Get in, losers, we’re gonna keep losing

There’s a strong impulse among conservative Christians in America (or in the “western” world generally, insofar as such a designation even means anything anymore) to bitch about how persecuted they are. Such bitching isn’t entirely baseless, of course — but it’s bitching nonetheless. And I’m a little perplexed by how prevalent it is, because it really strikes me as contrary to the fundamentals of the Gospel.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

By “bitching,” I mean complaining that is 1) shared among members of an aggrieved group, 2) seldom if ever actually addressed to the parties responsible for said grievance (and on the rare occasions that it is addressed to those parties, it is only done so in the most petulant and/or aggressive ways) and 3) therefore serves little purpose beyond indulgence in the sense that one is owed something.

In other words, it’s the same thing that everyone is doing these days, on all sides and platforms. Myself included. But I’m not here to dunk on the woke whining of the Twitterverse; my concern is uniquely Christian bitching. Much of that particular strain consists of appeals to the past, of yearning for a bygone era when the Church held greater sway over culture or politics or societal norms or what have you. It almost doesn’t matter what era it is, so long as it was prior to the sixties.

Of course, the great irony here is that about two seconds of reflection on historical precedent will show that, relatively speaking, the “persecution” that American Christians suffer is a piddling mosquito bite. Hell, not even historical precedent — just a little survey of the other side of the globe will put things in perspective.

In fairness, the whole “you shouldn’t complain because others have it worse” argument is pretty lame. It’s not like there’s some objective bar of badness that needs to be cleared before a bad thing can justly be called bad. And it’s true, certain beliefs and practices that have (up to now) been part and parcel of orthodox Christianity are quickly becoming characterized as dysfunctional — if not downright antisocial and/or criminal — by the world at large. Our freedom of conscience and freedom of speech are in a singularly perilous place, and that is disturbing.

But, fallacious “slippery slope” forecasts notwithstanding, no one is coming for us with guns or bombs or even prison. Not in America anyway.

Regardless — and this is my main point here — the degree of merit that American Christians’ complaints may or may not have is irrelevant. Because, in the end, isn’t this part of the deal? To be misunderstood, vilified and censured, and maybe even suffer violence, on account of our beliefs and the choices that we make as a result?

There’s so much talk about reclaiming this culture, or this nation, or the media or whatever for Christ, but was any of that even his to begin with? Let alone ours? After all, “if the world hates you,” Jesus said, “remember that it hated me first” (John 15:18). Ouch.

Say what you will about the Christian roots of democratic liberalism, humanism, Western cultural heritage, or the scientific revolution (for those who can’t believe the Church ever had a positive influence on the sciences, well—just read up on Gregor Mendel for now, idk. There’s a case to be made for Louis Pasteur as well, but I digress) — all those things are just frosting on the cake, to the extent that Christianity can lay claim to them at all.

The secular positives that have accrued because of or to the Church are, I would suggest, accidental rather than essential. Because according to the Christian worldview, history is not the story of progress; rather, it’s the story of redemption, and that’s a very different thing. We cannot save ourselves through our own ingenuity or virtue or strength of will, nor can we save the world. Every fictional hero whose circumstances have forced him or her to grow against his will testifies to this fact.

Speaking of fiction…

Loathe though I am to pull a basic Catholic bro move and start talking about J.R.R. Tolkien, well… I’m gonna have to talk about J.R.R. Tolkien. If you’re a nerd, you’ve probably already heard the term eucatastrophe, which Tolkien coined. But if you’re not then perhaps you haven’t, so here’s a brief intro:

Usually we think of catastrophe as meaning something like “crisis” or “disaster,” but its original Greek meaning had more to do with a dramatic reversal or unraveling. This reversal could be either good or bad; but thanks to the word’s original use in the context of Greek theater, it came to connote the tumultuous final act of a tragedy where everything goes to hell. Hence our contemporary usage.

The prefix eu, for its part, simply denotes “good,” as in “euphoria.” But interestingly, many of its uses in English have acquired a kind of bitter irony — think of “euphemism,” “euthanasia” or “eugenics” for example. In these words, eu suggests an improbable veneer of benevolence painted over something unpleasant.

Tolkien combined these two ambivalent Greek roots into a dramaturgical term that he used to describe the moment in a story where victory is snatched from the jaws of defeat. On the most literal level, eucatastrophe refers to a “good upheaval;” the sudden, improbable reversal of a long defeat. And — this is important — it comes at the very end of the story. The glimmer of light comes after the night has gotten darkest, and not a moment sooner.

