The Solitary Cry for Holiness
"Why deny that the holiness of men is the real cause of the greatest theological disorders and within the human soul."
Gabriel. G. Oliveira
3/14/202623 min read
You Can Still Defeat Dragons
To categorically state that "in Judaism there are no saints" is one of those declarations repeated with such certainty that no one bothers to question its veracity. It's almost an automatic reaction: someone mentions saints, another responds that it's a Catholic invention, and the discussion ends there, comfortable in a historical misconception that perpetuates because few take the trouble to read before giving their opinion.
The problem arises when examining the Jewish tradition, which does not corroborate this caricature.
In Judaism, there is an ancient and highly revered figure known as tzadik, with tzadikim being its plural. In Hebrew, the word means "righteous." It is not a pretty metaphor or a symbolic title: it is a real spiritual category. The tzadik is someone whose existence has harmonized in such a way with the divine will that they become a living example of fidelity to the Torah.
These people are not seen as curiosities of the past.
They are remembered, studied, mentioned, and revered in the Jewish tradition. Wise rabbis, prophets, martyrs, and masters of the oral tradition are part of this living memory of the people. Centuries after their deaths, their teachings are still debated, their tombs receive visits from the faithful, and in some strands of Jewish spirituality, especially in Hasidism and Jewish mysticism, their lives are considered sources of spiritual merit for the people.
And here begins to appear something that many people prefer to ignore.
The concept of intercession.
Yes, intercession. Many devout Jews pray to God in the name of the tzadikim. It is not a matter of venerating the righteous, but of acknowledging that the life of someone who lived in a deeply aligned manner with God carries spiritual significance before Him. The logic is simple: the closer someone lived to God, the more power their prayers have.
This is not a recent invention. The biblical text already indicates this spiritual logic by declaring: "The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective" (Proverbs 15:29 / James 5:16).
When analyzing this impartially, it is hard not to notice the similarity with what Christianity later called the communion of saints. The difference does not lie in the presence of venerated saints, but in the way this reality unfolds in Christian theology.
In Christianity, Christ is considered the greatest Tzadik in history, the Just One par excellence. The saints do not replace this righteousness; they are part of it. They are men and women who, thru grace, reflect aspects of Christ's life in the world.
To claim that Judaism is radically opposed to the idea of saints is not only inaccurate. It is to ignore the very Jewish tradition.
And, curiously, the same type of error occurs when the subject changes from saints to images.
There is a widely disseminated cliché that claims Judaism has always interpreted the second commandment "you shall not make for yourself a carved image" as a total prohibition of any kind of religious art. This notion seems reasonable... until archeology decides to intervene and quietly dismantle the argument.
One of the oldest synagogues ever found, the Dura Europos Synagogue, was discovered in Syria in the 20th century. This synagogue was built approximately in the year 244 A.D.
What existed within her was not a temple devoid of images.
The walls were completely covered in paintings.
There were complete scenes from the Old Testament: Moses crossing the Red Sea, the anointing of David, the prophet Elijah, visions of Ezekiel, episodes from the history of Israel. They were not decorative doodles. It is a comprehensive visual program of biblical catechesis.
This discovery left many scholars unsettled, as it revealed something simple: not all Jewish communities understood the commandment as an absolute prohibition of images.
The image was never the problem.
Idolatry has always been the problem.
The commandment does not condemn art; it condemns false worship. Condemns the transformation of an object into divinity. This completely changes the situation. A painting that depicts God is not considered an idol. It is about memory, symbol, and teaching.
For centuries, Christianity has been accused of idolatry for employing representations of Christ, Mary, and the saints. However, as is almost always the case, history is more complex than the accusation. At certain times, Jewish tradition allowed visual representations of their faith.
Sacred art has always had, among other functions, an educational character.
In a world where the majority of the population was illiterate, images served as a Bible on the walls. They preserved the religious memory of a people, conveyed teachings, and recalled stories.
