A.A., Luther, and humility

I was reminded by this post at Mockingbird.com of something that happened to me when I first came to A.A. It's a little story with a moral and everything. (And of all things, I'm quoting myself now! How did it ever come to this?)

I was told something early on in A.A. that has forever changed my life and my perspective.

I was complaining one day about somebody else and something they'd done - maybe to a sponsor, but actually I can't remember who it was, now, interestingly - that I considered wrong and beyond the pale.

"I would never do that," fumed I, indignantly.

The woman looked me straight in the eye and responded: "You mean, you haven't done that yet."

A simple sentence - and an even simpler idea - that changed my whole outlook on living. Goes to simul iustus et peccator, I think - and to the understanding of humility, big time.

Really, I can't begin to say how huge an influence this one moment has been for me; it's a perfect example of the "ego deflation at depth" that's central to the A.A. experience. All the air went out of me immediately - and that condition, I've found, is the best possible approach to the world (even though it's awfully hard to manage it most of the time!).

I began to understand a simple truth: I, too - given the right circumstances - am capable of just about anything. IOW: I'm a sinner, through and through. And then, I can't possibly get superior about my very wonderful self, can I? Which is why, maybe, I was drawn to Rowan Williams' stuff from the book Where God Happens, and in particular this section:

We have put aside the easy burden, which is self-accusation, and weighed ourselves down with the heavy one, self-justification.

It takes a long time to get to this, if we ever can, of course. But it's a surprising statement just by itself, isn't it?

Humility is a very, very important idea in A.A.; we're "egomaniacs with inferiority complexes," as I heard fairly often in those days, too. And neither one of those extremes is accurate, of course; both descriptions make us the center of the universe - a really, really bad place for an alcoholic to spend any time.

But of course, "humility" is the topic of Step 7, and I'm getting a bit ahead of myself....

(For those who may not know - I didn't, until pretty recently - simul iustus et peccator is from Luther's writings. I'm actually not sure where it comes from, but it's a really important idea. The Latin translates to "justified and a sinner at the same time.")

The First Step: Surrender

"We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable."

So: what's happening here, anyway? It seems simple enough, doesn't it? The process involves an admission - and that word implies that there is some reluctance involved, I think, or some difficulty in arriving at this statement - of one's inability to control one's drinking, and a recognition of the reality of the utter mess one's life has become. And at this point I think I need to discuss something that underlies the way this Step is constructed: the concept of "denial" (something that's discussed in A.A. meetings all the time, but is not defined very well and is sometimes - in my own opinion - merely a sort of folk-wisdom bit of rationalization that's designed to cover a multitude of sins).

"Denial" is used in several different ways. In one case, it refers to the inability of the active alcoholic to see himself clearly; it seems to mean that the alcoholic doesn't recognize himself as an alcoholic, and refuses to acknowledge the damage that drinking is causing in his life. In another case, it refers to a particular "mental block" around alcohol and drinking - a sort of "blackout of reason" when the alcoholic considers having a drink even when she acknowledges her own alcoholism. This second usage is best illustrated by two examples from the book "Alcoholics Anonymous." First, this:

What sort of thinking dominates an alcoholic who repeats time after time the desperate experiment of the first drink? Friends who have reasoned with him after a spree which has brought him to the point of divorce or bankruptcy are mystified when he walks directly into a saloon. Why does he? Of what is he thinking?

Our first example is a friend we shall call Jim. This man has a charming wife and family. He inherited a lucrative automobile agency. He had a commendable World War record. He is a good salesman. Everybody likes him. He is an intelligent man, normal so far as we can see, except for a nervous disposition. He did no drinking until he was thirty-five. In a few years he became so violent when intoxicated that he had to be committed. On leaving the asylum he came into contact with us.

We told him what we knew of alcoholism and the answer we had found. He made a beginning. His family was re- assembled, and he began to work as a salesman for the business he had lost through drinking. All went well for a time, but he failed to enlarge his spiritual life. To his consternation, he found himself drunk half a dozen times in rapid succession. On each of these occasions we worked with him, reviewing carefully what had happened. He agreed he was a real alcoholic and in a serious condition. He knew he faced another trip to the asylum if he kept on. Moreover, he would lose his family for whom he had a deep affection. Yet he got drunk again. we asked him to tell us exactly how it happened. This is his story: "I came to work on Tuesday morning. I remember I felt irritated that I had to be a salesman for a concern I once owned. I had a few words with the brass, but nothing serious. Then I decided to drive to the country and see one of my prospects for a car. On the way I felt hungry so I stopped at a roadside place where they have a bar. I had no intention of drinking. I just thought I would get a sandwich. I also had the notion that I might find a customer for a car at this place, which was familiar for I had been going to it for years. I had eaten there many times during the months I was sober. I sat down at a table and ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk. Still no thought of drinking. I ordered another sandwich and decided to have another glass of milk.

