Gaza: Lequel te semble avoir été le prochain de celui qui était tombé au milieu des brigands ? (Gaza’s latest war shows off French exception in all its misery)

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Et qui est mon prochain ? Jésus reprit la parole, et dit : Un homme descendait de Jérusalem à Jéricho. Il tomba au milieu des brigands, qui le dépouillèrent, le chargèrent de coups, et s’en allèrent, le laissant à demi mort. Un sacrificateur, qui par hasard descendait par le même chemin, ayant vu cet homme, passa outre. Un Lévite, qui arriva aussi dans ce lieu, l’ayant vu, passa outre. Mais un Samaritain, qui voyageait, étant venu là, fut ému de compassion lorsqu’il le vit. Il s’approcha, et banda ses plaies, en y versant de l’huile et du vin ; puis il le mit sur sa propre monture, le conduisit à une hôtellerie, et prit soin de lui. Le lendemain, il tira deux deniers, les donna à l’hôte, et dit : Aie soin de lui, et ce que tu dépenseras de plus, je te le rendrai à mon retour. Lequel de ces trois te semble avoir été le prochain de celui qui était tombé au milieu des brigands ? C’est celui qui a exercé la miséricorde envers lui, répondit le docteur de la loi. Et Jésus lui dit : Va, et toi, fais de même. Jésus (Luc 10 : 25-37)
Car j’ai eu faim, et vous m’avez donné à manger; j’ai eu soif, et vous m’avez donné à boire; j’étais étranger, et vous m’avez recueilli;j’étais nu, et vous m’avez vêtu; j’étais malade, et vous m’avez visité; j’étais en prison, et vous êtes venus vers moi.Les justes lui répondront: Seigneur, quand t’avons-nous vu avoir faim, et t’avons-nous donné à manger; ou avoir soif, et t’avons-nous donné à boire?Quand t’avons-nous vu étranger, et t’avons-nous recueilli; ou nu, et t’avons-nous vêtu?Quand t’avons-nous vu malade, ou en prison, et sommes-nous allés vers toi?Et le roi leur répondra: Je vous le dis en vérité, toutes les fois que vous avez fait ces choses à l’un de ces plus petits de mes frères, c’est à moi que vous les avez faites.Ensuite il dira à ceux qui seront à sa gauche: Retirez-vous de moi, maudits; allez dans le feu éternel qui a été préparé pour le diable et pour ses anges. Car j’ai eu faim, et vous ne m’avez pas donné à manger; j’ai eu soif, et vous ne m’avez pas donné à boire; j’étais étranger, et vous ne m’avez pas recueilli; j’étais nu, et vous ne m’avez pas vêtu; j’étais malade et en prison, et vous ne m’avez pas visité.Ils répondront aussi: Seigneur, quand t’avons-nous vu ayant faim, ou ayant soif, ou étranger, ou nu, ou malade, ou en prison, et ne t’avons-nous pas assisté?Et il leur répondra: Je vous le dis en vérité, toutes les fois que vous n’avez pas fait ces choses à l’un de ces plus petits, c’est à moi que vous ne les avez pas faites. Jésus (Matthieu 25: 35-45)
La charge, ou le poids ou le fardeau de la gloire de mon voisin devrait être portée tous les jours sur mon dos, une charge si lourde que l’humilité seule peut la porter et que le dos des orgueilleux en est rompu. C’est une chose sérieuse de vivre dans une société de possibles dieux et déesses, se rappeler que la personne la plus ennuyeuse et la plus inintéressante à qui vous parlez pourrait un jour être une créature qui, si vous pouviez la voir maintenant, vous seriez fortement tentés de l’adorer, ou bien une horreur et une corruption telle que vous ne pourriez à présent rencontrer, si cela était possible, que dans un cauchemar. Tout au long de la journée nous nous aidons, dans une certaine mesure, à atteindre l’une ou l’autre de ces destinations. C’est à la lumière de ces écrasantes possibilités, c’est avec la crainte et la circonspection propres à celles-ci, que nous devrions considérer tous nos rapports avec l’autre… Il n’y a pas de gens ordinaires. Vous n’avez jamais parlé à un simple mortel. Les nations, les arts, les civilisations sont mortelles, et leurs existences sont par rapport à la notre comme la vie d’un moustique. Mais ce sont avec les immortels que nous jouons, travaillons, que nous épousons, méprisons et exploitons – horreurs immortelles ou splendeurs éternelles…. Cela ne signifie pas qu’il nous faut être perpétuellement solennels. Il nous faut jouer. Mais notre joie doit être de ce genre (et c’est, en fait, le genre le plus joyeux) qui existe entre ceux qui se sont, dès le départ, pris mutuellement au sérieux  — aucune désinvolture, aucune supériorité, aucune présomption. CS Lewis
