Tag Archives: writing

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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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Sabbath Reflections: Week 8

It was a fun experiment, to be sure, but after two full months of posting everyday on this blog, the time has come to cool the jets, if only a little bit. To scale back. The 26th came and went with no original post, but it wasn’t because there wasn’t time – rather, I sat in front of the screen and could not think of anything to write. What I’ve discovered over these past two months is that while there is a sense of freedom that comes from writing every day, there are some afternoons or evenings when the words just aren’t there. It has nothing to do with a want for an inspirational prompt (the entire site is dedicated to an aspect of life I believe is new and captivating each day), nor with a paucity of time or a struggle with laziness. I’ve found that what happens when I attempt to post everyday – in addition to doing my own prose writing as well – is that the writing itself suffers.

I believe that this world is charged with mystery and wonder, what Hopkins called the “grandeur of God.” I believe that when we spend too much time maintaining lives that “keep it real” at all costs, we lose something very important. I believe people of this modern/postmodern world have misplaced an ability to be comfortable with the unexplained, the ambiguous, and the surreptitious. We have relegated such things to outlandish encounters in bad rom-coms and supernatural oddities in fantasy paperbacks. But the truth is, this world is infused with mystery and wonder because it has been created by a God who is at home in these things. To quote Hopkins again, “Christ plays in ten thousand places.”

That said, I must do justice to this mystery and not force what isn’t there. Or, at least, I should not give myself half-heartedly to daily blogging about something that continually warms my whole heart. When I sit down to chronicle the manner in which I have glimpsed this God at work and at play in our world, I want my words to be genuine, not coerced through obedience to some quotidian ritual.

So, if you are a reader, I hope you will understand my reasoning. I am certainly not hanging up the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign on this blog. However, like the businesses here in Germany that observe a “Ruhetag,” that is, a day of rest, I, too, would like the freedom to sometimes let the words simmer a while longer. I will continue to post rather frequently, but I hope that what follows will not be contrived or strained in any way.

So, until the next post (sooner rather than later, I hope), may we breathe our days in deeply, and open our eyes to all that dances around us. May we spurn the cut-and-dried negativity of a world afraid of mystery, and remind ourselves to live as people who see more than the bare minimum of life. Of such is the kingdom of God…

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Top 15 Novels Written in the First-Person: A Wednesday Wordsmith Tribute

I am a fan of the first-person point of view. Lately, my personal writing has taken this form, and while there is plenty I can praise about the third-person POV and its merits as well, lately I’m finding myself drawn to stories told through the eyes of the main character (or someone close by). Unlike short stories which tend to be more evenly balanced, third-person narratives dominate the novel landscape these days. However, once in a while I come across a compelling story that is told in this refreshing and intimate style, a tale recounted by a narrator who is unafraid to qualify things in his or her own idiosyncratic ways. What follows is my Top 15 List of First-Person Perspective Novels.

#15 - A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

Love, war, and no dialogue attribution.

#14 – The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis

A bus, a trip to heaven, and a Scotsman for a guide.

#13 – Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

A river, a raft, and a bunch of nonesuch.

#12 – Silence by Shusaku Endo

A missionary, a betrayer, and a God.

#11 – To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

A precocious girl, a heroic lawyer, and a guy named Boo.

#10 – Free Bird by Greg Garrett

A convertible, a haunted man, and good music.

#9 – The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Rich people, a green light, and more rich people.

#8 – The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

A spy, an atheist, and some other days of the week.

#7 – The Moviegoer by Walker Percy

A discontented man, an existential search, and some womanizing.

#6 – Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

A bottomed-out writer, a brilliant suicide risk, and a dead dog in a trunk.

#5 – Godric by Frederick Buechner

A rebellious young man, a conversion, and some pet snakes.

#4 – Peace Like a River by Leif Enger

A runaway son, a miracle-working father, and a lot of cowboy poetry.

#3 – A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

A draft-dodger, a little person, and a killer baseball.

#2 – The Brothers K by David James Duncan

An incredible pitcher, his four sons, and Seventh Day Adventism run amok.

#1 – Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

A dying minister, a prodigal son, and a one-eyed abolitionist.

