemy to be destroyed (I Cor. 15:26). It is not the natural order of things. We die because of our sin; Jesus dies atoning our sin. Only in Jesus as Christ is death stripped of its terror. Now, although we must taste death, it has no sting. The shadowy belief in resurrection in Hebrew faith now becomes a full-blown hope in the resurrection into life.

The Gifts of Caring

The present revisions of our “winnowed wisdom,” tempered by the cautions proposed for cultural, psychological and theological reasons, will work only if we reaffirm the ancient impetus to care for the dying with pastoral tenderness. Cicero saw life as a sober yet joyous task, “dying men caring for dying men.” The Medieval and Renaissance worlds studied the ars moriendi — the art of dying. Today, with our tendencies to regularize, institutionalize and codify death, to make it a noun, tegether with the inclination to abandon, hide and camouflage those who are dying, we might profitably examine with a pastoral eye our “death policies and practices.”

We must agree with Ivan Illich when he claims that a society’s understanding of death also controls its understanding of health. An indicative characteristic of our culture is the fact that in cocktail-party chatter, sex and death are no longer repressed subjects -- indeed they are the hors d’oeuvres, the subject of unending banter. Religion is the repressed, forbidden topic. Even the presidential candidates, who by disposition would have loved to talk about their faith, were warned by their advisers to contain it -- talk about morality, integrity was acceptable, of course, but not about religion. The unreality of our culture is seen when in death we can speak only of life: “Oh, you’ll be all right. Come on now -- chin up.” And in life we can speak only of death. Nietzsche is a helpful corrective at this point:

The Thought of Death. -- It gives me melancholy happiness to live in the midst of this confusion of streets, of necessities, of voices: how much more enjoyment, impatience, and desire, how much thirsty life and drunkenness of life comes to light here every moment! And yet it will soon be so still for all these shouting, lively, life-loving people! How everyone’s shadow, his gloomy traveling companion stands behind him! It is always as in the last moment before the departure of an emigrant-ship; people have more than ever to say to one another, the hour presses, the ocean with its lonely silence waits impatiently behind all the noise -- so greedy, so certain of its prey! And all, all, suppose that the past has been nothing, or a small matter, that the near future is everything: hence this haste, this crying, this self-deafening and self-overreaching! Everyone wants to be foremost in this future-- and yet death and the stillness of death are the only things certain and common to all in this future! How strange that this sole thing that is certain and common to all exercises almost no influence on men, and that they are the furthest from regarding themselves as the brotherhood of death! It makes me happy to see that men do not want to think at all of the idea of death! I would fain do something to make the idea of life even a hundred times more worthy of their attention [Joyful Wisdom: The Philosophy of Nietzsche (Mentor, 1965), p. 640].

Pastoral care, leading each other to water, restoring souls in conviviality, making to lie down in green pastures, leading beside still waters, bridging passage over troubled water, preparing tables, anointing with oil -- these arts, ancient and blessed, must be relearned. Above all, we must gently lead each other to the Great Shepherd of the sheep.

In California, hospitals must hire bedsitters to hold hands and accompany the dying. Where is the church? Have we sold out to that frightful isolation and anonymity that contemporary America values so highly?

Persons with pastoral gifts are in our churches and in the community. The nurturing of these gifts requires vigorous discipline. Mayeroff notes eight ingredients in caring: knowing, alternative rhythms (knowing when to give, when to withdraw), patience, honesty, trust, humility, hope, courage. Caring is rooted in human nature as benevolent. It will flow as we nurture intrinsic humanity in our common life. Death in the modern experience, then, is terrifying bliss. We rage against the dying of the light. We yearn for sweet death. We extol medicine’s march against death’s causes.

We graciously accept the truth that life must pass on. Our modern experience thus rediscovers the ancient yet ever-new Bible story about our story. Death is the bittersweet end which is beginning, that judgment which is mercy, that terror which is peace. It is surprise! When did we see you hungry? Didn’t we cry Lord, Lord”? Death is crisis. We meet Satan, who is the sum of our rebellion, our distraction, our laziness. We meet God, who is the culmination of what we foretaste in life as love, freedom, knowledge. We meet this day -- day of wrath and doom, day of reckoning, day of paradise -- not alone but with our Savior, safe in his grace.

 

Living Out the Gospel in Seminary Life

At the Interdenominational Theological Center -- a cluster of seven predominantly black seminaries in Atlanta -- we feel that While such a pattern will not be rigid or doctrinaire or even “classic,” it seems to have several aspects which, viewed together, could be called the objectives of the seminary inasmuch as they serve to integrate conceptually the pietistic or spiritual-formation function with all other phases of seminary life --academic and administrative as well as vocational.

I

The concerns that surface when one considers piety or the quality and depth of the seminarian’s relationship to God and other persons include: (1) Christian community, (2) spiritual formation, (3) vocational study, (4) ecumenical fellowship, (5) corporate worship, (6) personal witness and (7) community service. Let me briefly delineate these ingredients from the perspective of a theological school preparing women and men for pastoral ministry in predominantly black communities of America.

