Cinemorphosis

Tag: god

  • The Problem with Becoming a Better Person

    The Problem with Becoming a Better Person

    In her memoir Will and Attention, Meghan O’Gieblyn reminds us that exhortations to listen more, engage more fully with the world, and pay closer attention to what is happening around us are easier said than done. Part of the struggle comes from the tension between the voices inside our heads and the voices in the outside world. When the internal voices become loud enough, they drown out everything else, making genuine attention nearly impossible. Nor are these thoughts necessarily useful or interesting. O’Gieblyn describes her own as “circular, deterministic, and relentlessly self-excoriating.”

    That last word, with its suggestion of self-laceration, reminded me of something writer Ana Marie Cox once said on her now-defunct podcast. Just as she had been addicted to alcohol, she suffered from another addiction: self-hatred. Her therapist warned her not to pick up the liquor bottle of self-loathing and drink from it. Yet she would lift this metaphorical bottle to her lips as compulsively as an alcoholic sipping vodka. Once such a habit becomes deeply entrenched, paying attention to it becomes extraordinarily difficult because the behavior feels almost as involuntary as breathing.

    As O’Gieblyn struggles to follow Simone Weil’s advice to abandon the will and replace it with attention, she learns that she must engage with the world “without the distorting lens of the ego.” She must confront what William James called the “sick soul,” the soul divided against itself. We cannot simply will these divided selves into wholeness. In the tradition of the great religions, wholeness often requires surrender to a power greater than ourselves. But O’Gieblyn no longer finds the tenets of religion useful to her, nor even the more universal spiritual tenets of AA. “Letting go” too often returns her to the original problem: the egotistical self doing the letting go.

    Rather than seek surrender in the traditional religious sense, O’Gieblyn turns toward the kind of surrender Simone Weil associates with attention. Attention is not merely focus. It involves what Weil calls the “indirect method,” an idea she never explicitly defines. We can infer, however, that the indirect method requires us to approach a problem with calm and patience rather than demand immediate results. We engage with our problems from different angles, remain attentive to what they reveal, and hope to plant seeds that eventually bear fruit.

    But this approach presents a maddening problem. It requires maturity, and maturity may be the very state we are trying to attain. If we need maturity to approach life’s challenges with patient attention, we arrive at a bootstrapping paradox: We need the capacity we are trying to develop in order to develop that capacity.

    We all need maturity, poise, and wholeness, but the patience required to travel that path may be precisely what the immature person lacks. A patient person is therefore better equipped to practice Weil’s indirect method and bear fruit. An impatient person may become frustrated, abandon the endeavor, and regress into deeper forms of infantilization and addiction. Thus, he who has, more shall be given; he who has not, more shall be taken away. This is the psychological Matthew Effect: maturity creates conditions for greater maturity, while immaturity can create conditions for deeper immaturity. The rich get richer not merely in money but in psychological resources.

    As I reach retirement age, I find myself caught inside this very problem. I am trying to live as long as possible so I can collect as many monthly retirement checks as possible, turning myself into a commodity in the name of gaming the system on the metaphorical game show I call Beat the Actuary. Intellectually, I know this is spiritual madness, but I cannot simply will the impulse away. Nor do I appear to possess the patience necessary to attend to it in the calm and mature manner Simone Weil describes.

    Fortunately, I remain genuinely amused by the comic absurdity of my predicament. Without that amusement, I might tumble into despair. But despair eludes me for now. I am content to read Meghan O’Gieblyn’s meditations on will and attention and hope that, by the time I finish her book, I will have become a slightly better man.

  • The Good Life Is Making Me Anxious

    The Good Life Is Making Me Anxious

    Of course, retirement is not about retiring. It’s about learning to live differently after you’ve been loosed from your professional obligations. The same goes for aging. It’s not about preparing to die. It’s about preparing to live appropriately in the face of death.

    So after hearing Notre Dame professor Meghan Sullivan discuss these issues on a podcast with David Brooks, I picked up The Good Life Method: Reasoning Through the Big Questions of Happiness, Faith, and Meaning. Written by Sullivan and Paul Blaschko, the book’s ten chapters begin with action verbs: desire, live, take, work, love, wonder, take, struggle, contemplate, and prepare. I saw this as a promising start because my current action verbs are worry, fret, stew, and agonize. This book could represent an improvement in my approach.

    The Introduction immediately caught me. The authors observe that we are goal-oriented creatures. We see ourselves on a ladder, constantly climbing in the realms of health, fitness, social status, and material success. We devote enormous amounts of time and energy to achieving these goals, and the labor itself reassures us that we are headed somewhere worthwhile.

