Hope begins with the right diagnosis

Heidelberg Catechism
Q & A 3
Q. How do you come to know your misery?

A. The law of God tells me.1

Note: mouse over footnote for Scripture references.

For John Calvin, this is the first use of the Law: it shows us our sin by showing us our fundamental inability to keep it. It strips away our self-deception and our rationalizations and forces us to face ourselves as we really are—which is the necessary predicate for our salvation, because we won’t accept God’s grace until we accept that we need it.

As well, the Law shows us the true reason for human misery, and thus points us in the direction in which salvation can be found. This is an important gift, because even when we’ve admitted the problem, we tend to want to misdiagnose it (usually out of wishful thinking of some sort or another) as being something we can address on our own. As Jerome de Jong asks in Guilt, Grace, and Gratitude,

Man seems to be aware of the fact that he is miserable, but has he found the true source of his misery?

Left to our own devices, the answer is, “No, not really.”

When man seeks to find the source of his misery within the context of his own experience, the answers which he gives are false. His answers turn him in upon himself and the things with which he hopes to satisfy self. So far is man’s own understanding of his misery from leading him to God that all about us we see those who have experienced bitterness, despair, and utter hopelessness, who have out of this experience denied the reality of God. Man’s understanding of himself will have to come from outside himself. It must be revealed to him.

The shape of comfort

Heidelberg Catechism
Q & A 2
Q. What must you know to live and die in the joy of this comfort?

A. Three things:
first, how great my sin and misery are;1
second, how I am set free from all my sins and misery;2
third, how I am to thank God for such deliverance.3

Note: mouse over footnotes for Scripture references.

The 129 questions and answers of the Heidelberg Catechism are divided up into 52 parts, one for each Sunday of the year; in the old Dutch Reformed tradition, you’re supposed to go through it every year in church on that basis. I don’t know anyone who actually preaches or teaches through the Heidelberg every year, though I’ve heard there are folks in churches that still have Sunday evening services that use those to that purpose.

In any case, Q & A 1-2 make up Lord’s Day 1 of the Heidelberg Catechism and together serve as its introduction. #1 lays out the reason for our comfort: “That I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.” #2 then connects that to the rest of the Heidelberg, which is laid out according to that threefold structure.

Andrew Kuyvenhoven, in his Heidelberg commentary Comfort and Joy, notes that the folks who wrote this weren’t talking about comfort in any light sense (14):

The people who confessed this in the time of the Reformation were being persecuted for their faith. They feared for their lives. But, they said, even if we get killed, we belong to Jesus, body and soul, in life and in death. They confessed their comfort in the face of all threats. . . .

It is the Christian’s answer to life’s deepest questions and death’s darkest riddles. For here and for now it is the only comfort available. Without this comfort, life is senseless and death is hopeless. We need to say with great emphasis that this is the one and only comfort for all people.

And as the Heidelberg says in Q & A 2, this is a comfort which can only be found through the profound knowledge—not merely of the head but in the heart—of the bad news of human sin, the good news of our redemption, and the response of grateful and humble service. Kuyvenhoven lays this out well (16):

True faith has knowledge of sin, grace, and gratitude. If people have a superficial faith, they have a superficial knowledge of sin, of salvation, and of gratitude. Anyone who is growing in faith is growing in the knowledge of guilt, grace, and gratitude. And those of us who have deep faith have a deep knowledge of sin, a warm knowledge of our Savior, and a profound sense of gratitude.

He’s right; so was Donald Bruggink when he titled the commentary he edited on the Heidelberg in honor of its 400th anniversary in 1963 Guilt, Grace, and Gratitude. The Christian life is a life of gratitude, born out of the awareness of the depth of our sin and the height of our salvation, or it’s nothing at all.

My only comfort in life and death

For a brief explanation of what I’m doing here, see the previous post. Mouse over the footnotes for the Scripture references. This is, in my book, as wonderful an opening as the famous Q & A 1 of the Westminster Shorter Catechism, even if not as well known; I may very well come back to this one tomorrow and write something about it, but I’m too tired tonight. And then again, maybe I’ll just let it speak for itself.

Heidelberg Catechism
Q & A 1
Q. What is your only comfort in life and in death?

A. That I am not my own,1
but belong—
body and soul,
in life and in death—2
to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.3

He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood,4
and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil.5
He also watches over me in such a way6
that not a hair can fall from my head
without the will of my Father in heaven:7
in fact, all things must work together for my salvation.8

Because I belong to him,
Christ, by his Holy Spirit,
assures me of eternal life9
and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready
from now on to live for him.10

Explanatory note on Heidelblogging

Jared Wilson sparked a thought for me with his latest post, which quotes a section of the Westminster Confession. As a pastor ministering in the Presbyterian Church (USA), I am in some sense connected to the Westminster standards, and I do appreciate them a great deal—but though I serve a Presbyterian congregation, and though I was baptized in one (Northminster, in San Diego), my home ground within the church universal is the Dutch Reformed stream, and specifically the Reformed Church in America. As such, though I appreciate Westminster, it’s somewhat foreign to me; it’s the RCA’s doctrinal standards that I value most, and especially the one that (as it happens) the PC(USA) also affirms, the Heidelberg Catechism.

As such, I’ve decided I want to blog my way through the Heidelberg, question by question. I don’t know that I’ll get through all 129 questions and answers in 129 days—this isn’t a death march—but I expect I’ll post a Q&A most days. No doubt I’ll comment on some and not on others, and there will probably be more than a few times as well that I’ll quote one of the commentaries I have on the Heidelberg. (There are actually three on my shelves—Andrew Kuyvenhoven’s, the one Donald Bruggink edited, and the one by Zacharius Ursinus, who was one of the Heidelberg’s authors—which I suppose marks me out as the Reformed geek I am; the Kuyvenhoven was a gift from Hap back in college, which I suppose marks her out as perceptive.) One thing I haven’t figured out is how I want to handle the Scriptural footnotes; if I can find a way to include them that doesn’t look irritatingly intrusive to my eye, I will.

Reflection on the challenge of speaking the truth in love

As a pastor ministering within (though not of) the Presbyterian Church (USA), I am in some sense under the leadership of the Moderator of the most recent General Assembly, the Rev. Bruce Reyes-Chow (who has on occasion commented here, as I have on occasion returned the favor on one or another of his blogs, of which there are several; as a side note, I don’t know how Bruce keeps up with his life, given his schedule). As one would expect of an elected official in this denomination, Bruce is a lot more liberal than I am, but I like him a great deal, because he’s not a reflexive thinker; though I often disagree with his conclusions, he’s a careful and thoughtful observer, and I appreciate the thought he puts into reaching those conclusions—and his willingness to listen respectfully to those with whom he disagrees. Following him on Facebook, I have more than once had my own thinking sparked by the questions he poses for discussion.

Recently, for example, he asked

if speaking “the truth in love” in a way that ultimately causes a destruction of community and tears down the personhood of another can really be God’s Truth at all or are these things simply sometimes unavoidable realities to speaking “the truth in love”?

It’s a good question, not least because it forces us to face ourselves. It can be easy to justify hurtful words, to ourselves and to others, by saying that we were only speaking the truth in love, when in fact we weren’t motivated by love at all—and maybe weren’t speaking the truth, either, but just pushing our own agenda. We need to remember that when Ephesians talks about “speaking the truth in love,” it’s not talking about whatever we deem to be true on whatever subject, it’s talking about “the faith and the knowledge of the Son of God”; and we need to remember that if we cannot say something in love, out of a real desire to help and heal and bless the person to whom we speak, then we are not speaking truth.

That said, there’s another reality to bear in mind here as well: speaking the truth in love does not, unfortunately, guarantee that the person to whom we speak will be willing to hear and accept the truth, or to accept that love can come in the form of a truth that they do not want to hear. Sometimes, people refuse to accept a community that challenges them where they do not want to be challenged—but a community that depends on the avoidance of uncomfortable truths is no true community, for the real openness and authenticity that true community requires cannot exist under those conditions. We must always do our best to speak the truth in such a way that those to whom we speak can hear and accept it as truth, but we cannot allow our responsibility to speak the truth to be held hostage to the willingness of others to do so.

As to the tearing down of personhood, I think we need to draw a distinction here between our real personhood—who we are as God intended us to be—and our perceived personhood—who we understand ourselves to be. Because of our sin, the two are not the same, and indeed are never completely the same no matter how much we may grow in Christ. I think it’s safe to say that real truth spoken in real love never tears down real personhood, but when Hebrews tells us that “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart,” it’s equally safe to say that real truth spoken in real love will at times cut to the division of our real self and who we only think we are. One of the necessary aspects of speaking truth to each other in love is helping each other see and accept the distinction between the two—that aspects of our lives that we consider to be part of our personhood reallyaren’t, and in fact are inimical to our true personhood. Again, though, that can be a very hard thing to accept, and some people refuse to do so; but we can’t let their reaction be the measure of the value of our actions.