Community. The task of the seminary is the preparation of persons to serve in and with the Christian community of God’s people as exemplars of the gospel. For ITC, this means that to “become” a community, we must “be” a community. We must become acutely aware of our membership in Christ’s community and the black community, and we must relate to the community realistically and authentically.

Spiritual formation. This task requires the cultivation of spiritual life to the point that the lives of seminarians become sensitive to the true and eternal realities of God revealed in Christ, and committed to these realities as the basis of their ministry. For those oriented in the black experience, there is a complementary task; namely, understanding that an indigenous theological formulation of faith -- black theology -- is available to aid in the task.

Vocational study. If the essence of piety is not only prayerful devotion but helpful service, it will involve study that searches the Scriptures for a biblically based ministry, discerns the urgent questions of life, and determines how best to enable persons to resolve them. Vocational teaching and learning in a predominantly black seminary, then, means plumbing the black condition in the light of the gospel so that blacks -- and all people -- can hear and receive the “good news.”

Ecumenical fellowship. Piety in a theological seminary, broadly interpreted, involves learning how the whole household of faith has labored, and can and should labor, in unity to witness to the reality of the gospel. A unique opportunity exists at ITC, where both all-black denominations and the black constituencies of several white denominations prepare their ministers for service in the U.S. and abroad.

Corporate worship. Worship in a seminary community, a more specific kind of piety, can be as varied as the number of worship traditions which inform and form its life. As Ann Patrick Ware reminds us, worship should be truly ecumenical and not merely nondenominational. It should be mindful of the needs of its constituencies and intentional in seeking to build an articulate community. The attainment of this goal is one of the most exciting aspects of an ecumenically oriented black seminary.

Personal witness. If piety -- a personal expression of ultimate loyalty to God revealed in a unique life style -- cannot be divorced from any fact of seminary life within or outside its walls, there is a large place for personal witness in the spiritual formation of ministers. Such a witness goes beyond proclamation to communication -- i.e., telling what the good news did! At ITC and other black seminaries there are peculiar opportunities to witness to the truth “that the gospel is commensurate with the achievement of black humanity.”

Community service. A concluding dimension of piety that commands a large place in theological learning is service. Emil Brunner’s statement “Mission is to the church as fire is to burning” is apropos. In terms of the seminarian, the best learning is that which engages the learner in determining that which is to be learned. Helping people in black communities to deal “with all the ultimate and violent issues of life and death” in their effort to survive and develop could be one of the most distinctive and definitive words ever spoken.

II

True piety involves personal salvation as well as social holiness. In the life of the seminary, piety must be formed out of the engagement of the gospel with its own time and its problem-laden history, and lived out in every nook and cranny of seminary life. A similar basic premise underlies the relation between pastoral care and theology. In the words of James D. Smart, we should bring “the whole of theology to a focus upon [the] one point in the church’s life where it attempts to deal with human beings.” In other words, the seminary’s method should underscore both the classic Christian record of revelation and the most contemporary insights from clinical experience.

This basic premise translates helpfully for scholars of the black experience in general and specific ways. Generally, the recent indigenization of the black experience as a faith formation is a distinctive indicator of the theological dimension of the movements of black awareness that are abroad in the black community. Black theology, a product of this development, is the positive, constructive, action-oriented meaning of “blackness” in the religious domain. It provides a totally new perspective from which black people can view themselves, others, Scripture, church, tradition and reason. More specifically, it enables the development of a theory of ministry for pastoral care; namely, “the mutual concern of Christians for each other and for those in the world for which Christ died.”

This definition relates even more specifically to the teaching and learning of pastoral care in a theological seminary preparing persons to serve predominantly black churches -- in four ways, according to W. A. Clebsch and C. R. Jaekle in their book Pastoral Care in Historical Perspective: (1) healing, (2) sustaining, (3) guiding and (4) reconciling.

III

In many black churches the healing function in pastoral care -- i.e., the function in which a “representative” Christian aids another in restoration to wholeness, including a new level of religious insight -- is greatly aided and abetted by the message of black theology, which motivates black people to claim their personhood despite the massive attempts of a racist society to deny their humanity and set in motion a vicious self-hate syndrome.

A second basic pastoral-care ministry -- that of “sustaining” or helping persons who have suffered traumatic experiences to endure and transcend those experiences, and indeed to grow in and through them, and often because of them -- is likewise closely related through black theology. Here the pastoral care of the black pastor (or the pastor of black persons) becomes the instrument for releasing the power to endure suffering, alienation, rejection and abuse within a context of understanding that goes beyond resignation but stops short of irrational rage.

A third basic pastoral-care function is guidance, or aiding persons. as they make and affirm choices between alternatives. Translated in terms of the black religious experience, the guidance function of the black pastor needs to be evidenced in seminary as a ministry of support and affirmation of the unique and often peculiar choices black people must make -- some merely to survive, many to claim a modicum of personhood, and most to understand the irrationality of racism and racial prejudice.

A final pastoral function is the reconciling one -- i.e., restoring the basis for belief in persons of faith despite their contradictory behavior; “turning the other cheek” in anomalous situations. This perennial need on the part of black Christians is related closely to the theological roots of the Christian faith at every significant level of its development.

Piety in theological seminaries cannot be preformed. It must grow out of the tasks in which God’s people are involved, the sufferings they endure and the challenges they bring.

