Christianity

Christianity is a major religion, stemming from the life, teachings, and death of Jesus of Nazareth (the Christ, or the Anointed One of God) in the 1st century ad. It has become the largest of the world's religions. Geographically the most widely diffused of all faiths, it has a constituency of more than 2 billion believers. Its largest groups are the Roman Catholic Church, the Eastern Orthodox churches, and the Protestant churches; in addition to these churches there are several independent churches of Eastern Christianity as well as numerous sects throughout the world. See also Eastern Orthodoxy; Roman Catholicism; and Protestantism.


Theologically, the Christian faith is based on the literal, physical resurrection of its founder, Jesus Christ. The apostle Paul considered the resurrection a matter of first importance: For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures (1 Corinthians 15:3-4). It is interpreted that Jesus, through his Life, Death, and Resurrection, bridges the gap between Man and God.

Jesus of Nazareth*

The Essence and Identity of Christianity

The essence of Christianity is simple because Christianity only has about 16—maybe as many as 24 depending upon how you count them—principles altogether. It's a highly adaptable religion. It allows a lot of room and personal flexibility.

But Christianity is also difficult to practice. Because it is not a simple set of rules for how to do the right thing. It's a standard for Being—for becoming the right kind of person. And it's not filled with how-to go about doing this becoming either. Each individual's walk is particular to them.

The essence of Christianity is summed up by Jesus himself in Mark and Luke. When asked, What is the greatest commandment?, Jesus replied, This is the most important: Hear O Israel, the Lord our God is One Lord, and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your souls and with all your mind and with all your strength.

The second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. No other commandment is greater than these.

The heart of Jesus' ethical message is in the Sermon on the Mount. He proclaims God's love, introduces Him to those who don't know Him, and defines Christian righteousness in the beatitudes in 8 particulars of righteousness, which are about BEING, not doing.

First, he says, be poor in spirit; this is not material poverty but is awareness of spiritual need — the opposite of arrogance; there are three conditions:

  • simplicity of heart (non-attachment to things),
  • valuing people over things,
  • and continuing awareness of need.

Being Poor in Spirit is the Root of the other Beatitudes.

Next is they that mourn; these are concerned over sin and care about the wounds of others.

The meek are humble and teachable; getting angry at being told what to do is the opposite.

Those that hunger and thirst after righteousness don't just dream, they actively pursue. True righteousness is being plus doing.

This term is found only 10 times in gospels; it's the opposite of self-righteousness and legalism.

Mercy is a radical concept in this era that thought suffering was just; in two parables where Jesus dwells on judgment, mercy is more powerful than judgment which is mercy's opposite, and mercy is what decides the fate of those in the parables, not judgment.

Purity in heart means a singleness of desire and integrity of purpose. Pure is used 28 times in the NT, but it's NOT moral perfection; the key to purity of heart is sincerity.

Peacemakers have the power of reconciliation but need the qualities of first 6 to be this plus commitment; peace/reconciliation active not passive.

And lastly Jesus says blessed are the persecuted; this is not self abuse or being a doormat in the day to day; it is accepting what cannot be changed when it cannot be changed; it is standing firm, standing alone, when doing the right thing goes against the crowd.

Eight kinds of Being and two guiding principles: that's only ten—but there's a few more in the rest of the writings that expand and explain these a little — such as the teachings on perseverance that expand principle eight-b, or the first chapter of Peter—especially verses 5 through 8—that really helps in understanding and applying principle four; so the number of principles can be expanded to 16–24 if you stretch a bit!

But that's it! The essence of Christianity is: love. Tough, brave, strong, committed, caring, demonstrative, kind, and genuine love. Real love that acts, that is more than a feeling, that is not about self.

Jenny Hawkins

Unfortunately most people think that the essence of Christianity is the Pauline point of view, as found in the bulk of the New Testament. It is based on a doctrine written by Paul, who never met Jesus, a doctrine not taught by Jesus, that centers on a belief in sin, eternal punishment, need for saving, Jesus as uniquely divine, and a redemption by blood sacrifice.

Jesus taught only this: we are spirit; God is a loving and forgiving father; the Kingdom of Heaven is within; authority should come from the Holy Spirit within; and that we should forgive our enemies and love our fellow man who are all sons of God, unconditionally. That is the essence of Christianity.

The reason He would teach such a thing is so that we could enjoy the consequence of forgiveness of others, it allows us to see them (and therefore ourselves), clearly, thus regaining knowledge of our unity in spirit, rather than continue to suffer in this life or future lifetimes.

Mish Issel

At the very least, Christianity is the faith tradition that focuses on the figure of Jesus Christ. In this context, faith refers both to the believers' act of trust and to the content of their faith. As a tradition, Christianity is more than a system of religious belief. It also has generated a culture, a set of ideas and ways of life, practices, and artifacts that have been handed down from generation to generation since Jesus first became the object of faith. Christianity is thus both a living tradition of faith and the culture that the faith leaves behind. The agent of Christianity is the church, the community of people who make up the body of believers.

To say that Christianity focuses on Jesus Christ is to say that somehow it brings together its beliefs and practices and other traditions in reference to a historic figure. Few Christians, however, would be content to keep this reference merely historical. Although their faith tradition is historical—i.e., they believe that transactions with the divine do not occur in the realm of timeless ideas but among ordinary humans through the ages—the vast majority of Christians focus their faith in Jesus Christ as someone who is also a present reality. They may include many other references in their tradition and thus may speak of God and human nature or of church and world, but they would not be called Christian if they did not bring their attentions first and last to Jesus Christ.

Complexity and Variety

While there is something simple about this focus on Jesus as the central figure, there is also something very complicated. That complexity is revealed by the thousands of separate churches, sects, and denominations that make up the modern Christian tradition. To project these separate bodies against the background of their development in the nations of the world is to suggest the bewildering variety. To picture people expressing their adherence to that tradition in their prayer life and church-building, in their quiet worship or their strenuous efforts to change the world, is to suggest even more of the variety.

Given such complexity, it is natural that throughout Christian history both those in the tradition and those surrounding it have made attempts at simplification. Two ways to do this have been to concentrate on the essence of the faith, and thus on the ideas that are integral to it, or to be concerned with the identity of the tradition, and thus on the boundaries of its historical experience.

Modern scholars have located the focus of this faith tradition in the context of monotheistic religions. Christianity addresses the historical figure of Jesus Christ against the background of, and while seeking to remain faithful to, the experience of one God. It has consistently rejected polytheism and atheism.

Salvation>

A second element of the faith tradition of Christianity, with rare exceptions, is a plan of salvation or redemption. That is to say, the believers in the church picture themselves as in a plight from which they need rescue. For whatever reason, they have been distanced from God and need to be saved. Christianity is based on a particular experience or scheme directed to the act of saving—that is, of bringing or buying back, which is part of what redemption means, these creatures of God to their source in God. The agent of that redemption is Jesus Christ.

Paul the Apostle

St. Paul, the Apostle, original name Saul of Tarsus, (born 4 bc?, Tarsus in Cilicia [now in Turkey]—died c. ad 62–64, Rome [Italy]), one of the leaders of the first generation of Christians, often considered to be the second most important person in the history of Christianity. In his own day, although he was a major figure within the very small Christian movement, he also had many enemies and detractors, and his contemporaries probably did not accord him as much respect as they gave Peter and James. Paul was compelled to struggle, therefore, to establish his own worth and authority. His surviving letters, however, have had enormous influence on subsequent Christianity and secure his place as one of the greatest religious leaders of all time.

Books by Paul the Apostle

Of the 27 books in the New Testament, 13 are attributed to Paul, and approximately half of another, Acts of the Apostles, deals with Paul's life and works. Thus, about half of the New Testament stems from Paul and the people whom he influenced. Only 7 of the 13 letters, however, can be accepted as being entirely authentic (dictated by Paul himself). The others come from followers writing in his name, who often used material from his surviving letters and who may have had access to letters written by Paul that no longer survive. Although frequently useful, the information in Acts is secondhand, and it is sometimes in direct conflict with the letters. The seven undoubted letters constitute the best source of information on Paul's life and especially his thought; in the order in which they appear in the New Testament, they are Romans, 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, and Philemon. The probable chronological order (leaving aside Philemon, which cannot be dated) is 1 Thessalonians, 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, and Romans. Letters considered Deutero-Pauline (probably written by Paul's followers after his death) are Ephesians, Colossians, and 2 Thessalonians; 1 and 2 Timothy and Titus are Trito-Pauline (probably written by members of the Pauline school a generation after his death).

Life

Paul was a Greek-speaking Jew from Asia Minor. His birthplace, Tarsus, was a major city in eastern Cilicia, a region that had been made part of the Roman province of Syria by the time of Paul's adulthood. Two of the main cities of Syria, Damascus and Antioch, played a prominent part in his life and letters. Although the exact date of his birth is unknown, he was active as a missionary in the 40s and 50s of the 1st century ad. From this it may be inferred that he was born about the same time as Jesus (c. 4 bc) or a little later. He was converted to faith in Jesus Christ about ad 33, and he died, probably in Rome, circa ad 62–64.

In his childhood and youth, Paul learned how to work with [his] own hands (1 Corinthians 4:12). His trade, tent making, which he continued to practice after his conversion to Christianity, helps to explain important aspects of his apostleship. He could travel with a few leather-working tools and set up shop anywhere. It is doubtful that his family was wealthy or aristocratic, but, since he found it noteworthy that he sometimes worked with his own hands, it may be assumed that he was not a common labourer. His letters are written in Koine, or common Greek, rather than in the elegant literary Greek of his wealthy contemporary, the Jewish philosopher Philo Judaeaus of Alexandria, and this too argues against the view that Paul was an aristocrat. Moreover, he knew how to dictate, and he could write with his own hand in large letters (Galatians 6:11), though not in the small, neat letters of the professional scribe.

Until about the midpoint of his life, Paul was a member of the Pharisees, a religious party that emerged during the later Second Temple period. What little is known about Paul the Pharisee reflects the character of the Pharisaic movement. Pharisees believed in life after death, which was one of Paul's deepest convictions. They accepted nonbiblical traditions as being about as important as the written Bible; Paul refers to his expertise in traditions (Galatians 1:14). Pharisees were very careful students of the Hebrew Bible, and Paul was able to quote extensively from the Greek translation. (It was fairly easy for a bright, ambitious young boy to memorize the Bible, and it would have been very difficult and expensive for Paul as an adult to carry around dozens of bulky scrolls.) By his own account, Paul was the best Jew and the best Pharisee of his generation (Philippians 3:4–6; Galatians 1:13–14), as later he claimed to be the best apostle of Christ (2 Corinthians 11:22–3; 1 Corinthians 15:9–10)—though he attributed his excellence to the grace of God.

Paul spent much of the first half of his life persecuting the nascent Christian movement, an activity to which he refers several times. Paul's motivations are unknown, but they seem not to have been connected to his Pharisaism. The chief persecutors of the Christian movement in Jerusalem were the high priest and his associates, who were Sadducees (if they belonged to one of the parties), and Acts depicts the leading Pharisee, Gamaliel, as defending the Christians (Acts 5:34). It is possible that Paul believed that Jewish converts to the new movement were not sufficiently observant of the Jewish law, that Jewish converts mingled too freely with Gentile (non-Jewish) converts, thus associating themselves with idolatrous practices, or that the notion of a crucified messiah was objectionable. The young Paul certainly would have rejected the view that Jesus had been raised after his death—not because he doubted resurrection as such but because he would not have believed that God chose to favour Jesus by raising him before the time of the judgment of the world.

Whatever his reasons, Paul's persecutions probably involved traveling from synagogue to synagogue and urging the punishment of Jews who accepted Jesus as the messiah. Disobedient members of synagogues were punished by some form of ostracism or by light flogging, which Paul himself later suffered at least five times (2 Corinthians 11:24), though he does not say when or where. According to Acts, Paul began his persecutions in Jerusalem, a view at odds with his assertion that he did not know any of the Jerusalem followers of Christ until well after his own conversion (Galatians 1:4–17).

Paul was on his way to Damascus when he had a vision that changed his life: according to Galatians 1:16, God revealed his Son to him. More specifically, Paul states that he saw the Lord (1 Corinthians 9:1), though Acts claims that near Damascus he saw a blinding bright light. Following this revelation, which convinced Paul that God had indeed chosen Jesus to be the promised messiah, he went into Arabia—probably Coele-Syria, west of Damascus (Galatians 1:17). He then returned to Damascus, and three years later he went to Jerusalem to become acquainted with the leading apostles there. After this meeting he began his famous missions to the west, preaching first in his native Syria and Cilicia (Galatians 1:17–24). During the next 20 years or so (c. mid-30s to mid-50s), he established several churches in Asia Minor and at least three in Europe, including the church at Corinth.

During the course of his missions, Paul realized that his preaching to Gentiles was creating difficulties for the Christians in Jerusalem, who thought that Gentiles must become Jewish in order to join the Christian movement. To settle the issue, Paul returned to Jerusalem and struck a deal. It was agreed that Peter would be the principal apostle to Jews and Paul the principal apostle to Gentiles. Paul would not have to change his message, but he would take up a collection for the Jerusalem church, which was in need of financial support (Galatians 2:1–10; 2 Corinthians 8–9; Romans 15:16–17, 25–26), though Paul's Gentile churches were hardly well off. In Romans 15:16–17 Paul seems to interpret the offering of the Gentiles symbolically, suggesting that it is the prophesied Gentile pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem, with their wealth in their hands (e.g., Isaiah 60:1–6). It is also obvious that Paul and the Jerusalem apostles made a political bargain not to interfere in each other's spheres. The circumcision faction of the Jerusalem apostles (Galatians 2:12–13), which argued that converts should undergo circumcision as a sign of accepting the covenant between God and Abraham, later broke this agreement by preaching to the Gentile converts both in Antioch (Galatians 2:12) and Galatia and insisting that they be circumcised, leading to some of Paul's strongest invective (Galatians 1:7–9; 3:1; 5:2–12; 6:12–13).

In the late 50s Paul returned to Jerusalem with the money he had raised and a few of his Gentile converts. There he was arrested for taking a Gentile too far into the Temple precincts, and after a series of trials he was sent to Rome. Later Christian tradition favours the view that he was executed there (1 Clement 5:1–7), perhaps as part of the executions of Christians ordered by the Roman emperor Nero following the great fire in the city in ad 64.

Mission

Paul believed that his vision proved that Jesus lived in heaven, that Jesus was the Messiah and God's Son, and that he would soon return. Moreover, Paul thought that the purpose of his revelation was his own appointment to preach among the Gentiles (Galatians 1:16). By the time of his last extant letter, Romans, he could clearly describe his own place in God's plan. The Hebrew prophets, he wrote, had predicted that in days to come God would restore the tribes of Israel and that the Gentiles would then turn to worship the one true God. Paul maintained that his place in this scheme was to win the Gentiles, both Greeks and barbarians—the common term for non-Greeks at the time (Romans 1:14). Inasmuch then as I am an apostle to the Gentiles, I glorify my ministry in order to make my own people jealous, and thus save some of them (Romans 11:13–14). In two other places in Romans 11—verses 25–26 (the full number of Gentiles [will] come in and thus all Israel will be saved) and 30–31 (by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy)—Paul asserts that he would save some of Israel indirectly, through jealousy, and that Jews would be brought to Christ because of the successful Gentile mission. Thus, Paul's view reversed the traditional understanding of God's plan, according to which Israel would be restored before the Gentiles were converted. Whereas Peter, James, and John, the chief apostles to the circumcised (Galatians 2:6–10), had been relatively unsuccessful, God had led Paul through Asia Minor and Greece in triumph and had used him to spread the fragrance of the knowledge of [God] everywhere (2 Corinthians 2:14). Since in Paul's view God's plan could not be frustrated, he concluded that it would work in reverse sequence—first the Gentiles, then the Jews.

