I have always been fascinated with St. Paul. He has been hailed both as the architect of Christianity and as its most eloquent prophet, but also condemned by some as the person who had distorted the original message and mission of Jesus and, in doing so, paved the way for some of the darker paths that Christianity has gone down in the past two millennia. Paul, of course, had originally been a persecutor of the small sect that had been followers of Jesus, bent on destroying it, but had then undergone a sudden, transformational conversion, after which he joined and eventually became a leader among the new sect, providing guidance to the many new churches that were being formed throughout Greece and Italy. Having read many accounts and studies of Paul’s life (which, admittedly, can only be based on the scant writings by and about Paul that have survived from that time), I have come to believe that Paul’s conversion experience was the result of a sort of cognitive dissonance that had been growing within Paul for much of his life and had reached a breaking point. He was a man that had wanted to devote himself to religious service, but, perhaps because he had been a Jew raised outside of Judea in the region of Asia Minor, had not been able to receive the level of training that would allow him to join the ranks of the Pharisees in Judea, and so attempted to fulfill his need to engage in religious service by zealously opposing what appeared to be heretical sects. The dissonance arose from the fact that, rather than bringing him closer to God, these acts of persecution only alienated him further from the true form of spiritual life that he aspired to. He then found – in the very heretical sect that he had been pursuing – a pathway to his own salvation. For the appeal of the Christian message extended beyond the Jews who had embraced it: it also answered the call of a growing number of Gentiles throughout the Roman Empire who found only spiritual poverty in their own pagan religions. As St. Augustine, centuries later, colorfully explicated in his masterwork, City of God, there was a pronounced depravity among the gods and goddesses that populated the pagan pantheon of Greece and Rome, and in the time of the early Christians, this depravity was only exacerbated by the tendency of decadent Roman emperors, such as Caligula, to declare themselves gods. Many of the spiritually-starved Gentile subjects of Rome found, in Judaism, a moral God that was worthy of worship and allegiance, but were unable to find, from their perspective, a feasible means of entering into a relationship with that God. Christianity answered that call, and for Paul, who counted himself as much a citizen of Rome as a Jew, to align himself with the Christian mission was to restore to him a more wholesome and fulfilling spiritual calling. Paul became “the apostle to the Gentiles”, and in that role, he indelibly altered the course of human history. I have always been awed by the actual imprint that Paul has made upon civilization. Many philosophers, poets, and dramatists have entertained dreams of having their writings revered by posterity, but none have come close to the posterity of St. Paul. Consider that in just about every civilized city of the Western world, for the past two millennia, on any given Sunday, there is at least one, and probably dozens, or even hundreds, of congregations where excerpts of one or more of Paul’s dozen or so letters (“epistles”) to the early churches are read and then expounded upon in sermons. That is a monumental legacy that even the most ambitious of thinkers would never dare aspire to.
George Washington has always been a personal hero of mine, as much for what he did as for what he did not do. His early career as a soldier actually started rather inauspiciously, when, during the French and Indian War, as a colonial officer from Virginia, he led two retreats after unsuccessful attempts to repel French troops from British territory which they had claimed for France. After this unpromising beginning in military service, he resigned himself to the life of a country squire in a plantation in Virginia. It was not until more than twenty years later, when the American colonies were on the brink of war with England, that he appeared at the assembly of the Continental Congress, in uniform, and volunteered his services as a military officer. His career from that point, of course, has become the stuff of legend, as he led the revolutionary army to ultimate victory, winning independence for the colonies, and then presided over a committee that drafted a constitution, and finally served as the new nation’s first president. Many were shocked when, upon the successful conclusion of the war, Washington resigned his commission and retired again to his plantation in Virginia, apparently resisting any temptation to use his military power to gain a permanent hold in leading the affairs of the new country. (It is said that when King George III inquired what General Washington would do now that he had won the war, and was told that the General would return to his farm, the King replied, “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.”) And some were equally surprised when, upon the completion of his second four-year term as president, Washington declined to run again, and ceded the office to his elected successor, John Adams. But one of Washington’s boyhood heroes had been the Roman general Cincinnatus, an aristocratic farmer living in the fifth century B.C. who had been granted dictatorial powers by the Roman Senate twice during his lifetime, the first time to repel foreign invaders, and the second to quell a domestic crisis, and on both occasions, after succeeding in his mission, he resigned the dictatorship and returned to his farm. For Washington, Cincinnatus represented the epitome of heroism, and he more than emulated the model in his own life and career.
Winston Churchill certainly had his vices: He drank constantly and heavily, smoked several cigars a day, and relished a good hearty meal. I suspect that many in today’s effete society would find such vices insufferable, and would disapprove of the man for these alone. But he had one important, enduring virtue, and that was an implacable resolve in the face of adversity. Recently, in America, there has been a resurgent interest in what has now come to be called its “greatest generation”: those men and women who defended the country in World War II. But I think it would be well for Americans to remember and to feel a special gratitude for Britain’s own “greatest generation”, because for two harrowing years, while Americans were still embracing an ill-conceived isolationism, Britain stood virtually alone in staving off the Nazi menace. I have always felt a deep admiration for those RAF pilots who, during the Battle of Britain, had to take to the skies to confront German aerial bombers and fighters, knowing that if they survived the day, they would have to take to the air again the next day to fight again. These pilots were inspired, in turn, by a prime minister who famously said,
We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender . . .Churchill’s oratory had great power not just because of its elegance, but because they were spoken by a man who had demonstrated throughout his entire career, not only a great personal courage, but a steely resolve and uncompromising commitment to those goals and principles which he cherished the most – among them the rule of law, and defiance in the face of unprovoked aggression.
