by Anon
The Odyssey (2026) is an epic action-adventure movie written and directed by Christopher Nolan adapted from Homer’s ancient Greek poem. If you haven’t seen the film, I recommend it. If you haven’t read the book, I also recommend it. The Odyssey consists of 24 books and was written down during in the 7th century BC, so committed to parchment in the same kind of era as much of the Old Testament. Both The Odyssey and the Old Testament existed in oral form for many centuries before this. Both share chequered histories of contested versions, with the same stories adapted for different contexts and cultures. (See Bruce Louden, Greek Myth and the Bible, 2019).
Nolan’s film is widely regarded as an enormous feat as much as it is entertaining. True, purists snipe that the film is not faithful to Homer’s original and takes liberties. That may be so, but it rather misses the point. These stories were epic sagas that were vehicles for moral instruction, cautionary tales, and freighted with warnings about the dangers of hubris, irony biting back, the inevitability of betrayals, and the virtues of faithfulness, patience and perseverance.
But suppose for a moment we see The Odyssey as a vehicle for ecclesial parables? This is neither strange nor original. In Gods of Management (1978), Charles Handy examined managerial and organisational cultures through four ancient deities: Zeus (dominance and monarchy), Apollo (communication and order), Athena (cooperation and practicality), and Dionysus (creativity and individualism). Handy highlighted the tension between organisational imperatives (Zeus and Apollo) and individual imperatives (Athena and Dionysus), which cannot be fully resolved. He argued that treating people as individuals instead of mere resources is crucial.
In typical parish settings, cultures may reflect Athena and Dionysus, but many Protestant ecclesial hierarchies tend to be influenced by Zeus and Apollo. This situation will lead to growing dissonance. When self-identified leaders and their compliant followers stop engaging, what happens? Bishops and senior pastors may hold their titles but lack true power, acting like modern versions of Zeus or Apollo while increasingly being ignored.
Simon Western, in Leadership: A Critical Text (2018), argues that “leaders are authentically transformational… they increase awareness of what is right, good, important, and beautiful.” Western identified three primary forms of leadership discourse in the twentieth century: Controller, Therapist, and Messiah, with a fourth suggested. Controller discourse focuses on efficiency and social management, rooted in early twentieth-century scientific rationalism. In contrast, Therapist discourse emphasises personal growth and well-being.
The latter part of the 20th century saw the rise of the fourth type of leadership, namely Heroic-Messiah discourse, which promotes charismatic leadership in uncertain environments. This discourse promised order amid chaos and encouraged transformative change by highlighting heroic actions and visionary outcomes, suggesting that progress is essential to achieving success. Western’s book is a seminal study in leadership and offers a relevant critique for our times.
Similarly, Mateusz Grzesiak’s Leadership and Narcissism in the Organization (2022) reveals the rise of messianic discourse in an age of anxiety as institutions face existential threats. While true messiahs are rare, faux messiahs—who elevate themselves above others—have become increasingly common.
The myths of Narcissus, particularly as told by Ovid, provide insights into institutional behaviour. Both Narcissus and Echo illustrate how organisations can become fixated on appearance, echoing only what they hear, and are ultimately ensnared by self-love and inflated self-regard.
Narcissus is alive and well in the Church of England. Its leaders hear that working in teams, strategy, vision, corporate branding or comms are the way to go. Or that something must be done about climate change, or inequality. The leaders only repeat what they last heard.
That said, we note Richard Sennett’s careful reframing of the myth. He argues that in narcissistic disorder one sinks into oneself. And that without meaningful references and valuing of others, no stable character or self-image is ever formed. Sennett writes that
‘…as a character disorder, narcissism is the very opposite of strong self-love. Self-absorption does not produce gratification [but rather] produces injury [italics mine] to the self; erasing the line between the self and other means that nothing new, nothing “other”, ever enters the self; it is devoured and transformed until one thinks one can see oneself in the other – and then it becomes meaningless… The narcissist is not hungry for experiences, [s/he] is hungry for Experience. Looking always for an expression or reflection of [oneself]…one drowns in the self.’ (The Fall of Public Man, New York: Norton, 1992, pp. 324-25).
Sennett argues that narcissism often hinders goal achievement. In corporate narcissism, as with individuals, there is a tendency to avoid closure on measurable outcomes to escape external judgment that could weaken self-esteem. This avoidance is unintentional; those affected engage in repetitive self-referential patterns that prevent stable character development and lead to self-absorption. While others may remain captivated by what these individuals or organisations might do next, ultimately, nothing changes. (Yes, Fresh Expressions fits the bill).
Translating this into ecclesiology, it seems to be a particularly compelling preliminary diagnosis of the Church of England’s safeguarding debacles. Everything goes round and round and round in circles in a kind of endless death-loop. Nothing changes. Narcissism craves your admiration and devotion, and commands your deference and fealty. But it never wants judgment or accountability. QED the CofE? (QED is from the Latin phrase quod erat demonstrandum, which means “that which was to be demonstrated” or “what was to be shown”).
