So, I have a theory. As I wrote earlier, I’ve been reading St. Francis de Sales, and thinking about the passions, and about the very Christian idea that it’s good to live a passionless life.
That does sound odd, but a passionless life is not a life without purpose. In fact, quite the opposite. It’s a life where our toddler desires (I need! I want! Mommy!) have been quieted, and we instead listen to the voice of our Lord (what do you want? Father, your will be done). Passion is replaced by vocation and the tempests of self are replaced with the calm and peace and vastness of the Holy Spirit.
So, I have been thinking of the good life, and thence of good people. The people who live lifes of virtue, who are windows through which you can see Christ, who have quieted their passions and in the place of passion are wholly dedicated to their Lord. Whose eyes have found a fixed point at which to look and who are making steady and daily progress towards their goals.
Aren’t these the people you love best? The ones you admire? The ones who truly live, truly love, who are most admirable and most interesting? (They are interesting, I think, because they actually do things. Whether writing books or raising children or teaching or fixing things or studying. They work and they pray, and thus their lives have content.)
Okay, so, my theory. Here’s where I stop sounding pious and start sounding really nerdy. I think that this is why the best characters in Star Trek are always the “emotionless” ones. Think Spock, think Data, think the Doctor (the one likeable guy in the whole mess that was Voyager). Why are these always the guys you want by your side?
Because they are the ones in whom the self is quiet, who are focused on their goals, in whom is found virtue. Everyone else on the ship is pulled by waves of emotion, of desire, of need. They are loud, they are melodramatic, they are whiney. They are passionate. But not they are not good, not like Spock and Data are good.
Of course, it’s Star Trek, and so it is “emotionless” and not “passionless”. It is, of course, not the Christian idea at all. And so the analogy breaks down pretty quickly. (Being passionless is far from being emotionless, for instance. Spock won’t smile; a Christian will, often.) But I think that for a secular show like that, it's a good reflection of the idea.
And it shows up well. Who are the virtuous men on the Enterprise? The ones who will do the right thing in any instance, and not with a huge-force-of-will-oh-grunt-and-groan-this-is-so-heroic-of-me! ? Spock and Data. They don’t have to stop and ask, “is it good for me?” They’ve already decided that what is best for them is what is right, and so their emotions don’t come into it. In their case, the lack of emotion has made room for the growth of virtue, just as for the Christian, a lack of passion (me, me, me! want, want, want!) makes room for the growth of Christ-likeness.
Immaturity makes for good drama (Kirk: ooh, woman, want!), but it doesn’t make for a good friend. I’d even add that the second-most attractive characters in the Star Trek series are the ones who, in their humanity, come closest to the detachment of Spock and Data: people like McCoy and Picard. Men who do have their passions still, here and there, but who have largely subordinated their passions to their vocations.
It seems to be a question of asking what do I want? instead of what do I want? Not what are my small desires filling up my mind at the moment – the demands of the god of the belly – but what am I made for? How do I pursue that telos, that end? It’s the peace of having the answer and pursuing it, rather than endlessly asking the question.
peace of Christ to you,
Jessica Snell
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