Clarence Darrow was a Chicago attorney and ardent champion of civil rights, aligning himself with causes associated with social reform, and defending clients who, because of the heinous nature of their alleged crimes, were considered by the general populace to be unworthy of having their say in court. (Because of this latter activity, Clarence Darrow was called “the attorney to the damned”.) Darrow is probably best remembered for two of his cases, both of which have been portrayed in movies, the first being the defense of “thrill killers” Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb, and the second being the “Scopes Monkey Trial.” In his defense of Leopold and Loeb, two teenagers from wealthy Chicago families who killed a younger boy in a sadistic fashion, merely for sport, Darrow pitted himself against a public that could not conceive of anything less than violent death as an appropriate fate for the killers. His closing argument, in which he did not contest their guilt, but merely pleaded for mercy, is perhaps one of the most famous in legal history, and has been dramatized in at least two movies (Compulsion, starring Orson Wells, and Darrow, starring Kevin Spacey). At the heart of his argument is that the response of society to such a terrible crime must be based upon a desire for justice, rather than pleasure in seeing the perpetrators killed, lest society itself succumb to the same evil that motivated the crime itself. In the “Scopes Monkey Trial” (immortalized in the play and movie, Inherit the Wind), Darrow championed the rights of a young schoolteacher who had been charged with a crime for teaching evolution in a school where such teaching had been prohibited. While he technically lost the case (in spite of his scathing critique of the opposition’s arguments for supporting the law), the worldwide attention that this trial drew to the attempts of certain states to stifle science education on religious grounds eventually reversed the tide of this trend in the United States.
I first became aware of Saul Alinsky, a 20th Century American community organizer and social activist, when I discovered his book, Rules for Radicals, as a very young man. I was at that stage in life where many are looking for a lofty ideal to build their life aspirations upon and a means for attaining that ideal. Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals provided substance for both finding the ideal and the means to attain it. The ideal was no less than social justice, by effectively organizing those without power against those who had it and were abusing it. I’m not sure I ever actually even finished the book (though I still have it in my library), but what I had read had made such an impression upon me that Saul Alinsky remained forever embedded in my mind as somebody who I would choose as one of my personal life guides. He was tremendously successful in mobilizing communities in Chicago, and his methods continue to inspire those who are endeavoring to effect social change, across the entire political spectrum. Among those currently prominent in American politics, both Barack Obama and the conservative “tea party” movement have drawn upon the lessons of Saul Alinsky.
As I’ve thought about my five choices over the years, I’ve asked myself what it was in particular about these five that had so resonated with me, and what, if anything, they had in common. I realized, as I reflected upon their lives and legacies, that what had made their lives meaningful to me was that each, through his particular choices and actions, have made future generations better off in some way. St. Paul had taken a small and struggling cult in Judea and, through his personal dedication and the power of his inspired writing, turned it into a religious mass movement that has provided a spiritual mooring for billions of human beings over a span of nearly two thousand years. George Washington, through his courage, and his self-control, established precedents that ensured the success of the infant republic, which in turn would serve as a model for future republics throughout the world. Winston Churchill defended civilization itself against organized tyranny, and his bold tenacity has inspired leaders of many nations in the generations that followed his own. Clarence Darrow used the rule of law to defend those who had difficulty finding an advocate in society, and to stave off those who would attempt to silence principled activists of social conscience through legal means. And Saul Alinsky taught scores of reformers and champions of social justice – through his actions as well as his writings – how to effectively achieve their goals. I truly believe that the world is a better place because these men lived and acted the way that they did.
Of course, each of them had their shortcomings. Paul, who perhaps as a Roman citizen did not perceive a common cause with the Judeans – including the Jewish Christians – engaged in the Judean struggle against Roman tyranny, endeavored to distance his brand of Christianity from them, in favor of a more pro-Roman variety that enabled him to spread his message throughout the empire without hindrance, and in so doing might have set the tone for the anti-Semitic elements of Christianity that have persisted even into the modern age. George Washington championed an isolationism for America that did not serve it well in the early 20th Century – particularly during the opening years of World War II. Winston Churchill’s dogged stand against tyranny and oppression could be rather myopic when it was applied to subjects of the British Empire, particularly India. Clarence Darrow apparently resorted to extra-legal means to advance his goals at times, which nearly ruined his career, and he also failed to appreciate, in his crusade against the abuses of religious fundamentalism, that an equally slavish devotion to an amoral scientism could lead to societal outcomes at least as pernicious as those produced by religion. And Saul Alinsky, who in his methods believed that activism was most effective when it was directed against a perceived common enemy, perhaps did not appreciate the fact that such methods – when indiscriminately applied – can sometimes become indistinguishable from the tactics of fascism.
But can we ever demand perfection of our heroes? We are, after all, a race of human beings, not gods. And if, at the end our lives, we can say that we have improved, even in some small way, the lot of those who follow us, then that is no mean accomplishment.
I invite you to do the same exercise and determine who your own life counselors would be, and ask yourself what it was about their lives and accomplishments that resonated with you. I suspect that your life will be greatly enriched as a result of the exercise.
