Tag Archives: literature

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The Devil You Know Beats the One You Don’t

I’m writing a story about the devil.

I’ve been working on it for quite some time – off and on for the past three years – but I’m about to finish it up. When I’ve completed it (and have gone through it with a fine-tooth editing comb that is both the writer’s thorn and tweezers), it will most likely be saved and stowed away in a folder on my hard drive. If I don’t mind using the ink, I might print it out and place it in an actual paper folder. Other than that, I don’t envision the story having much impact beyond my own experience of writing it. I know it will be too long to submit to a magazine or journal, too short to call a novel, too genre-like to appeal to a writing workshop, and too literary to interest publishers of Koontz or King. It’s about the Devil, after all, and the Devil is one hell of a character to get a handle on.

"Didn't know I was a fan of the denim, did you?"

Whatever you know – or think you know – about God and religion, you are at least familiar with the Devil. It’s hard not to be; the name itself has worked its way into our figures of speech. “That ol’ devil,” and “Speak of the devil,” and the ultimate hyperbole: “You’re the devil!” Centuries upon centuries of influence have effected idioms like “The devil made me do it,” “The devil is in the details,” “Give the devil his due,” and one of Granny’s greatest hits, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

Within some of these familiar adages, and other sayings like them, there are kernels of truth. However, to get down to that truth takes a bit more digging than most people have the patience for. I mean, didn’t Freud say something to the effect that the devil is only a product of the psychic activity of man. Unless you’re really into literal interpretation of the Bible (and, to a lesser extent, the Koran and various Buddhist writings), it seems much more logical to understand the Devil as simply a personification of the evil that humans do. Then again, one of Dostoevsky’s characters remarked, “I think if the devil doesn’t exist, then man has created him. He has created him in his own image and likeness.” If there is no actual Devil, we have only ourselves to blame when it comes to the evil that humans do. That’s not the most encouraging of thoughts.

"Seriously, Dad! The guy was carrying a pitchfork. He may have been a farmer."

Near the end of my story, Ben, the main character and narrator, states, “It’s been said that the greatest trick the devil ever played is convincing the world he didn’t exist. I don’t think that’s true. We convinced ourselves. The devil had nothing to do with it.” Ben says this not because he’s lost faith in humanity, but because he’s terrified humanity has gotten the whole Devil question wrong for centuries.

Is Ben right? Have we? Has our understanding of the Devil – whether as an actual entity or simply a metaphor for human vice – been warped by years and years and years of misinterpretation and mythic fabrication?

I recently read a short story by Stephen King called “Fair Extension,” about a man with cancer who propitiously encounters a business man, going by the name of George Elvid (hello!) who is willing to offer a deal: he’ll take away the man’s cancer and guarantee good luck in the future, but in fairness he must transfer the disease and bad luck to someone else. When I taught American literature, I assigned Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” a tale of the devil corrupting a Puritan village and inciting worship, or at least tricking the main character into thinking he was doing that. I would also teach Washington Irving’s “The Devil and Tom Walker,” an Americanized folk tale version of the popular Faustian legend. Having already lectured on literary archetypes – including the “devil figure” – we would then discuss exactly who the Devil is, and what powers he actually possesses.

Apparently, in the Marvel universe, he can teleport and pilot a submarine.

The first appearance of an actual devil figure – rather than a mere manifestation of human naughtiness – is found in the Old Testament of the Bible. When pointed in that direction, most people will immediately conjure the image of a talking snake, because everyone knows the serpent in the Garden of Eden was Satan; the talking-snake-is-the-devil thing also jives with the Devil as a liar and eternal enemy of God, a sly creature hell-bent on corrupting mankind and spawning villainy and immorality. Be that as it may, the first appearance in the scriptures of the actual character, the Satan or Ha-Satan in Hebrew, is in the Book of Job. Many people will remember this story as the famous wager between God and the Devil, though I always found it strange that Satan could just walk into heaven as if to attend a business meeting. What angelic bouncer wasn’t minding the gates that day? That’s cause for a reprimand, and grounds for termination when it happens again in the very next chapter.

Coming soon to a heavenly kingdom near you!

Unless Satan – or, literally, the Satan - had every right to be there. God certainly isn’t surprised to see him, or even bothered by his presence. If anything, he seems to address the Satan as if a report is due. It’s almost as if – All Aboard! Next stop: Heresy – Satan is simply doing his job (no pun intended). He doesn’t seem to be the archenemy of God - the Lex Luthor to Jesus’ Superman. He seems more like Heaven’s district attorney. Now, without the “Ha” article, “satan” shows up ten times in the Old Testament and is usually interpreted as “adversary” or “accuser.” In the Book of Job, however, the Satan is used (as well as in the third chapter of Zechariah). This is not merely a name, just like Jesus’s mailbox doesn’t read “Mr. Christ.” Rather, “Satan” is a title, a role. It’s the Devil’s job to act as the adversary, or the accuser, of human beings. And that’s just what he does in Job. Sure, he plays the part of the bad cop, but remove all the preconceived ideas about the Devil and what you have is an angelic being doing the very job he’s called upon to do.

