In the cold pre-dawn of February 2nd, my husband and I drove to the neighboring town of Woodstock and joined the crowds scurrying toward the iconic Square. The classic movie, Groundhog Day, may be set in Punxsutawney, but it was filmed in Woodstock, and for the last three decades the town has hosted an annual Groundhog Day celebration.
A live polka band, its members bundled in layers, played from the central gazebo. Twinkling lights adorned the trees. News crews adjusted their cameras and tripods. There were babies in strollers, men in silk top hats, children perched in a tree, like Zacchaeus in the sycamore searching for a better vantage point. The stores lining the Square were open for business—the coffee shop, certainly, but also the wine merchant, the bookstore, the specialty chocolate shop, and the boutiques. (If you needed a bottle of chardonnay and a copy of War and Peace at 6:30 in the morning, you could get them.) A pop-up bar was ready with enough sweet vermouth and a twist to serve those who wanted to toast World Peace. At the Moose Lodge, volunteers prepared to serve a big community breakfast after the ceremonies.
Shortly after 7:00, the mayor, wearing his ceremonial sash, and the beloved Chicago weatherman, wearing his Groundhog Day cap, climbed the steps of the gazebo, gently lifted the groundhog from his cozy tree stump, earnestly listened to his prognostication, and confidently declared: Spring will come soon! The crowd of two thousand, like fans of superstars everywhere, cheered with delight. The mood was celebratory and light-hearted. As we walked back to the car, I thought about all the people who had planned, coordinated, and worked for weeks to pull off this charming event, silly but full of good cheer, for the benefit of their community.
Four months earlier, also after much planning, coordination, and work, Hamas terrorists had pulled off an altogether different type of event. They crossed from Gaza into Israel and raped, tortured, brutalized, and murdered 1400 Israelis and foreign nationals. Some in the United States, like fans of a sport in which they’ve never played, cheered the sickening levels of depravity. The darkest depths of human nature unleashed in blood-thirsty fury were seen as a win for their team, their community. The savagery warmed souls and gave glory to martyrs. It was “a gift from Allah to the world,” “exhilarating,” and a “beacon for us all.” The mood was celebratory and spiteful.
In C.S. Lewis’ 1941 satirical novel, The Screwtape Letters, Screwtape—the Devil—writes a series of letters to his nephew and protégé. In the sixth letter, Screwtape points out that each person on Earth contains both malice and benevolence. He instructs his nephew on how to encourage the former and minimize the latter:
“The great thing is to direct the malice to his immediate neighbors whom he meets every day and to thrust his benevolence out to the remote circumference, to people he does not know. The malice thus becomes wholly real and the benevolence largely imaginary.”
And so those in the United States who claim tenderness and empathy for the Palestinians in Gaza express their benevolence by harassing, intimidating, and demanding the death of their Jewish classmates and neighbors. The benevolence is largely imaginary—but the malice is wholly real.
To excuse this behavior, dismiss it as an aberration, or pretend not to see it, is to live under an illusion about our species. Humans are capable of being spiteful, hateful, murderous, and barbaric. It’s foolish to pretend otherwise. It’s naïve not to factor in that reality when living in the world. We must be dis-illusioned.
To be dis-illusioned, to be freed from illusions—freed from falsehoods, is to see things as they really are. This should be a good thing. It should protect us from shock, disappointment, and grief as time and time again humanity in general and people in particular fall short. It should also make us smarter as we try to build societies and live together. Yet, disillusionment is a neighbor of cynicism, and cynicism’s roommates are bitterness and distrust. Can we be dis-illusioned without falling into despair?
In 1939 the poet W.H. Auden was dis-illusioned. He had just left Britain for life in New York. When Germany invaded Poland, he composed September 1, 1939. He later rejected it, because he felt portions were absurd or trite. But the closing lines echo in my mind:
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Our world does seem to be lying in stupor; whether it is defenseless remains to be seen. And certainly, there are many points of light (even if ironic at times), which should be reassuring. But to “show an affirming flame” might mean nothing more than to “like” something on TikTok. Hot Houthi pirates, anyone? Auden’s final lines seem helpful but insufficient.
