The Language of Creation

"Caspar David Friedrich in his Studio,"
Georg Friedrich Kersting, 1819

Christmas Day, 1807. The Count of Thun and his family fought blustery winds on their way to their private chapel at Tetschen castle, Bohemia. This year's religious pageantry was made all the more spectacular by a new addition to the sanctuary. There, in place of the old, ponderous altar-piece stood a newly-finished masterwork. A glinting frame enrounded a painting of Calvary reimagined in an Alpine setting, craggy and crowned by firs. The cross itself stood silhouetted by the brilliant pink hues of a setting sun. This was The Cross on the Mountains, the first major work in what was to be the long and brilliant career of German painter Caspar David Friedrich.

This painting was not just an expression of faith, it was a way for the Thun family to show a cosmopolitan streak. Friedrich’s work was part of a fashionable new movement that was attempting to wash the Enlightenment out of Western Europe. The previous century's overreaching search for rational truth had left the earth a barren wasteland through its insatiable desire to force all knowledge inside of men’s heads. Mysteries and miracles that didn’t conform to formulas had been rejected. For the first time in centuries, Christianity had been publicly attacked. The artists in this new school styled themselves “romantics.” By depicting the inexplicable, the beautiful, and most of all, nature in its glory, they sought to free men from bondage to their minds. Others, chief among them Caspar David Friedrich, painted to remind men that it was not just truth that could be found throughout all of creation, but the truth of the Christian God.

The Cross on the Mountains drew its most vehement criticism, not from Deistic intellectuals, but from a most unlikely source: a fellow Christian. That Christian was the aptly named Basilius von Ramdohr. Unlike Friedrich, von Ramdohr was born and bred among the upper classes of German society. He had acquired a reputation as a conservative lawyer and defender of traditional German values, which led to a career as a cultural critic. With a hint of contempt, no doubt, von Ramdohr went to see Friedrich’s much talked about "romantic" piece when it was on special display. He was deeply unsettled by the painting, so much so, in fact, that he wrote a painstakingly long refutation of the ideas he saw represented in it. He objected that the pine trees had been illustrated to the point of painting each needle. The way the light was rendered was against “all the rules of optics.” And what of landscape paintings themselves? Surely nature itself can contain no explicit meaning and is improper in a church. The rock was rendered poorly, a “most strident contrast to the bright sky, without any transition or harmony.” Perhaps worst of all, in von Ramdohr's opinion, the cross was not located in the center of the painting, and Jesus was not facing the viewer – and surely this would convey the wrong message to worshipers..

With his fledgling reputation at stake, Friedrich was forced to respond. His answer? “Jesus Christ, nailed to the tree, is turned here towards the sinking sun, the image of the eternal, life-giving father. With Jesus’ teachings, an old world dies – that time when God the Father moved directly on the earth. This sun sank and the earth was not able to grasp the departing light any longer. There shines forth in the gold of the evening light the purest, noble metal of the Savior’s figure on the cross, which thus reflects the earth in a softened glow. The cross stands erect on a rock, unshakeably firm like our faith in Jesus Christ. The firs stand around the cross, evergreen, enduring through all ages, like the hopes of man in Him, the crucified.”

Unfortunately, it is very easy for us Christians to make the same mistake von Ramdohr did. In our very desire to keep the Gospel pure, it is tempting to keep our artists in the shadows. We are prone to confusing convention with the Gospel; to thinking that a change in style means a change in substance. Can God only speak through us when we make sure that two pieces of wood are at the exact center of our painting like von Ramdohr wanted? The Bible tells us that God can speak through donkeys, rocks, burning bushes and David’s harp-playing. We forget that though symbols may change, Christ himself can still remain at the center of the work. The greatest stories of salvation are usually told, not through hackneyed altar-calls, but through metaphors. Jesus’ parables are prime examples of this. And what is nature but a majestic metaphor? By depicting Creation in a way that's good and beautiful (Philippians 4:8), we can challenge peoples' deepest beliefs. A God who's evident through the physical world challenges today's naturalists in a way they can't respond to. On the other hand, to deny nature’s revelation of God like von Ramdohr did is to deny what God called “good.” Like the Apostle Paul before his conversion, this man was an intellectual who thought he was advancing the kingdom of God by purging it of false revelation. It turned out that what they were both calling false was God's voice. What place do landscape paintings have in church? Friedrich showed in his response what the psalmist declared long before in chapter 19: "The heavens declare the glory of the Lord; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge."

