Myth Archives - Rest and Trust

October 29, 2025October 29, 2025

What is the Purpose of Education?

What is the purpose of education? In the parable of the eagle and the hen, a farmer found an abandoned eagle’s egg on the ground. He carefully picked it up and placed it in the nest of one of his hens.

The egg hatched along with the hen’s own chicks. The eagle chick grew up among the chickens and learned to scratch the ground for worms, cluck, and flutter his wings just enough to jump a few feet off the ground. It fully believed itself to be a chicken.

Years passed. The hen, a good parent and a patient teacher, often noticed that this “ugly chick” would, every now and then, pause in the middle of scratching the ground and suddenly gaze up in the sky as if waiting for something.

“What are you doing?” she would say. “You’re big and need twice as much food as any of the other chicks.”

One day, the eagle chick looked up and saw a magnificent bird soaring high above the fields. Its wings were wide and strong as it swooped gracefully through the blue abyss.

“What is that?” the eagle asked the hen, his heart skipping a beat.

“That’s the eagle,” she replied. “The king of the birds. It belongs to the sky. We belong to the earth.”

Something snapped in the little eagle’s heart, and a cry of ultimate yearning burst out of his chest. He dashed forward, spread his wings, and took to the sky.

The hen looked up, tears trickling down her cheeks, and said, “I taught him how to scratch for worms, but he was unhappy. Now he has left the earth, and he is happy. Even though I don’t understand why, it makes me happy too.”

According to the Italian pedagogue Franco Nimbrini, a good teacher is the one who knows that a child needs a guide to become himself. A Guide is not a teacher; he doesn’t need to say anything; he must simply appear. A good teacher knows that their job is to wait for the appearance of the Guide and get out of the way. The teacher’s ultimate happiness is to see the child soar.

The teacher doesn’t always understand why the child is so happy, but a good teacher steps out of the way so that the Guide may increase. The Guide may not even know he is being followed; he is simply soaring in his own element. And that is enough — the child deeply senses the connection.

A good teacher or parent knows that without the Guide, the child will never be truly happy on this earth. That is the whole point of education as it should be. The Latin educere, from which we derive the word education, consists of the prefix e- (“out of” or “from”) and the root ducere (“to lead” or “to draw”).

The German word for education — Bildung — comes from Bild (“image” or “picture”) and the suffix -ung (“action”). It signifies the act of revealing an image within a person. True education happens only when the Guide appears and draws the image of God out of the child.

A good teacher or parent is waiting for the appearance of the Guide and is overjoyed when he appears. He longs to see the Divine spark igniting in the eyes of the child. He longs to see the miracle of educere — the sudden drawing out of the image of God.

True education is our decreasing so that the Guide may increase. False education is our self-increasing that blocks the Guide from appearing. If we see no spark in our children’s eyes, it means no educere is happening. Something is obscuring their vision of the Guide soaring above.

October 21, 2025October 21, 2025

What is Asymmetrical Ethics? Emmanuel Levinas and Beauty and the Beast

What is asymmetrical ethics? The French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, who spent four years as a POW in German camps and whose family was killed by the Nazi in Lithuania, wrote in his book Totality and Infinity (1961):

“The face of the Other comes toward me with its infinite vulnerability, its destitution, its defenseless eyes. It calls me into question and orders me: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

Reflecting on his experience, Levinas’s central question was: “How is ethical responsibility possible after the Holocaust?” How can one regard their torturer as human when he treats them as less than human — in fact, worse than an animal?

An experience like that “calls me into question.” Who am I? For Levinas, the answer lies in what he calls ethical asymmetry. True ethics is never based on mutuality or reciprocity; it does not depend on others treating you in a certain way. Ethics, in its purest form, is always asymmetrical — you are ethical simply because you recognize the face of the Other.

“The face is what forbids me to kill.” Ethics and Infinity (1982)

For Levinas, the main challenge was to continue seeing the face of the one who consistently and radically negates the face of others. But what is the source of ethical asymmetry? How can one keep seeing the human in someone who continually dehumanizes others?

For Levinas, ethical responsibility is not a contract; it is a response — a response to seeing a face. Our capacity to see the Other’s face, regardless of their actions, depends on whether we ourselves have experienced ethical asymmetry. To love, we must have someone who has seen our Face.