Taken all in all, I think the key here is the distinction between that which is real and that which isn’t. The truth of God spoken in the love of God will never destroy that which is real and of value, but will only nurture it; it will, however, most assuredly and effectively destroy falsecommunity and false personhood, because clearing the ground of counterfeits is essential if the real and the true are to grow and flourish in their place. But how do we know if we are really speaking the truth of God in the love of God? Or if someone else claims to be doing so and we don’t want to hear it, how do we know if the community or the sense of our own personhood which we’re defending are real? All we can do is examine our hearts, and let the Spirit of God examine us, and let him lead us into the truth—even if, especially if, it isn’t what we want to hear.

 

Will the blood of martyrs water a new tree of liberty in Iran?

We may only hope and pray so, because a river of blood is flowing in the streets of Tehran that could water a whole forest. The Anchoress has a good roundup, as usual—check it out, and follow the links. The Iranian regime has literally declared war on the opposition, sending the militia out to beat women to death, murder unarmed protestors with axes, and throw people off bridges. An Iranian woman told CNN,

This was exactly a massacre. You should stop this. You should help the people of Iran who demand freedom. . . .

In the previous days they are killing students with axes, they put the axe through the heart of young men, and it’s so devastating I don’t know how to describe it.

This is horrific, this is genocide, this is a massacre, this is Hitler. And you people should stop it. It’s time to act.

Another Iranian writes,

I am writing to beg for your attention and assistance in any way possible. An innocent, peaceful, historic momentum, unprecedented in recent history, has come alive in our world that is being brutally put down with violence, lies, and dirty politics for power and riches. You, no matter where you are, have been inflicted by the evil nature of this current going round in our globe.

My brothers and sisters, come together in any way you can. Join the arms of our innocent people whose blood is being shed for peace and human rights which you may be blessed with elsewhere. Our hands are stretched out, reaching out for your support from outside. We are confronting a formidable power as ancient and infectious as hatred, tyranny, intolerance, prejudice and racism. We need your help. . . .

We as a nation are pleading desperately to the world that we MUST not recognize this regime legitimate. We need to use all our strength and unity to pressure it to leave the office before our voice is shut down.

In response to such impassioned pleas, our president boldly decided that since the mullahs hadn’t accepted his invitation to the weenie roast, he’d rescind the invitation.

. . . !

Of course, as Mark Steyn notes, Barack Obama does have a timing problem:

he chose as a matter of policy to legitimize the Iranian regime at the very moment they chose to delegitimize themselves—first, by stealing the election to an unprecedented degree and, then, by killing people who objected to them doing so.

That’s awfully bad timing, and one sympathizes, as one would if Nixon had gone to China a week before Tiananmen Square. But the fact is it’s happened and adjusting to that reality makes more sense than banking on being able to re-legitimize Khamenei and Ahmadinejad.

What really strikes me about this whole bloody, evil vortex—the swirling firestorm of the nihilistic will to power clashing with the desire of a people to be free, a mad dream of some Islamic Nietzsche—is that people are being murdered, shot off rooftops, for shouting “God is great!” (“Allahu akbar!”). A regime ostensibly founded on religion—but more accurately, on the religio-tribal identity that is Shi’ism—has had its true power-mad heart exposed; it’s starting to look like its own religion is turning against it, and like the mullahs will sacrifice even Islam for the sake of power. Perhaps that’s just a fanciful thought, but it’s how things look to me.

It’s important to remember, though, that if Springsteen’s right and “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” then Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are still the freest ones in this whole fight. They’re free to do anything, because if they lose this battle, nothing else matters; they and their supporters literally have no other options but victory or death. The leaders of the opposition can always go into exile, but the likes of Ahmadinejad and Khamenei have nowhere else to go. As such, Spengler is right: this is an extremely complex and dangerous situation, and it’s impossible to predict what will happen next. As he points out, the real wildcard in all this is Israel; the Netanyahu government had best be considering their next move verycarefully, because the consequences, for good or ill, could be beyond reckoning.