Ce qui m’a motivé, c’était la parole de Jésus « vous êtes le sel de la terre » qui signifie que vous devez nous engager; vous ne pouvez pas rester dans votre église. Vous devez vous engager dans cette situation; le sel doit être inséré dans la blessure, dans l’endroit qui n’est pas en règle, qui est en difficulté. C’est là où vous devez aller. Cette idée d’engagement dans la politique est une pensée que Jésus a déjà exprimée dans la parabole du bon Samaritain. Quelqu’un a été battu et git là sur le chemin, ceux qui l’ont battu sont partis, et maintenant deux hommes venant du temple s’approchent, détournent la tête et s’en vont. Jésus dit qu’ils sont coupables non parce qu’ils [ont fait quelque chose] – ils n’ont rien fait, ce n’est pas eux qui l’ont battu – mais parce qu’ils ne l’ont pas aidé. Si nous nous contentons de laisser le monde tranquille et ne nous engageons, nous sommes tout aussi coupables que ces deux hommes qui, comme l’a dit Jésus dans cette parabole, se ont détourné les yeux et n’ont pas voulu en entendre parler. Vous devez vous engager parce que vous êtes le sel de la terre. Christian Führer
Je suis heureuse de l’annonce, enfin, d’un cessez-le feu à Gaza, même si la trêve est incertaine et fragile après ces 22 jours d’une riposte israélienne d’une violence inouïe, même si les images insoutenables de ces civils sacrifiés mettront du temps à s’estomper et les blessures innombrables à cicatriser. Puisse le rameau d’olivier l’emporter sur la mitraillette dans cette région abîmée, l’alternative reste indubitablement la même qu’en 1974 lorsque Yasser Arafat prononçait son discours à l’ONU et déclarait « je viens avec un rameau d’olivier dans la main gauche et une mitraillette dans la main droite. Ne faites pas tomber le rameau d’olivier. » Najat Vallaud-Belkacem (18.01.09)
Je suis né dans un pays qui n’existe pas, Je suis né sur une terre qui n’est plus à moi, Une terre occupée, une terre piétinée, Une terre autonome sur le papier, Je suis né sous les You-Yous et les cris de joie, Je suis né après bien d’autres dans le camp trop étroit, La mer était ma frontière, mon sanctuaire, Pour oublier les colons et le blocus et la misère, J’ai grandi bercé au son des récits de l’exil, J’ai grandi au creux des vies suspendues à un fil, Le fil d’un espoir tenace dans l’impasse, Un jour oui la tête haute nous aurons notre place, Nous aurons notre place, nous aurons notre place. J’ai grandi trop, trop, vite entre deuil et oubli, J’ai grandi en tutoyant l’horizon infini, Le sable chaud sous mes pas me portait vers l’au delà, Je serai si grand si fort, on ne verra que moi, J’ai vécu à Gaza sans jamais en sortir, J’ai vécu de jours en jours sans remords ni soupir, Malgré les barbelés le couvre feu les blindés, J’ai chéri au fond de moi le rêve d’en échapper, Le rêve d’en échapper, le rêve d’en échapper. J’ai vécu les vagues humaines de l’intifada, J’ai vécu cortèges et grèves drapeaux à bout de bras, Nous chantions à pleins poumons notre passion, Tandis qu’au dessus de nous paradaient leurs avions, Je suis mort, a-t-on menti, d’une balle perdue, Je suis mort assassiné par un homme inconnu, Qui croyait faire son devoir en tirant dans le brouillard, Sur des ombres ennemies aux armes dérisoires, Je suis mort comme milles autres, mille après mille avant, Je suis mort un soir d’automne, un soir de ramadan, Mais je ne voulais que vivre, vivre libre, Je ne voulais qu’être libre, je ne voulais qu’être libre, Je ne voulais qu’être libre !! Jean-Pierre Filiu (Une vie de moins)
J’étais diplomate, premier conseiller à Damas, et ils avaient fait une tournée régionale avec des dates à Damas et Alep. Nous sommes restés proches depuis cette époque et je leur ai proposé ce texte, qu’ils ont choisi de mettre en musique et en images. C’est une chanson qui raconte l’histoire touchante d’un être humain qui a grandi à Gaza. Chacun y mettra ce qu’il veut. Le seul message, c’est qu’on n’oublie pas Gaza. Pour le reste, il n’y a pas de mode d’emploi. Jean-Pierre Filiu
