Chapter Twelve
Monologues
Telling It Like It Was
Preaching In The First Person
So much of what we hear about politicians and world leaders causes us to question whether there are any who are guided by religious convictions. I was delighted to read Dag Hammarskjold's book Markings and to find revealed there a man whose exceptional faith and piety guided and strengthened him as he gave leadership to the United Nations. Many people of my generation would know of him as a world leader, but would be unacquainted with him as a man of Christian convictions. They would be encouraged to hear of his struggle for faith and his search for divine guidance.
This sermon was prepared for delivery on World Order Sunday, a time when my denomination focuses on issues of peace and justice. My objective in the sermon was to show, through the experiences of Dag Hammarskjold, how faith develops, matures, and influences the one who possesses it. For those persons who might not be aware of the circumstances of Hammarskjold's death, I had the following statement printed under the sermon title in the worship folder: "Dag Hammarskjold died in a mysterious plane crash in Congo on September 17, 1961, while on a mission seeking to bring peace to a troubled land."
Trail Markers
In 1953, not long after I had come to New York to be inducted as secretary-general of the United Nations, I was asked to appear on a radio program with Edward R. Murrow. He wanted me to speak about what I believed. I wrote a brief statement which I called "Old Creeds in a New World." In that statement I laid out several of the things that I was aware of which had brought me to that point. I'd like to share with you some of the trail markers that have guided me on the journey of faith. While the experiences of each individual are unique, I think that we can derive strength for our own pilgrimage by hearing how others have been helped.
In case you don't know, my name is Dag Hammarskjold. I call what I have to say "trail markers" because I see the quest of each of us as a climb toward our destiny, toward God. Mountain climbing is my favorite recreation. In my native land of Sweden, mountain climbing doesn't so much call for skill as for endurance. Sometimes, as we climb or hike, we lay down trail markers so that we can tell the way we have come and where we have been. Through much of my life I have kept a journal of my most private thoughts, a journal that I call "Trail Markers," or "Markings" if you will, because those recorded thoughts help me to see where I have been. I have referred to them often in preparing these thoughts to be shared with you.
Among those things which have shaped my faith, I referred in my talk for Mr. Murrow to the early influences of home and childhood. I was born in Jonkoping, Sweden, in 1905. My father was governor of the Uppsala Province for almost 25 years, except for a three-year interval when he was prime minister of Sweden, so almost all of my childhood was spent in the Governor's Castle. As a child I enjoyed crawling through the labyrinthine passages of the old castle. The archbishop of Sweden and his family lived in the archbishop's palace just down the hill from us, so our families were good friends. From my earliest years my father impressed upon me a belief that no life is more satisfactory than one of selfless service to one's country or to humanity. Such service, he pointed out, would require a sacrifice of all personal interests, but for three centuries our family had provided that kind of service to Sweden.
While my father was a rather stern and formal Lutheran, my mother was a warm and generous lady who repeatedly impressed on me that all people are equals as God's children, and that they should be met and treated by us as our masters in God. What I learned from my parents was not so much a formal theology of traditional Christian teaching, but an active compassion toward all in need and a compelling sense of duty.
I entered Uppsala University at the age of seventeen and completed my Bachelor of Arts degree in two years. Subsequently, I was to take a degree in law, and to earn my doctorate in Economics.
I have always enjoyed mountaineering. I feel it gives one character to be out in nature, and being alone in nature has often given me a renewal of spirit.
By disposition I have always been a shy person, reserved, uncommunicative, solitary. This has troubled me greatly. Though others have not known it, I have been lonely to the point of despair. Unable to share my innermost thoughts with others, I started to write them down in my journal when I was twenty. Thoughts of death, guilt, and the meaninglessness of life frequently disturbed me. The sense of duty, moral obligation, and the call to public service were heavy burdens and I often fought against them inwardly. Like so many Swedes, I sometimes entertained thoughts of suicide, yet no one knew of my inner struggle. I believe that companions and colleagues alike have found me to be pleasant and apparently happy. Yet the call to duty, learned from my parents, was for many years both my cross and my strength.
Strangely enough, the higher my career ascended, the deeper my spirit descended. I became secretary to the Royal Commission on Unemployment during the Depression, then the under-secretary in the Ministry of Finance, and eventually, chairman of the Bank of Sweden. I created a pattern of total dedication to my work which provided no place for marriage or family obligations. As my companions married, they were less available for late night talks, early morning walks, weekend hikes; as a consequence, my sense of loneliness increased. I moved to the Foreign Ministry in 1946, eventually becoming the vice-minister of foreign affairs. I was at the pinnacle of civic life in Sweden and seen by all as an outstanding success.