Paul's technique for winning Gentiles is uncertain, but one possibility is that he delivered lectures in public gathering places (Acts 17:17 ff.). There is, however, another possibility. Paul conceded that he was not an eloquent speaker (2 Corinthians 10:10; 11:6). Moreover, he had to spend much, possibly most, of his time working to support himself. As a tent maker, he worked with leather, and leatherwork is not noisy. While he worked, therefore, he could have talked, and once he was found to have something interesting to say, people would have dropped by from time to time to listen. It is very probable that Paul spread the gospel in this way.

Travels and letters

During the first two centuries of the Roman Empire, travel was safer than it would be again until the suppression of pirates in the 19th century. Paul and his companions sometimes traveled by ship, but much of the time they walked, probably beside a donkey carrying tools, clothes, and perhaps some scrolls. Occasionally they had plenty, but often they were hungry, ill-clad, and cold (Philippians 4:11–12; 2 Corinthians 11:27), and at times they had to rely on the charity of their converts.

Paul wanted to keep pressing west and therefore only occasionally had the opportunity to revisit his churches. He tried to keep up his converts' spirits, answer their questions, and resolve their problems by letter and by sending one or more of his assistants (especially Timothy and Titus). Paul's letters reveal a remarkable human being: dedicated, compassionate, emotional, sometimes harsh and angry, clever and quick-witted, supple in argumentation, and above all possessing a soaring, passionate commitment to God, Jesus Christ, and his own mission. Fortunately, after his death one of his followers collected some of the letters, edited them very slightly, and published them. They constitute one of history's most remarkable personal contributions to religious thought and practice.

Despite Paul's intemperate outburst in 1 Corinthians—women should be silent in the churches (14:34–36)—women played a large part in his missionary endeavour. Chloe was an important member of the church in Corinth (1 Corinthians 1:11), and Phoebe was a deacon and a benefactor of Paul and others (Romans 16:1–2). Romans 16 names eight other women active in the Christian movement, including Junia (prominent among the apostles), Mary (who has worked very hard among you), and Julia. Women were frequently among the major supporters of new religious movements, and Christianity was no exception.

Although in his own view Paul was the true and authoritative apostle to the Gentiles, chosen for the task from his mother's womb (Galatians 1:15–16; 2:7–8; Romans 11:13–14), he was only one of several missionaries spawned by the early Christian movement. Some of the other Christian workers must have been quite important; indeed, an unknown minister of Christ established the church at Rome before Paul arrived in the city. Paul treated some of these possible competitors—such as Prisca, Aquila, Junia, and Andronicus—in a very friendly manner (Romans 16: 3, 7), while he looked on others with suspicion or hostility. He was especially wary of Apollos, a Christian missionary known to the Corinthians (1 Corinthians 3:1–22), and he vilified competitors in Corinth as false apostles and ministers of Satan (2 Corinthians 11). He called down God's curse on competing preachers in Galatia (Galatians 1:6–9) and asserted that some of the Christians in Jerusalem were false brothers (Galatians 2:4; compare 2 Corinthians 11:26). Only in the latter two cases, however, is the nature of the disagreement known: Paul's competitors opposed his admitting Gentiles to the Christian movement without requiring them to become Jewish. The polemical sections of Paul's letters have been used in Christian controversies ever since.

Basic message

In the surviving letters, Paul often recalls what he said during his founding visits. He preached the death, resurrection, and lordship of Jesus Christ, and he proclaimed that faith in Jesus guarantees a share in his life. Writing to the Galatians, he reminded them it was before your eyes that Jesus Christ was publicly exhibited as crucified (Galatians 3:1), and writing to the Corinthians he recalled that he had known nothing among them except Jesus Christ, and him crucified (1 Corinthians 2:2). According to Paul, Jesus' death was not a defeat but was for the believers' benefit. In accord with ancient sacrificial theology, Jesus' death substituted for that of others and thereby freed believers from sin and guilt (Romans 3:23–25). A second interpretation of Christ's death appears in Galatians and Romans: those who are baptized into Christ are baptized into his death, and thus they escape the power of sin (e.g., Romans 6). In the first case, Jesus died so that the believers' sins will be purged. In the second, he died so that the believers may die with him and consequently live with him. These two ideas obviously coincide (see below Christology).

The resurrection of Christ was also of primary importance, as Paul revealed in his letter to the Thessalonians, the earliest surviving account of conversion to the Christian movement. Written to Thessalonica in Macedonia possibly as early as ad 41 and no later than 51—thus no more than 20 years after Jesus' death—the letter states (1 Thessalonians 1:9–10),

For the people of those regions report about us what kind of welcome we had among you, and how you turned to God from idols, to serve a living and true God, and to wait for his Son from heaven, whom he raised from the dead—Jesus, who rescues us from the wrath that is coming.

Since Jesus was raised and still lives, he could return to rescue believers at the time of the final judgment. The resurrection is connected to the third major emphasis, the promise of salvation to believers. Paul taught that those who died in Christ would be raised when he returned, while those still alive would be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air (1 Thessalonians 4:14–18).

These and many other passages reveal the essence of the Christian message: (1) God sent his Son; (2) the Son was crucified, but for the benefit of humanity; (3) the Son would soon return; and (4) those who belonged to the Son would live with him forever. Paul's gospel, like those of others, also included (5) the admonition to live by the highest moral standard: May your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ (1 Thessalonians 5:23). See below Moral teachings.

Churches

Although Paul may have converted some Jews, his mission was directed toward the Gentiles, who therefore constituted the vast majority of his converts. The letters sometimes explicitly state that Paul's converts had been polytheists or idolaters: the Thessalonians had turned to God from idols (1 Thessalonians 1:9), and at least some of the Corinthians wished to be allowed to continue to participate in idolatrous worship (1 Corinthians 8, 10). (Scholars have referred to Gentile religions in the ancient Mediterranean world as paganism, polytheism, and idolatry; these terms are frequently used interchangeably.) Pagan religion was very tolerant: the gods of foreign traditions were accepted as long as they were added to the gods worshipped locally. Civic loyalty, however, included participation in public worship of the local gods. Jews had the privilege of worshipping only the God of Israel, but everyone else was expected to conform to local customs.

Paul and other missionaries to Gentiles were subject to criticism, abuse, and punishment for drawing people away from pagan cults. Although he showed some flexibility on eating food that had been offered to an idol (1 Corinthians 10:23–30), Paul, a monotheistic Jew, was completely opposed to worship of the idol by eating and drinking in the confines of a pagan temple (1 Corinthians 10:21–22). Thus, his converts had to give up public worship of the local gods. Moreover, since Paul's converts did not become Jewish, they were, in general opinion, nothing: neither Jew nor pagan. Religiously, they could identify only with one another, and frequently they must have wavered because of their isolation from well-established and popular activities. It was especially difficult for them to refrain from public festivities, since parades, feasts (including free red meat), theatrical performances, and athletic competitions were all connected to pagan religious traditions.

This social isolation of the early converts intensified their need to have rewarding spiritual experiences within the Christian communities, and Paul attempted to respond to this need. Although they had to wait with patience and endure suffering (1 Thessalonians 1:6; 2:14; 3:4), and although salvation from the pains of this life lay in the future (5:6–11), in the present, Paul said, his followers could rejoice in spiritual gifts, such as healing, prophesying, and speaking in tongues (1 Corinthians 12–14). In fact, Paul saw Christians as beginning to be transformed even before the coming resurrection: the new person was beginning to replace the old (2 Corinthians 3:8; 4:16).

Although he placed his converts in a situation that was often uncomfortable, Paul did not ask them to believe many things that would be conceptually difficult. The belief that there was only one true God had a place within pagan philosophy, if not pagan religion, and was intellectually satisfying. By the 1st century, many pagans found Greek mythology lacking in intellectual and moral content, and replacing it with the Hebrew Bible was therefore not especially difficult. The belief that God sent his Son agreed with the widespread view that gods could produce human offspring. The activities of the Holy Spirit in their lives corresponded to the common view that spiritual forces control nature and events.

The teaching of the resurrection of the body, however, was difficult for pagans to embrace, despite the fact that life after death was generally accepted. Pagans who believed in the immortality of the soul maintained that the soul escaped at death; the body, they knew, decayed. To meet this problem, Paul proclaimed that the resurrection body would be a spiritual body, not flesh and blood (1 Corinthians 15:42–55).

Moral teachings

Although Paul recognized the possibility that after death he would be punished for minor faults (1 Corinthians 4:4), he regarded himself as living an almost perfect life (Philippians 3:6), and he demanded the same perfection of his converts. Paul wanted them to be blameless, innocent, and without blemish when the Lord returned (1 Thessalonians 3:13; 4:3–7; 5:23; Philippians 1:10; 2:15; Romans 16:19). Paul regarded suffering and premature death as punishment for those who sinned (1 Corinthians 5:5; 11:29–32) but did not believe that punishment of the sinning Christian meant damnation or eternal destruction. He thought that those who believed in Christ became one person with him and that this union was not broken by ordinary transgression. Paul did regard it as possible, however, for people to lose or completely betray their faith in Christ and thus lose membership in his body, which presumably would lead to destruction at the judgment (Romans 11:22; 1 Corinthians 3:16–17; 2 Corinthians 11:13–15).

Paul's moral standards coincided with the strictest view of Jewish communities in the Greek-speaking Diaspora (the dispersal of the Jews from their traditional homeland). Paul, like his Jewish contemporaries the scholar and historian Flavius Josephus and the philosopher Philo Judaeus, completely opposed a long list of sexual practices: prostitution and the use of prostitutes (1 Corinthians 6:15–20); homosexual activities (1 Corinthians 6:9; Romans 1:26–27); sexual relations before marriage (1 Corinthians 7:8–9); and marriage merely for the sake of gratifying physical desire (1 Thessalonians 4:4–5). However, he urged married partners to continue to have sexual relations, except during times set aside for prayer (1 Corinthians 7:3–7). These ascetic views were not unknown in Greek philosophy, but they were standard in Greek-speaking Jewish communities, and it is probable that Paul acquired them in his youth. Some pagan philosophers, meanwhile, were more inclined than Paul to limit sexual desire and pleasure. For example, the Stoic philosopher Musonius Rufus (flourished 1st century ad) wished to restrict marital sexual relations to the production of offspring.

Some aspects of Jewish sexual ethics were not generally accepted among the Gentiles to whom Paul preached. Sexual behaviour, therefore, became a substantial issue between him and his converts, and for that reason his letters frequently refer to sexual ethics. His other moral views were as simple and straightforward to ancient readers as to modern: no murder, no theft, and so on. To all of these issues he brought his own expectation of perfection, which his converts often found difficult to satisfy.

Paul's opposition to homosexual activity (1 Corinthians 6:9; Romans 1:26–27) and divorce were generally in keeping with Jewish sexual ethics. Male homosexual activity is condemned in the Hebrew Bible in Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13—teachings that Christianity followed, thanks in part to Paul, even as it disregarded most of the laws of Leviticus. Jesus' prohibition of divorce, along with his view that remarriage after divorce, if the first spouse is still living, is adultery (Mark 10:2–12; Matthew 19:3–9), set him apart from most other Jews and Gentiles. Paul accepted the prohibition but made an exception in the case of Christians who were married to non-Christians (1 Corinthians 7:10–16). The consequence has been that, in some forms of Christianity, the only ground for divorce is adultery by the other partner. Until the 20th century the laws of many state and national governments reflected this view.

Two distinctive aspects of Paul's moral teachings have been very influential in the history of Christianity and thus in the history of the Western world. The first is his preference for total celibacy: It is well for a man not to touch a woman (1 Corinthians 7:1). This view may have been a personal matter for Paul (7:6–7), and it was an opinion that he did not attempt to enforce on his churches. He was motivated in part by the belief that time was short: it would be good if people devoted themselves entirely to God during the brief interval before the Lord returned (7:29–35). Paul's preference for celibacy, in combination with Jesus' praise of those who do not marry (Matthew 19:10–12), helped to establish in Western Christianity a two-tiered system of morality. The top tier consisted of those who were entirely celibate (such as, at different times in the history of the church, monks, nuns, and priests). Married Christians could aspire only to the bottom, inferior tier. Although celibacy was practiced by a small Gentile ascetic movement and by a few small Jewish groups—mainstream Judaism did not promote celibacy, because of the biblical mandate, Be fruitful and multiply (Genesis 1:28)—it was the passages from Paul and Matthew that made celibacy a major issue in Western and especially Christian history.

Paul's second distinctive and long-lasting admonition concerns obedience to secular rulers. In his letter to the Romans 13:2–7, he asserted that whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment (13:2). In later centuries this passage was used to support the doctrine of the divine right of kings, which maintained that royal power came from God, and gave biblical authority to the church's teaching of submission to rulers, no matter how unjust they were. Few Christians were willing to stray from Romans 13 until the 18th century, when the Founding Fathers of the United States decided to follow the Enlightenment philosopher John Locke rather than Paul on the question of revolt against unjust rulers.

Theological views

Monotheism

Paul, like other Jews, was a monotheist who believed that the God of Israel was the only true God. But he also believed that the universe had multiple levels and was filled with spiritual beings. Paul's universe included regions below the earth (Philippians 2:10); the third heaven or Paradise (2 Corinthians 12:1–4); and beings he called angels, principalities, rulers, powers, and demons (Romans 8:38; 1 Corinthians 15:24). He also recognized the leader of the forces of evil, whom he called both Satan (1 Corinthians 5:5; 7:5) and the god of this world (2 Corinthians 4:4). He declared in 1 Corinthians 8:5 that there are many gods and many lords (though he meant so-called gods), and in Romans 6–7 he treated sin as a personified or semipersonified power. Despite all this, Paul believed, at the right time the God of Israel will send his Son to defeat the powers of darkness (1 Corinthians 15:24–26; Philippians 2:9–11).

Christology

Originally, Jesus had only one name, Jesus; he was referred to as Jesus from Nazareth (Matthew 21:11), Joseph's son (Luke 4:22), or Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth (John 1:45) when greater precision was necessary. During his lifetime his disciples may have begun to think of him as the Messiah (Christ in Greek translation), the anointed one who would restore the fortunes of Israel. After his death and resurrection, his followers regularly referred to him as the Messiah (Acts 2:36: God made him both Lord and Messiah). At some point, his adherents also began to refer to him as Son of God. Paul employed both Christ and Son of God freely, and he is also responsible for the widespread use of Christ as if it were Jesus' name rather than his title. Paul sometimes shows knowledge that the Christ was a title, not a name, but more commonly he referred to Jesus as Jesus Christ, Christ Jesus, or even Christ, as in Romans 6:4: Christ was raised from the dead. In all these cases, Christ is used as if it were part of Jesus' name.

Various Jewish groups, however, expected different kings or messiahs or even none at all, and these titles therefore did not have precise meanings when the Christians started using them. Son of God in the Hebrew Bible is used metaphorically (God is the father, human beings are his children), and this usage continued in postbiblical Jewish literature. The Jewish people in general could be called sons of God, and the singular son of God could be applied to individuals who were especially close to God. Since neither messiah nor son of God automatically conveys a specific meaning, the significance of these terms must be determined by studying how each author uses them.

What Paul meant by Christ and Son of God cannot be known with certainty. He seems not to have defined the person of Jesus metaphysically (for example, that he was half human and half divine). In Philippians 2:6–11 Paul states that Christ Jesus was preexistent and came to earth: he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. This sounds as if Jesus was a heavenly being who only appeared to be human. In Romans 1:1–6, however, Paul writes that God declared Jesus to be Son of God by raising him from the dead. This sounds as if Jesus was a human being who was adopted. Although both views—that Jesus was not really human and that he was not really divine—would have a long life in Christianity, the church decided by the middle of the 5th century that Jesus was both entirely divine and entirely human. This solution, however, seems not to have been in Paul's mind, and it took centuries of debate to evolve.

