The Maze of Human Relationships.

I think I mentioned a little whiles back that I had read a profound and disturbing [and profoundly disturbing] book entitled House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. When I had first read it, I wanted to write about it here because there seemed to be so much to investigate about it on my Mythology blog.

But I had difficulty synthesizing the core meaning that I wanted to draw out from it. It was elusive. It wasn't elusive in the same way that The Last Unicorn was. No, that novel did not attempt to hide meaning, but it skirted on the edge of actual understanding. The house, however, does hide, and it conceals. It is not the joyous mystery of the unicorn, but the terrifying mystery of ... a house.

What makes a house terrifying? In House of Leaves, it is not so much about a creepy building that haunts and destroys and perturbs the intellect. Rather, I would like to consider the house as a metaphor for human relationships. This is not a whimsical idea, but founded on something that the author himself said:

"I had one woman come up to me in a bookstore and say, 'You know, everyone told me it was a horror book, but when I finished it, I realized that it was a love story.' And she's absolutely right." 

            (from the article "Profile: Mark Z. Danielewski," Flak Magazine)

The house is a maze and a mess, and it is a symbol not only for Will Navidson's broken relationship with Karen, but also for Johnny Truant's broken relationships with his family and with women. The house is dangerous, and those relationships are also dangerous and hurtful. Perhaps the major story behind House of Leaves is that human relationships are difficult and... labyrinthine. That we are the minotaurs in the midst of our own interrelated lives.

(I made a similar claim about Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy as well; that is, that the metaphorical // typological interpretation holds the core truth of the novel.)

In general, houses can be messes. They are symbols for where we dwell, for where family exists. For most people, the house (= the home) is where they receive their first major soul-wound, it is where they have their first encounter with evil, it is where they first lose their sense of innocence. And the house in House of Leaves is no different.


And... I think about this claim -- that is, the claim that human relationships are labyrinths that are dangerous to navigate, that we bring into every human interaction some deep, inner, hidden monster [= minotaur] that might bring destruction -- and I see that, in many senses, it holds true. Human relationships are mazes that can be difficult and dangerous to navigate. The ancients used to illustrate this by making garden-labyrinths which they could walk through in order to better understand themselves. St. Augustine once said that the human soul is like a giant cavern; Nietzche once said that the darkness might stare back.

(Of course, that is assuming that there is no light to see in the darkness. Pointedly, all of the characters in House of Leaves are flying blind. Their flashlights eventually fail in the darkness, Zampanò is a blind man [supposedly because of the monster], and Johnny is perpetually confused and directionless. St. Augustine had something that they did not: he had an eternal Candle [= The Holy Spirit].)

House of Leaves is about that maze of human relationships, about the difficulty of what family [= the house] is, about the complexity of the labyrinth of human hearts, and about the dangers lurking within our own hearts. And, in some sense, the story is incomplete. It leaves some questions unanswered and some ponderings unconsidered. It leaves Johnny still a mess, and Navidson as a physical mess [albeit, in some manner, whole emotionally], and no one really knows who Zampanò was. But, as a postmodern instant-classic, it's allowable that those loose ends are left. In life, loose ends get left all of the time. In relationships, things aren't always clear and understandable. Sometimes things get confusing.


One last thought: Clearly, Danieleski's masterpiece is a clear picture of fallen human relationships. But, I wonder, if human relationships might be naturally complex? What if the maze was always something that needed to be processed, even if the minotaurs are dead and no monster ever brought darkness or sin into the world of relationships; what if humanity, being made in the image of God, has always been complex, and, thus, in need of process in relationships?

There are some clear theological consequences for these thoughts -- but they are a continuation of a thought-experiment on the complexity of humanity that I have been considering lately.

All this being said, humans are complex beings with complex relationships, and it may well be impossible to map out fully the interiors of our souls -- being, as they are, like the house, always in flux -- but it is possible for us to fight our minotaurs. Perhaps, as we fight the monsters, navigate the maze, and begin to communicate with one another, we will begin to enter into true relationship with our fellow man.

Clothing as Myth.

I remember two distinct thoughts about clothing that have occurred to me over the past four years. The first was a quote from Mark Twain that I saw once: "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society."

The second was a simple wondering I had at one of the InterVarsity conferences I went to during my time as a student at SIUe. I was attending a theological track about Multiethnicity. Near the end of the track, the staff worker in charge said: "You can use this method [of starting with Genesis 1-3] and develop theology on any subject you can think of!" And I asked, humorously, "What about fashion?" He chuckled and said, "Well, maybe not any subject."

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that clothes are actually a fairly important details in the opening chapters of Genesis. Think: Adam and Eve are naked. Then they clothe themselves with fig leaves. Then God clothes them with animal skin. The progression is quite clear and quite interesting.

Today I read a little more of Claude Lévi-Strauss' The Savage Mind, and he was discussing how people in totemic cultures would wear clothing in certain ways at certain times to mean certain things. For instance, people in particular Hawaiian custom would never drape their skirts over their shoulders, because for the Hawaiians "what belongs above should stay above, and what belongs below should stay below" (Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, 144). Or what a boy should wear at his initiation, what a woman should wear at her wedding, what warriors should wear to battle [which is sometimes practical, and sometimes ritual].

