Praying for the Villain
Shakespeare, Process Theology,
and Transformative Love
If you grow up in a society that rewards cunning and punishes vulnerability, you may become villainous, but your villainy is not born in isolation—it is shaped by the transactional world around you. Rather than being purely a matter of personal choice, it emerges from lived experiences where deception is a survival strategy and power is the ultimate currency.
Iago in Othello exemplifies this, his manipulations reflecting the ruthless structures of Venetian society rather than mere innate malice. Recognizing this does not excuse villainy but challenges us to see it as a symptom of larger social conditions rather than simply an isolated moral failing. True resistance to villainy lies not in obsession with the villain but in fostering a more compassionate world where such figures have less space to thrive.
Gaining freedom from obsession with the villain—fixating on them at the expense of constructive action—lies in a daily practice of gentle exorcism. This practice involves recognizing when fixation takes hold; reframing the villain as a product of systemic conditions rather than an isolated monster; shifting attention toward, and learning from, those who embody kindness and integrity; engaging in daily acts of kindness ourselves, doing what we can to help create just structures where fairness, compassion, and accountability take root; and letting go of the need for final closure. The goal is not to conquer the villain but to free ourselves from his shadow so that we can add goodness and beauty to the world.
We can also hope that the villain himself gains freedom from the worldview and inner impulses in which he is trapped. The spirit of Light - the energy of Amipotence - dwells in him too as a beckoning presence to grow into a perfection of love. This spirit is within everyone. We can and should pray for the villain, even as we pray for those victimized by his evil deeds. As Jesus emphasized, we must love our enemies. But we cannot wait for villain to be transformed. We must take the steps of gentle exorcism named above, whatever happens to the villain, all the while knowing that he - even he - is a child of the Spirit.
Iago in Othello exemplifies this, his manipulations reflecting the ruthless structures of Venetian society rather than mere innate malice. Recognizing this does not excuse villainy but challenges us to see it as a symptom of larger social conditions rather than simply an isolated moral failing. True resistance to villainy lies not in obsession with the villain but in fostering a more compassionate world where such figures have less space to thrive.
Gaining freedom from obsession with the villain—fixating on them at the expense of constructive action—lies in a daily practice of gentle exorcism. This practice involves recognizing when fixation takes hold; reframing the villain as a product of systemic conditions rather than an isolated monster; shifting attention toward, and learning from, those who embody kindness and integrity; engaging in daily acts of kindness ourselves, doing what we can to help create just structures where fairness, compassion, and accountability take root; and letting go of the need for final closure. The goal is not to conquer the villain but to free ourselves from his shadow so that we can add goodness and beauty to the world.
We can also hope that the villain himself gains freedom from the worldview and inner impulses in which he is trapped. The spirit of Light - the energy of Amipotence - dwells in him too as a beckoning presence to grow into a perfection of love. This spirit is within everyone. We can and should pray for the villain, even as we pray for those victimized by his evil deeds. As Jesus emphasized, we must love our enemies. But we cannot wait for villain to be transformed. We must take the steps of gentle exorcism named above, whatever happens to the villain, all the while knowing that he - even he - is a child of the Spirit.
Sympathy for the Villain
His worldview has no space for kindness or love. He sees people as mere instruments for his own advancement—tools to be manipulated, discarded, or destroyed at will. At his core lies a cynicism about human nature. He does not believe in sincerity or virtue; instead, he assumes that everyone is just as self-serving and deceitful as he is, though perhaps less skillful at disguising it. He has no grand ideology, no ultimate goal beyond the pleasure of manipulation, the thrill of control, and the hope that he will be admired. His worldview is a dark mirror, reflecting what happens when all human connection is reduced to a cynical game of power and deception.
I am speaking, of course, of Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello—a character often considered Shakespeare’s most villainous villain. He deceives Othello into believing that his wife, Desdemona, has been unfaithful, planting false evidence and manipulating events so skillfully that Othello is driven to murderous jealousy. At the same time, he orchestrates the downfall of Cassio, Othello’s loyal lieutenant, by getting him drunk, provoking a brawl, and then convincing Othello to strip him of his rank—all while pretending to be his friend and confidant.
It is tempting to see him as a purely self-fashioned agent of malice, untouched by circumstance, family upbringing, or body chemistry. We love to hate villains, and we are drawn to the idea that they choose their villainy, as if they emerge in isolation, fully formed in their depravity. Shakespeare’s play encourages this view, offering little backstory to explain Iago’s descent into treachery.
Yet a process-relational perspective resists such atomization. It acknowledges that every person—indeed, every actuality—is self-creative but insists that this creativity is always shaped by felt relations with society, environment, and embodiment. No villain is an island.
Thus, we can at least imagine that Iago’s ruthless, transactional worldview did not arise in a vacuum. His total absorption in manipulation and deceit may not simply be a personal failing but a reflection—however distorted—of a transactional society, one in which power, control, and competition have eclipsed trust, vulnerability, and genuine connection. In this light, Iago is not merely an aberration but an extreme manifestation of dynamics that permeate the world around him.
Indeed, one could argue that Iago is not merely a singular aberration but a product—albeit an extreme one—of the transactional and hierarchical nature of Venetian society in his time. Venice, as depicted in Othello, is a world of rigid social structures, cutthroat ambition, and political maneuvering, where loyalty is often conditional, reputation is everything, and those who fail to navigate its treacherous waters are cast aside. It is a society that rewards cunning and punishes weakness, where power is currency, and trust is a liability.
In such an environment, it is not difficult to imagine that Iago’s worldview—the belief that all relationships are tools for personal advancement—was cultivated rather than created in isolation. His lack of faith in sincerity and virtue may stem from lived experience, from witnessing or participating in a world where deception and manipulation are the unspoken rules of survival. His resentment, particularly toward those who hold power over him, could be the natural outcome of an environment where rank and privilege dictate one’s worth.
There are three reasons, then, why it may be wise to temper our hatred for the villain.
Iago, then, is not just a figure of malice but a reflection of the world that shaped him. And if we wish to resist the forces he represents, perhaps the most powerful response is not to condemn him in isolation but to build a world in which villainy like his has less fertile ground in which to grow.
In building such a world, it is important to hold up the ideal of a society that is kinder and gentler, where respect for the dignity of each person is the highest of virtues, and where success is measured by compassion and cooperation, not competition and conquest—a society many call a beloved community. But ideals alone are not enough. We must also work to build structures—economic, political, and cultural—that embody these ideals, so that the young Iagos of the world are not absorbed into a transactional existence before they even realize there is another way to live.
The true antidote to villainy is not mere punishment but transformation—of individuals, of communities, and of the very systems that define the world in which we live.
Practicing the Daily Exorcism of the Villain
It is not easy to build a more just and compassionate world when we are obsessed with the villain, understanding him only in atomized terms. His voice, his face, his presence—real or fictional—can dwell inside our heads, rent-free, consuming our thoughts and shaping our emotions. We can become haunted by the villain, as if he alone defines reality. The need, then, is to undertake a daily practice of exorcism—not in the sense of violent expulsion, but in a gentle, open, and relational way.
Here are some practical steps:
Exorcism, in this sense, is not about purging an external evil but about reorienting our attention toward what truly matters. We do not resist villainy by fixating on it. We resist by living differently, by refusing to let the darkness dictate our vision of the world.
In the end, the most radical thing we can do is not to obsess over the villain, but to build a life, a community, and a world where villainy has no place to flourish.
I am speaking, of course, of Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello—a character often considered Shakespeare’s most villainous villain. He deceives Othello into believing that his wife, Desdemona, has been unfaithful, planting false evidence and manipulating events so skillfully that Othello is driven to murderous jealousy. At the same time, he orchestrates the downfall of Cassio, Othello’s loyal lieutenant, by getting him drunk, provoking a brawl, and then convincing Othello to strip him of his rank—all while pretending to be his friend and confidant.
It is tempting to see him as a purely self-fashioned agent of malice, untouched by circumstance, family upbringing, or body chemistry. We love to hate villains, and we are drawn to the idea that they choose their villainy, as if they emerge in isolation, fully formed in their depravity. Shakespeare’s play encourages this view, offering little backstory to explain Iago’s descent into treachery.
