center of gravity

Some friends were recently talking on Facebook about an atheist's view of death. I thought I could sense an undercurrent of hostility (!) toward Christian faith for being preoccupied with "the afterlife" and therefore not really engaged in this life, this world. "The heavenly minded are no earthly good" kind of vibe.

But that's quite different from my understanding of the Christian faith. I wrote:

The center of gravity for my own faith and, I would argue strongly, of the gospel, is not "life after death" but rather the quality of living, character, and relationships in this life (though not bounded by this life). In other words, authentic human flourishing and growth in virtue. At the same time, I can understand in an age or society dominated by war, famine, and plague, why the accent might shift to "a better world after this one." And, as someone who works on a pediatrics oncology ward, the hope of heaven has never been so visceral to me as it is now. Still, Jesus said the kingdom of God is among you, in the here and now. Love calls us to the things of this world.

自分自身の信仰の中心は、そして福音の中心でもあると主張したいのだが、「死後の命」ではなくて、むしろこの世における生き方、人格、人間関係の質にあると思う。（まあ、この世でだけの話ではないけど）。つまり、まことの人間の繁栄と徳における成長に関わるものである。同時に、戦争や飢饉や伝染病だらけの時代、社会の中で、どうして「より良いあの世」への関心が高まるか分からないわけではない。なお、小児ガンの病棟に関わっている者として、わたしはかつてないほど、天国への望みを「はらわたで」抱いているのである。しかし、イエスが仰ったのは、神の国はあなたがたの間にある、今、ここで、と。わたしたちは愛によってこの世のことにこそ呼ばれるのである。

That last sentence is the title of an excellent poem by Richard Wilbur, a former poet laureate in the US. You can see him reading the poem here. And the poem itself is below. The story is about a man woken from a sleep in New York by the sound of a neighbor hanging laundry out to dry. The sleeper doesn't want to wake up and return to the world of the day-to-day, but he does, finally. "The soul descends once more in bitter
love / To accept the waking body." Because...

Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded
soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and
simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with
angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are
in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there
they are.
Now they are rising together in calm
swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they
wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal
breathing;

Now they are flying in place,
conveying
The terrible speed of their
omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now
of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every
blessed day,
And cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on
earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising
steam
And clear dances done in the sight of
heaven."

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks
and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter
love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns
and rises,

"Bring them down from their ruddy
gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs
of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be
undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure
floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult
balance."