Chapter 1
The Analogical Imagination and Incarnational Realism
Dostoevsky sought to portray the âperson in the person.â His âhigher realism,â rooted in his Christian faith, sees visible, finite reality as bearing an analogical relationship to an invisible, infinite reality. An analogical imagination recognizes that human persons are creatures, both like and radically unlike their Creator. Created in Godâs image, persons are like God in their rationality, freedom, and capacity to create and love. But God is one and persons are many; God is unchanging and persons are mutable; God is infinite and persons are finite. Above all, persons are dependent as their existence is contingent upon Godâs. God is not simply another being, but Being itself, the One in Whom all persons live and move and have their particular beings.11 Our existence as beings does not place us in the same ontological category as God. But the divine is not so utterly transcendent that our own rational conceptions of the good and true and beautiful bear no relation to God.12 They bear an analogical relation.
Christian faith understands God not only as Being but as Love. God is a unity of three persons bound in infinite, inter-relational, self-giving love. Godâs love overflows to form creation and, in time, enters history and a particular place in the person of Christ. In Christ, the believer sees most clearly the image of Godâs beauty, goodness, and truth. The infinite Word takes on creaturely flesh and finitude. But Christâs descent into finitude and death brings forth resurrection, ascension, and the gifts of the Holy Spirit. As Trinity, God is both One and three differentiated persons; Christ is both God and man, âwithout confusion . . . without separation.â13 The analogical imagination is built upon the two doctrinal beams that undergird the Christian faith: Trinity and Incarnation. Analogy recognizes the unity in our human plurality: for all our particularity and diversity, we are each persons, and, in analogy to Godâs trinitarian nature, created to be in integral relation to other persons. Analogy recognizes that human love is both like andâgiven our creaturely, fallen frailtyâunlike the Creatorâs love.14
Both like and unlike: a âboth/andâ approach to reality recognizes both its complexity and wholeness. It resists the temptation to order that complexity with too-tidy âeither/orâ categorizations.15 Dostoevskyâs novel represents reality as both graced gift and arduous task; the world as both sacramentally charged and sinfully fallen; paradise as both here and yet to come; persons as both open in their freedom to change and closed given the realities of time, interpersonal commitment, consequences of past actions, and even genetic inheritance. Dostoevsky depicts the human desire for holiness as demanding both willing receptivity and a willed (but never willful) effort of self-denial.16
A both/and vision should not be understood as resulting in static indecision. Rather, it fosters a prudential appreciation of particularity that, in time, necessitates decisive action. Taking one road precludes taking another. Thus, the novelâs âboth/andâ vision recognizes that âeither/orâ moments are inevitable in human experience, and require the preparatory work of discernment. Having reached a clear apprehension of the truth of a particular situation, each character in the novel must decide and act. Rather than depleting personhood by foreclosing options, decisive action enhances it. Wholeness is found in the passage through the limited. Grace remains ever available in the place of fragmentation. As St. Thomas Aquinas emphasized, uncreated grace builds upon created nature;17 infinite freedom fosters finite, creatural freedom. Freedom exercised in âactive loveâ is grounded in the personâs âprecious mystic sense of our living bond with the other worldâ (276).
Active love itself has a both/and form: it integrates both human inclination, our attraction to the good and beautiful (eros) and sacrificial self-emptying on behalf of others (agape). Persons are called to participate in the divine self-emptying, the kenosis of âperfect self-forgetfulness in the love of [their] neighborâ (54), in acts of self-transcendence not of self-obliteration.18 Dostoevsky distinguishes the relational person from the autonomous self: âFor Dostoevsky, it is a bad thing to lose oneâs personality, but a good thing to lose oneâs selfâ (Corrigan 12). Paradoxically, he affirms that fullness of personhoodâoneâs âtrue selfââemerges only through the gift of self. In this way, Dostoevskyâs vision bears deep affinities to those of St. Augustine and Dante Alighieriâtwo other Christian âclassicsâ to whom I will sometimes refer in this study. For all three writers, eros and agape find a âhidden wholenessâ19 in the practice of caritas. âExcept a corn of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruitâ (John 12:24). Jesus spoke these words as he entered Jerusalem, and into his passion, death, and resurrection. The words comprise the novelâs epigraph and suggest its recurring theme. The epigraph presents a seminal image of both finitude and fruition. It suggests that self-giving love, in response to Godâs own, is the human personâs deepest desire.20
To reiterate, a both/and vision must include the reality of a decisive âeither/or.â21 âSee, I have today set before you life and good, death and evilâ (Deut 30:15). Moses presents here a stark either/or, and in its similarly high-stakes choice between life and death the novel is both âboth/andâ and âeither/or.â Paradoxicallyâand aptlyâthe cross becomes âthe tree of lifeâ âthe rootsâ of which lie in the âother worldâ (276). The cross stands as the novelâs symbol for that which âbrings forth much fruit.â22 Its counter image is the gallows, chosen by the suicide. The night before the trial, Ivan vows to Alyosha: âTomorrow the cross, but not the gallowsâ (549). This âeither/orâ is decisive. But even the tiniest of charitable deeds can re-direct and re-align a person to the form of Christ: the gift of a kiss, a pillow, or a âpound of nutsâ that open an orphaned childâs eyes to the hidden ground of Trinitarian love (567â68). A gratuitously offered âlittle onionâ (307, 311) can be salvific.23
Given Dostoevskyâs radically inclusive vision of salvation âfor all,â what of those who choose the gallows? Does Smerdyakov have his onion? Here too we find complexity: the novel complicates any quick condemnation of those who, like Smerdyakov (or Judas, his scriptural prototype), choose suicide. In the Gospel of Matthew, Judas âdeeply regret[s] what he had done.â He returns the thirty pieces of silver and confesses. Only after being rebuffed by the priests does he commit suicide (Matt 27:3â5).24 Similarly, on the night before the trial, when Smerdyakov describes his murder to Ivan and hands him the blood money, the narrator admits that âIt was impossible to tell if it was remorse he was feeling, or whatâ (529). Both tragic images complicate the readerâs overly hasty judgment, as does Zosimaâs meditation which emphasizes both justice and mercy:
But woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray to God for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offense to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day. (279)
The reader, implicated, is called to âgo and do likewise.â In Zosimaâs vision, and that of the novel as a whole, ...