Liar

I'm a liar. I didn't post this dumb thing this morning. Rather, I spent the majority of the day screwing around with it myself, before actually getting it down in a form that other people can comprehend. Still, here it is, to read and enjoy.

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Oddly, though humans have lived with it for so long, the role of this sorrow is frequently downplayed. People tend to view it as nothing more than the result of a larger issue, the unimportant aftermath of a more noteworthy situation. Despite the fact that a large portion of ancient texts are devoted to records of war and hostility, sorrow itself is often the writer’s true focus.

Homer’s Iliad is a perfect example of this idea. While at first it appears to be the quintessential “war epic,” upon further examination of the story, concepts far beyond simple contention become apparent. The lives of the mortals in this epic are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is generally acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus.

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “And for me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With an entirely broken heart, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by war, share the mutual tears that seep up from battlegrounds, born from the blood of the fallen.

These two scenes portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of War. But when the audience is confronted with situations such as these, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story mirrors almost exactly the Christian account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses 7:28, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept.” The great and powerful God of all men sat and wept on our behalf. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, of one in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

But why is mankind doomed to sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in a process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us and allow us to be raised up to more than we naturally are. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Such a pursuit – to actualize our potential – is hardly of small import. Unfortunately, as humans, we are often overwhelmed by the intensity of our task. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through divine joy in addition to sorrow, we settle for the tragedy alone. This pain, while equally as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by recognizing our mistake of searching for new causes of sorrow rather than appreciating the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

Phoo. It's sort of ambiguous, no? Hopefully the teacher is into that sort of thing.