Whether he knows it or not, C. K. is echoing Aquinas, among others, in understanding that proximity plays a role in charity. It used to be a cliché that charity begins at home. As Aquinas (quoting Augustine) put it, “Since one cannot do good to all, we ought to consider those chiefly who, by reason of place, time, or any other circumstance, by a kind of chance are more closely united to us.”
Charity was always understood as a relationship between real people. It’s impossible to love all of humanity. It’s hard enough to love those closest to us—our insufferable siblings, our annoying colleagues, the next-door neighbors who sometimes step on our peonies. The reason the Internet has so demolished the idea of charity is simple: When everyone’s your neighbor, then nobody’s your neighbor.
But wait—there’s more! Saint Peter pushed charity not just for the receiver but for the sake of the giver: “Above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.”
What he’s driving at is that charity assumes errors and misdeeds not just on the part of our neighbors but also on ourselves. As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn put it in The Gulag Archipelago, “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”
In the old days, back before dial-up modems, we would be charitable to our neighbor in the same way we hoped he’d be charitable toward us when we weren’t our best selves. But the other thing the Internet has done away with is the very idea of there being a “best” self. There’s just you. And you’re free to be you any way you want. This narrow view of sin, it turns out, leads to an extremely narrow view of charity.
We even feel it in the home. It is darkly humorous that so many Christian couples choose to have 1 Corinthians 13:4 read at their wedding—you know, the “love is patient, love is kind” litany. But the better translation for the word “love” in that passage is, as P. J. O’Rourke noted a few pages back, “charity.” So, in the beautiful prose of the King James Bible, Saint Paul writes, “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” And so on and so forth.
Then as if directly rebuking The Daily Show—not to mention each and every one of us—Saint Paul continues, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
It’s the perfect verse for marrying couples, but not because it’s about romantic love. Charity is about what happens when romantic love fails. It’s about what happens when people don’t agree with your beliefs. When people make jokes that fail. When celebrities have a bad day.
How much better our intellectual, public, and even home life would be if charity were the watchword. If we assumed the best of people’s motives instead of the worst. If we grappled with their best arguments rather than their worst. If we assumed that those who disagree with us are neither evil (as liberals often see conservatives) or stupid (as conservatives often see liberals).
Above all, if we’d only acknowledge that all of us are mistaken from time to time, then we’d be more willing to forgive others in the hopes they will extend the same measure of charity to us.
CHAPTER 8
Faith
The Eleventh Commandment
Larry Miller
THE DESIGNATED HITTER is a great rule. Or a stupid rule. Let’s fight about it.
Turn here, it’s shorter. Sez you, it’s longer. So’s your old man.
That woman is beautiful. No, she’s not. Put ’em up, baldy.
God will help us. There is no God. Shut up.
Taxes are—oh, you get the point. People love to argue.
The smartest, toughest, kindest, hardest-working, most patriotic, and generous people in America today—that’s you and me, by the way—can only agree on one thing: Anything worth fighting for … is worth fighting for.
Speaking of God, this chip on the shoulder goes back to the Garden of Eden, where the very beginning was almost the very end. You’re in a beautiful place, the ruler of all you see, plenty to eat, the weather’s perfect, you like her, she likes you, nothing for the two of you to do all day but (oh, come on, you know). Yes, everything is as high as an elephant’s eye, but … uh-oh! The Commander in Chief gives the first man and the first woman the first order, and they blissfully disobey him.
DON’T EAT FROM THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. YOU TWO ARE FORBIDDEN TO EAT FROM THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP STARING AT HER FOR TEN SECONDS AND LISTEN TO ME? NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER EAT FROM THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.
You know what happened then, and it’s pathetic, really. Come on, the Creator of heaven and earth hands you everything on a silver platter, asks that you obey one simple rule, and what’s the first thing you do after naming the animals? Eat from the Tree of Knowledge. So your opinion counts more than His? No need to chat about it with the Big Fella? There’s just no God or something?
Oops. Whoa. Hold the wire. Yikes.
Is it even possible that … there is no God? This should’ve been solved a long time ago, but it’s apparently still sitting on the coffee table like a brand-new book. Let’s calm down and ask it plain as day. Is there a God, or isn’t there?
Ah, but there’s more!
Let’s not just ask it. Let’s solve it. You and me. Right now.
No need to panic, it’s a big issue with two sides. So let’s examine both, one at a time, and I’ll bet you we easily see who’s right. Here we go. Ready?
The first proposition is: There is no God. Okay, if there is no God, then He/She/It/Them doesn’t exist and never has. Nothing was created or planned or conceived or guided, and everything just grew and changed on its own, including you.
All the big rules in life were thought up by chubby men with beards, and the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel may have lots of paint on it, but it started and ended in Michelangelo’s noggin and none of it’s true. (The good news is that’s the last time I’ll have to look up Sistine and Michelangelo to see how they’re spelled.) Don’t worry about “the other side of life,” because you’re already in it. There is no other side. And if you’re waiting for Judgment Day, start today and judge yourself.