"Suddenly the thought crossed my mind that if I were to put an ounce of whiskey in my milk it couldn't hurt me on a full stomach. I ordered a whiskey and poured it into the milk. I vaguely sensed I was not being any too smart, but I was reassured as I was taking the whiskey on a full stomach. The experiment went so well that I ordered another whiskey and poured it into more milk. That didn't seem to bother me so I tried another."

Thus started one more journey to the asylum for Jim. Here was the threat of commitment, the loss of family and position, to say nothing of that intense mental and physical suffering which drinking always caused him. He had much knowledge about himself as an alcoholic. Yet all reasons for not drinking were easily pushed aside in favor of the foolish idea that he could take whiskey if only he mixed it with milk!

Whatever the precise definition of the word may be, we call this plain insanity. How can such a lack of proportion, of the ability to think straight, be called anything else?

Ah, yes - milk! That's the ticket! I've always loved that story, and that particular excuse. (Truth be told, I loved the Big Book immediately! It's so 1930s, and I adore the stories.)

From the same page, here's another example; the story is similar and begins as the above story does, with the explanation of "how it happened again":

"I was much impressed with what you fellows said about alcoholism, and I frankly did not believe it would be possible for me to drink again. I rather appreciated your ideas about the subtle insanity which precedes the first drink, but I was confident it could not happen to me after what I had learned. I reasoned I was not so far advanced as most of you fellows, that I had been usually successful in licking my other personal problems, and that I would therefore be successful where you men failed. I felt I had every right to be self- confident, that it would be only a matter of exercising my will power and keeping on guard.

"In this frame of mind, I went about my business and for a time all was well. I had no trouble refusing drinks, and began to wonder if I had not been making too hard work of a simple matter. One day I went to Washington to present some accounting evidence to a government bureau. I had been out of town before during this particular dry spell, so there was nothing new about that. Physically, I felt fine. Neither did I have any pressing problems or worries. My business came off well, I was pleased and knew my partners would be too. It was the end of a perfect day, not a cloud on the horizon.

"I went to my hotel and leisurely dressed for dinner. As I crossed the threshold of the dining room, the thought came to mind that it would be nice to have a couple of cocktails with dinner. That was all. Nothing more. I ordered a cocktail and my meal. Then I ordered another cocktail. After dinner I decided to take a walk. When I returned to the hotel it struck me a highball would be fine before going to bed, so I stepped into the bar and had one. I remember having several more that night and plenty next morning. I have a shadowy recollection of being in a airplane bound for New York, and of finding a friendly taxicab driver at the landing field instead of my wife. The driver escorted me for several days. I know little of where I went or what I said and did. Then came the hospital with the unbearable mental and physical suffering.

"As soon as I regained my ability to think, I went carefully over that evening in Washington. Not only had I been off guard, I had made no fight whatever against the first drink. This time I had not thought of the consequences at all. I had commenced to drink as carelessly as thought the cocktails were ginger ale. I now remembered what my alcoholic friends had told me, how they prophesied that if I had an alcoholic mind, the time and place would come I would drink again. They had said that though I did raise a defense, it would one day give way before some trivial reason for having a drink. Well, just that did happen and more, for what I had learned of alcoholism did not occur to me at all. I knew from that moment that I had an alcoholic mind. I saw that will power and self- knowledge would not help in those strange mental blank spots. I had never been able to understand people who said that a problem had them hopelessly defeated. I knew then. It was the crushing blow. "

At any rate, this is the condition addressed by the first clause of Step 1: an "admission of powerlessness over alcohol." And the "powerlessness" referred to here is much stronger than a simple recognition that one shouldn't drink anymore; it's got to be stronger than that in the case of a person afflicted with this "subtle insanity" around drinking.

I'm discussing "denial" because it seems to me that it's an important condition in the construction of this Step.  If "denial" didn't exist - if the alcoholic didn't have "strange mental blank spots," this Step would be written differently.  We're talking about "compulsion" here, I think, and the peculiar way it operates on one's conscious mind. 

