Paradiso

The divine comedy paradiso

Paradiso opens with Dante's invocation to Apollo and the Muses, asking for his divine task. He and Beatrice ascend from the Earthly Paradise. Beatrice outlines the structure of the universe. Dante warns the readers not to follow him now into Heaven for fear of getting lost in the turbulent waters.

Dante and Beatrice arrive in the First Heaven, sphere of the Moon. Beatrice vigorously quizzes Dante and then corrects his views on the cause of the moon spots. Dante first sees the blessed souls as points of light. He meets Piccarda Donati, who explains the souls' happiness with their places in Heaven. She explains that the Moon houses souls who broke their vows. Beatrice explains why Dante sees the souls in these heavens, when they are all located in the Empyrean, (the Tenth Heaven). Then she explains vows in terms of absolute and contingent will.

They ascend to the Second Heaven, sphere of Mercury. Justinian explains the history and destiny of Rome. He tells Dante that the souls in Mercury were all just, but motivated by fame. Beatrice explains God's just vengeance on Jerusalem.

They ascend to the Third Heaven, sphere of Venus. Dante meets Charles Martel, an early French emperor, and he explains why sons can end up so different from their fathers. Dante meets Cunizza da Romano and Folco of Marseille, who points out Rahab to Dante.

Beatrice and Dante ascend to the Fourth Heaven, sphere of the Sun. St. Thomas and eleven other souls form a crown around our heroes. Dante denounces the senseless cares of mortals. St. Thomas discusses the life of St. Francis and the Franciscans. A second crown forms around the first. St Bonaventure talks about the life of St. Dominic and the Dominicans. The crowns dance. St. Thomas explains the wisdom of King Solomon and warns Dante not to judge hastily. Solomon explains the source of the blessed souls' light.

They ascend to the Fifth Heaven, sphere of Mars. The souls form an image of the Cross. Dante meets Cacciaguida, who expounds on the virtue of ancient Florence. Dante indulges in a rare proud moment

over the nobility of his birth. Cacciaguida talks about the noble Florentine families. Then, he tells Dante about his destiny of exile, but tempers it with encouragement to Dante to fulfill his poetic mission.

Dante and Beatrice move on to the Sixth Heaven, sphere of Jupiter. The souls spell out the message Diligite iustitiam, qui iudicatis terram ("Love justice, you who judge the earth"), and then form the Eagle. The Eagle explains Divine Justice and the inscrutability of God's Mind. It introduces the six spirits that form its eye and explains why the Emperor Trajan and Ripheus are there.

They continue to the Seventh Heaven, sphere of Saturn. Dante sees the golden ladder. Dante meets St. Peter Damian, who denounces degenerate prelates. The spirits cry out in encouragement and Dante faints from the force. Dante meets St. Benedict.

Beatrice and Dante ascend to the Eighth Heaven, sphere of the Fixed Stars. Dante gazes down on Earth and realizes how small and petty it is. They witness the coronation and re-ascension of Mary and Christ into the Empyrean. St. Peter examines Dante on faith. Dante conveys his hope of returning to Florence one day to be crowned as a poet. St. James examines Dante on hope. Dante goes blind. St. John examines Dante on charity. Adam answers Dante's four questions. St. Peter denounces corrupt popes.

Beatrice and Dante then move on to the Ninth Heaven, Primum Mobile. Beatrice prophesies the coming redemption of the world. Dante observes the model of the nine Angelic Intelligences orbiting a shining Point. Beatrice explains the discrepancy between it and the material universe. Beatrice tells Dante the Creation story, explains the order of the universe, and clears up the question about the number of extant angels.

They ascend into the Tenth Heaven, the Empyrean. Dante sees the illusion and then real Celestial Rose. Beatrice points out the seat reserved for Henry VIII. Beatrice disappears and is replaced by St. Bernard. Dante prays his thanks to Beatrice.

Next, Dante gazes upon Mary. St. Bernard explains the placement of the blessed in the Celestial Rose, including that of the innocent infants. St. Bernard prays to Mary to intercede to God on Dante's behalf so that the poet may look upon God. Mary approves. Dante looks into the Eternal Light, and sees within it the image of the Holy Trinity. He ponders the mystery of the Incarnation. God bestows the answer upon him in a flash of light and Dante's soul is, finally, at one with God's.

Enter: Heaven. As we open the third and last canticle of Dante's Comedy, Dante is flying towards Heaven (or Paradise), with Beatrice alongside.

He sees some amazing sights along the way. In fact, it's so amazing that any mortal who sees such things would immediately forget them upon landing back on earth.

But Dante is going to do the impossible, to record (through his poetry) all this impossible stuff he sees as he journeys through Heaven. Dante is trying to put in human terms something human beings never see. In other words, he's doing what no other poet has ever done. This is a very important concept.

It makes sense to ask for a little help in doing the impossible. So Dante promptly asks the god and protector of all poets to let him deserve his "loved laurel." Which is poet-speak for "Help me, Lord!" Dante asks Apollo to enter into his chest and "within [him] breathe [his] power," to allow him to show "a shadow of the blessed realm." On top of that, argues Dante, writing this poem should make Apollo happy since it means that a mortal might finally be worthy of the Apollonian crown of laurel branches.

Back to the story. It's around noontime, according to the sun.

Beatrice turns her face toward the approaching sun and stares directly into the light. (She can do this because she's not mortal.)

Dante decides he wants to be special too and copies her movements. He explains that he can also stare into the sun because when one is this close to Heaven—the "true home" of mankind—such things are allowed.

Of course he can't do it for long, since he's not immortal. But he stares long enough to see it shining brightly. He's so overcome by the sun's brilliance that it seems to him that "day had been added to day" as if a second sun had suddenly sprung up.

When Dante cannot stand the brightness anymore, he turns his gaze towards Beatrice. As he watches her, he gets spiritually invigorated. He compares watching her to Glaucus's transformation from a lowly fisherman into a sea god. (In other words, watching Beatrice makes him feel godlike.)

In the sunlight, Dante feels so good that he doesn't know whether he is only "the part of me that You created last"—pure soul—or still a soul housed within a body. Only God knows.

As he flies upward, he hears the music of spheres around him.

(Quick theology lesson: medieval philosophers believed in a geocentric universe, with the Earth at the center of the universe and all the other stars and planets revolving around it. The revolution of each planet, which Dante calls "spheres" or "Paradises," creates a different musical note. So the sky is always full of music, commonly known as the "music of the spheres.")

Caught up in all this light and music, Dante becomes curious about where they originate. He's about to ask Beatrice when she opens her mouth to tell him. Beatrice tells him that he's still "obtuse" (read: a little thick) with "false imagining." He's actually not on earth like he thinks, but like lightning, flying up towards Heaven.

You say, "Like lightning? Lightning doesn't go up!" Well, Medieval philosophers believed that the universe was made up of five elements. The northern hemisphere of the planet (where Jerusalem sits) is all earth. The southern hemisphere (where the mountain of Purgatory is located) is all water. This planet is surrounded by a layer of air, then higher up a layer of fire, before giving way to the ether of the heavens, where God resides. So here, Dante and Beatrice are ascending through the layer of fire. Lightning, it was believed, is an unnatural phenomenon because it comes down, instead of going up. Why would it go up? Because it is trying to reach its creator, God.

Dante is still not satisfied. He doesn't understand how he's rising when he is a heavier body than the spheres of air and fire.

Beatrice sighs like a frustrated mother. She explains that everything in the universe arranges itself in a certain order, as God decrees. Everything is placed at different distances from God, some nearer, some farther. Thus, when each thing moves "across the mighty sea of being," it is motivated by a desire to be close to God. This desire affects everything, even things without souls. This desire, explains Beatrice, is what is shooting Dante like an arrow towards the highest heaven, called the Primum Mobile—the only sphere of Heaven that doesn't revolve. In other words, he's being drawn toward God.

But, Beatrice says, many times people are distracted by earthly pleasures and deaf to God's calling, so they stray from the path towards Him. This is just like lightning, which unnaturally falls instead of rising.

Beatrice sternly tells Dante that he shouldn't be surprised that he's flying; it would be more surprising were he still on earth after being purified in Purgatory.

With that, she looks towards Heaven.

fter Beatrice's lesson, Dante gives a warning to his readers. Comparing us to passengers in a ship following his (Dante's) ship, he warns us to "turn back to see your [our] shores again" because otherwise we might lose sight of him and thus be lost at sea. In other words, because Dante is so talented, writing about unknown phenomena, we might not be able to understand his poetry. He urges readers who are not ready for the theological theory of Heaven to "turn back" and reread the first two books of the Divine Comedy.

Our poet says that his ship, unlike ours, is guided by Apollo and the Muses. So only those who understand (the "few who turned your minds in time unto the bread of angels") should follow in Dante's

wake, where the waves are smooth because Dante is there to explain what's going on. The rest of the sea is tumultuous, making it hard to navigate.

Those worthy of following me, Dante asserts, will be more amazed than the Argonauts when their leader, Jason, tamed a pair of fire-breathing bulls.

Now back to the story. Beatrice again gazes upward.

In an instant, the travelers reach a wonderful place, which—Beatrice announces—is the "first star." Well, we wouldn't think of it as a star; it's the moon.

It's a beautiful place. Dante describes it with jewel-like imagery: "It seemed to me that we were covered by a / brilliant, solid, dense, and stainless cloud, / much like a diamond that the sun has struck." He compares the light to the reflection of light on water.

Dante is amazed at how he and Beatrice can enter the moon without displacing any mass. The explanation has to do with God, and His command of the universe. Their entrance into the moon shows "how God and human nature were made one."

We readers have to take this miracle on good faith. Dante, though, observes it firsthand. (This general rule applies to the entire Divine Comedy: what mortals have to believe on pure faith, Dante knows from experience.)

Dante thanks God, then asks Beatrice why there are dark marks on the moon's surface.

Beatrice smiles knowingly, saying that the human senses cannot possibly come up with the correct explanation for the moon's spots. She asks Dante his opinion.

Dante answers that the moon spots are caused by denser concentrations of matter in certain random areas.

Beatrice says this is incorrect. Dante's explanation would suggest that some stars simply have more matter than others. This would mean that a single power (in Italian, virtù) governs them all, manifested randomly as greater here and lesser there. But, Beatrice argues, this is wrong. Different appearances must originate from different powers.

Furthermore (ready for some serious physics?), if the moon spots were indeed caused by denser and rarer matter, this would mean that the entire moon would have spots totally devoid of matter, or that their density and rarity would alternate in stripes. The former theory is wrong because during a solar eclipse (when the moon is directly between the sun and the earth), sunlight cannot be seen through the empty spots of the moon. The latter is incorrect because the dense stripes of the moon would not allow light to pass through, but instead reflect them.

Here, she anticipates Dante's argument—that a reflected beam of light from far away will be dimmer than a reflected beam from a nearer source. But, if you actually do an experiment and place three

mirrors at different distances from the light source, all three reflections will have the same brightness (though not the same size).

Now, she continues, let's learn the correct explanation, by returning to the concept of the different powers. The Eighth Heaven of the Fixed Stars receives the undifferentiated power from the highest Heaven and has the job of distributing this power to the various stars, as God sees fit. Those closer to the highest Heaven receive more power, and thus spin faster, than those farther from it. Just as each organ within the human body has a different power, each star is "inspired by the blessed movers." These "blessed movers" are different intelligences, commonly known to man as angels. So within each star, there is an intelligence (angel) which causes it to revolve in its path around the earth and shine forth in gladness for God.

This, Beatrice proclaims, is the correct explanation for the moon's spots. Basically, nothing in the universe (not even matter) is random, as Dante thought; each thing has its proper place in relation to God.

After this long lecture, Dante raises his head to the truth, about to confess himself "corrected and convinced."

But his confession is cut short when he's assaulted by a new vision. He sees the pale reflections of many faces in front of him. They're so faint that it's like seeing the reflection of one's face through unpolished glass, shallow water, or a pearl strung on a lady's forehead.

So naturally, Dante turns around, thinking that what he's seeing is reflections in a mirror. But behind him there is nothing.

When he turns with a bewildered look to Beatrice, she answers his question with a knowing smile.

"There is no need to wonder if I smile," she says, "because you reason like a child."

She tells him that he is not seeing reflections, but "true substances" of souls that hover before him. And they are set here in the lowest sphere in Heaven because they broke their vows.

Beatrice urges Dante to listen to them to learn a lesson in truthfulness.

Dante turns to the soul that seems most anxious to talk and begs to know her name and history.

She answers that her sphere—out of its divine charity—would never deny answers to Dante's questions. She tells her story:

On earth, I was a virgin and a nun. You should recognize me; I'm Piccarda (the sister of Forese Donati, whom you met in Purgatory), and I live here in the slowest-revolving sphere. But, don't worry, I'm happy

here because I delight in taking my place in God's order. I deserve to be in the lowest level of Heaven because I broke my vows in life.

Dante is still stuck on the implied insult that he was slow in recognizing her. So he makes an excuse, claiming she now looks different than she did on earth. She's shinier.

Having soothed his ego, Dante asks Piccarda if she's really happy here or if she wants to be in a higher sphere?

At this Piccarda and all her buddies smile, like "one[s] who burn with love's first flame."

Instead, she says no, they're all perfectly happy because they bear love for God, whose will put them in their proper places. If she were to want more, her will would be battling with God's and cause discord.

The secret to living happily in blessedness is conforming one's individual will to God's will.

Dante gets it. He realizes that every sphere in Heaven is indeed a paradise, but that "grace does not rain equally from the high good." However, everyone in the Heavens is happy with his or her place, no matter how high or low it is.

Dante asks more questions. He wants to know the rest of Piccarda's story, which he puts in a fancy weaving metaphor as "the web of which her shuttle had not reached the end."

Piccarda tells how she left her pampered life to follow the order of St. Clare, made vows to follow God's laws (namely, to remain a virgin), and took her place as a nun. God didn't have a quiet life planned for her, though. Instead, evil men (directed by her brother Corso) abducted her from the cloister and forced her to marry a nobleman. Thus, Piccarda was forced by these violent men to break her vow to God. (By the way, Corso is in Hell.)

Suddenly Piccarda turns to the shining spot on her right and introduces her as the brightest light on the whole moon. She was a fellow sister, who also took her vows of chastity and then was forced to go back into the world and marry against her will.

Finally Piccarda reveals this bright light as Empress Constance of Sicily whose marriage produced the last heir of her royal line.

Because Heaven makes her so very happy, she starts singing a hymn. The "Ave Maria." And as she sings, she vanishes back into the light.

Dante's still full of questions, so he turns to Beatrice, but is blinded by her brilliance and stays silent for the moment.

This doesn't stop his mind from working, though. In his moment of silence, Dante describes what it feels like to hesitate: he compares the moment to the indecision of a starving man trying to decide between two equally sumptuous dishes before him; or a lamb standing between two hungry wolves; or a ravenous dog in the midst of two deer.

The point is that competing doubts make him hesitate. In other words, necessity is keeping his mouth shut.

It doesn't matter. His face expresses his questions clearly enough for Beatrice to read.

So, just like David anticipated the questions of Nebuchadnezzar, Beatrice answers Dante's unasked queries. Ready for some major psychic fireworks?

Beatrice explains Dante's doubts as follows: if one has a will to do good, how can others' actions endanger that person's own chances at salvation?

His second doubt is if, after death, these souls return to the stars which most affected them in life— as Plato argued—doesn't that mean that the stars rule all human behavior and therefore that man doesn't have free will?

(Quick aside: medieval theory assigned different characteristics to each celestial body based on their mythology. The moon was inconstant, Mercury was a prideful, and Venus lustful. So, if you were fickle, you were supposedly governed by the moon.)

Beatrice chooses to answer the "most insidious question" first (Dante's second question). None of the souls Dante sees here are actually here. Nor will any of the souls Dante sees in the levels of heavens be there.

Instead, she explains, all saved souls inhabit the highest heaven, called the Empyrean, with God. They only appear to Dante in these different heavens because this is the only way Dante's human mind will understand that they are not all equal in their blessedness.

Beatrice continues. Plato's theory is not correct. (Well, Beatrice doesn't actually say that. More like, "his opinion is perhaps to be taken in other guise than his words speak." In other words, his theory means something different than what it actually says.) This is dangerous because it tends to lead people away from God.

Moving on to Dante's first question. This doubt is far less dangerous since it won't lead Dante astray from the true path. If Piccarda lets violence victimize her when Corso abducted her, she has a problem. More specifically, her will has a problem. It is not whole. If it were, she would've fought back. By allowing the abduction to happen, she aids the force that breaks her vow, no matter how unwillingly she acts.

But solving this problem raises another one, Beatrice says. What if "it is too wearying to try"? Which translates to: "What if it's too hard to fight back?"

Now she makes it clear to Dante that the blessed souls cannot lie. This means that Piccarda is wrong. How? Piccarda said before that Constance kept trying to adhere to her vows despite the circumstances. Yet Beatrice is asserting that they reside here because they gave up and did not try to resist the men's force. Well, Beatrice goes on to solve this apparent contradiction.

She gives examples of men who have sinned in order to avoid the violence of other threatening men. So if one gives in to committing sin out of fear for her life, this is no excuse.

Beatrice shows that this laziness of will is something which is not present in absolute will—that given by God—but only in the contingent, free will part of humanity.

Thus, both she and Piccarda are right; Piccarda is talking about absolute will while Beatrice addresses contingent will.

Dante has an intellectual epiphany. He thanks Beatrice for explaining everything to him. He then expounds on how helpful doubt is because it leads one to ask questions, which are then answered; this repeating process makes one smarter.

Dante asks one more question: can a person atone for broken vows by doing good works?

So what's the answer? Stay tuned to find out.

Beatrice turns to Dante and tells him she can see the light in his eyes and says that anything he finds beautiful is simply a lesser expression of Himself.

But then she predicts Dante wants to know if people can make up for their broken promises.

Her reasoning goes as follows: God's greatest gift to man is free will. When you promise yourself to God's service (read: becoming a nun), you willingly give up your free will.

But it doesn't end there: the Church reserves the right to release people from their vows.

Beatrice lays it all out: "Dante," she says, "there are two things you should always remember about a vow: what the vow says and the binding part of the clause. Basically, the second part holds until the first part is fulfilled."

But she confides to Dante that there is a loophole. One can change the matter of one's vow (with the Church's okay), but not the binding part. The catch is that the new content of the vow must somehow exceed the original content's worth.

When someone makes a vow that has a priceless worth, Beatrice continues, he cannot try to change its contents, because nothing can be more valuable.

The lesson is that mortals should not take vows lightly. Beatrice cites Jephthah and Agamemnon as examples.

She warns Christians in particular. Just because you're Christian, don't think that making rash promises will erase sins. Instead, read the Bible and obey the Pope.

And most of all, "be men, and not like sheep gone mad!" Beatrice means that men should not be like stray lambs, abandoning the mother (the Church) who feeds them; otherwise they will be hurting themselves.

Beatrice turns her face towards the light. Since we're already in heaven, she turns towards the highest heaven, Empyrean. And with that, Dante feels both of them flying upwards towards the Second heaven.

But Dante isn't fascinated by Beatrice's jetpack-at-will powers, only by her beauty.

From his vantage point, Dante can see the thousand inhabitants of the Second heaven gathering around their (his and Beatrice's) glowing figures. He compares them to a bunch of fish in a pool who are drawn to anything remotely new that comes into sight. As each new soul approaches, they declare that this new arrival will "increase their loves."

One soul steps forward. He calls Dante the guy "whom God's grace allows to see the thrones of the eternal triumph before your war of life is ended." He tells Dante that the light which shines in him (Dante) is the same light that shines in all the heavenly souls (that of charity) and welcomes him to ask the questions burning in his mind.

Dante says, "I can see your brilliant light, but that doesn't tell me who you are or why I can't see you in your real heavenly rank."

(Note: None of the souls Dante sees on these various stars are where the blessed truly reside. They all actually live in the highest heaven, the Empyrean, but appear to Dante on different stars according to the nature of their blessedness. So Dante's asking what level of the Empyrean this speaker actually inhabits.)

In response, the soul glows even more brightly than before, just like the sun—after burning away the morning mists—shines so brightly that one cannot see its form for its brilliance.

Then the soul starts talking. You'll have to read on to the next canto to find out what he says.

The soul begins explaining the history of Rome. He talks about how Emperor Constantine committed the crime of moving the capital of the Roman Empire away from Rome to Byzantium. By so doing, Constantine turned the Empire against Heaven and against centuries of good leadership.

After hundreds of years, the soul says, Rome came to be ruled by me, Justinian, who was known for reforming the Roman laws.

Then he was converted to Christianity by the words of Pope Agapetus. Through God's inspiration, Justinian created the Codex Justinianus, a huge listing of all the Roman laws that did not include contradictions, complications, or pagan ideals. This allowed the Empire some peace.

But he wants Dante to see the hypocrisy of the situation: some people pretended to support the Holy Roman Church, but really opposed it.

Justinian goes back to the very beginning of Roman history, starting with the death of Pallas (whom Turnus killed) and the founding of Rome, through its seven monarch. He then chronicles the era of the Roman Republic and its successful rebuffing of Hannibal, (the great general of the Carthaginians).

Justinian then details the ascent of Julius Caesar (which occurred around the middle of the 1st century B.C.) and all of his conquests: the story of Cleopatra in Egypt, Caesar's rivalry and civil war against Pompey, and the treachery of Brutus and Cassius, who assassinated Caesar.

The new emperor Augustus took revenge on Caesar's murderers and finally brought peace to the Empire.

But, Justinian narrates, the most important is yet to come.

During the reign of Tiberius, Christ was crucified, finally reconciling man and God (for Adam's original sin). God took vengeance on the Jews (for Christ's death) by having the emperor Titus destroy Jerusalem. Then Charlemagne helped legitimate Christianity in the Roman Empire.

Now, Justinian says, Dante can understand why he holds the Guelphs and the Ghibellines (the hypocrites he mentioned earlier) in such contempt. The Guelphs openly opposed the Roman Empire, while the Ghibellines treacherously took the emblem of the Empire (the Eagle) and made it their own.

Then he warns Charles of Anjou, leader of the Guelphs, to beware of Rome.

Justinian talks about the souls inhabiting this planet—Mercury. We are all righteous spirits, he claims. Everyone on this planet is motivated by his or her desire for fame. Justinian recognizes now that to value fame so much is to love wrongly.

But he and his fellows rejoice in what God has given them because it is just. And they're happy to be a part of "differing voices," which "render sweet harmony among these spheres."

Justinian starts praising a guy named Romeo of Villaneuve, who was a poor pilgrim whose virtue got him appointed to the position of minister to Count Raymond Berenger of Provence. Romeo married each of

Berenger's four daughters into a royal family so that they eventually became queens. Romeo was a favorite of the court, but then jealous people planted a rumor that Romeo was swindling money from his boss, so they got Berenger to accuse Romeo formally. Though innocent, Romeo was offended and so he renounced his position, took what few possessions he originally had, and left—leaving Berenger begging for him to come back.

If the world had known Romeo's true heart, Justinian says, they would have appreciated him even more.

Having finished his story, Justinian and his friends start singing a Latin hymn, during which they dance and spin away.

Dante still has questions about Justinian's story.

Beatrice reads his and smiles knowingly. She paraphrases Dante's question for us. If Christ's crucifixion was just, in that it redeemed man for his original sin, how could it be just for God to then take vengeance on the Jews for taking part in it? Good question.

So Beatrice lays out the truth: since Adam gave into temptation, he plunged all of mankind into sin. Nobody could go to Heaven until the coming of Christ. Christ's Incarnation ensured that he was both man and God simultaneously. Both natures were in him united but also distinct. It's one of those miracles that we humans can't really understand. Christ's human nature was pure—because he was united with God—but in itself, human nature was sinful because of Adam's mistake. So, paradoxically the Crucifixion was both just, because it punished Christ's human half, and unjust, because it offended Christ's divine half.

God was pleased because man had redeemed himself and could be allowed into Heaven once more. According to Beatrice, the Jews were pleased they had killed the Christians' Savior. But God was also upset at the Jews for killing His son. So this explanation should satisfy Dante as to why God's actions after the Crucifixion were just.

Now Beatrice anticipates Dante's next question: why did man need to be redeemed in exactly this way? Why did Christ have to die?

Beatrice explains, but first warns Dante that nobody can fully understand God. Everything that derives directly from God is immortal, because it has His goodness and cannot be influenced by anything else. Such a creature is most like God. Mankind was once this lucky—both immortal and free—but then Adam sinned. And because of that one error, man showed himself unworthy of both his immortality and his freedom.

Man needed to atone for this sin and he could only gain back his freedom or immortality if God were to forgive everyone or if man were to offer some sort of compensation to God. Here's the catch, though:

Adam's sin was believing what the serpent said—that once he ate of the fruit, he would be like God. So Adam's sin was one of pride, thinking he could be as high and mighty as God. Nothing man could do would make up for so great a sin. God, then, was forced to forgive man out of mercy.

God was merciful in giving Himself—in the form of Christ—to pay penance for man's sins. And He was also just because the human part of Christ suffered for Adam's sin.

Beatrice returns to one point, that all things coming from God are immortal. She reads Dante's mind and asks his question for him—so why aren't things like fire, water, air, and earth everlasting too? The answer: only the angels, Heaven itself, and man were directly created by God. Everything else was created by "created powers" (called the Angelic Intelligences), which aren't immortal.

Remember, she says, that God directly created both the human soul (with His breath) and the human body (by shaping Adam), so both parts of man are immortal. This implies that the death of the human body must be followed by its resurrection.

Dante tells us that in the time before Christ, people thought the third planet sent down rays of love on the people. They named her after the mother of Cupid. Hence, the planet's name became Venus (the Roman goddess of love).

Dante believes he is ascending to Venus. His suspicion is confirmed when he notices Beatrice growing even more beautiful than she once was.

There, Dante sees a bunch of wheeling lights, dancing so harmoniously together that he compares them to a spark in a flame, and indeed they are singing the hymn, "Hosanna."

One soul breaks away from the dance and approaches Dante. The soul tells how his fellow souls dance around a "celestial Prince" whom Dante once invoked in his Convivio, and promises to "bring him [Dante] joy."

So after Dante has Beatrice's consent, he turns to the light and asks him who he is.

This gives the soul so much delight it grows brighter and says that he had a brief life, but if he had been able to stay longer, he would've rid the world of much evil.

He describes the geography of his homeland and we learn that he was once a king of France. (He is Charles Martel, although he never reveals his name). He says his sons would've ruled Sicily if the ruler of that region hadn't been so bad that the people revolted.

Then he prophesies about his brother, who's still alive. If only Robert could see what lies in store for him, he would run away from Catalonia. Robert is a greedy man because he uses mercenaries who are only interested in getting rich.

Dante replies that the soul's words have made him happy.

But Dante has a question: how can bad sons (like Robert) come from good fathers (Charles II)?

Martel answers that God acts through providence, which means looking out for the ultimate well-being of mankind. Providence is a force that keeps the universe from total chaos. If the universe were chaotic, that would indicate an imperfect Creator.

Dante is satisfied with this reply.

Now Charles asks Dante if it is a good thing that men are citizens on earth. Dante says yes. Charles asks if earth could have citizens if people were not different, with different skills and duties. Dante answers no.

So, continues Charles, the earth needs diversity—lawmakers, warriors, priests, and inventors. But the stars, although they influence mortals, do not make people different. So, if left up to Nature, sons would always be carbon copies of their fathers. Because the earth needs diversity, Providence makes it possible for people to differ.

Charles adds that when a man comes across a task that doesn't come naturally to him, he doesn't respond well. But if the world paid more attention to people's natural dispositions—or their true natures—and didn't force them into jobs they weren't good at, everyone would be more worthy.

Since the world tries to makes natural-born warriors into priests, and natural-born priests into kings, it often gets it all wrong.

Dante invokes Charles Martel's wife, Clemence, telling her how their bloodline is headed for bad luck. Dante claims that Charles told him to "be silent" about this; in other words, Dante has been sworn to secrecy, but vaguely tells Clemence that her family's wrongs will be avenged.

Then Charles turns towards the Sun and Dante praises him for doing so.

Now another soul approaches Dante, growing brighter to show that she wants to talk to him, and Dante secures Beatrice's permission.

Dante asks her to speak.

She talks about her birthplace. She comes from the hills of Romano where a "firebrand descended" and brought a lot of grief to the land.

She reveals that this firebrand is her kin, saying that she and he came from one root. She names herself as Cunizza and identifies herself as a lover, which is why she's here on Venus. She isn't bitter about being this low in Heaven because she has turned her love toward God. She then introduces the shining soul beside her as a man who is and will remain famous for centuries to come.

But now Cunizza turns away from her shiny friend to convey an ominous prophecy about the people of March of Treviso whom she calls "rabble" and the Paduan Guelphs who refused to listen to the crown. She talks about the murder of despots and about the ransom of the King's men. She foreshadows that these people will spill so much blood that it would take a huge vat to contain all of it.

She justifies her words by invoking the judgment of the Angelic Intelligences that rule Venus, called the Thrones. She claims that since they shine down with the judgment of God, it is her right to speak such truths. She joins the dance of the spirits again while her shiny friend comes towards Dante.

Dante says that it's obvious the soul knows what he (Dante) is thinking because the soul is one of God's blessed.

The soul answers, starting with his birthplace. He details the geography of his home city, Marseilles France. Finally, he identifies himself as Folco. He was also a lover. In his life, he was so "impressed with [Venus'] rays" that he was rivaled famous lovers like Dido (who was in love with Aeneas), Phyllis (who committed suicide when she thought Demophoön was cheating on her), or even Hercules (abductor of Iole).

But Folco says he's grateful that God put him here.

But enough about me, says Folco. I know you're curious about this brilliant soul beside me.

Folco names his really bright neighbor as Rahab and says she has the "highest rank" in Venus. Since she lived before Christ, she went to Hell upon death, but was the first one taken up to Heaven when Christ harrowed Hell. This was a just act because she was always sympathetic to Christ.

(Note: According to the Book of Joshua in the Bible, Rahab was a prostitute. When Joshua sent two messengers to spy on the city of Jericho, Rahab aided them by hiding them in her house and helping them escape. As thanks for her help, Rahab's family was spared when the Israelites destroyed Jericho.)

Then Folco discusses Dante's city, Florence. He claims Florence's founder was Lucifer himself and the golden lilies, its emblem, turn good priests into greedy men. Because of that, the Church no longer studies the Gospels but only its own decrees.

But don't worry, Folco says grinning, Florence will soon be rid of those corrupt priests.

Dante urges us to lift our eyes to the stars and see God's incredible art, the orbit of the planets. He then tells us that unless these orbits were just so, the entire universe would go out of wack.

Dante rises to the fourth sphere of the Sun without even realizing it.

Dante notices that Beatrice flies (with him) so swiftly that they arrive in a new sphere after only a moment.

And, Dante says, the souls in the Sun are so beautiful, I can't even describe them.

Beatrice orders Dante to thank God for lifting him into the Sun, and Dante obeys gladly. In fact, he gets so lost in his happy prayers that even his thoughts of Beatrice are "eclipsed" by God.

In the Sun, Dante sees many souls form a crown around him and Beatrice.

They're so pretty that Dante compares them to the halo formed around the Moon on a misty night.

The souls start singing and dancing in circles around our two pilgrims.

After completing three circles, they suddenly fall silent, and one soul comes forward.

He flatters Dante. Since you shine with the light of God, he sings, anyone who doesn't fulfill your every wish should be punished.

He paraphrases Dante's question: Who is dancing around me?

The soul starts by introducing himself as one of the "holy flock / that Dominic leads where one may fatten well if he does not stray off." In English, it means he's in the Dominican order. His name is Thomas of Aquinas.

Now let's introduce the dancers: Albert of Cologne (a fellow student of St. Dominic), Gratian (who helped develop law), Peter Lombard (a professor of theology), the revered King Solomon (who was thought to have composed the Biblical Song of Songs), Dionysius the Areopagite (writer of De coelestia Hierarchia), and Paulus Orosius (a Spanish historian).

But there's more: Boethius (a medieval philosopher) who was martyred and came to Heaven, St. Isidore of Seville (who wrote an encyclopedia), Venerable the Bede (the father of English history), Richard of St. Victor (a renowned mystic), and Siger de Brabant (a proponent of the Averroist interpretation of Aristotle) are all in this fourth ring of Heaven.

After introductions, the spirits start singing and dancing again. Dante compares them to the Bride of God (the Church) singing matins (morning prayers) to Christ at dawn.

Dante looks down at the mortals studying law, philosophy, medicine, theology, and politics. He is happy to be in Heaven. St. Thomas speaks again from within his place in the ring.

He begins talking about what Dante is thinking: the strange "fatten[ing] up" comment he made in the last canto.

Providence, St. Thomas lectures, decreed that the Church needed two princes to help guide her along the correct pathway to God. But they're not really princes; they're saints. St. Francis was seraphic while St. Dominic was cherubic. In other words, they have angelic qualities.

But, St. Thomas says, he'll just talk about St. Francis because in praising one of them, he praises them both, since both saints had the same goal.

St. Francis was born in a place called Assisi. When he was just a boy, he ran away from his dad to be with his lover. She was a strange woman to take as a lover, though, because most people feared her as if she were Death. But young Francis didn't care and he married her, even in the presence of his disapproving father, and he loved her.

Here's the catch: she had been married before. Since then, she'd been scorned, but she was a courageous and loyal woman, not afraid of Caesar and so loyal that she stayed with Christ (her first husband) on the Cross even when Mary abandoned him.

Who was she? Lady Poverty, of course. St. Francis took a vow of poverty.

Their love inspired such holy thoughts that Bernard gave up all his possessions to live like Francis.

Francis, St. Thomas continues, took his wife and walked with her unashamed to Pope Innocent. Innocent was so impressed with Francis that he gave him an official Papal Seal to start a religious order. Followers of Francis were called Franciscans.

After the poor started becoming Franciscans, a second Pope, Honorius III, gave the Franciscans another honor, a papal bull.

After journeying to Egypt to try to convert a Muslim sultan to Christianity, Francis returned to Italy to preach of Christ. There he received his final honor—this time from Christ himself. St. Francis bore the Stigmata, a puncture wound on both his palms (symbolic of Christ's hands impaled by nails onto the cross) for two years.

When Francis realized it was time to die, he remained faithful to his vow of poverty by refusing any fancy funeral service and asking instead only to be stripped naked by his disciples and laid on the earth to die. Then he told his brothers to love Poverty as faithfully as he had, and died. He was promptly taken to Heaven.

What does this have to do with the "fatten[ing] up" comment?

St. Thomas finally comes back to that by turning our attention back to his own order, that of the Dominicans. First he praises St. Dominic for following the same route as St. Francis. But now Dominic's flock has become greedy, straying from their shepherd (St. Dominic) to find more food, because they're not satisfied with the milk from their mother. They are gorging on sinful material.

So, St. Thomas says, you can understand what my fattening comment means: that Dominicans can "fatten well" or be well fed if they do not stray from the flock.

Just as St. Thomas finishes his story, the souls start dancing again in a circle. Suddenly they're surrounded by another circle of dancing souls, so that the two wheel around each other in different directions.

Dante compares the two waltzing rings to a double rainbow, one echoing the other, and signaling (as God did to Noah) that the world will never be flooded again.

The souls stop dancing an a new soul comes forward. He wants to talk about the other leader, St. Dominic.

St. Dominic was born in a place called Calaroga. No sooner was he conceived than his forceful mind gave his mother prophetic powers, so that she saw in a dream a black-and-white dog holding in its mouth a torch which it uses to set the world on fire.

Christians saw this as a sign of salvation. (The black and white became Dominic's colors, worn by his followers, and the torch came to symbolize his fiery zeal in preaching.)

Because of this dream, his parents gave him a name meaning "God's own" in Latin—Dominic.

Dominic was the perfect messenger for Christ because he believed in Christ's "first injunction"—to be poor. Indeed, his nurse often found Dominic praying with his forehead to the ground.

In time, Dominic became a gifted teacher and tried to oversee the Church, which was so neglected by its keepers (the clergy). When Dominic saw the Pope, he asked only for the right to preach against heresy. This he did, honoring the father of the same twenty-four spirits in two rings.

So great was Dominic's force that he fought to rid the Church of the toughest heretics. And so successful was he, that those thickets eventually became more "streams with which the Catholic / garden has found abundant watering."

This soul compares both St. Francis and St. Dominic to wheels on the chariot of the Church. But then he criticizes his own order, the Franciscans, saying that their wheel has gone all moldy on its outer rim. Instead of continuing on its path, the wheel of the Franciscans has started rolling backwards.

Finally, the speaker identifies himself as St. Bonaventure. He then introduces the souls who've come in the second ring: Illuminato da Rieti and Augustine of Assisi (two of St. Francis' first followers), Hugh of St. Victor (a mystical theologian), Peter of Spain (a logician), Peter Book-Devourer (an avid reader), Nathan the prophet, Anselm, St. John Chrysostom (an eloquent preacher), Aelius Donatus (a Roman grammarian), Rabanus Maurus (archbishop of Mainz), and Abbott Joachim of Flora.

St. Bonaventure finishes with a nod to St. Thomas for speaking so highly of St. Francis.

Dante now invites us readers to exercise our astronomical fantasies, imagining the fifteen brightest stars of the two rings, the lovely constellations they form, and their swift dances. Still dancing, the starry souls sing praises for the Holy Trinity.

St. Thomas stops the dancing to voice Dante's second question: why can't anybody match King Solomon's wisdom?

Dante's argument, which St. Thomas summarizes, is that God's wisdom can only go to those he creates directly. The only two people God directly created were Adam and Christ, so how can Solomon's wisdom be greater than theirs?

Let's start tangentially. Both immortals and mortals, begins St. Thomas, are only the "reflected light" of the idea that God begot. From there, the nine essences (or Angelic Intelligences) act as mirrors, reflecting His Light down from one star to another, and when his light hits the "last potentialities" (matter), they create only "brief contingent things" (animals, plants, and inanimate objects). The matter of these contingent things is compared to wax, which varies in its perfection.

Now, because the wax isn't perfect, it doesn't always capture a perfect reflection of the light, which is why it can be corrupt. So the blame falls to Nature, an "artist [with] a trembling hand" who cannot stamp the wax as perfectly as she should. This explains why some trees bear better fruit than others, just as certain men get worse children than others.

But when God himself prepares both the Light and the wax, His perfection is transferred to his creations, as in the cases of Adam and Christ.

Okay, St. Thomas continues, now I'll consider your question of why Solomon had "matchless vision" (which means great wisdom).

Consider Solomon's story: God came to King Solomon in a dream and promised to answer any question he might ask. Wise Solomon, instead of asking for the answers to intellectual dilemmas, asked for the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. This is also called "kingly prudence." St. Thomas explains that "matchless vision" is having the wisdom to ask for something practical and moral.

St. Thomas warns Dante to consider this story before jumping too quickly to conclusions about things he doesn't fully understand. Hasty opinions are often wrong.

St. Thomas proves his point by naming several examples of scholars whose opinions turned out to be wrong—Parmenides, Melissus, Bryson, Sabellius, Arius, Dame Bertha, and Master Martin.

Finally, St. Thomas ends with a warning to men not to judge too quickly, because things which appear bad can turn out to be good, and vice versa.

As St. Thomas falls silent, Beatrice begins talking.

She says that Dante needs "to reach the root of still another truth." She requests that the spirits tell Dante whether or not the light the souls emit will stay forever. If so, then how—when they receive their bodies back—will be able to look on such bright light and not be harmed?

The ring of spirits, listening intently to Beatrice's request, gives a shout of joy and begins singing about the Trinity.

As the spirits wheel around, a modest voice (from King Solomon) floats up from the inner circle and says, so long as we all stay in Heaven, our clothing will be these brilliant lights. The degree of our brightness depends on how much we love God, and that is measured by how well we see.

Our vision is in turn measured by how much grace (or unmerited love) we receive from God. On Judgment Day, we'll all be reunited with our bodies. Then we shall be complete. Whatever extra light we have left will be enhanced because God will love us more, for our perfection.

In answer to the second part of the question, Solomon answers that when our bodies are united with our souls, the body's organs will become stronger (as a result of being complete) and we won't be blinded by our light.

Solomon's fellow dancers agree so heartily with this that they nearly trip over their tongues saying "Amen," making Dante see how eager they are to have their bodies back.

But look! Dante's eyes shift toward the horizon and he sees the light growing even brighter there, as if new spirits are approaching.

Beatrice decides she wants to join in on the light show and, to Dante's astonishment, she grows even more beautiful (and brighter). In fact, she's so beautiful that Dante cannot describe her in words.

When he finally tears his eyes away from her, he does a double take and realizes he's standing on red ground and that they're in the next sphere, the heaven of Mars.

As has become custom, Dante takes this moment to thank God for allowing him to rise so high. As soon as he speaks, he knows his thanks will be accepted. (Dante sees a sign—two bright rays of light, that he takes to be God's acceptance.

Those two rays of light aren't just any rays, they actually form a cross. Yes, the cross.

Dante is astonished, but he does actually describe it a little. He talks about how the souls move across from bar to bar like streaks of light glimmering down the metal bars of umbrellas. They are singing in perfect counterpoint a hymn that Dante doesn't recognize.

He notes that his words may seem presumptuous for daring to describe in human terms what man cannot possibly understand.

Just like this cross, Beatrice's eyes grow lovelier the higher she ascends.

God's will brings all singing to a sudden halt.

Just like a shooting star, a soul comes out from the starry cross.

In Latin, he calls Dante, "O blood of mine… unto whom… was Heaven's gate twice open." Say what? This soul is part of Dante's family? Yes, and Dante compares his greeting to that of Anchises to Aeneas in his all-time favorite book, the Aeneid (written in Latin, by the way).

Dante is dumbfounded.

For a while, the soul is so overjoyed to see Dante that his speech is so high and lofty that Dante, as a mortal, cannot understand him. Eventually, though, he speaks to Dante in a language he can understand.

He tells Dante that he had read about Dante's coming in the "great volume" of God's Providence and he thanks Beatrice for fulfilling the prophecy.

Like many of the previous souls, this one correctly anticipates what Dante wants to ask. He comes straight out and explains why Dante is so quiet: Dante knows that this soul can read his thoughts, so he doesn't feel the need to speak.

The soul confirms that Dante's train of thought is correct because all souls in Heaven can perform the miracle of looking into God's mirror of providence, reading mortals' thoughts before they are spoken.

Out of sheer love for his kin, though, this soul wants to hear Dante speak of what he wants to learn.

Dante looks to Beatrice for permission to speak, which she grants with her smile even before he asks.

Dante thanks the soul for his "paternal" (fatherly) greeting. He shows how much he values this soul by calling him a "living topaz" and asking for the soul's name.

The soul replies, "I am your root," avoiding giving his actual name. He calls Dante's attention to "the man who gave [his] family its name," telling Dante that this ancestor is on the threshold of Purgatory; Dante should pray for him so that he may soon enter Heaven.

He then starts talking about Florence. But his focus is on the ancient Florence of his time, which was "sober and chaste" and "lived in tranquility."

In the days of good-Florence, everything was balanced. Daughters' marriages were causes for celebration. All families bore children. There was no improper lust or lechery. Florence even rivaled Rome. Women came into public with unpainted faces. Men were men, wearing "suits of unlined skins,"

and women were women, happy in their places "at spindle and at spool." Men and women weren't afraid to speak to their infants and wives would tell stories from Classical times over their spinning.

Into this good Florence, the souls says, I was born. He identifies himself as "both Christian and Cacciaguida."

Cacciaguida, (which we take to be his name), tells us how he served Emperor Conrad, fighting for him in the Crusades and gaining his favor so much that the Emperor knighted him. It was there in the Crusades that Cacciaguida met his glorious death, at the hands of the Saracens (Muslims).

"From martyrdom I came unto this peace," he says. In other words, Cacciaguida's good work fighting for Christianity in the Crusades earned him a spot in Heaven.

Dante takes a short break to bask in his glory.

He turns back to Cacciaguida and shows him a great sign of respect by addressing him with the formal form of you, usually reserved for nobility.

Dante calls Cacciaguida "my father" and says that his nobility has given him the confidence to ask further questions. Dante wants to know who Cacciaguida's ancestors were, when Cacciaguida lived, and who virtuously followed St. John (patron saint of Florence) at the time.

Cacciaguida grows brighter with gladness, then answers in a style of speech sweeter than the harsh modern style. He answers Dante's second question, about the year of his birth, first. Starting from the date of Christ's conception and adding 530 revolutions of Mars (because he resides there) around the Earth, we get the date 1091.

Of Dante's ancestors, Cacciaguida says only they that they were born at the point where the competitors in the annual horse race enter the field.

Cacciaguida then falls silent about the ancestors because, on that subject, "silence—not speech—is more appropriate."

In response to Dante's last question, Cacciaguida says that St. John's followers included one-fifth of the entire Florentine population.

Cacciaguida laments that Florence doesn't have the smaller boundaries today that it did in the beginning. If it did, he says, Florentines might still be virtuous, pure-blooded Florentines. He even goes so far to blame interracial mixing as the root of evil in Florence.

Cacciaguida then names a bunch of families who had illustrious names in good Florence and some families who were starting to go bad. He generally claims that the families and the clergy of the past were honorable people, but that time has seen the clerics become corrupt. Time has had a bad effect on poor Florence.

In fact, back in the glory days, "there was nothing to have caused her (Florence) sorrow." Things were so good that in Florence's emblem—the white lily on a red field—the lily was never stained blood-red by war between Florentine factions, nor were the colors reversed (to a red lily on a white field) by the Guelphs against the Ghibellines.

Something has been bothering Dante for some time and he wants to get it off his chest, but he cannot do so without first comparing his angst to some Classical character. This time, he calls himself Phaethon (the son of the sun god who got his wish of driving his father's chariot and crashed it into the desert), coming to talk to his mother about his wish.

Beatrice, reading Dante's mind, tells him to "show his desire" to Cacciaguida so that he can answer to his troubles. Beatrice makes it clear that both she and Cacciaguida already know both Dante's question and the answer.

Dante voices his concern: Cacciaguida, since you've made it into a Heaven this high, you have a good vantage point over all of time. When I was traveling with Virgil through Hell and Purgatory, he mentioned that my destiny would be difficult. I want to know what those hard times will be, so I can mentally prepare myself for dealing with them.

Cacciaguida responds kindly—not with the usually vague and mysterious words of prophecy, but with plain simple words like those Christ used for his followers.

He tries to comfort Dante by telling him about contingency. This is the principle stating that even though something has been foretold, it does not mean that it will necessarily happen; in other words, God doesn't make it happen.

Dante, just like Hippolytus of Athens, will be forced into exile from Florence. He will leave everything he loves most dearly and will have to serve others. What will be hardest for Dante to bear is that his fellow exiles will be "insane, completely / ungrateful and profane" against him, so that Dante would do best to bear this tough time alone.

He will find some friends, though: a great Lombard (Bartolemmeo dello Scala), who will house him, and Bartolemmeo's younger brother, Cangrande, who will be a major military force. He will gain a reputation for "hard labor and… disregard for silver" and will be a hallmark of generosity and honor.

Cacciaguida assures him, saying, "your life will long outlast the punishment / that is to fall upon their treacheries," meaning—of course—that Dante will earn salvation.

This encourages Dante, who declares himself prepared for the hard times ahead. He promises to hold his course steady by continuing to write poetry.

Dante, reflecting on his journey so far, knows that for many people it would've been too difficult. Seeing the truth is always difficult, but Dante vows to not be "a timid friend of truth."

Cacciaguida encourages him by saying that even if people today consider Dante's honest words too harsh, they will—after mulling over them—find them just and correct. And Dante will win honor for daring to speak truth against the highest and most corrupt powers.

Not wanting to be left out of the emotional chaos, Beatrice catches Dante's eye and reminds him that she has the ear of "Him who lightens every unjust hurt." In other words, God is on Dante's side.

Upon looking at her, Dante is blown away by the untold love he sees shining from her eyes. He forgets all other worries when gazing at her.

But Beatrice quickly speaks to break the spell. She tells Dante that Cacciaguida has more to say.

Cacciaguida wants to introduce Dante to the rest of the souls forming the image of the cross. Their famous names would make great additions to your poem, he says to encourage Dante.

As Cacciaguida introduced the souls, they flash into Dante's view.

Here come the illustrious names: Joshua (who led the Hebrews to conquer the Jericho), Maccabeus (a Hebrew warrior who freed the Jews from a tyrant), Charlemagne (restorer of the Holy Empire), Roland (Charlemagne's nephew who once gave his life to save his uncle's in battle), William of Orange (a warrior turned cleric), Renouard (a Saracen giant who converted to Christianity), Duke Geoffrey of Bouillon (who successfully led the First Crusade), and Robert Guiscard (defender of Pope Gregory VII).

Finally, Cacciaguida disappears into the crowd of lights, where he starts to sing with the others.

Trying to keep the names straight in his head, Dante turns to Beatrice to see what to do next.

She's glowing more brightly, which means that they are rising into the next heaven.

Dante now sees only white Jupiter.

Even at first glance, Dante can tell that the souls of Jupiter think themselves artists, because they're already forming letters and words with their glowing bodies. He compares them to flocks of birds forming letters in the air.

The letters only appear for a moment before the souls break off and form new ones. So Dante invokes the Muses to help him remember the letters as they come so he can spell out their message in his mind.

His prayer is answered, and he gets this as the final message: DILIGITE IUSTITIAM, QUI IUDICATIS TERRAM. The Latin translates to, "Love justice, you who judge the earth."

After forming the last M, other souls descend to enhance the shape. Dante compares these acrobatics of light to the shower of sparks that arise when one pokes a burning log.

When the souls are done arranging themselves, Dante sees the M has become an eagle's head.

Now, massive crowds of other lights surge forward and he see an eagle with a body.

Dante thanks God that such justice appears in the Heavens. The Eagle is the emblem of Imperial Rome, and also the symbol for justice.

Dante prays to God to turn His mind against Rome because it has "produced the smoke that dims your rays," meaning that Rome houses many false and greedy Popes.

This leads into a general rant against the corrupt Church. Dante beseeches God to let His anger fall on clerics who buy and sell indulgences in the churches, and on pretentious men who only play at being virtuous.

Finally, Dante addresses his most scathing criticism at Pope John XXII, telling him to remember that his soul will burn in Hell, while the words of St. Peter and St. Paul—whom he tries to "erase"—will live forever.

The Eagle is now complete. To Dante's bedazzled eyes, each of the souls seems like an individual ruby, reflecting the light of the sun so that it almost blinds him.

The Eagle speaks, saying it is honored here in Heaven because it is both just and merciful.

Dante notices that even though the Eagle's voice is formed from a combination of all the souls' voices, it sounds like just one voice.

Dante humbly asks the Eagle to answer his question. But he doesn't actually articulate the query, because he knows the Eagle can read his mind.

The Eagle shakes its head and flaps its wings and begins to speak.

It says that when God made the universe, He "could not imprint His power into all / the universe without His Word remaining / in infinite excess of such a vessel." The whole universe couldn't even contain all of God's goodness. This is proven, the Eagle says, by Adam's sinful fall. Dante's mortal sight, which is only one ray of God's Intelligence, cannot possibly perceive the entirety of Divine Justice.

Now the Eagle asks Dante's question for him: If a man is born in some foreign place, never hears of Christ, and lives as virtuous a life as a mortal can, how can it be just for God to condemn him to Hell at his death? The Eagle answers Dante's question with another question: indeed it is a just punishment, but only God can understand why.

The Eagle proceeds to lambaste evil Christian rulers. It says that nobody has ever risen this high in Heaven without belief in Christ, and that no one ever will. But of those that shout "Christ! Christ!" there are some so false that Ethiopians (or non-Christians) will be forgiven much sooner than they will.

The Eagle proceeds to name several such unjust Christian rulers and their crimes: Albert of Austria, whose reign will lay waste to the Bohemian lands; Philip the Fair, who counterfeits money and will be killed by a wild boar; various English and Scottish kings, who cannot keep within their countries' boundaries but constantly wage war on each other; Ferdinando IV of Castile, who will be known for his laziness; Wenceslaus IV, who will be famous for his lust; Charles of Anjou (called the "Cripple of Jerusalem"), whose bad deeds will outnumber his good ones one thousand to one; Fredrick II of Aragon, who will commit so many sins that they must be written in shorthand in God's book; Dionysius of Portugal; Hakaam V of Norway; and Stephen Urosh II of Serbia.

The Eagle falls silent, but then the various souls that make up its image begin singing. Dante compares this series of events to the setting of the sun and the subsequent appearance of thousands of stars which reflect the very same sun.

Eventually the "jewels" of the Sixth Heaven stop singing. But that sound is quickly replaced by a curious murmur coming from the Eagle.

The murmuring crescendos and travels up the Eagle's throat until it spills forth in a single thundering voice whose words are so power they are inscribed in Dante's mind.

The Eagle tells Dante to look at its eye. Its image is composed of six of the highest-ranking souls— one for the pupil itself and five for the eyebrow. The Eagle identifies each soul by name.

First, the eye itself is king David, the "singer of the Holy Spirit" and bearer of the Ark of the Covenant. Through his writing of the Psalms, David learned that he must accept God's inspiration instead of being a passive instrument for His genius. For this virtuous exercise of free will, David was saved.

Secondly, on the eyebrow of the Eagle is the Roman emperor Trajan. Trajan learned the horrible consequences of refusing to follow Christ; he later learned, and received, the rewards of living a more virtuous life.

The third soul is Hezekiah, who freaked out when the prophet Isaiah told him it was time for him to die. Hezekiah immediately wept and prayed to God for mercy—a sign of repentance. God rewarded him with fifteen more years on earth.

The fourth soul is Constantine, whose well-intentioned monetary Donation to Pope Sylvester had the unforeseen consequence of whetting the clerics' appetite for cash; it also planted the seeds for—at least in Dante's eyes—all the contemporary problems of the corrupt Church. Despite the ill effects of his gift, though, Constantine learned that it was not his fault, and God saved him.

Fifth is William II of Hauteville. Although known for his just rule, William's throne was passed onto Charles of Anjou and Frederick II of Aragon, both corrupt rulers. However, like Constantine, he is absolved of any fault for these future rulers, whom he could not influence. God rewarded him for his "just rule" with a place in Heaven.

Finally, the sixth and last soul is Ripheus, a Trojan warrior in Virgil's Aeneid, who died a pagan and yet was saved. The lesson he learned was that God works in mysterious ways and that mankind should not waste its time trying to work through God's logic.

This whole time, Dante has thought each introduction to be like the lark's song—glorious in its sound but falling ultimately into a silence just as sweet.

Dante still has doubts. And before he can check them, they come tumbling out of his mouth: "Can such things be?"

The Eagle suddenly goes into red alert mode and all its lights start flashing wildly before answering. It tells us Dante's state of mind—that he believes what he's been told but doesn't understand how it could be. This means he doesn't understand their essence.

The Eagle explains what it means. The will of God, he explains, "is won because It would / be won." This is a fancy way of saying God chooses whom he saves. Now, Dante had doubts about why the emperor Trajan and Ripheus are here. He believed them both to have died as unbelievers, but the Eagle says otherwise. He claims they died as Christians.

Trajan did indeed go to Hell, but because he was headed the right direction when death overtook him, God gave him another chance. Trajan was allowed to come back to his body and die a second time, this time after repenting. It was this second life—as a Christian—that won him his salvation.

Ripheus, on the other hand, did indeed die before Christ's coming. But he was always virtuous and for some unknown reason, God gave him a glimpse of the future where Christianity reigned. Based on this prophetic vision, Ripheus converted—yes, before anyone had heard about Christ—and his conversion was legitimized by a baptism.

Who baptized him, you ask, if there weren't any Christian priests at the time? The Three Theological Virtues—Faith, Hope, and Charity descended from Heaven to baptize Ripheus three thousand years before Christ. And that's how he got into Heaven.

Dante cries out at how unpredictable and unfathomable God's predestination plans are to human beings. On second thought, Dante reasons, it's not such a bad thing that man doesn't know God's plans. The "incompleteness of our knowledge" gives each and every man incentive to be virtuous, because he has as good a shot as anyone to get into Heaven.

Dante reflects that the Eagle's discourse has shown him how short-sighted he is and how man should never assume he can predict God's plans.

He remembers with a smile that the souls in question—those of Trajan and Ripheus—had flashed and winked playfully at him during the Eagle's explanation.

Dante turns to face Beatrice, but she is not smiling.

She explains that were she to smile, Dante would turn to ashes because they've climbed so high that they've reached the point where Dante's mortal senses cannot bear the brilliance of God's reflected love.

She announces that they are now in the Seventh Heaven.

Beatrice tells him to look where he'd usually look and he'll see the reflected image of what comes next.

So Dante looks at Beatrice's eyes. There he sees the landscape of Saturn reflected. And rising from it is a magnificent golden ladder extending so high that Dante cannot see its top.

Climbing down the steps of the ladder are thousands upon thousands of souls. Dante compares their movements, gathering together and flitting about once they reach the surface of Saturn, to the movement of a flock of jackdaws.

Dante turns his attention to the nearest soul and thinks that he is so bright, he must be eager to speak. But he must await permission from Beatrice before speaking to the soul.

At this unspoken thought, Beatrice promptly gives the signal and Dante's words are unleashed.

Dante asks the aforementioned soul why he stepped up so close and why there's an unnatural silence in this sphere, whereas every other sphere has thundered with glorious music.

The soul chooses to answer the second question first. It's quiet here, he says, because were we to sing, we'd burst your eardrums. In other words, Dante's mortal hearing could not handle the glory of song at this level of Heaven.

In response to the first, the soul answers that he descended the golden ladder with the express purpose of meeting Dante. But he qualifies his answer with a humbling remark: it's not that God particularly favors this soul more than the others, only that this soul is governed by God's will and thus obeys when told to move down the ladder.

Okay, says Dante, I understand that you've aligned your will with God's, but I still don't understand why you in particular were predestined to meet me.

Before he can even say the last words, though, the spirit begins spinning as fast as it can go.

Predictably, his spinning only makes the soul grow brighter, and he replies, my sight is good which is why God blesses me with so much grace, but stop asking why, Dante. Nobody can know the mind of God. And you would do well to remind your fellow men of that when you return below.

His haughty words make Dante take a step back. Thoroughly humbled, Dante meekly asks the soul his identity.

The blazing soul responds that he once worshipped God in a place called Catria, specifically in the monastery of Santa Croce di Forte Avellana. In his meditation there, he was happy to live on a diet of veggies cooked only in olive juice.

That monastery, the soul continues, used to turn out virtuous souls like clockwork, but "it is now barren." Then he names himself as St. Peter Damian. Dante nods in realization.

St. Peter Damian continues his story. He was called "Peter the Sinner" when he first came to the monastery. From this place, he was reluctantly dragged out and eventually became a cardinal.

This gives Peter an opportunity to blast the Papal Seat. He recounts how popes were once good, as when St. Paul wore the hat; he walked "barefoot" and was "lean." But now, Peter shakes his head, the popes are "so plump / that they have need of one to prop them up / on this side, one of that, and one in front, / and one to hoist them saddleward."

Peter's words have attracted the souls, who are now gathered round in a spectacle of light; when Peter stops speaking, they cry out in agreement. And Dante drops like an anchor. Their combined voices have overwhelmed his senses, as St. Peter warned before.

Dante comes to, and Beatrice coddles him like a concerned mother.

With a comforting voice, she explains that the souls up here are devout, zealous Christians. Now that he's seen how devastating their cries can be, Beatrice asks Dante to try to imagine just how much more dazed he'd be if he actually understood what they said.

Beatrice tell Dante not to worry—the bad popes will get what's coming to them.

Now she tells him to turn towards the gathered spirits because there are some celebrities here. Dante is daunted by the crowd, which he describes as "a hundred little suns," and is too shy to ask a question.

Right on cue, the largest and brightest soul comes forward and speaks.

He says that if Dante could only see how much love they have for him, he wouldn't be afraid to ask his question.

This soul comes from a town called Cassino and he was the first person to carry God's truth up to Montecassino. (Note: this identifies him as St. Benedict, though he also names himself.)

