Plato is philosophy.

Many find Plato to be boring, a dry academic pursuit.

But Plato’s teachings are an invitation to become beautiful—to order the soul according to virtue and the divine.

Plato’s writings always make claims upon you soul—encouraging you to be better.

But where should you start?

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Why Should You Read Plato?

Plato is philosophy. In other words, arguably all philosophy in the Western world is somehow still in dialogue with Plato. Core concepts of philosophic thought, such as the soul, virtue, teleology, objective truth, metaphysics, etc., are rooted in the teachings of Plato. Without ever having read Plato, many people think within terms and categories that bear his imprint. To read Plato is to refresh your mind on what is real and to have a better grammar to express your observations about reality.

Christianity is no different. Plato was a significant tributary into the broader Hellenized culture, which flowed into Judaism prior to Christ and then into the New Testament. Hellenized thought was not a later, alien addition to Christianity but something that prepared the world for the coming of Jesus Christ. Early Christian saints, like St. Justin Martyr (c. 100 – c. 165 AD), St. Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335 – c. 394 AD), and Dionysius (late 5th century) all found a deep harmony between Christianity and the schools of Platonic thought—though Christian revelation remained the standard by which all was judged. Even St. Thomas Aquinas (c. 1225 – 1274 AD), often presented as the zenith of Roman Catholic theology, is, despite misconceptions of him as a “pure Aristotelian,” deeply in debt to Platonic thought through St. Augustine (354 – 430 AD) and Dionysius.

Moreover, you may be surprised that Plato has a deeply moral and even mystical quality. Socrates, as Plato presents him, believes you should be virtuous—a certain health and beauty of the soul found in prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. Moreover, in his Symposium, Plato describes your natural love, eros, and how it is called to ascend from lesser beauties to greater beauties until it satiates on the divine beauty-itself (a pattern of ascent often re-expressed in early Christian teachings).

To wit, Plato never presents philosophy as a sterile, academic exercise. Philosophy is always an invitation to become beautiful, to have a harmonious and well-ordered soul.

But where should you start?

The First Dialogue You Should Read

Here are a few good options for dialogues to read first.

First Alcibiades

Often overlooked in the modern age, this dialogue was the historic, ancient place many students of Platonic thought would start. Why? Because the dialogue tells of Socrates trying to convince a young, haughty Alcibiades that he should study philosophy; thus, it presents a beautiful picture of the relation of teacher and student, and what the student must do to begin his or her path to wisdom. The dialogue teaches you about Platonic thought, but more so it instills in you the right disposition to learn more. It would be hard to go wrong with First Alcibiades.

The Euthyphro

Often the first dialogue many students of Plato read today, as it is the first of the “four last dialogues of Socrates” that tell of Socrates’ final days in Athens before his execution in 399 BC. The dialogue is a definitional one and seeks the meaning of “piety,” but it quickly escalates into a question about the nature of the gods and even how one interprets reality: subjectively or objectively. It is good for first time readers due to its explicit questions but also invites the reader into its more esoteric strata. In other words, it is a good introduction to the understanding that Plato writes on several layers. Finally, the Euthyphro also raises significant questions for Christian theology, questions Christians should take seriously about the nature of God.

The Apology

Arguably the most famous of the dialogues, the Apology recounts Socrates’ speech at his trial and shows you that Socrates is not afraid to die—in fact, he does not seem to be focused on exonerating himself at all. Rather, Socrates explains his calling from the God to try and wake up Athens from its materialistic slumber to a better type of life, the life of philosophy. It is one of the best dialogues to understand the character of Socrates and what motivates him—it is also one of the more straightforward dialogues (as it’s mainly a speech), making it a great introductory text. The Apology is often listed amongst the most important speeches in Western civilization.

The Meno

Like First Alcibiades, the Meno presents an image of what it means to be educated and how different souls respond to the invitation to education. Though the dialogue is about virtue, the responses of the characters in the dialogue make it an excellent text for new students of Plato—as it presents the reader a mirror to consider how he or she responds to being bewildered (aporia). A bit more indirect than the others, the Meno is often presented as an introductory dialogue to Plato’s Socrates for its educative principles.

Next Steps & Resources

First Alcibiades is a great place to start, but those who would like to have a more straightforward introduction to Socrates should start with the Apology. The Meno is probably the most difficult starting point, as it is both indirect and includes an elongated and complicated geometric example. The Euthyphro is simply a fun dialogue—but one that can surprise you if you read it carefully.

Plato: The Complete Works by Hackett, the “big red brick,” is an excellent book for beginners to have access to all of Plato’s writings in one text.

Lastly, if you want to read these texts in a small group vibe, check out our sister company, Ascend: The Great Books Podcast, which has a whole playlist on Plato’s works - including all those mentioned above - and even written Q&A guides to help you or your small group.

Plato is philosophy.

Reading Plato is a tutelage in what is real and an examination of the questions that gave birth to Western civilization. He is just as relevant for philosophical conversations, as he is to theological ones. Though Christians would see him bereft of divine revelation, he was not bereft of the intellect God gave him nor the book of nature God made. Recall that Christian grace builds upon nature.

You can learn a lot from reading Plato—especially because for him philosophy is not a sterile academic exercise but an invitation to configure your soul to the truth, to that which is beautiful. His writings make claims about how you live your life.

Read Plato and ascend.

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Are you living the life of a cow?

Head down. Eyes fixed on the ground. Grazing from one pleasure to the next, always hungry, never satisfied. Fighting the other cattle when they get in your way.

Many people—whether they admit it or not—believe this is the good life: maximize freedom, seize power, and satisfy every desire. They call it freedom. Plato calls it the tyranny of the soul.

Even the best of the ancient pagans saw that such a life is not worth living. The freedom of tyranny only brings slavery.

Do you have a tyrannical soul?

Do you live like a cow?

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Do you have a Tyrannical Soul?

At the end of his Republic, Plato’s Socrates articulates the characteristics of the tyrannical soul. He is unjust, licentious, and has an insatiable desire for pleasure. Plato will often use the word pleonexia to describe these tyrannical appetites in the human soul, a word that means the endless and unjust desire for more—like envy, greed, gluttony, and lust all rolled into one voracious appetite.

And here is the irony.

The tyrant’s rise to power turns him into a slave. The soul of the tyrant suffers from self-slavery, as the soul becomes a slave to its lowest appetites. Recall that Plato often sets forth a tripartite soul: the intellect that loves truth, the spirited (thumos) that loves nobility, and the appetitive that loves pleasure. The virtuous soul is the one that is governed by the intellect with the help of the thumotic to bridle the desires of the appetitive; the tyrant’s soul, however, is inverted. The appetitive governs the soul and the intellect and the thumotic are in its service.

The tyrant is a slave.

He is mastered by his desire for pleasure and everything is oriented toward this goal.

In his Gorgias, Plato gives us a haunting but beautiful myth that when people die, they are stripped of their bodies and their souls are judged. The virtuous man has a beautiful soul. The vicious man has a scarred and ugly soul. For, as Socrates notes in the Republic, virtue is a type of health and beauty of the soul, whereas vice is a type of disease and disfigurement of the soul.

To wit, as the tyrant beats his slave, so too does the unjust man beat his own soul.

The tyrannical life is one of restlessness, injustice, and bestial pleasure.

Yet many dismiss Plato’s warning.

They think, “I am not a tyrant. I am not the despotic ruler of a city or the unjust king of a kingdom.” But this misses that Plato first and foremost introduces the different types of regimes—like tyranny, democracy, or oligarchy—as poetic images of different types of soul.

The question is not whether you are politically a tyrant.

The question is whether you are spiritually a tyrant.

And to this question, Socrates gives us the image of a cow.

Read more

Eros is the primal desire in the human heart to satiate in beauty and be happy.

Today the Ascent has partnered with our sister company, Ascend: The Great Books Podcast, to bring you an excellent video from Dcn. Garlick exploring the love of eros—the primal desire to satiate in beauty and be happy.

The video is an explanation and commentary on one of our most popular articles, Rediscovering Holy Eros. Other articles on eros include Women as Icons of God’s Beauty and The Poor Erotics of Porn.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Shownotes:

Far from the pornographic or puritan distortions that dominate modern thinking, this ancient concept runs like a golden thread through Homer, Hesiod, Plato’s Symposium, the Old and New Testaments, the Church Fathers, Dante, and even Pope Benedict XVI’s Deus Caritas Est. Deacon shows how eros is the very question of the human condition—an upward call that moves the soul from lesser beauties to greater ones until it finds rest in Beauty itself.

Drawing on his own spiritual labors, the host walks listeners through Plato’s ladder of love, the marital imagery of God’s covenant with Israel, the Song of Songs, Christ’s union with the Church, and the harmony between erotic ascent and the self-giving love of agape. Along the way he recovers a lost grammar of desire that is both natural and supernaturally elevated by grace—one that produces virtue, fecundity, and genuine theosis. The result is not abstract theory but a living path: a latticework upon which your own understanding of restlessness, happiness, and the call to become more Christlike can grow.

Whether you have wrestled with the restlessness of the heart, wondered how pagan wisdom and Christian revelation speak to one another, or simply want a deeper vision of love that orders the soul toward God, this conversation offers something rare: a beautiful, coherent tradition that answers the deepest questions of what it means to be human. Listen, and begin the ascent.

Chapters
00:00 Introduction to Eros and its significance in Christian spirituality
01:54 Eros in Homer, Hesiod, and the primordial cosmos
07:12 Plato's Symposium and the ladder of love
15:07 Eros in the Old Testament: Marriage and divine love
20:00 Eros in the New Testament: Christ and the Church
30:06 Eros and the ascent to divine beauty
40:11 Eros, virtue, and happiness in Christian thought
50:02 Eros and grace: the divine ascent and participation in God
01:00:10 The harmony of eros and agape in Christian life
01:10:08 Practical implications: loving God and neighbor through eros
01:20:01 Conclusion: recovering holy eros as the heart of human and divine love

If you want to watch the video as a podcast, check it out on Apple Podcast or Spotify.

Enjoy!

The fall of man was caused by a disobedient wife and a weak husband.

Many see the story as little more than a simple children’s tale—modern man dismisses these primordial warnings but then repeats their mistakes.

The story of the fall of mankind is a story of hierarchy—a story that reveals the hierarchy of our hearts.

Eve was faced with two interpreters of God’s will: her husband and Satan.

She chose Satan.

Why?

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Eve Accepts the Fruit

Often dismissed as a mere children’s story, the images presented in the primordial story of the fall of mankind are pedagogical—they are there to teach those who are docile enough to learn. They are worth taking seriously, wrestling with, and seeing what truth can be learned and applied.

Simple images with ancient, deep meanings await.

The Serpent

First, in Genesis 3, you are introduced to the serpent, who, though not ever said to be Satan in the narrative of the fall of mankind (Gen 3-5), is later associated with Satan (Rev 12:9). The serpent is often read as an incarnation of Satan himself, but other times as Satan possessing an otherwise good animal—akin to the demonic possession of a human. In other passages, the serpent is often associated with the sea, a sea beast (Job 26:13; Is 27:1; Amos 9:3), and this makes him part of the larger poetic image in the Bible of water as chaos and death—as the Bible begins and ends with images of primordial, chaotic waters and an evil serpent.

The Hierarchy

Notice carefully how Eve responds to the serpent’s question:

He said to the woman, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree of the garden’?”

And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden; but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’” (Gen 3:1-3).

First, notice that Scripture never records that God ever told Eve to not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. That command was given prior to her creation and only to her husband, Adam (Gen 2:17).

So, how does Eve know of this command?

Because Adam has told her of the divine command; thus, we see the hierarchy established at the creation of “the woman,” as she’s not yet named Eve, functioning to express God’s will. The original hierarchy is: God → Adam → Eve.