    As I read, I envisioned all of us standing over the parts of our lives as if they were machine pieces moving along a conveyor belt. We are assembly-line workers connecting some of the pieces, but we don’t know what the finished product is supposed to look like. We have our station on the line. We work earnestly. We tighten our bolts. But we’ve lost sight of the machine.

    The authors argue that there is an answer to this myopia. It’s called philosophy. Aristotle understood its purpose. Interrogating your life and the lives around you should help you develop a philosophy aimed at making you a good person. Good people have something in common: they lead “a good life.” Defining the good life, and then embodying it, becomes the purpose of philosophy.

    What strikes me about this lesson is that it applies to people of all ages and employment conditions. We have found the rare universal shoe that fits everyone’s feet.

    Aspiring to the good life puts everything else into context. If I want ten thousand people to watch one of my YouTube videos in three days and become grouchy with my family because only three thousand people have bothered to admire me, I’ve lost my way. I’ve lost what the authors call telos, the aim that gives life meaning and direction. We have a target. Our actions are arrows. The arrows should hit the target.

    Road rage, social-media disappointment, food hoarding, slothful TV bingeing, and compulsive internet shopping are arrows lying uselessly in the grass. Giving ourselves over to unruly passions becomes a recipe for misery. Happiness, by contrast, means hitting the target by living the good life. Aristotle called this goal eudaimonia.

    Because I am Ashkenazi Jewish on my mother’s side and Roman Catholic on my father’s, I am familiar with versions of this framework. In Judaism, we aspire to a good life while wrestling with the evil inclination. God has given us enough reason and strength to move toward him. We meet God halfway, and God reciprocates.

    Christianity tells a more severe story. We don’t merely fail to pursue the good life. We run from it. We love darkness and self-indulgence. We enjoy our little kingdoms of complacent narcissism, where the rest of humanity can suffer somewhere safely beyond the property line. But God is the Hound of Heaven. He hunts us down and drags us toward the fold while we scream and kick our legs. As Paul and John explain it, we are sinners in need of a divine rescue mission before we can turn around and walk the true path.

    So reading The Good Life Method makes me anxious.

    I agree with the general framework. Our lives should not be rooted in materialism, social status, and self-indulgence. We should seek to become good people. My anxiety begins with that old warning: the devil is in the details.

    Can we reach the good life and find atonement and redemption through Aristotle’s philosophy? Through the similar structure of Judaism? Through Christianity? There are similarities, certainly, but there are also enormous differences. Take eschatology, a frightening word for “last things.” What exactly are the last things? Does death bring annihilation, the complete extinction of consciousness? Do we enter some larval underworld imagined by ancient Greek religion? Do we haunt Hades, Sheol, or Gehenna, neither happy nor tortured, but half-conscious, like someone slowly waking from a codeine dream?

    Or is there a Judgment Day, a Lake of Fire, and a heavenly mansion where, as Aquinas notoriously suggested, part of the pleasure enjoyed by the blessed comes from witnessing the punishment of the damned? They mocked you on earth for your pious ways. Now look who’s laughing.

    The devil is in the details.

    So I am anxious.

    But I read on.

    I know the book ahead of me is not some saccharine self-help manual stuffed with fortune-cookie platitudes. Nor is it a New Age sales pitch assuring me that I can be spiritual and selfish at the same time because having my cake and eating it is apparently my God-given entitlement. Like any worthwhile book, The Good Life Method intends to challenge me. It will throw down a gauntlet. It will force me to examine my values and priorities.

    Because Sullivan and Blaschko teach at Notre Dame and are practicing Roman Catholics, however, I don’t yet know whether their goal is to convert me in the specifically religious sense or in the more universal philosophical sense. Nor do I know whether universal moral improvement is sufficient once eschatology enters the room.

    If I practiced a particular religious faith, I’m not sure I would be satisfied if people adopted my moral philosophy and stopped there. That would be like repainting an old car. You cleaned and stripped the surface. You repaired the body. You spread the Bondo, sanded it smooth, applied the primer, and congratulated yourself on the progress.

    But you stopped.

    No sealer. No base coat. No clear coat. No curing.

    You understood Aristotle. You understood the arrows and the target. You may even have become a nicer person. But you failed to conform those principles to the required orthodoxy. You are an unfinished automobile sitting under fluorescent shop lights with enormous patches of Bondo across the doors.

    You are an eyesore.

    I am overcome with these thoughts, and I haven’t even finished the Introduction.

    Apparently one thing that did not retire when I did was my compulsion to worry, fret, obsess, and make myself increasingly miserable while reading books designed to teach me how to be happy.

