Tag Archives: T.S. Eliot

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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.

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Stumbling onto Truth

For Elizabeth…

A former student recently asked me a very pointed question. From a Christian perspective, what should be the boundaries to a poem, specifically in regards to word choice and subject matter? In this post, I will seek to answer this question, or at least, as is common on this blog, draw as close to an answer as is possible.

Now, before I run the risk of coming across pretentious immediately off the bat, let me preface all that will follow with a particular quotation that has helped me keep this amateur writer’s feet on the ground and his head out from under the clouds. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, who has penned such acclaimed stories as A Few Good Men, The Social Network and several excellent television series, never wrote a truer or more poetic statement than the episode of The West Wing in which Laura Dern’s character, the U.S. Poet Laureate, speaks to Toby Ziegler, the White House Communications Director and chief speechwriter. She tells him, “The goal of an artist is not to communicate truth. The goal of an artist is to captivate you for however long we’ve asked for your attention. If we stumble onto truth, we’ve gotten lucky.”

So, let it be stated at the outset that, for the purposes of this blog post, I am not declaring that prose or poetry or any form of expressive art is salvific. In other words, while a poem or story or song or painting can have an effect on us – while they can sometimes even incite change – no person will ever be saved by them.

So, then, what is the ultimate purpose of creative expression? What is the paramount reason to write a poem?

I believe it is to enliven the reader. To inspire.  Of course, the writer cannot redeem the reader – he can only propel the reader on a path toward redemption. But expressing oneself in a manner that even lays the groundwork for this is a lofty task. It requires the poet to be a keen observer of the world and its inhabitants so that his re-creation on the page is compelling. Henry David Thoreau writes in his classic work Walden, “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.” He explains that anyone can create a work of art, be it a painting, a sculpture, a poem, etc. But, “It is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”

So, for a poet who is also a Christian (rather than “a Christian poet,” which uses the word “Christian” as an adjective that categorizes and thereby boxes in the writer), I believe poetry should be viewed as evangelistic. A poem should carry the aroma of the euangelion, the “good news” of salvation. Why? Because, if it doesn’t, it is a lesser poem. Like a private who shies away from the front, it is not being all it can be.

However, there are two caveats to this assertion.

First, it must be understood, in light of the quotation from The West Wing, that a writer who is solely concerned with an end goal – a protest or an argument or a specific persuasion toward truth – is no writer at all. He or she has ceased to be a poet and has instead become a preacher or a politician. This is because everything takes a backseat to expounding upon the determined point or message. The poem (and, as an extension, the story or song or even the painting) becomes didactic, or preachy. Remember, the only goal of an artist is to captivate the reader. Not to save, and not even to change. Only to encourage – to nudge the reader in the direction of both. And it works both ways. If I am not captivated by a particular work, I will not be inspired, which is the catalyst for change. If I feel that I’m being barked at by the work, then any chance there was in growing or coming to a deeper understanding of life or faith or God goes out the window.

So, while the poet may desire to effect change, he has a responsibility, first and foremost, to captivate. To entertain. To awake the imagination. To enrapture the mind’s eye and expand the mind. How does he do this? With every bit of skill he has, every technique he can execute. Language. Tone. Rhythm. Motif. Imagery. Metaphor. Symbolism. Whatever arrow is in the quiver that is suitably weighted  for the flight. It is the quality of the writing – not the intention – that truly moves the reader. How that reader will respond is out of the poet’s hands.

The second thing to remember, and perhaps what cuts to the quick of the question my student asked me, concerns what, if anything, is off limits. In my opinion, depending upon the theme, subject, character or level of realism, no speck of language is taboo. Word choice means word choice, not choices. For example, I am currently reworking a story that I first wrote for a college creative writing class. The story’s two principle characters are poor, washed-up, lonely men who live in a pauperized small town. One is unknowingly battling severe depression, while the other is bipolar and prone to violent, vehement outbursts. Now, the question is, as a Christian, should I avoid putting words into the mouth of these two sad, downward-spiraling men that I would not say myself in a church sanctuary or (as is a popular “what if” to morally-righteous folks) if Jesus suddenly appeared and sat down next to me?

First of all, if Jesus suddenly sat down next to me, I don’t think I would have much to say at all. I’m pretty sure I’d be speechless. Secondly, if these two men from my story use salty, offensive language when they speak, I’m pretty sure Jesus wouldn’t be surprised. It comes down to what I value more: my moralism or my realism. It has taken me several years, but I have come to value the latter, mainly because I believe that my job is, first, to tell a compelling story, not construct a squeaky clean one that avoids offending even the most conservative of readers. This may mean I have to give up the possibility of some “Christian” publications accepting my work, but that is a concern that shouldn’t be hard to relinquish when I remind myself that the point of my work is meant to be evangelistic. “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick” (Matthew 9:12).