Le premier symbole auquel s’attaque la chanson est la valeur supérieure de la vie dans le judaïsme avec le titre, « Une vie de moins », qui suggère le peu de cas que les Israéliens feraient de la vie des Palestiniens (comme si une vie de plus ou de moins ne changeait pas véritablement la donne). Ce titre désacralise ainsi l’un des principes fondamentaux du judaïsme en vertu duquel « Celui qui tue un homme tue toute l’humanité ». Richard Pasquier (Crif)
La bande de Gaza accueille aujourd’hui sur 360 km2 un million six cent mille êtres humains. Plus de la moitié des habitants de Gaza ont moins de 18 ans et, dans leur écrasante majorité, ils n’ont jamais pu sortir, même une seule fois, de leur territoire de naissance. Pas une famille n’a été épargnée par la violence : dans chaque foyer de Gaza, au moins un membre a été tué, mutilé, blessé, ou emprisonné en Israël. Malgré cette succession de souffrances, les habitants de Gaza sont d’une hospitalité émouvante et d’une générosité insigne. La seule richesse de Gaza, ce sont ces femmes et ces hommes, attachants et touchants, et cette richesse se livre sans compter.   Les jeunes de Gaza et de Palestine ne veulent au fond rien d’autre que les jeunes de partout ailleurs. Une vie normale, libérée de l’angoisse permanente. Une existence délivrée de l’ombre des milices et de la menace d’Israël. Une vie digne, en sécurité et en paix. Il est temps d’entendre cette génération Palestine et de la comprendre. « Une vie de moins » lui est dédiée. Mediapart
La liberté d’expression a des limites, tout le monde vous le dira. Il est bien sûr légitime de publier des caricatures du Prophète de l’islam, de conspuer l’islam à longueur de colonnes, de considérer les musulmans comme des « ennemis de l’intérieur » qu’il nous faut dénoncer, en revanche, critiquer Israël devient de plus en plus risqué. Dans un article publié le 15 octobre sur le site du Conseil représentatif des institutions juives de France (CRIF) intitulé « Une chanson qui risque de promouvoir la haine d’Israël chez les jeunes », l’auteur prend à partie la chanson « Une vie en moins », du groupe Zebda, dont les paroles ont été écrites par Jean-Pierre Filiu. Il écrit : « Le premier symbole auquel s’attaque la chanson est la valeur supérieure de la vie dans le judaïsme avec le titre, “Une vie de moins”, qui suggère le peu de cas que les Israéliens feraient de la vie des Palestiniens (comme si une vie de plus ou de moins ne changeait pas véritablement la donne). Ce titre désacralise ainsi l’un des principes fondamentaux du judaïsme en vertu duquel “Celui qui tue un homme tue toute l’humanité”. » Ainsi donc, les auteurs de la chanson ne sont pas seulement des anti-israéliens, mais des antijuifs, soit des antisémites. Accusation qui devient habituelle contre tous ceux qui critiquent la politique de l’Etat d’Israël. L’auteur de ce texte ne réalise pas (ou peut-être, au contraire, le fait-il délibérément) le danger qu’il y a à assimiler Israël aux principes du judaïsme. L’armée israélienne, qui envahit le Liban en juin 1982, qui réprime par la force les Intifadas, qui attaque encore le Liban en 2006, défend-elle les valeurs du judaïsme ? L’Etat qui a utilisé la torture à grande échelle défend-il la valeur supérieure de la vie humaine ? En le prétendant, l’auteur favorise tous les amalgames entre Israël, le judaïsme et les juifs du monde, pris en otage par une politique dont ils ne portent pas la responsabilité. Alain Gresh
C’est le cri d’un enfant de Gaza mort sous les balles d’un soldat israélien. Qui raconte sa vie dans un clip, sous un emballage graphique ciselé. « Je suis né sur une terre qui n’est plus à moi, une terre piétinée, une terre occupée…pour oublier le blocus et la misère, j’ai grandi bercé au son des récits de l’exil. » Et pour finir. « Je suis mort à ce qu’on m’a dit d’une balle perdue, je suis mort assassiné par un homme inconnu qui croyait faire son devoir en tirant dans le brouillard sur des ombres d’ennemis aux armes dérisoires… » Traduisons: Israël, l’occupant qui prend plaisir à piétiner le peuple arabe de Gaza, est un tueur d’enfants. L’accusation des Juifs d’assassiner les enfants trouve ses racines pluriséculaires dans le vieux discours antisémite chrétien, avant de faire les beaux jours du nazisme et d’imprégner aujourd’hui l’islamisme radical. Le martyr Merah, saisissant par les cheveux la petite Myriam Monsonégo, 8 ans, et lui collant le canon de son arme sur le front, rétablit enfin l’injustice faite aux enfants palestiniens. Sylvie Bensaid

