Does anyone really set out to sell their soul to the devil? Or do a series of thoughts and actions place us in the infernal one’s path, where his ages-old cunning more than matches the best in human philosophy?
The legendary character Faust exemplifies the second type of person, perhaps the more common. Faust’s story has influenced countless literary works, from straightforward representations (such as Goethe’s Faust) to looser adaptations (Benet’s short story “The Devil and Daniel Webster”). We’ve even adopted the adjective ‘faustian,’ which denotes any foolish deal. Despite its considerable influence, people seem unable to learn the lessons we should from the harrowing tale. Christopher Marlowe’s Faustus is one of the earliest retellings, apart from the chap book that collected the folk tale, and reading it might give us a place to start.
The story is a simple one. After trying all the sciences including theology (the “queen of the sciences”) Faustus, a learned divinity student, forsakes all for sorcery. The sorcery, though, is merely a means to an end: great power and incalculable material wealth. For twenty-four years of absolute power, then, Faustus promises Lucifer (through the arch-devil Mephistophilis) his soul.
The rest of the play details Faustus’s “adventures” with Mephistophilis, including humiliating the pope, meeting Helen of Troy (source of the famous speech about Helen–”Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?”), and a growing infamy. His powers seem limitless. Inevitably, though, the twenty-four years come to an end and Faustus is dragged offstage, presumably to eternal damnation and torture.
Why does this tale so captivate the Western world? In short, because it tells the human story, our own stories. Every human being, after all, seems to face the same temptation of his age-old enemy: Why wait on some invisible Lord? Yield me your soul and have what you want now. Sure, if you’re patient and trusting of the God who created you, this and much more will come. But why wait? It’s microwave temptation: have an enviable life in half the time. (An interesting side note: in the 19th century, Faust becomes a kind of hero, his individualism celebrated.)
It has always been a powerful offer. In former ages, the temptation and the resulting power might have involved more supernatural manifestations, as Faust’s does. In our materialist day, though, it seems more often a humanistic manifestation of evil than a supernatural one. And what one gains is material too–money, fame or power–rather than some diabolical power that might lead to such results. The temptation, nevertheless, remains.
Not even Jesus escaped it, in fact. The ultimate temptation during his wilderness preparation, before he began his public ministry, was to bow to Satan and become king of the world. It was a shrewd gambit on Satan’s part because it offered Jesus precisely what he had come to accomplish, his goal, without the great cost that his Father required.
Today, more than ever, we see opportunities similar to the one Faust faced. At their most innocuous, they show us a way to bypass the cost or discipline associated with growth. Get-rich-quick schemes, blitz diets, designer surgeries–all represent a shortcut to value. And though we bypass some sacrifice along the way–saving, healthy diet and exercise, learning contentment–we sacrifice our very humanity in the process. After all, the goal of being human, from a Christian perspective, is to be conformed to the image of Christ. And it is not a magical transformation from lead to gold (as the alchemists sought). Nor is it a laboratory-tested experiment: add two parts patience to one part holiness, add a dash of virtue, and get a heaven-worthy righteous person.
Nor can it come from a Faust-like negotiation and contract with God. The God of heaven demands not some portion of ourselves; he wants all of us. And in the process, he won’t allow us to prune ourselves as we see fit. “The Christian way is different,” C.S. Lewis writes in Mere Christianity:
“. . . harder, and easier. Christ says, ‘Give me All. I don’t want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good. I don’t want to cut off a branch here and a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down…Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked–the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you myself: my own will shall become yours.’”
Because of this truth, Christians must reject any “simple” path to holiness, if by simple we mean quick and easy, transaction-like. The real call to holiness is indeed simple: come and die and be raised again better than you could imagine yourself to be.
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