It is evident that the synagogue of Dura Europos does not conclude all theological debates. However, it debunks the simplistic idea that Judaism has always been entirely iconoclastic.
And, interestingly, this conversation brings us back to the question of the just.
The concept of tzadik was already present in Judaism during the time of Christ. It was not a late construction of medieval spirituality. The righteous person was someone whose life reflected an unwavering fidelity to the Torah, someone whose justice distinguished them in a special way before God.
The Scripture already contained figures of this kind.
Noah, Abraham, Moses.
Men whose memory endured precisely because of their exceptional loyalty. When Jesus mentions these figures, he does not behave like someone who scorns this tradition. On the contrary, he acknowledges it.
For example, in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, Abraham is portrayed as a figure of spiritual authority. Not as a secondary character, but as a figure who plays a central role in the narrative. This indicates that the concept of exemplary justice already existed in the religious imagination of the population.
However, Jesus does something even more radical.
He reinterprets the concept of justice.
By declaring in the Sermon on the Mount that "unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven" (Matthew 5:20), he is not denying the concept of justice. He is expanding it. The pursuit of holiness was not the problem, but the legalism that mixed appearance with inner change.
Being fair did not mean following rules with bureaucratic rigor.
It was to have the heart in tune with God.
This discussion about justice inevitably leads to another question, one that is timeless: what is the purpose of human life in this context?
For a long time, people believed that living was just working, paying bills, raising children, and dying. Life turns into a mechanical script that no one questions, because questioning seems risky.
However, a moment of silence is enough to notice that something is missing.
Viktor Frankl, who analyzed human behavior in extreme situations during World War II, reached a fundamental conclusion: to endure life, people need purpose. Not an abstract meaning, but something concrete that guides life.
Meaning arises when life is not just about survival, but becomes a response to a calling.
However, this idea presents a hidden risk.
If the purpose of life is just something that each person creates for themselves, then anything can be enough. Today, meaning is a project; tomorrow, it is pleasure; the day after tomorrow, it is power. As a result, we have a culture in which meaning becomes a disposable product.
This problem was identified by Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas long before it became an academic trend.
For them, the purpose of human life cannot be merely subjective, as human nature itself has a purpose. There is a final purpose, a principle that organizes existence. Without it, human freedom becomes just a random choice.
The Logos, the reason that organizes the real, is what prevents life from disintegrating into chaos.
Nihilism emerges when this idea fades away.
Nietzsche identified this void with brutal clarity. He realized that a culture that renounces any higher truth is destined to generate arbitrary values. The problem is that these values are never able to sustain their own existence.
The young person who adopts nihilism believes they have achieved complete freedom.
Sooner or later, he realizes that freedom without truth is just emptiness.
And in this context, the inevitable question arises: if human life has purpose, where does that purpose come from?
The oldest answer from philosophy and theology remains surprisingly difficult to ignore.
God.
Not as an emotional possibility, but as the essence of being itself. If there is a Logos that underpins the world, human existence is not a mere chance without purpose. It has a purpose.
And it is precisely in this context that the concept of holiness acquires a concrete meaning.
Christianity has never claimed that saints are beyond humans. What it says is much more disturbing: that human beings can, thru grace, collaborate with God and change their own lives.
This perspective places free will at the center.
Grace does not cancel human freedom; it enhances it. Holiness is not an arbitrary privilege, but a response to divine intervention. For this reason, the Christian tradition keeps alive the memory of men and women who exemplarily experienced this transformation.
They can attest that grace has the power to transform the human being.
And here a significant break with some branches of Protestantism emerges.
By declaring "Sin freely, but believe, and you will be saved," Luther sought to highlight the fundamental importance of faith. However, the theological implication of this was significant. If salvation is based solely on an inner act of faith, moral transformation ceases to be a fundamental component.
Holiness becomes something secondary.
The question of this is simple.
If there is no genuine possibility of spiritual growth, there is also no concrete evidence that the Holy Spirit changes human life. Faith is reduced to a mere subjective trust, ceasing to be a reality that expresses itself in history.