But (as I commonly think about "totemic systems"] there is little difference between "totemic" societies and our society. Just over the past two weeks, I have had two separate conversations about clothing and what it means. My supervisor and I talked about what "professional clothing" should be when I go to meet with people who dress a little more professionally [mainly, I lacked khakis]. And then the woman that I am courting shared with me about her views on how dressing "nice" [well, for her, "classy" would be the most appropriate term; she is an elegant woman!] in public makes people more at ease with you.

Clothing has mythological, interpret-able meaning. It is not meaningless. And if clothing is meaningless, it is just another symptom of myth-less society.

If I walk into a room wearing a T-shirt and jeans, I send a message: I'm just here, hanging out, nothing official. If I walk into that same room with a suit and tie, I say: I'm on business, I have something important going on. Just like our actions, clothing speaks.

(Now, it is of vital importance that this is shown to be a neutral matter. It can be good or bad. People can find their identity in clothing, rather than in Christ, and it is wholly unhealthy and sinful to do so. People can use clothing as a method of vanity or pride. Likewise, the lack thereof, in opposition to what Mark Twain said, does not devalue a person. At least, it shouldn't.)

Clothing is myth. It is a symbol that we interpret immediately when we see it. It has so much meaning that comes with it. When you watch a movie, for example I just watched The Illusionist, you can immediately discern certain things by the clothing of certain characters. In The Illusionist, from the first scene, you know that you are in 1800s Vienna. The moment you see Prince Leopold, you know that he's important -- he's dressed importantly. The moment you see Eisenheim the Illusionist, you know that he's professional -- he holds himself that way. If all of the characters were in T-shirts and jeans, something wouldn't register right. The era would be wrong. The characters would be wrong.

I mentioned above that if clothing is meaningless, it is another symptom of a myth-less society. When Joseph Campbell was alive, he bemoaned the lack of a real, living American mythology, and he wrote his works (in particular, The Hero with a Thousand Faces) in response to a myth-less culture. As our cultural norms have grown more and more lax on clothing -- what is and isn't modest, whether modesty is a value at all, what women wear, what men wear, what is "in", what is not, why in the world did people wear those sweaters in the 90's?, &c. -- our systems of communication that were built on clothing begin to sense distortion.

However, the lack of a clothing-myth in America is simply a symptom of our overall lack of a cultural mythological narrative. There are so many individual narratives that there is little to no national, cultural understanding. And no wonder we are so divided! If I have my own cultural narrative, and my neighbor has his own, and his neighbor's is wholly different from both, then how will we have any communication? I remember in an IVP book I read once called Deepchurch how members from the Traditional end of Christianity tried dialogue with members of the Emergent Church, and how they struggled to understand one another because of language.

The lack of cohesive overarching cultural narrative leads to mythological misunderstandings. And clothing fits this bill very well. There are still some things we understand: that person's a lawyer, that person's a doctor, that person's a youth pastor [honestly, they all dress the same! -- down to the tattooes on the forearms!]. But some of our general understandings of one another are confused.

I'm not saying this as a "call to traditional clothing." Heavens, no. Nor am I saying that modern clothing is abhorrent. (Albeit, some of it is.) But what I am hoping to illuminate here is that clothing is not meaningless, and it is actually a vital part of human communication. The woman that I am courting told me that she dresses nice so that other people will be comfortable around her, that way she has an avenue to share the Gospel with them. Its funny, but I said something similar to a staff friend of mine during my training back in July -- and he wore a Beatles shirt on a day we evangelized a pot-smoker.

Clothing is Myth. It tells us something, and it speaks to us. And it would be well for us not to be unaware of what we say to people without even knowing. Of course, let's not be religious about it. But, like everything else in the Christian walk, let us be "as innocent as doves and as shrewd as serpents." Clothing speaks, and what we wear can say something to whoever we meet.

A Poem. "Solitude & Silence."

Today I spent some time at my favorite coffee shop in Macoupin County, but I was a little vexed for a moment because of a multitude of distractions. When I feel quiet, I like to be quiet, and, yet, the world around me isn't quiet.

But that's alright, actually, because I think I discover silence more easily in the midst of noise. I can still and quiet my own soul in the midst of clashes and clangs.

There's something deeper there too... But I'm alright with leaving it at that.

I feel quiet this afternoon

where silence sinks into my bones

and solitude stills me.

The constant hubbub and

      sussurrating of life

      noiselessly drift by unnoticed

as I lift my headphones

      and close my eyes.

That is to say, noise isn’t absent

but ignored and left aside

like an unwanted gift or unsavory fruit.

It floats in and out

      a tide of sound yet

      noiselessly it drifts by

as I turn my attention

      to a world other than this.

Yet silence is not escape

like isolation is, which removes

man from the world God made.

Rather, it is a retuning and

      turning of the ear

      noiselessly drifting by

as I open my heart

      to another Voice.

(11/19/13)

Flight.

For earthbound, two-legged beings, humans have one strange and curious longing that none of the other creatures on earth desire: we all long to fly.

I can't imagine the cow looking up at the bird in the sky and thinking to itself: "If only I had wings." And no monkey, after swinging freely in the rainforest canopy, would ever dare catch itself imagining flight. Yet, deep within our subconscious, deep within our hearts, yea, even deep within our souls, humans long to fly. That's why our mythologies (and our psychologies) are peppered with dreams of flying men, and why some of our greatest inventors have been those who have attempted to give us wings. That's why our modern systems of communication (both commercial and entertainment) are full of Red Bulls that give us wings and other forms of synthetic elevation.

