Life in Christ is made up of countless small yet touchingly beautiful miracles.
Throughout the afternoon I had been reading some recent reflections by a variety of bioethicists on the possibilities and apprehensions surrounding human cloning: in particular, fabricating children in our own image and likeness by a-sexual replication through the process of nuclear transfer. If the science exists, the specialists argue, why not use it?
Since I had to come up with an answer for the next day’s class at the St Sergius Institute in Paris, where I teach for a couple of months each year, I was scrambling somewhat to articulate just why the consensus among Orthodox, and many other Christians today, is so opposed to any procedure whose intention is to take reproduction out of the hands of God—which means to eliminate as much as possible the element of “chance” in the fertilization process—and to offer to potential parents the child of their choice. That is, an offspring whose basic characteristics are determined by the desires of those who will welcome and raise that child to the age of independence. If the parents are going to sacrifice their time, energy and financial resources in such an effort, it seems only reasonable, some people argue, that the child who so benefits should be free of inherited disabilities and endowed with qualities that will conform to the parents—wishes and expectations. And potentially at least, cloning offers just such an opportunity to provide “the child we want.”
Footsteps resounded up the ancient stairwell. There was a knock at the door, and I opened to welcome our younger son, who is at the Institute working on a graduate degree in theology. After I had stuffed books and papers into a briefcase and we chatted for a while, we decided to go out for some “Chinese.” We found the small restaurant we were looking for tucked away on the rue Jean-Jaurhs. It was just after six, and since Parisians rarely begin supper before eight, the place was deserted. We ordered a few things, went to a back table and sat down. Once the waitress set our rice, glazed chicken and other good things in front of us, we began to eat and to talk. The conversation went to his studies and the motivation behind his coming back to Paris, where he was chiefly raised and still feels very much at home.
I listened to him as he talked enthusiastically about projects, plans and hopes. We mused on our respective vocations: priesthood in my case, music and theology in his. He got up and came back with a couple of egg rolls, and we talked some more.
As I listened to this person whom I have known and loved for over thirty four years now, I found myself looking at him across the table with an unaccustomed attentiveness, aware more of his expressions and attitude—what the French call “le regard”—than of his actual words. There was a brightness in his eyes as he spoke of friends, of past experiences and of hopes for the near and distant future. The images his words evoked took both of us to a level of conversation beyond communication.
In that quiet atmosphere we shared a rare and precious moment of communion, in which he became my teacher and I his disciple. In a totally simple, unpretentious way, he talked about his spiritual convictions and doubts, about the silliness of so much that goes on in the Church and its boundless blessings, and about the beauty of liturgical music as a vehicle to attain, here and now, access to the splendor and joy of the Kingdom of heaven.
I was, for a while, overtaken with it all: his eyes, his voice, his expressions; his delight with small things in life, together with its often unbearable frustrations and suffering; the spiritual depth of his simple reflections, coupled with a penetrating wisdom regarding my own foibles and misgivings. And I was touched to the point of awe with his willingness to be my friend, to offer me laughter, insight and love.
After we gave each other a bear hug at the metro station and he smiled at me with a warmth that nearly brought tears (I was leaving in two days and wouldn’t see him again for several months), he disappeared down into the bowels of Paris, and I wandered slowly back to St Sergius.
Could I have ever selected characteristics and qualities like his in a genetic supermarket? Or had the genius to choose and shape his “traits” into what they were when he was conceived, so that he would become the person he is now? The very question is absurd.
As I climbed those same creaking wooden stairs to my room at the Institute, I realized maybe more than I ever had before, that this son of mine is a pure, unmerited gift. That for some reason I shall never in this world understand, my wife and I have been immeasurably blessed by his smile, his perspicacity, his warmth and affection.
He is who he is, by the grace of God.
I gave thanks for that as I closed the door behind me. And I knew then just what I would try to convey to my students when I met them in class again the next afternoon.