Sounds like a pretty crummy job. Probably just above working in the lost luggage office for Air France.

Oh, snap!

What we know of the Devil as a malevolent being committed to human apostasy and ultimate annihilation is a combination of New Testament revision and a hodge-podge of apocryphal books, medieval literature, a Rolling Stones song and, I don’t know, maybe that awful Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

Am I saying the Devil is not evil? Am I intimating that he is not the enemy of God? No, I am not. I have the New Testament epistles that refer to his trickery and his appetite for our fallenness. And I have the Gospels, where Satan (in Greek, Diabolos) goes after Jesus, trying to get him to forsake his humility and committment to God’s will. Then again, even this story – the most direct reference to the Devil in the entire New Testament – isn’t much different from the Satan’s business in the Old.

What I am saying is that if there is one thing the Devil is not, it’s to blame. He’s become a scapegoat for our own iniquity. Contrary to the sayings, the devil didn’t make you do anything. Contrary to the stories, the Devil is not interested in striking a deal with you in exchange for your soul or your allegiance. Contrary to Mick Jagger, the Devil doesn’t assassinate czars or presidents.

He can play a mean fiddle, though. Charlie Daniels was a prophet.

In the story I’m writing, the most frightening thing about the Devil is not how evil he is, but the fact that he knows how capable the human characters are of doing their own evil, of creating a world of depravity all by ourselves. In other words, we should fear the Devil not because he’s good at lying to us, but because he’s very good at convincing us of our own sinfulness. In his classic epistolary novel, The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis examines this very strategy. Imaginatively depicting Satan’s mission as a demon army complete with high ranks commanding underlings (thank you, Middle Ages), he expounds on the greatest trickery of all: Satan isn’t out to redirect our worship onto him, but simply to persuade us that God wants nothing to do with humankind. Why would he? Look at all the horror that we do on a daily basis, from flipping off people in traffic to sex-trafficking twelve-year-old girls. And to top it off, even God’s hands and feet and mouthpiece in the world, the Church, often places the blame not on humanity, but on that shrewd and slippery Satan – he’s behind it all.

According to this guy, he's somehow connected to Alzheimer's and earthquakes, too.

We don’t turn to Jesus because we want to escape the Devil. We turn to Jesus because he’s the only way to escape the reality that Satan might actually be proven right about us. Ultimately, the Devil doesn’t lie. We are unworthy. We do place our faith in our possessions rather than in Almighty God. We are living as if we’re the masters of our own fate. The district attorney has made his case, and we’re left stuttering in the witness stand, spitting excuses and appealing to some vague idea of being “good enough.”

No wonder Jesus refers to His Spirit as “the Advocate.” No wonder one of the most powerful metaphors of his sacrifice and death is to be the one who takes all our well-deserved blame upon himself and allows the death sentence to fall on him.

The moment we start believing the Devil isn’t real is the moment we stop seeing the cross of Jesus as indispensible. Is it too crazy to suggest that we should actually be thankful for the Satan? Whether you’re compelled to believe in an actual being or simply a personification of our own inability to measure up, there is a need to give the devil his due.

Now you can see why very few people would be interested in my story.

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10 “Heroes of the Faith” from Secular Literature

The Christian sub-cultural marketplace allows you to purchase everything from Christian films and Christian books to Christian office supplies and Christian breath mints. One assumes that the role of faith is the penultimate concern. Faith in all its struggle and frustration and indomitable hope. After all, isn’t that what all the products are for? To encourage faithful perseverance in a world where such conviction is severely deficient. Where else are you going to find movies that portray steadfast dedication to the virtues of goodness, love and belief? In what other books will you encounter characters that hope in the mercy and unconditional grace of an almighty God? How else are you going to keep your breath minty fresh so the minister doesn’t recoil when he’s serving you the body of Christ?

Honestly, I never could fathom the breath mints or the hundred other trinkets and impulse buys that have been Christian-ized. But you can imagine my surprise when, like a lost sheep, I wandered into a state university literature classroom and began reading *gasp* secular books, only to find that the faith of those flat, stock Christian characters from the books of my youth look pathetic when compared to some of the characters you encounter in mainstream literature.

Characters like…

#10 – Owen Meany

The intriguing thing about John Irving’s novel A Prayer for Owen Meany is that the first few pages reference the narrator’s struggle with, but committed adherence to, the Christian faith. All of this, the narrator claims, is because of his childhood friend, Owen Meany. Owen is very small in stature and remains this way throughout his life, which only serves as a juxtaposition to his copious amount of faith. Over the course of the novel, Owen remains steadfast in his devotion to God, and despite the narrator attempting to rationalize things, Owen persists in the belief that he is a bona-fide instrument of God – that there is a divine plan for his life to which he has no choice but to surrender.

What makes his faith real?

It is no surprising thing in literature for a character to believe God has a plan for them. In pleasantly formulaic Christian fiction, these characters are a dime a dozen. What makes Owen Meany different is that he observes plenty of evidence that should convince him he is mistaken, but he remains tenacious and does not let God off the hook, doing everything a tiny human can to effect the providence of the Almighty. And it works…

The lesson in faith?