Au terme de deux semaines de souffrance du peuple israélien …

Mais aussi, pour le peuple de Gaza, de la part de leurs tortionnaires de dirigeants …

Où, triste exception française, la Patrie autoproclamée des droits de l’homme et sa claque médiatique se sont à nouveau trouvés aux abonnés absents

Quand, intellectuels et artistes en tête, elle ne prend pas part, dans la ville même qui nous donné le tueurs d’enfants juifs Merah, aux pires détournements

Retour, en guise de réponse à la célèbre question du docteur de la loi à Jésus concernant qui était son prochain, sur le fameux sermon du grand apologue du christianisme et disciple de Chesterton CS Lewis

Si vite oublié parce qu’ayant eu la malchance de mourir le même jour que Kennedy et Huxley …

Et dont, surtout du côté français, on ne connait plus que l’oeuvre de fiction pour enfants

The Weight of Glory

C.S. Lewis

Preached originally as a sermon in the Church of St Mary the Virgin, Oxford, on June 8, 1942: published in THEOLOGY, November, 1941, and by the S.P.C.K,

1942

If you asked twenty good men to-day what they thought the highest of the virtues, nineteen of them would reply, Unselfishness. But if you asked almost any of the great Christians of old he would have replied, Love. You see what has happened? A negative term has been substituted for a positive, and this is of more than philological importance. The negative ideal of Unselfishness carries with it the suggestion not primarily of securing good things for others, but of going without them ourselves, as if our abstinence and not their happiness was the important point. I do not think this is the Christian virtue of Love. The New Testament has lots to say about self-denial, but not about self-denial as an end in itself. We are told to deny ourselves and to take up our crosses in order that we may follow Christ; and nearly every description of what we shall ultimately find if we do so contains an appeal to desire. If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

