William Browder, an American businessman who made an immense fortune in the early days of modern Russia's rush into capitalism, recently wrote in a column in Business Week that, "My relationship with the world used to be about how much money I made or lost. Now, it's more about humanity."
How did Browder come to this conclusion? Along the way to achieving his financial success, he worked with a Russian named Sergei Magnitsky who helped Mr. Browder ferret out an massive fraud which a number of people perpetuated on his company. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons, all unjustified, Mr. Magnitsky later earned the ire of the Russian authorities and was arrested, tortured, and eventually died in prison, broken and forgotten by most of the country. Mr. Browder has devoted his time since Magnitsky's death to bringing justice to his situation.
Immense wealth, as Mr. Browder possesses, enables us to do many things. We can use it to enrich our lives materially or we can dedicate it to helping others. Though this is a cliché that has been oft repeated, we do well to mention it again: in the end, it won't matter how much money we had. What matters is what we did with it.
After all, everything is a gift: did we have anything to do with our being here? Whatever you have, hold it loosely; you never know what God will ask you to do with it.
We missed, last week, April 1, to be precise, the birthday of one of the greatest of the Romantic pianists: Sergei Rachmaninoff. Born in Russia, eventually emigrating to America and, shortly before his death in 1943, becoming an American citizen, Rachmaninoff (my wife's favorite musician) composed some of the richest music ever written for the piano. His work blends intense and mournful melody with powerful and intricate chords and keyboard movements, beautifully capturing the deepest spirit of the Romantics. Rachmaninoff's musician gives us a window, a poignant window into our perennial struggle with the vast and unyielding import of sentient existence. It shows us that however intellectual we may suppose ourselves to be, we are, in the end, creatures of heart and imagination. We live as sensual beings.
Rachmaninoff helps us realize that although reason is an essential part of who we are, we make our biggest decisions with our heart. To put this in theological terms, although we may believe, as a matter of intellectual assent, that Jesus died and rose again, we can only trust its truth for our lives with our heart. Trust is the wellspring of rational belief.
Long live the Romantics. And thanks for reading!
It's an odd contrast, really: the first week of spring and the third week of Lent. Joy reborn and darkness without relent. This dichotomy is perhaps encapsulated in some words from Psalm 22, spoken by Jesus as he hung on the cross.
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" he said. Betrayed by one of his disciples, condemned by a farcical trial, scourged until flesh hung like ribbons from his back, and nailed to a wooden cross, Jesus felt totally alone and abandoned, even by God. Shorn of all spiritual connection, wallowing in unremitting depths of darkness and despair, Jesus was separated from life itself.
As the psalm continues, however, we read, "But you [God] are holy and enthroned on the praises of Israel; in you our fathers trusted . . . and you delivered them." Indeed. God understands that, in the biggest possible picture, Spring, rebirth and new life, will prevail. If we believe, our Spring will be forever. God is a God of Spring.
If not, why would Jesus have chosen to die?
By the way, because it is Spring, I will be traveling next week. See you in April!
Earlier this week, I talked about the wonder of people who can write and play music. In particular, I remembered the birthday of the classical composer Johannes Sebastain Bach and the passing of Chuck Berry, one of the earliest stars of rock 'n' roll.
Today, I share the wonder of another type of human achievement, one in the sphere of physical prowess. Unless you are a runner or follow such things, you may not be aware of Ed Whitlock. Ed Whitlock, who passed on last week, was a runner extraordinaire. Possessed with remarkable physical gifts, he continued to run, hard, into his eighties. Indeed, about a year before he died, he finished a marathon in under four hours. Given that for most of us this is an accomplishment, to see a person in his eighties do such a thing causes us to marvel even more at the profound capacities of the human body. In addition, when he was seventy-three, Whitlock ran a marathon in less than three hours. This means that, at this age, he averaged a sub-seven mile pace which, as any runner knows, is amazing. Although champion marathoners today regularly run 4:30 and 4:35 minute miles in their bid to be the first to cross the finish line, most of us do well to crack eight minute miles. Yet even in his seventies, Whitlock managed to go well beyond this.
Why did Whitlock run? Mostly, he said, for the attention and accolades. He didn't employ a special trainer, did not pursue a special diet, did not engage in any particular type of training. He just ran. And he ran fast.
What astonishing creations we are! Equal parts intellect and physicality, emotion and imagination, visioning and purpose, we ought to often step back and wonder: why? Why are we the way we are? Are we really, as one researcher put it, "plops" in a senseless universe?
Unless there is something more than we, we are.
If you enjoy rock 'n' roll, you know that Chuck Berry died last week. Dynamic and creative, Berry pioneered the sound that eventually grew into the plethora of rock music we hear today. Dozens of musicians, all, ironically, white, owe their sounds to him. His influence is immeasurable.
Some of us love rock, some of us do not. Some of us think rock is evil, most of us, I daresay, do not. Many of us lament how rock's ethos of rebellion ensnared millions of young people in the Sixties and Seventies, and all of us should mourn the passing of many a musician before he or she turned thirty, felled, in most cases, by the patterns of the life he or she led.
Regardless, if God is there, and I believe he is, we can view rock--and Chuck Berry--in a very wide lens. Culture, however it is expressed, is the fruit of a humanity made with purpose, the outpouring of a creativity born in beings made in the image of God. Though we may not like or appreciate all the culture we see, we can certainly agree that God can use it all.
And he has. As we ponder Chuck Berry's passing, we also consider the profound changes that rock wrought in so many millions of people, changes that, in many cases, helped them to see, in the compass of human creativity and imagination, that there is indeed a God.
Solely chemical beings, it seems to me, will never create.
Yesterday was the first day of Spring. Today is an equally wonderful day: the birthday of Johannes Sebastian Bach. Wrapped in the rhythms of vernality and spring, Bach's birthday comes replete with the sounds of singing birds, greening forests, and deeper skies. And his music fits the season. Fresh, bright, and resonant with joy, Bach's music echoes the wonder of the newly born creation.
We thank Bach for what he has shown us about life, wonder, and Spring. We also thank Bach for giving us a glimpse of the unfolding mystery, and the mystery behind it, of this vast, vast--and loved--universe in which we revel.
So did Bach write on every piece of music he composed, "Soli Deo Gloria" (All Glory to God Alone). Bach knew very well from whence all things come. Happy birthday, Bach!
