Humanity Lost—and Found—in Les Misérables

It’s kind of sad to think that this is a novel concept to me (no pun intended), but to some extent, we attribute a sense of humanity to each other in a meaningful way. It almost seems as though we can “clothe” a person in a blanket of humanity—or we can collectively perceive people in such a way that they seem to shed their humanity. Indeed, the term “dehumanized” is one we ought not to use recklessly; we must realize that we have the power to affirm the humanity within others, and we must take the responsibility seriously. The costs of neglecting it are devastating.

But enough of what I think. What does Victor Hugo write on the immortal pages of Les Misérables? He begins the story with the “honest bishop,” the man whose singular kindness is transformative, by the grace of God. The bishop operates out of a deep respect for others, initially shown to Jean Valjean every time the bishop calls him monsieur. Indeed, “every time [the bishop] said this word monsieur, with his gently solemn, and heartily hospitable voice, the man’s countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict, is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea. Ignominy thirsts for respect” (67). A few lines later, the bishop claims to already know Valjean’s name, without having heard it or looking at his passport: “your name is my brother,” the bishop tells him. At this point in the musical version, the astounded convict sings

“Yet why did I allow this man/To touch my soul and teach me love?/He treated me like any other/He gave me his trust/He called me brother…He told me that I have a soul,/How does he know?/What spirit came to move my life?/Is there another way to go?” (“Valjean’s Soliloquy/ What have I done?”)

Of course, the bishop famously saves Valjean from imprisonment, the latter having robbed him despite his kindness. The catalyst for Jean Valjean will come after he leaves the bishop’s kind house, but nevertheless, the seed has been planted.

Valjean’s respect for every person is modeled after the bishop’s shining example, as we see later in his treatment of Fantine. Her death in the novel is slightly different—and in my opinion, more heart-wrenching—compared to the musical version. Suffice it to say that Javert’s presence causes Fantine’s final, fatal fit of terror. Upon observing Valjean’s kindness to her, Javert exclaims “Miserable country, where galley slaves are magistrates and women of the town are nursed like countesses!” (255). He cannot see Fantine for anything but her most wretched state.

Hugo contrasts starkly different views of humanity through the eyes of each character: he paints Fantine, despite her fall from virtue and subsequent poverty, as a devoted mother; Jean Valjean is a noble defender of the ill and downtrod; and Javert is “a demon who had again found his victim [Valjean]” (253). He has become consumed with capturing Valjean, so much so that Hugo describes him as being absolutely imbued with “the deformity of triumph” (253) when he finally succeeds. Indifference is the only emotion he feels (if such a thing can be) when Fantine dies in front of his eyes—indeed, almost at the sight of him. Jean Valjean’s reaction is exactly opposite. He whispers some last words to Fantine, of which Hugo writes that “Sister Simplice, the only witness of what passed, has often related that, at the moment when Jean Valjean whispered in the ear of Fantine, she distinctly saw an ineffable smile beam on those pale lips and in those dim eyes, full of the wonder of the tomb” (256).

If anything, one would read the novel hoping that, even to Javert, people might become equally valued in death. Javert’s attitude toward Fantine does not change in the face of her death, showing that he was never going to ascribe humanity to her at all. Perhaps he is unable to do so because he lacks humanity himself. Hugo writes that Javert is so ecstatic at the capture of Valjean that his face showed “the fullest development of horror that a gratified face can show…nothing could be more painful and terrible than this face, which revealed what we may call all the evil of good” (253). He is a “wild beast” and a “mad-man” all at once, a creature incapable of compassion or even reason (254).

We cannot let ourselves make Javert’s mistake, even to a lesser extent. His path may seem distant to us. It may even strike us as absurd to think we could ever resemble him. Consider, though, how apt we are to assume the worst in others. Of course the homeless man on the street will use our money for drugs. Of course each and every poor person on the street has completely caused his or her situation. Of course they are beyond help, even if we try. So of course we shouldn’t even bother, right?

Back in January, when I visited Skid Row, I had versions of theoe thoughts swirling around in my head. I don’t have all of the answers, but I have learned a few things:
1. Jean Valjean and the Bishop were right to help others. They showed the light of Christ to others in very tangible acts of charity.
2. We cannot excuse ourselves for neglecting our fellow men, first and foremost in prayer.
3. As soon as we begin to dehumanize others, as Javert did, we become less human ourselves.

O GOD, Almighty and merciful, who healest those that are broken in heart, and turnest the sadness of the sorrowful to joy; Let thy fatherly goodness be upon all that thou hast made. Remember in pity such as are this day destitute, homeless, or forgotten of their fellow-men. Bless the congregation of thy poor. Uplift those who are cast down. Mightily befriend innocent sufferers, and sanctify to them the endurance of their wrongs. Cheer with hope all discouraged and unhappy people, and by thy heavenly grace preserve from falling those whose penury tempteth them to sin; though they be troubled on every side, suffer them not to be distressed; though they be perplexed, save them from despair. Grant this, O Lord, for the love of him, who for our sakes became poor, thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.