Idolatry and the Family

One of life’s most cherished values is the experience of familial community. The love between husband and wife, parent and child, and between members of the extended family ranks high among our blessings. For most of us, home ties provide enduring joys. Unless we are world figures or persons of great office, our most important responsibilities are probably those related to being husbands, wives, parents, sons or daughters. As the traditional marriage rite observes: “No other human ties are more tender, no other vows more sacred than these you now assume.

I

The biblical perspective on marriage realistically recognizes both the inherent importance and the limitation of family bonds. On the one hand, there is the norm expressed in Genesis: “Therefore a man leaves his father and mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh.” Here the implication is that such an interpenetration of flesh and spirit takes place that the marriage relationship constitutes what Karl Barth called “a full communion of life.” So basic is this assumption that the biblical and ecclesiastical traditions use the marriage metaphor to describe Yahweh’s relation to Israel and Christ’s relation to the church. On the other hand, particularly in the New Testament, the limitations of family ties are recognized. Jesus’ admonition concerning the forsaking of family loyalties led Ernest Renan to conclude that Jesus “preached war against nature, and total severance from ties of blood.”

Understandably, the claims of family tempt us toward idolatry. But alas, we are doomed to disillusionment if we allow marital or blood relationships to become the center of our lives and thereby close the circle. There are those spouses whose lives are so self-contained and whose windows and doors are so tightly latched against the claims of the wider community that their insularity is obvious. Such a closed society becomes inbred and dull and appears to others as downright stuffy.

Marriage does not bring ultimate fulfillment because we are so constituted that no human relationship can satisfy us totally. Those of us who have lived many years with a spouse are aware at certain moments -- perhaps across the table or as our mate is sleeping -- that, in a deep sense, we are living with a stranger whom we never will fully know!

Obviously the finitude of the marital relationship often manifests itself more negatively than through the reality of its partial nature. Every person brings to marriage weaknesses as well as strengths. Moreover, marriage partners do betray their vows. Inherent in the concept of fidelity is the logical possibility of infidelity.

Parenthood becomes idolatrous when we seek meaning through the lives of our children. There can be no vicarious immortality imputed by parenthood. Then, too, there is an inevitable mixture of agony and ecstasy in the parent-child relationship. Parents both bless and curse their children, because there are no perfect parents. Sons and daughters often disappoint.

If these realities were not enough to establish the fragility of the family, death does what no person is permitted to do: it puts asunder. Marriage partners vow fidelity “until death us do part.” Even those who speak of perfect marriages and of children “who never caused us any worry” finally must engage the fact that death terminates all human relationships. When death occurs, we confront the painful truth that even family ties are not absolute.

Augustine, who grieved over the death of his beloved mother, Monica, spoke about such grief in his Confessions. According to Augustine, we find the death of a loved one so painful for two reasons: First, we love those who are close to us as if they will never die. They should be loved as human beings -- as mortals. In light of the great commandment, love of one’s spouse and children comes under the rubric of neighbor love. Second, we look upon a loved one’s death as a loss, and we grieve our “losses.” This attitude indicates that we hold the other as a possession -- literally, “You belong to me.” Augustine reminds us that loved ones are mortal and that they are not ours. One of the essential characteristics of all idolatry is the notion of possession: we possess our idols as objects.

II

Renan errs in judging that Jesus had no love for home and kinship. His parables and metaphors reflect his gratitude for such natural human bonds. But Jesus did insist that earthborn loyalties must be held in tension with a higher loyalty if we are to serve each other in responsible love. Perhaps one way of saying this is that “home” must be redefined: our homes must be viewed from the standpoint of Home.

S. Paul Schilling, the theologian who introduced many of us in the English-speaking world to the work of the German philosopher Ernst Bloch, reminds us in a sensitive meditation that Bloch speaks of “humanity as on its way toward its homeland.” In Bloch’s thought, “home” does not connote a static haven as much as a “direction” which he finds described in philosophy and literature as pointing to that which alone endures. Schilling observes that Bloch’s idea of the homeland sounds much like what the New Testament calls the Kingdom of God. Home is where people ought to be -- where they belong because they are accepted and loved for their own sakes. Home is where God is leading us, and we, like one of Christopher Fry’s characters, are commissioned to “make wherever we are as much like home as possible.” Schilling helps us all to sing with deeper meaning John Newton’s lines:

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come;

‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

Prophetic Inquiry and the Danforth Study

The Danforth Study of Campus Ministries, published ten years ago under the audaciously inclusive title The Church, the University, and Social Policy, has probably had little measurable impact on any of the three communities addressed -- which focus respectively on goodness, truth and power -- much less on strengthening their linkage with one another. (Indeed, it has had little impact on the priorities of the foundation which sponsored it.) The study nonetheless influenced a number of us who were concerned with campus ministry in the ‘70s and provided much of the conceptual framework for our ministry on the boundary between the church and the academy.

Much as the Study of Theological Education in the United States and Canada, directed by H. Richard Niebuhr in the 1950s, became an influential inquiry into the nature of the church and its ministry, so the Danforth study, ostensibly of campus ministries, became an important resource for exploring the necessary relation of religious faith, social ethics and public-policy formulation. It was true of both studies that what could have been pedestrian projects became extended and provocative explorations. In this tenth year since its publication, it is fitting to review critically the Danforth study and to assess its implications for theological education in the next decade.