Yet, in spite of this, I was experiencing an inner despondency that bordered on despair. I suffered from a solitariness that I could not overcome, an incurable loneliness of the soul from which I felt there would be no release. I needed something to live for, or if necessary, something great enough to die for. It occurred to me that death might be the only cure, but sometimes I wondered if loneliness were an obligatory part of the way of service which I had chosen. I could not ask a woman to share my life with me, for she would be left alone much of the time, as my mother had been left alone so much because of my father's work. I felt like a Catholic priest who had renounced marriage in order to give his love to all people.
In my despair, I was led to meditate on the life of Jesus. I had begun to read Albert Schweitzer's great book, The Quest For The Historical Jesus. In its pages I encountered Jesus approaching his end as a committed young man who was alone as he confronted his final destiny. Here was a man who touched my condition, alone but courageous. And Schweitzer had been touched by him too, so much that he willingly gave up all to follow Jesus in humble service. I had already heard the call of duty and service from my parents, but I didn't know why I was supposed to respond. I wanted something to live for, something great enough to die for, but I had not yet discovered it.
I had reached a turning point in my life. I had been immersing myself in the writings of certain early Christian mystics, people like Meister Eckhart, Saint John of the Cross, Thomas a Kempis, Pascal. These people had discovered God as a living reality; indeed, they came to believe that God lived in them and used them in advancing his great purposes. They surrendered themselves and found self-realization. They found strength to say, "Yes," to the needs of their neighbors and, "Yes," to every fate life had in store for them when they followed the call of duty. I had always followed the call of duty, but I had never made it my conscious choice. I had been afraid of what it might mean and where it might lead, and that made me hold something back.
On New Years Day, 1952, I determined to hold back no longer. Suddenly, everything broke out of me in glorious affirmation. I was prepared to say, "Yes," to whatever came my way; to live affirmatively regardless of the cost. In that act of daring to say, "Yes," I found meaning for my life and for all things in which I would become involved. I had asked for meaning: now I found it. I am not sure what the question was, but I am confident that in that moment I said, "Yes," to God, and from that moment I was certain that existence is meaningful and that my life had a goal. Since that moment I have come to understand what Jesus meant when he told his disciples not to look back and not to be anxious about tomorrow. I had found God, or been found by him, and I was prepared to follow wherever the Way would lead.
Shortly thereafter I was nominated to become secretary-general of the United Nations, a position which my predecessor, Trygve Lie, warned me was the most impossible job in the world. My induction was to take place around Easter week of 1953. As I considered this event in my own life, I was also meditating on the last week of Jesus' life before the crucifixion. I began to understand that one who surrenders to God's will may find that it leads to a cross, even if, temporarily, it leads to exaltation, just as Jesus discovered that the triumphal entry into Jerusalem was, nevertheless, the way to the cross. My vocation was being defined not by me, but for me. It was clear that God had a use for me, whether it happened to suit me at the moment or not. Jesus became for me the one who pursued the human destiny God had ordained for him to its bitter and seemingly disastrous end. He enjoined all who would follow him to do likewise, for he said, "If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow." At every moment Jesus is dying in someone who has followed the trail markers of love and patience, righteousness and humility, faith, courage, and stillness to the end. I had been chosen, as have all followers of Jesus.
It is the knowledge that I have been called to this place which has made it possible for me to offer my service to the United Nations. The crises have been endless. In 1954 China threatened to try twelve captured American airmen as spies. As I flew to Peking in an attempt to resolve the crisis, I felt helpless until I reflected on the words of PsaIm 139: "If I ascend to heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in Sheol, thou art there." God was with me. The airmen were released. I received much praise, but I received it in shame mixed with gratitude, for I realized that I was but an instrument in the hands of God.
There were crises in the Middle East -- Suez and Lebanon -- in South East Asia, in South Africa, and a crisis in which Nikita Krushchev demonstrated his hostility by thumping his desk and insisting that the office of secretary-general be dissolved because, he said, "The Soviet Union does not trust Dag Hammarskjold." In spite of such difficulties I was proposed for a second five-year term in 1957 and confirmed. Why would one accept it? I came to the conclusion that one has never done enough so long as one still has something of value to contribute. I had said, "Yes," to God, "Yes," to my destiny, "Yes," to myself. I would not back away.
Since my second induction as secretary-general, my faith has been maturing. What started out as duty that led me through Jesus to God, now became an awareness of God through Jesus that led to a new and fulfilling sense of duty. There were fewer thoughts now of loneliness, death, and sacrifice. I have come to see that my loneliness has made it easier to give myself to God's purposes and to serve others. I have come to see that the Way has chosen me, and I must follow it wherever it leads. The example of Jesus has strengthened my conviction that the road of possibility might lead to the cross. As it was with Jesus on Palm Sunday, I have come to see that the Way leads to a triumph which is a catastrophe, and to a catastrophe which is a triumph. As I face whatever the future holds for me, I am confident that the God who may abase me for his purpose, also has the power to raise me up. I am ready, come what may -- the trail markers are in place. I will not lose my way.
