The Lost Straight Road

Posting at...

2008-11-26T15:36:00.000-08:00

Been a long time since I posted here. I'm not going to remove it...I don't know, maybe someday I'll have the faculties to start it up again. Until then, if you are more than welcome to attend to my www.jesuspolitics.net

It's a political blog concerned with how the radical politics of Jesus should be implemented into our own world now. This is not as dear to my heart as the Lost Straight Road, but in some ways, it's more concrete. Anyway...

Sodalîn odhànna’în-sê vûvêanîyû

Storytelling the Deaf Experience

2008-04-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

Alright, two interesting facts about me: 1) I have panic disorder; and 2) my wife is studying to be a Deaf interpreter, and I am learning ASL (American Sign Language). Only one of those facts is really relevant to my post today. Today’s post (and I have never posted so soon after another post, but hey, I guess I’m getting more comfortable) is about Story.

At the school I am attending, we had an event aimed towards inciting awareness about Deaf Culture, a marginalized and oft-forgotten people group. There were several activities and workshops to attend, and Deaf guests were invited to speak and share about their experiences. The Deaf communications students were not permitted to speak. It was an interesting day. Deaf Culture is a fascinating one. They are very communally oriented[1] and believe in communal authority (so, for example, if a person in the Deaf community were to make a decision, it would be expected that they should bring it before the entire community of which they are apart); they do not believe their “condition” to be a handicap; they are incredibly honest and forthright, especially in their descriptions of people (they will identify people by saying, “the fat girl,” or “the bald guy;”).[2] Also, they often, as a community, feel oppressed and misunderstood by the hearing world.

And why should they not? They are often treated as slow or mentally handicapped (which they aren’t; there are some very intelligent Deaf people). Many times, people will not attempt to communicate with them, or even think they are incapable of communication like a normal person (which is untrue; ASL and other signed languages are accepted as actual languages). It is common for them to be denied work, or to be discriminated against by authorities (such as police officers or law officials).

This was very telling in the final workshop of the evening. My wife and I, and several friends, attended a two-hour event called “Storytelling the Deaf Experience.” This was a time where Deaf people from the community were invited to tell stories of their experiences being Deaf. This is right in their element, as when Deaf people gather, they will often have times of storytelling (they love stories); the different was, hearing people were invited as well.

I was amazed. It was a fascinating evening. But most interesting to me was that, as they were telling their stories, a common theme was one of oppression and of overcoming the oppressor. Many of their stories would revolve around a particularly oppressive hearing individual (to which the other Deaf people would gesticulate, often vocally, their understanding and agreement), detail the unfair quality of their treatment of the Deaf person, and then end with the Deaf person triumphing over the oppressive person. I will illustrate with a loose retelling from memory of one of the stories from an older Deaf woman:

I worked at the Post Office before I retired, and I was often treated badly. One day, I was mopping the floor, and one of the younger workers accidentally knocked a large pile of mail into where I was mopping. When I asked him to clean it up, he laughed and walked away. I was furious. I cleaned it up and kept mopping. A little bit later, he came by again, and this time he kicked the pile of mail into the spot I was mopping! I was furious. Several times he did this. Finally, I got so angry, I grabbed him and I said, “You clean up this mess, and then you mop the floor!” And he did. When the manager came by, he asked, “Why is he mopping?” I told him what had happened. Then the manager walked away, and that boy never did anything like that again.

This is very illustrative of the kinds of stories they would tell.

As I listened (or watched, I guess; the entire evening was all in Sign, of course), I was struck once again about how the stories a community tells define the community, and show their outlook upon the world they live in. I am reminded of the Israelite community of 1st century Palestine, who clung to liberation stories of the Exodus while under oppression to the Romans, or even the pre-Civil War African-American culture (and beyond), who clung to the exact same stories during their oppression by wealthy, white American landowners. For them, the stories represent hope and a common understanding of the community’s plight.

And once again, I am reminded of how, as one scholar said it, “we live in story like fish in the sea.”[3] Story is all around us, shaping us as we cling to them. And it makes me think that I should evaluate the kinds of stories that I cling to: the stories of Israel and Jesus of Nazareth, and even of Frodo and Harry Potter. These stories have a part in making me who I am, and informing how I will see the world. They are, in part, the life that I live and the air that I breathe.

Now enjoy this wonderful video made by a Deaf Performing Arts Group, set to John Mayer's song,"Waiting on the World to Change."

________________________

[1] Which shows through in their first meetings, where they will ask questions such as, “Where are you from?” “What school did you go to?” “Who was your teacher?” in an effort to find out how you are in the community and how they are connected to you.

[2] Interesting story. My wife and her friend interpreted a play once, and one of the Deaf people there said to my wife, “You were really good, but-“ turning to her friend “- you weren’t, you need work.”

[3] J. D. Crossan, The Dark Interval: Towards a Theology of Story, (Niles, IL: Argus, 1975), 47.

Creation and Story

2008-04-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know it’s been a terribly long time since I last posted. For the few that read this blog, I apologize. It was the busy time of the semester. But I just finished my big ole 57-page Historical Jesus paper (don’t be impressed; the bulk of that length was just a bunch of self-indulgent appendices), so I have some more time. I expect soon to have a two-part post on themes of fantasy in Edgar Allan Poe. However, in the meantime, I would like to give you a link to a post done by a friend of mine, Stephen Lawson, which was particularly insightful. You can read it here.

This post got me thinking about a subject concerning the modus operandi of this blog. We are concerned here with the question of Story, as an epistemology, as a teacher, as a way of life, as a damn good time. One of the key ideas of Stephen’s post was that, if we are to combat the rampant consumerism that plagues the Western person, we must return to seeing “value in our work, not merely as a commodity to be exchanged, but as co-creation with God.” I agree. But “work” I think also must be understood as a very broad term.

Often I have been asked, when telling a fellow Christian that I am working on writing a book (specifically a fantasy series), “So are you going to try to bring the gospel into it.” To this, I always reply, “No. No, I’m not, actually,” a response which is often met with puzzlement. “Then why are you doing it?” they ask. I tell you, the very question pisses me off. As if the only reason to create, to do work, to do art, is to “convert” non-Christians. I have to say, this is a terrible philosophy, and shame on those fundamentalist brothers and sisters of mine who may believe it.

I write, I create, because I believe that by doing so, I am working as God intended for me. In the words of my friend, I am “co-creating” with God, and in that co-creation, I am exemplifying him in all his shining goodness (the very same “good” that was pronounced of the Creation). I am doing the work which I have been created to do. And if my story does not “smuggle the gospel” directly into its pages, if it does not create moments of apologetical discourse (which I particularly detest), if it does not end with the heroes all joining hands and praying while the non-Christian antagonist “accepts Jesus in his heart” (whatever the hell that means), then so much the better! This story is not simply a project, it is not a task simply done for some “goal,” nor are the people who hopefully (hopefully!) will read it. Rather, the story, and myself, and those I share it with, we are life and creation, and we are dialoguing with each other in a realm which we all know and hold dear: Story. I write because in doing so, I follow in continuity of the Grand Narrative of which we are all apart.

A quote from Tolkien is instructive in this matter (and a few others as well). This was taken from the final paragraph of his seminal essay, “On Fairy Stories”:

But in God's kingdom the presence of the greatest does not depress the small. Redeemed Man is still man. Story, fantasy, still go on, and should go on. The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them, especially the “happy ending.” The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.

