Deconstructing Childhood

I came across a copy of R.M. Ballantyne's The Coral Island the other day. It was one of my favorite stories as a child, so I thought I'd re-read it. I remember getting a copy as a prize when I was in primary school. Before beginning, I tried to recall the story. Given that I probably last read it over 40 years ago, I did pretty well! First published in 1857, the story features three young English boys who are shipwrecked on a tropical island, somewhere in the South Seas. They have adventures exploring their island; they witness some violent behavior by indigenous people who turn out to be cannibals; and the main character, Ralph Rover, is caught and taken away by pirates. I still remember being entranced by the descriptions of the island, and of the underwater cave that was to become their sanctuary. I even remembered what happened to the old cat they found, which had been left behind by a long dead castaway. It's quite a story, in the glorious tradition of "ripping yarns' much loved by bored schoolboys.

What I did not remember was the racism. Coral Island is not an easy book to read nowadays. There is an imperialism about the tale which may have been acceptable in the days of empire, but today it is simply embarrassing. For example, shortly after arriving on the island, the boys debate how to get home. One solution they consider is to find local people and get involved in the running of their tribe. Being white, they reason, they will naturally rise into positions of leadership and will soon be able to dictate affairs to their advantage. The natives will be only too willing to help them, recognizing them as natural rulers. What nonsense! Ballantyne's ripping yarn is full of stereotypes and false value judgments that would make even the most uninformed person squirm. No school would think of giving it as a prize today; it's probably not in many school libraries, except as an example of racist prose.

And yet, there are other assumptions in the book with which I heartily agree. The boys are Christians. They count the days so as not to work on Sunday. Ralph tries to lead a repentant pirate to faith, dredging up Bible verses to bring comfort and hope to the dying man. Towards the end of the book, a native Christian leader is shown to be an honest, industrious, and brave man. The advantages of the Christian life are stressed, repeatedly. When the horrors of 'savagery' are contrasted to the effects of Christianity, there is no doubt in Ralph's mind that the islanders need to accept his religion. In place of violence and falsehood, Christianity brings peace and honesty. To Ralph, there is no doubt that religion is a civilizing influence, and that it is to be commended.

Modern secular readers of Ballantyne's story will doubtless reject his religious views along with his racism. Like others, they will probably talk about the 'noble savage' whose pristine way of life was corrupted by the moralistic views of Westerners intent only on raping the resources of the land. In fact, William Golding's book Lord of the Flies was written (in 1954) as a direct attack upon the themes of The Coral Island. In it, Golding's shipwrecked Europeans become the savages, destroying the paradise they have found as they destroy one another. But this, too, is nonsense. There was no paradise. Some South Sea Islanders were cannibals; many lived in poverty throughout lives that were "nasty, brutish and short." If the eradication of violence is the standard, then Christianity did have a profound influence for good. It's all very well for modern historians to object to the activities of the missionaries as defacers of indigenous culture, but to do so is to ignore the bravery of those who, very often, gave their lives for the furtherance of the Gospel and the release of the oppressed. And, while we must accept that the worldview of some of those Victorian pioneers may have been tarnished by racism, we are not obliged to judge their intentions as totally flawed. Perhaps more to the point, if their perceptions were clouded by their assumptions, is it not true that ours are also, as are those of the commentators who now sit in judgment upon them?

A broader view of the importance of missionary work will reject cultural imperialism, but it should surely emphasize the centrality of the saving work of Christ for all people. When we give our faith away, we should be careful not to wrap it in cultural assumptions. That was Ballantyne's mistake - he equated the vision and growth of Empire with the Great Commission. For the islanders to become 'civilized' they had to become both Christian and, well, British. Their huts had to be whitewashed and set in rows; their gardens had to be well-tended. He assumed that Christianity would make them behave like Westerners. He was wrong. But we need not to throw out his assertions of the benefits of Christianity, just because he failed to see that Samoan Christianity need not look like that practiced in Southend or Suffolk.

I wonder, sometimes, whether denominational officials do not continue to make the same mistakes. Will future generations re-read the pronouncements of Louisville and shudder at the arrogance and the imperialism that insists that our view is always right? We all wear blinders. We all have assumptions that we find it difficult to discern. That's why we must always bring ourselves, our worldview, and our society into the blinding light of Christ.

Download a free copy of The Coral Island at http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/646

Change and Decay

There's an interesting article in today's Houston Chronicle. More than twenty auto dealerships have gone bankrupt in the Houston area during the recent downturn in the economy. Most of the lots are still vacant. They are very difficult to sell. So, gone are the tacky trimmings, the metallic ribbons and the inflatable gorillas. Gone, also, are the oceans of steel and polished chrome. Instead, formerly mammoth stores like Bill Heard Chevrolet are home to drifters and drug dealers; grass pushes up between the cracks on acres of concrete.

Realtors have been trying to sell expensive frontage to commercial customers, but no one is biting. Larger areas, further away from the roads, would be ideal for new hotel developments, but there are many hotels in Houston at less than full occupancy, so no one is building new ones. The huge, 40 acre site in Hempstead, formerly home to Lawrence Marshall Chevrolet ("We clobber big city prices") is 90% unoccupied. Only one small parcel has been taken over by a country store, which moved out from the town center. The remainder is a stark reminder of what was, once, the largest volume Chevy truck dealer in the nation.

What is so upsetting about empty car dealerships? Obviously, they can quickly become an eyesore, and they do attract crime. Many of the vacant dealerships have been stripped bare. But the problem is deeper than appearance. Cars represent something ingrained in the American psyche. They represent freedom, the mobility we all need to succeed in our fast paced world. An empty car lot seems to spell failure, not only for an individual entrepreneur, but for the entrepreneurial culture. An abandoned car lot seems to say "Our culture has failed. Capitalism has failed. No more Chevys by the levy. No more American pie."

So, what do abandoned churches say? That God has left the room? That Christianity no longer has a place in our modern society? And where are the articles bemoaning the loss of something precious in our culture? Or, do we value Chevrolets more than the Savior?

