Dear Umberto Eco,
I am in complete agreement. You address me by my birth name and I shall do likewise. The Gospels are not altogether benevolent where titles are concerned. (“But you are not to be called rabbi. . . . And call no man your father on earth. . . . And you are not to be called masters.” Matthew 23:8-10.) As you say, this way it is even clearer that ours is an exchange of ideas made freely without plaster casts and role involvements. To be fruitful, it is important that our exchange be frank as we focus on common concerns and clarify the differences, getting to the substance of what truly distinguishes us from each other.
I also agree about “aiming a bit high” in our first dialogue.
Ethical issues are certainly among our most pressing concerns. But the matters of the day that most strongly strike public opinion (I’m referring particularly to those involving bioethics) are often “frontline” events, which we first have to understand from the scientific viewpoint before we rush to moral judgments on which we may easily disagree. It is important for us first to put into focus the broad horizons between which our judgments are being formed. From there, it will be apparent why practical valuations can be in such opposition.
You’ve raised the subject of hope and with it the future of mankind at the time of the second millennium. You evoke those apocalyptic images that were said to make the multitudes tremble at the end of the first millennium. Even if it isn’t true, it is apt, because people do fear the future. Millenarianisms have been constantly reproducing themselves throughout the centuries, in parochial forms as well as in those implicit cataclysmic beliefs that have so profoundly animated the major Utopian movements. Today ecological threats, even more upsetting because they are scientifically based, take the place of the phantasms of the past.
What does Revelation, the final book of the New Testament, have to do with all this? Can the book truly be characterized as a repository of terrifying imagery that evokes a tragic and imminent end? Despite the similarities between much of John’s Revelation and numerous other apocalyptic writings of those centuries, the key to reading is different. It must be read in the context of the New Testament, in which Revelation was (not without resistance) incorporated.
Let me try to explain myself. The dominant theme of apocalyptic stories is usually a flight from the present to a refuge in a future that, upsetting the existing structures of the world, forces upon it a definitive value system that conforms to the hopes and expectations of the person writing the book. Always in the background of apocalyptic literature are groups of people suffering from religious, social, and political oppression who, not seeing any solution in direct action, project themselves into a time when cosmic forces will fall upon the earth and defeat their enemies for them. In this sense, it must be said that in every apocalypse there is a heavy Utopian freight, a massive reserve of hope, but coupled with woeful resignation in the present.
One can, perhaps, find something similar behind individual documents that became part of Revelation as we know it today But when read from a Christian perspective, in the light of the Gospels, the book’s emphasis and meaning are different. It is not a projection of frustration with the present, but rather the prolongation of an experience of fullness — in other words, “salvation,” as it was construed by the early church. There isn’t now, nor will there be, a power human or satanic that can challenge the hope of believers.
In this sense, I am in agreement with you when you say that today preoccupation with the end of time is more typical of the secular world than the Christian world.
At one point the Christian world was also overcome by apocalyptic anxiety, having to do, in part, with obscure verses in Revelation 20: “And he seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years. . . . Also I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded. . . . They came to life, and reigned with Christ a thousand years.” A current of ancient tradition interpreted these verses to the letter, whereas other similar, literal millennialisms have never won legitimacy in the broader Church. Rather, a symbolic reading of the text has prevailed. In the above passage and in others in Revelation we again find a projection into the future of the victory of those first Christians who were able to survive their present thanks to their capacity for hope.
History has always been seen most clearly as a journey toward something beyond itself and not immanent. Such a view might be expressed as a triad of beliefs: 1) history has a meaning, a direction, and is not a heap of absurd, vain facts; 2) this meaning is not purely immanent, but extends beyond itself, and thus is not a matter for calculation but rather for hope; 3) this vision does not extenuate but solidifies the meaning of contingent events into an ethical locus in which the metahistorical future of the human adventure is determined.
Up to this point it would seem that we have both been basically saying the same thing, though with different emphases and a different set of references. I’m pleased we agree that history has “meaning” and (to cite your own words) that one can “love earthly reality and believe — with charity — that there is still room for Hope.”
The more difficult question is whether there is a “notion” of hope (and of our responsibility to the future) which is common to both believers and nonbelievers. In some way, hope has to exist in practice, because believers and nonbelievers can be seen living together in this moment, giving it meaning and involving themselves with commitment. This is particularly apparent when we see someone who, in the pursuit of higher values, puts himself willingly in harms way, even when there is no promise of reward. Thoughtful, responsible believers and nonbelievers adhere to a profound sense of humus, of humanity, although they don’t necessarily give it the same name. In the drama of the moment, there are more important things than names, and when defending or promoting essential human values it’s not always worthwhile to quibble over a quaestio de nomine, over semantics.
For one who believes, especially for a Catholic, it is nonetheless evident that the names of things do have importance, because a name is not an arbitrary thing, but rather the product of an act of intelligence and comprehension that, when shared with someone else, also brings the recognition, however theoretical, of shared values. There is still a long road ahead of us, I believe, a road that calls for our mutual intelligence and courage to analyze the simple things. How often does Jesus say in the Gospels: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” “Do you not perceive yet, not understand?” (Mark 4:9, 8:17, etc.). He’s not appealing to philosophical theories or to disputes between various schools of thought but to the intelligence given each of us to orient ourselves and to understand the meaning of events. Every tiny step toward understanding the great simple things means progress toward sharing the reasons why we hope.
I am also struck by this provocation at the end of your letter: “Does an idea of the end, one that does not imply disinterest in the future but rather a constant examination of the errors of the past, have a critical function?” I do not believe that in itself the notion of an imminent end provides us with the critical tools to evaluate what has been. If anything, the notion gives rise to fear, dread, self-recrimination, or flight toward an “alternative” future — precisely what we find in apocalyptic literature.
For a notion of the end to make us as aware of the future as we are of the past, as something to be reflected on in a critical way, this end must be an End, with the character of an ultimate declaration of value, illuminating our endeavors in the present and endowing them with significance. If the present has meaning in relation to a recognizable and estimable value, which I can anticipate with acts of intelligence and responsible choice, this allows me to reflect on the mistakes of the past without pain. I know I am on a journey. I glimpse something of the destination, at least in its essential values. I know it is up to me to correct myself and to better myself. Experience shows that someone with no regrets is someone with no inner inkling that he can do better. He cannot recognize his mistakes and remains attached to them, because he can’t see anything better ahead and so asks himself why he should give up what he has.
All I’ve written here seems like a set of variations on that word “Hope,” which I perhaps never would have dared to write with a capital H had you not done so first. No, it’s not yet time to intoxicate oneself on electronic images while waiting for the end. We still have much to do together.
Carlo Maria Martini