In the spirit of the late great St. Thomas Aquinas, I’d like to offer the following postulate: Every Christian is a hypocrite because every Christian is a sinner. Following this postulate’s logic, less hypocrisy would generate fewer sins and thus makes us all better Christians. Make sense? Well, then, I suppose in the dialectical manner or spirit of Socrates, I’d like to challenge the “Thomist” postulate with this supposition: “Being hypocritical” is a fundamentally sound Christian activity, and we would all do well to practice more of it. Here’s why.
Hypocrisy, as we all know, connotes judgment. As Christians, our ultimate judgment is that of God’s; in the here and now, it is that of society in general and that of our fellow Christians in particular. By claiming that we are Christian, we profess to live lives that are “Christ-like,” and we can look to His life lived and those of the Saints for inspiration and imitation. The more passionate our faith and the more vibrant and active it becomes, the greater the chances we have to be exposed as hypocrites. In other words, in revealing and thereby professing our faith, we become living targets, not only for the jealous, petty and churlish of our own congregations, but for the secular world that eschews and often denigrates “taking a stand” on so-called “moral issues.”
“Objectivity,” seemingly our society’s and especially our corporate media’s only abiding virtue, is not only a ruse but an “out” for its upholders. By claiming to be free from both internal and external “subjective” interests, our mediators can lay claim to “moral unaccountability.” The flaks and hacks that defend an imagined zone of non-culpability profess to be non-professors, claiming no privileged possession or conveyance of the truth, just a dutiful reportage of the facts. (Note how our society as a whole has come to mirror our media’s amorality…or is it the other way around?)
The upshot of this, of course, is that by refusing to acknowledge truth-claims, our media refuses to acknowledge any lie-claims, to speak. For if there is no “truth” — or at least pretensions there of — on its pages or appearing via other mediating implements, how can there be lies? And maybe this is fine, at least ostensibly. As Christians, we shouldn’t be turning to the media for “truth” anyway, especially truth with a capitalized “T.” But if we do just want the so-called facts and consult some media outlet for them, just remember that the fix is in. For to be free of bias or what we formerly referred to as prejudice is to be free of sin; and I’ve got to believe that there is no shortage of sin at The New York Times, et. al.
Bringing this back home again, I would then encourage all of us Christians to embrace our hypocrisy, because we are in effect embracing our faith. “Tolerance” may be an appropriate liberal or secular virtue; it has never been a Christian one. And if our Christian intolerance — our unabidance of societal morality — elicits secular or even “holy” approbation, let us welcome it. For as the perhaps not-so-great but certainly not-late John Cougar Mellencamp once tunefully quipped, “If you don’t stand for something, you’re gonna fall for anything.” And as Christians, we are called to indeed take stands. We must not only talk His talk, we must walk His walk. And if in the process we happen to stumble as we trundle, or if our gait appears weak at times, let our brother in faith nudge us on. Let our conscience remind us. Let the Holy Spirit guide us — back to a path more befitting of that of our Lord’s.
Don’t be tempted to lay down your cross because of our societal “slivers.” They are one and the same. Don’t be afraid to be a hypocrite.
“I’m a Christian in a sense I’m uneasy to talk about. From a sectarian point of view I’m a marginal Christian. But then I’m a marginal person, I’m a marginal writer.” — Wendell Berry
Marginality is something I’ve been forced to think about for most of my life. Like it or not. Whether I was growing up in Logan Square, having to be one of the tougher kids on my block, while simultaneously (unconsciously) propping up my image as my class’s biggest nerd, complete with thick glasses, goofy wardrobe and unkempt hair. Or making my way through high school, working part-time jobs to pay my way, staying on the honor roll, while also being punk rock. Or finally, moreover, as I am today: a traditionalist Catholic with a divorce (and worse) under my belt, and all but devoid of what’s come to be termed “conservative” politics as most commonly regarded.
In a word, I’m a mess. Not easy to pigeonhole, classify or stereotype. Not easy to befriend, ally or date. And since I don’t come with a label, I’m the type that’s easy to ignore. To underestimate. To regard less seriously. To marginalize.
This ain’t no pity party nor an attempt to claim bragging rights. Just part of an attempt to use this blog for what I hope it’s for; i.e., a medium for self-expression. I don’t wear my marginality as a badge of honor; nor do I wallow in the misery it might present. At fifty, I’m not changing. My life on the margins is firmly established.
It’s been a life of adaptation via reflection. And rejection. Despite looking like a freak during my punk days, I never did drugs. Straight-edge all the way. Even though I fell away from the Church in my twenties, I still honored its teachings. Or still respected them. I mostly remained monogamous. Never been to a strip club. Never watched porn. Always respected women, which my “feminist males” on the left merely gave lip service to, rarely practicing what they preached.
The whole “macho” thing never appealed to me. I remember nearly being seriously injured while working at the Chicago Board of Education for daring to challenge a couple of Hispanic guys I worked with to treat their wives/girlfriends as they’d want to be treated. That meant allowing “their women” to have affairs, just as they were. One morning I arrived at work to find my lift stacked on top of a pile of pallets. Another day I was nearly crushed by the two of them via their lifts, ala the Malachi brothers from “Happy Days.” Just for asking them to be a little less hypocritical and a lot more honest.
Same place but a different situation.
