When the host called us to gather around the table, I wasn’t thinking about nourishment; I was worried that I’d be frustrated or bored. The aroma of the food laid out before us mingled with a fragile hope that I wouldn’t have to spend the next hour suffering through bland talk about how the meal was prepared, a recent shopping experience, or someone’s personal sleep schedule. I only drink socially, but I was thinking that if things got bad enough, having a bottle of wine nearby might be comforting.
I get it. Lots of people are cautious about what they bring up during family gatherings. Any mention of politics or religion may set off heated arguments or ruin appetites. Both subjects are often forbidden by household peacekeepers. Bring them up and you’ll be called an agitator.
The stakes have increased in recent years as relationships fracture under the strain of our political divide. Today, tribalism holds the United States hostage, with partisan political loyalties stoking fear and hatred between those with dissimilar beliefs. The truth values of one group are reversed by its opponents, whose goal is to strengthen already-held beliefs. The resulting social bubbles block communication, with liberal and conservative camps living their own version of reality. That’s another argument for keeping your mouth shut at the dinner table, not to mention the workplace or amongst neighbors. But differences of belief are part of life and shouldn’t be a cause for walking on eggshells. Intention matters. Is our mind in the heart when we engage others? We choose whether to be the dominant voice or the compassionate listener.
When I was young, my political and religious debates were aggressive and unrelenting. With my face hot and thoughts racing, I’d try to anticipate resistance to my opinions and have a plan of attack ready for anyone foolish enough to provoke me. I saw those with different views as opponents on an ideological battlefield. Fiercely identifying with my beliefs, those who threatened them were perceived as enemies and demonized accordingly.
Given my tendencies, I understood why family members who feared spoiled meals and soured relationships wanted to avoid discussing politics and religion at the table. As in the larger society, these subjects are flashpoints of a deeper problem: we don’t know how to talk to each other. Empathy means walking in another’s shoes. But too often we find ourselves like a child on the beach filling sandcastle molds to build a fortress. We develop firm ideas about others and fill them with our imagination.
Though restricting discussions can maintain peace at home and in public, it isn’t healthy. Attacking with words is a form of violence, but suppression prevents fellowship and can still lead to injustice towards others.
Confronting Darkness in Ourselves
When we think about injustice, the superhero comes to mind—an emblem of our punitive justice system. In the comic books I read as a child, superheroes fought for justice against those who were irredeemably evil. Comics provided a mild cathartic release. Now, every year when the summer heat rolls in with the crashing thunder of blockbuster season, I scurry to the multiplex. In the cool of the dark theater, I thrill with millions of others to the exuberance and bombast of bad guys and monsters being pulverized or thrown through buildings. Part of the fun is knowing the punishment will fit the crime and justice will be served up in righteous vengeance. This isn’t the same as the biblical edict, “an eye for an eye.” That form of justice is fundamentally about restoring balance. In the Gospels, justice is relational, taught by Jesus as being in right relationship with God, one another, and all of creation.
Justice is one of the four cardinal virtues, along with temperance, prudence, and fortitude, and practiced by spiritual masters in all the world’s great traditions. For me, these men and women form an alternative pantheon of superheroes.
One of those great men was Saint Anthony of Egypt, known as the “father of monasticism.” His portrayal by Martin Schongauer in a fifteenth-century engraving is fantastical and exuberant, as though cut from a modern-day comic book or graphic novel. It’s a picture I’ve never forgotten.
The engraving Saint Anthony Tormented by Demons (1470-75) depicts Anthony, one of the earliest hermit saints, hovering in the air as he is assaulted by nine whimsical monsters. In the biography of Anthony’s life by Athanasius of Alexandria, the monk is said to have experienced a vision in which he was attacked by the devil in the form of beasts in the eastern desert of Egypt. His strict asceticism endows him with the power to levitate as the beasts assault him, attempting to beat him to the ground.
