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THE CONSORTIUM A Journal of Classical Christian Education

Promoting classical education and fostering human flourishing for generations to come.

Volume 5, Issue 1

The Consortium: A Journal of Classical Christian Education Volume 5, Issue 1. Copyright © 2026 by Roman Roads Press Published by Roman Roads Press in collaboration with Kepler Education and The Consortium of Classical Educators Moscow, Idaho info@romanroadspress.com | romanroadspress.com Editorial Advisory Board: - Dr. Scott Postma, Editor in Chief - Dr. Robert M. Woods, Senior Contributing Editor - Dr. Gregory Soderberg, Contributing Editor Interior Layout by Carissa Hale All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher, except as provided by the USA copyright law. Licensing and permissions: info@romanroadspress.com ISBN: Version 1.0.0 August 2026

Contents An Introduction to Epic & Drama by Dr. Scott Postma

The Quest for the Well-Lived Life A Classical, Liberal Arts Approach Through Epic Poetry by Dr. Karla M. Memmott

The Pauliad Acts as the Development of Christian Heroism by David Givens, M.A.

Happy Tragedy How Tragedy Amplifies the Happy Life in the Greek Tragedies & the Bible by Drew C. Mery, M.A. 65

Reformation Shadows in Dante’s Purgatorio by Jessica Clark

Playing at Teaching Dante’s Solarian Cantos & Thomistic Leisure by Tracey Leary, M.Ed.

Free & Able Right Reason in Milton’s Paradise Lost by Dr. Bryant K. Owens

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THE CONSORTIUM A Journal of Classical Christian Education

Introduction An Introduction to Epic & Drama by Dr. Scott Postma

his issue of The Consortium takes up the role of epic poetry and Greek drama in classical Christian education. These particular expressions of imaginative literature are the bedrock of Western literary forms. Outside of the Scriptures, they have arguably exerted the majority of influence over Western literature; therefore, they have played a momentous role in shaping Western culture. Such being the case, it is the contention of classical Christian educators that epic poetry and drama, alongside all of the arts, have significant capacity to convey truth, provide examples of goodness (or viciousness to be eschewed), and furnish the moral imagination with illustrations of beauty. Although each genre possesses its own particular set of conventions, they also share important commonalities, both in their form, and in that they are fundamentally humanizing. Even for Christians who, on obvious theological grounds, reject Paganism as orthodox religious belief, such works are worthy of our sustained attention and worthy of a place in the curriculum of our Christian schools. Let us first consider the forms before we examine their humanizing attributes. In his landmark work, Poetics, Aristotle claims that epic poetry and tragedy resemble each other in that they are both imitations of serious subjects set in meter. They differ, however, in that epic is narrative and longer, without a fixed time

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limit, where tragedy endeavors to keep its actions limited to a single circuit of the sun, or thereabouts. Given they share some constituent features and not others, Aristotle notes that “All the parts of an epic are included in a tragedy; but those of tragedy, are not all of them to be found in the epic.”1 Thus a good judge of the goodness or badness of a tragedy will be a good judge of an epic as well. An epic is a long narrative poem, written in an elevated style, that follows a hero through a series of episodic adventures which form an organic whole.2 Aristotle traces the roots of poetry back to two natural causes, “each of them part of human nature.”3 The first is man’s desire to learn and his natural proclivity to learn through imitation—“he is the most imitative creature in the world, and learns at first by imitation.”4 And just as it is natural for all men to delight in works of imitation, says Aristotle, natural also is his “sense of harmony and rhythm.”5 It’s from these natural aptitudes and gradual improvements upon their first attempts, man “created poetry out of their improvisations.”6 Poetry then broke up into two kinds according to the character of the poets themselves: the more noble created epic and the more trivial created satire, the forbearer of comedy. Aristotle explains, Poetry, however, soon broke up into two kinds according to the differences of character in the individual poets; for the graver among them would represent noble actions, and those of noble personages; and the meaner sort the actions of the ignoble. The latter class produced invectives at first, just as others did hymns and panegyrics. We know of no 1 Aristotle, Poetics 5.1449b9–11in The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation, ed. Jonathan Barnes, vol. 2 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 2316–40. 2 William Harmon and Hugh Holman, A Handbook to Literature, 9th ed. (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson Education, 2003), 185. 3 Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b5–6. 4 Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b7–8. 5 Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b21. 6 Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b22–23

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such poem by any of the pre-Homeric poets, though there were probably many such writers among them.7

Writing in the fourth century BC, he acknowledges the likelihood of poets who preceded Homer, although no manuscripts were known to them at that time. However, if it is acceptable to expand the geographical scope beyond the immediate Mediterranean region, a late discovery (1853 AD) of the Epic of Gilgamesh in the ruins of a seventh century library in Nineveh confirms Aristotle’s assumption. Prior to Homer collating and writing his epics in the late eighth century BC, various iterations of the episodic stories were compiled (i.e., stitched together) into a single narrative and sung at festivals by an Aoidos (a bard) using a lyre to keep the meter. The stories were passed down orally and circulated this way for centuries. Following Homer’s written work, especially during the Classical Age, the lyre was dropped and the epic was performed at public festivals by a Rhapsode via dramatic, memorized recitations while keeping time by tapping with his staff. These festivals often lasted several days (see Plato’s Ion). Some specific characteristics particular to epic poetry include: characters of significant ethnic or national import, a vast setting for the story to unfold, deeds of great valor which require superhuman courage, the involvement of supernatural or divine forces (i.e., the gods), and an objective and elevated style of storytelling. Also, the epic poet generally employs many or all of the following devices: a clearly stated theme in the introduction, an invocation of a muse, a story that begins in medias res, the cataloging of important people or items, and the frequent use of epic similes. In the West, five memorial epics include Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey, Vergil’s Aeneid, Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Milton’s Paradise Lost. Whereas epic poetry was sung by a rhapsode at festivals, drama is a story that is acted out in a specific manner on 7

Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b24–29.

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a stage. Aristotle famously defines drama—more specifically the form of drama called tragedy—“as the imitation of an (human) action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself.”8 Expanding on and clarifying Aristotle’s meaning, J. M. Manly observed three necessary elements in drama: 1) a story, 2) told in action, 3) by actors who impersonate the characters.9 Although Manly’s definition as it stands might also include Pantomime, most literary scholars hold to the position that dialogue must be present for the work to properly belong to drama. Drama arose from the Greeks’ Dionysian religious ceremonies, likely from the choral songs chanted in honor of the god. The form of drama categorized as comedy derives from the Dionysian fertility rites, while the form categorized as tragedy derives from the Dionysian mortality rites. (Of passing interest is the medieval drama, which appears to have arisen independently out of the Christian rites commemorating the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ.10) Similar to epic poetry, drama bifurcated into two trajectories with drama taking up magnitude and shifting from the dithyramb and use of trochaic meter to the iambic speaking meter, while comedy took up the ridiculous and invoked laughter. Only later did comedy frame stories and develop plots. Episodic dramatizations in tragedy gradually developed when an actor would step from the chorus and give his lines independently. Aeschylus took the practice a step further when he added a second actor and “curtailed the business of the Chorus,” while Sophocles eventually added a third actor, as well as scenery, to the stage.11 For as much as the word comedy is based on the Greek word for “revel”—actor’s costumes preserved from the early Greek comedy display evidences of ancient phallic ceremonies—the word tragedy seems to mean “goat-song”—Greek 8 9 10 11

Aristotle, Poetics 6.1449b25–26. Harmon and Holman, A Handbook to Literature, 161. Harmon and Holman, A Handbook to Literature, 161. Aristotle, Poetics 4.1448b15–16.

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tragos (goat) + ōidē (song).12 There is some speculation about this etymological curiosity, but one theory has to do with the winner of the dramatic competitions during the Dionysian festivals being awarded a goat. In Ars Poetica, Horace writes, The writer who vied for the paltry prize of a goat With tragic song, soon bared shaggy satyrs to view On the stage, coarsely probing for laughs without losing dignity Some pleasant device and novel attraction like this Being all that could make the spectator stay on and watch After having fulfilled the ritual rites of the occasion, And drunk a good bit, and been freed from the normal restraints.13

Another theory is that the chorus singers were satyrs dressed in goat-skins but both of these are mostly educated speculations. Louis Markos, whose essay, “Uniting the Trivium and Quadrivium,” graces the first issue of this journal, suggests a third theory, “a deeper origin for the word tragedy: not ‘goat song,’ but ‘song of the scapegoat.’”14 In his book, Achilles to Christ, he carefully compares and contrasts the rituals and sacrifices of the Jewish Day of Atonement and the Athenian Dionysia, arguing for a potential correlation in the way both people groups sought to uncover “some hidden taboo sin, a stain or curse with the power to drag down a hero, a heroine or an entire household.” He writes, Like the children of Israel, the citizens of Athens were keenly aware that the breaking of taboos would bring down retribution on both the individual and the polis, and that to avert such a disaster, the divine wrath had to be 12 Harmon and Holman, A Handbook to Literature, 161. 13 Horace, “Ars Poetica,” essay, in The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends, ed. David H. Richter, 3rd ed. (Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2007), 84–94, 88. 14 Louis Markos, From Achilles to Christ: Why Christians Should Read the Pagan Classics (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2007), 115.

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diverted onto a surrogate. The Athenians, being ignorant of God’s revelation to Moses on Mount Sinai, understood neither that God was One nor that he was holy, and as such they did not recognize sin as that which violates the nature of a holy God. But they certainly did have an inchoate (and, I would add, essential) sense that even if Zeus and his fellow Olympians were imperfect, a divine order of right and wrong existed and could not be trampled upon without impunity… Indeed as the bread and wine of Demeter and Dionysus are a pagan seed that finds its ultimate consummation in the Eucharist (or Lord’s Supper), so the tragic song of the scapegoat is an additional seed that finds its consummations in the crucified Savior whose death brought atonement to the world.15

Perhaps Markos’ case will not be convincing to everyone, but his claim is compelling for another reason. His interpretation suggests, along with C. S. Lewis, that Christians and Pagans had much more in common with each other than either has with a post-Christian in the modern era. At least three implications emerge from this shared commonality. First, there is an intrinsic impulse for worship in human nature, an impulse that includes the appeasement of the Divine and the eradication of hamartia from both the individual and the community. Second, there is an intrinsic impulse in human nature to sub-create (i.e., to myth-make, to frame stories)—as Aristotle tells it, from the natural desire to learn from imitation. Third, it implies—from a strictly Christian perspective—that all truth is God’s truth. To be clear, the previous excerpt, when read in the context of Markos’ larger argument, does not suggest he is arguing for the same kind of theological continuity between Pagan and Christian rites as one would expect to exist between Jewish and Christian rites (e.g., circumcision and baptism or Passover and Eucharist). Markos is arguing there is a humane correlation that exists in both Paganism and Christianity sim15 Markos, From Achilles to Christ, 117–118.

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ilar to the Apostle Paul’s assertions in Acts 17 (i.e, Pagans groped toward God vs. Christ descended to man). C. S. Lewis makes this argument in an essay titled, “De Descriptione Temporum,” where he explains: Christians and Pagans had much more in common with each other than either has with a post-Christian. The gap between those who worship different gods is not so wide as that between those who worship and those who do not. The Pagan and Christian ages alike are ages of what Pausanias would call the δρώμενον, the externalised and enacted idea; the sacrifice, the games, the triumph, the ritual drama, the Mass, the tournament, the masque, the pageant, the epithalamium, and with them ritual and symbolic costumes, trabea and laticlave, crown of wild olive, royal crown, coronet, judge’s robes, knight’s spurs, herald’s tabard, coat-armour, priestly vestment, religious habit-for every rank, trade, or occasion its visible sign. But even if we look away from that into the temper of men’s minds, I seem to see the same.16

The fact that both ancient pagans and Christians worshiped— even if the object of Pagan worship was in error—and shared similarities in worship rituals, reveals the deeply embedded knowledge of the Divine and the Divine Law written on the human heart. The Apostle Paul highlights this in his letter to the Romans: “For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law. They show that the work of the law is written on their hearts, while their conscience also bears witness, and their conflicting thoughts accuse or even excuse them.”17 Next, drawing from Aristotle’s explanation of the development of epic and drama—from man’s natural desire to 16 C. S. Lewis, “De Descriptione Temporum” in Selected Literary Essays, ed. Walter Hooper (Cambridge University Press, 2013), 1–14, 5. 17 Romans 2:14–15 (ESV)

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learn from imitation—and Markos’ explication of the commonalities that exist in Pagan and Jewish ritual, one recognizes an intrinsic impulse in human nature to myth-make. Later in his Poetics, Aristotle explains this as man’s philosophical impulse: to explore what human beings “will probably or necessarily say or do.” He writes, From what we have said it will be seen that the poet’s function is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing that might happen, i.e. what is possible as being probable or necessary. The distinction between historical and poet is not in the one writing prose and the other verse—you might put the work of Herodotus into verse, and it would still be a species of history; it consists really in this, that the one describes the thing that has been, and the other a kind of thing that might be. Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history.18

Although we might contend with some minor aspects of Aristotle’s perspective (e.g., his disregard for the philosophical nature of history), educators in the West have long acknowledged the philosophical value of imaginative literature (i.e., poetry) in forming a civilization’s moral imagination: lectio transit in mores. Perhaps the most famous expression of this particular theological aesthetic given in the modern world comes from J. R. R. Tolkien’s poetic response to the claim of the pre-Christian C. S. Lewis, namely that myths, however beautiful, are “lies breathed through silver.” In his Mythopoeia, Tolkien puts for his aesthetic: The heart of man is not compound of lies, but draws some wisdom from the only Wise, and still recalls him. Though now long estranged, man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed. Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned, 18 Aristotle, Poetics 9.1451a1.

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and keeps the rags of lordship one he owned, his world-dominion by creative act: not his to worship the great Artefact. man, sub-creator, the refracted light through whom is splintered from a single White to many hues, and endlessly combined in living shapes that move from mind to mind. Though all the crannies of the world we filled with elves and goblins, though we dared to build gods and their houses out of dark and light, and sow the seed of dragons, ’twas our right (used or misused). The right has not decayed. We make still by the law in which were made.19

Tolkien asserts that even fallen human imagination retains some recollection of its origin. Man’s heart “draws some wisdom from the only Wise.” Yes, it is true that humanity is estranged from God, and doubly so for idol-worshiping Pagans, but human nature was not transmogrified because of the fall. Tolkien further claims although mankind may have lost grace (dis-graced), he did not lose his kingship (not dethroned). In other words, the Fall diminished mankind’s state and condition, but it did not change him into something other than human and it did not annul his kingly office. Humanity’s dominion mandate is still intact; thus, we are not to worship creation; we are to exercise our dominion over it through sub-creating. Tolkien also affirms that God is the true source of all being and unity (i.e., a “single White”). But man is a “sub-creator.” He then compares sub-creating mankind to a prism. Man has no capacity to generate light—to create ex nihilo— but he does have the capacity to splinter the single White into “many hues,” which then move, “in living shapes,” “from mind to mind.” That is, humans have the innate capacity and 19 J. R. R. Tolkien, “Mythopoeia” in Tree and Leaf: Including Mythopoeia and the Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son (London, England: HarperCollinsPublishers, 2001), 85–90, 87.

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inclination to create myths, epics, dramas (including stories in secondary worlds) that are to be passed down, shared, and inherited. Man’s ability to sub-create is a gift from God given through common grace. As a sub-creator, man creates genuinely, but derivatively. He creates by means of the same creative law by which he himself was created. Said another way, we make ( poiema) because “making” was written into the law of our own making (Ephesians 2:10). Tolkien is, lastly, under no delusion that all of Man’s sub-creative acts are automatically virtuous. Human storytelling can be exercised well or exercised poorly. He can tell good stories or bent stories. This common grace can be used or misused, but the human right to create “has not decayed.” Thus, the capacity and legitimacy of sub-creative activity survives every corrupted instance of it. In sum, sub-creation is not a rebellion against the Truth; nor is a counterfeit of it. It is an inevitability of being made in the image of The Maker. To stop making would be, in some sense, a truer betrayal of human nature than any myth could ever be. The third implication to emerge from the shared commonality of Pagan and Judeo-Christian humanness is the value of splintered light in our Western texts, even Pagan works. Most are aware of Tertullian’s incredulity about the relationship between Athens and Jerusalem, asking what the former has to do with the latter. Even Jerome concurred with Tertullian’s scorn for anything but what he saw as pure Christianity. While classical Christian educators generally seek nothing less than pure Christianity, 20 we reject the false dichotomy embedded in Turtullian’s question. Without rejecting Christianity or elevating ancient Pagan wisdom to the level of Scripture, we hold, with St. Augustine, that all truth is God’s truth, regardless of where it is sourced. In De Doctrina Christiana,

20 Mere, as in “mere Christianity,” is from the Latin merus and means “unmixed, pure.” Isaiah Hoogendyk and Andrew Curtis, eds. Analytical Lexicon of the Vulgate (Bellingham, WA: Faithlife, 2018).

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the Bishop of Hippo eloquently mandates Christians to claim truth dug up by the Pagans. He writes, Any statements by those who are called philosophers, especially the Platonists, which happen to be true and consistent with our faith should not cause alarm, but be claimed for our own use, as it were from owners who have no right to them. Like the treasures of the ancient Egyptians… These treasures—like the silver and gold, which they did not create but dug, as it were, from the mines of providence, which is everywhere—which were used wickedly and harmfully in the service of demons must be removed by Christians, as they separate themselves in spirit from the wretched company of pagans, and applied to their true function, that of preaching the gospel. 21

Classical Christian education abides in the realm of Christian humanism which affirms with Saint Basil there is in Pagan literature honey to be taken from the bees and blooms to be snatched from thorny rose bushes. 22 And, we believe with Erasmus and other notable Christian educators in the Christian humanist tradition who believe “Everything in the Pagan world that was valiantly done, brilliantly said, ingeniously thought, diligently transmitted, had been prepared by Christ for his society.”23 Thus, the making of epic and drama demonstrates the human capacity to make ( poiema) is not fundamentally corrupt. There are certainly things in it to be discounted and discarded (e.g., bee stings and rose thorns). But as Leland Ryken notes, by reading epics and drama, Christian 21 Saint Augustine and R. P. H. Green, On Christian Teaching (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 2.40, 144-145. 22 Roy J. Deferrari and Martin R. P. McGuire, To Young Men, On How They Might Derive Profit From Pagan Literature in Saint Basil: The Letters, ed. E. Capps et al., trans. Martin R. P. McGuire, vol. 4, The Loeb Classical Library (London; New York; Cambridge, MA: William Heinemann; G. P. Putnam’s Sons; Harvard University Press, 1926–1934), 379, 391. 23 Desiderius Erasmus, “The Antibarbarians” in Collected Works of Erasmus, vols. 23–24, Literary and Educational Writings, 1 and 2, ed. Craig R. Thompson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 60.

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teachers and students are viewing and relating these cultural artifacts to their Christian worldview—in essence, they are relating their faith to the culture.24 The authors in this issue of The Consortium provide readers with thoughtful insights and unique perspectives on the epic poetry and Greek drama of which we have been considering. In the first article, “The Quest for the Well-Lived Life: A Classical, Liberal Arts Approach Through Epic Poetry,” Karla M. Memmott treats the question Michael presents to Adam: what it means to live well, however long or short the days Heaven permits. Her literary scythe cuts wide, bringing into conversation The Book of Job, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, and Paul Kingsnorth’s Against the Machine to commend the classical liberal arts as the vehicle for carrying the answer to this perennial question across multiple generations. In the second article, David Givens argues for an epic reading of Luke’s gospel. His article titled, “The Pauliad: Acts as the Development of Christian Heroism,” suggests modern scholarship has largely overlooked Luke’s deliberate attempt to model his gospel’s form on the most notable epic of his day, Vergil’s Aeneid. Paul, according to Givens, is a Greco-Roman hero whose quest is an inversion of the notable Pagan pattern. Paul pursues Christ’s glory, not his own; and he takes dominion through surrender, not through conquest. In the third article, Drew Mery makes the claim that happiness is found within sorrow. Titled, “Happy Tragedy: How Tragedy Amplifies the Happy Life in the Greek Tragedies and the Bible,” Mery brings together stories from both the Pagans and from Scripture to show that happiness endures within one’s sorrow through a life well lived. But the essay’s greatest contribution is its demonstration of Tolkien’s concept of eucatastrophe in the life of Joseph—who is a type and foreshadow of the crucified and risen Christ—and in the

24 Leland Ryken, The Liberated Imagination: Thinking Christianly About the Arts (Eugene , OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 11.

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life of Christ himself, who is for the Church, the ultimate model of hope and happiness in suffering and sorrow. The fourth and fifth articles both treat Dante’s The Divine Comedy. In the fourth article titled, “Reformation Shadows in Dante’s Purgatorio,” Jessica Clark traces Dante’s debt to the early Church fathers while simultaneously and boldly commending a Reformational reading of The Divine Comedy, a reading which denies the existence of a real Purgatory and affirms salvation is sola gratia. Tracey Leary, also taking up Dante in the fifth article titled, “Playing at Teaching: Dante’s Solarian Cantos and Thomistic Leisure,” takes a philosophical and pedagogical look at Dante’s Comedy. Drawing upon Giuseppe Mazzotta’s ludic theology, as well as a host of additional supportive Christian scholarship, she argues that play is contemplation; and the most meaningful approach to teaching is both active and contemplative. The teacher, therefore, is at her best when she contemplates truth, and lovingly and actively, brings the students into communion through play. Bringing the lot to a close is Bryant K. Owens’s article, “Free and Able: Right Reason in Milton’s Paradise Lost.” Owens takes up “right reason” and traces it from the Pre-Socratics to the Cambridge Platonists to demonstrate that orthos logos is the foundation for Milton’s moral architecture in Paradise Lost. He then presents a fresh look at the lessons of right reason in Milton’s epic and demonstrates that Paradise Lost can be a fruitful literary work for exploring right reason as a gift from God. Ultimately, Owens’ work wraps up this issue by contending that the work of restoring what was lost in Paradise is going to be hard work, but the labor to renew right reason in agreement with God’s created order, with the aid of the Spirit of Christ, is worth the sacrifice and labor. On behalf of the editorial committee, I commend this summer 2026 issue of The Consortium: A Journal of Classical Christian Education to you in the hope it will not only serve your vocation of helping the next generation pursue wis-

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dom and virtue as they rightly order their loves, but also lead you, personally, further up and further in your pursuit of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. Cordially, Dr. Scott Postma Summer 2026

The Quest for the Well-Lived Life A Classical, Liberal Arts Approach Through Epic Poetry by Dr. Karla M. Memmott

f there is any section of an epic poem that repeatedly captures my imagination, it is chapter nine of Milton’s Paradise Lost. Satan has crept into the garden and taken advantage of the separation between Adam and Eve. Satan lures Eve to eat the forbidden fruit with the promise that it grants wisdom and reason. The scene climaxes with a metaphysical curtain that hangs between the fallen Eve, who has eaten the fruit, and the perfect, untainted Adam. Adam’s deliberation and ultimate decision to follow Eve into a life of human wisdom is an emotional point of the poem. Regardless of the number of times I have read this poem, I inevitably feel a tear trickle down my cheek. The sadness and the remorse of the chapter moves the moral imagination every time. The poem continues into the subsequent chapters with the Archangel Michael revealing the consequences to Adam. When the images are too tragic for Adam to witness, Michael mercifully describes rather than portrays the future of humanity. The grief-stricken Adam struggles with whether human life is better short-lived or long-lived. The Archangel and Adam engage in an insightful exchange [Adam] Henceforth I flie (sic) not Death, nor would prolong Life much, bent rather how I may be quit Fairest and easiest of this combrous charge, 15

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Which I must keep till my appointed day Of rendring up, Michael to him repli’d. Nor love thy Life, nor hate: but what thou livst Live well, how long or short permit to Heav’n1

Whereas Milton previously pondered the pursuit of human reason to rule the garden, his version of the first pair is now left to wonder how to live life in a broken and fallen world. Michael charges Adam not to worry about the number of his days, but to strive to live well throughout the number of days granted to him by Heaven. Milton’s poem addresses the challenge that Adam and all of humanity perpetually faces. What does it mean to live a well-lived life? Such a venture requires meditation. However, Paul Kingsnorth, author of Against the Machine, contends that lack of contemplation for the well-lived life in contemporary society is the result of a gradual downward decline due to spiritual disconnect. Through the intentional thrust of progress of what Kingsnorth labels “The Machine,” stories have been lost as one generation loses contact with one another, the natural world, and the spiritual world. “We build and rebuild our cultures every day, in the stories we tell our children and ourselves. Stories about who we are, where we came from and where we’re going. Stories about the deeper meaning of human life, about what matters, about what we stand for and what we will not.”2 Kingsnorth continues that the stories are no longer shared, or if they are shared the meaning of the stories has been lost. Nations, according to Kingsnorth, are being globalized into a “consumerized version of the former culture.”3 Where stories once filled a people with an identity and purpose for a well-lived life, contemporary culture is left to mindlessly consume with an attempt to fulfill the deep 1 John Milton, “Paradise Lost” in Great Books of the Western World, vol.29, ed. Mortimer J. Adler, (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1993) Book XI, lines 545-550. 2 Paul Kingsnorth, Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity (New York: Random House, 2025), 28. 3 Kingsnorth, Against the Machine, 200.