Faith includes learning to be confident in the promises of God, and, like the patriarchs of old, trusting in God even when things don’t work out the way you expect.

#9 – Atticus Finch

In 1962, Gregory Peck won the Academy Award for Best Actor for his portrayal of the mild-mannered yet determined Alabama lawyer. Forty-one years later, a vote by the American Film Institute deemed Atticus Finch the greatest hero in American film, above Indiana Jones, Luke Skywalker, and Ben-Hur. All of this comes from Harper Lee, who created one of the all-time great literary examples of temperance, solicitude and courage. Atticus resolutely defends a wrongfully accused black man even when doing so threatens his family and his own life. But he is also a loving, attentive father who is careful not to miss an opportunity to help his children see the importance of compassion and understanding. His humble attitude and his committment to the truth make him a fitting embodiment of the words of the Book of James: “What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? … Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do” (2:14, 18).

What makes his faith real?

Action and attention. Not only is Atticus willing to do what is necessary to live out the ideals of kindness, tenderness and charity, but he seems to be in complete awareness of these virtues. It is through these lenses that he views the world.

The lesson in faith?

Those whose faith in the purposes of God is strong are concerned more with quality of life now rather than security of life later.

#8 – Samwise Gamgee

There are a lot of noble heroes in Tolkien’s epic, The Lord of the Rings, not to mention plenty of spiritual and theological threads woven into the overall narrative. However, one character stands above the rest for possessing both a sincere faith and the occasion to press on with no other guide but it. While Sam is not without his flaws, when it comes to supporting and serving Frodo, he has no equal. He is concerned for his safety, rightfully suspicious of Smeagol the betrayer, and surrendered to the mission at all costs. What makes Sam’s faith so remarkable is that, toward the end of their journey, when the horrific terrain of Mordor is taking its toll on the weary travelers, it is Sam’s dedication to the task at hand, rather than Frodo’s, that brings the pair to Mount Doom. Sam believes that good will triumph over evil, but that even simple hobbits must do their part to make this happen.

What makes his faith real? 

When put to the ultimate test, Sam remains loyal to his friend and convinced of the importance of their quest. His character’s unwavering allegiance reminds us that the sometimes the difficult work of obedience is made more bearable when we are supported by the faith of others willing to make the journey with us.

The lesson in faith?

The Book of Hebrews claims that faith means “being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Considering Sam’s case, the reason for faith comes not from outward circumstances but from inner fortitude.

#7 – The Widow Douglas / Miss Watson

While actually two different people (duh), the Widow Douglas and Miss Watson combine to form a picture of faithful love and support for not only the spiritual well-being of their ragamuffin charge, Huckleberry Finn, but his physical well-being also.While at the beginning of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck laments the widow’s fondness for teaching him Bible stories and “sivilizing” him, if the reader takes a moment to consider the situation from outside the boy’s perspective, it becomes clear that both women are not satisfied with being Christians in name only. They have taken in a directionless scamp whose father is severely abusive and whose mother is dead, and they do a lot more than simply clothe and feed him. Despite Huck’s less than thankful reaction to this charity, the two women continue to persevere in a work that doesn’t seem to promise any reward at all.

What makes their faith real?

The reader doesn’t have the opportunity to learn much about the Widow Douglas or Miss Watson. However, in the pivotal chapter thirty-three, it becomes very clear that their prayers for Huck have been heard. Throughout the novel, Huck struggles with the dilemma of morality in a morally confused and traditionalistic society, but when faced with an extremely tough decision, he opens himself up to God. While his ultimate choice to reject God seems irreverent at first, the reader understands that what he actually chooses is the godly action, the very behavior the two women had labored to instill in him.

The lesson in faith?

Faith means committing oneself to a work in which we rarely see the eventual results. We do not always witness the effect of the love we show to someone else, but resolution is God’s business. As for us, we stand firm in the call to usher in his kingdom.

#6 – John Ames

John Ames knows he is dying. He knows that it will not be long before his heart gives out. He knows his wife and young son will be left alone, and that while his church will mourn him, they will also be a little relieved in the idea of finding a new pastor and getting a fresh start in a time when America is changing in remarkable ways. The spiritual themes and theological ruminations of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead has no equal, especially in the alternative market of the Christian sub-culture. And the protagonist, Rev. John Ames, rivals Atticus Finch in the depth of love he has for his family. However, it is the richness of his introspection and the inclination to question the ways of God that cause us to joyfully mourn (yes, the oxymoron is intentional) with Ames as he, at the end of his days, pours over the highs and lows of his long, blessed life.

What makes his faith real?

If there is one thing John Ames does not want to do, it is reconnect with his long-lost godson, Jack. A prodigal homecoming, Jack’s return to Gilead dredges up all the past grievances that brought suffering to John’s best friend and Jack’s father, Boughton. And yet, in spite of his displeasure, the goodness in John Ames overwhelms his grudge, bringing him to a point where he can genuinely speak a blessing over this lost son.

The lesson in faith?