Becoming the Beast

"Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime," Pierre-Paul Prud'hon, 1808

No one can fail to have heard about the assassination of Anwar al-Alwaki last week. What you may not have heard was how unprecedented this killing was. Never before (as far as I'm aware) has our government been legally allowed to kill anyone, much less a citizen, without having to prove his guilt in trial. His guilt was beyond doubt? It doesn't matter. I’ve written about this previously, but there’s a reason that our symbol of Justice, the Roman goddess Justitia, is portrayed with a blind-fold and a scale. These aren’t just artistic flourishes; they communicate a deep truth. God’s justice is perfect. He is "no respecter of persons" - he is blind. He always convicts the guilty and exonerates the innocent because he can see into their hearts and minds and can separate truth from lies - he is balanced. Our human judges thankfully don’t have this same omniscience, and “there’s the rub” in this case. Whatever blood may have been on his head, Alwaki was killed unjustly because he never got a chance to defend himself to the nation. Without the accused having that chance, the verdicts of governments, judges and juries can be easily mistaken. They can be swayed by their own prejudices, false testimony and their own lack of knowledge. Verdicts are, at best, educated guesses. Then how can we protect the innocent from being hauled into court and jailed or executed on false premises? How do we keep justice blind and balanced like a scale? These were just the questions Englishmen faced in the 17th century and Americans in the 18th century: kings and courts abusing their powers to bend people to their tyrannical wills.

As the Anglo-American world found out, the answer lay in keeping true to the old maxim “innocent until proven guilty.” This principle has been the cornerstone of our legal system ever since. After all, the men who codified our laws had lurid experiences with judges who convicted the innocent so as to increase royal power in the colonies. Even before that hard lesson, however, our Founding Fathers had defended the innocent even when it was incredibly inconvenient. Two examples will suffice. After the Boston Massacre, John Adams (a lawyer in Boston at that time) thought it was so important to give a fair trial to the British soldiers involved in the shooting that he went against his every inclination (he later hazarded angry mobs, his reputation and his livelihood) to defend them personally. Bostonians were caught up in the tragedy of the moment and wanted the soldiers dead. Wasn’t their guilt evident enough after three people lay bleeding in the streets? But human passions can cloud fair judgment. What they took to be certain guilt was actually not so certain at all, as Adams proved. Or take Thomas Jefferson, who, as a young lawyer, took slaves and free blacks as clients to defend in court, when having dark-skinned clients was enough to imperil even the most well established law practice.

Given how integral this idea of blind, even-handed justice is to Christianity, and how it launched the life of our nation and its heroes, it’s deeply unsettling that many Americans and Christians are ignoring our government's departure from these principles in the case of Alwaki's assassination. Alwaki was not shot on a battleground. In fact, as far as we know he only ever preached violence. While there can be little doubt judging from his sermons that Alwaki was an evil man, the simple fact is that, under our Constitution, even the most evil of men are entitled to a fair trial for their crimes. Nazis whose guilt was established beyond the residue of doubt were famously given trials at Nuremberg. Although Southerners were regarded as traitors after the Civil War, those who were captured outside the field of battle were at least afforded hearings in military courts. According to the Bible, conviction of murder (not the preaching of murder, but murder) requires the testimony of “two or three witnesses.” (Deut. 17:6) The verse goes on: “…no one shall be put to death on the testimony of only one witness.” And what about when the person himself isn't a murderer? Are the testimonies of fewer witnesses required to convict him than to convict an actual  murderer? Why, even Iran sees the need to keep up the semblance of a capital trial as it tries to convict Yousef Nadarkhani. The fact that our "Christian" government doesn’t feel compelled to put on a charade of justice should give us pause to consider whether, through fear of our enemy, we are becoming the beast we mean to destroy.

