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Rev. Jennifer Brooks is Minister of the Unitarian Church on Nantucket Island. She came to Nantucket from Geneva, Switzerland, where she served as deputy director of the human rights organization International Bridges to Justice. Rev. Brooks entered the ministry after a 20-year career in law, specializing as a consultant to developing nations in Africa and emerging democracies in Eastern Europe. She holds an LL.M. degree from Harvard Law School and an M.Div. from Harvard Divinity School. She is the enthusiastic parent of two adopted children, Jamie (23) and Kevin (14). She enjoys bicycling, canoing, and wilderness camping.
Read Rev. Brooks's sermon The Lucifer Effect: A Sermon for Memorial Day: President Dwight David Eisenhower, who understood war as a participant and as a
national leader, said in 1953: “No people on earth can be held, as a people, to be enemy, for all humanity shares the common hunger for peace and fellowship and justice.” Eisenhower was reflecting painfully on the disruption to peace that followed the end of World War II: the formation of opposing power blocs each armed with nuclear weapons...
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I can’t think about “goodness” without recalling the 1932 Mae West film, “Night after Night.” Mae West plays the role of gangster’s moll Maudie Tippett. As Maudie enters a nightclub draped in diamonds, the hat-check girl exclaims, “Goodness, what lovely diamonds!”
Mae answers, famously, “Goodness had nothing to do with it.”
The “goodness” flowing from the scriptwriter’s pen is cultural shorthand for God. The phrase “for goodness sake” is, more correctly, “for goodness’s sake,” or perhaps, “for Goodness’s sake.” In other words, “for God’s sake.” Linguistically and theologically, God and goodness are linked. “God” and “good” are one.
Because people think of God as good, and “good” as a sort of counterweight to “evil,” it is easy to think of God and goodness on one side, with Satan and evil on the other, as if in some cosmic tug-of-war where the forces are evenly balanced and human beings are challenged to throw their lot in with one side or the other. The Lucifer Effect, with its allusion to Satan, tends to reinforce this image.
There are many reasons why I think this is an incorrect picture of the universe, but I’ll deal with only one of them now and save the rest for future posts: good and evil are not evenly balanced.
Let’s set “God” aside for a moment and start with “good.” It is possible to think theologically about “good” whether or not we start with God. (Consider the Dalai Lama.) And it’s helpful.
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Why is there evil?
In William Blake's famous poem "The Tyger," the poet describes the tiger's ferocity and wonders about its Creator: "Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"
A telling question. A heart-felt, serious question.
The conventional understanding of God as all-powerful makes God responsible for both good and evil ("weal and woe"). People wrestle emotionally with the idea that good and evil could have their source in a single all-powerful being: Does God choose to do evil?
One response is a dualistic view of God, a "good" God figure and a "bad" God figure: in conventional terms, "God" and "Satan." In religious discourse today, many traditions resort to the idea of a "bifurcated" Power: Good vs. Evil, God vs. Satan.
People who think this way tend to classify other people as either on "God's side" or "Satan's side." It becomes a natural tendency to demonize anyone who disagrees. This bifurcated, "binary," right-wrong, good-evil way of thinking is a major source of violence, cruelty, and evil in the world. The moment we classify someone as "the spawn of Satan" is the moment we eliminate any need to understand, to feel compassion for, to love that person. The Lucifer Effect shows clearly that de-humanizing others is the first step toward evil actions.
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Imagine a place like Mars: barren, dry, lifeless. But in the far future humans have learned to terraform planets—to make them like Earth. As the planet changes, its thin atmosphere gradually increasing, the first tentative plants taking root, humans live in a domed city safe from the harsh external world. Inside the dome they have everything they need: air, beautiful gardens, food, wildlife, lakes and streams.
But some catastrophe happens back on Earth, and the humans living in the domed city on the strange planet are cut off from humankind. Over time they lose the knowledge of how the domed city came to be. They carry out the tasks that support their environment without understanding what they do, simply following the rules that sustain their environment. As the years pass, the atmosphere outside the dome slowly grows supportive of human life—though it is still harsh and unwelcoming compared to the veritable Garden of Eden that is their city inside the dome.
