Incon-soul-able: The Desert Fathers and The Prayer of St. Francis

    Some Christians may have heard of The Prayer of St. Francis, a poetic petition commonly attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, in which the speaker asks God for the strength to avoid seeking consolation, understanding, or love so that he might instead offer these graces to others (Our Catholic Prayers). One can observe a similarity between the actions of characters in The Desert Fathers, and the above principles denoted in The Prayer of St. Francis. The actions of the religious men and women in The Desert Fathers suggest that their unique dedication to God encourages them to renounce earthly opportunities for consolation, understanding, and temporal love. The abstention from these worldly comforts not only refines the souls of these holy men and women, but also beautifully mirrors the infinite longing for God experienced by the human soul, which—apart from God—remains inconsolable. 

    The monks, nuns, and hermits in The Desert Fathers reflect that human beings should not expect lasting consolation, whether physical or spiritual, while on earth. A group of monks abstain wholly from eating meat (Desert Fathers 30), and another monk abstains from eating anything at all for a week (30). Still another hermit resolves never to drink anything—even water (30), and a seriously ill hermit refuses to eat anything offered to him, and even wishes that God would grant him “sickness for thirty years more” (30). These extreme examples of refusal to seek consolation from physical deprivation or pain can appear shocking and perhaps even foolish. However, these holy people persevere for a good reason. As the monk Hyperichius explains, fasting helps one to control the desire to sin and “lifts [one’s] soul from the depths” of desires for other earthly pleasures (27). Not only do these religious men and women abstain from bodily satisfactions, but they also appear to disdain emotional and spiritual comforts while on earth, instead allowing themselves to bear a near constant sorrow. For example, one hermit writes that tears should follow one as constantly and closely as one’s shadow (17), and another discloses that all people should “lament always,” perpetually crying “Woe is me” ( 17). A man named Evagrius admonishes monks to meditate on the misery of souls in Hell, to concentrate on loss and pain, and to focus on the coming judgment of God (12), and the monk John mourns the laughter of a fellow brother (13). While the monks in Desert Fathers tend to avoid seeking either physical or spiritual consolation for themselves, they do attempt to console others, feeding each other (29), praying for each other (38), and helping each other to resist temptation (44). By reaching out to others, the monks avoid focusing on themselves, instead concentrating on loving God and their fellow human beings. The Prayer of St. Francis emphasizes that it is only in the giving of oneself that one can receive, and the monks in Desert Fathers live out this truth in their denial of comfort for their own bodies and minds and their attention to their neighbor’s needs. 

    The men and women in Desert Fathers seek to console their neighbors and tend to their needs, but they do not necessarily seek to be understood by them. Whether following the monastic or hermitic lifestyle, the characters in The Desert Fathers often live in extreme discipline. In addition to the practice of fasting, the monks commit themselves to other practices that may appear confounding or even absurd. For example, one monk wraps his hands in a cloak before touching his “old mother,” in order to avoid any tempting memories or thoughts of the female body (31). It may seem insensible or even uncaring for a son to refuse to touch the woman who gave birth to him, but his apparent rejection of family ties and natural affection is a fairly common theme throughout Desert Fathers. In another situation, an invalid nun instructs her brother to avoid visiting her, in order to keep him away from the “company of women” (30). The disciplines of the monks involve not only the avoidance of family members, but it can also include efforts to make life more difficult for themselves than it already is. One hermit, who lives in the desert, finds himself exhausted by the twelve-mile journey necessary for him to obtain water, but after an angel prompts him, he moves his cell “five miles further” from the spring  (70). The austere living practices of the religious people in Desert Fathers can be extremely difficult for those on the outside to understand. Nevertheless, though the mission God has given these men and women may cause them to be misunderstood, or even to become targets of “reproach and derision” by those around them, even their “close friends,” shying away from God’s will is not an option for them, no matter what others may think (Jeremiah 20:8-10 ESV). As one experiences rejection or has one’s motives routinely misinterpreted, one can be filled with a fervent longing for a companion who can empathize, even in the remotest sense. It can be extremely difficult to deny this strong urge to be understood. While we might long for understanding from others, it is more important that we leave our vindication to God, Who understands us far better than any human being ever could on a fallen earth. 

    The fallen nature of the world not only diminishes the capacity of humans to understand one another fully, but it also accounts for another imperfect element of life on earth from which the monks abstained— experiences of temporal love. While it may be presumed that those in religious orders practice celibacy, sexual love was only one form of temporal love from which the holy men and women in Desert Fathers abstained. Both men and women make continuous efforts throughout the work to fight against the sin of lust (Desert Fathers 36). Many strictly avoid the company of the opposite sex in order to keep from falling into temptation (30). Furthermore, as in previous examples, several of the holy men and women avoided being near or physically touching close relatives such as parents or siblings (30-31). Perhaps a more shocking illustration of forsaking earthly love lies in the story of a man who desired to reject the world for the monastic life, and so, when instructed by his abbot, threw his beloved child into a hot oven (146-147). The father’s action shows an extreme example of the importance of renouncing earthly love, even that of one’s own child, for God’s sake. Earthly love, whether between parent and child, man and woman, brother and sister, will always fall short of the perfect and complete love of God. True love requires sacrifice, and sometimes we are called to love sacrificially by giving up temporal experiences of love during our time on earth. In the biblical account of the Seven Maccabees, a condemned Jewish man explains that his hands were given to him by the same God for Whose sake he loses them and from Whom he hopes to receive them once again in Heaven (2 Maccabees 7:10-11 NRSV). The choice of the religious men and women in Desert Fathers is much the same. Sometimes, we are called to give up chances for earthly fulfillment of our desire for love, while hoping to receive them fully from God in Heaven, whether that be our loved ones whom we must eventually give up through death, or relinquishing the experience of carnal love in order to live a life of celibacy.

