Americans must reclaim the meaning of words like faith, hope, and love, resist the tendency to see the nation as a substitute Church, and discover the gift-nature of the givenness of things.
by Robert Mixa
It has been more than a year since my wife and I left America to live in Poland, and viewing America from afar has helped me better see its uniqueness, especially the religious hysteria in its politics.
This year's Democratic National Convention in Chicago is a case in point. More than anything else, it was a religious revival with political evangelists conjuring up the spirit of "hope" within the party faithful. This is nothing new in America and its politics. But what is very interesting is the almost complete transfer of Judeo-Christian words from the church to politics. And while it is impossible to separate the realms of religion and politics, what is apparent today is the transformation of the language from our Christian inheritance (faith, hope, love) to the political and technological —e.g. "spread the faith", "hope and change", and "love is love."
Cardinal Francis George, an astute observer of American culture, warned against the American tendency to see the United States as a "substitute for the Church." He emphasized that while America is a nation with a significant role in global affairs, it should not be seen as having a religious mission or as being above moral critique. But arising from a post-Reformation context, the founding of America came about in a world premised upon the denial of the reality of the Church, with Christianity flattened into denominations of individual profession. Coupled with a new reliance upon the promises of technology, Americans, who still lived within the Christian story, could not help understanding their nation as the new Church, with the technology and science to remedy the effects of the Fall. National destiny became eschatology.
A good representation of this theological shift is found in the fresco The Apotheosis of Washington on the U.S. Capitol dome, along with the six scenes surrounding America’s near-mythological first president (War, Science, Marine, Commerce, Mechanics, and Agriculture). It is as if Francis Bacon's project outlined in The New Atlantis provided the inspiration. Such examples ought to disturb the Christian.
Since the Spe Salvi Institute is dedicated to promoting a greater awareness of Christian hope, let us take the word "hope" and see how it is commonly misused in American politics. Barack Obama was not the first to use it. His 2006 book The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream and the banner of his 2008 presidential campaign, "Hope and Change", drew from a long tradition in America.
Abraham Lincoln used "hope" in his message to Congress in 1862, describing America as the "last best hope of earth." And without using exactly that word, politicians have long evoked the idea of hope to describe the future of America. Even historian Wilfred McCay's recent book on America is titled Land of Hope: An Invitation to the Great American Story. Although hope has both theological and secular meanings in America, McCay writes, "...nothing about America better defines its distinctive character than the ubiquity of hope, a sense that the way things are initially given to us cannot be the final word about them, that we can never settle for that." Americans like to see America as the land of possibility. And indeed, in many ways, it is precisely that. But it is in the restlessness to move beyond the "given", to be free of any and all limitations to choice, that we may see a problem for America and the nature of its misplaced hopes.
Culture is very much shaped by a fundamental response to the “given”, in other words, to reality. Is the order of things, i.e. creation, rooted in love? Is it good? Is it beautiful? If yes, one can first trust and rest in reality. Or, as American theologian David L. Schindler puts it, our fundamental response can be a letting be. It was a lack of this original letting be that David L. Schindler thought marked American culture. And we can see this in how most of us confront obstacles or suffering. The first reaction is not to rest in the suffering and find its meaning but to find a means to escape it and reach one’s goals no matter what stands in the way. This restlessness taints our relationship to the world, encouraging us to grasp for whatever technology is at hand and find a solution. American culture is very much shaped by such pragmatic grasping, and this might be the reason behind our hopes resting too much in technology and a liberation that often ignores important realilties.
Without demeaning the dignity and goodness of vice presidential candidate Tim Walz's daughter, nor diminishing the pain and frustration Walz and his wife must have felt in dealing with infertility, it is significant that Governor Walz felt compelled to tell the world that he and his wife, after successful “fertility treatments” (formerly mis-identified by Walz as IVF), the couple named their daughter Hope. Gov. Walz mentioned all of these personal details in his acceptance speech at the DNC, proposing a certain notion of freedom to procreate which he sees as under threat by a Trump presidency. But putting aside both policy disagreements and ethical arguments about scientific solutions to infertility, Walz’ story exemplifies something more.
In Walz’ testimony, we witness nothing less than the transformation of Christian faith-hope in the modern age, which Pope Benedict XVI describes in his encyclical on hope, Spe Salvi. Pope Benedict sees the foundations of the modern age as appearing in particular clarity in the thought of Francis Bacon. The novelty in Bacon's vision, according to Benedict, is the new correlation between science and praxis, the "triumph of art over nature." In this context, the present-day crisis of faith is essentially a crisis of Christian hope. Benedict writes, "Thus hope too, in Bacon, acquires a new form. Now it is called: faith in progress." And in relation to this progress even freedom is transformed. He writes, “progress is the overcoming of all forms of dependency—it is the progress toward perfect freedom. Likewise freedom is seen purely as a promise, in which man becomes more and more fully himself." Freedom's relation to the Good is not readily apparent in the modern era. Walz’ “mind your own damn business” sounds much more familiar.
Benedict's description of the transformation of Christian hope in the modern age perfectly describes the prevalent understanding of hope in America. It is here that technology plays a pivotal role. This is not to say that hardships and obstacles such as infertility cannot be treated through certain technologies, but it is a refusal to first trust and rest in the givenness of things in their wholeness, as David L Schindler notes, that marks the modern age. This refusal includes the moral aspect. Most people see any concerns about or hesitancy to use technologies like IVF as wrong or at least irrational. My purpose here is not to delve into the philosophy and theology that has shaped the present moment, but to simply note (following Pope Benedict) the replacement of the language of Christian hope in American political speech.
On these matters, it is hard to contrast Europe with America, because American culture has found its way across the entire world; but it may still be possible to see how modern Europe has developed a culture more attuned to the original givenness of being. There is a contemplative silence that permeates the European ethos. At least this is what I find in Poland. And the word hope is not mere optimism about living a dream. In fact, Poles tend to be pretty pessimistic about future prospects. And although Poland has materially and economically improved more than most countries in the last two decades, there is a prevalent ambiguity about progress. Benedict captures this spirit in his encyclical, writing, "We have all witnessed the way in which progress, in the wrong hands, can become and has indeed become a terrifying progress in evil." The Poles, and Europeans in general, know this fact well.
Instead of technocratic Utopia, there tends to be a strong devotion to certain givens like "God, Honor, Fatherland," and a relation to the world that dwells in the given. Crucifixes still dot the land, reminding people that despair is not the last word, but rather that God has saved them prior to their acting. This is the hope that inspires the quiet joy expressed in the small smile of Mary, who in various icons looks out to the faithful, drawing them into her joy.
As an American, I have been disappointed by the hope of living the American dream and I am fed up with politicians portrayed as new messiahs. InsteadI put my confidence in Mary, who, by binding herself to her Son, "in hope believed against hope" (Rom. 4:18), partook in his Passion, and now partakes in heavenly glory.
Believe me, I wish I could share the enthusiasm politicians are trying to conjure up for the future of America. But Americans must reclaim the meaning of words like faith, hope, and love, resist the tendency to see the nation as a substitute Church, and discover the gift-nature of the givenness of things and not embrace a freedom from reality. Otherwise, America will be just a land of disappointment - a collection of dashed hopes.