I Do Some Sermonizing

at stunning St. Andrews University in Scotland.

This is the inside of the 15th century Saint Salvator’s Chapel at St. Andrews University in Scotland. Pretty gorgeous eh? From that pulpit to the right of the picture, I preached a sermon to those graduating on November 29. This is what I said:

Good morning, and congratulations to the graduating class. I feel extremely privileged to be sermonizing in this beautiful building, which is not being bombed by drones or rockets, and in which I can practice “free speech” and express displeasing opinions without being imprisoned or shot by the government in power – a privilege that many today do not enjoy.

            The title of my sermon is “Who Says What’s What?” The text is from Genesis 2:19: “And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them; and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.”

The act of naming is the first thing Adam does after being created; and it is the second thing God does: he names the sun, moon, and stars. What things are called was evidently of great importance to God, and it is indeed of great importance to us humans – we are the only hominid species (jury’s out on the Neanderthals) who have a complex grammar with a past perfect and a future perfect tense. Fido the dog can remember his dinnertime, but he will never ask himself, “Where did dogs come from in the first place?” or “Where will I, Fido, go once I am dead?” – leaving us to wonder whether grammar created theology, or the other way around – a displeasing question that would have had me frying at the stake a few hundred years ago. You see how dangerous words can be.

Naming is very powerful; which is why, at times of revolution, regime change, and swift vacillations in public opinion, there is so much re-naming. Statues are pulled down, histories are re-written, and the names of countries, cities, and streets are replaced. That’s been going on at least since Ancient Egypt. More recently: the U.S.S.R. dissolved and Leningrad went back to being St. Petersburg; the First World War broke out and the Canadian city of Berlin changed its German name to the safer one of Kitchener; during the burn-it-all-down high times of the French Revolution, the months of the year were renamed – Brumaire for late fall because it was misty, Thermidor for high summer  because it was hot –and the 365  days were given individual names -- those of agriculturally related items, such as Turnip, Manure,  and Watering Pot. This scheme was a well-meaning tribute to peasant labours; but “Let’s have lunch on Manure” does not exactly spark joy. This calendar didn’t last long.

Our own time is also rife with burn-it-all-down movements, not only on the sloganeering MAGA and Brexiteering Right but also on the virtue-signalling I-am-Purer-than-You left. Both would do well to study the French Revolution – the template for all revolutions since, including the Russian one, the Italian and German mid-century ones which were revolutions of the right, and the Chinese one.  The pattern has been: justified anger and the best of intentions to begin with, followed by economic chaos, increased polarization, power struggles, mob violence, an orgy of renaming, a blood-soaked period of Terror followed by a violent reaction, economic chaos, and finally along comes I-alone-can-fix-it Napoleon – grabbing power, crowning himself Emperor, and then responsible for the deaths of millions. I myself am off to see the film Napoleon as soon as possible, partly because one critic said Napoleon sounds like “a perverted horse.” (Having once been told that I sound like “a nasal telephone operator, I’m sensitive to these things.) “Perverted horse” – what does that mean? Can a horse even be perverted, and who’s to say what “perverted” is, anyway?

As a young child, the Victorian writer, John Ruskin, preached a very short sermon: “People, be good.” How cute, we think, and how true – if people only would be good! But hang on a minute: who defines what is good? There are wildly differing opinions.

Similar often-used words prove equally evasive. For instance, what does “progressive” mean? That you’re in favour of eugenics, and of sterilizing women against their wills? It once did mean that. How about “conservative”? It used to mean the very opposite of mob rule and enforced conformity – but not anymore. How about “feminism”? Do you mean that women should have equal rights under the law, or that – as one brand has it – all men should be shoved off a cliff, with a few kept for breeding purposes? Does “liberal democracy” mean a tolerance for plurality, or is it just – as some say – an excuse for rampant capitalism? Perhaps it’s time to translate such loosely-used terms back into their precise meanings. Otherwise, they will more and more come to resemble the phrase “perverted horse” – words, but what if anything do they denote?

According to Albert Speer, Hitler’s lead architect, “what distinguished the Third Reich from all previous dictatorships was its use of all the means of communication to sustain itself and to deprive its objects of the power of independent thought.” The conditions for a similar control already exist. Lazy and vague language is likely to cover either a nothingness or a horror.

Language is slippery. But as the story of Adam’s naming act tells us, it’s also crucial. A phrase from one of my poems is often quoted: “A word after a word after a word is power.” That’s true, but there’s a caveat: those words are not necessarily benign. Like every human tool, words can be used to create or to destroy.

So use your words of power. But use them with care. Use them precisely, to say what you actually mean. Use them to interrogate sloppy speech. Use them justly and truly: do they really apply to the case in point? Use them to name your own fears, which can be the most powerful naming act of all.

The task of true naming is ongoing. It will be your task now. I wish you the very best of luck with it.

Farewell; which means goodbye. But it also means: fare well. May your journey prosper.

What was the occasion? The Univerity was kindly presenting me with an Honourary Doctorate of Letters - an occasion that was supposed to take place three years before, but then Covid, and then More Covid, and so on. And then I had an operation. Nothing daunted (actually quite daunted), I set out anyway, promising my concerned family members that I would use a wheelchair at the airports (which I kind of did, mostly), because I could not stand the idea of postponing again! And it was well worth the effort. Karolina Sutton, my agent, said they pulled it off better than any such occasion she’d ever attended. (I found out later that this was the only such occasion she’d ever attended, but you get the idea.) I also got to meet Phillips P. O’Brien, whose astute writing on the logistics of the war in Ukraine I’d been following since the onset. His family is from New England, so we spent some of the time trying to figure out if we’re related.

After the sermon, we processed outside. Yes, I’m Canadian, but I got cold. Then, after all the young folks had been well and truly Graduated, and I had had a magic formula recited over me, I made another speech. This is what I said:

Thank you for this very kind honour, which pleases me excessively – especially since I’ve tried to get here several times before, but was prevented by Covid, more Covid, a grad student strike, and some other catastrophe. I’ve been keeping a nervous eye on the Icelandic volcano. Should It erupt and spew ash all over Scotland, it will be entirely my fault.

I am now supposed to give the graduating class some words of encouragement. My beloved first UK editor, Diana Athill, wrote a book in her old age called “Somewhere Towards the End.” I am now somewhere towards the end, and you are somewhere towards the beginning. The world in which you’ll be continuing your journey is challenging, to say the least. (Challenging is the new word for horrible.) Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, as misjudged as Napoleon’s invasion of Russia; the war in the Middle East; the climate crisis, which is driving food shortages and mass emigrations … the widening gap between the super-rich and the poor, the hatred and polarization we’ve been witnessing on anti-social media, the rise of dictatorships, the attempts to overthrow liberal democracies … it can be overwhelming. What to do?

 As a long-practicing hand-reader, I always read both hands. The lesser-used one – usually the left – is the hand you’ve been dealt, and the dominant hand is the one you’ve played. Even if you’ve been dealt a challenging hand, you can play it well or badly.

 So far you’ve all played your hands well enough to make it here – to graduation – despite Covid and all the rest of it. That’s a remarkable achievement, and you should be proud of it. Of course there will be bumps in the road ahead, because there always are. As Samuel Beckett said, “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Or as my friend Les Stroud, “Survivorman” on TV,” says, to deal with a hard situation you need four things: knowledge; the right equipment; willpower; and luck.

 Your education here has given you some knowledge, and some of the right equipment. You must have had some willpower, merely to stick it out; and you’ve certainly had some luck.

I wish you more of each, but especially I wish you luck. May you succeed on your road, and may the wind be always at your back.