This sermon was prepared for delivery on World Order Sunday, a time when my denomination focuses on issues of peace and justice. My objective in the sermon was to show, through the experiences of Dag Hammarskjold, how faith develops, matures, and influences the one who possesses it. For those persons who might not be aware of the circumstances of Hammarskjold's death, I had the following statement printed under the sermon title in the worship folder: "Dag Hammarskjold died in a mysterious plane crash in Congo on September 17, 1961, while on a mission seeking to bring peace to a troubled land."
Trail Markers
In 1953, not long after I had come to New York to be inducted as secretary-general of the United Nations, I was asked to appear on a radio program with Edward R. Murrow. He wanted me to speak about what I believed. I wrote a brief statement which I called "Old Creeds in a New World." In that statement I laid out several of the things that I was aware of which had brought me to that point. I'd like to share with you some of the trail markers that have guided me on the journey of faith. While the experiences of each individual are unique, I think that we can derive strength for our own pilgrimage by hearing how others have been helped.
In case you don't know, my name is Dag Hammarskjold. I call what I have to say "trail markers" because I see the quest of each of us as a climb toward our destiny, toward God. Mountain climbing is my favorite recreation. In my native land of Sweden, mountain climbing doesn't so much call for skill as for endurance. Sometimes, as we climb or hike, we lay down trail markers so that we can tell the way we have come and where we have been. Through much of my life I have kept a journal of my most private thoughts, a journal that I call "Trail Markers," or "Markings" if you will, because those recorded thoughts help me to see where I have been. I have referred to them often in preparing these thoughts to be shared with you.
Among those things which have shaped my faith, I referred in my talk for Mr. Murrow to the early influences of home and childhood. I was born in Jonkoping, Sweden, in 1905. My father was governor of the Uppsala Province for almost 25 years, except for a three-year interval when he was prime minister of Sweden, so almost all of my childhood was spent in the Governor's Castle. As a child I enjoyed crawling through the labyrinthine passages of the old castle. The archbishop of Sweden and his family lived in the archbishop's palace just down the hill from us, so our families were good friends. From my earliest years my father impressed upon me a belief that no life is more satisfactory than one of selfless service to one's country or to humanity. Such service, he pointed out, would require a sacrifice of all personal interests, but for three centuries our family had provided that kind of service to Sweden.
While my father was a rather stern and formal Lutheran, my mother was a warm and generous lady who repeatedly impressed on me that all people are equals as God's children, and that they should be met and treated by us as our masters in God. What I learned from my parents was not so much a formal theology of traditional Christian teaching, but an active compassion toward all in need and a compelling sense of duty.
I entered Uppsala University at the age of seventeen and completed my Bachelor of Arts degree in two years. Subsequently, I was to take a degree in law, and to earn my doctorate in Economics.
I have always enjoyed mountaineering. I feel it gives one character to be out in nature, and being alone in nature has often given me a renewal of spirit.
By disposition I have always been a shy person, reserved, uncommunicative, solitary. This has troubled me greatly. Though others have not known it, I have been lonely to the point of despair. Unable to share my innermost thoughts with others, I started to write them down in my journal when I was twenty. Thoughts of death, guilt, and the meaninglessness of life frequently disturbed me. The sense of duty, moral obligation, and the call to public service were heavy burdens and I often fought against them inwardly. Like so many Swedes, I sometimes entertained thoughts of suicide, yet no one knew of my inner struggle. I believe that companions and colleagues alike have found me to be pleasant and apparently happy. Yet the call to duty, learned from my parents, was for many years both my cross and my strength.
Strangely enough, the higher my career ascended, the deeper my spirit descended. I became secretary to the Royal Commission on Unemployment during the Depression, then the under-secretary in the Ministry of Finance, and eventually, chairman of the Bank of Sweden. I created a pattern of total dedication to my work which provided no place for marriage or family obligations. As my companions married, they were less available for late night talks, early morning walks, weekend hikes; as a consequence, my sense of loneliness increased. I moved to the Foreign Ministry in 1946, eventually becoming the vice-minister of foreign affairs. I was at the pinnacle of civic life in Sweden and seen by all as an outstanding success.
Yet, in spite of this, I was experiencing an inner despondency that bordered on despair. I suffered from a solitariness that I could not overcome, an incurable loneliness of the soul from which I felt there would be no release. I needed something to live for, or if necessary, something great enough to die for. It occurred to me that death might be the only cure, but sometimes I wondered if loneliness were an obligatory part of the way of service which I had chosen. I could not ask a woman to share my life with me, for she would be left alone much of the time, as my mother had been left alone so much because of my father's work. I felt like a Catholic priest who had renounced marriage in order to give his love to all people.