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need of knowing what it means to live a well-lived life. Hence there is a mass of humanity deeply hungering to fill the void and identity that was once provided by community narratives. In Kingsnorth’s paradigm, humans have become consuming cogs wandering through a technological digital existence seeking humane fulfillment. However, the need to understand the purpose of human existence is a spiritual need that cannot be satisfied by any material means. Left unattended, the original desire turns to despondency and depression. Describing the source of despondency, Gabriel Bunge notes, “Insatiable desire cannot be satisfied because it is directed at mundane things, which cannot satisfy us because they are limited. Created things do not have a meaning in themselves; their logos (reason) points beyond to the one to whom they owe their existence. Whoever wants to seek them for other reasons will remain eternally frustrated.”4 In other words, seeking to satiate a spiritual need with a material good leaves one continually hungering for more. Although Kingnorth’s Machine lulls humans to remain in this catatonic state, the underlying current of a classical, liberal arts pedagogy demands a humane solution to the need. The question then becomes how can such a question be answered? In an environment that insists on fluttering and flurrying about to preoccupy the inhabitants, how does one slow down to contemplate the existential instructions of the Archangel, ‘Live well, how long or short permit to Heav’n’? Since the question originated in a poem, perhaps the answer rests in poetry. Poet Mary Oliver notes that, “Time–a few centuries here or there–means little in the world of poems. The Latin poets, the Victorian poets, the Black Mountain poets–they all left us poems that are of abiding interest. The subjects that stir the heart are not so many, after all,

4 Gabriel Bunge, Despondency: The Spiritual Teaching of Evagrius Ponticus on Acedia, trans. Anthony P. Gythiel (Yonkers, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2012), 134.

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and they do not change.”5 Poetry by its nature challenges the reader to slow down and meditate. Hence a portion of the problem, that of hurriedness, is found in poetry. Epic poetry addresses the issue of definition as it draws the reader into the hero’s journey and invites the reader to wrestle alongside the hero through all the challenges and obstacles of the journey. The remainder of this article explores the idea that a journey through the humane letters of the past fills one with the nuggets needed to define and practice a well-lived life. The vast volumes of literature addressing this issue is beyond one human lifetime. However, a jaunt through specific epic poetry of the ancient Jewish and Greek origins is a good place to begin. The Book of Job from the ancient Hebrew texts highlights the well-lived life through the lens of submission to the LORD. Conversely Homer’s poems the Iliad and Odyssey contrasts the ill-lived hubris life to that of the well-lived, duty-bound life. In quest for defining a well-lived life, these poems provide varied, almost incongruent answers. However, each focuses on a love and a duty to something greater than one’s self. The second part of the article explores a classical, liberal arts education as the vehicle by which these truths are transported from one generation to another generation.

The Book of Job

Although The Book of Job (Job) is itself an epic poem, it does not stand alone as wisdom literature within the Hebrew Scriptures. It is helpful to understand Job within the context of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. Whereas Proverbs is known for the short pithy sayings, Ecclesiastes incorporates the cynicism of the mid-life where the Proverbial sayings have been tested and fallen short. Proverbs is filled with quick witticisms such 5 Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook: A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry (New York: Mariner Books, 1994), 11.

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as “Better is the poor person who walks in his integrity than one who is crooked in speech and is a fool.”6 Some sayings provide descriptive warnings such as “Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly.” 7 However, prior to the sage insight of the short blurbs, stands the poetic prophetic pronouncements of Lady Wisdom: How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple? How long will scoffers delight in their scoffing and fools hate knowledge? If you turn at my reproof, behold, I will pour out my spirit to you: I will make my words known to you.8

Lady Wisdom offers up a good life for those who choose to heed her guidance. Conversely, she warns the simple-minded fools who are destined to a doomed fate should they spurn her advice: Because I have called and you refused to listen, have stretched out my hand and no one has heeded, because you have ignored all my counsel and would have none of my reproof, I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when terror strikes you, when terror strikes you like a storm 6 7 8

Proverbs 19:1 (ESV) Proverbs 26:11 Proverbs 1:22–23

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and your calamity comes like a whirlwind, when distress and anguish come upon you.9

Proverbs lays a foundation that a life well-lived is lived out in accordance to hokmah, which is the divine wisdom woven into the natural fiber of the created universe.10 Proverbs promises a simple solution to the complexities of life-follow the hallowed hokmah and live the good life. Life is filled with struggles and the many individual proverbs fall short. Many Christian parents held onto the hopeful saying “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”11 When the child departs from the faith of the parents, parents are left to question what happened. It is at this point that one begins to understand that the Proverbs express generalities not guarantees. The Preacher of Ecclesiastes notes the exceptions with a sardonic tone that acknowledges the Proverbs can, and do fail. Furthermore, the same fate awaits the wise and the fool despite all the effort to live well: Then I said in my heart, ‘What happens to the fool will happen to me also. Why then have I been so very wise?’ And I said in my heart that this also is vanity. For of the wise as of the fool there is no enduring remembrance, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten. How the wise dies just like the fool.12

The Preacher considers the various ways which frequently define a well-lived life—wealth, pleasure, community service, hard work, and simple living—and observes that all vanish 9 Proverbs 1:24–27 10 Tim Mackie, Jon Collins, Carissa Quinn, “Wisdom for Life’s Complexity” in Bible Project Podcast Series: The Paradigm, no. 8, November 8, 2021, bibleproject.com. 11 Proverbs 22:6 12 Ecclesiastes 2:15–16

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like mist and eventually pass away. Furthermore, death awaits every individual. The sarcasm oozes suggesting that it appears to be folly to strive for a well-lived life regardless of the terms defining such a life. The tragic irony is that one does not know when death comes. The person who meticulously balances nutrients in every meal may be diagnosed with cancer and the one who smokes cigarettes and drinks alcohol may live to be a centenarian. The one who frugally saves for retirement can lose a lifetime savings due to embezzlement and the spendthrift may receive a large inheritance that carries one through another few years of luxurious living. The couple who saves for the dream retirement vacation is forced to give up the dreams and use the money for a memory care facility. One does not know the future. There are no guarantees. The Preacher observes that outlying circumstances mock the proverbial wisdom of the norm. In the end, however, the Preacher concedes that while one journeys through moments of life, it is better to fill these moments with simple joys: “Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do. Let your garments be always white. Let not oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love.”13 Despite the potential bad news that may come tomorrow, enjoy the moment. The Preacher also acknowledges that it is better to follow hokmah than to create one’s own standards: “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgement, with every secret thing, whether good or evil.”14 Whereas the Proverbs are idealistic, Ecclesiastes is realistic. Job provides a solution to the tension between the idealistic desire of Proverbs and pragmatic reality of Ecclesiastes. It has the largest poetic sections of the three listed pieces of wisdom literature. Many desperate people turn to Job during times of 13 Ecclesiastes 9:7–9a 14 Ecclesiastes 12:13b–14

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suffering hoping to gain wisdom and to understand why suffering takes place. Frequently, they walk away dismally frustrated because the question is not fully answered. However, Job is filled with dense poetic literature and metaphor which does address what it means to live a well-lived life. The descriptions provided in this article are by no means exhaustive, but rather scratch the surface of depth of waters of wisdom which Job addresses. The entire literary structure is based on a chiasm with Job 28 serving as the hinge. Additionally, shorter chiasms fill up the pages of each side of the hinge. The poem begins and ends with narrative prose. Job’s character is described as righteous in chapter 1; Job demonstrates righteous character in chapter 42. Job offers up sacrifices on behalf of his children in the beginning of the narrative; Job offers up prayers on behalf of his friends in the end of the narrative. Job begins this experience with wealth; Job ends the experience with a double portion of wealth. Job is not aware of the divine counsel at the beginning of the story and he is not aware why he suffered when the story ends. Like the cynic of Ecclesiastes, one may conclude that life and good deeds are meaningless. However the secret is tucked away within the chiastic hinge for anyone with a meditative mindset. The epic begins with a section of story in which the reader is privileged to step into the heavenly counsel with the sons of God presenting themselves to the Almighty. One member of the counsel accuses God of unjustly rewarding Job, and wagers that Job will curse God the moment hardship is thrust upon him.15 God accepts the challenge on two occasions and allows Job to suffer. The Accuser thrusts the unimaginable loss on Job, including the loss of his family, his reputation, his wealth, and eventually his health. The situation is intensified by a wife who goads Job to curse God and die, along with friends who badger Job that he somehow deserves the heartaching losses: 15 Throughout this article Job refers to The Book of Job as distinguished from Job, who is the character within the poem.

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As I have seen, those who plow iniquity and sow trouble reap the same. By the breath of God they perish, and by the blast of his anger they are consumed.16

Dr. Tim Mackie suggests that Job’s friends operate from a triangular paradigm which many people subconsciously accept, “So think of a triangle. At the top of the triangle is God’s justice. The lower right triangle is the retribution principle or what we’re calling the policy of just compensation. Then, at the left of the triangle is Job’s innocence or Job’s righteousness.”17 The crux of the Job dilemma is that all three points are true. The universe is structured based on God’s justice and God exercises just compensation and Job is righteous. Throughout the remainder of the poem, Job’s three friends falsely charge Job because they hold fast to two immovable points of the triangle-the universe is just and the concept of just compensation. Since these two points are inalterable, Job must be unrighteous. However, the reader knows that God has declared Job to be righteous. Hence, the reader is left to wrestle with all three truth claims while the friends impatiently listen to Job’s defense. Finally, Job demands God to present himself and defend himself. However, before the drama in which God responds to Job’s demand, the poem itself reaches the peak of the chiasm in chapter 28.18 Job is engaged in his third dialogue with Bildad and is once again defending himself against the accusations. As he moves along with his monologue, Job stumbles into the question “Where is wisdom?”19 He reflects on all of 16 Job 4:8–9 17 Tim Mackie and Jon Collins, “Job E1: Suffering Well” in BibleProject Podcast Series Wisdom, no 5, August 3, 2016, bibleproject.com. 18 “Literary Structures of the Bible,” bible.literarystructure.info, accessed April 9, 2026. 19 Job 28:12

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the fetes humans have accomplished such as digging into the shafts of the earth to mine gold and iron. He highlights human creativity to smelt copper and to channel through rocks. However, in the midst of all that humans have accomplished, Job questions whether people have determined what wisdom is and what is the way to live one’s life. He comprehends that God “understands the way to it, and he knows the place” but then contrasts finite human understanding and the need to acquire wisdom.20 Within the strain of the apparent imbalance however, is the jewel of understanding that wisdom is key to a well-lived life. It slowly and subtly surfaces that living in the presence of the omniscient LORD is to live with wisdom. Much like the Preacher of Ecclesiastes, Job acquiesces that “Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, and to turn away from evil is understanding.”21 However, Job and the reader are temporarily left with the stress of the imbalance theories that Job had reverently feared the Lord and he had turned away from evil. He was righteous. The tension of the poem increases as the solution to the dilemma appears to be insolvable. With intense drama, the poet presents the LORD appearing to Job in a whirlwind. The stage has been set for the Creator of the Universe to contend with Job. He demands: Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Dress for action like a man; I will question you, and you make it known to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. 22

20 Job 28:23 21 Job 28:28 22 Job 38:2–4

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The LORD continues his “where were you” inquisition for another three chapters, concluding with a zinging question: Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty? He who argues with God, let him answer it. 23

Job meekly responds by acknowledging his own smallness: Behold, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth. I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but I will proceed no further. 24

One portion of the triangle has been resolved, the LORD’s justice throughout the cosmos is more vast than the finite Job understood. Despite Job’s acquiescence, the LORD continues outlining the vast danger and beauty of his creation. He boasts of Behemoth, a beast which men fear and cannot tame, but is God’s creation nonetheless. Whereas Behemoth is the beast of the field, the Leviathan is the beast of the sea. The LORD speaks of this wonderfully made creature with a hint of honorable pride I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, or his mighty strength, or his goodly frame. Who can strip off his outer garment? Who would come near him with a bridle? 23 Job 40:2 24 Job 40:4–5

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Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth is terror. His back is made of rows of shields, shut up closely as with a seal. 25

He then asserts that he made the beast and he made humanity, each a part of his creation. The cow-like but monstrous beast of the field and the curiously-minded but small human are equally an integral part of the LORD’s intricately designed cosmos. The LORD is then silent. Although Job does not learn the cause of his suffering, he minisculely comprehends the truth to a well-lived life, which takes place in the presence of God regardless of the fate the LORD determines. The key point is that human action does not obligate nor necessitate a specific response from the Divine. Job confesses his initial ignorance and accepts the consecrated wisdom of the all-knowing LORD: I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge? Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know. 26

He understands that all three points of Mackie’s description of the ancient triangle are true. The universe is structured based on God’s wisdom. God exercises just compensation. Job was righteous. However, the LORD’s wisdom is greater than any human perception and He is not bound by human 25 Job 41:12–15 26 Job 42:2–3

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prescription of wisdom or justice. Subsequently, the welllived life according to The Book of Job is one that is wisely and humbly lived in submission to, and in the continual presence of the LORD in all his ways whether humanly understandable or not. The resolution in this meditative poem is not an easy solution. The duty claimed by the Almighty is whole-hearted submission regardless of one’s perceived sense of justice. The Book of Job insists that the well-lived life is lived by walking closely in the presence of the LORD regardless of the difficulty. Admittedly, the prescribed disciplines may provide tools to achieve the high standard set throughout this ancient poem. However, the overarching theme is that complete surrender is a well-lived life. Interestingly, The Book of Job ends with Job receiving a double portion of wealth. Many people consider this to be Job’s reward for enduring. However, to believe so is to miss the point altogether. The LORD restored the double portion of wealth simply because He chose to.

Homer’s Iliad & Odyssey

The Book of Job highlights a well-lived life with the person in presence and relationship with the monotheistic LORD Almighty. The poem is based on structural chiasms and dense dialogue. There is no change of scene, no physical movement, no physical journey. By contrast, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey are epic poems filled with battles, journeys, adventures, misadventures, and drama. The epic narrative is littered with many characters displaying traits and personalities worthy of much consideration. The key characters to consider however, are the brash Achilles, the prideful Agamemnon, and the cunning Odyseus. Each character certainly exemplifies what was thought to be the well-lived life in ancient Greece. Homer’s two epic poems highlight the contrast between the ill-lived

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life of hubris and the well-lived life which honors ancestors and family. From the very first word of Homer’s Iliad, one is challenged to contemplate what it means to live life well. Rage–Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that the Achaeans countless losses hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, great fighters’ souls, but made their bodies carrion, feasts for the dogs and birds…27

The poem is about one who lived a life filled with self-absorbed, self-consuming rage. Wisdom appears to Achilles, the rageful one: Her gray eyes clear, the goddess Athena answered, “Down from the skies I come to check our rage if only you will yield. The white-armed goddess Hera sped me down: she loves you both, she cares for you both alike. Stop this fighting, now. Don’t lay hand to sword.”28

Achilles does not relent. Choosing a short-lived life filled with the victories of war, Achilles reflected little on the decision. He chose war. He chose victory. He chose glory. Achilles raged against anyone who cast a glint of shame on that glory. Homer’s Odyssey picks up on Achilles’ story in the kingdom of the dead. Odysseus encounters and heralds Achilles as the most honored of men: But you, Achilles, there’s not a man in the world more blest than you– there never has been, never will be one. Time was, when you were alive, we Argives honored you as a god, and now down here, I see, 27 Homer, The Iliad, trans. Robert Fagles (New York: Penguin Books, 1990), Book I, lines 1–10. 28 Homer, Iliad, I, 240–250.

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you lord it over the dead in all your power. So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles. 29

Achilles laments his predicament to Odyseus: No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus! By god, I’d rather slave on earth for another man– some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive– than rule down here over all the breathless dead.30

Achilles realizes that regardless of the lines spoken about him in the land of the living, he is still dead. Subsequently, he concludes that a short-lived life of self- glory is not a good life. Whereas hubris rage fills Achilles’ soul, self-absorbed pride presides in the soul of King Agamemnon. Although Agamemnon is king and has a duty to his warriors, he stubbornly refuses to submit to the gods. When told that the Achaeans suffer because he has displeased the gods, Agamemnon does not concede: What god drove them to fight with such fury? Apollo the son of Zeus and Leto. Incensed at the king, he swept a fatal plague through the army–men were dying and all because Agamemnon spurned Apollo’s priest.31

Agamemnon’s lust drove him to capture Chryseis, the daughter of Chryses. Despite the pleas of Chryses, Apollo’s priest, and the petitions of the Achaean advisers, Agamemnon doggedly rebuffs and petitions to give up his prize. When he was cornered and forced to abdicate his possession, Agamemnon insisted Achilles give up his concubine. Agamemnon lived to feed his carnal desires. His fate is described in the Odyssey:

29 Homer, Odyssey, trans. Robert Fagles (New York: Penguin, 1996), Book XI, lines 545–550. 30 Homer, Odyssey, IX, 555–560. 31 Homer, Iliad, I, 10–15.

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Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, mastermind of war, I was not wrecked in ships when lord Poseidon Roused some punishing blessed of stormwinds, gust on gust Nor did ranks of enemies mow me down on land– Aegisthus hatched my doom and my destruction, He killed me, he with my own accursed wife… He invited me to his palace, sat me down to feast Then cut me down as a man duts down some ox at the trough! So I died–wreteched, ignominious death–and round me All my comrades killed, no mercy, one after another, Just like white-tusked boars Butchered in some rich lord of power’s halls For a wedding, banquet or groaning public feast.32

Agamemnon’s life was dominated by base carnal desires. His death was likened to a herd-like mentality of boars mauling their victim, followed by the feeding frenzy brought on by the sight of blood. Using the examples of Achilles and Agamemnon, Homer communicated that a life lived in hubris is not a well-lived life. Fame and notoriety are vanity. It does not matter if the dead are revered by those who are still alive. The dead are still dead. Furthermore, carnal desires do not lead to a well-lived life. The desires consume an individual who eventually lives and acts no better than a beast. Insomuch as an egocentric life is not a life well lived, Homer contends that fulfilling duty to family is a life well-lived as he portrays in the Odyssey. Although Odysseus was known as a cunning and resourceful warrior, he lacked the domestic qualities needed to fulfill the tranquil duties of home-life. The Odyssey depicts the transformation that was necessary for Odysseus to live a well-lived life. This metamorphosis begins with relinquishing his identity as a cunning warrior. Odysseus becomes Nobody. However, vain-glory fills his veins so that Odysseus could not remain Nobody: 32 Homer, Odyssey, XI, 455–470.

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Cyclops– if any man on the face of the earth should ask you who blinded you, shamed you so–say Odysseus, raider of cities, he gouged out your eye, Laertes’ son who makes his home in Ithaca!33

The Cyclops curses Odysseus in response to the announcement, and subsequently pleads to Poseidon for punishment, “Let him come home late and come home a broken man.”34 Ironically, the Cyclops’ proposition for punishment restores Odysseus to a well-lived life. Throughout the remainder of the poem, Odysseus wrestles with the identity necessary to live well at home. He emerges from the sea naked like a newborn babe and is discovered by Nausicaa, the daughter of King Alcinous. He recounts his mournful tale to the King and Queen of his losses and descent to the land of the dead. When he eventually arrives at Ithaca, Odysseus once again conceals his identity and dresses himself in beggar’s clothing. Odysseus’ initial identity was hidden and then broken, but eventually emerged through the necessary transformation which prepared for the final stage of the journey which was to become the protector of home and hearth. After shedding off the cunning nature of the warrior, Odysseus materializes as defender of the homestead and defeats Penelope’s suitors. Odysseus reclaims his identity as Penolope’s husband, Telemachus’ father, and King of Ithaca. Homer concludes the poem by acknowledging that Odysseus had acquired the ability to live a well-lived life. He had cast off the trappings leading to self-glory and embraced a duty to family. Whereas Telemachus had previously been abandoned and left with an orphaned identity, he later develops his mature identity through the transformative training of the reformed Odysseus. Telemachus who could not wield a sword

33 Homer, Odyssey, IX, 560. 34 Homer, Odyssey, IX, 595.

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in the beginning of the poem, he stands next to his father, and fights for the family homestead and the family name, Telemachus, you’ll learn soon enough—as you move up to fight where champions strive to prove themselves the best– not to disgrace your father’s line in a moment. In battle prowess we’ve excelled for ages across the world. Telemachus reassured him, Now you’ll see, if you care to watch, father, Now I’m fired up. Disgrace, you say? I won’t disgrace your line. Laertes called out in deep delight, ‘What a day for me, dear gods! What joy– My son and my grandson vying over courage.’35

Highlighting the image of grandfather, father, and grandson standing together, Homer’s epic poem concludes with a clear message that well-lived life is fulfilled through family. Odysseus submitted to the consequences of his pride, subjected himself to an altered identity, and shepherded his son and father in a family legacy. Milton’s Paradise Lost introduces the idea of striving for a life that is well-lived. However, Milton’s concept is not novel. It rests on the foundation laid in such ancient epic poems as The Book of Job as well as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. Each poem highlights that love and duty is critical to a well-lived life. Job concentrates on loving but humble relationship to the LORD through loyal submission to His will. The Greek version identifies affection to family as the key to a well-lived life. Comparatively, each poem recognizes the need for one to be pliable. Although Job was considered righteous, he needed to learn humble submission that exceeded his understanding. Although Odysseus was fit for the battlefield, he needed to 35 Homer, Odyssey, XXIV, 555–570.

