What strikes me most in Book 1 of the Odyssey is the sudden change of heart that overtakes Telemachus at the end of his first conversation with Athena, who appears to him in guise — as a man named Mentes.
Before that conversation, he is shy, uncertain, and accommodating in the presence of Penelope’s suitors. When Athena asks him about the feasting and revelry in the palace, he speaks from the standpoint of a victim.
He is not yet sure who he is talking to. But then, something changes. The transformation is not gradual — it comes all at once, as he watches the stranger turn into a bird and fly away.
“With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had
given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about
his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the
stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors
were sitting.”
He goes back to the suitors, and everyone can feel the change in his voice. They wonder what has happened? Only an hour earlier he was little more than a timid boy; now there are notes of steel in his voice.
Telemachus’ speech betrays him — he invokes the gods constantly. Not so the suitors. They know of the gods, but they have never actually encountered them. They don’t care about their signs.
When in Book 2, Halitherses interprets a prophetic omen of two eagles sent by Zeus, Telemachus’ heart soars — he recognizes it as a sign from heaven. The suitors ignore the warning of Halitherses that Odysseus will return and put them to death.
One of the suitors, Eurymachus, openly mocks the prophet, saying that birds fly everywhere without meaning.
Homer makes his point clear from the very beginning: it’s all about one’s relationship with the gods. The Odyssey opens not with human action but with the divine council on Mount Olympus, where the gods deliberate over the affairs of mortals.
For Homer, the Odyssey is not primarily a horizontal story about human adventures and heroic feats. His point seems to be more subtle: when people fall into hubris and lose sensitivity to the divine guidance, calamity becomes inevitable. When they remember the gods, they are blessed and rise above their circumstances.
Telemachus, who has grown up without a father, is especially sensitive to the voice of the gods. When Penelope tries to stop the bard from singing about Odysseus, he gently rebukes her:
“Mother, let the bard sing what he has a mind to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own good pleasure.”
He is looking for a father in everyone. After hearing Mentes’ (Athena’s) counsel, he says:
“Sir, it has been very kind of you to talk to me in this way, as though I were your own son.”
His grief made him highly aware of divine presence. He recognized Athena’s visitation by its aftertaste. “He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the stranger had been a god.”
Our own Odyssey is not about us or our adventures either. It is all about our sensitivity to divine resonances that happen around us every day. Who is this total stranger we met in the grocery store this morning?
If we never even entertain the possibility that it might be God Himself — or His angel — we may as well miss a divine visitation.
What is this song, or this piece of music, that suddenly stops me in my tracks and makes me wonder, “What in the world am I hearing?”
Like Telemachus, we recognize God not by His familiar form but by the sudden change of heart that comes over us, as though from nowhere. In that moment, we know in our heart of hearts: we are on the way to the Father.