Every now and then, an article about aspects of Christianity or events in Christendom appears in the secular newspaper I regularly read. Since it’s a digital version, not a printed one, I can also read comments from other readers, which provide an interesting, albeit unrepresentative, insight into people’s perceptions of our faith. Unsurprisingly, the loudest voices tend to be those who oppose Christianity and, more broadly, any religion. Their arguments can be summed up as follows: “Religious beliefs are fairytales that shouldn’t be taken seriously and, consequently, must not play any role in public life.” Then there are readers who comment on the actual article, so it’s safe to assume they have read it. Their comments are generally mature in both form and content, often engaging and informative, even when negative, which is absolutely fine by me. When the article addresses issues of morality and how the Christian moral code defines or responds to modern challenges, the common perception is that it represents a killjoy, a highly restrictive imposition of rules that ban all the fun one can have in life. Which always makes me wonder, which of the Ten Commandments should we remove to have more fun? “You shall not steal”, or “you shall not murder”, or “honour your father and mother”? Essentially, the commandments have served as a guard against abuse and exploitation by the powerful and mighty, of which our own selfishness is among the strongest.
The biblical story of the first couple’s fall from grace we heard in the first reading, was a deep meditation on the human condition and its inclination to evil, wrapped in a story rich in symbols. In the hot, dry, arid environment of the ancient Middle East, gardens played a crucial role in providing relief, shelter, and food. In the biblical story, God created perfect conditions for the first couple to live in: “Lord God made to spring up every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food”, including the tree of life in the centre of the garden. However, in the conversation with the serpent, who “was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made,” the sole tree that the first couple were forbidden to eat of shifted to the centre of their attention: “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden.” They also made the ban much harsher and more restrictive: “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree […], neither shall you touch it, lest you die.” All of a sudden, the plethora of fruit at their disposal was eclipsed by the restriction on one, making it highly desirable and attractive: “the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and […] it was a delight to the eyes, and […] the tree was to be desired to make one wise.” They were spurred on by a half-true promise: “When you eat of it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Having consumed the forbidden fruit, they experienced the fulfilment of the promise, but not in the way they had expected: “the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked,” a powerful symbol of vulnerability and powerlessness. Now they knew good and evil, but they didn’t have any power or control over the latter. We know how the story ended; they gained nothing and lost everything, including access to the tree of life.
Generally speaking, there are two approaches to law-abiding, whether it’s a religious or secular code. One is the fear of punishment for breaking the law. It can only work if the probability of its enforcement is very high to the point of being virtually unavoidable. The epidemic of shoplifting that has swept across the country over the last couple of years is the result of police effectively decriminalising this crime. For the religious moral code, the fear of eternal damnation doesn’t seem to work anymore, thankfully. That leads to the other approach to law-abiding: trusting the lawmaker’s benevolence. It can be challenging with secular law-givers, because good intentions don’t guarantee good outcomes; as we know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Thankfully, in the democratic system we take for granted, we can and should debate the laws and change or improve them when necessary, through the legislative process. However, at the heart of the Christian moral code lies the belief that our God is an utterly benevolent, loving Father, whose sole concern is our ultimate spiritual well-being, both as individuals and as a society. Disregarding the Christian moral code isn’t simply breaking made-up rules. St Paul wrote in today’s second reading: “sin […] was in the world before the law was given, […] death reigned from Adam to Moses.” When I reject God’s law, it shows I don’t trust that God loves me. It shows that I have fallen for the same lies as the serpent presented: that God is envious of his power and knowledge: “God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Too many times, have I experienced shame and powerlessness when I have fallen into the serpent’s traps. So, I make today’s responsorial psalm my prayer: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your merciful love”. With you, I also ask the good Father: “Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
Image by Andrys Stienstra from Pixabay
