On Fury

Some fragmented thoughts on wrongdoing and rage, righteously channeled anger, ancient Greek mythology, premature blossoms, and upcoming events

Sunday, March 3
Grand Rapids, Mich.

Here we are in the midst of Lent, and I can’t stop thinking about fury. 

I should be clear about what I mean by “fury,” because there are so many different definitions. Rage is decidedly more popular these days, but so often rage just flails. While I think of rage as anger with an uncontrolled, violent edge, fury is anger that has direction. Of course it can be misdirected—a toddler or someone on Twitter can both respond with fury to correction. But often and ideally, fury is righteous—a fierce pursuit of justice and a force for good.

Fury seems an appropriate response to so much of what’s happening in our world today. We should be furious at the failures of government; at the decimation of cultures; at the destruction of precious human lives; at systems that traffic in retribution rather than restoration. I feel fury as I try to absorb and process the news: the murders of desperate Gazans who were just hungry and trying to get some flour to feed their families; the upcoming U.S. presidential election and our less-than-ideal choices for leadership; the cynicism and gamesmanship of so many politicians; the persecution and death of the Russian opposition leader Aleksei Navalny; the ongoing inattention to so many death-dealing regimes all around the world; extreme and growing income inequality (according to one recent study, more than 60% of the global population—4.8 billion people—is now poorer than it was 5 years ago, whereas the world’s five richest men have more than doubled their wealth)... the grievous list goes on.  

When people I care about are treated poorly or with disrespect, I feel fury. Sometimes tiny things can spark fury too. I’ve felt it when I see a driver toss trash out their window, when someone lets their dog poop in our yard without picking it up, and when entitled people cut in line.

The feeling is real and so often warranted. What then?

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I’ve been looking for signs of fury in the world around us.

It shows up all over the English translations of the Hebrew Scriptures; חָרוֹן (“charon”) is often translated “fury.” There’s not much mystery as to the kind of anger it describes; it derives from a root that means to burn or to kindle. Almost always, it is a righteous divine anger ignited by human misdeed. 

It famously appears in the title of a Bruce Lee film. Fist of Fury is the story of a kung-fu master who, in tremendous grief, confronts foreign forces and then must reckon with the high cost of revenge. What particularly intrigues me is that the film’s Chinese title references neither fists nor fury; it’s called 精武門— “Jingwu Tradition” or “the Jingwu Way.” Jingwu was a famed school of 20th century Chinese martial arts that achieved legendary significance in modern Chinese storytelling and thought. It emphasized not just physical prowess but also inner strength. 

Then there are the Furies of Ancient Greek myth. Their origin story is gory: As Hesiod tells it, when Father Sky (Uranus) was castrated by his son, Cronos, drops of Uranus’s blood fell upon Mother Earth (Gaia) and came to life as the Furies. Enraged by wrongdoing, they are typically depicted as cruel and harsh. But they’re also described as fair and relentless in their pursuit of justice.

As with any mythical figures, the Furies are products of a particular culture and context. According to the classical scholar Emily Wilson, “their special sphere” involves the laws of nature. The order of a family matters deeply to them—“Remember that the Furies always serve the senior members of a family,” Iris says in Homer’s Iliad—and, to them, there is no higher crime than to kill one’s parents. They are called upon when oaths are broken, when power is abused, and when the laws of hospitality are violated. Atonement is possible but difficult.

“Three Furies,” Wenceslaus Hollar, 17th century, etching. From the Wenceslaus Hollar Collection at the University of Toronto

The great Athenian playwright Aeschylus was the first to imagine the Furies with live snakes as hair extensions, a particularly monstrous depiction that indicated his feelings about the vengeful justice that he associated with them. In Oresteia, his political manifesto/dramatic trilogy, he makes a claim for democracy over tyranny and the superiority of the new civil order to the old ways of familial chaos.

Whether likable or not, fury is no mere feeling in each of these examples; this anger fuels action. That’s one reason I choose to distinguish it from rage. If rage is a wildfire, fury is a controlled burn.

The Eumenides Dorsum region of Mars, as captured by the European Space Agency’s “Mars Express.” “Eumenides,” Greek for “the kindly ones,” was a euphemistic name for the mythical Furies. If ancient Greek supplicants were attempting to gain the Furies’ favor, they often would use this name as a sign of subservience and respect—or maybe just fear  

It’s sobering that ancient writers and thinkers wrestled with many of the same questions we did. Then as now, the interpretation and dramatization of myth was an ideological battleground. According to Wilson’s summary, Aeschylus advocated for a change “from a system of private justice to one of public law; from the family to politics.” Not everyone had such a high opinion of the new law and order. His fellow playwright Euripides “mocks the notion that law or politics, or any pre-existing system, could prevent catastrophe.” In Euripides’s plays, “the characters are saved only by divine intervention.”