    It may be that many times during one’s faith journey, God will ask one to give up chances for earthly consolation, understanding from others, and even temporal love. As illustrated in the lives of the religious men and women in Desert Fathers, and as iterated in The Prayer of St. Francis, the Christian life can often be paradoxical: it is “in giving that we receive,” in pardoning others that we are pardoned ourselves, and it is in dying that we are “born into eternal life” (Our Catholic Prayers). However, what is not paradoxical is the fact that it is our tears and our loneliness due to struggles in our earthly life that can turn us toward God, and in our broken and dejected state, He is more than overjoyed to receive us (Psalm 51:17 ESV). When a child scrapes his knee, he looks at the other children and finds no consolation there, but then his mother spreads her arms lovingly and the child runs to her and pillows his head on her breast. Similarly, human beings are not to rely entirely on things of the world for consolation, understanding, or love, but on God. When trials and  difficulties injure us, we must run into Jesus’ arms and pillow our head on His breast, as the apostle John did at the Last Supper (John 13:23 ESV).

Works Cited

Our Catholic Prayers. “The Prayer of St. Francis.” Our Catholic Prayers, Copyright 2021, https://www.ourcatholicprayers.com/the-prayer-of-st-francis.html. Accessed 2 February 2021.

The Bible. English Standard Version, Crossway, Good News Publishers, 2001.

The Bible. New Revised Standard Version, Harper Catholic Bibles, Harper Collins, 2007.

The Desert Fathers. Translated by Benedicta Ward, Penguin Classics, 2003.

Great Books V Reflection

    G.K. Chesterton writes in his chapter on the "Paradoxes of Christianity" that the principle of courage is nearly a "contradiction," because it is a strong desire to live that also comes with a readiness to die (89). If a surrounded soldier wishes to save his neck, he must risk it dangerously by cutting his way right through the entire enemy army (89). Chesterton writes that Jesus's words "He that will lose his life, the same shall find it" were not spoken solely for heroes or saints, but as a "piece of everyday advice for sailors or mountaineers" (89). Could it also be everyday advice for the average person? I would argue that it could. Not all human beings risk their lives on the open seas, or attempt to scale Mount Everest. However, perhaps the key word regarding the experiences of sailors or mountaineers is RISK. There are many forms of risk beside risk to one's life. There also exist risk to one's heart, risk to one's reputation. Chesterton writes that the person who wishes to be courageous must "desire life like water and yet drink death like wine" (89). If one deeply desires to love another, one must also be willing to drink deeply of loneliness when one's beloved is physically distant, or emotionally so. In a similar way, if one wishes to gain influence over a group of people in order to advance God's kingdom or begin vital social reform, one must at the same time be willing to be misunderstood, stigmatized, or even laughed at.  In order to gain something special, one must willingly risk something special. Oswald Chambers writes that the Gospel imperative for Christians to gain souls for Heaven necessitates a willingness to pour out one's "life blood as a libation" (February 5th). He also writes that the Christian life requires a total abandonment of oneself for God and salvation's sake (February 21). To completely abandon oneself is to risk EVERYTHING, life, heart, reputation--but one does so in order to gain Heaven. Indescribable happiness with God for eternity. Sounds well worth the risk.

 “This is My Body”: The Sanctifying Effects of Christ’s Life, Death, and Resurrection on the Physical Body

Take my body

And build it up

May it be broken as

An offering of love

For I have nothing...

 Without You (Norman)

In his work On the Incarnation, bishop and Doctor of the Church St. Athanasius discusses in depth the reasons why, for the salvation of humankind, it was absolutely necessary for Jesus Christ to enter the world as a human being, to be put to death, and to rise again from the dead. Athanasius’ work also strongly suggests that while salvation—the deliverance of humankind from the eternal, disastrous consequences of sin—was the principle aim of Christ’s incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, another major attainment of God’s work through His Son was the sanctification of the physical, human body. This sanctification, made possible through Christ’s incarnation, set the human body apart as holy. His crucifixion anointed the body as an instrument through which sacrifice may be offered to God. And, finally, through His resurrection, Christ destroyed the total corruption of death that had come to the body through sin. 

God’s desire to sanctify the human body was apparent from the beginning of creation, when He bestowed on human beings the holiness of His own image (Athanasius 52). However, fulfillment of that desire to sanctify did not become fully manifest until God boldly demonstrated His intentions by sending His Word to inhabit the very flesh He desired to sanctify. Athanasius writes that from the beginning of the world, no single part of creation has ever been empty of Christ’s presence, since He has “filled all things in every place” (56-57). If Christ had filled everything with His essence, it seems appropriate that He would, at an appointed time, come to fill the human body with His essence —even though it had become corrupt through sin—and, by filling it, make it holy, as He is holy. Athanasius uses the example of a portrait sketched on wood, which, once obscured by dirt and other impurities, must be repainted by the one whose portrait was originally inscribed there (63). This example illustrates how Christ came to earth to restore His image on humankind (63). To take the illustration a bit further, Christ, Whose image was inscribed on humankind at its creation, not only restored the portrait, but also, by touching the wood with His hands, imparted His essence into it physically, making it holy. When an object has been made holy, a certain reverence seems due to it, in the way that people see, treat, and speak about it. Athanasius explains that when a king comes to live in a city, that city is worthy of “high honor” simply because it is now inhabited by a monarch. In the same way, Christ’s incarnation bestowed an honor to the human body that had not been realized until the moment He took on flesh.