The Forgotten Father of Constitutional Liberty

Stephen Langton, from the exterior of
Canterbury Cathedral

Very little is known about Stephen Langton's childhood. What we do know is that he was born in the late twelfth century in the county of Lincolnshire. He first emerges from the shadow of obscurity as a star pupil at the University of Paris, where he befriended a fellow student who later became Innocent III, the most powerful of medieval popes. Thanks to this friendship, Langton was made a cardinal years later. He became renowned throughout Europe as a prolific expositor of scripture, publishing commentaries and treatises  - he even divided the Bible into the chapter/verse format we're so familiar with today. As profound as these accomplishments were, they pale in comparison with his greatest.

Hundreds of miles away, Langton's home was being torn between the teeth of Normans and Saxons, rich and poor, barons and king, church and state. The latest controversy was who would be Archbishop of Canterbury and therefore control the English church. King John had his man who would be sure to be loyal to the Crown, and the churchmen of England had theirs. Innocent III, ever intent on strengthening Papal power wherever it reached, saw an opportunity here to bring the English church firmly under Rome's control. He stepped in and engineered the election of a third candidate: a friend and a champion of the church; someone who would take orders from Rome without question. Langton's election was thus engineered, and King John's vengeance predictably broke out like a torrent.The struggle mounted until the king's plundering of the church resulted in his excommunication.

As serious as this conflict was, in English minds it was only a sideshow to one that had been simmering for centuries - that of barons and king. Every monarch since William the Conqueror had seen his greed for land, power and money frustrated by his equally greedy nobility. These barons were tired of spending their lives and fortunes in fruitless contests for what they considered the foreign lands in France.This friction between throne and fief had embroiled the kingdom in almost constant civil war for generations. Now that King John had been declared apostate by the church, this civil war became a holy war for the barons.

There seemed to be a thousand different ambitions clashing in the realm, like a pack of dogs tearing each other to pieces without a goal in mind. Langton saw an opportunity to bring order from the chaos, and it was now that he leaped into the contest. He had been reminded of something which the lords and churchmen of England could use to the advantage of themselves and the kingdom and posterity. He called for a council of churchmen and barons at Westminster, where he reminded those assembled of a certain "Charter of Liberties" which John's great-grandfather, Henry I, had been compelled by the barons to sign. True enough, that charter had dealt with only inconsequential matters like the illegality of certain fees kings had been accustomed to collect. But Langton saw here a precedent: that kings, too, were under the law. The Charter of Liberties should be expanded, renewed, and used to keep a lawless king accountable. With loud shouts of acclamation, the council swore an oath to conquer or die in defense of their liberties.

By now, however, the wily king had outmaneuvered his enemies. By swallowing his pride and submitting to the pope he had secured a powerful ally, but it had not been without a price. John's olive branch was nothing less than England itself - it would be governed as a Papal fief. Innocent III had jumped at the opportunity, but Langton balked. The last thing he wanted was more exploitation of the English people, whether from Westminster or Rome. Yet, the tables were now turned against him, and his cause was still fruitless. Continuing the struggle to check the king would mean going against the full might of both church and state. Perhaps Innocent had been misinformed. Clinging to that hope, the archbishop urged the barons to continue their efforts to check the king's ambition by refusing to submit to his taxes, and pressuring him to renew the Charter of Liberties or face open rebellion. John remained unmoved, and so in June 1215 the barons gathered their might to march on London, whose gates were thrown open by a sympathetic populace. There, with support from both France and Scotland, they forced John to agree to approve a royal charter that recognized the rights of his noblemen and, for the first time, codified legal limits to the king's power. Langton hurriedly set to work articulating the barons' grievances.

