Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov is nothing short of a literary masterpiece. Its explorations of the individual human psyche, the dynamics of family relationships, along with the sorrow and ecstasy of romantic love, stand among the foremost of Western literature. If the novel itself is worthy of such acclaim, then, the most preeminent among its chapters is the renowned The Grand Inquisitor; a chapter so revered that it is often published on its own, apart from the broader work. Here, I’d like to reflect briefly on this noteworthy chapter and put it into “conversation” with another, less esteemed chapter that is found later in the novel.

 

“The Grand Inquisitor” is, according to its “author” Ivan Karamazov, a “poem,” though it doesn’t possess any of the characteristic features of a poem. Rather, it seems to be an extended analogy intended by its author to stir in the listener some response to its radical content. In this “poem,” Ivan Karamazov envisions a pre-second coming return of Christ in the 15^th century to “Spain, in Seville, in the most horrible time of the Inquisition” (248).[1] Upon his return he begins to heal the sick, but while doing so he is spotted by the Grand Inquisitor, and made to stand before the Inquisition for interrogation. 

 

The Inquisitor, a tyrannical church leader, is determined to find Christ guilty, and, in the end, ultimately accomplishes his goal. The verdict? “…if anyone has ever deserved our stake, it is you. Tomorrow I shall burn you. Dixi [I have spoken]” (260). In contrast to this “speaking” Inquisitor, Christ remains silent before his accusers. His only response is to kiss the Inquisitor on the lips (262). In fact, the only words spoken by Christ during his imaginary 15^th century return are “Talitha cumi,” and, in fact, the child does arise (249). So, in this chapter, Ivan presents us with a silent, incarnate Christ come to earth to restore shalom, to heal the sick, and raise the dead. Yet, this is a Christ who is deemed useless by the existing Church and is practically re-executed. (Note that it is not clear whether or not Ivan envisages Christ actually being burned at the stake).

           

In a later chapter entitled “The Devil. Ivan Fyodorovich’s Nightmare,” Ivan Karamazov’s imagination incarnates another being who is not normally thought of as existing in our space and time. As he begins to believe that he may be guilty of his father’s murder, Ivan is visited in his room by none other than the devil himself. While it is never clear whether or not Ivan is simply dreaming, his impassioned argument with the tormenting person/spirit are as real as day for Ivan. But the content of the devil’s discussion is not so important as the contrast that Dostoevsky paints between the incarnated Christ and the incarnated devil.

 

While Christ was silent, the devil pours forth an endless stream of tormenting, bewildering conversation. While Christ stood accused by the Grand Inquisitor, the devil accuses, taking on the role of a pseudo-Grand Inquisitor for Ivan. While Christ came to restore shalom, the devil wages war. While Christ came to bring resurrection, the devil drives his interlocutor to insanity and ultimately to the verge of death. Christ offered a kiss to his accuser, the devil extends nothing but torment to the accused. The contrast is striking.

 

And what is so striking is that both of these incarnated episodes are hatched and developed in the mind of Ivan Karamazov. How could both of these visions exist and spring from the same mind? Perhaps his devil put it best: “Some [persons]…can contemplate such abysses of belief and disbelief at one and the same moment that, really, it seems that another hair’s breadth and a man would fall in…” (645). Ivan is a man who, having contemplated the abysses of belief and disbelief, eventually falls into the latter, and quite literally experiences the torment of hell on earth.

 

Ivan Karamazov, in his searching, stands as an emblem of the human race. We are forced to stare into the abyss that is at one and the same time an abyss of belief and disbelief. The question is, Whose “kiss” will we accept? The peaceful kiss of Christ by faith, or the tormenting “kiss” of the devil incarnate by way of disbelief? To fall into the first abyss, that which is characterized by resurrection and shalom, is to be saved. To fall into the latter, which is characterized by death and torment, is to be damned. Dostoevsky, clearly painting for us the contrast between the two, ends his novel with an invitation to fall into the former, the abyss of shalomand resurrection:

 

“‘[Alyosha] Karamazov!’ cried [the young boy] Kolya, ‘can it really be true as religion says, that we shall all rise from the dead, and come to life, and see one another again…?’

'Certainly we shall rise, certainly we shall see and gladly, joyfully tell one another all that has been,’ Alyosha replied, half laughing, half in ecstasy.

‘Ah, how good that will be!’ burst from Kolya” (776).

 

One can imagine that this ending is satisfying to some readers, while dissatisfying to others. Would that the end of this story, which draws its end from that of the grand story of shalom restored and death defeated, be evermore satisfying to us as we, with Dostoevsky, journey towards its final consummation.

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