“All men are fools, even the pious ones.” –Erasmus
Last week, an alumnus visiting campus asked me what my favorite read of the semester was. As a PLS major, there were of course many titles to choose from, but without hesitation, I replied, “Erasmus!” We laughed, and I was slightly embarrassed as I realized how nerdy my response sounded. A week later, though, I stick to my answer. For those who haven’t indulged in this read, The Praise of Folly should make it on to your summer reading list before you finish perusing this issue. Apart from the fact that Erasmus dedicated the work to his best friend Thomas More—making it an imperative for every Catholic—The Praise of Folly offers wonderful insights, even now, into the life of a Christian living in the middle of the world.
As Catholics living in a secularized culture, it can be difficult not to take ourselves too seriously. We see ourselves as modern Horatios, facing the hostile tides of every ‘-ism’ with gritted teeth. Though I, too, am gravely concerned about the state of our culture, I’ve realized that the tendency to throw up my hands in horror and disgust at the fools of society can be misguided. All too often, I end up forgetting who the real fool is.
Christians around the world recently celebrated the sacred Passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, a solemn week commemorating what St. Paul describes as the “foolishness of God.” I have spent both of my Easters on campus, and each time I have been incredibly impressed by the reverence and care shown to every liturgy. On Good Friday, as I sat in the empty basilica, the natural light streamed in through the windows, refracting the colors of the stained glass onto the pews. The cross at the front of the church was covered—an obsolete shape swathed in dark purple. The phrase, “the folly of the cross,” kept running through my mind as I stared at it.
The liturgies of Holy Week remind us in striking ways that we are not the main character: The priest washes the feet of twelve people on Holy Thursday, prostrates himself before the altar on Good Friday, and we bend to kiss the feet of Jesus ourselves during the veneration of the cross. Erasmus, through the voice of Folly, also teaches this lesson. He compares the life of man to an actor on a stage, under the direction of a stage manager. Just as each actor wears a mask—the ugly hides beneath the beautiful, the foolish beneath the learned—so, too, is every man the bearer of two faces. The analogy is a lesson in humility. For Erasmus, the most foolish man of all is the one who forgets who he is. He is surprised by his own propensity to sin, ignoring the stage director—God—who constantly guides him.
Our late Pope Francis, who passed away early Easter Monday morning, gave the world a beautiful witness of this Christian humility. Embracing the severely disabled and the outcast, his papacy emphasized a radical approach of love to the weak and suffering, the rejected of the world. Countless pictures appear of him kissing the disfigured, the mentally handicapped, and the infirm with striking tenderness. His example of Christian charity was that of a man who saw himself as no better than anyone else. Yet, at a remove, even this charity is folly. Why should the strong embrace the weak, the well the infirm?
The essence of Christianity is a radical foolishness: a God-man hanging on a tree, turning a torturous image of utter shame and humiliation into a symbol of triumphant, self-sacrificial love. Erasmus puts it better: “The entire Christian religion seems to bear a certain natural affinity to folly, and to relate far less clearly to wisdom.” The curious madness required to believe the story of salvation is worth reflecting on when we, in turn, look at the actions of others.
The reader of the Rover is used to the paper’s criticism of those things which we take to be reprehensible enough to demand a coordinated response. But we should not forget that the Catholicism that the Rover stakes as an alternative is a foolish thing. It—the Gospel—is also the ‘good news’, and its folly bears the promise of the redemption of the entire human race. But it is a foolish good news, and neither its folly nor its goodness should be understated. How else might Christ have commanded us to “rejoice and be glad” in the face of persecution?
This is not to say that we should not, when prudent, condemn the depravity around us. Our identity as “fools for Christ’s sake” does not do away with the reality of sin. But Erasmus teaches instead a refined sensibility to our state as fellow sinners, a lighthearted recognition of our finite condition and our role as players on the stage. The Christian in the middle of the world who is a “wise fool” joins in with the rest of mortals, not scorning his fellow man, but “casting in his lot” with the rest in good-natured and charitable nobility. And so, to the Christian in the world, Erasmus finishes with the following sage advice: “Clap your hands, live well, and drink deep.”
This Eastertide we are called with renewed vigor not only to drink deeply—as many who have fasted will doubtless gladly read—but to re-engage with Erasmus’ radically Christian vision as well. Our Holy Father has died, and already murmurings about the conclave and the political consequences of the coming pontiff have begun. Outside even of these discussions, the perennial and increasingly toxic banalities of the ‘culture war’ rage on. For some, perhaps, these are responsibilities that must be taken on. But for the common Christian—the common fool—the time has once again come to rejoice in the inexhaustible and radiant and true folly of the risen Lord. Offer your Easter drink to your neighbor, rejoice in the day the Lord has made, and remember that those things which tangle us in worldly polemic are a far worse folly indeed.
Lucy Spence is a sophomore majoring in the Program of Liberal Studies and piano performance, with a minor in philosophy. Unfortunately, she has not yet completed her twenty-first trip around the sun, so she could not follow Erasmus’ advice as literally as she would have liked. You can reach her at lspence@nd.edu.
Photo Credit: Matthew Rice
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