“The stoics say: ‘Go back into yourselves. There you will find peace.’ And it is not true. Others say: “Go out, look for happiness in some distraction.’ And that is not true. Illness is the result. Happiness is neither outside us nor within us. It is in God, and both outside and within us.” Pascal, Pensées.
From The World of Late Antiquity by Peter Brown, which covers roughly AD 150-750.
“The average Roman felt more strongly than previously that he stood alone and united against a threatening outside world.”
The significance of Christian community:
“The Christian Church differed from the other oriental cults, which it resembled in so many other ways, through its intolerance of the outside world. The cults were exclusive and, often, the jealously [sic] guarded preserve of foreigners [sic]; but they never set themselves up against the traditional religious observances of the society round them. They never enjoyed the publicity of intermittent persecution. While the oriental cults provided special means to salvation in the next world, the took the position of their devotees in this world for granted. The Christian church offered a way of living in this world. The skillful elaboration of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the sense of belonging to a distinctive group with carefully prescribed habits and increasing resources heightened the impression that the Christian Church made on the uncertain generations of the third century. Seldom has a small minority played so successfully on the anxieties of society as did the Christians.”
“As a member of a church, the Christian could cut some of the more painful Gordian knots of social living. He could, for instance, become a radical cosmopolitan. His literature, his beliefs, his art and his jargon were extraordinarily uniform, whether he lived in Rome, Lyons, Carthage or Smyrna. The Christians were immigrants at heart…separated from their environment by a belief which they knew they shared with little groups all over the empire. At a time when so many local barriers were being painfully and obscurely eroded, the Christians had already taken the step of calling themselves a ‘non-nation.'”
So I’m going to blog through, perhaps intermittently, my reading of Augustine’s The City of God. I’m merely summarizing, hopefully to help myself with retention. A few disclaimers.
- I have no pretensions that my summaries are authoritative. I could be totally wrong.
- I’m merely summarizing, not evaluating. Just because I write something in this little series doesn’t mean I endorse it. It’s just what (I think) Augustine said.
With that said, here we go.
Augustine wrote City of God in response to mounting claims that the newly ascendant Christian religion was the cause of the Roman Empire’s decline and eventual fall. He wrote this after Rome fell, in part to debunk these claims. But as he acknowledges, the work has grown into something a bit bigger. Also, he sums up the feelings of every student assigned this book.
“The work is great and arduous; but God is our helper.”
And yes, he really did write that in reference to his own book.
Augustine begins his apologetic by noting how merciful the Christian Visigoths who sacked Rome were to the Roman citizens. He summons historians of the ancient world to prove that this mercy is thoroughly unusual, and that, indeed, the custom of invading armies is to brutally kill all those–even those seeking refuge in temples. Augustine’s point is that the Christian Visigoths spared those who took refuge in Christian sanctuaries, even the pagan Romans who merely confessed to be Christians to save their lives. How ironic, Augustine notes, that these pagans who were saved by confessing Christ now blame their ills on Christianity.
But Augustine anticipates a further objection: some Christians did die in the sack, and some non-Christians were spared who shouldn’t have been. Why would God allow this? Augustine’s answer is “great and arduous,” but in essence boils down to this. God allows evil things to happen to Christians to strip them of their earthly loves and the security they may have drawn from financial stability, social status, or good fortune. He redirects their loves towards Himself by destroying the temporal things Christians love. Or in his words:
“The whole family of the highest and true God, then, has a consolation of its own: a consolation which depends neither upon falsehood nor upon hope in those things which falter and fail. Also, its members have a life in this age which is not in the least to be regretted: a life which is the school of eternity, in which they make use of earthly goods like pilgrims, without grasping after them, and are proved and corrected by evils.
Why do good things happen to bad people, then? I’m not really sure of Augustine’s answer.
Book II and III
Books II and III are basically centered on showing that the Roman Empire was in horrible disarray and suffered all sorts of evils even when being incredibly pious and religious in their paganism. Thus, Augustine says, Christianity cannot be the cause of Rome’s misfortune.