We must not be troubled by unbelievers when they say that this promise of reward makes the Christian life a mercenary affair. There are different kinds of reward. There is the reward which has no natural connexion with the things you do to earn it, and is quite foreign to the desires that ought to accompany those things. Money is not the natural reward of love; that is why we call a man mercenary if he marries a woman for the sake of her money. But marriage is the proper reward for a real lover, and he is not mercenary for desiring it. A general who fights well in order to get a peerage is mercenary; a general who fights for victory is not, victory being the proper reward of battle as marriage is the proper reward of love. The proper rewards are not simply tacked on to the activity for which they are given, but are the activity itself in consummation. There is also a third case, which is more complicated. An enjoyment of Greek poetry is certainly a proper, and not a mercenary, reward for learning Greek; but only those who have reached the stage of enjoying Greek poetry can tell from their own experience that this is so. The schoolboy beginning Greek grammar cannot look forward to his adult enjoyment of Sophocles as a lover looks forward to marriage or a general to victory. He has to begin by working for marks, or to escape punishment, or to please his parents, or, at best, in the hope of a future good which he cannot at present imagine or desire. His position, therefore, bears a certain resemblance to that of the mercenary; the reward he is going to get will, in actual fact, be a natural or proper reward, but he will not know that till he has got it. Of course, he gets it gradually; enjoyment creeps in upon the mere drudgery, and nobody could point to a day or an hour when the one ceased and the other began. But it is just in so far as he approaches the reward that be becomes able to desire it for its own sake; indeed, the power of so desiring it is itself a preliminary reward.

The Christian, in relation to heaven, is in much the same position as this schoolboy. Those who have attained everlasting life in the vision of God doubtless know very well that it is no mere bribe, but the very consummation of their earthly discipleship; but we who have not yet attained it cannot know this in the same way, and cannot even begin to know it at all except by continuing to obey and finding the first reward of our obedience in our increasing power to desire the ultimate reward. Just in proportion as the desire grows, our fear lest it should be a mercenary desire will die away and finally be recognized as an absurdity. But probably this will not, for most of us, happen in a day; poetry replaces grammar, gospel replaces law, longing transforms obedience, as gradually as the tide lifts a grounded ship.

But there is one other important similarity between the schoolboy and ourselves. If he is an imaginative boy he will, quite probably, be revelling in the English poets and romancers suitable to his age some time before he begins to suspect that Greek grammar is going to lead him to more and more enjoyments of this same sort. He may even be neglecting his Greek to read Shelley and Swinburne in secret. In other words, the desire which Greek is really going to gratify already exists in him and is attached to objects which seem to him quite unconnected with Xenophon and the verbs in μι. Now, if we are made for heaven, the desire for our proper place will be already in us, but not yet attached to the true object, and will even appear as the rival of that object. And this, I think, is just what we find. No doubt there is one point in which my analogy of the schoolboy breaks down. The English poetry which he reads when he ought to be doing Greek exercises may be just as good as the Greek poetry to which the exercises are leading him, so that in fixing on Milton instead of journeying on to Aeschylus his desire is not embracing a false object. But our case is very different. If a transtemporal, transfinite good is our real destiny, then any other good on which our desire fixes must be in some degree fallacious, must bear at best only a symbolical relation to what will truly satisfy.

In speaking of this desire for our own far- off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years. Almost our whole education has been directed to silencing this shy, persistent, inner voice; almost all our modem philosophies have been devised to convince us that the good of man is to be found on this earth. And yet it is a remarkable thing that such philosophies of Progress or Creative Evolution themselves bear reluctant witness to the truth that our real goal is elsewhere. When they want to convince you that earth is your home, notice how they set about it. They begin by trying to persuade you that earth can be made into heaven, thus giving a sop to your sense of exile in earth as it is. Next, they tell you that this fortunate event is still a good way off in the future, thus giving a sop to your knowledge that the fatherland is not here and now. Finally, lest your longing for the transtemporal should awake and spoil the whole affair, they use any rhetoric that comes to hand to keep out of your mind the recollection that even if all the happiness they promised could come to man on earth, yet still each generation would lose it by death, including the last generation of all, and the whole story would be nothing, not even a story, for ever and ever. Hence all the nonsense that Mr. Shaw puts into the final speech of Lilith, and Bergson’s remark that the élan vital is capable of surmounting all obstacles, perhaps even death—as if we could believe that any social or biological development on this planet will delay the senility of the sun or reverse the second law of thermodynamics.

Do what they will, then, we remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy. But is there any reason to suppose that reality offers any satisfaction to it? “Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.” But I think it may be urged that this misses the point. A man’s physical hunger does not prove that that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man’s hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called “falling in love” occurred in a sexless world.