The Maytrees

I've always enjoyed Annie Dillard's writing. I read "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" in the late Seventies. She's an intelligent and interesting writer (the two do not always go together), even if, sometimes, she is a little arcane. Frankly, there are passages in The Maytrees over which I simply shook my head. It's not just that the terminology is alien - I can cope with that, I just ignore it, as I do when reading from Patrick O'Brian's smorgasbord of seventeenth century life at sea - it's more that Dillard piles up language in heaps until the sense is smothered. It's still beautiful, but in spite of the words, not because of them. She also has a tendency to tell you what she has been reading, dropping names like a gate-crasher at a party of the rich and famous. Then, suddenly, in the midst of some great debate, usually going on in a character's head, a snatch of quirky prose or a seeemingly random idea catches you unaware. At one point Lou, the main female character is discussing religion with herself. She asks herself why she had never bothered to become a Buddhist. her answer, "High blood pressure. Have you seen how fat Buddha is?" Humor saves Dillard on a number of occasions, when she is in danger of becoming unbearably high-brow, one might almost say 'pompous.' But it doesn't always save her.

The Maytrees is the story of a man and a woman, residents of Cape Cod in the years following the Second World War, who fall for one another. Fireworks follow. The man, Toby, is a poet-cum-housemover. The woman, Lou, doesn't do very much at all, but she paints the sea-shore every now and then. They are blissfully happy, reading 300 books a year, between them. Then Toby displays the stupidity of his sex. He runs off with another woman. For twenty years he avoids his old hometown, his wife and son, until events conspire to send him home. There are two death scenes towards the end of the book that are beautifully written. In both, raw realism is counterbalanced by mature reflection. The book is worth reading, if only for these passages. There is much to admire in Annie Dillard's writing.

And yet, I regret that she did not allow any of her characters to speak of faith, or of the wonder of creation. Their's is a flat land, populated only by thought, albeit profound. In a brief discussion of religion, Lou dismisses Christianity with disdain (and not a little prejudice). Later in the story, a break appears in the monolithic modernism. It is noted that the later Wittgenstein moves beyond dull empiricism to the neglected handmaiden of philosophy - metaphysics. But no sooner is the door opened than it is slammed shut. No room here for contemplating the divine. The legends of the Mayans and of the Aleuts may illustrate the circumstances of their broken lives, but there is no room for a Hebrew.

It makes me wonder, is this deliberate? Is Annie Dillard simply demonstrating the prejudice of the cultural elite, looking everywhere for meaning except to Christianity? Or, is she hoping that we will notice the omission, and go looking for ourselves? I'd like to think the latter, though I'm not altogether sure. And if this is what she is about, then she may need to plant more obvious signposts along the way.

The Maytrees is a good story, and it is (mostly) beautifully written; but if it points, at all, to a solution to the meaninglessness and emptiness of the lives she portrays, then it does so only by silence, and that is seldom enough.

Marx Gospel

Here's an interesting snippet from Justin Phillips' book C.S. Lewis In a Time of War which traces the development of religious broadcasting on the BBC during World War Two. Lewis was representative of a new breed of commentator developed by the BBC, in a deliberate move away from simply broadcasting worship services. As a lay person, he was specifically charged with presenting an apologia for the faith in terms that ordinary people could understand.
The BBC had been formed with the Christian faith as one of its core values. John Reith, the creator of the Corporation, was a deeply religious man who saw radio as a civilizing force in Britain. In the entrance hall to Broadcasting House, in London, an inscription (translated from the Latin) reads:

This Temple of the Arts and Muses is dedicated to Almighty God by the first Governors of Broadcasting in the year 1931, Sir John Reith being Director-General. It is their prayer that good seed sown may bring forth a good harvest and that the people, inclining their ear to whatsoever things are beautiful and honest and of good report, may tread the path of wisdom and uprightness.

At the rear of the entrance hall the biblical metaphor implicit in the dedication is made explicit in a magnificent sculpture called The Sower, by Eric Gill. It is the Word of God that is to be 'broad cast.' It's purpose is to improve those who listen.



So, here's the surprise - only one third of the listening public had any real interest in hearing religious themes on the radio. One third approved of Christian influence in broadcasting; one third were uninterested; one third were antagonistic.
Younger Evangelicals today often speak as though the middle of the twentieth century was some kind of heaven on earth, and that the vast majority of people were sympathetic to the Christian faith. It seems that the rot began far earlier than many have realized. Here's one other interesting piece of evidence: it was ascertained that, of one group of men entering the British army, only 23 percent knew the meaning of Easter. "One bright youth," writes Phillips, "thought Mark's gospel was written by Karl Marx, author of Das Kapital."



So, perhaps things were not as rosy in the 1930's as we have imagined. Of course, they could have been worse. The young man could have thought that Mark's gospel was written by this guy.

Death of a Denomination Part 1

A few weeks ago, when we were back in England, my mother gave me a copy of 'Reform', the national magazine of the United Reformed Church, my old denomination. It disturbed me no end. Over the next couple of weeks I'd like to extract a few sections from the magazine and discuss how things seem to have changed.

First, a word of background. The United Reformed Church is a union of Congregationalists and Presbyterians. I remember watching the service of union in the 1970's on a television at the front of the church I grew up in (very daring at that time - quite an innovation). It was never a big denomination, but it represented the historic Reformed witness in England and Wales (it has since united with Scottish Congregationalists, so now has a presence north of the border). The URC came into existence during the rising tide of ecumenism that swept British church life in the 60's and 70's. The expressed aim of the denomination was the visible unity of the church. Although its leaders had drunk deeply at the wells of Protestant liberalism, the church was still fairly orthodox. Many of the little churches and chapels that dotted the landscape were actually quite evangelical. They were the inheritors of Victorian non-conformity: decent people who loved their church and were not afraid to sing, with gusto, the hymns of Wesley and Watts. Some of those places of worship had been in existence since the expulsion of Puritan clergy from the Church of England in 1666. I remember preaching in a thatched chapel in one of the villages near Cambridge, in the early 1980's. The heritage of faith within those walls was almost tangible. Simple faith bowed its head before the mystery of the incarnation; the Bible was handled with reverence; Christ was glorified.