  • Hell Insurance and the Problem of Love

    Hell Insurance and the Problem of Love

    I have struggled with the hell doctrine since the age of seventeen. When Francis Xavier preached Christianity in Japan, some converts reportedly wept through the night after learning that family members who had died outside the faith were condemned to eternal hell. I understood something of that anguish when I encountered Christianity in 1979. My new Christian friends told me that my Jewish relatives were in hell. In the next breath, they assured me that Jesus loved me. I had trouble reconciling the two propositions. I wasn’t feeling the love.

    Around 1981, after reading Erich Fromm’s critique of fundamentalist religion, I experienced an enormous release. I felt liberated from what Alfred North Whitehead, in Religion in the Making, describes as the image of an evil God. The relief was so powerful that it felt almost religious itself, as if an immense weight had been lifted from my chest. Over the years, I came to call that experience Fromm Night, a shorthand for an emotional and spiritual liberation too complicated to summarize every time I referred to it.

    This is where my attempts to return to Christianity become painful. Conversion can seem to require me to repudiate Fromm Night—the very experience that once restored my psychological and moral health. To accept orthodox Christianity, I seem required to return to the anguish of those Japanese converts and call that anguish truth. My Jewish relatives are lost. Their suffering is eternal. My horror at this doctrine is something I must overcome. That, presumably, is my cross to bear.

    And this is the love of Jesus. This is the light. This is the true path. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through him.

    But I keep encountering a problem that I cannot bully myself into resolving. Suppose I force myself to bow before Jesus. Is submission the same thing as love? If some part of me remains horrified by what I am required to believe, can I truthfully say that I love Jesus with all my heart, mind, and soul? If accepting Christ requires me to suppress Fromm Night, what exactly have I accepted—Jesus, or my fear of being wrong about Jesus?

    These questions lead me toward still more disturbing ones. Is Jesus cruel? Is orthodox Christianity cruel? Or have I misunderstood Christianity so profoundly that I have mistaken a human theology of exclusion for the person of Jesus himself?

    Yet the easy escape doesn’t satisfy me either. I don’t want to manufacture a domesticated Christianity stripped of every difficult doctrine until Jesus becomes little more than a dispenser of therapeutic reassurance. If Christianity is true, I want to confront what it actually claims, not dilute it into spiritual pablum because the harder version frightens me.

    So I remain caught between two powerful experiences. One tells me that escaping a theology of eternal punishment was among the great liberations of my life. The other tells me not to dismiss Jesus merely because Christianity makes demands upon me that I find unbearable.

    I am still trying to understand spiritual reality. I have not given up. There are profound aspects of Jesus that continue to draw me. Part of me longs to relinquish the selfish ego, turn outward, serve others, forgive, sacrifice, and discover whether that really is the path toward a fuller life.

    But the contradiction remains. I cannot make myself forget Fromm Night, nor can I make myself stop looking toward Jesus.

    That ambivalence is not an intellectual puzzle I occasionally entertain. It has been one of the enduring torments of my spiritual life.

  • The Edna Challenge

    The Edna Challenge

    My great-grandmother Edna was born in Poland shortly before 1900. In 1904, when she was still a little girl, pogroms swept through her city and her parents were massacred. She was taken in by a cruel stepmother who treated her less like a daughter than a household slave.

    Somehow, in 1911, Edna escaped. Still a girl, she crossed an ocean and arrived in New York.

    The family she left behind would fare even worse. Much of it was eventually annihilated by the Nazis. Her older brother Ellis, his wife, and their two children were sent to Auschwitz. His wife and children were murdered there. Ellis survived, came to New York after the war, became a dentist, and eventually retired to Miami.

    Edna married a man afflicted with severe arthritis. A doctor prescribed injections of gold, a treatment that sounds today like something devised by an alchemist with excellent malpractice insurance. The gold didn’t cure him. His condition worsened until he became an invalid, leaving Edna with the exhausting responsibility of caring for him.

    By the time I met her, in 1968, her husband was dead and Edna was living in Leisure World in Seal Beach.

    I was six.

    I loved her immediately.

    She spoke with a thick Polish accent and carried a melancholy that somehow made me feel safe. She cooked savory kasha dishes for me and let me sit beside her watching soap operas. Her favorite was As the World Turns. Edna, who had survived pogroms, an abusive childhood, immigration, family annihilation, and years caring for an invalid husband, could become magnificently agitated over the romantic judgment of a fictional woman on daytime television.

    When some charlatan started courting one of the female characters, Edna would shake her fist at the television.

    “Leave him!”

    Apparently surviving the twentieth century did not prepare her to tolerate a bad boyfriend.

