Man Turned in on Himself, excerpt 3

In the early pages of the thesis I am laying the historical, theological framework for Homo Incurvatus in Se. The bulk of the work then connects that image to current suffering in American culture and suggests how “united in brokenness” we might be healed….

It is essential to note that it is not the subject of desire that is evil: “For when the will abandons what is above itself, and turns to what is lower, it becomes evil—not because that is evil to which it turns, but because the turning itself is wicked.” In a sermon he delivered between 400-420 AD, Augustine challenges congregants who seem to be asking why, “if sin delights me,” do we call it bad, and why, if it is bad did God create it in the first place? The examples he gives reveal that, for all our 21st-century advancements, our lusty wills haven’t progressed at all. “If it is a sin to drink a lot, then why did God institute wine,” Augustine asks from the pulpit, echoing the concerns of his flock. “If it’s a sin to love gold . . . why did he create what it is wrong to love?” Augustine flips the question on its head, reminding people that all that God created is good, and that these created things—wine, gold, savory meats—would be right to ask (if they were able) why, if the source of the world’s troubles is the fact that man cannot use and enjoy created things in a manner that reflects love and good order, did God create man? In potent and poetic form, Augustine makes it clear where the finger must point:

“For avarice is not a fault inherent in gold, but in the man who inordinately loves gold, to the detriment of justice, which ought to be held in incomparably higher regard than gold. Neither is luxury the fault of lovely and charming objects, but of the heart that inordinately loves sensual pleasures, to the neglect of temperance, which attaches us to objects more lovely in their spirituality, and more delectable by their incorruptibility. Nor yet is boasting the fault of human praise, but of the soul that is inordinately fond of the applause of men, and that makes light of the voice of conscience. Pride, too, is not the fault of him who delegates power, nor of power itself, but of the soul that is inordinately enamoured of its own power, and despises the more just dominion of a higher authority.” (St. Augustine, City of God)

He concludes with “pride” because, for Augustine, “pride is the beginning of sin.” The movement from pride to enslavement-to-sin can be seen in a continuum similar to that from standing upright to curving downward. The process begins when man catches a glimpse of the will of God. Understanding that what may be asked of him is to say yes to that which he’d rather refuse, and no to that which he longs to revel in, he responds by turning away to blaze his own trail. This turning is “itself a kind of conversion,” where man becomes his own God, believing in his own will, reason, power, and choice above all else. Without the tempering effects of the Law or trust in God, he becomes unmoored, gravitating more and more towards his desires, which pull him farther away from the needs and desires of others, as well as from the life God had prepared especially for him. To justify this increasing defiance, “we first paint a distorted picture of our relation to God by pretending the relationship does not exist. At the same time . . . we enter into conflict in the human relationships which also make us who we are.” Having chosen to “remake” ourselves into sovereigns, with our own power and pleasure-seeking creeds, “we seek to entice or force others to also . . . move out of God’s orbit and into ours.” And before long, we’ve reached that tipping point:

“Again, we see the irony of sin. God’s justice hands man over to himself, just as man wanted. But the result is unexpected. The point was for man to be his own king, to have everything to himself under his own control; but he finds that his grasp for autonomy has led to slavery. He is at odds with himself, having become a nuisance to himself, and is infinitely farther from the freedom he had desired.” (Matt Jenson, The Gravity of Sin)

From RECLAIMING THE WISDOM OF HOMO INCURVATUS IN SE: “MAN TURNED IN ON HIMSELF” AS AN ENTRY POINT FOR THE DISCUSSION OF SIN IN 21ST-CENTURY AMERICA by Heather Choate Davis

Man Turned in on Himself, excerpt 2

We begin with a simple premise: “sin” is dead. Not the state of sin, of course, or our ever-proliferating sinful acts, but the word itself, and the impact of the word, which, for the better part of human history has helped individuals and communities recognize when they were “missing the mark.” In contemporary American culture, “sin” has been filed away with leeches and bloodletting and the stuff of DaVinci Code dramas. “Sin” is a big, wagging finger, a word that pronounces judgment and blame; it means that you’ve been bad, and, more often than not, sexual in a wholly unproductive way. With the launch of oral contraceptives and the women’s liberation movement in the 1960s “a new age of permissiveness” was ushered in, “an unorchestrated attempt to shake off an oppressive Christianity that had terrorized the faithful with its doctrine of an angry and vengeful God.” In no time at all the word “sin” began to vanish from the culture, as fewer deeds— not merely sexual acts but pleasure-seeking and self-aggrandizement of all stripes— were regarded as such. The state of Original Sin, upon which the doctrine of the salvation hinges, became an artifact of the judgment era. A congenital state of sin was replaced with a simpler, easier to marginalize definition: sin, not as a condition but an act— little vices easily trivialized, rationalized, and, for the first time in history, entirely personal, “a matter between oneself and God.” Wanting the freedom to pursue their own sinfulness in peace, Americans became far less judgmental. The less we spoke or thought of sin, the easier it was to believe that it had been transcended.