It doesn’t take a genius to see that the endless cycle of ‘lessons learned reviews’ in Church of England safeguarding belongs to this world. Like Groundhog Day (another version of an ancient Greek myth), the Church of England just repeats the past in the hope that it will eventually get it right. The myth of Tantalus is instructive. So Einstein was right. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”
There is a heuristic pragmatism at work here, but it could also apply to many contemporary Protestant denominations. The Church of England, to compete with modernity, will adorn itself with trendy, secular rhetoric and processes because it thinks it “must look good”. It rarely thinks past this. Furthermore, it seems destined and bound to deliver precisely nothing.
As Sennett would concur, the narcissism is found in the journey and process that never achieves closure. Diagnosing corporate narcissistic personality disorder in the Church of England in an organisation becomes possible when we understand the origin of Narcissus.
Other myths also illustrate the dangers of hubris. Icarus, who flew too close to the sun against his father’s warnings, fell to his death when his wax wings melted. Similarly, Narcissus, obsessed with his own beauty, rejected those who loved him and ultimately died alone, transforming into a flower. Both stories emphasise how hubris can lead to isolation and ruin. These are ecclesial parables.
James Hopewell, the Anglican contextual theologian (Congregation: Stories and Structures, 1987) writes of the Zeus-myth at work in a specifically church-based context as a case of “an arbitrary and dictatorial rule…punish[ing]those who dared to oppose him…a one-man show who got his way…[by] the acquiescence of corporation-minded members…[and ridiculed opponents]”.
For Hopewell, the myth of Zeus serves that purpose, as it narrates the emergence of a supreme ruler from the Titans (the Elder Gods). Zeus dethrones Chronus (in Roman religion, Saturn), the most important god. Zeus has unequalled powers thereafter, but is not omnipotent, omniscient or omnipresent. He can be opposed, deceived and evaded. Zeus nonetheless functions as an arbitrary and dictatorial ruler, and a cypher for the leadership of congregations.
In ecclesial terms, the minister is a ‘one-man show’ with exceptional managerial gifts and can often be a Zeus-like figure. But such leaders also thrive on manipulation and can ridicule opponents with ‘thunderbolts’. Nonetheless, the minister may present as a fine and hospitable pastor, and provided members stay on the right side of this Zeus-like figure, the congregation is likely to be convivial. Hopewell accepts that his characterisation of a church or denomination where Zeus reigns, as
“…not a pretty story, but its very aptness and ugliness might awake its actors both to their plight and to their Christian promise…” (Hopewell, p. 188).
The stories of the gods evolve. Humans can be elevated to godlike status after their deaths, as with Heracles. But in many cases, there is an obvious sense in which one can read the persona and actions of many of the charismatic church leaders featured in this blogsite as befitting a Zeus-like figure. Pilavachi, Brain, Smyth, the Fletchers and others all come to mind. One can compare the eldership gathered around them to other Titans or lesser gods.
What is clear is that the epic accounts of such churches can be more Greek myth and ancient saga than many might suppose. Furthermore, such ancient narrative plots are easily detectable in other revivalist ministries, with leaders exercising extraordinary powers and holding unmatched authority and powers over their devotees. Indeed, these stories and plots are alive and well in contemporary culture and appear to resonate with everyday life.
Hopewell’s interpretive analysis, rooted in myths, narratives, ethos, and worldview, explored the collective unconscious. The archetypes in shared memory, often repressed, continue to influence congregational life and macro-denominational polity. For example, we can think of Anglican bishops known for their unpredictable bullying. While some might experience the bishop as pastoral and visionary, others can find them to be a trigger of fear. The bishop can be armed with thunderbolts, and the laity and clergy are unsure of who could be punished next. Some might view the bishop as a storm bringing misery, while others saw the same leader as essential for growth, as though they were like nourishing rain. Regardless, all may live in apprehension of the bishop’s retribution.
Those familiar with Greek myths will recognise Zeus, the god of weather, thunder, and lightning. Zeus could manifest as a ferocious storm to control others. Or he might transform into a swan to seduce Leda, a mortal queen, leading to the birth of influential mythological subordinates. Bishops can wield significant powers but be utterly unpredictable, punishing those who question their authority and rewarding obedience. Colleagues, congregations, and clergy can live in fear of banishment or punishment, unsure of when wrath or favour might come next, or why.
The Odyssey still has a lot to teach the Church of England. But the lessons lie not in heroism or some longed-for homecoming. Rather, we find the lessons in the lack of accountability, hubris and failure of moral leadership, and the absence of transparent governance. Bishops hide behind their clouds in their heavens, dwelling in Olympus. Nobody trusts these gods and demi-gods who lead the Church of England. They are capricious and unaccountable. They seek only obeisance and control. Like the ancient cults that Homer knew, such deities are just feared – or increasingly ignored. The epic saga that is the Church of England will end when this ancient cult is abandoned, and the people turn once again to a true faith rooted in Christ, and grounded in truth, justice, equality and mutual accountability.