Beauty’s extraordinary masterpiece

Gathering like figures in a painting, a family grieves.

Katherine Amphlett

Katherine is a counsellor based in the West Midlands.

A rockpool on a beach reflects the sun, a castle stands beyond the sand dunes

Bamburgh beach, Northumberland.

Dan Russon on Unsplash.

There is one particular quality of light that I love above all other. You get it most in autumn or in spring, the times when change is on its way. It is a slightly softened light, faintly blue, which lays a muting wash over a golden afternoon. It’s as if there’s a teaspoon of milk stirred into the clarity of a May morning, a gossamer veil across a long view. Edges are merged and brushed, brilliance blends to dreaminess. It is opal, not diamond.

We had light like that today, and it was just right in its gentleness. Because this morning we took the cardboard tube containing my cousin Billy’s ashes, and we poured them into the sea. His wife Sarah drove down from Edinburgh to join us in Northumberland, and we gathered on the shore in a place sheltered from the wind by the rocks. The Farne Islands were before us and to the north lay the blue bulk of Bamburgh Castle, with Lindisfarne – Holy Island – showing wreathed in soft haze further beyond that.

He was too young to die, Billy, at 51. Too gifted, too clever, too kind. It was pancreatic cancer that got him, and it got him fast. Eleven months between diagnosis and death, that’s all – and here we are, shocked and saddened. It would have been his 52nd birthday today. We have had cake and prosecco. And yet we are casting what remains of him into the water – a tidal pool washed by waves and weather.

It’s not without its funny aspects, this solemn occasion. Billy’s beloved dog Obi is with us, only just out of puppyhood, and like all vigorous young creatures is unimpressed by ceremony. He finds a decaying guillemot and begins messy chewing. We manage to get it off him, but only after a chase and much commanding. Sarah picks it up by the tip of its wing; it spreads open like a glossy black fan. She swings it into the water where Obi can’t reach it. He doesn’t care anymore as he’s just found the corpse of a seal and is going to roll… we put his lead back on.

Dead bird, dead seal, dead man. Living place though, restless foam-flecked ocean, wheeling seagulls, wind in our hair, the beautiful light pouring over us all. And a lot of love. We make a close circle round Sarah, our arms around her and each other, absorbing her grief, sharing our own. We can’t fill the empty space, the echoing chasm of loneliness – but we can head for the pub instead, to fill our more everyday chasms with Sunday lunch. Roast beef and Yorkshires please, for everyone, and sticky toffee pud to follow. Sadness is hungry work.

We are like figures in a painting trying to cling to others in the same painting, not understanding that we cannot be lost.

Later on, much later, when everyone is gone, there is a spectacularly gorgeous sunset. I stand in the harbour watching it, mother of pearl colours melting silently from west to east, reflected in the sea and in the wet sand. My chest and throat and face and shoulders ache with sorrow, and a man on a bench sees me and asks if I am all right. I tell him about Billy. He asks if I would like to hear a poem he has written for his friend, who is lying in hospital with his neck broken. It is about a potter, shaping and moulding wet clay, collecting up and reusing shattered shards, creating new pieces seamed with gold. It is nice. The man is nice. And I have a sudden overwhelming feeling of being held. That underneath everything – the man, Billy’s death, the colours, the guillemot, Sarah’s aloneness, the wide wild sea – is a perfect, powerful sureness, holding all in balance. Me included. I am not a spectator in this situation, I am a part of it, one little detail in an extraordinary masterpiece. I don’t need to clutch and grasp and hold on to things. None of us do – because all are part of the same whole. We are like figures in a painting trying to cling to others in the same painting, not understanding that we cannot be lost. Creation remains complete, even when the pieces move around within it.

It is a feeling of absolute reassurance. Thomas Aquinas (revered scholar of the ancient church) says that along with truth and goodness, beauty is one of the three Transcendentals, the unchangeable foundations of reality and the surest evidence of the divine. And it is so very peaceful there in the harbour – the huge luminous sky, wavelets hushing onto the sand, oyster catchers calling in their wild voices as they prepare for the night – that I am perfectly certain of the presence of God. So finally I can cry… for Billy, for Sarah, for my sadness. But mostly, simply, because it is too beautiful not to.

Article

Change

Character

Purpose

Virtues

14 May 2024

6 min read

Life is messy, take part

James Baker's political vocation sheds light on why character counts in this networked world.

Emerson Csorba

Emerson writes on geopolitics. He is also a business executive and holds a doctorate in theology.

Two men in seats adress a pyjamap-clad Ronald Regan.

James Baker, left, briefs a recovering Ronald Reagan, right, in hospital .

White House via Wikimedia Commons.

Few White House Chiefs of Staff have been better than James A Baker III. Nicknamed the ‘Velvet Hammer,’ Baker was originally a Democrat, and only introduced to politics in his forties. But he made up for lost time, serving as the original catalyst behind President Ronald Reagan’s time in the Oval Office. He later served as Secretary of State, helping maintain peace following the Cold War.

In their recent biography of Baker, The Man Who Ran Washington, Peter Baker (no relation to James) and Susan Glasser write that, when called out of his retirement to lead the Republican strategy in the Bush-Gore 2000 Florida vote recount, ‘Baker’s reputation was so formidable that Democrats knew they would lose the moment they heard of his selection.’ More precisely, Baker ‘was not defined by his era; he helped to define it.’