Here’s to Story for the simple sake of Story, and enjoying it because it is an extension of our very being. Cheers!

Enchanted Reality

2008-03-18T22:37:00.000-07:00

I woke up from another late night of brooding amidst the dark (the sort of thing troubled romantics such as myself do quite well) to the sounds of singing. And this was not youraverage sort of singing, no. This was special indeed. A chorus of ageless, shining voices ringing out in awe-inspired wonderment. Recognition occurred before I was even fully awake. Disney, I thought. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella; yes, Disney. I walked out of the room to find Shannan curled up on the couch, watching the movie she had raved about (and had been threatening to buy) since seeing it at Christmas. Enchanted, the film where Fairy Tale and Reality collide. And she had made good on her threat – she had bought the movie. It was immediately apparent that I must make good on my promise: I sat down to watch it with her.

I was delightfully surprised. It was Disney, through and through. But it was done quite well; it was almost as if the film company were poking a little fun at itself. From the singing animals to the “damsel in distress” Dempsy to the tailor-made curtain dresses, it was entertaining and engaging and quite amusing. Disney has been giving us the Fairy Tales a long time, and perhaps they have not always been faithful (Tolkien, I know, did not like them very much), but they have always given us the Fairy Tales nonetheless. But this might be the first time Disney had something to say about the genre in general.

The principle scene came for me in the pizza parlor, where Dempsy and the Princess are conversing. Truly, it sums up the film, for in speaking about his daughter, Dempsy says, “I just want her to be strong, you know, to be able to face the world for what it is. That’s why I don’t encourage the Fairy Tales. I don’t want to set her up to believe this, ‘Dreams come true’ nonsense.” We have already seen this to be true; earlier in the film, when Dempsy gives his daughter a gift. Instead of giving her the Fairy Tale book she wanted, he gives her a coffee-table book called 100 of the World’s Most Important Women. Of course, our darling Princess disagrees.

Here is the crux of my post: Dempsy represents a father who, believing that exposure to Fairy Tales (with its escapist fantasy) will weaken his daughter’s ability to face the world, intends on bringing his daughter up “to face the world for what it is.” He will not fill her head with nonsense like “dreams come true,” and I’m sure he would add to the list other peccadilloes for which the critics love to condemn the Fairy Tales: beauty does not indicate inner character, nor does ugliness reveal evil, and things often to end up “happily ever after.”

I understand the father. And I do recognize the weaknesses of these apparent statutes. Beauty (or ugliness) is not a test of character, dreams sometimes do not come true, and oftentimes, in reality, there is no happy ending. However, I think that perhaps our dear father is barking up the wrong tree, drawing the wrong conclusion, throwing the baby out with the bath water, etc, etc; and I think he does so at his own peril. For these are not what endure in the Fairy Tale. Something far greater is endowed to us through the enchanted pages. But first, let me say a couple things in defense of these common accusations. Buckle in folks, it’s going to get bumpy.

First of all, I defy anyone to show me a medium or genre of Story which does not make wholesale use of these “statutes.” Sure, we have our stories of tragedy, loss, and grief. But we also have our stories of happily ever after, or dreams coming true, and the like. In fact, I would say the ratio is far greater to stories that do than don’t. The fact is, “happily ever after” is simply a coined phrase for a certain kind of ending, one that is universal in its appeal. And it is not a phenomenon particular to the Fairy Tale, however common it may be to it. And concerning the beauty/character relationship…well, let’s be honest: nearly all Stories, from the popular to the beloved to the critically acclaimed, have beautiful heroines and handsome heroes. It’s the Rachel/Leah device – we always want the pretty ones to win. I could go on, especially to ponder why that is, but there is not time, and this will have to suffice.

Secondly, I would submit that these “principles” are symbolic ways of teaching. Beauty reveals magnificent character and vice versa, because, well, there is truth to that. We have come to a time in history (in our part of the world, leastways) where it is understood on at least a surface level that it is character that counts. That good character makes you beautiful. The old axiom: it’s what’s inside that counts. I think this is what the Fairy Tale, on some level, is conveying. Moreover, the “happily ever after” (and vice versa)[1] is a “moral” (or what have you) in and of itself, meant to instruct that doing the right things lead to rewards. Is this false, or misleading? Well, it certainly depends on your worldview. But it also depends on what you count as reward. The Old Norse, with their ill-fated mythology, believed that the monsters and giants would, at Ragnarök, defeat the gods and plunge existence into chaos.[2] Therefore, the reward of good deed was simply of doing the right thing, of having done the right thing amidst the ease of doing the wrong thing, and of gaining the character, honor, and perhaps respect that comes with such a deed. Do bad things happen to good people? Sure. Do many good deeds go unrewarded? Sure. But I do also think that there is reward for good deeds, and I certainly do not think that this is a bad thing to teach children.

But be all that as it may, I should proceed to my main point (and how frustrated you must be that I have not gotten here sooner, fair reader!). Our dear father wishes to “protect” his daughter by keeping from her these Fairy Tales, so that she may be strong, and face the world as it truly is, without the false pretensions that allegedly come with exposure to said Tales, which may then lead to disabling disillusionment. But I would like to suggest that this may, in fact, lead to the opposite.

We are born into a cruel world; a world of disease and death and betrayal and loss and uncertainty. We are brought into this world with few answers, with limited guidance, with no assurances. We are brought into a world of deceit, theft, rape, and murder. Of starvation, exposure, and cataclysmic natural disasters. We are now brought into a world where the shape of the Land is known, where there are devices that can annihilate entire cities in the matter of moments, where the whims of one man can be responsible for six million or even thirty million human lives. We live in a world filled with emptiness, hollowness, brokenness.

And so the search for meaning, for answers, leads us to retreat. Not in the sense of fleeing, not exactly, but very nearly into the sense of exploration. We are lead to Story. We read books, we watch movies, we have conversations; we engross ourselves in learning about the circumstances of another, fictitious or real, and comparing them to our own. We watch for deeds both terrible and wonderful, because these give us something beyond ourselves, even if it is only the hope that there is something beyond ourselves.

This could be (and has been) called escapist. And in some cases, it may be true, both for the reader (or watcher) and for the story itself. Some stories are escapist nonsense, it is true. But I submit to you that oftentimes these take a form quite different from Fantasy, often spinning tales of wealth, power, sexual encounters, beaches and irresistible beauties. They are grounded in what is around us, what we would like to have, what we think we should have. And they often but don’t always take the form of “media,” as we might traditionally conceive of it. You see, this “fantasy” [3] is much more deeply engrained. It is written in pornography, in webcam sites and pictures of young men and women unclad; it is captured in game shows and the sales paper and lottery tickets and footage of well-dressed business men climbing stories upon stories to their corporate thrones. It is sublimely and subliminally hidden in chance conversations and small glances. It is the fantasy not to have things around us different, but to have our circumstances different in what’s around us. It is the fantasy to have what we think we want, what we think will satisfy, what we think will drown out the pain and silence of this oft-seemingly empty world.[4]

And there is the escapist reader. I should not have to look far to find an example, for I, myself, will do quite nicely. All over I see the fantasy. The want to escape from my plight and be found in different circumstances, with different people, different prospects, and of course, a lot more money. Every ad calls to me, whether it be for a new car, or a new DVD player, or a new partner, if only for a little while. And why shouldn’t it? The “happily ever after” failed me, right? The reality of the world caught up with me and I realized there are seasons of romance, but only seasons; seasons of fulfillment, but only seasons, and the rest of the time is a feeling that I am reaching for something I cannot have. This is the escapism; it’s part of the same emptiness of the world.