Still, in all this, Robert Kaplan is right to say that there is great reason for hope—and that this is all happening as a consequence of our intervention in Iraq (which is why, incidentally, his fellow Atlantic contributor Jeffrey Goldberg was wrong to portray that intervention as a mistake; it was, rather, a calculated risk):

It is crucial that we reflect on an original goal of regime change in Iraq. Anyone who supported the war must have known that toppling Saddam Hussein, a Sunni Arab—whether it resulted in stable democracy, benign dictatorship or sheer chaos—would strengthen the Shiite hand in the region. This was not seen as necessarily bad. The Sept. 11 terrorists had emanated from the rebellious sub-states of the sclerotic Sunni dictatorships of Egypt and Saudi Arabia, whose arrogance and aversion to reform had to be allayed by readjusting the regional balance of power in favor of Shiite Iran. It was hoped that Iran would undergo its own upheaval were Iraq to change. Had the occupation of Iraq been carried out in a more competent manner, this scenario might have unfolded faster and more transparently. Nevertheless, it is happening. And not only is Iran in the throes of democratic upheaval, but Egypt and Saudi Arabia have both been quietly reforming apace.

 

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared.

—Psalm 130:1-4 (ESV)

I found myself, upon reading this psalm (along with Psalms 131 and 134) to my older girls this evening, explaining to them the whole concept of the fear of the Lord. It’s rather a difficult one, especially for an eight-year-old and a five-year-old, since obviously I don’t want them to go around terrified of God—and yet, they need to understand this. I need to understand this. I’m sure there are many who could do a much better job than I did, but here (more or less) is what I told them.

  • Awe. A couple years ago at Thanksgiving, we took a trip through Arches, Canyonlands, Bryce Canyon, and the Grand Canyon. The kids absolutely loved it. I reminded them of how they’d felt looking out across those great canyons—including the element of fear of what would happen if they fell in. In the same way, only far, far more so, God is great and glorious and beautiful—and not safe.
  • Holiness. Our God is a consuming fire, as Deuteronomy and Hebrews tell us; if we as we are, unholy, impure, and frail, were to enter his presence, we would burn like moths in a flame. There’s a reason Isaiah was terrified at even just a vision of the holiness of God: it’s more than we can bear.
  • Wrath. Along with this goes the wrath of God against sin, which is the mainspring of his judgment on sin, which we have richly earned for the waywardness of our hearts—even the best of us. God is the one who cannot and will not tolerate sin, and the judge of all the earth; we should feel in our bones the truth that we deserve only his judgment.
  • Discipline. To be sure, you might well say that those who are in Christ have been given instead his grace, and that is true; and yet, our sin still deserves his wrath, and just because we have received grace does not mean we’ve been given a “get out of punishment free” card. Rather the contrary: “The Lord disciplines the one he loves.” As Hebrews notes, discipline is painful rather than pleasant, even though it brings good fruit.
  • The untamed God. We cannot control God; we cannot make him do what we want, or keep him from doing what we do not want, and we cannot ensure that he will only ask us to do what we want to do and feel comfortable doing. As Mr. Beaver says of Aslan, God is good, but he isn’t safe—and there is nothing less safe than surrendering control to him that he may call us and lead us where and as he will. (Not that our control is ever anything more than an illusion anyway, but it’s an illusion to which we cling desperately for all that.) We fear what he may do to us, and where he may take us; we fear the loss of all we’ve ever known and wanted—and quite reasonably so, for God may indeed require all that of us and more, even to the point of asking us to lay down our lives in his service. Of course, he promises to give us a far better life in exchange, but that’s an unknown quantity, and we fear the unknown.

As we are, we could not bear the full presence of God; we could not even survive a glimpse of his face. In Jesus Christ, he has made a way for us to enter his presence, he has opened a way for us through the veil—but he is still the Lord of the Universe and the Creator of all that is, his glory is still a light to blast our eyes out the backs of our skulls and his holiness is still a fire that would burn us beyond even the memory of ash; if he has made it safe for us to come to him, it’s not because he himself is safe or because we are somehow worthy to stand in his presence, but rather because he paid the price in himself for us to do so.

Even with all that Christ has done for us, it remains true that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom—because the beginning of wisdom is not to take God lightly, or to take his grace for granted.

