Mark Twain: First Impressions and Second Thoughts

My wife and I recently read and enjoyed Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad, a wonderful read full of Twain's characteristic humor and great story telling. It is an account of a trip he took in 1867 on a steamboat full of what he called pious Protestant American pilgrims anxious to explore the Old World, especially the Holy Land. I recommend the book highly to anyone interested in American history, but do not intend to write a review here. I just want to reproduce an episode that I found illustrated a universal truth. 

While in the Holy Land a few of the pilgrims took a side trip to the desolate Dead Sea. It turned out to be a hot and exhausting journey even on horseback. Afterwards, the weary travelers found an overnight refuge in a lonely monastery. Below is Twain's account of that episode in which his first impressions of the monks were altered by actual experience, a lesson for us all. It starts with a devastating critique but ends with appreciation.

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Some of those men have been shut up there for thirty years. In all that dreary time they have not heard the laughter of a child or the blessed voice of a woman; they have seen no human tears, no human smiles; they have known no human joys, no wholesome human sorrows. In their hearts are no memories of the past, in their brains no dreams of the future. All that is lovable, beautiful, worthy, they have put far away from them; against all things that are pleasant to look upon, and all sounds that are music to the ear, they have barred their massive doors and reared their relentless walls of stone forever. They have banished the tender grace of life and left only the sapped and skinny mockery. Their lips are lips that never kiss and never sing; their hearts are hearts that never hate and never love; their breasts are breasts that never swell with the sentiment, “I have a country and a flag.” They are dead men who walk.

I set down these first thoughts because they are natural—not because they are just or because it is right to set them down. It is easy for book-makers to say “I thought so and so as I looked upon such and such a scene”—when the truth is, they thought all those fine things afterwards. One’s first thought is not likely to be strictly accurate, yet it is no crime to think it and none to write it down, subject to modification by later experience. These hermits are dead men, in several respects, but not in all; and it is not proper, that, thinking ill of them at first, I should go on doing so, or, speaking ill of them I should reiterate the words and stick to them. No, they treated us too kindly for that. There is something human about them somewhere. They knew we were foreigners and Protestants, and not likely to feel admiration or much friendliness toward them. But their large charity was above considering such things. They simply saw in us men who were hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and that was sufficient. They opened their doors and gave us welcome. They asked no questions, and they made no self-righteous display of their hospitality. They fished for no compliments. They moved quietly about, setting the table for us, making the beds, and bringing water to wash in, and paid no heed when we said it was wrong for them to do that when we had men whose business it was to perform such offices. We fared most comfortably, and sat late at dinner. We walked all over the building with the hermits afterward, and then sat on the lofty battlements and smoked while we enjoyed the cool air, the wild scenery and the sunset. One or two chose cosy bed-rooms to sleep in, but the nomadic instinct prompted the rest to sleep on the broad divan that extended around the great hall, because it seemed like sleeping out of doors, and so was more cheery and inviting. It was a royal rest we had.

When we got up to breakfast in the morning, we were new men. For all this hospitality no strict charge was made. We could give something if we chose; we need give nothing, if we were poor or if we were stingy. The pauper and the miser are as free as any in the Catholic Convents of Palestine. I have been educated to enmity toward every thing that is Catholic, and sometimes, in consequence of this, I find it much easier to discover Catholic faults than Catholic merits. But there is one thing I feel no disposition to overlook, and no disposition to forget: and that is, the honest gratitude I and all pilgrims owe, to the Convent Fathers in Palestine. Their doors are always open, and there is always a welcome for any worthy man who comes, whether he comes in rags or clad in purple. The Catholic Convents are a priceless blessing to the poor. A pilgrim without money, whether he be a Protestant or a Catholic, can travel the length and breadth of Palestine, and in the midst of her desert wastes find wholesome food and a clean bed every night, in these buildings. Pilgrims in better circumstances are often stricken down by the sun and the fevers of the country, and then their saving refuge is the Convent. Without these hospitable retreats, travel in Palestine would be a pleasure which none but the strongest men could dare to undertake. Our party, pilgrims and all, will always be ready and always willing, to touch glasses and drink health, prosperity and long life to the Convent Fathers of Palestine.

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The Problem of Pain

 

Camille Paglia

Personal issues so far this year have made it difficult for the Weekly Bystander to regard current events, especially politics, as little more than trivial.  For the time being, I would just like to reproduce an old post or two that still have relevance for me at this time, and may have some interest for readers. Below is one from September, 2019.

