As he ascends to the sphere of Mars, Dante encounters his great-great-grandfather. The only historical information about Cacciaguida comes to us in this canto. Dante tells us that his forebear had been baptized and that he had died in the Holy Land during an ill-fated crusade. He also tells us that his venerated relative lives now in paradise with other sainted souls. Dante also provides in this canto some reflections on the degradation in Florence that has taken place between the time of Cacciaguida and himself.
Would it not be a remarkable thing to encounter and have conversation with one’s great-great grandfather or grandmother? While a few of us might have known one of our great grandparents, I doubt that any of us have known or talked with any of our relatives older than a great grandparent. Talking to a great-great-grandparent would mean interacting with someone we had never met, who had lived a hundred or more years earlier, and who might have had a shaping influence on our lives. What would we discuss with such a relative? Inevitably, we would engage in comparison and contrast between our era and that of our now departed forebear.
It seems likely that a narrative of decline would feature prominently in such a discussion. To be sure, the astounding array of technological developments would take up the first part of the conversation. After a time, however, the question of human spiritual, moral, and cultural progress would arise. On that score, I doubt that the present state of human functioning would gain high marks. Most likely, we would lament how things have gotten worse in terms of religious adherence, civility, personal morality, and corporate ethics over the course of a century or more. People today seem more self-oriented, more secular, more impatient, less considerate of others, less willing to serve rather than be served, and less committed to delayed gratification in service to a higher good than they did at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. America ascendant now seems in many ways like America in decline.
Is it true, though? Does the narrative of decline actually match the facts? In asking this question, I am reminded of an observation by E. Brooks Holifield in his recent book God’s Ambassadors: A History of the Christian Clergy in America (Eerdmans, 2007) that in every era of American history there has been a narrative of decline about the pastoral role. I also call to mind the recognition that while the tenor of national political discourse seems to have reached an all time low, our American forebears made similar claims—and in several cases, with good reason. Many of us have a tendency to see the times in which we live as a fall from an earlier grace. Reading Dante in this canto, we can see that such a tendency has been around for a long time.
If we wish to make the opposite argument—that human morals and spirituality have actually progressed or improved from a hundred years ago—what evidence would martial in support? We would probably want to point to the changing role of women toward equality with men, the Civil Rights movement, democratic movements like the Arab Spring (powered by the widespread availability and use of social media), and stunning advancements in the quality of life brought about by breakthroughs in medicine and science. More people are free, live longer and better than at any other point in human history.
What criteria should we use to gauge human progress or regress with respect to morality and spirituality? I am sure that Dante would approve the use of Jesus’ teaching about the double love commandment for this task. Individually and collectively, do we love God and our neighbor more now than people did a hundred years ago? Five years ago? Last month? Perhaps the criterion of love would be our best bet to gauge the state of humanity today versus a hundred years ago.
How would you answer the question of our current situation in light of where things were in society a hundred years ago in light of the double love commandment? Have we declined or have we improved?
Paradiso Canto 9: Looking for Love in the Right Place
This canto highlights those inhabitants of paradise who had moved from a life of sexual license to a life of devoted faith in Jesus Christ. How appropriate that Dante locates this theme and its inhabitants in the sphere of Venus. Former prostitutes and those who acted out sexually make up the characters we encounter here. None other than Rahab the prostitute (see Joshua 2 and 6) serves as the chief exemplar of those who inhabit this zone of heavenly bliss. We could well imagine Mary Magdalene and several other biblical characters as residents of this region. Dante might well have made St. Augustine—a noted “player” in his early life who became one of the greatest of all followers of Jesus Christ—the patron saint of this band of redeemed sinners.
Drawing deeply from the Neo-Platonist anthropology that portrays human beings as fundamentally desiring or erotic creatures (the Greek word eros means “desire”—often, though not exclusively with a sexual connotation), Augustine powerfully explicated the Christian doctrine of sin. We are created as beings insufficient unto ourselves; we are hard wired for relationships of love with God, others, and ourselves. The structure of human existence is such that we find our center and our meaning outside of ourselves: first and foremost in God and secondarily in relationships with other humans. The root problem of human life arises when we turn away from God and make a creature (other humans, ourselves, or another created thing) the object of our highest desire. Augustine called this underlying disease “disordered love” or “disordered desire.” Turning away from desire for God as our highest good results in worshipping creatures or creaturely experiences and (attempting) to use God for our own purposes. In short, when we misdirect our desire to creatures rather than to the Creator, all hell breaks loose.
Augustine’s own life story illustrates this quite vividly. In his Confessions—the first spiritual autobiography or memoire—Augustine recounts an early adult life marked by sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll (but without the rock ‘n’ roll). He sought pleasure and fulfillment through endless sexual encounters. Eventually, he comes to realize that he has been “looking for love in all the wrong places.” His sexual escapades were really nothing but a desperate search for the fulfillment that can only come from a right relationship with God through Jesus Christ. His sexual acting out only covered over his longing for a love that would not fade or slip away. Augustine captures the essence of his journey from sex addict and power seeker to faithful obedience to Jesus Christ by saying in the opening lines of the book that “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in Thee, O God.” More profound words outside of the Bible have hardly ever been written! Underneath all our “ignorant craving” (to borrow an apt phrase from the Buddhists) lies our profound desire or hunger for God.
Augustine and Dante shed real light on contemporary American culture. We are a sex-saturated people. Everywhere we look—in the media, in popular culture, in politics—we see sexuality as a dominant theme. Sexuality promises fulfillment of our deepest desires and holds out the hope of perpetual happiness. And it sells billions of dollars with or products every year…but I digress. Augustine and Dante help me to see that our obsession with sexuality points to a much deeper desire for ultimate fulfillment and loving intimacy. No created thing, no matter how beautiful or alluring, will ever be able to meet the most burning of all our desires. That fulfillment only comes from giving ourselves—heart, soul, mind, body, strength—to God in Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. True blessedness, whether in the heavenly spheres or on earth, comes from intimate knowledge and love of God. Rahab knew this. So did Augustine. So can we.
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