    I found this deeply touching. Life had given Edna every conceivable reason to withdraw from the world, yet there she was, emotionally invested in some ridiculous soap-opera romance as though civilization itself depended upon this woman dumping the bum before the next commercial break.

    Edna was ethnically Jewish, but as far as I could tell, she wasn’t religious.

    And here begins what I call The Edna Challenge.

    The Edna Challenge is the difficulty of reconciling Christianity’s diagnosis of universal spiritual deficiency with the memory of a nonreligious person who seemed morally whole without religion.

    Edna didn’t strike me as someone waiting to be completed.

    She possessed a fierce moral intelligence. Once, one of her great-grandchildren, a red-haired boy with serious behavioral problems, knocked my younger brother off a bunk bed. My brother landed hard and began crying, a large bump rising on his head.

    Edna gathered him into her arms and rocked him.

    Then came the verdict.

    “He is not worthy of being my great-grandchild.”

    There was no committee meeting. No therapeutic language. No discussion of developmental stages or impulse control. The Supreme Court of Edna had convened, heard the evidence, and handed down its decision.

    I loved her all the more for it.

    Her daughter Mildred, my maternal grandmother, wasn’t religious either. When I was eight, she told me plainly that she believed this earthly life was the whole story. No heaven. No afterlife. No celestial sequel.

    Like Edna, Mildred seemed complete to me.

    Neither woman appeared to experience herself as fallen, spiritually dead, estranged from God, or afflicted by some invisible metaphysical disease requiring a supernatural cure. They loved people. They made moral judgments. They endured suffering. They possessed humor, loyalty, anger, tenderness, and dignity.

    I cannot look backward and identify the missing piece.

    Then there’s me.

    I’m a different beast altogether.

    When I read Paul’s Letter to the Romans, I feel as though Paul has somehow obtained my psychological records. I know what I should do and don’t do it. I do things I have already decided I shouldn’t do. Appetite fights judgment. Vanity fights humility. Intention fights behavior. The person I am seems perpetually at war with the person I believe I should become.

    Paul describes the divided consciousness, and I recognize the address.

    I understand the hunger for salvation because I experience the condition for which salvation appears to be the remedy. I want the wholeness and holiness Paul describes. I understand what it means to feel incapable of repairing yourself with the same machinery that keeps producing the damage.

    But then I remember Edna.

    And Christianity’s universal diagnosis becomes difficult for me.

    Perhaps Paul is right about me. But was he right about her?

    A Christian can answer that Edna’s apparent wholeness doesn’t matter. Sin isn’t merely psychological distress or bad behavior. She could have been loving, courageous, morally serious, and emotionally integrated while remaining estranged from God at some deeper level.

    I understand the argument.

    But The Edna Challenge remains.

    Because the diagnosis begins to describe something I cannot see.

    Edna survived horrors I can barely imagine. Her parents were murdered. Her childhood was stolen. Much of her family disappeared into the Holocaust. Her brother walked out of Auschwitz without his wife and children. She crossed an ocean, built a life, cared for an invalid husband, became a widow, and grew old carrying memories I was too young to understand.

    Yet she did not strike me as spiritually defective.

    She struck me as Edna.

    Meanwhile, her comparatively fortunate great-grandson sits decades later reading Romans and recognizing himself on every page.

    Perhaps Christianity is right that both of us needed the same salvation.

    Perhaps my memory of Edna tells me nothing about her deepest spiritual condition.

    Or perhaps Paul discovered something extraordinarily true about certain human beings and mistook it for the universal condition.

    I don’t know.

    That uncertainty sits at the center of my struggle with religious faith. Before I can accept the prescription, I have to understand the diagnosis. And whenever I’m told that humanity suffers from a universal spiritual deficiency that only religion can address, I find myself returning to Leisure World in 1968.

    There is Edna in her chair.

    The television is on.

    As the World Turns has presented another romantic scoundrel.

    Edna shakes her fist at the screen.

    And I find myself asking the question Christianity has not yet answered to my satisfaction:

    What, exactly, was missing from her?

  • Damascus Syndrome

    Damascus Syndrome

    Many years ago, my wife explained something about men that has stayed with me: we are suckers for violent conversions.

    She grew up in a church where people regularly stood before the congregation and delivered their testimonies. These were rarely modest affairs. Nobody announced that over several years he had gradually become less selfish and slightly easier to live with. That would hardly justify taking the microphone.

    No, there had to be an abyss.

    The man had been drinking, drugging, fighting, fornicating, worshipping money, driving ninety miles an hour toward eternal damnation—and then, at 3:17 one Tuesday morning, Jesus grabbed the steering wheel.

    My wife would roll her eyes.