Jesus brought the human body to an even higher level of honor through His crucifixion, in which He offered His physical body as a sacrifice to God in reparation for the sins of humankind. Athanasius writes that Jesus Christ alone was “worthy to suffer” for the sake of human salvation (56). He adds further that no one should assume that Christ’s sufferings were those of a “mere human being” (85), suffering for the sake of suffering. Instead, Christ offered Himself in suffering to the Father for the crimes of fallen humanity (85). Christ’s endurance of torture, humiliation, and death in His physical, human body brought human suffering, whether physical, mental, spiritual, or emotional, to an unprecedented height. Suffering no longer needs to signify mindless, endless pain for no good reason. It can now become a means of giving glory to God, just as Christ’s suffering on the cross caused “all creation [to confess]” (69)  that He was the “true only-begotten Son of the Father” (70). 

Christ’s sanctification of the body and its new-given ability to bear pain for the sake of God is clearly demonstrated by the actions of Christ’s disciples in the Book of Acts. After suffering terrible physical punishment at the hands of the Sanhedrin, the disciples “rejoic[ed] that they were counted worthy to suffer … for the Name” (Acts 5:41, ESV). Roman Catholic nun and canonized saint Faustina Kowalska wrote that if God’s angels were “capable of envy,” they would envy human beings their ability to suffer (Foley). Why? As Father Matthew Spencer, a Catholic priest, explains in a radio broadcast, the angels would envy humankind the ability to suffer pain because it is through suffering that one can become more united to Christ’s sufferings, and, thereby, to Christ Himself (Foley). Because Christ suffered in His physical body, we can lift up our suffering to join with His and bring glory to God because of Christ’s salvific work on the cross, which was completed in His physical body, and that now continues to work in the physical bodies of those who follow Him. 

The crucifixion of Christ not only sanctified the suffering that can be experienced in the human body, but the resurrection of Christ also offers hope that the body, its life having been lived in offering to God, will not end in corruption. Athanasius writes that when human beings turned away from God to follow Satan’s advice, they also turned toward corruption, which brought on humankind not only the death of the body, but also the corruption of the entire being—body and soul (54). In order to end the threat of total annihilation that plagued the human race, Christ became incarnate and offered Himself, in the physical body, as a sacrifice in place of humankind (58). However, Christ was the Son of God, and therefore perfectly incorruptible. Thus, although His physical body died on the cross, He rose from the dead, extinguishing the death of total corruption and granting the “promise of the resurrection” to those members of humankind who would believe in Him (82-83). St. Paul writes in the New Testament that a husband should care for his wife as he cares for his own body (Ephesians 5:28, ESV). Therefore, it would not be right for Christ, the Bridegroom of the Church, to treat the body of His Bride differently than His. In light of His incorruptible nature, it was necessary for those He saved to share in His incorruptibility. As Athanasius explains, the death that was “interwoven” with the human body was cast out through Christ’s resurrection in the human body (97), made possible through His crucifixion in the human body, made possible through His incarnation in the human body.

Through His incarnation, Christ embraced the human body, sullied by sin and the corruption of death, and sanctified it from the inside out. Through His crucifixion, He raised the human body on high in an offering of loving sacrifice to the Father, and through His resurrection, He imparted His own immortal nature to the human body. All these things—Christ’s life, death, and resurrection—brought about the sanctification of the physical body, but for what purpose? Athanasius writes that when Christ became incarnate, He received His human body in no mundane, usual manner; rather, He became flesh in the womb of the Virgin Mary, who was created “spotless and stainless” by God for the purpose of carrying the Word of God within her body (57). In a similar way, Christ’s sanctification of the human body prepared it to become the temple of His Spirit (1 Corinthians 3:16, ESV), which inhabited the apostles at the first Pentecost, after Christ’s sanctifying incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection (Acts 2:2-4, ESV). All of these and many others of the amazing, divine works wrought by God make Him ever-deserving of unceasing gratitude, praise, love, and sacrifice. Through the indwelling of the Holy Spirit within our own newly sanctified temples—with the Spirit’s crying of “Abba, Father!” in our hearts (Galatians 4:6, ESV)—our own lives can now become continuous offerings of praise to the Father, just as Christ’s was during His own life on earth.

Works Cited

Athanasius. On the Incarnation. Translated by John Behr, St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2011.

 Foley, Stephanie. “The Two Treasures You Have That Even The Angels Would Envy.” Relevant Radio. 7 October, 2019. https://relevantradio.com/2019/10/the-two-treasures-you-have- that-even-the-angels-would-envy/. Accessed 27 January 2021.

Norman, Bebo, and Mitch Dane Goskie. Lyrics to “Nothing Without You.” Word to Worship. https://wordtoworship.com/song/10468. Accessed 25 January 2021.

The Bible. English Standard Version, Crossway, Good News Publishers, 2001.

Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, O’Connor, Tolkien, Tea, Wednesday.

It is pouring rain. Three drenched figures approach the green door of an elegantly designed hobbit-hole. The shortest figure lifts one crutch and taps at the door, which is promptly opened by J. R. R. Tolkien. Tolkien wears a mahogany smoking jacket and holds a large pipe with a six-inch-long stem. The three figures introduce themselves as the authors Friderich Nietzsche, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Flannery O’Connor, and Tolkien invites them in for evening tea. 

TOLKIEN: Well, well! Come on in, my friends. There is hot tea, poached eggs on toast, cheese, and of course, my specialty: seed-cake!