Here, then, is the desire, still wandering and uncertain of its object and still largely unable to see that object in the direction where it really lies. Our sacred books give us some account of the object. It is, of course, a symbolical account. Heaven is, by definition, outside our experience, but all intelligible descriptions must be of things within our experience. The scriptural picture of heaven is therefore just as symbolical as the picture which our desire, unaided, invents for itself; heaven is not really full of jewelry any more than it is really the beauty of Nature, or a fine piece of music. The difference is that the scriptural imagery has authority. It comes to us from writers who were closer to God than we, and it has stood the test of Christian experience down the centuries. The natural appeal of this authoritative imagery is to me, at first, very small. At first sight it chills, rather than awakes, my desire. And that is just what I ought to expect. If Christianity could tell me no more of the far-off land than my own temperament led me to surmise already, then Christianity would be no higher than myself. If it has more to give me, I must expect it to be less immediately attractive than “my own stuff.” Sophocles at first seems dull and cold to the boy who has only reached Shelley. If our religion is something objective, then we must never avert our eyes from those elements in it which seem puzzling or repellent; for it will be precisely the puzzling or the repellent which conceals what we do not yet know and need to know.

The promises of Scripture may very roughly be reduced to five heads. It is promised, firstly, that we shall be with Christ; secondly, that we shall be like Him; thirdly, with an enormous wealth of imagery, that we shall have “glory”; fourthly, that we shall, in some sense, be fed or feasted or entertained; and, finally, that we shall have some sort of official position in the universe—ruling cities, judging angels, being pillars of God’s temple. The first question I ask about these promises is: “Why any of them except the first?” Can anything be added to the conception of being with Christ? For it must be true, as an old writer says, that he who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only. I think the answer turns again on the nature of symbols. For though it may escape our notice at first glance, yet it is true that any conception of being with Christ which most of us can now form will be not very much less symbolical than the other promises; for it will smuggle in ideas of proximity in space and loving conversation as we now understand conversation, and it will probably concentrate on the humanity of Christ to the exclusion of His deity. And, in fact, we find that those Christians who attend solely to this first promise always do fill it up with very earthly imagery indeed—in fact, with hymeneal or erotic imagery. I am not for a moment condemning such imagery. I heartily wish I could enter into it more deeply than I do, and pray that I yet shall. But my point is that this also is only a symbol, like the reality in some respects, but unlike it in others, and therefore needs correction from the different symbols in the other promises. The variation of the promises does not mean that anything other than God will be our ultimate bliss; but because God is more than a Person, and lest we should imagine the joy of His presence too exclusively in terms of our present poor experience of personal love, with all its narrowness and strain and monotony, a dozen changing images, correcting and relieving each other, are supplied.

I turn next to the idea of glory. There is no getting away from the fact that this idea is very prominent in the New Testament and in early Christian writings. Salvation is constantly associated with palms, crowns, white robes, thrones, and splendour like the sun and stars. All this makes no immediate appeal to me at all, and in that respect I fancy I am a typical modern. Glory suggests two ideas to me, of which one seems wicked and the other ridiculous. Either glory means to me fame, or it means luminosity. As for the first, since to be famous means to be better known than other people, the desire for fame appears to me as a competitive passion and therefore of hell rather than heaven. As for the second, who wishes to become a kind of living electric light bulb?