Second, notice too that Adam has presumably given an additional command. Eve tells the serpent that “neither shall you touch it, lest you die,” which is not said when God gives the command to Adam (Gen 2:17). It cannot be said that Adam lied to Eve, as they are still without sin; thus, it seems Adam has given an additional law, a secondary hedge against the temptation, to not even touch the tree. It is an image of Adam as lawgiver and the interpreter of the divine.1

The Serpent’s Lie

It is often misunderstood how the serpent tempts the woman. Give the following a careful read:

But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, and he ate (Gen 3:4-6).

First, it is notable that the serpent tells the woman she will “be like God,” and the woman interprets this as becoming “wise.” In other words, through the serpent’s half-truths, Eve is tempted with something good. It is good to be like God. It is good to be wise. The original sin of the woman is more subtle than full rebellion against God or choosing the opposite of God, evil. It is choosing what is good in a not good way.

To further emphasize this point, the early church fathers speculated that God would have asked Adam and Eve to eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil when they were ready.

Why?

Because it would be good for Adam and Eve to be wise and know this distinction, but only after they had matured under God’s direction. To wit, the temptation of Eve is to circumvent the path God has for her—to be “like God” outside the path God has set to become like Him. It is a false theosis, a false path of sanctification and religion.

In wanting to be “like God,” Eve sets herself up as “God” of her own religion.

But we must take seriously that Eve’s sin is also against her husband, and that she elects Satan over Adam—and what this does to the divine hierarchy of creation.

And, in all this, we must also take seriously Adam’s failure to be a husband—to fulfill his role to keep the garden and be the divine interpreter of God’s will.

The Bible offers these ancient lessons to us.

The lessons of an ancient, cosmic hierarchy that reveals the hierarchy of our own hearts.

Read more

What is “Zeus’ law”?

In the new Odyssey movie, Christopher Nolan presents “Zeus’ law” as a sign of civilization, a moral standard that governs guest and host, and even an equivalent to Christ’s golden rule—do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

But is this true?

What is the so-called “Zeus’ law” in Homer’s Odyssey?

Let’s look at the truth of this ancient ritual in Homer, the Bible, and in Christianity.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Hospitality Amongst the Ancient Greeks

In Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of the Odyssey, the characters speak of “Zeus’ law” as a moral standard by which to welcome and treat guests.

But what is the historic truth behind this movie reference?

In the ancient Greek world, the practice was called xenia, which is often translated to “guest-friendship.” It was a sign of civilization. It was a sacred ritual, overseen by Zeus (hence Nolan’s moniker, “Zeus’ law”), that protected both the guest and host—and built bonds of friendship and peace.

To wit, a guest would arrive at the house of his host, the host would welcome him without even asking his name or purpose, bathe him, clothe him, and feast him. The host cared for his guest as if the guest was a god in disguise. In Homer’s Odyssey, this scene is played out many times, as Telemachus is welcomed by Nestor and then by Menelaus, and Odysseus is welcomed by King Alcinous.

Only after the guest had been welcomed and cared for would the host ask the guest his name and purpose. Here, you can see that xenia is reciprocal to a degree or rather the guest has a proactive role in this sacred, civilizing ritual. The guest would state his name and tell his story. With Telemachus, for example, he speaks about his efforts to discover news about his father, Odysseus. With Odysseus, he takes on a role similar to the bard, telling of his famous journey home to his hosts, the Phaeacians (a scene not in the movie). The host would then give “guest-gifts” to his guest to help him in his purpose (and sometimes the guest would give a gift to his host).

Overall, there was a deep openness and vulnerability expressed by both host and guest in xenia, and it was piety towards the gods, especially Zeus, that held the ritual together—not simply a religious cultural norm, but a societal practice that stabilizes the relations between city-states and civilization overall.

In the Christopher Nolan movie, Nolan presents Odysseus’ deception with the Trojan horse as a violation of xenia, “Zeus’ law,” that started to unravel the civilizational norms of the Mediterranean.

Homer’s Odyssey does not share this view, as the gods blessed the deception of the Trojan horse—but later generations in the West traced their lineages not to the Greeks but to Troy, through the founding of Rome by a Trojan survivor, Aeneas. As such, Odysseus and his deception was perceived as evil, as Dante places him in hell amongst the evil counselors of the eighth circle.

The Ritual of Guest-Friendship and Piety

The ritual of xenia is deeply tethered to the concept of piety. For the ancient Greeks (and for the West until at least St. Thomas Aquinas), piety represented a gratitude for an unpayable debt. And this gratitude was threefold: a piety toward your parents, a piety toward your polis (homeland), and a piety toward the divine. It was these three that nurtured you in a common good—the family, the political, and the divine—long before you could even contribute (see Recovering a Politics of Gratitude).

In fact, for the ancients, becoming a man included finally being able to contribute toward the common good that nourished you. Piety (gratitude) led to duty.

And the hierarchy of piety must remain in order—with gratitude due first to the gods, then the polis, and then the parents. Many of the Greek tragedies, like the Oresteia or Antigone, play with the tension between these three layers and what happens if they become disordered.

The ritual of guest-friendship is a sign of civilization, because it incorporates all three levels of piety into a single, concrete act that facilities societal flourishing. In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus tests whether the locals adhere to xenia to determine whether they are lawless—like the cyclops, Polyphemus—or civilized—like the Phaeacians.

But what if the host or the guest acts unjustly?

What if the ritual is violated?

When Paris, a Trojan, absconded with Helen in violation of xenia, Zeus backed the Achaeans (Greeks) sieging and sacking Troy. In fact, when Menelaus duels Paris in the Iliad, he asks Zeus to let him show to the world what happens when a man violates xenia.

Similarly, Zeus blesses Odysseus slaughtering the guests in his house, the suitors, because the suitors have violated xenia.

Xenia requires vulnerability on the part of the host and guest, and it is fear of the gods, piety, that governs it.

And xenia is not necessarily reducible to the Greeks, as analogous practices existed throughout the ancient world—including the Bible.

Guest-Friendship in Christianity

The ancient Hellenistic practice of guest-friendship has parallels in the Old Testament as well. You could recall the story of Abraham welcoming the three angelic strangers (Gen 18:1-15), the story of Sodom and the angelic visitors who come to Lot’s house (Gen 19:1-11), the angelic stranger who shares a meal with Samson’s parents (Judges 13), or that Job claims he never let a stranger sleep on the street (Job 31:32).

Similarly to the ancient Greeks with the gods, the Old Testament presents that the strangers who need your hospitality may be angels—an observation St. Paul makes in the Book of Hebrews: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” (Heb 13:2).

In the New Testament, you could see parallels with the famous road to Emmaus narrative, especially since they welcome in the Christ-stranger and only see Him for who He is in the breaking of the bread, a Eucharistic image (Luke 24:13-35). Another good example would be the famous parable of Matthew 25, in which God separates the sheep from the goats (saved from the damned) based on how they treated those in need, including the stranger. Finally, the New Testament exhorts Christians to be hospitable on several occasions (Rom 12:13; I Peter 4:9; Titus 1:7-8).

The practice of hospitality in the Church is probably best seen in the practices of the Benedictine monks who welcome each guest to the monastery as Christ. He is welcomed in honor with usually the Abbot washing his hands or feet before the guest is permitted to eat with the monks—being served by the monks as well.

Modern Christianity, whether it knows it or not, has its own ancient roots in guest-friendship and hospitality.

Practicing the Spirituality of Hospitality

In Christopher Nolan’s movie, he oddly merges the practice of Hellenistic ritual of xenia with Jesus Christ’s golden rule, i.e., do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The movie is explicit on this point—but the concept of xenia was never that expansive. Also, xenia was predicated on the will of the gods, not the individual, and at times bringing bloodshed through deception (Trojan horse) or slaughtering your guests (Book XXII of the Odyssey) was permissible.

Nolan takes two ancient moral maxims and mixes them, which tends to do a disservice to both Homer and Christ by conflating the historical relation between the two.

But xenia, as baptized in the truth of Christ, is an important spiritual practice for Christians.

And one often forgotten in our age of individualism, materialism, and skepticism.

Hospitality is an art, a spiritual art, that makes the home a place where friendships are forged and communities are founded.

It draws the host out of himself and detaches him from his goods—placing them in service to higher ends. Moreover, in both the Greek and Hebrew side, the stranger is welcomed as divinity—and in Christianity this continues as the guest being welcomed as Christ.

What are some ways you practice hospitality?

How can you better use hospitality to build the community around you?

Hospitality is another way to ascend, to be Christ-like. Explore it!

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Is Penelope a hero?

Some have argued that Penelope is a hero, but Homer’s patriarchal poem does not praise her as such.

Others have argued that Penelope is anything but a hero, as Athena gives Telemachus permission to marry her to another or even to kill her.

But who is Penelope according to the terms of the poem?

Let’s look at the surprising tension that is Penelope.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Odysseus as a New Vision of the Heroic

The Odyssey is both a continuation of and a commentary on the Iliad. The Iliad opens with the divine rage of Achilles and tells of his pursuit of immortal glory in Troy. Agamemnon, Diomedes, and several other characters seek and find their aristeia upon the battlefield, the greatest act of glory they will accomplish in life. The honor won upon the battlefield is fecund, as it produces an immortal glory—an everlasting fame where your name will never die. To be an excellent man (arete), is to be great in war and win your immortal kleos, your glory.

The Odyssey, however, opens with the word “man” and offers a new way of looking at excellence. In Homer’s second epic, the Trojan war is not presented as an achievement of glory but in somber tones of regret. Nestor speaks of the war as “hell on earth” (3.120), and Menelaus would not do it all over again if he had the chance—especially considering the death of his brother, Agamemnon (4.100).1 Famously, the glory of Achilles in Troy seems not to afford him much comfort in the afterlife, as Achilles believes it would be better to return as a lowly dirt farmer than reign amongst the dead (11.488). Though, notably, Achilles struggles to envision any life different than of war and glory. Lastly, when Odysseus does slaughter the suitors, he refuses to glory over the dead (a common act in the Iliad) and prohibits his son from doing so as well (22.408).

What is Homer telling us here?

The Iliad is often referenced as the book of war, and the Odyssey is the book of peace—a reference to the two cities on Achilles’ shield (Iliad 18.478). In other words, Homer is showing us what it takes to be heroic, to have excellence, in a time of peace—in a time of the domestic. And it should be noted that the city of peace on Achilles’ shield is not without conflict—but rather it has the ability to resolve the conflict and reestablish order.

Homer shows us in Odysseus, a flawed and complicated character, an image of restoration. The disorder of the suitors must be removed in a somber, almost ritualistically sacrificial slaughter. The marriage of husband and wife, king and queen, must be restored, as seen in the great icon of fidelity, the rooted bed (23.177). And Ithaca must receive her king, one who, at least in the past, ruled like a kind father—one who seemed more like his father, Laertes, than his cunning and shrewd maternal grandfather, Autolycus (19.392).2

It can be argued that Odysseus has both the fates of Achilles. In Troy, Achilles disclosed that he was given an option: to fight and die in Troy for immortal glory or live a peaceful life at home where his name would soon be forgotten after his death. Achilles chose to fight and die in Troy. Odysseus, however, also wins immortal glory in Troy, as it was Odysseus, not Achilles, who conquered the city via the famous Trojan horse (Odyssey 8.487). In other words, cunning won over power. But Odysseus does not die in Troy. Despite his penitential journey and his fate to die somehow related to the sea, he will die in peace with his family. In other words, Odysseus seems to have achieved both fates of Achilles—though whether Odysseus, the restless desirer of knowledge, can remain with his family in Ithaca is another story.

