Above: The Front Page of Stars and Stripes, May 2, 1945
Image in the Public Domain
Just leave Hitler out of it.
—Morning Joe, April 12, 2017
As Sean Spicer has learned this week and, to his credit, he should have just left Hitler out of a discussion of the crimes of the dictator of Syria.
The Hitler analogy is one I hear people of various political stripes invoke against their opponents frequently. The analogy applies well to only a select group of individuals that includes Joseph Stalin and Mao Zedong, the body count of each of whom exceeds that of the Fuherer, responsible for the Holocaust. I recall that my Paul Broun, Jr., my former Congressman, compared Barack Obama to Hitler and Stalin–one a Fascist and the other a Communist–two opposing ideologies. I remember hearing someone say “Hitlery Clinton” years ago. I also recall hearing more than one person liken advocates of gun control to Nazis. Oddly enough, I do not remember hearing anyone condemning the ownership and driving of Volkswagens, vehicles of which Hitler approved, due to the Nazi connection.
The crimes of the Nazis–especially Hitler–were of such magnitude that one should never trivialize them. If every other thing is as bad as something the Nazis did, how bad could the Nazis have been? The answer to that question is or should be obvious: (1) The Nazis were especially evil, and (2) Very little has ever risen to the level of evil of the Third Reich. Evil of a magnitude lesser than that of the Nazis has long existed; examples have included Saddam Hussein and Bashar al-Assad.
As Jeffrey Toobin has said, “arguments are easy at the extremes. ” I conclude that the comfort level with the simplicity of easy arguments makes many people want to avoid the messier arguments between the extremes and leads them to resort to fallacies such as the misuse of the Hitler analogy. Doing so also weakens their arguments and reveals them to be idiots.
Can we just leave Hitler out of it when he does not belong there?
KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR
APRIL 13, 2017 COMMON ERA
Above: Icon of St. Maria Skobtsova
Image in the Public Domain
SAINT MARIA SKOBTSOVA (DECEMBER 20, 1891-MARCH 31, 1945)
Orthodox Poet, Nun, Martyr, and Resister of the Nazis
Elizabeta Pilenko came from an aristocratic family in Latvia, Russian Empire, in 1891. Raised Christian, she declared her atheism during adolescence, after her father died. In 1906 Elizabeta moved with mother to St. Petersburg, where the young woman entered radical intellectual circles and married her first husband. The marriage was brief, ending in divorce. Elizabeta returned to Christianity after the end of this union.
In 1918, after the Bolshevik Revolution, Elizabeta became Deputy Mayor of Anapa, in south Russia. When the White Russian Army occupied the town, prompting the mayor to flee, Elizabeta became Mayor. Almost immediately she faced charges of being a Bolshevik. The trial resulted in an acquittal, and the judge, Daniel Skobtsova, became her second husband. The Skobtsovas (including a young daughter, Gaiana) fled Russia a few years later and arrived in Paris in 1923. By that time new additions to the family included a son, Yuri, and a second daughter, Anastasia. Elizabeta began to study theology and to devote herself to social work. Three years later Anastasia died of influenza, Gaiana was studying at a Belgian boarding school, and the marriage crumbled. Daniel kept custody of Yuri, and Elizabeta worked with the needy people of Paris.
In 1932, after the Orthodox Church granted an ecclesiastical divorce, Elizabeta became a nun, took the name Maria, lived in a rented house open for public service and intellectual and theological discussion, and continued her work among the poor. In 1940, after the Nazis occupied France, Mother Maria helped shelter Jews and aided the flight of others to safety. Her conspirators in these righteous deeds included Sophia (her mother), Yuri (her son), and Father Dmitri Klepinin (the chaplain of her house). Eventually Gestapo agents arrested them. Yuri and Father Dmitri died at the Dora concentration camp. Mother Maria died on March 31, 1945, when she volunteered to take the place of a Jewish woman bound for a gas chamber at the Ravesnbruck concentration camp.
Sometimes the demands of faith require one to die for another human being. I think also of St. Maximilian Kolbe (August 14), a Roman Catholic priest who sheltered Jews and took the place of an otherwise doomed Jew, too. And I ponder the example of Jonathan Myrick Daniels (also August 14), an Episcopal seminarian who placed his body in the path of a bullet meant for an African-American girl in 1965 Alabama. St. Maria Skobtsova understood the relationship between theology and life. Her theology demanded that she care for those who needed what she had to offer. At the end she offered her life. There is no greater love than that.