    She suspected that some of these testimonies contained less piety than theater. Ostensibly, the man was glorifying God. Curiously, however, God had given him forty-five minutes of stage time to explain what an exceptionally fascinating sinner he had been.

    Call it Damascus Syndrome: the male longing for a catastrophic encounter that divides life into a disgraced Before and a redeemed After.

    Men seem particularly susceptible to it. We don’t want gradual improvement. We don’t want to become five percent more patient every year. We want an earthquake. We want the old self dragged from the wreckage and a new self emerging through the smoke.

    In other words, we want an origin story.

    Before Peter Parker gets bitten by the spider and Bruce Wayne enters the Batcave, Saul of Tarsus is riding toward Damascus with murder in his heart.

    Saul isn’t searching for truth. He believes he already owns it. He has his convictions, his mission, his enemies. Then comes the light.

    A vision. A voice.

    Suddenly the man who knows exactly where he is going cannot see the road.

    Saul is left blind, helpless, and disoriented. For three days he sits in darkness while a greater darkness collapses inside him. His old identity has suffered an internal earthquake. The load-bearing walls have cracked. The building has been condemned.

    Then a stranger arrives claiming to have been sent by the Lord.

    More unsettling still, Saul will become Paul.

    This new identity feels less like self-actualization than an eviction notice. Saul wants his old certainties back. His old mission. His old enemies. He doesn’t want transformation. He wants things returned to factory settings.

    But Damascus doesn’t negotiate.

    The light has hijacked his life.

    This is the part of the story that fascinates me and makes my wife suspicious. Men love the idea that somewhere out there awaits an event sufficiently violent to blast through the accumulated concrete of the false self. We don’t merely want to change. We want to be struck down, preferably with witnesses.

    A quiet epiphany while loading the dishwasher lacks production value.

    Damascus Syndrome demands thunder.

    Emmanuel Carrère captures the deeper paradox of Paul’s conversion in The Kingdom: “Paul was no longer himself; he was finally himself.”

    That sentence overturns our comforting modern idea of authenticity. We usually imagine the authentic self as something we express: Follow your instincts. Find your voice. Be true to yourself. Peel away society’s expectations until the magnificent original You finally appears.

    Damascus proposes something considerably more terrifying.

    What if the self you are determined to express is precisely the self that has to go?

    What if your deepest identity lies underneath the personality, convictions, ambitions, resentments, appetites, and certainties you have spent decades defending?

    Then becoming yourself requires losing yourself.

    This possibility gives Damascus Syndrome its genuine spiritual power. It also gives men an irresistible opportunity for grandiosity. After all, once you’ve been annihilated and reborn, somebody needs to hear about it.

    Preferably everybody.

    Preferably in hardcover.

    My wife remains skeptical. She has heard too many testimonies, watched too many men turn repentance into performance art, seen too many ordinary psychological crises inflated into The Dark Night of the Soul: My Journey from Darkness into Light.

    Perhaps she has a point.

    Maybe men can’t tolerate the thought that maturity might happen quietly—that becoming a better person could involve thousands of small corrections made without applause, lightning bolts, blindness, voices from heaven, or a publishing contract.

    We want Damascus.

    We want the spider bite.

    We want the Batcave.

    We want our old identity blown to pieces so that we can stagger from the crater transformed, finally ourselves, with one additional blessing from God:

    a hell of a story.

  • The Glum Principle

    The Glum Principle

    One of the most unforgettable cartoon characters from my childhood was a tiny Lilliputian from The Adventures of Gulliver named Glum. Glum appeared to have been placed on earth for one purpose: to extinguish hope before it had a chance to embarrass itself. Whenever his friends devised a clever plan to escape disaster, Glum would clear his throat and deliver his familiar three-point sermon.

    “It’ll never work.”

    “We’ll never make it.”

    “We’re doomed.”

    Glum never offered an alternative. He didn’t solve problems. He protected them.

    As a child, I found him amusing. As an adult, I recognized him immediately.

    He lives inside me.

    He probably lives inside you.

    Glum is the patron saint of what I call The Glum Principle: the tendency of the inner saboteur to mistake pessimism for realism, undermining action before reality has rendered its verdict. Glum derives enormous comfort from certainty, particularly the certainty that everything is about to collapse. His pessimism becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. By convincing everyone to surrender before the battle begins, he manufactures the defeat that later serves as evidence that he was right all along.

    Stephen Pressfield encountered the same character and gave him a different name.

    He called him Resistance.

    In The War of Art, Resistance is the invisible force that whispers, “Start tomorrow,” “You’re not talented enough,” or “Who do you think you are?” It is perfectly content for you to live a life of comfortable mediocrity, provided you mistake your surrender for prudence.