Increasingly, however, over the years, the leadership of the denomination became more and more liberal. In my experience, the local churches remained traditional. But at the national level, decisions were taken that moved the church more in the direction of the United Church of Christ in the United States. In fact, looking at denominational publications nowadays, the influence of the UCC is obvious. There has been a subtle reversal of accepted values. Justice issues and environmentalism seem to have taken the place of the proclamation of salvation.

In her editorial in the May 2009 issue of 'Reform', Kay Parris tells the story of a visiting preacher coming to her local URC. Apparently, the man did not understand the culture or theology of this local church. He spoke up against evolution, the "gay lobby", and the "Muslim lobby". He congratulated them for standing up for what they believed in.

One man stood up and, with his teenage daughter, left the building. Others remained, "paralyzed by a blend of horrified fascination, social conditioning and the knowledge that the respected member who had invited this man to our church had done so in good faith." After the service, no one shook his hand or thanked him for his message. Parris was appalled by what she had heard. The man's attitudes, she said, could explain why people might want to annul their baptism or refuse a visit by a hospital chaplain. "Surely a progressive denomination like the URC needs to take opportunities to explain publicly what it is not, as an essential aspect of promoting what it is."

Frankly, I'm appalled, not by the visiting preacher but by the reception he received. When did the URC announce that it is a progressive denomination? Who made the announcement? When did the inheritors of a muscular faith decide to become limp-wristed? Has the lamp-stand been removed? And what do we learn from these changes about what may lay in the future for the Presbyterian Church (USA)?

From Darkness Deliver Us

I remember Justin Webb as a fresh-faced young reporter with a slight lisp. An interesting, well-educated, and articulate man, Webb is employed as a special correspondent by that most venerable of institutions, the British Broadcasting Corporation.

For the last eight years, Justin Webb has been the BBC's North America editor, based in Washington, D.C. Over the summer he is due to return to the United Kingdom to take up a new appointment. Last weekend, on Radio 4, Webb reflected upon his time in the United States, and upon his imminent return to South London, in a broadcast entitled "Checking out of 'Hotel America.'" His words were subsequently posted on the BBC's website (see below).

It's clear that Webb has developed a great affection for the United States, (even though he has to pretend that no one ever lived in his home in order to sell it, and even though many Americans don't understand his humor). Webb admires the unbounded optimism of the American people, and the ability to change one's circumstances. It's not true that America is the only place in the world where a young girl in a Bronx housing project can dream of a career in the Law and end up on the Supreme Court, but that kind of transformation does seem more likely in the US. There is still a 'can do' attitude in America that is, frankly, refreshing to those of us who grew up with the social stratification of Old Europe. Webb admires that attitude. So do I. Webb's young daughter has already announced that, when she is old enough, she's moving back!

Social mobility, though, according to Webb, needs the dark underside of American culture because people need something from which to escape. Without the stark awfulness of some aspects of American life the dream would cease to exist. Webb witnessed the dark side on a trip to South Carolina, to an area be-devilled by tattoo parlors and pawn shops, gun stores and the Piggly-Wiggly (which, he says, "smells almost as odd as it sounds.") For Webb the downside of America is its ugliness - Doric columns made of cheap concrete, "encroaching into palm forests with no hint of apology." It is also to be seen in the hypocritical, small-minded, intellectual ugliness of American religion.

While in South Carolina, Webb met Governor Mark Sanford, with whom he was singularly unimpressed.

According to Webb, Sanford is "another quintessentially American phenomenon. A politician mired in Bible-laced hypocricy." Sanford, a conservative Republican who lived in some sort of Christian felowship house in Washington, disappeared earlier this year. He was in Argentina conducting an affair with a young lady while pretending to be hiking in Appalachia. Some of his trips to that country were, allegedly, paid for by the tax payers of South Carolina.

Exhibit two for Justin Webb is Kara Neumann from Wisconsin, an eleven year old girl suffering from type-one diabetes who, when she was diagnosed with an auto-immune condition, was not taken to the dosctor but to the preacher. Instead of medicine the little girl received prayer. She died. Quite rightly, Webb deplores the unnecessary suffering and loss of life. However, his conclusion extends well beyond a single case. He declares that he also deplores "the Stone Age superstition that stalks the richest and most technologically advanced nation on earth."

It's a shame that Webb's journalistic objectivity (trumpeted by the BBC but so little in evidence in recent years) does not allow him to see the vast amount of social welfare undertaken by the church, the millions of volunteer hours, or the generosity in response to disaster that regularly dwarfs the efforts of the Federal government. Webb plays the old trick - he picks up on isolated incidents and draws conclusions out of all proportion to the evidence. Sanford is a hypocrite, therefore all Christians are hypocrites. Kara Neumann's family does not understand that modern medicine is a gift from God, and that science and faith are not incompatible alternatives, therefore all Christians are mired in ignorance, only one step above the dark ages.

Of course it is nonsense. It is cultural arrogance. It is also poor journalism. Could it not possibly be that there is a link between the social mobility of American society at its best, and a theology that understands us all to have been made in the image of God? And could it not be, also, that as Justin Webb returns to secular England he will encounter a darkness far greater than that to be found in the salt marshes of South Carolina?

Justin Webb's article can be found at:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/8176448.stm

Taking Care of Business

I have been moved, this weekend, by a quotation from Brother Roger of Taize.

This morning during the common prayer I suddenly became aware of the quality of my brothers and am moved to the depths of my heart. They give their life - all their life. They pay dearly for the price of their commitment. I know that better than any. Then I can no longer say if my admiration is for my brothers or for Christ who has set His mark on them.