In my despair, I was led to meditate on the life of Jesus. I had begun to read Albert Schweitzer's great book, The Quest For The Historical Jesus. In its pages I encountered Jesus approaching his end as a committed young man who was alone as he confronted his final destiny. Here was a man who touched my condition, alone but courageous. And Schweitzer had been touched by him too, so much that he willingly gave up all to follow Jesus in humble service. I had already heard the call of duty and service from my parents, but I didn't know why I was supposed to respond. I wanted something to live for, something great enough to die for, but I had not yet discovered it.
I had reached a turning point in my life. I had been immersing myself in the writings of certain early Christian mystics, people like Meister Eckhart, Saint John of the Cross, Thomas a Kempis, Pascal. These people had discovered God as a living reality; indeed, they came to believe that God lived in them and used them in advancing his great purposes. They surrendered themselves and found self-realization. They found strength to say, "Yes," to the needs of their neighbors and, "Yes," to every fate life had in store for them when they followed the call of duty. I had always followed the call of duty, but I had never made it my conscious choice. I had been afraid of what it might mean and where it might lead, and that made me hold something back.
On New Years Day, 1952, I determined to hold back no longer. Suddenly, everything broke out of me in glorious affirmation. I was prepared to say, "Yes," to whatever came my way; to live affirmatively regardless of the cost. In that act of daring to say, "Yes," I found meaning for my life and for all things in which I would become involved. I had asked for meaning: now I found it. I am not sure what the question was, but I am confident that in that moment I said, "Yes," to God, and from that moment I was certain that existence is meaningful and that my life had a goal. Since that moment I have come to understand what Jesus meant when he told his disciples not to look back and not to be anxious about tomorrow. I had found God, or been found by him, and I was prepared to follow wherever the Way would lead.
Shortly thereafter I was nominated to become secretary-general of the United Nations, a position which my predecessor, Trygve Lie, warned me was the most impossible job in the world. My induction was to take place around Easter week of 1953. As I considered this event in my own life, I was also meditating on the last week of Jesus' life before the crucifixion. I began to understand that one who surrenders to God's will may find that it leads to a cross, even if, temporarily, it leads to exaltation, just as Jesus discovered that the triumphal entry into Jerusalem was, nevertheless, the way to the cross. My vocation was being defined not by me, but for me. It was clear that God had a use for me, whether it happened to suit me at the moment or not. Jesus became for me the one who pursued the human destiny God had ordained for him to its bitter and seemingly disastrous end. He enjoined all who would follow him to do likewise, for he said, "If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow." At every moment Jesus is dying in someone who has followed the trail markers of love and patience, righteousness and humility, faith, courage, and stillness to the end. I had been chosen, as have all followers of Jesus.
It is the knowledge that I have been called to this place which has made it possible for me to offer my service to the United Nations. The crises have been endless. In 1954 China threatened to try twelve captured American airmen as spies. As I flew to Peking in an attempt to resolve the crisis, I felt helpless until I reflected on the words of PsaIm 139: "If I ascend to heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in Sheol, thou art there." God was with me. The airmen were released. I received much praise, but I received it in shame mixed with gratitude, for I realized that I was but an instrument in the hands of God.
There were crises in the Middle East -- Suez and Lebanon -- in South East Asia, in South Africa, and a crisis in which Nikita Krushchev demonstrated his hostility by thumping his desk and insisting that the office of secretary-general be dissolved because, he said, "The Soviet Union does not trust Dag Hammarskjold." In spite of such difficulties I was proposed for a second five-year term in 1957 and confirmed. Why would one accept it? I came to the conclusion that one has never done enough so long as one still has something of value to contribute. I had said, "Yes," to God, "Yes," to my destiny, "Yes," to myself. I would not back away.
Since my second induction as secretary-general, my faith has been maturing. What started out as duty that led me through Jesus to God, now became an awareness of God through Jesus that led to a new and fulfilling sense of duty. There were fewer thoughts now of loneliness, death, and sacrifice. I have come to see that my loneliness has made it easier to give myself to God's purposes and to serve others. I have come to see that the Way has chosen me, and I must follow it wherever it leads. The example of Jesus has strengthened my conviction that the road of possibility might lead to the cross. As it was with Jesus on Palm Sunday, I have come to see that the Way leads to a triumph which is a catastrophe, and to a catastrophe which is a triumph. As I face whatever the future holds for me, I am confident that the God who may abase me for his purpose, also has the power to raise me up. I am ready, come what may -- the trail markers are in place. I will not lose my way.
