An Election Day Meditation

You may not be aware that the readership of this blog is well up into the single digits. One of those readers responded to the "seek after peace and pursue it" post by sending a paraphrase of the Serenity Prayer:

     God, grant me the serenity
     To accept the things I cannot control,
     Courage to control the things  I can,
     and wisdom to know the difference. 

Something about this struck me as not entirely apposite to the point I was making, but it was not immediately clear why. So in the spirit of writing to find out what one knows, as opposed to writing in order to tell what he knows, I offer this meditation.

It seems to me that there are two levels of reason for humbly accepting that one cannot control everything. The first is a psychological reason (or perhaps a psychological and social reason): a person is much more at peace, with himself and with others, when he does not try to control everything. This is a very good reason because internal peace and contentment may be the single happiest state we can achieve.

The second is a theological reason, the belief that there is a personal and infinitely loving God whose "eye is on the sparrow;" that is, a God who is actively involved in the world He created and moves in it in loving ways. If such a thing is true, then we can truly "Let Go; Let God." I believe that this is an even better reason.

Both reasons seem to proceed from the assumption that it is not a good thing to be in control of much of anything.

But doesn't this fly in the face of the practicalities of our lives? We have our physical selves to maintain and protect; we have our relatives and friends to support and defend; we have our professional and creative activities to practice. In all these ways, we hope to succeed and even to prosper. Are not these good things? Do we not have an obligation to love ourselves the way that He loves us? And to love one another as we love ourselves? And not to hide our light under the proverbial bushel basket but to shine in the world?

In life, we see examples of responses to these apparently contradictory requirements that span a wide spectrum. The hermit, the monk, the religious who lives in community, the resident of the kibbutz --- these occupy one end of the spectrum. The person who is acquisitive, selfish, and materialistic but involved in all kinds of social, political, and economic activities is at the other end.

The Greeks (and the Romans after them, imitating them as in most things) preached balance in our lives. One

 formulaic version of this is the saying "moderation in all things" which always reminds me of the Jesuit who said to us, "Moderation in all things, including moderation." As with most clever lines from Jesuits, there's a lot to that.

Emerson said, "Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds." Moderation as a mindless habit doesn't seem like what the Ancients were advising.

So how are we to be humble enough to let go of the temptation to control others; loving enough to trust ourselves and to trust others, even when we are afraid to do so; and wise and courageous enough to do the right thing in the world?

These are the questions that have bedeviled thoughtful men and women from time immemorial. The licentious don't care about these questions; they get to do whatever they want. And the conformist don't care; they simply follow the rules of whatever institution they've turned themselves over to. And the supremely confident in their own rightness find such questions befuddling.

The free man takes on the burden of grappling with these questions and courageously living with the existential doubt that inevitably accompanies them.

That existential doubt is inevitable because "now we see through a glass, darkly." That is our lot and we can either take on that burden or shun it.

None of us will ever get it exactly right. No matter how hard we try, we are all imperfect. We should keep that in mind when we find ourselves thinking that we know what other people should do and be.

Not a bad meditation for Election Day, I think.