But to say that any media which allows us to “escape” from the world is escapist is really rather silly. And the Fairy Tale, I think, gives us the glimpses of the opposite. The Fairy Tale does not deny the terror of the world; in fact, it personifies it in some of the most terrifying images we have known, from Lord Voldemort to Beowulf’s Dragon to Tolkien’s great “Eye” (perhaps the scariest of all because this evil never actually takes a bodily shape). And it does not deny the evil that can be perpetrated. But the answer is always found in facing the evil, taking a stand against it, doing the right thing, and accepting the hope of triumph amidst even the near-certainty of failure. Escapism comforts only as long as the escape is made; the return from the escape always means the return of despair. But the Fairy Tale empowers us and encourages us to face the oft-seemingly emptiness of the world with hope and courage. The challenges of life may seem perhaps less terrible if I can dwell on money, or sex, or whatever. But they seem surmountable when I think about the courage of Frodo, or Harry Potter, or fill-in-your-own-inspired-blank. The Fairy Tale, in keeping with Story itself, terrifies us, pacifies us, makes us dream, and then sends us back out in the world with a desire for enchantment, but also the belief that there may actually be enchantment around us, and that things like courage, honor, and love actually might exist.

It is not surprising to me that C. S. Lewis has said it much better than I ever could:

A far more serious attack on the fairy tale as children’s literature comes from those who do not wish children to be frightened…that we must try to keep out of his mind the knowledge that he is born into a world of death, violence, wounds, adventure, heroism and cowardice, good and evil…[This] would indeed be to give children a false impression and feed them on escapism in the bad sense. There is something ludicrous in the idea of so educating a generation which is born to the Ogpu and the atomic bomb. Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker…I think it is possible that by confining your child to blameless stories of child life in which nothing at all alarming ever happens, you would fail to banish the terrors, and would succeed in banishing all that can ennoble them or make them endurable. For in the fairy tales, side by side with the terrible figures, we find the immemorial comforters and protectors, the radiant ones…[5 ]

Escapism is not finding solace in another world; it is to deny accepting the world you are escaping from. Fantasy, as among other noble arts and genres, does not deny the world, but inspires us to face it, and to long for something powerful within it. For who would call a prisoner of war who remembers childhood stories to stay sane and endure the terrible tortures of war an escapist? Perhaps he is remembering them because they help him endure. To escape would be to give up hope, to commit suicide, or in some other way deny the life that is in him. But to hold on to ideals that he knows, by their sheer power, to be real – peace, love, honor, beauty, desire – and so find strength to continue amidst his adverse circumstance can hardly be called escapist at all.

In fact, it could be said that they are a way into the real truth of things. As I’ve said before, I view Story as a sort of epistemology, and I believe Fantasy to be one of the more potent forms therein. The Fairy Tale instructs, amidst the adversity of the world which may persuade us that all things are empty, vanities, that there is something deep and powerful in the world. It trains us in the “stock responses,” as Lewis puts it. The Fairy Tales can teach us of bravery, of shrewdness, of faithfulness, of fighting for what is good and right, that fighting for such things is even worth it in the first place. Sure, the world is not always “happily ever after.” But that’s not all the Fairy Tales offer. They have show a way of honor and courage, of love and respect. They whisper that there is more beyond us. They have helped me to be a better friend, husband, brother, person. That is their power; and I believe that power is efficacious to help us to live and live well.

Enchanted, I believe, holds within it this message. The father is, of course, converted, and to his betterment. But more than that, the Princess remains in our world. Fantasy is not at odds with reality; it complements it. And so, I shall not deprive my children of such lessons.

_______________

[1] Which is always quite terrible in the traditional Fairy Tales. A good example is “The Twelve Brothers” from Grimm’s, in which the evil mother-in-law is cast into a barrel filled with boiling oil and poisonous snakes.

[2] At least, according some traditions. Others included a remaking of the world through which a lone couple would repopulate the earth.

[3] I should caution the reader of how casually I am throwing around the term “fantasy.” For clarity, let the reader understand that when capitalized, Fantasy refers to the genre of Story; otherwise, it is used in the general sense of the term.

[4] The movie High Fidelity, I think, perfectly illustrates this point.

[5] C. S. Lewis, “On Three Ways of Writing for Children” (On Stories, Orlando: Harcourt, 1966), 39-40.

The Listeners and Other Whispers of Fantasy

2008-02-27T13:04:00.000-08:00

Last November, I checked out a book from our school library. It was an old book, beaten, but not precisely worn, jet black but for the small white sheet that held Dewey’s dear print. The publication was Japanese, of all things, with an introduction in Japanese characters (which is sad; I would pay dearly to know what it says). But the subject of the book was a today little-known English poet/writer. His name was Walter de la Mare.

Walter de la Mare, of French Huguenot descent, worked as a statistician for an English company called Standard Oil. He was a family man, and an avid writer from the start. He wrote several books of poems and stories, both for children and adults, and had very interesting theories about imagination.

If I understand his theory right (and I only just started to study up on him), de la Mare believed that there were two types of imagination: the childlike and the boylike. Most often, we all start with the childlike, which is accepting of things fantastic, such as Dragons and magic swords, but as we grow, we develop the boylike imagination, which takes us away from those things, being more analytical. This progression, de la Mare believed, was a response to the terrors of the world (which one might conceive of as “unnatural,” if one were so inclined) that, as it were, frighten the childlike imagination away. However, de la Mare believed that it was the childlike imagination that was more natural and fitting, and this is the part which he sought to awaken in his work.

I would like to give you a sampling of his work. The first is his most famous work, the poem called “The Listeners,” which is what I first read that enthralled me so with his most powerful pen:

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveler,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses

Of the forest's ferny floor.

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the traveler's head:

And he smote upon the door a second time;

"Is there anybody there?" he said.

But no one descended to the Traveler;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men;

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveler's call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

'Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:

"Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word," he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Oh! It calls to the heart and imagination in the very way a poem should. It tells a story, indeed, it does. But it is a fragmented story. It is an echo of a story, of which we only have pieces that are confusing and hard to put together. Who is this man? How does he represent the “World of Men?” Who is he seeking to contact, and what was the promise that brought him? What is this place, who once lived here, and why have they retreated so, only listening now, and doing naught else? We have no answers. Only are own imagination can fill in the gaps.

But it is a powerful story. We can feel the power, the ancientness of the place, a place that once had great meaning. It is written in heavy language; like cumbersome acrylic oils upon blank, white canvas, it whispers of subtleties barely known and just out of reach.

Or here’s another, a bit more furtive, called “The Familiar”:

“Are you far away?”
“yes, I am far – far;
Where the green wave shelves to the sand,
And the rainbows are;
And an ageless sun beats fierce
From an empty sky:
There, O thou Shadow forlorn;
Is the wraith of thee, I.”

“Are you happy, most Lone?”
“Happy, forsooth!
Who am eyes of the air; voice of the foam;
Ah, happy in truth/.
My hair is astream, this cheek
Glistens like silver, and see,
As the gold to the dross, the ghost in the mirk,
I am calling to thee.”

“Nay, I am bound,
And your cry faints out in my mind,
Peace not on earth have I found,
Yet to earth I am resigned,
Cease thy shrill mockery, Voice,
Nor answer again.”
“O Master, thick cloud shuts thee out
And cold tempests of rain.”

Again, the questions. Who is speaking to whom? What are they talking about? There is no doubt; the sense of story lingers thick because of the very questions themselves. We want the answers to fill in the gaps. We want the Story.

I submit that in these poems, and many others of his, there is the crucial element of story, and more often than not, fantasy is his vehicle of communication. Something about the realm of fantasy lends itself to mystery and inspiration, explanation and wonderment, and that is why I think it will continue to be a call to people, especially as we become more modern and more lost in the “boylike imagination” that rejects, or at least ignores, these deep things. And that is why poems like Walter de la Mare’s must be read, and cherished. Because they whisper to us stories of great importance, and they whisper to that part of us that needs to hear them the most.

***

I read the book again and again and finally, I found, I could not part with it. I could not give it up to the library. So I went in and said, “I would like to buy this book from you.”

The guy looked at me curiously, then said, “Well, let’s see how many times it’s been checked out.” He took the book from my tense hands and looked at it with a cocked eyebrow. “Walter de la Mare,” he read slowly. “Never heard of him.” He ran the cold, white barcode through his computer and then straightened. “Well, looks like this has never been checked out!”

“Really?” I asked, honestly flabbergasted.

“Well, not since we have gone electronic, nope. Sure, we’ll sell it to ya.”

I was frozen a moment. Shall I really rob this already lopsided, lacking library of this prize? And yet, no one even knew of it. No one had checked out this lonely book. None here knew of its secrets. Then I grabbed the book greedily, and reached in my pocket. “I’ll take it.” He ripped off the barcode then, I gave him my money, and I walked out.

As I came to the doors, I saw that it was cold and rainy out. I smiled. I got the feeling that this was the kind of day ole Walter would have liked.

Tolkien on Violence

2007-12-30T09:25:00.000-08:00

“This, then, is my counsel. We have not the Ring. In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away to be destroyed, lest it destroy us. Without it we cannot by force defeat his force…We cannot achieve victory by arms…”[1]

Tolkien lived through one of the most violent eras there ever was. Two World Wars passed in his time, one of which he was personally a part of. He came to realize, rather than was born into, a world where wars that spanned the globe, chemical warfare, the hateful march of the Nazis, the devastation of the atomic bomb, the extreme mechanization of violence. And this full-scale scope of violence, and the terror that it must invoke, is portrayed vividly in his writing, namely the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which while we know is not allegorical, is most certainly applicable, to the World Wars which Tolkien’s generation saw.

The above quotation is the word of Gandalf in the chapter entitled “The Last Debate.” Sauron’s forces, attacking Minas Tirith, have been defeated on the Pelennor Fields, and now the leaders of the “good guys” are debating what to do next. Now, I have purposely left out certain statements not because I want to twist Tolkien’s words, but rather to highlight a concept which I think is strong but subtle in his writing. Statements such as in the last sentence, where Gandalf adds that “but by arms we can give the Ring-bearer his only chance, frail though it may be.” Obviously Gandalf is making the point that there is no force of arms strong enough to defeat Sauron. Tolkien is not making a statement against violence; he simply stating that their violence is not strong enough to overpower Sauron’s violence.

Or is he?

Auden rightly uses this passage in his excellent study to show that the tact of Good in Tolkien’s war is – and indeed, must – be different from the tact of the Enemy.[2] And the Ring, as a symbol, is central to this. Gandalf does make the point in said passage that “Without [the Ring] we cannot by force defeat his force,” but he says immediately proceeding, “In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away to be destroyed lest it destroys us” (emp. mine). To go beyond Auden, who is examining Tolkien’s expression of the conflict of Good and Evil, I would like to speculate on Tolkien’s view of violence, and make two points: that Frodo’s deed is an act of anti-violence (not exactly non-violence), which is the true hope of the entire story (which Gandalf himself points out in said passage), and that Tolkien sees the use of violence (I think symbolized by the Ring, which is a device used to control and dominate “wills others than one’s own,” which is perhaps always what violence is used for) as evil, if albeit a necessary one.

We must have as our center Frodo, the little “hero,” quite unlike the mythic archetypal Hero, of a small folk, a little timid (though certainly not weak, as he is sometimes portrayed) and certainly daunted by this terrible task which he has chosen (or has been laid upon him – choice, chance, and fate being another interesting study of paradox within the Tolkienian canon). If we follow Frodo’s journey through the entire story, we find an interesting progression. At the beginning, when Frodo first hears that the secret of the Ring has been compromised to the Enemy by the admission of Gollum, he bemoans the fact that Bilbo did not kill Gollum to begin with.

“What a pity Bilbo did not stab that vile creature, when he had a chance!”
“Pity? It was pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without needed.”

Gandalf then explains that because Bilbo began his journey with the Ring with such an act of Pity, or Mercy, he was able to resist the great power of the Ring for a long time, resilient beyond any creature Gandalf knows of.[3] This is not the full extent of Frodo’s violent capabilities (which are by no means even average, being the even-tempered Hobbit that he is): in the Barrow Downs he makes to wound a Wight and does the same to a Nazgul later at Amon Sul, and in Moria stabs a Troll. However, at some point Frodo begins to make a turn. He won’t kill Gollum, citing the same pity which stayed Bilbo, and continues to show mercy to Gollum throughout the story. But perhaps more amazing, as they trek through Mordor, Frodo suddenly throws down his sword, an Orc blade he has taken up, declaring, “There, I’ll be an orc no more…and I’ll bear no weapon, fair or foul. Let them take me if they will!”[4] By the time Frodo gets back to the Shire, his abhorrence of violence is nearly complete. He will not take part in the fighting, even though Merry and Pippin are as gung-ho as one could want, and actually resists their inclinations several times, to the disdain of Merry (who has been quite influenced by his Rohirrim friends). While the others fight, he takes care of the wounded and tries to keep Hobbits from unnecessarily killing prisoners and other Hobbits, and later will not allow Saruman to be killed (perhaps in part taking this que from Gandalf, who shows mercy to Saruman twice, although Frodo only sees the second encounter). In the end, the violence which Frodo “agrees” to is almost a sigh of defeat: “All the same…I wish for no killing, not even of the ruffians, unless it must be done, to prevent them hurting hobbits.”[5]

What has happened to this hobbit? If there is anyone who has seen the “need” of violence used as a means to an end, it is Frodo, yet he hardly has the stomach for it. And this cannot be attributed to a lack of courage. Frodo, it has already been soundly proved, is no coward. Yet he won’t fight. Now we cannot imagine that Tolkien is just going with the artistic flow here. Tolkien was a craftsman of words, and was more capable perhaps than anyone else in the world at his time of being able to use the English language to say exactly what he wanted to say. And again, it must be pointed out that he was a WWI veteran, had witnessed the death of several of his closest friends, and had seen real violence up close in a way most of us cannot imagine. Whatever Tolkien said about violence through Frodo is indeed, I would contend, well-planned and significant. But before we draw any conclusions, we must look at two more points: Frodo as a symbol of Peace and the Ring as a symbol (at least in part) of violence and domination.

