Shakespeare on Heads of State

Macduff

Malcolm

During these months when citizens of the US, and of numerous other nations, are examining qualifications for heads of state, Shakespeare, who knew a thing or two about politics, expresses thoughts that might resonate with us.

In Macbeth (4, 3, 1–139), Macduff and Malcolm have a complicated argument about "king-becoming graces."

In the midst of what Malcolm calls their "warranted quarrel," he articulates a list of ideal virtues for a head of state:

           ...justice, verity, temp'rance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude....

Earlier in the argument, however, Malcolm has lamented:

           I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;
           It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash
           Is added to her wounds....

And Macduff has earlier confessed despair:

            I have lost my hopes.

In a list that contrasts radically with his enumeration of "king-becoming graces", Malcolm characterizes "the particulars of vice" in high places:

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,

Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin

That has a name....

Macduff equates a sovereign's lack of self-restraint with "tyranny"*, which leads to downfall:

                      ...Boundless intemperance

            In nature is a tyranny. It hath been

            Th'untimely emptying of the happy throne

            And fall of many kings.

As their "warranted quarrel" subsides, Macduff complains that he is left conflicted:

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
'Tis hard to reconcile.

He exclaims:

O nation miserable!...
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again...?

Malcolm concludes the Scene with a dispirited couplet: 

                    Receive what cheer you may:

          The night is long that never finds the day.

__________

*See Stephen Greenblatt, Tyrant: Shakespeare on Politics (New York and London, W. W. Norton, 2018). I am grateful to Professor Stanley Crowe for calling my attention to this laudable book.

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Christian Virtues

The Pleiades or Seven Sisters

This posting is a transcript of the concluding ten minutes of a sixty-minute lecture I gave as part of Furman University's series "What Really Matters." The series was established in 1982 to honor the life and work of L. D. Johnson, who served as chaplain at Furman 1967–1981.

In earlier portions of the lecture I endorsed a Christian ethics of virtue and responded to six common objections to that tradition. In conclusion I offered a selected listing of biblical virtues. Several friends have urged me to publish the final portion of the lecture, as my oral presentation had gone by too quickly. That final portion, lightly revised, I have posted here. The entire lecture is available in audio at What Really Matters .

New Testament listings of virtues can be found at Matthew 5.1–11; Luke 6.20–38; Acts 24.24–25; Romans 5.3–5; Romans 12.9–21; 1 Corinthians 13.1–13; 2 Corinthians 6.6–7; Galatians 5.22–23; Ephesians 4.32; Colossians 3.12–17; 1 Timothy 6.11; James 3.17–18; 2 Peter 1.5–7.

New Testament listings of vices can be found at Matthew 15.18–20; Mark 7.20–23; Romans 1.28–31; 1 Corinthians 6.9–10; 2 Corinthians 12.20–21; Galatians 5.19–21; 2 Timothy 3.2–6.

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...[In conclusion,] I continue to embrace my Christian tradition in part because I find salvation by grace through trust—which I understand as trusting Christ's way of repentance, forgiveness, and amendment of life—a healing doctrine.

The virtues enter this healing process at two points: at the beginning, when honestly comparing our lives to these transcendent ideals leads us to repentance; and at the end, when these ideals guide us in our attempting to amend our lives. These roles of the virtues explain why Paul, the great preacher of salvation by grace, gives us list after list of virtues that should guide the faithful—and also some graphic lists of vices to avoid.

Paul originates a basic triad of Christian virtues: faith, hope, and love (1 Corinthians 13.13). But these are only three of the many virtues that Paul lists. In the Middle Ages the church was to formulate listings of seven cardinal virtues, but again Paul's listings far exceed seven.

A few summers ago, to celebrate our wedding anniversary, Marian and I took off on a lark to satisfy our shared interest in amateur star-gazing. Knowing that we would have to escape the humid haze of our eastern summers, we took down the Almanac and looked up the driest place in the country for the first week in August. It was Death Valley. (No, no: not the Clemson football stadium. That original Death Valley, way out west.) So we picked the second driest place in the country, Boise, Idaho.