Thought on the true nature and purpose of the conscience

As I’ve noted before, “conscience” is a problematic word in our culture—not because it’s a hard concept to understand, but because we find it a hard one to accept. We don’t want our conscience to be something that pokes at us and makes us face the fact when we’re doing something wrong; we tend to want to do what we want to do, and we want to believe that if we can convince ourselves we feel good about doing what we want to do, then it must be OK.

As such, what a lot of folks in this world end up doing is essentially turning their conscience off—refusing to pay attention to its promptings, finding ways to dismiss it, teaching themselves to feel good (at least on the surface) about doing what they want to do, and then calling that good feeling their conscience. That way, they can tell themselves (and whoever else might happen to come around) that their conscience is clear about their actions.

Unfortunately, if we really want to, it’s not all that hard to get ourselves to the point where we’re standing proudly defiant of the will of God in the absolute (if self-generated) conviction that we’re obeying his will; and to the casual observer, it can be difficult to distinguish such stands from true acts of conscience. After all, Martin Luther launched the Reformation, in part, with an appeal to conscience, refusing to bow to the power of the Roman church because “to go against conscience is neither right nor safe”; these days, there are a lot of folks running around who want to be little Luthers, condemning the church for its teachings and declaring, “Here I stand.” Some are very convincing.

What too many people lack, though, is the central point of Luther’s statement: “My conscience is captive to the word of God”; this is the foundation for everything else. If your conscience is captive to the word of God, if your focus is on obeying God even when it’s the last thing you want to do, if you’ve been training and strengthening your conscience in faithful study of the Scriptures and in prayer—as Luther had—then yes, to go against conscience is neither right nor safe. If not, then you may very well be going against conscience and not even know it.

The key point is that conscience is not self-generated, because we aren’t the arbiters of reality—no, not even of “our own” reality, because there’s no such thing; whether we like it or not, our reality is the same as everyone else’s. The purpose of conscience isn’t to give us the perception of moral reality that suits our preferences, but rather to help us perceive moral reality as it is—to tell us what truly is right and wrong, not to confirm us in our own ideas and wishes on the subject.

This isn’t something we always want (which is why any person who truly functions as the conscience of an organization is going to be intensely unpopular at times), but it’s something we need, and badly, because we aren’t pure; we’re sullied by sin in all its various forms, and that distorts and occludes our judgment. As much as we may want to be the highest authority in our lives, we just aren’t qualified for the job—and it’s not so much what we don’t know that gets us into trouble (significant though that often is) as what we do know that ain’t so; it’s especially those things that we convince ourselves we know, not because of the available evidence, but because we desperately want to believe them. Those are the areas where we most need correction—and the areas in which we’re least willing to accept it; the role of conscience is precisely to convict and correct us at the points where we least want it, to inflict discomfort in order to prevent greater pain.

 

(Derived from “God’s Grace, Our Counterfeit”)

On Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address and the importance of grace

Speaking of Garry Wills, I’ve been ruminating lately on his superb essay on Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, which he rightly calls “Lincoln’s greatest speech.” I appreciate Wills’ piece a great deal, since he does a good job of setting the Second Inaugural in its proper context and then offers a careful, thoughtful and perceptive analysis of the speech’s purpose and line of thought. In particular, though he makes the case that Lincoln’s aim was to lay the groundwork for a pragmatic approach to Reconstruction—an approach based on only one fixed principle, that of the abolition of slavery, and in all other respects concerned solely with what would work best to restore a functioning Union—he shows clearly how the president’s argument to that purpose was fundamentally not political but theological, and rooted in a strong sense of the humility proper to human aspirations and human ability to plan and predict consequences in the face of the power, wisdom and will of Almighty God. As Wills writes,

The problem with compromise on this scale is that it seems morally neutral, open even to injustices if they work. Answering that objection was the task Lincoln set himself in the Second Inaugural. Everything said there was meant to prove that pragmatism was, in this situation, not only moral but pious. Men could not pretend to have God’s adjudicating powers. People had acted for mixed motives on all sides of the civil conflict just past. The perfectly calibrated punishment or reward for each leader, each soldier, each state, could not be incorporated into a single political disposition of the problems. As he put it on April 11,

And yet so great peculiarities pertain to each state; and such important and sudden changes occur in the same state; and, withal, so new and unprecedented is the whole case, that no exclusive, and inflexible plan can safely be prescribed as to details and colatterals [sic]. Such [an] exclusive, and inflexible plan, would surely become a new entanglement.

