Safety is Not a Virtue

“But you speak of him as if he was a friend. I thought Fangorn was dangerous.”
“Dangerous!” cried Gandalf. “And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet…. And Aragorn is dangerous, and Legolas is dangerous. You are beset with dangers, Gimli son of Glóin; for you are dangerous yourself, in your own fashion.”
-- J. R. R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.
“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”
-- C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

There was a blog post published online a while ago by a feminist author who says (in the title), “I’m done pretending men are safe, even my sons.” In case you’re confused by that, she means “safe” as in the opposite of dangerous. Because her sons, trained in feminism though they may be, are still “blind to rape culture” and feel insulted when she tells them so, she claims even they are dangerous to all women. No, they don’t rape people, and they never would. No, they don’t intentionally hurt anyone; they’re “good kids.” But simply by being male, and not being as feminist as their mother, they are declared dangerous. There are many, many assumptions this author makes that I have to disagree with. For right now, I want to focus on just one:

I don’t believe safety is the ultimate value.

In the wake of the terror in Charlottesville, this may seem like a callous, even hateful thing to say. And I saw several people arguing that this was exactly the difference between the neo-Nazis and Antifa: white supremacists literally want people of color dead, and the counter-protestors only want to keep them safe. But first, that's a simplistic and biased argument (how about this very piece encouraging black people to let injured white people die?). Second, I will explain why safety as an ideal can ironically become dangerous.

You Are Beset With Dangers

This world is a dangerous place. Even apart from human evil, there are alligators in Florida, flash floods in Arizona, and tornadoes two towns south of me; all in arguably the safest, most privileged country in the world. There are accidents and diseases claiming lives every day. And, yes, there are people being stupid and cruel. The question is, which people? According to the blog author, it’s all men. But if all men are dangerous, does that mean all women are safe? As a woman, I can say with certainty that we can be vicious! And if all white people or all conservatives are dangerous, is it safe to hang out with only liberals and people of color? I think the people who have been injured or had property destroyed in campus riots would disagree.

The truth is, every human being contains the potential for massive destruction. Every human being can be a monster. Denying that truth, about a person or a group of people, only makes the monster more powerful by being hidden. This is why you can’t be safe by denying all human contact and living as a hermit. Not only will disease or old age eventually catch up with you, but even before that, you’ve already brought the danger with you: in your own soul. Something inside you is powerful and destructive, whether it be an addiction, a trauma, an obsessive idea, or anything else. You are beset with dangers, for you are dangerous yourself.

Flight or Fight?

So safety in this world is ultimately impossible. Danger is literally everywhere. The next question is, how do we respond? There are generally two options: either run and hide and try to avoid all danger (again, ultimately impossible), or face and fight it. Both of these responses are appropriate at different times and in different situations. But idolizing safety leads to an inability to do the second, to actually deal with the danger. Because dealing with the danger first requires us to understand it, to look steadily at it and learn all its complexities. No one enjoys doing that with unpleasant or uncomfortable things. Besides, if you get too close, it’ll hurt you. There is risk involved. But as Professor Jordan B. Peterson is fond of saying, everything you do or don’t do has risk attached to it (as explained above). The only thing you get to decide is which risks you will take. So will you take the risk of facing the danger and possibly getting hurt, or will you take the risk of losing your ability to do so? Either way, the danger will find you.

In his book Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl, N. D. Wilson tells the story of two rabbits. The first, Marcus Aurelius, was a farm rabbit, raised for meat, until a kindly aunt purchased him as a pet. He was taken to play with children, he was loved by all, and he grew fat. One summer he was left with friends on a farm and taken out to play in the yard. A red-tailed hawk saw him and attacked. It happened too fast for anyone to stop it. The rabbit, too fat to be carried away, was torn up and died shortly of his wounds. Wilson uses this story to make a point about what kind of world this is; about the impulse to focus on all the cute, fluffy aspects of it and ignore the existence of red-tailed hawks. At the end of the chapter, though, comes an interesting story of a different rabbit in a similar situation. Apparently Wilson was able to watch this one on an internet video. The wild rabbit was being chased by a falcon, and evading him spectacularly. Twice the falcon dived, and twice he was unsuccessful. The third time, he attacked from the front, and the rabbit didn't hesitate, but ran straight at its predator. At the last moment, face-to-face with death, the rabbit leaped up, landed on the falcon’s back, and kicked off into the air.

Wow. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be like that second rabbit. I’d rather have my children be like the second rabbit, fully aware of the dangers in the world and with the strength and wisdom to face them head-on. But it takes a lot of effort and practice to turn yourself into that kind of being. It takes risk. Even more, it takes the willingness to confront the danger in yourself—the monster within—first of all. Because while there are plenty of things we can all agree are bad and should be stopped (like Nazism), when you’re dealing with people whose only “crime” is seeing the world differently from you (such as non-violent members of the opposition), you must be careful about labeling them the danger. It’s entirely possible that there’s a speck in their eye and a beam in your own. This is another of Professor Peterson’s main teachings: sort yourself out before trying to take on the world.

I Feel Like a Monster

What is a monster? In the Western world, the archetypal monster is the dragon. Wings, claws, teeth, impenetrable skin, poison fangs, and fiery breath. It seems to be all possible dangers rolled into one. What do dragons do? They eat people, hoard treasure, and destroy the countryside all around. Let’s go more metaphorical: whatever they encounter, they either make into a part of themselves, take into their control, or destroy. So what is the monstrous attitude? It is the tyranny of Me: anything that is not Me must be made into Me, or Mine, or nonexistent. This is totalitarianism at its worst. But totalitarians, or dragonish people, are very seldom self-aware dragons. They make excuses and rationalize. One of the easiest tactics is to define all that is outside of Me—or Us, or Our Kind of People—as a threat. It makes sense, doesn’t it? To the dragon, at least. People are potential dragon-slayers and thieves. They must be destroyed if I’m to be safe. Animals and plants can potentially nourish or hide dragon-slayers and thieves. They must be destroyed if I and my gold are to be safe. Only when everything is either Me or Mine (that is, under My control) can I be safe.