Precisely, actually, Augustine is responding to the claim that the pagan Gods are punishing Rome for turning largely away from them and to Christianity. Augustine’s tour of Roman history in these next two books is basically showing that even when the gods were being worshipped perfectly calamities still fell on Rome. Also, as an aside, Augustine points out that the type of worship demanded by these gods is grotesque and horrible and involves the kinds of actions the Romans condemn–except in worship. Why, then, worship the gods anyway? What god who commands such obscene rituals is worth worshipping?
Augustine also attacks paganism on the grounds that, even when Rome’s civic virtue was faltering, the gods didn’t speak from the heavens and teach Rome how to live. But the Christian God has taught us how to live and how to please Him.
Colleen Gillard wrote an article in The Atlantic discussing the difference between British and American children’s stories. The article (which might be mis-titled, since it’s not really about why British books are better, per say, but more about why British and American stories are what they are) addresses a few interesting topics.
Her basic thesis is that British children’s books tend more towards fantasy. Think Harry Potter, Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit, Wind in the Willows, etc. American children’s stories tend more towards moralism. American stories try to teach children what they ought and ought not do.
I have no standing to judge whether that interpretation is correct or not, but I do want to comment on her reasoning behind that interpretation. Gillard claims that American children’s books are moralistic because they came out of a culture founded by the Puritans and seeped in Christianity. The assumption being, of course, that Christianity de-emphasizes imagination and fantasy tales while elevating hard work. Or, as she says, speaking of why the British tell fantasies, “maybe a world not fixated on atonement and moral imperatives is more conducive to a rousing tale.” In an earlier part of the article, she points out several examples of the American tendency:
“Popular storytelling in the New World instead tended to celebrate in words and song the larger-than-life exploits of ordinary men and women: Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Calamity Jane, even a mule named Sal on the Erie Canal. Out of bragging contests in logging and mining camps came even greater exaggerations—Tall Tales—about the giant lumberjack Paul Bunyan, the twister-riding cowboy Pecos Bill, and that steel-driving man John Henry, who, born a slave, died with a hammer in his hand. All of these characters embodied the American promise: They earned their fame.”
Supposedly, this vision of the American promise is in some way due to the Christian influence on America.
Again, there may be a lot of truth there. I’m not a child psychologist nor am I a mythologist. Yet I do think there is a misrepresentation–however unintentional–of Christianity at play here. See, the Gospel is the exact opposite of what she calls the American promise. The American promise says that “they earned their fame.” The Gospel says that you can’t ever earn your own fame, and if you do it won’t last.
Gillard seems to counter this: “Further, each side has opposing views of naughtiness and children: Pagan babies are born innocent; Christian children are born in sin and need correcting.”
But the Gospel story is the story of a child whose humanity was no different than mine. Yes, the child was God Incarnate, but he was a human child nonetheless. A child saved the world. That sounds far more British than American. Gillard says something similar about British fairy tales:
“Pagan folktales are less about morality and more about characters like the trickster who triumphs through wit and skill: Bilbo Baggins outwits Gollum with a guessing game; the mouse in the The Gruffalo avoids being eaten by tricking a hungry owl and fox. Griswold calls tricksters the “Lords of Misrule” who appeal to a child’s natural desire to subvert authority and celebrate naughtiness: “Children embrace a logic more pagan than adult.” And yet Bateman says in pagan myth it’s the young who possess the qualities needed to confront evil.”
But I would question that conclusion. In British fairy tales, is it really the children who save the world? It certainly isn’t in The Chronicles of Narnia. The children help, but Aslan saves the world. Harry doesn’t defeat Voldemort, in the end. It’s love that defeats Voldemort, a power Harry can’t control, something beyond himself. It isn’t dwarf children who rally and save themselves from Smaug, the evil dragon in The Hobbit. It’s Bilbo, a small, overlooked member of the party who is certainly no child.
Are there exceptions? Of course. Peter Pan seems to follow Gillard’s observations, as do Alice in Wonderland and others.