[Everyone settles comfortably in Tolkien’s dining-room and begins eating and drinking. Flannery O’Connor finishes her tea, thumps her crutches on the floor, and looks restlessly about the room.]

O’CONNOR: Listen, seeing as we’re all authors gathered here under the generous roof of our friend John Ronald, and since this rain is unlikely to let up any time soon, why don’t we make a night of it and discuss some important philosophical topics?

NIETZSCHE: Oh no! I won’t hear anything of philosophy discussed by this––this woman, this product of God's “second blunder” (Nietzsche 176)! Why, just consider how “weak and ill-constituted” (128) she is—she’s hobbling around on crutches, for pity’s sake!

TOLKIEN: Pity! A perfect topic. In fact, pity was an important focus in one of my earlier literary works, The Hobbit, which has been on my mind for quite some time today. You have a keen mind, Mr. Nietzsche.

DOSTOYEVSKY: Yes. Pity can be a complicated concept, but I think an important point to remember is that pity offered through love can effect a “resurrection” of sorts on the recipient, as well as on the giver. A concrete example of this dynamic would be when the character Liza, from my work Notes from Underground, grows in strength of character through her acts of pity and concern for the main character (Dostoevsky 126). She can then turn her back on a life of degradation and move forward (127). I believe that having pity on someone who has abused you can equip you with the courage to overcome other difficulties in life, and therefore I would even go so far as to call pity a virtue.

NIETZSCHE: What?! Then you, my dear sir, must never have read my work, The Anti-Christ, in which I demonstrate that pity is anything but a virtue (Nietzsche 130)! Pity is a weakness that serves only to “[defend] life’s disinherited” and to perpetuate the lives of the wretched, who deserve death (130). Even worse, it erodes the most essential instincts one possesses: those that work for the preservation of one’s life (130)! While I am willing to hear what any of these authors [rolls his eyes in O’Connor’s direction] … yes, even her …  has to say about it, I want everyone to be aware that I consider pity a most ignoble concept!

O’CONNOR [dryly]: I think we’re aware now.

[She reaches for the cheese-knife and cuts a wedge of Stilton Blue.]

O’CONNOR: Pity is, as Mr. Fyodor mentioned, a complex idea. It can sometimes be misplaced or misused, and can therefore lead to tragedy, such as in my story “The Lame Shall Enter First.” The main character, Sheppard, consistently pities hundreds of impoverished and neglected children while dismissing the needs of his own son (447). By the time Sheppard realizes his mistake and decides to “make everything up to [his son],” it is already too late, and he loses the boy to suicide (482). However, if one’s heart is never stirred to mercy through the appreciation of another’s wretched condition, one could become like my other character, The Misfit, from “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” In his past, The Misfit was unmoved by the sights of others being flogged or burned alive (129-130), and, in a similarly cold fashion, he murders a defenseless family at the end of the story (132).

TOLKIEN [puffing thoughtfully on his pipe]: Yes, Flannery. I can certainly concur with your explanation, as well as with Mr. Dostoevsky’s. However, I fail to find it in me to agree with yours, Mr. Nietzsche. In my work The Hobbit—as I believe I mentioned before—I illustrate the concept and effects of pity through my character, the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo originally resolves to kill Gollum, to “stab the foul thing,” whom he knows intends to murder him (The Hobbit 96). However, when Bilbo sees Gollum’s “miserable” and desperate condition, he spares Gollum’s life at the risk of his own (96). Because of Bilbo’s act of pity—and this is similar, I believe, to Mr. Dostoevsky’s point—Bilbo gains the strength to resist temptation, to protect his friends, and to give up what he wants for a greater cause (177). His ability to forgive is also strengthened, and he grows to become a hero (312). Through acts of pity and mercy, one becomes a bigger person––even if one is just a little hobbit. And for that reason, Mr. Nietzsche, I fail to see why pity could be called a weakness. Furthermore, I do not agree that pity spares “those who deserve death,” since God, Who is the only Being that can create life, is also the only One Who can take it away. It is simply not our place to decide. 

O’CONNOR [becoming slightly flushed]: I agree, John Ronald! I’d like to add that, apart from God, true pity or mercy is not possible. Even when one acts in a way that one believes will help others, if one acts apart from God, one’s actions will actually be empty; nothing good will come of them. When Sheppard tries to foster a relationship with his son while also attempting to rehabilitate the delinquent teenager Rufus, both his attempts end in failure. Since Sheppard believes that neither God nor Heaven exists, he relies only on his own power, even telling his son that a belief in nothing is “all [he] has to give” him (O’Connor 461).

TOLKIEN [leaning forward in his chair and puffing vigorously]: And relying on one’s own power can lead to some of the greatest evils! In my poem Ainulindale, when the god-like being Melkor desires to possess the same power as the Creator Being, Ilúvatar, his ambition drives him to encounter and grapple with an evil with which he cannot contend on his own, and he becomes entirely corrupted (The Silmarillion 16). As I said earlier, God is the only One able to create life, to deliver death, and to fully overcome—whilst remaining unaffected by—evil. When Melkor, because of his hunger and ambition to “increase [his] power and glory,” strove with so powerful a force, it ultimately destroyed him and who he was meant to be (16). In contrast, through his act of pity, Bilbo surrendered to God, the ultimate Life-Giver. That act of surrender helped him become more who he was meant to be and a greater, larger person at the same time! Quite fascinating, isn’t it?