In the movie Avatar, Jake Sully says that he keeps having dreams of himself flying. What he desires here is both natural and supernatural. He desires natural freedom of movement (ie, he doesn't have working legs, so he desires freedom from his natural bondage); but he also reveals that he desires supernatural freedom of movement (ie, because humans don't naturally fly anyways -- whether they are physically handicapped or not).

I've been musing about this a lot lately. Flying is risky business. I wrote a poem about the danger and glory of flight on my personal blog. To fly is inherently both simultaneously terrifying and dangerous. It reminds me of something that John Eldredge once said: "To desire is to open our hearts to the possibility of pain; to shut down our hearts is to die altogether." (Desire, 23) And desiring [= hoping] is a lot like flying.

In the spiritual sense, I believe that hope and flight are the same. They are dangerous. Hope deferred will make the heart sick. When your wings fail you will plummet... and the landing isn't pretty. But they are also both glorious. When desires comes, it is a Tree of Life. [See Proverbs 13:12] When you fly, when you soar, it is unlike any other feeling on this earth.

I am convinced that there are two types of flight in the world. The first I will call Mechanical Flight, and the second I will call True, or Organic, Flight. In the ancient Greek tale of Icarus, Daedalus warns his son not to fly too high or too low. Icarus, though, captured by the joy of flight itself, flies towards the Sun -- his wings subsequently melt and he dies in the sea. In Iron John, Robert Bly calls young men like Icarus "ascenders." They are so focused on the joys of flight that they end up crashing and burning. In modern Christianity when we see a pastor or a young person do this, we say that they have "burnt out."

But I want to propose a different thought. Perhaps Icarus' problem wasn't that he flew too high, but that he flew with the wrong type of wings. As William Blake said, "No bird flies too high, if he soars with his own wings." See the birds of the air! None of them ever have to fear the heat of the Sun. And, from a Christian mysticism perspective, I believe that God made us to keep flying higher and higher. At least, that seems to be the nature of His Kingdom -- a continual progression and growth in the Presence of God.

St. John of the Cross expressed this in his poem "Of Falconry":

Upon a quest of love,

hope sturdy and steadfast,

I flew so high, so high,

I caught the prey at last.

 

In this divine affair,

to triumph – if I might –

I had to soar so high

I vanished out of sight.

Yet in the same ascent

my wings were failing fast –

but love arose so high

I caught the prey at last.

 

Just when this flight of mine

had reached its highest mark,

my eyes were dazzled so

I conquered in the dark.

I gave a blind black surge

for love – myself surpassed!

and went so high, so high

I caught the prey at last.

 

The higher up I went

there, in this dizzy game,

the lower I appeared,

more humble, weak, and lame.

I cried, But none can win!

and sinking fast oh fast

yet went so high, so high,

I caught the prey at last.

 

Then – marvelous! – I made

a thousand flights in one,

for hope of heaven will see

all it can wish, be done.

I hoped for this alone;

I hoped; was not downcast.

And went so high, so high

I caught the prey at last. 

       (St. John of the Cross, from The Poems, 37-38)

St. John flies with different wings than Icarus did. Had he flown with mechanical wings made from the strength of man, he would have fallen and crashed and burned. But he flew on organic wings, on the wings of faith and hope. On wings that take their strength from God rather than from man.

Jake Sully finds the same. He is offered mechanical flight: the Colonel tells him that if he will follow orders, he will get his legs back. But Jake's heart knows that there is better out there. He dreams of it. He doesn't dream of walking; he dreams of flying. When Jake Sully finally decides to be one of the Na'vi [notably around the time that he falls in love; there could be another post altogether about the differences between synthetic falling in love and divine falling in love...], he discovers a flight that is risky and dangerous (symbolized by Toruk Makto), but altogether worth it.

St. John had found a flight of pursuing the Presence of God that was radical and dangerous -- to the point that he was imprisoned for his love of God. But he knew it to be altogether worth it.

Icarus, on the other hand, and the Colonel, are earth-men with mechanical wings. Their wings are not fueled by the strength of God, but by the strength of men. And it is because of this form of pride that they fall. The devil has the same problem -- he viewed his beauty as his own, rather than as a gift from God. Mechanical flight will always lead to a long, painful fall.

But organic flight, flight "with our own wings" (as William Blake might put it), flight not by our own strength, but because someone else gave us wings, flight that is of heaven, rather than of the earth -- it is glorious and beautiful. There is no greater feeling in the world than flying knowing that the very wind that takes you up is the Breath of the Holy Spirit. Through Him, we can dare to desire, dare to hope, dare to dream, and dare to fly.

A Poem. "Flight."

One of the symbols that God has given me for my life in Christ has consistently been my "wings." I know when I'm soaring in His Joy because my "wings" feel open and free to fly and soar and go places. I love that sense of exhilaration in the Spirit, knowing that I'm led by Him.

All that being said, flying is scary. The image here is not as much about flying, but about standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fly, but waiting for the wind. I can jump, I can take risk, without the Holy Spirit... but if I do so, I will fall and hurt myself.