Sure enough, we had one good and two wonderful nights to view the stars, though the smoke of range and forest fires kept us on the move. Marian worked at the constellations on the macro level, and I wrestled with our son Christopher's sixteen-power telescope to search the firmament at the micro level.

In one of those moments that give me goosebumps even in recollection, we focused our scope on the constellation of the Seven Sisters or the Pleiades—in Greek mythology, seven sisters, daughters of Atlas, turned into a group of stars. In biblical scripture the Pleiades are singled out by the book of Job (9.9; 38.31) and  by the prophet Amos (5.8) as a particular splendor of God's creation. Among and around the seven points of light visible to the naked eye, our little scope disclosed a dazzling cluster of sister stars, all born of the same molecular cloud and mutually bound by gravity.

So it is with the virtues. Through the lens of New Testament writings we find a host of sister virtues to guide the faithful—repentant, thankful for their forgiveness, and resolved to amend their lives. Are these exclusively Christian virtues? Heavens no—no more than the stars are Christian stars. They are a host of transcendent virtues, resplendent above us all, brought nearer by the lens of Judeo-Christian scripture, as also by lenses of other traditions.

I would like to conclude with a partial survey of this cluster of sister virtues—qualities of character that make us good, qualities that really matter. In alphabetical order:

Compassion really matters, virtually defined for Christian tradition by the Samaritan's care for a stripped traveler, beaten and left for dead on the road to Jericho. (Luke 10.25–37)

Fidelity really matters, such as the Apostle Peter taught by failing at it so miserably in the high priest's courtyard (Matthew 26.69–75; Mark 14.66–72; Luke 22.54–62) and the three Marys exemplified so courageously by being last at the cross and first at the tomb. (Matthew 27.55–61; 28.1–10; Mark 15.40–41, 47; Luke 23.48–49; 24.1–12)

Forbearance really matters, such as Christ repeatedly showed toward his non-comprehending disciples who, despite their "little faith" (Matthew 6.30; 8.26; 14.31; 16.8; Luke 12.28), had in truth left their homes and followed him. (Matthew 19.24–29; Mark 10.23–30; Luke 18.25–30)

Forgiveness really matters, as we learn when Peter asks "How often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" and Jesus responds with hyperbole: "Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy times seven times." (Mt 18.21–22; Luke 17.3–4)

Fortitude really matters, like that of the intrepid Abigail as she rode her donkey into the profanity of King David's anger to soften his implacable will and domesticate his savage heart. (1 Samuel 25.18–35)

Gentleness really matters, like the gentleness mitigating the imagery of post-exilic prophets when they compare chastened Israel to an untrained calf or a wayward son or daughter (Jeremiah 31.16–20), whereas before the sufferings of the Exile the prophets had upbraided the Israelites for being greedy "cows" and "lusty stallions" neighing after neighbors' wives. (Jeremiah 5.7–8; Amos 4.1)

Graciousness really matters, like the graciousness transforming the tense meeting between Peter the Jew and Cornelius the Gentile, thus accounting for my standing before you this evening as a Gentile grafted into the salvation-history of Judaism. (Acts 10.17–38)

Harmony really matters, echoing the spiritual harmony among the disciples at Pentecost so strong as to overcome the discord of nationalities that has disrupted human solidarity since the tower of Babel. (Acts 2.1–21)

Honorableness really matters, like that of Joseph of Arimathea, who withheld his consent from dishonorable proceedings of the legal body of which he was a member, and asked Pilate for the body of Christ to give it an honorable burial. (Luke 23.50–56)

Kindness really matters, such as the naive islanders of Malta showed in kindling a fire for the shipwrecked Paul and his shivering companions and welcoming them with hospitality. (Acts 28.1–7)

Liberality really matters, like that of Job, who supported widows and orphans and street people, not withholding "anything that the poor desired." (Job 31.16–23; cf. Deuteronomy 15.10–11)

Meekness really matters, as when royal David's descendant insists on welcoming little children, "even infants," to his arms and his blessing. (Matthew 19.13–15; Mark 10.13–16; Luke 18.15–17)

Mercy really matters, as when, in the only capital case to come before him, Christ voids the sentence of a woman caught in adultery. (John 8.1–11)