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be transformed into a domestic warrior and protector. Similarly, one may begin to live life well studied for specific circumstances. However, through the trials and travails of the journey, a more meaningful existence surfaces. Meditating on epic poetry such as The Book of Job, and the Iliad and Odyssey allows one to focus on the key points of a life that is well-lived.

Transcending Generations

To say that poems such as The Book of Job or the Iliad and Odyssey provide the key for a well-lived life seems reductionist or simplistic, despite the complexity of the themes. That is accurate. After all, the two themes contradict one another. Is the well-lived life exercised in submission to the LORD, or is it in service to family? Could it be both? How does Virgil’s Aeneid fit into this equation with its suggestion of duty to the gods, to family, and to country? What does one do if these ideas are in conflict with one another? What should one do with poems such as the Epic of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, or Dante’s Inferno? Is the answer to the question of a well-lived life limited to poetry? Could an answer be determined from the ancient plays such as the Oedipus trilogy or Medea? Were the ancients exclusive in their quest, or could the seemingly meaningless plays such as Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot offer some sort of insight? Perhaps Shakespeare’s Othello, Hamlet, or Macbeth offers a solution, or Goethe’s Faust may give insight to the life-lived. The answer may not be in fiction, but in dialogues or discourse. After all, Socrates contended “that the unexamined life is not worth living.”36 The answer to this examined life is perchance included in the dialogues of Plato, the meditations of Marcus Aurelius, or the reflective conversion of Augustine. The answer may be found in works of authors 36 Plato, “Apology’ in Great Books of the Western World, vol.7, ed. Mortimer J. Adler, trans. Benjamin Jowett (Chicago, IL: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1993), 38.

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from the Far East, Middle East, Near East, or Southern Africa. This list continues in many varied directions. The quest for a well-lived life is a human quest that transcends the ages or cultural boundaries. The journey, however, must begin and begin with the question, “What is a well-lived life?” Unlike the mutedness of contemporary globalized culture, the conversation of the quest for a well-lived life has occupied the minds of many great and simple thinkers. The journey to discover the road to a well-lived life is a journey within itself. To be on the pilgrimage is to transcend generations and to become a link in the chain of human history. A key to unlocking some of the puzzles is to become trained through a classical liberal arts education. Admittedly, a classical education vocationally equips them with the calculating and writing skills needed for employment. However, the focal point is less what to do vocationally and more what to become humanly. By developing inquisitive skills to delve into the soulful questions pertaining to a well-lived life, along with the logical skills to sort through the myriad of responses, and the rhetorical skills to argue and persuade, the classical liberal arts education equips the student with the skill set to mature into a human being with a desire to live well. The question arises how one moves through the breadcrumb trail that has been left behind by those who have gone before. One simple solution is for a student to simply start reading the epic poems of the past. Although this may sound daunting, C. S. Lewis notes that one of the best ways to understand the principles written in the past is to read the books. He indicates, “The simplest student will be able to understand, if not all, yet a very great deal of what Plato said; but hardly anyone can understand some modern books on Platonism. It has always therefore been one of my main endeavors as a teacher to persuade the young that firsthand knowledge is not only more worth acquiring than secondhand knowledge,

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but is usually much easier and more delightful to acquire.”37 Granted, Lewis alludes to reading a book, not a poem, but the principle applies to both. Insight is gained from direct, first-hand reading. The first encounter with an epic poem is difficult, but repeated readings offer additional illumination. Like stepping stones in the middle of the stream, the sojourner moves across the streams of uncertainty toward an understanding of meaningful purpose. Of course, one tumults occasionally into the chaos waters because of a miscalculated step. However, the voices from the past heroes beckon the traveler to get up, dry off, and continue the odyssey. An additional hint to the question’s answer is buried within the beginning and ending chapters of the Odyssey. Disguised as Mentes, Athena enters the palace halls of Odysseus’ home. Homer subtly highlights that, He [Telemachus] led the way and Pallas Athena followed. Once in the high-roofed hall, he took her lance And fixed in firm in a burnished rack against A sturdy pillar, there where rows and rows of spearers, embattled Odysseus’s spears, stood stacked and waiting.38

The curious reader is left asking for what or for whom are the spears waiting. The answer is addressed in later chapters as Telemachus fights with his father: but Telemachus–too quick–stabbed the man from behind, plunging his bronze spear between the suitor’s shoulders and straight on through his chest the point came jutting out– down he went with a thud, his forehead slammed the ground. Telemachus swerved aside, leaving his long spearshaft Lodged in Amphinomus–fearing some suitor just might

37 C. S. Lewis, “Introduction” in Old Western Culture Reader, vol 8, ed. Daniel Foucachon (Moscow, ID: Roman Roads Press, 2015), 1. 38 Homer, Odyssey, I, 150.

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Lunge in from behind as he tugged the shaft, Impale him with a sword or hack him down, Crouching over the corpse.39

Telemachus needed a teacher. Under the tutelage of the teacher, Telemachus fully matures into one who will live well by defending the family stead and the family legacy. Similarly, the student engaged in the trek of knowledge needs a teacher who will endow the pupil with the mindset necessary for the endeavor. Understandably, the modern student does not need to wield the sword to live well, but the junior scholar requires training to wrestle with issues of a well-lived, to stand firm against temptations of the easy life, and to defend against the modern murmurings of a meaningless life. Lady Wisdom called out to the simple-minded in the Proverbs; Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom, walked alongside the young Telemachus. Similarly, the classical teacher conduits the wisdom from ages past into the minds and soul of the next generation. Transmitting the wisdom of a well-lived life takes time. It is not completed in a hurry-filled, harry-filled, scarry-filled lifestyle. It happens in the peaceful reading of poetry. It happens in conversation between mindful sojourners of mentor and protege. Kingsnorth offers a philosophical nod to the Ecclesiastical Preacher with his eat, drink and celebrate the moment mindset: People, place, prayer, the past. Human community, roots in nature, connection to God, memories passed down and on. These are the eternal things. We could form hedge schools to teach them. We could live them in any way we can. We could build communities. We could write books. We could plant trees. We could do anything, really. None of them will ‘solve’ all of the world’s problems, or all of ours. We are still going to die: and so, one day, is the Machine. But what will we do in the meantime? What will we

39 Homer, Odyssey, XXII, 95–105.

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do amidst the rise of the robots, amidst the ascendancy of all these tiny laughable, tyrannical dreams? Raindance on the astroturf. Raindance to call down the Spirit upon them and us. Raindance to defy the Machine. Raindance to remember your ancestors. Raindance to offer up prayers to your home. Raindance to the forest and the prairie and the meadow Raindance to reclaim your stories. Raindance to discover where you are and where you are from.40

Whether through epic poetry, novels, essays, or discourses, the challenge one faces is determining what it will take to live a well-lived life. The wisdom necessary to initiate the quest transcends from one generation to the next through the heartbeat of classical liberal arts education. ⸭ Karla Memmott earned a PhD in Humanities from Faulkner University. She teaches rhetoric and biblical narrative courses at Kepler Education. She lives in Fair Oaks, California where she homeschools her children. She and her husband Kyle are the founders of Acacia Classical Academy, with the vision of providing support to classically educating schools, micro-schools, and homeschool co-ops in Northern California through such events as the Western Consortium of Classical Educators. They enjoy hiking, camping, playing board games, and walking their dog Kona.

40 Kingsnorth, Against the Machine, 317.

The Pauliad Acts as the Development of Christian Heroism David Givens, M.A.

hroughout the ancient world every culture expressed the story of their heroes through epic stories. These stories framed their heroes in ways that represented the importance of that hero to informing the virtues of that culture. These heroes serve as a means to understand the cultures that remembered them, revealing the traits needed to preserve the tradition (traditum) literally, that which is handed down. A reading of Luke’s account of Paul while bearing this heroic tradition in mind opens the reader to a deeper level of understanding. Paul, the Christian hero, stands at the end of an extensive line of heroes in the Western tradition. This is a tradition with which the author of Acts would have been familiar. Luke intentionally echoes the tropes and even details of the Greek/Roman wandering heroes as he presents Paul to the Roman world as the messenger and model for the Christian tradition. While scholars like Cukrowski, Zeichmann, Troftgruben, and Balch have long supported the idea that the LukeActs narrative owes a great deal to the heroic stories of the Greek heroic tradition, the deep connection of the Acts nar-

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rative to Vergil’s1 Aeneid has gone largely unremarked in modern scholarship. However, given the manner in which Vergil was deeply embraced by Christian tradition in the Middle Ages, understanding this connection would help to contextualize not only what Luke intends in his Acts account but also to explain the early church’s fascination with the work of Vergil. It would seem that Luke is intentionally endeavoring to highlight the differences of the Christian hero, Paul, by painting them in light of Vergil’s distinctly Roman hero, Aeneas. Taken together, these two works fully revolutionize the heroic ideal of the first century world. Fully understanding this revolution requires that the reader of Acts have familiarity with this style of heroic journey, how it had been used previously, and what previous heroes would have meant to their respective cultures. Particularly interesting to this study is Vergil’s fresh account of the Roman hero, Aeneas, as Vergil writes the Aeneid expressly for the creation and preservation of the quintessential Roman hero for a freshly minted Roman Empire that had filled and subdued the known world. Luke, in many ways, seeks to accomplish the same task—to present a quintessential Christian hero for a freshly minted Christianity that was spreading rapidly through a largely Romanized world. But, can we assume that Luke would have been familiar with these heroic traditions and would this have been consistent with his style? Luke was a physician and Greek convert from Antioch. 2 As a well-educated Greek, Luke undoubtedly had some, if not 1 While the common spelling of the poet’s name is Virgil, I will use his historic spelling taken from his Roman name, Publius Vergilius Maro. The modern spelling indicates the importance of Vergil to the early and Medieval Church when they began to spell his name Virgil in order to connect it to the Latin word virga which symbolizes a magic wand or prophet’s stick. This is one of the many indications that Vergil was highly regarded in the early church, not only as a poet but also as a pagan prophet. The scholarship on this concept is quite robust and will come into our discussion a little later. However, that is not the focus of this paper. 2 John B. Polhill, Notes on Acts, ESV Study Bible: English Standard Version, eds. Grudem, Wayne, and Lane T. Dennis (Wheaton, IL: Crossway Bibles, 2008), 2073.

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extensive, knowledge of the works of Homer, the key source for much of the Greek view of heroism. In his article, “Paul as Odysseus, an Exegetical Note on Luke’s Depiction of Paul in Acts 27:1–28:10,” Kenneth Cukrowski analyzes the availability of Homer to the early church and finds that not only was he available, but that he would have been used to teach Greek to almost any educated Greek speaker.3 More difficult to document would be his knowledge of Vergil’s Latin account of the hero Aeneas. Although, given the ubiquity of Roman culture during the first century AD,4 the connection would not be hard to imagine. Certainly, Aeneas would have been a familiar character from the Iliad and his founding role in Rome would have been widely acknowledged. Michael Kochenash in an article entitled, “You Can’t Hear ‘Aeneas’ without Thinking of Rome” researches the depth to which Aeneas would have occupied the cultural mind of the first century AD. He finds that Aeneas shows up readily in the Roman identity even prior to Vergil’s work. He also points out, “Book 11 of the Jewish collection of the Sibylline Oracles, possibly written sometime in the early first century CE, not only demonstrates an awareness of Aeneas’s escape from Troy and the tradition that he established Rome but also praises the bard ‘by whose noble mind the whole world will be educated.’”5 Finally, even prior to the publication of the Aeneid, the founding story of Aeneas appears in Roman coinage as early as the middle of the first century BC.6 Undoubtedly, Luke would have been more than familiar

3 Kenneth L. Cukrowski, “Paul as Odysseus: an exegetical note on Luke’s depiction of Paul in Acts 27:1–28:10,” Restoration Quarterly 55, no. 1 (January 2013): 24–34. 4 I will use BC and AD for designations of time for the same reason that I call Saturday, Saturday and Thursday, Thursday. I am neither a pagan Roman nor a Viking, but no matter how morally repugnant I find those ancient religions, I refuse to reorder all of civilization for my personal beliefs. 5 Michael Kochenash, “You Can’t Hear ‘Aeneas’ without Thinking of Rome,” Journal of Biblical Literature 136, no. 3 (2017): 667–85. 6 Kristen Straus, “Coins of the Greek and Roman World—Aeneas,” Hallie Ford Museum of Art Exhibits, Willamette University.

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enough with the stories of the Greek and Roman heroes to have made connections to their exploits. The next problem facing a heroic reading of the Acts account lies in the strong historical bent of Luke’s Gospel. Luke himself proclaims the purpose of his work, “…to compile a narrative of the beginning of things that have been accomplished among us… to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught.” 7 Should we not take Luke at his word when he says that he is compiling a narrative? The issue is not whether Luke writes history, it is rather what Luke means when he “compiles a narrative” or writes “an orderly account.” In the mind of a modern reader, this means a list of chronological facts. However, for most of the ancient world, history was not simply a list of facts, rather it was the relating of cultural truth. This view was not one that did away with the actuality of events, rather allowed narratives to be shaped in a way that delivered the “true message.” This approach to understanding Scripture is defended by David Lyle Jeffrey in his work, Houses of the Interpreter. He explains that while Christianity depends on the historical facts of God’s providence and Christ’s resurrection, “we nevertheless must pay attention to the degree to which the New Testament grand narrative is about a journey through a history to the fulfillment of a Promise that transcends history.”8 However he warns this is not as Hegel or Marx might see it, “a history that ‘marches on’ to a historical destiny or utopia, but that, like the pages of a book, written by Another, it is a narrative of time which unfolds meaningfully until the book is complete.” 9

7 Luke 1:1–4 8 David L. Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter: Reading Scripture, Reading Culture (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), 37. 9 Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter, 37.

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If this sort of broader historical work is what Luke means when he proclaims the purpose of his books, it would help to clear up some seeming discrepancies in his ordering of events in his Gospel account or his large generalizations about the early church in the book of Acts. It would also explain his willingness to spend a great deal of narrative time on seemingly unimportant events or accent certain details. Again, in the notes to the book of Luke, Grudem and Schreiner point out that one of his objectives was: To emphasize that his readers need not fear Rome. Luke hints at this theme by highlighting Herod’s and Pilate’s desire to release Jesus and the Roman centurion’s recognition of his innocence. Luke also records (in Acts) several occasions where Roman authorities came to Paul’s rescue. When Roman officials did persecute, Luke explains that it was due to error and that the persecution ceased immediately when the error was discovered.10

This sort of underlying desire is not unique to Luke’s writings. In her article, “What Has Aeneas to Do with Paul?” Heather Gorman indicates that Roman authors such as Vergil and Plutarch can help readers of First Corinthians to see, “Paul was rooted in the scriptures and traditions of Israel, but he became accustomed to adapting those traditions to the conventions of the larger Greco-Roman world to increase his effectiveness as an evangelist.”11 If Luke does intend to undertake this task reconciling Rome and the early church, it would also make sense that Luke includes many details that would connect his text to a broader Greco-Roman world. These details will be covered in greater depth later in this essay; for now, it is enough to know 10 cf. Acts 16:22–39. Grudem and Dennis, ESV Study Bible: English Standard Version, 1937. 11 Heather M. Gorman, “What Has Aeneas to Do with Paul?: Gender, Head Coverings, and Ancient Appeals to Origin Stories,” Priscilla Papers 30, no. 3 (2016): 11– 17.

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that such a method is not only possible but quite likely to be employed by Luke in his account. This method would deepen the significance of the details Luke chooses to include in his account as these details would connect Luke to a larger discussion of what qualities and accomplishments make a hero. This sort of connection has been more readily explained by David Lyle Jefffey in, Houses of the Interpreter. Chapter 2 of that book is entitled “Masterplot and Meaning in Biblical Narrative.”12 His point in this chapter is that certain heroic aspects may overlap, but that the way a culture structures that narrative, reveals the rudimentary principles of that culture. In Ancient Eastern texts, the hero goes out from his community to gain some prize that when brought back to their community will enrich that community. In the ancient Greek culture, the hero goes out to gain some prize that will confer on them lasting glory when they return home. In the Roman epic, Aeneas leaves his old home, bearing his past (literally carrying both his father and his household gods) to found a new city. In the Christian narrative, “…it is not for us (Christians) but for Christ to overcome shame, acquire unsurpassable arete and to return to his home.”13 Subsequently, Christians are seen as pilgrims on their way to that heavenly home, each day leaving behind the old kingdom and embracing the new.14 Using this format, we can follow a hero like the Thessalian Prince Jason as he goes forth on a journey with the Argonauts to gain the Golden Fleece. He overcomes many obstacles and trials then returns home. He is helped along the journey by the clever sorceress, Medea, whom he jilts. The resulting fallout leaves him sorrowful and alone, having restored his kingdom but having lost his family. This creates

12 Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter, 15–38. What follows is a synopsis of that chapter. While the chapter covers a great deal more, these are the salient points for the rest of this discussion. 13 Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter, 31. 14 Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter, 29–32.

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for the Greeks a hero who has the strength to return home but lacks the nous (mind or intellect) to restore his kingdom. Homer’s Odysseus then serves as a “next step” in the development of the Greek heroic ideal. He leaves home much against his will. He has the arete (excellence) to survive ten years of the Trojan war. He has the nous to end the war with his clever “Trojan horse.” He must face many trials as well as the treachery of his own men. These trials in many ways represent the threat to civil society posed by inversions of the proper order (e.g. hosts who eat rather than feed their guests). Through cleverness and the help of Athena (wisdom) he returns alone to his home with the newfound knowledge of how to overcome the uncivilized forces of the world. He restores his kingdom, redeems his wife and places his house back in order. The next step in the development of the hero comes through the work of Vergil to aid Augustus’ campaign of cultural renewal under his new Roman Empire. Vergil creates a new Roman hero who survives his journey and succeeds in bringing his men to a new land because of the uniquely Roman virtue of pietas. Aeneas succeeds in his journey, not alone as Odysseus, but with his men because he does what is required of him. He is bound by duty—to his country, his family, his men, his future hope of Rome. In this same vein, Paul becomes the Christian hero, called from his old life, he must journey not to a new home, not for his glory, but to spread the Gospel. He is a pilgrim heading toward an eternal home, while building that eternal kingdom wherever he goes. He must get to Rome, the center of the world, so that the message of the Gospel may “conquer Rome” peacefully. By studying the development of these heroes and stories, the virtues extolled by a culture become clear. However, is it at all clear that Luke intentionally placed himself into that tradition as he creates a narrative of the early church and her heroes? We have already proven that Luke had the requisite conditions for such a goal to have been effective and reason-

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able. We have seen the power of myth to cut to the root of a culture’s beliefs. However, does the textual evidence from the Acts account bear out such a claim? Several references in text show promise for connecting Luke’s narrative to the mythological and epic traditions of ancient Greece. Some of these have been noted in the case of Jason, and a great deal has been written on the parallels in the text to the Odyssey. However, Act’s connection to the details of the Vergilian account has been in many ways glossed over or rolled into the analysis of the Odyssean connection—a quite forgivable oversight given the propensity of Vergil to quote heavily from the Homeric sources in his account. However, the Acts account rings with many similarities to the Aeneid and reveal an underlying purpose of Luke to reveal Paul and his message as the true hope and model for an eternal kingdom and a Christian hero. The echoes of Greek myth within Acts, have been well documented and seem to strongly suggest Luke’s desire to cause his early readers to see the formation of the early church in light of the great epics of the Greek world. However, the stronger connections of plot and structure may reside within Vergil’s Roman epic, the Aeneid. Jeffrey suggests: The characteristic form of such narrative in Western Christian cultures involves a journey out from and beyond one notion of civilization almost entirely in order to found another. It is a voyage in which, in certain crucial respects, the initial civilization is left behind, emigrated from, in pursuit of a certain emancipation of the spirit that becomes possible only when that which is Old is transcended or transformed in light of a New vision.15

Given this explanation, the Aeneid becomes a much better study for comparison with Luke’s account, even in a cursory glance the stories seem more similar in their narratives. 15 Jeffrey, Houses of the Interpreter, 18.

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The bridge from Roman to Christian hero is a shorter one in this case. During the early church, Vergil was widely seen as a “Pagan Prophet” for his famous Fourth Eclogue which points to a coming “golden age” ushered in by a divine child who will bring peace.16 This poem was regarded by the early church as a prophecy to the nations of the coming Christ (hence the change in the spelling of Vergil’s name, see footnote 1). The research on this is historically copious and contentious. My point is not to defend the prophetic nature of the text, rather to recognize that from the very early days of Christianity, Vergil held a special place in the early church. I am also not saying that Luke’s audience necessarily made the same assumption about the Eclogue’s meaning. However, if Luke is consciously drawing the attention of the first century world to Paul as a greater Aeneas, then perhaps that is why the early church found Vergil to be such a palatable source. Whether the connection between Luke’s account of Paul and Vergil’s account of Aeneas was possible, can hardly be doubted. Whether Luke echoed other Greek heroes in his text seems likely. However, whether the accounts share enough parallel references to offer support for the actual allusion to Aeneas is another matter altogether. The rest of this article will be devoted to ferreting out those references in order to create a picture of how Luke’s hero differs from Vergil’s. While not all of these references occur at the same points in their respective story, I think that the inclusion of certain details may be best explained by this comparative reading of the two works. For that reason, I will group several of the stronger correlations together and offer a side-by-side comparison of the accounts.17

16 Vergil, “Eclogue IV,” The Bucolics and Eclogues. 17 For the ease of following, I have tried to keep most of the comparisons in chronological order in their stories, but again, chronology is not exactly the point of these comparisons.

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The first and most obvious argument for reading Luke’s account in light of Vergil’s is the appearance of the name Aeneas in Luke’s narrative. After Paul’s conversion he returns to Jerusalem and then the focus of Acts shifts back to Peter who heals a man named Aeneas. This Aeneas had been paralyzed for eight years. In comparison, Vergil’s Aeneas wandered the Mediterranean for seven years and finally made his home in Rome in the eighth year of his struggles. The parallel at this point is already remarkable for anyone acquainted with the story. However, as Luke transitions his story’s focus from Peter to Paul the inclusion of a character named Aeneas holds twofold significance. First, it reveals Luke’s commitment to conveying real events in a way that still accentuates a connection to the Roman myth. If Luke had been only concerned with Peter’s message here, he could have left out the name Aeneas. He certainly tended to leave out many names of those who were healed throughout the story, and the inclusion of the name really does not add anything to the narrative. If, on the other hand, Luke were not committed to relating true events but only concerned with connecting Paul to Aeneas, he could have inserted the name Aeneas in any of Paul’s other healings or travels. Rather than either of these, Luke relates the details of the healing by Peter at the very beginning of Paul’s ministry. Second, the narrative builds up to the eventual call of Paul to take the Gospel out of Judea, to Greece and eventually to Rome. Luke interjects the healing of Aeneas immediately after Paul’s conversion, escape from Damascus and preaching in Jerusalem. The name Aeneas is repeated three times in the narrative, and when, “…all the residents of Lydda and Sharon saw… they turned to the Lord.”18 It is as if Luke offers a foreshadowing of what is about to come for Paul—a meandering and dangerous journey to Rome.