Paul's thought concerning Jesus' work—as opposed to Jesus' person—is much clearer. God, according to Paul, sent Jesus to save the entire world. As noted above, Paul paid special attention to Jesus' death and resurrection. His death, in the first place, was a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of everyone. Early Christians, influenced by the ancient theory that one death could serve as a substitute for others, believed that Jesus died on the cross so that believers would escape eternal destruction. For Paul, however, Jesus' death allowed believers to escape not only the consequences of transgression but also the power of sin that leads to transgression. The believer was baptized into Christ, becoming one with him (Galatians 3:27–28). This meant that when Christ died, the believer mystically or metaphorically died and thus died to the power of sin that reigned in the world (Romans 6:3–4). Death with Christ gave newness of life in the present and guaranteed being raised with him in the future (6:4–5). Christ's death, then, defeated sin in both senses: his blood brought atonement for transgression, and his death allowed those who were united with him to escape the power of sin.

The physical universe also needed to be freed from bondage to decay. The fact that individual believers could escape from sin did not free the entire world. When the time was right, God would send Christ back to save the cosmos by defeating all the remaining forces of sin and to liberate all of creation. Once Christ defeated all of his enemies, including death, he would turn creation over to God, so that God would be all in all (1 Corinthians 15:20–28; Romans 8:18–25). In this grand vision of the redemption of the created order, Paul shows how deeply he believed in one God, maker of heaven and earth, and in the cosmic importance of his Son, Jesus Christ.

Faith in Christ

According to Paul, all humans, no matter how hard they try, are enslaved by sin (Romans 7:14–21). The strength of sin's power explains why the traditional Jewish view, that transgression should be followed by repentance and that repentance results in forgiveness, plays a very small role in Paul's letters. In the seven undisputed letters, the word forgiveness does not appear, forgive appears six times (Romans 4:7; 2 Corinthians 2:5–10), and repent and repentance appear only three times (Romans 2:4; 2 Corinthians 7:9–10). Mere repentance is not enough to permit escape from the overwhelming power of sin. The escape, rather, requires being buried with Christ through baptism.

While buried with and being baptized into are the most graphic terms describing the individual's escape from sin, the most common word for this conversion is faith—that is, faith in Christ. The language of faith is ubiquitous in Paul's letters and has a great range of meaning. The verb to put one's faith in or to believe (the same Greek word, pisteuein, may be translated both ways) appears 49 times in the undisputed letters, while the noun faith (or belief) appears 93 times. Occasionally the verb means to believe that something is true (Romans 10:9: believe in your heart that God raised [Christ]), but in 1 Thessalonians it means steadfastness. Paul feared that the Thessalonians were wavering under persecution, and so he sent Timothy to strengthen their faith. Timothy reported back that their faith was strong (1 Thessalonians 3:1–13). Most frequently, however, the verb means to put one's entire confidence and trust in Christ, as in Galatians 2:20: the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God.

In Galatians and Romans the phrase be justified by faith in Christ, not by doing the works of the law is used to oppose the view of some Christian missionaries that Paul's Gentile converts should become Jewish by accepting circumcision and Jewish law. Circumcision was the sign of the covenant between God and Abraham, the first of the Hebrew patriarchs, and it was traditionally required of all Gentiles who wished to worship the God of Israel. Thus, Paul's rivals held that his converts were not yet among the people of God. Paul's view, however, was that his Gentile converts could join the people of God in the last days without becoming Jewish, and he argued vociferously that faith in Christ was the only requirement for Gentiles. This is the meaning of justification or righteousness by faith, not by law, in Galatians and Romans. (Righteousness and justification translate the same Greek word, dikaiosynē.)

In later Christianity it was sometimes supposed that works of the law are good deeds and that Paul thus set faith in opposition to good works. This is not the meaning of the debate about works of the law in Paul's letters, however. He was entirely in favour of good deeds, as the emphasis on perfect behaviour shows, and he did not regard good works as being opposed to faith. On the contrary, faith produced good deeds as fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22). The question was whether his Gentile converts would have to accept those parts of the Jewish law that separated Jew from Gentile. Paul opposed making these aspects of the law mandatory for his Gentile converts.

In Galatians and Romans the language of righteousness by faith yields to the language of being in Christ. Thus, Galatians 3:24–28: therefore the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came, so that we might be justified by faith; in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith; those baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ; and the conclusion, There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one [person] in Christ Jesus. Righteousness by faith is not actually something different from being baptized into Christ and becoming one person with him. Paul employed the language of righteousness and faith when he was using the story of Abraham to argue that circumcision was not necessary. The language that was more natural to him when he wished to describe the believer's transfer from the power of sin to the power of Christ, however, was dying with Christ, being baptized into him, and becoming one person with him.

The body of Christ

Paul regarded his converts not only as individuals who had been freed from sin but also as organic members of the collective body of Christ. The idea of the body of Christ probably also explains why, in his view, it is difficult to sin so badly as to lose one's place in the people of God. Only the worst forms of denial of Christ can remove an organic member from the body of Christ.

The body of Christ is also important in Paul's discussions of behaviour. A part of the body of Christ, for example, should not be joined to a prostitute (1 Corinthians 6:15). Since those who partake of the Lord's Supper participate in the body and blood of Christ, they cannot also participate in the meat and drink at an idol's table (1 Corinthians 10:14–22). Besides avoiding the deeds of the flesh, members of the body of Christ receive love as their greatest spiritual gift (1 Corinthians 13).

Those who are in Christ will be transformed into a spiritual body like Christ's when he returns, but they are already being transformed and renewed (2 Corinthians 3:18; 4:16); the life of Jesus is already being made visible in their mortal flesh (4:11). Paul thought that membership in the body of Christ really changed people, so that they would live accordingly. He thought that his converts were dead to sin and alive to God and that conduct flowed naturally from people, varying according to who they really were. Those who are under sin naturally commit sins—those who are in the flesh cannot please God (Romans 8:8)—but those who are in Christ produce the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22; compare Philippians 1:11; Romans 8:2–11).

This absolutist ethical view—those in Christ are morally perfect; those not in Christ are extremely sinful—was not always true in practice, and Paul was often alarmed and offended when he discovered that the behaviour of his converts was not what he expected. It was in this context that he predicted suffering and even death or postmortem punishment for transgressions (1 Corinthians 11:30–32; 3:15; 5:4–5). Paul's passionate extremism, however, was doubtless often attractive and persuasive. He made people believe that they could really change for the better, and this must often have happened.

Jewish law

Paul's central convictions made it difficult for him to explain the proper role of Jewish law in the life of his converts. Paul believed that the God of Israel was the one true God, who had redeemed the Israelites from bondage in Egypt, given the Israelites the law, and sent his Son to save the entire world. Although Paul accepted Jewish behaviour as correct, he thought that Gentiles did not have to become Jewish in order to participate in salvation. These views are not easily reconciled. If the one true God is the God of Israel, should not one obey all the commandments in the Bible, such as those regarding the Sabbath, circumcision, and diet? If love your neighbour as yourself (Leviticus 19:18, quoted in Galatians 5:14 and Romans 13:9) is valid, why not the rest of the commandments in Leviticus 19? Paul's letters reveal no general solution to this problem. He was sure that his Gentile converts were not obliged to accept circumcision and some other parts of the law. In his surviving letters, however, he does not work out a principle that would require his converts to observe some but not all of the Jewish law. It is noteworthy that he did not regard Sabbath observance—which is one of the Ten Commandments—as obligatory (Romans 14:5; Galatians 4:10–11).

One point is especially difficult. Paul maintained that the law is part of the world of sin and the flesh, to which the Christian dies. But how could the law, which was given by the good God, be allied with sin and the flesh? Paul, having reached the point of equating the law with the powers of evil (Romans 7:1–6), promptly retracts the equation (Romans 7:7–25). What led him to make it in the first place was probably his absolutism. For Paul, everything not immediately useful for salvation is worthless; what is worthless is not on the side of the good; therefore, it is allied with the bad.

The return of the Lord and the resurrection of the dead

In the Gospels, Jesus prophesies the coming of the Son of Man, who will come on the clouds and whose angels will separate the good from the bad (e.g., Mark 13; Matthew 24). Paul accepted this view, but he believed, probably along with other followers of Jesus, that the enigmatic figure, the Son of Man, was Jesus himself: Jesus, who had been raised to heaven, would return. This view appears in 1 Thessalonians 4, the oldest surviving piece of Christian literature, which proclaims that when the Lord (Jesus) returns, the dead in Christ will be raised, and they, with the surviving members of the body of Christ, will greet the Lord in the air.

In the end-time vision of 1 Thessalonians 4, Paul indicates that he thinks that some people will die before the Lord returns but that many (we who are alive, who are left) will not have died. In this passage he does not specify what will be raised, but the implication is corpses. As noted above, this belief was difficult for Paul's pagan converts to accept, and Paul attempted to overcome their reluctance by emphasizing that the resurrection body would be changed into spiritual body (1 Corinthians 15:42–54). A second problem was the delay: Christ did not immediately return, and the idea that believers would have to remain in the ground until he came was troubling. Paul responded to this by stating that the transformation to a Christ-like spiritual body was already beginning (2 Corinthians 3:18). He also, however, seems sometimes to have accepted the Greek view that the soul would be detached from the body at death and go immediately to be with the Lord; at death believers will be away from the body and at home with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8). He restated this view when imprisonment forced him to think that he himself might die before the Lord returned (Philippians 1:21–24). Eventually Christianity would systemize these passages: the soul escapes at death and joins the Lord; when the Lord returns, bodies will be raised and reunited with souls.

As is usually the case with people who predict the future, Paul's expectations have not yet been fulfilled. His letters, however, continue to reassure Christian believers that eventually the Lord will return, the dead will be raised, and the forces of evil will be defeated.

Achievement and influence

Although other early Christian missionaries converted Gentiles, and the Christian movement even without Paul probably would have broken away from its Jewish parent, Paul played a crucial role in those developments and accordingly is regarded as the second founder of the Christian movement. His mission to convert Gentiles helped to achieve the separation of the Christian movement from Judaism, but that was not his intention, and the causes of the breach went well beyond his apostleship. It should be emphasized that he sought to create a new humanity in Christ, including all Jews and all Gentiles. Most Jews, however, did not join the movement, which became largely a Gentile religion.

Paul's greatest impact on Christian history comes from his letters, which are the most influential books of the New Testament after the Gospels of Matthew and John. The Christological statements in his letters have been particularly important in the development of Christian theology. Although they do not form a complete system, they show a powerful mind grappling with the question of how to express the relationship between Jesus the Christ and God the Father. Paul's letters inspired Christian thinkers for the next several centuries to attempt to find a satisfactory explanation of that relationship. In the letters, Paul also developed powerful expressions of the human relationship to the divine in his ideas of faith as total commitment to Christ, of Christians as constituting the mystical (or metaphorical) body of Christ, and of baptism as becoming one person with Christ and sharing his death so as to share his life. On this crucial question of religion, Paul and the author of the Gospel of John are the two great geniuses of the early Christian period.

Paul's view that the law of the Hebrew Bible is not entirely binding on Gentile converts gives biblical sanction to the selectivity practiced by subsequent Christianity. As discussed above, Paul rejected some Jewish law but accepted Jewish teachings on monotheism and homosexual activity, and he regarded the Sabbath law as optional. The latter view has generally been taken to mean that Christians are free from strict observance of the Sabbath law, even though it is included among the Ten Commandments. Most Christian churches have transferred aspects of biblical Sabbath laws to Sunday, and some, such as the Puritans, kept their Sunday Sabbath fairly strictly. The Christian world in general, however, has observed a weekly day of rest without regarding it as absolutely essential and without requiring all the restrictions of the Jewish law.

Paul's letters have been especially important at times of controversy among Christians. Paul was a master debater and polemicist, though the ancient Jewish modes of argumentation he used make him difficult for modern readers to understand. It has proved to be fairly simple for Christian leaders to identify their opponents with Paul's and to use his invective and argumentation against them. Martin Luther, who used Paul's arguments against the circumcision party to oppose Roman Catholicism, is the most famous of many examples.

Paul's letters are vital and persuasive partly because they reveal powerful aspects of his personality, especially his passion and dedication. After noting that he had suffered for Christ's sake in order to gain Christ, Paul declared (Philippians 3:8–11),

I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead.

In his last extant letter he summarized both his total commitment and his complete confidence in God and Christ (Romans 8:31–39):

If God is for us, who is against us?…Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?…No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life,…nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

The reader of his letters will be convinced that such passages are true to the man himself, who endured suffering and privation and finally died for his cause. The example of commitment, as well as the willingness to suffer and die if need be, were widely imitated in early Christianity and helped it to survive and flourish despite periods of persecution. Profound passion and total dedication constitute part of the enduring legacy of Paul's life and letters.

Vicarious Suffering or Atonement

Vicarious atonement is the idea that Jesus Christ took the place of mankind, suffering the penalty for sin. Atonement is term meaning reconciliation or amends. Vicarious means done in place of or instead of someone else. So, in literal terms, the Christian concept of vicarious atonement is that Jesus was substituted for humanity and punished for our faults in order to pay for the sins we had committed and reconcile us to God. Vicarious atonement is also referred to as substitutionary atonement or penal substitution.

According to the Bible, vicarious atonement is an accurate description of Jesus Christ's role in our salvation. First Peter 3:18 refers to Jesus' death as the righteous [suffering] for the unrighteous. Mark 10:45 indicates that He came to give His life as a ransom for many. The fact that believers were bought with a price by Jesus, according to 1 Corinthians 6:19–20, should motivate us to give God glory in the things we say and do.

Second Corinthians 5:21 clearly says that God the Father made him to be sin who knew no sin, meaning there was an exchange that took place at the cross. Our sin was transferred to Jesus, and our suffering became Jesus' suffering. His death was vicarious—Jesus was our Substitute. His death atoned for us—Jesus made amends between us and God. Jesus was condemned instead of us. Even in the Old Testament, prophets such as Isaiah spoke of the Messiah's taking the penalty for sin on our behalf (Isaiah 53:5).

In broad terms, human beings are hopelessly lost and unable to be reconciled to God on their own. This is because of our sin, which no amount of good works can undo. Since God is perfect and holy, we can never hope to pay for our own sins in order to be with Him. So Jesus Christ was offered as our substitute. Instead of our trying—and failing—to cover the penalty for our own sins, Jesus became the vicarious object of God's justice. With this exchange our sin was paid for, and we can be declared righteous in Christ (Romans 4:5; 8:1)

The doctrine of vicarious atonement is attributed to Paul the Apostle.

The Arthurian Legend

The body of stories and medieval romances, known as the matter of Britain, centring on the legendary king Arthur. Medieval writers, especially the French, variously treated stories of Arthur's birth, the adventures of his knights, and the adulterous love between his knight Sir Lancelot and his queen, Guinevere. This last situation and the quest for the Holy Grail (the vessel used by Christ at the Last Supper and given to Joseph of Arimathea) brought about the dissolution of the knightly fellowship, the death of Arthur, and the destruction of his kingdom.

Stories about Arthur and his court had been popular in Wales before the 11th century; European fame came through Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia regum Britanniae (1135–38), celebrating a glorious and triumphant king who defeated a Roman army in eastern France but was mortally wounded in battle during a rebellion at home led by his nephew Mordred. Some features of Geoffrey's story were marvelous fabrications, and certain features of the Celtic stories were adapted to suit feudal times. The concept of Arthur as a world conqueror was clearly inspired by legends surrounding great leaders such as Alexander the Great and Charlemagne. Later writers, notably Wace of Jersey and Lawamon, filled out certain details, especially in connection with Arthur's knightly fellowship (the Knights of the Round Table).

Using Celtic sources, Chrétien de Troyes in the late 12th century made Arthur the ruler of a realm of marvels in five romances of adventure. He also introduced the themes of the Grail and the love of Lancelot and Guinevere into Arthurian legend. Prose romances of the 13th century explored these major themes further. An early prose romance centring on Lancelot seems to have become the kernel of a cyclic work known as the Prose Lancelot, or Vulgate cycle (c. 1225).