NIETZSCHE [who has been gnawing his thumb and growing pale for quite some time]: But no! No! Don’t you see? What you are all talking about is weakness! The whole point that I make in The Anti-Christ is that what’s good is the perishing of the weak, the heightening of unrestrained power, and freedom from the cowardliness of compromise (Nietzsche 127)! Moreover, God, Christianity, Heaven … All are unrealistic, parasitic, devaluing concepts that raise up the wretched and reduce the great—the strong—to their lowly level (Nietzsche 168)! [points at O’Connor] You, woman! You have the “essence [of a] serpent” (Nietzsche 176)! You! [points at Dostoevsky] You sicken the world with the neurotic, “child-like idiocy” of your “Russian novel[s]” (Nietzsche 154)! [breathing hard and reaching angrily into his pocket.]

NIETZSCHE [slapping a five-pound note on the table in front of Tolkien (Dostoevsky 126)]: The tea was watery, the cheese was riddled with mold, and here’s what I think of your runty hobbits and your scrawny Gollums! 

[Tolkien looks hurt. Nietzsche storms out of the hobbit-hole without his raincoat.]

DOSTOEVSKY [shifting in his chair and putting his feet on the hearth.]: An utterance of the “greatest bile” (Dostoevsky 4). 

O’CONNOR: Any more Stilton in your larder, John Ronald?

TOLKIEN: Just beside the second barrel of Longbottom Leaf—but seriously, which of us is going to have pity on poor Friedrich and go fetch him out of the rain?

[Exeunt.]

Toward the Pity: Mercy and Its Future Effects in The Hobbit

In his work The Hobbit, author and philologist J. R. R. Tolkien elevates the concept of pity through the actions of his character Bilbo Baggins. Because of Bilbo’s act of pity towards the malevolent creature Gollum, Bilbo becomes better able to resist corruption, deny himself for the sake of others, and forgive. These noble qualities transform Bilbo from an ordinary and seemingly insignificant hobbit into an extraordinary epic hero. 

When Bilbo spares the life of the menacing creature Gollum, he increases his resistance to the evil influence of the Ring. When Bilbo puts the Ring on his finger, he becomes invisible and is therefore capable of killing Gollum—who has threatened to kill and eat him—while Gollum remains unaware of Bilbo’s presence (Tolkien 96). However, Bilbo looks at Gollum, and, observing how miserable and warped he appears, pities him and spares his life (96). Because Bilbo restrains himself from killing Gollum, the Ring cannot corrupt him in the same way it did Gollum, who abandoned his community to hide in a cave, using the Ring’s power of invisibility to catch fish and goblins to eat (90). In contrast, Bilbo’s single act of pity allows him to leave the Gollum’s cave with thoughts of finding his friends and returning to his community (100). He continues his journey undefiled by the corruption of the Ring that he carries in his pocket.

Not only does Bilbo’s act of pity preserve him from the Ring’s corruption, but it also empowers him to deny his own wishes for the sake of others. After Bilbo escapes from the dangers of the caves and of Gollum himself, Bilbo immediately thinks of his dwarven companions and wonders if they remain trapped inside the caves (100). He decides to turn back and search for them, even though he dreads the thought of going back into the “horrible, horrible tunnels” (100-101). To have pity requires one to look beyond oneself, to see beyond one’s immediate, self-oriented fears and desires. Through the sense of restraint that Bilbo exercises  in his treatment of Gollum, Bilbo cultivates a stronger resistance to temptations as well as a deeper sense of selflessness that continues to influence his future actions. Bilbo’s strengthened resistance becomes evident in his encounter with the Arkenstone, a jewel that has the ability to enthrall the hearts of elves, men, and dwarves, and, in particular, that of the dwarf king Thorin (251). The beauty of the Arkenstone enchants Thorin to the degree that he calls it a treasure “beyond price” and vows revenge on any who might attempt to keep it from him (289). The Arkenstone captivates the Elvenking and Bard the bowman as well, yet Bilbo, although he experiences a similar longing when looking at the jewel, eventually gives it up  in an attempt to make peace (294). One of the after-effects of a merciful action is a heightened sense of what is more important. If one is willing to risk one’s own life by sparing the life of such a treacherous creature as Gollum, one may become better able to give up even a treasure as desirable as the Arkenstone in order to save others from war and death. 

The same generous spirit that allows Bilbo to give up the Arkenstone creates a greater capacity in his heart to forgive others who have abused him. When an invisible Bilbo emerges from Gollum’s cave thinking of how he might rescue his dwarvish friends, he overhears them discussing his absence and wondering why he had gotten himself lost (101). One dwarf even flatly refuses to go back to the caves to look for him, dismissing the hobbit with a “Drat him, I say” (102). However, even though Bilbo had witnessed the dwarves’ unwillingness to look for him, he comes to their aid immediately when giant spiders attempt to eat them (172), as well as when the elves of Mirkwood capture them (185). Additionally, after Thorin discovers that Bilbo has given the Arkenstone to Bard and the Elvenking, he physically and verbally assaults  Bilbo, shaking him and calling him a “descendant of rats” (297). Thorin even threatens to throw Bilbo off of a mountain to his death (297). Nonetheless, as Thorin lies dying, Bilbo visits him, accepts his apology for his abusive treatment, and mourns his death (312). The degree of growth that Bilbo experiences as a result of his act of mercy towards Gollum allows him to extend that mercy to others and to reconcile with Thorin before he dies. 