Abstract principle can lead to the attitude Fiat iustitia, ruat coelum—”Justice be done, though it bring down the cosmos.” Lincoln had learned to have a modest view of his ability to know what ultimate justice was, and to hesitate before bringing down the whole nation in its pursuit. He asked others to recognize in the intractability of events the disposing hand of a God with darker, more compelling purposes than any man or group of men could foresee. . . .

The war was winding down; but Lincoln summoned no giddy feelings of victory. A chastened sense of man’s limits was the only proper attitude to bring to the rebuilding of the nation, looking to God for guidance but not aspiring to replace him as the arbiter of national fate.

Wills further quotes a letter from Lincoln to Thurlow Weed on this subject:

Men are not flattered by being shown that there has been a difference of purpose between the Almighty and them. To deny it, however, in this case, is to deny that there is a God governing the world. It is a truth which I thought needed to be told; and as whatever of humiliation there is in it, falls most directly on myself, I thought others might afford [an occasion?] for me to tell it.

In general, the thought and intent of our greatest president’s greatest work—which is, I think, perhaps the greatest piece of political theology ever produced on this continent—shines brightly through this essay. The one thing Wills doesn’t quite get is the way in which the address works and grapples with the grace of God. On the one hand, he says,

Americans must be judged in a comprehensive judgment binding on all—God’s judgment on slavery, which was to be worked out of the system with pains still counted in the nation’s “sinking debt” of guilt. There was no “easy grace” of all-round good will in the message. The speech was flexible, but it was flexible steel.

On the other hand, he doesn’t seem to fully understand what that means, because he writes,

People who stress only Lincoln’s final words about charity for all, about the healing of wounds, may think that Lincoln was calling for a fairly indiscriminate forgiveness toward the South, especially since he referred to the North’s share in the guilt for slavery. But the appeal to “Gospel forgiveness” is preceded by a submission to “Torah judgment” and divine wrath—an odd vehicle for a message of forgiveness.

What I think Wills fails to understand here (perhaps due to a lack of exposure to Reformed thought) is that this isn’t an odd vehicle for a message of forgiveness at all, but rather a necessary one if one is to avoid cheap grace. Those of us in the Reformed stream of Christian thought well understand, as Lincoln clearly understood, is that the good news of grace not onlycan but must be stated in the context of—indeed, as a response to—the bad news of human sin and divine wrath.

It’s precisely this understanding which enabled Lincoln to strike the balance which Wills rightly sees as central to the purpose of the Second Inaugural Address, which enabled the president to argue for “a moral flexibility—with emphasis on morality,” and thus to stake out a pragmatic position that meant more than mere lowest-common-denominator pragmatism. One would, I think, be correct in arguing that the failure of the American government to strike that balance after Lincoln’s death is the primary reason that Reconstruction ultimately collapsed into a form of least-common-denominator political pragmatism that set the cause of racial equality in this country back over half a century and more.

 

On dealing with saints as sinners, and vice versa

Recently, I read a bit (I don’t remember where) by Christopher Buckley, son of William F. Buckley, airing his grievances with his dead father. It wasn’t terribly gracious, but such is the way these days, and given that he clearly had a difficult relationship with his father, one can see where the various eulogies might have gotten a little old. Still, I don’t think his extended argument that everyone who had a good opinion of his father was wrong really accomplished anything much worth accomplishing.

Of more interest, I thought, was Garry Wills’ piece on the elder Buckley in the most recentAtlantic, which set out to defend its subject against the charge of elitism and snobbery (an odd charge to be mounted, when one thinks about it, against the man who famously declared that he’d rather be governed by the first 200 names in the Boston phone book than by the faculty of Harvard). Wills was, for a time, a protégé of William F. Buckley’s and quite close to him, before becoming politically and personally estranged from him over the issue of the Vietnam War, and he certainly presents a fair number of his erstwhile mentor’s warts; the difference is that he does so in the course of also trying to present some of the man’s real virtues, and thus offers a more balanced and thus more valuable picture.

There was a time when I would have been bothered to read a critical portrayal of someone I had long admired. Admittedly, depending on the person and the substance of the portrayal, that can still be bothersome, for one reason or another; but I’ve come to realize over the years that more often than not, if I’m bothered by such a thing, it means that I was expecting too much of someone simply because I admired one aspect of their life. The mature Christian, I think, is never surprised to find the saint a sinner, nor ever compelled to find the sinner any less a saint. May we bear one another’s sins with grace.