Each of the creatures is a composite drawn from close observation of the natural world. Northern European artists of the period would inventively combine human and animal parts to create their monsters. Schongauer borrows readily from reptilian, mammalian, fish, and bird anatomy. His choices are calculated to make the viewer squirm. The features of fish embody the mysteries of an undiscovered sea, and the mammals are fierce and predatory. The combinations of bird, porcupine, and human anatomy are aberrations of God’s order. Schongauer renders these grotesque fabrications with careful attention to texture and light. One of the first to employ crosshatching, a technique that uses intersecting lines to create tonal effects, he was able to convincingly render scales, fur, and skin for maximum visual impact.
Stoically accepting the onslaught, Anthony is shown wearing his religious habit, with a girdle book hanging from his belt. He carries a staff with a handle in the form of a tau cross, an object with which he was associated (also known as Saint Anthony’s cross). He gazes placidly as the demons grab, pull, and club him with sticks, mercilessly intent on tearing him limb from limb. But he does not react or give way to emotion. He is impervious to their blows, immune to their insults, and steadfast in the knowledge that God is with him.
Anthony would eventually overcome the supernatural temptations he experienced during his retreat through discipline and forbearance. This was the monastic ideal, achieved in seclusion and meditation. Possession by the devil, which is what Schongauer depicts, can be understood as a metaphor for how our thoughts and feelings take hold of and feed upon us. Our accumulated hurt and the negative patterns we develop to protect ourselves must be acknowledged, not projected. If we’re unable to disidentify with our thoughts and feelings, the violence in ourselves will be transmitted to others, whom we’ll treat unjustly. Anthony’s challenge reminds us to mindfully confront our own pain so we don’t project it outward.
Schongauer’s representation of inner turmoil as actual demons—or the work of the devil, followed the religious ideas and artistic conventions of his time. But his approach is instructive. The image tells us something about the nature of evil, and the peace gained when applying ourselves to spiritual practice. Unlike the modern superhero overcoming his enemy with brains or brawn, Anthony acknowledges his own suffering and resists externalizing it.
The visual frenzy of Schongauer’s depiction is disorienting. The distinction between the saint’s body and that of his tormentors is frequently lost. The demons are literally part of the man. His possession is represented by this ghastly commingling, the demons’ limbs coterminous with his own. Their collective weight and abuse prevent transcendence. The barren space, with only the edge of a craggy hillside to orient us, emphasizes isolation. Anthony is alone with his fear, doubt, and uncertainty—beasts of his own making. But in his steadfast refusal to cast his inner darkness outward, Anthony teaches us how to wrestle with demons.
Mental and emotional distress, visualized as an aberration of nature, appear as extensions of Anthony’s very limbs. The physical externalization of anxiety and doubt taking monstrous form is present today in the modern film genre of body horror. In the films of David Cronenberg, uncontrollable mutations arise from the interaction of a mind and body radically destabilized. The archetypal monsters of myth and legend, along with those of horror fiction and cinema, symbolize the torments of a traumatic past, self-loathing, or fear of death. Phantasmagoric creatures are the visual representation of our fears around losing control over the body, and ultimately the small ego-self it bounds. Anthony’s temptations were entrenched in his inner darkness. His superpower consisted in the ability to face his fears directly, seeing them for what they were: fantastical creatures of his imagination.
Anthony can’t overpower the demons that beset him on all sides, and he lacks solid ground and shelter. Like him, we must recognize the nature of our incessant thoughts and powerful emotions, which so often hold us in their steely grip. Knowing them as our conditioning and not our true selves, we can detach from them. This detachment drains them of their power, dissolving them in the light of awareness. The process can only begin when we own our demons. The grace of this self-awareness is God’s gift.
When we refuse to see our human darkness, we exalt ourselves at the expense of the other. Isolated and alone, we build walls and project fear on those we see as different, making them our monsters. This binary view of the world, evident in our rampant tribalism, is the seed from which unjust actions arise. It also contributes to the political divisiveness that holds the United States hostage. Nevertheless, peacekeepers tell us we should hear the other side, and that most Americans agree on basic questions about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
“Okay, fine,” I say to myself. But how do we do that with so much disagreement to overcome? How do we practice compassionate listening when we see monsters everywhere? We don’t have to grit our teeth, forcing ourselves through sheer will to do what’s right. That’s a form of battle. Remember that Anthony doesn’t strain, despite being overwhelmed by his demons. We begin with a willingness to learn where others are coming from and what shapes their views. Often, we’ll find a connection that makes compassionate listening much easier. Being aware of our own struggles with darkness and knowing Christ is in all of us, we’re more apt to see aberrant behavior as a form of suffering. This opens the door to compassion.
Unearthing the Roots of Division
When things boiled over on January 6, 2021, at the U.S. Capitol, the media failed to address the systemic forces of class inequality that presaged the violence. Instead, fear and hatred were stoked against the “insurrectionists” who threatened law and order. Although tensions had escalated between the left and right after the 2016 presidential election, January 6th was an apogee. The riot prompted me to look beyond ideological differences to what drove the hatred of the crowd, never so visible to the nation as on that day. The desperate actions were those of a disenfranchised (mostly white male) working class externalizing its demons.
Photo was adapted for publication.
I began thinking about the underlying economic and political causes that led to the riot. Although the violence was unquestionably wrong, understanding it as a reaction to long-standing injustice allowed me to shift my attention to structural inequalities and away from people. As the monsters dissolved, I saw some part of myself in the millions of Americans who’ve been denied a share of the American dream. I could understand the appeal of blaming others for one’s own economic and social hardships. If we can stop demonizing groups and recognize the basis of injustice, it becomes easier to see Christ in others and to address our common problems. In this case, the problem is forty years of dysfunctional American politics.
Social and political polarization increase with rising wealth inequality and economic decline. Change and uncertainty often divide a population into opposing groups, with each seeing the other as a threat to its own identity and self-preservation. This condition is exacerbated by the political class which, abetted by corporate media, has sown discord by promoting fear of our fellow citizens.
“Law and order” campaigns, the “Southern strategy,” and rhetoric about “family values,” have helped the Republican Party shore up support through fear of marginalized communities. Yet many of the same people drawn to “conservative” language are left behind as the party retains or expands policies focused on reducing public services, cutting taxes on the wealthy, feeding a massive military-industrial complex, and deregulation. As Republican leaders concentrate on giveaways to the rich, their surrogates on far-right media manipulate the emotions of less-well-off-white Americans, planting fears, and demonizing “the other.”
Increasingly dependent on corporate money, Democrats have largely ignored the working class. Rallying around “identity politics” and claiming moral imperatives, they assign evil by generalizing conservatives as racist or discriminatory because of their political preferences. Meanwhile, Democratic administrations have continually enacted repressive “free market” policies in line with the interests of the wealthy and powerful.
Neither party is willing to confront economic injustice. The neoliberal ideology upheld by both Republicans and Democrats maintains that “the market” will ensure justice. Hypocrisy runs rampant, as does bipartisan support of neoliberal policies that contribute to class inequality, threaten the environment, and promote militarism in foreign affairs. Political elites and corporate media focus on short-term gain, profiting off divisiveness, a method of control and compliance. As the premises of neoliberalism have become naturalized, our attention has become diverted to “othering” our political opponents.
Biblical justice points the way out of our dilemma. Jesus modeled love and compassion for the poor and oppressed, the marginalized, and the disenfranchised. If we can resist our compulsion to scapegoat others and instead attend to our own darkness, we become the witness, not the judge. Then we have clarity to identify and call out the systemic forces that keep people at the margins of society. Confronting the oppressive systems that divide us against each other is fundamental to Christian discipleship. In the same way that God is just and loving, we’re called to do justice in the name of love.
When we seek to understand others first, compassionate listening flows naturally. Through the relational nature of justice, we honor others’ experiences, lift them up, and share in their dignity. We join with neighbors—often quite different from ourselves—to critically examine modes of power. Through faith, we stand in the way of injustice and promote the common good. Building a just society demands nothing less.
Arthur Aghajanian is a Christian contemplative, essayist, and educator. His work explores visual culture through a spiritual lens. His essays have appeared in a variety of publications, including Ekstasis, Tiferet Journal, Saint Austin Review, The Curator, and many others. He holds an M.F.A. from Otis College of Art and Design. Visit him at https://www.imageandfaith.com