As such, it seems clear that Homer offers a different vision of the heroic in Odysseus. He is a peace-time hero, a civilizing force, that restores Ithaca and, while still retaining his strength, uses his mind. He has both excellence (arete) and glory (kleos).

But if Odysseus is a new type of hero, what of Penelope?

Does Homer present Penelope as a hero?

At the beginning of the Odyssey, the answer seems to be not at all.

The Case Against Penelope as Hero

While the Odyssey is often portrayed as some romantic story of a husband trying to return to his wife, that is not the story Homer presents—least not in the beginning. In fact, in Book 1, many readers are shocked to see how little Athena seems to care about Penelope’s role in Odysseus’ homecoming.

Notably, Athena, disguised as Mentes, tells Telemachus that if the spirit moves his mother to remarry, he should simply send her back to her father’s house and let him marry her off to someone new (1.310). Athena is not focused on a reunion of Penelope and Odysseus, but rather Odysseus’ glory seems to be in his homecoming and slaughter of the suitors—a restoration of the marriage with Penelope is not necessary to the divine plan.

And Athena takes it even farther.

Athena tells Telemachus to be like Orestes. Who is Orestes?

The story of Orestes provides a constant parallel to the entire Odyssey narrative. In short, when Agamemnon returned home, he was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her new lover, Aegisthus. Orestes, Agamemnon’s son, was called upon to be the blood avenger who seeks justice on behalf of his murder father. Orestes kills Aegisthus but also his own mother, Clytemnestra. As stated in Book 1 of the Odyssey, Aegisthus (and Clytemnestra) acted contrary to the gods, and Orestes killed them as the blood avenger for his father.

The parallels are clear.

Odysseus, like Agamemnon, is the hero from Troy returning to a home he has not seen in twenty years. Telemachus, like Orestes, must be faithful to his father and aid him in what is just. Penelope, like Clytemnestra, will be tested by suitors and must show her fidelity.

But many miss the other implication of the parallel—if Penelope impedes Odysseus’ homecoming, Telemachus must do what Orestes did and kill his own mother.

Again, here at the outset of the Odyssey, Penelope seems expendable. She is not a necessary part of Odysseus’ glorious homecoming. She can be married to someone else. She may even have to be killed.

But Homer is a master teacher.

He offers you images in tension, a poetic dialectic, that juxtaposes poetic descriptions. Why? Because in the tension is the answer.

And Penelope is a character in tension.

Yet within the beautiful complexity that is Penelope, there is a subtle lesson at the heart of the entire virtue tradition of Western civilization.

It is a lesson that shows Homer’s brilliance.

It is a lesson that requires you to understand the purpose of your life.

Read more

The Odyssey will change your life.

But a poor translation will hide Homer’s wisdom and waste your time.

The Odyssey stands at the beginning of Western civilization, because it comments on the perennial condition of man—providing lessons on piety, justice, fidelity, free will, providence, and more.

But what translation is best?

Here are the pros and cons of five popular translations of Homer’s Odyssey.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Why Should You Read Homer?

Homer is in many ways the fountainhead of Western civilization. The conversations that are so characteristic of the West, like virtue, piety, duty, religion, politics, freewill, etc., have their nascent roots in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. Moreover, Homer gave shape and form to a Hellenized culture that greatly impacted both the Old Testament and New Testament. In other words, there is an indelible mark of Greek thought and language on Christianity, and understanding that mark starts with understanding Homer.1

The Odyssey in particular is worth your time and attention, as it is a complicated story of temptation, homecoming, coming-of-age, mortality, and fidelity. In Odysseus, the “man of twists and turns,” Homer offers you a man of contrasts. In fact, Homer the philosopher is one that teaches you through the art of dialectic by placing contrasting poetic images within his own epic and letting you work through the tension—but at the heart of that tension, at the heart of understanding the complicated character of Odysseus, lies perennial lessons about the human condition. For more, see 10 Reasons You Should Read the Odyssey.

But… Homer’s wisdom can be easily lost or even perverted if you read a poor translation.

So, which translation should you read first?

5 Popular Translations of the Odyssey

Here are five popular translations of Homer’s Odyssey summarized with their pros and cons, especially for first time readers. Included is the opening of Book One of their respective translation of the Odyssey, so that you can have a quick taste of the tone and style.

Butler

Samuel Butler’s late-19th-century version renders Homer in straightforward, Victorian prose that prioritizes clear storytelling. It feels accessible and story-driven, appealing to readers who want to focus on the narrative without the demands of poetic verse.

“Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home...”

However, it lacks the rhythmic, oral poetry of the original, often coming across as flat or dated, transforming the epic into something closer to a novel without Homer’s musical grandeur. It is a prose translation, and this gives it a distinct character and feel.

Overall, it is worth reading, but not as a first-time read. You need to have the foundation of Lattimore or Fagles first.

Fitzgerald

Robert Fitzgerald’s 1961 verse translation has long been regarded as a literary standard, prized for its elegance, lyricism, and attentive rendering of the poem’s beauty. It is a classic in its own right, and many who love Homer recommend it.

“Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
of that man skilled in all ways of contending,
the wanderer, harried for years on end,
after he plundered the stronghold
on the proud height of Troy...”

It offers an experience that captures the tone and flow effectively, making it a favorite among poets and many schools. While highly readable as poetry, it can sometimes feel slower-paced or emotionally cooler compared to more dynamic renditions (like Fagles). It also does not adhere to a strict consistent meter.

Overall, it is a good translation and worth your time, but maybe not as a first read.

Wilson

Emily Wilson’s 2018 translation, the first by a woman, brings a modern, direct voice in iambic pentameter while matching the original line count. Wilson’s translation of the Odyssey is arguable the “choice” translation of many classics programs today.

“Tell me about a complicated man.
Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost
when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy...”

Critics like Spencer Klavan, however, have argued that Wilson’s choices sap the grandeur and vigor from Homer’s language, resulting in a deflated, drab quality that diminishes the epic’s power (and this was intentional on Wilson’s part). Daniel Mendelsohn, who recently published his own translation of the Odyssey, has similarly critiqued Wilson’s translation for interpretive liberties and a tendency to impose contemporary perspectives that can distort the spirit of the original. It is important to note that Wilson has described her approach as correcting “anachronistic misogyny” added by previous male translators and “making visible the cracks in the patriarchal fantasy” rather than “honoring it.”

Overall, her translation seems to serve an ideology first and Homer second. Though very popular, it is not recommended.

Lattimore

Richmond Lattimore’s mid-20th-century verse translation stands out for its scholarly fidelity, staying structurally and linguistically close to the Greek, including its formulaic repetitions. In short, it is the more classic translation. It much more literal than say Fagles. The line numbers in Lattimore also match the Greek. Overall, Lattimore’s approach to translating the Odyssey makes it particularly valuable for academic study.

“Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven
far journeys, after he had sacked Troy’s citadel.
Many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,
many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea...”

At the same time, its formal, literal style can feel less fluid or elegant in English, sacrificing some readability and poetic flow for literal closeness.

Overall, it is a good option for first-time readers, especially if you tend toward more literal translations. You cannot go wrong with reading Lattimore.

Fagles

Robert Fagles’ 1996 free-verse translation is excellent. It is poetic, dynamic, but also a clear, easy-to-follow read. It emphasizes accessibility while remaining poetic, making the story immersive and rewarding without feeling like an academic chore—these qualities have made it widely popular and enduring (especially for first time readers).

“Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy...”

Though it may take slight poetic liberties for beauty rather than strict literalism, Fagles captures the spirit, excitement, and human drama of the Odyssey in a way that feels both timeless and contemporary. It is arguably the best translation for first time readers of the Odyssey.

Overall, if you’re looking for a fun, beautiful, engaging read, it is hard to go wrong with Fagles’ translation.

PS: Need Some Help Reading the Odyssey?

Join our sister company Ascend: The Great Books Podcast for their new 12-episode guide to Homer’s Odyssey using the Fagles’ translation. Ascend offers you podcasts, videos, and written guides to read the great books in a small group feel. Check out The Odyssey Book One with Dr. Papadopoulos and Dr. Grabowski on Apple, Spotify, or YouTube. Start today!

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Is God really all-powerful?

Many imagine God’s power means He can do anything—even lie, contradict Himself, or turn evil into good. They view the divine power as meaning that God transcends all boundaries.

But this is not the Christian God.

And those who misunderstand God’s power misuse their own.

If you want to exercise your own power well, you must first understand how God exercises His.

Your moral life depends on it.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Does God change? Is God imperfect?

If someone asked you to describe God, what would you say? Many would immediately say God is all-powerful (omnipotent), all-knowing (omniscience), and all-present (omnipresent). Others would say that He is eternal or rather He is without beginning or end. He is outside of time. A few may suggest that God is not a being but rather Being-itself, as all creation rests within the Divine Mind.

But here, let’s focus on the fact that God is also immutable, which means that God does not change.

Now, some may balk at this suggestion, as the biblical account seems to indicate that God does change. For example, God seems to change His mind, as indicated in His dialogue with Abraham over the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah (Gen 18:22-33) or his dialogue with Moses about the fate of Israel after the golden calf incident (Ex 32:7-14). The prime example of God “changing” is the Incarnation, when God became flesh and dwelt amongst us in Jesus Christ (John 1:14).

Yet, though these biblical examples merit consideration, another way to ask the question is this: Is God perfect?

Now, many who would want to say God does change also want to say God is perfect—but these are a contradiction. Change and perfection are contraries.

How so?

Well, imagine that I presented you a steak dinner that I told you was perfect, but right before I handed it to you I said “wait” and sprinkled some salt on it. What is the problem? The problem is that the steak cannot be perfect and need the salt. To say something is perfect means it needs nothing added or taken away.

In other words, perfection and immutability go together. That which is perfect does not and has no need to change.

Then when we speak of God, we speak of Him as both perfect and immutable.

And this is very important for your own faith in God, as if God could change, then you could not have faith in His promises—He would be a capricious God, a God who could not be trusted.

But God “is the same yesterday and today and for ever” (Heb 13:8).

Does God have potential?

The question of perfection also raises the question of potentiality. Does God have potential?

Imagine I told you that little Timmy had no potential when it came to playing baseball.

Normally, this would mean that Timmy is terrible at baseball. It means he has no potential to actualize. He cannot change into a better baseball player—change being the movement from potency to act.

However, God also has no potential. How?

Unlike Timmy, God has no potential because he has fully actualized His potential. He is the best. He cannot become better than He is. In other words, God has no potential, because He is perfect. He has fully actualized His potential. He has no potential for change. He is perfect, and He is immutable.

Another name for God, philosophically speaking, is “Pure Act.”

It is another way to say truly “perfect.” God has no potential or capacity to change, because He has fully actualized His potential.

Yet, how does the “Pure Act” exercise His power?

Usually, when we say “all-powerful” it means without restraint—to be truly omnipotent would mean to be powerful without limitation.

Is God powerful enough to do whatever He wills?

And if not, how can God be God if he suffers limitations?

And finally, Christianity calls you to be God-like, thus you must exercise your own power as God does—but how can you do this if you do not know how God does it?

Let’s explore the power of God.

Read more

Did Jesus speak Greek?

Many seem to want to say “no,” viewing Greek culture as something alien to Christianity, a corruption of a pure biblical faith.

But others point to the biblical and historical evidence to show that Christ lived in a Hellenized world, spoke Greek to people, and cited the Greek Old Testament.

And if He did, what does it matter?

Let’s look at the evidence for Christ speaking Greek.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The evidence suggests that Jesus lived in a Hellenized world and spoke Greek. Let’s look at three considerations.