One of the side effects of the current recession is a certain harshness that has crept into relationships, especially in business settings. Talking to people in the community, I find that self-preservation has become the highest good for many people. Management has become so besotted with a drive towards efficiency (or the need to raise capital to stave off bancruptcy) that the human cost of redundancy has been forgotten. To an extent, this is understandable. If businesses are to survive they must make a profit, of course. But I do wish that managers would learn not to say that they are "trimming the fat" when they are laying people off. From what I understand, these decisions are often arbitrary. More importantly, they deny the dignity to their fellow-workers that we all deserve as creatures made in the image of God. I have heard horror stories of redundancies caused, not by economic necessity, but as a result of petty vendettas.

Servant-leadership, as modelled by Brother Roger, is a far more attractive option. As Christians, it is not our business to "lord it over one another" (Matthew 20:25 ) but to follow the example of the One who came not to be served but to serve, and to lay down His life as a ransom for many (Mark 10:45).

So, my prayer is that I will see the dedication of those who give themselves so freely and generously for the work of the church, as precious gifts upon whom Christ Himself has set His mark. It's far too easy for the culture of the business world to seep over into the administration of the church. I think we need to be diligent and business-like in our organization, but I also think that we need to remember that we are a community, not a company. We need to be intentional about building a culture of respect.

On August 16 2005, Brother Roger was fatally stabbed by a mentally ill woman during the evening prayer service in Taizé.

Angels in the Gloom

Anne Perry's book, bearing this title, is the third in her series following the Reavley family during the First World War. The main character is Captain Joseph Reavley, a chaplain who has received the Military Cross for bravery in rescuing the wounded at Ypres. He is sent home to recouperate, following an injury, and there becomes embroiled in scullduggery concerning a secret naval weapon that could turn the tide of war. Perry's presentation of the characters is largely sympathetic. It makes a pleasant change to come across a representation of a 'man of the cloth' which is not horribly caricatured. Unfortunately, she reverts to type in her description of Kerr, the village vicar, who is a sorry excuse for a clergyman - weak, bumbling, and totally ineffectual. It's easy to see, also, that Perry has a horror of warfare. She does not glorify bloodshed, as do so many others. Neither does she minimise the courage of the common soldier.

What suprises me about the story is the theological hinge concerning the existence of God. Kerr, who has never been anywhere near the Front, cracks under the strain of comforting those who have lost loved ones. He finds himself with nothing to say, beyond inappropriate platitudes about King, Country, and Glory. Reavely, on the other hand, goes as far to accept, on at least two occasions, that he is not sure about the existence of God. But then he goes on to state his rationale: It is not about us. When we bring comfort to the bereaved we are not to think about our doubts, but their needs.

In the end, though he may entertain reservations about whether or not God is there, or interested in the affairs of men, Reavley contends that he is absolutely sure of this: that the things for which Christ stood, like honor and truth and love, are true for all times.

I've never actually heard anyone expound this doctrine; perhaps it was more prevalent in an age which actually knew what Christ stood for. It sounds a little like the religionless Christianity that gained some adherents in the 1960's when, building on the works of Friedrich Neitzsche, Thomas Altizer and others wrote about "Christian Atheism." Altizer taught that it is no longer possible to believe in a transcendent god, but that the spirit of Christ is immanent wherever his people gather. In this way, we may continue to revere Christ, even without God.

(By the way, don't you just love the duct tape holding this guy's raincoat together?)

Here's the problem - and not just for Captain Reavley - Christ believed in God, indeed He understood Himself to be the only begotten Son of the Father. When the disciples came asking who He was He accepted Peter's belief, that He was the Christ, the son of the living God; neither did He rebuke Thomas who greeted his risen Savior as "My Lord and my God."

Maybe Anne Perry does not accept the divinity of Christ; apparently she is a Mormon. But even this does not solve the problem. Even if Christ was not "the image of the invisible God," that same God was still His primary point of reference. Jesus of Nazareth was who He was because of how He understood His relationship with His Heavenly Father. So, to take concepts like honor and truth and love, and to ascribe them to a godless Jesus, is do strip them of meaning. What does 'love' mean without the narrative of redemption? We can give the word any meaning we choose, but we cannot force our interpretation upon Jesus. And if we attempt to divorce elements of His teaching from His understanding of the nature of God, we do violence to the Gospel.

Is there a warning there for today's church? When our understanding of the Christian faith is more anthropological then theological, then it is fundamentally flawed.

Remember the Sabbath Day

It's hard not to feel good for Aaron and Joe Crabtree, two little boys who have been signed by Blackburn Rovers (world's greatest football team etc. etc.) Just eight and seven years old, the brothers were spotted training with a junior team in the North West of England. Despite the fact that their father is a Manchester United supporter, the boys were persuaded to sign up for Rovers. They will wear the blue and white halves and hope against hope to stay the course long enough to play for the famous old club. I hope to read about Aaron playing a creative role in midfield, and his brother knocking in the goals as Blackburn take the Premier league by storm in about 2025.

However, I can't help noticing that, since signing, they will be required to join their teammates twice a week, and that they will play other academies on Sunday mornings. Now, I know that Christian Education does not need to be on Sunday mornings, and that worship can be held at other times, but I suspect that these little boys, and thousands like them, will grow up not knowing anything about the Gospel.

When I look back at the rich benefits that I enjoyed as a child as a result of attending church and Sunday School, and when I think about how valuable the experience has been for my own children, I can't help but feel sad for Aaron and Joe. You can learn a lot through sports. Playing on a team helps to develop some of the lifeskills that every child needs to be successful in life. But what about those issues that sport cannot address? Can soccer help when Grandma is taken deathly ill? Can Little League teach a relationship with God?

As the tide of secularism rises, we can no longer assume that the children of our community possess even the most basic knowledge of the Christian faith. The Bible stories and themes that permeate literature are completely unknown. Some time ago, during a pre-marriage counselling session, I made a reference to the story of David and Goliath. The bride-to-be had no idea what I was talking about. Last year I had the privilege of leading to Christ a young person who had never heard the word 'gospel.' And when I asked some cub scouts to name the disciples I got blank stares, until one urchin said "Moses?"