Clearly, any day in the life of the American narrative will reveal that we have not transcended sin. Nor have we “outgrown” the very human need to confess and atone for our sinful ways. Only now these acts are being played out in reality TV and afternoon talk shows, rewarding viewers with a sense of superiority, and the shameful soul in the hot seat with “fifteen minutes of fame” — a far cry from eternal life.

From RECLAIMING THE WISDOM OF HOMO INCURVATUS IN SE:“MAN TURNED IN ON HIMSELF” AS AN ENTRY POINT FOR THE DISCUSSION OF SIN IN 21ST-CENTURY AMERICA by Heather Choate Davis

Man Turned in on Himself, excerpt 1

In celebration of the completion of my MA thesis I will be sharing a sampling of excerpts over the next few weeks. As I prepare to present the work to the Theology department at the end of April, I’d love to know what speaks to you….

The Origins of Homo Incurvatus In Se

Picture a body curved inward— in the fetal position, for example. The shape of the curve does two things: 1) it protects and defends the thing it is turned in on, guarding it and the right to have it to oneself, preferably in the secret shadow of the curve, and 2) its curved form creates a barrier between the heart’s desire and the things it wants to keep at bay: judgment, change, help, love, God. Even if we take God out of the conversation (a useful exercise when speaking of sin to a modern secularist), the image maintains its potency: when man is turned in on his own desires, the world— despite man’s best efforts to the contrary— becomes smaller and darker. Without the impetus or wherewithal to reverse his course, his condition gets progressively worse. Without access to any power greater than himself— and with the sudden realization that he is, in fact, only human— he becomes trapped in the “hamster wheel” of his own thoughts and enslaved by his own feelings and desires. This universal human experience exposes the hard truth of the lie of sin:

“Wherefore it is not without meaning said that all sin is a lie. For no sin is committed save by that desire or will by which we desire that it be well with us, and shrink from it being ill with us. That, therefore, is a lie which we do in order that it may be well with us, but which makes us more miserable than we were.”
St. Augustine, The City of God

From RECLAIMING THE WISDOM OF HOMO INCURVATUS IN SE: “MAN TURNED IN ON HIMSELF” AS AN ENTRY POINT FOR THE DISCUSSION OF SIN IN 21ST-CENTURY AMERICA by Heather Choate Davis

Last year’s Advent favorite…

heather choate davis's avatarHeather Choate Davis

What do you think of when you think of Andy Warhol? Campbell’s Soup? All-night parties? Pop-art album covers for the Rolling Stones? You might picture a slight, frail, near-albino artist in tortoise shell glasses, but you probably wouldn’t picture him in the back pew of a Catholic church, genuflecting devoutly. But that’s where he was, several times a week for his entire adult life, his devotion to Christ a quiet, even secret, affair. Few people knew that he was a regular at a New York City homeless shelter where he served meals and spoke tenderly with the visitors. Nor that he painted 60 pop-art versions of The Last Supper, an entire series of crosses, another one of Madonnas, a Colorform-esque painting of twelve eggs, symbolizing the disciples, and a Madison Avenue-style poster that proclaimed, “Heaven and Hell are just one breath away!” On his nightstand, where, if his public persona…

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Not armor, just socks

Today’s advent devotion is from the book Season of Promises by Mitch Finley:

The Advent season is a season of homely things—”homely” in the dictionary’s first meaning of the word, “characteristic of the home or of home life.” Advent is a season of homely things because during this season we prepare for the coming of a homely God, a God who is at home with us. Our God is so at home with us that Dame Julian of Norwich, a 13th-century homely English mystic and all-around practical person, said that God is “our clothing.” Imagine that.

Here we go through our day with God as our clothing, head to toe. God is our underwear. God is our socks and shoes. God is our dress or skirt, or God is our pants and shirt. If we live where winters are cold, God is the coat we put on before we go outside to face the cold. God is the muffler we wrap around our neck, and God is the winter hat we put upon our head. Imagine that.

Here we go during Advent, and God is our clothing. Looking forward to the birth of the Messiah, and God is our clothing. Oh delightful idea. Oh marvelous thing to recall while dressing in the morning. At night, when we prepare for sleep, God is the pajamas or nightgown we put on before we slip beneath the covers. Imagine that.

If we think of God as our clothing we will have less anxiety about “measuring up” to the standards established by a commercially driven fashion industry [or party-throwing, or gift-giving industry]. If God is our clothing, during Advent we can think more about ‘putting on the Lord Jesus Christ” (see Rom 13:14). Imagine that.

May we wear God well today and everyday of Advent. Blessings on the season.

Heather