Just by chance, I discovered that a janitor who had once worked for the Board was on leave for health reasons. Asbestosis, to be precise. I happened to be getting coffee when I noticed a woman half-crying at a table in the vending area. No one else was around, so I tried to console her by using a little humor, trying to cheer her up. As it turned out, her husband had been an employee at the Board and had worked the freight elevator when asbestos was being removed there some years prior. He was currently dying of cancer, mesothelioma, from what she believed was a shoddy attempt at abatement in the building. She claimed that her husband was exposed to asbestos fibers as workers carelessly and recklessly transported the material on the freight elevator he was operating at the time. None of the OSHA/EPA-mandated procedures were followed, she told me, leading to an inevitable inhalation of the cancer-causing fibers. And now, in addition to dealing with a dying spouse, she was meeting hard resistance from Board directors and had barely the money to afford a lawyer to fight back.
Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. My conversation with this woman had me wondering about my own health and safety as I continued to work there. I ended up doing a bunch of poking around, and via a little research, I noticed quite a bit of asbestos still wrapped around pipes. Much of it was in bad shape, cracked in some locations and fractured in others. Made me a little concerned about all of the sweeping we did in the summer when things slowed in the schools. Was I breathing in this shit?
I brought it to the attention of my direct supervisor and his boss, which went nowhere. They told me that there was nothing to worry about and that I was imagining things. But I couldn’t get the conversation I’d had with that woman out of my mind. I felt that something needed to be done. So during the slow days we had, I went around the building and taped up hand-made signs, pointing out where I believed fractured asbestos was located. That eventually got the attention of both of my bosses; and if I had not been a member of the union, I'd have probably been fired. But I quit instead.
“I’m a Christian in a sense I’m uneasy to talk about. From a sectarian point of view I’m a marginal Christian. But then I’m a marginal person, I’m a marginal writer.” — Wendell Berry
Marginality is something I’ve been forced to think about for most of my life. Like it or not. Whether I was growing up in Logan Square, having to be one of the tougher kids on my block, while simultaneously (unconsciously) propping up my image as my class’s biggest nerd, complete with thick glasses, goofy wardrobe and unkempt hair. Or making my way through high school, working part-time jobs to pay my way, staying on the honor roll, while also being punk rock. Or finally, moreover, as I am today: a traditionalist Catholic with a divorce (and worse) under my belt, and all but devoid of what’s come to be termed “conservative” politics as most commonly regarded.
In a word, I’m a mess. Not easy to pigeonhole, classify or stereotype. Not easy to befriend, ally or date. And since I don’t come with a label, I’m the type that’s easy to ignore. To underestimate. To regard less seriously. To marginalize.
This ain’t no pity party nor an attempt to claim bragging rights. Just part of an attempt to use this blog for what I hope it’s for; i.e., a medium for self-expression. I don’t wear my marginality as a badge of honor; nor do I wallow in the misery it might present. At fifty, I’m not changing. My life on the margins is firmly established.
It’s been a life of adaptation via reflection. And rejection. Despite looking like a freak during my punk days, I never did drugs. Straight-edge all the way. Even though I fell away from the Church in my twenties, I still honored its teachings. Or still respected them. I mostly remained monogamous. Never been to a strip club. Never watched porn. Always respected women, which my “feminist males” on the left merely gave lip service to, rarely practicing what they preached.
The whole “macho” thing never appealed to me. I remember nearly being seriously injured while working at the Chicago Board of Education for daring to challenge a couple of Hispanic guys I worked with to treat their wives/girlfriends as they’d want to be treated. That meant allowing “their women” to have affairs, just as they were. One morning I arrived at work to find my lift stacked on top of a pile of pallets. Another day I was nearly crushed by the two of them via their lifts, ala the Malachi brothers from “Happy Days.” Just for asking them to be a little less hypocritical and a lot more honest.
Same place but a different situation.
Just by chance, I discovered that a janitor who had once worked for the Board was on leave for health reasons. Asbestosis, to be precise. I happened to be getting coffee when I noticed a woman half-crying at a table in the vending area. No one else was around, so I tried to console her by using a little humor, trying to cheer her up. As it turned out, her husband had been an employee at the Board and had worked the freight elevator when asbestos was being removed there some years prior. He was currently dying of cancer, mesothelioma, from what she believed was a shoddy attempt at abatement in the building. She claimed that her husband was exposed to asbestos fibers as workers carelessly and recklessly transported the material on the freight elevator he was operating at the time. None of the OSHA/EPA-mandated procedures were followed, she told me, leading to an inevitable inhalation of the cancer-causing fibers. And now, in addition to dealing with a dying spouse, she was meeting hard resistance from Board directors and had barely the money to afford a lawyer to fight back.
Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. My conversation with this woman had me wondering about my own health and safety as I continued to work there. I ended up doing a bunch of poking around, and via a little research, I noticed quite a bit of asbestos still wrapped around pipes. Much of it was in bad shape, cracked in some locations and fractured in others. Made me a little concerned about all of the sweeping we did in the summer when things slowed in the schools. Was I breathing in this shit?
I brought it to the attention of my direct supervisor and his boss, which went nowhere. They told me that there was nothing to worry about and that I was imagining things. But I couldn’t get the conversation I’d had with that woman out of my mind. I felt that something needed to be done. So during the slow days we had, I went around the building and taped up hand-made signs, pointing out where I believed fractured asbestos was located. That eventually got the attention of both of my bosses; and if I had not been a member of the union, probably fired.