Leaving aside - because we have to - the actual cause of the "strange mental blank spots" illustrated above, two things seem clear:

1. It's acknowledged by at least some people who have a strong interest in stopping their own destructive drinking that "will power and self-knowledge do not help," and that
2. Somehow, at least for some people, the A.A. program and its "spiritual angle" do help.

So:  how do these things stack up as general principles?  Are there non-drinkers out there suffering from compulsions of their own, for which they may need spiritual help?  Surely there must be; alcoholism is only one kind of self-destructive problem (although it's a very stark one).  Are there others faced with very difficult problems not of their own making for which spiritual help is also a comfort and a very present help in trouble?  Yes, no doubt.

What about the rest?  Is there a large group of people who see no need for spiritual comfort and aid?  It would seem so, given that (as I say often on this blog) the fastest-growing segment of the population is the "unchurched."   What about things like the high divorce rate?  It does seem that we hear every other day about some high- (or low-!) profile marriage breaking up, many times due to infidelity.

In re the last point:  one thing I've thought about when considering the era of the Big Book as compared with our own is that women have so much more power today.  It was hard for a woman to live on her own in 1939, but women do it all the time today - so would Lois Wilson have thrown Bill out and forced him to come to terms with his alcoholism sooner?   Would he even have started the crazy, heavy drinking in the first place, knowing that his position might become unstable pretty quickly?  Women don't put up with drunk husbands today as they mostly had to 70 years ago - nor do they put up with philanderers any longer. Are things getter better - or worse? Surely better, in some ways, for women, no?

In any case, there are certainly lots of men in A.A. meetings today - young men, too, and some must be married.  And people still drink and take drugs in reckless ways.  But there is always a cultural aspect to these questions that makes them more difficult problems than they would be otherwise.

So:  is "surrender" a key to finding help for one's problems?  In some way, it must be:  the First Step really is the first step.  You have to acknowledge that a problem exists first, and then recognize that you can't handle it alone, right?  Even if the help is not to come from God, it has to come from someplace outside oneself:  a counselor, a friend, a priest.  Right?

So is this a key step, then, that could apply to everybody when they need help?  And is it necessary for somebody to "hit bottom" before they become willing to ask for help - particularly spiritual help?  I've been using the word "repentance" lately, thinking it's an important step on the way to "Grace" - but here's Calvin, apparently, on the topic:

"Yet when we refer to the origin of repentance to faith, we do not imagine some space of time during which it brings it to birth; but we mean to show that a man cannot apply himself seriously to repentance without knowing himself to belong to God. But no one is truly persuaded that he belongs to God unless he has first recognized God's grace....No one will ever reverence God but him who trusts that God is propitious to him. No one will gird himself willingly to observe the law but him who will be persuaded that God is pleased by his obedience. This tenderness in overlooking and tolerating vices is a sign of God's fatherly favor" (Calvin, Institutes, 3.3.2).

This seems to say clearly that grace precedes repentance - and actually in the case of A.A. I think that might be entirely right. The First Step is not really about repentance at all - is it? It's about "asking for help" and "surrender" - isn't it? And surely this is where Grace happens in the life of any alcoholic recovering in A.A. So maybe I'm completely wrong; perhaps "Grace" is actually an important step on the way to "repentance"?

Or perhaps "repentance" is exactly the right word? And the thing a person is "turning from" is the notion that she can solve her own problems using her own unaided will? Which means that "self-will" (or "pride"?) is the sin referred to, and "asking for help" is in fact a form of repentance?

Where does "Grace" come into it, then? I'm asking because I'm completely clear about the fact of "Grace" in my A.A. life - but I don't really seem to feel the same thing when I think about religious faith.

So I'm not sure, exactly. What do you think?

More later, I think.

Deconstructing the 12 Steps: Part I

Alcoholics Anonymous derives pretty directly from the Oxford Group (originally called "A First Century Christian Fellowship"), an evangelical organization begun by Frank Buchman, a American Lutheran pastor, in 1921. Interestingly:

The group was unlike other forms of evangelism in that it targeted and directed its efforts to the "up and outers": the elites and wealthy of society. It made use of publicity regarding its prominent converts, and was caricatured as a "Salvation Army for snobs." Buchman's message did not challenge the status quo and thus aided the Group's popularity among the well-to-do. Buchman made the cover of Time Magazine as "Cultist Frank Buchman: God is a Millionaire" in 1936. For a U.S. headquarters, he built a multimillion-dollar establishment on Michigan's Mackinac Island, with room for 1,000 visitors. From Caux to London's Berkeley Square to New York's Westchester County layouts, Buchman and his followers had the best. In response to criticism, Buchman had an answer: "Isn't God a millionaire?" he would ask.

