Jordan Peterson and the Devouring Mother

In one of my recent facebook posts, I pointed out that we as a society are failing our youths and we are failing drastically. When I had posted this sad observation, I expected a serious discussion on how we can help our young neighbors, but instead I got drawn into a petty argument about laws. This modern day insistense that we must have an excess of institutional supervision creates nothing but a rule of the devouring mother, and sadly it has given birth to a lot of angry and directionless boys.

The root of the problem lies deep, like ancient bones underneath enormous layers of earth. That is what many of our laws are; they are sacrificial, drawn out of the scapegoats of our ancestors. When we cling on to laws with demands that a few be sacrificed instead of the whole nation, we get kids like the Columbine and Parkland shooters.

The detached culture which we live in transforms a large portion of the youth within a society into bitter, resentful, and alienated human beings. Is it any wonder that we see murders committed in schools or playgrounds? And we look for quick fixes from institutions, where none exists at all. Even worse! We are willing to turn away from the dark alleys, where state laws have sacrificed a good portion of the population so that those who are not sacrificed can live in safety.

But enough about worldly laws, and onto the main concern. A friend of mine asked me how we can guide our young neighbors out of the cages of misery. I suggested to him that every individual in society must voluntarily help those young people who are close to them. There are many out there who are neglected in a variety of unbelievable ways. Here I will give a vivid illustration on how we can help the youngsters around us. The following is from a book that I'm currently reading.

I saw a four-year old boy allowed to go hungry on a regular basis. His nanny had been injured, and he was being cycled through the neighbours for temporary care. When his mother dropped him off at our house, she indicated that he wouldn’t eat at all, all day. “That’s OK,” she said. It wasn’t OK (in case that’s not obvious). This was the same four-year-old boy who clung to my wife for hours in absolute desperation and total commitment, when she tenaciously, persistently and mercifully managed to feed him an entire lunch-time meal, rewarding him throughout for his cooperation, and refusing to let him fail. He started out with a closed mouth, sitting with all of us at the dining room table, my wife and I, our two kids, and two neighbourhood kids we looked after during the day. She put the spoon in front of him, waiting patiently, persistently, while he moved his head back and forth, refusing it entry, using defensive methods typical of a recalcitrant and none-too-well-attended two-year old.

She didn’t let him fail. She patted him on the head every time he managed a mouthful, telling him sincerely that he was a “good boy” when he did so. She did think he was a good boy. He was a cute, damaged kid. Ten not-too-painful minutes later he finished his meal. We were all watching intently. It was a drama of life and death.

“Look,” she said, holding up his bowl. “You finished all of it.” This boy, who was standing in the corner, voluntarily and unhappily, when I first saw him; who wouldn’t interact with the other kids, who frowned chronically, who wouldn’t respond to me when I tickled and prodded him, trying to get him to play—this boy broke immediately into a wide, radiant smile. It brought joy to everyone at the table. Twenty years later, writing it down today, it still brings me to tears. Afterward, he followed my wife around like a puppy for the rest of the day, refusing to let her out of his sight. When she sat down, he jumped in her lap, cuddling in, opening himself back up to the world, searching desperately for the love he had been continually denied. Later in the day, but far too soon, his mother reappeared. She came down the stairs into the room we all occupied. “Oh, SuperMom,” she uttered, resentfully, seeing her son curled up in my wife’s lap. Then she departed, black, murderous heart unchanged, doomed child in hand. She was a psychologist. The things you can see, with even a single open eye. It’s no wonder that people want to stay blind.
--Jordan Peterson, '12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos'

It is this closeness that transforms and saves lives. It involves the 'soiling of one's own hands,' as my friend Andrea Romano says. Dostoevsky depicts this beautifully in 'Crime and Punishment' through the character of Sonya who helps and redeems a murderer with nothing but love, humility, and genuine concern.