For this first point, as I have yet no proper training in Norse mythology, I must rely heavily on Tom Shippey’s splendid analysis in J. R. R. Tolkien: Author of the Century, who examines Frodo as an arcane mythic symbol (the arcane being significant).[6] “The question is, what sort of name is Frodo – the one name out of all the prominent hobbit characters in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings which Tolkien does not mention or discuss?”[7] Frodo, beyond being most likely derived from frothi, the Old Norse word for “wise” or “the wise one”, in Shippey’s estimation comes from a Nordic myth about the father of the Norse hero Ingeld. Ingeld, a true Hero archetype shinning with Mythic power, is committed to vengeance and violence. Frothi, his father, on the other hand, was before his downfall a harbinger of peace. “The peace of Frothi” refers to a golden age, supposedly concurrent with the time of Christ, where the king Frothi maintained absolute peace in his realm, and as far as I can glean, without violence (sort of; the peace was “ground out” from a magic mill by a giantess who eventually revolts because Frothi will not allow her rest). But the point is that the myth of Frothi, not well-remembered compared to the heroic advent of his son Ingeld, is one which echoes of peace. This mimesis seems apparent. Frodo, indeed, seems to be a “peacemaker,” and does so with an act of anti-violence, which will now be discussed.

The Ring certainly represents in some respect violence and willful domination, which is in my estimation, the ultimate manifestation of violence. Sauron created it as an agent which would allow him to control the minds, designs, and wills of all those who also wore the magic rings and so gain domination of Middle-earth. Everywhere the Ring goes, violence follows, a manifestation of its evil. Isildur is betrayed to his death. Sméagol murders Déagol to obtain it (which, remembering that Sméagol is a kind of hobbit, is very significant). Boromir tries to take it by force. Those who wish to use it for “good” wish to use it for violence – to overthrow Sauron. Saruman, who wants to obtain it, wishes to do so in order to replace the Dark Lord with his own overlordship. The Dark Lord himself wishes to regain it so that his power (which he gave to make it) will be complete and he can rule Middle-earth without challenge, making use of violence and slavery and torture in his dark rule, as he learned from his master. I could go on, but this is a blog, and I really am (believe it or not) shooting for brevity.

And so, to resist the Enemy, one cannot use the Ring against him. It is evil, it creates violence. Fire cannot be used to fight fire. Rather, the Ring, and so the Evil bound about it and contained within it, must be “unmade,” destroyed. And how will it be done? Will an army force their way into the Black Lands and cast it into the fire? No. It will be brought by Frodo (with the magnificent support of dear Sam Gamgee), a small hobbit who makes peace not by the sword but by an act of sacrifice given willingly for all those in grave danger of the violence which the Enemy threatens. This quest, an anti-quest really, not meant to find something but to be rid of something, is to destroy a symbol of evil and violence. And it is done not by violence (which would be trying to fight fire with fire, force by force – useless, I think, in Tolkien’s estimation) but by anti-violence. The real heroes are those who sacrifice themselves outside of the war, doing away with the ultimate instrument of war. Again, I could go on.

I could be and maybe am reading far too much into it (a valid, if not easy, critique). As a pacifist, I do not pretend not to have my biases. However, I think it is plausible that Tolkien was nearly there as well, but could not be. I think Frodo was very much an expression of some side of himself: one that abhorred violence and yet could not help but see the necessity of it (perhaps because he had never been shown any alternative?), and yet considered even this concession a defeat. Tolkien was, after all, a Christian, and one of Christianity’s most distinguishing points is that the “Great War” is won by an act of anti-violence, of non-violence, through the sacrificial death of Jesus of Nazareth. And Tolkien had seen the terrible things of war and violence firsthand. I am reminded of Bonhoeffer, a contemporary, who struggled with the same question, so applicable in that time (and ours as well, but perhaps less pressing): what are we to do with violence in the face of Evil when we have a gospel that calls us to make Peace? Tolkien’s best answer, I think, was Frodo and his anti-quest. And I believe that is a powerful distinction from others of his era (indeed, for all the admiration I have for Lewis, I still find his essay “Why I Am Not a Pacifist” rather distasteful and incredulous in argumentation). By no means am I suggesting that Tolkien went all the way to pacifism – I don’t think he could have. But I am suggesting that Tolkien did not, perhaps, view violence as the end or even a proper means, but an evil one that sometimes was necessary. And even this, I think, he viewed as a defeat.

This is a rather incomplete post/study. There is much to be asked, much to be examined, much to be said, and I am as of yet no literary or Tolkien scholar. I do not pretend to say anything definitive. And maybe Tolkien did not have so precisely a thought out view as I’m suggesting. But then again, Tolkien is of the most precise and exacting writers I know of. And I think the question of violence in Frodo and The Lord of the Rings is a valid one, and one that should be addressed. I believe that Tolkien had something to say on the subject, and it is something we might consider in the future.

It is has long been one of my favorite lines from all of Tolkien when Frodo says to Sam, who laments that Frodo is to leave the Grey Havens never to return: “I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.”[8] This is, I think, the center of Frodo’s quest. Sacrifice for others. Frodo is the great tragic hero, who would hardly be remembered, and yet it was his great quest, his great sacrifice, not as memorable in the common consciousness as the great deeds of Merry and Pippen in the Shire[9] or Aragorn or Gandalf or all other Heroes, that would save the Shire and the day. Frodo is a Hero of a different kind.

[1] LotR 862. All quotations and page numbers from The Lord of the Rings are from the Houghton Mifflin One Volume Edition.
[2] W. H. Auden, “The Quest Hero,” Understanding the Lord of the Rings (eds. Isaacs, Neil D. and Rose A. Zimbardo, New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2004), 31-51. It is also significant that, while Auden does not deal with this (the material was not yet available), the war against Morgoth in the First Age was not won by the violence of the Elves and Men either. Rather, it was an act of intercession by Eärendil, the great Mariner.
[3] LotR, 54; Gandalf remarks that Bilbo is the only person he knows of ever to have given up the Ring of his own accord.
[4] LotR, 916.
[5] LotR, 986-987.
[6] Tom Shippey, J. R. R. Tolkien: Author of the Century (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000), 182-187.
[7] Shippey, 183.
[8] LotR, 1006.
[9] LotR, 992-993.

Die-hard Creationism...

2007-12-15T20:57:00.000-08:00

Check out this link here for a story about an argument which occured in Scotland over Creationism versus Evolutionism. Apparently three people were arguing the issue, getting progressively drunker as they did so, and it culminated in the creationist stabbing the evolutionist. The story doesn't give too many details, but gosh! Three cheers for violent, brash, destructive fundamentalism.

Beowulf and the Introspective Conscience of the West

2007-12-15T14:01:00.000-08:00

On the recent film adaptation Beowulf, I must first say that I found the movie to be quite entertaining. It certainly was art; the landscape shots and imagery were quite impressive. And the voice-acting done by the cast (especially that of Anthony Hopkins) was very good. Obviously, however, there are some major changes to the poem that ought be addressed, and I wish to do so briefly. There are spoilers forthcoming, so if you have not yet seen the movie and intend to, be ye warned!

First of all, the main story of Beowulf, which most of us pretended to read in high school, is as follows: A terrible monster called Grendel is terrorizing the mead hall of king Hrothgar. He seeks for aid, and comes to him the hero Beowulf. Beowulf slays Grendel with his bare hands, then kills Grendel’s mother, the river-hag. We then flash forward to Beowulf in his old age, having returned to his own lands, who then kills a dragon and dies of his wounds.

The major changes to the main storyline in the film are immediately evident even to me, who has not picked up a copy of Beowulf and read it all the way through for a few years. Instead of slaying Grendel’s mother (the apparently seductive and tail-wagging Angelina Jolie), Beowulf makes a pact with her to give her a son. She, in return will give him a great kingdom and wealth. Beowulf returns and spins a (false) story of how he killed the “hag,” and it is written down in the lays to be told year after year. An interesting twist is that he has repeated the mistake of Hrothgar, who was actually Grendel’s father, who bore the similar burden of conscience, and ends up killing himself after Beowulf repeats his mistake. Beowulf then grows dark and despairing in conscience over his evil deed. He finally redeems himself when he dies slaying a dragon, who incidentally is his son from the hag, and is put out to sea, as is their custom. The last scene is of his right-hand man, Wiglaf, who watching the burning ferry of Beowulf’s body, sees the hag “kiss Beowulf goodbye, and then beckons for Wiglaf to come meet her in the sea. Will history repeat itself yet again? The screen fades to black, and one is left to wonder.

I knew the writers would change the story. I can remember before going to see the movie remarking to one of my friends, “They’re going to give Beowulf an introspective conscience, I know they will.” And they did. And I don’t know if that even upsets me. They did it to Aragorn. I got over that one. I guess we can’t have our heroes living blissfully with their actions anymore; I doubt we believe that our heroes have actions that they could live with. And I don’t know that the writers meant any disrespect to the poem. I’m fairly certain they went through great pains to show their familiarity with the poem, especially in the first half. And they cleverly hid their changes in the fact that the lay in the movie does indeed record the killing of Grendel’s mother. So the movie works under the premise that this is the real story behind the Hero poem.

I don’t know if Tolkien would have liked the changes, but I doubt it. However, I don’t want to comment on that. I am no Beowulf scholar, not even close. I would rather like to comment on the nature of the changes, which are so very foreign to the original poem. The fact that our heroes all have introspective consciences, often driven by some past, tragic mistake towards some redeeming action, is pretty telling of our current mindset concerning ourselves and our own nature. As we have moved out of the times where simply living was enough to keep one preoccupied and actions were the defining points of a man and into an age where we are constantly inventing ways to keep ourselves busy, the inner workings of our minds and hearts and the impetus behind our actions have become increasingly important to us. And I don’t know that we like what we find, oftentimes.

This is not to say that people of the ancient world did not look inside themselves. As a student of ancient literature, I could not hold this as so. However, they did not do ever as much, and I don’t think they did it for the same reasons. Moreover, when they did to it, I don’t think they did it even the same way as we do. The ancient world held a greater respect (due or undue) for the presence of the “otherworldly” and the divine in normal life so that they did not consider their actions to be solely of their own accord. I am, of course, speaking in generalities here, but oftentimes a theme of some ancient tale is that fate (or the gods, or whoever) was guiding the actions of these characters. This is not to say they were without choice or unaccountable (although some might seek to say that); only that they were not the only force working towards a certain end. This is not usually the case for us. And looking inside, when we cannot look to a guide (or Guide) of our actions, we have to figure out why we did…whatever we do.

And so the redeeming act becomes important. Hrothgar failed to do his, but Beowulf does not. And so our hero, although he is everything we didn’t want him to become, everything we don’t want to become (unfaithful; compromising), is able to make up for this in one great act of self-sacrificial piety. And we breathe easier.

However, the movie does not end with this hope (or despair). Rather, it ends with the great tenor of our age (and one that the world from which this story springs would have been less acquainted with): Uncertainty. The “Lady or the Tiger” ending makes no claims on the nature of Men. Will Wiglaf repeat the mistakes of men? We don’t know.

Is this to be a scenario where “it is left up to the reader to decide?” I don’t think so. Rather, I think that this is the answer from today’s most prevalent philosophy here in the Western world. Is Man good or evil? Is he destined to repeat his mistakes, or will he break the cycle? Answer: we don’t know. The verdict is not in, or worse, the verdict is unknowable. This is the age where our heroes are just as guilty as we are, just as weak as we are, and hope remains uncertain.

What I find most interesting about this is that twice in the film, Hero Philosophy (which I hope I have made clear that film lacks, strange as it may be for a Beowulf adaptation) and Christianity are matched, and Christianity always seems to be on bottom. Hrothgar, when it is suggested he pray to the “new Roman god,” Christ Jesus, he says that we do not need a god but a Hero. Again, later in the film, Beowulf remarks that there are no heroes left in the world, only weeping martyrs: “the Christ-god killed them.” What are we to make of this? A film which fails to capture the spirit of the Hero, instead portraying heroes as weak and despairing, also laments the “weakness” of Christianity, which is portrayed as “killing” the spirit of the age of heroes.

This muddledness is, perhaps, to be expected. In our hearts, we can’t believe the “weakness” of Christianity the answer (which is precisely why it should be considered), and yet, we can’t buy into the undaunted, untainted, immodest spirit of the violent hero – that age certainly failed, not just with Christianity but also with the Enlightenment and historic events like WWII. The film itself tried to capture that spirit (with “dialogue” such as Ray Winstone screaming “I am ripper, tearer, slasher, gouger…I AM BEOWULF!”), but in the end could not bring itself to embrace it: Beowulf is all but a failure who perhaps “redeems” himself in one final, desperate act. So what’s the answer? The film can’t even give that; it simply fades to black.

“She’s not my curse…not anymore,” Hrothgar says (in the brilliant voice of Anthony Hopkins) right before throwing himself from the ledge and proving himself mistaken. She is ours as well. Can we resist? Can we redeem ourselves?

The Fantasy of Pirates

2007-12-13T22:47:00.001-08:00

Well, I finally got to see the last Pirates of the Caribbean film, and honestly, I did not have high hopes. Nearly everybody I talked to was disappointed with the movie, and I heard some valid critiques. However, after seeing the movie for myself, I was actually pretty impressed. It was much better, in my opinion, than I had heard from people. In fact, I thought more than either of the other two, it was the most epic in its mythic dimension, and offered the most fully-textured story.

Now, I think I understand why several didn’t like it. It was long. It was confusing (I couldn’t figure what sides there even were at times, much less who was on which one). It was perhaps too much story to pack into the last installment (but that’s usually the case – writers are not always good at quick, simple wrap-ups). It was certainly very strange at certain points. The ending is hardly happy. And perhaps most importantly, it was the last in a trilogy that began with “The Curse of the Black Pearl,” which was so incredibly good, I can’t believe the filmmakers had the audacity to try to follow it up.

However, I would like to offer a brief, humble defense of the movie, because I think the makers were reaching for something quite lofty, and in some ways I believe they succeeded, and that it made for a fantastic (keyword) story of mythic proportions. That is, I think that “At World’s End” is pure fantasy, and that when looked through this lens, yields some good thematic qualities that should at least earn the movie a bit more respect.

First off, and most simply, it has common elements of fantasy, most of which have carried over from the first two. We have monsters, abominable and terrible creatures, and mythic “beasties.” There is magic, and although its rules are not necessarily defined, it is certainly there. There is Calypso, who is certainly able to perform magic. We have a broken but certainly magical compass. And we have curses, rituals, and other supernatural, efficacious rites.