1. Jesus’ Homeland was Hellenized

Jesus grew up in Nazareth in Galilee, a region in northern Palestine. The area had been Hellenized, meaning it had adopted, to some degree, the Greek language and culture. A Hellenized culture would speak Koine Greek (the language of the Gospels) and show Greek influences in architecture, customs, education, philosophy, and religion. Nazareth was a mere hour’s walk from Sepphoris, a Greco-Roman city rebuilt by King Herod Antipas (c. 4 BC onward); and Lower Galilee sat at the crossroads of trade routes near the Decapolis, a network of Greek-speaking cities.

Archaeological evidence shows the Greek language was used amongst Jews and Gentiles alike, as Greek served as the universal, shared language of commerce and political administration. Latin was more exclusive, as it was dominant amongst Roman soldiers and officials. In sum, Palestine at the time of Jesus was multilingual (Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin). Scholars have suggested that Jesus, whose primary language was Aramaic, would have encountered Greek daily, especially later as a carpenter engaged in trade.1

2. Jesus’ Interactions in the Bible

Jesus’ daily language was Aramaic, but the Bible records him speaking with people who it seems would not reasonably have known Aramaic. For example, Jesus speaks directly with a Roman centurion and no interpreter is mentioned (Mt 8:5-13). It is unlikely that Christ spoke fluent Latin, and unlikely that the centurion spoke Aramaic. The common language between them would have been Koine Greek.

Similarly, the Bible records “the Greeks” who wished to speak to Jesus, and Jesus speaks to them directly (Jn 12:20-26). Moreover, Jesus speaks directly to a Greek woman, a Syrophoenician (Mk 7:24-30). Most famously, Jesus speaks with Pontius Pilate, the prefect of Judea. As noted above, Greek was the language of political administration, the language of speaking with Roman subjects. While Pilate may have known some Aramaic (and Christ some Latin), but natural language between them would have been Koine Greek.

3. Jesus’ Use of the Septuagint

The Septuagint (LXX) was the first Old Testament canon and was written in Greek around 250 BC. The Gospels record Jesus citing from both the Septuagint and Hebrew Old Testaments. The syntax (sentence structure) of the Greek and Hebrew is often very different, but at times the Greek has completely unique and additional statements—and these allow you to note when Christ cites the Greek.

For example, the Gospel records Jesus citing the Greek version of Isaiah 29:13 instead of the Hebrew original (Mark 7:6-7). Specifically, the distinctive phrase “teaching as doctrines the precepts of men” follows the Septuagint’s syntax and vocabulary almost exactly, while the Hebrew text says something quite different (“their fear of me is a commandment of men learned by rote”). There are several other key examples of Christ using the Septuagint over the original Hebrew as well.2

What if Jesus quoted the Hebrew text but the Evangelists translated it into Greek? The problem here is that the Septuagint is not simply a word-for-word translation but includes distinct textual variants. For example, Luke 4:18-19 includes “recovering of sight to the blind” (Isaiah 61:1-2), a phrase absent from the Hebrew but present in the Greek LXX. In other words, if the Evangelists are doing this, it means they are ascribing statements and phrases to Christ that He never said. In short, you can tell the difference between a Greek translation of the Hebrew and the Greek Septuagint.

Overall, the evidence shows that Christ had a familiarity with the Greek Septuagint and intentionally cited it at times over the Hebrew Old Testament—and this again shows that Christ knew Koine Greek.

Jesus Spoke Greek, but…

Most scholars think it is a virtual certainty Christ spoke at least some Koine Greek given the Hellenized culture in which He lived. We know Christ came in the “fullness of time,” as St. Paul notes, and many observe that Providence used the unity of the Roman Empire to spread the Gospel. But what many do not know is that it was Greek, not Latin, that served as a universal, shared language of the Empire. It is the language of the first Old Testament canon, the Septuagint, and the language of the New Testament.

Hellenization, far from being a threat to the Gospel, was a catalyst for the Gospel spreading all over the Roman Empire and beyond.

But this does not diminish the use of Aramaic as Christ’s daily language nor imagining the Sermon on the Mount was delivered in Greek. What it does do, however, is show that Christ’s Jewish world was a Hellenized world—and He used the common language of the time to reach souls, especially Gentile souls.

What do you think about the fact Jesus most likely spoke Greek?

Post Script - Exploring Christ’s Hellenized World

Hellenized language cannot be completely separated from Hellenized thought. Many have argued that Christianity has an indelible Greek imprint upon it, yet others claim that Greek influences on Christianity are all foreign and corruptive of a pure, biblical faith.

You can explore this conversation further by reading Do Christians Owe a Debt to Homer? and Why Does St. Paul Quote Pagan Poets in the Bible? and more!

In understanding Christ better, you can understand better the path of ascent.

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Something is wrong with democracy.

Fathers fear their sons, teachers appease their students, foreigners are made equal to citizens, and even criminals are treated gently.

In Book VIII of the Republic, Socrates warns of the effects of democracy and its blind praise of freedom and equality.

Yet, Socrates has something more in mind. For it is easy to critique democracy (for those willing to do it), but it is harder to critique the democratic qualities of your own soul. Would you be considered a democratic man?

Socrates offers a discussion on regimes as a mirror of your soul—a mirror we often hesitate to look within.

And within democratic soul lurks something that seems impossible—within the regime that gives the greatest praise of freedom dwells the greatest capacity for slavery.

Plato has something to teach you—if you are willing to listen.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

What are the different regimes?

What do different types of regimes tell us about our souls? In Plato’s Republic, Socrates takes up the questions of what is justice and is justice beneficial. To examine this question, he proposes to discuss a city, because he suggests it would be easier to understand what justice is in something larger, like a polis,1 than something smaller, like a soul. As such, Socrates creates the city-in-speech, a model polis of the best regime2 that is examined in the pursuit of understanding justice.

Now, if the city-in-speech is a model for justice in the soul, then the city-in-speech must model justice. But what is a just city? By Book VIII, the city-in-speech has been established as an aristocracy led by an elite guardian class that eschews both private property and family life and is led by a philosopher-king. It is worth noting whether the city-in-speech is possible is a distinct and separate question, as its main purpose is to serve as a rhetorical tool to discover what justice is.

In the course of the Republic, justice is held to be the virtue of harmony. In the city, this means all the parts of the polis are arranged in hierarchy and perform their function.

In the soul, the justice of virtue makes the soul beautiful by arranging all of its parts in hierarchy and according to their proper loves.3

But Socrates knows that regimes, like souls, are fragile. They degenerate. In Book VIII, the conversation turns to other types of regimes and the souls that correspond to them.

In sum, Socrates sets forth five types of regimes (544c):

1. Aristocracy (a regime of a few, focused on virtue)

2. Timocracy (a regime of a few, focused on love of honor)

3. Oligarchy (a regime of a few focused on love of money)

4. Democracy (a regime of many focused on freedom)

5. Tyranny (a regime of one focused on pleasure)

And Socrates sets forth a loose template by which aristocracy collapses into timocracy, and timocracy collapses into oligarchy and so forth. Socrates is clear, however, that these are general guideposts, as there are as many types of regimes as there are dispositions of the human soul.

And this raises the question of what Socrates’ main purpose is in this passage.

How are the regimes a mirror of the soul?

It is here that Plato offers you something tremendous. His text on the character of the regimes is less an attempt at political science and more a diagnostic tool for the soul. For the regimes all take their character from the souls within them; thus, in understanding the nature of the regime, we understand the nature of our soul.

The regime is a spiritual mirror.

For the aristocracy is born from those with aristocratic souls, timocracies are both from those with timocratic souls, and so forth. Like the city-in-speech, the discussion on the regimes is a self-reflection. What regime is my soul most like? Plato understood that soulcraft comes before statecraft. Regimes are born from the souls that populate the polis. Again, those inclined to critique Plato here that the political reality is much more complicated miss the main purpose of the exercise: know thyself.

Book VIII of the Republic presents a sobering diagnostic tool for modern souls saturated in the democratic spirit. It is a mirror for the soul to which we hesitate to look—as we are slow to even admit that there could be deep, spiritual problems with living in a democracy.

Questioning whether having a “democratic soul” is bad seems almost profane, an offensive question in an age obsessed with freedom.

Yet Socrates shows you many problems with the democratic obsession with freedom and equality.

And somehow, within the tender, pusillanimous soul of the democratic man lurks the tyrant.

Read more

How do you correct the pope?

St. Catherine of Siena gives us a model that is alien to our modern sensibilities.

Many rush to claim her as a proto-feminist icon who boldly defied male authority—an example of using a leader’s mistake to subvert the hierarchy.

Yet the real St. Catherine was something far more rare: a woman whose burning personal love for Jesus overflowed into a public, prophetic voice.

She spoke truth to power not to tear down hierarchy, but to purify and restore it. Do not let modern misreadings rob you of her lesson.

Find out more about her life and those working to promote it.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Why is there no great art anymore? Well, there can be. Check out the efforts by our sister publication, the Culturist and Evan Amato as they commission a beautiful work of St. Catherine of Siena.

Who was St. Catherine of Siena?

Our age is always eager to take truths of antiquity and press them into the service of modern ideologies. St. Catherine of Siena (1347–1380) is no exception. She is sometimes hailed as a proto-feminist icon—a woman who dared to lecture popes, traveled freely, and wielded spiritual authority in a male-dominated Church.

Yet the real Catherine resists such framing.

She was not rebelling against authority; she was submitting to it in its deepest form. Her life offers a clearer, older pattern: the biblical way of speaking truth to power while honoring the office God has established.

Catherine was born the twenty-third or twenty-fifth child of a Sienese dyer. From childhood she consecrated her virginity to Christ and resisted her family’s attempts to arrange a marriage. At sixteen or eighteen she joined the Dominican Third Order as a laywoman, living a hidden life of prayer and austerity in a small room of her parents’ house. There, in solitude, she received the mystical experiences that would define her: visions of Christ, a “spiritual espousal,” and eventually the invisible stigmata.

These graces, however, did not remain private. They propelled her out of her quiet contemplations and into a public, prophetic role.

By her mid-twenties St. Catherine had become a spiritual mother to a growing circle of disciples—priests, politicians, and ordinary souls—who called her “Mama.” She cared for the sick during plagues, mediated disputes, and dictated hundreds of letters.

Her most famous intervention came during the Avignon Papacy.

What was the crisis of the Avignon Papacy?

For nearly seventy years the popes had resided in France, far from Rome, entangled in political intrigue and worldly comfort. The Church suffered from this displacement: weakened leadership, divided cardinals, and a sense that the Bride of Christ had lost her home, the eternal city of Rome. The absence of the pope wasn’t just a question of geography, but a sign the spiritual power of the Church was currently subservient to a temporal authority, France (see the end of Dante’s Purgatorio where the French monarchy is like a violent giant who turns the Church into his paramour).

St. Catherine saw the scandal clearly.

In letters of remarkable directness she urged Pope Gregory XI to return to Rome. She addressed him as “sweetest father” and “Christ on earth,” yet did not hesitate to call the situation what it was—a wound in the Body of Christ. She offered a prophetic voice limned in sweet obedience. Her words, combined with the movement of grace, helped convince the pope to make the difficult journey back in 1377. She spent her final years in Rome, laboring for unity even as the Western Schism loomed. Exhausted by fasting, travel, and the weight of souls, she died at thirty-three.

The quiet saint of contemplation shared her prophetic voice—and she helped correct a mistake of the pope!

Yet the good Saint’s humble, yet direct words have been often misinterpreted.

And if you receive a false image of this Doctor of the Church, then you miss her extraordinary lesson.

How is St. Catherine Misinterpreted?

It is easy to see why modern readers might claim her. Here was an uneducated laywoman who left her humble beginnings, confronted cardinals, and even corrected the pope.

