“At this hour, to send [the Ring] in the hands of a witless halfling into the land of the Enemy himself, as you have done … that is madness.”

                                    — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

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If the wisdom of God is foolishness to men, it follows that a certain type of holy insanity must and will turn out to be the health and salvation of the world.  This is implied in everything we have said thus far about Pilgrim values and the Pilgrim path.

There is indeed a fundamental sense in which the kingdom through which the Pilgrim makes his progress strongly resembles the wild and topsy-turvy land of fairy-tales.  Like Dorothy in Oz or Alice through the Looking-glass, those who travel in this strange and perilous realm encounter inversion, conversion, paradox, oxymoron, and surprise at almost every turn in the road.  This is a place where the first are last, the poor are rich, and the weak are strong.  Where children and beggars are kings and lords, where nobodies are somebody, and where death and failure become the pathways to victory and life.  Where to lose one’s life is to save it, and all the power, prestige, and prominence the kosmos has to offer are worth no more than a pile of dung.  Where fear is wisdom, contentment is wealth, and that which is highly esteemed among men is an abomination in the sight of God.  How can the wise, the accomplished, the sophisticated, the rich, and the powerful ever hope to make anything of this maze of crazy contradictions?

Let’s face it.  In a world gone as desperately awry as ours, madness is the only way out of the labyrinth.  It’s the only possible solution to the dilemma.  What is madness after all except a complete overturning of the world’s expectations?  What better way to describe it than as a grand Rejection, a great Refusal?  It was this realization that led poet and painter Gabriel Gale, hero of G. K. Chesterton’s quirky novel The Poet and the Lunatics, to observe – while standing on his head – that “It’s a very good thing for a landscape-painter to see the landscape upside down.  He sees things then as they really are; yes, and that’s true in philosophy as well as art.”*

This is one of the fundamental messages of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, a story about how the destiny of the world is placed not in the hands of the great, the wise, and the mighty, but rather the small, the insignificant, and the defenseless.  That plan, as Boromir son of Denethor reasonably observes, is pure madness.  But what Boromir fails to understand is that, precisely for that reason, it is the only plan that has the slightest chance of succeeding.  It is the only strategy attended by even the faintest glimmer of hope.  In the end, it’s the weakness, incompetence, and vulnerability of the halflings that saves the day when all else fails.  What could be crazier than that?

Frank Schaeffer, son of apologist and evangelist Francis Schaeffer, has famously accused his famous parents of having been Crazy for God.  Perhaps Frank doesn’t realize how right he is.  Francis and Edith Schaeffer were not perfect people by any stretch of the imagination.  None of us is.  But they did follow a path that in many ways ran directly counter to the expectations of the system.

In this they were not alone.  On the contrary, they were part of a great daft madcap band that includes the likes of Francis of Assisi, Martin Luther, Boris and Gleb, Savonarola, George Eagles, John Bunyan, John the Baptist, and a host of other bona fide “Fools for Christ.”  These people were not afraid to turn the kosmos upside down by living according to a set of values that was the inverse of the world’s.  “They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated – men of whom the world was not worthy – wandering in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground.”

Strange, isn’t it, that it was these rather than those others – the rulers of the earth who hounded them to death – who “gained approval through their faith.”

But then that’s the madness of the Pilgrim way.
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* G. K. Chesterton, The Poet and the Lunatics; Ch. 1, “The Fantastic Friends.”

“Follow the Gospel and suffer injustice to yourself and your possessions as befits true Christians.”

                                    — Martin Luther

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The first two saints to be canonized in the Russian and Byzantine Orthodox tradition were Boris and Gleb, younger sons of Vladimir the Baptizer, Christian ruler of the kingdom of Kievan Rus.  For more than a millennium Boris and Gleb, who died somewhere around the year 1015, have been revered in the east as “Passion-bearers” – innocent sufferers and exemplars par excellence of the Orthodox ideal of kenosis, the emptying of self in Christian humility and love.

