your true self

This past weekend I finally saw what all the fuss has been about: I watched Christopher Nolan’s cinematic rendition of the Odyssey. It’s been a number of years since I last read Homer, and I am no classicist, so I’m ill-qualified to comment on the success (or failure) of Nolan’s interpretation. However, I can at least say that his portrayal of the events on Circe’s island provides some rich fodder for further reflection.

In Homer’s account, when the goddess Circe turns a number of Odysseus’ crew members into pigs, she is silent. Did she do it for fun? Did the divine enchantress simply have a strong distaste for humans? The text doesn’t say. ** Spoiler Alert ** Nolan, on the other hand, has Circe tell us the reason: the true nature of Odysseus and his men was porcine. Although they were lauded in song as “heroes” by their fellow Greeks back home, they were, in essence, little more than an army of pirates, raping and pillaging their way around the eastern Mediterranean. It was, in fact, they themselves who were the “Sea Peoples,” the mysterious marauding sailors that allegedly brought Mycenaean civilization to an end. By turning Odysseus’ crew members into swine, Circe was revealing their “true selves” and was thus administering a form of justice.

This raises the question that all conscientious, introspective persons occasionally (if not frequently) ask of themselves: “What is my true self?”

According to certain strands of pop-psychology and large swathes of the arts and entertainment industry, finding, being, and expressing our authentic self is what life is all about. But what if my true self is an axe murderer? Or in the words of a comedian who shall remain unnamed: “I once asked a friend, ‘Tell me, what is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful?’ He said, ‘I love it because it intensifies your personality; it releases the real you.’ But what if the real you is an %$#@*%?”

According to some philosophies, we have no “true self.” There is no there there. Our “essence” is merely a series of chemical responses to external stimuli; we have no “heart” or “soul,” and so free will, agency, and personal responsibility are only illusions.

Jesus offers a different way of thinking about identity: we are all (both the righteous and the unrighteous) children of “our Father in heaven.” Or as Paul puts it, quoting the ancient pagan poet Aratus, “We, too, are [God’s] offspring” (Acts 17:28).

Before having children I could not understand how mothers of murderers could plead for mercy for their wicked sons. The logical thing to do is sever all ties; the young man is a sociopath, cruel and remorseless, a “son of the devil,” and should be disowned. But love defies logic. And so there’s nothing a son can do that can stop his mother from cherishing him. Just as the father of the prodigal never gave up on his son.

And so it is with us. Good, bad, ugly—our true identity is this: fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of the eternal source of light and life, we are beloved children of God. And because of this, “neither death, nor life . . . nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us” from God’s fatherly love.

None of us, of course, are perfectly obedient children. And some of us are more rebellious than others. Some are truly heartless and hateful; some, like Odysseus’ men at Circe’s table, are grotesquely self-indulgent; some are self-righteous and arrogant. For such as these the path to redemption and reconciliation with God and neighbor may be long and painful. But the hope is that all of us—like the prodigal, who eventually “came to himself”—will come to our true selves and, like Odysseus, by the grace of God, will make it home.