Some interpreters, however, present her as a woman who “defied the papacy,” as though her mission was to subvert the patriarchal structure of the Catholic Church and claim some power denied to her due to being a woman.

Such readings miss the heart of the matter.

St. Catherine was not a modern. She did not seek to dismantle hierarchy. She was not suspect of authority. She did not read antagonisms and distrust into relations (e.g., male to female, cleric to lay, pope to Christian faithful). She spoke as a daughter of the Church who loved the papacy too much to remain silent while it wandered into error. Her words weren’t a subversion of the papacy but an invitation for it to return to its own authority.

For Saint Catherine, the world needed the pope to be the pope and help Christian live a good and holy life.

Her condemnations were not a dismantling of the papacy, but rather a restoration of it.

Are St. Catherine’s Actions Biblical?

St. Catherine followed a thoroughly biblical pattern. Think of David, who twice had the opportunity to strike down Saul, the Lord’s anointed, yet refused: “I will not stretch out my hand against my lord, for he is the Lord’s anointed” (1 Sam 24:10). David honored the office even while the man who held it sought his life. Or consider the prophets who confronted kings—Nathan before David, Elijah before Ahab—always in service of covenant fidelity, never in rejection of God-given authority.

Catherine’s letters reveal the same spirit.

She could write with fiery clarity about clerical corruption and the need for reform, yet she insisted that even a flawed pope must be obeyed for the sake of Christ.

Her authority came not from a claim to autonomous power (like radical modern individualism) but from mystical union with the Bridegroom, Jesus Christ. In her work The Dialogue, she presents the soul as a bride, drunk with love for Christ, called to share in His redemptive suffering. That bridal love overflowed into bold service, but it never became rebellion. She sought to purify the Church, not to redefine it.

The prophetic voice is never a voice of rebellion.

What is the Lesson of St. Catherine of Siena?

The actions of St. Catherine of Siena are a model of courageous and prophetic submission. She “forgot her sex,” as she put it, not to assert herself against men but to serve the salvation of souls without regard for worldly categories. In other words, she called men back to their role of authority—to be good priests, bishops, and popes for the glory of God and the salvation of souls.

She does not deconstruct the hierarchy but rather lifts it up to its actual purpose.

What might it look like to imitate her today?

First, St. Catherine had a radical understanding of the Church as the Bride of Christ. It was not a political arena in which one vies for power. Her public witness was always fueled by a private, mystical devotion. In other words, she loved Jesus Christ personally, and that at times called her to a prophetic, public witness of that love.

Second, it means that even the prophetic voice—which often calls out sin—is always saturated in charity and respect. As moderns, we want to conflate the prophetic voice with one that deconstructs—one that calls out the errors of another in order to gain their power, to destabilize for the sake of self-gratification. Such a rebellious, luciferian notion remains complete absent in Saint Catherine of Siena—even though it is ubiquitous in modern politics.

Third, most of all, it means trusting in God that He can speak through even the most unlikely of voices. Yes, there are those who hold offices of authority, like a pope, but that does not preclude God speaking from others—or even speaking a word of correction to those in office.

St. Catherine of Siena was not the feminist saint some imagine.

She was something far more rare and enduring: a simple soul whose love of Jesus allowed her to speak with both fiery boldness and humble submission. She did not dismantle the hierarchy. She called it to fulfill its purpose.

In an age that prizes personal autonomy and abhors submission, her life remains an invitation to something more ancient, more beautiful, and ultimately more liberating.

Listen to the good St. Catherine, and ascend.

And go check out this amazing project to bring St. Catherine to life in a newly commission piece of art!

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

The creation of Eve is far more radical than the children’s story most know.

Adam is named by God, but woman is named by Adam—and only given the name “Eve” after original sin. Woman is the only animal in creation not made from the dust of the earth, as she is made of Adam’s flesh—and particularly his rib, not his head or feet—neither slave nor master.

Woman is the last thing made by God—an afterthought or a crescendo?

The story of Eve is the story of how men and women enter into relation.

In an age allergic to authority and complementarity, Genesis reveals the primordial template for the union of the sexes.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The Charge to Keep Order in Eden

The danger with biblical stories is the familiarity. We think we know the stories, because we know them culturally—but rarely do we revisit the Bible and give it the slow, attentive reading it deserves. Too many Christians never spend the time to mature the biblical stories they received as children, leaving them with an elementary understanding of the faith.

So, what lessons can we learn if we spend time in the story of the creation of Eve?

The story of Eve starts with the story of Adam. First, turning to the second chapter of Genesis, we see that the Lord God made Adam and placed him in the Garden of Eden. Adam was told to “till and keep it,” which could also be translated as “guard” (Gen 2:15). The language is used elsewhere in Scripture to denote the liturgical role of priests and their guardianship of the Tabernacle (Num 3:7-9; 8:26; 18:5-6). There are deep parallels between the Temple and Creation, to the degree that one can set forth a biblical teaching of the world as a Cosmic Temple.

Regardless, here, Adam being told to “guard” the Garden of Eden, to keep its order, implies there will be a threat of disorder, which anticipates the Serpent (Gen 3:1).

Moreover, you should take seriously that this command to “till and keep” Eden and to not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is only given to Adam. Eve is not yet created. In other words, the keeping of the order of creation is given to Adam, the man. It is notable that the Bible never records a similar passage of God instructing Eve in this command, though Eve knows God commanded it (Gen 3:1-3) and will be punished for not keeping it (Gen 3:16).

What is more interesting is that Eve believes that God said she was not supposed to even touch the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil (Gen 3:3). God’s command to Adam is not to eat but is silent about touching.

What is the origin of the command not to touch?

One idea would be that God gave Adam the explicit command to not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and Adam, in giving this command to Eve, expands it to provide an additional layer of guardianship—do not even touch it.

In other words, Adam is acting as a lawgiver to maintain the order of creation. He receives the law from God and uses that law to promulgate other laws for the good of the garden.

Eve then is tempted between listening to Adam or to the Serpent about what God really said. It is a question of who has interpreted God correctly and whether Eve will listen to her husband, Adam.

But let’s backtrack and look after God’s command to Adam to “till and keep” the Garden. The Garden is presented as unfinished.

What is missing is woman.

The Naming of the Animals

The Garden remains incomplete. God says: “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him” (Gen 2:18); however, you should take seriously that God does not then make Eve, but rather turns and makes the animals from the dust of the earth and sends them to Adam to be named (Gen 2:19-20). To name something is to exercise authority over it; thus, the naming of the animals both shows Adam’s authority over creation and also shows Adam that no animal is suitable to be his helpmate.

In other words, the naming of the animals is instructive to Adam that he is alone. The Bible says: “there was not found a helper fit for him” (Gen 2:20). The attentive reader will consider why the Bible has dramatic build-up to the creation of Eve. The creation of humanity is unlike any other animals, as the male and female are created separately (and in distinct ways).

To wit, there is a dramatic tension to the creation of Eve—and you should consider the meaning of the fact that woman is the last thing God creates. Adam is not complete until woman is created but in certain ways neither is Creation.

Eve seems less an afterthought and more a pinnacle of Creation—she is the crescendo of the divine creative act.

And this is made even more notable in how she is created.

The creation of Eve, as the commentary in the New Testament, reveals her creation to be a primordial template to how the sexes join in union.

A template somewhat unbearable to an age allergic to authority and complementarity.

Read more

Most people live like slaves.

It is a quiet, unseen slavery that exists even in prosperous, free societies.

You see, humans have an insatiable desire for more.

And many believe they are free when they have the capacity to satiate their desires: the next purchase, the next pleasure, the next conquest.

But what feels like freedom is actually slavery—the soul dethroned by its own desires, chained to an endless craving that can never be filled.

You need to know about pleonexia, the ravenous hunger of the soul for more.

Plato offers you a myth to save your soul.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The Insatiable Human Desire for More

A soul is made beautiful by arete or virtue. Socrates tells you in the Republic that virtue is a type of health and beauty of the soul, while vice is a type of sickness and ugliness. Both the Old Testament and Plato espouse the same four cardinal virtues: prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude, as these virtues help to perfect the three parts of the soul.

Prudence perfects the intellect’s love of wisdom, fortitude perfects the spirited part’s love of nobility, and temperance perfects the appetitive’s love of pleasure. But what of justice? Justice is the virtue of being well-ordered or harmonious, so justice crowns the whole soul by having it remain in hierarchy and loving well.

And the soul’s love of these beauties is infinite. For to possess beauty and delight in it is called happiness—and you want to be happy all of the time not just some of the time. And what is this love of beauty called? Eros. You have an infinite erotic appetite for beauty.

And this infinite eros is not a curse to dissatisfaction but an invitation to ascend from lesser to greater beauties until the soul delights in God, Beauty-itself. Your infinite desire for beauty is enkindled in you to lead you back to infinite Beauty, the Divine.

Yet the human desire for more is easily corrupted, and souls fall into what the classical Greeks called pleonexia, an insatiable, unjust desire to take and consume—an extreme greed, lust, and gluttony rolled into one. The erotic desire of the soul becomes unjust, taking whatever it can to satiate its desires for pleasure and satisfaction.

The irony of pleonexia, of course, is that it views itself as more free since it is free from the constraints of virtue.

But they could not be more wrong.

The Ugliness of Vice

In Plato’s First Alcibiades, Socrates warns the young Alcibiades that he is in danger of becoming a slave. How could this be? Alcibiades is a popular young man who lives in democratic Athens, one of the most free, prosperous cities in the world.

What Alcibiades does not understand is that his vices will make him a slave.

Your soul can sacrifice its own freedom by chaining itself to what is unjust. Many souls that suffer pleonexia believe they are free, because they have the power to satiate their desires—like a tyrant who takes hold of a city. They interpret the capacity to satisfy themselves as a freedom. What they do not understand is that by breaking the constraints of justice, they become slaves.

Under the weight of vice, the soul becomes ugly. It gluts on the lower beauties at the expense of the intellect’s desire for truth. Reason is dethroned in the soul, and the appetitive, the desire for pleasure, reigns supreme. The life of the tyrant may look glorious, but he lives the life of a cow. Socrates warns of this in the Republic, a life focused on food and sex, head down, never looking up to the greater beauties of life—a life worthy of cattle.1

And to warn you about the dangers of unjust desires, Plato gives you a myth of the final judgment.

The Final Judgment of Souls

Many are familiar with the Christian teachings on the judgment of souls, but few know that Plato offered instructive myths about how the soul would be judged as well.2

One of Plato’s most famous myths comes at the end of his Gorgias. He first tells that people were judged by living judges prior to their death—but this caused many problems, as the judges judged according to outward appearances. As such, virtuous men were punished, and vicious men rewarded.

So, Zeus reworked the process to where dead judges would judge dead people. In this way, the judges would view the soul of the person, as the body had been stripped away. And why it is important that they see the soul?

Because vice makes the soul unhealthy and ugly. Each vice is a wound upon the soul.

And Plato makes a further claim.

As the tyrant beats his slave, so too does the unjust man beat his soul.

Vice brings slavery, the soul becomes enslaved to pleonexia—but the tyrant of the soul is the soul itself. It is a self-tyranny wherein the soul becomes a slave to its unjust appetites. It is a self-harm, a self-abuse, and a self-slavery.

In this Platonic myth, at the end of his life, the unjust man, the vicious man, presents his soul to be judged, and it is found bruised, battered, and beaten.

The vicious man, the self-tyrant, may live in a so-called free, democratic Athens but lives as a slave to his own appetites, a self-tyranny.

The greatest threat to your freedom is you.

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Does Achilles regret dying in Troy for immortal glory?

Many say “yes,” because he tells Odysseus he would rather be alive as a poor farmer than dwell in the house of death.

