Confessions I hear often revolve around words: taking God’s name in vain, cursing, gossiping, lying, speaking disrespectfully or in anger. These are forms of what we can call verbal pollution. They make the air we breathe toxic. Life contradicts the little rhyme about sticks and stones that many of us grew up with. Words can and do hurt. They launch wars, riots, pogroms. They contain power: light and life or darkness and death. They are like seeds.

The Index describes eight levels of discourse and attitude. The most toxic, for example, can be summed up as “They’re not even human. It’s our moral duty to destroy them before they destroy us.” A less toxic attitude is “We’re better than those people. They don’t really belong. They’re not one of us.” But the anti-toxic and most creative is “Each one of us is born with inherent worth, so we treat everyone with dignity—no matter what.”

A practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence: that of refraining from words that offend and hurt our neighbor. Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves. Instead, let us strive to measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media and in Christian communities.

It’s a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship. 

Or, more succinctly, “You have never talked to a mere mortal.”

As we know, religion can be one of the most toxic threats to justice. Spiritual malpractice has deadly consequences. To counter this, I find inspiration from the Christian mystical tradition. Especially St. John of the Cross, who loved a rarely-quoted passage from the Second Letter of Peter: God “has bestowed on us the precious and very great promises, so that through them you may come to share in the divine nature.” This transformation, described by many mystics, may be called divinization. We participate in the life of God because we are made in God’s image. We are, as St. Augustine put it, capax dei. We have a capacity for God.

St. John of the Cross refers to this verse, 2 Peter 1:4, at least five times. For example, he describes a lover’s soul as a clear window:

the soul will be illumined by and transformed in God. And God will so communicate His supernatural being to it that it will appear to be God … all the things of both God and the soul become one in participant transformation, the soul appears to be God more than a soul. Indeed, it is God by participation.” (Ascent of Mount Carmel, Bk II, Chap. 5, §7).

A clear window, a polished mirror. This transforming purification makes it nearly impossible for the lover to express contempt for others. So, to clean up verbal pollution, I’m trying to embrace and embody this insight: everyone is created in God’s image. No exceptions.

Then, how do we practice? We speak as if this miracle is true: everyone is, potentially, capax dei. We listen to the other: “The willingness to listen,” Pope Leo writes, “is the first way we demonstrate our desire to enter into relationship with someone.”

Check out the Dignity Index for more suggestions. It usually boils down to being curious about the other. Ask a question. “How did you come to that?” “Can you tell me what I’m not getting?” Listen for something you can affirm. Listen. Not just with the head, as in a debate. Listen the way the Rule of St. Benedict prescribes in its first words:

Listen carefully, my child, to my instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart.  This is advice from one who loves you; welcome it and faithfully put it into practice (Prologue 1).

It would be nice to end on this sublime note. But Jesus gets angry. He is a prophet. In the Gospels, Jesus expresses anger only at the powerful, the exploiters and oppressors. And his mother rejoices that God casts down the mighty who exploit and oppress. This is the other face of love: it exacts justice. It expects leaders to treat each citizen as “what in God’s eye he is — /  Chríst …” (Gerard Manley Hopkins).

As Dr. King taught, love does not act in violence. But its insistence on justice and liberation may trigger a violent reaction, as it did repeatedly in King’s day and ours. It flushes the chronic systemic violence out of the shadows and into the streets. Injustice, ignorance and blindness could kill Martin and crack John Lewis’ skull. But love keeps rising, like dawn. Darkness has not, will never, overcome it. It keeps beginning.

Crucified Messiah, as we journey through Lent this year, help us to meditate on the image of the cross, and in doing so, hold onto the hope of resurrection in the midst of overwhelming affliction. We also pray for a peaceful Ramadan to our Muslim siblings, that their freedom of worship and dignity are respected.

Lord in your mercy…hear our prayer.

Photo by Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash.