““That Way Madness Lies””

Sunday, June 01, 2025

In William Shakespeare’s play King Lear, the title character decides in his old age to divide his kingdom between his three daughters, in proportion to their love for him. The older two lavish praise on their father and wax poetic about their devotion, but Cordelia, the youngest, simply says, “I love your majesty / According to my bond; nor more nor less” (I.1.101-102). The older two were flattering their dotard father in order to secure a better inheritance, but Lear is too foolish to see it, and gives half his kingdom to each, while disinheriting and banishing Cordelia.

This being Shakespeare, the truth comes out and just about everyone dies by the play’s end; but not before Lear faces his folly. His older daughters refuse to show him even basic hospitality, whereupon Lear rushes into the wilderness and wanders through a raging storm, airing his frustration to the weather, as much as to his companions. Eventually, he begins a fresh rant, then stops short:

Pour on; I will endure;—

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!—

Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,—

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;

No more of that.

(King Lear, III.4.21-25)

Shakespeare’s genius is not in the mechanics of his writing; rather, it’s how they beautifully express his vision of the world. Here, he’s captured the all-too-common plight of the person who accepts a lie, does great sin in his deluded state, then struggles to reconcile himself to the plainly visible truth, for fear of the inner pain involved in admitting his error.

That’s madness in itself, isn’t it? Lear tortures himself and imperils his own life, in an effort to avoid accepting some shame. He’s already humiliated in everyone else’s eyes, so he doesn’t stand to lose status by turning around—in fact, he’d gain some! But people often do as Lear does. We entrench ourselves so deeply in the lie, that we stop caring about other people’s opinion of us, and focus on our own! That is to say, we jealously guard our stubborn, foolish, insane sense of pride.

The fictional King Lear’s failed attempt to avert madness is mirrored in real people, in real situations. Pontius Pilate didn’t want to sentence an innocent man to death. When the Jewish authorities brought Jesus to him, he “said to them, ‘Take him yourselves and judge him by your own law’” (Jn 18.31); they refused. He questioned Jesus and found “no guilt” in him (Lk 23.4), but they persisted. He tried to dump the problem off on Herod (v7), but Herod sent him back. He tried to satisfy the mob by flogging Jesus (Jn 19.1-5); but it wasn’t enough. Still he “sought to release” Jesus (v12), but the authorities tacitly threatened to denounce him as a traitor, “If you release this man, you are not Caesar’s friend.” (v12). Pilate finally “took water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood’” (Mt 27.24), then “delivered him to be crucified” (v26).

Isn’t that ridiculous? Pilate was given the power of life and death by the Roman State, and by God. He was to be “God’s servant,” for the good of the governed, wielding “the sword” in order to dispense “God’s wrath on the wrongdoer” (Ro 13.4). But he abdicated his responsibility and attempted to soothe his own conscience by the hollow of gesture of washing his hands before handing down the most unjust verdict in history. But although everyone could see what he was doing, like King Lear he avoided honest introspection, thinking, “that way madness lies.”

It’s not limited to the sins of unbelievers, though. Paul (somewhat confusingly) illustrates the Christian’s ongoing struggle:

For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.

(Romans 7.15-19)

We can admit we’re broken and persist in the struggle, knowing that we have “an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous” (1Jn 2.1); or we could remain self-righteous, while also wallowing in our desire to sin, refusing to acknowledge it and let Jesus help us, doing what is mad, for fear of madness.

It doesn’t even stop at overtly transgressive sins. There has always been a segment of the church that devotes itself to “speculations rather than the stewardship from God that is by faith” (1Ti 1.4). It starts with a view toward piety—that is, a manner of life in keeping with God’s commandments. But we all have to interpret those commandments, and while the center is always clear—“Flee from sexual immorality” (1Co 6.18), for example—on the margins, questions remain about precisely what is sexual immorality, and these require the use of our judgment. It’s good to be careful, but attempts to stay well clear of the line grow from custom, to conviction, to a mandate for all. Before you know it, someone is preaching, “It is good for a man not to have sexual relations with a woman” (7.1), which is not exactly false, but is also far from the whole story! Thus, someone concerned with obeying God ends up putting forth traditions and interpretations as God’s holy word.

This is why Paul counseled Timothy,

charge them before God not to quarrel about words, which does no good, but only ruins the hearers.

(2 Timothy 2.14)

Be careful not to think yourself immune to these follies, for that way, truly, madness lies.

Jeremy Nettles

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