As theologian Paul Tillich intimated, doubt is not the opposite of faith, but an element of it. A strong faith comes only when a person is courageous enough to question and examine the undulating operations of faith in his or her life.

#5 – Mother Abagail

Contrary to what many people might think, it is not hard to find people of sincere faith within the works of Stephen King. John Coffey of The Green Mile is a great example, as is Andy Dufresne in “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” and Father Callahan of The Dark Tower Series. However, one of the most impressive specimens of selfless faith has to be Abagail Freemantle, known to her followers as “Mother Abagail.” In King’s epic novel The Stand, it is she who draws together and inspires the remnant of good people left in the world after a horrific virus decimates the world’s population. It is she who provides direction and acts as the voice of restraint and patience, encouraging peace and endurance in a world that seems to have lost all hope of salvation and restoration. A gentle woman with a calm, contemplative nature, Abagail believes in the power of a good God. Her faith influences everything she says and does.

What makes her faith real?

At one point in the story, Abagail withdraws from the community she has established, exiling herself to the wilderness because of her sins of pride. She is remarkably aware of her own limitations, and she takes seriously those things that she believes can become a barrier between who she is and the purpose for which God has chosen her. This is the reason she is listened to by the story’s other heroes, and why they come to exhibit their own faith in heeding her final call to action.

The lesson in faith?

Having strong faith does not make us invincible. Rather, as our faith grows, so must our humility. It is much like John the Baptist’s assertion, “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

#4 – Prince Myshkin


Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin is not only the titular hero of Fyoder Dostoevsky’s The Idiot - he is an archetypal Christ figure. Throughout the novel, the reader follows the simple-minded Myshkin’s journey through what is unmistakably a cruel and violent society, one that is unforgiving to one with such whole-hearted faith. Myshkin gives himself away to love, only to experience pain. He celebrates the grandeur of the world only find it gnash its teeth at him. He trusts in the good of human beings even though those around him are nothing but villains and scoffers. He says, “Beauty will save the world,” and despite all evidence to the contrary, he believes it as much as he believes anything.

What makes his faith real?

There really is no question here. It is impossible not to see the drastic contrast between Myshkin and those around him. Having spent time in a Swiss sanitorium for treatment of epilepsy, it is clear that Dostoevsky is exploring how genuine faith would look to a world obsessed with sex, money and power. Thus, our hero would certainly not be considered noble. He is as the title describes – an idiot – and therefore more fit for another world than his own earthly one.

The lesson in faith?

No matter how hard you want to avoid it, living a life of genuine faith will establish a kind of separation with the rest of the world. While it is still important to live your beliefs out loud, Flannery O’Connor reminds us that “You will know the truth, and the truth will make you odd.”

#3 – Harry Potter

Yes, Harry is a wizard. Yes, Harry practices magic. Some would call it divination. Because of this, many Christians spurn J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series as dangerous introductions to witchcraft and devil worship masquerading as innocent children’s literature. Some even liken the novels to marijuana, as if the adventures of Harry and his friends are nothing but a gateway drug that will lead samplers into destruction. The same sagacious advice my mother gave to me to employ against grade school bullies must be applied anew to these critics – “Just ignore them.” Because when I read Harry’s seven-year battle with the forces of evil, the thoughts I came away with were just the opposite of rebellion and wickedness. As I’ve written before, Harry’s plight often runs parallel to the life of a Christian, and the penultimate seventh book is an extraordinary picture of self-sacrifice and submission to the hard work of salvation. Only a person of true, undaunted faith can make the choices Harry must make.

What makes his faith real?

Throughout each book, the reader watches Harry mature. He learns not only the profound truth that our choices are what define us (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets), but that sometimes, even when we make the right choice, the consequences can bring pain, loneliness, and division. Harry’s faith is on display when he does what is hard, when he “hates evil and holds fast to what is good” (Romans 12), even if this means struggle. Even if it means putting his own life on the line.

The lesson in faith?

Faith is not easy. Our way is not immediately chosen because we believe in the goodness of God. Rather, we realize that our choices become even more profound, as does our responsibility to endure until the end.

#2 – The Man

The two main characters of Cormac McCarthy’s award-winning novel, The Road, do not receive names, but the reader journeys with them as closely and intimately as a member of their dwindled, starving family. There is no guarantee that the coast, which is the man and the boy’s destination, will be any different from the desolate, unforgiving road upon which they travel. Yet the man is determined to press on, drawn by a hope for which he has no compelling evidence or practical reason. He has sworn to himself to protect the boy, as if he were protecting the very spark of life itself. At one point, the man thinks of the boy, “If he is not the Word of God, then God never spoke.” With every ragged breath and staggering step, the man remains a steadfast shelter to his child, resolutely “carrying the fire” for the sake of the boy.

What makes his faith real?

As genuinely as anyone can, the man speaks with God. He cries out to him, often angrily and desperately, demanding answers, insisting on the reason for God’s silence in a wasted, dying world. He knows he is fallen, believes he may indeed be outside of God’s mercy. But he takes no thought for his own life – only the life of the boy. For this reason, despite his desperate words (reminiscent of Job’s laments in the Old Testament), he carries on, driven by something much bigger than himself.