Bilbo achieves the ability to pity and forgive his friend Thorin, who threatens to kill, because he first accomplishes the even more difficult task of pitying and forgiving his enemy Gollum, who also tried to kill him but was never his friend. Through the example of Bilbo, Tolkien shows how a single act of pity can transform one’s entire destiny, since the quality of mercy that Bilbo shows Gollum allows him to rise above the common and become a most uncommon hero. It seems unlikely that any reasonable person would censure Bilbo, had he decided to take the life of the treacherous Gollum. However, if Bilbo had done so, his capacity for growth and heroism may have ended in Gollum’s cave and his life been similarly given over to darkness, the Ring, and raw fish. Instead, Bilbo risks his life for Gollum’s sake in one act of pity, which prompts him to further heroic acts of self-sacrifice as he puts himself at risk to save his friends and prevent a war. Additionally, when Bilbo forgives Thorin, he becomes a paradoxically inspiring figure—a little hobbit pardoning a great king. When one expands one’s heart and extends mercy even to the most undeserving, one expands one’s range of influence on enemies, friends, superiors, and the world. 

From Tolkien’s point of view, pity has numerous positive effects that bless both the pitier and those she pities. Conversely, German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche argues in his work The Anti-Christ that when one takes pity on another, one commits two evils, since to have pity is to subvert one’s own ability and instinct to survive as well as to perpetuate the existence of those who should perish (Nietzsche 130). However, The Hobbit argues the exact opposite. Bilbo’s will to live expresses itself precisely through his act of pity towards Gollum. When Bilbo looks at Gollum and sees the dark, despairing nature of the creature’s existence, Bilbo’s heart longs for life as he knows it, with all its blessings of sunlight, greenery, good food, and friendship. Bilbo’s love for life encourages him to respect the lives and humanity of others, even Gollum, because Bilbo recognizes that only the One Who can give life has the authority to take it back, and it is not for Bilbo or for any one mortal to say who does or does not deserve life.

Namárië!!

Nikki

Works Cited

Nietzsche, Friedrich. Twilight of the Idols and The Anti-Christ. Translated by R. J. Hollingdale, Penguin, 2003. 

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2001. 

The Wasteland: God's Valentine

What might one consider a typical Valentine’s Day message? Perhaps a sentiment such as “You are the love of my life” or “I couldn’t imagine life without you.” There are many different possibilities; however, valentines tend to contain three specific elements. Firstly, the writer places herself within the message. Secondly, the writer indicates—either in a positive or a negative manner—a longing for intimacy with the object of her love. Thirdly, she expresses a deep love for and a dedicated pursuit of the one to whom she writes. Human love and affection are beautiful concepts, and the special commitment shared between a man and a woman constitutes a phenomenon that has provided inspiration for poets, songwriters, and novelists for centuries. However, what if a text explores the nature of a love not between two human beings but between humanity and its Creator? What would a valentine from God look like? In T. S. Eliot’s work The Wasteland, various devices portray God engaging in three behaviors: identifying Himself within the poem, desiring communion with the recipient of His love, and describing His eternal quest to win the heart of humanity. 

God appears in The Wasteland a number of times through the identity of the second person of the Trinity, Jesus Christ. For example, towards the beginning of the poem, the speaker addresses a “son of man” (I. 20), a title that Christ uses to describe Himself at least seven times in the Gospel of Matthew alone (Matthew 8:20 NIV). Additionally, in a section titled “What the Thunder Said,” the speaker illustrates a scene that seems very similar to the events preceding the crucifixion and death of Christ, mentioning torchlight, gardens, agony, and thirst (IV. 322-326). Directly following the poem’s crucifixion scene, the speaker states that he sees two people on a journey (IV. 359-360). He observes that a third person, who is “hooded,” accompanies them (IV. 362-363). This image evokes the New Testament scene that takes place on the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus, in which Christ travels with two of His disciples who are unaware of His true identity (Luke 24: 15 NIV). Identity is one of the most important details in any message. When the author of a valentine writes “I love you,” she indicates to the recipient that he is loved, but—more specifically—that she loves him. In Eliot’s construction of God’s valentine, Jesus Christ indicates Who He is—the Son of man—and then proceeds to offer evidence of His profound love and reliable companionship by prompting the reader to recall His proximity to His disciples. Additionally, by describing Himself as a “son of man,” He emphasizes the extraordinary degree to which He has become familiar to His beloved. 

God wishes to be an intimate and familiar presence in our lives, but He does not want that intimacy to remain one-sided. The Wasteland contains several examples of voices that cry out for response and relationship with others. One voice asks a person to stay with her and wonders why he never speaks to her (II. 111-112). The voice then presses the person over and over to share what he is thinking (II. 112). Furthermore, many times throughout the poem, the speaker mourns over a lack of water (I. 24), lamenting that there is “only rock” and no water (IV. 331-332). The speaker’s longing for water mirrors God’s longing for a response from His beloved, for the reciprocation of both His love and His effort to communicate. It is extremely difficult for close, loving relationships to exist without some level of a mutual sharing of thoughts, feelings, and affection. The flower of intimacy shared between humanity and God requires the life-giving water of responsive love and communication in order to flourish. However, since God will not force His beloved to respond to Him, He waits in infinite patience with a broken heart whose inward groans convey an even deeper distress than that of a parched land crying out for water.