Others say “no,” as you must recall who is telling the story, Odysseus the liar, who frames himself as the hero, the new Heracles.

Yet, others call for a careful reading of how Achilles speaks of his son and father and the subtle lessons there.

The question of Achilles’ regret, under the careful hand of Homer the philosopher, becomes a question of yours—will you regret how you satisfy your soul?

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

What is the rage of Achilles?

The Iliad opens with the word “rage,” and it refers to the rage of Achilles—but this is no ordinary rage. It is a Greek word normally reserved for a divine rage, the anger of the gods, but here it applies to a man, Achilles. Why?

Achilles is the son of King Peleus, a mortal, and the immortal sea goddess Thetis. Before their marriage, Poseidon and Zeus were pursuing Thetis, but Prometheus, the titan with the gift of foresight, told them that Thetis’ son would be greater than his father. Zeus was always wary of having a son that could usurp him, as he had done to his father, Cronos, and as Cronos had done to his father, Uranus. It is one reason Zeus delighted in sleeping with mortals, as their demigod sons would never be strong enough to dethrone him.

To preserve his sovereignty, Zeus married Thetis to a mortal, Peleus, to ensure that the offspring would only be part god and thus not a threat. In other words, Achilles has a spirit that was destined to be the new Zeus, the new king of all the gods and men, trapped in a mortal body—an existential angst. Moreover, he has a natural superiority, an unmatched spiritedness that chafes at obeying lesser men. He was supposed to be the king of the gods, and now he is not even the king of men.

The Iliad opens with rage, because this is the central conflict: Achilles, the best of men, is dishonored by the leader of the Achaean army, King Agamemnon.

Yet, Achilles has a choice.

What are the fates of Achilles?

Unlike most men, Achilles was given a choice as to what fate he would endure. In the Iliad, Achilles tells an emissary of Achaeans, including Odysseus, that his mother, Thetis, presented him with two fates. He could either live a long, peaceful life at home, or he could fight and die in the Trojan war. But here is the catch. If he elects to live a peaceful life at home, his name will die out soon afterward; but, if he elects to fight and die in Troy, he will win everlasting glory (kleos)—his name will never be forgotten.

After King Agamemnon dishonored him, Achilles is tempted to return home and live out the fate of a peaceful life. Yet, after Hector, Prince of Troy, killed Achilles’ friend Patroclus, the rage of Achilles is redirected, and he decides to remain at Troy and kill Hector—and win his everlasting glory.

Achilles kills Hector, and his god-like rage returns to a simmer, especially through the acts of Hector’s father, King Priam of Troy. The Iliad ends with burial of Hector, but we know from tradition that Achilles died prior to the fall of Troy—he was shot in the heel by Prince Paris of Troy; hence, the famous idiom of an “Achilles’ heel.”

And many hold that Achilles is the hero of the Iliad.

But does his heroic reputation survive the Odyssey?

How is Achilles a hero?

It would be difficult to exaggerate the mimetic power of Achilles, especially for young men.

He is naturally superior and can best anyone in sheer power, yet he suffers the idiocy of lesser men. He has the spirit to be the king of the gods, but he is not even the king of men—and this rage of his aligns well with the existential angst of many young men who find themselves better than their so-called superiors.

Achilles is a sign of natural right, of a natural superiority and right to rule that outshines the so-often pusillanimous, bureaucratic leadership of lesser men. He is the most thumotic man who has ever lived, a soul with an unquenchable thirst for glory coupled with the capacity to accomplish the great deeds that earn it.

Yet, does Achilles regret his decision?

In the Odyssey, Odysseus travels to the house of death and speaks to the shade of Achilles—and many interpret his words to express regret for his life of glory.

And this would be devastating to the mimetic power of Achilles, to his life of natural superiority and natural right.

Did Achilles regret his decision?

Or is the truth something more subtle, something Homer wants you to notice about what it means to be a hero?

Read more

You must know your soul’s offspring.

Many act as if love were a cheap feeling, a barren emotion unworthy of discipline or deep consideration.

But love is never sterile. When your soul loves something, it is always fecund—it always generates something.

Here is how you can learn the parts of your soul, their loves, and their offspring.

Learn how you can love beauty and bring beauty into the world.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

A Quick Map of the Soul

Everyone wants to feel fulfilled, happy, and at rest. The primal desire of your soul to satiate in beauty and be happy is called eros, your erotic love. It is a need-love, a self-love, the desire to possess good and beautiful things and delight in them. Eros is the primordial force of the human condition, the drive of mankind—the hunger of the soul that animates humanity.

The question of eros is the question of mankind.

What is man and what does he desire?

And it is said that the soul has three parts and each part loves a certain beauty. The intellect loves truth, the spirited part loves nobility, and the appetitive loves pleasure. The intellect (nous) must govern the soul with the assistance of the spirited part (thumos) as the appetitive part (epithymia) and its love for pleasure will dominate if left unchecked.

And it is also said, whether in the books of the Platonists or the Christian saints, that each part of the soul has a virtue that perfects it—a virtue being, as Socrates stated, a type of health or beauty of the soul.

In other words, how does each part of the soul guide its erotic appetite for beauty according to reason?

In sum, the soul is guided by the four cardinal virtues—which are articulated both by Plato and the Old Testament. Prudence guides the intellect, courage guides the spirited, and temperance guides the appetitive.

What of justice? Justice perfects the whole soul, making it beautiful by arranging its parts in harmony and order.

But there is another aspect of the soul that is rarely discussed.

Its offspring.

The Beautiful Offspring of the Soul

Eros is always fecund. When eros satiates in beauty it always produces something in the soul. But how does this work with the three parts of the soul?

When the intellect, the noetic power, embraces truth, it produces wisdom—wisdom is knowledge of the whole. In the Old Testament the author is desirous of Lady Wisdom, and asks for her to be with him always (Wis 9:10), and amongst the Greeks we see the pursuit of truth finds its zenith in philosophy, the “love of wisdom.”

When the spirited part, or thumotic power, embraces nobility, it produces fame, glory, and honor. In the Old Testament, one could think of King David and the glory his deeds wrought, and amongst the Greeks the classic example par excellence is Achilles—the unbridled thumos incarnate. In fact, all the heroes of Troy seek their kleos, their glory, and are desirous of their aristeia, their supreme moment of glory merited by courage on the battlefield.

When the appetitive part embraces pleasure, the zenith of this act is found in the sexual act, hence the normative association of the term erotic, and it produces children. In the Old Testament, as Pope Benedict XVI observes, this erotic desire is set within marriage, and the framework is given within the first human relation: Adam and Eve. Men and women come together in marriage and become one flesh and multiply. Amongst the Greeks, marriage is not stressed as it is amongst the Hebrews, but children are still seen as the zenith of the appetitive, as noted by Diotima in the Symposium.

And the offspring of the soul reveal something more existential about your erotic desire.

It is endless.

And each offspring of the soul hints at deep desire hidden within the human heart.

The Human Desire for Immortality

You always want to be happy. You never want to be unhappy. Thus, if eros is the desire to possess beautiful things and be happy, your erotic appetite is endless. For all things in this life are finite and exhaustible, but your eros is infinite and inexhaustible. You simply and always want more.

This human desire for the infinite can lead to an insatiable desire to consume, an irrational desire to satiate, to possess—what the Greeks call pleonexia. In a Christian setting, you would speak of avarice, envy, and lust.

Yet, in another way, the natural hierarchy of the soul attempts to satiate the soul’s natural desire for infinitude by offering it an immortality of sorts.

In other words, every natural beauty loved by the soul gives it a type of infinity, a type of immortality.

In the intellect, the love of truth leads to wisdom, and wisdom, in the Platonic tradition, is the contemplation of the Ideas, the eternal Forms. St. Augustine placed these Ideas within the Divine Mind, the Logos, the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity that became flesh in Jesus Christ. In other words, wisdom leads to the participation of something eternal, something infinite.

In the thumotic, the love of nobility leads to fame, glory, and honor, and these provide a type of immortality—a name that is never forgotten. Again, one could turn to Achilles who elected to die in Troy and receive immortal glory.

In the appetitive, the love of pleasure, which has its zenith in sex and, in the Christian tradition, sex within marriage, produces children—and children are a type of immortality. The self lives on through its offspring, through copies of itself and its beloved.

In fact, to love someone, to want to marry them, is, in a way, a desire to make more of that person in the world. You see something beautiful and good in them, and you want to bring more of that into this world—and in doing so, you achieve a type of immortality that satisfies the infinite longings of the soul.

But only one thing can truly satisfy the soul.

The Final End of Eros

God enkindled eros within your soul to lead you back to Him. The endless desire of your erotic appetite is not the curse of pleonexia but the invitation to ascend to God. For your infinite eros was designed to satiate on an Infinite Beauty, God. For God is Beauty-itself, the All Beauty, for whom the soul desires at its most primal, intimate state.

All beauties are but signposts to the soul to ascend to the Beauty, God.

And it is only in that beauty that the restless hunger of the soul finds rest. The endless desire to consume to be happy slows and delights in a moderate and ordered appetite for lesser beauties.

For the love of God does not replace lesser loves, but rather perfects them—there is a divine refulgence that cascades back down into the soul and its loves.

For example, a man who loves God will love his wife more. The love is perfected. Both because his soul is now filled with God’s love but also because he is not putting the full weight of his erotic desire for happiness on his wife. In other words, many marriages fail, because their spouse attempts to receive from other what can only be given by God.

Now, even the Platonists saw the divine as the final end of eros, but Christianity proclaims another level of intimacy—the God has invited you to participate in His own divine life, His grace. You are invited to live forever with God in the Beatific Vision.

Here, the desire for immortality is not only satisfied but overwhelmed—as the soul cannot receive the full delight of God, Beauty-itself. The cup is filled and then overflows.

The soul rests in the Beauty for which it was made.

Like this writing on eros? Check out Rediscovering Holy Eros and Women as Icons of God.

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

Piety is rarely understood.

Many think it is superstition, naivety, or zealous belief.

But few understand that the ancients held it to be a force for civilization—a cosmic virtue, a source of gratitude toward the fundamentals of a man’s life. It set his duties and arranged his allegiances.

Homer, Aeschylus, Socrates, Jesus, and others all show you this forgotten virtue.

A pious heart is a grateful heart—and these are the hearts that build civilization.

Let the tradition help you recover this ancient virtue.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The Ancient Lesson of Piety

Piety is not what you think.

Many may see it as “religious expression” or even pejoratively as a simple, unthinking belief in the divine—but what if piety was about cosmic order?

True piety is rooted in gratitude. The pious man understands that he owes an unpayable debt to his family, his country, and his God. Why? Because these three things nourished him, raised him, cared for him, long before he could ever contribute. He did not earn this care by his family, his country, or his God—it was freely given.

Piety is the response to goods received. Piety cultivates a heart of gratitude over a debt the individual can never pay back—you can never fully repay your parents, your country, or your God for the life you have been given.

And this piety exists in hierarchical order.

Piety to the divine, to God, governs first, and this is sometimes called “religion.” Piety to the country governs next, and this piety is often called “patriotism.” And lastly you are pious toward your parents (and by extension your family), and this is often called “filial piety,” the respect and honor you owe your father and mother.

You can see now how piety becomes a virtue of order.

It is a cosmic virtue that helps man understand his place in the world, as he navigates these three spheres of piety: the divine, the country, and the familial. It helps him understand what is important in life and the hierarchy in which such goods should exist.

And piety is a lost virtue.

Like a pearl lost amongst the field and forgotten, so too is the West’s tradition of piety.

Piety as a political force, a principle of order, a virtue that aligns you with the cosmos is your inheritance.

