In all our valleys the light is the same. And it's the light that matters

[sovay]

So I have a theological question.

I am re-reading Elizabeth Goudge's The Valley of Song (1951) for the nth time. It's one of the books where I notice different things with each reading; that's part of the reason it's her best book, although others include the beauty of the writing and the numinous generally busting out all over. This time, a line in the scene in which the protagonist is waiting outside the door to the Valley of Song (only children may enter this country which is called by mortals "Fairyland, or the Garden of Eden, or Arcadia, or the Earthly Paradise, or the Elysian Fields, or some such ridiculous name. We just call it the Workshop," so in order to let someone else go in, Tabitha has taken on some of their years as her own and is now too old herself to be allowed inside) sprang out at me:

Andrew turned to Tabitha, his face radiant. "I may go in!" he said, and he gripped her hand. "Come on, Tabitha."

Tabitha pulled her hand away and leaned against the wall, hiding her face, and the same misery that had overwhelmed her when Julie went in without her came over her again. This dreadful shut-out and cast-away feeling! She had never felt so wretched. She had not known one could feel so miserable. Her voice came to Andrew from behind her hands, muffled and forlorn. "I can't go in with you. I'm too old."

"Too old? You can't be!" said Andrew, and he pulled her hands away from her face.

"Five years too old!" sobbed Tabitha. "I'm fifteen. I can't go in."

There was a long and anguished silence, while Andrew struggled to make up his mind about something, then he took a deep breath. "Then I'm not going in either," he said. "If you're shut out, I'll be shut out too."

Tabitha liked to hear him say that. It was almost worth being shut out to hear him say that. The door swung wide and a great breath of life-giving air blew through it.

"Come in, both of you," said the splendid voice, and there was almost a note of celestial impatience in its splendour. "Little girl, you carried that burden well, but long enough for a child. Come in and be with him. He'll need firm handling. Boy, you were ready to be exiled with her, and the readiness is all. Am I to be until the Last Trump holding this door open?"

Those of you who have read Mary Renault may be nodding already, because this is a concept I learned first from The King Must Die (1958):

"Horses go blindly to the sacrifice, but the gods give knowledge to men. When the King was dedicated, he knew his moira. In three years, or seven, or nine, or whenever the custom was, his term would end and the god would call him. And he went consenting, or else he was no king, and power would not fall on him to lead the people. When they came to choose among the Royal Kin, this was his sign: that he chose short life with glory, and to walk with the god, rather than live long, unknown like the stall-fed ox. And the custom changes, Theseus, but this token never. Remember, even if you do not understand . . . It is not the sacrifice, whether it comes in youth or age, or the god remits it; it is not the bloodletting that calls down power. It is the consenting, Theseus. The readiness is all."

Where does this idea originate? Is it as simple as going back to the Binding of Isaac: that it was enough for Abraham to be willing to sacrifice his son? Is there a more complicated aetiology I don't know about, or a particularly Christian significance that would have been important to Goudge? I happen to believe it, just as I believe that an unconsenting sacrifice has no power (see Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn (1968): "Real magic can never be made by offering someone up else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back. The true witches know that"), and I think it is not an uncommon belief. But I don't know where it comes from, if it doesn't come from the story I thought of first, and I'm curious.

Comments

[sovay]

Looking at this through the other end of the telescope, if I were a god I would certainly prefer sacrifices to be willing: they taste much sweeter when they're not stressed out (ask any slaughterman).

Poem, please.

the unwilling sacrifice is to be accepted as the willing one (well, Sgt. Howie ran to the right spot of his own accord, didn't he?)

Heh. See reply above to alexx_kay.

Gods aren't stupid, but accept this kind of clumsy legerdemain when the real thing isn't available. It does suggest though that willingness is the ideal, or just possibly the original, form of the thing.

That makes sense to me. How far back, though, can you trace the idea that willingness is an acceptable substitute for action—as well as a necessary component of the successful sacrifice?

[steepholm.livejournal.com]

The Abraham-Isaac example is the earliest that occurs to me, too. Though there's an interesting variant in the judgement of Solomon, where the mother gains her son once she demonstrates her willingness to lose him.

[sovay]

The Abraham-Isaac example is the earliest that occurs to me, too.

Jephthah doesn't count because he actually sacrifices his daughter. I hadn't thought of the mother in the story of Solomon; thank you!

As soon as I finished my reply to you, I went crazy trying to find a story I remembered from Jewish folklore: when the ritual is lost and only the memory of it remains, remembering the ritual is sufficient to make it work; telling the story is as strong as the thing itself. It looks like it was collected by Martin Buber and retold by Elie Wiesel in The Gates of the Forest (1966):

When the great Rabbi Israel Ba'al Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light the fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.

Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: "Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer." And again the miracle would be accomplished.

Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: "I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient." It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished.

Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: "I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is tell the story, and this must be sufficient." And it was sufficient.

God made man because he loves stories.

That would be an argument in favor of the independent power of willingness, I think. The ritual is not needed if the desire is there.

(I didn't read it in Wiesel, though, so I'm still going crazy trying to figure out who else retold it that I would have read. Either it's in a collection by Howard Schwartz I don't own or it's used in a novel or a short story I can't remember. This doesn't exactly narrow it down. It feels like Peter S. Beagle, but I don't think it is.)

[steepholm.livejournal.com]

That's a great story! And storyteller's moral at the end, there.

I like it partly because it's so ambiguous: is it a story about God's infinite mercy (he'll accept the sacrifice no matter how etiolated and malformed because he's that kind of person he is) or about a paring away to the the essentials - revealing the ritual accoutrments as utlimately disposable props? Certainly, if the sequence had ended with someone standing in the forest saying, "I've got a goat, a fire and a piece of paper with special words, but darned if I know what I'm doing here," it would be unlikely to have had such a happy conclusion.