Now, I know that a relationship with God is not just about head-knowledge, but it must contain some knowledge, surely? "God" is an empty concept unless it is informed by the grand narrative of salvation. Either that, or "God" is understood through the lens of folk-religion, a mosaic of meaning that may entertain, but cannot save.

I doubt that the Christian Church will be successful in moving society back to such reverence for Sunday that the day (or at least the morning) will be reserved for worship and Christian Education. However, I do think that Christian parents should take the lead in speaking out against scheduling that assumes that worship is not a high priority. I think it also means that churches will need to be creative in offering quality educational opportunities at a variety of different times. Perhaps parents will also have to resume primary responsibility for teaching their children the fundamentals of the faith. Otherwise, if we are not careful, all we shall be raising will be a generation of extraordinarily healthy pagans.

Read about Aaron and Joe in the Manchester Evening News http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/s/1112684__football_brothers_do_the_double

The Right Attitude to Rain

I'm plodding my way through The Right Attitude to Rain, the third in the Sunday Philosophy Club series of novels by Alexander McCall Smith. 'Plodding' is the right word. Some of the prose makes Jane Austen look like a speed-writer. Actually, there are some parallels between the two authors, in that both deal extensively with social convention. Austen always has her tongue in her cheek, but she is still fundamentally positive. Although her characters can be painfully bound (for example, many of her young females seem to spend their lives playing the piano-forte, doing needlework, and waiting for Mr. Right), there's usually some point at which convention works in their favor. Austen challenges prejudice, but she does so with a positive attitude towards convention. It's not convention itself which she finds fault with, just the misappropriation of convention as a means of oppression (okay - usually by men). Austen wants the system to work. Fundamentally, she is a very moral writer; there is nothing of the anarchist in her.


McCall Smith, on the other hand, seems to have a destructive view of convention. His main character, Isabel Dalhousie, claims to be an empiricist, but she is nothing of the sort. She is supposed to be the editor of something called The Review of Applied Ethics. The book contains a number of discussions of ethical problems, usually when Isabel seems to be daydreaming. But the content of these discussions is generally superficial. It feels like she is playing at popular philosophy, as a rank amateur, instead of studying it as a professional.
What is particularly grating is Smith's habit of giving Isabel a hectoring high moral tone in all manner of situations, except when it comes to sexual ethics. It's like reading about a Calvinist Sunday School teacher from the Highlands, who is mortified by an accidental untruth, but who has no qualms about jumping into bed with her niece's ex-boyfriend. The almost total absence of Christian reference is startling, given the context. Isabel lives a very pleasant life in a beautiful, Georgian city (Edinburgh), but she never notices the churches. They have no effect upon her life. Her worldview is drawn from an environment which is not just alien to the Gospel, it is antithetical. The streets she walks along are named after the saints, but all other traces of a common faith are gone.


I don't find Isabel particularly believable. Her grasp of philosophy is too shallow to enable her to be the editor of a prestigious journal. But I do wonder whether she is not more representative of modern Scotland than many of us would care to admit. Just over a hundred years ago, a visiting American evangelist was asked to address an assembly of public school children. During his message he asked, rhetorically, "What is prayer?" and was amazed when the entire school stood and recited the answer to that question as it is formed in the Shorter Catechism. His astonished response was to sugest that they should all thank God for the privilege of having been born in Scotland. Today, the Calvinism that seemed so engrained in the Scottish character is ebbing like Arnold's tide of faith. It leaves a generation of Isabels without the moral compass that could guide them around the rocks of life and the shoals of mortality.
At one point, Isabel meets a lady from whom she wishes to purchase a flat (an apartment). The woman, Florence, is an ex-school teacher. She tells a story (which doesn't really fit into the plot) of a young boy with terminal cancer whom she had taught, and to whom she could offer no hope. Only the school chaplain had been able to reach the boy, because his creed had compelled him to love. Florence tells Isabel that she has tried, but that she cannot believe in God; and yet she longs for a faith that would enable her to share hope. The best that Isabel can do is to point out that she has known athiests who have been capable of expressing love. It's a poor substitute. Either Isabel does not understand the spiritual impulse, or she does not want to understand. So she goes back to her daydreaming and her poetry. Her life is rich, but she is unutterably impoverished. Which just goes to show that the mission field is not restricted to unpronouncable corners of the world; it is also next door; it drinks chardonnay and reads W.H. Auden, but without Christ it is equally lost.

Gods, Temples, and Blood

"Why are we here? (said Camaban). We know that the gods made us, but why? Why do we make things? You make a bow - to kill. You make a pot - to hold things. You make a brooch - to fasten a cloak. So we were made for a purpose, but what was that purpose?" He waited for an answer but neither Haragg nor Saban spoke. "And why are we flawed?" Camaban asked. "Would you make a bow that was weak? Or a pot that was cracked? We were not made flawed! The gods would not have made us flawed any more than a potter would make a bowl that was cracked or a smith would make a knife that was blunt, yet we are sick, we are maimed and we are twisted. The gods made us perfect and, and we are flawed. Why?" He paused before offering the answer: "Because we offended Slaol (the Sun god)."

You don't expect to find a statement of Christian anthropology in a secular novel, least of all in one set in the second millennium BC, but that's exactly what you get in Bernard Cornwell's Stonehenge.

I've read quite a few of Cornwell's novels, particularly from the Sharpe series, dealing with the Napoleonic wars, and the Warlord Chronicles, set in England in the early Middle Ages. I've yet to delve into the Starbuck Chronicles, which tell the story of the American Civil War. An Englishman, now living on Cape Cod, Massachusetts with his American wife, Cornwell is a natural storyteller with a fine eye for detail and a flair for the description of battle. There are very few references to Christianity in his novels. Rifleman Richard Sharpe, for example, seems to have been dragged up without any thought of God. Some of the villains, such as Sergeant Hawkswill, use god-fearing language, but their lives belie their words. It's only in Cornwell's later books (ironically, dealing with Sharpe's early career) that one encounters a sympathetic presentation of devout Scottish Highlanders praying the psalms before marching fearlessly into battle. Sharpe's early mentor in India, though a somewhat dour Presbyterian, is at least a man of great personal integrity. Then, out of the blue, in Stonehenge, we find a passage that is almost Calvinist.