Speaking of which, there is no Judgment Day, or Judgment Night, or any judgment at all. You don’t have to stand in line at a Pearly Gate waiting to get in, and no cheerful assistant with a full head of shiny hair and a clipboard will stroll with you over to God’s office for the big “Where Do You Spend Eternity” meeting, yakking about this and that on the way, and pointing out new trees and fresh paint on the fairy-tale stores, while you stand there open-jawed and thunderstruck at how much Main Street looks like Disney World.
(Like, a LOT. I mean, they even have a cute red train on adorable tracks that puffs around the place and you can’t help wondering if the one up here still has that pirate chasing the waitress around the drinking table. Because maybe old Walt’s avuncular smile meant a lot more than we thought.)
How’s it feel so far? A little unsettling? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
No God, no heaven, no nothing. No need to worry about eternity, because there is none. No chance to be the trillionth soul to tell Shakespeare how great he was, no opportunity to tell Helen of Troy how super-duper pretty she is, like, so-so-so gorgeous (and just your type, really) and would she like to have dinner with you tonight so you can tell her fortune? No reason to hunt down all th
e modern twentieth-century composers and tell them how you never liked their arhythmic, atonal music, but do they know where Puccini and Verdi and Bach hang out? You’ll never meet Beethoven or Saint Agnes or Babe Ruth or Charlemagne or Jerry Garcia or Hedy Lamarr. You’ll never meet all the girls you struck out with in high school just to say hi to them and apologize and catch up and—who knows?—maybe take one more shot.
Bottom line: You’ll never meet … well, anyone.
No afterlife, no lessons of life, no heroes of life, no day-dreaming in your coffin, no thinking, no planning, no praying, no breathing, no life, no God. NO GOD.
Your parents aren’t waiting for you with arms held out and perfect love, and your grandparents and uncles and aunts and friends aren’t there with smiles so pure it makes you cry. Every cloud really does have a silver lining, though, so here’s some good news. Since there’s no Big Meeting with the King of Kings, He will not be striding into it glaring at you while carrying a file that’s way thicker than you thought it would be. Plus, you won’t have to watch Him get madder and madder as you make excuses that even you don’t believe, while He drums His fingers on a spot on His desk that definitely looks like it’s seen a lot of loud finger-drumming before. (It has.)
More good news! You won’t have to worry about your wife and kids back on Earth, because no such bonds exist. There is no forever; they’re on their own. Let ’em wipe the mud off their own boots.
You won’t have to worry about the secrets of life, because they don’t exist. You won’t have to worry about final battles or Armageddon or good and evil or who’s right and who’s wrong, or whether your parents ever knew you snuck that girl into your bedroom in tenth grade, or anything.
Oh, sure, there’ll be a little sadness that this is the end, and it came so fast, and there’s nothing more, but if the best people in history hit the same emptiness, you can, too. If the point in life is that there is no point in life—and no point in yours—you can take it. Right? RIGHT?
And there are no fights about religion, because there is no religion.
I know this is all a little blunt, but here’s the good side to having no God. You’re not only responsible for yourself—you’re completely responsible. Step up and serve. There’s no one watching your back and saving your hide. If you loved your parents, fine; if you hated them, fine. It doesn’t matter. Deal with life yourself. Save starving people or bomb them. No one’s watching and no one cares. Don’t let anyone tell you anything. You tell them. Honor your wife and stay faithful, but if you’re on the road and you meet a hot divorcée, invite her up to your room and empty the minibar. Why not? Work hard, but steal all you can. Who cares? Smoke wherever you want.
The bad guys don’t get punished, and the good guys don’t get anything.
No light, no love, no lessons, no ladders, no robes, no wings, no hugs, no meaning. No truth. No God.
But that’s only one side. Here’s the other: First, take five, throw some water on your face, check to see if the kids are doing their homework or playing a game (of course they’re playing a game, dummy), grab a beer, go back downstairs, and take another breath. Here we go. The second proposition: There is a God.
(Oh, and this time, smile.)
There is a God, there is a light, and your parents really are waiting for you with arms held out and perfect love. It’s the single most thrilling sight in creation. Right next to them are your grandparents and all the relatives and friends you always cared about, and yes, their smiles are as moving as anything has ever been, and your hugs with them take a long, long time. Behind them are all the ancestors you’ve never met going back in history to the very beginning, and their smiles and hugs are great, too, because they wanted so much to meet you. They all look, well, beautiful, just the right ages, just the right clothes, and you laugh and laugh and laugh together.
Everything you’ve just seen and done is so moving it’s almost impossible to imagine that so many on Earth don’t believe it.
You return to your parents’ arms, and they whisper, “Of course we knew about that girl in your bedroom. What are we, stupid? By the way, the dogs are here, too! Pierre and Senator and Desdi and Dawg and Norman, all of them.” No one’s rushing you through this, because everyone knows that for the first time in your life you have all the time in the world to love and be loved.
How much time? Eternity. But this is just the first step.