But if I wait for that Wind... Then I can take that risk, and the most beautiful things can happen.

Once upon a summer sky – in open air I stood by
      a vast expanse of sweeping green
      of trees and horizons yet unseen
With heart wide open and lightly-sealed lips – I stood atop a precipice
      inclining on the Voice that led me there.
 
It seemed so long and I grew cold – I felt as though I had grown old
      and that tree and squirrel were passing my stage
      and the world around me went from age to age
With heart reluctant and frozen lips – I stood atop a precipice
      waiting on the Voice that led me there.
 
Yet soon altogether, with great surprise! – spring awoke and brought the sunrise!
      a light wind tapped along my skin
      and I knew that now was time to dive in
With heart unlocked and smiling lips – I jumped out from my precipice
      falling on the Voice that led me there.
 
Wings spread open, arms stretched wide – my descent quickly turned into a glide
      but without risk can there ever be flight?
      (Like can day exist without the night?)
With heart flying free and laughing lips – I soared beyond the precipice
      flying by the Voice that led me there.
 

(10/24/13)

Fairy Tales.

Earlier today I read the first few sections of "The Light Princess" by George MacDonald, which I hadn't done in a little while. It's such a strange little story about a princess who gets cursed on her christening to have no gravity -- both physically and spiritually. She's completely light -- she floats up to the ceiling and she views everything as a joke.

I love my little collection of George MacDonald's fairy tales. Each of these little stories [except "The Giant's Heart"; I didn't like that one] are wondrous, and floaty, and beautiful, but also deep. For instance, there's this glorious moment, which C.S. Lewis alludes to in his writings, in "The Golden Key," at which Mossy and Tangle see shadows from a land that they cannot see, and they long to go to "the land from whence the shadows fall." Or there's a moment in "The History of Photogen and Nycteris" in which the two future lovers see each other for the first time and do not understand the other's fear of the day or the night.

There's something about a fairy tale that can, in a simple way, express the deep realities of our souls. Last night I was with a group of friends, and we discussed the Disney movies and how some of those early movies (like Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty) rang with deep truth. This is the same way that I felt about The Last Unicorn -- something about that novel rung a deep chord with me, and I still can't quite get over it yet.

MacDonald knew this when he wrote his fairy tales. In his essay, "The Fantastic Imagination," he said:

"If a writer's aim be logical conviction, he must spare no logical pains, not merely to understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an Aeolian harp. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. ... 

... The best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our intellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part of us for whose sake it exists. ..." 

          (George MacDonald, from The Complete Fairy Tales, 10)

I love that. "If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it." And wake that music he does, with such phrases and tunes like:

"He [Mossy] had not gone far before the sun set. But the rainbow only glowed the brighter. For the rainbow of Fairyland is not dependent upon the sun as ours is. The trees welcomed him. The bushes made way for him. The rainbow grew larger and brighter; and at length he found himself within two trees of it. 

It was a grand sight, burning away there in silence, with its gorgeous, its lovely, its delicate colours, each distinct, all combining. He could now see a great deal more of it. It rose high into the blue heavens, but bent so little that he could not tell how high the crown of the arch must reach. It was still only a small portion of a huge bow. ..." 

                        (George MacDonald, "The Golden Key," from Ibid., 121)

It's amazing what a few lines of text can do. You can almost see that heavenly rainbow which hides the Golden Key at its feet. Or, later on in the story, the flying fish that goes to find Mossy; or the shadows which fall from an ethereal land that is better and more joyous than ours.

I find it interesting that I have mentioned fairy tales only very briefly on this blog. In truth, I believe that there is no better vehicle of True Mythology than the fairy tale -- it almost does not need interpretation. (MacDonald himself says the following: "A genuine work of art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will mean. If my drawing, on the other hand, is so far from being a work of art that it needs THIS IS A HORSE written under it, what can it matter that... you... should know what it means?" (Ibid., 7)) The Fairy Tale is glorious because it is a Meta-Mythology. It is a Myth about the Myth. It is an Allegory beyond Allegory.

Bah. It's hard to talk about it, or to express exactly what I mean by that. Hopefully, reader, you get the idea.

And maybe that's why I've only briefly mentioned fairy tales thusfar on this blog. Just like how I only briefly touched on the interpretation of The Last Unicorn. It's deep the way that the Parable of the Soils [some people call it the Parable of the Sower; but in InterVarsity, we call it the Parable of the Soils] is deep -- because it's self-referential. Fairy tales are sublime. They're hard to catch.

Like a Unicorn. You might see them [briefly], and you might recognize them [if your heart is pure], and you might even get to touch them [if they let you]. But you will never ever catch them.

A Poem. "Surprise."

I wrote this one this morning thinking about many different things that the Lord has been doing in my life lately. I had received a prophetic word two or three weeks ago that said that the Lord would be shifting my paradigms and shifting my life -- and He had been whispering to me about "Rain comes down from Heaven // Flowers spring up from the Earth" [ie. seasonal changes] for some time now...

As I thought about that, I remembered something that C.S. Lewis wrote in a letter to Mary Willis Shelburne (see Yours, Jack, 309) about how his wife had sensed Jesus on her shoulder, and how she was worried that she might have some unrepentant sin in her life... but when she turned around to see Him, He had a blessing in His hand and a smile on His face.