I can only treat others as human if I have experienced being treated asymmetrically — loved without condition, regardless of what I do. It is this experience of ethical asymmetry that forbids me to dehumanize others. That is why Beauty and the Beast remains one of the most powerful mythical archetypes of all time.

As G.K. Chesterton puts it,

“There is the great lesson of ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ that a thing must be loved before it is lovable.’”

The 1977 Soviet romantic comedy Office Romance is one of the most beloved films of the Soviet era. A shy, divorced statistician, Anatoly Novoseltsev, unexpectedly falls in love with his stern, irritable, and lonely boss, Ludmila Kalugina. Wounded by a past betrayal, Ludmila has closed herself off from love and prefers to be seen as “an old maid.”

But the moment she realizes she is loved despite all her harshness, something within her breaks. The next day, she arrives at work transformed — the old maid is gone, and everyone in the office is stunned by the beautiful woman they had never truly seen before.

A thing must be loved before it is lovable. No wonder the Hebrew word rachamim (רָחַם), used in Exodus 34:6–7 and usually translated as “compassion” or “mercy,” literally means “womb.” According to the Torah, we exist in the womb of God — we are “en-wombed” in a loving Presence.

When we become aware of that Presence, we are changed. Someone has seen our Face, and we begin to seek the faces of others. It’s our response to being seen. Love is not something we manufacture; it springs from a heart that has been touched by ethical asymmetry.

October 10, 2025October 10, 2025

What Happens When Cupid Hits You With an Arrow?

What happens when Cupid hits you with an arrow? Cupid, the Roman god of love, is often depicted with a bow and arrows. He represents something undeniable in human experience: when we fall in love, we feel pierced — wounded, smitten, and yet strangely alive. Beauty never misses the mark — it strikes us awake.

When we are struck by beauty, it wounds us in the heart. When Cupid shoots, it’s never hit-or-miss. We may lead a loveless life for years on end until, out of the blue, something catches us completely off guard. We stand in awe and suddenly realize there’s no going back.

The mythic intuition behind Cupid’s bow and arrows is this: all of life is archery. We aim at happiness in everything we do—and we often miss. The Greeks named this failure ἁμαρτία (hamartía), from the verb ἁμαρτάνω (hamartánō)—“to miss the mark.” In later Jewish-Christian Greek, hamartía becomes the standard word for “sin.”

When we hear the word “sin,” we hear all sorts of moral connotations. Not so in classical Greek. In Greek, anyone who missed the mark had “sinned.” Sin is what humans do: we hit and miss. We shoot — and miss the mark. We shoot at happiness but don’t get it. That is sin.

The Russian word погрешность (“margin of error”) still shares the root грех (“sin”). Погрешность simply means a limit of error. And yet, paradoxically, there is no limit to human error — unless we open ourselves to being wounded. Beauty never misses the mark; its mark is our hearts.

We shoot for happiness but miss it; it cannot be achieved that way. Happiness dwells at the point of Cupid’s arrow when it comes swooshing out of the blue. To be happy, we must open our hearts to divine arrows.

The only way to protect ourselves from the fiery darts of the Evil One is to make ourselves completely open to the arrows of God. The only way to “sin less” (as in: miss the goal of happiness less) is to allow yourself to be smitten by the One who doesn’t miss.

“Sinning less” is not a matter of effort — our own shooting — but of letting go of all shooting and allowing yourself to be pierced. The fiery darts of the Evil One make us close our hearts. When we are wounded by the poisoned darts of the Evil One, we shut down and stop feeling.

Refusing to feel is the ultimate sin (missing the mark), because by “not feeling” we take our last, desperate shot at some form of “happiness.” Paradoxically, the only true antidote to the poison of satanic darts is Divine love — Cupid’s arrows. When enough Divine arrows pierce our hearts, the poison in satanic darts is neutralized.

One of Estonia’s national parks is divided into several sections — each dedicated to a particular kind of silence. The idea behind the park is that people need to hear the many voices of silence. Each voice opens the heart to be wounded by Divine love.