The Danforth study, frequently referred to as the Underwood study, was designed and conducted by its director, Kenneth Underwood, who died in November 1968. The five-year project was completed posthumously by the director’s colleagues and published in two volumes: the first, a report written by Underwood; the second, a collection of “working and technical papers. The quarter-million-dollar project was funded principally by the Danforth Foundation, with some support from Cooperating churches and universities. Its essential focus was on mainline Protestant ministries, and it was guided by a commission composed largely of white male university administrators and scholars.

Assumptions and Contributions

The sociological assumption of Underwood and his associates was that the university was among the most influential, if not the most influential, of American institutions. The university was judged to be society’s primary resource for inventorying and evaluating itself; it was concerned with both means and meanings. The theological perspective which informed Underwood’s exploration was H. Richard Niebuhr’s theology of radical monotheism; the key ethical principle in the study was Niebuhr’s “the responsible self engaged in shaping social policy.”

Underwood’s approach to policy research and the method he employed in the Danforth study was one he designated “prophetic inquiry” -- combining genuine ethical commitment and reflection with careful methods of technically competent research. Underwood was concerned on the one hand that the overemphasis on the humanities in much of the church and in the liberal arts colleges be corrected by a stress on technical knowledge in the natural and social sciences. On the other hand, he was concerned that hard research should be subjected to rigorous theological and ethical reflection. Too often the university had operated under the norm of value-free research, while the church’s endeavors in behalf of social and corporate ministry had lacked competency. Only with both of these dimensions -- the ethical and technical combined -- could significant social ministry be accomplished.

Many persons perceived Underwood’s delineation of the four primary modalities of ministry as being the study’s most useful contribution. Drawing on biblical and church tradition, he spoke of the roles of pastor, priest, prophet and king as historically normative for the Christian ministry. The pastoral role is concerned with ministry to individuals; the priestly role has to do with the proclamation of the faith and with leadership in the liturgical life of the church; the prophetic role focuses on judging the level of humaneness in the social order and pointing to the changes required if common justice is to be approximated; the kingly role takes up governance and the expression of neighbor love through responsible corporate action.

These roles are inseparable in the church’s total ministry, and Underwood stressed that all ministers must reunite the four major modes. He believed that all too frequently not enough of the church’s attention had been given to the prophetic and governance roles. Although his understanding was that different individuals would fulfill these roles in varying degrees, the emphasis on the four modalities often became a source of depression for campus ministers who concluded that their own situation did not embody the fullness of the church’s ministry.

Underwood was lucid in specifying what he meant by social policy, a term which he deliberately chose over such others as “servant role,” “mission,” “Kingdom of God,” and “earthly city.” Social policy implied a sustained commitment of the self to “the ordering and reordering of resources and personnel of whole institutions, organizations, and movements in the context of the needs of nations, peoples, and societies.”

Ecumenical strategies were proposed by Underwood, for whom the effective marshaling of resources involved the organizing of campus ministry teams at each institution or even for entire metropolitan areas. He assumed that mainline churches were turning away from denominationalism ‘to ecumenicity, “from piecemeal ministry to a restoration of the meaning” of the historic modes of ministry for contemporary urban society.

Observations from the ‘70s

At the time of its publication the Danforth study was perceived as somewhat dated. I remember that on the very weekend in May 1970 when I was to lead a conference of campus ministers in a consideration of the study, the Kent State tragedy had just occurred and campus unrest was so general that it seemed unrealistic, if not irresponsible, to leave one’s troubled campus to attend a study group.

In the early 1970s many campus ministers believed that the Danforth study reflected too much romance concerning large-scale technocratic organizations. Some suspected that the institutes for policy study which Underwood envisioned were to be located in the Middletowns and New Havens where a screened elite could shape social policy. The critique of the youthful counterculture permeated social consciousness; there was a radical questioning of the foundations of our bureaucratic technocracy and a resistance to what was perceived as Underwood’s emphasis on quantitative/verifiable methods. Perhaps the most important reality about the decade of the ‘60s, during which Underwood did his writing, was the organic populism of “the movement.” In 1970 the prevailing rhetoric was radical, while the study came across as establishment reformism.

The Underwoodian program has not fared well in the ‘70s. This has not been a decade in which the churches have given prophetic and governance modes of ministry a high priority. Those of us who have been involved in designing and promoting various models for the process of sustained prophetic inquiry can testify to the general lack of interest of ecclesial bodies in such ministry: “social action” is by and large out, and, where it is a priority among church leaders, most of its practitioners are concerned with direct action, not action research.

The study’s presumption of the continued momentum of the ecumenical movement was not borne out in the 1970s. Faith in ecumenical structures of ministry has been waning. The spirit of the times has emphasized pride in ethnic differences and in the value of the particularities of each religious tradition. As the initiative of the unity movement has shifted from centralized international and national bureaucracies to grass-roots localism, so there has emerged as well a new enthusiasm for the local approach in and to postsecondary education.

Underwood’s focus on prophetic inquiry as opposed to more catechetical modes of learning has not taken hold in these years when the conservative churches have been growing, in part because they proclaim an unequivocal, no-nonsense gospel. Underwood’s recommendation that churches and private foundations should increase their funding of campus ministries was not well received in a decade in which general financial retrenchment by judicatories has led to a truncating of all special ministries.

Agenda for the ‘80s

Even in light of all the observations above, and although we need to acknowledge its limitations, much of the study still sets our agenda for the 1980s: the need to integrate the four modalities of ministry; the need to broaden and deepen public debate on urgent policy questions -- that is, to engage in prophetic inquiry; the need for a more effective linkage among the church, the university and governmental institutions; the need for a genuinely ecumenical mode of social ministry.

Those responsible for theological education are in a position to focus on integrating the four historic modes of ministry into a holistic concept of the church’s mission. Underwood was prescient in the understanding that the church’s often ineffective witness was due in part to the separation between the pastoral and priestly roles and the prophetic and governance ones. The latter have been generally neglected in the professional education of ministers. During the ‘70s many of the more romantic, existentialist/individualistic, and anti-institutional emphases in ministry have run their course. Since the Danforth report was published, many natural and social scientists have become convinced that we have entered the age of “less.” In consequence, the next decade will enable the churches to bring together that which, at their best, they tend to do well (providing persons with a faith perspective from which to cope with the enduring problems of life) and that which they do less effectively (corporate and social ministry). Leadership in this age depends on education in all four modes -- pastoral, liturgical, prophetic and governance -- and in their integration, which is the necessary prerequisite for meaningful mission in the ‘80s.

Prophetic inquiry is as necessary an enterprise today as it was in 1969. Underwood pointed out that, in the modern world, to claim to be a believer who loves God and neighbor, and yet not to attempt to be an effective person in the formation of just social policies, is to talk nonsense. A faithful witness to neighbor love will include a concern for the corporate decisions which shape our lives. There is a need now more than ever to develop a means for doing religious social ethics which emphasizes the goal-orientation aspect of politics as a corrective to stress on the coercive-power factor in determining social policy. The Conviction that questions of power are closely related to questions of value necessarily leads to the conviction that politics involves the fulfillment of community purposes as well as competition among various self-interest groups.

These convictions posit the necessity -- before a church lobby can exist, before the mobilization of opinion behind specific policies can be achieved -- to create a process for broadening and deepening public debate on urgent questions. Rather than narrowing the focus of inquiry and polarizing discussion, a more appropriate and helpful function would be bringing to bear on a situation the sum total of perspectives, disciplines and facilities in order to form an adequate understanding of the options which can lead to solutions. In a word, the first need is not for prophetic pronouncement but rather for prophetic inquiry.

Linkages and Unity

The need to link church, university and government -- to unite ethics, knowledge and politics -- remains crucially important. The process of informed and critical ethical reflection must be joined to the process of political action. Scientists seldom have their data, gleaned from empirical research, evaluated from the standpoint of ethical and humanistic criteria and then included in discussions of public policy formulation. On the other hand, the concern among religious organizations for a responsible society often is articulated ineffectively owing to limited resources and to the diffuse results of piecemeal efforts at “social-action” projects. Politicians frequently are unimpressed with the proficiency level of ecclesial pronouncements on social issues.

Underwood’s emphasis on ecumenical ministries is as relevant in this decade, even with the waning of ecumenical euphoria, as it was in 1969 precisely because the church’s witness for common justice cannot be done effectively on a denominational basis. William A. Simpson has said it well: “Denominational apparatus exists for the sake of legitimate, particularistic religious differentiation; social ministry aims at common justice. Those are conflicting principles, or beginning points; they are difficult to reconcile in practice and, I argue, the attempt to reconcile them should be abandoned.” The church can have no continuing effective social ministry within the public arena which is not more than a denominational ministry.

Beyond this pragmatic and Realpolitik argument in behalf of ecumenical structures is the argument from the standpoint of the urgent need for a global vision of human community. One of the most important events of 1968 was the flight of Apollo 8, which occurred one month after Kenneth Underwood’s death. On December 23, using a high-resolution lens, the three astronauts showed television viewers how the earth looks at a distance of 212,173 miles. The picture has become a contemporary ikon, one which images a new vision of human reality -- that of a finite planet where life ultimately is life together on a fragile and beautiful Spaceship Earth.

As an international community of memory and hope, the church has the perspective and the spiritual resources to contribute to meaning and a sense of fraternity, which are the great needs of our time. In the local congregation persons can experience supportive, nurturing community and know that the local group is the microcosm of the catholic macrocosm.

Understanding the necessarily ecumenical character of the church’s witness is crucial in the years ahead. The only effective witness for the unity and catholicity we seek is that given by a Christian community which itself is overcoming its divisions and parochial mentality. Our concern is ecumenical; i.e., it has to do with the whole inhabited earth and it is best expressed by ecumenical instrumentalities.

From the perspective of a decade after its publication, the Danforth study needs to be revised and updated, but the essential vision is painfully appropriate to the decade ahead, and to theological education for those years. Our need is for a Kenneth Underwood redivivus who will articulate once again a paradigm for the linkage of goodness, truth and power in a global community.