Secondly, like any good fantasy, it attains (though a bit late) a mythology. We have a “goddess,” who was bound in human form by a special council in some near-distant past. We have the singing of a most sacred song/lyric which awakens and draws this council (a lyric with the telling last line, “Ne’er shall we die…”). The council members themselves are bound by sacred oath and this oath is signified by relics of a sort (although it was a cute twist when it became “whatever happens to be in our pockets”). But moreover, we have speculation about the question of death, a mythology which gives a tentative, nebulous answer (but an answer, nonetheless), and it appears in the form of a “soul ferry.” The characters even travel into the realm of the dead.

Thirdly, there comes to us a bit of philosophy and even (a weak) moral vision (again, a bit late). Barbossa remarks to Sparrow that the world has gotten smaller. Sparrow responds, “The world has gotten smaller; there’s just less in it.” Now we have not time nor inclination to examine this as a philosophical statement here, but it at least is an attempt at one. And (following in the vain of the former statement) our link to the modern world, Lord Beckett, who surely embodies in some way the ever-progressing, always-shrinking, increasingly-faithless (I’m using the term faith rather generically here) world we are and are becoming, dies in the face of the powers of the mythic world (from the ancient past) with only the telling statement “It’s not personal, it’s just good business” on his lips. And at the climax of the story, we have a speech about choosing the hard way. Not running, but giving fight, taken a stand against evil, not going quietly into the night. “Dying is the only day worth living for,” one of our heroes quips, and fantasy is one of the great realms where we are truly inclined to believe this could be true.

We have a Happy Ending, one of Tolkien’s four requirements (see “On Fairy Stories”), but it is bittersweet, no doubt. And this, I would add, is another key element of fantasy. The Happy Ending is always bittersweet, because while all has been set to rights, it always comes at a great cost, and sorrow thus remains. As brave Will Turner – who throughout the three installments remains our moral compass, always doing what is good, brave, and right (or at least, trying to) – leaves Elizabeth to take his 10 year tour, I could not help but feel the same gnawing, aching sorrow akin to that which I felt when Frodo sails to Aman, leaving Sam behind, or when Amberle fulfills her destiny, leaving a broken Will Ohmsford behind.

And we have a “wardrobe” (something I intend to postulate in later posts), a link into the stories that we can identify with and thus experience the story through them. Tolkien had his Hobbits (19th century, Victorian Englishmen), Lewis his magical wardrobe, transporting children from our world to Narnia, or even the simply farmboy not having yet experienced the wide world, such as Jordan (among others) uses. Will and Elizabeth are our links, our heroes who face the wide world as wide-eyed as us, and yet triumph. It is through them that we live the story; they are our link into the wide world, the world that we can only dream of. Normal people, like us, able to brave the world unknown, giving us hope that we could (and might) too.

I can’t and won’t say that Pirates III is great fantasy, nor that its message is always worthy (one of the last lines is the atrocious pirate axiom “Take what you can, give nothing back”). However, I do think that it attempts something epic, something mythic, and largely succeeds, and therefore can and should bear the mantle of Fantasy. And when judged within that realm (and not simply the realm of action-adventure comedy with a twist), it does yield some perhaps wonderful qualities.

Oh yes, I almost forgot. Perhaps most telling of all that Pirates is Fantasy is the most important aspect of the whole story. They travel to World’s End, and somehow leave the realm of the living. They find a path to the worlds beyond our own. In short, they find one of the Lost Straight Roads. And is that not the quest of Fantasy? Is that not all of our quests?

Breaking the Cycle

2007-12-13T20:18:00.000-08:00

Violence begets violence.

We have heard of the tragedy that just came to pass at New Life Church in Colorado Springs, CO. I, as a member of the Body of Christ, grieve with my brothers and sisters in their tragedy, although I cannot begin to comprehend their sorrow. However, the truth should be spoken.

My dear brother Thom Stark has posted a letter which he wrote to New Life Church (I guess senior) pastor Brady Boyd, expressing his grief over the violence which has been committed. It is a sad letter indeed, because the violence perpetrated was not the murderer’s alone. The link below is his blog, on which he has posted the letter. I invite you to read it, and to see the power of the Church within it. We are not “proud” of how this church (and thus, our Church) has responded; I pray this “pride” will be repented of (I am referring to Boyd’s comments in the videos posted on http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/12/10/colorado.shootings/index.html#cnnSTCVideo).

http://thomerica.com/reformanda/2007/12/death-at-new-life.html

Violence begets violence. It is not a means to peace. But Jesus of Nazareth invites us to a life that breaks the cycle.

Preliminaries: Rationale, Ground Rules, and Impetus

2007-12-13T20:00:00.000-08:00

The funny thing about doing anything – that is, anything in an attempt to add…something to the world – is that it is often difficult, requires a fair amount of daring (at least, for some people), and once they’re done, you usually find that you’re not sure what you were thinking in the first place. Sadly, this no exception. But such is the nature of conversation and imagination. Such is the nature of being human. It is a quest, a journey. The path is always changing, and so are those who tread it along the way.

One is inclined to ask (and I have): Do we really need another blog? I suspect the question does not occur to everyone; indeed, I fear it is not asked at all. We live in strange times. The dawn of the internet is surely one of the strangest historical phenomena to happen. We are suddenly so capable in so many areas, not leastways communication. And perhaps the most interesting thing of all when considering the internet phenomenon, and the entire phenomenon is surely something worth considering, is accessibility. For the first time in history (I am speaking of the last quarter century, of course), one is able to access an incredible amount of information worldwide, with very little inconvenience (although, most of us remember dial-up…and shudder), speak with friends across continents within mere seconds delay, play chess with a person with someone they have never before seen halfway around the globe, and of course, most pertinent to our current discussion, share their opinion on an incalculable variety of subjects.

It must be appropriate to wonder about this. It was not that long ago that one had to at least be minimally qualified to be considered at all when sharing their opinion publicly. Now, everyone is a critic – and a “published” one at that. We are able critique films and books, expound upon philosophy, wax eloquent on Wikipedia anonymously and cite not a source, and we need not one bit of qualification. The only rules are those of personal aptitude: how available the internet is to them. The Conversation has become all-encompassing in a way previously inconceivable, and the cynic, the traditionalist (I will purposely leave that term unqualified), the despairing is left to wonder: Where now the parchment and the writer? Where is the poet who was weeping?

I am, of course, overstating myself. I do that often. It is still something to be bonafide published, to have degrees, to give lectures, and the like. These things are probably no more drowned out or overshadowed by popular opinion than they ever have been. However, that is not the only concern. We are not simply to be worried about the weeping poet who has so much to say amidst the constant cry of voices innumerable (and whoever really was worried about them, anyway?). We must worry about the current state of things when accessibility has led the “common man” to believe that he has a right to speak publicly, and that all or even most of what he has to say is worthwhile for the global community (I use that term a bit liberally). I have not done much posting, but I have done much reading of blogs, and have encountered many things noble and wonderful. However, I have also encountered useless ranting on issues the author is not qualified (to say the least) to speak on. I have read wandering musings. Editing has become something archaic; revision passé, not even considered; punctuation pointless; reflection upon one’s contribution not even worth the gentle suggestions of the “spellchecker.” Language has been stretched to its limits. The blog is to some an online diary, a place to ramble, a place to confide. Since when did this become something worthy of “publication,” worthy of sharing with the world? It gives one cause to ponder.