The Lancelot theme was connected with the Grail story through Lancelot's son, the pure knight Sir Galahad, who achieved the vision of God through the Grail as fully as is possible in this life, whereas Sir Lancelot was impeded in his progress along the mystic way because of his adultery with Guinevere. Another branch of the Vulgate cycle was based on a very early 13th-century verse romance, the Merlin, by Robert de Boron, that had told of Arthur's birth and childhood and his winning of the crown by drawing a magic sword (see Excalibur) from a stone. The writer of the Vulgate cycle turned this into prose, adding a pseudo-historical narrative dealing with Arthur's military exploits. A final branch of the Vulgate cycle contained an account of Arthur's Roman campaign and war with Mordred, to which was added a story of Lancelot's renewed adultery with Guinevere and the disastrous war between Lancelot and Sir Gawain that ensued. A later prose romance, known as the post-Vulgate Grail romance (c. 1240), combined Arthurian legend with material from the Tristan romance.

The legend told in the Vulgate cycle and post-Vulgate romance was transmitted to English-speaking readers in Thomas Malory's late 15th-century prose Le Morte Darthur. At the same time, there was renewed interest in Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia, and the fictitious kings of Britain became more or less incorporated with official national mythology. The legend remained alive during the 17th century, though interest in it was by then confined to England. Of merely antiquarian interest during the 18th century, it again figured in literature during Victorian times, notably in Alfred Tennyson's Idylls of the King. In the 20th century an American poet, Edwin Arlington Robinson, wrote an Arthurian trilogy, and the American novelist Thomas Berger wrote Arthur Rex (1978). In England T.H. White retold the stories in a series of novels collected as The Once and Future King (1958). His work was the basis for Camelot (1960), a musical by Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe; a film, also called Camelot (1967), was derived from the musical. Numerous other films have been based on the Arthurian legend, notably John Boorman's Excalibur (1981) and the satirical Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975).

Excalibur

in Arthurian legend, King Arthur's sword. As a boy, Arthur alone was able to draw the sword out of a stone in which it had been magically fixed. This account is contained in Sir Thomas Malory's 15th-century prose rendering of the Arthurian legend, but another story in the same work suggests that it was given to Arthur by the Lady of the Lake and that, when the king lay mortally wounded after his last battle, he ordered the faithful Sir Bedivere to go to the water and throw the sword into it. An arm rose to catch it, brandished Excalibur three times, and then disappeared.

King Arthur

No kings had endured such everlasting fame. Arthur represents the Golden Age of Chivalry. His band of warriors, known as the Knights of the Round Table, became just as famous as the legendary king. There were the knights Lancelot and Gawain, Perceval and Galahad, Tristan and many more.

Summary

King Vortigern's fortress in Snowdon kept tumbling each night after expert masons had worked on it. His wizards advised him to find a youth that never had a father and sprinkle his blood on the foundations. After looking throughout Britain Vortigern's men found such a youth in Wales, Merlin. In Vortigern's court Merlin's mother testified that Merlin's father had been a spirit, an incubus. In the face of imminent death Merlin appeared unafraid. He told the king that an underground lake prevented the fortress from standing. When he had given directions for the draining of the lake Merlin prophesied that two dragons lay asleep on the bottom, a red one and a white one. The dragons were duly found, and they awoke and began fighting. The red dragon won. Vortigern asked what this meant, and Merlin told him he would soon be defeated and killed. Ambrosius landed the next day and proceeded to conquer Britain.

Merlin retired from public view until King Ambrosius wanted to build a great memorial. Ambrosius sent for the magician, who advised him to obtain the Dance of Giants stones from Ireland. Ambrosius' brother, Uther Pendragon, then defeated the Irish. With Merlin's help the huge stones were taken back to England and set up at Stonehenge. With the memorial completed, Merlin saw a blazing star in the shape of a dragon, an omen foretelling Ambrosius' death, the kingship of Uther Pendragon, and a future king — Uther's son — who would prove to be the greatest sovereign Britain would ever have.

At King Uther's coronation feast he fell in love with Ygraine, the wife of Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwall. Scandalously he showered her with attention, until Gorlois took Ygraine and his troops back to Cornwall and prepared for war. The heart-stricken Uther called his council, which advised him to call Gorlois back to court. If he refused to come Uther should lay siege to Cornwall, and that is what occurred. Uther trapped Gorlois in the castle Dimilioc, whereas Ygraine was at Tintagel, an impregnable castle. The king finally turned to Merlin for help. By magic Merlin turned Uther into the likeness of Gorlois. He also changed himself and another into likenesses of Gorlois' comrades. By this strategem they gained access to Tintagel, where Uther slept with Ygraine, who conceived Arthur that night. The next morning news arrived that Gorlois had been slain in battle the previous day. Uther confessed to the imposture and married Ygraine shortly thereafter.

Uther had promised Merlin that he might have the infant born to Ygraine. So when Arthur was born he was handed over to Merlin, who placed him with the knight Sir Ector. Merlin tutored the boy, and at the age of fifteen Arthur became the king of Britain. King Uther had left no other male heirs. Arthur took Merlin as his adviser, aide, and soothsayer, and the wizard foretold much that would happen to Arthur.

In his old age Merlin fell hopelessly in love with a young woman, Vivian, to whom he taught all the secrets of magic in return for her love. After learning his magical arts the thankless girl cast a spell on him that left Merlin imprisoned in a tower or a cave. Merlin will awaken, however, when King Arthur rises again to lead Britain through a period of her greatest peril.

Arthur was reared by Sir Ector, whom he believed to be his natural father. King Uther had died in the meantime and for years Britain was torn by feuds over the kingship. Bishop Brice prayed one Christmas for a means by which a king might be chosen. Immediately a sword stuck in an anvil placed in a stone block appeared in the churchyard. An inscription read that the person to pull the sword loose would be king. So all the nobles tried and failed.

Sir Ector brought his son, Sir Kay, and his foster son, Arthur, to the London festivities. Sir Kay had left his sword at home and sent his squire, Arthur, to fetch it. Finding the place locked, Arthur remembered the sword in the churchyard and went to get it. He pulled it from the anvil easily and presented it to Sir Kay, who recognized it and claimed to be the new king. However, Sir Ector forced his son to confess that Arthur had given him the sword. After Arthur had replaced the sword in the anvil it was conclusively proved that only he could remove it. The commoners and many nobles accepted Arthur as king, and he was duly crowned. He generously made Sir Kay his steward.

Yet a number of nobles refused to accept this fifteen-year-old as their rightful king. So Arthur had to fight to establish his kingship. Arthur set up a court at Caerleon and one at Camelot. Six hostile leaders laid siege to Caerleon, but Arthur and his troops drove them off. But these enemy kings were joined by five more kings, and together they raised an army of sixty thousand. Arthur sent to Brittany and Gaul for support, which helped reduce the odds against him. The two armies met at Rockingham, where Merlin caused the enemy tents to collapse at night, which allowed the Arthurian forces to rush in and attack. The next day the fighting was ferocious, but Arthur managed to win the battle through superior strategy and bravery. Once the eleven kings had been routed Arthur turned his attention to the Saxons that had been invading Britain for years. Again, Arthur received aid from Brittany and met the Saxons at Mount Badon, where he and his troops were greatly outnumbered once more. Splendidly armored, Arthur charged the Saxons after a prayer to the Virgin Mary. He created havoc among the coarse barbarians, and victory was his again.

Having secured his kingdom, Arthur undertook expeditions against the Scots, Picts, Irish, Icelanders, Norwegians, and the Gauls. All of these campaigns were victorious. He thereby became the chief king of Christendom, while foreign courts imitated the styles at Camelot. Only once during the rest of Arthur's reign did a foreign power — Rome — try to exact tribute from him, but Rome paid dearly for such presumption.

In the meanwhile Arthur was attracting many noblemen as knights to his court. Among these was Gawain, who came with his mother, Morgause. Although Morgause was married to King Lot, one of Arthur's enemies, she fell in love with the young king and conceived a child by him. Unwittingly Arthur had slept with his own half sister, the daughter of Ygraine and Gorlois. From this incestuous and adulterous union came Modred, the evil knight that would destroy Arthur and his court. Arthur learned the secret of his true parentage after that amorous encounter.

Arthur acquired his famous sword, Excalibur, in this way. He saved Merlin from three murderous rogues, and Merlin accompanied him to the wood where King Pellinore, a knight, was challenging all passersby. While Arthur was a brave, capable fighter, he was overmatched by King Pellinore, who was mighty and experienced in single combat. Arthur's sword broke and he was badly wounded. Pellinore knocked Arthur unconscious while wrestling and was about to slay him when Merlin cast a spell that put Pellinore to sleep. Arthur awoke and Merlin took him to a hermit who healed his wounds. Then Merlin and Arthur rode to a lake, in the middle of which was a hand clasping an upraised sword. A maiden in a small boat appeared and told Arthur that he could have the sword if he would grant her a request later. Arthur agreed, got into the boat and fetched the sword, Excalibur, which was encased in a jeweled scabbard. Thus Arthur obtained his fabulous sword from the Lady of the Lake. But as Merlin pointed out, the scabbard was more valuable, since while Arthur wore it his wounds would not bleed. On returning to his court, Arthur found that his knights respected him even more for undertaking an adventure like an ordinary knight.

Arthur won his wife, Guinevere, in another risky undertaking. Riding with Merlin and a company of knights to Carmalide, Arthur found King Laodegan besieged by the Irish. The Irish forces assaulted the city and Arthur and his men attacked them, fighting far superior numbers. Arthur himself was captured but Merlin saved him. And the Irish were routed when Laodegan's troops joined Arthur's. To reward Arthur, King Laodegan promised him anything he wanted, and since Arthur had fallen in love with his daughter Guinevere, he asked for her hand in marriage. Laodegan not only gave Arthur Guinevere but also a huge oak table of circular shape at which two hundred and fifty knights might be seated. This was the famous Round Table, which was taken to Camelot and became the center of Logres.

Logres was the Arthurian realm of virtue. Any knight who wished to join Arthur's court had to take a vow of virtue. In addition to having courage and might, the chivalric code of Logres required that a knight act honorably, protect the helpless and behave justly to all. Thus Logres was the spiritual counterpart of Arthur's material kingdom, Britain. It generated enough goodness and bravery to see Arthur and his knights through innumerable times of peril. Britain and Logres were only vulnerable from within, through dissent and treachery in Arthur's court. No external force alone could crush Camelot.

Arthur's most vicious enemy was his half sister, Morgan le Fay. A skilled enchantress, she did everything she could to defeat Arthur. Once Arthur was hunting in Wales with two other knights, Sir Urience and Sir Accolon. They chased a deer until their horses died of exhaustion and the deer fell dead by a large body of water. Extremely tired, the three men saw a ship sail toward them. They embarked and were served by lovely maidens. Soon each fell asleep very deeply. When Arthur awoke he was in a dungeon with other knights. To free the knights he had to fight with a strange knight. When Sir Accolon awoke he was very close to a deep well, and a dwarf told him he must fight a strange knight and gave Sir Accolon Arthur's magic sword and scabbard. Of course this was all the work of Morgan le Fay, who wished to see Arthur slain. The two companions met, fully armed, and Arthur was brutally wounded before he managed to get his own sword back. Neither man would yield even though it meant death. As Arthur was about to kill Accolon he learned he was fighting his own friend and that Morgan le Fay had enchanted each of them. The other hunting companion was Sir Urience, the husband of the sorceress, who awoke in his bed at Camelot beside his wife. In an evil fit Morgan le Fay tried to murder her husband, but a gallant knight prevented her. Fearful that Arthur would take revenge, she stole forth to meet him, and as he lay sleeping she took his scabbard which had rendered him invulnerable. After that she could never return to Camelot. But as a parting gift she sent Arthur a beautiful robe. Suspicious, Arthur had the maiden who brought it try it on first and the maiden was consumed by fire.

One of the bravest, noblest, and strongest of Arthur's knights was Sir Gawain, but he also had a rash temper. While on his first quest he accidentally killed a lady who was begging for the life of her churlish lover. He did it in pique after the man had pleaded for mercy, and the dishonor affected Gawain deeply. To redeem himself he undertook a dangerous adventure.

A gigantic, awful looking knight, completely green and on a green horse, rode into Camelot brandishing a huge axe. He challenged everyone to strike him a blow with the axe, but whoever did so must take a blow from him a year and a day later in a remote part of Wales at the Green Chapel. Besides Arthur only Gawain was brave enough to accept the challenge. Gawain took the axe and cut off the Green Knight's head at one stroke, whereupon the Green Knight reached over, picked up his head by the green hair, and rode off after reminding Gawain to meet him in a year.

The time came for Gawain to set forth in search of the Green Knight. Knowing that death awaited him, he still intended to fulfill his promise. Gawain asked everywhere for the Green Chapel, to no avail, and journeyed through a forest full of brigands. A week before he was due he came to a castle where he was warmly received by the host and hostess. After staying four days he told the host of his quest and learned that the Green Chapel was but two hours away. The host, a tall, swarthy man, invited Gawain to remain three more days to rest from the hardships of his travels. The host also proposed a game. Gawain would give the host whatever he received in the castle in return for what the host brought back from hunting. Gawain agreed to this.

The next morning the beautiful hostess came to his bed and tried to seduce him, but Gawain merely accepted a kiss from her. When her husband returned with several deer Gawain kissed him to fulfill the bargain. The following day the wife again attempted to seduce Gawain, but he just took two kisses, which he gave to the host returning with a boar's head. On the last day the wife tried every blandishment. Then, seeing she had failed, the wife gave Gawain three kisses and a piece of green lace from her girdle that she said would save his life. However, she told him not to tell her husband. And when the host came home Gawain gave him three kisses for a fox skin.

At last the time had come for Gawain to meet the Green Knight, so he took leave of the host and hostess and rode to the Green Chapel, where he expected to die. There was the terrible Green Knight sharpening his axe for the kill. Gawain submitted, but he flinched as the Green Knight swung at him, for which he was sternly reprimanded. The Green Knight again attempted to cut off Gawain's head, yet he held off at the last instant. On his third try the Green Knight nicked Gawain in the neck, which brought forth blood. At this Gawain sprang up and challenged his adversary, but the Green Knight grew mild and told Gawain of all that had happened with the hostess, including Gawain's taking the green lace to save his own life. Gawain felt he himself should die for such cowardice, and he recognized the Green Knight as his host. Yet the Green Knight hailed Gawain as the bravest knight alive. The Lady of the Lake had cast a spell on the Green Knight to test the value of King Arthur's realm of Logres.

The best knight of Logres was Launcelot of the Lake, who was invincible in combat. Educated by the Lady of the Lake in her underwater castle, Launcelot arrived at the court of King Arthur when he was eighteen. The king and queen immediately recognized him as the peerless knight of whom Merlin had spoken. Launcelot and Guinevere fell instantly in love with each other, and while that love would stir Launcelot to deeds of supreme prowess, it also would result in the downfall of Logres.

Sir Launcelot rode forth to seek adventures with Sir Lionel, but sleepiness overtook him and he dozed off under a tree. Lionel saw a huge knight defeat three other knights. Thinking to win glory he challenged the victor, was beaten in combat, and thrown into a dungeon with other knights. Four queens passed Launcelot as he slept, one of whom was Morgan le Fay. The queens kidnaped the sleeping hero, taking him to a castle where they told him he must choose one of them as a lover or languish in prison. Faithful to Guinevere, Launcelot chose prison, but he was rescued by a young lady who asked him to aid her father in a tournament. Launcelot agreed to help and roundly vanquished her father's opponents. Then he went looking for the huge knight who had taken Sir Lionel prisoner. He challenged the mighty knight and after a fierce contest he slew him, and sent a companion to release Lionel and other knights of Arthur's from their cell. During the night he rescued Sir Kay from three attackers, forcing them to yield to Sir Kay. A lady asked him to rescue a falcon that had become entangled in a tree, and while Launcelot was defenseless in the tree the lady's husband rode up and tried to kill him. However, Launcelot slew the coward with a tree limb. Finally, on this first quest, Launcelot wore Sir Kay's armor home to Camelot and was assaulted by four of Arthur's knights, whom he defeated. When he reached Camelot everyone was hailing him as the greatest knight in the kingdom because of his fine deeds.