Then one day a man (let’s call him Adam) decides to break one of the rules he does not understand. Like the first bite of an apple, his decision ruptures the curving wall of the dome. Was Lucifer whispering in his ear?
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Sometimes heroes are people who stand between.
In 1859 a young Swiss entrepreneur named Henri Dunant witnessed the battle of Solfertino, where the French and Italians were fighting to drive Austrians out of Italy. Three years later he published a book about the experience, A Memory of Solfertino.
Dunant's book tells about the bloody battle, but its focus is on the aftermath—the fruitless attempt to help the wounded and dying. The book concludes with a proposal that all nations form volunteer committees of non-combatants to help care for soldiers injured in battle.
Two years after A Memory of Solfertino was published, twelve nations met in Geneva to sign a treaty, the first “Geneva Convention.” They agreed to form national committees of the “Red Cross” and to respect the battlefield neutrality of Red Cross volunteers. It was the first step to a new way for the global community to think about war.
Today everyone knows about the International Red Cross. They go to places where terrible things have happened and they bring first aid, food, blankets. They stand between people and disaster; they hand out bottles of water and when they can they set up field kitchens so people can have a hot meal. In wartime they bring balm to the injured, make the wounded whole; and they visit prisoners held by opposing armies.
Today there are many additional Geneva Conventions. In addition to battlefield neutrality for armband-wearing volunteers, the newer Conventions lay out a plan for humane treatment of non-combatants and prisoners of war. The Red Cross has expanded from 12 nations to 181, and its symbol from the red cross to (in Arabic countries) a red crescent, and (in countries that wish to adopt neither cross nor crescent) a red crystal.
The current challenge for the International Red Cross is the detention of people who are not prisoners of war but persons named as unlawful enemy combatants. A 10-year-old Afghani boy named Esrarullah saw his father for the first time in 8 months—not in person, because families of detainees are not allowed to visit—but by an internet video conference arranged by the Red Cross. I cannot imagine how difficut it must have been for the Red Cross to arrange an internet video conferencing in Kabul, Afghanistan between a father detained at an American air base outside Kabul, when for months the authorities had allowed no contact.
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The story of Daniel in the lion’s den is the perfect Sunday School thriller. There is the good guy, the hero, Daniel; the bad guy, the Evil King of Babylonia, Darius, who orders Daniel thrown among the lions simply for practicing his faith; and the lions, scary and dangerous, who mysteriously do no harm to Daniel.
Children come away from this story, no doubt, impressed with the idea that if they, too, faithfully honor their religious teachings, they will be protected from danger.
That lesson is actually not the real story, the truth of the story.
The real story of Daniel is far more nuanced than the Sunday School moral lesson, and as a result it tells us much more about good and evil, and how we figure out which is which. The truth of Daniel's story involves the Lucifer Effect.
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Nantucket, Massachusetts has just witnessed a 3-week murder trial.
Thomas Toolan was found guilty of killing Beth Lochtefeld, the girlfriend who rejected him. Toolan was so “in love” with her that two days after she broke up with him he tracked her down and stabbed her repeatedly with a knife. My heart goes out to Beth’s family, whose wise and compassionate public statement at the trial’s end is an exemplar of lovingkindness.
Sensational trials like Toolan’s shock the public, but it’s too easy to write Toolan off as a sick, unstable man. Using the analytical framework of The Lucifer Effect, domestic violence is not merely a problem of individuals with a “disposition” for control by violence. Extreme acts like Toolan’s, which receive wide media attention, mask the underlying social systems that support and sustain domestic violence. Especially hidden, and therefore especially insidious, are the theological systems that reinforce the abuser’s sense of righteousness.
My phone rang late one evening and when I answered, a man’s angry voice shocked me to attention.
He was the husband of a woman I’d been encouraging as she struggled to prepare for a court appearance in the divorce she’d sought, which had dragged on for three years.
“Why are you helping her?” he demanded. “Don’t you know that it’s all her fault?”
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