The Wall Street Journal weekend edition regularly features an interview with a prominent personality on its op-ed pages. Last weekend the interview was with Camille Paglia, the well-known feminist author, lecturer, and professor. At the age of 72 Paglia has come under fire from students at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia who are demanding that she be fired. Despite her feminist credentials, some of Paglia’s positions, like her praise of Capitalism, are no longer in favor. 

I do not wish to get involved in feminist debates but would just like to discuss a seemingly unrelated incident in Paglia’s life that she remembered quite vividly. In fact, she regarded it as a turning point. At the age of fifteen she was in religious education class when she had the nerve to ask the teacher, an Irish Catholic nun, a very challenging and provocative question. In those days we would have called it a smart-ass question. Naturally, the nun reacted and condemned Paglia roundly in front of the class for even asking such a question. That was it for Paglia. From that day on she would have nothing to do with Catholicism. 

Coincidentally, over the weekend a friend told me of an acquaintance who left the Church because of another seemingly trivial incident. The woman had invited a soloist to sing at her wedding but after the Mass was over, the priest chided her for taking business away from the church’s own soloist. Boom! That was it. She has never gone to church again. Reactions like these are not unusual. In my lifetime I have heard of many such incidents or personal confrontations that led people to stop attending church. It is usually not a question of belief or doctrine, nor does it mean that they become bad people.  

There are more serious reasons for losing one’s faith in God or ceasing to practice the faith of your fathers. Perhaps the greatest is the problem of pain and suffering. In an email exchange, also over this weekend, an old friend told me that he had trouble believing in God and that he no longer attended church. He wrote, “If God is so good, how do you explain little children suffering from cancer?” He also asked me to explain all the pain and suffering that will result from natural disasters like hurricane Dorian.

The problem of pain and suffering, some call it the problem of evil, has been around since the dawn of recorded history. My wife and I sat down over the weekend to watch a National Geographic documentary on great animal migrations. After ten minutes we had to shut it off. The carnage and killing were horrific.  The crocodiles, leopards, and other animals did not seem concerned with the problem of pain. Human beings are obviously just as capable of inflicting pain and suffering but I believe that we are the only animals who think or worry about it.

Philosophers, theologians, and scientists have grappled with it and no one has yet come up with a completely satisfactory answer. Certainly, I haven’t. In ancient times personal suffering and natural disasters were attributed to the gods. The gods were either punishing people for their misdeeds, or were merely malevolent, playing with humans like a cat with a mouse.

In thinking about my friend’s question, I wondered if the answer could be found by considering the example of Jesus, the founder of Christianity.  No matter what you think of Jesus, his approach to the problem of pain and suffering was revolutionary. Even a cursory reading of the gospels indicates that Jesus was a healer. When confronted with pain and suffering, he healed the pain and did not blame God or anyone else. 

He gave sight to a man who had been blind from birth. Ordinary people claimed that the blindness was the result of the sins of the man’s parents. Jesus would have none of it, and just restored his sight. When a man suffering from paralysis was brought before him, rather than blaming him for his sins, he forgave them and then cured his illness.

When he heard that people had been killed when a tower collapsed in a nearby city, he told his hearers that the people who died were no more sinful than anyone else. I’m sure he would have said the same about the victims of hurricanes and earthquakes. His response to the problem of pain and suffering was to heal and minister to the suffering. He instructed his followers to do the same.

In the teaching of Jesus, God is not the cause of suffering but the cure. Those who believe in Nature believe in a cruel god who never forgives. We speak of Mother Nature but she is not the kind of mother any of us would like to have. Scientists may tell us that many must be sacrificed to cleanse the herd in the interests of survival and progress but something inside of us tells us to deplore pain and suffering and do our best to prevent and heal. That something inside of us is as much a sign of the existence of a loving God as anything else the philosophers and theologians have ever thought of. 

Camille Paglia’s wise-ass question to the poor nun, who was giving her life to educate children like her, was: “If God is infinitely forgiving, is it possible that at some point in the future He will forgive Satan?” It is true that the nun should not have blown up, especially since she only had to turn to her catechism for the simple answer. In the catechism Catholics are told that God must forgive those who repent and ask for forgiveness, and so He certainly would forgive if Satan repents and asks for forgiveness. Unfortunately, Satan, like many wise fifteen-year-olds, will have none of it.

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