Admittedly Camaban, the sorcerer, who speaks the words I have quoted, turns out to be as crazy as a loon, but that doesn't make his assessment false. Camaban, who was almost offered as a human sacrifice as a child, turns out to be flawed himself. He is not averse to murdering his older brother, or to stealing his younger brother's wife. This merely confirms his own hypothesis. For most of the characters in Stonehenge, life is nasty, brutish, and short.

Yet the search for truth remains. God is not to be found in the the cycle of the seasons, or the phases of the moon, or the progression of the sun. Though a blue-stone be brought from farthest Wales, or a cap-stone be set in place, four times the height of a man, these exertions do not bring Camaban closer to God. The construction of Stonehenge merely symbolizes the spritual quest, the striving for the divine that seems so much a part of the human psyche. Perhaps, in his novels, Cornwell also participates in the quest.

On his website, Cornwell confesses that he was raised, in East Anglia, within a Christian sect known as the Peculiar People, (a phrase taken from I Peter 2:9).

At some point he must have rebelled against their strict and regimented way of life. I have no idea what his religious affiliation is today, if any; but his novels still contain echoes of the homesickness of the soul, which is our longing for God.

Camaban has the wrong solution. A temple will not bring a god to earth, no matter how grand. Neither will the Ruler of the universe be impressed by the shedding of human blood. But his analysis has the ring of truth. We were made for a purpose; but we are flawed. We have offended against God's desire and design. Recognizing, somehow, that we were made to be worshippers, we have raised our monuments to the sky, but they have not reached to heaven.

The genius of Christianity is not just its anthropology, its understanding of the fallen nature of humanity, it is the unique claim that heaven has come to earth. Christ was not drawn down by our blood-offerings, but by our misery; and it is by His sacrifice that we are healed.

The Road

A man and his son travel a long-abandoned Road to an uncertain destination, in search of a salvation that is, at the same time, both remembered and the object of their desires, both past and future. They journey through a nightmare, apocalyptic landscape, the result of a blinding flash, and half-forgotten low concussions in the night.

Like Christian, in Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, the travelers find the road to be rife with danger. Death lurks around every corner, watches from a distance, stalks them like prey. In a time beyond mutual annihilation, where only a few survive, where society has collapsed into anarchy, and where the only sustenance is to be scavenged from the ruins of the past, the man and his son travel a Road that is absolutely without hope.

Cormac McCarthy's The Road is a simple story, at times lyrical, almost poetic in tone, but harsh and graphic in content. McCarthy, searching for foundational truth in a world that increasingly values style over substance, scours the earth and returns to the primal void. Civilization is gone, and with it the restraints that make us able to co-exist. It remains to be seen whether, in this stark vision, anything of value remains.

Never named, the man and his son descend by foot from the mountainous north country, fearing the approaching winter. They follow the remains of the Road, down through the barren countryside where nothing lives, where every memory is painful, and even the snow is ashen. Along the Road they encounter men-become-animals, cannibals who feed upon their own. Death, and the detritus of a civilization destroyed by nuclear war, accompanies their every step. Even the landscape is devoid of life. Nothing grows. The shore of the sullen, brooding sea is lined with the bones of a million fish. The earth is dead. Those who, somehow escaped the holocaust shall surely not survive. God is not in His heaven; all is not right with the world.


Towards the end of this grim tale a nameless woman embraces the boy. She talks to him of God. Yet when the boy tries to talk to God, he finds himself speaking to his father, now dead. The woman tells him that God cannot be dead because their breath is the breath of God. But on a Road without hope, where every painful breath spreads a mist of blood, can one really speak of God?

On the Road the man and his son, "each the others world entire," are sustained by love. That is a noble vision, but it is not enough. There is no grand narrative behind the tale. There is no destination towards which the Road leads. It leads nowhere. Time and truth have lost all meaning. Philosophy and theology, always uneasy bedfellows, lie together, abandoned in a ruined library. Nothing is of value that cannot be eaten. Man has descended to his most basic instincts - food, shelter, fire. Woman has taken her own life in despair. Survival trumps civilization. Godless and friendless, without a future worth striving to attain, the last human beings slouch, angry yet resigned, towards oblivion.

Meanwhile, in a much older story, Christian travels a road that has a destination, an End.

Christian knows where he began, and why he became a pilgrim, and he trusts that the path he takes will lead him home. At his destination, having endured trials and temptations along the way, and having escaped from perils that threatened to destroy him, Christian finds the peace for which he longed - the blessing of peace with God. For him, the pilgrimage of the Christian life is a journey with purpose, and every step is filled with hope.


Both stories assess the human condition. Both find value in sacrificial love. But one story ends with shattered lungs and a dirty blanket as a shroud; the other story finds meaning in an empty cross and a risen Savior. Christ, the goal of all our journeying, is the embodiment of our hope. In a world grown gray, devoid of meaning, He is The Road: the Way, the Truth, the Life.

A Song from "The Pilgrim's Progress"

"Confessed that they were strangers
and pilgrims on the earth."
~ Hebrews 11:13 ~

ho would true valour see,
Let him come hither;
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather.
There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent,
To be a pilgrim.


Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright,
He'll with a giant fight,
But he will have a right
To be a pilgrim.


Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend,
Can daunt his spirit:
He knows, he at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies fly away,
He'll fear not what men say,
He'll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim.