I do not speak of a coming utopia. A utopia is not the same as the kingdom of God, for the ushering in of a utopia needs violent revolution and sacrifices of scapegoats. To say that we need more scapegoats until we are ready for Christ is to say that we're one execution away from utopia. Those who says that we are one scapegoat away from the kingdom of God are the real dreamers of utopia.

I speak of action and full participation. I speak of taking up responsibility. This way is harder. This way is the imitation of Christ. I'm speaking of the carrying of crosses and bearing the burden of suffering; this is hardly utopian. This Christ-like love which was illustrated in Dr. Peterson's book, not the love (at gunpoint) of the world, is what we need, and we need it urgently, before the cycle of vengeance comes full circle yet again. We can either behave like the black-hearted mother in Dr. Peterson's story, or we can become like Dostoevsky's Sonya. The choice is yours.

The violent birth of Dionysus

Many sceptics dismiss the Gospel accounts as mere fiction due to their similarities to prior mythology. There is a popular belief in circulation today that Christ himself was an imagined archtypal hero in the same vein as Zeus or Archilles. According to the adherents of this belief, the Christian God is Zeus retold, minus the virtue of strength and will to power. This was certainly similar to the view held by Nietzsche. According to René Girard, this line of reasoning shamelessly misses the point and, therefore, fails to see the real uniqueness of the gospel stories, a uniqueness wherein lies the salvation of mankind.

Take for instance the similarities of the divine birth narratives. In the ancient mythological stories, there are many instances of the gods copulating with mortal women in order to give birth to hybrid divine heroes. The birth of Dionysus comes to mind. Zeus, the chiefest of all gods, becomes the father of Dionysus through a mortal woman by the name of Semele. Similarly, the gospels also speak of a divine being, the Holy Spirit, conceiving Jesus inside the mortal Mary. Here the sceptic will go, "Aha! Do you see the origin of your 'divinely inspired' nativity story now?" In saying this, the sceptic misses the point. There is a world of a difference between the two in one key aspect: the issue of force, namely violence. Girard explains this in his book, 'Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World':

"Stories of this kind always involve more than a hint of violence. Zeus bears down on Semele, the mother of Dionysus, like a beast of prey upon its victim, and in effect strikes her with lightning. The birth of the gods is always a kind of rape...These monstrous couplings between men, gods and beasts are in close correspondence with the phenomenon of reciprocal violence and its method of working itself out. The orgasm that appeases the god is a metaphor for collective violence."

Compare this story to the nativity accounts, where Mary's status, unlike Semele's, is elevated by God to that of nobility. In the gospel of Luke, the angel Gabriel greets Mary by saying, "Hail, O favored one, the Lord is with you!" God makes known to Mary that she will bring forth his son, to which Mary replies, "Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word." There is a complete absence of violence and coercion in the virgin birth story. There is no element of force whatsoever. This is no coincidence, neither is it a proclamation of harmlessness as Nietzsche would have it.

For centuries, humanity has drawn a particular image of God that uses coercion combined with sheer might in order to impose divine will on creation. This human depiction of God is okay with, and even demands, ritual sacrifice. Our modern day society, despite the lack of extravagant mythologies, still operates under this same principle. We often think that for justice to prevail there has to be scapegoating, and for good to come about there has to be coercion. Our societies operate under this false precedent that good comes out from using evil against evil. This kind of idea, when put into practice, gives rise to war, rape, abortion, homicide, domestic abuse, and countless other malevolent acts. We can observe this phenomenon acting out vividly when the state, the religious priesthood of our time, sanctions theft against its own citizens and throws non-violent dissenters into cages like wild animals.

In the myth of Dionysus, Semele, under the might of coercion, becomes nothing more than a means to an end. She is glorified in her utter humiliation. This is what pagan sacrificial culture leads to, and what our modern day pseudo-pagan culture continues to enforce. Through the rape of a fragile mortal woman, heroes and deities are born, and order is brought forth. On the other hand, the God of the Bible brings order through non-violence. The mortal and vulnerable is proclaimed to be the image bearer of God. Mary is honored and praised by the angel Gabriel, and later her dignity is defended by God. From the elevation of Mary comes the true hero Jesus.