Patience really matters, like that of the sower of kingdom seeds who awaits their sprouting and growing—"he knows not how"—into the blade and then the ear and then the full grain in the ear. (Mark 4.26–29)

Peacemaking really matters, as Christ directly declares: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." (Matthew 5.9)

Purity really matters, like the Canaanite woman's purity of heart that willed one thing despite two abrasive dismissals by Christ, finally to win his wonder for her great faith. (Matthew 15.21–28)

Reverence really matters, such as Christ taught his disciples—"Our  Father in heaven, hallowed be your name" (Matthew 6.9; Luke 11.2)—and prayed amidst his own anguish, "not my will but yours be done." (Matthew 26.39; Mark 14.38; Luke 22.42)

Self-examination really matters, lest we presume to remove a speck from our neighbor's eye when we have a log in our own. (Matthew 7.1–5; Luke 6.41–42)

Sympathy really matters, like that dazzling shaft of sympathy that flashes across the narrative of Deborah's gloating victory-song to illumine the camp of the enemy, where we see the mother of Sisera awaiting, in desperate self-deception, the return of her murdered warrior son. (Judges 5.26–30)

Tenderheartedness really matters, such as Mary and Martha witnessed in Christ as he wept on his way to view the body of Lazarus, their brother and his friend. (John 11.32–35)

Thankfulness really matters, like that of the one leper of ten, and he a Samaritan, who alone returned to thank Christ for his healing. (Luke 17.11–16.)

Truthfulness really matters, as Ananias and Sapphira learned too late to save them from the falsehood that poisoned their hearts. (Acts 4.32–5.11)

Wisdom really matters—she who heartens us with a promise that we hardly dare to trust: "I love those who love me, and those who seek me diligently find me." (Proverbs 8.17)

Having reached the end of the alphabet, let us give the concluding words to the Apostle Paul:

And now, my friends, all that is true, all that is honorable, all that is just, all that is pure, all that is lovely, all that is gracious—if there is any virtue, if there is anything worthy of praise, fill your thoughts with these things. And the God of peace will be with you. (Philippians 4.8–9)

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Evil Is Always...What? (Revised)

This is a revision and expansion that replaces my earlier posting of October 18, 2013.

*****

Occasionally I hear the question "What is the nature of evil?" and sometimes the question leads to worthwhile conversation. But what would we think of someone whose answer to the question began with the words "Evil is always..."? How could anyone presume to address a question of illimitable complexity by opening with a generalization?

Yet a number of my life's formative figures have done just that, and I believe that they cast clarifying light. The figures I have in mind are Reinhold Niebuhr, Jonathan Edwards, Saint Augustine, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

The bluntest of these figures is the theologian and public commentator Reinhold Niebuhr. In 1944, with World War II raging, Niebuhr described evil using the charged word "always":

Evil is always the assertion of some self-interest without regard to the whole, whether the whole be conceived as the immediate community, or the total community of mankind, or the total order of the world. The good is, on the other hand, always the harmony of the whole on various levels. Devotion to a subordinate and premature "whole" such as the nation, may of course become evil, viewed from the perspective of a larger whole, such as the community of mankind. (The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness, Scribner's, 1994, 9–10)

Niebuhr's basic ethical imperative is to strive for increasing harmony among ever-broadening communities of concern.

One of Niebuhr's formative predecessors was the New England theologian and minister, Jonathan Edwards. In The Nature of True Virtue (1755) Edwards describes "all sin" as selfishness without regard to larger contexts in which things are interconnected. Edwards refers to the most comprehensive context as "the great whole of existence" or "being in general":

All sin has its source from selfishness, or from self-love that is not subordinate to a regard for being in general. (Ann Arbor Paperbacks, 1960, 92)

The opposite of sin is the subject of Edwards' book: "true virtue."

True virtue most essentially consists in benevolence to being in general. Or perhaps, to speak more accurately, it is that consent, propensity and union of heart to being in general, which is immediately exercised in a general good will (True Virtue, 3, Edwards' emphasis).

Edwards' basic ethical imperative is to strive for ever-broadening goodwill toward the great whole of existence.

This basic principle of Niebuhr and Edwards bears the imprint of Saint Augustine, particularly Augustine's early work Confessiones* (397–400 AD).