Your parents walk you over to a pool of water and point, and now you have a perfect vision of your family back on Earth. They are home after your funeral and are tired and sad, but they’re happy, too, because they’re each holding something of yours, a book, a football, sneakers, and they’re laughing, because the boys are drinking Cokes, and you always said that was no good for them, and they always said it was, and you always said, “No!” Then you shrug and have a Coke, too, and give them all fresh ones, and say, “Boy, nothing beats a Coke,” and one of the boys gets a big bag of potato chips from the pantry to go with it, and that’s the way it always, always happened. And they’re doing it now in memory and smiling, and you begin to weep.
No bonds? Good Lord, they’re the strongest bonds in the universe. The bonds with your parents and wife and children are as deep as the ocean and last forever, and your parents hold you close now as they did when you were a baby, and it finally hits you that’s exactly what you are now. You’re a baby again.
They all walk you to meet God in His office for the Big Meeting, and it turns out Main Street really is beautiful and does look like Disney World.
Of course there’s a God, and of course there’s a Big Meeting. It’s your Judgment Day, and God may have a sour look on His face (He always does), and that’s right, your file may be far thicker than you thought it would be. (Everyone’s is.)
That’s okay, though, because here’s a surprise that’s very good and very big. Yes, the Lord is known for His quick temper, but it’s far more important when you realize He gives good people, all good people, and you, too, all the time they need to ask forgiveness. That’s what really counts.
You see, bad people get punished deeply. And with them the Big Meeting doesn’t take long at all, but oh, how they wish it did. As soon as He walks in, they get it and understand, and crumble and scream and instantly know the depth of the evil they committed, and feel it all for the first time. They’re crushed with sadness and waste and judgment and fear, and the reason that meeting is so short and nothing is said is that there’s nothing to say. The bad ones have a very long time to think about that.
Bad people don’t even need to hear their verdicts; they already know them. They knew it in this life, too, but they were too stubborn to pay them any mind. Then, finally, at the end of the very short meeting, the bad people stand and leave and are taken to an elevator by the same assistant (who’s no longer smiling), and the streets aren’t beautiful anymore but dark and cold and empty, and as soon as the bad people enter the elevator they notice they’re alone, and their sadness multiplies greatly, because they know they’ll be alone forever, and they realize what every other monster in history knows: The old, old elevator has no buttons, and it only goes one way—down—at one speed—fast—and the worst truth of all, no matter how horrible the place is that they’re going, is that the elevator will never, ever take them back up.
Folks, friends, it’s time to learn that you definitely want a long meeting with God, because if you have one, you’ve already made it. You’re in! Even the greatest, finest people in history had long meetings with God.
Right after your parents hug you (and that’s a pretty good hug, by the way) they tell you heaven is far bigger than you thought, and all the good souls have more work to do, and it’s very important work. It’s God’s work, and both He and they and you have never been happier.
There is another side of life. Of course there is; nothing would make sense without it. There is a Judgment Day, there is a heaven up high. There’s lots of religion, and you finally learn that doesn’t me
an sitting stiffly in starched clothes—it means reaching out yourself, because prayers are love songs. It turns out you can meet Beethoven and Saint Agnes and all your heroes. You can meet them for eternity. And sure, Helen of Troy may not be interested in you, but who knows?
Your meeting with God doesn’t start with Him mad, either. You look up when He comes in and realize your parents aren’t the only ones with their arms held out in perfect love. God does, too, and it’s all you can do to stand up shaking and move to Him, and God’s hug is so good you don’t even mind when His first question is, “So what was the deal with that girl in your bedroom in tenth grade? You kissed for a while, like two clumsy kids, but nothing else happened, and why would it? How was that climb back out the window afterward? You broke that screen, didn’t you? Of course your parents knew about it. You’re lucky hers didn’t.”
Every soul is valuable. Shakespeare is just as pleased with you as you are with him, and, holy moly, wonder of wonders, can you believe it? Helen of Troy thinks you’re a cutie pie and has a few things she’d like to read to you, too.
Every hug and conversation and song last forever, you can do them all at the same time, they never conflict, everyone walks together.
It turns out a prayer is just speaking right to God, and He hears everything, and you’re perfect for that, too. Your mom and dad are so loved by God they get big promotions. They can’t tell you where they go, but you know it’s good, and you’re just happy they’re there. (Maybe someday you’ll go somewhere wonderful, too.)
There are many secrets in heaven, but each one is a great joy when you understand. And you understand.
Watching a sunset on Earth is beautiful, but not even close to watching angels slowly float by. Kissing a beautiful woman on Earth isn’t a trillionth as good as seeing a child in heaven laughing with a dog. A bite of fresh pizza in heaven seems to be the best taste anyone’s ever had. And it is. No one has trouble sleeping in heaven, and no one has trouble waking up … and the dreams! Heaven is a movie, a constant movie, the best movie ever, and it’s still being made, and you’re in it, and it’s great every time you see it. There are no surprise endings because the movie never stops.
The Seven Deadly Virtues Page 8