Sir Meleagans wished to have Queen Guinevere for himself, and with eighty men he took her and several knights prisoner during a picnic. She sent word to Launcelot to rescue her from Meleagans, but Meleagans arranged an ambush for the knight that left him horseless. After riding in a wood cart, being ridiculed by friends and strangers, being tempted sexually, assaulted by ruffians, magically imprisoned, and set upon by savage beasts, Launcelot arrived at Meleagans' castle. He challenged the lustful knight even though he was weak and exhausted from his many trials. Sir Meleagans might have won the fight if Queen Guinevere had not insulted Launcelot about being unfit to serve her. The remark so angered Launcelot that he killed Meleagans on the spot and restored Guinevere's faith in him.

For many years the love between Launcelot and Guinevere was noble and chaste, but Launcelot was tricked into sin by an enchantment. After rescuing the Dolorous Lady from an evil spell and killing a monstrous dragon, Launcelot came to the Waste Lands and the castle of Carbonek, where King Pelles reigned. Years earlier Sir Balyn, one of Arthur's knights, had come to Carbonek and wounded Pelles with a mystic sword, and Pelles had never healed. A curse had fallen on the land as well, and only the holiest of Arthur's knights could remove the curse, heal King Pelles, or gain the Holy Grail. Launcelot was shown the Grail procession in which three maidens carried the sacred relics of Christ's Passion — the Grail, the platter, and the spear.

In any case, King Pelles had a daughter Elaine, and she fell in love with Launcelot, who was pledged to Guinevere. Despairing of winning his love, Elaine went to a sorceress who changed her appearance to that of Guinevere. In this guise Elaine seduced Launcelot and conceived a child by him. When Launcelot learned of the deception, the blot on his honor was so great that he went mad and became a hermit. King Arthur sent many knights out in search of him when he failed to come back, and Guinevere spent a fabulous sum on the search. Sir Bors rode to Carbonek, where he found Elaine with Sir Launcelot's infant son, Galahad. She told him of all that had happened, and the search continued.

A few years passed and a hermit came again to Elaine's home. It was the mad Launcelot, haggard and exhausted. The holy hermit Naciens took the sleeping knight to a chapel and prayed for him while Sir Bors and Sir Percivale watched and prayed. The Grail magically appeared and disappeared over the altar, and when Launcelot awoke he was sane. However, he needed Elaine's nursing to recover from his hardships as a hermit, yet when he was well he parted from Elaine without giving her a second thought. Later a black barge was found floating down the river to Camelot, and in it was the dead Elaine. She had died for Launcelot's love and was honorably buried. Her son Galahad was reared by monks, and he became the holy knight who would achieve the Sacred Grail for Logres.

One Easter a young man named Geraint came to Arthur's court and announced that he had seen a handsome white stag with golden horns. King Arthur decided to hunt the stag, have Guinevere take Geraint along as a squire, and present Geraint with the stag's head as a trophy for his lady. On the hunt Guinevere saw a gigantic knight accompanied by a lady and a dwarf, so she sent her maid to learn who the strange knight was. The dwarf struck the maid across the face with his whip, and insolently struck Geraint as well when he came to learn the knight's identity. Geraint thought of killing the dwarf but decided against it, since the huge knight was so close. Geraint instead chose to wait until he obtained armor, a spear, and a sword before attacking the knight. Guinevere promised him a knightship at the Round Table if he succeeded.

The young man followed the monstrous knight, lady, and dwarf to a forbidding castle in an unfriendly town. Geraint found only one friendly person in the town, an old man who took him home and introduced him to his wife and his lovely daughter Enid. The old man was formerly the lord of the castle but the knight had usurped it. Geraint said he would fight the knight, and the old man offered him his rusty armor, spear, and shield to fight Yder, the huge knight, on the next day when Yder held his annual tournament. The prize was a silver sparrow hawk to be given to the victor's lady. Since Geraint had no lady, he chose Enid to ride with him. After a hard fight Geraint made Yder yield, so Geraint sent him to Arthur's court to beg Guinevere's pardon for the dwarf's insults. But when Enid learned that Geraint intended to seek further adventure instead of wedding her promptly, she hurt Geraint to the quick with a bitter remark. Angry, Geraint told her to ride in front of him and keep silent.

Enid heard three thieves about to attack them both, but Geraint warned her to keep quiet and killed the thieves, driving them on their horses before him. Then six robbers assaulted Geraint and again he killed them, adding to his spoils. A third time nine brigands attacked, with Geraint warning Enid to remain silent and then killing the nine thieves. The hero now had eighteen suits of armor tied to eighteen horses in a pack before him and Enid. They came to the castle of Sir Oringle, where Geraint still sulked because of Enid's insult. Oringle became enamored of Enid and threatened to kill Geraint on the spot, but Enid said secretly that she would surrender herself on the next day as they rode away. Starting on their journey Enid warned Geraint of their danger, and soon they were accosted by Oringle and a host of knights. Geraint killed many of them, but they overpowered him and rendered him practically dead. Oringle took Enid back to his castle, where she refused to eat or drink until Geraint did so too, for Geraint lay lifeless in the hall. Enraged by her obstinacy, Oringle struck Enid, and her scream brought Geraint out of his coma to cut off Oringle's head. Thinking Geraint a ghost, the others fled from the hall, which allowed Geraint and Enid to escape.

At length the two of them came in sight of King Arthur's hunting party. Sir Kay thought to challenge the strange knight, but Geraint knocked him from his horse. King Arthur and Guinevere hailed Geraint, presenting him with the stag's head, which Geraint gave to Enid. When all of his exploits became known Geraint was duly made a knight of the Round Table.

Born of sorrow by a dying woman, Tristram of Lyonesse was raised by foster parents but learned the gentlemanly arts of hunting, minstrelsy, riding, fighting, and languages. Temporarily kidnaped by sailors, he arrived at the court of King Mark of Cornwall, where he distinguished himself in every way. When Marhault of Ireland demanded tribute of King Mark, Tristram challenged the mighty knight. In the fight Marhault received fatal wounds, but he sailed back to Ireland to die. Tristram himself was badly wounded and would not heal, so he sailed off to find a physician. A storm took him to Ireland, where he assumed a false name and went to the Irish court as a minstrel. In return for teaching her daughter, Iseult the Fair, to play the harp Queen Isaud healed Tristram of his wounds.

Back in Cornwall, Tristram told King Mark of the beautiful Iseult, and the king decided to make her his queen. King Mark sent Tristram to Ireland to fetch her. To redeem himself with the Irish for killing Marhault, Tristram slew a dragon that was devastating the land, but another man claimed the credit when Tristram passed out from the dragon's poison. However, it was proved that Tristram had done it, and Queen Isaud forgave him for the death of Marhault. After defeating a knight in combat Tristram was allowed to take Iseult to Cornwall to marry King Mark. And on the voyage Tristram and Iseult unwittingly drank a love potion that caused them to fall deeply and permanently in love.

Yet Iseult was pledged to King Mark, and out of honor she married him. However, she and Tristram held secret meetings together, and a jealous courtier exposed them both to King Mark, who tried to kill Tristram. Instead, Tristram was banished from Cornwall, but he and Iseult still managed to communicate by various means and to hold infrequent rendezvous. Tristram became famous for his knightly services at King Arthur's court, defeating every opponent but Launcelot. He was awarded a seat at the Round Table, but despite his fine exploits he grieved for Iseult's love.

As a consolation he married another woman named Iseult — Iseult of the White Hands. Tristram behaved nobly toward his wife but could not forget his one true love. In trying to save his brother-in-law, Tristram was wounded by a poisoned spear, and he knew that only Iseult the Fair could heal him. He sent a man by ship to bring her, and if she came the sail was to be white, but otherwise a black sail would be hoisted. Too weak to look out the window, Tristram asked his wife to tell him the color of the sail on the approaching ship. It was white, but in a fit of bitter jealousy she told him it was black, and Tristram died. Heartsick at her lover's death, Iseult the Fair also died. Their bodies were taken to King Mark, who forgave them and allowed them to be buried in his own chapel. A vine grew out of Tristram's grave into Iseult's and could not be stopped.

After King Pellinore and two of his sons had been slain, his wife took the only remaining son into the seclusion of a deep forest. There Percivale grew up wild, becoming an expert with the dart. When he was fifteen he saw five knights who told him of King Arthur's realm of Logres. Percivale took leave of his mother and rode to Caerleon. As he left the forest he came upon a silken tent in which he found a sleeping maiden. He exchanged rings with her and kissed her mouth as she slept. Then he continued to Caerleon, where Arthur held court.

Upon entering Arthur's hall he found a huge knight in golden armor. The knight rudely took Arthur's drinking cup from the king, drained it, and rode off with it. Arthur said he wanted some lowly fellow to retrieve the cup and avenge the insult. Percivale offered his services, at which Sir Kay took umbrage. And when a maiden addressed the young bumpkin as the finest knight in the realm Sir Kay struck her in the face, for which Percivale vowed revenge. Percivale followed the Red Knight into the country and there he challenged the thief, who attacked. Dodging the thrust of the lance, Percivale killed him as he charged again. Having trouble stripping the Red Knight of his golden armor, Percivale was assisted by Sir Gonemans, an old knight who offered to teach him the arts and code of chivalry.

Percivale spent the summer with Sir Gonemans and then went in search of adventure. He came to the Waste Lands and found the castle of Carbonek, which seemed desolate and empty. He entered and played chess three times on a magic chessboard. He lost each time and drew his sword to hack the mysterious chess pieces to bits, but a maiden rushed up and warned him not to. It was Blanchefleur, the same girl he had kissed in the silken tent. They both confessed their undying love for, each other. A clap of thunder filled the castle and three maidens bearing the holy relics of Christ's Passion appeared and then vanished, and Percivale was filled with a sublime peace. Blanchefleur told of the Grail Quest approaching, but Percivale in his enthusiasm for such a quest madly rushed off into the forest, only to find that Carbonez and his true love had disappeared. Sadly he searched for them but he was not destined to find them until the completion of the Grail Quest.

As he rode to Caerleon, Percivale fell rapt in revery. King Arthur and three knights saw the strange knight, and Arthur sent Sir Kay to find out who it was. Percivale did not answer Sir Kay, so Kay struck him with an iron gauntlet, which roused Percivale to fury. Sir Kay was badly wounded in combat and was thereby repaid for his extreme rudeness. Arthur revealed himself, accepted the goblet that the Red Knight had stolen, and then knighted Percivale, telling him that Merlin had foretold his coming. Percivale would arrive at Arthur's court just before the Grail Quest would begin.

The culmination of Arthur's reign and of Logres was the Quest for the Holy Grail, the cup that Christ had used at the Last Supper. Gawain brought back news to Camelot that Merlin had said that every knight must embark on the Grail Quest. A sword in a stone, reserved for a holy knight, was found floating on the river by Camelot. At Pentecost Sir Launcelot made his long-lost son, Galahad, a knight. And the holy hermit, Naciens, introduced Galahad to Arthur's court, where Galahad took his place in the Siege Perilous, a seat that only a saintly knight could occupy. Galahad alone was able to withdraw the sword from the stone, and with it he defeated several knights in tournament. At the Feast of Pentecost every place at the Round Table was occupied at last, and the Grail appeared and vanished in a wondrous way. Gawain vowed to seek the Grail, and every other knight did the same. Arthur was grieved to think that this would be the last time all his knights would gather, for many would die on the Quest. And when the Quest was over, Arthur knew, the end of Logres was near.

Sir Galahad won a shield from a nameless White Knight, a white shield with a cross of blood upon it. He also won a blessing from a hermit knight. Others who had tried to gain them were sorely hurt. At length Galahad was taken aboard the Enchanted Ship that had brought Joseph of Arimathea to England. Sir Percivale had to overcome three manifestations of the devil before he could enter the Enchanted Ship; first as an unruly black stallion that nearly carried him off, then as a serpent that was strangling a lion, and finally as a lovely seductress. He was saved only by calling on the power of Heaven. Sir Bors de Gannis was allowed upon the Enchanted Ship as well after rescuing a lady from a rapist, resisting the lady's seductions, and submitting to the cruelty of his maddened elder brother. Last, Sir Launcelot came aboard the Enchanted Ship once he had confessed his sinful love for Queen Guinevere and done penance for it. Each of these knights was led aboard the Enchanted Ship by Dindrane, the sister of Percivale and a nun.

The Enchanted Ship sailed along and put into a bay, where the four knights and the nun disembarked. Outside a castle they were attacked by a company of knights, but they defended themselves well. Then a Golden Knight rode up, the lord of the castle, and he called off his men. The Golden Knight had an ailing wife who could only be healed by a virgin's blood. Many maidens had died in giving impure blood, but Dindrane offered her own blood, which healed the lady but caused Dindrane to die. The castle itself was then burnt to charred ruins because of the evil that had been done there. Sir Bors rode on with Sir Galahad toward the Waste Lands, while Sir Percivale and Sir Launcelot pursued further adventures.

Sir Gawain met Sir Ector while riding in the Waste Lands and they exchanged gossip about what others had done on the Quest. The two came to a deserted chapel. That night a mysterious voice warned Sir Ector to quit the Quest, which he did. Sir Gawain, however, saw a mysterious candlestick lighted and extinguished. In the morning Naciens the hermit told him that he had the power to lift the curse from the Waste Lands if he kept himself pure. Gawain rode on and encountered Sir Launcelot, and both of them came to the castle of Carbonek, where they were greeted by King Pelles. A feast of rich food and wine was set before the two knights. Sir Launcelot ate of it and fell asleep, but Sir Gawain ate only bread and water and kept silent despite the taunts of others present. A clap of thunder announced the Grail procession of the three maidens carrying the holy relics. Gawain got up and asked the Grail Maiden what these things meant. He was told to follow, and he did so. Sir Launcelot tried to follow too but was only permitted a glimpse of the Grail, at which he fell in a swoon, whereas Gawain was allowed a full vision of the mystic cup. He had lifted the curse from the Waste Lands, but the full completion of the Grail Quest was for others.

Sir Percivale caught up with Sir Bors and Sir Galahad as they rode to Carbonek. The three knights were greeted by Pelles and Naciens in the castle. They declined the rich fare, eating merely bread and water. Again at the peal of thunder the Grail procession of three maidens appeared, and a sacred ritual took place in which Sir Galahad drank from the Holy Grail, relieved Naciens the monk of the ancient curse that Joseph of Arimathea had laid upon him, and healed King Pelles of the wound that had afflicted him for years. Sir Percivale recognized the Grail Maiden as his true love Blanchefleur, who had vanished. After piecing a mystic sword together, Percivale married Blanchefleur under Galahad's supervision, and he became King of Carbonek when Pelles died. His mission accomplished, Sir Galahad was transfigured before the court, and he died. Sir Bors rode back to Camelot to tell of the completion of the Grail Quest and of the hour in which the glory of Logres was fulfilled.

Several seats at the Round Table now were empty, and Arthur knew that Logres would soon succumb to the forces of darkness as Merlin had prophesied. Sir Launcelot was the ablest knight in the kingdom, but he sinned adulterously with Queen Guinevere, and through that sinning he brought about a fatal breach in Arthur's court. Sir Modred was Arthur's bastard son by Morgause, the wife of King Lot. Modred was envious of Arthur's power, so he conspired with Gawain's brother Agravain to cause strife between Arthur and Launcelot. The two conspirators overheard Guinevere invite Launcelot secretly to her room one night. They told King Arthur, who empowered them to take twelve knights and surprise the loving couple together, which they did. Sir Launcelot was defenseless, but he killed an attacker and put on the man's armor. Then he killed Agravain, wounded Modred, and made his escape.