The lesson of faith?

We may consider our faith an internal thing, but all evidence of it comes from how we live outwardly. What is important to us is what remains after everything else has been stripped away. If our faith is merely circumstantial, dependent upon our immediate environment or lifestyle, it is not true at all.

#1 – The Whisky Priest

Never in the vast scope of literature has their been a hero of the faith more enthralling, and more heart-breaking, than the whisky priest, the nameless protagonist from Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. The whisky priest believes himself to be an apostate, having first rejected true faith for self-satisfaction in his occupation, not to mention alcohol abuse and sex. Now on the run from the authorities (who are systematically destroying the Church in Mexico, forcing the priests to marry or be thrown in prison), the priest is simultaneously penitent before God and assured of his forsakenness. He is a reluctant man of God, not believing himself to be in any way an effective minister, yet he compulsively serves the poor villages in which he hides, administering the sacraments and hearing confessions despite his own sinfulness.

What makes his faith real?

The whisky priest is a man of God not because he deserves to be, or has served the Church under adversity and thus been blessed by God. Quite the contrary. The whisky priest, it seems, cannot renounce his faith in God, no matter how lowly his view of himself, or how destructive his behavior. Toward the end of Greene’s novel, it becomes tragically clear that all the priest has ever wanted is to be a saint. As far as he can figure, it would only have taken “a little more courage and a little more self-control.” However, his life reflects the glorious truth that God does not respond to us according to our limited understanding of him, but according to his great mercy and wisdom.

The lesson in faith?

Even when our faith may falter, God remains perfectly, unconditionally and mercifully faithful to us nonetheless.

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Tell the World It’s Beautiful

For my students…

It's been real, BFA

When I confess that I am not a “by-the-book” English teacher, I recognize two things. The first thing is that, yes, there is a great pun there. The second thing is that my occasional unorthodox approach to teaching English, and my attitude about it, can often confuse and sometimes even alienate students in my classes. I have a sarcastic sense of humor that is fused with a quirky desire to sprinkle pop-culture references within passionate, sometimes long-winded discourse on how important literature is to me. I know that, as we blaze through the spectrum of American literature each year, some of my students are left a bit bewildered, if not downright frustrated. What I try to do at the end of the year, then, is to explain why I am the way I am, and why I have chosen to teach this class for the last three years. Hopefully, in explaining that, I can help each one of my students understand the bigger picture – how all this affects our reality and how we view the world in which we live.

I love literature (that is, I love the reading and the analyzing and the discussing and the comparing and the contrasting and the interpreting) for many reasons, but the main reason I love it is that reading literature is incarnational. Something otherworldly comes alive when we read literature. Whether we’re reading a short story, a poem, a play, a novel, or comic book – somewhere in the depths of myself there is a swirling and churning of new life. Colors emerge and blend, suns ignite, stars glisten, characters take on flesh and a new world is born in my consciousness, and whether I intend for it to or not, this world will affect the one in which I actually live. As the C.S. Lewis quotation on the wall just outside my classroom door states, “Literature adds to reality – it does not simply describe it.”

We covered most of these, I think...

The selections we read in class are chosen not only because they all belong to the general category of American literature, but also because I believe each one comments on the incredibly intricate composition of the human experience – our joy, our pain, our anger, our sadness, our prejudices, our bravery, our need to give and receive love. Naturally, some of these stories may be darker than others. Some make us feel happy while others make us feel sad. We will agree with some outcomes and conclusions, but others cause us to shake our heads in disbelief or disgust. We have these reactions because we are human, and incarnation is a concept that moves us all. A person who tosses aside a story or poem and simply says, “It was boring,” or, “I don’t think it means anything” has not truly read the work. It means something. It meant something to the author, and even in the off-chance that it didn’t, it still means something to you … if you will let it. And you should let it.

Madeleine L’Engle once wrote, “There is nothing so secular that it cannot be made sacred, and that is one of the deepest messages of the Incarnation.” Translation: there is nothing in this world that is so dark, or odd, or obscene, or pagan, or anti-God, that cannot be transformed by Christ, who became a lowly, dust-footed man from a nowhere town so he could finish God’s work of reconciling the world to Himself. Every time I read a work of literature, I remember this quote, and whatever the subject matter I am reading, I remember that God is real, that He is present, and that the minute I doubt His presence (even in the darkest of places), I doubt the Incarnation.

We’re not all going to enjoy the same kind of literature. Some of us aren’t into the same kinds of stories, nor do we all enjoy the same kinds of poetry. Some of us want happy endings to the tales we read, and there is nothing wrong with that. Some of us don’t mind descending to dark places as long as there is a clear redemption at the end, and there’s nothing wrong with that either. However, we cannot be afraid of the challenge some stories or poems or plays present to us. There are a lot of works our there that are tough nuts to crack – one thing I’ve never said in class is that interpretation is easy, because it isn’t. It can, however, be very, very good.

