MLK and St. Augustine

One hears whispers, now and again, that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., harbored imperfection. There are murmurs of improprieties in his doctoral thesis—mutters of infidelity in his marriage. The man was a genius, a visionary, and a great leader; also, he was a man. Not an Archangel, perfect in Heaven. It takes nothing away from his legacy to admit his flaws. Indeed, if he hadn’t been flawed, his achievements would be less admirable.

But contrast our reticence about the putative sins of Rev. King with our almost indecent revelry in the sins of Hippo’s bishop. You already see where I’m going with this: ask ten random people for an Augustinian anecdote, and at least ten of them will say, “Lord, give me chastity, but not yet.” It detracts from neither his sanctity nor his sagacity; if anything, it makes him more relatable, more encouraging, hence in a very real way a better saint, because God can make more use of his example to inspire us.

Now, obviously, there’s one crucial difference here: St. Augustine is not a martyr. His city was beleaguered by heretics—the original Vandals, in fact—during his terminal illness, but he wasn’t murdered by cowards in mid-crusade. Also, there aren’t any Third Century Manichaeans still slinking around, looking for ways to discredit Augustine. The reputation of Dr. King, on the other hand, might still be attacked by bigots and the sons of bigots. All that being the case, it’s only prudent to be more circumspect in mentioning his errors, at least for a few more generations.

Furthermore, the sin of Augustine was not less grave merely because he made a well-known joke about it. In fact, his sin—his mortal sin, that brought so many years of anguish to the soul of his mother, St. Monica—is all the more dangerous to the rest of us because his wit makes it seem roguish and charming. Ultimately, the  famous quip is comic, not tragic, for only one reason: that, in the end, he allowed the Lord to grant his prayer.

In short, a person’s failings are never, in and of themselves, to be celebrated. But, since we all fail, since all have sinned and fallen short, it can sometimes be consoling and encouraging to remember that our greatest heroes are no exception. And whatever their faults, it needn’t tarnish the inspiration we can take from their accomplishments.

I say all this because I happened upon an article alleging some things against Dr. King; I have no idea if those specific allegations were true, but I certainly know the man was a sinner, because he was a man. And I’m not afraid of finding out that a hero did ugly things. On the contrary, it tells me that even with all that extra weight and wounding on one’s soul, one can still reach the starlit peaks above.

Dad Abdication. Abdadcation? Dabdication!

Someday I’ll probably write a blog post that doesn’t mention G.K. Chesterton. But not today. GK once said of Aquinas that he always wrote with an eye on two qualities: clarity and courtesy. “And he did it because they were entirely practical qualities, affecting the probabilities of conversion.” I try to keep that in mind. I feel like I’m generally pretty courteous. But then I hear people say, “I don’t go to church because my parents made me go as a child,” and I just can't do it anymore. These are the words of an idiot. Did your parents not make you eat vegetables? Read books? Use the potty? If you’re not still doing anything your parents made you do as a child, how are you even alive?

Sonya’s almost two now. (When she was born, absolutely everyone told me they grow up fast; and yep, sometimes everybody’s right.) We’re well past the point where I can let her get away with things like—to pick a random example—throwing her food on the floor. Now and again, we have these titanic battles of will, hinging on the disposition of oatmeal or bath toys. It’s hard for me, because I adore this girl and it breaks my heart to hear her cry, let alone to make her cry. And it’s hard on her because I’m fifteen times her size and hold a black belt in Jiu-jutsu.

Waited a long time to bust out this pic.

As a father, I know perfectly well that it’s my responsibility to discipline my children and teach them to function in society. And I swear I can deal with her crying because I know it’s for her own good and I would be failing and maiming her if I didn’t hold these lines. (Also she’d probably starve if I didn’t coax her into eating once in awhile.) What really bothers me is the power disparity. Of course I can sit there and wait her out. She has no money, no geographical knowledge; she doesn’t have an ID, she doesn’t know anyone that would harbor a fugitive toddler. What’s she gonna do? Ultimately, she’s going to do what she’s told.

And that’s good, because it happens that I do love her and have her best interests at heart. But somehow, it still just seems unfair. I feel like a bully, calmly sitting there holding a spoonful of applesauce while she writhes and shrieks in her high chair. I do it anyway, because I’m her dad and I have to. And you’d better believe we take her to church every week. Why in the Name of God do people think they’re being “deep” (whatever damn fool thing that means) when they reject “organized religion” for “spirituality”? We have organized English. Organized Math. Organized rules for operating a motor vehicle, a bathtub, a toaster. How is it smart to accept no guidance, no fundamentals, in the most important thing of all? Anyway, that’s a whole blog post worth of ranting. If Sonya chooses another spiritual path as an adult, that’s her right; but at least she’ll have a solid foundation from which to make intelligent choices. We’re not going to let her subsist on candy corns because I’m too much of a weakling to make her eat her broccoli.

Also, piano lessons.