Jesus keeps looking at me with this mischievous (but good) smile on His face, and I know that He has, as He told the Lady Julian, a "great goodness" in store. This poem is an expression of that reality -- that we serve a God who loves to bless us and surprise us, both in little and in big ways!

Every morning is a new sunrise
Every day is a new surprise
Whether it is seen by amber skies
or captured within amber eyes

Sometimes I can sense Him behind me
      waiting for me to turn around
and when I do – flinchingly, hesitatingly –
      I see Him there with a smile not a frown
and eyes
which say: “Surprise!” 

I wake up and see the Sun
or when I go to walk or jog or run
Everywhere glorious hiddenness is being revealed
Everywhere beautiful surprises are being unconcealed
 
Sometimes His Spirit comes to me
      and says “I have something to share”
and when I listen – wrestling, afraid –
      I hear Him speak things good, beautiful, and fair
and sighs
which say: “Surprise!”

(10/16/13)

Refuting the Corn-King Jesus. A Thought on Context and Composition.

[Man, I haven't posted here for a long while! That needs to change!]

I was reading the Bible earlier today, and as I read it I couldn't help but think about the strangeness of a certain postmodern theory that, effectively, claims that Jesus is a mythological figure taken from other religions.

I think one of the major flaws with this belief -- that is, the belief that Jesus is a fictional character created to represent a Jewish version of the "Corn King" myth -- lies in how we deal with the context and the composition of the New Testament. (And, by extension, the Old Testament as well.)

The advocates of the "Corn-King Jesus" belief make the following claim: that Jesus, as He is portrayed in the Gospels, is a fictional character, based on a real man, who represents a Jewish interpretation of the Corn-King myth from other religious systems of the day (notably, the Greek Dionysus and the Egyptian Osiris). This belief is not a new belief, either, as it has been noted in comparative mythology [most notably, The Hero with a Thousand Faces].

Before I refute the concept using, as the title suggests, the context and composition of the New Testament, I would like to say [shockingly!] that the adherents of "Corn-King Jesus" actually make a good observation. Like most scientists, philosophers, and theologians, they make great observations but come to poor conclusions from those observations. The similarities between Jesus and other "dying-and-returning-god" myths are uncanny. I would like to note, in particular, the story of Balder the Beautiful from Norse mythology -- how the most beautiful of the gods is killed and slain by the scheming of Loki. Or, for instance, Queztalcoutl, the dying god of the Aztecs who returns with the sun...

(As I've intimated in previous posts, though, I don't believe that Mythology plops up from out of nowhere -- it is developed through the psychology and spiritual encounters of mortal men. Should we be so surprised that man, who was created in the Image of God, has so many images that reflect, albeit impurely, the Nature of God? Or, for instance, should we be so surprised when we believe in spiritual beings and spiritual encounters [both good and evil] that people outside of the Middle East also had spiritual encounters? -- This should be enough to refute the Corn-King Jesus concept... but I have another purpose for this post.)

The thing that bothers me so much, though, about this theory is its core misunderstanding of the context and composition of the New Testament. When we look at the Gospels [Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John], we do not see mythological writing or storytelling. Whether you believe the writers trustworthy or not, or whether they were in the right mind or not, it is evidently clear that the authors of the Gospels wrote those Gospels not as mythological texts, but as historical recordings.

This is generally clear no matter what work of literature we look at. When I read a novel, I know, at the very least, that the author intended it to be read as a novel. Maybe it does have some nonfiction events in there -- or even semi-autobiographical events [for example, Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer stories] -- but the author wrote it in such a genre that I, as the reader, can recognize how I read it.

This is vitally important if we want to understand the proper interpretation of any literary text. You might not believe Luke the Physician when he says: "it seemed good to me to write an orderly account for you... so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught" (Luke 1:3-4). But, at the very least, we can be 100% certain that Luke believed that his readers would receive his text in that way.

There's an apologetic concept used by Josh McDowell that notes, vitally, how most of the early evangelists of the Gospel died for the sake of that Gospel. Mark gets dragged around Alexandria by a rope around his neck; John gets boiled in oil multiple times until the Emperor gives up and places him on Patmos until he dies; Matthew gets slain in Ethiopia. Why would men die for a lie? Why would men die for a fantasy? A false mythology?

My purpose in saying all this is to underscore the following things: the writers of the Gospels at the very least, contextually, wrote their writings in a manner that would be received not as mythology but as history (particularly Luke). These same men faced persecution for writing such a history, which would have been considerably less offensive were it a mythology. Rome had plenty of gods, so the addition of another mythological tradition, even one that claimed supremacy, would have been considerably preferable to a historical account that claimed supremacy.

When we read the Gospels, we read them as History. They don't sound like a mythological story.

That's the Beauty of it.

I might have mentioned this concept in my previous post about The Last Unicorn, but the amazing thing about the Incarnation is this: "The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us." (John 1:14) The Myth, the thing that we've heard whispered about for centuries and millennia, the Promise of God, the very Word of God -- He "becomes flesh." He becomes real. What we have in the Gospels is the strange and miraculous concept: the Corn-King, which we've heard about before, is actually a real, flesh-and-blood Man, and He has power to change us.