A.A. founders Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith were both Oxford Groupers; Wilson was a New York stockbroker and Smith an Akron physician - and no doubt the "up and outer" group appealed to them. The Oxford Group focused on personal sinfulness and personal redemption:

Buchman, who had little intellectual interest or interest in theology, believed all change happens from the individual outward, and stressed simplicity. He summed up the Group's philosophy in a few sentences: all people are sinners , all sinners can be changed, confession is a prerequisite to change, the change can access god directly, miracles are again possible, the change must change others.

The book Alcoholics Anonymous (AKA "The Big Book") was written in 1939 as an effort to spread the word about recovery from alcoholism - remember that until this time, alcoholics were mostly thought of as "hopeless" - in an inexpensive way; the 12 Steps were introduced for the first time in this volume. Again from Wikipedia:

After the third and fourth chapters of the Big Book were completed, Wilson decided that a summary of methods for treating alcoholism was needed to describe their "word of mouth" program. The basic program had developed from the works of William James, Dr. Silkworth, and the Oxford Group. It included six basic steps:

1. We admitted that we were licked, that we were powerless over alcohol.
2. We made a moral inventory of our defects or sins.
3. We confessed or shared our shortcomings with another person in confidence.
4. We made restitution to all those we had harmed by our drinking.
5. We tried to help other alcoholics, with no thought of reward in money or prestige.
6. We prayed to whatever God we thought there was for power to practice these precepts.

Wilson decided that the six steps needed to be broken down into smaller sections to make them easier to understand and accept. He wrote the Twelve Steps one night while lying in bed, which he felt was the best place to think. He prayed for guidance prior to writing, and in reviewing what he had written and numbering the new steps, he found they added up to twelve. He then thought of the Twelve Apostles and became convinced that the program should have twelve steps. With contributions from other group members, including atheists who reined in religious content--such as Oxford material--that could later result in controversy, by fall 1938 Wilson expanded the six steps into the final version of the Twelve Steps, which are detailed in Chapter Five of the Big Book, called "How It Works."

The modern version of the 12 Steps are pretty well-known by now, but here they are again:

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

So, I'm going to try to look at these Steps and work in the opposite direction; I'm going to shrink them down into their component parts to see actually what's happening here. Maybe this will give some clues as to "what the church can learn from A.A.," even here in 2010? I hope so.

And I suppose this will probably take me a while, won't it? Well, then: the next post as soon as possible, but I'm not sure it's going to be tomorrow....

A.A. and the Church, Part 2

A continuation of my previous post on this topic. I was talking about how I got involved in the church - against my own will and better judgment, for the most part - and what my current influences are. I was talking about my experience with A.A., and relating that, as I have done pretty frequently on this blog over the past 6 years, to my experiences with the church.

And I come, basically, to this:

• I'm in this now - the church, I mean - willingly or unwillingly; it seems that I'm being "called" to something here, and I'm going with it even though I don't know where I'm going;
• I've been on a spiritual path in A.A. for a quarter of a century now - and A.A. is actually among the best spiritual paths I've ever had contact with;
• The church continues to lose members;
• Many believe it to be boring and irrelevant at best; many think it has nothing to offer except bigotry, "fairy tales," and worn-out attitudes;
• I believe that my very life depends upon my spiritual condition - that if I don't at least attempt to maintain conscious contact with God I could lose everything, including my life and/or sanity;
• It seems to me (and this is the penultimate step of the proof - and where the proof might in fact break down, unfortunately!) that the difference between me and anybody else is one of degree, and not of kind.  IOW, that alcoholism/addiction is just an extreme example of the brokenness and distress of the human condition; that everybody is broken in some way or ways, small or large - and that, therefore, all people need to attempt to maintain conscious contact with God in order not to lose everything.
  
  This I suppose is a bit controversial - but honestly I don't see why it should be.  Yesterday I was crucifer at one of the Sunday services; I don't usually do this job, but lots of people were out yesterday and I took it because I was there.  Anyway, I held the cross very high; that's my style, because I think of the words of the hymn, and because I want it to be very obvious and the most prominent thing in the room.  I should say this is a fairly new development in my personal theology, too, although I'm not sure why it wasn't immediately obvious that the cross should always be presented this way.  Well, I'm dense, that's all.
  