Initial Thoughts On Les Misérables

A brief comment on the work, as I take it up daily to delve into the world of nineteenth century France: it is remarkable to read for many reasons, one of which is Hugo's treatment of humans as persons. He is deeply interested in the lives of the characters, sparing the reader no detail of their lives, no matter how small. His project seems almost round, as he takes pains to fill out the various details with short episodes organized into larger books by character; for instance, when describing the good Bishop, Hugo offers episodes ranging from describing the Bishop's frugality ("How Monseigneur Bienvenu Made His Cassock Last so Long") to showing us a rather private conversation of his with an old atheist ex-Revolutionary ("The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light"). Hugo does the same with Jean Valjean, as he is introduced, and now with Fantine, who I am just beginning to read about. The lives of each are simultaneously treated systematically and haphazardly; Hugo organizes the book by character but seems to weave them together quite seamlessly, traveling from one to the other without apology or announcement.

Every character is a person to Hugo. Environment takes its toll on each character--indeed, this seems to be a subject with which Hugo is very preoccupied--but they are not mere products of the environment they dwell in. Hugo remarks on Jean Valjean's poverty, but does not omit his penitence. As I turn page after page, the genius of the structure becomes more apparent--of course he must begin with the Bishop, for it is through the Bishop's lens that Hugo views each character: with compassion and charity, not regarding his own discomfort in meeting them but solely their good.

A daunting task indeed, to read such a comprehensive treatment of human nature. And Hugo's method of describing his characters is distinct--it doesn't quite resemble the propriety of Austen, nor the wild intensity of Bronte (or so I've been told), nor even the methodical style of Dickens. It is distinct in its balance, matter-of-fact yet pulsing with life. The prose is arresting, and thus worthy of its content.

Les Mis for Today

My last post--written at the beginning of a semester that has now ended--described my first experience on Skid Row, and my thoughts were left somewhat unresolved. Five months later, I finally have more time to process that experience, as well as experiences I've had since then. And, I now have a new context in which to investigate the issue of poverty: I am reading Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, which the author opens with the following lines:

So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation, which, in the face of civilisastion, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates a destiny that is divine, with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age--the degradation of man by poverty, the ruin of woman by starvation, and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night--are not yet solved; as long as, in certain regions, social asphyxia shall be possible; in other words, and from a more yet extended point of view, so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, books like this cannot be useless (1862).

Thus begins the famous novel, which apparently Hugo himself labeled a religious work, and which I expect will shed valuable light on the questions my experiences have raised. Here begins, then, a short series offering snapshots of my journey through Les Miserables.

"Say Hi" on Skid Row

[Part 1]

I live in Los Angeles county for nine out of twelve months. In mild traffic, it takes forty-five minutes for me to drive to Skid Row.

Tonight, I accompanied my RD and my five fellow RAs to Skid Row and served meals to the homeless there by helping a group called Monday Night Mission. The closest I'd ever come to the homeless was a few day trips into the inner city of Phoenix, giving out Christmas presents and doing light landscaping for a nonprofit organization. The contrast between those trips and this trip to LA is difficult to describe; suffice it to say that my comfort zone is located far away from the dimly lit alleys of Skid Row, where trash and rainwater decorate the sidewalks and you get the feeling that you're always being watched because you are so out of place.

The group of volunteers we helped tonight is composed of both "regulars" and new volunteers, and the success of each night literally depends upon the number of volunteers that show up each night, Monday through Friday. We meet at a Burger King a few streets away from Skid Row (incidentally, a decent part of town) and consolidate our food and our workers; then we drive to the corner of San Pedro and 6th St, set up the folding tables and the food, and serve the line of people waiting. The "regular" men stand around the group in a sort of perimeter, and the volunteers inside of the perimeter rotate so everyone helps serve in some one of the tasks.

I learned a lot tonight. Although I cannot articulate much of it at present, below are a few thoughts.

A person is not human because he possesses things, has an education, or sleeps in a bed. There is actually a lot of debate about what makes a person human: productivity, cognitive ability, quality of life, fulfillment of a certain role or purpose.
I know that every human is made in the image of God. As one of my team members so eloquently said, "we are all image-bearers. We gawk at God's creation of mountains, but we forget to recognize that every person is a creation." I saw a lot of faces tonight that saddened me or-at times- made me uncomfortable, but the fact that they made me uncomfortable does not make them inhuman. The fact that they sleep on the street also does not make them inhuman. While we were serving food to the people, a volunteer at the front of the line was constantly yelling "Say hi to Joey. Say hi to Frankie. Say hi to Gomez. Say hi to Gabriela." People asked us why we'd shout names in unison; one man look concerned and asked if we were a cult. We had been told by the founder of Monday Night Mission that the residents of Skid Row do not often hear their names spoken to them. Lack of interaction does not make someone inhuman either.