18 Acts 9:35

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This shift in chapter nine of Acts allows the reader now to see the journeys of Paul in light of Aeneas’ story. Using this guiding principle offers a fresh view of Luke’s account and opens up the reading of Acts to many other echoes of Vergil’s narrative. By placing the two accounts side by side several new similarities emerge. One such similarity comes at the beginning of Aeneas’ journey. Aeneas is first given the injunction to flee from Troy in a vision of Hector still bloodied and pierced through the feet from his defeat in the Iliad. Hector’s ghost converses with Aeneas and sends him on his journey, “Sacred Troy has entrusted to you her holy symbols and household gods; take these as companions of your destiny, when as you seek a great city, after wandering the waves, you at last establish a walled home for them.”19 Aeneas awakens to find Troy burning. He endeavors to save it, disguising himself in stolen Greek armor and he attacks the enemy until his own Trojan allies, unaware of the disguise, turn on him. He then is visited by Venus and the ghost of his wife Creusa, both of whom send him on his journey from the walls of hallowed Troy from which he must escape in the night. Much like the story of Aeneas, the story of Paul (a.k.a. Saul) as a Christian hero begins with a vision of his forebearer. However, Paul’s vision is not of defeated Hector but of the resurrected Jesus, who converses with Paul and bestows on him a new mission: Now as he went on his way, he approached Damascus, and suddenly a light from heaven shone around him. And falling to the ground, he heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” And he said, “Who are you, Lord?” And he said, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But rise and enter the city, and you will be told

19 Aeneid II.293–295. Unless otherwise noted all passages from the Aeneid will be from my own translation.

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what you are to do.” The men who were traveling with him stood speechless, hearing the voice but seeing no one. 20

From here, Jesus appears to Ananias and reveals that Paul, “a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before the Gentiles and kings and the children of Israel. For I will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.”21 Paul then begins to carry out his prescribed mission in Damascus, the place he had intended to go to kill Christians where now he becomes the target of persecution and must escape by being lowered in a basket through an opening in the wall. The inception of these two journeys is both marked by divine messages and missions as well as reversals. While Aeneas is visited by the defeated and pierced Hector, Paul is visited by the pierced but victorious Jesus, crowned in glory. Aeneas is called to carry old, defeated Troy (both figuratively and literally) to a new “high walled” sacred city, which will be the chief city of the world. Paul is commissioned to take the message of the Gospel from the old city of Jerusalem to the “Gentiles and kings and children of Israel.” Aeneas is attacked by his own comrades because of his trickery. Paul is sought by the Jews because of his conversion. Then both men then begin their quest with an escape from the breached wall of a city. One other point deserves mention here. Jesus, in a prophetic vision, informs Ananias, “I must show him (Paul) how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.”22 The proem of the Aeneid makes evident the suffering of Aeneas on account of Juno’s wrath: …that man, greatly thrown around by the violence of the gods and the unrelenting rage of cruel Juno on both the land and the deep sea, suffered many trials and even war,

20 Acts 9:3–7 21 Acts 9:15–16 22 Acts 9:16

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while he was founding Rome and bringing the gods into the land of Latium…23

The difference between the suffering of these heroes is that Aeneas must suffer for the anger of Juno, while Paul must suffer “for the sake of” the name of Christ. A mission later described by Paul himself, “that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead.”24 As a hero, Paul does not suffer for a dead and defeated Hector or a capricious and baleful Juno, he serves the suffering yet resurrected and victorious Christ attested to in the first chapter of Acts. Having escaped the burning city, Aeneas and his men depart from Troy. They cross the Hellespont into Thrace where Aeneas pulls branches from a tree before making a sacrifice, but the branches pour forth blood. From these trees, Polydorus, the murdered son of Priam, speaks to Aeneas pleading, “Why do you mutilate my wretched body? Now, forbear that you stain your pious hands, spare them from this corpse.”25 The words of Polydorus to Aeneas almost certainly would have sounded familiar to anyone reading the Acts account of Paul’s conversion. Again, Jesus asks Paul, “Saul, Saul why are you persecuting me?”26 Further, a reader familiar with the words of Polydorus would almost certainly have connected them with the image of a bloody tree. Luke could be directing the attention of Gentile readers to the imagery of Jesus and the cross. This would allow Luke to present Paul as a hero, who once stained with the blood of Christian martyrs, is now made clean from his own impiety by the victorious death and resurrection of the Prince of Peace.

23 24 25 26

Aeneid I.3–6. Philippians 3:10 Aeneid III.41–42. Acts 9:5

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Returning to the Aeneid, a great deal of Aeneas’ heroic journey is concerned with prophetic visions and dreams. Vergil follows Aeneas and his men as they flee to Delos, consult the oracle and are told to return to the land of their fathers. They mistake this prophecy for an injunction to travel to Crete. After a year in Crete, the wandering Trojans are stricken with a plague and the Penates (Trojan/Roman family gods) urge Aeneas in a dream to seek Hesperia (the western land). Aeneas and his band of Trojans leave Crete and continue to the coast of Greece where a storm drives them to the land of the Harpies, beasts which drive them away with another prophecy that they must seek Italy as well as the dire prediction of that they will found no city until hunger forces them to gnaw their tables. Departing from Crete, the group arrives eventually on the mainland of Greece near Epirus. Here Aeneas meets Andromache, the wife of Hector, and Helenus, another son of Priam (the old Trojan king), who welcome them into a version of what they left in Troy, only in Epirus it is in miniature. Helenus, the king of this Parva Troia (Tiny Troy) is also a seer. He prophecies the remaining trials of Aeneas’ journey as well as a sign that will guide Aeneas to his final destination. Luke’s narrative parallels this repetition of prophecy and signs for the journey of his hero. As the message of the Gospel spreads all the way up to Roman cities in Asia Minor, the Jerusalem council meets to settle a dispute that had developed over circumcision for Gentile believers. James proposes a solution that precipitates movement of Paul across the Hellespont into Macedonia and Greece. He calls on a prophecy from several Old Testament sources to point out the necessity for the Gospel to spread to the Gentiles: ‘After this I will return, and I will rebuild the tent of David that has fallen; I will rebuild its ruins, and I will restore it, that the remnant of mankind may seek the Lord,

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and all the Gentiles who are called by my name, says the Lord, who makes these things known from of old.’ 27

The Jerusalem council receives this prophetic message and James’ advice to send missionaries to the Gentiles. This becomes the starting point for Paul’s second missionary journey. Much like Aeneas, Paul’s journey will be accompanied by many more divine messages and prophecies driving him on his wandering path to Rome. Luke’s account now follows Paul as he takes Timothy to Troas on the coast of Asia Minor, a city founded in the region of the old Troy. While in Troas “…a vision appeared to Paul in the night: a man of Macedonia was standing there, urging him and saying, ‘Come over to Macedonia and help us.’ And when Paul had seen the vision, immediately we sought to go on into Macedonia, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel to them.”28 Following this vision, Paul sets out across the Hellespont and along the initial path of Aeneas on his journey. This vision, like many of the others from the narrative, sends Paul along his journey to complete the will of God. However, unlike the Vergilian account of Aeneas, Paul as a Christian hero never seems to wrestle with the message he receives. Paul willingly accepts the message and embarks on his quest with the assurance of a hero who has faith in the purpose of his mission. Troas reenters the narrative several more times in Acts, the last is during Paul’s third missionary journey. Paul goes out again to visit Greece. Following the path back up to Troas, crossing again into Greece before returning to Tyre in Phoenicia by boat, Luke then relates the story of another fascinating prophecy:

27 Acts 15:15–17 28 Acts 16:9–11

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While we were staying for many days, a prophet named Agabus came down from Judea. And coming to us, he took Paul’s belt and bound his own feet and hands and said, “Thus says the Holy Spirit, ‘This is how the Jews at Jerusalem will bind the man who owns this belt and deliver him into the hands of the Gentiles.’ When we heard this, we and the people there urged him not to go up to Jerusalem. Then Paul answered, “What are you doing, weeping and breaking my heart? For I am ready not only to be imprisoned but even to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus.” And since he would not be persuaded, we ceased and said, “Let the will of the Lord be done.”29

This prophecy marks the true beginning of Paul’s trip to Rome. Here Agabus warns Paul of what is to come if he chooses to continue on his mission. And yet, Paul confronts this certainty with the assurance of a Christian hero. His words are daring and at the same time reminiscent of Luke’s own words about Jesus, “When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.”30 Here Paul is a hero who is willing to carry out his mission in the face of death not for the future glory of an earthly kingdom, but in obedience to and imitation of his Lord, Jesus Christ. The fact that Luke emphasizes that this event occurs in Tyre may also be a hint that he is attempting to speak to a Romans audience. Luke specifically mentions that they are returning to Jerusalem by way of Phoenicia and make a stop in Tyre—a city that would be readily recognized by anyone by any Roman as the ancestral home of Dido and the Carthaginians. The first four books of the Aeneid focus on Aeneas’ shipwreck on the Northern coast of Africa, where Aeneas meets Dido, a Phoenecian princess who has fled Tyre with her own band of followers. Throughout the Aeneid, Vergil refers to the followers of Dido as Tyrii and of Dido herself as the Dido Phoenissa. She has founded the city of Carthage, the future rivals 29 Acts 21:10–14 30 Luke 9:51

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of Rome. While stopped in Carthage, Aeneas and Dido fall in love by the interference of Venus and Hera. This leads to an affair between Dido and Aeneas that nearly ends his journey. It is not until Aeneas is visited by the ghost of his father and by Mercury himself that Aeneas leaves Dido and Carthage. Luke’s emphasis on Tyre and this prophecy of Agabus drives home the point that this is Paul’s last chance to avoid an arduous journey that will end in Rome. Like Aeneas, Paul is given a choice of remaining in Phoenecian land or taking up his burden for a future kingdom and beginning again his journey which will end in Rome. However, unlike Aeneas, he needs no divine urging for him to remember his calling. Luke portrays a Christian hero in Paul who embraces his journey undistracted by earthly concerns or regrets because he carries the divine calling (not for the future glory of an earthly kingdom but the glory of each of his converts) within him. Another area where Vergil offers some insight into Luke’s narrative is through the adventures encountered by the two men. Luke recounts numerous adventures in rapid succession punctuated in much the same manner as Vergil—Paul and Silas freed from a Philippian prison; Paul and Barnabas mistaken for Hermes and Zeus in Lystra; Paul stoned by the Jews and left for dead. None of these accounts take up much of the narrative account. Similarly, Vergil hurries through the great adventures of Aeneas—the Scylla and Charybdis, Enceledus, and Polyphemus. Each of these adventures has the narrative feeling of Aeneas’ recounting of his story in books two and three of the Aeneid. Heroes are welcomed or chastised and invariably escape to the next city. Aeneas escapes each peril simply and quietly as he makes his way to the inevitable new kingdom in Italy. However, Luke’s account of Paul’s adventures, while sparse in narrative explanation, typically are followed by a speech in which Paul delivers the Gospel message to those who seek to kill him. This reveals the striking difference between these heroes— both are inexorably drawn to Rome but Paul is constantly fulfilling his mission and building an eternal kingdom all along

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the journey. Luke reminds his readers of this striking difference as Paul stands before Agrippa in Acts 26: “And Agrippa said to Paul, “In a short time would you persuade me to be a Christian?” And Paul said, “Whether short or long, I would to God that not only you but also all who hear me this day might become such as I am—except for these chains.”31 Paul seeks not simply to destroy the enemy or escape the enemy, but to convert the enemy to the truth and embrace them as fellow brothers and sisters. Another interesting detail emerges as Aeneas and his men near the end of their journey; a storm drives the Trojans to the shore of Sicily where they stop to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Anchises’ death. Aeneas performs the rites at the altar for Anchises when, “from the depths of the shrine a smooth snake slipped, huge, with seven coils gently embraced the mound with each of the seven folds slipping through the altar… and harmlessly slithered back to the base of the mound.”32 This snake symbol is taken as an encouragement to Aeneas as either the spirit of that place or of his father. In a similarly placed event toward the end of his narrative, Luke recounts the shipwreck on the island of Malta (just off the coast of Sicily). As the Lord promised to Paul, everyone on the ship is saved and are welcomed by the inhabitants of Malta. While there, Paul builds a fire and when he adds sticks to the fire, a poisonous snake comes out from the fire and bites his hand. The people see this as a judgement from the gods and expect Paul to die, but when they see that he is unharmed they declare that he is a god. This episode offers one more comparison to Aeneas. Malta is Paul’s last stop before arriving at mainland Italy (but not yet in Rome). It is off the coast of Sicily, where Aeneas made his last stop before arriving at the mainland (but not yet in Rome). It is here that the huge serpent comes out from 31 Acts 26:28–29 32 Aeneid V.84–86, 92–93

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beneath the altar set up by Aeneas in honor of his father. Now Paul is confronted with a similar situation, but Luke’s hero is bitten by the snake and survives. In each situation the snake symbolizes to the people the divine blessing. While Aeneas is left wondering what exactly this sign means and if his father has blessed his offering and journey, Paul is elevated to the realm of the gods in the minds of those witnessing this event. Paul reveals the blessing of God on him, thus confirming his heroic status even as a prisoner of Rome. In Luke’s account this event itself is a capstone of the long journey to Rome for Paul. Although a prisoner of the Roman Government, he has repeatedly saved the soldiers and sailors who are his captors. By this point in the story even the residents of Malta have realized that Paul has a power beyond that of his captors. This story places in the mind of the reader the similar serpentine event in the Aeneid while creating a powerful reversal—the source of Paul’s authority and power stems not from human government or power, but from the One, True God. While these previous details certainly would have called to mind various aspects of the Aeneid, the events that lead up to this event in Malta contain the greatest opportunity for comparison with Aeneas. Paul, a Roman citizen, invokes the Roman law of trial before Caesar and the Lord appears to Paul declaring that Paul will testify in Rome. Again, this divine message echoes the constant encouragement of Aeneas to continue to Rome. The difference is that for Paul, the message is clear and indicative; for Aeneas, the message is often ambiguous or volitive. Under the threat of the Jews, Paul escapes Jerusalem (the old kingdom) with two Roman centuries in the middle of the night. Paul offers his defense before the court of Felix then Festus and Agrippa. Each of these stops in royal courts contain a similar feel to Aeneas explaining his adventures and singing his glory. While the situation may be similar, the message reveals the diverging point for these two heroes. Aeneas’ storytelling usually involves the process of singing his

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own glory in a very Odyssean manner. Paul’s speeches may explain his journey but are always focused on a glory beyond himself as he unveils the Gospel. The Christian hero is not seeking Rome and her future glory at the end of the journey. Paul is called to Rome to proclaim the message of the future glory of Christ’s kingdom as part of his pilgrimage in this temporary home. In the next stage of this journey, Paul is sent by ship to Crete; here he urges the crew not to set out because the stormy season has begun. This again is an inversion of Aeneas who remains in Crete until he is urged to move on to Rome. The crew ignores Paul and sets out for Rome. This opens up two interesting comparisons. One is the disagreement in how the journey should proceed. For Aeneas this disagreement happens in Sicily before sailing for Cumae and the Underworld. The women in his group seek to burn the ships. Aeneas nearly abandons his mission until a vision of his father appears to him urging, “… take the especially chosen young men and the bravest souls into Italy for you must fight it out with a hard, cruel Latin tribe.”33 Aeneas leaves the women and elderly on Sicily before proceeding into Italy. Paul’s disagreement happens in Crete and the subsequent sailing. Paul warns the centurion not to embark yet, but to wait for the stormy season to end. The centurion ignores Paul, sets out and the ship is caught in a storm. The men repent of not listening to Paul’s advice, and he encourages them: For this very night there stood before me an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I worship, and he said, ‘Do not be afraid, Paul; you must stand before Caesar. And behold, God has granted you all those who sail with you.’ So take heart, men, for I have faith in God that it will be

33 Aeneid V.729–731

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exactly as I have been told. But we must run aground on some island.34

The ship is caught in a storm for fourteen days and as it approaches land some of the sailors seek to abandon ship, but Paul tells them that they must stay with the ship if they want to live. They believe him and cut loose the ship’s boat. All the ship’s passengers are saved from death even after the ship is destroyed on the coast of Malta. As both of these “mutiny scenes” play out, we see how Luke’s inversion casts a different type of hero. Where Aeneas simply leaves those who no longer trust in his mission, Paul goes with the Roman Centurion against his better judgement. He does not seek to sabotage or overthrow the order even in the midst of the storm. Paul’s trust in the Lord eventually not only brings the passengers safely through the storm but wins them to obedience because of Paul’s assurance in the words of his God. The second comparison is perhaps the strongest in the whole journey—the account of the storm. In Book V of the Aeneid, Aeneas and his men set out from Sicily and encounter a deadly storm. This storm motif occurs throughout the Aeneid, so we may see these events recalled in book three when Aeneas and his men set out from Crete. In both accounts the sun and stars are obscured for at least three days, the ships wander tracklessly, and the storm leaves the crew despairing of life. Again, these are by no means the only storms in the Aeneid, but these show particular connection to Paul’s shipwreck. Troy M. Troftgruben notes that Luke’s account of this shipwreck accounts for nearly six percent of the whole account of Acts.35 He rejects Zeichmann’s idea that this is an imitation of Homer and indicates that this is a stylistic choice that, “…suspends the story’s outcome in ways that generate 34 Acts 27:23–26 35 Troy M. Troftgruben, “Slow Sailing in Acts: Suspense in the Final Sea Journey (Acts 27:1–28:15),” Journal of Biblical Literature 136, no. 4 (2017): 949–68.

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tension and anticipation. The Final Sea Journey of Acts suspends in order to provoke and, in the process, casts a new vision of hope for apostolic witness and the spaces where it takes place.”36 However, what if it is both? Luke may very well be drawing in the epic shipwrecks of Odysseus and Aeneas to contrast Paul with those heroes. As a hero in a storm, Vergil’s description of Aeneas lacks the certainty and hope of Paul: Immediately Aeneas’s limbs went slack: he laments and stretching both hands to the stars he calls out, “Oh, three and four times blessed, you who it befell to meet your death before the eyes of our fathers and under the high walls of Troy. Oh, Diomedes of Tydeus born, could I not on the Trojan battlefield have poured out my spirit by your right hand…”37

If Luke intends to contrast the two men as heroes, Paul’s speech offers a different sort of hope: Men, you should have listened to me and not have set sail from Crete and incurred this injury and loss. Yet now I urge you to take heart, for there will be no loss of life among you, but only of the ship. For this very night there stood before me an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I worship, and he said, “Do not be afraid, Paul; you must stand before Caesar. And behold, God has granted you all those who sail with you.” So take heart, men, for I have faith in God that it will be exactly as I have been told. But we must run aground on some island.38

If Luke is aware of Vergil’s text, the storms may be similar but the responses of these two men reveal completely different underlying virtues. Both Aeneas and Paul received messages assuring them of their mission, but Paul is a hero of faith. He 36 Troftgruben, “Slow Sailing in Acts,” 953. 37 Aeneid I.92–98 This passage comes from another storm scene in book 1 of the Aeneid. 38 Acts 27: 21–26

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knows that his journey may end in death, but he never longs for that death as a release from his mission. He knows that Rome was never his final destination. Acts closes out Paul’s journey to Rome and reveals one more point of comparison for the heroes. After three months, Paul and his captors make their way up the coast and eventually to Rome. In Rome Paul is given the opportunity to present the gospel to Rome. Luke closes his narrative with Paul quoting a prophecy which reveals the goal of the mission: “The Holy Spirit was right in saying to your fathers through Isaiah the prophet: ‘Go to this people, and say, “You will indeed hear but never understand, and you will indeed see but never perceive. For this people’s heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed; lest they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears and understand with their heart and turn, and I would heal them.” ’ Therefore let it be known to you that this salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles; they will listen.” He lived there two whole years at his own expense, and welcomed all who came to him, proclaiming the kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Jesus Christ with all boldness and without hindrance.39

At last, Paul arrives successfully in Rome having accomplished the mission given him and fulfilling the prophecy of the Lord. Similarly, Aeneas’ journey comes to an end when he recognizes the fulfillment of two prophecies regarding his journey.40 The remainder of the Aeneid focuses on Aeneas’ political and physical conquering of the land for his new city. 39 Acts 28:25–31 40 Celano’s prophecy that the men would eat their plates and Helenus’ prophecy of the sow with her piglets.

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While this is not directly referenced in Acts, this final prophetic reference anticipates the second half of the Aeneid. Luke either writes before Paul’s later imprisonment and execution or chooses to leave that narrative alone for his account. However his ending here allows the reader to anticipate Paul’s work in light of the second half of the Aeneas’ tasks. Whereas Aeneas physically overcome the enemies in the land and earn the right to marry into the Latin royal family, Paul remains the prisoner of the Romans even as he sows the seeds of a kingdom that will eventually subdue Rome. The instances of overlap between the stories of Paul and Aeneas, taken individually may be viewed as coincidental, but, as a whole, offer a strong connection between these two heroes. Previous research has linked Paul to the heroic tradition, but the protracted view of Luke’s account in comparison with Vergil’s does offer a richer depth to the concept of Paul as a hero for the Christian tradition. As noted by Jeffrey, the cultural myth undergoes huge shifts from the ancient near east to the Roman and eventually Christian world. This was a shift noticed by Luke. Vergil had offered a new heroic narrative for the Roman people stemming from the heroic tradition of Homer. He presented a hero who shoulders his tradition and religion, and sets out with the future hope of glory to a new kingdom. Aeneas endures his struggles and denies his own pleasure so that his son might gain the glory of a Rome that does not yet exist. Unlike an Odysseus or Jason, the goal is no longer a return to the past, but a striving for a new kingdom and a glorious “golden age.” Similarly, Luke intentionally walks his readers through many familiar heroic episodes in order to offer a new hero for the beginning of their culture. Paul faces the challenges of the great heroes of old, and Luke ensures that his audience understands how similar Paul’s path is in comparison to that of Aeneas. However, Paul confronts these dangers and wins victory over his enemies in ways that would be unimaginable by either Homer or Vergil. His is not a victory of his own strength, but of his

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own humility. It is a victory not won through military might but through surrender to the Roman authorities. It is a victory not through marriage into the Lavinian line but through being a part of the church, Christ’s bride. It is a victory not marked by a final act of vengeance, but by an act of self sacrifice. Paul knowingly shoulders his father, Abraham and the law of Moses on his journey, but he does so clinging to the hand of the Son and the hope of His eternal kingdom. This is the image of the Christian hero and the Christian virtues that eventually convert Rome and outlive the empire. ⸭ David Givens has been teaching at Eastwood Christian School in Montgomery, Alabama for the past twenty-four years where he has served as the Rhetoric School principal for the past seven years and teaches Golden Age Latin as well as a “Myth, Truth and the Gospel” class. He holds a BA from Hillsdale College in Marketing Management and Classical Studies, and a Master’s in Latin from the University of Florida. He’s currently enrolled in Faulkner University’s Classical Education doctoral program. He and his wife of twenty-three years have three children and enjoy heading the Eastwood Christian School theater and cross country programs.

