Judging Robert McNamara - by Asha Hawkesworth

Judging Robert McNamara by Asha Hawkesworth
Robert McNamara at a press conference on Nov. 17, 1961 Robert McNamara, former Defense Secretary under John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, has died this week at age 93. While the nation still mourns and celebrates Michael Jackson, forgiving his oddities and sins, real or perceived, Robert McNamara's departed spirit has become the target of our anger, frustration, disgust, and blame. Frequently called the Architect of the Vietnam War, he is a convenient scapegoat as the wounds of those years seem fresh again while the horrifying parallels play out in Iraq. And now that he's dead, his mea culpas, his regrets, bearing the weight of his own conscience for 34 years and more, count for nothing. He is held in contempt, understandably, by the masses who hold him accountable for the loss of 58,159 Americans and millions of Vietnamese, Laotians, and Cambodians, as well as the countless wounded, physically or otherwise. That is a heavy burden, indeed. How must it have been to live with the ghosts of that many departed souls? The judgment we lay upon Robert McNamara is probably nothing to the judgment he laid on himself. In his later years, he struggled to atone. As head of the World Bank, he worked to reduce poverty in third-world countries. And in his book In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, he told the world that he had doubts about Vietnam, and that they were wrong to involve us in a war. For many, this was too little, too late. There can be no doubt that the Vietnam War inflicted horrors the likes of which we had hoped never to see again. People suffered and died, and some suffer still. People are not wrong to feel their anger, sadness, or grief about what happened. They are entitled to their feelings; everyone is. And there can be no doubt that Robert McNamara's actions and decisions played a vital role in the creation of that horrible conflict. But he has taken on more than he deserves. Scapegoats are probably as old as the human race. We need something to project our worst feelings onto, particularly when we feel out of control. And if you were a young man in the 1960s who just received a draft notice, you felt really out of control. If you were wounded, or watched your best friend die in the mud, or witnessed things that no one should, you felt angry as well. Why not focus your rage on Robert McNamara? Where else could you assign blame? Greg Mitchell reminds us of the time when a young man tried to throw Robert McNamara off of the Martha's Vineyard ferry and nearly succeeded. He says, "Only McNamara's tenacious hold on a railing kept him from likely death." Robert McNamara may not have been the most hated man in America at that time, but he came close. Imagine living your life with that much hatred directed your way—so much hatred that some people want you dead. If Michael Jackson was our mirror, so was Robert McNamara. Any time we hold someone up as a public symbol, they are our mirror. There was enough in Michael Jackson for us to love and mourn, but even dead, we find McNamara's failures too great to forgive. Ah, failure. Mistakes. We don't like either of those things, and we find a Vietnam-sized mistake too big to forgive. A humble man once suggested that we should avoid judging others, lest we suffer the same fate. And in A Course in Miracles, a humble man suggests that there is no order of difficulty in miracles. Which is to say, that the miracle of finding your lost car keys is no more difficult to achieve than the miracle of healing the blind. We may judge one miracle to be "bigger" than the other, and we therefore assume that it is more difficult to achieve because of its "bigness." But this is not the case. Both miracles can be accomplished with the same effort and conviction. In other words, don't let the perceived "size" of the miracle make you believe that you can't accomplish it. If there is no order of difficulty in miracles, then there can be no order of difficulty for forgiveness. If you can forgive the slur or the insult, you can forgive a murder or the man who, seemingly single-handedly, created a tragic war. What this requires, however, is that we not assign a judgment of severity to the action we are forgiving. That we not say that something is "so bad" that we cannot forgive it. Yes, people will say that of course a murder is far worse than a slur, and how can you possibly equate the two? I'm not suggesting that we equate them. Certainly, there are things that we have to work harder to forgive. We are going to have stronger feelings about it, and we must work through those. But if we designate some things as "unforgiveable," we are judging and condemning ourselves. Robert McNamara has already judged himself. He lived it. He understood what he had done. If he had been criminally insane, he might have suffered less in that regard, although the mentally ill certainly suffer in other ways. The forgiveness comes when we find our compassion. Can we look at this man with compassion? Can we see him as he really was: human, imperfect, fallible? If we can, then we can make our way toward forgiveness. If we see our anger instead, then what is that telling us? Is our anger really about him? Or ourselves? Does our anger hurt him, punish him? Or are we just punishing ourselves? We struggle with forgiveness because we need to forgive ourselves. For God, the Divine, there is no order of difficulty for forgiveness. Divine forgiveness is instantaneous, because there is nothing to forgive. There is nothing that we can do to make God reject us or stop loving us. This is the meaning of unconditional love. We can't screw it up. It's a guarantee, no matter what we do. Yes, we will have to live with the consequences of our choices. Robert McNamara doesn't need any more punishment than he already received. He is home again with the Divine, where he will heal. There's no reason for us to wait for that moment, however. We can begin to forgive ourselves, right here and now. Because when we do, we create miracles. Related articles: We are One: The world is a reflection of you Leap into forgiveness: An interview with Dan Millman Opening the heart Stuck in judgment ruts Judgments and addictions We are One, but our opinions divide us Coming out of our closets