John Bunyan

The Smell of Sawdust

I'm coming to appreciate the helpful and urbane writings of Richard Mouw, President of Fuller Seminary. I met Richard Mouw at the General Assembly in 2006. Since then I've read several of his books. Last week I picked up "The Smell of Sawdust," which bears the subtitle 'What Evangelicals Can Learn from Their Fundamentalist Heritage.' This well-written little book, with many autobiographical details, pays tribute to the Fundamentalism in which Mouw was raised.
During the Fundamentalist/Modernist controversy of the early decades of the twentieth century, those who held to a traditional, orthodox form of Protestant Christianity rallied around five fundamentals:
- the Virgin Birth of Jesus;
- His full divinity;
- the blood sacrifice of His atoning work;
- the bodily resurrection of Jesus;
- the hope of His Second Coming.
As a Reformed evangelical, Mouw holds firmly to these beliefs. He also looks back, wistfully, to the pietism that produced such intense personal devotion. He remembers, with affection, the smell of the sawdust trail, the excitement of the tent meeting where evangelists preached, with absolute conviction, for decisions for Christ. Mouw also acknowledges the fairness of some of the criticisms commonly leveled against revivalist Fundamentalism - that it was anti-intellectual, otherworldly, and separatistic in spirit. Nevertheless, Mouw also asserts the value of a call to personal conviction. If Fundamentalism laid too much emphasis upon the self and not enough upon social responsibility, too much upon emotion and not enough upon the intellect, then at least some Christians today are guilty of exactly the opposite.
Mouw wends his way through many of the subjects on which traditional Fundamentalists and Fuller-type evangelicals tend to disagree. He deals with Roman Catholicism, Dispensationalism, Evangelism, Israel, and political involvement. For almost all, Mouw has both a telling anecdote and a quotation from a hymn. He has a very relaxed, non-threatening, engaging style. He could be passing the time of day with you, perhaps sitting in a rocker on a porch, cradling a cup of coffee. He does his level best to present every position in the best possible light, even when he disagrees. He tries to understand why Christians disagree. For example, the chapter on Catholicism explains the tension between an emphasis upon conversion and an emphasis upon the enduring community of the church. Mouw's irenic spirit certainly gives an excellent illustration of how we may enter into respectful, constructive dialog with those with whom we disagree. He is not threatened by argument; neither is he ashamed of the convictions that are dear to him.
Towards the end of the book, Mouw admits that what he really longs for, in his recollection of his Fundamentalist upbringing, is the recovery of a second naivete. He is not interested in attempting to recover the first naivete, which is ignorant of the questions. Rather, he wants to develop a second naivete - a simple faith that sees, beyond the questions, an uncomplicated relationship with the God who calls us to be His own. This faith is not afraid to stand up to Bill Maher's anti-religious ranting and to answer, not with the cultic obscurantism of Fundamentalism, or the thinly-veiled nihilism of Protestant liberalism, but with confidence in the revelation of God in Jesus Christ.
Richard Mouw is a Presbyterian. His book reminds me of the urgent task that Presbyterian evangelicals must embrace. It is our responsibility to state and reclaim the essential tenets that lie at the heart of the Reformed faith, not in order that we might slip back into Billy Sunday Fundamentalism, but so that we might be able to express, in clear and compelling ways, those simple yet profound truths that make us who we are.

Paradise

Last night, on PBS, Michael Wood, the historian, had an interesting programme in his series on myths and heroes, in which he explored the story of Shangri-La.

In its modern form, the tale of Shangri-La is not very old. James Hilton captured the imagination of a war-weary world in his novel Lost Horizon, which told the story of Westerners rescued from a war-zone by 'plane, who subsequently crash landed in a remote area of Tibet, near Mount Kailash. There, they found what everyone craves - a place of perfect harmony and peace.

They had discovered a lost valley untouched by the struggles of the world, truly a paradise. The story was made into a movie in 1933. It had a wide appeal, probably as a means of escape from the privations of the Great Depression, and the bombast and rhetoric of a certain Adolf Hitler.

The story, like the lost valley of Shangri-La, is fictional. However, it seems to have been based upon a much older story told by one Antonio Andrade, a 16th century missionary at the court of the Moghul emperor Akbar. This ruler had gathered representatives of all of the major religions, because he believed "that it cannot be right to assert the truth of one faith above any other...." Andrade set out in search of a Christian community rumoured to exist in a remote area of Tibet. Eventually, after much searching, he found the hidden valley, and the kingdom of which he had heard. But there were no Christians there. Andrade's account was lost for many years only to be rediscovered in Calcutta in the late 19th century. Its publication led to Lost Horizon.

Andrade may well have heard the story of a lost kingdom at Akbar's surprisingly post-modern inter-faith conference. The Buddhists told a tale of a wonderful place called Shambala, (Sanskrit for 'peace') in the land beyond the Himalayas, a magical land of harmony and peace, ruled over by the wise, a land of plenty, in the shadow of a magnificent mountain.

Wood may well have identified the source of these legends in a Tibetan mountain-top community which he explored in his television program. Interestingly, the once fertile valley is now barren; the fortress that once protected the King and his family has been destroyed; the revered Buddhist shrines have fallen victim to the excesses of the Cultural Revolution. If it is Shangri-La, it is no paradise.

Wood's comment, right at the end of the program was telling: "Of course, paradise may still be found anywhere on earth, but only on earth."

What are we to make of this?

In typical PBS fashion, the cultured commentator makes approving noises when recounting Akbar's search for the Golden Bough that underlies all religious experience. He then goes on to assert, as an article of blind faith, that paradise is only to be found on earth. Given that he has just been exploring the remains of a beautiful kingdom, destroyed by the avarice of men, his conclusion is a little surprising. One would have thought that he would have denied the possibility of paradise on earth, while acknowledging that, for most major religions, that hope is transferred to heaven.

So, what did Jesus mean when he told the dying thief, suffering beside Him on his cross, that, "Today, you will be with me in paradise"? (Luke 23:43) Surely, this: That beyond the grave, for those who trust in Him, there will be be a place where we shall enter into the presence of God. It will be a place of beauty and of peace. For the Christian, the yearning for paradise is not for a specific location on earth, but for the City of God, where Christ shall reign (Revelation 22:2). The word 'paradise' is Persian. It means 'garden' or 'park.' According to the Bible, paradise was lost in a garden.

It will be regained, not on a mountain in Tibet, but when we see our Savior face to face.