There you have it. Any you think I have woefully forgotten to include on this list? Let me know…

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There Are Still Words

For the last week, I have dug deep and inflicted some horrific discomfort upon myself, setting my alarm for the wee small hours of the morning (well, before 6 A.M. anyway). In light of some of the thoughts I was having earlier last week, I decided the only way to really get some solid, non-blogging writing time was to knock off the sleep bank. The afternoon wasn’t working (that’s cherished time with my daughter), early evening wasn’t working (that’s cherished time with my wife), and with my class load the way it is this semester, I really don’t have the ability to use a planning period for my own personal fun.

Yep, that's pretty much what I look like at pre-dawn.

To be honest, I didn’t know if I would be able to hang in there with the new early bird schedule. But I’m seven weekdays in, and other than having to tiptoe from bedroom to bathroom to office so I don’t wake Katy Jo or Leigh, things are not as hard – the well is not as dry – as I thought they would be. There are still words.

Approximately 8000 so far, which isn’t all that extraordinary an amount, but a lot more than I was producing a few weeks ago. So I suppose there’s something to be said for discipline. Who would have thought the encouragement I give to my students is actually true?

May we never stop trying new ways to better ourselves. Changes come in miniscule amounts, but they do come, and at 5:30 in the morning, that’s really all one can ask for.

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Sabbath Reflections: Week 6

Today felt like a true sabbath. It began with my wonderful wife tending to the baby (who woke up at seven AM) so that I could catch a few more z’s. Every weekday is her day to entertain the baby in that 7-9 AM period before the first nap; consequently, I am glad to watch Katy Jo on the weekend days so that she can sleep a bit longer. However, I think my bride knew how tired I was this morning after the two of us stayed up until almost midnight watching a rather long movie (Polanski’s The Ghost Writer – decent, but quite long-winded, story-wise). She tip-toed out of the room, blessing me with a little extra rest.

Later on, in between some odd jobs and taking turns watching our eight-month old scoot around (she’s mobile now, and apparently believes her feet are plenty secure for pulling up on anything, thus requiring constant supervision), I was able to spend some time writing, feeling my way through a story, stumbling along the path of sentences dimly lit by the flickering lantern of a concept. However, creating in this way often feels more like a release than a stress, a respite rather than work. I put reality on hold and spend time in another world where I am little more than a people-watcher, following my characters as they think and speak and interact with each other. I’m like a man in the park, reclining on a bench in the background and breathing in the energy of life that surrounds me. For me, writing a story is a great way to honor the sabbath. Once again, I have to acknowledge my wife – I’m glad I have someone who has been patient enough to learn how important this odd, seemingly unproductive work is to me, that, when given time, it becomes a labor that replenishes rather than drains.

Today, the rest simply continued. Since I’m still wearing my Aircast and receiving ultra-sound therapy on my injured foot, I cannot take part in my usual Sunday ritual of indoor soccer, something I usually look forward to all week and am often preoccupied with on Sunday. However, today, I can honestly say that I hardly gave Sunday-night soccer any thought at all. Instead, I rested on the floor of the living room, watching Katy Jo goo-goo, ga-ga, and da-da-da-da to every little object I held out to her, watching her strain to pull herself onto the couch to try to get to Mama, watching her waddle-crawl back and forth from me to the toys. Earlier, while Leigh and I shared a sandwich-and-soup lunch, and I was spoon-feeding our daughter applesauce, Leigh said that she really felt like we were a family and asked if I felt the same. “We are a family,” I said. This isn’t a simile – this just is.

I’m blessed beyond measure. I have a wonderful wife, a beautiful baby girl, and constant opportunities to enjoy life. I don’t mean to brag in this post – that’s not the point. What I mean is that sometimes we are spoon-fed glimpses of wonder, like occasional mouthfuls of applesauce. But every once in a while, God shakes the apple tree and the wonders rain down upon us. We are overwhelmed. These are good days indeed.

I try to remember the way these good, restful days make me feel whenever I find myself trudging through the bad ones. I think this is part of the reason for the sabbath in the first place – to rest up and grow strong for the next round. That might sound pessimistic, but only if you haven’t placed your trust in just how restful the good days can be.