Judging Robert McNamara
by Asha Hawkesworth

Mayan calendar

Robert McNamara at a press conference on Nov. 17, 1961

Robert McNamara, former Defense Secretary under John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, has died this week at age 93. While the nation still mourns and celebrates Michael Jackson, forgiving his oddities and sins, real or perceived, Robert McNamara's departed spirit has become the target of our anger, frustration, disgust, and blame. Frequently called the Architect of the Vietnam War, he is a convenient scapegoat as the wounds of those years seem fresh again while the horrifying parallels play out in Iraq. And now that he's dead, his mea culpas, his regrets, bearing the weight of his own conscience for 34 years and more, count for nothing. He is held in contempt, understandably, by the masses who hold him accountable for the loss of 58,159 Americans and millions of Vietnamese, Laotians, and Cambodians, as well as the countless wounded, physically or otherwise. That is a heavy burden, indeed.

How must it have been to live with the ghosts of that many departed souls? The judgment we lay upon Robert McNamara is probably nothing to the judgment he laid on himself. In his later years, he struggled to atone. As head of the World Bank, he worked to reduce poverty in third-world countries. And in his book In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, he told the world that he had doubts about Vietnam, and that they were wrong to involve us in a war. For many, this was too little, too late.

There can be no doubt that the Vietnam War inflicted horrors the likes of which we had hoped never to see again. People suffered and died, and some suffer still. People are not wrong to feel their anger, sadness, or grief about what happened. They are entitled to their feelings; everyone is. And there can be no doubt that Robert McNamara's actions and decisions played a vital role in the creation of that horrible conflict. But he has taken on more than he deserves.

Scapegoats are probably as old as the human race. We need something to project our worst feelings onto, particularly when we feel out of control. And if you were a young man in the 1960s who just received a draft notice, you felt really out of control. If you were wounded, or watched your best friend die in the mud, or witnessed things that no one should, you felt angry as well. Why not focus your rage on Robert McNamara? Where else could you assign blame?

Greg Mitchell reminds us of the time when a young man tried to throw Robert McNamara off of the Martha's Vineyard ferry and nearly succeeded. He says, "Only McNamara's tenacious hold on a railing kept him from likely death." Robert McNamara may not have been the most hated man in America at that time, but he came close. Imagine living your life with that much hatred directed your way—so much hatred that some people want you dead.

If Michael Jackson was our mirror, so was Robert McNamara. Any time we hold someone up as a public symbol, they are our mirror. There was enough in Michael Jackson for us to love and mourn, but even dead, we find McNamara's failures too great to forgive.

Ah, failure. Mistakes. We don't like either of those things, and we find a Vietnam-sized mistake too big to forgive.

A humble man once suggested that we should avoid judging others, lest we suffer the same fate. And in A Course in Miracles, a humble man suggests that there is no order of difficulty in miracles. Which is to say, that the miracle of finding your lost car keys is no more difficult to achieve than the miracle of healing the blind. We may judge one miracle to be "bigger" than the other, and we therefore assume that it is more difficult to achieve because of its "bigness." But this is not the case. Both miracles can be accomplished with the same effort and conviction. In other words, don't let the perceived "size" of the miracle make you believe that you can't accomplish it.

If there is no order of difficulty in miracles, then there can be no order of difficulty for forgiveness. If you can forgive the slur or the insult, you can forgive a murder or the man who, seemingly single-handedly, created a tragic war. What this requires, however, is that we not assign a judgment of severity to the action we are forgiving. That we not say that something is "so bad" that we cannot forgive it.

Yes, people will say that of course a murder is far worse than a slur, and how can you possibly equate the two? I'm not suggesting that we equate them. Certainly, there are things that we have to work harder to forgive. We are going to have stronger feelings about it, and we must work through those. But if we designate some things as "unforgiveable," we are judging and condemning ourselves.

Robert McNamara has already judged himself. He lived it. He understood what he had done. If he had been criminally insane, he might have suffered less in that regard, although the mentally ill certainly suffer in other ways. The forgiveness comes when we find our compassion. Can we look at this man with compassion? Can we see him as he really was: human, imperfect, fallible? If we can, then we can make our way toward forgiveness. If we see our anger instead, then what is that telling us? Is our anger really about him? Or ourselves? Does our anger hurt him, punish him? Or are we just punishing ourselves?

We struggle with forgiveness because we need to forgive ourselves. For God, the Divine, there is no order of difficulty for forgiveness. Divine forgiveness is instantaneous, because there is nothing to forgive. There is nothing that we can do to make God reject us or stop loving us. This is the meaning of unconditional love. We can't screw it up. It's a guarantee, no matter what we do. Yes, we will have to live with the consequences of our choices. Robert McNamara doesn't need any more punishment than he already received. He is home again with the Divine, where he will heal. There's no reason for us to wait for that moment, however. We can begin to forgive ourselves, right here and now. Because when we do, we create miracles.

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