When I began to look into this matter I was stocked to find such different Christians as Milton, Johnson and Thomas Aquinas taking heavenly glory quite frankly in the sense of fame or good report. But not fame conferred by our fellow creatures—fame with God, approval or (I might say) “appreciation’ by God. And then, when I had thought it over, I saw that this view was scriptural; nothing can eliminate from the parable the divine accolade, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” With that, a good deal of what I had been thinking all my life fell down like a house of cards. I suddenly remembered that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child—not in a conceited child, but in a good child—as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised. Not only in a child, either, but even in a dog or a horse. Apparently what I had mistaken for humility had, all these years. prevented me from understanding what is in fact the humblest, the most childlike, the most creaturely of pleasures—nay, the specific pleasure of the inferior: the pleasure a beast before men, a child before its father, a pupil before his teacher, a creature before its Creator. I am not forgetting how horribly this most innocent desire is parodied in our human ambitions, or how very quickly, in my own experience, the lawful pleasure of praise from those whom it was my duty to please turns into the deadly poison of self-admiration. But I thought I could detect a moment—a very, very short moment—before this happened, during which the satisfaction of having pleased those whom I rightly loved and rightly feared was pure. And that is enough to raise our thoughts to what may happen when the redeemed soul, beyond all hope and nearly beyond belief, learns at last that she has pleased Him whom she was created to please. There will be no room for vanity then. She will be free from the miserable illusion that it is her doing. With no taint of what we should now call self-approval she will most innocently rejoice in the thing that God has made her to be, and the moment which heals her old inferiority complex for ever will also drown her pride deeper than Prospero’s book. Perfect humility dispenses with modesty. If God is satisfied with the work, the work may be satisfied with itself; “it is not for her to bandy compliments with her Sovereign.” I can imagine someone saying that he dislikes my idea of heaven as a place where we are patted on the back. But proud misunderstanding is behind that dislike. In the end that Face which is the delight or the terror of the universe must be turned upon each of us either with one expression or with the other, either conferring glory inexpressible or inflicting shame that can never be cured or disguised. I read in a periodical the other day that the fundamental thing is how we think of God. By God Himself, it is not! How God thinks of us is not only more important, but infinitely more important. Indeed, how we think of Him is of no importance except in so far as it is related to how He thinks of us. It is written that we shall “stand before” Him, shall appear, shall be inspected. The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God…to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness…to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.

And now notice what is happening. If I had rejected the authoritative and scriptural image of glory and stuck obstinately to the vague desire which was, at the outset, my only pointer to heaven, I could have seen no connexion at all between that desire and the Christian promise. But now, having followed up what seemed puzzling and repellent in the sacred books, I find, to my great surprise, looking back, that the connexion is perfectly clear. Glory, as Christianity teaches me to hope for it, turns out to satisfy my original desire and indeed to reveal an element in that desire which I had not noticed. By ceasing for a moment to consider my own wants I have begun to learn better what I really wanted. When I attempted, a few minutes ago, to describe our spiritual longings, I was omitting one of their most curious characteristics. We usually notice it just as the moment of vision dies away, as the music ends or as the landscape loses the celestial light. What we feel then has been well described by Keats as “the journey homeward to habitual self.” You know what I mean. For a few minutes we have had the illusion of belonging to that world. Now we wake to find that it is no such thing. We have been mere spectators. Beauty has smiled, but not to welcome us; her face was turned in our direction, but not to see us. We have not been accepted, welcomed, or taken into the dance. We may go when we please, we may stay if we can: “Nobody marks us.” A scientist may reply that since most of the things we call beautiful are inanimate, it is not very surprising that they take no notice of us. That, of course, is true. It is not the physical objects that I am speaking of, but that indescribable something of which they become for a moment the messengers. And part of the bitterness which mixes with the sweetness of that message is due to the fact that it so seldom seems to be a message intended for us but rather something we have overheard. By bitterness I mean pain, not resentment. We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory meant good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.

Perhaps it seems rather crude to describe glory as the fact of being “noticed” by God. But this is almost the language of the New Testament. St. Paul promises to those who love God not, as we should expect, that they will know Him, but that they will be known by Him (I Cor. viii. 3). It is a strange promise. Does not God know all things at all times? But it is dreadfully re- echoed in another passage of the New Testament. There we are warned that it may happen to any one of us to appear at last before the face of God and hear only the appalling words: “I never knew you. Depart from Me.” In some sense, as dark to the intellect as it is unendurable to the feelings, we can be both banished from the presence of Him who is present everywhere and erased from the knowledge of Him who knows all. We can be left utterly and absolutely outside—repelled, exiled, estranged, finally and unspeakably ignored. On the other hand, we can be called in, welcomed, received, acknowledged. We walk every day on the razor edge between these two incredible possibilities. Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache.

