Is there no Balm in Gilead?

Is There No Balm in Gilead?

The two armies stood poised, facing each other across the ancient field of battle, a field obscured by the swirling mist of early morning.  Young, would-be-heroes feigned calm amidst the chilling sounds of imminent battle: the clanging of shields, the drawing of swords, the snort­ing of horses harnessed to war chariots, the blood coursing through the veins of future corpses.  Through this swirling mist emerged a young Indian prince named Arjuna whose heart wrenched at the prospect of such a battle, for with the braying of the traditional horns would ensue a war between two families of the same clan; each venerable, honorable, proud.

Efforts had been made to avoid this scene – negotiations, pleading, proposal and counter-proposal – all to no avail.  Thus, as heat from the rising sun dissipated the obscurity of this red morning, prince Arjuna drove his chariot to the heart of the ancient battlefield and from there regarded the two armies.  On either side he saw family: brothers, cousins, uncles; on either side he saw friends, teachers, and trusted advisors.  And even as the horns began to blow and the bat­tle to ensue around him, he rode to the center of the battle field, turned to his confidant, threw down his weapons, raised his voice above the din of battle and declared, “I will not fight!”

These words – “I will not fight” – are attributed to prince Arjuna in the Bhagavad-Gita, the most beloved of the Hindu scriptures.  With these words ancient India saw the dawn of a new day: a day in which someone, anyone dared to raise a voice against the senseless carnage of war; someone, anyone dared to question the inevitability of violence in human culture; someone, anyone dared to summon the courage to seek a higher way, a nobler way, a way that leads to peace.

When all is said and done, however, Arjuna does not take that final step toward nonviolence and, instead, reverts to his caste duties, picks up his weapon, and fights. It will be up to others later to take that final step, at the least inspired by Arjuna’s struggles.

From within our own religious Tradition voices of peace have been raised; voices clear and courageous; voices nevertheless ignored and quickly snuffed out.  The clearest of these voices belonged to Jesus of Nazareth. For if one thing is clear about the life and teachings of Jesus, it is this: violence in any form, against any individual, was not an option for him. Jesus refused to see the world through the eyes of violence, and in so doing stepped closer to God.  He followed this path – the path of peace – to Jerusalem, where the conviction was put to the ultimate test.

In our own day voices of peace have been heard; voices such as Mahatma Gandhi who was inspired by both the Bhagavad-Gita and the teachings of Jesus, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Thomas Merton, William Sloan Coffin, Mother Teresa; and more, many more.  Voices of peace continually resound in our midst; yet we seem to be no nearer to lasting, authentic peace than was Israel at the time of Jeremiah, “We look for peace, but find no good, for a time of healing, but there is terror instead.”  Indeed, as we approach the end of one of the bloodiest centuries in the history of humankind, we are compelled, if we are honest, to exclaim with Jeremiah “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.  Is there no balm in Gilead?  Is there no physician there?  Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored?”

We look for peace, we lift our eyes to heaven in hope, but no good comes; indeed, peace for us is more a fleeting ideal than an abiding reality; and this as much for the faithful as for the faithless.  How is it that peace continues to elude us?

Firstly, I would suggest, peace eludes us because we don’t grieve, truly grieve the presence of violence in our world.  Herein lies the significance of the passage from Jeremiah.  He could have viewed the fate of Israel with indifference; because he was convinced that in suffering defeat to its enemies, Israel received that which it truly deserved.  And yet, Jeremiah did not gloat over this outcome, he did not distance himself from Israel so its crime would not reflect upon him; no, he grieved the presence of chaos and violence in the life of his “poor people.”

Moreover, Jeremiah’s vision penetrated to the very heart of God, and there he saw a God who grieves the very existence of violence in our world.  God is not indifferent to the violence that ravages our lives.  God regards us with compassion; God’s heart burns with love and longs to see us receive not what we deserve, but what we need.  If Jeremiah’s wisdom is to be trusted, therefore, we cannot perpetuate cold, distant indifference in the name of God.  We cannot condone violence, suffering, and injustice on the pretense that others receive what they deserve.  If we truly desire peace, we must begin by grieving the existence of violence in all its forms in our world.

Secondly, peace eludes us because we cannot summon the courage to rid our lives of violence; not only external, physical violence; but violence in its subtler forms, such as anger, contentiousness, bitterness, and strife.  We continue to delude ourselves, rather, with the idea that controlled violence – violence in civilized hands – can produce some good or can at least protect us from the ravages of a violent world.

We cannot, or will not, see that the destructive nature of violence in any form reflects the darkness of the creation, and not the creative, life giving activity of God. Violence, even our own violence, is a disaster.  Thomas Merton, perhaps, says it best: “…even the force by which we assert our own self-interest may well be our ruin.” A frightening possibility, is it not; that the spiritual life to which God calls us requires that we strive to leave violence behind?

Finally, peace eludes us because we seek our own welfare at the expense of others.  But can we be truly at peace so long as any suffer injustice and violence?  Can we be truly free so long as any are enslaved?  Our faith Tradition at its best responds with a resounding no, and instructs us that the way to peace and freedom is to seek the peace and freedom of all.  This spiritual insight is given powerful expression in the Jewish Passover liturgy.  The first two days of this observance are given over to praise and thanksgiving; a celebration of the liberation of the Hebrew slaves long held in bondage in Egypt.

On the third day, however, the praise and celebration give way to mourning, because in saving the Hebrew slaves God was forced to enslave the Egyptians.  And so long as any are in bondage, no one can be truly free. Peace eludes us because we do not follow God’s lead in grieving, truly grieving the presence of violence in our world.  Peace eludes us because we cannot summon the courage, like Jesus of Nazareth, to rid our lives of violence in all its forms.  And peace eludes us because we seek our own welfare at the expense of others.

Our holy, mysterious, and intimate God longs to be present in our midst, to transform our hearts, and teach us the ways of peace; but cannot, because we keep God at arm’s length, forcing God to watch our lives from a distance.