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The invited speaker of the day was Edward Everett, former governor of Massachusetts, past president of Harvard University, and one of the leading orators of the day. Only two weeks prior, the president had been asked to make a few appropriate remarks once Everett’s address had been completed, and to this he readily agreed. He worked on his comments as time would allow, and finished them late the night before. Everett would speak for almost two hours, Lincoln for barely three minutes. No one would remember Everett’s speech. The world remembers Lincoln’s. The struggle at Gettysburg had taken on a special meaning for Abraham Lincoln. As his biographer, Carl Sandburg, put it: "By many strange ways Gettysburg was to Lincoln a fact in crimson mist," an almost mythic turning point, yet one that was still somewhat unfathomable to a nation adrift in a nightmare of blood. Thus, in his remarks, he tried to draw meaning and value from the terrible carnage that, even four months later, was still painfully obvious around the small Pennsylvania town. Yet Lincoln did not find that meaning completely in the military or political events of his time, but rather in terms of the future, and just how that future might eventually unfold. While he certainly implored the men and women of his own day to stick to the task at hand, it was for the benefit of future generations that he spoke. Lincoln seemed to sense something vague on the wind, something new rising from the ashes of war, and it was to that vision he alluded when he spoke of "a new birth of freedom." It is evident that to Lincoln freedom was not a given, but something still evolving in form, a force that one day might transform the world if provided the opportunity. That opportunity seemed ever so precarious in the summer of 1863, when a single military loss on northern soil may well have spelled the end, not only of the Lincoln administration, but of the war effort altogether, yet somehow — and at a terrible cost — the Federal army prevailed at Gettysburg. Still, the war remained far from finished, and Lincoln knew as he mounted the podium that many more mothers’ sons would perish before the final chapter would be written. In that light, his closing phrases are timeless, as relevant today as they were in 1863 and a fitting reminder that "It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated, here, to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on." The Civil War brought the United States together in ways that could scarcely be imagined prior to 1861, and from that unification the conditions — education, medicine, sanitation, nutrition, etc. — soon arose that allowed many individuals to advance psychologically far beyond the previous norm. That bulge in psychological growth set the stage for the "new birth of freedom" Lincoln had foreseen at Gettysburg, and which began to materialize in earnest during the second half of the twentieth century. Now came the various movements for civil rights, gay rights, and the feminist movement — the very culture of compassion and inclusion that today seems most natural to most of us. But in 1863 freedom’s evolutionary nature was still but a vague light far off in the distance. Indeed, Lincoln’s address, while lauded by many at the time, was also roundly attacked, and it is interesting to note the nature of these comments, both for and against, for they clearly point out the confusion generated by Lincoln’s choice of words. For instance, The Chicago Times scolded the president, complaining that "Mr. Lincoln did most foully traduce the motives of the men who were slain at Gettysburg in reference to ‘a new birth of freedom,’ and a reporter from Richmond was entirely bewildered, left wondering out loud: ‘For what are we fighting? An abstraction?’ " Well, yes. Ultimately, the Civil War was about an abstraction, about a new, far more inclusive way of conceiving liberty, and that vision was not lost on the vast majority of people who either heard or read the president’s address. The Chicago Tribune, for instance, exclaimed that Lincoln’s remarks would "live among the annals of man." Yet perhaps the most insightful praise came from the orator, Edward Everett, himself. He sent a note to Lincoln the following day that read: "I should be glad if I could flatter myself that I came as near to the central idea of the occasion in two hours as you did in two minutes." Today the Civil War seems more or less ancient history to most of us, and the extraordinary expansion in the conception of liberty that Lincoln’s "new birth of freedom" helped usher in, nothing more than our due. From this naturally arises a sort of generational hubris, the past always found wanting when compared to the present. This, we think, is the way the world should always have been, and thus we are often incapable of placing history into sensible perspective. This is only because we do not yet grasp the one aspect of reality that Lincoln seemed to understand over one hundred years ago: that human culture is an emergent process, and that we are simply the beneficiaries of a difficult, disjointed and painful enterprise that has been aspiring toward completion since the beginning of time. The fact is, it is because of all that has come before us that we are able to think, love, and care as