I’m rereading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov this year, in a marvelous new translation from Michael R. Katz. A lengthy portion of the book centers on the memories and teachings of Father Zosima, a saintly elder in a Russian Orthodox monastery who serves as a spiritual hero to the novel’s protagonist, the novice Alyosha Karamazov.
Shortly after the elder Zosima—revered for his holiness and wisdom—dies, his body begins to decay rapidly. Unlike other holy men and women whose corpses were said to remain uncorrupted, Zosima’s body emits a stench almost immediately. Within hours, the townspeople marvel at this grotesque turn of events with perverse delight, wondering if the elder’s sanctity had always been a sham.
The townspeople talk among themselves.
- Is this a sign from God?
- He was dried up and skinny when he died! What else could cause such a stink but deep-rooted spiritual corruption?
- It was his theology! His teaching was always suspect.
- He wasn’t strict enough in fasting. He ate sweets. He even enjoyed tea!
- His body is swollen because his spirit was swollen with pride. He accepted too many honors and never corrected those who praised his holiness.
As the scene unfolds, Dostoevsky shows us the reactions of other monks in the monastery:
As soon as there were indications of putrefaction, just by the look on the faces of the monks entering the elder’s cell, one could tell why they’d come. They came in, stood for a little while, and went out to confirm the news to others who were waiting in a crowd outside. Some of them shook their heads sadly, but others didn’t even attempt to conceal their delight, their malevolent eyes gleaming unmistakably.
The scene is powerful, first because of the crisis of faith it stirs in Alyosha, who wrestles with confusion and grief as he wonders why God would allow a righteous man’s memory to suffer such indignity. But second, and just as striking, it paints an unflattering yet realistic portrait of human nature. Gossip flaring, accusations flying, whispers turning into condemnation—all this exposes the human heart’s enjoyment of seeing holiness toppled and virtue discredited.
Flesh’s Delight in Decay
Dostoevsky recognizes how tempting it is to take a perverse pleasure in seeing a good person’s reputation suffer. To find strange satisfaction when the flaws of someone widely admired are exposed. To feel good when someone once lifted up and praised gets knocked down a peg. Perhaps these feelings are spread through the poison of envy, or they display the reality of mimetic rivalry that leads to conflict. Or maybe it’s because examples of righteousness make us feel uncomfortable, thus we’re drawn to the notion that there must be something tainted under the surface. In our cynicism, we expect hidden sin and doubt hidden holiness.
Whatever the reason, if any part of us perks up when a respected figure suffers indignity—if we feel a flicker of satisfaction when their sins are exposed or their name is dragged through the mud—we should pause and take a hard look at ourselves. Have we become like Dostoevsky’s townspeople? Are we delighted by putrefaction? Do our hearts smile at the stench of death?
If the answer is yes, we must recognize the impulse of the maggot in us—or the appetite of the scavenger, ready to tear apart what remains of someone else’s good name. Or the temptation to sit back and savor the spectacle in silence.
Devilish Desire
In Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis challenges us to check our heart’s response when a story of some atrocity committed by our opponents turns out to be exaggerated or false. Is our instinctive reaction “a feeling of disappointment,” because we enjoyed believing our enemies were as awful as possible? If our instinct is to wish what’s bad would be even worse, we’ve succumbed to the perverse pleasure of wishing what’s dark were darker, “the first step in a process which, if followed to the end, will make us into devils.”
This is what the flesh delights in—the fall, the failure, the faintest whiff of rot. And if you’re honest, you’ve felt it before. I have too. That sly satisfaction when the halo slips, when the pedestal wobbles. But the apostle Paul reminds us that love “finds no joy in unrighteousness but rejoices in the truth” (1 Cor. 13:6). If we take pleasure in putrefaction, we’ve already begun the descent Lewis warned about—a staircase winding downward into bitterness, cynicism, and blindness.
David prayed, “Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me; lead me in the everlasting way” (Ps. 139:23–24, CSB). That’s the prayer we need. Because the heart of a follower of Jesus should never perk up at the news of scandal or decay. The malevolent gleam should be far from our eyes. And so, in repentance, we ask the Lord to change us so we never delight in the stench of death but become a sweet aroma, with lives marked by true holiness, fragrant with the grace of Christ.
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