Cupid doesn’t waste his arrows — he doesn’t shoot at a closed heart. He waits until we have taken all our shots at happiness and become desperate and brokenhearted. A broken heart is much closer to healing than a closed one.

A broken heart can feel. It is vulnerable enough to receive Cupid’s healing arrows. When we are vulnerable and open, we do not miss the mark. We wait in silence for the swoosh of God’s healing arrows to smite us and bring us back from the dead.

October 7, 2025October 7, 2025

Was King Arthur Real or a Legend?

Was King Arthur real or a legend? Has there ever been such a thing as a sane king? Surprisingly, yes. Otherwise, how could we have imagined such mythic figures as King Arthur, Aragorn, or others like them?

In his essay On Fairy Stories, Tolkien suggests that historical Arthur was “thrown into the Pot” of myth-making and boiled there until he emerged as a King of Faerie.

“It seems fairly plain that Arthur, once historical… was also put into the Pot. There he was boiled for a long time, together with many other older figures and devices, of mythology and Faerie, and even some other stray bones of history… until he emerged as a King of Faerie.”

There must have been enough myth in the historical Arthur to justify his becoming the Arthur of legend. Others must have seen something in the man which they later wove into Myth. And one thing the legends continually emphasize is that Arthur never strove for power.

The whole idea behind the Round Table was so that no one — not even the king — would sit at the “head.” The Round Table has no head. It is both Altar and Equalizer: no one presides because everyone is there to offer himself as a sacrifice. But why would Arthur willingly share power?

The answer to this question is just as mythical as the question itself: Arthur knew he wasn’t adequate to rule. That’s why he needed others. A king is only sane if he believes himself inadequate to rule.

C.S. Lewis captured this idea beautifully in The Magician’s Nephew. When Aslan told Frank and Helen that they would be the first King and Queen of Narnia, Frank replied:

“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “and thanking you very much I’m sure (which my Missus does the same) but I ain’t no sort of a chap for a job like that. I never ‘ad much eddycation, you see.”

Aslan asked him if he could do the usual things a king would do, and Frank replied,

“Well, sir,” said the Cabby very slowly, “a chap don’t exactly know till he’s been tried. I dare say I might turn out ever such a soft ‘un. Never did no fighting except with my fists. I’d try – that is, I ‘ope I’d try – to do my bit.”

”Then,” said Aslan, “You will have done all that a King should do.”

There are many people in the world who believe they are ready to be kings. They believe they can rule. But that certainty is the surest sign they cannot — and there is something that rules over them. Sanity is a sensation of being connected to a Power greater than you. You draw your sense of adequacy from Another.

If you feel you are enough, you are not. If you know you are not enough, you are. True kings are keenly aware of their inadequacy to rule. The most insane rulers in history are those who believe they can and should rule. The best of rulers always share power.

They believe in a Higher Power. That’s why they don’t build square tables — they don’t need to preside. They build round tables — a place where they can offer themselves for others who rule together with them. Sanity is a matter of accepting your own powerlessness and realizing that you are not helpless.

There’s a Greater Power than you on which you can rely. Powerlessness and helplessness are not the same; in fact, they are direct opposites. Those who feel powerful are truly helpless. Those who admit their powerlessness are never helpless. If you say: “I ain’t no sort of chap for a job like that,” you will receive all the help in the world.

When you are certain you can, you can’t. When you confess you can’t, you can. Just look around you, and you will see mighty princes and princesses around your Table — the rulers who are ready to lay down their lives for you. With their eyes upon you, you will find the courage to rise and fulfill your calling.”

October 1, 2025October 1, 2025

Invisible Guardians: Who Protected the Borders of the Shire?

Who protected the borders of the Shire? The hobbits were blissfully unaware of who they should thank for the long peace of their land. For many centuries, they lived happily in the Shire, never realizing what terrible creatures roamed just beyond their borders.

Aragorn said:

“Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not”…”

The Shire’s frontiers were carefully watched by Gandalf and by the Rangers of the North, the remnant of the Dúnedain. They held the darkness at bay, while the hobbits remained completely oblivious to the dangers lurking beyond their green pastures.

One of the most mysterious passages in the Bible—2 Thessalonians 2:7—talks about “the mystery of lawlessness that is already at work, and the one who now holds it back will continue to do so till he is taken out of the way.”

Someone is holding back spiritual darkness this very minute. We don’t know who they are. They are skillful with their spiritual blade, and until they are there, chthonic monsters are kept at bay. We sip our coffee, walk in the park, enjoy the sunset, laugh with friends, watch the news, and think that the fates of the world are decided by the politicians.

They are not. The earth is preserved not by might but by salt. How much salt is needed for the earth not to spoil? Not much. A few grains. Even one blessed man may well be enough. Once, Abraham was bargaining with God about the fate of Sodom. He asked if the city would be spared for the sake of fifty righteous men. God said yes.

Abraham kept bargaining: Forty-five? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten? Each time God said “yes.” Eventually, God sent his angels to rescue the last one—Lot. One grain of salt is enough to keep spiritual darkness at bay. Until that one is taken out of the way, all is well.

When chthonic monsters appear at our borders, it is a sure sign that too few Guardians remain. If the Shire is still lush and green, it must be because of Rangers still standing watch at the edges of the land. Rangers are invisible, unrecognized. When we do see them, we scarcely take notice—they look ragged, forlorn, and forgotten.

And who can tell? Maybe the good earth itself endures only because of one old man hidden away in the heart of New York, Moscow, or Beijing. Such is divine irony (from the Greek eironeía—to “feign ignorance,” or to “play the fool”). We imagine that the peace of the world is preserved in the corridors of power, yet in truth, it may be upheld in a lonely hut somewhere deep in the Siberian taiga.

Chthonic monsters are not afraid of politicians or earthly power. They fear salt and light—those who wield the razor-sharp blade of the Spirit and drive them back by their very presence. Divine irony is inscrutable: it would utterly shatter us if, even for a second, we could glimpse the ones for whose sake the sun still rises over the horizon.

The Rangers of the North walk among us unnoticed—unshaven, weary, cloaked in dust. We, the hobbits of the world, laugh at them or dismiss them, never suspecting that our own laughter still rings because someone, somewhere, wields a power beyond our comprehension.

The true balance of the cosmos is preserved not by kings, but by rejected fools who carry the divine breath in their lungs. Their songs may be too quiet for us to hear, and yet strong enough to hold back chthonic monsters until the first gleam of Dawn.

August 12, 2025August 12, 2025

Is Hermeneutics Related to Hermes? How to Reunite the Chards of Babel

Is hermeneutics related to Hermes? The word hermeneutics comes from the ancient Greek verb ἑρμηνεύειν (hermēneuein) — “to interpret, explain, translate”—which is etymologically and conceptually related to Hermes. True hermeneutics comes from Hermes.

The ancients believed that the messages of the gods were too cryptic for humans to grasp without an interpreter. Hermes—Mercury in Roman lore—was seen as the god of speech. In him, the transcendent meanings were translated into human language.

Hermes was a liminal figure—someone “in-between” worlds, times, and meanings. He embodied the idea of interpretation as a journey across a threshold. To truly understand a divine message, we must be carried from one realm into another—borne on winged sandals.

Without this journey, there is no understanding. Understanding is less a matter of data analysis than a passage between worlds. We must be transported across the threshold by Hermes himself. This ancient personification of understanding was, in its way, a prefiguration of “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

The Logos becomes a felt Presence so that we might understand God. Echoing the descent of the Logos to earth, C.S. Lewis describes the descent of Mercury in That Hideous Strength in terms that are almost Pentecostal:

“There came an instant at which both men [Ransom and Merlin] braced themselves… All the fragments—needle‑pointed desires, brisk merriments, lynx‑eyed thoughts—went rolling to and fro like glittering drops and reunited themselves. It was well that both men had some knowledge of poetry… For Ransom… it was heavenly pleasure. He found himself sitting within the very heart of language, in the white‑hot furnace of essential speech… For the lord of Meaning himself, the herald, the messenger, the slayer of Argus, was with them.” That Hideous Strength, “The Descent of the Gods.”

It was the felt presence of Mercury that brought celestial clarity to Ransom and his friends. And it was his felt presence that ultimately overthrew that hideous strength whose power chiefly came from perverting essential speech. What is essential speech? It’s the “reunited” speech that slays Argus—the giant with a hundred eyes, a fitting symbol of the ever-watchful N.I.C.E.

Broken speech can only be made whole in Pentecost. The fire of Pentecost reforges language, gathering the chards scattered by the confusion of Babel. It is the felt presence of the Lord of Meaning that enables us to understand. Yet in our own day, hermeneutics has been severed from Hermes—through the assumption that meaning can exist apart from Presence.

Unless the Word is enfleshed, it remains intangible and therefore hidden. There is no hermeneutics without an encounter with Hermes. Hermeneutics is often treated as an objective method of extracting meaning from a text, as if meaning resides solely in the words. But true meaning can only be found in the felt Presence of the Word.

During Covid, most of us met online, and for a while we thought it was no different from meeting in person. Yet after a couple of years of staring at screens, we realized how much meaning we were missing. We craved flesh-and-blood people. We longed for the eyes, the touch, the embrace. But why? All the words were conveyed just fine. The words were there—Hermes was not.

Without the descent of Hermes we can’t feel the heavenly pleasure of being “in the very heart of Language,” which is true hermeneutics. We hear words through headphones, see faces on screens, yet our hearts yearn for more. For what? For embodied Meaning—for the “Word made flesh.” And then, at last, the Covid restrictions were lifted, and we saw real human faces again.

In that moment, many of us realized—in a flash of Platonic anamnesis—that meaning cannot be digitized. It can only be read in the living contours of a real human face. Words without a body may denote, but they do not mean.

“We should not forget that there is more to the world than what we can interpret. The materiality and immediacy of our experiences are just as important.” Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht, Production of Presence

February 24, 2025February 24, 2025

What is True Art? Tolkien and Heidegger on Art vs. Machine

What is true art? Speaking of “The Machine” in On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien contrasts it with organic, sub-creative work of a true artist or storyteller.

By the [Machine] I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of development of the inherent inner powers or talents—or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills.

So, what is the Machine? It’s anything external I use to force my will upon the world. According to Tolkien, the Machine differs from Art (sub-creation) in that it arises from a desire to amplify self-will rather than from an attunement to the Music of Ilúvatar.

All true Art, which is the province of the Elves, proceeds from one’s inner alignment with the Great Music. The Elves first hear the Music and then express it through their Art. Their purpose is to attune to the Thought of Ilúvatar in all things and to pour this harmony into the world. In contrast, the purpose of the Machine-creator is to attune to self-will and devise ways to impose it upon the outer world.

Art is prayer springing from: “Thy will be done”; the Machine is anti-prayer springing from: “My will be done.” Art is internal; the Machine is external. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien insists that evil cannot be defeated by wielding the Power of the Ring.

You can make the Ring into an allegory of our own time, if you like: an allegory of the inevitable fate that waits for all attempts to defeat evil power by power. Letter 96 to Christopher

When we use external means to defeat external means we amplify the external means. The Machine perpetuates the Machine. Power cannot defeat power. Paradise cannot be achieved through external means. Only the renunciation of power can overcome power. Art is the ultimate renunciation of external power and amplification of the internal power—the intrinsic power of Being.

That’s why the Art of the Elves is not technology. It may look like technology—Elvish ropes, robes, fials, boats, lembas bread, blades, ploughs, bows, harps, bowls, etc.—its purpose is not domination but the manifestation of the Great Music in the world. All Art taps into spiritual power and brings it into the physical realm, which is the ultimate triumph over evil.

The “products” of Art reveal the Music. That’s why the Elvish rope burns Gollum’s neck—he can’t bear the “sound” of the Great Music. That’s why all Elvish things ward off evil, not through external force but by the light they emanate. The “power” of Sting lies not in its external properties but in how much Divine light it carries.

Elvish tools—chisels, harps, hammers, bowls—are not technology in the conventional sense of the word but an organic part of the creative process. Elvish boats are carved with Elvish knives, each infused with a prayer to Elbereth. Elvish tools are not “external means” to bend reality to the Elvish will; they are an outer expression of their inner attunement to the Higher Will. So, what is true art?

As Heidegger says in his essay The Question Concerning Technology, modern technology is not just an instrument — it’s a way of revealing (aletheia). It reveals how we view the world. It is a Gestell (enframing) — a rigid framework that configures our vision, causing us to see everything as a resource. Its purpose is to order and command nature, not to listen to its Song.

Modern technology doesn’t hear any Song, and it teaches us not to hear it either. It limits our perception of reality, reducing everything—including humans—to mere means to an end. After renouncing the nature of modern technology as a Gestell, Heidegger concludes,

Because the essence of technology is nothing technological, essential reflection upon technology and decisive confrontation with it must happen in a realm that is, on the one hand, akin to the essence of technology and, on the other, fundamentally different from it. Such a realm is art.

January 6, 2025January 6, 2025

Does Magic Exist in Middle-Earth?

Does magic exist in Middle-Earth? After the Company had received miraculous gifts from the Elves of Lothlórien — lembas bread, ropes made of hithlain, superlight boats, and “magic” cloaks — Pippin asked:

‘Are these magic cloaks?’ asked Pippin, looking at them with wonder.

‘I do not know what you mean by that,’ answered the leader of the Elves. ‘They are fair garments, and the web is good, for it was made in this land. They are Elvish robes certainly, if that is what you mean. Leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lorien that we love; for we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make.’

Whatever Elves make looks like technology but feels like music. They make in the law in which they were made. They infuse all they make with Music of Iluvatar whence they came. They hearken unto the Music and capture it in whatever their hands touch. All they create is prayer — attuning to the celestial Music and letting it flow into the world.

Music doesn’t manipulate. Beauty never coerces; it invites. Take it or leave it. It’s not going to force you. The Machine, on the other hand, does force. It is not made from a desire to capture the Music. It is made from a desire to dominate. The Machine is the opposite of prayer. Prayer is about: “Thy will be done”; technology is about: “My will be done.”

The heart of the Machine is bulldozing reality to fit my will. The heart of prayer is tuning in to the invisible Law behind all things and reflecting it in whatever you do. That’s why the art of the Elves is not technology even though it looks like technology. Their creations are spun from prayer — their attunement to the Great Music.

When you pray, you create art. When you seek to bend reality to your desires, you build the Machine. When you pray, you don’t think about your desires — your only desire is to become small and be caught by the mighty Flow of Beauty. When you wish to dominate, all you think about is how to force the world to fulfill your desires.

The fundamental difference between art and technology lies in the will. It’s either: “Thy will be done” or: “My will be done.” As Martin Buber pointed out, God is either Thou or “it.” When God is Thou, he invites you into a personal relationship with him — to join the Great Dance. When God is “it,” no relationship is possible. The only way to relate to “it” is through domination.

When we don’t see the Divine behind visible phenomena, we seek to dominate the phenomena. They become mere instruments to fulfill my wishes. If I see the world as “it,” not Thou, I create the Machine. If I see God as Thou, not it, I see his Presence behind all phenomena and create Art.

Art may look very similar to technology, but it feels like Music. Art is humble; its desire is to become small so the Music can be big. That’s why all the Elvish gifts had such incredible power. They were infused with the power of the Music of creation captured through prayer and contemplation.

“Spirit is not in the I, but between the I and the Thou.” – Martin Buber

August 24, 2024August 30, 2024

Why Did Tolkien Like Trees?

Why did Tolkien like trees? Trees are fascinating — they grow upward and downward simultaneously. Their root system, if the soil is deep enough, resembles the way the branches grow.

The tree stretches itself both up and down at the same time. The more grounded it is, the more it stretches its hands to the Sun. The more it stretches its hands to the Sun, the more grounded it is.

The symbolism of the tree is vast and manifold. Ultimately, the tree is an image of who we are. We have two legs to stand firmly on the ground and two hands to reach to the Sun. J.R.R. Tolkien, a great lover of trees, captured this symbolism in Galadriel’s strange gift to Sam — a seed of the mallorn-tree.

Sam was the gardener. He was “down to earth.” A perfect helper for Frodo, he could always return him to sanity. Hobbits represent rootedness. They lived in the roots of the trees where they dug their smials. After living in the roots for centuries, they became rooted in the soil. They were, so to say, the roots of the world.