The logic becomes brutally clear.
There is no holiness without free will.
There is no genuine transformation without holiness.
Without transformation, faith is reduced to a mere intellectual belief.
And the God who saves without changing is not quite the God depicted in the Gospel. This happens because Christ establishes a radical standard by stating: "Be holy, as your Father is holy" (Mt 5:48).
This phrase is not a motivational metaphor.
This is a direct appeal.
And perhaps that's why many people consider it a religious exaggeration. After all, it is much easier to believe in a God who forgives everything without asking for transformation than in a God who demands a reconstruction of one's own life.
However, the history of Jewish and Christian spirituality insists on reminding us of something uncomfortable.
There are men and women whose lives prove that holiness is not an illusion.
They were present.
And they continue to be the evidence that grace goes beyond forgiveness. It transforms.
Holiness is not a moral ornament for domesticated individuals, nor a fictitious halo placed over the heads of overly educated people to cause scandal. Holiness is a battle. Serious war. Internal conflict and metaphysics. Struggle against the falsehood that seeks to fill the soul internally and then establish itself in the world as if it were part of the natural landscape. That is why, in the most precise sense, it represents the struggle for one's own existence. Not just for biological survival, which even cockroaches defend, but for life as form, purpose, meaning, direction, and glory of the human being. The saint is not the "nice guy," this stereotypical figure created by modernity that turns virtue into social delicacy. The saint is the virtuous man who fights. He fights even against himself. Battles against the chaos within their own inner home. Struggles to prevent his soul from becoming fodder for vise, a stage for self-deception, and a headquarters of hell.
That's why holiness is the struggle for good. And it's not a cute metaphor for a social media post. It's a real struggle. Hard, tough, extensive struggle, sometimes silent, sometimes humiliating, often without an audience and rarely applauded. Throughout life, man is constantly pushed down, dispersing, becoming cowardly, seeking easy pleasures, adhering to functional lies, falling into elegant despair, and succumbing to that quite contemporary form of spiritual suicide known as constant entertainment. The saint emerges precisely as the living opposite of all this. Not because he does not carry the weight of the world, but because he carries it and does not surrender. Not for ignoring the abyss, but for knowing it without pledging loyalty to it. Holiness begins when a man understands that truly living is not floating with the flow, but fighting against what tries to deprive him of his human essence.
Chesterton understood this with the clarity of someone who seemed playful only to ridicule the overly serious. "The things I believed in the most back then, and the things I believe in the most today, are the so-called fairy tales." In my opinion, these tales are completely rational. They are not fantasies: the other things are what, compared to them, seem fantastic to me. The Land of Fairies is nothing more than the sunny land of common sense. In Orthodoxy and throughout Chesterton's thought, from The Everlasting Man to What's Wrong with the World, this is not a childish escape, but a rediscovery of the real; for the fairy tale does not distort the structure of existence, it merely makes it perceptible. With images, he expresses what philosophy and theology need to articulate with concepts: the world is good, but wounded; adventure is real; evil exists; the dragon exists; the soul was not created to submit to it; and joy is a more powerful weapon than the melancholic intelligence of some arrogant skeptics.
It is precisely at this point that many people, especially in the modern and Protestantized context, begin to fail. This happens because, when talking about holiness, people tend to imagine either moral sentimentalism or an ethereal religious status. A superficial holiness, which floats without consistency, devoid of discipline, ontological transformation, spiritual elevation, and genuine struggle against evil. And that is absurd. Ridiculous from both a technical and moral standpoint. Because if there is no true transformation of man, there is no holiness; if there is no progress in virtue, there is no victory at all; if grace does not change anything, religion becomes just a form of consolation for those who wish to remain as they are. Thomas Aquinas, in his Summa Theologica, would never consider spiritual life as mere pious makeup. For him, grace enhances nature, without replacing it, ignoring it, or allowing it to rot in the name of an abstract faith. Aristotle, in his work Nicomachean Ethics, had already demonstrated that virtue is an excellent habit and a constant struggle. Moreover, in his Metaphysics, he made it clear that being is not organized by the whim of the subject. Holiness, seen from this perspective, is precisely the moment when moral life ceases to be superficial and transforms into a higher form of existence.