  Anyway, it made me think again of something I'd read a few years ago - that "the traumatic truth of human history is a tortured body." Surely this is obvious to everybody, isn't it? That human beings can get up to all kinds of horrific things - things (we say) we find unbelievable later but that were accepted as normal at the time?  Surely it's obvious that, as John Huston put it in the movie "Chinatown," playing the hideous Noah Cross (!): "Most people never have to face the fact that, at the right time and the right place, they're capable of... anything!"
  
  Surely that's clear, isn't it? Think of what the church itself has done in the past - and what it continues to do when it thinks it can get away with it. Think of Western Imperialism - and Eastern Communism. Think of Rwanda. Think of the Trail of Tears. Think of the Bataan Death March. Think of My Lai.
  
  Remember Arendt's "banality of evil." (Although that idea is currently being questioned, it doesn't seem at all controversial to this gay person. I'm sure it doesn't seem controversial to anybody who grew up black in the United States during most of its history, either.  And it won't seem controversial to the people whose lives we're currently ruining by our actions or by our neglect, either way.)

OK.  So, while the last bullet above is something of a leap that needs more justification, what I'm saying is that human beings, by definition, are all in need of rehabilitation - you and me both.  And as in A.A. (where this is accepted as completely uncontroversial) it's not a one-off, either; it's a continuing process that needs to occur over the course of a person's lifetime.  And since A.A. is not for everybody, nor was it meant to be, some other organized group needs to take charge of this problem.

But, wait!  Another organized group has, in fact, addressed this very problem!  Religion has!  Including the religion we're involved with now, Christianity!  What do you know about that!  For more than two thousand years now, Christianity has been claiming that we and the world are broken and in need of salvation.

I submit that perhaps it's actually true.  I submit, too, that most people know this anyway; everybody in New York, for instance, is in therapy - and this has been true for a long time.  They are in therapy for the same reason that everybody in Biloxi, Mississippi goes to church:  because that's the fashion locally.

But, as posters to the Mockingbird blog often note, the church does not do a very good job of addressing the sickness of the human condition.  In fact, it becomes sick itself - it decides that nobody outside its circle has done or can do anything right - then tries to push that off as health.   Here's Mockingbird again:

By way of contrast, the Christian church often creates an environment where people cannot really be open and honest about their struggles. It can appear that Christians have no besetting struggles, just “victory,” and the occasional assaults of the devil, but very few inwardly generated liabilities or recidivistic tendencies. The person in AA who denies these things is nothing more than a liar. To quote 1 John 1: “If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves.”

Imagine walking into a church where all who entered were asked to sign a waiver at the door that said: “I’m a sinner and by stepping into the room today I acknowledge that fact.” Ministry and church life would be tremendously more effective. Unfortunately, you can come into church these days and sign up for any number of identities: Easter/Christmas type, fanatic/Pharisee, sinner, middle-of-the-road, or whatever. In AA there is only the option of sinner.

I'm sure it's clear to you by now where I'm going with this. The church offers, by way of ancient spiritual texts and interpretation of what's contained in those texts, a way for human beings to live and be saved. Ancient spiritual texts are so interesting in their own right (at least for me) because it's clear that people had need of spiritual sustenance in times and places that were lots less "safe" than our Western experience is today. And those people needed to find that sustenance on their own - without the aid of chemicals or technology. They are, in other words, addressing at depth and directly the facts of the human condition - which, it seems to me, makes them more or less timeless. Or, at least, applicable until the next great evolutionary change occurs in the species homo sapiens - and I really don't think we're there yet.

IOW, all ancient texts are in some way "Wisdom Literature." They continue to have many, many things to say to us - and when you attend a great Bible study class, for instance, you realize this immediately. And when this is paired with a view of Grace such as the one you find in A.A. - that hopeless people (AKA "sinners") are given the free gift of life and sanity completely undeserved and unasked-for - it becomes a startlingly clear path towards healing.

And that is where the church misses the boat, from Evangelicals to liberal Episcopalians; "Grace" and "healing" have been utterly forgotten. That is where our focus needs to be, and isn't.

Maybe more later.....

A.A. and the Church

As I've been posting here recently, I've started to follow a blog written by an organization called "Mockingbird Ministries."