    Psychiatrist Phil Stutz identifies the same adversary in The Tools.

    He calls it Part X.

    Different vocabulary.

    Same miserable roommate.

    You never evict him. You merely learn to stop letting him hold the house keys.

    Every morning he wakes up eager to renegotiate yesterday’s victories. Every meaningful life is therefore less a destination than a daily engagement with the same familiar opponent. The battle itself becomes part of the point. Character is forged not by eliminating the inner saboteur but by repeatedly refusing to obey him.

    Religious traditions have been describing Glum for thousands of years.

    Judaism calls him the yetzer hara, the evil inclination. The struggle is real, but so is human responsibility. God has equipped us with sufficient moral strength, discipline, and wisdom to resist our lower impulses. Victory requires vigilance, habit, and obedience rather than supernatural replacement.

    Pauline Christianity offers a far darker diagnosis.

    Writing in Romans, Paul confesses that he repeatedly does the very things he hates and neglects the things he longs to do. His problem is not ignorance. It is inability.

    “I do not do the good I want,” he laments, “but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.”

    Paul’s Glum is more than a troublesome inclination.

    He is a tyrant.

    The human self has become so compromised that no amount of discipline, mindfulness, or moral exertion can overthrow him. What is needed is not better habits but a new nature—a kind of spiritual heart transplant accomplished through Christ.

    This marks one of Christianity’s great departures from many other traditions.

    Judaism, Stoicism, Buddhism, and much of modern self-help begin with the conviction that human beings, though flawed, possess the capacity to cultivate virtue through disciplined practice. Daily habits, mindful attention, moral training, and repeated acts of self-government gradually strengthen the better self.

    Paul is unconvinced.

    For him, the dragon cannot be domesticated.

    It must die.

    The debate has never really ended.

    One side believes the road to flourishing is paved with discipline.

    The other believes discipline alone merely teaches Glum better manners.

    That is why Romans remains one of history’s most unsettling books.

    It is, in many ways, the ultimate anti-self-help manual.

    It insists that the deepest problem is not that we lack better techniques.

    It is that the person trying to use those techniques is himself in need of redemption.

  • Waiting for My Redemptive Metamorphosis

    Waiting for My Redemptive Metamorphosis

    Perhaps every human being spends part of life waiting for a Great Mutation.

    Mine arrived on Saturday evenings in 1978.

    I sat alone in the living room watching The Incredible Hulk.

    Dr. David Banner was gentle, decent, almost saintly. He endured humiliation with the patience of Job until one indignity too many awakened something volcanic inside him. Then came the transformation. Muscles swelled. Clothes exploded into ribbons. The ordinary man disappeared, replaced by a mythical giant who seemed immune to every weakness that had tormented him only moments before.

    The scenes overwhelmed me.

    I cried.

    Not because they frightened me.

    Because I wanted them to happen to me.

    I didn’t merely want to become stronger.

    I wanted to mutate.

    I wanted my own body to erupt into something so magnificent that weakness, humiliation, fear, and self-consciousness would vanish forever.

    Then the rage would subside.

    The green giant would disappear.

    David Banner would return.

    And every week came the scene that broke my heart.

    Banner walked alone down a deserted highway while Joe Harnell’s haunting piano theme, “The Lonely Man,” floated over the closing credits.

    That was the person I recognized.

    Not the Hulk.

    David Banner.

    The solitary wanderer searching for redemption.

    As a child, I mistook that longing for innocence.

    Only much later did I recognize the quiet narcissism hidden inside the fantasy. I imagined myself not simply misunderstood but somehow destined for an extraordinary transformation that would finally justify my existence. I wasn’t content to become a better version of myself. I wanted to become another kind of being altogether.

    Looking back, I can see that I was already rehearsing the emotional architecture of the religious conversion that awaited me only a year later.

    Long before I met Jesus, I was already waiting for salvation.

    Lou Ferrigno represented one path.

    Jesus represented another.

    Both promised transformation.

    Both seemed capable of replacing the frightened, inadequate boy with someone purified, powerful, and whole.

    The muscles were never the destination.

    They were the sacrament.

    What I truly longed for was what I now call Redemptive Metamorphosis: the hope that one overwhelming transformation—physical, spiritual, artistic, or psychological—could permanently redeem a life by replacing the flawed self with a new and purified identity.

    For years I believed that transformation might begin with a barbell.

    Only later did I realize I had been searching for something far heavier to lift than iron.

  • The Words That Wouldn’t Stay on the Page

    The Words That Wouldn’t Stay on the Page

    No one ever spoke like Jesus.