Dutifully, and no doubt seethingly, the king and his entourage processed to the nearby meadow of Runnymede to sign this charter in the midday sun of June 15, 1215. What he was forced to affix his seal to cannot have pleased him.The charter that Langton and the barons produced went far beyond the provisions of the Charter of Liberties in its effort to restrain the Crown. A few examples will suffice: Section 12 of this "Great Charter" said that "No scutage or aid shall be imposed on the kingdom unless by common counsel...." This principle became a rallying cry that found its way into subsequent charters until it was enshrined in the English Bill of Rights and became a principle of our own Revolution: "no taxation without representation." Section 20 said that barons could only be judged by their peers, not by courts in the pocket of the king. Freemen, too, would be judged by the oaths of honest men in their own neighborhoods. If this principle of English liberty sounds familiar it's because the Sixth Amendment of our Constitution contains it: "In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed." The guarantee of a "speedy trial" was also found originally in Magna Charta: "To no one will we sell, to no one will we refuse or delay, right or justice." The document further guaranteed the rights of merchants, provided that all sheriffs and constables would be "competent" and first enumerated the idea of a constitutional government: "All fines made... against the law of the land...shall be entirely remitted." To enforce these concessions, a council of 25 barons was appointed to oversee the king, his laws and fines.

Shortly after signing Magna Charta, John proceeded to break nearly every rule in it with the full sanction of Innocent III (who also condemned the document). John's successors, too, were not particularly more faithful to its idealistic clauses. But this does not mean that Langton's work was forgotten. It gave the struggle against tyranny a profound legitimacy, and the idea of a limited monarch entered into political thought. To see just how much the document mattered to the nation, consider that over the next two hundred years, the English kings were forced to renew the document over 30 times. Finally, during the dictatorial reign of Charles I (1600-1649), what were by now considered centuries' old liberties were transferred into the English Bill of Rights, thus diffusing throughout the English-speaking world to, among other places, America, where the principles Langton had devoted his life to securing found their way into colonial charters, state constitutions, and the United States Constitution itself.

Rousseau, Human Nature and Our Foreign Policy Problem

Put aside for a moment the constitutional arguments (and they are many) against being involved in the internal squabblings of governments overseas. Put aside the pragmatic arguments of finance and sustainability that see these wars for the vacuous black hole that they are. Even put aside the Founding Fathers' warnings against "foreign entanglements." Let's examine the philosophical moorings required to think we can"make the world safe for democracy."

As Christians, it is our duty to not only recognize, but actively live like we believe that sin is something each of us has the choice -the free-will- to indulge in or resist. Furthermore, God tells us in his word that man is fallen, that he delights in sin, just as St. Augustine delighted in stealing an apple, not to eat, but for the pure pleasure of sinning.  How does this reverberate into how we should see man's place in civil society? He is a law-breaker by choice. 

Not everyone agrees with what the Bible says, however. In fact, for a couple hundred years now it's been in vogue to take a position that owes more to Jean Jacques Rousseau: that man is born free and decent, and it's society's institutions that corrupt him. Break the back of these institutions and a violent man suddenly finds himself cherubized. Freud agreed. Man is a complex animal without a soul who responds to impulses in his environment. Pavlov believed that his famous discovery of reinforcement and the salivating dog was equally true of human beings: man is mechanical and needs stimuli to provoke the "right" responses. As these theories became mainstream, education shifted from its classical focus on searching for truth and instead began treating children like Pavlov's dog. It became about conditioning children to make the right responses to stimuli in the world.