The reasons are several; one is that I've come into strong contact recently with the Reformation idea that "Grace" is the key to the faith life and to "salvation." Another is Mockingbird's explicit drawing from the literature and example of Alcoholics Anonymous. You might notice on the blog that the first link in their "Churches/Sermons/Resources" section is to Calvary/St. George's in New York City - a church where A.A. has deep roots. I think some of the founders of Mockingbird, or writers on the blog, have been connected with Calvary in some way.

Keep in mind that my experience with Christianity has been almost completely experiential; I have had very little contact at all with systematic - or formal in any real way - theology. I've just had a particular experience and have been putting one foot in front of the other ever since, because I felt "called" in some basic way - "obligated" is how I've put it in my more sardonic moments, because I was never really looking for it. And actually, I'm in a number of ways almost totally unwillingly involved in all this.

This is to say that my relation to faith is not intellectual, but emotional, really, I guess. I certainly feel that I'm being swept up into something that I have been completely unfamiliar with - and highly resentful of even at the best of times.

So, anyway: what I'm interested in now - and this has been a theme for me for years, actually - is how religion - Christianity in particular - can create health. Don't forget: I have been intimately involved in that particular experience via A.A. for more than 25 years now - and A.A. is explicitly "spiritual." I know from my own life experience the difference between extreme illness and health - and I owe my life to this difference even now. And almost everybody in A.A. acknowledges - after we get a little better, anyway - that we did absolutely nothing to deserve - or effect - the second chance at life we're getting. We were not in control of our lives or our resurrection from the dead; it was a free gift from God.

And of course, this is the exact definition of "Grace" as taught by Luther and other Reformers.

And the more I read the gospels, the more I realize that "health" is really a central idea there. People come to Jesus for healing - all kinds of people with all kinds of problems. Nothing has worked, as long as they've lived, to solve these problems: the invalid at the Sheep Gate was lame for 38 years, and could never get into the Pool first for its healing effects; the woman had had the hemorrhage for more than 12 years and no doctor had ever been able to help her; the paralytic at Capernaum had been seeking to be healed for a long time, and needed the help of his four friends to get him to see Jesus. These stories are completely familiar to people who get sober in A.A.; many have tried everything - but could never get better until they "surrender" and admit complete defeat, asking God for help. (This is notwithstanding the many anti-A.A. attitudes currently in fashion. Here's an interesting recent example of one; this particular argument claims at once that A.A. keeps people from obtaining necessary care for their desperate problem - and also that alcohol abuse isn't really that serious, but something that most people simply outgrow naturally. Interesting contradiction there, don't you think?)

So, OK. This is a long-winded introduction to my major point, which is that if A.A. can succeed at changing people's lives in such a dramatic way - why can't the church take a few lessons from it? I've talked about this many, many times on this blog - and am finding that this is what Mockingbird argues, too, quite often.

There are definitely distinctions to be drawn; I've been drawing some, as I see them, at their blog lately. (Funny thing is, nobody's responded to me yet, not even when I wish them the best as they move their organization from New York to Virginia! Whenever that happens, I always suspect it's because people have linked to my blog and seen posts I've written on gay-related topics and decided I'm not really that welcome. Who knows if that's really true? But there's no question that they are coming from an Evangelical perspective, and of course we've all written volumes about that whole relationship.) These distinctions are actually quite important, in my view - and need to be drawn in order to understand how to work this problem out for the general (non-addict/alcoholic, that is) population.

More later; this post is growing too long at this point. Do check out, though, their Memorial Day post; it's a stunning and fascinating video of the "Honor Guard Inspection" portion of the Changing of the Guard at Arlington National Cemetery. Better yet, here's the video itself.

The Happy Prince

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”

“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.

“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.”

“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.”

“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

“You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”

Then another drop fell.

“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw—Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I am the Happy Prince.”

“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite drenched me.”

“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”

“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”

“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow. “Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. “It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.”

“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!”

“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.”

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.”

“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.

“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”

“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.”

“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”

“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.”

“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to weep.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command you.”

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came up. “I am going to Egypt”! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”

“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”

“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”

“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, “but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.”

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command you.”

So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said, “so I will stay with you always.”

“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.”

“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.”

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!” they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”

“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”

“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.

“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,” said the Mayor in fact, “he is litttle beter than a beggar!”

“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.

“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”

“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.

“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

- By Oscar Wilde.