And yet, the calm, cool and collected former Texas lawyer was – by the end of his tenure as White House Chief of Staff – broken. In Chris Whipple’s The Gatekeepers, a history of American White House Chiefs of Staff, a former Reagan staffer reflects that in a conversation long after their tenures, ‘Baker’s eyes filled with tears. He told me what it had been like for him to be chief of staff in a White House riven by different philosophies and ideological outlooks. And every day various people would try to take Jim Baker out.’

Baker, a problem-solver and political moderate, battled with his more ideological counterparts for the ‘soul’ of the Reagan presidency. This battle was ‘more emotionally grueling and deeply painful than almost anyone around him knew.’ His struggles were a harbinger of the more divisive American politics to come. Surrounded by long-time Reagan loyalists, he was an unexpected selection for the Chief of Staff role. He ran the Gerald Ford and George Bush presidential campaigns against Reagan but was recognised by the Reagans as the right person for the job. Baker kept focused within the Reagan Administration despite team members undermining him.

Baker shows that responding to a call requires that a person engage in the world as it is. This realism helps us to reform the world through service.

Through his participation in the world, Baker reminds us that life is messy. This is especially the case when engaging in communities involving competition between multiple worldviews, philosophies, or ideologies. Keeping the ship steady amid such variation comes with emotional cost. But participation is better than withdrawal from the scene of action, and into the safety of technology.

Balancing between perspectives requires a personal sense of restraint. Peter Baker and Glasser note, for instance, that ‘one of the keys to Baker’s success over the years was knowing when to back off’ in meetings. This balancing is difficult. Baker succeeded in his political vocation in part because he participated in this swirling mix of perspectives, but the balancing involved suffering.

What can we learn from Baker on the messiness of life? What does he show us about the living-out of a vocation? Baker was clear-eyed about his calling: that of serving his friend Reagan (and afterwards his close friend George Bush). He put his strategy and negotiating skills to good use as part of a larger life project. This calling strengthened Baker’s persistence, despite the trials and tribulations of participation in the world. Baker shows that responding to a call requires that a person engage in the world as it is. This realism helps us to reform the world through service.

‘Once we remove ourselves from the flow of physical, messy, untidy life… we become less willing to get out there and take a chance.’

Sherry Turkle

How did Baker discover his political vocation? And what is a vocation? The philosopher Robert Adams defines vocation in his Finite and Infinite Goods as ‘a call from God, a command, or perhaps an invitation, addressed to a particular individual, to act and live in a certain way.’ The theologian Oliver O’Donovan defines vocation somewhat differently in his Finding and Seeking. He describes it as ‘the way in which the self is offered to us…. The course of our life that will come to be our unique historical reality.’ O’Donovan focuses on service, where vocation is ‘not a single function, but an ensemble of worldly relations and functions through which we are given, in particular, to serve God and realise our agency.’

Sometimes, as O’Donovan suggests, a calling captures our attention, even if we only know the immediate next step, as if stepping from a quayside onto a boat (a helpful metaphor used throughout O’Donovan’s work). For Baker, it was the death of his first wife that precipitated a call from his friend George Bush. In this conversation, Bush asked whether Baker would be interested in volunteering for a campaign, to help take his mind off his grief. What was initially a way to help keep his mind off a trauma became, over time, a life project.

Baker thought carefully about the world and the people around him as precursor to action. He epitomised the thinking of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who writes that individuals should participate ‘in the times and places which confront us with concrete problems, set us tasks and charge us with responsibility.’ We must remember that people are multidimensional. This is not easy, Baker as a case in point through his political vocation.

Unfortunately, while recognising this is a realm of considerable debate, aspects of our culture discourage genuine engagement in the world. Sherry Turkle, Professor of the Social Studies of Science and Technology at MIT, describes ‘networked life,’ where individuals use technological devices (we might think today of WhatsApp or Instagram) to withdraw from hard, in-person conversations. She says that people nowadays tend to communicate with others on their own terms. It is easy for people to engage – or disengage – others whenever convenient.

Yet, as Turkle writes, ‘Once we remove ourselves from the flow of physical, messy, untidy life… we become less willing to get out there and take a chance.’ Networked life is for Turkle an escape from the messiness of life. It prevents encountering others as they really are. This leads to weak personal foundations: personal characters built on sand rather than on rock. It helps to be tested by conflict with others that are different than ourselves. This testing helps to reduce narcissism, in which we think more about ourselves than about the wider world.

Marshall McLuhan, in his Understanding Media, reflects on the Greek word narcosis meaning numbness. The service of networked technologies, to which Turkle alludes, is in McLuhan’s eyes a worshipping of these technologies as God. This numbing via the worshipping of technology is contrary to Baker’s more engaged way of life – encountering others in person in their complexity.

We can remind ourselves that life is messy. What we think we see upon first impressions may evolve upon continuous examination. And what is previously unseen may become evident over time. Jesus states that ‘For nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed, nor is anything secret that will not become known and come to light’ and later, that ‘Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.’

The genius of James Baker was found not in academic intellect, but in his ability to understand others through real engagement in the world. This understanding of others, serving them, was the cornerstone of his vocation. Former White House speechwriter and now-columnist for the Wall Street Journal Peggy Noonan once commented – as reported in The Gatekeepers – that Baker ‘was a guy who didn’t seem to move forward with a lot of illusions about life or people or organizations or systems.’ Baker embraced the messiness of life, but also the importance of taking part to serve others and help restore the world.