This structure is almost the same as deus ex machina, but not quite. Rather than a miraculous resolution that is external to the characters and their concrete situation, the eucatastrophe comes about through some delicate thread of hope that has always been there in the story. A thread that never quite broke despite everything going to shit.

In The Lord of the Rings, this thread is the fact that the Ring can be destroyed by the fire within Mount Doom, and Sauron’s power with it. Never mind how it ends up there; never mind that Frodo’s will breaks at the last second and he only drops the ring into the mountain’s fire by accident. As in a deus ex machina, the final victory comes about in spite of the hero’s weakness. But the crucial difference is that this victory is not imposed by some unforeseen power; its potential was always there, even if nearly forgotten or abandoned.

I think it’s no coincidence that another mid-century Catholic author was very fond of this device, though she never gave it a name and she worked in an entirely different genre than Tolkien. Flannery O’Connor’s stories are teeming with vicious, dislikable people who find themselves in nasty situations, often of their own making. But through the very holes they dig themselves into — through them, not despite them — they encounter some kind of improbable redemption.

It’s always amused me that O’Connor is such a beloved figure in American Catholic heritage, as her fiction’s mean streak probably scorched the eyebrows off the Legion of Decency. And, indeed, many Catholic cultural pundits still don’t really get it. Addled as they can sometimes be with strains of our country’s native Puritanism, they miss the theological insight that O’Connor readily embraced: ugly, messy stories can be a powerful reflection of the ugly, messy business that is salvation history. Felix culpa.

Don’t jump the gun

I have an unpleasant confession to make, one that may — not unreasonably? — alienate me from some readers. When that raggedy band of malcontents busted into the Capitol building on the sixth, I was not particularly upset. In fact, a part of me was cheering them on. Not so much because I agree with their methods or even motives, but rather because I have a thick current of cynicism running through me about our country, about its idols and its ideas of progress, and that inner cynic got a kick out of the whole circus.

But not too long thereafter, a friend pointed me toward this rather scorching indictment of the clowns in question, and of the broader trend of conservative angst that spurred them on. I found myself somewhat chastened by it. To be clear, my compunction had nothing to do with a newfound reverence for our civic totems or greater support of the latest political victors. The disdain and frustration I feel about our country is still alive and well… but I’m also uncomfortably aware that those feelings are more of a liability than a virtue.

Regardless of whether or not Biden won the election fairly (I think he probably did, insofar as any contemporary election is really fair), or Trump was a modern-day Cyrus ordained by God to redeem the US and unseated by a diabolical plot (I think he probably wasn’t), or this inauguration heralds another four years of even more bitter conflict (I think it probably does)… regardless of all of that (and even here I can’t resist whining about it) — the simple fact is that this is all part of the deal.

And therefore, complaining about it is not only futile; it’s counterproductive. The zeal that many Christians have to decry the (often sorry) state of the world comes from a very sincere place at times; but just as often it comes from our own wounded pride and primitive sense of self-defense. And when it comes from that place, we get ahead of ourselves; rather than fighting evil, we end up fighting the slow and often counterintuitive progress of divine providence. In so doing, we discredit ourselves both before God and before those who oppose us.

Not that we shouldn’t offer resistance to evil. But we should also recognize when we’re in over our heads, when we can’t stop the storm and instead need to wait it out in trust and hope. In many ways, I think we’re in such a storm right now. At any rate, it’s one that won’t be stopped by our complaints on social media. If the Gospel is true, then it entails an understanding of the fact that we live within, as Tolkien would have it, a eucatastrophic story. It ain’t over til its over, and we can’t be trigger-happy no matter how bad things seem.

I’ll admit, I’m not spiritually sophisticated enough to feel much of anything in the face of all this beyond pessimistic resignation. But resignation is not ultimately the point: we’re called not to merely bite the bullet, but to be hopeful and even joyful. And that’s really hard, because the hope we’re called to have isn’t worldly. It’s not a hope for political or cultural hegemony, for some kind of earthly “Kingdom of God.” It’s hope for a final victory… one that may yet be a very long time in the making.

So I don’t feel particularly hopeful, no. I feel angry and perplexed and sad. But at the same time, I can still choose. I can choose hope, I can choose faith, I can choose love, even if I don’t feel those things. That’s not a lot to go on, but it’s something. And just a little “something,” even if it’s as small as a mustard seed, is enough for God to work with.