Once this generation of children became adults, they could be found at the helm of this nation and most others in the Western world. They had a firm belief in the innate goodness of man - if only the harmful stimuli can be removed. Man is perfectible if he can just be given the right environment. Crime was no longer the rebellion of the soul, it was the automatic response to poverty and inner-city decay. Housing projects and the welfare state resulted. But there was something else, too. If this picture of human nature was true, then it was now within the grasp of the government of the United States of America not only to perfect its own citizens, but to perfect the citizens of the world - in effect to create a new world order of peace and prosperity for all. To free them to that natural state that Rousseau had talked about. Remove the evil effects of institutions and governments and you will cure the men under them. Or in more modern terms: "If we only remove the dictators, they will be good people." The French tried it in their Revolution of 1789. We did it in Cuba, in Europe (twice) and all across the third world ever since, and we've seen how it's played out. Iran was one of our first projects in the 1950s. Now it's Iraq and Afghanistan, which, despite all dreams of flag-waving Iraqi children, are not Jeffersonian democracies or anything remotely like. Egypt has been delivered, not to democracy, but to the Muslim Brotherhood. Now there are reports that Libya may be falling under the sway of Al Qaeda.

The problem of our foreign policy is primarily a problem with our view of human nature. Try as we might to export freedom and American ideals, our plans will continue to backfire until we understand that we cannot make men and women desire freedom by getting rid of the evil around them. Correcting our foreign policy starts with understanding that sin is a choice; that any inherent desire for freedom and democracy in the human race is outweighed by an inherent desire to sin. People around the world need to be reached by the Great Commission, not by Operation Odyssey Dawn.

Thomas Jefferson and Leading By Example

A perilously high national debt, burdensome taxes, corruption, political favors, extreme partisanship, a powerful executive branch, and a bitterly divided government. Does any of this sound familiar? It may surprise you, then, that I’m describing the United States as it was in the afterglow of John Adams’ administration over two hundred years ago. It’s true that, in relative terms, taxes, debt and the size of the national government in 1800 were a vastly different affair from what they are today. But it was a more principled world, where infractions that we may think small were taken greater notice of and recognized as a threatening precedent for posterity.

Carried by the tumultuous winds of politics, it was the Virginia gentleman, philosopher and statesman Thomas Jefferson who was chosen to lead the young nation. He was to be a sort of shepherd to lead them away from the shadowy valleys of nationalism to the still waters of republicanism. Although dubious as usual about being away from Monticello, Jefferson ascended triumphantly -but without Adam's pomp and circumstance- into the swamp that was Washington D.C. (it was still under construction). After ten years of European-style experiments with national banks, standing armies, censorship of newspapers, excise taxes and piling on of debt, Americans were ready to see the Revolutionary goal of “a wise and frugal government” manifested. They got just that in the “Revolution of 1800.”

We are familiar today with incoming presidents talking up bipartisanship and then proceeding to stack their deck with friends, relatives and donors. Typically, they blame the other side of the aisle for every problem the country experiences. Jefferson set a different course. After declaring "We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists" in his First Inaugural Address, he answered Adams' last minute stuffing of the government with Federalists with stunning decency. By refusing to replace any except the most dogmatic among them with Republicans, the president diffused the cyclical feuding that had seized the nation for years. The next problem to fix was one of finance, and Jefferson began by selling  the stately coach, swords and elements of ceremony that Adams and Washington had favored. The president of the nation's first republic could often be seen braving the muddy streets of Washington on foot. The example he intended to set among his countrymen extended to his dress, which was very plain, a practice most shocking to foreign dignitaries. He made himself readily available to any and all. In fact, it was his rule to respond to every letter, and receive every guest who called on him during his presidency.

The federal government in 1800 was minuscule by today's standards, employing around 130 men. However, a number of these had been hired by the treasury under Hamilton's spendthrift secretaryship. Jefferson thought the positions an unnecessary waste of the peoples' money, so he eliminated them. In like manner, he scrapped more than half the navy (believing it encouraged foreign adventurism), reducing the government's expenditures by more than 25% even while abolishing the excise taxes that the previous administrations had devised. To Jefferson, a government with debt unnecessarily led its people down the road to servitude. A couple years of thriftiness later, his administration became the first to entirely pay off the national debt. Although some of Jefferson's later years would tarnish the brilliant beginning of his presidency, he left an example of how a president who leads by example, and is the first to take the sacrifices he asks others to accept, can heal a torn nation and give it a strength and solvency that has yet to be matched again.