But, as I’ve stated, this faithfulness to realism doesn’t simply concern language. The poet’s honesty must extend well beyond language. It must not shy away from portraying the darkness and the depravity in the world if the focus of the poem or the vision of the poet turns in this direction. T.S. Eliot wrote some of the most extraordinary poetry during the early years of the Modernist movement, and part of the reason he is remembered was that his images were strikingly truthful and relatable even in their metaphorical or symbolic depth. Eliot had a quiver crammed with techniques, but what makes him a great poet is not that he was good with words, but that he was not afraid to shoot them at any target, be it divine or disturbing.

To pull the reins on a poem in order that it avoids controversial, depressing or unpleasant subjects and images is dishonest, fearful writing. The poet robs himself of the challenge of identifying the threads of light that might be woven even through the darkest of fabric, and he robs the reader of the experience of taking that journey through the valley of the shadow that often comes before we reach the green pastures and still waters. Madeleine L’Engle writes, “There is nothing so secular that it cannot be made sacred, and that is one of the deepest messages of the Incarnation.”

So, what are the boundaries? They are the borders constructed by our conscience, but patrolled by our courage, and our courage is known to have a restless spirit. Where are the boundaries? They lie as far away from our freedom – a freedom that is as spiritual as it is literary – as our freedom can stretch us.

Poetry, not to mention all forms of true writing and true art, should be as challenging and inspirational for the poet to compose as it is for the reader to read.

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A Prufrockian Theology

My students have been studying “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Actually, they have been grappling with it. I really can’t blame them for their lethargic faces and general lack of excitement. The only thing I remember about reading T.S. Eliot’s poem in high school was how much I loathed the experience. While I live and breathe literature now, I passed much of my time in high school English in a state of torpor, at least when it came to discussing the significance of classic works of literature. Even Frankenstein bored me, and that was about obsession, the horror of reanimation and the disastrously blasphemous results of playing God. How much more would Prufrock’s “etherized” wandering through doubt, distrust and the dread of death evoke ferocious yawns from my adolescent lips?

However, while my students continue their study of Prufrock in much the same manner as I did twelve or thirteen years ago, as I work through this poem with them, teaching the principles of Modern Poetry and the impact of figures like Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot and E.E. Cummings and Sylvia Plath, I now find myself drawn to Eliot’s groundbreaking poem in a much different way than a typical lover of literature.

For those of you who may not remember, or may have seemingly been lucky enough to escape the study of “Prufrock” in high school, Eliot’s narrator is an absolute mess of a man. He is filled with anxiety in regards to love and life in general. He is terrified of making decisions, and afraid others will only decide to reject him and his companionship. He seeks to understand women, going so far as to state, “I have known you all,” yet he repeatedly falls short of real romance or relationship. He is not the center of attention, nor does he believe he has the charisma to ever be such. And, most of all, he is morbidly fixated on growing old and dying in sadness and missed opportunities. In short, J. Alfred Prufrock’s “Love Song” is a tragic longing for significance from a man who believes there is absolutely nothing significant about him.

Thus, I find myself drawn to Eliot’s character. I am fascinated by Prufrock’s angst and total lack of confidence. I am ensorcelled by his dazed wandering through deserted streets and nebulous scenes. Why? Because this is a direct parallel to my own experience with Christianity. That which we call “the Christian walk” has never seemed clear to me, despite the clarity with which so many preachers and speakers and evangelists have extolled it. I have found it frighteningly disconnected; while I have good, close friends who walk this walk, I still feel very alone in my own, as if I am on the same deserted streets on which Prufrock finds himself.

Part of my anxiety is, like Prufrock, my own fault. I bring my own sense of laziness, indecision and fear of rejection to the walk, which I think is part of the reason why I often feel so alone, so unsuited for the followship of Christ. I often feel “like a patient etherized upon a table,” numbly staggering through my days, hoping for some unearned epiphany that will dispel the “yellow fog” that engulfs me. And, lately, just like Prufrock, I fear that I am aging faster than I would like. Perhaps this comes from turning thirty-years old last November, or the fact that in two months the thing growing inside my wife will emerge into the world I know and I will no longer be able to forget that I am a father. This past weekend I was reading the Psalter and encountered, as if for the first time, Psalm 90.

The span of our life is seventy years, perhaps in strength even eighty; yet the sum of them is but labor and sorrow, for they pass away quickly and we are gone. Who regards the power of your wrath? Who rightly fears your indignation? Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom. (10-12)

Perhaps a high school student cannot sympathize with J. Alfred Prufrock. Simply put, most have not yet encountered the loneliness that exists in the deserted streets of the world. Most have not yet been overcome by the severity and consistency of sin. Most have only a little experience with rejection, and therefore do not yet fear it. Most find it extremely difficult to imagine themselves as old men or women rolling up their pant legs as they putter along the beach, believing that while the mermaids sing a beautiful song, they do not sing it for them.

And yet…

There is something refreshing about identifying with Prufrock. Perhaps it is the simple comfort that no one is truly in it alone. We all experience loneliness. We all doubt. We all yearn for depth and continue to encounter shallowness in others. But, if we summon our courage, then we will continue on, hoping in a place and for a day where the streets will be filled and where there will be no indecision and the deepest of connections will tie us all together.

Till angelic voices wake us…