Jesus is the perfection, redefinition, and embodiment of true heroism. The hero of the Bible does not act out the carnal, coercive nature of fallen man, but, rather, exhibits bravery and determination in perfect combination with gentleness and compassion. There is no weakness in him because the powers and principalities of the world holds no power over him. In him resides the perfect balance of the cosmos. He is able to triumph over evil, not with the parasitical force of Satan, but through the reversal of the Satanic contagion itself.

The gospel revelation encourages us to be imitators of this mighty yet gentle Christ. Through the imitation of Jesus, we are unable to extort goodness from our neighbor. We cannot rape anymore Semeles. We cannot scapegoat those vulnerable than ourselves. We cannot demonize or lynch our enemies. The catharsis from all these ungodly acts are wearing thin. We are instead called to universal chivalry for our fellow human beings. We are left with no choice but to infect the world with the love of Christ through the love of our neighbor.

Ramayana and the birth of 'high morality'

The study of ancient literature, particularly the great mythologies, helps us understand the origin of culture and society. Within each heroic and magical tale, and beneath each culture that springs from that tale is the story of a lynch mob and a sacrificed victim.

Take for example, the great poem of Ramayana. This epic poem tells us the story of a banished prince who lives in exhile as a hunter along with his wife. The name of this prince is Ram and his wife Sita. One day, a wicked king named Ravana deceives and kidnaps Sita; he takes her and imprisons her within his fortified kingdom of Lanka. Ram, the archetypal hero, must now undertake a hazardous journey out of his home and into the wild in order to save his wife. He raises an army and invades Lanka. After a fierce battle, he slays Ravana and thus saves his wife.

A Jungian analysis of this story reveals the archetypal hero's journey. Much like St. George, Ram ventures out into the unknown, confronts the dragon, and saves the virgin. But a Girardian examination reveals a deeper truth--a truth that is more real and grittier than that of an extravagant fable with moral truths.

The text of Ramayana alludes to past struggles that may have occurred in circa. 1500 BC between armies from Persia/Central Asia and Dravidian natives. In those days, it was not uncommon for scribes to romanticize the feats of their beloved patron kings. In the light of this knowledge, the Ramayana can be interpreted as a war between two kings, or maybe it is the sacrifice of a defeated king. In traditional artistic depictions, Ravana is usually painted or carved out as a powerful man with dark skin and features similar to that of Dravidians. Also, his kingdom of Lanka is thought to be situated somewhere around or within modern-day Sri Lanka.

Once Ram has defeated Ravana, he establishes a period of 'Ram Rajya'--a culture/state of high morality. This is reminiscent of Cain's feat after he murders his brother. Like Ram, Cain founds the first civilized society. And civilization, culture, society, and even language are all the result of violence, specifically the sacrifice of a single victim, who is later deified because of the catharsis that comes from his demise.

I have personally found Jung's study of the unconscious mind fascinating, but I think Girard was right when he said Jung didn't go deep enough. Had Jung gone deep enough in his study of mythological symbols, not only would he have been able to uncover the lynches, but he would have also recognized the reverse mythology of the gospels that internalizes the sacrificing within the realm of the person.

When Christ saves the adulterous woman from getting stoned to death, he challenges each person to look within themselves, and in the process, he breaks the hypnotic frenzy of the crowd. The individual recognition that each of us has within us an inner persecutor, who is ready to burst out at any moment, is probably the most potent weapon against collectivism. It is this weapon that causes us to transform and start imitating Christ.

Today, we need not adhere to groupthink, and we need not sacrifice a scapegoat to keep our societies functioning. The ancient stories of good vs evil, retold countless times today, were subtle cover-ups for violent scapegoating. The only real battle is within our hearts; any external battle is false and based on a lie. Once we realize that we are each potential persecutors, we create within us the heart of Christ. We develop a heart that naturally comes to love our neighbor, whether they be victims or oppressors. This was Paul's Damascus experience, and it should be ours as well.