James Reston: Prophet of American Civil Religion

Since the initial publication of Robert N. Bellah’s widely reprinted 1967 essay on “Civil Religion in America,” theologians, historians and sociologists have given much attention to the phenomenon Bellah described. In that influential article Bellah argued “that there actually exists alongside of and rather clearly differentiated from the churches an elaborate and well institutionalized civil religion in America.” Following Bellah’s lead, most commentators on the topic have focused on the foundation documents of the republic, presidential inaugural addresses, the ritual and ceremonial involved in the observance of regular national holidays, and occasional events such as the funeral of a president.

Priests and Prophets

Representative spokesmen for the civil religion have tended to be selected from the ranks of politicians, particularly American presidents. But since the founding of the Republic, that sphere of civil life which Edmund Burke called “the fourth estate” has been considered an essential part of the American democratic process. It seems likely, then, that American journalism has also provided its spokesmen for the civil religion. One thinks, for instance, of Charles Wellborn’s impressive study on Walter Lippmann as the spokesman for the “public philosophy” (Twentieth Century Pilgrimage: Walter Lippman and the Public Philosophy [Louisiana State University Press, 1969]). It is my contention that the thought and writings of James Reston, one of the nation’s most prominent journalists, demonstrate that he has been a consistent and influential spokesman for the American civil religion.

Martin E. Marty has suggested that there are two forms of civil religion -- the “priestly” and, the “prophetic.” Marty maintains that most politicians tend to assume the priestly role. Reston sees the role of the fourth estate as a prophetic one in creative tension with the politicians.

I find civil religion motifs in Reston’s focus on “the American Dream,” in his belief that the precepts of the Republic’s founding documents were political affirmations of certain religious concepts, in his belief in America’s unique moral role in world affairs -- and in his concern for injecting morality into public-policy discussions. My analysis of his thought is based on his three major books, selections from his columns and public addresses, and my own Interview with Mr. Reston.

A Calvinist Heritage

James Reston is now a vice-president of the New York Times; based in Washington, he writes an editorial page column three times a week. His preeminent reputation as a reporter was achieved during his service as correspondent and chief of the Times Washington bureau from 1953 to 1964. Over the years Reston has received many journalism awards, including the Pulitzer Prize in both 1945 and 1957. In 1971 Reston visited China -- seven months prior to President Nixon’s visit. His historic five-hour interview with Chou En-lai, coupled with his letters and columns from China, perhaps constitute the peak of his journalistic career.

Reston was born in Clydebard, Scotland, in 1909, the son of strict Scottish Presbyterian parents. Reston wanted to be a preacher and was encouraged in this ambition by his mother. His father, a machinist, took the family to the United States in 1911; they returned to Scotland a few months later. In 1920 the Restons moved back to the United States to stay, this time in Dayton, Ohio, where they lived in the industrialized section of the community. His mother’s frugality and her Calvinistic ambition for her son represent the paradigm of the immigrant experience in America: “Make something of yourself,” she urged. “It’s no sin to be poor, but it’s a sin to remain in poverty” (Time, February 15, 1960, p. 76).

Many references have been made to Reston’s role as “preacher.”’ In The Kingdom and the Power (World, 1969) Gay Talese observes that Reston’s persuasive tone of moralism and idealism brings his readers the inner elevation of a good Sunday sermon.

His strict Scotch Presbyterian mother had wanted him to become a preacher, and as a Times man he had become one, his column being the podium from which he could spread his Calvinist view of life throughout the land, thrilling thousands with his sound logic and clarity, influencing students, educators, and politicians, sometimes infuriating such presidents as Eisenhower, who once asked, “Who the hell does Reston think he is, telling me how to run the country?” Reston expected great things from the mighty, not only muscle and heart but also some piety and nobility of spirit; and yet when they failed him, as they most often did, he did not damn them but rather foresaw signs of redemption and hope [p. 9].

Again, Reston has been called “America’s conscience’ by Katherine Graham, publisher of the Washington Post.

It sounds pompous, but if you look at it, it is unpompous. He has morality mixed with humor and Just plain humanity. He points out things that should be pointed out. His Scotch Presbyterian background is very basic to his views and it is a little of what we all need at this point [“James Reston: America’s Conscience,” by Madelaine Blais, Womens Wear Daily, August 17, 1973, p. 7].

Such Comments leave Reston uneasy, and he is inclined to disavow these designations. He does not deny that there is in his “approach to things a strong ethical and maybe Calvinist view of life” which influences what he says. But to emphasize his Presbyterian confessional background would be to fall into hypocrisy.

I wish I had my parents’ faith -- true personal faith. I don’t have it. I have echoes of it and shadows of it, and it greatly influences my thought. But in terms of the kind of true Presbyterian faith -- belief in the literalness of the Bible and all of that -- that I don’t have; not in the sense my parents had it.

Reston is similarly embarrassed with Ms. Graham’s suggestion that “he succeeds Walter Lippmann as the journalist of most eminence” (Blais, op. cit.). Reston had a close friendship with Lippmann; he has written that Lippmann’s “reflective and disciplined life has given his writing a scope and grace unmatched in American journalism today and probably not surpassed by any living political writer in the English language” (Sketches in the Sand [Knopf, 1967], pp. 213-214). Reston admits that his work is in continuity with the Lippmann tradition but denies that he has inherited Lippmann’s mantle.