Maria, her chaplain, and her son are now saints in the Orthodox Church.
Taking Up the Cross, by St. Maria:
We must seek authentic and profound religious bases in order to understand and justify our yearning for man, our love of man, our path among our brothers, among people.
And warnings sound from two different sides. On one side, the humanistic world, even as it accepts the foundations of Christian morality in inter-human relations, simply does not need any further deepening, any justification that does not come from itself. This world keeps within three dimensions, and with those three dimensions it exhausts the whole of existence. On the other side, the world connected with the Church also warns us: often the very theme of man seems something secondary to it, something that removes us from the one primary thing, from an authentic communion with God. For this world, Christianity is this relation to God. The rest is christianizing or christianification.
We must be deaf to these two warnings. We must not only suppose, we must know that the first of them, coming from a world deprived of God, destroys the very idea of man, who is nothing if he is not the image of God, while the second destroys the idea of the Church, which is nothing if it does not imply the individual human being within it, as well as the whole of mankind.
We must not only be deaf to these warnings, we must be convinced that the question of an authentic and profound religious attitude toward man is precisely the meeting point of all questions of the Christian and the godless world, and that even this godless world is waiting for a word from Christianity, the only word capable of healing and restoring all, and perhaps sometimes even of raising what is dead.
But at the same time, perhaps for centuries now, the Christian soul has been suffering from a sort of mystical Protestantism. Only the combination of two words carries full weight for it: God and I, God and my soul, and my path, and my salvation. For the modern Christian soul it is easier and more natural to say “My Father” than “Our Father,” “deliver me from the evil one,” “give me this day my daily bread,” and so on.
And on these paths of the solitary soul striving toward God, it seems that everything has been gone through, all roads have been measured, all possible dangers have been accounted for, the depths of all abysses are known. It is easy to find a guide here, be it the ancient authors of ascetic books, or the modern followers of ancient ascetic traditions, who are imbued with their teachings.
But there is also a path that seeks a genuinely religious relation to people, that does not want either a humanistic simplification of human relations or an ascetic disdain of them.
Before speaking of this path, we must understand what that part of man’s religious life which is exhausted by the words “God and my soul” is based on in its mystical depths.
If we decide responsibly and seriously to make the Gospel truth the standard for our human souls, we will have no doubts about how to act in any particular case of our lives: we should renounce everything we have, take up our cross, and follow Him. The only thing Christ leaves us is the path that leads after Him, and the cross which we bear on our shoulders, imitating His bearing of the cross to Golgotha.
It can be generally affirmed that Christ calls us to imitate Him. That is the exhaustive meaning of all Christian morality. And however differently various peoples in various ages understand the meaning of this imitation, all ascetic teachings in Christianity finally boil down to it. Desert dwellers imitate Christ’s forty-day sojourn in the desert. Fasters fast because He fasted. Following His example, the prayerful pray, virgins observe purity, and so on. It is not by chance that Thomas à Kempis entitled his book The Imitation of Christ; it is a universal precept of Christian morality, the common title, as it were, of all Christian asceticism.
I will not try to characterize here the different directions this imitation has taken, and its occasional deviations, perhaps, from what determines the path of the Son of Man in the Gospel. There are as many different interpretations as there are people, and deviations are inevitable, because the human soul is sick with sin and deathly weakness.
What matters is something else. What matters is that in all these various paths Christ Himself made legitimate this solitary standing of the human soul before God, this rejection of all the rest – that is, of the whole world: father and mother, as the Gospel precisely puts it, and not only the living who are close to us, but also the recently dead – everything, in short. Naked, solitary, freed of everything, the soul sees only His image before it, takes the cross on its shoulders, following His example, and goes after him to accept its own dawnless night of Gethsemane, its own terrible Golgotha, and through it to bear its faith in the Resurrection into the undeclining joy of Easter.
Here it indeed seems that everything is exhausted by the words “God and my soul.” All the rest is what He called me to renounce, and so there is nothing else: God – and my soul – and nothing.
No, not quite nothing. The human soul does not stand empty-handed before God. The fullness is this: God – and my soul – and the cross that it takes up. There is also the cross.