But the point is this: Christianity, properly understood, might not be so opposed to fairly tales as Gillard seems to imply. In fact, it might be more a fairy tale than much of the American literature Gillard argues it inspired. For isn’t the Gospel the quintessential fairy tale? A child from a far away land comes to fight the dragon and save those trying to fight the dragon on their own. A prince from Somewhere Else arrives to win back his true love from the evil witch who has imprisoned her. A lion becomes a lamb and allows himself to be killed before roaring back to life, defeating evil in the process.
The Gospel is hardly anti-fairy tale because it can’t be. After all, isn’t the Gospel itself, from one perspective, all the greatest fairy tales come true?
This is Anthony Esolen, an English professor and Dante scholar/translator, on the inscription above the gates of hell in Dante’s Inferno:
“I have long thought that the most chilling words upon the portal of Hell are not those that shut the door on the fulfillment of human longings: ABANDON ALL HOPE YOU WHO ENTER HERE. These crush with their finality, but they do not possess the shocking irony of the simple signature of the architect: DIVINE OMNIPOTENCE CREATED ME, THE HIGHEST WISDOM, AND THE PRIMAL LOVE. Of course, it is a Trinitarian signature. Still, the sonorous ending on amore, Love, should give us pause. How can Love fashion a realm of groaning and wailing, of utter agony and alienation? Theology can take us far: the just punishment of the wicked, says Thomas, is an act of charity toward them (justice and charity cannot finally be at odds), even when that punishment does not or cannot result in their correction. At the least it restrain them from deeper depravity. One may suppose, too, that punishment respects the dignity of the sinner, to grant him what his own disordered love has merited and has longed for. For such a lover, the only place more agonizing than Hell would be Heaven. Indeed, the one place hotter than Hell is Heaven, as Dante imagines it: without grace, the fires of Love in Paradise would be unendurable. Perhaps, then, the inscription over the gates of Hell is meant to teach as much about Love as about Hell. For Love, as Dante saw, is no mere sentiment, no habit of ease. It is a consuming fire.”
Here are three short passages from a fairy tale, a story, and a prophecy to celebrate Christmas: the day when the fairy tales, stories, and prophecies came true.
From The Lord of the Rings, after Sam is rescued from Mount Doom and wakes up for the first time.
Full memory flooded back, and Sam cried aloud: “It wasn’t a dream! Then where are we?”
And a voice spoke softly behind him: “In the land of Ithilien and in the keeping of the King; and he awaits you.” With that Gandalf stood before him, robed in white, his beard now gleaming like pure snow in the twinkling of the leafy sunlight. “Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?” he said.
But Sam lay back, and stared with open mouth, and for a moment, between bewilderment and great joy, he could not answer. At last he gasped: “Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue?”
From Andrew Peterson’s song, “Gather Round, Ye Children Come:”
Gather round, ye children come,
Listen to the old, old story,
Of the power of death undone,
By an infant born of glory.
And from Isaiah 42:1-4:
Behold my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen, in whom my soul delights;
I have put my Spirit upon him;
he will bring forth justice to the nations.
He will not cry aloud or lift up his voice,
or make it heard in the street;
a bruised reed he will not break,
and a faintly burning wick he will not quench;
he will faithfully bring forth justice.
He will not grow faint or be discouraged
till he has established justice in the earth;
and the coastlands wait for his law.
Lest you think I’m going through a voluntary Ancient Classics phase, this is another paper I wrote for school. I’ve enjoyed going through Greek literature, especially seeing the development of various themes. The Aeneid is, of course, Roman literature, but it shares much with Greek culture. This paper picks up on some of the themes of my paper on time and eternity in The Iliad.
Flannery O’Connor once said that, “redemption is meaningless unless there is a cause for it in the actual life we live, and for the last few centuries there has been operating in our culture the secular belief that there is no such cause.” The Biblical story, and indeed many stories throughout history, have viewed redemption of one kind or another as necessary because the world is not the way it ought to be. For example, Marxist revolutionaries believe the world needs redemption, though to them “redemption” is revolution. But the reason they believe this is necessary is a perceived flaw in the world. There are classes, and in Marxism there ought not be.