If you can recover this virtue, your heart will correspond to the contours of reality—and it will be a barrier against the hate, frustration, strife, and pleonexia that dominates our world.

Learn to be pious.

Learn the pious heart is a grateful heart.

Let’s see how this virtue is shown to us in the ancient stories of the West.

Read more

Do you want to start reading the Bible?

But do you have a lot of questions?

What is the Old Testament? Where do I start reading? Do I have to read all of it? How should the Bible be read? What is a Gospel? Who is Moses?

These are all good questions for those thinking about reading the Bible.

And we have answers!

You can read the Bible with just a little help. Come see.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

Everyone is invited to read the Bible, but you want to read it well and with the mind of the Church. The Bible is not a series of loose images from which you extract your own truth, but rather a beautifully woven collection of texts, a sacred library, inspired by God to show you His love for you in Jesus Christ. It is the story of salvation history and it is a history that includes you.

Here are a few basic questions that many first time readers of the Bible have. If you have one not covered in the article, ask in the comments below!

We are here to help.

1. What is the Bible?

The Bible is the story of God’s love for humanity. On its face, it is a collection of different texts that range over different historical time periods from different authors in different genres—it is a complex, beautiful assortment of ancient works; however, Christians believe the Bible is holy, like a sacred library all bound together, inspired by God. The Bible is presented in two parts: the Old Testament (the story prior to the coming of Jesus Christ) and the New Testament (the story of Jesus Christ and His Church).

Its primary purpose is to communicate to you the reality of Jesus Christ, and how you are invited to an unimaginable reality almost too beautiful to comprehend.

Even if you have no faith in Jesus whatsoever (or even of God), the Bible is worth your time as an ancient text with an irrevocable imprint on the Western cultural imagination—like the Iliad or the Odyssey. A lot of fruit can be achieved by comparing these ancient Hebrew texts against ancient Greek texts.

The Bible has something for everyone.

2. What does it mean the Bible is inspired?

Christians believe that the Bible is the inspired word of God. In other words, the diverse collection of texts that make up the Bible share in one divine authorship that worked through human authors. It is the divine authorship that makes the Bible a cohesive, deeply interwoven narrative—but in Christianity, the divine authorship does not negate human agency.

Unlike other religions where God simply dictates what should be said to a human (who is less an author and more a scribe), Christians hold that God subtly inspired human authors and worked through them to produce a holy text.

In other words, there is still a humanity imprinted on the text, which means, for example, if you’re reading the Gospel of Luke (written by St. Luke) then understanding who St. Luke is and how he writes is important to the text. The Bible is somehow both a divine but deeply human text. And in its purpose of communicating to you the reality of Jesus Christ and His offer of salvation, Christians hold the text is infallible or without error. It is a text that merits our faith and trust—that the salvation and God it describes is true and worthy of our lives.

The divine authorship, however, is subtle and best seen in a slow, careful read of the biblical texts and how they deftly interrelate over thousands of years.

3. What is the Old Testament?

The Old Testament (the story from the beginning of the world to right before the coming of Jesus Christ) is composed of 46 distinct texts that are organized into four general categories.1

The Pentateuch (meaning “five books”) represents the first five books of the Bible starting with Genesis. The Pentateuch, traditionally said to be written by Moses, lays the foundation for the entire Bible and covers creation, the patriarchs (like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob), the story of the Hebrews in slavery in Egypt, and how Israel came together as a nation.

The next group, the Historical Books (like Joshua, 1 & 2 Samuel, etc.), tell of Israel’s journey to the Promised Land, their kings, their fall into exile, and eventual return.

Then come the Wisdom Books (Job, Psalms, Proverbs, etc.), and these are deeply poetic, beautiful texts that praise God, wrestle with the difficulties of life, and offer practical guidance (these books make for great spiritual reading—incorporate them into your prayers, if you’re so inclined, especially the Psalms).

The final group is the Prophets, which has both “major” and “minor” prophets. Many people think of a prophet as someone who gives prophecy, i.e., some prediction of the future—but the prophetic voice is first and foremost those who call mankind out on sin and then invite mankind back to God. The prophets therefore deal a lot with broken, sinful peoples being judged, punished, and returned to order and holiness.

One difficulty for first time readers is that the Bible is not organized chronologically; rather, these categories reflect similar genres, even though certain groups, like the Pentateuch and the Historical Books, largely move in chronological order.

4. What is the New Testament?

The New Testament, the story of Jesus Christ and His Church, is shorter and simpler in organization.

The first four books of the New Testament are called the Gospels, and these texts—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—tell the story of Jesus Christ. Each one is written by a different author for a different audience, but together they give harmonious insights into the beautiful mystery that is Jesus.

The second section is like the Historical Books of the Old Testament, but it is only one book: The Book of Acts. It is a historical text that tells of the acts of the apostles (Jesus’ disciples) after Jesus’ Ascension into Heaven. In short, it is the beginning of the Church.

Next comes the Epistles, which means “letters.” Many of the leaders of early Christianity wrote letters to various churches admonishing them or praising them for how they adhered to Jesus Christ. It is a fascinating insight to the early Church and their understanding of Jesus and what it means to be a Christian. The bulk of them, fourteen including Hebrews, are written by St. Paul, and the rest are written by St. James, St. Peter, St. John, and St. Jude.

The final section is again only one book, Revelation, written by St. John, it gives an apocalyptic history of the Church and prophesies about the new heaven and the new earth under the reign of Jesus.

Together, the New Testament explores the reality of Jesus Christ and the Church He founded.

5. Where should I start?

There are a few good answers to this question. Many start with Genesis, the first book of the Bible, as it lays a foundation for the whole salvation history and tells the stories of creation and the patriarchs.

Another good starting place is one of the Gospels, especially the Gospel of Mark. Why? Because it is the shortest and a fairly straightforward Gospel. The Gospel of Luke is another good choice, as Luke is writing to Greeks who may not be familiar with the Old Testament. The Gospel of Matthew is good as well, as it is written to Jews and focuses on Christ as the fulfillment of prophecy.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke all share many similarities—but the Gospel of John is very different. It is more mysterious, mystical, and focuses on Christ as the Logos, the Eternal Word. The Gospel of John is the foundation of Christianity’s mystical tradition, if you find that appealing.

The Gospels are not terribly long and reading all four as an introduction would not be a bad start.

Keep in mind that St. Luke also wrote Acts, so coupling his Gospel with the history of the apostles would be a good start as well.

6. Is there a list of key books I should read first?

Instead of reading the whole Bible, is there a short list of key books that could be read to establish a good framework and understanding? Yes. Nothing definitive, but here would be a good list for a first pass through the Bible:

Genesis—to lay the foundation of creation, the fall, and God’s covenant promises.

Exodus—to understand God’s deliverance of Israel, the Law, and the covenant.

1 & 2 Samuel—to see the rise of the monarchy, the heart of David, and the promise of an eternal kingdom.

Psalms—to experience the full range of human emotion, prayer, and worship in poetry.

Isaiah—to grasp the prophetic hope of the coming Messiah and God’s plan of redemption.

Mark—to encounter the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus in a short, fast-paced narrative.

John—to dive deeper into Jesus’ divine identity.

Acts—to see the birth and spread of the Church through the Holy Spirit.

Romans—to understand the core Gospel: sin, grace, justification by faith, and life in the Spirit.

Much of this list could shift depending on your interests, but the provided list of key books within the Bible would give you a solid foundation in understanding the narrative of salvation history.

7. How should the Bible be read?

The Bible is a complex, ancient library of sacred texts. While all are invited to read it, you should approach it with humility and patience—but one good thing is that the Bible is not new, centuries of Christian saints have reflected upon how to read the Bible and have handed that tradition down to you.

The early Church often read the Bible according to four senses: literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical. These four sense reveal hidden layers to the Biblical narrative that enrich the soul, make the verses come alive, and testify to the one, divine authorship.

The first sense is the literal, and this focuses on the intentionality of the human author. It includes all the historical details of when and where the text was written. It also includes understanding the genre of the book, e.g., is this a literal history or a poetic praise?

The literal is like the foundation of a house. You must understand the literal structure and reality of the book before you can ascend to more complex, rich readings—and many difficulties with the Bible come from books being read contrary to their genre and historical setting.

It should be stressed that on your first read, it is beneficial enough to simply track the literal and track it well. A slow, attentive, prayerful read of the Bible can bear a lot of fruit.

If you’re interesting in understanding the spiritual sense (i.e., allegorical, moral, and anagogical) of Scripture, see How to Read the Bible like the Saints and How to Read the Bible like Dante and Aquinas.

8. What version of the Bible should I read?

There are so many! In Catholicism, one of the best Bibles available is the Ignatius Study Bible, which has copious notes, maps, commentaries, etc., to help you grasp the literal sense of the text and build a good foundation for the spiritual text.

Another good Bible would be Ascension Great Adventure Bible, which tends to focus on understanding the Bible as story—it categorizes the books by color and helps you understand the dynamic narratives of the Bible as one beautiful story of God. The Great Adventure Bible pairs well with the wildly successful Bible in a Year podcast with Fr. Mike Schmitz.

There are many, many translations of the Bible in many different formats.

If you have a favorite, which one would you recommend?

How can we help!?

What questions do you have about reading the Bible?

Or maybe you’re a Christian who wants to offer more advice and encouragement to those who may be thinking about starting the Bible—let us know!

Overall, know that the Bible is a beautiful story of Jesus Christ—and it is a story to which you are invited as a beautiful child of God.

Dcn. Harrison Garlick is a deacon, husband, father, Chancellor, and attorney. He lives in rural Oklahoma with his wife and five children. He is also the host of Ascend: The Great Books Podcast. Follow him on X at Dcn. Garlick or Ascend.

God spits the lukewarm from His mouth.

It is a lesson Dante the Poet knows well, and he shows you the spiritual harm of being lukewarm in his Inferno.

Heaven rejects the milquetoast—but hell doesn’t want them either.

And their suffering is your spiritual lesson.

You were not made in the image of God to be some half-hearted beta.

Dante feels so strongly about this lesson that he places a canonized saint in hell.

Do not miss his warning.

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday (or Saturday!)

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The Gates of Hell

We find Dante the Pilgrim before the gates of hell. In his Inferno, Dante the Poet offers you a moral tale, a drama of the soul, that has the purpose of trying to save your soul. Dante the Pilgrim, the character in the Divine Comedy, is lost in the dark woods and meets Virgil, the Roman poet, who has been sent by Beatrice to help guide the Pilgrim. In fact, it is only by enduring hell and purgatory and then ascending into heaven that Dante the Pilgrim might be saved.

Virgil takes Dante down a “deep and rugged road” until they stand before the gates of hell. What is written on the gates is worth consideration:

I AM THE WAY INTO THE DOLEFUL CITY / I AM THE WAY INTO ETERNAL GRIEF / I AM THE WAY TO A FORSAKEN RACE.

JUSTICE IT WAS THAT MOVED MY GREAT CREATOR; / DIVINE OMNIPOTENCE CREATED ME, / AND HIGHEST WISDOM JOINED WITH PRIMAL LOVE.

BEFORE ME NOTHING BUT ETERNAL THINGS / WERE MADE, AND I SHALL LAST ETERNALLY. / ABANDON EVERY HOPE, ALL WHO ENTER.

Notice that Dante the Poet predicates the gate on three attributes: justice, divine omnipotence (power), and highest wisdom. It is a subtle allusion to the Trinity or rather that the creation of the gates of hell is a Trinitarian act—as is all creation.

Why does the gate say to abandon hope?

Well, in Christianity, hope is a theological virtue—that means it is a virtue infused in you by participating in the life of God, grace. Unlike the natural virtues, like prudence, it is not a virtue to which you can habituate yourself—it must first be given to you and then you can participate in it like a habit. Hope is a gift.