Another parallel! Reepicheep's tail is restored after the other mice say they'll cut their own tails off in solidarity. That's in Dawn Treader, just a couple of years after Goudge.

[sovay]

is it a story about God's infinite mercy (he'll accept the sacrifice no matter how etiolated and malformed because he's that kind of person he is) or about a paring away to the the essentials - revealing the ritual accoutrments as utlimately disposable props?

I read it closer to the latter, but that's partly because it accords with my own beliefs: the actions of ritual are important, but the remembrance and the intent of them moreso. I agree that standing around in a forest with all the right equipment and no idea of the meaning feels like a recipe for still standing around hours later with nothing happening except maybe the goat has eaten the paper and the fire's burnt out.

Another parallel! Reepicheep's tail is restored after the other mice say they'll cut their own tails off in solidarity. That's in Dawn Treader, just a couple of years after Goudge.

It's in Prince Caspian, published in the same year! Is there a common ancestor?

[steepholm.livejournal.com]

Of course it was Prince Caspian! And even Dawn Treader would only have been one year later - I'm covered in blushes.

Is there a common ancestor?

I don't know, but if I were to fish in the shallow lake of pop psychology I might mention the fact that both suffered a bereavement in that year, of elderly women to whose care they'd been devoting themselves for a long time: her mother for Goudge, Mrs Moore for Lewis. Might there be an element palliating survivor guilt in these stories - that it's okay, you don't have to sacrifice yourself (any more)?

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

God made man because he loves stories.

That's a great thought.

[sovay]

That's a great thought.

I like it. And I don't remember it from the version I read first, but I think it's important.

[moon-custafer.livejournal.com]

It must float around, because my late grandfather, a United Church of Canada (similar to United Methodists) minister, quoted it in the intro to his memoirs.

[sovay]

It must float around, because my late grandfather, a United Church of Canada (similar to United Methodists) minister, quoted it in the intro to his memoirs.

Neat. It is a powerful and a resonant story; I'm not entirely surprised. (Are his memoirs published?)

[moon-custafer.livejournal.com]

No, thought there are a few bound copies floating around our family, and probably his congregation.

[zdenka]

I don't know if this helps you figure out where you saw it, but I first heard it read aloud by the rabbi conducting High Holy Days services at the MIT Hillel.

[sovay]

I don't know if this helps you figure out where you saw it, but I first heard it read aloud by the rabbi conducting High Holy Days services at the MIT Hillel.

This story appears to be everywhere! Which is fair; it's great.

[ladymondegreen.livejournal.com]

I believe it's printed in the Silverman machzor, but my father also tells it as part of other holiday liturgy. I tend to think of it in connection with Yom Kippur, which is when I've probably heard it most often, along with Perhaps Even Higher.

That second story is also the reason I once got into a argument with a dying friend about whether it was appropriate to visit him on Shavuot.

[ladymondegreen.livejournal.com]

I know I've seen this story in a Schwartz anthology. I'm pretty sure it's in The Captive Soul of the Messiah.

[sovay]

I know I've seen this story in a Schwartz anthology. I'm pretty sure it's in The Captive Soul of the Messiah.

Thank you! It wasn't in either of the collections I owned, but it felt exactly like the sort of thing he would have retold. The problem is that I really feel I encountered it first in a fictional context that wasn't Wiesel, and that could be almost anyone.

[ladymondegreen.livejournal.com]

Thank you! It wasn't in either of the collections I owned, but it felt exactly like the sort of thing he would have retold. The problem is that I really feel I encountered it first in a fictional context that wasn't Wiesel, and that could be almost anyone.

You're welcome. I only read Captive Soul for the first time this spring, so it's reasonably fresh in my memory (and it was eerily resonant for me in some ways that impact my novel-in-progress).

Out of curiosity, which two do you own? I have Elijah's Violin, Miriam's Tambourine from childhood and I recently acquired Leaves from the Garden of Eden and a few others I haven't read yet from my father's library on semi-permanent loan. Also, Tree of Souls which I've been using as a reference work for ages.

[sovay]

I only read Captive Soul for the first time this spring, so it's reasonably fresh in my memory (and it was eerily resonant for me in some ways that impact my novel-in-progress).

In a good way, I hope. I still desire to read this novel.

Out of curiosity, which two do you own?

The Diamond Tree: Jewish Tales from Around the World (1992) and The Day the Rabbi Disappeared: Jewish Holiday Tales of Magic (2000). There were several more of his books in my elementary school library that I would like to own someday; Elijah's Violin and Lilith's Cave were among them.

Also, Tree of Souls which I've been using as a reference work for ages.

I should get that.

[fidelioscabinet.livejournal.com]

But when Jephthah's daughter finds out about his vow, she goes willingly.

A Roman example would be Marcus Curtius (Livy book 7, chapter 6), who leapt fully armed into the chasm; I think the year was supposed to be BCE 362, so it's not terribly old.

[sovay]

But when Jephthah's daughter finds out about his vow, she goes willingly.

Yes; that's fair to point out. I'm just trying to think of stories where the consenting alone is sufficient.

A Roman example would be Marcus Curtius (Livy book 7, chapter 6), who leapt fully armed into the chasm; I think the year was supposed to be BCE 362, so it's not terribly old.

Thank you; I hadn't remembered him! My first thought for Roman self-sacrifice is Publius Decius Mus at the Battle of Vesuvius, consecrating himself to the gods of the underworld and winning with his death an annihilating victory. (Supposedly his son and according to some stories his grandson did the same.)