Yi-Fu Tuan - Dear Colleague

April 19, 2005

Dear Colleague,

"I am as good as you are," said with a chip on one's shoulder, is as American as cherry pie. It is a claim to equality. One problem with the claim is that saying the words is already an admission of inferiority. A more serious problem is that it makes for an incredibly dull life--a life in which there is no one (high-school quarterback, Mozart, or Niels Henrik Abel) that one can admire. The desire to admire is innate to human nature, beginning with the time when, as young children, we looked up to our parents for authority, wisdom, and love; and the desire continues throughout life--that is, if we continue to live fully rather than become, as we are wont, desiccated curmudgeons.

As you can see, I am in favor of our capacity to admire. The events that followed the death of John Paul II are, however, forcing me to revise my opinion, making me wonder whether this capacity, when carried to adulation and worship, isn't the source of the greatest evil. Why do we have so little self-respect that we can stand in absolute awe of another? Think of the janitor who worked in John Kennedy, Jr.'s magazine office. He saw young John coming toward him and froze. Kennedy asked him what was the matter, and he managed to say in a trembling voice that he never expected to meet a Kennedy in the flesh. The janitor could have fallen on his knees in awe--and this in a proud democracy! Of course, I have given just one tiny example, but I do so as a shorthand to remind us of the many examples of hero-worshiping on a massive scale--the craze surrounding imperial figures such as Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Stalin, Mao, and, yes, John Paul the Great. All of them, including (apparently) even Genghis Khan, claimed to be benevolent despots, and all had the multitudes groveling on their knees.

The funeral pomp of the late Pope made me reread the chapter "The Grand Inquisitor" in Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. In this chapter, Ivan the skeptic tells a story to his young brother, Alyosha, an apprentice-monk. The story goes something like this. At the height of the Inquisition in the 16th century, the Grand Inquisitor burned a hundred heretics in Seville, Spain, in the midst of cheering potentates and a large crowd. Jesus unobtrusively appeared and drew many toward him. The Grand Inquisitor saw what was happening. He went with his guards to Jesus and had him arrested. The crowd, which only a minute before followed Jesus, quickly turned away from him and knelt as one before the Grand Inquisitor to receive his blessing. Jesus was thrown into a dungeon. At night, the Grand Inquisitor visited him and said, "Why have you come back? Haven't you already given us the keys to bind and loose as we wish? Don't you know that we are doing your work better than you can? You offer humans freedom with only one constraint--your own image of goodness. But the freedom you give is the ability to choose between good and evil, every moment every day, rather than the ability to choose a toothpaste or a political party, and the people--these weak creatures--are utterly miserable. We the Church, for our part, offer people miracle, mystery, and authority, and the people love us, obey us, and kiss our feet. You, Jesus, are inhuman. You care only for the elect who can truly appreciate freedom; you yourself said that 'narrow is the gate' and that only a few are chosen. We, for our part, are compassionate; we lie at the risk to our own souls so that all may be happy. Tomorrow, at a gesture from me, the people will rush forward to burn you at the stake. But I won't do that. I will let you go. Go quietly and never come back again" (my paraphrase).

Best wishes,

Yi-Fu