Dear reader,
Election politics are in full swing here in Australia, and it is a display of all the usual tactics and maneuvers of desperate and grasping politicians. The promise of power and influence tends to do that: it stirs up in our hearts a willingness to forgo the integrity and humility that we say we value, as we find our desire for power to be stronger than our desire for goodness and truth. And so we grasp, reaching out for what we want and trying to justify ourselves in the process.
There are so many biblical echoes in that image of grasping, from the very beginning of humanity’s story. Eve reaches out and grasps the forbidden fruit, a grasp of desire that overreaches what has been abundantly given. The descendents of Noah grasp for a world-wide reputation, building a tower that they believe will reach up to heaven. Shechem takes Dinah, using her for his own pleasure (a story repeated more than once in Israel’s history). In each story, desire is twisted selfishly, inwardly, with the belief that something good has been withheld and that grasping for it is justified.
This twisted, selfish desire has been a frequent topic of my English class over the last couple of months in the fictional characters of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. Their tragedy is one of reaching for royal titles that were not theirs, and taking by violence crowns that had not been given to them. Their ambition for power outstripped any moral compunction (Macbeth expresses much more than Lady Macbeth), and their blood-covered hands declare their guilt.
But grasping is not limited to egregious acts of transgression that shift the course of a person’s life. It characterizes the more respectable habit of consumption, born of a dissatisfaction with my lifestyle, reaching for more clothes, experiences, or homegoods. Grasping can describe the way I often treat time–as a limited resource that I must hold on to for myself, becoming resentful when others take more than I had decided to give. It is the maneuvering for recognition and praise, pushing myself ahead and above others in whatever sphere I value respect.
In grasping, we imagine that reality is defined by competition and selfishness, rather than the triune God who is essentially abounding in love and eternally giving. In that kind of world, the grasping is justified–we must take what we can for ourselves.
There is, of course, a kind of grasping that is good. This is the hold of Jacob, refusing to let his divine opponent go until he blesses him. It’s the grasp of Ruth, clinging to Naomi despite an uncertain future as a foreigner in a strange land. It’s the reaching out of the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, believing that if she could only touch a corner of Jesus’ robe…
These are moments of self-divestment, not of selfishness. In these gestures, the one reaching recognizes his or her own poverty, a poverty only filled by nearness to the One who never ceases to give. He is the one we must reach out for, as Gregory of Nyssa says, imitating a bride’s searching and longing for her bridegroom.
In this bridegroom we find the one who “did not consider equality with God something to be grasped” (Phil 2:6). Instead of clinging to the glories of his sonship, his desire is for condescension—a descent towards us that reveals the very heart of God towards his creation. It’s his self-giving that allows us to both give up our selfish grasping, as well as reach out for God.
Perhaps the most famous myth relating to ambition is the story of Icarus.Trapped on the island of Crete with his father Daedalus, Icarus attempts to escape using wings he crafted from feathers and wax. While he succeeds in flying, he disregards his father’s warning not to fly too close to the sun. The sun melts the wax in his wings, and he falls out of the sky, drowning in the sea below. In this painting (traditionally attributed to Pieter Bruegel the Elder), Icarus is a small part of the landscape – you can see his legs struggling in the water in the lower right corner. The focus of the painting is not on Icarus, but on a farmer plowing his field. The painting raises questions about ambition and contentment, about quiet work compared to the spectacular. Is there a version of the Icarus story in which Icarus aspires to escape, succeeds in making a remarkable invention, and successfully navigates his way home?
My reading this month focused on teaching: I read David Smith’s On Christian Teaching followed by Kyle Hughe’s Teaching for Spiritual Formation. For most of the year I feel too caught up in the pressing tasks of lesson planning and grading to get my head around bigger questions of pedagogy. I loved these books, with their questions and suggestions of how teaching can be done in a way that is consistent with our beliefs about the world, the human person, and our telos in Christ. Still, I feel like I need more time not only to think for myself about these questions, but to collaborate with others in order to not simply hear and go away unchanged. The “rut” of mediocre teaching practice is real, not usually because teachers don’t desire better, but because there just doesn’t seem to be the time to invest in significant change. Neither, crucially, is there often the institutional willingness to try something that may look strange to parents.
Speaking of teaching, my writing elsewhere this month: “Learning to Be Transformed”
Look upon us, O Lord,
and let all the darkness of our souls
vanish before the beams of thy brightness.
Fill us with holy love,
and open to us the treasures of thy wisdom.
All our desire is known unto thee,
therefore perfect what thou hast begun,
and what thy Spirit has awakened us to ask in prayer.
We seek thy face,
turn thy face unto us and show us thy glory.
Then shall our longing be satisfied,
and our peace shall be perfect.
Augustine
On the road with you,
Laura