And this brings me to the other sense of glory—glory as brightness, splendour, luminosity. We are to shine as the sun, we are to be given the Morning Star. I think I begin to see what it means. In one way, of course, God has given us the Morning Star already: you can go and enjoy the gift on many fine mornings if you get up early enough. What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more— something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves—that, though we cannot, yet these projections can, enjoy in themselves that beauty grace, and power of which Nature is the image. That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can’t. They tell us that “beauty born of murmuring sound” will pass into a human face; but it won’t. Or not yet. For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendour of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, may be very near the truth as prophecy. At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in. When human souls have become as perfect in voluntary obedience as the inanimate creation is in its lifeless obedience, then they will put on its glory, or rather that greater glory of which Nature is only the first sketch. For you must not think that I am putting forward any heathen fancy of being absorbed into Nature. Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive. Nature is only the image, the symbol; but it is the symbol Scripture invites me to use. We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects.

And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life. At present, if we are reborn in Christ, the spirit in us lives directly on God; but the mind, and still more the body, receives life from Him at a thousand removes—through our ancestors, through our food, through the elements. The faint, far-off results of those energies which God’s creative rapture implanted in matter when He made the worlds are what we now call physical pleasures; and even thus filtered, they are too much for our present management. What would it be to taste at the fountain-head that stream of which even these lower reaches prove so intoxicating? Yet that, I believe, is what lies before us. The whole man is to drink joy from the fountain of joy. As St. Augustine said, the rapture of the saved soul will “flow over” into the glorified body. In the light of our present specialized and depraved appetites we cannot imagine this torrens voluptatis, and I warn everyone seriously not to try. But it must be mentioned, to drive out thoughts even more misleading—thoughts that what is saved is a mere ghost, or that the risen body lives in numb insensibility. The body was made for the Lord, and these dismal fancies are wide of the mark.

Meanwhile the cross comes before the crown and tomorrow is a Monday morning. A cleft has opened in the pitiless walls of the world, and we are invited to follow our great Captain inside. The following Him is, of course, the essential point. That being so, it may be asked what practical use there is in the speculations which I have been indulging. I can think of at least one such use. It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

Voir aussi:

Une vie de moins, une chanson pour Gaza
Sylvie Bensaid
Tribune juive
24 octobre 2012

Jean-Pierre Filiu professeur d’histoire à Sciences Po, spécialiste de l’islam et auteur d’une Histoire de Gaza (Fayard, 2012), vient d’écrire une chanson assassine, « Une vie de moins » interprétée par le groupe Zebda, que Mediapart a présenté en avant-première.

C’est le cri d’un enfant de Gaza mort sous les balles d’un soldat israélien. Qui raconte sa vie dans un clip, sous un emballage graphique ciselé. « Je suis né sur une terre qui n’est plus à moi, une terre piétinée, une terre occupée…pour oublier le blocus et la misère, j’ai grandi bercé au son des récits de l’exil. » Et pour finir. « Je suis mort à ce qu’on m’a dit d’une balle perdue, je suis mort assassiné par un homme inconnu qui croyait faire son devoir en tirant dans le brouillard sur des ombres d’ennemis aux armes dérisoires… »

Traduisons: Israël, l’occupant qui prend plaisir à piétiner le peuple arabe de Gaza, est un tueur d’enfants. L’accusation des Juifs d’assassiner les enfants trouve ses racines pluriséculaires dans le vieux discours antisémite chrétien, avant de faire les beaux jours du nazisme et d’imprégner aujourd’hui l’islamisme radical. Le martyr Merah, saisissant par les cheveux la petite Myriam Monsonégo, 8 ans, et lui collant le canon de son arme sur le front, rétablit enfin l’injustice faite aux enfants palestiniens.

Jean-Pierre Filiu

Qui est M. Filiu? C’est un ancien fonctionnaire, un diplomate, un universitaire polyglotte. Il croule sous les diplômes, les reconnaissances universitaires, les publications scientifiques et grand public. Il fait par-tie de l’aristocratie nationale bureaucratique et universitaire. Sa chanson porte à l’incandescence les secteurs les plus sensibles et les plus pathologiques de la nation.. Combien de nouveaux tueurs va-t-on devoir à M. Filiu, à sa chanson et à son clip ?

9 commentaires pour Gaza: Lequel te semble avoir été le prochain de celui qui était tombé au milieu des brigands ? (Gaza’s latest war shows off French exception in all its misery)

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