That's the Beauty of the Gospels. They are History. They are read as History. Whether or not you believe that what they say is true, you have to admit that they make the claim that they are true. This is not something that you seen in other mythological literature. Those tales say "So they say," or "Thus says the ancients," or "Some believe,"... They never say: "Dionysus was a real man, here, in history." Now, there were people who believed that; but none of the mythological literature tries to claim historicity. Only the Gospels do. Only the Gospels claim [with, I might mention, third-party sources that back them up] that Jesus was a real man, that He made real claims about God and about Life and about Salvation, and, most importantly, that He really did raise from the dead.

And I say all that to point us at something important about textual context -- that is, that the genre and type of literature of any text can point us to, in part, the author's meaning and the proper interpretation of that text. You might not believe that the Gospels are Historical. I do. You might not believe that Jesus was a real Man. I do. You might believe that Luke was making it all up. I don't. But unhesitatingly we must agree that, at the very least, Luke believed that his hearers would believe that his writing was Historical. And that very fact tells us something very important: that Luke was trustworthy [he's a doctor! -- and he's attested of some manner of honor in Paul's epistles as well], that Luke's audience already believed something about Jesus, that Luke's audience would receive what he was saying without having to see what he was talking about. ...

And to me, this refutes the Corn-King Jesus belief. If the Gospel was just a mythological cloak which the Gospel-Writers wrapped around a historical man, then why are the Gospel-Writers' writings so well-received? If, as the Corn-King Jesus folk say, the Resurrection was just a mythological after-addition, why is it written so uncannily... amythological? There's one angel, maybe two. An earthquake. Some dead people come back to life. And yet, the Gospel-Writers just toss those details off on the side. There's no trumpet. There's no explosion. There's no retribution against those who slayed the Savior. In fact (it's so undramatic it's hilarious), the apostles actually don't believe it initially. (And two of them are going to write the Gospels...)

Context matters. The method of composition matters. And you can learn a lot about a text just by looking into such little things!

An Autumn Poem.

'Cause it's getting all autumn-y outside.

Fallen motes of silver crust the open space beyond the grave

flakes of past Septembers
      and flurries of lost Octobers
dancing upon the mouth of sheol
      and swimming over the fountain of life.
Microcosmic celebrations of ages past
combat the macrocosmic mournings of futures gone
      and, in it all, there are leaves –
 
            those sorts of leaves which
            inspiring yet die
            dying yet glow
            glowing yet live again
 
      – a silent memorial of Resurrection,
      an avid watchman of Restoration,
      an eternal keeper of Redemption.
Early snows speak to leaves yet unfallen,
late winter to leaves yet to be
Early autumn speaks to death yet to come,
late fall speaks to life yet unknown.
 
(09/06/13)

A Poem. "Two Dreams." A Tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

This is a response to Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, 50 years later.

Dreams come in two varieties:

            Weak-Wispy dreams,
            and Prophetic-Powerful dreams
Dreams that we reach towards and do not attain
and Dreams that reach toward us,
            that grip us
            and that do not let go.
      Dreams that arrest us
      Dreams that give us Hope
            and Hope does not disappoint
            for God has poured out His Love
            for God is the One
                        who gave us Dreams in the first place
            for God is the One
                        who fulfills the Dreams He has given.

There are Dreams that, like the flower,
            fade and blow away,
and then there are Dreams that
            become more substantial, not ghostly,
            as the Light shines, as the Day dawns,
                        as the Real usurps the false reality
                        of the Unreal,
                        as the kingdoms of the world
                        become the Kingdom of our God and King,
                        as the City coming down from Heaven
                        becomes the shining City on a Hill
                        which was prophetically declared by
                                    the King Himself.

There are Dreams that pass us by
            like cars on the interstate,
            like houses down the road,
and then there are Dreams that
            bring Revelation
            that open our eyes
            that transform our thinking
            that renew our understanding
            that change our world.


There are Dreams that die
and then there are Dreams
            worth dying for.

(Ian Edward Caveny, 08/07/13)

The Myth of the Myth.

Recently I read perhaps one of the most profound works of literature that I have ever laid eyes upon. Considered a classic of the fantasy genre, The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle is, in my thoughts, the perfect fairy tale. It is far more than its title or plot might reveal. The simple of the story is that of a unicorn who journeys to go and find the rest of her kind. Along the way she meets Schmendrick, a failed magician with a great destiny, and Molly Grue, a brusque bandit woman, and they journey together to find the unicorns.

But the brilliance of this novel lies not in its plot, but in its amazing moments of revelation. Throughout the story, there seems to be this idea that the Unicorn (and other Immortal beings) are "more real" than the world around them. For example, when the Unicorn is captured by Madame Fortuna, Schmendrick notes the witch's mistake in capturing two Immortals: "She should have never done it, never meddled with a real harpy, a real unicorn. The truth melts her magic, always..." (The Last Unicorn, 26)

This idea is epitomized in a brilliant discussion between Schmendrick and Molly Grue. Schmendrick, as wizards often do in fantasy novels (see Fizban, &c.), breaks the fourth wall and says:

"...'Haven't you ever been in a fairy tale before? ... The hero has to make a prophecy come true, and the villain is the one who has to stop him -- though in another kind of story, it's more often the other way around. And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth, or he's not a real hero. It's a great relief to find out about Prince Lír. I've been waiting for this tale to turn out a leading man.'  