Therefore, Protestantism, in its most simplified and psychological forms, makes a grave mistake by treating holiness as if it were merely an external imputation, a celestial label, or a legal decree without transfiguration. The soul would remain the same, merely "covered," as if they placed a beautiful cloth over a corpse and thot the problem was solved. It had no effect at all. If man cannot collaborate with grace, if free will is almost non-existent, if inner change is doubtful, then the Gospel is incomplete. Christ did not teach us to observe the idea of moral perfection from a distance, as if it were a work of art. He commanded: "Be holy, as your Father is holy" (Mt 5:48). And this phrase does not allow for passivity. It requires involvement. It demands a response. It requires inner transformation, mental refinement, control of desires, practical courage, persistence, and loyalty. Without this, the discourse on faith turns into verbal anesthesia.
In Man's Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl understood something fundamental, even without using the complete vocabulary of the metaphysical tradition: the human being is capable of enduring almost any pain if it has a purpose. However, the aspect that modernity tends to distort in Frankl is the following: meaning is not an arbitrary invention of the ego, nor a subjective project created to deal with boredom. The true meaning requires a commitment to something concrete and superior to mere whim. It is at this point that Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas, and the Christian tradition bring the precision that modern psychologism lacks. It is not enough to "find a reason." It is necessary that this reason is directed toward the ultimate purpose of the human being. Freedom becomes a sophisticated disorientation when it lacks purpose. Without a clear purpose, authenticity becomes a permission for decay. Without holiness, the purpose of life is reduced to something as small as the screen of an iPhone, and that is not human life, but merely a luxurious distraction.
When Chesterton mentions dragons, he is not just playing with medieval esthetics to please esoteric teenagers. He is explaining the setup of the moral struggle. The image of the dragon is appropriate, for evil does not present itself to the soul as a mere abstract error, but as a devouring, seductive, invasive force, full of promises and devoid of essence. The dragon symbolizes what desires to be at the center, to absorb the heights, to kidnap the imagination, and to establish fear as the norm. In this context, fairy tales prove to be more rational than much of contemporary academia, as they maintain the obvious that sophisticated intelligence has forgotten: evil is monstrous, yet not divine; it is great, but derived; it appears sovereign, but is parasitic. The saint does not triumph by being innocently naive. He wins because he is willing to fight for good, even aware that the whole world conspires to ridicule his bravery.
Now addressing an aspect closer to esotericism, but without subjecting intelligence to the occultist circus, it is not insignificant that, in practical Jewish Kabbalah and various ancient ritualistic systems, demonic entities exhibit draconian characteristics. Gershom Scholem, in Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism and Kabbalah, had already highlighted the complexity with which Jewish mysticism approaches the forces of evil. Joseph Dan, in Kabbalah: A Very Short Introduction, and Arthur Green, in analyzing the spiritual experience of Rabbi Nachman in Tormented Master, contribute to the understanding that traditional religious symbolism has never been as simplistic as late rationalism assumes. Mircea Eliade, in his work History of Religious Ideas, emphasizes that the symbolic imagination is not a mere ornament, but the grammar of the sacred and the abyssal. The draconic form of evil is not a mere esthetic detail; it represents the usurpation of what rises, desiring height without light, power without goodness, and transcendence without truth.