Despite God’s indefatigable patience, His extreme love and His longing for the response of humanity drives Him on a continuous pursuit. The pursuit of one’s beloved requires sacrifice, and through The Wasteland’s aforementioned Crucifixion scene, the text draws attention to the sacrifice God made to procure the means of salvation for His beloved. Additionally, the poem contrasts God’s sacrificial and longsuffering nature with an urgent sense of pursuit. During one section, in an insistent and almost alarming way, a voice declares “hurry up please it’s time” over and over (II. 141-152), echoing the words of Jesus Christ in the Gospels when He urges humanity to repent of its sin (Matthew 3:2) and expresses His longing to embrace the unwilling city of Jerusalem (Luke 13:34 NIV). Moreover, in the poem’s previously mentioned scene regarding the hooded Christ-figure, the speaker states that the hooded figure “always” walks alongside the companions (IV. 359), indicating God’s enduring desire to be with His beloved ones even when they do not recognize Him. God’s patience knows no limits, and He is willing to woo the object of His love continually. However, He knows that His love, humanity, is fragile—the time which we are given to know and love God in this life is limited (Psalm 103:14 NIV). Therefore, both patience and urgency characterize His loving pursuit.

God is patient and loving beyond human imagination. However, just as the human heart suffers the pain of loneliness when the object of its love is far away—either emotionally or physically—so the heart of God suffers when humanity rejects His invitation to intimacy and chooses to remain distant from His embrace. The Wasteland conveys the deep pain that God suffers from humanity's unwillingness to reciprocate His love, but it also suggests an example of a possible positive response to that proffered love. In one section of the poem, the speaker likens a boat that is content to sail under the hand of an expert steersman to a heart that “[beats] obedient” and answers with joy to the invitation of a capable guide (V. 418-422). Will we, as God’s beloved, respond to His guiding hand with obedience and happiness? He is more than capable of caring for us, and His love is beyond that of any other being. He offers us guidance, desires our company, and asks us to respond to His loving invitation to intimacy—His valentine—today. What are we waiting for? 

Hope everyone had a great Valentine’s Day! ♥️♥️♥️

Nikki

This Essay Is about Dostoevsky’s Use of the Unreliable Narrator … Or Is It?

When one reads a work of fiction, one most likely relies upon the narrator to illustrate or recount the events of the story truthfully. Whether the story is narrated in the first, second, or third person, readers seek assurance that the narration accurately reflects circumstances and events, as well as the thought processes and emotions of the characters. But what if the narrator shakes the reader’s faith in her reliability? What if the narrator demonstrates to the reader that she is characteristically, perhaps even principally, untrustworthy? Russian novelist and philosopher Fyodor Dostoevsky provokes the above questions when he uses the literary device of the “unreliable narrator” in his work, Notes from Underground. A MasterClass article provides us with a definition of the unreliable narrator. The article states that the “unreliable narrator” most often speaks with a first-person perspective and either intentionally or unintentionally offers the reader misleading information (“What Is an Unreliable Narrator?”). The specific characteristics of the unreliable narrator include a tendency toward dishonesty, a demonstration of detachment from reality, and an inclination to inflate or exaggerate issues (“What Is an Unreliable Narrator?”). Dostoevsky’s first-person narrator demonstrates these qualities throughout Underground through his inconsistent interjections, through his constantly changing attitude and day-to-day outlook on people and occurrences, and through his often melodramatic view of anticipated interactions and events. The behavior of Dostoevsky’s narrator may prove familiar to readers and sometimes reflects tendencies and reactions that humans can experience on a daily basis.

Honest testimony hinges mainly on consistency, and Dostoevsky’s narrator proves himself largely inconsistent on numerous occasions throughout the book. As the book begins, the narrator tells the reader that he is a “wicked man” (1). He explains that he is so wicked that even though he is ill, he refuses to seek medical treatment, indicating a strong disinclination to trying to improve himself in any way (2). He states that when he served as a civil official, he felt “delight” in upsetting and lording his power over the petitioners who came to him for help, demonstrating a desperate retaliation against his own feelings of powerlessness (2). However, a few sentences later, the narrator states that he lied and that he is actually not a wicked man (2). In fact, he explains that not only is he not wicked, but he is also not embittered (2). The narrator contradicts this statement in other passages. In several instances, he attributes behaviors to himself that would seem to denote wickedness or, at a minimum, an embittered nature. For example, he speaks of finding “burning pleasure” in despair (9), and he relates himself to a fictional mouse who possesses a “nastiness” and who, when derided by society, drenches itself in “everlasting spite” and taunts itself with details of that derision for years (11). To further shake the confidence of the reader, the narrator then declares that he is joking and, a few sentences later, suggests that the reader must now consider him insane (32). Is the narrator truly who he says he is? Can it be possible for us as readers to trust that even the smallest detail he shares is accurate? From the moment we open a book, we begin looking for information that offers firm footing in the reality of the story’s universe. The narrator’s statements and the doubts he casts as to the seriousness of his testimony fails to give us that sense of solid ground and creates a sense of distrust and perhaps even confusion. 