So we see that the idealization of safety turns into the idolization of control. And the need to control everyone and everything leads to hatred, violence, and destruction. No one is immune to this. I’ve seen it in myself. When my husband comes home and says someone called him a coward, or implied that he was too damaged to be part of an activity he loves, I turn into a fire-breathing dragon. “LET THEM SAY THAT TO MY FACE! I’LL TEACH THEM!! HOW DARE THEY TREAT MY MAN THAT WAY?!” Wait. Did you hear that? My man. My treasure. I get to decide what happens to him, how safe or hurt he’s allowed to be. I get to be in control. Yikes. It’s scary and painful to see that in yourself. At the same time, putting on that dragon skin helps me feel safer. It takes the pain someone is dealing me and gives me the power to ricochet that pain back onto them. My skin is fireproof and impenetrable; my tail is a thunderbolt and my breath death. Who cares if all the land around me is desolate? At least I and my hoard are safe.

What do we do with this, with the dragon in ourselves? We could embrace it, as many do, and declare that yes, I or We or Our Kind of People must be kept safe at any cost, and all the danger is Out There. We could become self-aware dragons, as many do, and try to control our own dangerous nature with self-discipline. But there is a third option, illustrated most beautifully in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, part of the Narnia series by C. S. Lewis.

Un-Dragoned

Eustace Clarence Scrubb begins the story as a dragonish human. Everything outside himself or his control is a threat and a horror to him. He even goes so far as to call Caspian and the Pevensies “fiends in human form” for not giving in to his every whim. He’s disruptive, destructive, and generally a pain. Then a storm forces the ship to land on what is later called Dragon Island. Eustace wanders off alone and discovers an elderly dragon choking out its last breaths near a cave. Upon entering the cave, Eustace finds the dragon’s hoard and immediately calls it Mine, rejoicing over the fact that he doesn’t have to give it to anyone. He falls asleep on the gold coins, and the narrator tells us that “Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart” turns him into a literal dragon. When Eustace sees his monstrous face reflected in the pool outside the cave, there is a moment of intense self-reflection. Not only is he “a terror himself”, he realizes that he always has been. His dragonish attitude has cut him off from human connection the same way his dragonish appearance does now. The pain—in his heart and in his treasure-pinched arm—is enough to bring him to tears.

As a self-aware dragon, Eustace tries to be the least monstrous he can be. Instead of taking, he gives: meat and other supplies for his friends, fire and warmth on cold nights, and a new mast for the broken ship. But he just can’t help being a giant, ugly, dangerous dragon. No matter what he does, he’s going to be a hindrance to his friends and their quest. “He was almost afraid to be alone with himself and yet he was ashamed to be with the others.” What’s a dragon to do? As it turns out, he doesn’t have to do anything. Aslan shows up. He takes Eustace to a pool that can heal him; but first he has to “undress”. Eustace reasons that “dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins.” So he scratches and tears at himself and his whole skin peels away, but there’s another dragon skin underneath it. This happens twice more, and Eustace begins to despair of ever being “undressed.” Then the Lion offers to do it himself. Fearful, Eustace the Dragon surrenders; and the first tear feels like it goes straight to his heart. The pain is worse than anything he’s ever felt, and when it’s done, he’s completely soft and vulnerable—exposed to all the dangers. Aslan throws him in the water, and he comes out human again.

There are so many layers of meaning here. The clearest Christian interpretation is of conversion; even the pool of transformation is an obvious parallel to baptism. But there’s more than that for those of us who recognize our dragonish selves. We can try to undo the horrible enchantment of the dragon skin. We can scratch and tear at the monster within us, and even peel away layers of it. But as long as we think we can be in control, even of ourselves, there will always be another dragon skin underneath. As long as we believe the ultimate good lies within us, we will still be monsters. Surrender is the only way out. We have to be willing to endure pain. We have to be willing to be vulnerable, to give up our fireproof skin and venomous fangs. Yes, it hurts. And it’s scary. But being human is worth it. And this won’t be taken care of in one step. Even in Eustace’s case, the narrator is cautiously optimistic, saying that “he began to be a different boy.” But again, it is worth the long and difficult process to become the best people we could be; neither dragons nor fat rabbits, but people.

Conclusion

I grew up a homeschooled, fundamentalist Baptist. We were dragons. We considered Ourselves, with our own interpretations of Scripture and markers of holiness, as the ultimate good. Even other Christians, like Lutherans, Presbyterians, and Pentecostals, were suspect because they were not Us. And of course, all evil was something Out There. If someone or something from Out There couldn’t be converted into Us or Ours, they were to be completely avoided, ignored or legislated out of existence.

I find it sad, strange, and ironic that this attitude so characteristic of the conservative Christian right has become so adopted by the extreme progressive left, as evidenced by the post I cited at the beginning. But again, this is not far from any one of us. White supremacists argue that “We/Our way of life” must be protected, and anyone outside of that is a threat. The same with many Trump supporters, transgender activists, et cetera ad nauseam.

I won’t pretend to be Aslan, the person who can tear off the dragon skin for you. On the contrary, I still have to go to Him every day to do it for me. But I am done pretending that any person or group of people is “safe”; and I am done pretending that safety is a virtue.