Happy Tragedy How Tragedy Amplifies the Happy Life in the Greek Tragedies & the Bible by Drew Mery, M.A. Happy Tragedy in the Greek Tragedies

urder, matricide, suicide, psychological suffering, injustice, and more all color the unhappiness characteristic of the Greek tragedies—blood and tears stain their pages. How, then, can “happy” possibly be used as an adjective for “tragedy”? The two words don’t seem to fit; but it is precisely this paradox that makes the tragedies so interesting: they teach us what the Greeks thought of the happy life (or living well). The telos of the Greek tragedies is not tragedy for tragedy’s sake but the revelation and imitation of the truly happy life. The tragic elements amplify a deeper meaning of human flourishing by pushing it center stage, communicating that happiness is not the absence of sorrow, but the endurance of areté (excellence) in the midst of it. That is, the tragic elements strip away the ephemeral happiness to help us see more clearly a happiness that transcends the moment. In this way, the tragic heroes serve as exemplars for the Greeks to imitate; and in many ways, for us to imitate. Through their tragic lives, they assure us that happiness is more than surface deep, that you can be happy in the midst of unhappiness.

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The Nature of the Truly Happy Life

As will be shown, the tragedies depict the truly happy life as characterized by a commitment to the virtues of justice and wisdom, piety toward the gods, and the receiving of a good name (or glory). Simply stated, then, the truly happy life is a virtuous and pious life, resulting in a good name. It will be shown how the tragedians emphasize this sense of human flourishing in the midst of unhappy circumstances. I begin with Euripides because he is the most explicit on this understanding of tragedies.

Happy Tragedy in Euripides

In speaking of the tragic death of Hippolytus (in the play by his name), a “just man” known for his “piety and innocence,” the chorus remarks that “the lamentable stories of great men prevail more than of humble folk.”1 Though Hippolytus is said to be unhappy, Artemis promises that he will be compensated with “the greatest honors” and will not be forgotten.2 The principle here is two-fold. First, great men—just, virtuous, and pious—are remembered for their greatness, which is emphasized through their lamentable lives. We lament for them, not merely because they suffer, but because they suffer as great men. Second, such men are rewarded with the glory of remembrance, the implication being that we should desire to be like them—to be great as they are great, and so receive the same glory that transcends the tragic moment.

1 Euripides, Hippolytus, trans. David Greene, in Great Books of the Western World, vol. 4, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, ed. Mortimer J. Adler (Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1993), 313, 315. All references to the Greek playwrights are from volume 4 of Great Books of the Western World. 2 Euripides, Hippolytus, 315.

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Hippolytus, however, is not the only exemplar in Hippolytus. Phaedra, the step-mother of Hippolytus, is inflicted with an intense love for him, a forbidden love. For this reason, Aristophanes has Aeschylus refer to her as a “harlot” and “erotic female” in The Frogs.3 This is all the more striking considering Aristophanes makes Aeschylus the victor in the poetic battle with Euripides. While I may agree with Aeschylus being the better poet, I do not agree with the assessment that “harlot” and “erotic” are proper designations of Phaedra. There are several reasons for this. First, Phaedra’s desire for Hippolytus is instigated by Aphrodite (i.e., Cypris) who is envious of Hippolytus’ devotion to Artemis. If there is a harlot or erotic woman, then it is Aphrodite who connives this bitter plan and causes Phaedra to feel these desires. If it be objected that Aphrodite is merely symbolic, and that the desire ultimately arose from within Phaedra, there are still two reasons why she ought not be thought a harlot. Second, she never acted on her desire. A harlot or an exotic woman is not someone who merely desires, but enacts. Even at the nagging advice of her nurse to surrender to her desire, Phaedra refuses. Third, and most importantly, the reason for Phaedra’s refusal to give in to her love for Hippolytus is her greater love for virtue. Phaedra’s desire for an honorable name, both for herself and her family, is stronger. She is determined to have “a just and quiet conscience.”4 Whereas the nurse tells Phaedra that “the deed is better if it saves your life” than dying in defense of one’s good name, Phaedra ultimately chooses death by suicide, communicating that it is better to die with “an uncontaminated name” than to continue life in shame.5 For these reasons, Phaedra is better thought of as a chaste and noble woman. Both Hippolytus and Phaedra are said to be unhappy for their tragic circumstances. Yet, at the same time, they are 3 4 5

Aristophanes, The Frogs, trans. David Barrett, 816. Euripides, Hippolytus, 302. Euripides, Hippolytus, 303, 306.

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praised for their virtue and piety, and therefore die having a good name worthy of remembrance and imitation. This is the happiness that transcends their unhappy circumstances. Euripides is even more explicit on the nature of true happiness in the midst of unhappy circumstances in The Trojan Women. Cassandra tells her mother, Hecuba, that Hector’s fate is not as sad as it seems. Yes, he is “dead and gone,” she says, “but with reputation, as a valiant man.” Had Troy held back, none might have known how great he was.6 As an aside, we see here how the Greek tragedies can provide commentary and deeper insight into Homer’s epic poems—in this case, The Iliad. In other words, tragedies can isolate and intensify tragic scenes or episodes found in the epics, as if expanding and re-interpreting Homer’s vision. Cassandra goes on to speak of the proud remembrance of the courageous and the deserved shame of the coward.7 In other words, there is more to life than life itself. Tragic circumstances are indeed unhappy, but they might just be the means of bringing to light a greater happiness. These examples from Euripides provide guidance for understanding Greek tragedies in general, but that is not to say that every tragedy has the same positive emphasis on this notion of the happy life. Some might take a negative approach by emphasizing pure tragedy as a cautionary tale, such as in Medea, in which neither character exhibits the happy life and are therefore not to be emulated. In what follows, I will focus my attention on two recurring families in the Greek tragedies: the house of Agamemnon, with particular focus on Electra, and the house of Oedipus, with focus both on Oedipus and Antigone.

6 7

Euripides, The Trojan Women, trans. Richmond Lattimore, 368. Euripides, The Trojan Women, 369.

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Happy Tragedy in the Houses of Agamemnon & Oedipus Through Sophocles

In Sophocles’ Electra, Electra is overwhelmed with her unhappy condition of being held prisoner, like a slave, in her own home, kept in check by Aegisthus and her mother, Clytemnestra. Even though her ravings serve as a caution not to steep in sorrows, she nonetheless serves as an exemplar of virtue, piety, and glory, especially as a contrast to her sister, Chrysothemis. If Electra has “won for herself a superfluity of misfortune, breeding wars in her sullen soul evermore,”8 Chrysothemis has given in to fear, being more concerned with the continuance of her life than the administration of justice. In speaking to Chrysothemis of her plan, Electra voices the happy notion of a great reputation among the people for exhibiting bravery in fighting to restore order to their father’s house,9 but Chrysothemis will have none of it. To put these two characters side-by-side, Electra pursues justice while being in anguish, whereas Chrysothemis avoids justice and remains at relative peace. It’s as if Sophocles is asking the audience, which character/life do you prefer? What do you give greater weight to? The chorus ultimately sides with Electra, which supports the view that she is to be seen as an exemplar of virtue, piety, and glory: the chorus declares that she is found in distress “but winning the highest prize by piety toward Zeus for observance of nature’s greatest laws.”10 An enduring happiness can be had even in the midst of anguish brought on by tragic circumstances. If you want to live for a happiness that transcends negative circumstances, then be fervid for justice and glory like Electra, Sophocles is saying; don’t be a Chrysothemis. Oedipus is perhaps the most tragic character, and for this reason one of the most supportive of the thesis. In The 8 Sophocles, Electra, trans. David Greene, 197. 9 Sophocles, Electra, 207. 10 Sophocles, Electra, 209.

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Frogs, Aristophanes creates a debate between Euripides and Aeschylus. Euripides says that Oedipus became unhappy, whereas Aeschylus says that Oedipus was never happy, only unfortunate.11 This illustrates wonderfully the difference between a temporal, emotional happiness that is based on perceptions and a transcendent happiness that considers the constitution of a person, even in unhappy circumstances. In one sense, Oedipus was happy when in ignorance of his true identity, and that of his wife’s, and then unhappy when knowledge came. In another sense, he was unhappy even in his ignorance. Indeed, in Oedipus the King, Jocasta calls him “unhappy Oedipus” just prior to his discovery, and the strophe of the chorus later remarks upon how fleeting human happiness is.12 Both Euripides and Aeschylus touch on important aspects of happiness in The Frogs. However, what must not be overlooked is the ending of Oedipus’ life. Sophocles redeems Oedipus in Oedipus at Colonus. Even though both Oedipus and Antigone express their unhappiness early in the play, there is clearly a note of happiness emphasized throughout. This note is familial love that endures through difficult circumstances. “I have what is dearest to me in the world,” says Oedipus; “to die, now, would not be so terrible, since you are near me.”13 Again, this time more pointedly and with Ismene also present, Oedipus tells his daughters: “I know it was hard, my children.—And yet one word makes all those difficulties disappear: that word is love. You never shall have more from any man than you have had from me.”14 This is a redeeming aspect of Oedipus’ tragic life. He’s now an old man, having wandered blindly (literally) for many years, guided by the love of his daughter, Antigone. He’s an outcast wherever he goes. But at least he has the love of his daughters. 11 12 13 14

Aristophanes, The Frogs, 818. Sophocles, Oedipus the King, trans. David Greene, 126, 128. Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, trans. Robert Fitzgerald, 149–50. Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, 156.

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Familial love is only a partial redemption for Oedipus, though. Its completion is in his ceasing from being an outcast. By means of prophecy, the place where Oedipus is buried will be sacred, a means of blessing; and it is at Colonus, a district of Athens, that Oedipus is to be buried, being graciously received by King Theseus. Oedipus’ burial is mystical, but definitive of his happiness—some attendant from heaven came for him, or the underworld opened in love to receive him, so that he was taken without lamentation, illness, or suffering; indeed his end “was wonderful if mortal’s ever was.”15 Love again makes its appearance, but this time it is heavenly. These tragic depictions that once defined his life are no more. Oedipus is no longer simply a tragic character; he is a tragic hero. His good name has been restored. Antigone and Ismene still struggle with the unhappy loss of their father, requiring the chorus to exhort them to courage and to remind them that no one in the world is safe from unhappiness.16 Here again we see this fluctuation in the tragic plays between an emotional happiness and a happiness that speaks to the constitution and name of the person. Theseus offers to assist Antigone and Ismene in their return home if it brings them happiness. And the chorus concludes: “Now let the weeping cease; let no one mourn again. These things are in the hands of God.”17 Taken together, these remarks encompass both aspects of happiness—Theseus offers an outward blessing of happiness and the chorus offers the internal happiness of a trusting disposition in God. Both have their value. Like her father, Antigone is one of the most tragic characters, but again this only emphasizes what true happiness means for the Greeks. Ultimately, Antigone is sentenced to death for her piety towards the gods, for her commitment to a justice that transcends the word of King Creon, by bury15 Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, 156. 16 Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, 157. 17 Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, 158.

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ing her brother when Creon had forbidden it. In her own words, Antigone is committing a “crime of piety” for doing what “the gods have honored.”18 Her most powerful speech is directed to Creon himself, wherein she states that Creon’s law was not the law of the gods, and she expresses her willingness to die with a clean conscience in the matter.19 Shortly before her death, Antigone again reiterates that what she did was right and that the wise will see her choice as being in the right, as there is no divine justice that she has disobeyed.20 Antigone’s positive example of the truly happy life is contrasted by the negative example of Creon who reaps what he sows—namely death. The blind prophet, Teiresias, accuses Creon of being stubborn and stupid, and of confusing “the upper and lower worlds,” because he refused to bury one who deserved burial and had buried (killed) one who deserved to live.21 By the time he repents of his stubbornness—“I’ve come to fear it’s best to hold the laws of old tradition to the end of life”22 —it’s too late. Antigone has already hung herself in the cave she was sentenced to die in; Haemon, Creon’s son and Antigone’s fiancée, has killed himself; and Eurydice, Creon’s wife, also kills herself because of Haemon’s death. Death upon death upon death, because one man refused the justice of the gods and the counsel of the wise. The messenger himself states the conclusion: “to reject good counsel is a crime;” and Creon confesses, “O crimes of my wicked heart, harshness bringing death.”23 The chorus remarks that he has “learned justice, though it comes too late.” The moral of the story is communicated by the chorus at the end, thereby relating wisdom to happiness: “Our happiness depends on wisdom all the way. The gods must have their due. Great words by men of pride bring greater blows upon them. So wisdom 18 19 20 21 22 23

Sophocles, Antigone, trans. Elizabeth Wyckoff, 160. Sophocles, Antigone, 164. Sophocles, Antigone, 169. Sophocles, Antigone, 170–171. Sophocles, Antigone, 171. Sophocles, Antigone, 173.

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comes to the old.”24 With Antigone, we see how to live—justly and piously. With Creon, we see how not to live—unjustly and arrogantly. Again, the tragic circumstances only serve to amplify what the Greeks thought about the truly happy life.

Conclusion to Happy Tragedy in the Greek Tragedies

These characters and their tragic stories exemplify the nature and purpose of the Greek tragedies, which is to teach the meaning of true happiness: a life ordered after justice, of piety to the gods, and of a good name that will be remembered. The tragedians remind us that happiness can come out of unhappiness, and that happiness is not one-dimensional. There is a happiness that corresponds to temporal situations—an emotional and material happiness—and there is a happiness that transcends the temporal, a happiness that can be had in the midst of unhappy, even tragic, circumstances. It is precisely these tragic stories that serve to elevate and clarify for mankind what a truly happy or flourishing life looks like.

Happy Tragedy in the Bible

Reflecting on the notion of happy tragedy in the Greek tragedies can significantly help us in our understanding of the Bible, as the Scriptures are full of happy tragedies. Reading the Scriptures with this notion of happy tragedy in mind can also aid us in our lives as we walk in obedience to Christ in a fallen world, trusting in God’s providence and goodness when difficult circumstances arise. Following is a brief exploration of happy tragedy in the Scriptures, focusing on Joseph and Jesus who serve as helpful paradigms when reflecting on lives of other tragic heroes in Scripture. 24 Sophocles, Antigone, 179.

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Happy Tragedy in the Life of Joseph

Joseph is one of the first major tragic heroes we encounter in Scripture. After receiving dreams that essentially prophesy of his brothers bowing down before him, his brothers devise a wicked scheme to kill him, but ultimately agree to sell him into slavery. As a slave in Egypt in Potiphar’s house, the wife of Potiphar attempts to sleep with Joseph, but Joseph refuses: “How then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?”25 Due to a false accusation by Potiphar’s wife, Joseph is thrown into prison, though God’s blessing and favor are still upon him.26 After two full years of imprisonment, Joseph accurately interprets Pharaoh’s dreams, resulting in his freedom and being set over all the kingdom, Pharaoh excepted.27 During the famine of the land, Joseph’s brothers come to Egypt and bow before him, 28 not realizing that it’s Joseph, which brings us full-circle to Joseph’s dreams that started this all. In the life of Joseph, we see that happiness comes through unhappiness. It would have been easy for Joseph to question God’s love and purposes, but he remained steadfast in faith throughout his tragic circumstances. He exhibits the virtues in his various relations, even towards those who have wronged him, piety toward God and earthly masters, and as a result receives a good name and is placed as governor over the land.

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Happy Tragedy in the Life of Jesus

Jesus is prophesied as being “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.”29 The life of Jesus, our blessed Lord and Savior, parallels the life of Joseph in many ways. In short, Jesus, the eternal Son of God, empties Himself “by taking the form of a servant [or slave].”30 He also experiences betrayal by Judas, which leads to a kangaroo court before the Sanhedrin.31 Climactically, Jesus experiences a gruesome death on the cross.32 However, this is not the end of Jesus, “who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.”33 He is resurrected and ascended to glory. As Joseph was made governor over the land of Egypt, so Jesus has been made King of kings and Lord of lords.34 The cross is what Tolkien calls a eucatastrophe (good catastrophe), because the redeeming work of God is brought about through what seems like a defeat. The idea of happy tragedy is closely related to the idea of eucatastrophe. However, whereas eucatastrophe looks to events, happy tragedy looks to characters. How Jesus endured these tragic circumstances is what is in view with happy tragedy, and the way in which He endured them is an example to us for how we should live: “For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in his steps.”35 In the fullest manner, then, do we see happiness coming through unhappiness in the life of Jesus. What He is and has done, He is and has done for us—His people, His bride. As 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

Isaiah 52:3 Philipians 2:7 Mark 14:10–11, 43–50, 53–65 Mark 15:21–41 Hebrews 12:2 Revelation 19:16 1 Peter 2:21

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the sinless Son of God, Jesus exhibited the virtues to perfection, and He exhibited piety toward His heavenly Father to perfection. Therefore, God has highly exalted Him and bestowed on Him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord—behold, His good name.36

A Happy-Tragic Happy Ending

Individual Christians, and the Church in general, can be strengthened and comforted by coming to grips with the reality that our lives are meant to be little happy tragedies on the way to the consummation of all things. This is why the Apostle Paul can say that we are “heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”37 It’s why Paul and Barnabas exhorted the disciples in Derbe, “saying that through many tribulations we must enter the kingdom of God.”38 While this does not mean we should seek out trials and tribulations, it does mean that we should, in the name of Christ, exhibit virtue and piety in the midst of them.39 And we do so because we realize that the truly happy life does not mean a life without sorrow or with an abundance of material things; the truly happy life is a life of ordered contentment in and love of God, which, even in the midst of unhappiness, manifests itself in virtue and piety—albeit, not perfectly. King David calls this “the path of life,” which consists of the “fullness of joy” and “pleasures forevermore” in the presence of God.40

36 37 38 39 40

Philippians 2:9–11 Romans 8:17 Acts 14:22 2 Peter 1:3–11 Psalm 16:11

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⸭ Drew Mery is a Doctor of Arts student in Humanities (Philosophy and Religion) at Harrison Middleton University, and is the founder and president of Charlemagne College. He holds an M.A. in Humanities (Great Books) from American Public University. His work has appeared in Salvo Magazine, FORMA Journal, and The Consortium Journal.

Reformation Shadows in Dante’s Purgatorio by Jessica Clark

ew works of literature lend themselves to accomplishing the holistic goal of training the mind to contextualize the theological and philosophical worldview of an author, recognize the influences from which these views come, identify the elements of genre within the work, and pull out practical applications, whether for acceptance or rejection, like Dante’s Divine Comedy. The Divine Comedy is a masterclass in Medieval comedy, with influences of consequence for forming a consistent worldview today and a storyline that, viewed carefully, serves as a helpful metaphor for the Christian life. Situated in the center of the Divine Comedy is Dante’s Purgatorio. Peter Leithart, in his guide to the Divine Comedy, Ascent to Love, said of Purgatorio, Many readers find Purgatorio less interesting than Inferno, and in part this is because Purgatory lacks the colorful characters and memorable scenes of horror that are found throughout Hell. There are no Ulysses or Francescas, individual personalities who dominate entire cantos. But this is not a failure of imagination on Dante’s part; it is a deliberate thematic device. For Dante, individuality itself is not praiseworthy. In truth, the fact that the sinners in Hell stand out from all others is part of their damnation. Hell

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is a place of individuals, while Purgatory is the beginning of community.1

Leithart’s commentary sheds some important light on the benefits of a study of Purgatorio. Certainly most of the aforementioned accolades of Dante are ascribed to Inferno, but what of the whole work, and, specifically, Purgatorio? A careful study of Purgatorio will show a consistency across the Divine Comedy, where though different in nature, the colorful characters (a component of comedy itself) and consistent theme (a metaphor rife with Medieval theological influences) drive the story through the pilgrim’s ascent. Best viewed through the lens of its context, plot, and genre, Dante’s Purgatorio, situated in the center of his Divine Comedy, provides an exemplary study of quintessential comic literature and Medieval thought regarding science, philosophy, and a complex theological context. Each of these themes of literary analysis drive a classic Christian readership toward a study of historical theology. As Dante’s pilgrim ascends through the afterlife, the Protestant concerns that drove the Reformation shine bright, yet the flames of that Reformation do flicker. As Dante constantly uses thoughts and figures prevalent in the Middle Ages to move his story through an ascent in the afterlife, having a basic understanding of these influences is vitally important to a classic Christian understanding of the work and its context. Specifically, the context of Dante’s Purgatorio is best understood through a study of his primary philosophical and theological influences, including the Roman Catholic Church, Aquinas, Aristotle, and Augustine. It should be rather obvious for a classic Christian readership where to start a study of the context of Dante’s Purgatorio. Dante wrote his Divine Comedy around the year 1300, approximately 200 years before the Protestant Reformation and during the height of Roman Catholic corruption and ma1 Peter Leithart, Ascent to Love: A Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy (Moscow, ID: Canon Press, 2001), 127.

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nipulation. A look at Dante’s literary devices in Purgatorio will shed some more light on such corruption, but before looking there it is important to understand and trace the development of the setting of the middle of Dante’s comedy, the doctrine of Purgatory itself. Proponents of Purgatory will point to Origen’s On First Principles as an affirmation of the idea: Now I am of opinion that another species of punishment may be understood to exist; because, as we feel that when the limbs of the body are loosened and torn away from their mutual supports, there is produced pain of a most excruciating kind, so, when the soul shall be found to be beyond the order, and connection, and harmony in which it was created by God for the purposes of good and useful action and observation, and not to harmonize with itself in the connection of its rational movements, it must be deemed to bear the chastisement and torture of its own dissension, and to feel the punishments of its own disordered condition. And when this dissolution and rending asunder of soul shall have been tested by the application of fire, a solidification undoubtedly into a firmer structure will take place, and a restoration be effected. 2

Origen undoubtedly affirms some sort of soul cleansing by harsh discipline. It is his affirmation of that concept here that develops into the modern concept of Purgatory, explained succinctly by Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologica, an obvious influence to Dante. It is sufficiently clear that there is a Purgatory after this life. For if the debt of punishment is not paid in full after the stain of sin has been washed away by contrition, nor again are venial sins always removed when mortal sins are remitted, and if justice demands that sin be set in order by due punishment, it follows that one who after contrition for his fault and after being absolved, dies before making due sat2 Origen, “CHURCH FATHERS: De Principiis, Book II (Origen),” trans. Frederick Crombie, ed. Kevin Knight, New Advent, 2021.