Pictured: mixed nuts

If we would seek understanding, like the Teacher in Proverbs encourages us to do, I believe God will help us learn something from what we read, no matter what it is. I believe a new world will come to life inside us, and we will not be able to look at our own world the same way again, and that is a good thing. When it comes to transformation, the “loss of innocence” is a necessary archetype.

Allow me to sum up these thoughts in a story…

This place.

Several years ago, when I was attending seminary, a few of my best friends lived together in a big, white house on 15th Street in Waco, Texas, on a corner known to be one of the most heavily trafficked for drugs and prostitution in the city. Hey, rent was cheap; a few other seminary students lived in a small blue house next door. My friend Josh described how he would lay awake many nights and listen to cars rumble up to the curb, how he could hear the faint shuffling and scuffling sounds of business being transacted, and car doors squeaking open and slamming shut, and burping mufflers grumbling off into the night. He told me how depressing it could sometimes be, especially when he would hear familiar female voices speaking – these were the prostitutes who my friends would come across and speak to on a weekly basis when they would walk out of their house, or return home from class. The odd thing about these women, and some of the men who lived in the area and worked as pimps and dealers, was how much they loved these six guys living in this house. They watched out for them – they kept an eye on their house during the day. It was as if the neighborhood, rough and sinful as it was, had embraced them as members of some extended family. It was common for homeless people to wander up the street, see the cars with the college decals parked in the driveway, and come to the door to ask for money – after all, these were Baylor students, and the stereotype is that all Baylor kids are loaded with “daddy’s money” (unless they’re graduate students like we were). However, the guys had decided that they would never hand out money just like that – instead, they always bought extra bread and peanut butter and jelly, and when the street people asked for some cash for “something to drink” or to “catch the bus” or for smokes or Church’s Chicken, the guys would politely turn them down, but immediately offer to make them a sandwich or give them a glass of water. Eventually, the women who hung out on the curb and the men who passed most of their days sitting on tattered couches on their porches would yell out to people they saw approaching the house’s door that they would find no money for themselves there, but if they were looking to score a sandwich…

My friend Josh tells the story of one of the prostitutes from the corner the guys saw most frequently. Her name was Dee. She often stopped by to talk with the guys or to ask for a glass of water. One day, as Josh and some of the other guys were hurrying off to class, Dee came by for a visit. They gave her some water, but told her that they didn’t have time to talk because they were late for their class. She understood, and began to walk away. Then Drew, one of the housemates, looked at Dee and said, “Dee, you know what?” When she turned, he said, “You look really nice today.” Josh says that if you could have seen Dee’s face, and the way this seemingly simple compliment lit her up, you would wonder if anyone had ever given her a compliment before in her life. If so, it must have been a long time ago.

A few days later, a group of us were sitting around one evening, conversing about deeply philosophical and theological issues (as seminary students will do in their spare time) – things like predestination and prevenient grace and why The Scorpion King is apocryphal rather than a true member of The Mummy movie series canon. Somehow, the conversation spilled into the concept of “desensitization” – the idea that seeing too much violence, or sexuality, or hearing too much bad language (whether in books or movies or in real life) dulls you to it and leaves you open to its corruption. It seems like an important thing to remember, and perhaps a reason why so many Christians have such varied feelings on things like R-rated movies, Mature-Audience video games, secular novels and the like. I had started to take the natural defense of this position, until Grayson, one of the other housemates, spoke up.

“I’m not so sure desensitization is always a bad thing,” he said. “Look at what Drew said to Dee the other day. You know, if we hadn’t been living where we’ve been living these past few years, and seeing and experiencing what we have, I don’t think he would have said what he said. At least not honestly. But he was being honest.”

Grayson explained that the guys had finally gotten past the thought of these women on the corner as prostitutes. They were women, and they were God’s creation, and they were loved. No matter how trashy they may have looked to them at first, over time, the guys had come to view them not through their own eyes, but through God’s eyes. They had become desensitized to the darkness around them, but now there was light. There was honesty that pierced through the murky film of their misgivings and limitations. They could look upon the world – even the sinful, dirty, fallen world around them – and call it beautiful.

Whatever you do in this life, be it science or math or music or art or history or mechanics or linguistics or literature, never be afraid of becoming desensitized to this world. Of course, there are measures we must take to guard ourselves from “the sin that so easily entangles,” (Hebrews 12), but we must never shut out the world in order to protect whatever measure of holiness we think we have. Jesus blazed a trail of love directly into the darkest, seediest corners of this world, and he did so confidently while all the other religious people stood back with their heads shaking, their eyes wide, and they jaws hanging open to their knees. But he did it, and if we are going to follow in his footsteps, we must learn to walk the same roads that he walked. It’s scary, and it takes courage. Courage comes from learning, and learning comes when we throw aside easy, shallow answers and open our minds. When we become reflective. When we examine and when we interpret. No one ever said this was easy, but if we are going to be Christians who actually make a difference – who actually change the world rather than badmouth it – then we have to do what is hard.

He went this way.