Therefore, the modern notion that dragons are merely a folkloric memory of dinosaurs is a pseudo-scientific simplification that is appealing because it does not require symbolic intelligence. It's talk for those who believe that interpreting a religious image biologically is equivalent to understanding it. It's not true. Never was. The symbol does not compete with the fossil. The moral experience of the being is interpreted by the symbol. When texts that deal with demonic evocation, such as the Ars Goetia, found in The Lesser Key of Solomon, and the Grimorium Verum, describe entities that manifest in monstrous, nebulous, and draconian forms, they are not engaging in zoology. They are demonstrating what every respectable tradition has always known: spiritual evil manifests as a distorted caricature of greatness. The occultist uses the term daimon lightly to appear neutral, as if dealing only with ambiguous forces or archetypal energies. However, this is often a linguistic error combined with metaphysical cowardice. Any Jew or Christian with a basic knowledge of Greek, patristic tradition, and rabbinic criticism understands that not every attempt to preserve the old vocabulary is intellectually sincere. Changing the name does not alter the essence. Conceptual perfume does not purge ontological decomposition.
Therefore, the dragon is not just a mythical creature. It is the model of the spiritual parasite. A "god" in quotes and with a lowercase g, as it tries to appear as a principle but feeds on the good it lacks. He avoids the light, despises the truth, uses his own followers as cannon fodder, and spreads deceit even among them. This is relevant because evil does not only affect the innocent; it also devastates its followers. Hell does not reward loyalty. He devours allies. This is the mark of the demonic. Makes promises of ascension, but delivers humiliation. Provides wisdom and causes destruction. Speaks of freedom and offers servitude. Eric Voegelin, in The New Science of Politics, clearly observed how some manifestations of modern Gnosticism seek to immanentize the eschaton, exchange the order of being for ideological delirium, and transform history into a stage for manufactured salvation. In political, psychological, and spiritual aspects, the dragon always offers a shorter path to fullness. And always demands the complete soul in return.
It is at this point that holiness demonstrates its gravity. Because fighting for holiness is fighting not to be integrated into this system of falsehood. The dark nite of the soul, as Saint John of the Cross describes in Dark Nite of the Soul and Ascent of Mount Carmel, is not an emotional collapse or depression with a baroque touch. It is about dispossession. It is the moment when the soul is stripped of its crutches, undressed of its comforts, and deprived of its inferior satisfactions, so that it learns to cling to God not for pleasure, but for truth. "night of the senses," "narrow gate," "ray of darkness": these expressions do not aim to beautify suffering, but to clearly affirm that the soul, in order to elevate itself, must unlearn the idolatry of itself. It is truly horrible. And it is, indeed, glorious. For, in this case, faith ceases to be an opinion and becomes an infused gift received, which subsequently transforms into a virtue offered back. Holiness begins when the soul stops negotiating with its own pride.
This faith, as an infused gift, provides the astonishing perception that God loves and calls. And this appeal is not about religious sentimentality directed toward those in need. It is a direct call to get involved in a work that transcends us. Oh, indeed, what a wonder: He includes you in His work. Not out of necessity, as if He were insufficient, but because He wishes to grant the creature the dignity of cooperation. That changes everything. The soul is not just rescued from something; it is called to something. And that "something" does not refer to emotional prosperity, harmony in the condominium, or a life without suffering. It is a genuine transformation. It is a new faculty of the liberated soul. It is about holiness. Faith, understood as a virtue, in response to the infused faith received, transforms into determination, transformation of the heart, restructuring of the mind, renewal of feelings, and concrete transfiguration of life.
And it must be said emphatically: spiritual strength is not granted so that a person can cease suffering and live peacefully in this little world with their iPhone, using religion as an esthetic facade for an undisciplined soul. No, my dear. The strength granted by God is to combat the evil one, to resist the malice that hides in the dark field of your vain soul, to repel the voracious serpent that wishes to dwell in you as if it already had a deed. And, if necessary, to sacrifice one's own life in this battle. Christianity does not guaranty protection against pain. It promises meaning for pain, relief for suffering, and glory throughout the struggle. When God calls and when man reaches out to Him, suffering does not disappear; man is the one who is clothed. Wrapped in the breastplate of righteousness, in the golden armor of Christ. And, by clothing himself in this way, he crucifies himself to such an extent for this world that no attack from this earth can shake the conviction that life here is not as important as life with Him.