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isfaction, is punished after this life. Wherefore those who deny Purgatory speak against the justice of God: for which reason such a statement is erroneous and contrary to faith. Hence Gregory of Nyssa, after the words quoted above, adds: “This we preach, holding to the teaching of truth, and this is our belief; this the universal Church holds, by praying for the dead that they may be loosed from sins.” This cannot be understood except as referring to Purgatory: and whosoever resists the authority of the Church, incurs the note of heresy.3

Dante inarguably pulls from these influences in choosing to give Purgatory a place in the center of his story of the soul’s journey. Understanding the doctrine as laid out by the Roman Catholic church and its consequences is, then, vitally important to understanding Purgatorio. In the time of Dante, the doctrine of Purgatory was not one, as it is commonly thought of today, where someone was on the precipice of salvation or damnation and could earn their way into the former by purgation. Instead, Purgatory was that place where the soul that still must be sanctified goes after death until the roots of sin are fully cleansed. Peter Leithart explains: By Dante’s time, Purgatory had become a distinct location, but for most of Dante’s contemporaries, it would have been a temporary form of Hell, a place of punishment and penance prior to one’s ascent to Heaven. Not so for Dante. For Dante, Purgatory is not a place of punishment but a place of movement, progress, and sanctification.4

The distinction is important in carefully engaging with Dante’s ideology as he presents it. Dante’s Purgatory, pulled from Aquinas, is one where the saved soul is cleansed after death. As far as context and influences are concerned, Aquinas is 3 Thomas Aquinas, “Supplement (Appendix II)” in Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province, ed. Kevin Knight, New Advent, 2017. 4 Leithart, Ascent to Love, 105.

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absolutely central for Dante, not merely as a figure who purports the idea of Purgatory, but as a scholastic. Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle belong together in a discussion on Dante’s understanding of philosophy present in Purgatorio and the Divine Comedy. Aquinas serves as a two-fold influence for Dante, both as a character and in underlying ideology. While Purgatorio is the focus of this current study, it is hard to divorce the Divine Comedy as a trilogy. So, when looking at Aquinas’s influence on Dante, one would be remiss to discount the fact that Thomas Aquinas the character is himself placed in Paradiso, serving as the spokesman for those who dwell on the layer of the sun. Dante uses sun and light as a motif throughout the Divine Comedy to signal ascending towards all that is good and beautiful, and placing Aquinas here tells the reader that natural philosophy and the ideology of Aquinas are central to those things which are good and true and beautiful. At the same time, Dante does draw a line between good and beautiful and salvific. He does so through his use of Aristotle. Aristotle, like Aquinas, is both a character and a continued influence in ideology for Dante. On first entering Purgatory, Dante, “speak(s) of Plato, Aristotle—yes, And many others.”5 From the philosophers’ placement in Purgatory, it is evident that Dante elevates natural philosophy to some extent, while not placing it on equal value with the “Christianized” version of such ideology found in Aquinas. So, where does the reader find Aristotle’s ideology as an influence in the Divine Comedy and Purgatorio? First, in the idea of the First or Unmoved Mover. Aristotle explained a god that only goes as far as a self-sustaining cause for all things in existence. Dante’s God is more than this, but no less, and the language he uses is inextricably parallel to this idea in a way that signals undeniable influence. That background is highly necessary as the reader studies the plot of the poem. 5 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, trans. Dorothy Sayers (London: Penguin Books, 1955), 89.

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The second and most prevalent Aristotelian influence is in the pursuit of virtue. According to Aristotle, virtue is a mean that takes place between two vices.6 The four cardinal virtues for Aristotle are prudence, justice, temperance, and courage. Aristotle’s idea of virtue works out as something like, “courage is the mean between cowardice and wrath.” Dante takes this idea and catholicizes it. In the context of Purgatorio, as Dante ascends the realms of Purgatory, his soul is cleansed of the seven deadly sins. In her translation of Purgatorio, Dorothy Sayers offers a helpful explanation of the Roman Catholic doctrine of the seven deadly sins and the Dantean remedy to those sins, showing that as Dante is purged of the roots of sin, he cultivates that virtue (found in the Beatitudes) which is each vice’s opposite.7 The sanctification of the soul, then, according to Dante, is parallel to Aristotle’s understanding of the pursuit of virtue. He takes Aristotle and catholicizes it by saying the mean where virtue lies is in the balance of replacing the deadly sins with the Beatitudes. But even more important than this pursuit is its driving force. For that, the reader must understand the most influential figure of Dante’s ideology. The Divine Comedy is profoundly Augustinian, and Purgatorio is a particularly excellent illustration of how Dante’s Augustinian theology plays out. Augustine’s ideas are most prevalent in Dante’s geography of Purgatory itself. The entirety of the plot and its driving themes rest on Augustinian ideals found first in the ordering of this realm. Dorothy Sayers provides a succinct explanation of Dante’s purgatory in her translation of his poem. She explains that there are three realms that divide the nature of the seven deadly sins. The theme of disordered love is the commonality for those sins in each realm. So, the realm of “love perverted,” houses the prideful, envious, and wrathful, “love defective” houses the slothful, and “love excessive” houses the greedy, gluttonous, 6 7

Leithart, Ascent to Love, 116. Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 159.

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and lustful.”8 This division resembles an important idea of Augustine in which he urges Christians to rightly order their loves. In his work On Christian Doctrine, Augustine explains the duty of a Christian: Living a just and holy life requires one to be capable of an objective and impartial evaluation of things: to love things, that is to say, in the right order, so that you do not love what is not to be loved, or fail to love what is to be loved, or have a greater love for what should be loved less, or an equal love for things that should be loved less or more, or a lesser or greater love for things that should be loved equally.9

In a related idea, Augustine explains enjoyment and use. Enjoyment, Augustine says, is the pleasure of something in and of itself for its own sake. Use of something is pleasure in that thing for the sake of something else. Augustine asserts that it is the Christian’s responsibility to enjoy God and “use” everything else, including our treatment of others, for His sake.10 In this is rightly ordered love of all things. The last important Augustinian concept to grasp is his distinction between signs and things. A thing is an object that is substantial and concrete in and of itself. A sign is an object that, even if concrete, points to something else.11 For Augustine, all of these ideas are foundational to the question of how Christians are to love God and neighbor. Dante takes these themes and builds his Purgatory upon it. What central ideas of theological significance and concern should the Protestant reader note from Dante’s primary influences? First, it is important to note what this Roman Catholic idea of Purgatory as Dante put forth says about the 8 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 67. 9 Augustine, On Christian Doctrine, in Four Books (Grand Rapids, MI: Christian Classics Ethereal Library), 18. 10 Augustine, On Christian Doctrine, in Four Books, 9. 11 Augustine, On Christian Doctrine, in Four Books, 9.

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sacrifice of Jesus Christ. In affirming a journey of the soul by which one is cleansed of sin in the afterlife, Dante is perpetuating the idea that Christ’s atonement is insufficient to fully save. Sanctification after death is a denial of salvation by grace alone. And it is in this fundamental denial that the Roman Catholic Church is able to begin to take advantage of parishioners. While Dante affirms the concept of sanctification in the afterlife through his idea of ascent, he does not shy away from expressing that manipulations exist within the Roman Catholic system. Inasmuch as Dante is deceived with the masses at the time, he is certainly not entirely blind to the corruption of the Church. There is something to be said of his critiques and something to be said of the preservation of Augustinian doctrine, which would be a lynchpin in formalizing these Reformation principles 200 years later. And while it is unlikely that Dante viewed Augustine as any sort of bastion of theological reform, the careful Protestant reader can look at the Augustinian treatment of love in Dante’s architecture of Purgatorio and offer a redemptive reading to the Roman Catholic concern. Augustine is known as something of a footnote to Reformed theology, and his explanation of a doctrine of rightly ordered loves remains an important one in Protestant teaching. While a classic Christian reader must reject Dante’s theme of the sanctification or purgation of the dead, one can certainly apply his Augustinian views of that sanctification via the concept of rightly ordered loves to the Christian life in this age. An important starting place in seeing the theme of love drive Dante’s literary devices is in his use of language signifying Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover. Dante’s ordering Purgatory according to the ways in which people love starts with the premise, “No effect can hate its own First Source.”12 As Sayers points out, Dante’s view of sin is that it is all a matter of disordered love. In his understanding, this is because no one can hate God, the source of love. And why can no one 12 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 199.

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hate God? Because He is also the source of life, and it makes no sense, in his view, for the creature to hate its Creator. It is important to point out that the Aristotelian caricature of god diverts greatly here from the Augustinian doctrine that Dante otherwise leans so heavily on. While attributing sin to disordered love, Augustine would make no assertion that man has no ability to hate God. This is where understanding these influences, where they converge, and where they part is vitally important for a proper understanding and use of Dante. Dante’s understanding of why sin must manifest as a corruption of love, influenced by an inactive god made in Aristotle’s image, is flawed, and it is not only possible but entirely true that apart from saving faith creatures do rail against their Creator. Yet, when illustrating the way in which the Augustinian view of sin as disordered love occurs, Dante has a simple explanation worth considering. He gives three ways in which love can be disordered, coming from the mouth of his guide on this journey through the afterlife, the poet Virgil, that mirror the three aforementioned realms of Purgatory: love of the wrong object, too much love of a good object, and too little love of an ultimate object.13 These motivations are reflective of Augustine’s concepts of enjoyment and use, where loving the right thing in the wrong way leads to misuse of it, and of signs and things, where loving something in itself that is meant to be loved in light of how it points to something greater leads to corruption. These are the kind of things the saved soul is cleansed from in Purgatory. As Dante puts it, Bethink thee then how love must be the seed In you, not only of each virtuous action, But also of each punishable deed.14

Understanding that Dante accepts natural philosophy, such as that of Aristotle, as beneficial yet unsalvific, and that his 13 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 199–200. 14 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 199.

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aim is to take such ideas and Christianize them, the reader can begin to unpack some interesting plot devices Dante uses in his ascent. The skill with which Dante weaves numerous philosophical and theological ideas together in Purgatorio and the Divine Comedy is rivaled only by his ability to do so while incorporating equally intentional literary devices through the story plot. Dante presents a particular view of sin consistent with the whole of the Divine Comedy in the way he illustrates the soul cleansing of Purgatorio, and he provides some counter cultural commentary in the way of who he depicts receiving both punishment and cleansing. So, in understanding Dante’s literary devices describing his idea of the nature of sin, it is important to first turn to his treatment of the Roman Catholic Church. Dante’s treatment of the Church is a beneficial exercise in historical theology. It is vital to understand two things at one time: Dante Alighieri was unequivocally Roman Catholic and deceived by many of the corrupt doctrines of Roman Catholicism which Protestants do and must reject. As mentioned above, the doctrine of Purgatory itself led directly to a denial of the doctrine of salvation by grace alone through faith alone, the material principle of the Protestant Reformation. At the same time, Dante is writing in 1300, when these abuses are at their height, but before there was a Protestant Reformation to refer to, making his critiques of the rampant corruption quite poignant. When looking at Dante’s commentary on the Roman Catholic Church, the reader must take into consideration the consistency of the Comedy as a whole. Clergy find their way through each ring of the ascent through the afterlife, and Dante’s literary devices are particularly illustrative of what he thinks about those clergy. The Inferno, for example, employs Dante’s concept of the Contrapasso, where the punishment fits the crime. Peter Leithart explains the concept well as an image of one who loves their sin simply receiving more of that thing which they love most:

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In some cases, however, the punishment is not so much a punishment as an exposure of the true nature of the sin; it shows us what sin would look like once stripped of the illusory beauty that makes it attractive. Punishment, in short, is often inherent in the sin itself, not added to it afterwards. In this sense, Dante’s God does not inflict punishment; rather, sinners who choose sin and refuse to repent are inflicting punishment on themselves.15

The Contrapasso is shown in regards to the clergy by turning papal succession upside down. In the fourth layer of Hell, those popes which loved their status enough to buy it are found following each other downward, with their behinds to their successor’s face, and they are accompanied by pastors who love their gold over men.16 The concept of Contrapasso is consistent with Dante’s further commentary as he ascends into Purgatory. Not only are the extorting clergy punished, but those still needing to be cleansed from avarice (the root sin leading to such things as extortion), are likewise purged by seeing the true nature of that sin. In the fifth cornice of Purgatory, Dante finds the greedy, including the likes of Pope Adrian V, and observes: As love of all true good was quenched in us By avarice, and our works were left undone, So justice here doth hold us prisoners close, Fettered and tied by hands and feet each one; And for so long as the just Lord shall please, Outstretched and motionless we must lie prone.17

Like the Contrapasso of Inferno, Dante uses the literary device of irony (another hallmark of comedy) to advance his story of love in Purgatorio. But instead of giving the recipients of justice 15 Leithart, Ascent to Love, 86. 16 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. John Ciardi (Coppell, TX: Independent Publisher, 2021), 148–150. 17 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 219.

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over to their sin, Popes are cleansed of avarice by being physically bound by its spiritual weight, showing sin for what it is. In doing so he illustrates the corruption of the Roman Catholic Church as an egregious lack of love which will not be met without justice. This is a unique and important critique for the time, a time in which such injustices were customary practices and those under the Church’s authority were taught to know no better. And while Dante uses his literary style to demonstrate a lack of love, he uses the most central of these devices, the character of Beatrice, who he loves supremely, to fully answer the most important question in understanding the story: according to Dante, what is love? While looking at the character of Beatrice, it is important to remember that Dante is largely building his afterlife on the idea of Augustine that those who love well are those who love God as ultimate and all other things for His sake. But who is Dante’s guiding force and source of motivation throughout the Divine Comedy? Beatrice. After asking his physical guide through Purgatory, Virgil, to define love for him, Virgil responds that a person loves that which “the enamoured soul falls to desire… and enjoy entire {sic}.”18 While encouraged, Dante remains confused. Resolved to keep moving in his ascent, he says it is his hope that Beatrice will be able to make clear these concepts about love that keeps him going. ‘So much as reason here distinguished I can unfold,’ said he; ‘thereafter, sound Beatrice’s mind alone, for that needs faith.’19

Dante has essentially declared Beatrice the object of his faith. This lofty language describing her beauty and influence is consistent throughout the Purgatorio and the entirety of the Divine Comedy. Beatrice is so central that her presence culminates in the other symbol which Dante uses to represent all 18 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 206. 19 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy II: Purgatory, 206.

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that is good, true, and beautiful: the sun. The sun is the realm where Dante sees Beatrice face to face in the Paradiso of the Divine Comedy. Here, she replaces Dante’s guide Virgil in his final ascent of Paradise. This discourse and imagery alone show that in practice Dante understands love as a motivating factor, deep desire, even an impetus for worship. But how he handles this while trying to follow his Augustinian influence in making God ultimate needs more study. In his Vita Nuova, a book of poetry and personal musings that Dante wrote prior to the Divine Comedy and which serves as a biography of sorts, Dante gives insight into his definition of love and his dealings with Beatrice (a real influence in his life, not simply a character.) On love, Dante’s influences once again converge, as he says, It may be at this point that some person, worthy of having every doubt cleared up, could be puzzled at my speaking of love as if it were a thing in itself, as if it were not only an intellectual substance but also a bodily substance. This in all truth is false, for Love does not exist in itself as a substance, but rather it is the accident in substance. 20

The language of substance and accidents is Aristotelian, and in his explanation of love, Dante refers specifically to “the Philosopher.”21 A substance is a physical manifestation of something, whereas the accidents of that substance are the thing which that substance is made of. Putting together Dante’s definitions with his imagery, it is no far stretch to say that he views love as an accident of which Beatrice is the substance. This raises questions, as, for Augustine, love is an attitude and action whose object is God, and any perversion of this is the cause of sin. Dante builds his entire geography of the afterlife on this idea, and would reject an accusation of idolizing Beatrice, so still it is important to ask what Dante 20 Dante Alighieri,Vita Nuova, trans. Mark Musa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 52. 21 Dante Alighieri,Vita Nuova, 52.

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might be doing here with his most central character. To look further into this, it is important to turn to genre. The genre of the Divine Comedy is not left up for much debate. In referring to his work as a comedy, Dante is drawing again from some specific sources which he is using to drive story plot and conventions. What are these sources and what is the significance of a study of genre? The first source marking clear distinctions between genres to whom many authors and readers still appeal today is none other than Aristotle. It is entirely evident at this point that Dante would have been familiar with Aristotle’s work on the subject, found in his Poetics. Aristotle makes an interesting point about the nature of genre, evident in an author or creative’s tendency to mimic already existing works, and the characteristics that follow from this imitation: The instinct of imitation is implanted in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals being that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience... The cause of this again is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in contemplating it they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah, that is he.’ For if you happen to have not seen the original, the pleasure will be due not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the colouring, or some such other cause. 22

Aristotle’s observation says much about the value of genre in literature. Grouping “imitations” by their conventions allows for learning about arc, character, and several other of 22 Aristotle, Poetics, trans. unknown (Coppell, TX: Independent Publisher, 2022), 5.

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the important driving aspects of a story. While not a fan of comedy, Aristotle spends much of Poetics contrasting what he views to be the superior genre, tragedy, with that of comedy. In doing so, he both indicates for readers that these recognitions of genre have been around for a long time, and points to several of the conventions of comedy which Dante would later draw from and readers still recognize. Louise Cowan, in her Terrain of Comedy, provides these conventions, including a story arc from low to high, “the pretty lady,” deception or disguise, a reckoning, justice, elevation of women, and miraculous resolution.23 Much about Dante’s Divine Comedy fits these conventions. Dante’s choice to tell his story via a literal ascent through the afterlife is a quintessential example of the low to high arc characteristic of comedy. His lively characters who are both punished in Inferno and cleansed in Purgatorio by means of the very sins to which they had been given over are representative of the themes of justice and masquerade and disguise as well as the bawdy nature of comedy. And, of course, there is Beatrice. As the central figure of Dante’s discourse and object of love, Beatrice fits the conventions of elevation of the feminine and the presence of the pretty lady. In addition, there is an important convention of Medieval literature that Dante undoubtedly employs in his use of Beatrice: courtly love. Peter Leithart offers the specific elements of courtly love: it is unrequited (often adulterous), presents love as pain and sickness, promotes “idealization of the lady,” and regards love as the source of virtue.24 Obviously, Dante idealizes Beatrice. His love for her is unrequited both in his life and in the story, as meeting her in the afterlife is his motivation to ascend through Purgatory to Paradise, and as she is elusive apart from two initial meetings in childhood in the poet’s real life.

23 Louise Cowan, The Terrain of Comedy (Dallas, TX: The Pegasus Foundation, 1984), 11–13, 53, 89. 24 Leithart, Ascent to Love, 86.

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And he is infatuated with this love to the point of pain and sickness, as attested to in Vita Nuova: A few days after this, it happened that a severe illness overtook part of my body and caused me to suffer intense pain constantly for nine days, which in turn made me so weak that it became necessary for me to lie in bed like a paralyzed person. On the ninth day, experiencing unbearable pain, I had a thought concerning my lady. After thinking about her a while, I returned to thoughts of my frail life, and realizing how short life is, even if one is healthy, I began to sob inwardly at such misery. Then sighing loudly, I said to myself: “Some day the most gracious Beatrice will surely have to die.” I went so out of my head that I closed my eyes and became convulsed as one in a delirium and began to have these imaginings: how at the outset of my imagination’s wandering certain faces of ladies with dishevelled hair appeared to me and they were saying: “You too shall die.”25

By his own admission, Beatrice’s mortality is the driving force behind Dante contemplating his own mortality. As Vita Nuova was written before the Divine Comedy, it is apparent that she serves as a primary motivation for his composition of the poem. Understanding all of this, while granting that Dante is heavily steeped in Aristotelian philosophy and explanation of genre, Dante begs an important question: is he truly infatuated, or is Beatrice simply a plot device for the master poet? Answering this question is another important starting point for how to properly read Dante, using the author’s literary mastery of plot and genre to highlight a case study of the Medieval historical theological context and what the classical Christian reader can conclude from such study. While it is not easy to dogmatically imply that Dante idolized the real Beatrice, her elevation in the plot does provide a stark warning, if allegorically, one that returns to Augustine’s idea of 25 Dante Alighieri,Vita Nuova, 52.

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disordered loves, wrapped in the irony of the comedic genre: idolatry is destructive. It is the destructive root of the corrupt Roman Catholic system which Dante is commenting on, and it is the ironic destruction that makes Beatrice the shining star of the Divine Comedy, in which she physically surpasses the glory of Jesus Christ. While Beatrice’s idolatrous portrayal is the shining star of Purgatorio, tracing Dante’s dissent of the Roman Catholic Church is vital. It is on the wings of such dissent, with the greater help of an open Bible, that Martin Luther was able to pen the 95 Theses. Luther’s own theology develops throughout the Reformation, as he echoes Dante here in the Theses a bit in not yet fully denying Purgatory, while making it strikingly clear that the Church does not have final authority over the soul and declaring their doctrines rife with greed: “They preach man, who say that the soul flies out of purgatory as soon as the money thrown into the chest rattles.”26 “Vain is the hope of salvation through letters of pardon, even if a commissary—nay, the Pope himself—were to pledge his own soul for them.” 27 “The treasures of the church, whence the Pope grants indulgences, are neither sufficiently named nor known among the people of Christ.”28

Dante is no Luther. Luther would come to reject Purgatory and stress the truth of salvation by faith alone as made clear by the authority of scripture, not the Pope. But Dante’s dissent is of note in as much as it points to a God whose truths can never be fully snuffed out, even in a time as dark as at the height of Roman Catholic corruption. Dante’s characters 26 Martin Luther, “Thesis 27” in 95: The Ideas that Birthed the Reformation (New Kensington, PA: Whitaker House, 2017), 63. 27 Martin Luther, “Thesis 52,” 102. 28 Martin Luther, “Thesis 56,” 116.

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illustrate this truth, Augustinian doctrine affirms this truth, and God, through scripture and the vessel of Augustine, very clearly preserves this truth. A clear understanding of the Protestant concerns Dante necessarily brings about coupled with a respect for its place as a literary masterpiece present Purgatorio as a classic case study of Medieval historical theology. In that study, the careful Protestant reader can look at the disordered light of Beatrice and say instead, with the Reformers, Post Tenebras Lux—after darkness, light. ⸭ Jessica Clark holds a Masters in Christian and Classical Studies from Knox Theological Seminary. She is a member of Redeemer Church of Abilene in west central Texas.

Teaching As Play Dante’s Solarian Cantos & Thomistic Leisure by Tracey Leary Introduction

he importance of play and the place of leisure in the learning of students is often discussed in education. The necessity of leisure for the teacher is widely acknowledged as well. But what might be the importance of play to the act of teaching itself? Can teaching be a kind of leisure and if so, how does this concept fit within discussions of the active and contemplative lives? Classical and medieval discussions concerning the telos of life often address the differences between a life devoted to active pursuits and one devoted to contemplation and the comparative merits of pursuing one over the other. The end of the contemplative life is generally identified as wisdom and that of the active life as virtue. Men are seen as having the choice as to which of these will be the general trajectory of his life, while conceding that the activities within either may exist on a continuum, and that both action and contemplation are believed to be necessary to living a fulfilled life. In what way, then, do these two realms of action and contemplation work together to fulfill the seeker’s purpose of attaining the good life, especially in the realm of education, and how might play be as important for the teacher as for the student? Dante’s imaginative expression of

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cosmic play and the Thomistic basis for his conception point us toward the answer.