But I digress. Accessibility is what it is, and I do not wish to speak against those who get enjoyment from both the writing and reading of these “publications.” I am a stickler, I admit. I have no wish to be pegged as some kind of “blog Nazi.” There is something wonderful about the fact that we can share so much with each other, that we can make friends without the hindrance of miles in between, that we can all take part freely in the Conversation on a level so great it gives one pause.

So this is not necessarily a critique of the current state of internet liberty. It is more a question to my own self: Should I contribute? Do I have anything to contribute? I do not want to succumb to the impression that simply because I have breath, because I have lived a few years, because I own a computer, have an internet connection, and am barely able to wield the powerful force of language, that I have a right to write, to “publish,” for all to read. Obviously, I have come to my answer. I will write; I will “publish.” But let the reader understand, I do not do so lightly. Great consternation has gone into this, and I have not always been satisfied with my “qualifications.” However, here are a few:

I will write because I am a writer. There is a great part of me that cringes at the thought of using something so very public as another arena to hone my skills. However, a writer is obliged to write, should he want to do anything more that muse, anything more than dream, and it is the hope that this instrument will help me to practice. It will also provide an avenue for critique and improvement.

I will write because it is not simply to wax eloquent. I will participate. Many of my friends blog, and this provides a medium for our own contact to continue, especially as life happens and we go our separate ways. And they do have wonderful things to say. Better than I; better than I.

I will write because I do wish to contribute to the Conversation, however weak my contribution may be. Ultimately, the dialogue is key, the growing which comes from it vital. I wish to shape and be shaped, to share and receive, to break and to grow.

So I have decided to write. But what shall I write about? What matters most to me. What is in my heart. I am a lover of Philosophy, of Theology, of Literature, of Art, and, thus, of Life. I believe there to be something spiritual in the midst of these things. I am a Christian, and belong to the community hidden in Christ. Our aim is not simply to “get saved,” but to become human beings in a world where that is increasingly difficult to do. To live Life as the created, creatures accomplishing their purpose in the great Imagination of the Creator, bound by his Love. Thusly, it is through this lens which I will write, and it is about these things which I will write. I do not pretend that there is any such thing as “objectivity,” that one can be “unbiased.” That is a myth (to use the bastardized sense of the term), a fallacy, a vision of the Enlightment now lying dead and dying. There is no contribution apart from the contributor, just as there is no philosophy apart from the philosopher and no history apart from the historian. Truth does not come from nowhere, and neither do viewpoints.

That being the case, I have a particularly robust epistemology, and this comes from my belief in Story. This, I imagine, will be of the most prevalent and potent themes that will be discussed here. I believe Story, or narrative, to be the center of how we – as human beings – think. It is how we make sense of reality. It is the foundation upon which we build our presuppositions, our beliefs, our propositions, our worldviews. Story is the lifeblood. And Story is capable of informing us about reality.

Thus, I believe that what we find ourselves in the midst of is really a conflict of stories. We live in an age that abhors intolerance, that detests the perceived arrogance of one group claiming they know the “Way.” But let’s not be foolish. To believe is to make claim on reality, a reality that is very public, and to speak is to exert such a claim. Of course, there are different ways to do this – ranging from gentle and respectful to obnoxious, malicious, and bigoted – but the claim exists in all of us nonetheless. We will never get anywhere until we accept this reality.

I believe in Story, and I have found that the best way I can communicate Story is within the vast and wonderful realm of Fantasy. Fantasy is a medium unlike many others, where one can most interestingly clothe one’s claims, and yet, paradoxically, can thus so clearly and poignantly speak on one’s conception of reality. It is a story which tells the Story which the author is persuaded by. I have only to pick up any book within the Fantasy section of any local bookstore to prove my point. Something about the realm – not least the creation and conception of other peoples and cultures within the Imagination of the author – lends itself to this kind of fortuitous dialogue.

And Fantasy is near to my heart. To me, Fantasy is the sailor’s call of the Sea, the adventurer’s cry of distant lands. It stirs me and speaks to me in a way I should not presume to articulate here. It invites me to share in its secrets, its mysteries. And this being the case, Fantasy will be most often the mode in which I speak. I will explore this realm most often because I believe that through it I will be exploring those things which set out to examine in the first place: Philosophy, Theology, Literature, Story, Life. I believe to explore the hidden forests and majestic lands of Fantasy is invariably to explore the things of Life as well. This abstract shall serve as my thesis, as it is certainly useless to try to sum all that up in one sentence.

Now we should have some ground rules which shall govern our field and pattern of discussion:

1. This is a nice blog. Do not share comments if you are unable to be respectful to people. None of us are experts on all things, least of all Life. Remember the Conversation, and do your part to help it proceed well.

2. I invite healthy dialogue. The previous rule was not an abolition of disagreement, passion, or even frustration. Rather, it is acting improperly in response to those things, and more.

3. It is not always necessary to have thought through your thoughts (and mine) before adding them. This is for thinking through issues, not necessarily for solving or concluding them. If you have already done that, then stop wasting your time here and go write a book or something.

4. I will not always respond in a timely manner (this rule, as others, presupposes that anyone will care to dialogue on this amatuer attempt at…whatever I’m attempting). I have others things I do, namely school, ministry, creativity, and interacting with people. So if I don’t respond, it does not mean that you have stumped me, offended me, or anything else. It does not mean that I don’t like you. It only means that I don’t have time for you.

5. I reserve the right to modify, add, or subtract any rules at my preference. The breaking of rules will result in a fate worse than death.

One last thing should be said: the Title. For some, the title will immediately reveal my key allegiances. Tolkien is my hero, among others, and I will not be abashed. He it was that in his great mythos came up with the metaphor of the “Lost Straight Road.” There was a time that the world was flat, but then Sauron the deceiver made use of the folly and pride of the Numenoreans and incited them to rebel against the Valar, taking “what is theirs” (that is, eternal life). This was in direct defiance of the “Ban” which had been set upon them from the time of Elros the first: that they could not have a share in the Undying Lands. But they sought to take it by force. And having mounted a great armada, they sailed into the West unto the shores of Valinor, but the moment they stepped foot upon the land, the Valar laid down their power and petitioned Iluvatar, the Father of all, and he removed Valinor from the land, and “changed the fashion of the world.” At this time, “all roads were bent.” That is, the world was made round, and no longer was it possible to sail West to the Undying Lands. Now, sailing West would invariably lead one back to the East. Because of this, immortality was lost. All roads were bent. So began the quest for the “Lost Straight Road,” the one road that led to the Undying Lands, to eternal life. And so it is with all mankind.

I do not think that it is simply a quest for immortality, although I think this is much of it. I think it a quest for Truth, for Comfort, for Understanding, for Life. It is a search for the Answer to the Problem, even if we aren’t quite sure what the problem even is. All roads are bent now, and we all feel it. But somewhere is the Lost Straight Road; somewhere lies Peace. It is this search which will often, if not always, underlie our discussion. This is the impetus of this forum. It is the impetus of my life. I invite you to share in this with me, O Reader. I invite you to share in my quest.

Therefore, sit with me a spell, and we will share tales. They will take us far and beyond. And somehow, sometime, we may yet see it. The Lost Straight Road, and upon its path, glimpse the wonderful golden-silver light of the Undying Lands.