Yet a process-relational perspective resists such atomization. It acknowledges that every person—indeed, every actuality—is self-creative but insists that this creativity is always shaped by felt relations with society, environment, and embodiment. No villain is an island.
Thus, we can at least imagine that Iago’s ruthless, transactional worldview did not arise in a vacuum. His total absorption in manipulation and deceit may not simply be a personal failing but a reflection—however distorted—of a transactional society, one in which power, control, and competition have eclipsed trust, vulnerability, and genuine connection. In this light, Iago is not merely an aberration but an extreme manifestation of dynamics that permeate the world around him.
Indeed, one could argue that Iago is not merely a singular aberration but a product—albeit an extreme one—of the transactional and hierarchical nature of Venetian society in his time. Venice, as depicted in Othello, is a world of rigid social structures, cutthroat ambition, and political maneuvering, where loyalty is often conditional, reputation is everything, and those who fail to navigate its treacherous waters are cast aside. It is a society that rewards cunning and punishes weakness, where power is currency, and trust is a liability.
In such an environment, it is not difficult to imagine that Iago’s worldview—the belief that all relationships are tools for personal advancement—was cultivated rather than created in isolation. His lack of faith in sincerity and virtue may stem from lived experience, from witnessing or participating in a world where deception and manipulation are the unspoken rules of survival. His resentment, particularly toward those who hold power over him, could be the natural outcome of an environment where rank and privilege dictate one’s worth.
There are three reasons, then, why it may be wise to temper our hatred for the villain.
- It may not be entirely fair to the villain himself. He may be more of a victim than we imagine—shaped by forces beyond his control, molded by a society that prizes ruthlessness over compassion.
- His villainy may reveal uncomfortable truths about the larger society in which we ourselves are complicit. If we, too, treat others in transactional terms—seeing them as means to an end rather than ends in themselves—then to single out the villain for condemnation may be a way of avoiding self-examination. It is easier to project evil onto one person than to confront the ways in which an entire system, including ourselves, perpetuates similar dynamics.
- Fixating on the villain can become obsessive. When we allow our thoughts to be consumed by hatred for the villain, we risk becoming trapped by the very darkness we oppose. Rather than being beacons of a kinder light, we remain fixated on the shadows.
Iago, then, is not just a figure of malice but a reflection of the world that shaped him. And if we wish to resist the forces he represents, perhaps the most powerful response is not to condemn him in isolation but to build a world in which villainy like his has less fertile ground in which to grow.
In building such a world, it is important to hold up the ideal of a society that is kinder and gentler, where respect for the dignity of each person is the highest of virtues, and where success is measured by compassion and cooperation, not competition and conquest—a society many call a beloved community. But ideals alone are not enough. We must also work to build structures—economic, political, and cultural—that embody these ideals, so that the young Iagos of the world are not absorbed into a transactional existence before they even realize there is another way to live.
The true antidote to villainy is not mere punishment but transformation—of individuals, of communities, and of the very systems that define the world in which we live.
Practicing the Daily Exorcism of the Villain
It is not easy to build a more just and compassionate world when we are obsessed with the villain, understanding him only in atomized terms. His voice, his face, his presence—real or fictional—can dwell inside our heads, rent-free, consuming our thoughts and shaping our emotions. We can become haunted by the villain, as if he alone defines reality. The need, then, is to undertake a daily practice of exorcism—not in the sense of violent expulsion, but in a gentle, open, and relational way.
Here are some practical steps:
- Recognize the Villain’s Hold on You
When you find yourself dwelling on the villain—whether a historical figure, a political adversary, or a personal nemesis—pause and acknowledge that this fixation has taken root. Awareness is the first step to loosening his grip. - Reframe the Narrative
Instead of seeing the villain as an isolated monster, recognize him as a product of forces larger than himself. This does not excuse his actions but places them within a broader context. Ask: What conditions allowed this villainy to take shape? What systemic failures contributed to it? - Shift Attention to the Light
For every moment spent analyzing or condemning a villain, spend another moment contemplating those who embody kindness, wisdom, and integrity. Who are the people working to create the world you hope for? Let them occupy your mind instead. - Engage in Small Acts of Kindness
The most effective counter to villainy is not just resisting it but actively practicing its opposite. Each time you feel pulled into the gravitational force of hatred or fear, perform a small act of compassion—a simple, tangible reminder that you are not beholden to the villain’s worldview. - Create and Participate in Just Structures
Individual exorcism is not enough. If villainy thrives in transactional societies, then systemic transformation is necessary. Support and participate in institutions that reflect the values of a beloved community—organizations that prioritize justice, inclusivity, and mutual care. - Let Go of the Need for Closure
Some villains will never be fully understood, defeated, or redeemed. Accepting this reality allows us to move forward without needing to “win” against them. The goal is not to conquer the villain but to free ourselves from his shadow.