Contemplation as Active Play in the Solarian Dance

In addition to incorporating traditional ways of thinking about the means of contemplation, Dante also has the Solarian inhabitants of the fourth sphere engage in contemplative praise that takes the form of dancing. We first see these dancers in Canto X.76–81: “These ardent suns that had not ceased to sing,/as stars revolving round the pole nearby, / revolved about us three times in a ring, / Then stopped: as ladies pausing in their glee / hold the reel’s places and resume the dance / when they catch the returning melody.”1 Dante describes them again in Canto XIII and likens their dance to the nightly revolving of the stars of the Big Dipper around the Pole Star: “Flashing each other’s radiance like glass, / each turning but in opposite career, / circling together as they cross and pass… revolving round the point where I was standing” (XII.16–18, 21). The joy of the participants of this heavenly dance is further seen in Dante’s description of their actions when the dance is completed: “The dance had reached the end of its design, / and then the holy lanterns turned our way, / leaving their own care, gladdening with mine” (XIII.28–30). We see it again in Canto XIV as well: “As dancers dancing in a merry reel, / will raise their voices in a rush of glee, / all of their gestures lighter in the heel, / So, to that most devout and ready plea, / the holy circling showed me a new joy / in their revolving and their wondrous song” (XIV.19–24). Richard Kay confirms this quality of celebratory joy as an integral part of life in the Sun when he says that “Joy and gladness are

1 All quotes from The Divine Comedy are from the following translation unless otherwise noted: Dante Alighieri, Paradise, ed. Anthony Esolen, trans. Anthony Esolen. (New York: Random House Publishing Group, 2007).

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astral properties of the Sun… Dante’s Solarians manifest this through their harmonious dancing and singing.”2 The joy expressed in this type of ordered dancing, was, according to C. S. Lewis, an intrinsic quality of much of medieval life which was expressed in the medieval view of the heavens as a place of celebration. In The Discarded Image, Lewis says, “Whatever else a modern feels when he is looking at the night sky, he certainly feels that he is looking out… But if you accepted the Medieval Model you would feel like one looking in… And looking in, we do not see… ‘the army of unalterable law,’ but rather the revelry of insatiable love.”3 Dante’s depiction of the souls in those heavens dancing is a direct reflection of this idea of revelry, as Lewis also relates, “You need not wonder that one old picture represents the Intelligence of the Primum Mobile as a girl dancing and playing with her sphere as with a ball.”4

Dante’s Ludic Theology

This is one example of what Giuseppe Mazzotta called Dante’s “ludic theology.” He says, “When one is at play, one has all the attributes of spontaneity and liberty that go with it. This concept is the basis of what I call the playful theology of Dante.”5 Mazzotta goes on to explain that Dante’s work is a comedy because of this theology of play: Once you think of play, you can no longer have the tragic vision because you understand that the tragic vision is part of something larger. Comedies, tragedies, and elegies are 2 Richard Kay, Dante’s Christian Astrolog y (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994), 129. 3 C. S. Lewis, The Discarded Image (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1964), 118. 4 Lewis, The Discarded Image, 119. 5 Giuseppe Mazzotta, Reading Dante (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2014), 148.

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all linked to the Wheel of Fortune in medieval iconography… but they’re all part of something much larger, which is this ludic theology that Dante has been preparing us for all along.”6

He roots this idea of the importance of play to theology in the creation: “God creates the world in an act, in a moment of freedom, and that freedom becomes the foundation for positing our own human freedom.” 7 This notion that God Himself plays in creation is “a conceptualization that doesn’t deprive the Divinity of its seriousness but makes that seriousness part of the world of joy.” The need to expand one’s thoughts beyond the “tragic vision” in order to comprehend “something much larger” is integral to the work of the educator, and without this cohesive understanding of reality, the element of play will always be lacking in instruction. As Mazzota points out, the spontaneity of the act of creation is implicit in the freedom of humans, in their own vocations, to artistically shape their own unique expression of their calling by seeing where it fits in the integrity of the world. John Senior illustrates this idea in his description of a medieval woodcut showing a young boy entering the tower of learning, in which each of the seven liberal arts has its own room. In the original illustration,8 the boy climbs through each level of the tower until he reaches the top, which is labeled “theology and metaphysics.” Senior comments that after the boy has reached the pinnacle of his education, he “must now descend to wherever in the scale of work his talents lie, learning how to do one thing in the daily practice of an art or craft, but having had a vision of its place in the universal scheme of things.” 9 Knowing where his own artistic endeavor fits in “something greater than themselves” enables every craftsman to contribute freely

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Mazzotta, Reading Dante, 214. Mazzotta, Reading Dante, 148. “Step by Step: The Tower of Learning,” Bibliomania, accessed June 21, 2026. John Senior, The Death of Christian Culture (Norfolk, VA: IHS Press, 2008),

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and joyfully in his work, having had a vision of the telos toward which he is working along with all around him. This vision and purpose is what thwarts the tragic view of life; freedom and joy is the essence of play. For the educator who is engaged in leading these young souls to ascend this tower, every glimpse obtained of the increasing freedom and joy in gaining each level once again with her students increases the teacher’s own ludic understanding of the comedy of life. Johan Huizinga also echoes both Lewis’ observations concerning the importance of play to medieval life, and particularly the importance of a pattern to play, and Dante’s depiction of play as a dance: “Medieval life was brimful of play: the joyous and unbuttoned play of the people, full of pagan elements that had lost their sacred significance and been transformed into jesting or buffoonery, or the solemn and pompous play of chivalry, the sophisticated play of courtly love, etc.”10 Like Lewis, he also notes the intimate relationship between expressions of joy and dancing as well: “The connections between playing and dancing are so close that they hardly need illustrating. It is not that dancing has something of play in it or about it, rather that it is an integral part of play: the relationship is one of direct participation, almost of essential identity. Dancing is a particular and particularly perfect form of playing.”11 However, Huizinga stresses that a kind of structure to dancing is vital to its playfulness: “It is always at all periods and with all peoples pure play, the purest and most perfect form of play that exists [and] is most readily discernible in choral or figure dances.”12 The pattern of a dance is best seen from a high vantage point; the student of liberal arts likewise only sees the pattern of his learning from the top of the tower. For the teacher, seeing the pattern of the books taught year in and year out, rather than 10 Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture (New York: Angelico Press, 2016), 179. 11 Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 164. 12 Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 164.

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becoming an occasion for staleness and rigidity of thought, can also provide the structure necessary to a kind of dance. As Dante recognizes in the dance of the Solarians, each revolution of the dance reveals some new vision of joy: “The holy circling showed me a new joy in their revolving and their wondrous song.” Especially for the educator who teaches the Great Books, the depth of these works means that there is always something new to see and in which to delight, and the anticipation of what we might learn each year along with our students, or even learn from them, can be seen as a dance in which we already know the steps and can more fully delight as we pass them in our yearly revolution while looking for the slight variations which keep the pattern fresh and grants us new joy.

The Importance of Play to Thomistic Leisure

Josef Pieper, in his book Leisure: The Basis of Culture, quotes Thomas Aquinas as affirming this idea of play as contemplation. “On one occasion St. Thomas speaks of contemplation and play in the same breath: ‘because of the leisure that goes with contemplation’ the divine wisdom itself, Holy Scripture says, is ‘always at play, playing through the whole world.’”13 The verse Aquinas references here is Proverbs 8:30–31, which says that wisdom was beside the Lord in creation “and I was daily His delight, rejoicing before Him always, rejoicing in his inhabited world and delighting in the children of man.” The word translated rejoicing in the ESV can also mean “playing.”14 Thus, wisdom, the eternal truths of God for which contemplation perpetually reaches as its end, plays before God in His Creation. The expression of these Truths here finds its most appropriate expression in the action of play. 13 Josef Pieper, Leisure: The Basis of Culture (Carmel, IN: Liberty Fund, 1998), 16. 14 “Proverbs 8:30: Then I was a skilled craftsman at His side, and His delight day by day, rejoicing always in His presence,” Bible Hub, accessed June 26, 2026.

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As Father James Schall puts it, Ludere est contemplari: To play is to contemplate. He says that this idea first derives from Aristotle, who “suggests that oftentimes the closest we come to contemplation in our lives is when we play.”15 Pieper agrees: “The context of Aristotle’s words… to the effect that leisure is the centrepoint about which everything revolves, seems to indicate that he was saying something almost self-evident.”16 This truth concerning the importance of leisure, or activities which have no meaning outside of themselves, which was so self-evident for Aristotle, is not so clear for us today. Yet as Pieper points out, the Christian conception of the contemplative life is closely linked to Aristotle’s conception of leisure as an activity which has no meaning outside of itself, but is “something that serves nothing else, that by its very nature has meaning only in its own terms.”17 Creation was not necessary, for God existed in and of Himself without it. And as Father Schall concisely states, “Neither play nor contemplation can be, strictly speaking, necessary.”18 Yet, he continues, it is the very nature of play to be “unnecessary activity” which makes it contemplative. Again referencing Aristotle, he says, “More than anything else, this freedom is what made play noble, what made it like contemplation.”19 Pieper later expands on this idea of God playing in creation rather than toiling to create when He points to Genesis 1:31, when God proclaims His handiwork “very good,” as Pieper says, “in the same way man celebrates and gratefully accepts the reality of creation in leisure, and the inner vision that accompanies it.”20 Leisure, and the sense of play that often accompanies it, are an affirmation of the goodness of 15 James V. Schall, On the Unseriousness of Human Affairs (Washington, D.C.: Regnery Gateway, 2001), 2. 16 Pieper, Leisure, 3. 17 Josef Pieper, In Tune with the World: A Theory of Festivity (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999), 10. 18 Schall, On the Unseriousness of Human Affairs, 2. 19 Schall, On the Unseriousness of Human Affairs, 2. 20 Pieper, Leisure, 29.

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God in creation, the essence of which “does not consist in the effort for which it calls, but in grasping existing things and in unveiling reality.”21 God plays in Creation because He celebrates it and sets aside time to consider it as it is.22 As Augustine teaches, the core of love is: let it be, because it is good as is. Love allows the being to be, and enjoys its being in what it is, as it is. In the same way, we are to emulate God in engaging in contemplation of His works in a way that loves His creation for what it is, as it is: “So too it is leisure which leads man to accept the reality of the creation and thus to celebrate it, resting on the inner vision that accompanies it.”23 The highest expression of human enjoyment of the vision God grants in His world is one which unites action with contemplation, which is the essence of play. This is readily seen in the dance of the Solarians, in which the action and pattern of the dance gives rise to contemplation and insights of joy. Interestingly, there is another theme which Dante highlights in the cantos of the Sun and that is the theme of eating in the form of a feast wherein we both contemplate and celebrate the Life which gives us life. As Pieper also says, “The strongest affirmation of this agreement is the celebration of a feast, where ‘to celebrate’… is ‘the union of peace, contemplation, and intensity of life.”24 In the beginning of his description of this heaven, Dante says, “Stay at your bench now, Reader, stay and dwell / on these small hints that whet the appetite, / and taste elation long before you tire! / I’ve set the table; take you now and eat.” (X.22-25) He continues to connect the idea of eating with the joy that is being expressed by the souls there a little further on in the canto: “Mortal heart never fed on any food / that made it readier to sing the Lord’s / praises, and give itself in gratitude.”(X.55–57) Further images of eating are found in Dante’s reference to the Father filling the hunger 21 Pieper, Leisure, 15. 22 James Taylor, Poetic Knowledge: The Recovery of Education (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1998), 55. 23 Pieper, Leisure, 29. 24 Pieper, Leisure, 30.

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of worshipers by breathing the Spirit and begetting the Son (X.49–51) and the gluttony of the world to hear the wisdom of Solomon (X.109–111) as well as Thomas Aquinas’s description of the Dominican monasteries as places “where you can fatten well, if you don’t rove.” (X.96) The food which Dante offers and which satisfies the hunger of true believers is, of course, the Eucharist. The Eucharist is the ultimate festal celebration in which we engage simultaneously in both action and contemplation, and is the first taste we have of the joys waiting for us when we finally achieve perfect communion with God in the life to come.

Thomistic Teaching as the Essence of Play

However, there is yet another manifestation of a leisure which perfectly unites the lives of contemplation and action. Josef Pieper quotes Aquinas as saying that “teaching… is one of the highest manifestations of the life of the mind, for the reason that in teaching the vita contemplativa and the vita activa are… united in a natural and necessary union.”25 Pieper explains it in this way. The contemplative aspect of teaching happens as “the teacher… looks to the truth of things.”26 In other words, the act of teaching is also a manifestation of play, in which moments of delight in the material itself, and for no other reason, captivate the educator. Yet as all seasoned educators know, teaching is also hard work. At the moment of teaching, while the teacher beholds truth, he “simultaneously looks into the faces of living human beings” and engages in the “rigorously disciplined, wearisome labor of clarifying, of presenting, of communicating.”27 To return to Huizinga’s emphasis on pattern in play, the learning of the steps of a dance 25 Josef Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 1991), 93. 26 Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 93. 27 Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 93.

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are intensive, and teaching them to others possibly even more so. If this labor becomes the focus of our educational work, it will almost certainly become stale and uninspired, part of Pieper’s “workaday” world in which utilitarianism predominates and the tragic view of life insinuates itself. However, the presence of communication for Aquinas, even in all its rigor and labor was key because of course, communication is communion. The point of the Eucharist is that in engaging in the sacrament, we are engaging in communion with God. We act in the receiving of the bread and the wine, and in doing so, we contemplate God. If the communion with our Lord is not present, the elements are not a true Eucharist. Likewise, in the classroom, where no communion exists, “teaching does not take place.”28 For true teaching to occur, both contemplation and action must be present. The teacher must play—must behold truth for no other purpose than to know it and to love it in all its reality, and yet, at the same time, must actively foster communion with her students so that they too may behold the truth to the extent that the teacher can communicate it at that moment. Pieper says that “the more intensively and the more passionately a man engages in these two activities, the more he is a teacher.”29 The excellent teacher, for Aquinas, then is one who “possesses the art of approaching his subject from the point of view of the beginner” and who is able “to enter into the psychological situation of one encountering a subject for the first time.”30 In other words, the teacher enters the tower of liberal education with each student and once again climbs the levels with her. This ability to see as the student sees, to look along the beam as it were, is thus “a fruit of love, of loving devotion to the learner.”31 However, because the teacher is able to also behold the truth of that which he is attempting 28 29 30 31

Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 94. Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 94. Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 94. Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 95.

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to show the student while engaging in communion with the student, he both “sees the reality just as the beginner can see it, with all the innocence of a first encounter, and yet at the same time with the matured powers of comprehension and penetration that the cultivated mind possesses.”32 Not all who behold truth clearly themselves can do this: Pieper points out that “there have been great thinkers and savants who lacked the capacity to communicate in teaching, and perhaps had not the desire to do so.”33 It is love for both the learner and the truth beheld which creates the desire in the teacher to communicate the truth in such a way that he leads the student to see from the inside of the reality which is being contemplated along with him, thus creating Thomistic connaturality with each other and reality itself.

Conclusion

In his poem “As Kingfishers Catch Fire”, as Gerard Manley Hopkins contemplates the beauty of kingfishers and dragonflies, he famously says that “Christ plays in ten thousand places.” Educators also may be said to inhabit 10,000 places in the course of a school year, and a well-seasoned teacher will visit the same places dozens or even hundreds of times over the course of a career. Seeing teaching as play, as the opportunity to contemplate reality in communion with other souls created in the imago Dei enables the cyclical nature of education to be a delight rather than a drudgery. As Chesterton argues, we may emulate a God Who delights in His creation in the same way that a small child delights in repeating a game or some kind of rhythmical movement. “Perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the 32 Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 95. 33 Pieper, Guide to Thomas Aquinas, 94.

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sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon.”34 It is in this way that we approach most closely to the ludic theology of Dante and to the dance in which the Creator intends for us to partake. As we actively follow the patterns of the steps in which He directs us, we are necessarily led to consider His creation and truths in ever new and deepening ways, both for ourselves and with our students, integrating the wisdom of contemplation with the virtue of action which engenders communion until we reach eternity, in which we will forever feast on Christ in a perfect integration of these two realms. ⸭ Tracey Leary is a doctoral student in the graduate humanities program at Faulkner University and holds an M.Ed. from Auburn University at Montgomery. She has more than twenty years of experience in education, which includes teaching in both public and private school environments as well as homeschooling her own children and directing a local classical co-op, for which she also wrote and compiled its secondary humanities curriculum. She now teaches integrated humanities classes for Kepler Education and lives in Montgomery, Alabama, with her husband and three boys

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34 G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (Wheaton, IL: Harold Shaw Publishers, 1994),

Free & Able Right Reason in Milton’s Paradise Lost by Dr. Bryant K. Owens Abstract

hat is right reason? Classical Christian pedagogy recognizes epic poetry as a great source for philosophical discussion. Therefore, this article will explore the virtuous epistemological treasure found in John Milton’s epic poem, Paradise Lost. The question to explore is how right reason establishes humanity’s moral responsibility to know God and to stand against evil. This article will seek to show how the study of Milton’s epic is a proper source for educating one’s mind to not only pursue right reason but also to define what right reason is. Milton’s epic shows that the moral responsibility to obey God falls squarely upon humanity as possessors of the gift of reason. But God left free the will, for what obeys Reason, is free, and reason he made right.1

Milton’s poetry provides an invaluable imaginative nudge that helps the reader, or listener, to glean a deeper understanding of what Richard Eberhart describes as “a mystery transcend1 John Milton, Paradise Lost, ed. John Leonard (London: Penguin Classics, 2000), IX.351–352. 109

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ing logic or reason.”2 While more recent scholarship on Milton will be employed in this article, Douglas Bush’s definition of right reason is a good place to begin. Right reason is “the kind of rational and philosophic conscience which distinguishes man from the beasts and which links man with man and with God. This faculty was implanted in all men by God in all men, Christian and heathen alike, as a guide to truth and conduct.”3 Further connection will be made between the hierarchy of order and right reason. Without divinely determined sovereignty, there is no cosmological order. Without right reason, there is no grasp of the hierarchical concept of moral order. Without some semblance of free will, there is no moral responsibility. Thus, the first parents, Adam and Eve, were created free and able to know God and to withstand evil, but they exchanged their gift of humble, right reason for prideful, fallen reason.

Right Reason Defined

This article first seeks to clarify the traditional influence of right reason, from Ancient Greece to the Renaissance, as present in Milton’s work. “The dominant ethics of the period [between 1200 and 1500] centered around the theory of right reason.”4 By studying Milton, one sees the importance of right reason, traditionally understood, as the path to restoring wholeness to the breakdown of virtue education throughout modern pedagogy. The concept of right reason was, and still is, at the center of ethical theory. More specifically, right reason is the basis 2 Richard Eberhart, Introduction: John Milton: Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1969), 6. 3 Douglas Bush, “Paradise Lost” in Our Time (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1945), 37. 4 V. J. Bourke, History of Ethics (New York: Image Books, 1970), I, 127.

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of right thinking. Virtue epistemology is one area of recent scholarship that should not be misunderstood with the traditional influence of right reason. Linda Zagzenski is a pioneer in this field of study and describes virtue epistemology as a focus on “epistemic evaluation on properties of persons rather than properties of beliefs or propositions.”5 In contrast, the traditional perspective of right reason, ὀρθὸς λόγος (orthos logos), centers on acquiring knowledge and wisdom from a universal, objective source. Traditional philosophy held that cosmology and moral order were the basis of natural law and thus the right way to think and know. Contemporary scholarship in virtue epistemology rests primarily on the inner thoughts or intellectual character and does not fully rest on the traditions of right reason from the history of ideas in the West. The history of right reason in cosmology and ethics began with the Pre-Socratics. Heraclitus and Anaxagoras suggested that a cosmic principle guided thought, grounded in an authority distinct from myth, poetry, or opinion. It was the right way of thinking.6 They considered this authority, as right thinking: λόγος (logos) and νοῦς (nous). It is no surprise that the Sophists who touted relativism thought there was no such thing as right reason. However, Socrates stood firm against the Sophists through dialectical reasoning grounded in logos. He taught that virtue was knowledge and the right state of the intellect.7 His student, Plato, furthered this argument that “one should have wisdom, a virtue that has its seat in reason.”8 Aristotle continued the philosophy of right reason and held that practical reason, φρόνησις ( phronesis), was the faculty or power of ethical judgment. He spoke specifically of orthos 5 Abrol Fairweather and Linda Zagzebski, eds., Virtue Epistemolog y: Essays on Epistemic Virtue and Responsibility (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 3. 6 William K. Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,” The Monist 66, no. 1 (1983), 3–25. 7 Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,”4. 8 Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,”4.

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logos as that moral virtue of living according to right reason, or practical wisdom.9 This idea carried through the Stoics to the Christian thinkers of the first centuries of the Middle Ages.10 Christian thinkers such as Augustine and Aquinas drew on the foundational arguments for right reason from Plato and Aristotle but insisted that revelation, faith, and divine grace were central to understanding it. Furthermore, when Christianity plundered the gold of the pagan philosophers, the rise of Platonist influence and Aristotelian virtue brought with them the fundamental understanding of orthos logos. Thomist philosophy brought in ideas from Aristotle, who argued that the mean of virtue is determined by orthos logos.11 Likewise, the Cambridge Platonists said that reason was the “candle of the Lord,” meaning right reason.12 Herschel Baker argued that right reason was an instrument of Christian virtue in the sixteenth century.13 It is no surprise, then, to find the lessons of right reason in Paradise Lost. Milton incorporated the idea of a rightly ordered way of thinking and of moral action into his epic. Robert Hoopes saw Milton as a pillar of the humanist traditions of right reason necessary for modern ethics. Milton stands as the last great literary voice of the concept of right reason, indeed of rational and ethical Christianity itself—a voice in which the voices of classical antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance have merged into one. He is, therefore, the Christian humanist par excellence.14

9 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation, ed. Jonathan Barnes, vol. 2 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), VI.13.1144b21–28. p 1808. 10 Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,” 4–5. 11 Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,” 7. 12 Frankena, “The Ethics of Right Reason,” 6. 13 Herschel Baker, The Image of Man (New York: Harper and Bros., 1961), 293. 14 Robert Hoopes, Right Reason in the English Renaissance (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962), 1, 199f.