Lippmann was streets beyond any of us writing today . . . a true philosopher. He really was a scholar of the roots of our civilization and had a deeply thought out philosophy about it . . . he relied to a very large extent on his own cerebrations about these things. I don’t. I’m a reporter of other men’s ideas to a very large extent.

The American Dream

Reston’s first book, Prelude to Victory (Knopf, 1942), was an effort to persuade the nation to enter fully and unreservedly into World War II. He asked his readers to put everything in their personal and professional lives to the simple test: will it help win the war?

Moreover -- and this is the theme of the book -- we cannot win this war until it ceases to be a struggle for personal aims and material things and becomes a national crusade for America and the American Dream. That is the Prelude to Victory, and nothing less will do. In our conception of that dream, in the strength of our conviction of the new world it can create, and in our willingness to make all sacrifices willingly and without reservation for the democratic ideal lie not only our hope of total victory but our only hope of personal satisfaction and happiness during this era. . . . I believe, therefore, that if, in our personal lives and our daily business decisions, we put everything to the simple test: Will It Help Win The War?, we shall not only achieve victory over our enemies but we shall regain that simple, Christian, resolute way of life which always was and, despite the past two decades, still is the strength of our people [p. x].

Reston’s deep belief in America is reflected in his immersion, in its history and his familiarity with the biographies of its statesmen. He is particularly interested in Woodrow Wilson and also quotes liberally from Thomas Jefferson. David Halberstam has remarked: “Scotty believes in democracy. He believes his marriage helped him and that wives should help husbands and husbands help wives and they should hold hands while jointly going into the sunset. He believes the values he preaches, even though they may be values that are under enormous assault right now” (“Scotty Reston of the Times: The One, the Only -- and the Last,” by Horace Sutton, Saturday Review, January 29, 1972, p. 14). Gay Talese adds:” He stands for a belief in virtue and religion, a respect for the system and the divine deity” (ibid.).

The theme he articulated in 1942 has been a consistent center of Reston’s writing to the present. Writing on November 2, 1973, about the Watergate crisis, Reston quoted Gerald Ford’s reference to President Eisenhower’s rule for public men. Suggesting that if Nixon were to follow Eisenhower’s advice, he would resign, Reston wrote:

Washington is still deeply divided on the resignation-impeachment question, but on one thing it is united, namely that the time for self-deception is past and that the time has come, in Ike’s first rule, to “get all the facts and all the good counsel you can, and then do what’s best for America.”

Morality and Public Policy

Reston self-consciously addresses what he identifies as the moral dimension of public issues. Frequently he distinguishes between discussing issues on a political level, a public-relations level or a legalistic level, and engaging problems in a morally adequate way.

Reston disagrees with Reinhold Niebuhr’s sharp distinction between private morality and institutional morality:

I don’t see this distinction . . . I don’t accept it as a personal philosophy that the state may do something totally against the ethics of the state. I think this is wrong and therefore I write from this point of view. . . To accept the idea that they are different and to say institutions do not really have an ethical responsibility is wrong. If you believe this you argue this point. You do the best you can to make the institutional ethics do what an honorable man would do in a conflict.

Reston does not deny that there is an element of truth in Niebuhr’s analysis, but he is convinced that this element has been accepted and applied too easily by many persons today. Thus, many people have been able to assume that our leaders were justified in lying about the Cambodian bombings, that a labor union can pursue a policy which its members would deem immoral on the level of individual behavior, that a committee to re-elect a president is perhaps justified in engaging in acts not acceptable in private behavior. Reston is willing to acknowledge a prophetic intent in the way in which he engages the moral dimension of social issues. In a spring 1973 column he wrote:

 “Why is it bad to shrug off the ideal standards of honesty in politics, business, and love?” Walter Lippmann asked back in 1960. “Because it defeats us and frustrates our lives. If we do not harden ourselves by stretching ourselves to reach upward to these not wholly attainable ideals, we slump down and settle into flabbiness and footlessness and boredom . . .

Reston’s moral philosophy is rooted in a religious statement which essentially is that of the civil religion tradition. Reston suggests his basic understanding of the relation between national morality and religion in these words:

There is a yearning which comes out of my family and Scottish religious background which is the conviction that there is always this duality — this struggle between good and evil. A’s we become less a religious country in a formal sense, the political leader has an obligation to try to appeal to that good side . . . the better side of man’s nature. The government of our country, I still believe, is the real hope of any moral basis for political action in the world . . . that is the role of America and has been throughout our history. When we get a Watergate and a Cambodian bombing, that to me is like my country being unfaithful. It is almost as if my wife were unfaithful. This is letting down the noble tradition of America. So I criticize it. It isn’t a criticism from a strictly religious point of view. It is an ethical’ point of view. It is historically an effort to remind us that the democratic political system was really “political affirmation” of certain religious concepts . . . the basic ethics of all religions for that matter, but it’s not a sectarian thing.

