By Monsignor Charles Fink
Much of the modern world behaves as if “everything is politics.” And if politics is the art of the possible, it follows that almost everything is permitted. Why? Because human beings have an almost infinite capacity to invent good reasons for doing bad things. If we do not start from the recognition of some moral absolutes—that is, limits that we must never cross—we will always be capable, and often inclined, to justify terrible actions in the name of possible and, supposedly, good results.
In reality, politics is only a small, though important, part of human interaction. Morality comes much closer to being everything: a morality delimited by absolute prohibitions, within which there is ample freedom for disagreement in the realm of prudential judgments, which involve all kinds of balances. In that realm, pragmatism dominates; consequentialism has some weight, but it is limited by what we must never do or, at least, never directly will.
To deny this, to eliminate those absolutes, and there is no limit to the evil that ordinary people can convince themselves to do with a perfectly clear conscience. But all this raises a question: how do we arrive at knowledge of those moral absolutes that must guide us and spare us the ignominy of falling into moral error, even to the point of atrocity?
Some, like me, will appeal to natural law, inscribed in our human nature and discernible by right reason. The problem is that the texts that explain the use of right reason for this discernment are usually lengthy and difficult.
They remind me of St. Ignatius of Loyola’s rules for the discernment of spirits, quite brief and clear as they appear in his Spiritual Exercises, but not so easy to apply in concrete circumstances. And when they are explained by Ignatius’s Jesuit descendants and others, they become so exhaustingly complex that one loses the desire or the strength to make a decision about what God wants from one. Which leads me to conclude that, to discern the will of the Spirit, it is advisable to pray, think things through carefully, seek the advice of trusted people, make the best possible decision, and leave the matter in God’s hands.
It may not be the deepest interpretation of St. Ignatius, but it has the merit of being viable and avoids the whirlwind of overthinking, scrupulosity, or the presumption of knowing with certainty that what one does is God’s will.
But let us return to natural law and the need for a set of moral norms—especially limits—that guide us on the path. Again: how do we discern them? Is there any hope that we will ever all agree on what they are?
In the gripping mystery novel A Woman Under Ground, by Andrew Klavan, the protagonist, Cameron Winter—former agent of a secret government agency and self-declared agnostic—confronts a friend who confesses to having had an affair with a college student less than half his age.
Roger, the friend in question, is a married man with a family. He lists a series of excuses to justify his infidelity and his decision to leave his wife and son “to feel truly alive.” Finally, Winter can take no more. He tells Roger that what he has done is wrong. When he asks: “And what is that supposed to mean?”, he replies:
It means it’s wrong. Immoral. Against the laws of God and man… You were unfaithful to your wife, Roger. That’s immoral. That’s what “wife” means: someone it is immoral to betray. Because you promised not to. That’s what the word “promise” means: something it is immoral to break. If we’re going to change the meaning of every word that doesn’t suit us, we might as well start growling and behaving like demons.
And he continues:
And the worst, the most immoral thing you’re doing? Breaking your son’s parents’ marriage. That’s a disaster for him. Your marriage is the planet he lives on, and you’re going to blow it up… Stop lying to yourself… That’s no way to live, if you’re a man. That’s another word: man. It has a meaning too, Roger. So drop the garbage and try to act like one.
All this, said by a man who is at most an agnostic and who has committed terrible acts in his life. And yet, somehow, because his eyes, mind, and heart are open to reality, he has come to see that words have meaning, that they point to reality, which in turn speaks of absolute good and evil. He is convinced of this, perhaps above all, because he understands that the alternative is “to growl and behave like demons”.
It is unlikely that the peoples of the world, even those of our nation, will share a common faith in the near future. And the reason, given our fallen and egocentric human nature, is infinitely creative in rationalizing evil. But perhaps, the very evils and madness of the modern world will force many to recognize not only the need for moral absolutes, but also their foundation in creation and, ultimately, in the Creator, source of all meaning and morality.
Unless I have misinterpreted it, something like this seems to have led Andrew Klavan himself from a secular and agnostic Judaism to a solid and provocative Christian faith. I wish he were Catholic, but the truth is that he is more Catholic than many Catholics I know. May many more follow the path he has taken.
About the author:
Monsignor Charles Fink has been a priest for 47 years in the Diocese of Rockville Centre. He has been a pastor and spiritual director at the seminary, and currently lives retired from administrative duties at Notre Dame parish in New Hyde Park, New York.