Exorcism, in this sense, is not about purging an external evil but about reorienting our attention toward what truly matters. We do not resist villainy by fixating on it. We resist by living differently, by refusing to let the darkness dictate our vision of the world.
In the end, the most radical thing we can do is not to obsess over the villain, but to build a life, a community, and a world where villainy has no place to flourish.
Praying for the Villain
Jesus’ call to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us is one of the most difficult and radical challenges in the Gospels. It is not a call to passivity, nor is it an invitation to excuse harm. Instead, it is a call to recognize that even the villain is still in process, still capable—however dimly—of being lured by goodness, and still entangled in the relational web of existence.
From a process-relational perspective, no one is ever wholly defined by their worst actions. In each moment, new possibilities emerge, however small, for transformation. Even the most hardened heart is not frozen in time but is continually becoming, shaped by experience, environment, and the ever-present lure of love. To pray for the villain, then, is not to wish them success or to diminish the harm they have done, but to hold space for the possibility—however remote—that they might yet turn toward the good.
This kind of prayer is not naïve optimism, nor is it an expectation that all villains will change. It is an act of spiritual resistance against hatred itself. It refuses to let the villain define the totality of reality. When we pray for the villain, we acknowledge that their actions are real, their harms significant, but we also insist that they are not beyond the reach of love’s transforming power. In process thought, God does not coerce change but offers fresh possibilities—moment by moment, breath by breath. To pray for the villain is to align ourselves with this divine lure, trusting that even in the deepest darkness, there is the whisper of another way.
Praying for the villain is also an act of self-liberation. It is a release from the suffocating weight of resentment, a refusal to let the villain take up permanent residence in our hearts. It does not mean reconciliation, nor does it require forgetting. Rather, it is the choice to remain open—to love not as a feeling, but as a commitment to the wholeness of the world, even when that wholeness feels impossibly distant.
To pray for the villain is to affirm that goodness, beauty, and justice are always at work in the world, seeking expression even in the most unexpected places. It is a quiet act of hope, trusting that every soul—even the most lost—is still part of the great unfolding process of becoming.
From a process-relational perspective, no one is ever wholly defined by their worst actions. In each moment, new possibilities emerge, however small, for transformation. Even the most hardened heart is not frozen in time but is continually becoming, shaped by experience, environment, and the ever-present lure of love. To pray for the villain, then, is not to wish them success or to diminish the harm they have done, but to hold space for the possibility—however remote—that they might yet turn toward the good.
This kind of prayer is not naïve optimism, nor is it an expectation that all villains will change. It is an act of spiritual resistance against hatred itself. It refuses to let the villain define the totality of reality. When we pray for the villain, we acknowledge that their actions are real, their harms significant, but we also insist that they are not beyond the reach of love’s transforming power. In process thought, God does not coerce change but offers fresh possibilities—moment by moment, breath by breath. To pray for the villain is to align ourselves with this divine lure, trusting that even in the deepest darkness, there is the whisper of another way.
Praying for the villain is also an act of self-liberation. It is a release from the suffocating weight of resentment, a refusal to let the villain take up permanent residence in our hearts. It does not mean reconciliation, nor does it require forgetting. Rather, it is the choice to remain open—to love not as a feeling, but as a commitment to the wholeness of the world, even when that wholeness feels impossibly distant.
To pray for the villain is to affirm that goodness, beauty, and justice are always at work in the world, seeking expression even in the most unexpected places. It is a quiet act of hope, trusting that every soul—even the most lost—is still part of the great unfolding process of becoming.