The Hero with a Thousand Casseroles
Can we still be heroes if we stay at home?
Earlier this week I entered a conversation in the comments of Peco’s excellent reflections on “Disruptive spirituality inside the Machine.” I think most of us can imagine, even from that brief quote, what “the Machine” means (for a deep dive, check out Paul Kingsnorth’s writings over at The Abbey of Misrule). But one of the best ways to understand what these writers mean by “the Machine” might be the Apostle Paul’s words from Ephesians 6:12: “the rulers, […] the authorities, […] the powers of this world’s darkness” (ESV).
Peco was summarizing a larger conversation about what Christians should understand as a faithful response to life within the Machine. Some writers look hopefully to the re-emergence of a “wild Christianity,” including a new generation of Desert Fathers and Mothers. Peco points out that, however necessary the witness of the desert might be, most of us can’t really leave the Machine altogether. Most of us can’t reasonably live, work, and raise our families without participating in systems shaped by the rules and authorities of this present age.
For better or for worse, most of us must stay at home, even while others shed every connection to unjust systems, abandon all wicked practices, and reject all degrading cultural norms, heading off into the desert to fight the Devil and his Machine in heroic fashion.
From ancient saints to modern missionaries, this pattern of departure and daring-deeds has been a powerful narrative of spiritual disruption. Even those “heroes of the faith” who didn’t abandon civilization usually followed the model of the biblical apostles: leaving their homelands and risking their lives on journeys to faraway lands, so that others might know that good news is coming.
These stories of Heroes-Who-Leave are a vital part of the Christian witness, but what about those of us with toddlers and mortgages? Is there any heroism in our less visible battles with the Machine? The Bible seems to say there is. First, Paul admits to anxious Christians in Corinth that unmarried Christians have the freedom to care only about “the things of the Lord,” while the cares of married men and women are “divided” (1 Corinthians 7:32-34). And yet, he urges his listeners to live faithfully in whatever form of life “that the Lord has assigned to [you,] and to which [you] have been called” (7:17).
As we have discussed in other newsletters, hospitality is without question part of a faithful response to a weary world. In its obedience to the glory of the homemaking God (Genesis 2); the call of the prophets (Isaiah 58:7); and the words of the homeless Messiah (Matthew 25:35), hospitality also has the potential to be an act of “disruptive spirituality” against the dark powers of the world.
But why is it helpful to think about hospitality in terms of heroism? Shouldn’t we be able to act faithfully without thinking of ourselves as heroes? I’m still puzzling over this question, but here’s why I think it might be helpful to think about hospitality as a heroic act.
Such language keeps us awake to the significance of what we are doing (or what we could be doing) in our homes. Joseph Campbell popularized the idea that everyone must undertake a heroic journey of transformation in his landmark book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and his work was so popular because it suggested that everyone has the potential to be a hero if they could only see into the deeper patterns of their lives. Campbell’s model fits very well into the experiences of those who undertake apostolic leaps away from home. I’ll admit, though, that like many women, I never felt quite “at home” in Campbell’s paradigm: his journey might work for an unfettered woman like Eowyn, but for those us caring for little ones, or aging parents, or gardens, the idea that we need to abandon everything for a call to adventure sounds like abandoning the responsibilities God has given us. We wonder: can there be a hero who bakes a thousand casseroles and changes the sheets on the guest bed a thousand times? Who spends a thousand hours in the garden with her little ones, inviting anyone who passes to harvest a tomato or share a cup of tea?
The Bible says YES, even as it uses heroic images and resonances to describe a life of faith. Paul uses the image of a dedicated athlete who “fights the good fight, finishes the race,” and receives a victor’s crown (2 Timothy 4:7-8), but he also describes an ideal Christian leader as one who is “hospitable, […] gentle and peaceable” (1 Timothy 3:2-3). Centuries earlier, the writer of Proverbs described a “valorous” woman who uses her strength and resources to defend the needy and establish the good of her household (Provers 31:20). If the Holy Spirit led biblical writers to use heroic language to inspire our faith and good work, we need not be ashamed to do likewise.
Frankly, it can be weary work to make all those suppers and do all that laundry for your own people, much less when you bring guests into your home — just as any readers of The Lord of the Rings knows that it’s also pretty weary work to journey through Mordor when you’re trying to save the free world from evil. And it’s precisely during those long hours that we need to hear the distant trumpets blowing, calling us to persevere and take heart.
When I first began researching my book proposal on hospitality, I found a curious quote in a collection of Orthodox monastic writings that inspired me to think about both the value and costs of hospitality:
The Martyrs won Paradise through their blood; the Ascetics, through their ascetic life. Now you, my brethren, who have children, how will you win Paradise? By means of hospitality, by giving to your brothers who are poor, blind, or lame.1
My fellow Protestants may find the language of “winning Paradise” a little off-putting at first ("Isn't that works-based?!"), but we know that if we are "winning" anything as Christians, it is only because "we are more than conquerors through him who loved us” (Romans 8:37).
Christian hospitality is heroic because, like any act of resistance to the Machine, it puts us in direct conflict with the powers and principalities of this dark world. It might seem laughable to imagine as a casserole as a weapon of spiritual warfare, but if you’ve ever served supper to an addict on the verge of a breakdown, or cradled a foster child howling from nightmares, it becomes easier to remember what is really at stake in all this.
I have much more to say about all this — stories of heroic hospitality to share, connections to the Battle of Hogwarts, and maybe even a few casserole recipes. But first I’d like to hear from you. Is this language of heroism helpful as you reflect on hospitality you’ve extended or received? As you think about enlarging your practices of hospitality? Or are there better paradigms for inspiring our faithful response to life within the Machine? As always, I look forward to hearing from you in the comments.
Kosmas the Aetolian, an 18th-century Orthodox monk declared “equal to the apostles.” From Dr. Constantine Cavarnos., Institute for Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies., Belmont, Massachusetts., pp.81-94
This is the heroism of Christ as Deacon. In the moment before it sunk in that he would be horribly crucified, and all his disciples anticipated a traditionally heroic savior, our tied a towel around his waist and washed his disciples feet. In that moment, Christ upended traditional heroic narratives forever. Not even the pagan fan boy Joseph Campbell could put that genie back in the bottle.
Thanks for this wonderful post Bethany. I fully agree that we need casserole heroes!
"Most of us can’t reasonably live, work, and raise our families without participating in systems shaped by the rules and authorities of this present age." As you point out, there are ways that we can be heroes without leaving our homes. Living within the system, but finding ways to "thrive in the margins" (as Jack Leahy notes). This can take the form of raising children, homeschooling, hospitality, staying connected to the land (even if it is just a small garden), rejecting the dopamine-drip of tech, and fostering community among other Machine resistors.