St. Benedict turns toward his fellow souls and explains to Dante that here, everyone is a contemplative who meditated on God in life.

He introduces Macarius (a follower of St. Anthony of Egypt) and Romualadus (founder of the Camadolese order).

Dante replies the St. Benedict's kindness gives him confidence to ask a question: Dante asks if he can see St. Benedict's "human face"?

St. Benedict gently replies with a "no" but says that Dante's desire will be fulfilled in the highest of heaven's spheres. Upon mentioning the Empyrean, Benedict goes into raptures. He raves about how everything is in its proper place there, and how the Empyrean is "not in space, and has no poles." He explains that it is the final ending point of the golden ladder.

St. Benedict continues on the subject of the ladder. Jacob could see to the very top of the ladder where the angels thronged. But now, nobody on earth is worthy of climbing the ladder. He laments that his Benedictine order has gone to waste.

This, of course, morphs into a rant against the corrupt Church. St. Benedict fumes over simonist clerics whose "hearts… [have gone] mad with greed."

After this speech St. Benedict steps back into the crowd, and the souls disappear.

Beatrice then makes a mystic sign, and in a flash, she and Dante fly up the ladder, headed toward the Eighth Heaven.

Beatrice tells Dante that they are so close to the highest heaven that Dante needs to have "vision clear and keen," and she instructs him to look down and see everything he's already overcome. Only then will he be worthy of entering the highest spheres.

Dante gazes downward and sees the dizzying descent of the seven heavenly spheres down to Earth, which looks "scrawny" from this height. Dante has so much contempt for Earth and its sinners that he describes it as "the little threshing floor / that so incites our savagery."

Dante serenely turns his eyes up towards Beatrice.

n the Eighth Heaven, Beatrice stands facing the east with eager eyes, waiting for the sun. Dante compares her to a mother bird perched on the branches by her nest waiting for dawn so she can go about her business of finding food for the fledglings.

She doesn't have to wait long before the horizon grows paler. At the first sign of light, Beatrice announces to Dante, "there you see the troops / of the triumphant Christ!"

Beatrice's face is burning with joy, so much so that Dante can't describe it. So he turns his poetic eye towards the dawn itself and compares the rising sun above its thousand shining hosts to the moon shining amongst all the stars.

He sees Christ himself—the sun in this sphere—and is almost blinded.

Beatrice tells Dante he's seeing a power nobody can resist, the very being that opened the path between Heaven and earth for the first time since Adam's fall.

Dante feels his mind opening and expanding so much by this boggling sight that he compares it to "lightning breaking from a cloud, / expanding so that it cannot be pent, [and] against its nature, down to earth descend[s]."

Beatrice proves it is so by telling Dante that since he has had a glimpse of Christ, he can now "bear the power of [her] smile." And she smiles.

Dante is blown out of the water with his goddess-worship of her. He swears the vision of her smile is burned into his memory but he cannot begin to describe it.

At this point, Dante reminds his readers that he's traveling through dangerous waters now, so treacherous that even his words are defeated.

Beatrice has had enough of Dante's fawning and instructs him to look upon the garden that is blooming under sun-Christ. There, she tells him, is the rose which represents the Word of God made flesh, as well as lilies, whose fragrance guides men to heaven.

Dante turns his eyes toward the spectacle and sees a flowered meadow, overrun by the flaming troops of Christ, all shadowed by the gigantic sun shining above. However, Dante cannot see the sun itself, because his eyes are too weak.

But he can see Mary, the rose, who descends in the guise of the living star. A ring of light surrounds her like "a revolving garland." Each of the souls in that wheeling garland is singing rapturously and their combined voices make a sound so sweet that the sweetest melody of earth would sound like crude thunder next to it.

Dante can just make out the words. The souls call themselves "angelic love," the same love that announced to Mary her immaculate conception of Christ, and promise to wheel around Mary until she has ascended again into the highest Heaven and made it more divine than it already is. After this song, all the souls answer, singing the name of "Mary" thunderously.

The Virgin Mary ascends, following Christ, but the Ninth Heaven is so far above Dante's vantage point that he cannot see her as she enters the highest Spheres. All he can see is the host of souls beneath, all stretching their hands upwards in desire for Christ and His mother. After she disappears, they sing the Easter hymn "Regina coeli" ("Queen of heaven") in her honor.

Dante takes this peaceful moment to praise the virtuous souls who have been saved. He notes with rapture that these blessed will enjoy boundless riches here in Heaven for their resistance to material greed in the world below. He ends the canto with a celebratory hymn for St. Peter, the keeper of the keys of Heaven, who has triumphed.

After the glorious re-ascent of Christ and Mary, Beatrice speaks to the souls still gathered, praying that they allow Dante a taste of the supper of Christ.

Dante observes that the hosts all form circles around fixed poles and dance.

One soul boldly comes forward and dances three times around Beatrice while singing, and his song is so gorgeous that Dante is paralyzed.

When he stops dancing, Beatrice identifies him as the "great man to whom our Lord bequeathed the keys." Hence we know him to be St. Peter. She asks him to test Dante on faith so that he can be worthy of moving into "this realm."

Upon hearing this, Dante doesn't freak out, but acts like a good student, arming himself with his arguments.

St. Peter wastes no time and turns, almost gleefully, to Dante. He asks a seemingly simple question: what is faith?

Dante looks to Beatrice for permission to speak, she gives it, and Dante answers, like your brother, St. Paul, wrote, "Faith is the substance of the things we hope for / and is the evidence of things not seen."

St. Peter nods. He then asks Dante why faith is "substance" and "evidence."

Dante answers that faith speaks of "the deep things [which] are hidden from sight below." And because these things (like Heaven and blessedness) cannot be seen by mortal eyes, they must be taken on faith. This is why faith is a substance. Since mortals must reason from this blind faith, it is also evidence of unseen things.

St. Peter approves again. He compares faith to a coin, saying that they've now determined the coin's "alloy and… weight." He then asks if Dante carries such a coin in his purse.

Dante answers, of course.

St. Peter continues: where does faith come from?

Dante doesn't hesitate: the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, as seen in the Scriptures, both the Old and New Testament.

St. Peter asks, why do you consider the Scriptures to be the word of God?

Dante: Such miracles as the ones recorded in the Bible must have been created; they cannot have been the work of nature, and the only other answer is God.

St. Peter gets tricky. He points out that if these miracles are only attested in the Scriptures and Dante is saying these miracles legitimize the Scriptures, then Dante's reasoning is circular. He again asks Dante how he knows the Scriptures are real?

Dante, catching the trick question, says, simple: faith. Nothing else can "attest… these works to you."

That's the winning blow. Everyone celebrates with a singing of "Te Deum laudamus" ("We Praise You, O God").

St. Peter affirms Dante's faith and compliments him on the eloquence of his answers. But he's not done yet. He asks Dante to state what he believes. Dante answers with his creed: I believe in one God who moves Heaven with his love, and this belief comes from the proof of the Scriptures. I believe in the Holy Trinity—One in Three and Three in One.

St. Peter leans forward and embraces Dante. St. Peter celebrates by blessing Dante, singing and dancing around him in circles.

The examination has made Dante a bit nostalgic. Quietly, he thinks that if this poem ever gets completed, and he survives the cruel years ahead, he would like to return to Florence one day and be crowed with the laurel leaf as a recognized poet. He would like to homage to Florence in spite of its flaws, because that is where his faith in God began.

But for now, Dante will have to content himself with the crown that St. Peter gives him for his faith.

Then another soul steps forward from the throng and Beatrice gets excited. She urges Dante to look and see this new arrival, whom mortals honor by going to Galicia. (Note: this identifies the new soul as St. James.)

St. Peter steps forward as well to meet his old friend, and Dante compares their warm greeting to two doves embracing each other. Then they both fall silent and turn, blazing in brilliance, towards Dante.

Beatrice intervenes, asking St. James to do another examination on Dante, this time on hope, since he is the Biblical figure commonly associated with hope. Apparently St. James feels a little pity for Dante and softens his inquisition by telling Dante that because God has blessed him by letting him see Heaven before his time, Dante must know what hope is. So some important questions: What is hope? Do you have it? Where does it come from?

In a strange turn of events, Beatrice answers for Dante. She claims that there's no doubt that Dante has lots of hope; only because of this is he allowed to see God's kingdom before his death.

With Beatrice already answering part of the question for Dante, Dante does the rest: "Hope is the certain expectation of future glory" and is a result of God's grace. As for where it comes from, there are lots of texts that confirm hope's existence. Chiefly, there are David's Psalms and St. James's Epistle.

St. James responds with a burst of light; we think that's a sign of approval. He goes on to ask Dante what it is exactly that he hopes for.

Dante replies: Other than "getting into heaven," I hope for what Isaiah prophesied, that "the elect / shall wear a double garment [both body and soul] in their land." So that's my hope.

Everyone bursts into song, warbling "Sperent in te" ("Let them hope in you").

Suddenly, a new soul joins the party. He's really bright and Dante compares his arrival to a "happy maiden ris[ing] and / enter[ing] the dance to honor the new bride."

He approaches the other two flames—St. Peter and St. James—and joins in celebration.

Beatrice tells us who this man is by identifying him as the soul who "was asked / from on the Cross to serve in the great task." That tells us that this is St. John, to whom Christ, while on the Cross, told to take care of the Virgin Mary, going so far to tell John that Mary is now his mother.

Delighted, Dante squints to try to see the dazzling St. John, but is rebuked.

St. John asks Dante why he tries to see what he cannot? He then dispels a false assumption Dante voiced earlier. Contrary to popular belief, attests St. John, I do not have my body up here with my soul. My body, like everyone else's, is buried on earth; only Christ and Mary are allowed to wear both body and soul in Heaven. Make sure you tell people that when you return to Earth.

When he stops speaking, all three men stop their celebration.

But wait! Something's wrong. Dante discovers, as he turns his face toward Beatrice, that he is blind. He can't see her.

Through the scary darkness, Dante hears St. John's voice telling him that he'd better just talk his way through this one, until he can see again.

St. John assures him of this. Beatrice, he says, can cure you of your blindness. But first, tell me what you wish for.

Realizing this is another examination, Dante answers that he, like everyone here, desires God's love.

In his blindness, Dante can somehow feel St. John's annoyance with his answer, which manifests itself as a burst of light. St. John growls, telling Dante he's got to be more specific than that. Dante must reveal who directed his love towards God.

He answers that he himself did. As a human being, he says he has God's love imprinted in him, and because he tries to be virtuous, that love turns toward God. He continues that anyone who is good cannot help but love God. Dante asserts that God himself confirmed this when he told Moses, "I shall show you all goodness."

Furthermore, Dante claims that St. John himself agrees in his Gospel, where he celebrates the mystery of Heaven, Christ Incarnate.

St. John confirms Dante's answer but presses him further, asking if there are any other reasons he loves God.

Dante knows what he wants to hear: I love God because He created the world, because Christ died so that I might live, and because He gives me hope of reaching Heaven. I love God in the proper proportion, which He allotted to me.

This must be the correct answer, because the whole company bursts out into song, singing about the four animals of the Apocalypse.

A miracle occurs. Dante sees a glimmer of light, then more light, and then so much that he almost goes blind as he regains his sight. He realizes as he gazes at the wonderful world that he can see better than he did before.

Dante realizes that a fourth soul has joined them.

Beatrice, reading Dante's mind, tells him who the new guy is; he's the "first soul / ever created by the Primal Force." That's right, it's Adam himself.

Confused, then inspired by Beatrice's words, Dante turns to Adam and begs him to speak. Dante knows that Adam knows what Dante wants, so Dante asks Adam why he won't just answer him.

Adam confirms this by saying that he can indeed see Dante's mind reflected in the perfect mirror that is God's mind, but which no mirror can reflect perfectly. He summarizes Dante's four questions: How long has it been since Adam was in Eden? How long did he stay in Eden? What was the true cause of God's anger? What language did Adam speak?

Adam wastes no time in answering, but takes the third one first: God wasn't angry because Adam ate of the forbidden fruit, but because he trespassed the boundary God had set for him. Adam hasn't seen Eden for 6498 years.The language he spoke is long dead. According to Adam, nothing that man makes—including language—lasts very long. Adam continues, saying that Heaven gave man the ability to speak, but God doesn't care what language a person chooses. However, in Adam's language God was called I; the next language called him El.

Finally, Adam responds that he lived in Eden for seven hours.

After Adam's enlightening words, all the souls sing the hymn "Gloria," which celebrates the Holy Trinity. The song is so uplifting that it seems to Dante that "the universe had smiled."

The five souls—St. Peter, St. James, St. John, Adam, and Beatrice—all flame before Dante's eyes. And suddenly, St. Peter changes color. Where he was once white, he now shines red.

The choir falls silent, as if as shocked as Dante. Then St. Peter explains: he tells them not to be surprised because all of them will be changing color soon. The reason? Down on earth, the current pope, Boniface III, is usurping Peter's position (as pope) and doing a lousy job of it, too. In fact, he's so corrupt that Heaven considers the Papacy vacant. Boniface is making Peter's realm of mankind a "sewer of blood," which accounts for the wardrobe change.

In ominous harmony with St. Peter's words, the sky turns a blushing red—like clouds at sunset.

And Beatrice, too, suddenly flushes like a chaste woman who hears about another woman's loss of innocence.

St. Peter speaks again, his voice much different than before. He roars that his blood and the blood of the good popes—Linus, Cletus, Sixtus, Pius, Urban, and Calixtus—was never spilled trying to gain riches. These good Popes did not want disunity among people, to wage war on the innocent, or to stamp a papal seal on such vices as indulgences.

St. Peter rants against the shepherds (popes) who are really wolves in disguise. He names greedy popes with disgust.

But soon, he warns, Providence will bring Divine vengeance against these lying popes. Dante, he claims, will help their cause by bringing his poetry of honest words to mankind. St. Peter urges Dante to tell the truth in his writing.

After St. Peter falls silent, Dante looks up to see souls flying up to the Empyrean, flying like snowflakes in reverse. Dante tries to follow them all the way up, but his mortal eyes cannot behold the Empyrean.

Beatrice sees this and tells Dante to look down upon the earth once again. Dante obeys and is now able to see the earth in even greater detail, despite being higher up than the last time he gazed downward. This time he can see the sea which Ulysses sailed across and even the island of Crete.

Dante turns back to Beatrice and his heart almost stops upon beholding her dazzling beauty. But her increasing beauty means they're ascending into "heaven's swiftest sphere."

When they land, Beatrice speaks.

She tells him that this place is the root of the universe; the Primum Mobile was created first. The "where" of this Heaven is God's Mind and it is surrounded in light and love. It spins the fastest of all the Heavens. Time also began here.

Now Beatrice begins a tirade against mankind's sins. She blasts them for their greed, which causes them to sin and lose forever the salvation of Heaven. Free will, she claims, "has a good blossoming in men," but as soon as they grow out of their childhood and can speak well, they use their free will badly and lose their innocence.

She explains the source of the problem to Dante: "on earth no king holds sway; / therefore, the family of humans strays." In other words, man needs to be ruled.

But, she promises, before another thousand years pass, Providence will set things right, turning the backwards-running prows of mankind's ships around "so that the fleet runs straight."

After Beatrice's hopeful prophecy, Dante notices something reflected in Beatrice's eyes, like the image of a double candle in a mirror. He looks into her eyes to see if he's not just imagining it.

When he realizes it's there, he turns around to find it.

He sees a point of light so bright that it nearly blinds him, and its far larger than any star. Around it circles nine rings of flame, the first ring out orbiting the Point the fastest, and the other rings revolving more slowly the farther out they go. The thing is huge.

He notices that the ring with the purest light is the one closest to the Point because, Dante believes, the closest ring is the most similar—of all the rings—to the Point itself.

Dante is perplexed by what this is. Beatrice comes to the rescue. She explains that all of Nature depends on this thing. She further explains that the first ring spins the fastest because it has the most desire for God.

Dante thinks for a moment, then says if the actual universe were like this, he would be happy (because Earth as the smallest "ring" would be the purest and closest to God). So why isn't the universe like this model?

Beatrice smiles knowingly and says, it's okay that you don't understand Dante; no one has ever tried before. So let me explain: in the material universe, the blessedness of a material object depends on how much power it has. In matter, greater power corresponds to greater size. So the bigger an object is, the more power it has, and the more blessed it is. This is why this sphere of the Primum Mobile—as the biggest sphere—is closest to God.

But in this model, where each ring represents an Angelic Intelligence (which is decidedly not material), only power matters. Thus, the one with the most power moves closest to God. When matching this model to the material universe, one sees that the angel with the greatest power and who is closest to God matches the sphere with the greatest power (the Primum Mobile) but yet is the farthest from God. It's what your math teachers would call an inverse relationship.

To illustrate his understanding, Dante compares the dawning of his comprehension to the north wind, Boreas, blowing away clouds from the sky and making it clear.

After Beatrice finishes talking, each of the nine rings grows brighter, their individual sparks all shining brilliantly and Dante can hear their voices singing a hymn towards the fixed Point in the center.

Beatrice speaks again, naming each of the rings for Dante's benefit. From the center outwards, the first ring contains the Seraphim, then the Cherubim, Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Powers, Principalities, Archangels, and Angels.

Beatrice goes on to say that Dionysius, a scholar, was famous for making this hierarchy known to mortals. Later, a certain Gregory came and disputed Dionysius's findings. But when Gregory died and came to Heaven, he saw he was wrong.

Finally, she tells Dante that it shouldn't surprise him that man knows this heavenly secret because its source was St. Peter himself, who saw it and himself served as Dionysius' source.

for just a moment, Beatrice falls silent as Dante observes the model.

Then she speaks, answering all Dante's questions before he can even ask them. She tells him the Creation story. She is qualified to tell such a story, she claims, because she has observed the Mind of God.

According to Beatrice, God didn't create the universe so that he could acquire more goodness, but only to see Himself reflected in His creation. The Creation was an outpouring of God's love and also the beginning of time.

Beatrice continues on, saying that God created three substances first: pure form, pure matter, and a combination of the two; these all flashed into existence spontaneously and simultaneously, in a burst of light. They were divided up into an ordered hierarchy with pure act (or angels) at the top and pure potentiality (matter) at the bottom, and the combination of the two in between.

Now St. Jerome, Beatrice deviates, claimed that the Angels were created long before the universe, but he is wrong. The story she tells is the truth, and it is supported by Scripture. Reason, too, supports her claim, because if the angels were created solely to move the heavens, then they would have had no purpose if they'd been created long before the universe.

Back to the story. Very soon after the Creation, a number of angels, led by Lucifer, revolted against God, and were thrown down to the Erath, the lowest of the Spheres. The remainder of the angels rejoiced and then began their tasks of keeping the universe in motion.

So, Lucifer fell because of his pride, while the rest of the angels, content in the knowledge that God had a purpose for them, remained patient and loyal. God rewarded them later with the knowledge to move the universe and with his grace, so that their wills remain intact. They have perfect vision of God and thus, their will is always in conformity with His.

Beatrice offers to explain some more, since the teachings down on earth are ambiguous. These angels, because they love God so perfectly, never turn their faces away from His face. They constantly gaze at perfection, so they have no need of memory, unlike humans.

Then Beatrice turns this lesson into a diatribe against teachers and preachers who are too proud of their own genius to look for truth and divinity. She blasts philosophers who care more for show than truth and thus lead the field astray. She lambastes those who deliberately pervert the meaning the Holy Scriptures, filling people's minds with nonsense while the true Gospels remain silent.

One of the more popular of these intellectual inventions is the idea that the eclipse which brought darkness to the world was a specifically engineered lunar eclipse. Beatrice scornfully denies this, saying that it wasn't just dark in Jerusalem, but all around the world.

Many people, Beatrice says, believe false stories like this, but being unaware of their falseness does not excuse them from sin. According to Beatrice, Christ did tell his followers to go forth and preach false stories, but only gave them true teaching to act as their weapons. But now people preach with "jests

and jeers," preaching in ridiculous cowls, in which the Devil rears his ugly head. All of these lessons allow the false teachers to swindle people out of their money.

Beatrice cuts herself short and gets back on track. Now for the lesson about the number of angels, which is short and sweet: there are an infinite number of angels because they represent the infinite number of ways God can express his love.

Dante takes us back to Earth, where he describes the constellations as seen from the ground during the sunrise. He takes us through the travel of each star as it gives way to the dawn.

Only here do we realize that Dante is making a comparison between the disappearance of stars and the gradual disappearance of the Point from his sight as he and Beatrice ascend to the Empyrean.

When he can see nothing more of the Point, Dante turns again to Beatrice. Beatrice is beautiful. So stunning that Dante admits instantaneous defeat; he cannot capture her beauty in language. In fact, her beauty is so striking that her image won't even remain in his memory long enough to record it. But enough of that, Dante thinks.

Beatrice speaks, telling Dante that they have reached the highest heaven, one of pure light, intellect, and love. Here, Dante will find "both ranks of Paradise," the angels and the blessed souls. Best of all, he'll get to see the Virgin Mary in her completeness, clothed in both her body and soul.

Dante is suddenly enveloped in the living light of the Empyrean and its effect is like lightning on man's sight – blinding. Dante can see very little in this brilliance.

Beatrice's voice penetrates his light-suffused blindness and tells him that this is the way the Empyrean welcomes all its souls, to prepare man's soul for the ultimate light.

Suddenly, Dante realizes he's floating, and with this new sensation he sees a dazzling sight.

As if he's caught in a beautiful painting, Dante sees a river of reddish-gold light flowing between two flowered riverbanks. Out of the odd-colored water, sparks are rising and falling, some settling on the flowers and having the color of rubies set into gold, others plunging back into the water, as if to drink.

Beatrice's voice comes again. She tells Dante she approves of his desire to see more of this intoxicating sight, but that first—to slake his thirst—he should drink from the river. Then she adds that everything Dante is seeing—the rivers, gems, flowers—is but a shadow of its true self. Dante must learn to see better if he wants to perceive things for what they really are.

So Dante hurries to the river, hoping to drink from it to better his sight. As he bathes his eyes in the brilliance, the river itself seems to change before his eyes.

It is no longer straight, but round, and all the flowers and gems come into focus; they are really the two hosts of Heaven—the angels and the blessed saints sitting in Heaven's court.

Overwhelmed by the sight, Dante prays to God to let him keep the memory of what he's seeing.

Up above, a huge dome of light illuminates everything below.

As he gazes at it, Dante realizes that he's seeing the endpoint of a single ray of light, coming from God himself and reflected from the top of the Primum Mobile. This single ray of God's light powers the entire universe.

And at the top of the dome, which acts as a mirror, Dante sees the entire Celestial Rose with its hosts reflected, like a pretty hill reflected by a pool at its base.

Then Dante turns his eyes to the Rose itself and reaps the fruit of his perfected vision. He realizes that he can see everything no matter how near or far away.

Beatrice leads Dante into the rose, which blooms under the endless light of the sun (which is God). She boasts about how many people there are, how big this city is, how few seats there are left for the blessed.

Dante notices one empty seat with a crown fixed above it. Beatrice explains that this seat is saved for Henry VIII of Luxembourg who "shall / show Italy the righteous way—but when / she is unready."

(Quick history lesson: Henry VIII was the man Dante believed would unite Italy and take the crown of the Holy Roman Empire to bring peace to Europe. After being crowned king of Germany and being given papal sanction to come quell the quarreling factions in Italy, Henry VIII made Dante's hopes soar. But his victory was short-lived. He could not stop the warring Italian parties. He did eventually gain the emperor's crown, but was not sanctioned by Pope Clement V and eventually died in battle.)

Beatrice continues, scolding Italy for driving away Henry, like a starving child who drives away his nurse. She talks about Pope Clement V's betrayal of Henry and promises Dante that God will take his vengeance and cast Clement into Hell, where he will replace Pope Boniface III in the Third Pouch of the Eighth Circle, reserved for simonists.

Inside the rose Dante sees the host of the blessed spirits.

The other host—consisting of the angels—swoops around from the light of the God to the rose itself. As the angels fly, they sing. The angels' wings are gold and they are dressed in a white paler than snow. When they fly into the rose, they hang out with the blessed, sharing in the joy. The light from above is never obstructed.

The hosts come from both Old Testament and New Testament stock, and they all turn their eyes to the sun above, which is a single star containing the threefold light of God.

The spectacle amazes Dante so much that he compares his wonder at coming from the mortal to the divine to that of barbarians gazing upon the magnificent city of Rome.

Indeed, he's so impressed that he's speechless.

All he can do is gape and look at everything, taking in the sights like a pilgrim who has reached the temple he vowed to reach and is renewing himself. Stupefied, Dante simply tries to memorize every detail. Everywhere he looks he sees faces upturned with an expression of utter love.

When he's finally satisfied his first curiosities enough to turn back to Beatrice, he asks about those things he doubts.

But where Beatrice usually stands, Dante sees an elder, dressed like one of the blessed. He looks rather fatherly.

Dante asks where Beatrice is.

The elder kindly answers that Beatrice sent him down to Dante to help him on the final leg of his journey. She, he says, has taken her rightful place in the rose—in the third from highest tier of thrones.

Still not speaking, Dante looks up to find her and, although he is very far from her seat, he sees every detail of her shining face.

He prays to her fervently, saying that he recognizes her for all she's done—coming down into Hell for him—and thanks her. He then begs for her generosity to continue, so that when he dies, his soul will be welcome to her.

In response to his prayer, Beatrice only smiles, acknowledging him, before turning her eyes back to God above.

The elder tells Dante that he should look around this garden because it will improve his sight in preparation for God's own light.

He identifies as a devotee of the Virgin Mary and introduces himself as Bernard.

Dante's so awestruck to meet the famous St. Bernard that he feels like a heathen who sees for the first time the miracle of Veronica.

But Bernard turns Dante's attention back to the rose, telling him not just to look at the base but higher up, at each row, in the corners, and finally at the Queen of Heaven herself, Mary.

Dante obeys. As his eyes travel up the Rose, he discovers one spot brighter than the rest—just like the sun in the sky. This spot has one brilliant bit in the center, which Dante calls an oriflamme.

Around this flame, thousands of angels circle, singing.

Mary herself, in the center, is so lovely that when she smiles at the angels sporting around her, Dante is at a loss for words.

As he gazes in admiration, Dante notices Bernard too looking upon Mary with eyes of utter adoration. His enthusiasm is contagious and makes Dante look at her even more ardently.

Even though Bernard is in rapture gazing at his beloved Mary, he does not forget his duty of teaching Dante. He speaks.

St. Bernard lists a few of the names sitting in the Rose. Beginning with Mary (who closed the wound of original sin which Eve opened), he continues to Eve (kneeling at Mary's feet), then Rachel and Beatrice in the third rank, then Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and Ruth.

Underneath these women, from the seventh rank down, Hebrew women fill the rest of the seats forming the vertical radius of the rose.

This radius divides the rose in half. On the left side, in which all the seats are filled, sit all the souls who believed in Christ before he came. The right side, which still has a few empty seats, is reserved for those who believed in Christ after he came.

On the other side, opposite from Eve, sits St. John the Baptist. Below him sit St. Francis, St. Benedict, and Augustine.

Going further down, Dante sees another major partition in the rose. In the entire bottom half sit rank upon rank of children—saved for their innocence.

Here, Dante's mind forms a doubt, which St. Bernard immediately catches, but he urges Dante to be silent and just listen. Dante's doubt concerns the ranking of the children. He wonders how innocent children—with no power over their own free will—can be ranked differently?

Bernard explains that nobody in this kingdom finds his or her place by chance; God has reasons for ranking the children as He does, but human minds cannot comprehend the rationale. We must be content with that. Bernard cites the twins Jacob and Esau as proof of God's inscrutable reason; God assigned at His pleasure different hair colors to each child.

Regarding the children, Bernard tells Dante that in the early days, a child's innocence guaranteed his salvation, but that after Christ, a child had to be baptized and circumcised (in the case of boys); otherwise he would be sent to reside in the Limbo portion of Hell.

Now Bernard tells Dante to look upon Mary, whose face is most like Christ's. Dante obeys.

All around her fly angels. The same angel who knelt before her in an earlier canto then hovers before her and sings the "Ave Maria." Inspired, both hosts join in the hymn, their faces growing ever more joyful.

Dante asks Bernard the identity of the angel who seems to flame in front of Mary. The saint responds that this is the angel who carried news of Mary's pregnancy down to her: Gabriel.

Then he continues his lesson, drawing Dante's attention to the occupants of the seats above, whom he calls the "roots of this Rose." On the left is Adam; on the right is St. Peter; to the right of St. Peter is St. John the Evangelist; to Adam's left sits Moses; Anna (mother of Mary) sits opposite Peter. Finally, opposite Adam, sits Lucia.

Now St. Bernard decides time is running out and that they'll stop and try to turn their eyes toward God. But to do that, they must go through Mary.

So St. Bernard turns to Mary and begins praying to her on Dante's behalf.

Bernard's eloquent prayer to Mary first praises her for allowing mankind to redeem itself through her son, Christ. Her love was the foundation on which the rose was built. To the souls here, Mary is the torch of charity, and to the mortals below, she is hope.

Bernard then appeals to her compassion, saying that those who would advance even higher than this point may not make it far without her loving-kindness. She is known for helping all those who beseech her, as well as many who have not yet done so. This man, Dante, who has come through all the Divine Realms, begs to receive enough virtue to rise even further and see the face of God. St. Bernard also asks that Dante remember what he saw to help him in his poetic mission.

Suddenly the entire host of Heaven joins in the prayer, including Beatrice.

The Virgin Mary gazes down on Dante with approving eyes, then raises them to the Light above.

Bernard, smiling, signals for Dante to look up as well. Dante is way ahead of the game, his face ardently upturned and his vision improving with every second that passes.

Everything he sees from this point, however, is too great for words and even his memory fails him when he thinks of it. He only remembers it as if in a dream, can recall only the sweetness of the memory. He compares his loss of language to the mischievous wind which carried away the leaves on which the prophetess Sibyl wrote (in the Aeneid).

Now, Dante prays to God to please allow him to remember some glimmer of what he saw as he looked into the light. He begs for the memory so that he can convey its glory in his poetry and help bring people of the future to Heaven.

The Light which Dante sees is so bright that he is afraid if he turns away from it, he will lose his path.

In the Light, he fancies seeing an image: a book, bound by love, which lists and categorizes all the scattered information in the universe.

Dante's memory about this experience is so dim that he argues the twenty-five centuries since the Argonauts' journey has never produced as much forgetfulness.

The Light is so beautiful and perfect that Dante never wants to look away from it; anything else seen after this would seem defective.

From here on, Dante claims, his memory is so feeble that his words must be as weak as those of an infant at his mother's breast.

Even as he gazes at God, the image alters. Three circles appear, each in three different colors, but all the same size. The second circle reflects the first, and third circle is fiery with the love exuded by the first two.

After a little while, Dante notices, the second circle "within itself and colored like itself, / to me seemed painted with our effigy." Wait, seeing a figure the same color as its surroundings? That's not possible, right?

Dante agrees and tries to figure out how this can be, but his efforts are futile.

When Dante finds he cannot solve the mystery of the Incarnation on his own, he sees a flash of light, and suddenly he gets his wish. He understands; but we are not allowed this final solution because with this ultimate burst of God's love, Dante's memory disappears, and he is conscious of nothing but his free will, at long last in complete harmony with God's will.

PARADISO THEME

LANGUAGE AND COMMUNICATION

Unlike language in the first two cantiche, Paradiso focuses more on the inadequacy of language in expressing God and his blessed. Most of what Dante encounters cannot be adequately described in words. Part of this has to do with language's function in relation to memory. Anything that can be said or written down can technically be memorized.

What cannot be put to memory (i.e., a lot of what Dante experiences in Heaven), cannot be put to paper. The issue of plain speech versus elaborate and highly metaphorical speech comes into play, further complicated by the fact that this text is in the form of poetry. Finally, Dante plays with language, using various puns, metaphors, and anagrams.

LOVE

In Dante's Christian universe, every motion—from the petty choices of humans to the cosmic revolutions of the stars—is motivated by love. Thus love for God gives the entire universe its proper order, for everything moves in accord with God's will.

Appropriately, then, God's love is represented as light, which grows ever brighter the closer to Heaven one gets. Charity is the best and most selfless kind of love, most sanctioned by God. Finally, providence is a special brand of divine mercy or compassion that allows for seeming deviations in God's plan but ultimately has mankind's well-being at heart.

RULES AND ORDER

Christian theology claims that the universe is very strictly ordered because it reflects the mind of God, its creator. Every action and movement—from the smallest of human acts to the enormous orbits of the stars—is motivated by the desire for God.

Those things nearest God, like the highest heavens and the most perfect angels, move the fastest (with proper desire) and possess a nature most similar to His. Sentient creatures differ from non-sentient objects in that they possess their own will and are created directly by God, whereas objects are created by lesser beings.

FAITH

In Heaven, one must simply come to terms with the fact that mortals cannot understand everything they see. For Dante, this means trusting to faith. The empirical logic, based on the senses, by which Dante has reasoned so far, does not get him far in Heaven.

One miracle that must constantly be taken on faith is that two bodies can occupy one space, a prelude for the mystery of the Incarnation—that Christ can simultaneously be man and God. Finally, Dante defines faith as both a "substance for things we hope for" and "evidence of things not seen." The Scriptural source is faith in the Holy Ghost.

FATE AND FREE WILL

The difference between the free will of the blessed and that of other men is that the blessed have aligned their free will with God's, which is Fate. Thus, they are content wherever God places them because God's will is equivalent to Divine Justice.

Another way of saying this is that the blessed have yielded to absolute will, which always acts for justice, and have purged all their contingent wills, which act for lesser things. The blessed therefore see their free will as "His most prized gift" to mankind. Vows, then, represent a surrender of one's free will to God and mean that one has placed himself at the hands of God's will.

SPIRITUALITY

In Dante's vision of Heaven, souls do not resemble material bodies, as they do in Hell or Purgatory, but are depicted as rays of light. These lights grow ever brighter the higher up one ascends, because the closer one is to God, the more one reflects His light of love, shining down from the Empyrean.

Mortals cannot gaze on the souls past a certain point (for Dante, it is in the Seventh Heaven of Saturn) without being blinded as a result. On Judgment Day, the blessed souls will wear their physical bodies again and shine all the brighter for being complete and for meriting more of God's grace. Finally, these souls sometimes form holy symbols in the sky with their light.

EDUCATION

Perspective is the most important element to possess in the act of learning. It allows one to see things as they truly are, and to perceive their big-picture significance. In a Christian context, the only way to improve one's sight is to make oneself more virtuous; this increases the grace that God bestows upon one.

Once somebody's vision improves, he merits more of God's love. But keen vision must be combined with prudent judgment, based on distinguishing right from wrong. Those with proper judgment are concerned with practical and moral lessons, not just intellectual conundrums.

POLITICS

The biggest connection one can draw between Divine Justice and the human legal system is that the relationship between the people and the governing body is much the same. The citizens and the state (or God) enter into a mutually agreed upon contract (or covenant), by which the one body consents to be ruled by the other, with some conditions.

Among these conditions are laws (or God's will). Those who adhere to the laws are considered good citizens; those who violate those laws are subject to punishment. Thus, one may view God's will as law; those who learn to conform to it become the blessed, worthy of Heaven.

TIME

According to Dante, time is a bad thing for mortals. Paradiso claims that since God created the universe and time itself, and nothing can be more perfect than what He creates, then the passing of time can only bring corruption.

Man cannot hope to maintain the perfection of what God created at the beginning of time. This is why Dante sees ancient Florence as morally superior to his contemporary Florence. In Dante's vision of Heaven, there is no time. Heaven, like God, is immortal.

ART AND CULTURE

The act of creation in Paradiso is seen as a work of art. Artistic pieces—like the Cross, Eagle, Rose, music of the spheres, and the universe itself—are meticulously crafted and ordered, each piece rife with meaning. God, according to Dante, is the ultimate artist, and can create beings almost as perfect and eternal as Himself.

Any other act of creation (like those of the created powers—the Angelic Intelligences) pales in comparison. All art in Paradiso celebrates the Christian God. The most frequently recurring image is that of multiple individual souls singing in unison to form a single song full of rich harmonies.