The Philokalia, compiled by Saint Nicodemus the Hagiorite and Macarius of Corinth, presents a beautiful and precise description: "The blessed heart of man, firmly anchored in sobriety and contemplation, transforms into an inner sky with sun, moon, stars, and draws closer to God." This does not characterize an intimate fantasy, but a personal cosmology. The sacred man does not distance himself from the cosmos; he incorporates it within himself. The sun, the moon, the stars, and the inner order are all related to the reintegration of the soul into the hierarchy of being. Here, sobriety and contemplation are not mere monastic whims detached from life. These are the conditions of lucidity. In the absence of sobriety, the imagination transforms into the devil's brothel. Without reflection, intelligence becomes a servant to what is useful at the moment. The sacred heart transforms into an inner heaven precisely by no longer accepting to be a den of serpents.
Therefore, the struggle against evil is incessant, constantly renewing itself, soul by soul, generation by generation, in all times and cultures. The so-called holy wars of history, with all their human ambiguities, have only made visible a deeper and prior truth: the true holy war is the war against death, against sin, against the devil, against the lie that wants to devour the human from within before devouring it from without. And this war is not subject to cultural trends. It continues to happen when no one is watching. It remains in the room of the man tempted by hopelessness, in the exhausted body of one who longs to give up, in the mind seduced by sophisticated blasphemy, in the wounded heart that sees cynicism as a defense mechanism. The saint does not pretend to be unaware of this war. He adopts it as a means of his own existence.
God will not always be visibly present among us, and when He is not, we depend on the testimony of those who walked with Him and continue in the world sharing the story and keeping the flame alive. And what fire is that? The lesson that God was among us out of love for us and that we live in a period of waiting, or advent, until His return. It is for this reason that the communion of saints is not considered a doctrinal ornament. It is a structure of combat. Man does not battle alone. He fights with the testimony of those who came before, with the strength of those who have triumphed, with the memory of the martyrs, with the intelligence of the scholars, and with the intercession of the righteous. Their armors shine intensely, as if the sun penetrated the metal and transformed it from the inside out. And this reinforces. Not as a compensatory psychological myth, but as a concrete involvement in the economy of grace.
In this context, the blood of Christ is not a dehydrated poetic metaphor. It is power. It is a blessing. It is about the justification of faith. It is the pledge of the one who, being divine, became man to sanctify your humanity. This is not an ornamental expression of tradition; it is the core of the Christian perspective on holiness. Christ does not use the human body as if wearing a costume to accomplish a mission. He adopts human nature and exalts it. The human nature and the divine nature coexist without confusion and without separation. He suffers for humanity, suffers with humanity, engages in the battle, and above all, offers himself as a sacrifice. "No one takes my life; I lay it down." This statement annihilates all the metaphysics of cowardice. Christ is not a passive victim of evil; He is the triumphant one who turns the cross into a throne and the sacrifice into victory. He descends to hell, crosses the realm of death, defeats the evil one, and, according to tradition, rescues Adam and Eve, the progenitors of the human race. The new Adam enters the ruin to reclaim what the old one had lost.
Hence, it is understood why holiness is a battle for one's own life: because, after the fall, human life does not sustain itself by inertia. It needs spiritual protection. There is no possibility of neutrality. Either man struggles to organize the soul, or the soul will be dominated. Either he progresses in virtue, or he regresses in vise. Either he learns to love the good, or he will learn to justify the evil. The complete moral tradition, which spans from Aristotle to Thomas, from Scripture to the Fathers, from Philokalia to Carmelite mysticism, emphasizes this: man is formed by his actions. He is not an inert block covered in intentions. He transforms into what he loves, into what he repeats, and into what he surrenders to. Therefore, holiness is not a decorative element of religion; it is the realization of the ethics of virtues under the influence of grace.