    For Emmanuel Carrère, Christ’s uniqueness lies not primarily in miracles or doctrine but in language itself. Borrowing the linguistic term hapax legomenon—a word that appears only once in an entire body of literature—he suggests that Jesus is a kind of human hapax: an unrepeatable event in the history of speech.

    Carrère returns to a brief scene in John’s Gospel. Temple guards are sent to arrest Jesus, yet they return empty-handed. Asked why they failed, they offer no legal argument or strategic excuse. They simply say:

    “No one ever spoke like this man.”

    For Carrère, those few words explain more than volumes of theology.

    Even if one discarded the miracle stories, doubted the Virgin Birth, questioned the Resurrection, and rejected every supernatural claim, the sayings of Jesus would still stand beside those of Buddha, Laozi, Confucius, and history’s greatest spiritual teachers. Something unprecedented happened in the way Jesus spoke. His words possess what I would call Verbal Singularity: the condition in which a person’s manner of speaking is so original, arresting, and irreducible that it cannot be understood as merely another variation on earlier traditions.

    The New Testament captivates Carrère for another reason as well.

    Certain episodes possess the awkward texture of genuine memory.

    Who invents the anonymous young man who flees naked from Gethsemane after escaping from his linen garment? Carrère suspects the humiliated youth may even have been Mark himself, quietly preserving his own embarrassing cameo in the Gospel.

    Or consider the paralyzed man whose friends dismantle a roof simply to lower him into an overcrowded room before Jesus.

    These moments feel almost too peculiar to be fictional. They are oddly specific, narratively unnecessary, and gloriously resistant to polish. Their very strangeness gives them the texture of remembered experience rather than literary invention.

    The overt miracles leave Carrère far less persuaded.

    The Virgin Birth, the bodily Resurrection, and other supernatural claims strike him as theological architecture constructed after the fact. They belong to the realm of belief, and Carrère cannot honestly persuade himself to believe them.

    Yet disbelief has never extinguished fascination.

    Quite the opposite.

    He remains captivated by the singular force of Jesus’ language and by those small, seemingly incidental details that often feel more historically persuasive than the miracles themselves. The sayings continue to haunt him long after the doctrines have ceased to convince him.

    As a novelist, Carrère cannot help but marvel at the achievement.

    Every fiction writer dreams of creating a character who feels alive.

    Jesus does something far more astonishing.

    He steps off the page and into history, inspiring the largest and most enduring movement the world has ever known.

  • When Love Becomes Too Perfect

    When Love Becomes Too Perfect

    Carrère is captivated by Christianity’s vision of salvation, yet he recoils from its radical demands. The Gospel asks us to loosen our grip on the very things most people consider life’s greatest blessings. Marriage, children, wealth, reputation, and ambition all become secondary to membership in the family of Christ. Even love is transformed. Rather than reserving our deepest affections for spouses, children, and friends, Jesus appears to call us to a love that embraces every person without distinction.

    Here Carrère hesitates.

    Can love that is distributed equally still be called love?

    Or does it become so universal that it loses the very qualities that make it recognizably human?

    Perhaps love can become so perfect in theory that it dissolves in practice. I would call this Affection Dilution: the condition in which extending equal love to all people weakens the depth, intimacy, and preferential character that give love its meaning within families and close friendships. A love that refuses to distinguish between one’s child and a stranger risks becoming less an experience than an abstraction.

    Carrère contrasts this Christian vision with what he sees as the Jewish ideal of the good life. There, holiness is not achieved by retreating from the world but by inhabiting it faithfully. One marries. One raises children. One prospers through honest work. One celebrates weddings, feasts, and holy days. One delights in generosity, hospitality, longevity, and community. The covenant is lived not apart from earthly existence but within it. Family and flourishing are not distractions from God; they are among the ways God is honored.

    Christianity, by contrast, often appears suspicious of those very satisfactions. Earthly success fades. Family loyalties yield to discipleship. Wealth becomes a spiritual hazard. This world is not the destination but the waiting room for another kingdom.

    Carrère never fully resolves the tension between these two visions of the good life.

    My sense is that his temperament inclines him toward the Jewish embrace of earthly flourishing. He admires Christianity’s uncompromising moral vision, but he cannot surrender the conviction that family, friendship, beauty, and the ordinary joys of this world are not obstacles to a meaningful life. They are, in many ways, the very substance of it.

  • Hope for Those Who Betray Their Highest Convictions

    Hope for Those Who Betray Their Highest Convictions

    With fewer than one hundred pages remaining in The Kingdom, Emmanuel Carrère confesses that he has postponed writing about the apostle John. Of all the apostles, John is the one who unsettles him most.