The meaning and significance of the cross are inexhaustible. The cross of Christ is the eternal tree of life, the invincible force, the union of heaven and earth, the instrument of a shameful death. But what is the cross in our path of the imitation of Christ; how should our crosses resemble the one cross of the Son of Man? For even on Golgotha there stood not one but three crosses: the cross of the God-man and the crosses of the two thieves. Are these two crosses not symbols, as it were, of all human crosses, and does it not depend on us which one we choose? For us the way of the cross is unavoidable in any case, we can only choose to freely follow either the way of the blaspheming thief and perish, or the way of the one who called upon Christ and be with Him today in paradise. For a certain length of time, the thief who chose perdition shared the destiny of the Son of Man. He was condemned and nailed to a cross in the same way; he suffered torment in the same way. But that does not mean that his cross was the imitation of Christ’s cross, that his path led him in the footsteps of Christ.
What is most essential, most determining in the image of the cross is the necessity of freely and voluntarily accepting it and taking it up. Christ freely, voluntarily took upon Himself the sins of the world, and raised them up on the cross, and thereby redeemed them and defeated hell and death. To accept the endeavor and the responsibility voluntarily, to freely crucify your sins – that is the meaning of the cross, when we speak of bearing it on our human paths. Freedom is the inseparable sister of responsibility. The cross is this freely accepted responsibility, clear-sighted and sober.
In taking the cross on his shoulders, man renounces everything – and that means that he ceases to be part of this whole natural world. He ceases to submit to its natural laws, which free the human soul from responsibility. Natural laws not only free one from responsibility, they also deprive one of freedom. Indeed, what sort of responsibility is it, if I act as the invincible laws of my nature dictate, and where is the freedom, if I am entirely under the law?
And so the Son of Man showed his brothers in the flesh a supra-natural – and in this sense not a human but a God-manly – path of freedom and responsibility. He told them that the image of God in them also makes them into God-men and calls them to be deified, to indeed become Sons of God, freely and responsibly taking their crosses on their shoulders.
The free path to Golgotha – that is the true imitation of Christ.
This would seem to exhaust all the possibilities of the Christian soul, and thus the formula “God and my soul” indeed embraces the whole world. All the rest that was renounced on the way appears only as a sort of obstacle adding weight to my cross. And heavy as it may be, whatever human sufferings it may place on my shoulders, it is all the same my cross, which determines my personal way to God, my personal following in the footsteps of Christ. My illness, my grief, my loss of dear ones, my relations to people, to my vocation, to my work – these are details of my path, not ends in themselves, but a sort of grindstone on which my soul is sharpened, certain – perhaps sometimes burdensome – exercises for my soul, the particularities of my personal path.
If that is so, it certainly settles the question. It can only be endlessly varied, depending on the individual particularities of epochs, cultures, and separate persons. But essentially everything is clear. God and my soul, bearing its cross. In this an enormous spiritual freedom, activity, and responsibility are confirmed. And that is all.
I think it is Protestant mysticism that should follow such a path most consistently. Moreover, in so far as the world now lives the mystical life, it is for the most part infected by this isolating and individualistic Protestant mysticism. In it there is, of course, no place for the Church, for the principle of sobornost’, for the God-manly perception of the whole Christian process. There are simply millions of people born into the world, some of whom hear Christ’s call to renounce everything, take up their cross, and follow Him, and, as far as their strength, their faith, their personal endeavor allow, they answer that call. They are saved by it, they meet Christ, as if merging their life with His. All the rest is a sort of humanistic afterthought, a sort of adjusting of these basic Christian principles to those areas of life that lie outside them. In short, some sort of christianification, not bad in essence, but deprived of all true mystical roots, and therefore not inevitably necessary.
The cross of Golgotha is the cross of the Son of Man, the crosses of the thieves and our personal crosses are precisely personal, and as an immense forest of these personal crosses we are moving along the paths to the Kingdom of Heaven. And that is all.
A poem by St. Maria, concerning persecution of the Jews:
- Two triangles, a star,
- The shield of King David, our forefather.
- This is election, not offense.
- The great path and not an evil.
- Once more in a term fulfilled,
- Once more roars the trumpet of the end;
- And the fate of a great people
- Once more is by the prophet proclaimed.
- Thou art persecuted again, O Israel,
- But what can human malice mean to thee,
- who have heard the thunder from Sinai?
Gracious God, in every age you have sent men and women who have given their lives in witness to your love and truth. Inspire us with the memory of St. Maria Skobtsova, whose faithfulness led to the way of the cross, and give us courage to bear full witness with our lives to your Son’s victory over sin and death, for he lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.
Revised on December 24, 2016