Wilson doesn’t agree with either of them. “Politics, laws, even divine bailouts,” she writes, “can’t help us if we insist on behaving badly.” And while she might be right when it comes to the ancient Greek gods, I’d like to think—I have to hope—that we can find a better way forward now. 

“Orestes Pursued by the Furies,” John Singer Sargent, 1921, oil on canvas. From the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

In the stories I’ve read, the ancient Furies seem driven by a need to address wrong and to punish, not any hope of fostering healing or bringing flourishing. The fury that I’d like to see unleashed on the world isn’t just motivated by a hatred of sin and its devastating effects; it’s also compelled by the possibility of restoration, the hope of redemption, and ultimately, the transformative power of love. The fire of fury can destroy, but it can also cleanse.

Here we are in the midst of Lent, and I wonder whether the Christian world ought to have given up complacency for the penitential season. Forever would be better, but this would be a start. What if we surrendered our apathy? What if we instead lifted our hands, to pray and to protest, in righteous anger and in unmitigated hope? What might be possible if we blessed the world with holy fury?

I came across an archaic definition of “fury” yesterday, one that I wish we’d resurrect and bring back into the conversation: “Inspired frenzy,” the dictionary said—wild excitement and irrepressible vigor.

Fozzie and I had been out in the yard just a few minutes before. The leaves that we piled up in the garden bed in the autumn are mostly still there, in various degrees of decay; some are thickly matted, and, just under the surface, wet and heavy from snowmelt. Amidst the winter browns, though, I glimpsed some green—evidence of the daffodils and the tulips pushing their way upward. 

What odd and unexpected strength those sprouts have. Some have speared the fallen leaves, not finding a way around but instead powering their way straight through. It’s wondrous how these plants do their thing, channeling their energy relentlessly—toward the sun, toward growth, toward beauty.

Fury.

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What I’m Reading: Language fascinates me. The words we choose and use can continue tradition as well as reshape it, and diction can tell us something about what a culture has been as well as help map its future. Julie Turkewitz, the Andes bureau chief for the New York Times, has a fascinating piece on the word sumercé. A contraction of a colonial-era honorific that means “your mercy,” it is, depending on whom you ask in central Colombia, is a modernized term of endearment or an unwelcome relic of another time.

It makes me think of words in English that, in common usage, have taken on new forms and meanings. “Queer,” for instance, was once a slur but has been reclaimed by many as an honorable marker of identity. “Bruh” has evolved into a genderless term that is now even used to refer to teachers and parents; I quite enjoyed the discussion on this Reddit post about students who call their teachers “bruh,” including the strategy to redeploy it on the kids (“this tactic only works,” one teacher reports, “if you’re already old and uncool”).

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What I’m Growing: As I mentioned, the daffodils and the tulips are coming up, which means that the crocuses in our yard are already blooming. Even with my shambolic record-keeping, I know that we’re running at least two weeks earlier this year than last. We had one seventy-degree day in February—a record high for Grand Rapids—and we’ll have another this week. A couple of days ago, I spotted a bee for the first time this season. It’s wonderful and terrible.

Where I’m Going: I’ve got some travel and preaching coming up in the near future, and even though I’m a shy introvert, I always also appreciate the opportunity to greet you in person. 

On March 17, I’ll be at the First Presbyterian Church of Santa Monica in California. On March 24 (Palm Sunday), I’ll be back in North Carolina at Crosspointe. And on April 21 and 22, I’ll be at Church Anew’s annual Renew event at St. Andrew Lutheran Church in Eden Prairie, Minn., along with my dear friends Mihee Kim-Kort and Winnie Varghese. 

Ordination Day will be Saturday, April 6, at 11 a.m., at Old First Reformed Church in Brooklyn. All are welcome, and I’d be so delighted to see you there. (Yes, there should be a livestream if you wish to join us online. Details to come.)

If you’re the praying type, please remember me over these next few weeks. The ordination vows are a serious thing. One friend said, “You’re getting married to God!” I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, for all kinds of reasons, but it gives you some sense of the weightiness of the promises I’ll be making.

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What do you think about rage vs. fury? What’s on your mind this week? What can I be remembering in my prayers? Please leave a comment or send me a note at makebelievefarmer@gmail.com.

Here’s your regular proof of Fozzie life. He’s been loving the warm weather and the sunshine, but this photo was taken just after he’d woken from a nap.

All my best,
Jeff