In AD 410, under the rule of King Alaric, the Visigoths captured the eternal city of Rome. This pivotal event sparked a profound debate, first brought forth by Saint Augustine in his monumental work, The City of God, which grappled with the interplay of divine and earthly realms amidst societal collapse. Today, we witness a new incarnation of this timeless debate, playing out with two prominent figures on the public stage: Pope Francis, once recognized as Man of the Year, and Phil Robertson, known for his more conservative view of faith. This analysis argues that Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities serves as an enduring allegorical framework through which to comprehend the complex interplay of faith, societal conflict, and the paradoxical nature of redemption in our contemporary "culture war," particularly as embodied by figures like Pope Francis and Phil Robertson. As I observed this contemporary unfolding of ancient questions, I was powerfully reminded of the immortal words that open Charles Dickens's masterpiece, words that perfectly capture the paradox of our era:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
This Dickensian duality, a world perpetually teetering between extremes, offers a uniquely potent lens through which to examine our own societal conflicts and the enduring questions of faith and human purpose. Dickens's genius in portraying grand historical upheaval through intensely personal struggles makes A Tale of Two Cities particularly suited for dissecting the moral and spiritual battles of our present. As I look to our story, a modern allegorical cast begins to unfold, each character from Dickens's masterpiece illuminating a distinct facet of our present dilemma.
The first character to emerge, embodying both profound suffering and unyielding conviction, is the Doctor—my scoutmaster, a man whose life mirrored the resilience of Doctor Manette. Perhaps you recall the archetype of quiet strength from Field of Dreams. At 17, my scoutmaster lied about his age to enter service in WWII. The war's end brought him face-to-face with the devastation of Hiroshima, an experience that forged a lifelong dedication to the service of others. He became a doctor, serving as a missionary for 40 years, bringing medicine and hope to the Third World, from the famine in Ethiopia to the poverty in Central America. His military background and three decades of service allowed him to carry his mission into the most war-torn regions, places where others could not tread. Yet, like Doctor Manette's imprisonment in the Bastille, my scoutmaster carried his own profound sorrow, a personal "prison": his only son. After administering smallpox vaccinations in Africa, witnessing an overwhelming depth of poverty, his son returned to the States and, unable to bear the weight of it, tragically took his own life. This immense personal tragedy, much like Manette's 18 years of unjust confinement, might have shattered a lesser man's spirit or faith. However, "Doc" never wavered. His unwavering commitment to service and his profound faith, despite such a crushing personal loss, compels us to consider how genuine belief can endure and even deepen amidst the deepest human suffering. This parallel specifically illuminates the resilience of faith in the face of immense personal tragedy, suggesting that true conviction is not merely intellectual assent but an unwavering commitment forged in the crucible of life's harshest realities.
Doctor Manette, in Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities, is imprisoned in the Bastille for 18 years, a period that leaves him traumatized and at times, maddened. Upon his release, he is taken in by his loyal servant, Monsieur Defarge. Eventually, his daughter, Lucy, is informed and brings him back to England, where he gradually resumes his respected practice as a physician, a man held in high esteem by both the pre-revolutionary nobility and the revolutionary fervor that sweeps through France.
Our next character, Charles Darnay, a French aristocrat by birth, represents Pope Francis. The analogy between Darnay, who renounces his inherited privilege and ancestral sins, and Pope Francis, a religious leader often called "The People's Pope," highlights a shared commitment to radical empathy and social justice that transcends traditional boundaries of authority or birthright. While Pope Francis is undoubtedly a progressive voice within the Catholic Church, his papacy also navigates deeply entrenched conservative doctrines, demonstrating a complex, multi-faceted leadership akin to Darnay's internal struggle with his aristocratic past even after renouncing it. As the narrative unfolds, Darnay's family patron runs down a child in the street, cruelly tossing the grieving father a mere coin before continuing on his way. Outraged by this casual brutality and the inherent injustice of his noble lineage, Darnay relinquishes all land and title, moving to London. As events progress, he weds the Doctor's daughter, Lucy, but finds himself repeatedly placed on trial as a perceived traitor—first as a French spy in London, then as an aristocrat by birth in revolutionary France, and finally for the inherited sins of his father. This mirrors the narrative of Pope Francis, an advocate of Liberation Theology, whose papacy has been marked by a consistent challenging of traditional power structures and an unwavering championing of the marginalized. He often faces critique from within conservative circles for what some perceive as a betrayal of established norms, much like Darnay's loyalty is questioned by both sides of the revolution. This parallel underscores how genuine moral leadership, whether secular or spiritual, often demands a painful severing from inherited status for the sake of a higher ethical calling.
Our next character of central importance is Lucy Manette, the daughter of the Doctor and the wife of Darnay. While her role offers many rich analogies, in the simplest terms, she embodies the form of Mary. She is the central figure in the story, a symbol of purity, compassion, and unifying grace that links our diverse cast together. In biblical narratives, Mary is cast both as The Blessed Virgin, representing immaculate grace, and alternately as The Penitent, reflecting deep human suffering and spiritual fortitude. This dual aspect of purity intertwined with sorrow makes her a poignant symbol of unwavering love and moral guidance within the unfolding drama, serving as a beacon of hope and reconciliation amidst profound division.
Now, our next character comes to life, perhaps the most intriguing and intentionally provocative parallel: the role played by Phil Robertson, cast as Madame Defarge. This assignment is deliberately controversial, as Madame Defarge was a fervent progressive, a Jacobin revolutionary, meticulously knitting the fates of the condemned. How, then, could anyone mistake her for a bearded French conservative from Louisiana, a figure from a reality show? The answer lies in the potent, sometimes perilous, shared capacity for unyielding conviction and a drive for retribution that can arise when a perceived moral order is threatened. It's time for a history lesson from what I consider one of the most fascinating times in the modern world: The Reign of Terror.
As I stated, Madame Defarge was a progressive, or more technically, a Jacobin—a group led by Maximilien Robespierre. I do not doubt the initial intent of the revolutionary group. The French monarchy was undeniably corrupt and brutal. Yet, when the old order fell, the people, lacking a coherent plan for a just future, cried for retribution. They created a reactionary "traitors' list" and condemned these individuals as "enemies of the state." They were those who were "other," those who betrayed the vision of the revolution's fathers, and they were deemed to deserve death. This intense zeal for ideological purity and the subsequent demonization of "enemies" provides a chilling mirror for contemporary cultural conflicts. While separated by centuries and context, the parallel compels us to consider how movements, even those initially rooted in a desire for righteousness, can, in their zeal, inadvertently foster an "us vs. them" mentality that risks societal fragmentation and echoes the guillotine's demand for absolute ideological conformity, regardless of whether that purity is defined by revolutionary ideals or conservative faith. Phil Robertson, from his traditional, faith-based stance, has similarly faced criticism for public pronouncements perceived as divisive, often drawing clear lines between what he considers righteous and unrighteous behavior. This can lead to a kind of moral judgment that, while perhaps born of sincere conviction, risks creating a contemporary "traitors' list" of those who deviate from a particular moral or spiritual vision, thereby contributing to the cultural "reign of terror" of mutual accusation.
Finally, the secret begins to unravel, and our last key character appears: Sydney Carton, played in our retelling by none other than Gollum. Sydney is initially the most disreputable of men: a drunkard, self-serving, one who has simply given up on life. His moral depravity and self-loathing make his eventual act of redemption all the more astonishing, reinforcing the idea that profound good can emerge from the most unexpected, even morally compromised, "vessels." When Darnay is first put on trial in London, Carton, leveraging his uncanny resemblance to Darnay, exposes the true French spy who testifies against him. Upon saying his true name, the spy's testimony collapses. Afterwards, Darnay and Carton, despite their initial adversarial roles, become friends, both sharing a profound, if unspoken, love for Lucy.
The drama intensifies after the revolution. Darnay's family servants are placed on trial in France as enemies of the state. He honorably returns to plead for them, only to be placed on trial himself for his noble birth. The Doctor, now his father-in-law, a venerated former prisoner of the Bastille and hero of the people, pleads for Darnay's life, citing his renunciation of titles. Darnay is released, only to be jailed again, as the dark secret of his family's past is finally revealed. Many years ago, his uncle had fallen in love with a peasant girl, only to kidnap and rape her. They sent for a doctor, who, after hearing her horrific story, witnessed her death. This doctor, refusing to be bribed into silence, was then imprisoned in the Bastille for 18 years for his integrity. Upon his release, he was unwittingly placed into the care of the victim's sister, none other than Madame Defarge, who had sworn a terrifying vengeance upon the entire family, including Darnay, the nephew. She produces the doctor's long-hidden diary to the judge, and by his own words, the doctor unwittingly condemns his innocent son to death, utterly powerless to stop this judgment.
It is in this moment of ultimate despair that Carton acts. For he resembles his friend in appearance, and he loves Lucy and her child as his own. The spy from Darnay's former London trial is now a guard for the prison holding Darnay. Carton finds him and blackmails him, compelling the spy to take him to his friend. There, in a profound act of self-sacrifice, Carton changes clothes with Darnay, drugs him, and instructs the spy to take the unconscious man out, ensuring that his own secret identity, and Darnay's freedom, will die with him. So Darnay is rescued, and like Gollum—the most self-interested and morally compromised of creatures, who yet plays an unwitting, accidental role in the destruction of the Ring, serving a greater good—Carton accepts the judgment of death in his stead. It is an act inspired by the very actions of Christ—a substitutionary atonement—yet performed by Carton, a man previously defined by his moral depravity. This startling contrast forces us to confront the nature of redemption and the unexpected vessels through which profound acts of love and sacrifice can manifest. On his way to the guillotine, Carton utters these immortal words, transforming a life of waste into one of ultimate meaning:
I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out. . . . I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. . . .
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever kn own.
As I write this, the holidays draw near yet again. As the "culture war" continues, with its perennial "War on Christmas" and questions about the ethnicity of Santa dominating headlines, perhaps we should think back to the profound moral messages from Dickens's A Christmas Carol. The stories of Charles Dickens have stood the test of time precisely because they touch a universal part of the human soul, a part as true today as it was in his time. And it is through his stories, particularly A Tale of Two Cities, that we are challenged to question the true meaning of faith, sacrifice, and societal responsibility.
Many years ago, a friend asked me a question, a query that struck with ultimate irony and left my girlfriend shocked and disturbed: "What if Satan came to earth in the form of Christ to deceive mankind?" I asked this profoundly unsettling question to my scoutmaster, the Doctor. His answer encapsulated the very essence of the enduring faith explored through these allegories, offering a pathway through the "best of times, worst of times" paradox: "If your faith is pure, and your intent is true, if your love for God is real, if your faith in Christ gives you this foundation, then does it matter?" This final challenge invites the reader to contemplate the core of belief, suggesting that authentic faith transcends external appearances or even grand deceptions, resting instead on the purity of the heart and offering a resilient foundation in a world perpetually grappling with its own dualities.