According to the founder of MNM, Skid Row has existed for the past eighty years because the homeless and mentally ill of LA are deposited there, for various reasons. When a police officer is called to pick up a homeless person, he does not arrest the person but drives him or her to Skid Row, where unimaginable perils await. Also, hospitals, after treating the mentally ill and keeping them for the required seventy-two hours, deposit them in front of Union Rescue Mission (located on San Pedro). A smaller group of us walked half a block to this mission, where we were told that it has six hundred beds. I glanced to both sides of me and saw more homeless people on the sidewalks, presumably the "leftovers" who hadn't come in time to get a bed at the mission. Around the corner was the Midnight Mission, which also gives beds daily to those on Skid Row. I hadn't been under any illusions that every homeless person magically ended up with a bed each night, but I had no idea that so many had to be turned away.

All of this, despite its complexities, boils down to the simple truth that Skid Row doesn’t have to exist. This is the most heartbreaking thing. It’s easy to think that places like these are inevitable and can never change. I’ve often rationalized their existence with the basic idea of human sin—that their bad decisions landed them there. What I hadn’t considered was that human beings are deposited to Skid Row, sometimes from a hospital where they were battling a mental illness, and left there with no friend to call, no family member to ask for help, no idea of how to survive in that dark place, and the threat (and reality) of violence permeating the air.

After wards, I came back to Biola (an island of peace in a sea of insanity, it seemed now), put on a sweater, pajama pants, and warm fuzzy socks. I poured myself a tall glass of ice cold water and used a restroom with perfectly functioning plumbing, running water, and soap. One of the paper towel dispensers didn’t work—an inconvenience at which I frowned.

Do not mistake me. I do not believe in validating the reality of hard situations by lamenting the comfort of good ones. God does not hate me for my comfort. Satan, on the other hand, knows that he can use my comfortable life to cause me paralyzing guilt and even despair. God tells me that as I have been given much, of me much more will be required, and as I have been entrusted with much, more will be demanded of me (paraphrased from Luke 12:48). God does not want to guilt us into doing good things. He wants us to be thankful for all we have, and from that place to offer it back to him by sharing with others. I daresay God is above “guilting us.” I don’t think he will settle for that. What we can give to God is ourselves, our souls and bodies, in obedience to Him. And while we’re doing that, we can love our neighbors.

I hope to offer more ways, in subsequent posts, that we can love our neighbors in LA. For now, we must spread awareness about the tragedy that is Skid Row and the fact that it is not necessary. While we do this, we should pray.

O GOD, Almighty and merciful, who healest those that are broken in heart, and turnest the sadness of the sorrowful to joy; Let thy fatherly goodness be upon all that thou hast made. Remember in pity such as are this day destitute, homeless, or forgotten of their fellow-men. Bless the congregation of thy poor. Uplift those who are cast down. Mightily befriend innocent sufferers, and sanctify to them the endurance of their wrongs. Cheer with hope all discouraged and unhappy people, and by thy heavenly grace preserve from falling those whose penury tempteth them to sin; though they be troubled on every side, suffer them not to be distressed; though they be perplexed, save them from despair. Grant this, O Lord, for the love of him, who for our sakes became poor, thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.

Ducks + Graham Crackers - The Recipe for Happiness

I spent one day last week in the company of a very animated two year-old boy, and our morning mainly consisted of feeding an entire package of graham crackers to some very grateful ducks swimming in a pond. Having gone quite a few years without feeding ducks, I had forgotten the inherent happiness in it. When you've surpassed your early years, you begin to recognize some drawbacks- the gooey, soggy graham crackers floating in the murky pond, the uncomfortable position of kneeling in the wet, muddy grass beside the pond, and the chill in the air as you work to disperse each cracker in the water; and yet, the little boy's enthusiasm fueled me despite my complaints. Perhaps he believed that without our help, the ducks wouldn't have eaten all morning- or perhaps he merely enjoyed watching the ducks race each other to get the cracker pieces. Regardless, I realized that sometimes, age clouds our ideas about happiness. We forget that there is contentment in simple things; indeed, we look to insufficient- and sometimes wrong- means for our happiness. Or, most gravely, we mistake happiness for joy. I do not maintain that there was joy in feeding the ducks; because as pleasant as that experience was, I think more highly of joy than to limit it in that way. However, little pockets of happiness, among which lies this sweet memory, seem to somehow create a joyful life. The laughter that bubbled up from this little boy as he hurled the crackers toward the ducks was a happy moment, and I am thankful for it because it added to the joy I have in spending time in the company of children.