In Book 7 of The  Confessions Augustine chronicles his crisis of faith as he struggled with the question: Whence evil? (unde malum). He calls out to God:

I pictured your creation filled with your infinite being, and I reflected, "Look, this is God, and these are the things God has created. God is good, and though he is far more wonderful than they in every respect, still he who is good has created them good; see too how he surrounds and pervades them. Where, then, is evil; where does it come from and how did it creep in? What is its root, its seed? Or does it not exist at all? ... Either the evil we fear exists, or our fear itself is the evil. So where does it come from, if the good God made all things good?" (The Confessions, 7.5, tr. Maria Boulding, Vintage Books, 1997.)

Augustine tells us that more than a decade of spiritual struggle as an animo vagabundus, a "vagabond soul" (Confessiones, 5.6), brought him to a resolution that we may find startling:

Quaecumque sunt, bona sunt. "Whatever is, is good." (Confessiones, 7.12)

On the face of it, who could ever believe this blunt assertion? What could Augustine possibly mean by it? He knew all too well miseris certe hominis, "humanity's undoubted wretchedness"(De Civitate Dei, XIX, 6).**

I think that Augustine's maxim is better translated as "Whatever has being is good." The usual translation, "whatever is...," might suggest that all circumstances, all situations, all actions are good. But that is not what Augustine discusses here. His interest is human being.

Augustine believes that our being, our sheer existing, is good. Indeed our sheer existing is wondrous. Yet our being is always limited. From infancy we are habitually self-centered. As a means of survival, our infant self-centeredness is good. But it is crucial that "we eradicate these habits and throw them off as we grow up." (The Confessions, 1.7, tr. Boulding)

This implies that every person at every stage of life has potential for greater goodness, that is, potential for enlarging self-concern to include concern about others, about more good for all. Our moral challenge is to actualize this potential.

Augustine asserts that evil is not substantia, not substance:

[If evil doers] should be deprived (prevantur) of all good, they would simply not exist.... Insofar as they have being, they are good. Whatever has being, then, is good. And so evil, the source of which I was seeking, cannot be a substance (substantia), because if it were, it would be good. (Confessiones, 7.12)

Augustine describes evil not as substance but as lack: absence (absentia) of good; privation (privatio) of good; diminution (minuere) of good. (Confessiones 12,3; 3,7; 7,12; et passim). Evil, then, is not substance to be vanquished but vacuum to be filled. Amelioration comes not by destroying something named "evil" but by flooding deficiencies of good with more abundant goodness—as darkness is dispelled, not by obliterating something named "the dark," but by flooding darkened realms with light.

Both Augustine and Edwards affirmed that God is not a being among other beings. God is Being Itself—id quo est, "that which is" (Confessiones, 7.17); "the foundation and fountain of all being" (True Virtue, 15). In this understanding, there is something of God in every person's being, and therefore at least a seed of potential for increased goodness.

But what if the seed fails to germinate? Edwards addresses this crucial question directly:

Particularly, if there be any beings statedly and irreclaimably opposite, and an enemy to being in general, then consent and adherence to being in general will induce the truly virtuous heart to forsake that enemy, and to oppose it. (True Virtue, 8–9)

Augustine grappled with the question of how we are to oppose evil. On the governmental level, he introduced the term "just war" (iusta bella) into Western tradition, meaning morally-calibrated war of last resort to confront adamant evil. He cautions that a person waging war is just only "if he remembers that he is a human being and laments (dolebit) the fact that he is faced with the necessity of waging war." (De Civitate Dei, XIX, 7)  He stresses that our moral obligation is to oppose evil in ways that will maximize the possibility of greater good in the end.

On the individual level, Augustine addresses the issue of punishment for offenders:

Punishment that is just and legitimate (iusto atque licito)...is for the benefit of the offender, intended to readjust him to the domestic peace from which he has broken away...so that either the man who is punished may be corrected by his experience, or others may be deterred by his example. (De Civitate Dei, XIX, 16)

To me, Augustine's reasoning suggests an abundance of means for opposing evil in our day—means such as international cease-fire declarations; balanced truth-and-reconciliation commissions; honest human rights councils; prompt prosecution of criminals in non-retributive trials; practicable rehabilitation programs in prisons; moderated town meetings amidst social upheaval; accommodating relationships with people whose views offend us; forgiving responses to personal injury—ever keeping in mind that all too often our own views lose sight of Augustine's arduous goal of "keeping totality in view" (Confessions, 7.13, tr. Boulding).