Vladimir, who had many children, decided to divvy up the realm among his heirs before his death, granting a portion to each of his several sons.  After their father’s demise, Sviatopolk, eldest of the brothers, became Grand Prince of Kiev, the capital city.  But Kiev was not enough for the power-hungry Sviatopolk.

Thomas Jefferson’s astute observation concerning the kind of people who desire advancement in the political realm – his contention that “a rottenness begins in their conduct” as soon as they set their sights on the prestige of public office — was certainly accurate in the case of Sviatopolk, whose cruel deeds subsequently earned him the epithet “The Accursed.”  Desiring to expand his hegemony and rid himself of all rivals, he made plans to kill his brothers Boris and Gleb in order to gain control of their territories.

Boris learned of Sviatopolk’s accession to the throne upon his return from a field campaign with the Russian army.  Being well aware of his older brother’s hostility, he was not surprised to learn that the Grand Prince was plotting his murder.  But Boris was a Pilgrim, not a politician; and when his father’s retainers urged him to collect his forces and oust the unpopular Sviatopolk, he refused.  Mindful of the words of the apostle John — “If any man say, ‘I love God,’ and hate his brother, he is a liar” — Boris sent his soldiers away, saying, “Be it not for me to raise my hand against my brother.  Now that my father has passed away, let him take my father’s place in my heart.”

As night closed down, Boris retired to his tent with one servant to recite the vigil service and await the approach of the assassins.  As they burst into the tent, Sviatopolk’s henchmen heard him singing psalms and asking God to strengthen him for the suffering he was about to endure.  After that, he lay down on his couch and his murderers pierced him through with their lances.

Meanwhile, Sviatopolk sent word to Gleb saying that his father was very ill and desired to see him.  A guileless youth, Gleb set out with a small band of retainers by boat.  As he neared the city of Smolensk, he was met by emissaries bearing a letter from his sister Predislava.  “Do not come,” she wrote.  “Your father is dead and Sviatopolk has killed your brother.”  But it was too late; and when the assassins caught up with him on the river, Gleb urged his company not to offer armed resistance.  He was stabbed by his own cook and his body was thrown on to the shore between two trees.

Boris and Gleb received the Crown of Martyrdom in 1015.  Not long afterwards, a service was composed in their honor by St. John I, Metropolitan of Kiev.  But it’s important to note that Boris and Gleb were not really martyrs in the technical sense of the term.  They did not actually die for their faith, but rather because, in emulation of their Master, they chose not to resist evil with violence.  Like the One who, in spite of His divine claim to power, honor, and glory, humbled Himself and became obedient even to the point of death, they emptied themselves and laid down their lives as an offering to Love.

That is why, in the tradition of the Russian Church, they became known not as “martyrs” but as “Passion-bearers” (Russian strastoterptsy) – imitators of the sufferings of Christ.  And that is what we mean when we speak of the Pilgrim value of kenosis.

     “I know,” said the bishop, “that the king is not to live long.  For never before this time have I seen a humble king.  Whereby I perceive that he must speedily be taken out of this life …”

      – The Venerable Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation,                     Book III, Chapter XIV 

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It’s arguable that never at any time in the past have there been so many people wanting to become President of the United States.  As of this writing, the number of candidates on either side of the political ledger rivals the all-star college football lineup on one of those old Bob Hope Christmas specials.

One has to wonder – seriously – about people who have that much ego, ambition, and drive.  Think about it:  a field of maybe twenty or thirty contenders who haven’t the slightest hesitation about standing up and saying, “Yes!  I’d like to be the most powerful person in the world!”  What’s wrong with this picture?  Is it possible to trust anyone who thirsts for that much control over the lives of others?

We hear a lot about “leadership” nowadays – both in the secular realm and the sacred.  “Leadership conferences” are huge in the church right now.  Unfortunately, most of them major in principles that have more to do with success in the corporate world than progress along the Pilgrim path.  For the devotees of the contemporary “leadership” cult, it’s all about initiative, aggression, financial savvy, self-confidence, and a dogged “can do” attitude.  But it’s hard to see how any of this lines up with the “leadership style” of the Man who said “The first shall be last,” and who ended His days on earth as a beaten and crucified criminal.