For this reason, it is so superficial to reduce the saint to a "good" man. Goodness, seen as social docility, has never been able to defeat any dragon. The saint is, first and foremost, the man whose prudence sees, whose fortitude endures, whose temperance organizes, whose justice assigns each thing its place, and whose charity binds him to God above his own self. He is not sentimental, but he can be affectionate. He is not fragile, although he can be gentle. He is not naive, despite knowing how to appreciate. The saint has a deeper understanding of evil than the cynic, precisely because he has not made a pact with it. He knows the mud without calling it clean water. Recognize vanity without sanctifying it as self-esteem. Recognize despair without approaching it as an intellectual depth. Holiness represents the highest form of lucidity, as it does not allow the confusion between wound and identity.
All of this also justifies why only traditional religions, and not the spiritualized versions of the contemporary world, are capable of addressing holiness with the gravity it demands. Where there is no real transcendence, there is no true spiritual elevation. Where there is no objective truth, there is no battle for the soul, only the management of feelings. In places where there is no hierarchy of being, there is no ultimate good, only preferences presented in therapeutic discourse. And where there is no ultimate good, the image of the saint fades away, replaced by the moral influencer, the self-help preacher, the performance guru, and the public image reformer. The saint disappears; the coach emerges. And this exchange reveals a lot about the spiritual poverty of our time.
Modernity, by focusing on subjectivity, tries to persuade the individual that their deepest conflict is of a psychological nature. It is not true. The psychological is real and evident, being able to assist in description; however, when it tries to take control of ethics and metaphysics, it should be ridiculed. Because the essential human question is not "how do I feel," but "who am I, why do I exist, and what is my purpose." A man may have a full understanding of his traumas and still remain morally corrupted. It is possible to name your shadows with sophisticated words and remain a slave to them. It is possible to turn one's own analysis into a mechanism of self-deception. Holiness breaks this barrier, as it puts the soul in contact with being, with good, and with God. It questions not only how to alleviate pain but also how to make life an authentic response to reality.
For this reason, the image of the dragon remains unchanged. He is what causes wars, for he is the will to power detached from truth. It is the parasite of being. It is about structured falsehood. It is the hidden engine of systems that promise freedom but create servitude. It is the force that mocks the human, transforms followers into weapons, propagates death and terror, and still presents itself as redemptive. They can call him whatever they want in symbolic systems; the biblical and Christian tradition was more sincere and called him an enemy. Samael, Lucifer, the devil, the ancient dragon. The Apocalypse does not describe him to satisfy visual curiosity, but to highlight that historical evil has a spiritual root and will, in the end, be cast into the abyss, imprisoned and unable to interfere again in the restored order of creation. Not because evil is infinite like God, which would be a metaphysical blasphemy, but because, being created and fallen, it will finally be subdued. The rebel does not possess eternity; it belongs to the Lord of being.
How, then, can I become one of those who collaborate with Christ in the grand mission of eradicating evil? Not for a heroic daydream. Not by chance. Not out of esoteric delirium from someone who confuses curiosity with vocation. It approaches thru communion, grace, virtue, fidelity, struggle, sacrifice, and commitment to true goodness. Humanity is allowed to be divinized thru participation in Christ. One comes to accept the armor and understand that it is heavy. It is understood that the light that permeates the armor of the saints does not emanate from them, but rather passes thru them. And it is precisely for this reason that it can affect us, if we do not protect the soul from corrosion.
Chesterton was right, and his certainty was more luminous than the morbid sophistication of those who mock moral imagination. The fairyland is the radiant land of common sense, where one still recognizes what modernity has forgotten: that the true hero is not the one who ignores the dragon, but the one who confronts it; that the monster does not disappear just because someone wrote an article about its biological symbolism; that the miracle is not synonymous with childishness, but a surprise before the order of being; and that joy is only genuine when forged in fire. That is holiness. The soul that, upon contemplating the wonder of existence, chooses not to betray it. The soul that, upon knowing the beauty of the true, rebels against everything that distorts it. The soul that understands that living is not just breathing, but being faithful.
