So What If It’s the Opium of the People?

What does a priest do if he’s lost his faith, but the people of his parish need him? Pretend. Because actions matter more than belief.

So concludes Miguel de Unamuno in his 1930 short story, San Manuel Bueno, mártir.

The people of a small Spanish village believe their priest, Don Manuel, is a saint.

Por todos mostraba el mismo afecto, y si a algunos distinguía más con él era a los más desgraciados y a los que aparecían como más díscolos.

He treated everyone with equal kindness, and if he showed any preference it was for the most unfortunate and those who seemed most rebellious.

Angela is a young woman whose faith is made strong by Fr. Manuel’s example. But her brother Lázaro is an atheist. When he returns to Spain from America, Angela introduces him to Fr. Manuel hoping for a conversion.

But that’s not exactly what happens.

Lázaro shares his unbelief, and to his surprise Fr. Manuel admits that he too is an unbeliever.

Realizing that life is meaningless, which Fr. Manuel says is like seeing the face of God (which the Bible says will kill you), is too difficult for people to face. Faith is the consolation of life (Fe en el consuelo de la vida). Belief makes people happy, and to take that away would destroy them.

Fr. Manuel believes in love – that’s why he can’t believe a just God would condemn some people to hell. And with that doubt went the rest of theology.

Referencing Karl Marx’s statement that religion is the opium of the people, Fr. Manuel remarks,

“Opio… Opio… Opio, sí. Démosle opio, y que duerma y que sueñe.”

“Opium… Opium …Opium, yes, let’s give them opium, and let them sleep and dream.”

…yo le decía: “Pero ¿es usted, usted, el sacerdote, el que aconseja que finja?”

I said to him, “Is this you, you, the priest advising me to pretend?”

“…poca teología; religión, religión.”

“…very little theology; religion, religion.”

Relating the story to his sister, Lázaro tells her,

“…es un santo, hermana, todo un santo. No trataba, al emprender ganarme para su santa causa…arrogarse un triunfo, sino que lo hacía por la paz, por la felicidad…”

“…he is a saint, sister, a true saint. When he set out to win me to his holy cause…he was not trying to secure a triumph for himself but was doing it for the peace of mind, for the happiness…”

Reflecting on this later, Angela wonders if Fr. Manuel’s acts of love were acts of theology (si es que no era también teología lo nuestro). As Unamuno remarks in the author’s note,

Habrían creído a sus obras y no a sus palabras, porque las palabras no sirven para apoyar las obras, sino que las obras se bastan.

They would have believed their works and not their words, because words cannot confirm works, but works stand by themselves.

This short story raises many questions.

Was Fr. Manuel really as selfless as Angela thought?

The risk of a priest coming out as an atheist in a traditional culture a century ago was far greater than 21st century America. Was Fr. Manuel’s perspective really just a selfish rationalization to avoid losing his status in society?

Of course, it may have been more. As Fr. Manuel remarks at one point, “persecutions more often come from a persecution complex than from any persecutor” (“las más de la persecuciones son efecto más de la manía persecutoria que no de la perseguidora.”). Every atheist knows that merely being out of the closet is enough to trigger the Christian persecution complex, but in Fr. Manuel’s day that could have gotten him killed.

Other questions include:

Can meaning only come from God; and if so, how do we explain the meaning atheists experience in their lives?

Is it true that the villagers would not have been able to handle a thoughtful discussion about God’s existence? Is Fr. Manuel patronizing them?

Even if the villagers are simpletons who can’t handle thoughtful discussions, and who need religious belief to dull the pain of life, is Fr. Manuel’s deceit nonetheless unjustified?

Even though Lázaro is an atheist, does he continue to be so culture bound that he still must idolize a priest and not question him? In other words, is Lázaro’s pretend faith really just another type of blind faith?

As an atheist ex-Catholic who once wanted to be a priest, I obviously made different choices. But I wholeheartedly agree that words (theology) are empty – it’s actions that reveal what you really believe.

English translation by Paul Burns and Salvator Ortiz-Carboneres.


Maine Hermit Wisdom: Get Enough Sleep

In 2013 an elusive hermit was arrested for stealing food and sundries. Dubbed “the North Pond hermit,” Christopher Knight survived over a quarter century in the Maine woods, living in a tent even in winter.

He just walked into the Maine woods in 1986 and didn’t come out till he got busted.

Here in Maine, winter starts in November and ends in April. January high temperatures often hover around 20 F (-7 C). This winter I was up north near the Canadian border with lows of 30 below.

GQ did an exclusive interview with the hermit. His thoughts range from the popularity of Lynyrd Skynyrd 1,000 years from to his preference for coffee brandy, which mystified the GQ writer (who obviously didn’t know what a big deal coffee brandy is here in Maine).

Jail was difficult for a hermit. The noise, the confinement, the presence of other people. “I am retreating into silence as a defensive move,” he told GQ.

Don’t ask me no questions and I won’t tell you no lies.

But that just increased his stature among his fellow inmates. “I am surprised by the amount of respect this garners me. That silence intimidates puzzles me. Silence is to me normal, comfortable.”

Asperger syndrome is speculated. He’s obviously highly intelligent. The average man would have been a Popsicle after the first year, but he survived 27 cold Maine winters.

And committed 1,000 burglaries before getting caught due to technology that he knew nothing about. He had been out of society so long he hadn’t even heard of the internet (and really couldn’t care less about it).

He didn’t just steal food and sundries. He rigged a radio to get audio TV, cuz Everybody Loves Raymond is really funny. He also stole books, and according to GQ is quite the literary critic. His assessment of Henry David Thoreau? A dilettante. Fair enough. Thoreau was not even closing to roughing it at Walden Pond.

What hermit wisdom has he to impart?

Get enough sleep. That, and the observation:

“Solitude did increase my perception. But here’s the tricky thing – when I applied my increased perception to myself, I lost my identity. With no audience, no one to perform for, I was just there. There was no need to define myself; I became irrelevant. The moon was the minute hand, the seasons the hour hand. I didn’t even have a name. I never felt lonely. To put it romantically: I was completely free.”

And this bird you cannot change.