This is a key area of conflict between kingdom and kosmos.  Kosmic or worldly leaders don’t put much stock in meekness and humility.  After all, in a race to lay claim to the highest office in the land, the humble don’t stand much of a chance.  If they can even get past the gate, they’ll probably end up being trampled by the go-getters in the crowd.

Aidan, bishop of Lindisfarne in seventh-century England, understood this.  That’s why he actually broke down and wept when he saw the Christ-like meekness of Oswin, king of the province of Deira in Northumbria.  As the chronicler Bede tells the story, Aidan had never before seen such a thing as a humble king.  He didn’t know such an animal could exist.  It seemed obvious to him that this particular king wasn’t long for this world.  And so it turned out:  within a very short time Oswin was betrayed and murdered by his rival, Oswy, king of the Bernicians.

True Pilgrims have always taken a tack precisely opposite to that embraced by the current crop of political candidates.  In their intense desire to imitate their Master and to become “leaders” only in the sense of following His example, they have clung to humility and shunned the struggle to climb to the top of the pile.  As a matter of fact, there was a time when ecclesiastical tradition required church leaders to resist appointment to high office.  Nominees to the episcopate were supposed to decline the honor with the words nolo episcopari:  “I do not wish to become a bishop.”  Only the man capable of repeating this formula and really meaning it was considered fit for the task of shepherding the faithful.

Originally this seems to have been something more than just a polite formality.  When the apostle Peter, sensing the nearness of his own death, chose Clement to succeed him as overseer of the church in Rome, Clement tried to beg off:  “I knelt to him, and entreated him, declining the honor and the authority of the chair.”*  St. Anselm (eleventh century), seems to have been of a similar frame of mind:  according to some accounts, he had to be held down, his fingers pried open, and the episcopal staff forced into his hand when he was made Archbishop of Canterbury.  Chad (Ceadda), Bishop of York (seventh century), was unperturbed when critics challenged the legitimacy of his appointment:  “If you decide that I have not rightly received the episcopal character,” he said, “I willingly lay down the office.”**

In the secular realm, too, it has long been recognized that the person best suited to exercise authority is the one who wants it least.  That’s why the early Romans worshipped the memory of Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus (born about 519 BC), the legendary statesman who was twice called upon to assume the (temporary) office of dictator and twice returned the his farm when the state of emergency had passed.***  Cincinnatus was clearly a very different sort of person than Julius Caesar, that shrewd politician who preferred to hold on to absolute power once it was in his grasp.  Thomas Jefferson might have been thinking of Caesar when he wrote, “Whenever a man has cast a longing eye on [public office], a rottenness begins in his conduct.”****

Nolo episcopari!  Or, as one clever commentator translates it, “Not me, Jack!”*****  That’s the Pilgrim’s attitude toward “leadership” in the kosmic sense of the term.  It’s also the cry of the heart of every true leader – the kind of heart that perceives its own frailty and knows its true condition.  For distrust of self is the first step toward dependence upon Another.

(Adapted from Finding God in the Hobbit, “Reluctant Leader”)

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* Clement, Epistle of Clement to James, Chapter 3, in The Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 8.

** New Advent Catholic Encyclopedia, s.v. St. Ceadda, www.newadvent.org/cathen/03470c.htm (October 6, 2005).

*** Livy, The Early History of Rome, Book 4.  Under the constitution of the Roman Republic, consuls had the power to appoint a dictator during times of national crisis.  The dictator was granted absolute power for a period of six months.

**** Thomas Jefferson, Letter to Tench Coxe, 1799.  Cited in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 268.

***** David Mills,  “Take Me!”  Touchstone:  A Journal of Mere Christianity, August 9, 2003.  www.touchstonemag.com/blogarchive/2003_08_03_editors.html