If there is nothing wrong with the world then there can be no redemption, for what is being redeemed? What is being set right? The Aeneid by Virgil and The Iliad by Homer approach the world in two different ways. Both grant that the world is full of tragedy, but Homer views this tragedy as natural. It is sad but it is not wrong. Virgil views tragedy as pervasive but unnatural. It is everywhere, but it is wrong.
Homer’s philosophy can be most clearly seen when great tragedies occur. When Achilles and Priam are mourning the deaths of friend and son Achilles declares, “the Immortals spun our lives that we, we wretched men/live on to bear such torments–the gods live free of sorrows. (24.613–24.614)” Such fatalism is prevalent throughout the story. Indeed, the entire poem is set in light of “the will of Zeus…moving toward its end. (1.6)”
From this there are a few implications that could be drawn. It’s obvious that the Homeric worldview is fatalistic, but note the response of the characters within the Iliad. Achilles declares determinism, but he doesn’t decry this as fundamentally wrong, unfair, or unnatural. To put it simply, it’s just this way.
When Hector bids goodbye to wife and son he expresses his certainty that Troy will fall, but there is nothing wrong with this. It is tragic, but it is not wrong. But on further examination, of course this is the way it is. The Homeric mythos tells us that the Fates have predetermined everything from the beginning. What they decree is reality. Everything that happens must ultimately be natural because there is nothing else. There is no transcendent standard of “natural,” no Edenic paradise to appeal to. There is nothing to compare this world with.
Virgil paints a different picture, again most evident in tragedy. Take, for example, the story of Nisus’ and Euryalus’ slaughter of Turnus’ troops. These two young soldiers venture out, seized with courage, to slaughter the Latian troops while they lie drunk. After killing many soldiers they are themselves seen and killed. Turnus plants their heads on stakes as they attack Aeneas’ troops the next day. What is the reaction of the Trojans? Think, for a moment, what the reaction would be in Homer’s world. The Trojans would be saddened. They would weep, perhaps they would swear revenge. But they would not be shocked, and they would feel no deep-seeded “wrongness” in the event.
“On the rampart’s left wing–the river flanks the right–
the hardened troops of Aeneas group in battle order,
Facing enemy lines and manning the broad trench
Or stationed up on the towers–wrung with sorrow,
Men stunned by the sight of men they know too well. (9.536–9.541)”
This is not the Homeric response. There is shock and horror here. A similar reaction occurs when Aeneas encounters Dido in Hades. For the first time he realizes her demise and responds with nothing less than agony, declaring that he never intended to hurt her in this way (6.521–553). Virgil even describes her death as an “unjust fate (6.552).”
To put it simply, something is wrong in Virgil’s world. Aeneas shouldn’t be searching for a home, Creusa shouldn’t be killed, Dido shouldn’t be wracked with suicidal grief. This is not the way the world ought to be.
This leads to a large difference between the Homeric and Virgillian approaches to tragedy. Homer views it as natural, Virgil as unnatural. Homer views it as amoral, Virgil as immoral. Homer’s characters expect it, Virgil’s are shocked by it. Both writers recognize that tragedy is, in fact, tragic, but only one recognizes that tragedy is wrong.
But this is far more than a simple philosophical difference. Why does The Iliad have no happy ending? Why is injustice not avenged? Why does the war continue? Perhaps it’s because Homer simply decided against ending the war. But, might there be no happy ending because there can’t be? After all, if there were true peace then there would be an ideal with which to compare the horror of war. Tragedy would be tried and found wanting–peace would be declared “right” and war “wrong.” Homer can’t write a happy ending in The Iliad because the Iliad’s worldview doesn’t allow for happy endings. Or, to put it differently, The Iliad has the happiest ending possible within its worldview.
Why can Virgil end his story with the restoration of justice? Because there is injustice. Aberrations can be remedied, errors can be fixed, wrongs can be righted. But if there is no aberration, no error, and no wrong then there can be no solution. Justice can’t be restored because injustice never occurred.
In terms that O’Connor might like, the beauty of redemption is possible because of the horror of the fall. There has to be a need for redemption or the term is meaningless. Virgil’s world has that need, Homer’s does not. Or, to put it another way, Virgil can hope for restoration, Homer cannot.