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The Metaphysics of Right Reason

According to C. S. Lewis, Paradise Lost is best understood as an imaginative vision of a hierarchical order. The epic poem is Augustinian and hierarchical after the medieval Christian tradition.15 That which God created good became distorted by Satan and the willful fall of Adam and Eve, thus disrupting the hierarchical order through pride. Understanding the cosmological order of creation is imperative to Milton’s epic, and this order defines right reason. Milton’s epic account of the Fall is influenced by the philosophy and theology of Saint Augustine.16 The Augustinian doctrine concerning the effects of sin upon man comes primarily from book fourteen of De civitate Dei.17 Augustinian thought concerning the right use of things in the created order can be found largely in De Natura Boni: If all natural things would preserve their proper measure, form and order, there would be no evil. But if anyone willingly makes a bad use of these good things, he cannot overcome the will of God, who knows how to subject even the unjust to a just order.18

The sin of Pride that began with Satan, and then affected Eve, then Adam, resulted in a cosmic disruption of the good order that the Almighty Father spoke into existence. The Edenic Fall ushered in humanity’s postlapsarian state. Lewis argues that the Aristotelian influence of hierarchy is also present in Milton. Taking from Politics, Lewis observes 15 C. S. Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 2022), 81–102. 16 Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost, 83. 17 Augustine, The City of God, trans. Marcus Dods, intro. Thomas Merton (New York: Modern Library, 1994), 441–477. 18 Augustine, The Nature of the Good, in Augustine: Earlier Writings, ed. and trans. J. H. S. Burleigh, The Library of Christian Classics (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1953), 337–338.

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Aristotle’s argument of natural order in Paradise Lost.19 Aristotle observed that the highest good was found in the state, or a person, that practiced right order.20 Lewis argues that Aristotle’s observation that reason by nature must rule over bodily passions applies to Milton. The Philosopher states, “And it is clear that the rule of the soul over the body, and of the mind and the rational element over the passionate, is natural and expedient.”21 Yet while Aristotle’s focus in the Politics is on communal hierarchy and civil order, Milton explores the medieval Hierarchical conception of the cosmological order. It is the concept of objectively present, yet varying levels of value in the natural order that causes every created thing to have a natural superior. God is the highest with no superior.22 The Edenic Fall was a vain attempt to upend this natural superiority of created things. The created beings, Satan, Eve, and then Adam, reasoned their superiority over the Creator, initiating an evil curse in Paradise. Evil distorted right reason to justify rebellious thoughts and actions against the hierarchical order of creation. Paradise Lost portrays the three-tiered view of the cosmos: Heaven, Earth, and Hell. These places were both physical and spiritual realities.23 The cosmological hierarchy was often called the Great Chain of Being in the Medieval Renaissance and is portrayed throughout Milton’s work.24 Milton described the “world” at the end of Book II hanging like a pendant on a golden chain attached to Heaven as Satan flew upward from Hell and Chaos to the newly created treasure: 19 Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost, 92–94. 20 Aristotle, Politics, in The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation, ed. Jonathan Barnes, vol. 2 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), I.1.1252a.1–5. 21 Aristotle, Politics, 1.5.1254b.7–8. 22 Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost, 92. 23 John Leonard, Introduction to Paradise Lost, by John Milton (London: Penguin Books, 2003), xvii. 24 The Great Chain of Being is portrayed in an etching by Didacus Valades, an illustration for the work Rhetorica Christiana (1579).

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And fast by hanging in a golden Chain This pendant world, in bigness as a Star Of smallest Magnitude close by the Moon. Thither full fraught with mischievous revenge, Accursed, and in a cursed hour he hies. 25

“This pendant world” refers to the entire universe, not just Earth. Milton paints a picture of the universe as if viewed across cosmic space, where all of the created order, in relation to heaven, appears as small as a star. The image of the pendant world hanging on a golden chain implies that this created cosmos is tied to the Maker who holds it. The image of the golden chain implies that we are connected to the divine hand that holds us.26 Milton’s God does not fall into the Homeric idea of the fate of the gods. Whereas Homer depicts Zeus as the despot who thunders on high and rules the world, 27 Milton depicts God as the sovereign who liberates His creation, “th’ Ethereal Powers,” free to show loyalty and obedience. Douglas Bush argues that Milton portrays the influence of right reason from Calvinistic Puritan thought in describing the Almighty Father: The absolute sovereignty of Milton’s God, then, is not the arbitrary and tyrannous sovereignty of absolute will, it is the sovereignty of right reason and the law of nature, a sovereignty comprehended by the uncorrupted right reason of man and accepted not as servitude but as the condition of true freedom. 28

25 John Milton, Paradise Lost, II.1051–1055. 26 Leonard, Introduction to Paradise Lost, xvii–xviii. 27 “Zeus the Profound made thunder overhead / while pondering calamities to come, / and men turned pale with fear.” Homer, The Iliad, trans. Robert Fitzgerald (New York: Everyman’s Library, 1992), 7.476–478. 28 Douglas Bush, “Paradise Lost: Religious and Ethical Principles” in Milton: Modern Essays in Criticism, ed. Arthur E. Barker (Oxford University Press, 1965), 164–165.

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Right reason is not synonymous with logical reason. It is not an amoral and objective tool for critical thinking. Neither is right reason a religious-minded conscience in the guise of narcissistic piety. Right reason is the vertical posture in the hierarchy conception of moral responsibility—a moral order in the cosmos or a metaphysical right order that shapes epistemological order. Milton paints an intricate dance, a universe that was whole. The created order began with degrees of purpose and connection. The first vegetation began with root, then to stalk, then to flower, then to breath of life, then to fruit, finally to reason.29 Raphael, the wings hierarch, replied to Adam’s inquiry about the sublime purpose of creation: O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom All things proceed, and up to him return, If not depraved from good, created all Such to perfection, one first matter all, Endued with various forms, various degrees Of substance, and in things that live, of life; … So from the root Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves More airy, last the bright consummate flow’r Spirits odorous breaths: flow’rs and their fruit Man’s nourishment, by gradual scale, sublimed To vital spirits aspire, to animal, To intellectual, give both life and sense, Fancy and understanding, whence the soul Reason receives, and reason is her being, Discursive, or intuitive; discourse Is oftest yours, the latter most is ours…30

Raphael articulates to Adam the order and purpose for which the first man’s existence came into being, “whence the soul 29 Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost, 99. 30 Milton, Paradise Lost, V.468–479.

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/ Reason receives, and reason is her being.” Thus, Milton shows us in this soliloquy that the right order of all creation, from the first root of the first plant to the breath of soul in man, to the highest of the created order, culminated in man’s gift of reason.

Adam’s Education: Right Reason

Milton explores the Edenic Fall, showing both the prelapsarian state, in which right reason (humility, awe) was all Adam knew, and the postlapsarian state, in which wrong reason (pride, selfish rebellion) became the nature of fallen man. The poet paints a picture of how understanding of God’s cosmological order comes through proper education and right reason for all of creation. Books V to VIII depict the conversation between the angel Raphael and Adam, in which Raphael warns him of Satan’s lurking presence in paradise, teaches him about free will and reason, the War in Heaven, and the history of creation.

Raphael’s Warning

Raphael, “pure Intelligence of Heav’n, angel serene”31 directs Adam in book VIII about the heavens and the insignificance of the earth and of man’s place in it. The answer is cosmological, describing God’s purpose in a majestic hierarchy as a way of freeing the mind of man to understand his dependence on the Maker and to adore all that God desires for man: And for the heaven’s wide circuit, let it speak The Maker’s high magnificence, who built 31 Milton, Paradise Lost, VIII.181.

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So spacious, and his line stretched out so far; That many may know he dwells not in his own; An edifice too large for him to fill, Lodged in a small partition, and the rest Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.32

Milton argues the idea of man’s dependence upon God here. Right reason is the magnificence of the created order that is God’s means to instill awe within man, thus teaching him his place in the cosmos. Man’s folly follows Satan’s folly of self-aggrandizement in Book X. If man’s world is all in his own mind, then that world is small indeed.33 Thus, the grand magnificence of God’s cosmological order that Milton paints as sublime, granting wonder to the mind of man. Right reason is the state of contentment in one’s place in creation, or rather, contentment in that God’s will has placed one in a Paradise; yet Paradise was threatened from outside. Adam further expressed his delight in Raphael’s answer to God’s divine will for creation and man’s place in it: That not to know at large of things remote From use; obscure and subtle, but to know That which before us lies in daily life, Is the prime wisdom.34

We see Adam’s moral responsibility reinforced again when Raphael departs after they discuss the beginning of all things. In Book VIII, Adam recounts his first moments of God-awareness. Raphael and Adam discuss the creative majesty of the Almighty Maker. Adam is given one last encouragement: to remember his innate gift of reason and his loyalty

32 Milton, Paradise Lost, VIII.100–106. 33 Satan first exemplifies this sinful pride of mind in Book I; “A mind not to be changed by place or time. / The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n,” 253–255. 34 Milton, Paradise Lost, VIII.191–194.

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to God, despite the unknowns, as the created man he was. Raphael speaks a final caution: Be strong, live happy, and love, but first of all Him whom to love is to obey, and keep His great command; take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit; thine and of all thy sons The weal or woe in thee is placed; beware. I in thy persevering shall rejoice, And all the blest: stand fast; to stand or fall Free in thine own arbitrament it lies. Perfect within, no outward aid require; And all temptation to transgress repel.35

Adam’s gift of right reason is perseverance in God’s will: “The weal or woe in thee is placed: beware.” Adam was free to stand or to fall. God placed a moral responsibility upon Adam to obey and to practice God-honoring dominion over the Maker’s creation. But Milton rightly showcases that only God the Almighty Father is immutable. Therefore, God created man with the capacity for mutability. The warning shifts from God’s perfect, naive state for man in Paradise to the awakened knowledge of evil pride that expelled him from Paradise. Man lost his place in God’s original cosmological order.

Fallen Reason: The Original Sin and The Tree of Knowledge

Ann Gossman observes that the imagery of The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge in Eden is used by Milton to show the tension in the disruption of the cosmic order. Reason was not adhered to when Satan deceived Eve. He used her sense of vanity to justify her disobedience. Gossman ar35 Milton, Paradise Lost, VIII.633–643.

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gues that Milton uses the imagery of the Tree of Knowledge as a shadow of right reason found in heaven. The irony in Eve’s taking of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge is that Death resulted instead. Adam and Eve did not eat of the Tree of Life, of course, but of its opposite, which might be viewed as the Tree of Death; for it was not knowledge that Eve sought from the Tree, much less gained. The fruit of it, rather, was the means to gratify her ego, to assert undeserved supremacy over Adam, and to abjure her responsibility toward God. Adam’s decision to eat of the fruit was the deliberate violation, not only of the command, but of that Right Reason which defined his self-knowledge and his true relationship to Eve and to God. The result of them both was death in several rather special senses of the word, and not knowledge; but the suffered experience of evil tragically alienated them temporarily from their true selves, each other, and God. Even their mode of knowledge was changed to that sad process whereby man must know good by evil.36

As Paradise Lost is as much Augustinian in nature as Milton is the poet, the act of taking from the Tree of Knowledge was not the rebellion. Their sin was turning away from the good. Turning away from the good order of God’s command shows the rejection of right reason. Augustine argues that touching the forbidden tree was an act of rejection of the rational soul: Every tree that God planted in paradise was good. Man, therefore, did not desire anything evil by nature when he touched the forbidden tree. But by departing from what was better, he himself committed an act that was evil. […] God had not planted a bad tree in paradise. But he

36 Ann Gossman, “The Use of the Tree of Life in ‘Paradise Lost,’” The Journal of English and Germanic Philolog y 65, no. 4 (1966): 686–87.

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who had forbidden that tree to be touched was better than the tree.37 The reason for the prohibition was to show that the rational soul is not in its own power but ought to be subject to God, and must guard the order of its salvation by obedience, or by disobedience be corrupted.38

The mutability of Adam can also apply to fallen humanity even now. Just as Adam was able to fall, he was able to change from that state of God’s original creation to the fallen state of disobedient and sinful creation. In contrast, all descendants of Adam and Eve, all sons of Adam and daughters of Eve, are not born perfectly sinless. We are born into sin as we carry that state from the first parents. But in God’s grace, that state of original sin is changeable only through the grace and atonement of the Son of God, Jesus Christ. Theologians speak of these two states of being as prelapsarian and postlapsarian conditions. Prelapsarian was the state of the first man and woman in Paradise, “free and able… free to stand but able to fall.” The postlapsarian state is the condition to which Adam and Eve’s descendants find themselves. After the fall, after the lapse of moral judgment, humanity became dependent on a state of grace. Since the Edenic fall, humanity has required grace to perform any good action; without grace, man necessarily sins. Raphael’s warning is a caution for Adam not to forget his Creator, the Almighty Father whom he worshiped and obeyed. Adam was warned not to forget his place in the Divine Hierarchy of order. As long as Adam and Eve remained in their proper place of dependence upon God for provision and protection, they could stand against Satan. But when that proper place was disrupted, they were no longer free and able to stand against Satan. Adam and Eve failed in their moral 37 Augustine, The Nature of the Good, sec. XXXIV, 337. 38 Augustine, The Nature of the Good, sec. XXXV, 338.

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responsibility to carry out the right-ordered dominion and stewardship over Paradise. When they failed in this moral responsibility, all fell into chaos and disharmony. The answer, then, for the descendants of Adam and Eve is to be both dependent upon God’s sovereign protection and morally responsible to stand against the Tempter as we stand in the grace of Christ and practice right reason.

The Almighty Father’s Virtue

The Almighty Father’s soliloquy in book III of Paradise Lost articulates foundational biblical moral doctrine. Humanity was created for God’s glory.39 Man’s moral responsibility is to obey the Almighty Father as God’s agent of right reason, standing upright before the Almighty Father’s hierarchical position above; however, this responsibility is truly fulfilled only with the moral freedom of reason. Men are free moral agents capable and expected to freely and reasonably obey God by ruling over the passions within God’s grace bestowed. This is God’s gift. The “world” was infused with vital virtue at creation as the dark dregs of chaos were purged and pushed down. God intended for his created world to be an expression of all virtue. Milton imagines the act of creation: Matter unformed and void: darkness profound Covered th’ abyss: but on the wat’ry calm His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth Throughout the fluid mass, but downward purged The black tartareous cold infernal dregs

39 “Bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the end of the earth, everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.” (Isaiah 43.6–7, ESV).

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Adverse to life…40

Milton paints the poetic picture of virtue as essential for living: “vital virtue infused” by God into his creation, born out of an unformed dark void. The poet suggests that virtue is of the Creator and thus ordained for the created order. The creative story and the eloquence of poetry appeal to the imagination, drawing out felt perception. Great literature allows one to see the unseen, to see meaning in lived experience. Great literature instills images permanently in the mind, especially of the meaning of responsible virtue. We return to great literature again and again in our minds as touchstones by which we interpret the world around us.

Satan Rejects Right Reason

Satan’s rejection of right reason caused him and the angelic beings who followed him to fall, that is, to be cast out of heaven to fall for nine days and nights into the abyss of eternal fire. Book VI continues the recounting of the heavenly battle by Raphael to Adam. God honors the faithful angel Abdiel, who defeated Satan in the first battle in heaven,41 and cites the rejection of right reason as the Heavenly Host must pursue and conquer the evil horde. The willing submission to wrong reason caused Satan and his army to lose heaven and be cast out: To stand approved in sight of God, through worlds Judged thee perverse; the easier conquest now Remains thee, aided by this host of friends, Back on thy foes more glorious to return Than scorned thou didst depart, and to subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse, 40 Milton, Paradise Lost, VII.233–239. 41 Milton, Paradise Lost, VI.27–28.

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Right reason for their law, and for their King Messiah, who by right of merit reigns…42

Milton artfully portrays Satan’s soliloquy to Beelzebub in Book I, which further reveals the twisted reasoning that led to Satan and his legions falling into the pit of hell and chaos. Satan embraces his new realm, nine days and nights distant from heaven as his own. He is now his own king. He is his own master free from the servitude of Heaven. Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, Said then the lost Archangel, this the seat That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since he Who now is sov’reign can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell happy fields Where joy for every dwells: hail horrors, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell Receive thy new possessor: one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. … Here at last We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.43

The twisted reasoning of pride elevates Satan’s mind to love his gloom and clime of Hell. In his mind, God would leave him alone since the conditions of Hell were so opposite to those of Heaven. Satan’s mind saw an opportunity for per42 Milton, Paradise Lost, VI.36–43. 43 Milton, Paradise Lost, I.242–270.

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sonal glory in his fallen circumstance. Milton seems to portray Satan’s wrong reason early in the epic to lay the groundwork for the same wrong reason whispered into Eve’s mind.44 Satan is the originator of evil. Not man. The Prince of angels, Michael, speaks as one unacquainted with evil in his parley with Satan in Book VI before the angelic battle begins: Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt, Unnamed in Heav’n, now plenteous, as thou seest These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all, Though heaviest by just measure on thyself And thy adherents: how hast thou disturbed Heav’n’s blessèd peace, and into Nature brought Misery, uncreated till the crime Of thy rebellion?45

Conclusion: Right Reason Recovered

Ann Baynes Coiro presents a compelling argument that the conclusion of Paradise Lost is an example of Milton’s call for education reform.46 Books XI and XII of Paradise Lost depict the archangel Michael’s tutelage of postlapsarian Adam, preparing him for a future cast out of Paradise’s order and the generational effects of sin upon all of humanity. Cairo argues that Michael’s instruction to Adam, “parallels, down to the smallest detail, the methodical course” found in Milton’s 1644 tractate, Of Education.47

44 “Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve: / Assaying by his devilish art to reach / The organs of her Fancy, and with them forge / Illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams.” Milton, Paradise Lost, IV.800–804. 45 Milton, Paradise Lost, VI.262–269. 46 Ann Baynes Coiro, “‘To Repair the Ruins of Our First Parents’: Of Education and Fallen Adam.” Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900 28, no. 1 (1988): 133–47. 47 Coiro, “To Repair the Ruins of Our First Parents’,” 133.

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Milton was a strong proponent of the view that the recovery of right reason must come through the proficiency and rigor of Christian Liberal Arts Education. This article concludes that Milton’s pedagogy is a viable model of focused education, key to repairing the ruins not only of our first Parents, Adam and Eve, but also of modern educational pedagogy. In the 1644 pamphlet, Of Education, Milton argued for a proficient and rigorous reform centered on the ancient academies that would set right what the first Parents of humanity failed to do. I believe the study of Milton’s Paradise Lost is a fundamental foundation for moral education even now. Milton himself explained his position on moral education and right reason as a gift of God: The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.48

The theme in Paradise Lost is loss, not only of place, but also of intellectual perfection. Therefore, Milton was a strong proponent of the view that, along with regeneration through salvation in Christ, the end of education was to reverse what had been lost in the Edenic Fall. Ann Baynes Coiro observes that the dialogue between the angel Michael and Adam was a necessary corrective to Adam’s first impressions of the vision of man’s future.49 Michael grants Adam a vision of his descendants that, at first appearance, seemed hopeful. The vision was of the sons of Lamech, men working with metal ore, making vessels and graven images. Love seemed abundant as men and women 48 John Milton, “Of Education,” in John Milton Prose: Major Writings on Liberty, Politics, Religion, and Education, ed. David Loewenstein (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 172–180. 49 Corio, “To Repair the Ruins of Our First Parents’,” 138.

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joined together in nuptials. Adam gives thanks to Michael for this seemingly happy future for humanity: True opener of mine eyes, prime angel blest, Much better seems this vision, and more hope Of peaceful days portends, than those two past; Those were of hate and death, or pain much worse, Here nature seems fulfilled in all her ends.50

Michael’s response taught an important lesson about the effects of sin for generations of humanity. What God intends in his natural order, sin distorts. Adam envisioned men creating things through work, just as God is the Creator. Yet what the sons of Lamech do does not honor their Creator. studious they appear Of arts that polish life, inventors rare, Unmindful of their Maker, though his Spirit Taught them, but they his gifts acknowledge none.51

Ann Baynes Cairo connects this lesson by Michael as that required for repairing the ruins of our first parents. The purpose of Milton’s Of Education is to inspire a delight in pupils that lasts beyond the misguided wisdom from the Fall. This is right reason restored in that the same lessons given to Adam are the means to a very different end. Adam’s delight in seeing men creating and working and loving is the delight of another fall into sin. Students must learn to recognize the temptation of delight and temper that emotion with moral judgment through right reason.52 Milton’s method of education reform required years of focused study, beginning with a proper foundation in grammar and languages, followed by geometry, physics, mathematics, poetry, and eventually philosophy, specifically moral 50 Milton, Paradise Lost, XI.598–602. 51 Milton, Paradise Lost, XI.609–612. 52 Corio, “To Repair the Ruins of Our First Parents’,” 138.

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philosophy. The means by which lost intellect and virtue were regained was to renew a passion for constant and sound truth, to set students upright again. Milton argues: But here the main skill and groundwork will be, to temper them such lectures and explanations upon every opportunity, as may lead and draw them in willing obedience, enflam’d with the study of learning, and the admiration of virtue, stirr’d up with high hopes of living to be brave men, and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.53

Reason remains for Milton the avenue to virtue. Further in his call to educational reform, Milton articulates the value of training the mind in moral judgment: By this time, years and good general precepts will have furnisht them more distinctly with that act of reason which in Ethics is call’d Proairesis:54 that they may with some judgement contemplate upon morall good and evill. Then will be requir’d a special reinforcement of constant and sound endoctrinating to set them right and firm, instructing them more amply in the knowledge of virtue and the hatred of vice. […] in their nightward studies wherewith they close the dates work, under the determinant sentence of David, or Salomon, or the Evangels and Apostolic scriptures.55

This article has presented a fresh look at the lessons of right reason as right virtue in Milton. Paradise Lost can be a fruitful literary work for classes exploring the idea of right reason as a gift from God. The work is hard in restoring what was lost in Paradise, but the labor to renew right reason in agreement with God’s created order, with the aid of the Spirit of Christ, is worth the sacrifice and labor.

53 Milton, Of Education, 174. 54 Milton, Of Education, 176, 69f. Proairesis: moral choice: see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, II, vi, 15. 55 Milton, Of Education, 176.

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Book IX of Paradise Lost depicts an honest discussion (not a quarrel or rebellion) between Adam and Eve about the blessing of work that God had commissioned them to do. Eve laments to Adam the required work of tending to Eden and the lack of extra hands. Adam engages Eve lovingly and gently in discussion, encouraging her in her work. The work that can be done should be the focus. Fearing what is beyond the present is the source of temptation and doubt. Right reason will keep Eve’s fears in check and her mind toward God the Maker as she looks to Adam. He who obeys right reason is free. Right reason is God’s will obeyed. Milton gives these lines of verse as Adam’s voice of encouragement to Eve before their deception by the Serpent: But God left free the will, for what obeys Reason, is free, and reason he made right, But bid her well beware, and still erect, Lest by some fair appearing good surprised She dictate false, and misinform the will To do what God expressly hath forbid.56

⸭ Bryant Owens is a Professor of Philosophy, Ethics, and Religion at Virginia Highlands Community College and teaches at the Logres Institute for Classical Liberal Studies. He is part of the Ciceronian Society and a member of Concord Baptist Church in Chattanooga, TN. Previously, he worked with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship and served as a Senior Pastor at two Southern Baptist churches. Dr. Owens earned his Ph.D. from Faulkner University. He has written for The Consortium Journal of Classical Educators and The Journal of Faith and the Academy. He contributes regularly to the Jesus Mind Substack (jesusmind.substack.com).

56 Milton, Paradise Lost, IX.351–356.