Modred went again to Arthur and told him of all that had transpired. He insisted that Guinevere be put to death as an adulteress. Arthur sadly agreed that this was the law. Guinevere was to be burned at the stake. Arthur tried to get Gawain to attend, but he refused and sent two more of his brothers instead. As the pyre was being lighted Sir Launcelot rode up with a company of knights, killed many of Arthur's men, including Gawain's brothers, and rescued the queen from the fire. They retreated to Launcelot's castle, the Joyous Gard, and Arthur and Gawain laid siege to the place. Whenever Arthur was tempted to make peace with Launcelot, Gawain grew angry, for he was carrying on a blood feud with Launcelot. At last Launcelot in a spirit of generosity saved Arthur's life during a battle, and when he offered to return Guinevere and exile himself from England Arthur made truce with him. So Launcelot went to Armorica in France.

However, Gawain wanted Launcelot's life, so he raised an army and persuaded Arthur to attack Launcelot in France. The Saxons, having learned of the civil war, began invading England once more. And in Arthur's absence Sir Modred announced that Arthur had died in France and persuaded the people to elect himself king, after which he was crowned at Canterbury. Modred tried unsuccessfully to take Guinevere as his queen. On threatening the Archbishop, Modred was excommunicated. When Arthur learned of what was happening in his own realm he withdrew from France to return to Dover, where he and his army were met by Modred's forces. In the fighting Modred and his troops were routed. Gawain, who had received terrible wounds from Launcelot in France, was wounded again fatally at Dover. Yet on his deathbed he wrote Launcelot, begging his forgiveness and urging him to return to Britain to save Arthur's kingdom from Modred.

Within a short time Modred had gathered an army of a hundred thousand men and was harassing western Britain. Arthur took his army to Camlann to meet Modred. The night before the battle Gawain appeared to Arthur in a vision and told him to make a truce with Modred for a month, until Launcelot could come to his aid. So Arthur made a truce with Modred as the two armies confronted one another. Yet when a soldier drew his sword to kill a snake that had stung him the two forces charged one another. By evening both armies were almost completely annihilated. On Arthur's side only Arthur and two knights, both badly hurt, were left alive. Arthur suddenly saw Modred and in a fury the two men assaulted each other. Modred was slain outright, while Arthur was fatally hurt. He told his two remaining knights to carry him to a nearby lake, and one of them died while lifting him. Arthur then told the other to throw his sword Excalibur into the lake. The knight was reluctant to do so, but on Arthur's insistence he did it and a hand reached out of the lake and seized the sword. Then a barge came sailing up with the Lady of the Lake, the Lady of Avalon, and Morgan le Fay. They took Arthur aboard and sailed to the Isle of Avalon, where Arthur would rest until Britain would need him again.

Sir Launcelot returned to Britain to find the realm of Logres completely extinguished. Gawain and Arthur were dead, along with every knight of the Round Table but five. Guinevere had become a nun to repent of the sin that had destroyed Logres, and Launcelot followed her example by becoming a monk. When those two died the four knights remaining undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And England was overrun with barbarians.

Analysis

These legends are strongly medieval in flavor. Magic enchantments and miracles abound, yet despite the fantastic elements there is a hard basis of reality underlying these tales. Not a factual reality, but the kind that fiction presents. The world here is coherent: it makes sense. King Arthur is the center of that world, and by his valor, his strength, and his high purpose he collects an assembly of knights who share his purpose. These knights vie with one another to test their courage, might, and nobility. They undergo temptations that they must resist if they are to perform great deeds. Above all, they must be unselfish, for they are serving a power greater than themselves, the ideal of Logres, the holy realm. Logres is a place where faith works miracles and where the power of Heaven supports the weak and the humble. Frequently in these stories a knight fails to live up to this communal ideal, but he must pay for it in the end. Arthur begets Modred on his half sister adulterously, and Modred is the agent of Arthur's ruin. Launcelot and Guinevere destroy Logres with their love affair. And Tristram through his love for King Mark's wife endures exile and death.

There seems to be a general logic to the magic spells and miracles of these tales. Enchantments are used to test the knights of the Round Table. When another person suffers from a spell it takes a knight to redeem that person. When a knight undergoes enchantment it is to test his integrity. To witness a miracle a knight must have passed his tests of character. Thus wonders in these tales are not just the furnishings of an age of faith, for they serve to reveal a man's character.

This is our first example of a band of heroes fighting for abstract principles of justice, honor, and purity. These knights have serious flaws — pride, lust, rashness, vengefulness — but they rise above their faults in the contribution they make to Logres. Each knight is tested for his weaknesses. Only the holiest of knights, Sir Galahad, is allowed to drink from the Holy Grail. The Grail Quest is the summation of Logres, the period when each knight sets forth on an unselfish mission.

These assorted tales carry an extremely important insight — that a man's self-respect does not depend on external qualities, such as wealth, position, physical strength, or size. It depends on his private integrity and his valor in pursuing great goals. This is the kind of insight that builds civilizations.

Tristan*

Armageddon*

The Holy Grail*

Christianity and the Environment

Quaker Earthcare Witness

Quaker Earthcare Witness is a network of North American Friends (Quakers) and other like-minded people who are taking spirit-led action to address the ecological and social crises of the world, emphasizing Quaker process and testimonies.

While QEW supports reforms in laws, technology, education, and institutions, its primary calling is to facilitate transformation of humans' attitudes, values, identity, and worldview that underlie much of the environmental destruction going on in the world today.

Great Christian Individuals and Groups

Meister Eckhart

Spark of the Soul

The wisdom of mystic Meister Eckhart

Authorship/Autoría: Matthew Fox; Matthew Fox is the author of over 30 books including The Hidden Spirituality of Men, Christian Mystics, and most recently Meister Eckhart. A preeminent scholar and popularizer of Western mysticism, he became an Episcopal priest after being expelled from the Catholic Church by Cardinal Ratzinger, who later became Pope Benedict XVI. You can visit him at http://www.matthewfox.org.;

Meister Eckhart was a late-thirteenth- and early-fourteenth-century preacher and mystic, yet like Rumi and Hafiz, he remains relevant today. He speaks to so many and touches people's hearts.

As we grasp the heart of Eckhart's teachings, we find that they take us away from sterile and external religion to a deep spirituality, one that imbues every dimension of our conscience and consciousness. His teachings put Christ back into Christianity and offer a Christ Path that is far deeper than institutional Christianity has put forward for centuries. They also offer a living bridge between all world spiritual traditions, without which the human species cannot, it seems to me, survive.

Eckhart leads us to the land of the mystic-warrior, to the land where our action flows from being or nonaction, from contemplation, from love—from the Cataphatic Divinity. And, yes, also from our brokenness, our wounds, our grief, as well as our silence—from the Apophatic Divinity. This is one reason today that so many feel a calling to go deeper, travel deeper, take on spirituality as distinct from mere religion. We all feel the call, consciously or unconsciously, from Gaia, from Mother Earth, from our children and grandchildren and ancestors to come, from Spirit, to change our ways. To undergo metanoia—or conversion, rebirth, waking up, or all of the above.

To do this we need to be lovers again who are more in love with the world than ever. More grateful for existence, for the nourishing and beautiful Earth, for her marvelous creatures, for her suffering, than ever before. More struck by reverence and respect for the miracle of our being here, the gift of existence in this amazing universe with its 13.8-billion-year history—isness is God, says Eckhart. Eckhart takes us there, for he is a lover and a traveller into the deep. He is both mystic and warrior.

What distinguishes a warrior from a soldier is that a warrior is a mystic, a lover, one possessed by beauty, one alive with radical amazement, one seized by the Cataphatic Divinity, the God of Light and Creation. It takes a warrior to become a mystic, for the mystic cannot survive in denial; the mystic hunts everywhere in search of his or her beloved. “Where have you hid my beloved?” asks the lover in the Song of Songs. This lamentation also begins “Spiritual Canticle,” the love poem by John of the Cross: “Where have you hidden, Beloved, and left me moaning?” We search the highways and the byways, as John of the Cross did, and we eventually come to this holy awareness. “My Beloved is the mountains, / and lonely wooded valleys….”

Like the historical Jesus who derives from the wisdom tradition of Israel (a fact that Eckhart knew well and today's New Testament scholarship is finally rediscovering), Eckhart, too, is steeped in the wisdom or creation-centred tradition of the scriptures wherein all of nature is revelatory, a “book about God,” as Eckhart puts it.

So it is with us at this precarious moment. Are we sustainable? Only if we “become sweet lovers,” says Hafiz. Only if we become mystic-warriors. Only if we not only fall in love but develop the astuteness to defend our beloved, the Earth, with all of our resources at hand. Our left brains of analysis and rationality are essential; as Eckhart says, “We are compassionate like the Father when we are compassionate, not from passion, not from impulse, but from deliberate choice and reasonable decision….The passion does not take the lead but follows, does not rule but serves.” Our right brains of intuition, imagination, creativity, and mysticism are essential, too. We need to create learning centres and wisdom schools where both are honoured. We need to resurrect common values—which is not that hard, since atheist and Buddhist, Jew and Muslim, Christian and Goddess worshipper, indigenous and Taoist, can recognize four things: 1) the Earth is sacred, and 2) the Earth is in trouble, and 3) we humans are greatly responsible for the latter, and 4) we can, with imagination and work and strength, do something to positively change that.

Eckhart helps to carry us to this new level of evolution, this deeper expression of what it means to be human at this time in history. He asks that we live in depth, not superficially, whether we are talking about religion or education, economics or ecology. “Deep Ecology” is a phrase coined decades ago to name an ecological movement that was not merely about switching the hats of power but of going deeper into the land of the sacred, the place where in our deepest intuition (Eckhart would say, in the “spark of the soul” from which conscience is born) dwells the Divine and all the angels and spirit helpers who can assist us in this shamanistic vocation to heal so that the people may live. We need all the resources we possess as a species—science and technology along with our varied spiritual traditions.

We need what I call in the conclusion the four E's: we must awaken Deep Ecumenism, Deep Ecology, Deep Economics, and Deep Education. Deep Ecumenism is in many ways the starting point, since without a spiritual depth and practice it is unimaginable that we will have the energy or the vision for the letting go and the birthing that survival will require. Eckhart is a leader like none other in Deep Ecumenism. Who else has worked out of the depth of his own tradition (his Christianity) and has been named a Hindu by Hindus; a Buddhist by Buddhists; a Sufi by Sufis; a depth psychologist who discovered the self by a depth psychologist; a shaman by students of shamanism?

Not ecology as we know it; not education as we know it; not economics as we know it; not religion as we know it—none of these things is currently up to the task at hand. We need to go deeper. Just as Adrienne Rich and Meister Eckhart tell us, diving deep and also surfacing. Moving inward and outward, but always deeply. Deep where the joy resides; where the darkness, pain, and grief cry to us; where creativity is unearthed; where the passion for justice and compassion return again.

We need ecological mystic-warriors, ecumenical mystic-warriors, educational mystic-warriors, and economic mystic-warriors. There is where Eckhart is leading us. Down and deep and dirty, in the sense that we are on new terrain, that there will be trial and error, but it is better to be in the dark than overly confident in a diminishing and damaging light.

Thomas Merton

Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was a Trappist monk at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky and arguably the most influential American Catholic author of the twentieth century. His writings include such classics as The Seven Storey Mountain (his autobiography), New Seeds of Contemplation, and Zen and the Birds of Appetite. Merton is the author of more than seventy books that include poetry, personal journals, collections of letters, social criticism, and writings on peace, justice, the nuclear arms race and ecumenism.

fter a rambunctious youth and adolescence, Merton converted to Roman Catholicism whilst at Columbia University and on December 10th, 1941 he entered the Abbey of Gethsemani, a community of monks belonging to the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (Trappists), the most ascetic Roman Catholic monastic order.

The twenty-seven years he spent in Gethsemani brought about profound changes in his self-understanding. This ongoing conversion impelled him into the political arena, where he became, according to Daniel Berrigan, the conscience of the peace movement of the 1960's. Referring to race and peace as the two most urgent issues of our time, Merton was a strong supporter of the nonviolent civil rights movement, which he called certainly the greatest example of Christian faith in action in the social history of the United States. For his social activism Merton endured severe criticism, from Catholics and non-Catholics alike.

During his last years, he became deeply interested in Asian religions, particularly Zen Buddhism, and in promoting East-West dialogue. After several meetings with Merton during the American monk's trip to the Far East in 1968, the Dalai Lama praised him as having a more profound understanding of Buddhism than any other Christian he had known.

The Environmental Vision of Thomas Merton

From Project MUSE.

Nature was always vital in Thomas Merton's life, from the long hours he spent as a child watching his father paint landscapes in the fresh air, to his final years of solitude in the hermitage at Our Lady of Gethsemani, where he contemplated and wrote about the beauty of his surroundings. Throughout his life, Merton's study of the natural world shaped his spirituality in profound ways, and he was one of the first writers to raise concern about ecological issues that have become critical in recent years.

Rain and the Rhinoceros

Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By they I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.

The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with inconsistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.

I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.

But I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to sleep again. Here I am not alien. The trees I know, the night I know, the rain I know. I close my eyes and instantly sink into the whole rainy world of which I am a part, and the world goes on with me in it, for I am not alien to it. I am alien to the noises of cities, of people, to the greed of machinery that does not sleep, the hum of power that eats up the night. Where rain, sunlight and darkness are contemned, I cannot sleep. I do not trust anything that has been fabricated to replace the climate of woods or prairies. I can have no confidence in places where the air is first fouled and then cleansed, where the water is first made deadly and then made safe with other poisons. There is nothing in the world of buildings that is not fabricated, and if a tree gets in among the apartment houses by mistake it is taught to grow chemically. It is given a precise reason for existing. They put a sign on it saying it is for health, beauty, perspective; that it is for peace, for prosperity; that it was planted by the mayor's daughter. All of this is mystification. The city itself lives on its own myth. Instead of waking up and silently existing, the city people prefer a stubborn and fabricated dream; they do not care to be a part of the night, or to be merely of the world. They have constructed a world outside the world, against the world, a world of mechanical fictions which contemn nature and seek only to use it up, thus preventing it from renewing itself and man.

Of course the festival of rain cannot be stopped, even in the city. The woman from the delicatessen scampers along the sidewalk with a newspaper over her head. The streets, suddenly washed, became transparent and alive, and the noise of traffic becomes a plashing of fountains. One would think that urban man in a rainstorm would have to take account of nature in its wetness and freshness, its baptism and its renewal. But the rain brings no renewal to the city, on to tomorrow's weather, and the glint of windows in tall buildings will then have nothing to do with the new sky. All reality will remain somewhere inside those walls, counting itself and selling itself with fantastically complex determination. Meanwhile the obsessed citizens plunge through the rain bearing the load of their obsessions, slightly more vulnerable than before, but still only barely aware of external realities. They do not see that the streets shine beautifully, that they themselves are walking on stars and water, that they are running in skies to catch a bus or a taxi, to shelter somewhere in the press of irritated humans, the faces of advertisements and the dim, cretinous sound of unidentified music. But they must know that there is wetness abroad. Perhaps they even feel it. I cannot say. Their complaints are mechanical and without spirit.

Naturally no one can believe the things they say about the rain. It all implies one basic lie: only the city is real. That weather, not being planned, not being fabricated, is an impertinence, a wen on the visage of progress. (Just a simple little operation, and the whole mess may become relatively tolerable. Let business make the rain. This will give it meaning.)

Thoreau sat in his cabin and criticized the railways. I sit in mine and wonder about a world that has, well, progressed. I must read Walden again, and see if Thoreau already guessed that he was part of what he thought he could escape. But it is not a matter of escaping. It is not even a matter of protesting very audibly. Technology is here, even in the cabin. True, the utility line is not here yet, and so G.E. is not here yet either. When the utilities and G.E. enter my cabin arm in arm it will be nobody's fault but my own. I admit it. I am not kidding anybody, even myself. I will suffer their bluff and patronizing complacencies in silence. I will let them think they know what I am doing here.

They are convinced that I am having fun.

This has already been brought home to me with a wallop by my Coleman lantern. Beautiful lamp: It burns white gas and sings viciously but gives out a splendid green light in which I read Philoxenos, a sixth-century Syrian hermit. Philoxenos fits in with the rain and the festival of night. Of this, more later. Meanwhile: what does my Coleman lantern tell me? (Coleman's philosophy is printed on the cardboard box which I have (guiltily) not shellacked as I was supposed to, and which I have tossed in the woodshed behind the hickory chunks.) Coleman says that the light is good, and has a reason: it Stretches days to give more hours of fun.

