In the United States the overruling of Roe v Wade, which returned regulation of abortion access to each of the 50 states, has elicited strong reaction from both sides of the abortion debate. While I suppose I should not be, I am nonetheless surprised both by the violent hysteria and the utter dishonesty of the pro-abortion side. Much pro-abortion rhetoric would lead a person to believe that women across the US are being forcibly impregnated on breeding farms, and that the only kind of pregnancies are ectopic pregnancies caused by rape or incest. I exaggerate, of course, but not greatly. The pro-abortion contingency has sustained a campaign of prevarication, disinformation and outright falsehoods to try to advance its agenda. Most disturbing, however, has been the sense of abject evil in much of the reaction to Dobbs.
I am not suggesting that any person is evil. But having had the protective cloak of Roe removed, it is clear that a substantial percentage of pro-abortion advocates seek not simply to protect the purported autonomy of women, but rather to celebrate the killing of (or legality of killing) unborn children. This sounds harsh, of course, because it describes a harsh reality. Putting it another way, under the Roe regime, we have been surrounded by people who advocate moral evil, but who have been shielded from expressing that advocacy explicitly. But now it is laid bare for all to see. And while we cannot cast judgment on persons, we certainly cannot shy from calling advocacy of the killing of unborn children evil.
Extreme gender ideologies have also made significant gains in the US. Through mandated mutilating surgeries, puberty blockers and cross-gender hormones, President Biden and his regulatory agencies are determined permanently to destroy the lives of young children who may experience temporary and tentative identity issues. As with advocacy and celebration of the killing of unborn children, these policies and practices are nothing less than evil.
This presents a special burden on us Catholics whose sins are, while perhaps not as public, just as real. How ought we to confront such blatant advocacy of evil positions with-out condemning the advocate? What can we learn about sin, grace and ourselves from such confrontation? Perhaps most importantly, how can we be signs of gracious contra-diction to people who advocate such monstrous policies? The beginning of a way to answer these questions might be found in Marilynne Robinson’s novel Gilead.
Gilead is in the form of a long, episodic letter from a septuagenarian Protestant pastor, John Ames, to his adolescent son, meant to be read after Ames’s impending death from a heart condition. Among the story lines is the relationship of Pastor Ames to his name-sake, John Ames Boughton (“Jack”), the adult son of Ames’s best friend. Jack has returned to Gilead, Iowa after a long period away, harbouring a dark history. As he gradually unveils Jack’s past transgression Pastor Ames reveals his difficulty being in Jack’s presence, knowing both the sin and Jack’s seeming indifference to it. Jack “was allowed to go right on disgracing his family”, Ames complains, without ever seeming to repent of his sin or the scandal it portended. At times, in fact, Jack even seemed to provoke Ames’s discomfort, flaunting his escape from any responsibility for his harmful past. Jack “would look up at me and smile, as if we were in on a joke together, some interesting conspiracy”, Ames explains; “I found this extremely irritating.” Ames was repulsed by Jack’s sin, the evil of his indifference to it, and his flaunting of both. “I was chiefly struck by the meanness of it,” he concluded.
And yet, Pastor Ames goes on to note: “This is not doing me any good at all. I’d better pray.” He notes that “we are to love our enemies, not to satisfy some standard of righteousness, but because God their Father loves them.” Thus, he had to find a way to love Jack, even though Jack had committed un-lovely transgressions. And he did this by realising that God’s abundant grace is distributed in surprising ways, including through the presence of those in need of forgiveness – that is, those who have commit-ted evil acts and are indifferent to them.
In a pivotal moment, Ames explains that “grace had been much on my mind, grace as a sort of ecstatic fire that takes things down to essentials”. Jack the sinner unwittingly taught Ames the pastor to “feel the presence of [Jack’s] mortal and immortal being”. And, Ames concludes, a sensation of “a sort of lovely fear” came over him. This “lovely fear” is where Ames began to see the grace that purified himself, so that he could be a gracious presence to Jack. We do not know what impact it had on Jack. But I believe Robinson tells us something true about our own witness to those whom we believe have done, or are doing, evil. God’s grace is greater. It’s a hard lesson, but that does not excuse us from learning it.
Areas of Catholic Herald business are still recovering post-pandemic.
However, we are reaching out to the Catholic community and readership, that has been so loyal to the Catholic Herald. Please join us on our 135 year mission by supporting us.
We are raising £250,000 to safeguard the Herald as a world-leading voice in Catholic journalism and teaching.
We have been a bold and influential voice in the church since 1888, standing up for traditional Catholic culture and values. Please consider donating.