There is an inscription in the Bayeux Tapestry which reads Isti mirant stella, or “these men wonder at the star.”  The scene in which it appears depicts a group of men pointing to a highly stylized image of Halley’s Comet, which made an appearance around the time of the Norman conquest of England.

It occurs to me that a sense of salutary wonder, a sense of awe, is both a necessary attribute for survival, and an efficacious way of warding off feelings of despair.  Our world, with all its attendant mysterious properties, can never be fully known by us; we inhabit only a fleck of foam perched atop an immense wave, poised to crash on a dimly-known shore.  Our efforts to exert control over our environment seem foolish when we consider the apparent randomness of the particles and forces composing the threads and fibers of the universe’s vast tapestry.  We must be animated by a faith in some higher purpose, and a loftier calling. Some men are conscious of the purpose for which they were chosen, while others are carried insensibly along by the ocean’s currents.  Yet both arrive at their destinations.  We should rejoice in our existence, in our present being; for our sentient, corporeal forms have been chosen to bear witness to the marvels of this physical world. A lack of wonder is nothing more than ingratitude. The delusive influence of physical allurements make a man forget the destiny of his soul, and siphon his energies into activities that not only are of no use to him, but are in fact harmful. He who places his faith in these seductions finds himself to be like the dog who, enticed by the residual scent of meat adhering to a bone, gnaws it until his mouth becomes raw and bloody.

But what is the origin of despair, and by what means does it persist?  Despair is birthed in faithlessness, and is sustained by a want of courage.  I recall a scene in the film The Exorcist, where Father Karras asks Father Merrin why the possessory demon chose this one girl to torment.  “Why?  Why this girl?” he despairingly asks.  Father Merrin responds, “I think the point is to make us despair—to see ourselves as animal, and ugly.  To make us reject the possibility that God could love us.”  And this has the ring of truth.  The purpose of the demonic possession was not so much to target the girl, but to target us:  to cause us to embrace despair and cynicism.  But it is not so easy to reject despair in the face of overwhelming tragedy or evil; rare is the man who can withdraw into his fortress of the mind, gather his strength, and return to the fight refreshed and renewed!

We must see ourselves as worthy instruments of a Divine Creator.  We must see ourselves as created in a divine image, as beings capable of apprehending, so to speak, the most elevated plane of spiritual existence.  Cynicism and hardness of heart are unworthy of the man of virtue; they are craven emotions that sap moral strength and corrode the soul’s resilience.  The greatest evil of which Cain was guilty may have been despair.  There can be little doubt that this was what consumed him, for in Genesis 4:13 we read,

And Cain said unto the Lord, my punishment is greater than I can bear.

Yet it never occurred to him that a courageous faith might have banished the suffering birthed by his despair, and that such a faith might have given him the relief he so needed.  The very same self-destructive despair overcame Judas, as we read in Matthew 27:5:

And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.

Evidently Judas never saw himself as worthy of forgiveness.  It is true that his sin was abominable, as there is nothing so foul as betrayal; but had he sought forgiveness, it is very likely that he would have found it forthcoming.  It seems that Judas was motivated more by despair than by treachery.  It does not seem likely, to me at least, that a man would betray his beloved companion, with whom he had lived, eaten, traveled, and suffered, for money alone.  The real motivation must be something deeper, something more poisonous.  And if we reflect on the possibilities, we must eventually arrive at this conclusion:  Judas was possessed by an evil force, which can only be despair.  We read in John 13:2 the following words:

And supper being ended, the devil having now put into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, to betray him.

This malevolent force, which was “put into the heart of Judas Iscariot,” was despair.  This interpretation corresponds what was said above about the dialogue in The Exorcist between Merrin and Karras.  Despair is a weapon of the devil; its goal is to make us see ourselves as animal and ugly beings, unworthy of the love of a Divine Creator.  It does not matter whether you believe literally in these things:  we are speaking here of moral truths that transcend the confines of theological nomenclature or argument.  Let us preserve our optimism in the face of every obstacle and tragedy; let us feel awe and wonder, and allow their radiance to banish darkness and gloom; let us see despair as a cowardly retreat from our responsibilities as the carriers of the divine spark of Reason.  The man of virtue, the true philosopher, seeks to structure his life and personal habits in such a way that he develops a nearly impregnable armor against despair.  In his Tusculan Disputations, Cicero tells us:

For how few philosophers can be found who have actually structured their lives, and arranged their personal habits, to comply with what reason demands! How few there are who think that the doctrines of their particular school were not intended to be a way of showing off knowledge, but were meant to be rules of life! How few who have the discipline to practice self-control, and obey the very rules that they preach to others! Some of them display such irresponsibility and arrogance that it would have been much better for them had they never been taught anything. Some are consumed with greed, and still others covet fame. Many are enslaved by lascivious impulses, to the extent that we find a shocking gulf between what they preach and how they actually live—something that I myself consider utterly contemptible. [II.4]

I heard recently from a friend who was visiting the ruins of a Roman aqueduct in Skopje, Macedonia.  It was a ruin, but a noble one.  After so many centuries, the marvelous concrete was still intact in many places.  The reddish bricks were still in place, having rested peacefully there for more than twenty centuries.  This creation of man was still standing after all these years.  Who among us, casting his sight across the interval of centuries, and inspecting the glorious and perennial works of human hands, as well as the valorous deeds of countless soldiers, scientists, saints, and scholars, could ever permit despair or ingratitude to enter his heart?  So let us say to ourselves:  men like me created all this, and I will never betray them.   

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Read more in the new, original translation of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations.