Euripides and the Abyss of Passion: Medea in the Light of Scripture

Euripides’ Medea, first performed in Athens in 431 BC, stands as one of antiquity’s most psychologically unsettling tragedies — and its power lies precisely in this: it sees the human condition with devastating clarity and offers no remedy for what it sees. Where Aeschylus traffics in cosmic justice and Sophocles in the collision between individual will and divine order, Euripides descends into the interior life of a woman destroyed by betrayal and consumed by passion. Medea, the foreign sorceress from Colchis who helped Jason win the Golden Fleece, is abandoned by her husband for a politically advantageous Greek marriage. Her response is total and terrifying: she murders Jason’s new bride, the Corinthian king Creon, and finally her own children, escaping unpunished in a chariot drawn by dragons. This is not a story about a monster. It is a story about a mother who loves her children and kills them anyway, and that intolerable combination is precisely what the playwright intends. The famous monologue of lines 1019 to 1080, in which Medea rehearses the murder in her imagination before committing it, is worth pausing over: she does not want to do this, and she does it anyway. Her maternal tenderness and her murderous resolve occupy the same sentences, the same breath, the same heart. That is the abyss Euripides opens. The essay that follows argues that Euripides diagnosed a problem only the gospel can address — and that reading him carefully, in the light of Scripture, illuminates both the depth of human fallenness and the magnitude of what redemption means.

Relations to Homer, Herodotus, and Greek Literature

Medea belongs to the broader mythological tradition of the Argonautic cycle, appearing in fragments attributed to Hesiod and in later developed form in Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica. Within that tradition, Medea’s role is analogous to Circe’s in the Odyssey — a magical foreign woman who assists a Greek hero through supernatural power, instrumentalized by male ambition and then discarded. Euripides radically subverts this convention by making Medea the protagonist rather than the auxiliary figure, and her triumph over Greek hubris inverts every expectation the Argonautic tradition had established. The revenge cycle of the play echoes Aeschylus’ Oresteia, where blood calls for blood across generations, and Medea’s passion-driven destruction parallels the madness of Ajax in Sophocles or Deianeira’s fatal love in the Women of Trachis. Herodotus is relevant as well, though indirectly: his Histories are saturated with the tension between Greek and barbarian, and he consistently demonstrates that the gods punish hubris regardless of ethnic identity. Medea embodies that principle as a barbarian woman who exposes Greek oath-breaking and suffers for it, yet whose response becomes its own form of monstrous excess. Euripides shares Herodotus’ skepticism about Greek moral superiority while surpassing him in psychological depth. The play’s social critique — its exposure of women’s powerlessness in Greek marriage, its unsparing portrayal of xenophobia toward the Colchian outsider — reflects the anxieties of Athens during the early Peloponnesian War. Euripides’ broader body of work, including the Bacchae and Hippolytus, consistently probes the destructive potential of passion when divine or social order fails to contain it, making Medea not an aberration in his career but its defining statement.

Relations to Ancient Near Eastern Literature and the Old Testament

Direct literary borrowing between Euripides and Ancient Near Eastern texts is difficult to establish, and the parallels that exist are better understood as reflections of shared Mediterranean archetypes than as evidence of textual dependence. Medea’s sorcery and her dragon-drawn chariot evoke the powerful foreign enchantresses of Mesopotamian tradition, and the figure of the chaos monster — serpentine, destructive, associated with primordial disorder — appears in texts ranging from the Babylonian Enuma Elish to Ugaritic mythology. The revenge motif itself has deep ANE roots: the Epic of Gilgamesh turns on divine retribution for human arrogance, and Hittite and Hurrian mythologies include figures of spurned divine consorts whose anger brings catastrophe. What distinguishes Euripides from these ANE counterparts, however, is his location of the driving force entirely within the human psyche. ANE revenge narratives typically frame destruction as cosmically mandated, tied to the restoration of divine or royal order. Euripides offers no such comfort. These ANE parallels prepare the way for the Old Testament’s engagement with the same themes, because Scripture does not enter a cultural vacuum when it addresses passion, covenant, and betrayal — it enters a world already saturated with these questions and answers them from an entirely different foundation. The Old Testament engages the themes of Medea at every major point, not through direct contact but through the deeper logic of covenant and its violation. Jason’s abandonment of Medea — the woman who had sacrificed her homeland, her family, and her honor to serve him — mirrors the covenant treachery that the prophets repeatedly condemn. Malachi addresses the men of Judah in terms that could be applied directly to Jason: “the Lord was witness between you and the wife of your youth, to whom you have been faithless” (Malachi 2:14). Medea’s foreignness and sorcery recall the Old Testament’s consistent warnings against pagan practices, though Euripides frames what the Torah condemns as tragedy rather than apostasy. The infanticide at the play’s center inverts the Exodus narrative: where Pharaoh murders Hebrew children to preserve his power, Medea murders her own to destroy Jason’s legacy. Isaiah 46 offers the sharpest counter-image: Yahweh presents himself as the divine mother who carries Israel, who bore the nation from the womb and will not abandon it even through judgment. Where Medea’s love becomes the instrument of destruction, Yahweh’s maternal faithfulness is the very ground of Israel’s hope.

Relations to the New Testament

The New Testament’s engagement with Medea’s world moves from diagnosis to remedy, and its diagnosis is more searching than anything Euripides achieved. Paul’s account in Romans 1:24-25 of a humanity “given over” by God to the desires of their own hearts — passion as both the consequence and the expression of idolatry — illuminates Medea’s trajectory with precision: her passion is not a flaw in an otherwise noble character but the fruit of a world structured around human desire rather than divine order. Romans 6:23 finds in Medea its most literal dramatic illustration, as sin’s logic moves from broken covenant to murdered children with terrible consistency — the wages are always death, and Euripides shows us exactly how they are paid. The play’s unresolved ending, in which Medea escapes without judgment, anticipates the New Testament’s insistence on final eschatological justice while exposing the inadequacy of any merely human framework for accounting for evil. Romans 12:19 quotes Deuteronomy directly: “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” Medea’s entire career is a usurpation of that divine prerogative — vengeance claimed by human hands always exceeds and corrupts what it intended to balance. Jesus’ command in the Sermon on the Mount to love enemies and pray for those who persecute you (Matthew 5:44) stands as the sharpest possible contrast to her self-vindicating logic: not vengeance answered by greater vengeance, but the cycle broken by a love that costs everything and destroys nothing. John’s Gospel deepens the diagnosis from ethic to ontology: “everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed” (John 3:20). Medea operates entirely within darkness. The play offers no light, no principle of forgiveness, no force capable of interrupting the revenge cycle — and that absence is not a literary weakness but a theological witness, testifying by its very emptiness to what the world without the gospel looks like from the inside.

Biblical Critique and the Superior Solution of the Gospel

Euripides sees clearly. He sees that passion without covenant destroys everything it touches, that oath-breaking cascades into catastrophe, that a world structured around human desire rather than divine order ends in infanticide and dragon chariots and escape without redemption. What he cannot see — because no pagan framework can — is that the problem is not passion’s excess but the absence of the love that casts out fear, the covenant that holds when feeling fails, the cross where justice and mercy meet without either being consumed by the other. The Bible does not contradict Euripides’ diagnosis. It fulfills it. Where Medea finds only vengeance, Scripture offers forgiveness. Where she finds only escape, the gospel offers resurrection. Where she destroys what she loves, the Spirit produces the love that lays down its life. The biblical framework for marriage in Ephesians 5 grounds the husband’s love not in romantic feeling or social contract but in the self-sacrificial love of Christ for the church, a covenantal commitment that persists beyond feeling and beyond convenience — the precise opposite of what Jason practiced and what destroyed them both. First Corinthians 13 describes the love that Medea and Jason never had and that neither Greek culture nor pagan religion could produce. Colossians 3:13 commands forgiveness as the definitive alternative to the revenge cycle: “as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.” The dragon chariot takes Medea away from consequences. The resurrection takes us through them. That is the difference between a tragedy and a gospel, and it is the only difference that finally matters.

Implications for Christian Belief and Practice

Medea has always been uncomfortable reading, and its discomfort is theologically productive. The play refuses to let its audience sentimentalize passion or romanticize revenge, and its unflinching portrait of what human beings do to each other when covenantal faithfulness collapses should generate in Christian readers not superiority but grief — and the sober recognition that the same forces that destroyed Medea and Jason are present wherever human beings live together without the grace that makes forgiveness possible. The church’s calling to take marriage with radical seriousness, not as a social convenience or an emotional arrangement but as a covenantal bond reflecting the relationship between Christ and his people, is thrown into sharp relief by Euripides’ dramatization of what happens when that bond is treated as expendable. The biblical counseling tradition, drawing on the resources of Scripture to address broken marriages, addictive passion, and cycles of relational destruction, is engaged in precisely the ministry that Medea’s world lacked and desperately needed. But the essay’s final word is not obligation — it is invitation. If you recognize something of Medea’s world in your own experience, if you have known what it is to be abandoned, or to be consumed by a passion that is destroying you, or to be caught in a cycle of retaliation that has taken more than it has given — the gospel is not a theological proposition addressed to your intellect. It is a living word addressed to you, announcing that the forgiveness, the covenant faithfulness, and the resurrection power that Euripides could not imagine are available now, not as the reward of sufficient virtue, but as the free gift of the One who broke the only cycle that finally matters. Euripides wrote a play about people with no gospel. You are not those people, unless you choose to be.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Sophocles and the Cry for Justice: A Christian Reading of Electra

Sophocles’ Electra stands among the most psychologically intense works of Greek tragedy, centering on the grief-consumed daughter of Agamemnon who refuses to mourn quietly or submit to the usurpers who murdered her father. The play opens with Orestes and his old tutor plotting their return to Argos in disguise, but it is Electra who dominates the drama — stationed outside the palace, pouring out her lament, defying her pragmatic sister Chrysothemis, and goading her brother toward the act of vengeance she regards as sacred duty. When Orestes is falsely reported dead, Electra’s grief reaches its most harrowing pitch; her recognition of him is one of the most emotionally charged scenes in all of ancient drama. The matricide follows, and the play ends with what appears to be triumph — though whether Sophocles intends triumph or something darker has divided scholars ever since. To read Electra carefully is to encounter one of antiquity’s most probing examinations of what justice costs, what grief does to a person, and whether vengeance can ever truly close what it claims to close. You may have known this grief yourself. You may have organized your life around a wound. If so, this ancient play speaks to your condition with uncomfortable precision — and the gospel speaks further still.

The World Sophocles Inherited

Sophocles did not invent the myth of Electra; he inherited it from a tradition reaching back to Homer and refined by Aeschylus. In the Odyssey, Orestes appears as a model of filial piety, praised for avenging his father’s murder, the myth serving as an implicit rebuke to any who might fail in such duty. Aeschylus, in his Oresteia trilogy, transformed this heroic archetype into a cosmic meditation: the Libation Bearers stages the revenge as a morally agonizing act driven by Apollo’s command, and the Eumenides resolves the ensuing blood guilt through Athena’s court, exchanging private vengeance for civic law. Sophocles responds to Aeschylus with a decisive narrowing of focus, stripping away the cosmic scaffolding and institutional resolution and concentrating the entire moral weight of the myth on Electra herself. The Furies do not appear to pursue Orestes at the drama’s end; the house is declared cleansed. Whether this is optimistic closure or ominous silence is precisely the question the play refuses to answer. Herodotus illuminates a broader world in which the gods punish overreach through impersonal, grinding historical processes — a universe in which Xerxes’ pride destroys Persian power just as Agamemnon’s murder sets in motion inexorable consequence. Sophocles shares this sense of moral order as operative and real, but unlike Herodotus, who traces divine justice across nations and dynasties, he drives it deep into the interior of a single suffering woman.

The Theology of the Play

The theological world of Electra is austere. Apollo’s oracle has sanctioned the matricide, lending divine warrant to the act of revenge, but the gods never appear, never console, and never explain. Justice in this world is conceived as equivalence — blood demands blood, murder requires murder — and the play’s emotional logic endorses this conception entirely through Electra’s eyes. What the drama does not supply is any mechanism for the cycle to stop. The murders achieve what they achieve, but they do not restore Electra to life, do not resurrect Agamemnon, and do not address the moral contamination of having killed one’s own mother. Greek theology at its most orthodox, as Sophocles represents it, operates through nemesis and retribution, but it offers neither forgiveness nor renovation. The category of grace is simply absent from the Sophoclean universe. This is not a peripheral weakness; it is the structural fault line running beneath the entire dramatic edifice.

Parallels with the Ancient Near East and the Old Testament

Broad parallels to Electra’s world appear across ancient Near Eastern literature, particularly in royal house narratives involving betrayal, murder, and dynastic vengeance, though the Greek focus on individual interiority distinguishes tragedy sharply from the more collective, ritual orientation of ANE literary forms. The Old Testament engages these themes with far greater specificity. The cry of Abel’s blood from the ground in Genesis 4 establishes from the canon’s opening chapters that murder does not simply end — it speaks, demands, and invites divine response. The Davidic history provides the Old Testament’s own extended drama of familial betrayal and dynastic consequence: Absalom’s revenge against Amnon, the unraveling of David’s household, and the cycles of political murder in the northern kingdom all map onto the territory Sophocles explores. The imprecatory psalms give voice to a cry structurally similar to Electra’s — a sufferer demanding that God act against injustice, refusing to suppress the rage or feign acceptance. What differs decisively is that the psalmist addresses this cry to a personal God who hears, acts, and judges, not to an oracle that mandates blood and then falls silent.

The New Testament’s Engagement and Critique

There is a woman who has waited outside a closed door for years. She knows what was done, she knows who did it, and she knows it has not been answered. She is not wrong to want justice — the wrong would be to want nothing. But Sophocles cannot open the door for her, and neither can the sword she finally puts in her brother’s hand. The New Testament does not tell her she was wrong to cry out. It tells her that her cry has been heard, that the blood of the murdered does speak — and that One has already absorbed the full weight of the retribution the universe requires. Paul does not counsel passivity when he writes in Romans 12:19 that vengeance belongs to God; he writes it as a man who knows that God did not look away from the cross. The martyrs in Revelation cry out as Electra cried — “How long?” — and they are given white robes and told to wait, because the Judge of all the earth will do right, and the cycle that Greek tragedy can trace but cannot break has been shattered by a resurrection. Christ died for sin, rose from the dead, and offers forgiveness to all who trust him. The door, it turns out, was never locked from the outside. It was opened from within, by the only One who had both the authority to execute judgment and the love to bear it himself.

Electra and Christian Anthropology

What Sophocles diagnoses with unsurpassed clarity is what prolonged grief does to a person, how unresolved wrong deforms identity, and how the demand for justice can consume the very person making it. Electra is not simply angry; she has become her anger. Her entire selfhood has organized itself around the fact of her father’s murder, and the play is unflinching about the cost — her isolation, her refusal of ordinary life, her ferocity that approaches the inhuman. This same dynamic appears whenever a political grievance hardens into an identity, whenever a family estrangement becomes a life’s organizing principle, whenever the revenge narrative of film and social media convinces a generation that retaliation is the only honest response to being wronged. Sophocles saw it clearly in the fifth century before Christ, and his portrait has not aged. The letter to the Hebrews warns that a root of bitterness, allowed to grow, defiles many, and Paul’s counsel in Ephesians 4 to put away wrath and bitterness is a recognition that these things, unchecked, destroy the person who harbors them. The gospel addresses this not by minimizing the injustice but by providing what Greek tragedy cannot: a path through suffering that does not require the sufferer to execute judgment in order to be vindicated.

Implications for Christian Belief and Practice

Christians who read Electra carefully will find a work of profound moral intelligence that goes further than most ancient literature in exposing the inadequacy of its own ethical framework. The play earns its tragic status precisely because it takes the demand for justice with complete seriousness and then shows what happens when that demand is pursued without the mediating categories of mercy, forgiveness, and divine prerogative. Reading Sophocles is in this sense a preparation — not for Greek religion, which the Bible rejects, but for understanding what the human situation genuinely looks like apart from revelation. What classical tragedy cannot supply, the gospel provides: a God who is not silent, a justice that does not require the victim to become the executioner, and a redemption that breaks the cycle of violence rather than simply adding another turn to it. Sophocles reaches, through his very ambiguity, toward a resolution he cannot name. The wonder of the gospel is that the resolution he was groping for has been accomplished — in history, in flesh, on a cross — and is now offered freely to all who will receive it. Electra stands at the door of a question that only the cross can answer.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Aeschylus: Agamemnon: Blood, Justice, and the House of Atreus: What Aeschylus Can Teach Christians

Aeschylus wrote Agamemnon in 458 BCE as the first play of his Oresteia trilogy, and it remains one of the most searing portraits of human depravity ever set to verse. The story is deceptively simple: King Agamemnon returns victorious from Troy only to be murdered in his bath by his wife Clytemnestra, who avenges the sacrifice of their daughter Iphigenia. But beneath this domestic horror lies a vast theological and moral landscape whose roots reach back a generation before Agamemnon himself. His father Atreus, enraged by his brother Thyestes’ adultery with his wife and theft of his throne, served Thyestes his own children as a banquet, a crime so monstrous that Thyestes laid a curse on Atreus’ entire lineage before being driven into exile. That curse is the invisible architecture of the play: every act of pride, vengeance, and murder that follows is simultaneously a free human choice and the working out of a doom that was set in motion before Agamemnon was born. The cursed House of Atreus carries generations of bloodguilt. The prophetess Cassandra foresees the slaughter and is ignored. Aegisthus lurks as opportunistic co-conspirator. And the Chorus of Argive elders wrings its hands, wondering whether the gods are just or merely powerful. No character escapes the moral wreckage. Aeschylus himself called his tragedies “slices from the banquet of Homer,” and the play draws directly from the Iliad and Odyssey, adapting Agamemnon’s Homeric portrait as a proud and brittle commander into a fully tragic figure whose domestic failures are as catastrophic as his military triumphs. Sophocles’ Electra and Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis later revisited the same myth, but Aeschylus set the terms of the conversation.

The Literary World Behind the Play

Agamemnon does not stand alone in the ancient world. Its themes echo across the Ancient Near East with remarkable consistency. The Sumerian City Laments grieve the fall of great urban centers much as the Chorus mourns Troy, and the Mesopotamian Gilgamesh epic traces the same arc of hubris, divine retribution, and suffering that Agamemnon embodies. Hittite and Babylonian narratives of royal intrigue, dynastic curses, and divine vengeance share the same deep grammar. Even Egyptian literature touches the play tangentially: the lost satyr play Proteus, which accompanied the Oresteia at its first performance, depicted Menelaus’ detour through Egypt, drawing on mythological traditions that parallel the Osiris cycle of murder, chaos, and the quest for restored order. The concept of Ma’at, Egypt’s cosmic principle of justice and order, offers an instructive contrast to the Greek chaos that engulfs the House of Atreus. Where Egyptian cosmology imagined a universe tending toward equilibrium, Aeschylus imagines one tilting perpetually toward catastrophe. These ANE and Mediterranean parallels confirm that the questions Agamemnon raises, namely why the innocent suffer, whether justice is possible, and what the gods owe humanity, are not Greek questions. They are human questions, which is precisely why they resonate with readers of every age and why the biblical authors addressed them so directly.

Hubris, Nemesis, and What the Bible Recognizes

The theological center of Agamemnon is the concept of hubris generating nemesis, of human overreach drawing down divine punishment. Agamemnon’s pride is multi-layered: he sacrifices his daughter Iphigenia to gain favorable winds for the fleet, he sacks Troy with indiscriminate violence, and he walks the purple carpet that Clytemnestra lays before him, a gesture of extravagant self-deification that seals his fate. Aeschylus frames all of this through the doctrine of pathei mathos, learning through suffering, which Zeus himself is said to have ordained. Christians reading this will find the diagnosis almost entirely correct. “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” (Proverbs 16:18). The Deuteronomistic History tells the same story in the careers of Saul and David, and the prophets hammer the theme relentlessly against kings who forget that authority is delegated, not owned. Daniel 4 gives the most vivid illustration: Nebuchadnezzar, at the height of his self-congratulation, is reduced to eating grass until he acknowledges that heaven rules. Where Aeschylus and the Bible diverge is in the character of the deity dispensing judgment. Zeus in the play is powerful but distant, morally ambiguous, operating through impersonal fate. Yahweh is a covenant God who judges with purpose and offers a path back. The correction is not the diagnosis of pride but the vision of what waits on the other side of judgment.

Revenge Masquerading as Justice

The moral heart of Agamemnon is its portrait of revenge pretending to be justice, and no serious reader of the Old or New Testament should miss how precisely the Bible targets this same confusion. Clytemnestra kills her husband and frames the murder as righteous retribution for Iphigenia. She is not entirely wrong. Agamemnon did sacrifice their daughter. But the play shows with pitiless clarity that her act does not resolve anything; it compounds the curse and makes Orestes’ matricide inevitable. The Old Testament legislates precisely against this dynamic. The lex talionis, “an eye for an eye” in Exodus 21:24, is not a license for revenge but a limit on it, a legal ceiling designed to prevent the escalation that consumes the House of Atreus. The prophets go further, insisting that justice belongs to God and that human courts must operate under divine constraint, not personal grievance. The New Testament closes the argument definitively. “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19, drawing on Deuteronomy 32:35). Jesus commands his disciples to love enemies and pray for persecutors (Matthew 5:44), a teaching so radical that it can only be understood as a direct assault on the vendetta culture that Greek tragedy depicts as inescapable. The play’s tragedy is not simply that people get hurt. It is that the characters cannot imagine a world in which the cycle ends. The New Testament claims that world is not only imaginable but actual.

The Absence of Forgiveness and Its Theological Significance

Perhaps the most theologically instructive feature of Agamemnon is what is completely absent from it: forgiveness. There is no mercy, no reconciliation, no path to restoration. Cassandra knows what is coming and cannot stop it. The Furies demand blood for blood. The Chorus laments but cannot intervene. One Christian reader famously described the world of the Oresteia as “a cold alien planet with no forgiveness,” and that description is both apt and important. It means the play functions as a kind of negative theology, showing with extraordinary power what human existence looks like when grace is structurally unavailable. This is not a weakness of the drama but one of its greatest strengths, and Christians should read it as such. The despair of Agamemnon is the precise pressure that makes the gospel intelligible as good news rather than platitude. When Paul writes in Ephesians 2 that believers are saved by grace through faith, and in Colossians 1:20 that God has made peace through the blood of the cross, he is answering a question that Aeschylus asked but could not answer. The motifs of blood, entrapment, and darkness that run through Agamemnon find their resolution not in the institutional trial of the Eumenides but in the cross, where the innocent one absorbs the curse (Galatians 3:13) and breaks the cycle that Greek tragedy deemed eternal.

Old Testament and New Testament in Dialogue with the Play

Both Testaments engage the kind of moral world Aeschylus inhabits, but they engage it transformatively rather than simply mirroring it. The Old Testament recognizes the reality of generational sin and dynastic curse, as Exodus 20:5 acknowledges that the effects of iniquity pass to subsequent generations, but it always pairs this acknowledgment with the possibility of covenant renewal and repentance. The Deuteronomistic History reads almost like a commentary on the House of Atreus: the families of Eli, Saul, and Ahab all experience something like dynastic curse, yet the narrative insists that obedience to Yahweh can interrupt the pattern. The story of Jephthah’s daughter in Judges 11 invites direct comparison to Iphigenia, and the contrast is instructive: the biblical text does not celebrate Jephthah’s vow but surrounds it with lamentation, implying moral horror without providing the theological tools to resolve it, tools that only the New Testament supplies. The NT reframes the entire problem through what the early church called the pharmakos or scapegoat typology: Jesus becomes the sacrifice that ends all sacrifices, the victim whose blood does not cry for vengeance but for reconciliation (Hebrews 12:24). The light-and-darkness symbolism that runs through Agamemnon, beginning with the beacon fires announcing Troy’s fall, finds its ultimate resolution in John 1:5, where the light shines in darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Implications for Christian Belief and Practice

Reading Agamemnon as a Christian is not an exercise in nostalgia for the classical curriculum but an act of cultural and theological discernment. The play teaches Christians several things they need to know. It shows with unflinching honesty what sin looks like across generations, how violence perpetuates itself, and how self-justification is the most dangerous form of moral blindness. It exposes the idol of personal vengeance, which is not a problem confined to ancient Argos but appears in every broken marriage, every political vendetta, and every community consumed by grievance. It demonstrates the bankruptcy of a universe without grace, making the gospel’s offer of forgiveness not sentimental but structurally necessary. The ancient practice of “spoiling the Egyptians,” drawing on Exodus 12:36 as a metaphor for using pagan wisdom in service of truth, applies directly here. Augustine did it with Plato, and Aeschylus deserves the same serious, critical engagement. The play also warns against the modern tendency to collapse justice into therapy or to imagine that acknowledging one’s wounds automatically constitutes righteousness, which is exactly what Clytemnestra does. The gospel does not validate grievance; it redeems it.

Why Every Christian Should Read This Play

Aeschylus wrote Agamemnon as a question humanity has never stopped asking: Is there any justice that does not simply generate more injustice? The play’s genius is that it answers no with absolute conviction and then leaves the audience sitting in that darkness. Christians who read it carefully will find that the darkness is familiar, that it is the darkness the prophets described, the darkness into which Christ entered, and the darkness that the resurrection defeated. To read Agamemnon is to feel the full weight of what a world without grace costs, and then to return to the New Testament not as a comfortable tradition but as the only coherent answer to Aeschylus’ devastating question. This is why Christians should not leave the great pagan texts to secular scholars alone. The tragedians, without knowing it, were preparing the ground. The more clearly we see what they built and what they could not build, the more we understand the height of the good news we have been given to proclaim.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Hecuba

Euripides wrote Hecuba around 425 B.C., his first anti-war drama, which depicts the plight of Hecuba, the queen of Troy, after the city was destroyed and she was taken captive. While she is a prisoner of Agamemnon, encamped on the shores of Thrace, she has to endure the sacrifice of her daughter, Polyxena, on the tomb of Achilles as his just reward for his death at the hands of Paris. That very same day, the corpse of her son Polydorus washes ashore and is brought to Hecuba. Bereft of two children in one day, Hecuba seeks vengeance on Polymestor, king of Thrace, who murdered Polydorus. Before Troy fell, king Priam had sent Polydorus to Trace with a large cache of gold in order for him to be kept safe by Polymestor. However, as soon as Troy fell, Polymestor murdered Polydorus and stole the gold.

Hecuba entreats Agamemnon to avenge her son’s death but he refuses since there is a treaty between him and Polymestor. Hecuba then devises a plot, using the large contingent of Trojan maidens being held captive, so that Agamemnon doesn’t have to break his treaty. Hecuba calls Polymestor to bring his two children and meet with her. While in her tent, the Trojan maidens kill the two children and poke out Polymestor’s eyes. Polymestor begs Agamemnon to avenge him, but he refuses. Polymestor then curses Agamemnon, Cassandra and Hecuba. He relays a prophesy by Dionysus that Hecuba will commit suicide by jumping into the sea and Agamemnon, along with Cassandra, will be murdered by his own wife, Clytemnestra when he returns home. Agamemnon scoffs and has Polynestor banished to a deserted island.

Euripides portrays the horrible aftermath of war and all of the political and personal intrigue that follows. Violence begets more violence and those who live by violence die violent deaths. This echoes Jesus’ warning, “All who draw the sword will die by the sword.” (Matthew 26:52).

Closers

The Closers is Michael Connelly’s eleventh Harry Bosch novel. This is the fourth Harry Bosch novel I have read and I would place it a close second to his first novel, The Black Echo. Detective Harry Bosch of the Los Angeles Police Department retired from the Homicide department three years earlier only to be called out of retirement by his old partner to join the Open/Unsolved Unit investigating unsolved murders from the past thirty or so years in Los Angeles.

On his first day back on the job he and his partner are given a seventeen-year-old murder of a high school girl with mixed blood. New DNA evidence found on the murder weapon links the gun that killed the girl to a small-time criminal. Harry soon discovers that the case had been mishandled, evidence and records lost, and a looming suspicion that the case was shelved for internal political reasons.

Connelly does an excellent job in making every page feel real, each nuance ringing true and life-like. I especially appreciated the insights into the procedures and methods of solving such an old murder case. In a murder case, time is your greatest enemy. The longer the crime goes unsolved, the more likely the murder will never be caught. The near impossibility of solving the case adds enough suspense while the process Harry has to go through to investigate the case opens a window on police procedures that are fascinating and enlightening. Following one of the best detectives through this process is an exercise in logic and deduction as well as inspiration and creativity. I also appreciated Harry’s philosophy of police work: “Get off your butt and knock on doors.”

Connelly also gives more insight into Bosch’s psyche and motivations. He also illuminates the psychological drives of the other characters as well. This is another well-written novel that not only entertains but also instructs.

Othello

William Shakespeare’s tragedy Othello, first performed around 1604, illustrates the destructive power of jealousy. Othello, a Moorish general living in Venice, marries Desdemona, the beautiful daughter of a Venetian Senator amidst much controversy over her love for Othello. Othello and Desdemona prove that their love is genuine and they begin a happy life together.

Iago, Othello’s ensign, hates the Moor and designs a cruel plan to destroy him and his happiness. Iago begins by raising doubts in Othello’s mind about Desdemona’s faithfulness. Iago manipulates Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, making it appear that he is having an affair with Desdemona. Iago arranges to have a conversation with Cassio while Othello is eavesdropping, eliciting from him the details of the affair Cassio is having with Biancha. However, the conversation is skewed so that Othello thinks Cassio is boasting of having an affair with Desdemona.

As Othello’s jealousy reaches its peak, Iago has his wife, Emilia, Desdemona’s maid, steal the handkerchief Othello gave Desdemona. Iago plants the “evidence” on Cassio and Othello is fully convinced when it is found on him.

That night Iago arranges to have Cassio murdered by Rodrigo, a former lover of Desdemona and Othello conspires to murder Desdemona for her infidelity. Unfortunately, Rodrigo only wounds Cassio and is killed in return. Othello, however, succeeds in suffocating Desdemona, only to be discovered by Emilia. When Cassio is brought before Othello and Emilia, the truth about Iago’s plot comes out. Iago, in a rage, kills his wife, Emilia, and flees. Othello realizing he has been deceived into murdering his wife, wails with regret, and commits suicide before he can be arrested.

Shakespeare vividly portrays the evil of the green monster, jealousy. Jealousy is a deadly disease that will destroy you and all that you love. The Bible frequently warns against jealousy because of its destructive power and its ability to twist and mangle the soul.

A Darkness More Than Night

Detective Harry Bosch is a key witness in a murder trial seeking to convict a movie producer for the strangulation death of a young actress. While he is testifying he is also being investigated for a gruesome murder of a man who had been arrested by Bosch several years earlier for murdering a prostitute but was released. Bosch becomes the main suspect as the FBI suspects he has crossed the line and has become an avenging angel.

Harry enlists the help of a retired FBI profiler, Terry McCaleb, who actually was helping the Sheriff’s department with the stalled investigation. While McCaleb was the one who initially identified Bosch as the most likely suspect, he is kicked off the case and then persuaded by Bosch to help him find the real killer before the news breaks and destroys his credibility in the murder trial for which he is the key witness. Pressed for time, McCaleb looks at the evidence from a new perspective and begins to track down the real killer.

I won’t reveal any more because it will ruin the suspense of the story. What I found interesting about this story was watching McCaleb, as a topnotch profiler, tease valuable information out of seemingly useless clues. It was also interesting to see that McCaleb’s initial conclusions were wrong, showing that psychological profiling is not an exact science.

Much of the evidence in the case revolves around the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, a 15th century Dutch painter known for his dark portrayals of judgment and damnation. McCabe makes the link to Detective Harry Bosch, whose first name is actually Hieronymus as well, because the crime scene was set up to resemble Bosch’s paintings. Connelly gives us some good art history and appreciation as McCabe investigates the connection between the paintings and the murder.

Michael Connelly is a good writer and knows how to keep the pace moving, revealing important clues at just the right time while adding enough twists to keep you guessing. The heroes are also very human, well rounded and believable. Harry Bosch has enough dark tendencies to keep his halo from glowing too brightly. Connelly clearly shows the demands of police work and how they can destroy relationships, especially marriages. When an officer becomes consumed by his work, those closest to him, especially his family, suffer.