we do, not despite it, and if the historical record seems a catalogue of carnage, then we should admire all that much more the few, heroic, and forward-thinking moments that emerged from the violence to create our world. As Ken Wilber puts it, "even if we are standing on the shoulders of giants, we are standing on the shoulders of GIANTS, and we should do well to remember that." As I write this now we are at the very dawn of a new millennium. I am — as are many of those reading this today — a member of the generations that have benefited from more education, wealth, and love than the world has ever before been able to bestow upon its children. As a result, the lives we enjoy today are fabulous beyond the imagination of many who lived just a few generations ago. Yet that richness has in many ways not been translated into anything of lasting value. Like Lincoln’s literary detractors, we all too often view the universe exclusively through the rear view mirror of historic perspective — by means of a worldview that finds answers for the future only in terms of the past. It is time to turn and face forward, to peer into the future as Lincoln did in the troubled middle days of the civil war, and begin fashioning a world we, too, will be proud to leave behind. Yet that construct will not come with the acquisition of another conglomerate or subsidiary, the introduction of yet another "look," or the improvisation of still another cheeseburger, as worthwhile and enjoyable as those endeavors might be. No, it will come from an entirely new way of conceiving ourselves, the planet, and just what might be accomplished in a single human lifetime. What might that look like? In the first half of the 20th century, French paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin became one of the first scientists to suddenly grasp evolution from an entirely new perspective. In a sense, he took Lincoln’s rough, dynamic notions and expanded upon them exponentially, for Teilhard came to see evolution as a vast movement of intelligence progressing into ever more sophisticated arrangements. The goal of this movement was what he called an "omega point," by which he meant a universe that would literally one day transform itself into God — yet a God that is loving, creative, and profound beyond all descriptive attempts. Teilhard saw in this process the very essence of our emerging spirituality, and the universal force that drove this development as simply love. In that sense, Teilhard came to see evolution not as the antithesis of a "Godly" universe, as many fundamentalist thinkers maintain even today, but as the very vehicle through which God pours Godself into our lives. But he also understood the complexities and dangers of evolution, for things can certainly go wrong, and that process has today brought the human enterprise to a difficult crossroads. As we peer across the globe today, it becomes uncomfortably clear that if we are not willing to develop the spiritual depth necessary to control ourselves and our technologies, our technologies and lack of depth seem surely destined to destroy us. As Andre Malraux pointed out, "the 21st century will be spiritual or it will not be at all." A difficult task awaits; yet it is an endeavor that holds promise beyond imagination. In a sense, the challenge is to reconnect with the past, with Lincoln and Teilhard, with all of the struggles that came before, to be once again "dedicated, here, to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on." Today the guns at Gettysburg are silent, flags and limbers deployed in mute testimony to the conflict that once raged there. Places like The Wheatfield, Devils Den, and Little Round Top, where once "death held high carnival," repose now in drowsy tranquility. The new contest will be entirely different, for the opponent now will not come over the hill with the blare of bugles or a rebel yell. This foe is far more wily and elusive, more dogged and unbending than anything we may have before considered. This conflict will not be won with the powers of technology and might, but rather with the powers of heart and mind. It will be the most difficult foe we have ever faced, for that foe is ourselves. Yet success may well transform the universe. Teilhard explains: "The day will come when we shall harness for God the energies of love. And, on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, the human being will have discovered fire." So let us endeavor to transform ourselves through the wonder of compassion, and leave behind a world radiant with love. Let’s ignite that second fire. Jim Stempel is the author of the novel American Rain; numerous works of short fiction; and articles on science, psychology, and spirituality. His book When Beliefs Fail: A Psychology of Hope can be ordered through Swedenborg Foundation Publishers, (800) 355-3222. E-mail <customerservice@swedenborg.com>. |
The day
dawned clear and unusually mild for late fall. It was mid-morning
when Abraham Lincoln closed the door behind him, mounted a large
chestnut horse, and waited patiently for the parade to commence.
It was the 19th of November 1863, and the streets were clogged
to overflowing with soldiers, notables, and well-wishers. The
event was the dedication of the new national cemetery; the location,
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.