Whatever you do in this life, don’t forget to slow down every once in a while. Don’t walk this road without taking time to look around. Read a good book, take to heart a poem, embrace the Spirit behind a song. Let the power of these things come to life inside you. Let the Incarnation matter, because it does. And as you live out your own story, look up from the pages every now and then and tell the world, in all its disorder and disarray, “You’re beautiful.” You’ll be surprised how soon you come to mean exactly what you say.

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London in the Pages: How to Choose the Right Book for the Right Place

This evening, joining with a small number of students and a few other chaperones, I will embark on a trip to London, England, a place I have only visited before as one of the thousands of lost little fish swimming aimlessly around Heathrow Airport.

It's like the Houston metroplex threw up another airport.

This week, I have found myself less concerned about our activities (which includes attending Evensong at Canterbury Cathedral and a staging of Hamlet at The Globe) and more concerned about what kind of reading material I am going to bring with me. I recently finished reading a novel, leaving me to my heavier, largely academic and devotional book choices I dip into from time to time (see the sidebar below). What I need now is another good work of fiction that simply screams, “Why, ello, mate!” though perhaps without so much cockney doltishness. I need a book that exudes the spirit of London on each and every page, but something more engrossing than Rick Steve’s compendiums.

Looking to enjoy your visit? Just buy my book ... and make sure to bring along about three hundred dollars per day.

To that end, over the past two weeks, I have been holding my own unofficial tryout for Bo’s London book. Plenty of teachers have come to me with suggestions, though I think I may have alienated a few of them with my less-than-enthused frowns. I know the first writer that comes to mind is Dickens, but I’m simply not in much of a Dickensian mood these days. Maybe it comes from the anxiety I am experiencing over having not yet found a job in the States, or the fact that, right now, money in the Bowen household is extremely tight (technically, I haven’t even paid the school back for including me in this class trip). I’m feeling too much like an Oliver or a Pip these days, so the last thing I need is more Dickens.

Here he is, plotting my impending beat down.

Others have followed…

“Kipling?”

“Too much eerie jungle fun, not enough foggy London.”

“Bronte?”

“Too much with all the pining and the moors, not enough excitement to ward off my snores.”

“Wodehouse?”

“Too much high society cheekiness, not enough substance to fuel my ye olde wanderlust.”

“Hornby?”

“Too much modernistic coming-of-age, not enough whimsicality on the page.”

“Doyle?”

“Too much popularity, not enough recherche obscurity.”

“Austen?”

“What am I, a woman?”

Thus, the indecision has taken its toll. I did not know what I was going to do. I’ve never been much of an authority of British Literature – too many years to cover. American Lit is much easier to get one’s mind around. However, I knew that it was imperative I read some solid British writing or a significant opportunity for experiential learning would be lost on me. Therefore, I scoured my own bookshelves, glancing over all the books I have snagged at book swaps and library sales and Christmas bazaars – tomes of verse just waiting to be marveled at – until I found a homely little paperback crammed between two-inch thick hardbacks like an abandoned, flea-bitten mutt standing between two best-in-shows.

Perfect. We have a winner!

Chesterton: Big enough to defend me from the Dickensian left hook.

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The Gospel According to American Lit: 4 Writers Who Must Be Read Theologically

There’s a misconception going around in America that you can’t talk about God in public schools. It’s an erroneous assumption perpetuated by a media fascinated by even the most absurd lawsuits that are waged against teachers and school districts by parents and/or community activists terrified of what exposure to the spiritual hocus pocus might lead to (I can only assume the majority of these “concerned” individuals believe talk of God leads down a road that ends with clones of David Koresh rather than Mother Theresa). In reality, what a teacher is not allowed to do is proselytize in school, or lead the class in prayer; however, he or she is as free as a bird to talk about God if the subject itself is relevant to the curriculum. This is another reason I adore literature. If you’re reading most classic works correctly, you can’t get away from God. Spiritual fulfillment, spiritual isolation, spiritual confusion… the list goes on – these themes actually lend a great deal of depth to works that would otherwise be terribly mundane or run-of-the-mill. From Fitzgerald’s discontent with materialism in The Great Gatsby, to Huxley’s haunting description of a moral-less dystopia in Brave New World, book after book and poem after poem cry out for readers bold enough to look under the surface and discover deeper, richer meanings. It is a technique that harks back to the work of medieval theologians who sought to understand not only the literal significance of the Scriptures (and by extension all literature), but also read for insight into the moral world and search for the threads of redemption and transcendence.

Even when the work itself is not overtly focused on Christianity in particular or on God in general, the human experience captured by the writer is significant for its observation of the beauty of nature or its grappling with the nature of beauty. There are four American writers, however, who must always be read theologically, lest their works be blanched and robbed of power.