The unicorn was there as a star is suddenly there, moving a little way ahead of them, a sail in the dark. Molly said, 'If Lír is the hero, what is she?' 

'That's different. Haggard and Lír and Drinn and you and I -- we are in a fairy tale, and must go where it goes. But she is real. She is real.'" 

                                                               (The Last Unicorn, 108-109)

And Schmendrick's statement vastly reinterprets the entire tale. As a reader, we thought we were reading a tale about a unicorn searching for others of her kind. But Schmendrick tells us that the Unicorn isn't a part of the story at all -- she's just gliding through. She's real, and the rest are all just parts and pieces of the story that she's floating into. (And more about her interaction with the real world in a later post.)

 As I read this incredible book, a profound thought came to my mind. What if "the last unicorn" (in the book) is truly The Last Unicorn (the book itself)? What if the entire story is self-referential, and that the very same Unicorn who wanders out of the woods in search of the others is that same story in which she is contained? (Making this tale similar, in one sense, to House of Leaves' self-reference -- for the book, as well as the house, is a labyrinth, holding a monster that might be a Minotaur and might not be a Minotaur within...)

Just like the Unicorn, the book is hidden in plain sight. When she first leaves her woods, the people do not see her, but see a beautiful white mare. Beautiful, but not Immortal. Not "Other." (I would almost use the word "Holy," but only for its sense of "Otherness," not for its sense of "Goodness.") In fact, the people have such a problem in seeing the Unicorn for what she is that the witch actually has to enchant her so people believe that she is a unicorn! Likewise, The Last Unicorn sits on shelves as a beautiful white mare -- -- but I am convinced that should a Schmendrick or Molly Grue pick it up, they will recognize they true Myth of this work.

And that is why this book is fantastic. The plot is good, the setting general fantasy, the characters caricatured, the writing is poetic, but the Myth is profound. In fact, it is likely the most profoundly Mythological (in my sense, see the introduction to this blog) novel that I have ever read. C.S. Lewis praised George MacDonald for being a Myth-Maker, but this novel is perhaps an even truer Myth than Phantases or Lilith, because it is a Myth about Myth. It is the Myth of the Myth as she searches for Myth in the midst of a Fairy Tale, which is a different kind of Myth.

Again, like the Unicorn, this novel is hard to catch and hard to see. It is hard to pin down. I finished reading it two or three weeks ago, and I am just now finding words to write a little bit about it. The Last Unicorn, itself a unicorn, hides in the thicket, runs quite quickly, and is very difficult to hold, tie up, or wrangle.

And... that is okay, actually. That is, perhaps, one of the morals of the story. Haggard appreciates the Myth so much that he locks them all away by brute force in the ocean. In a sense, Haggard is much like the Judge from Blood Meridian, discontent with anything existing outside of his permission. He despises Mystery. But for Myth to be beautiful, it must have Mystery. (C.S. Lewis, again, posits this in his autobiographical work, Surprised by Joy - as does G.K. Chesterton in his chapter about Romance in Heretics.)

If I were to bring a hard exposition down on The Last Unicorn, I would rob the Unicorn of its freedom, capture it with the harsh logic of my Red Bull, and lock it away in the sea where it is not free, it is not beautiful, and, most importantly, it has no power to renew the world. So, I'm alright with this novel being difficult to explain. It is more subtle and more mysterious than that.

My intention here, then, is to open your eyes, should you read it. To allow you, like Schmendrick or Molly Grue, to recognize the Unicorn for what she is, and to accept the Mystery.

A Poem: "Refreshed by Beauty."

I am refreshed through Beauty –
whether the sublime tones of music,
            that liquid art, that flowing creativity!
or through the concrete traces of art,
            though solid, flows
            though firm, moves
            though unchangeable, changes
or, perhaps, the ethereal reaches of the sky
            with its empyreal heights
            and the Sun on its throne,
                        directing all beneath it. 

I am revitalized – brought to life –
as I see my pen form letters
            and letters, words
            and words, phrases
            and phrases, poetry,
                        literature, story, myth

What is the role of the Artist, I wonder?
To capture Beauty, or to set it free?
            To create Beauty, or to organize it?
And how is it that such a thing
can restore my bleeding life
            which drains as I live
            and seeps away – –

Until, again, I am refreshed by Beauty.

 

(Ian Edward Caveny, 08/06/2013)

Totemism and American Politics.

Today, I took a little time out of my day to read another chapter of Claude Lévi-Strauss' The Savage Mind, which I will undoubtedly discuss more in depth at a later date (Mr. Lévi-Strauss says quite a bit about the nature of Myth - in particular, concerning a structural interpretation of Mythology...).

One of the key things that Lévi-Strauss investigates in the book (and, actually, throughout his career as an anthropologist) are the totem relationships of tribal peoples. For those not familiar with totemism, here's a brief survey:

• members of a totem-clan are determined by patri- or matri-lineal relationships
• members of a totem-clan revere a particular animal (or, in some instances, plant or natural) spirit -- as such, they do not eat (or disturb) that particular totem
• members of a totem-clan are forbidden from marrying inside of their totem and from marrying a rival totem-clan
• and, of course, there are systems of religious stories and ritual that are associated uniquely with each totem-clan

(It is not without some value to also add that this whole concept of totemism is what lead Sigmund Freud to develop his concepts of incest and taboo relationships -- which is further developed in his book Totem and Taboo.)