In accordance with the second set of criteria for the unreliable narrator, Underground’s narrator displays an erratic temperament that can quickly shift from hating a person to desiring their company and from desiring to control situations to making impassioned decisions on the spur of the moment. The narrator’s fluctuating disposition becomes apparent when he speaks of his coworkers. He discusses his hatred for and fear of them and adds that he sometimes considers himself to be lower than them (43-44). He explains to the reader that at one moment, he desires closeness with others and spends time visiting and talking with them, but in the next moment he possesses no desire whatsoever to interact with anyone (45). The narrator does admit to possessing a changeable nature and mentions how certain highly contrasted attitudes or feelings often come to him in sporadic bursts (45). Such a statement does little to reassure the reader of his reliability, especially in light of his later actions. For example, the narrator describes a startlingly conflicted attitude in regard to a police officer who insulted him by refusing to acknowledge his existence (49). The narrator states that for years he held the officer in extreme contempt and hatred but then experienced a sudden desire to befriend the officer and invoke his protection (51). Additionally, the narrator describes another event in which he displays erratic and even whimsical behavior. He describes an interaction that he had with a prostitute named Liza and offers commentary that suggests care or concern for her in one place and a longing for power over her in another. At one point, he speaks eloquently and beautifully to Liza about families and about motherhood (96). He describes love to her, calling it “God’s mystery” (97), but reveals to the reader that immediately afterwards a “wicked thought” takes control of him (98). In a monologue that becomes quite brutal, he details the future in store for Liza should she continue in her current profession (102). At first, it seems as though he is simply using extreme language as a tactic to dissuade her from such a lifestyle, but he later remarks that the whole thing had been merely a game to him from the beginning and that he knew it had not been necessary since he had already “broken her heart” (103). However, once Liza has been reduced to violent weeping, the narrator states that he feels a “sort of fever” (104). He holds her hands, asks her to forgive him, and gives her his home address (104). The very next day, he vehemently regrets having given Liza his address and the idea of her visiting his home “torment[s]” him (109). Over the next couple of days, he aggressively wishes that she will visit and even fantasizes about the event (111); however, when Liza finally arrives, he screams at her, mocking and humiliating her (121). The constant change of feelings and sentiments appear as though they would be exhausting to the characters themselves and, as readers, we may feel prodded into literary exhaustion as we try to form a picture of exactly who this narrator is. We may be taken in by the beautiful description of love the narrator shares with Liza but are appalled and even grieved by his admittance that the whole of what we thought was a testament to the just and the true and the beautiful was simply a means of manipulation, a game. A game the narrator played with us. 

Another way in which the Underground narrator erodes our confidence in him is through his tendency to inflate issues and events. He creates long, elaborate plans in his mind and obsesses over them, often working himself into a hysteria that later proves disproportionate to the actual events. For example, in the aforementioned situation with the police officer, the narrator not only held the officer in contempt for years, but also formulated a plan through which he would exact revenge for the perceived offense. The narrator explains that he began to follow the officer wherever he went, even bribing the landlord to ascertain the exact room the officer occupied (51). Next, the narrator states that he wrote a letter to the officer to challenge him to a duel, hoping that the officer would recognize in the letter the “beautiful and lofty,” which would result in his embracing the narrator and pledging his friendship (51). The narrator writes, however, that he never actually sent the letter, an omission for which he thanks God “with tears,”  revealing that his seemingly strong convictions often have a short duration (51). However, the narrator explains that while he never sent the letter, he still desired revenge on the officer and that he spent a great deal of time and money selecting the clothing that he would wear for his moment of revenge  (54-55). In reality, the narrator's only revenge consists of bumping his shoulder against that of the officer—an event that would likely seem highly anticlimactic to most readers—yet the narrator celebrates the achievement, saying that he “exulted and sang” (55). Similarly, the narrator greatly exaggerates his ideas of what might happen when Liza, the prostitute he invited to his house, comes to see him. He first states that he was terrified that she would see the shabbiness of his home and clothing (109). He expresses concern that he portrayed himself as a “hero” to Liza and that his home and lifestyle will disappoint her (109), even though her own living quarters are far shabbier (87). Soon afterward, however, the narrator turns his exaggeration in the opposite direction and imagines a fantastical version of the future in which Liza visits him, “throws herself” at his feet, declares that he is her “savior,” and eventually becomes his “beautiful wife” (111). What might be the natural reaction of readers who encounter the Underground narrator’s revelation of sensational ideas that vary so widely from extreme to extreme? When someone acquires a reputation for exaggeration, the people around her  may begin to dismiss even the more realistic portions of her statements. Additionally, when someone becomes known for adding a melodramatic dimension to every story or event she reports, it becomes harder and harder for others to trust anything that she tells them. 

Dostoevsky’s narrator takes the reader through some rather bewildering twists and turns in Notes from Underground, the goal of which may certainly seem to be nothing more than confusion. However, if we readers take a moment to look deep within ourselves, might not the flawed, vacillating, and sometimes even spiteful nature of the Underground narrator appear familiar to us? “I hate you! Come here…I love you!” “I want to do something in the world! No, I am just going to stay at home today.” “You won’t believe what I did today! Oh no! This is the absolute worst thing that could ever happen!” “I am a wicked, evil person! No, no! I know I am not wicked!” “Ah, I am just joking! You must think I have lost my mind!” Human beings experience many changes throughout a given day. Temperaments, emotions, frustrations, and circumstances can lead us here, there, and everywhere to such a degree that we may sometimes ask ourselves the question, “Who am I?” and may have a difficult time finding an answer. We are not perfect, and we do not know everything. We are constantly being affected and shaped by day to day events, changing emotions, physiological concerns, and other people. We can become affected by all these things to such a degree that we feel unsure as to whether we are actually capable of grasping reality. We wonder if we can accurately interpret circumstances and events, if we can rely on our own account of what is taking place in the story of our lives. In a certain sense, we are all unreliable narrators of our own lives. Nevertheless, our inability to interpret reality in a consistently accurate manner should not constitute a cause for despair. It is important to recognize that while we live in a flawed world that desperately needs redemption, and while our flawed perception may sometimes cause us frustration and perhaps even terror, we are under the constant care, protection, and guidance of a God Who possesses no flaw, Who does not change, and Whose ultimate plan for us is indeed redemption. God is the narrator of our lives, and even when we cannot trust ourselves, our senses, our reason, or our grasp on reality, we can be certain that God is aware of all these realities, that He knows us better than we could ever know ourselves, and that He is the only One Who  is completely, utterly, and unalterably reliable.