I am obliged to this little boy for teaching me something I had lost and am very glad to have found. I am hardly surprised at the lesson I learned from this child so much my junior- for what else greater gift do children give us, than that of re-discovering the meaningful things in life?

"Will Ye No Come Back Again?"

Lately, as summer comes and the hours are free for such things as reading, I find myself increasingly drawn to reading other blogs. Perhaps on account of missing Torrey, and all connected with it, I wandered over to the Scriptorium (see fourth link on my “Favorite Links” column). To my pleasant surprise, I saw that the featured essay had been written recently by my mentor, Dr. Robert Llizo. During the spring semester particularly, but throughout this entire year, I have learned valuable lessons from him; and so I read his post See here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/what-i-learned-from-john-mark-reynolds/

Maybe Dr. Llizo’s voice affords readers a certain advantage, because in my mind as I read, I imagined him reading it aloud, as he often does from the Vulgate (or, early this semester, from the Aeneid) in session. Also typical of Dr. Llizo, I found myself obliged to look up words such as pedagogy (the function or work of a teacher) and, of course, the lyrics to “Bonnie Charlie” (see below).

It was the last paragraph, however, that meant the most to me. How relevant to our lives, and written so succinctly! In it, Dr. Llizo ruminates on teaching, which has often been an interesting subject to me as it relates to Torrey. I often find myself wondering what goes through our tutors’ minds as they lead us, or (quite courageously of them) allow us to lead ourselves.

“Effective teaching begins with knowing who you are, what your limits are, and where the possibilities lie in those limits. Education is best done in the context of a great conversation, one that probes deeply into our assumptions about life and the cosmos. This conversation invites us to lay open these deeply-held beliefs, to cultivate humility in casting off what is false, and the resolve to build on what is true and lasting. This conversation must begin with love, not only of ideas, but of the people with whom we are in dialogue. People are more important than ideas, for in the encounter with another human being, we come face to face with immortality. We touch eternity in the meeting of minds and hearts,” writes Dr. Llizo.

I almost swell with gratitude for such an opportunity to learn in this way. It gives me hope that maybe I can teach my children something. It offers profound freedom, to recognize that learning does not require four walls and a handful of desks, but is found in the well-informed “great conversation” of God’s Word and the classic works of His people. Principles of love, humility, and resolve are evident in our tutors, and Dr. Llizo treats them here with the care that I believe can only come from someone who truly finds God’s purpose in the job he does every day. Having had a decent share of teachers who cared much less, I want to recognize his post.

In the words of the aforementioned “Bonnie Charlie,”

Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing,
Unto the evening sinking down,
Or merl that makes the wood to ring,
To me they hae nae other sound
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be,
Will ye no come back again?

Looking forward to see us all come back again, and in the meantime, I am learning to more fully appreciate what we’ll be coming back to.

For more on Education from Torrey faculty, see Dr. Peters’ post: “An Invitation to Education” (http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/an-invitation-to-education/).

A Five Year Old Lady

First of all, I apologize for not writing for almost a year. I have no excuse, save the pace of college life. Thanks for following :-)

The inspiration for this post came from a certain evening with two lovable children. The little girl taught me a lot about how I can better be a lady. Here is what I found:

1. A lady is not anxious.

Drawing pictures, she has not a plan, but goes with whatever idea comes to her.
“I’ll start with a line,” she says, and turns the picture into a heart. From there, she needs no more suggestions. She makes me feel the idea behind Matthew 6, that we need not be anxious about what we’re going to wear, or whether or not our drawing will be received well.


2. A lady is polite.

She compliments my drawing of a tree, and makes suggestions such as adding a sun in the corner. She sees me drawing apples on the tree and mistakes them for acorns, but upon seeing my reaction, she guesses correctly and makes me smile. A lady is edifying.


3. A lady is sweet.

She takes the babysitter’s ponytail out during a “make over,” and says “your hair looks so pretty down like that.” The babysitter came without makeup, with a t-shirt and jeans, with no expectation of a compliment- let alone one from such a lady.


4. A lady knows the ways of her little brother.

One day, we’ll use the word “insightful” or “knowledgeable” to describe this aspect of the little lady. She knows what her brother is actually saying when he mumbles a string of words out, and she knows how to make him stop crying. She knows when he needs her to make a funny face at him, to make him laugh.


5. Indeed, a lady loves to laugh.

She laughs as she runs around the house with her brother, she laughs as she plays “monkey in the middle.” She laughs as her babysitter twirls her around in the air and she laughs at the exhausted babysitter afterwards. Her laughter is never mocking or fake. It bubbles forth from her like a little fountain.


6. A lady sleeps like an angel.

She curls up with her little brother in a big chair, and drifts to sleep in front of the TV. She snores slightly, rustling around every once in a while.

One imagines she is having peaceful, very ladylike dreams.