Can't I just be in the woods without any special reason? Just being in the woods, at night, in the cabin, is something too excellent to be justified or explained! It just is. There are always a few people who are in the woods at night, in the rain (because if there were not the world would have ended), and I am one of them. We are not having fun, we are not having anything, we are not stretching our days, and if we had fun it would not be measured by hours. Though as a matter of fact that is what fun seems to be: a state of diffuse excitation that can be measured by the clock and stretched by an appliance.

There is no clock that can measure the speech of this rain that falls all night on the drowned and lonely forest.

Of course at three-thirty A.M. the SAC plane goes over, red light winking low under the clouds, skimming the wooded summits on the south side of the valley, loaded with strong medicine. Very strong. Strong enough to burn up all these woods and stretch our hours of fun into eternities.

And that brings me to Philoxenos, a Syrian who had fun in the sixth century, without benefit of appliances, still less of nuclear deterrents.

Philoxenos in his ninth memra (on poverty) to dwellers in solitude, says that there is no explanation and no justification for the solitary life, since it is without a law. To be contemplative is therefore to be an outlaw. As was Christ. As was Paul.

One who is not alone, says Philoxenos, has not discovered his identity. He seems to be alone, perhaps, for he experiences himself as individual. But because he is willingly enclosed and limited by the laws and illusions of collective existence, he has no more identity than an unborn child in the womb. He is not yet conscious. He is alien to his own truth. He has senses, but he cannot use them. He has life, but not identity. To have an identity, he has to be awake, and aware. But to be awake, he has to accept vulnerability and death. Not for their own sake: not out of stoicism or despair-only for the sake of the invulnerable inner reality which we cannot recognize (which we can only be ) but to which we awaken only when we see the unreality of our vulnerable shell. The discovery of this inner self is an act and affirmation of solitude.

Now if we take our vulnerable shell to be our true identity, if we think our mask is our true face, we will protect it with fabrications even at the cost of violating our own truth. This seems to be the collective endeavor of society: the more busily men dedicate themselves to it, the more certainly it becomes a collective illusion, until in the end we have the enormous, obsessive, uncontrollable dynamic of fabrications designed to protect mere fictitious identities-- selves, that is to say, regarded as objects. Selves that can stand back and see themselves having fun (an illusion which reassures them that they are real).

Such is the ignorance which is taken to be the axiomatic foundation of all knowledge in the human collectivity: in order to experience yourself as real, you have to suppress the awareness of your contingency, your unreality, your state of radical need. This you do by creating an awareness of yourself as one who has no needs that he cannot immediately fulfill. Basically, this is an illusion of omnipotence: an illusion which the collectivity arrogates to itself, and consents to share with its individual members in proportion as they submit to its more central and more rigid fabrications.

You have needs; but if you behave and conform you can participate in the collective power. You can then satisfy all your needs. Meanwhile, in order to increase its power over you, the collectivity increases your needs. It also tightens its demand for conformity. Thus you can become all the more committed to the collective illusion in proportion to becoming more hopelessly mortgaged to collective power.

How does this work? The collectivity informs and shapes your will to happiness (have fun) by presenting you with irresistible images of yourself as you would like to be: having fun that is so perfectly credible that it allows no interference of conscious doubt. In theory such a good time can be so convincing that you are no longer aware of even a remote possibility that it might change into something less satisfying. In practice, expensive fun always admits of a doubt, which blossoms out into another full-blown need, which then calls for a still more credible and more costly refinement of satisfaction, which again fails you. The end of the cycle is despair.

Because we live in a womb of collective illusion, our freedom remains abortive. Our capacities for joy, peace, and truth are never liberated. They can never be used. We are prisoners of a process, a dialectic of false promises and real deceptions ending in futility.

The unborn child, says Philoxenos, is already perfect and fully constituted in his nature, with all his senses, and limbs, but he cannot make use of them in their natural functions, because, in the womb, he cannot strengthen or develop them for such use.

Now, since all things have their season, there is a time to be unborn. We must begin, indeed, in the social womb. There is a time for warmth in the collective myth. But there is also a time to be born. He who is spiritually born as a mature identity is liberated from the enclosing womb of myth and prejudice. He learns to think for himself, guided no longer by the dictates of need and by the systems and processes designed to create artificial needs and then satisfy them.

This emancipation can take two forms: first that of the active life, which liberates itself from enslavement to necessity by considering and serving the needs of others, without thought of personal interest or return. And second, the contemplative life, which must not be construed as an escape from time and matter, from social responsibility and from the life of sense, but rather, as an advance into solitude and the desert, a confrontation with poverty and the void, a renunciation of the empirical self, in the presence of death, and nothingness, in order to overcome the ignorance and error that spring from the fear of being nothing. The man who dares to be alone can come to see that the empitness and uselessness which the collective mind fears and condemns are necessary conditions for the encounter with truth.

It is in the desert of loneliness and emptiness that the fear of death and the need for self-affirmation are seen to be illusory. When this is faced, then anguish is not necessarily overcome, but it can be accepted and understood. Thus, in the heart of anguish are found the gifts of peace and understanding: not simply in personal illumination and liberation, but by commitment and empathy, for the contemplative must assume the universal anguish and the inescapable condition of mortal man. The solitary, far from enclosing himself in himself, becomes every man. He dwells in the solitude, the poverty, the indigence of every man.

It is in this sense that the hermit, according to Philoxenos, imitates Christ. For in Christ, God takes to Himself the solitude and dereliction of man: every man. From the moment Christ went out into the desert to be tempted, the loneliness, the temptation and the hunger of every man became the loneliness, temptation and hunger of Christ. But in return, the gift of truth with which Christ dispelled the three kinds of illusion offered him in his temptation (security, reputation and power) can become also our own truth, if we can only accept it. It is offered to us also in temptation. You too go out into the desert, said Philoxenos, having with you nothing of the world, and the Holy Spirit will go with you. See the freedom with which Jesus has gone forth, and go forth like Him-see where he has left the rule of men; leave the rule of the world where he has left the law, and go out with him to fight the power of error.

And where is the power of error? We find it was after all not in the city, but in ourselves .

Today the insights of a Philoxenos are to be sought less in the tracts of theologians than in the meditations of the existentialists and in the Theater of the Absurd. The problem of Berenger, in Ionesco's Rhinoceros, is the problem of the human person stranded and alone in what threatens to become a society of monsters. In the sixth century Berenger might perhaps have walked off into the desert of Scete, without too much concern over the fact that all his fellow citizens, all his friends, and even his girl Daisy, had turned into rhinoceroses.

The problem today is that there are no deserts, only dude ranches.

The desert islands are places where the wicked little characters in the Lord of the Flies come face to face with the Lord of the Flies, form a small, tight, ferocious collectivity of painted face, and arm themselves with spears to hunt down the last member of their group who still remembers with nostalgia the possibilities of rational discourse.

Where Berenger finds himself suddenly the last human in a rhinoceros herd he looks into the mirror and says, humbly enough, After all, man is not as bad as all that, is he? But his world now shakes mightily with the stampede of his metamorphosed fellow citizens, and he soon becomes aware that the very stampede itself is the most telling and tragic of all arguments. For when he considers going out into the street to try to convince them, he realizes that he would have to learn their language. He looks in the mirror and sees that he no longer resembles anyone . He searches madly for a photograph of people as they were before the big change. But now humanity itself has become incredible, as well as hideous. To be the last man in the rhinoceros herd is, in fact, to be a monster.

Such is the problem which Ionesco sets us in his tragic irony: solitude and dissent become more and more impossible, more and more absurd. That Berenger finally accepts his absurdity and rushes out to challenge the whole herd only points up the futility of a commitment to rebellion. At the same time in The New Tenant (Le Nouveau Locataire ) Ionesco portrays the absurdity of a logically consistent individualism which, in fact, is a self-isolation by the pseudo-logic of proliferating needs and possessions.

Ionesco protested that the New York production of Rhinoceros as a farce was a complete misunderstanding of his intention. It is a play not merely against conformism but about totalitarianism. The rhinoceros is not an amiable beast, and with him around the fun ceases and things begin to get serious. Everything has to make sense and be totally useful to the totally obsessive operation. At the same time Ionesco was criticized for not giving the audience something positive to take away with them, instead of just refusing the human adventure. (Presumably rhinoceritis is the latest in human adventure!) He replied: They [the spectators] leave in a void-and that was my intention. It is the business of a free man to pull himself out of this void by his own power and not by the power of other people! In this Ionesco comes very close to Zen and to Christian eremitism.

In all the cities of the world, it is the same, says Ionesco. The universal and modern man is the man in a rush (i.e. a rhinoceros), a man who has no time, who is a prisoner of necessity, who cannot understand that a thing might perhaps be without usefulness ; nor does he understand that, at bottom, it is the useful that may be a useless and back-breaking burden. If one does not understand the usefulness of the useless and the uselessness of the useful, one cannot understand art. And a country where art is not understood is a country of slaves and robots. (Notes et Contre Notes, p129) Rhinoceritis, he adds, is the sickness that lies in wait for those who have lost the sense and the taste for solitude.

The love of solitude is sometimes condemned as hatred of our fellow men. But is this true? If we push our analysis of collective thinking a little further we will find that the dialectic of power and need, of submission and satisfaction, ends by being a dialectic of hate. Collectivity needs not only to absorb everyone it can, but also implicitly to hate and destroy whoever cannot be absorbed. Paradoxically, one of the needs of collectivity is to reject certain classes, or races, or groups, in order to strengthen its own self-awareness by hating them instead of absorbing them.

Thus the solitary cannot survive unless he is capable of loving everyone, without concern for the fact that he is likely to be regarded by all of them as a traitor. Only the man who has fully attained his own spiritual identity can live without the need to kill, and without the need of a doctrine that permits him to do so with a good conscience. There will always be a place, says Ionesco, for those isolated consciences who have stood up for the universal conscience as against the mass mind. But their place is solitude. They have no other. Hence it is the solitary person (whether in the city or in the desert) who does mankind the inestimable favor of reminding it of its true capacity for maturity, liberty and peace.

It sounds very much like Philoxenos to me.

And it sounds like what the rain says. We still carry this burden of illusion because we do not dare to lay it down. We suffer all the need that society demands we suffer, because if we do not have these needs we lose our usefulness in society-the usefulness of suckers. We fear to be alone, and to be ourselves, and so to remind others of the truth that is in them.

I will not make you such rich men as have need of many things, said Philoxenos (putting the words on the lips of Christ), but I will make you true rich men who have need of nothing. Since it is not he who has many possessions that is rich, but he who has no needs. Obviously, we shall always have some needs. But only he who has the simplest and most natural needs can be considered to be without needs, since the only needs he has are real ones, and the real ones are not hard to fulfill if one is a free man!

The rain has stopped. The afternoon sun slants through the pine trees: and how those useless needles smell in the clear air!

A dandelion, long out of season, has pushed itself into bloom between the smashed leaves of last summer's day lilies. The valley resounds with the totally uninformative talk of creeks and wild water.

Then the quails begin their sweet whistling in the wet bushes. Their noise is absolutely useless, and so is the delight I take in it. There is nothing I would rather hear, not because it is a better noise than other noises, but because it is the voice of the present moment, the present festival.

Yet even here the earth shakes. Over at Fort Knox the Rhinoceros is having fun.

G. K. Chesterton

G.K. Chesterton, in full Gilbert Keith Chesterton, (born May 29, 1874, London, England—died June 14, 1936, Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire), English critic and author of verse, essays, novels, and short stories, known also for his exuberant personality and rotund figure.

Chesterton was educated at St. Paul's School and later studied art at the Slade School and literature at University College, London. His writings to 1910 were of three kinds. First, his social criticism, largely in his voluminous journalism, was gathered in The Defendant (1901), Twelve Types (1902), and Heretics (1905). In it he expressed strongly pro-Boer views in the South African War. Politically, he began as a Liberal but after a brief radical period became, with his Christian and medievalist friend Hilaire Belloc, a Distributist, favouring the distribution of land. This phase of his thinking is exemplified by What's Wrong with the World (1910).

His second preoccupation was literary criticism. Robert Browning (1903) was followed by Charles Dickens (1906) and Appreciations and Criticisms of the Works of Charles Dickens (1911), prefaces to the individual novels, which are among his finest contributions to criticism. His George Bernard Shaw (1909) and The Victorian Age in Literature (1913) together with William Blake (1910) and the later monographs William Cobbett (1925) and Robert Louis Stevenson (1927) have a spontaneity that places them above the works of many academic critics.

Chesterton's third major concern was theology and religious argument. He was converted from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism in 1922. Although he had written on Christianity earlier, as in his book Orthodoxy (1909), his conversion added edge to his controversial writing, notably The Catholic Church and Conversion (1926), his writings in G.K.'s Weekly, and Avowals and Denials (1934). Other works arising from his conversion were St. Francis of Assisi (1923), the essay in historical theology The Everlasting Man (1925), The Thing (1929; also published as The Thing: Why I Am a Catholic), and St. Thomas Aquinas (1933).

In his verse Chesterton was a master of ballad forms, as shown in the stirring Lepanto (1911). When it was not uproariously comic, his verse was frankly partisan and didactic. His essays developed his shrewd, paradoxical irreverence to its ultimate point of real seriousness. He is seen at his happiest in such essays as On Running After One's Hat (1908) and A Defence of Nonsense (1901), in which he says that nonsense and faith are the two supreme symbolic assertions of truth and to draw out the soul of things with a syllogism is as impossible as to draw out Leviathan with a hook.

Many readers value Chesterton's fiction most highly. The Napoleon of Notting Hill (1904), a romance of civil war in suburban London, was followed by the loosely knit collection of short stories, The Club of Queer Trades (1905), and the popular allegorical novel The Man Who Was Thursday (1908). But the most successful association of fiction with social judgment is in Chesterton's series on the priest-sleuth Father Brown: The Innocence of Father Brown (1911), followed by The Wisdom… (1914), The Incredulity… (1926), The Secret… (1927), and The Scandal of Father Brown (1935).

Chesterton's friendships were with men as diverse as H.G. Wells, Shaw, Belloc, and Max Beerbohm.

G. K. Chesterton's Greatness

Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936) cannot be summed up in one sentence. Nor in one paragraph. In fact, in spite of the fine biographies that have been written of him, he has never been captured between the covers of one book. But rather than waiting to separate the goats from the sheep, let's just come right out and say it: G.K. Chesterton was the best writer of the 20th century. He said something about everything and he said it better than anybody else. But he was no mere wordsmith. He was very good at expressing himself, but more importantly, he had something very good to express. The reason he was the greatest writer of the 20th century was because he was also the greatest thinker of the 20th century.

He was one of the most prolific writers of all time. He wrote a hundred books, contributions to 200 more, hundreds of poems, including the epic Ballad of the White Horse, five plays, five novels, and some two hundred short stories, including a popular series featuring the priest-detective, Father Brown. In spite of his literary accomplishments, he considered himself primarily a journalist. He wrote over 4000 newspaper essays, including 30 years worth of weekly columns for the Illustrated London News, and 13 years of weekly columns for the Daily News. He also edited his own newspaper, G.K.'s Weekly. (To put it into perspective, four thousand essays is the equivalent of writing an essay a day, every day, for 11 years. If you're not impressed, try it some time. But they have to be good essays – all of them – as funny as they are serious, and as readable and rewarding a century after you've written them.)

Chesterton was equally at ease with literary and social criticism, history, politics, economics, philosophy, and theology. His style is unmistakable, always marked by humility, consistency, paradox, wit, and wonder. His writing remains as timely and as timeless today as when it first appeared, even though much of it was published in throw away papers.