    Luke is easy to love. He is congenial, eager to please, and recognizably human in his longing to belong. Paul can be abrasive, impulsive, and argumentative, yet he repeatedly exposes his own deepest flaws. His confessions make him accessible. We may not always like Paul, but we know him.

    John is another matter entirely.

    Carrère calls him “the most elusive, the most multifaceted.” He is the mysterious author behind the Fourth Gospel, the John who must be carefully distinguished from the many other Johns who populate the New Testament. This is John, the son of Zebedee.

    His story hardly begins with saintliness.

    Jesus nicknames him and his brother James Boanerges—”sons of thunder”—because both possess volcanic tempers. Luke recounts an episode in which John rebukes a man casting out demons in Jesus’ name simply because the man does not belong to their circle. His miracles, John believes, lack the proper credentials. Jesus immediately rebukes him: “Whoever is not against you is for you.”

    Later, after a Samaritan village refuses to welcome Jesus, James and John ask permission to call down fire from heaven upon its inhabitants. Once again Jesus rejects their thirst for vengeance. Mark and Luke also portray the brothers as transparently ambitious, maneuvering for the highest positions beside Christ’s throne. Pride and wrath seem to flow through them as naturally as blood.

    Yet by the time we reach the Fourth Gospel, something astonishing has happened.

    John has become “the disciple whom Jesus loved.”

    As Jesus hangs dying upon the cross, it is John—not Peter, not James—whom he entrusts with the care of his mother.

    How does such a transformation occur?

    Carrère remains skeptical that the rough, impulsive fisherman could later have written the dazzling and feverish visions of Revelation. He imagines instead that decades of experience reshaped John into someone almost unrecognizable. The hotheaded youth slowly hardened into one of Christianity’s towering patriarchs.

    “The agitated youth has become a grand old man,” Carrère writes.

    Old age, however, did not soften his life.

    According to Tertullian, John survived torture and even a vat of boiling oil before eventually settling in Ephesus. Throughout those years he faithfully cared for Mary, the mother of Jesus.

    It is in Ephesus that Carrère notices the profound difference between Paul and John.

    Paul, despite his notorious moods, remained approachable. You could seek him out, argue with him, receive instruction from him, even challenge him. His authority emerged through conversation.

    John’s authority emerged through absence.

    Carrère imagines him as remote, solemn, and almost forbidding.

    “When you saw him,” he writes, “you bowed as if he were a supreme pontiff: intimidating, inaccessible, floating on a cloud of incense.”

    John rarely appeared in public. He and Mary lived almost entirely in seclusion. People spoke of them in lowered voices. Their home acquired the atmosphere of a sanctuary. Everything surrounding them seemed wrapped in silence, reverence, and mystery.

    John embodies what might be called Mystical Distance: the condition in which a person’s rarity, silence, and withdrawal from ordinary life increase rather than diminish his perceived authority, causing others to experience him less as a companion than as a sacred mystery.

    This aura leaves Carrère uneasy.

    John’s lofty remoteness creates distance rather than intimacy.

    Peter does exactly the opposite.

    Carrère feels instinctively at home with Peter because Peter is gloriously, painfully human. He boasts that he will never abandon Jesus. When the moment of testing arrives, he collapses almost immediately. Jesus predicts the betrayal in advance, yet Peter insists with magnificent confidence, “Never, Lord.”

    Then he denies him.

    Again.

    And again.

    Carrère recognizes himself in that pattern.

    Indeed, he recognizes all of us.

    We spend our lives making solemn promises to our highest ideals only to betray them when comfort, fear, vanity, or self-preservation begins whispering in our ears. Whether we call ourselves believers or skeptics, we reenact Peter’s failure thousands of times. Every day presents another opportunity to remain faithful, and every day we discover fresh ways to compromise.

    Oddly enough, this realization comforts Carrère.

    Christianity does not pretend that Peter’s failures never happened. It remembers every denial in painful detail. Yet it also refuses to let those betrayals become Peter’s final identity. The disciple who failed most publicly becomes the disciple entrusted with the Church.

    For Carrère, this reveals something extraordinary about Christianity.

    Its deepest appeal is not its miracles.

    Nor its theology.

    Nor even its promises of salvation.

    Its deepest appeal is its startling willingness to embrace people who repeatedly fail their own highest convictions.

    Carrère remains an agnostic.

    Yet this vision of grace continues to haunt him.

    He cannot entirely believe.

    But neither can he entirely leave.

    Perhaps that lingering attachment is itself evidence of what he calls Christianity’s “pure goodness”—a goodness powerful enough to bind even those who cannot confidently call themselves believers.