It is easy to see how police and those who deal in the dark underside of society can become jaded, disillusioned and bitter. It is not easy living half of your life in the “darkness” of the streets of our cities and the criminal justice system, so we shouldn’t take what our public defenders do for granted. Nor should we vilify then or put them on pedestals since they are regular human beings like us thrust into extraordinary circumstances that most of us would not put up with.



This is the seventh novel in the Harry Bosch series which includes the following books(“x” indicates those I have read so far):
The Black Echo (1992) (x)
The Black Ice (1993)
The Concrete Blonde (1994)
The Last Coyote (1995)
Trunk Music (1997)
Angels Flight (1999)
A Darkness More Than Night (2001) (x)
City Of Bones (2002)
Lost Light (2003)
The Narrows (2004)
The Closers (2005)
Echo Park (2006)
The Overlook (2007)

Electra

Euripides’ version of the Electra story differs from Sophocles’ in both setting and focus. The story tells the revenge Electra and her brother Orestes take on their mother and step-father for murdering their father, Agamemnon. Clytemnestra, and her lover Aegisthus, murdered Agamemnon on his return from the Trojan war, and then plotted to kill both Electra and Orestes. The head servant hid Orestes and took him to safety where he lived as an exile. Clytemnestra pleaded with Aegisthus not to kill Electra, so he forced her to marry an old peasant so that any children she might bear would be poor and of ignoble birth, making it unlikely that they would threaten his usurped throne.

Orestes now returns in disguise to avenge his father’s death. He reveals himself to his sister, Electra, and they plot to kill Aegisthus and their mother. Orestes hacks down Aegisthus with a meat cleaver while he is offering a sacrifice to the nymphs. He hides the body in Electra’s house and they wait for their mother to complete their task. Clytemnestra comes and tries to justify her murder of Agamemnon by claiming it was revenge for his offering their daughter as a sacrifice before leaving for Troy, as well as for bringing back Cassandra as a concubine from Troy. The dialogue between Electra and her mother highlights the differences in their values; Electra values justice while Clytemnestra values expediency.

Electra then invites her mother into the house and is slaughtered by Orestes who is waiting for her. She cries out for mercy and tries to play on Orestes’ instincts for loving his mother, but he refuses to listen to her desperate cries for mercy. Orestes and Electra emerge from the house, covered in blood and gore, shocked at the horror of their deed.

Electra must atone for her deed by marrying Orestes’ companion and Orestes must go to Athens to stand trial, most likely to be acquitted. Euripides clearly sees the two as innocent for seeking vengeance but still realizes the horror of killing one’s mother. The end of the play is a graphic description of how revenge wreaks havoc on those who pursue it. While contemplating revenge, Electra and Orestes are convinced of the justice of their actions, but after the deed is done, they are forever changed by the horror of their actions. You cannot get revenge without affecting the core of your being.

One quote from the play that I found profound was the line Electra speaks to Aegisthus, condemning him for marrying her mother: “Who so fixes his gaze on wealth or noble birth and weds a wicked woman, is a fool; better is a humble partner in his home, if she be virtuous than a proud one.” Great advice.

Black Echo

The Black Echo is Michael Connelly’s first detective novel and it won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Connelly is a good writer with an easy style and he paces the plot very well, adding new twists throughout so that the reading is kept guessing all the way to the end. Connelly has done extensive research on police procedures and culture and the novel rings true on every page. If you enjoy mysteries and detective novels, this is a good choice.

The main character is Harry Bosch, a homicide detective in Los Angeles, known for his lone-ranger style and already demoted after being investigated by internal affairs for shooting to death a high profile serial murderer. Harry investigates a dead Vietnam vet who appears to have overdosed and died in a pipe by Mulholland Dam. There are a few things that don’t fit and Harry begins investigating when he identifies the dead man as someone he knew back in Vietnam. The story takes off when it becomes clear that the dead man was involved in a high profile bank robbery that has never been solved.

One of the interesting aspects of the story revolves around Harry’s role as a tunnel rat during the war in Vietnam. Since the dead man was also a tunnel rat in Harry’s unit, there is a lot of discussion of what these men did during the war. This is one aspect of the Vietnam war that I haven’t heard much about and I found it interesting. Connelly makes you feel like you are there in the tunnels, feeling the fear and anticipation that Harry felt while reconnoitering enemy tunnels while the enemy was inside waiting for him.


This is the first novel in the Harry Bosch series which includes the following books:
The Black Echo (1992)
The Black Ice (1993)
The Concrete Blonde (1994)
The Last Coyote (1995)
Trunk Music (1997)
Angels Flight (1999)
A Darkness More Than Night (2001)
City Of Bones (2002)
Lost Light (2003)
The Narrows (2004)
The Closers (2005)
Echo Park (2006)
The Overlook (2007)