Reston acknowledges his indebtedness to Herbert Butterfield as the theologian who has perhaps had the most important influence on his thinking.

Butterfield says that the great flaw is the feeling that a man or a group of men can command history. They presume to see that the application of power in a certain situation will bring about the desired result. History illustrates what the limitations of man’s power are and his inability to foresee the consequences of actions. He thinks if he can plan everything out very carefully and if things fall into place, his thesis will be justified, but they never fall into place. Therefore it’s the old business: you’ve got to leave something to the Lord.

Skepticism and Pity

As a spokesman for the national covenant, Reston applies a polar principle of interpretation when he speaks to those who hold political power, particularly presidents: his premise or “hermeneutic” is that of skepticism and pity.

Reston assumes that one cannot be in the newspaper business without developing a certain skepticism toward power. Beyond this natural skepticism there are three technical developments that have increased the need for skepticism: the atomic bomb, the intercontinental ballistic missile, and nation-wide television. “If [the president] has that power, which is really the power of life and death over the human family, then obviously that power has to be watched with the greatest vigilance and skepticism -- including the psyche of the man who uses it.” Reston does not argue with presidents from a partisan point of view, but rather with a predisposition to lean against the presidential power which has become so great as to unbalance our system.

Along with skepticism, Reston brings a sense of “pity” to his commentary on the use of power by those in political authority. He is impressed with the enormous complexity of the issues facing the modern American presidency. If one has access to power and is knowledgeable about the range of problems facing a president, one has to have a certain sense of pity. One begins with realizing human limitation.

I do have pity and understanding. I’ve never understood what the Lord’s Prayer meant by “lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil” until this generation. If ever a generation was led into temptation, this one has been. I say that with a certain sympathy for them. I don’t think if we had had the same temptations we would have been strong enough, or any more moral, or any better in dealing with them. They have really been led into it.

The Saving Remnant

In his Elihu Root Lectures, published under the title The Artillery of the Press: Its Influence on American Foreign Policy (Harper & Row, 1966), Reston, borrowing a phrase from Thomas Jefferson, spoke of the relationship between reporters and officials. “My theme is that the rising power of the United States in world affairs, and particularly of the American President, requires, not a more compliant press, but a relentless barrage of facts and criticism, as noisy but also as accurate as artillery fire” (p. vii). In this volume Reston identified the hope for national faithfulness with the vitality of what he called “the saving remnant.” Referring to Matthew Arnold’s remark, made almost a century earlier, to the effect that the saving remnants failed in Judah and Athens because they were not large enough, but that in America the remnant was larger, Reston ventured the hope that popular education meant that the remnant was growing. It is to this remnant that Reston consciously addressed his efforts.

My hope is that the best elements in the press, in networks and governments, in the schools, colleges, universities and the church, in business, commerce and finance will prevail over the worst, and create a “remnant,” in Arnold’s terms, that will have a dominant influence in our society. My fear is that the remnant will be divided, exhausted, and corrupted. The danger of this is very real [ibid., p. 107].

In 1979 Reston, writing from Charlottesville, Virginia, noted that a group of citizens, thinking about the approaching 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, had identified the national crisis as basically a moral crisis.

Reston suggested that there was great sympathy for the president throughout the country, but that the people “concentrate on the simple questions of right and wrong, and this is why Mr. Nixon is in such serious trouble.” Reston found the cause of the problem in Nixon’s betrayal of the national civil covenant:

For he was elected triumphantly a year ago at least partly, and maybe even mainly, because he was seen by a vast majority of the people as a defender of law and principle and established institutions and the moral order, and he is condemned now precisely because his Administration is now seen to have been unfaithful to the moral order he was elected to defend. The fire storm of criticism over the last two weeks didn’t start on Capitol Hill and wasn’t provoked by legal decisions. It finally came from the people because the President didn’t tell the truth and didn’t keep his promises [New York Times, November 4, 1979, p. E-17].

Then, in words which call on the central motifs of the civil religious tradition, Reston thanked the Charlottesville citizen committee for suggesting “that a responsible society must have a common center to which the loyalty and trust of the people are bound, and that these fundamentals must be defined and discussed among the people and put right before the bicentennial of the Declaration in 1976.”

I am led to conclude that in the thought and writing of James Reston we find an unmistakable civil religious orientation. Though “echoes” of Reston’s Presbyterian-Calvinist heritage are present, his religious position clearly is not sectarian. Reston’s God, like the one Bellah described, is typical of the God of civil religion, is on the vague and austere side, “much more related to order, law, and right than to salvation and love.”

Further, Reston is a prophet of civil religion. He is concerned to speak about the right mode of behavior to those in political power. In suggesting that there are two forms of civil religion, the priestly and the prophetic, Martin Marty judged that the former was exemplified in Nixon’s White House worship services and alliance with Billy Graham, the latter by Senator Mark Hatfield’s criticism of America’s involvement in Vietnam at a presidential prayer breakfast.

I would disagree with Marty -- I think Senator Hatfield’s remarks were not an expression of prophetic civil religion but rather a criticism of civil religion from the standpoint of a vigorous evangelical Protestant witness. But in Reston we have a true prophet of the civil religion -- i.e., one who criticizes public policy from within the civil religious tradition.