Thomas Aquinas, Aristotle, Scripture, Frankl, John of the Cross, the Philokalia, Chesterton, and even the critical analysis of obscure ritual texts converge on this point when interpreted without intellectual dishonesty: the human being was created for something beyond comfort, longevity, survival, and social functionality. He was created for the fullness of good. And, in a wounded world, this fullness can only be achieved thru struggle. There is no holiness without battle, just as there is no love without danger. There is no spiritual elevation without renunciation, for there is no ascension without the abandonment of burdens. There is no full life without the death of the old man, for there is no resurrection for those who fall in love with their own grave.
Ultimately, holiness is the battle for one's very existence, for it is the struggle to ensure that your soul does not fall into the clutches of the dragon, of vise, of despair, of lies, of cynicism, of vanity, or of emptiness. It is the battle to ensure that your freedom is not corrupted. It's the battle to ensure that your mind is not dominated by disorder. It is the battle to ensure that your mind is not filled with creatures disguised as emancipation. It is the battle so that your suffering is not in vain. It is the battle so that your death, when it comes, does not find you as a deserter. The saint is the individual who fought to maintain their humanity until the end and, for that reason, became more than simply human in the common sense of the word. He was promoted. And he elevated his own existence to the status of testimony. This is how the weak define religious fervor. And that is what the resilient, with fear and hope, call redemption.
REFERÊNCIAS BIBLIOGRÁFICAS
ANONYMOUS. Grimorium Verum. Paris: Library of Occult Sciences, 1817.
OLD TESTAMENT. Book of Proverbs. In: HOLY BIBLE. Translation by João Ferreira de Almeida. Barueri: Brazilian Bible Society, 2011.
AQUINO, Thomas of. Summa Theologica. São Paulo: Loyola, 2005.
ARISTOTLE. Nicomachean Ethics. São Paulo: Martin Claret, 2009.
ARISTOTLE. Metaphysics. São Paulo: Loyola, 2002.
BIBLE. Holy Bible. Translation by João Ferreira de Almeida. Barueri: Brazilian Bible Society, 2011.
CHESTERTON, Gilbert Keith. Orthodoxy. São Paulo: Ecclesiae, 2017.
CHESTERTON, Gilbert Keith. The Everlasting Man. São Paulo: Ecclesiae, 2014.
CHESTERTON, Gilbert Keith. What's Wrong with the World. Campinas: Ecclesiae, 2013.
DAN, Joseph. Kabbalah: A Brief Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006.
ELIADE, Mircea. History of Religious Beliefs and Ideas. Rio de Janeiro: Zahar, 2010.
FRANKL, Viktor E. Man's Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy. Petrópolis: Vozes, 2008.
GREEN, Arthur. Tormented Master: The Life and Spiritual Quest of Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1979.
SAINT JOHN OF THE CROSS Dark Nite of the Soul. São Paulo: Paulus, 2002.
Saint John of the Cross Ascent of Mount Carmel. São Paulo: Paulus, 2002.
NICODEMO HAGIORITA, Saint; MACÁRIO DE CORINTO (ed.). Philokalia: texts of the Desert Fathers and the Hesychast tradition (6th century). São Paulo: Paulus, 2014.
NEW TESTAMENT. Epistle of James. In: HOLY BIBLE. Translation by João Ferreira de Almeida. Barueri: Brazilian Bible Society, 2011.
GOETIC RITUALS. The Lesser Key of Solomon: Ars Goetia. York Beach: Samuel Weiser, 2001.
SCHNEEMELCHER, Wilhelm (ed.). Apocrypha of the New Testament. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003.
SCHOLEM, Gershom. Kabbalah. Jerusalem: Keter Publishing, 1974.
SCHOLEM, Gershom. Main currents of Jewish mysticism. Nova York: Schocken Books, 1995.
VOEGELIN, Eric. The New Science of Politics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.