As I look at these totemic systems from tribal peoples, I'm reminded that... well... people are people. The human race, looked at clearly through the lens of history, hasn't really changed as much as our Postmodern world would like to believe. One of the most freeing realizations, actually, has been the fact that human thought has actually not "advanced" in the modern era, but has really simply consisted of the same elements in different forms. Now, instead of animal sacrifice, we appease the gods of commercialism through the sacrifice of abstract concepts, time and money. ... ... But I get ahead of myself.

The thing that I realized was this: Totemism still exists today. Rather than explaining it initially, I will show it:



Freud analyzed the psychological implications of totemism, and Lévi-Strauss looked at the anthropological (and mythological) implications -- I'm going to look at the sociological implications.

Like these two men, I am making one major assumption with this post: that is, that humans look at the world around them and divide it into logical groups. Then, humans will likewise divide themselves into logical groups. I want to make this assumption clear because I do not believe that such partisan division is a value of the Kingdom of God. This post will be making the assumption of an unredeemed humanity -- ie. a divided humanity. Totemism should not exist in a Christian community. The reason why I make this clear should be evident soon enough.

In The Noble Savage, Lévi-Strauss makes the claim that the "primitive" man is just as intellectual as the "civilized" man -- and that his systematic classification is just as (if not more) developed as the Western Europeans' Linnaean taxonomy. This type of classification, which echoes Adam naming the animals, or Solomon describing them, is actually a natural part of human psychology. The education psychologist Jean Piaget discussed at length the way that humans separate and organize things.

In totemism, a group takes those divisible elements and affiliates themselves with it. So, a tribe that is physiologically swift might be the Hare tribe; or a tribe that is renown for its medicine men might be the Owl tribe, or, better yet, the Herb tribe. Upon making that association, the tribe develops ritual and stories that connect them with their totem animal (or plant, &c.) and so forth... Part of this ritual also distinguishes and organizes how one tribe relates with other tribes. So, the Hare might be in an "enemy" relationship with the Owl (who eats hare) and the Panther, but they might be in a "friendly" relationship with the Carrot tribe. Or something like that.

As is true for all anthropology, it would seem logical to say that these types of relationships apply today. Take the school-yard for instance. In the public school (particularly in a small school -- -- in a larger school these groups become more fluid and dynamic), the jocks have a particular relationship with the cheerleaders and a different type of relationship with the preps and a different relationship with the nerds. And each of these "totemic tribes" have their own "totem" [ie. symbolic similarity -- though in the high school these are more abstract concepts than concrete] and their own "rites and rituals" [for example, weight-lifting, for the jocks].

Politics, in particular, create an interesting form of totemism. I got the idea from a section in The Noble Savage in which some French intellectuals were discussing the different between the Bonapartists and the Orleanists. And I realized, with almost disjointed horror, that the whole American political system is an oversimplified view of totemic relationships! The slow, steady elephant and the quick, bullheaded donkey ... How perfect!

There are certain rites and rituals that Democrats and Republicans have -- which is why when the Democrats talk about gun-control, the Republicans respond in rage; or why when the Republicans talk about bringing Creationism into schools, the Democrats shake their heads. Don't get me wrong, I'm not simplifying American politics into some sort of religious system -- -- there are reasons why their ideologies support or don't support certain things. But what I am saying is that the American political system has become a two-tribe totemic system, which refuses relationship with the other totem.

In fact, recently a new totem has emerged -- that is, the Tea Party -- and it shows some sort of relationship with the Elephant, but it bites at the Donkey's heel to make fall over (kinda like the tribe of Dan).

Why does any of this matter? So, our political system seems to reflect "primitive" systems of social organization -- why should I care? (And I hope you do care -- this is a long blog post!) My concern is a simple one: two (or even three) tribe rule is dangerous for a large civilization. It creates a dangerous homogeneity which is necessary for the success of our country -- particularly since we are talking about America. Because of the pressures created by the totemic tribes, it is impossible for a progressive to be pro-life, and it is impossible for a conservative to be for government regulation. This type of "mold-fitting" socialization is dangerous for any society. (This is why I said that totemic systems are not a part of the Kingdom of God -- because the people of God break such homogenizing boundaries. That being said, there are cliques and divisions within the Body of Christ that fall into tribalistic thinking.)

The development of the Snake tribe [the Tea Party], though I disagree with its purpose and onset, shows a need for some "elbow space" in American politics. But it also develops into a disparity of power as well, since the Snake was formed from members of the Elephant [the GOP]. I am not sure how (or if) a power-balance will develop, nor if some sort of loosening of tribal bounds might be discovered -- but I think both are important for the growth and success of our country. [Of course, this is said from a primarily secular position -- -- as a Christian, I say that there are other, more vital and moral and spiritual things, necessary for our country.]

Again, there's a danger in becoming initiated into one of these "tribes," because they influence many parts of their members' lives. A structural reorganization, or, ideally, a freedom from totemism, are important steps for us as Americans. But, unfortunately, that is an unlikely reality.