This man who composed such profound and perfect lines as The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried, stood 6'4" and weighed about 300 pounds, usually had a cigar in his mouth, and walked around wearing a cape and a crumpled hat, tiny glasses pinched to the end of his nose, swordstick in hand, laughter blowing through his moustache. And usually had no idea where or when his next appointment was. He did much of his writing in train stations, since he usually missed the train he was supposed to catch. In one famous anecdote, he wired his wife, saying, Am at Market Harborough. Where ought I to be? His faithful wife, Frances, attended to all the details of his life, since he continually proved he had no way of doing it himself. She was later assisted by a secretary, Dorothy Collins, who became the couple's surrogate daughter, and went on to become the writer's literary executrix, continuing to make his work available after his death.

This absent-minded, overgrown elf of a man, who laughed at his own jokes and amused children at birthday parties by catching buns in his mouth, this was the man who wrote a book called The Everlasting Man, which led a young atheist named C.S. Lewis to become a Christian. This was the man who wrote a novel called The Napoleon of Notting Hill, which inspired Michael Collins to lead a movement for Irish Independence. This was the man who wrote an essay in the Illustrated London News that inspired Mohandas Gandhi to lead a movement to end British colonial rule in India. This was a man who, when commissioned to write a book on St. Thomas Aquinas, had his secretary check out a stack of books on St. Thomas from the library, opened the top book on the stack, thumbed through it, closed it, and proceeded to dictate a book on St. Thomas. Not just any book. The renowned Thomistic scholar, Ettienne Gilson, had this to say about it:

I consider it as being without possible comparison the best book ever written on St. Thomas. Nothing short of genius can account for such an achievement. Everybody will no doubt admit that it is a clever book, but the few readers who have spent twenty or thirty years in studying St. Thomas…cannot fail to perceive that the so-called wit of Chesterton has put their scholarship to shame. He has guessed all that which we had tried to demonstrate, and he has said all that which they were more or less clumsily attempting to express in academic formulas. Chesterton was one of the deepest thinkers who ever existed; he was deep because he was right; and he could not help being right; but he could not either help being modest and charitable, so he left it to those who could understand him to know that he was right, and deep; to the others, he apologized for being right, and he made up for being deep by being witty. That is all they can see of him.

Chesterton debated many of the celebrated intellectuals of his time: George Bernard Shaw, H.G. Wells, Bertrand Russell, Clarence Darrow. According to contemporary accounts, Chesterton usually emerged as the winner of these contests, however, the world has immortalized his opponents and forgotten Chesterton, and now we hear only one side of the argument, and we are enduring the legacies of socialism, relativism, materialism, and skepticism. Ironically, all of his opponents regarded Chesterton with the greatest affection. And George Bernard Shaw said: The world is not thankful enough for Chesterton.

His writing has been praised by Ernest Hemingway, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Karel Capek, Marshall McLuhan, Paul Claudel, Dorothy L. Sayers, Agatha Christie, Sigrid Undset, Ronald Knox, Kingsley Amis, W.H. Auden, Anthony Burgess, E.F. Schumacher, Neil Gaiman, and Orson Welles. To name a few.

Yet Chesterton has been Ignored

Chesterton is the most unjustly neglected writer of our time. Perhaps it is proof that education is too important to be left to educators and that publishing is too important to be left to publishers, but there is no excuse why Chesterton is no longer taught in our schools and why his writing is not more widely reprinted and especially included in college anthologies. Well, there is an excuse. It seems that Chesterton is tough to pigeonhole, and if a writer cannot be quickly consigned to a category, or to one-word description, he risks falling through the cracks. Even if he weighs three hundred pounds.

But there is another problem. Modern thinkers and commentators and critics have found it much more convenient to ignore Chesterton rather than to engage him in an argument, because to argue with Chesterton is to lose.

Chesterton argued eloquently against all the trends that eventually took over the 20th century: materialism, scientific determinism, moral relativism, and spineless agnosticism. He also argued against both socialism and capitalism and showed why they have both been the enemies of freedom and justice in modern society.

And what did he argue for? What was it he defended? He defended the common man and common sense. He defended the poor. He defended the family. He defended beauty. And he defended Christianity and the Catholic Faith. These don't play well in the classroom, in the media, or in the public arena. And that is probably why he is neglected. The modern world prefers writers who are snobs, who have exotic and bizarre ideas, who glorify decadence, who scoff at Christianity, who deny the dignity of the poor, and who think freedom means no responsibility.

But even though Chesterton is no longer taught in schools, you cannot consider yourself educated until you have thoroughly read Chesterton. And furthermore, thoroughly reading Chesterton is almost a complete education in itself. Chesterton is indeed a teacher, and the best kind. He doesn't merely astonish you. He doesn't just perform the wonder of making you think. He goes beyond that. He makes you laugh.

Community (Christian)

Agrarianism

Grow your own by all means, but don't dream that self-sufficiency is the answer

Last week, Monty Don mocked The Good Life. He was right – we should both cultivate and buy our food

When I lived in the French countryside, I started a vegetable garden. The farmer next door came round with his huge tractor and ploughed up a plot on the sloping field in front our house. I lugged the soil around to take what had inevitably ended up at the bottom to the top, stopping only on doctor's orders (I was pregnant at the time). As a novice gardener, I did not know much of what to do. But that freshly ploughed soil did. The vegetables shot up, the roots shot down.

With my newborn daughter on one arm, pulling up weeds on the other, I tended the land and loved it. And was I happy when, during the whole summer, I did not have to buy one single vegetable. I also enjoyed being self-sufficient, of having to rely on no one but myself, of benefiting from the fruits of my labours. Even though my digestive system got heartily sick of courgettes, it was deeply appealing, it felt good. I even weaned my daughter on homegrown carrots.

There was also a feeling of worthiness about it, a sense it was somehow heroic. As a self-employed food policy analyst at the time, I was doing some work for the World Health Organisation on the food price crisis of 2007. The evidence showed that rural women with access to land had greater resilience to rapidly rising food prices. It meant that whatever was happening out there, they could grow their own food and feed it to their children. Growing your own food was not just fun for me, it protected against hunger for vulnerable people.

But I also knew from my work that there was a big debate about whether poor households in poor countries could be, or should be, self-sufficient. Not only is it hard to work the land with a hoe, but families who were forced by poverty to subsist entirely from what they grew were often more vulnerable to hunger.

At the national level, there is not one country that has not grappled with this question. To be, or not to be, self-sufficient is one of the core questions of food policy. In the UK, the issue came to a head in the First World War. We were importing two-thirds of our food, including fourth-fifths of our wheat, and the shipping channels were under threat. Little wonder the government aimed to increase national production and later, during the Second World War, urged citizens to dig for victory.

It was also the way to keep Europe secure. The EEC established the Common Agricultural Policy in the late 1950s/early 1960s to increase the degree of self-sufficiency by supporting farmers to produce enough food. Given Brexit, it is a question we are now having to ask ourselves again: where do we want our food to come from? Here? Or there? If not, then from where? Is it time to dig again for Britain?

In the developing world, policies to enhance self-sufficiency in staple foods such as rice are fiercely debated. Self-sufficiency is good, some say, because it provides protection against variable world food prices and interruption in supplies. But others say it is best to produce some and buy the rest in through trade. The trade argument won the way in 1994, when food and agriculture were brought into the big global trade deals. The big idea was that removing trade barriers would stabilise food supplies and prices, enhance supply diversity, reduce costs and lower the price of food, all while increasing incomes.

While economists gloated, free trade became the lightning rod for critics. Peasants' groups protested that cheap imports were taking away their livelihoods. Food sovereignty became the rallying cry.

Back to my garden. I have to confess, in the second season, things were somewhat different. And certain memories returned last week on reading gardener Monty Don's provocative comments: Follow the path of self-sufficiency and that way madness lies... In my rush to grow food, I had not grown pest protection. That year, the doryphores came (the Colorado potato beetle no longer found in the UK). No potatoes that year. The broad beans got the black fly, too, and no amount of nettle juice, a remedy advised by one of the organic farmers at my local market, made any difference at all.

The next year, the voles came. They snipped the stems of everything except the chard. The pests come in cycles, my neighbours said, their heads nodding sagely, leaving me with the feeling that they knew how to fix it, but I didn't. Then there were the gluts. I could handle courgettes – I could make them into soup and freeze them – but rainbow chard? I began to wish desperately, and secretly, that something would come and eat it all up so I didn't have to.

I felt far from heroic. It seemed to me that the either/or approach to growing or buying food is, well, stupid. There was me, feeling smug about producing everything myself. It felt good until it didn't work. Some production at home is good. But not all. Taking away people's access to land is not a good idea, but neither is thinking that they should grow all their own food. We have this meta-narrative that either local food is good and global food is bad or local food is bad and global food is good. It's tosh. We need policy to encourage a diversity of approaches. Diversity builds resilience. A better food supply will be built by lots of small strategies in an overarching framework, not by any big single mega solution.

I miss my French garden deeply. At home in Cambridge, I look out at a paltry square of grass, unable to cultivate it because, being a new house in a new development, the soil is poor and pitifully shallow. With no small shops round the corner, I'm overly reliant on supermarkets. I am lucky to be part of a Community Supported Agriculture scheme that increases the diversity of food for my family. But I wish I could produce something. I wish there was a diversity of stuff around in a thriving community economy that benefited from globalism as well as localism, where workers got proper pay and people helped each other out.

So yes, I am still idealistic, but the reality is that one needs strong arms as well as a supportive government to be really self-sufficient. And that having enough of the right kind of food does not mean building walls around yourself, but leveraging the local while being open to the global.

Professor Corinna Hawkes, director of the Centre for Food Policy, City University London

Toyohiko Kagawa

Toyohiko Kagawa (賀川 豊彦 Kagawa Toyohiko, 10 July 1888 – 23 April 1960) was a Japanese Christian pacifist, Christian reformer, and labour activist. Kagawa wrote, spoke, and worked at length on ways to employ Christian principles in the ordering of society and in cooperatives. His vocation to help the poor led him to live among them. He established schools, hospitals, and churches.

Life

Early life

Kagawa was born in Kobe, Japan to a philandering businessman and a concubine. Both parents died while he was young. He was sent away to school, where he learned from two American missionary teachers, Drs. Harry W. Myers and Charles A. Logan, who took him into their homes.

Kagawa learned English from these missionaries and converted to Christianity after taking a Bible class in his youth, which led to his being disowned by his remaining extended family. Kagawa studied at Tokyo Presbyterian College, and later enrolled in Kobe Theological Seminary. While studying there, Kagawa was troubled by the seminarians' concern for technicalities of doctrine. He believed that Christianity in action was the truth behind Christian doctrines. Impatiently, he would point to the parable of the Good Samaritan. From 1914 to 1916 he studied at Princeton Theological Seminary. In addition to theology, through the university's curricular exchange program he also studied embryology, genetics, comparative anatomy, and paleontology while at Princeton.

Activism

In 1909 Kagawa moved into a Kobe slum with the intention of acting as a missionary, social worker, and sociologist. In 1914 he went to the United States to study ways of combating the sources of poverty. In 1916 he published Researches in the Psychology of the Poor based on this experience in which he recorded many aspects of slum society that were previously unknown to middle-class Japanese. Among these were the practices of illicit prostitution (i.e., outside of Japan's legal prostitution regime), informal marriages (which often overlapped with the previous category), and the practice of accepting money to care for children and then killing them.

Japan was then going through great upheavals owing to its transition to Capitalism. Common laborers suffered much during this time. Kagawa moved into a slum in order to witness to the people. "I am a socialist because I am a Christian," he said. He slept in cell-sized hovels sometimes holding the hand of a murderer. He shared himself with all in need. More than that, he organized Japan's first labor and peasant unions. With the coming of Communism he increased his emphasis on the Kingdom of God. His activism convinced the government to rebuild slums.

Kagawa was arrested in Japan in 1921 and again in 1922 for his part in labour activism during strikes. While in prison he wrote the novels Crossing the Deathline and Shooting at the Sun. The former was a semi-autobiographical depiction of his time among Kobe's destitute. After his release, Kagawa helped organize relief work in Tokyo following the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake and assisted in bringing about universal adult male suffrage in 1925.

He organized the Japanese Federation of Labour as well as the National Anti-War League in 1928. Throughout this period, he continued to evangelize to Japan's poor, advocate women's suffrage and call for a peaceful foreign policy. Between 1926 and 1934 he focused his evangelical work through the Kingdom of God Movement.

In 1940, Kagawa made an apology to the Republic of China for Japan's occupation of China, and was arrested again for this act. After his release, he went back to the United States in a futile attempt to prevent war between that nation and Japan. He then returned to Japan to continue his attempts to win women's suffrage. After Japan's surrender, Kagawa was an adviser to the transitional Japanese government.

During his life, Kagawa wrote over 150 books. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1947 and 1948, and the Nobel Peace Prize in 1954 and 1955.

Health and death

In Osaka, March, 1955, Kagawa suffered collapse from his deteriorating heart, and remained bedridden for 2 weeks. He continued writing, preaching, overseeing projects, and hosting guests, despite concerns from his family and associates. Kagawa's condition worsened throughout the years, and he was hospitalized again, for 3 months in 1959, at Saint Luke's Hospital in Takamatsu. Kagawa remained bedridden at home for most of his time in Matsuzawa. His health gradually improved in mid-April, then worsened again. On April 23, Kagawa was unconscious for 3 hours, then woke and smiled to his wife and others around him, his last words being Please do your best for world peace and the church in Japan.

Brotherhood economics

Kagawa's economic theory, as expressed in the book Brotherhood Economics, advocated that the Christian Church, the cooperative movement, and the peace movement unite in a powerful working synthesis to provide a workable alternative to capitalism, state socialism, and fascism. Kagawa's work in the co-operative movement consisted of founding several consumer co-operatives in 1921, including the Co-op Kobe, Nada Consumer Co-operative (later merged with Co-op Kobe), the Kyoto Consumer Co-operative, Tokyo Student's Consumer Co-operative and Tokyo Iryou (Medical) Consumer Co-operative.

Three-dimensional forestry

While studying at Princeton University, Kagawa read Tree Crops: A Permanent Agriculture by Joseph Russell Smith. Inspired by this book, he managed to persuade many of Japan's upland farmers during the 1930s that the solution to their soil erosion problem lay in widespread tree-planting. Kagawa also advised that they could receive further benefit if they planted crop trees, such as quick-maturing walnuts, to provide feed for their pigs.

The planting of fruit and nut trees on farmland aims to conserve the soil, supply food for humans and provide fodder for animals, the three dimensions of his system. Kagawa was a forerunner of modern forest farming and an inspiration to Robert Hart who pioneered forest gardening in temperate climates.

Kagawa's Cross

For Kagawa, the cross symbolized the power of the love of Christ and the power of suffering for righteousness' sake. That is why he chose Japan's worst slums as his field of labor and lived among those he sought to help. Kagawa was not highly regarded in theological circles in Japan. Here is his own explanation. There are theologians, preachers and religious leaders, not a few, who think that the essential thing about Christianity is to clothe Christ with forms and formulas. They look with disdain upon those who actually follow Christ and toil and moil, motivated by brotherly love and passion to serve. . .They conceive pulpit religion to be much more refined than movements for the actual realizations of brotherly love among men. . .The religion Jesus taught was diametrically the opposite of this. He set up no definitions about God, but taught the actual practical practice of love.

Famous quotes

  • On the morning of 1946, at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, before Emperor Hirohito, Whosoever will be great among you... shall be the servant of all. A ruler's sovereignty, Your Majesty, is in the hearts of the people. Only by service to others can a man, or nation, be godlike.
  • Communism's only power is to diagnose some of the ills of disordered society. It has no cure. It creates only an infantile paralysis of the social order.
  • I read in a book that a man called Christ went about doing good. It is very disconcerting to me that I am so easily satisfied with just going about.
  • It seemed that everyone was attacking me – the Soviet Communists, the anarchists, the capitalists, the foul-mouthed literary critics, the sensationalist newspaper men, the Buddhist who could not compete with Christ, and those many Christians who profess Christ but believe in a Christianity which is sterile.