Moreover, we tend to have a very flat understanding of hope. You often hear “hope” used as a synonym for “wish.” “I hope my team wins” is little more than “I wish my team wins.”

But the theological virtue of hope is not a wish but a belief in man’s eternal happiness with God—it is an understanding of the end of man, his telos, his purpose. In other words, “I have hope in God” means “I live my life according to the reality of God and His promises for me.” Often times in sacred art, the virtue of hope is depicted as an anchor. You anchor your soul to God, an immovable understanding in the truth of God and His desire to for you to be happy with Him in heaven.

There is no hope in hell.

No souls participate in the divine life—they are cut off from the reality of happiness with God for eternity. The soul is released from its anchor and drifts in endless despair, the contrary vice to hope.

Yet, there is also no hope in heaven!

Why? Because in heaven there is no future desire for happiness with God for eternity, because the souls are participating in it now. It is not a future reality but a present one. In fact, there is no faith in heaven either, because “faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen” (Heb 11:1). In heaven, the beatific vision, God is now seen—there is no reason for faith. Since hope and faith are fulfilled in heaven, this is why St. Paul says the greatest theological virtue is charity (love)—because we continue to love in heaven (1 Cor 13:13). Charity is eternal.

In fact, how you practice charity in this life determines how you experience heaven in the next.

But the souls in hell are deprived of hope—and of faith and charity. It is an endless churning of despair, disbelief, and hate.

What is more interesting, however, is what Dante the Pilgrim and Virgil see once they’ve entered the gate.

The Vestibule of Hell

As they pass through the gates of hell, Virgil and Dante the Pilgrim hear the “sights and cries and shrieks of lamentations echo[ing] throught the starless air of Hell.” Pay special attention to the fact that hell is “starless,” as Dante will use the stars as a sign of hope (each one of the canticles of volumes of the Divine Comedy ends with a reference to the stars…).

But the Pilgrim and Virgil stumble upon a unique place.

The vestibule of hell—or rather, the lobby of hell.

It is a space beyond the gates of hell but before the judgment that casts souls somewhere within the nine circles.

It is the holding place for souls that were rejected by heaven and hell.

Who are these souls?

These are the lukewarm, the milquetoast, the souls who lived for nothing.

And their brutal punishment is your spiritual lesson—a gut-check for the soul.

Dante will not allow you to lessen the effects of being lukewarm—he knows well the harm it does to your soul and those around you.

Your real lesson here is knowing who the unnamed soul is who suffers here.

Read more

King Solomon’s Temple held a hidden story.

The carvings of olive wood overlaid with gold spoke of a primordial time.

And why is this important?

Because it revealed the world as a cosmic Temple, a holy sanctuary set aside for the glory and grandeur of God.

And why is that important?

Because you are part of the story—the world is not a sterile, neutral existence, but one of meaning and beauty.

A subtle lesson in the Bible invites you to see your life in a whole new way.

Reminder: you can support our mission and get all our members-only content for just a few dollars per month:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

How to Read Genesis Well

First, how do you read the Bible in general? Well, the Christian tradition has passed down four senses that help you read Scripture like the early Christians: a literal sense, an allegorical sense, a moral sense, and an anagogical sense. Christians see these senses as interconnecting to reveal various strata within the Scriptures that testify to a Divine authorship and lessons for your own spiritual journey (read more: How to Read the Bible like the Early Church).

Second, using the four senses, recall that Genesis sets the stage for the New Testament. In fact, the New Testament can be seen as a retelling of the Genesis narrative. Christ is the new Adam, Mary is the new Eve, the Cross is the new Tree, et al., and these reveal to you a new creation under Christ that invites you to participate—to be a new creature (read more: The New Testament as a New Genesis).

Third, we have seen how to read the first chapter of Genesis as a dynamic poem that reveals the glory of God. The hidden, subtle structure of the seven days of creation again invites you to understand that the cosmos is an intentional, beautiful creation by God—and you are part of that creation. Christians believe you are made in the image of God and are part of a structured, intelligible cosmos that reveals the grandeur of God (read more: The Hidden Meaning of Creation).

But, there is yet another layer to the story of creation.

One that reveals the cosmos not simply as an ordered creation but as a holy, sanctified space—as cosmic temple.

Let’s see what the Bible says.

Noticing the Small Details about Eden

There are a few subtle details that must be noted about the Garden of Eden:

1. You entered the Garden of Eden from the east (3:24)

2. It was guarded by the angelic cherubim (3:24)

3. It was adorned with trees (2:9)

4. It was on top of a mountain, a source of rivers (2:10)

5. It was where God came down and dwelt with His people (3:8)

Now, why are these details important?

Because Christians see later biblical authors, inspired by God, used these same details to describe the Tabernacle and the Temple. To wit, there are allusions to creation and the Garden of Eden in the narratives about the Tabernacle and the Temple.

And you should note these well, as they say something subtle about the nature of reality and the cosmos in which you dwell.

But, as a preliminary, what is the Tabernacle and what is the Temple?

The Tabernacle, meaning “dwelling place,” was the portable sanctuary and tent of meeting that God commanded the Israelites to construct in the wilderness after the Exodus. The Tabernacle served as God’s dwelling place among them for worship, sacrifice, and divine encounter (Exodus 25:8-9). It featured an outer court, Holy Place, and Most Holy Place containing the Ark of the Covenant and other sacred furnishings, and was filled with God’s glory upon completion (Exodus 40:34).

The Temple (or Solomon’s Temple or the First Temple) was the permanent sanctuary built by King Solomon in Jerusalem on Mount Moriah, replacing the portable Tabernacle as God’s central dwelling place among Israel for worship and sacrifice (1 Kings 5–8 RSVCE). It followed a similar three-part design to the Tabernacle—with an outer court, Holy Place, and Most Holy Place housing the Ark of the Covenant—and upon dedication was filled with the glory of the Lord (1 Kings 8:10-11 RSVCE).

The Temple was the dwelling place of God on earth in the Old Testament.

And the fact that biblical authors wrapped the stories of the Temple in language from Genesis should be taken seriously.

Let’s see how they did this.

The World as a Cosmic Temple

The biblical authors draw the comparison between the Temple and creation through several subtle parallels:

1. Like Eden, you entered the Tabernacle from the east (Ex 27:13) and the Temple from the east (Ezek 47:1);

2. Like Eden, the Temple was adorned with cherubim, two large statues made of olive wood (1 Kings 6:23–28);

3. Like Eden, the Temple was adorned with carvings of trees and flowers made of olive wood and inlaid with gold (I Kings 6:29-32);

4. Like Eden, the Temple was depicted as a source of rivers—a sign of life (Ezek 47:1-12; Joel 3:18); and

5. Like Eden, the Temple was the dwelling place of God on earth (Lev 26:12; II Sam 7:6).

Other ancient Hebrew sources explicitly present the Garden of Eden as a Holy of Holies of the cosmic temple of God.1 To wit, God created the Garden of Eden and then, after the fall, had King Solomon build a Temple that was reminiscent of Eden—the trees, flowers, rivers, cherubim, and an entrance to the east. The biblical authors, who Christians believe are inspired by God, then captured these details in the Bible—creating strong but subtle parallels between Eden and the Temple.2

Why would God create these parallels in the Bible?

A Participant in the Cosmic Temple

The parallels between Eden and the Temple are another way to contextualize your life—you are a participant in this cosmic sanctuary called earth. The world the Bible presents is not a sterile, neutral existence, but rather a beautiful, ordered cosmos that unfolds as a story.

The world has a purpose.

You have a purpose.

The world as a Cosmic Temple rejects the idea that your existence is meaningless. It rejects that your life is a flat, random occurrence—but rather it invites you not to another reality, but to the true reality. The world is a Temple designed for the worship of God.

And He loves you.

And He invites you to a beautiful life.

Pleasure can dehumanize you.

Homer, the philosopher, presents a subtle allegory of the soul in his brief story of Odysseus and the Lotus-Eaters.

The sluggish soul longs to wallow in pleasure and purposelessness—but the mind must sometimes lash the lower parts into obedience if it is to save itself from an inhuman existence.

There are other lessons here too—on violence, rhetoric, and political rule.

Homer is a teacher—and he teaches you how to save your soul from a purposeless life.

Do not become a “Nobody.”

Reminder: this is a teaser of our members-only deep dives.

To support our mission and get our premium content every week, upgrade for a few dollars per month. You’ll get:

• New, full-length articles every Tuesday and Friday

• The entire archive of members-only essays

• Access to our paid subscriber chat room

Subscribe now

The Story of the Lotus-Eaters

In the tenth year after the sacking of Troy, Odysseus washes up on the shore of the Phaeacians. King Alcinous welcomes him as a guest-friend and, after feasts and games, Odysseus, the “man of twists and turns,” finally tells his story. After the fall of Troy, Odysseus and his fleet raid the Island of Ismarus and then suffer both a “demonic gale” and a terrible tide—and after ten days of suffering “deadly winds,” Odysseus and his fleet land on an unknown island.

Odysseus sends out men to scout the land, and they meet the “lotus-eaters” who “gave them the lotus to taste… any crewmen who at the lotus, the honey-sweet fruit, lost all desire to send a message back, much less return, their only wish to linger there with the Lotus-eaters, grazing on lotus, all memory of the journey home dissolved forever” (9.105). In this narrative, it is Odysseus that reminds his men of their journey home, for he tells the Phaeacians: “But I brought them back, back to the hollow ships, and streaming tears—I forced them, hauled them under the rowing benches, lashed them fast” (9.110). The men, under Odysseus’ commands, depart the island so quickly they “churned the water white with stroke on stroke” (9.116).

The episode of the Lotus-eaters is one of eleven (or twelve, depending on how you count) narratives Odysseus tells the Phaeacians about his journey home.

It is a simple narrative but one saturated with meaning—and an important moral drama for your soul.1

How to Read Homer as a Philosopher

Homer is a philosopher—a subtle one. It is claimed that Plato learned the art of dialectic from Homer and the poets, and that an attentive read of Homer can discover a “poetic dialectic.”

What does this mean in simpler terms?

It means that what Plato accomplishes in his dialogues by having two or more people in conversation to explore a truth, Homer does through contrasting poetic images—and Odysseus is probably the best example of this. You are probably aware of the debates of whether Odysseus is a good man. Many find him heroic and point to many examples in the text, yet many others find him villainous and point to many counterexamples in the text.

Yet, what if Homer’s point is not to present Odysseus as clearly heroic or villainous, but to contrast these ideas in a single character—to hold observations in tension, and it is in that tension, that dialectic, that Homer’s lessons on the human person can be seen. It is in exploring the contrasts that Homer makes you ask questions about what it means to be a good person, a man of excellence (arete). Odysseus the character raises human questions.

In all, this means that Homer is very intentional about the narratives he presents, and it means that his narratives are pedagogical—they are there to teach you about the human condition. To wit, it is impossible to read Homer without a moral layer. Once the dialectics are seen and tensions explored for a commentary on mankind, the next natural question is how does this apply to my life?

It should be recalled that it was the Greek practice of reading Homer (and other texts) in various layers that helped develop the Early Church’s understanding of how to read the Bible according to the four senses—the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical. Christianity owes a debt to Homer.

Homer is a philosopher.

Taking him seriously will make you a better person and a better reader of Scripture.

And the narrative of the Lotus-eaters is nothing less than a drama of the human soul, a subtle allegory of the fight against becoming a “nobody” and being dehumanized.

And further still… it may be a drama on how men must be ruled.

Our modern culture offers us many lotus fruits.

Do not become a slave.

Homer shows you how to fight back.

Read more