Summit Ministries

By J. F. Baldwin

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens might better be described as A Tale Without Heroes. At least, that's the way it seems for most of the book.

The story focuses on the French Revolution, and the anarchy a nation experiences when her people's sinful passions are unchecked by laws. This anarchy is contrasted, somewhat ironically, with the orderliness of England. The tension between the two cities—London and Paris—is manifested in the life of one man, Charles Darnay.

Darnay is a Frenchman of noble birth who wants no part of his heritage. In fact, he wants nothing more than the "civilized" English life—a modest home and a family. But the French revolutionaries won't grant him that peace. Because Darnay is of noble birth, he is viewed as the enemy—and the revolutionaries long to lead him to the guillotine. Eventually they succeed in imprisoning him, and the reader realizes that Darnay has only days to live.

And still, at this late juncture of the story, a hero has not emerged. Darnay is two- dimensional and, frankly, boring. His father-in-law cuts a romantic figure, but fades into the background as the story progresses. Where, then, is the hero?

Many secular critics would not look for the hero—in fact, many would hope that he or she would not emerge. They believe that a book is more "realistic" without a hero, since heroes don't exist in real life. After all, according to the secular mind set, it's impossible to even know what heroism means.

The Christian reader thinks differently. Christians know heroes—real men and women— exist. What's more, Christians understand that heroism can be defined—that an absolute moral standard exists by which we can judge people's actions.

Last issue, G.K. Chesterton said one of the most profound things you will ever read: "There are an infinity of angles at which one falls, only one at which one stands." The beauty of the hero, in literature or in real life, is that he models the angle "at which one stands." He points the reader toward true Christian morality, by leading a life in keeping with that morality. This is what it means to be truly heroic: living a life that pleases God.

Christians can define heroism because we have been saved by, and have a personal friendship with, the ultimate hero. We know a hero when we see one because we are washed pure by the blood of the mightiest hero. One need only examine Christ's words and his life to find the definition of a hero—of the heroic life.

What does Christ require of man? That we love God with our all, and love our neighbor as ourself (Matthew 22:37-40). And how, exactly, should we love?

Sit down. The answer is not an easy one. Love, according to Christ, is not about having warm, fuzzy feelings toward God and our neighbor. It's not about just walking through life with a silly grin on our face. It's about . . . sacrifice.

Christ lived sacrificially (i.e., heroically), and he calls his followers to do the same. Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke the truth when he denounced "cheap grace" and said that the Christian receives "costly grace." Christ calls us to sacrifice—in other words, he calls us to be heroes! "This path for the followers of Christ," says Russell Kirk, "was a stonier road than ever men had been told to follow before. Its principles demanded a new sort of heroism, more severe than that of the Law of the Jews, more sacrificing of self than the old Roman virtue."

Does this seem a dirty trick? It's not. It may be more comfortable to live a life that settles for being "pretty moral," but comfort isn't what life's about. Life, for the Christian, is the thrill of being molded into the form of the hero, into the shape of the ultimate hero, Jesus Christ. Heroism is about laying down our lives for others, and it's a life every Christian is called to lead.

Does it seem that we've strayed far afield from literature? Not at all. Last issue, it was noted that heroes in literature remind the reader of two crucial truths: (1) an absolute moral code exists, and (2) man is inherently sinful. Now we have discovered a third, even more important truth of which the hero reminds us: every hero is just a pale reflection of the ultimate hero—a man who really lived and died and conquered death. Whenever the hero of a story acts really heroically—that is, sacrificially—the reader is reminded of the ultimate sacrifice.

This makes the heroic story worthwhile for both the Christian and the non-Christian. For the non-Christian, the benefits are obvious: that person needs to be confronted with the reality of Jesus Christ. For the Christian, the benefits are less obvious, but still valuable. The Christian must be reminded that flesh and bone can act heroically, but that it is a titanic struggle (and, ultimately, a struggle we win not by our own strength, but by God's). As so many English teachers are so fond of saying, "we read to know that we are not alone." Great literature with real heroes reminds the Christian of this: other men and women in other times have struggled to live moral, Christ-like lives. We are not alone. And by God's grace, we may sometimes succeed.

This is true of great literature written by the Christian (for example, C.S. Lewis's space trilogy)—but it is also true of great literature written by non-Christians. The author who sets out to chronicle true, realistic heroism cannot escape—indeed, seems to fall willingly into—describing a Christian concept. This is made especially clear by A Tale of Two Cities, a novel that (finally) describes dynamic heroism, even though Dickens was far from being an orthodox Christian. Dickens—with no intention of writing an expressly Christian novel—creates a character who draws all his power and most of his charm from one act: a Christ-like sacrifice.

For the first two "books" of A Tale of Two Cities, the reader does not have the faintest idea who the hero might be. Is it Darnay, the "cardboard" love of Lucy Manette? Is it Lucy herself? Is it Dr. Alexandre Manette, the man driven slightly mad by his wrongful imprisonment? Certainly the hero cannot be Sydney Carton—a man who has shamelessly thrown his talent away on easy living and an uneasy conscience. Surely Carton, the man who admits to himself, "There is nothing in you to like: you know that," cannot be the engine Dickens expects to drive his story.

And yet, in the end, we are left with Carton the hero. What is more, we are moved by the actions of Carton, a man who earlier seemed defined by inaction. Why?

We are moved by Carton because he reflects the highest truth. "It is a far, far better thing that I do," says Carton at his death, "than I have ever done." We know instinctively that he is right, and we are thrilled that he is right—thrilled because it reminds us that we may sometime rise above our inherent sinfulness, and thrilled because it mirrors the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We feel a kinship with Carton because he's been a bumbler, just like us—and we feel an awe of Carton because, for a moment, he is acting morally (in the highest sense of the word): he is being Christ-like.

One critic of Dickens grumbles, "A Tale of Two Cities ends fairly cheerfully with its hero getting killed..." How puzzling for the non-Christian! But the paradox fits the Christian worldview perfectly: once upon a time, the ultimate hero lived and died, and his dying was the precursor to the happiest ending of all. Dying (to ourselves) results in joy.

The world does not require successful authors to write books that hint at Christ's redemptive work. In fact, many in the world (including many authors) would love to completely ignore the man named Jesus. But whenever the author wants to portray a real hero—and most great literature requires a hero to act as the catalyst—the author must create a character that is in some way Christ-like. And wherever we are reminded of the character of Christ, we are reminded of his call: to live heroically, as he lived.
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