And yet, Sam yearned to see the Elves. He was rooted and grounded and yet, his hands spread out to the Sun. The more you are rooted, the more you grow. He was down to earth, and yet his soul longed for the lofty beauty of the Elves. The Elves of Lothlórien lived in the trees. That’s where they built their houses with flets. They lived among the branches and the leaves. They were in touch with the beauty of heaven.

Galadriel knew that Shire would soon be uprooted, so she gave Sam the undying symbol of new hope. The mallorn tree was a symbol of both rootedness and loftiness. In it, the hobbits met with the Elves. Sam and his descendants would live in the roots, but they would always look up at the tree top waving in the wind and think of the beauty of Lothlórien.

Galadriel gave Sam the gift of himself. He was the mallorn-tree. Rooted in the soil, he yearned for the skies.

“He [Sam] took the seed in his hand, and looked at it with wonder. ‘This is a gift from the Lady Galadriel,’ he said. ‘A piece of the tree of Lothlórien, a piece of the Elves, and of her grace. A thing that might grow into a living memory of a land that was once so beautiful. I will plant it in the Party Field where the old tree stood.’”

We are all trees. We have a dual nature. We are from the earth, and we are from heaven. We are hobbits and Elves at the same time. We live on the Vine that grows up to the sky. We are its branches. Our roots go down into the earth, and our hands reach up to the Sun. No wonder on many medieval frescoes, Christ was depicted as a Vine with disciples sitting on its branches. We are the Tree as we participate in the great Vine, which is the Tree of Life.

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August 20, 2024August 20, 2024

What is Satan’s Plan for Deceiving People?

What is Satan’s plan for deceiving people? I remember watching a lecture on YouTube by a KGB professor who taught a class on how world elites rule over societies.

He said, “Imagine there is a truth and a lie. It’s a huge mistake to place common people between the truth and a lie and let them decide which is which. The truth will always prevail. It is too self-evident. The way to rule the masses is to always keep people between two lies.”

When you keep people between two lies, they will be distracted enough not to see the truth. They will split into two groups and start fighting each other. Each group will clearly see the lie of the other. Neither will see their own. Human nature is such that people never see problems with their own position but always find fault with the opposite one.

When I heard that, I thought, “How viciously insightful! If it isn’t the very definition of diabolos, I don’t know what is.” In Greek, diabolos means “the one who throws apart.” The devil invents two lies and places people in between them. The more we stare at the lies (which always contain some truth), the more we are drawn apart.

The devil keeps fanning into the flame and polarizing people until they start demonizing each other. When people fight, they are too distracted to see the truth. All they think about is how wrong the other side is. This is the best scenario for ruling over the masses. They will want a ruler.

St. Augustine said,

“The truth is like a lion; you don’t have to defend it. Let it loose; it will defend itself.”

According to the KGB professor, it is a grave mistake to place people between the truth and a lie. The truthfulness of the truth is too obvious to miss. It doesn’t need any defending. When you see it, you know it. Seeing is enough. That’s why the devil’s goal is never to let people see it.

Truth is too obvious to miss. When you see it, you know it. It’s not propositional — it doesn’t require proof. It’s experiential — you simply encounter it. When you encounter it, you can either embrace it or turn away. But you can’t help recognizing it. That’s why when the devil tries to trap Jesus into taking sides, he always refuses. Truth doesn’t get polarized.

When people encounter Jesus, they forget about their differences and see the truth about themselves. “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar?” If Jesus had taken sides, he would have lost. He answered in such a way that everyone was lost. He left them dumbfounded, “Hm… what belongs to Caesar and what to God?”

The issue of whether to pay taxes to Caesar or not was not the real issue. These were the two lies people were placed between. Neither was right. The real issue was that they couldn’t see in their hearts what belonged to Caesar and what to God. If they could, they wouldn’t have been polarized.

When we encounter the Truth, we quickly realize,

“Let God be true, but every man a liar.”

As John of the Cross said,

“In the divine union, all contraries are reconciled, and the soul experiences the peace that comes from the resolution of all opposites.”

The devil creates a strong illusion of seeming contradictions. He places us between two opposites, and we think they are absolute. We don’t see the Absolute. When we encounter the Absolute, all opposites are resolved instantly. We know it by the peace we feel.