"International," "balanced," "honest," "prompt," "non-retributive," "practicable," "moderated," "accommodating," "forgiving"—certainly such qualifiers are idealistic. And certainly Augustine knew well that basic principles are not the end of ethical navigation but its beginning, its moral compass and rudder. Persons who embrace moral principles face unavoidable dilemmas about how to make realistic decisions and act upon them in the face of unforeseeable outcomes.

No one was more fully aware than Niebuhr of the difficulties, ironies, and tragedies involved in making principled decisions and acting upon them. More than most public figures, he was willing to change his mind about ethical issues and to admit former errors of judgment.

In the 1940s, for example, Niebuhr favored U.S. involvement in World War II. When his nation's development of the atomic bomb became public knowledge, he approved that decision. When the U.S. dropped atomic bombs to convince Japan of certain defeat, Niebuhr again approved, though he lamented the targeting of two cities filled with civilians instead of some unpopulated demonstration area. With the coming of the Cold War he supported the doctrine of mutually assured destruction (MAD) as a means of preventing war that might otherwise cross the nuclear threshold.

By the time of his death in 1971, however, Niebuhr was voicing doubts about some of his earlier attitudes:

The development of the hydrogen bomb, of guided missiles and of tactical atomic weapons has made many of our conclusions otiose.***

Niebuhr came to believe that nuclear war would be "ultimate and suicidal holocaust." In his language quoted at the beginning of this posting, he came to believe that nuclear war threatens "the immediate community..., the total community of mankind..., and the total order of the world." Niebuhr actively supported proposals for an international No First Use treaty. (Today only China and India have declared no first use policies, and only the United States has used nuclear weapons in warfare.)

Martin Luther King, Jr. was likewise all too aware of the difficulties, ironies, and tragedies involved in making principled decisions and acting upon them. This is in part because he was an admirer of Niebuhr. Recalling his years as a graduate student, King writes:

I became so enamored of his social ethics that I almost fell into the trap of accepting uncritically everything he wrote. (Stride Toward Freedom, Perennial, 1964, 79)

King avoided that trap. Niebuhr believed that evil sometimes necessitates violent resistance; King confronted evil non-violently. Niebuhr disapproved pacifism; King was a pacifist.

In the end Niebuhr and King agreed about the ethical imperative of avoiding nuclear war—in Edwards' language, "an enemy to being in general." Niebuhr's dread of "ultimate and suicidal holocaust" echoes in King's language:

In a day when vehicles hurtle through outer space and guided ballistic missiles carve highways of death through the stratosphere, no nation can claim victory in war.... If modern man continues to flirt unhesitatingly with war, he will transform his earthly habitat into an inferno such as even the mind of Dante could not imagine. (Nobel Prize Lecture, December 11, 1964)

King put his trust in the moral principle of allaying evil with good, keeping in view the world's totality:

So we must fix our vision not merely on the negative expulsion of war, but upon the positive affirmation of peace. We must see that peace represents a sweeter music, a cosmic melody that is far superior to the discords of war. Somehow we must transform the dynamics of the world power struggle from the negative nuclear arms race which no one can win to a positive contest to harness man's creative genius for the purpose of making peace and prosperity a reality for all of the nations of the world. (Nobel Prize Lecture)

King's sermons**** offer hopeful images of dispelling evil's darkness, not by violence, but by the light of goodness:

Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.

—————

*Confessiones, Latin text, Loeb Classical Library, Harvard University Press, 1968. My translations except as otherwise noted.

**De Civitate Dei, Latin text, Loeb Classical Library, Harvard University Press, 1957–72. My translations.

***Niebuhr quotations from Campbell Craig, "The New Meaning of Modern War in the Thought of Reinhold Niebuhr," Journal of the History of Ideas 53.4, 694–96.

****Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community? Harper, 1967, 62–3; Strength to Love, Harper, 1963, 37.