Recently, on a bit of a Jimmy Stewart kick, I watched Frank Capra’s film, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. The film, like Auden’s poem, was released in 1939, but Mr. Smith is not concerned with world affairs. The gathering storm clouds in Europe are not mentioned at all. This is a movie about corruption in the United States. Mr. Smith, a newly appointed Senator, is suffering from illusions when he arrives in Washington, D.C., but it doesn’t take him long to become dis-illusioned. And once he is dis-illusioned, he uses all the tools at his disposal—the filibuster, the free press—to fight the stranglehold of corruption. The movie ends on an upbeat note; the audience can assume that the political machine in Mr. Smith’s state has been broken. But although Mr. Smith’s efforts are necessary for this triumph, they aren’t sufficient. The political machine breaks only when the other Senator from Mr. Smith’s state renounces his role in the corruption.
Capra’s movie separates disillusionment from cynicism. Mr. Smith models fighting the good fight, sometimes against impossible odds. But we should not be under the illusion that Good will necessarily prevail…unless the corrupt, furious, vengeful, and envious renounce their positions or change their actions. We can do Right, but we may never see the right results. Mr. Smith is inspiring but, like Auden, seems insufficient.
By theological definition, Jesus was dis-illusioned. His preaching was an attempt to dispel the illusions held by his followers. He saw the world for what it was yet didn’t fall into cynicism or despair. His Sermon on the Mount, a convenient summary of his ministry, might provide a key to the dilemma.
“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trodden under foot by men.”1
At first pass, this is not helpful because of the absurdity of salt losing its flavor. (That line always distracts me.) But Andrew Wilson at King’s College in London writes: Hold on! Don’t assume Jesus is speaking only of flavor. Salt is common. It is everywhere. It has many uses, including preservation, destruction, and fertilization. Coming at it from a different theological perspective, Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, in his book, Jesus’ Alternative Plan,2 suggests that Jesus’ primary point isn’t that we might lose our saltiness. Jesus’ point is that we are salt, and we are not the whole meal. In the big soup pot of life, we should not be under the illusion that we are the chicken, the rice, or the vegetables. We are but a tiny pinch of salt, dissolved and unseen, and yet we can be enough to change the flavor of the whole pot.
Whether the salt metaphor is referring to the different roles we might have, or the significant impact of a small pinch, or the fact that our species is common and everywhere, Jesus could be saying, “You are what you are.” Be in the world, exactly as it is. Don’t suffer from illusions, neither illusions of grandeur nor illusions of despair. Just be salt. This idea is thought-provoking, but is it sufficient?
Finally, I return from whence I began in this inquiry—to big rodents.
In 1948, beavers—cousins to those weather-forecasting groundhogs—were dropped by little beaver parachutes into the Sawtooth mountain range in Idaho. (I am not making this up.) People were dis-illusioned with beavers, which is why they relocated them into remote places far from grazing and farming lands.
The beavers, having survived this interaction with their primary predator, humans, didn’t waste time bemoaning the malice of whoever dropped them out of that airplane. They were under no illusions, however. They knew other predators like wolves and bears lurked, yet they did not despair. They would exchange affirming messages with a tail slap. They got right to work with all the tools they had—sharp teeth, flat tails, and instincts for eco-engineering. Like Mr. Smith, they didn’t know how it would turn out. They were a pinch of salt in a vast soup pot of wilderness. Work, work, work. They were busy as…beavers.
Month after month, year after year, NASA satellites passed over the Sawtooth range and took photos—because that’s what NASA does, I guess. One day, someone noticed an aberration in the aerial photos. A particular creek was lined with lush greenery—so bright, so startling, such a contrast, that it could be seen from space. Upon investigation, it turned out this area had been the site of those 1948 beaver drops. The busy beavers had mitigated drought conditions, and consequently limited the spread of wildfires.
The beavers did not set out to restore the ecosystem. They were “merely” being the best beavers they could be. Those beavers who refused to accept the reality of the wilderness in the Sawtooth range—those beavers who chose illusion over dis-illusion—probably got eaten by predators. Those beavers who despaired over the unfair turn of events that had landed them in Idaho probably starved. And those beavers who wasted energy on cynicism probably froze to death when winter came.
There is no upside to living with naïve assumptions about how the world works. Nothing is gained, and much can be lost, by living with illusions. It really is essential to be dis-illusioned. But it requires constant work to avoid falling into despair. In fact, it is the work of a lifetime—a lifetime whose impact we won’t ever really know—the results of which will only be seen and understood from the space of time.
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1Matthew 5:13
2Richard Rohr, Jesus Alternative Plan: The Sermon on the Mount (Cincinnati, OH: Franciscan Media, 1996, 2022) 154