#4 – Emily Dickinson

1830-1886

If you’re familiar with her poetry, it is not hard to recognize that despite a pretty stable life, Emily Dickinson had some emotional problems. She maintained complicated relationships with teachers, cousins, a sister-in-law, a sister, and even her mother, and despite dying in her early fifties, she still outlived several members of her family. These things might account for her reclusiveness and the morose and morbid tone in many of her poems. And yet…

Dickinson’s poetry is extraordinarily reflective and courageous. Spirituality was certainly important in her time; she was born during the inception of the Second Great Awakening, and her family was close with Ralph Waldo Emerson, the founder of Transcendentalism. Perhaps this is why so many of her poems brood upon subjects like death, immortality, natural beauty and personal worship. She examines the necessity of genuine corporate worship in Poem 57, “Some keep the Sabbath going to church; / I keep it staying at home, / With a bobolink for a chorister / and an orchard for a dome…”  One of her most convicting works is Poem 185: “‘Faith’ is a fine invention / When Gentlemen can see – / But Microscopes are prudent / In an Emergency.” To read Dickinson’s poetry is to delve into a remarkably honest consideration of the nature of faith and the possibility of forgiveness, redemption and life after death. Her poetry reminds us how important it is not to stifle questions and theologically reflective thinking – that doubt and anxiety may very well be a window that opens out onto the rich landscape of devotion and eternal hope.

#3 – Nathaniel Hawthorne

1804-1864

A grandson of one of the judges of the Salem Witch Trials, Nathaniel Hawthorne had significant issues with American Puritanism. He used the theocratic community as a backdrop for many of his stories and novels, but he also delved much deeper into morality and the struggle with deeply rooted human sin. The Scarlet Letter is his quintessential work, but some of his most captivating pieces are the short stories he compiled in his Twice Told Tales, including the extraordinary “Young Goodman Brown,” which plays upon a Faustian concept of the devil while examining the doctrine of election and the Calvinist belief in total depravity, and “The Minister’s Black Veil,” which focuses on secret sin, hypocrisy and the power of symbolism. Another great work from Mosses from an Old Manse, “The Birthmark,” is a parable-like examination of the conflict between scientific arrogance and divine mystery.

To read Hawthorne in merely a historical light is to miss the potency of his works – his works are steadfastly focused on challenging the reader to reject the desire to create God in his or her own image. Many of his stories reveal the dark side of religious fervor and the complexity of the human psyche, and while it is not hard to miss the morals in his work (he was a dutiful Romantic), there is nothing ineffectual about his conclusions. They are as convicting today as they were back then.

#2 – T.S. Eliot

1888-1965

Although England may claim him as its favorite poet, Thomas Stearns Eliot was born in St Louis, Missouri, the grandson of a Unitarian Church pastor and son of a successful businessman. He was privileged, from an affluent New England-based family, and received a thorough education of the highest quality. While he became a British citizen in middle-age, he claimed his poetry was still connected to and born out of his American experience, especially his time spent by the river in St. Louis, which he claimed was more influential to his writing than if he had grown up in any other city.

It is, perhaps, easier to read Eliot’s later works theologically – that is, after his conversion experience and his membership in the Church of England. Certainly, Ash Wednesday and Four Quartets ring with theological significance. However, even his earliest published poem, the magnificent “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” focuses on themes of isolation, inferiority, self-esteem, social malaise, and anxiety toward death. All matters to which spirituality relates. What makes T.S. Eliot’s poetry truly remarkable is his ability to capture the roughness of life, as well as the much-maligned feeling of body and soul, even in lines that seem to glow with beauty. A particularly haunting stanza from “The Hollow Men” reveals such a powerful grasp of language: “Those who have crossed / with direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom / Remember us – if at all – not as lost / Violent souls, but only / as the hollow men / The stuffed men.” To read T.S. Eliot is to be taken on a journey through the dusty landscapes and frustrated cities of this world, searching for a hidden doorway into redemption, into paradise.

#1 – Flannery O’Connor

1925-1964

She once paraphrased Jesus, saying, “You will know the truth and the truth will make you odd.” Odd in the sense that an encounter with God’s grace does not make someone normal, or self-possessed, or status quo. Odd in the sense that salvation in Christ does not beget physical safety or charismatic popularity. Odd in the sense that God’s will for our lives has absolutely no regard for the comfortable little trenches we dig for ourselves in this world. In truth, none of staunchly Catholic Flannery O’Connor’s peculiar and perplexing short stories come across as neat and tidy pictures of Christianity. None of them would sell very well (if they were to be welcomed at all) if placed on a shelf in a Christian bookstore. O’Connor’s stories are dark and earthy, and focus often on the outcasts and scapegoats and seekers stumbling through their dimly lit lives, unknowingly propelled on a collision course with the reality of God. Every story by Flannery O’Connor contains a moment in which the grace of God is either accepted or rejected by a major character, and this cuts to the heart of every individual message in her fiction.

It would be a travesty of education to read Flannery O’Connor’s stories purely for the social context of the American South of the 50′s and 60′s, or simply as an inclusion in the collection of Southern Gothic writers of the early and mid-20th century. While there is much to learn from her regarding the nature and structural technique of short story writing, her painstaking attention to detail and her incomparable grasp of character development, none of these things make her stories into the powerfully transcendent tales that they are. Rather, it is her dedication to uncover truth in even the darkest of places (that place most often being the human heart), and to avoid watering down the message of salvation, a message that is as scandalous and shocking as it is victorious.