Sign of the Times

Lesley and I went to Houston yesterday, to pick up floral supplies, which was terribly exciting. Then we stopped at "British Isles" in Rice Village, which is a haven for ex-pats. It's rather expensive, but fun. The front of the store has a lot of English porcelain and fancy giftware. (Next time you need a small statue of Admiral Nelson for $225 you will know where to go). The back of the store is full of good things to eat that you can't buy at Krogers.

One thing caught my eye. Like everywhere else, the store sells magnetic signs to put on your refrigerator - mostly London Underground signs or Union Jacks. They also had a section of poetry, including this "blessing."

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

And the rain fall soft upon your fields.

Notice anything strange about it? The last two lines are missing.

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Apparently, the makers were so afraid of offending anyone, that they removed all mention of God. But, it offended me...

Actually, I think we should use this version:

May the road rise up to greet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

And may you be half an hour in heaven

Before the devil knows you're gone.

All Quiet on the Western Front

When I was growing up, in Blackburn, in the North West of England, I knew a man named Tommy. I have no idea whether or not it was his real name, but that's what everyone called him. Most days, when my mother sent me to the grocery store that neighbors operated out of their front room, I would pass Tommy's terraced house. Unless the weather was poor, (which, to be honest it often was), he would be sitting on a stool by his front door, smoking Woodbines, quite prepared to pass the time of day with anyone who happened by. Of course we became friends. There is a natural affinity between the elderly and the young - there are simple pleasures to be shared, like a bag of pear drops; the concerns of the world may be blissfully ignored when you are 7 or 77. Not that I had any idea how old he was. To me, Tommy was just old. He always had a smile and a happy wave. He was harmless. He was also a trained killer.


Tommy had served in the fiasco that was Gallipoli. He had a pith helmet with a bullet hole in it to prove his story. After more than fifty years he was still angry at the stupidity of the commanders who would not let their troops take the high ground in safety, instead pitching camp at the foot of cliffs, allowing Turkish troops to occupy the positions that would lead to the debacle. Tommy had also served on the Western Front. It was there that he had succumbed to shell-shock, the paralysis of the will caused by being subjected for too long to the horror and noise of battle. Since demobilization, in 1919, Tommy had not been able to do anything but the most menial of jobs. In retirement, drawing a meager pension, he spent his days smoking, and talking his time away.
I thought of Tommy as I read, recently, Malcolm Brown's Imperial War Museum Book of the Western Front.
This is a different type of account of the 'war to end all wars', quite unlike the dry dispatches of the official historians. Instead of pretending to view the events of those four fateful years from some dispassionate position, high above the fields of battle, Brown's book uses first hand, contemporary accounts to paint a very different picture. The book is written in a series of short chapters, each chapter concentrating upon some aspect of the experience of the common soldier. It is liberally illustrated with extracts from letters and diaries. Many of those quoted did not survive the war. Here are a few of the things that caught my attention:
- The humanity of the ordinary man. Unlike the modern, fictional hero, who is applauded for his ability to 'take out' the enemy, Tommy Atkins (the nickname for all British soldiers at that time) was a decent chap who did not kill unless he had to.
- In order to win, therefore, most killing had to be done at a distance. Thousands did die in suicidal rushes across no-man's land, but many more were killed by the use of heavy artillery. Indeed, many soldiers remarked that it would have been easier to have fought face to face, instead of wondering whether the next screaming shell "has my name on it."
- Since combatants could do nothing to prevent their deaths at the hands of artillery fire, a fierce fatalism developed during the war years, which had more in common with Islam than with Christianity. It seemed, to those who hunkered down in the trenches of Ypres or the Somme, that either God slept or He was unconcerned by their fate. In the end, the tenets of historic Christianity were sacrificed in the interests of survival. Sociologists have often noted that the decline of the church in the West can be traced to the First World War. It did not help that political jingoism was trumpeted from the pulpits of both Britain and Germany. Every German infantryman bore, on his belt buckle, the words Gott mit uns. This did not prevent his superiors from turning loose poisoned gas upon the cream of England's youth. Ironically, the belt buckle became, in the mind of Tommy Atkins, just another proof that his enemies were just "Huns," less than human.
- At the same time, the stories recorded in the book speak of an incredible heroism, and of a dedication to King and country that has largely dissipated today. Nationalism may have a great deal to answer for, and patriotism may, as Johnson said, be the last refuge of scoundrels, but it is better than the cringing anarchy of today, where no good thing is immune from carping cynicism. Despite the disillusionment that developed towards the end of the war, hardly surprising considering the huge losses, there is still something noble about Tommy Atkins. He may be a little rough around the edges, overly fond of hard drink, but he is also a gentleman. There's one telling story about a group of weary, grimy soldiers given a brief respite from the Front, for whom a troupe of visiting entertainers put on a show. One of the artistes was a beautiful young woman who sang for the soldiers. Between songs she teased them with racy comments (doubtless incredibly mild by today's standards). The men were simply embarrassed. They spent their days and nights killing or being killed, but when a young woman sang to them, they remembered their mothers and their wives.
- One final thing. The war was almost lost to the Allies in late 1917 when a German offensive pushed them back from the positions they had held for over three years. If the Germans had reached the coast they would have split the Allies, and probably outflanked them. Axis forces could have strutted down the boulevards of Paris, or maybe even the avenues of London. But the retreating armies did not break, though they bent. Soon, reinforced by the doughboys from over the water, they were able to turn the tide. In reaching too far the German offensive stalled. Before they could dig in, and trench warfare recommence, the Allies counterattacked. A war that had looked lost in March was over by November. Here's the startling fact - many of the soldiers who pushed back the Kaiser's troops were still in their teens. Barely old enough to vote, or to drink, they were old enough to kill.


Anyone who seeks to glorify unnecessary warfare should read this book; anyone who seeks to demonize those who fight should also read it. Wars are not really fought by generals, but by eighteen year old boys, like Tommy.

One Story Only

There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling...

There were thousands of books at the Brazoria County Library book sale, last Saturday. To my credit, and my wife's visible relief, I came home with only four - a thin, popular theology book about comparative religion, by Timothy George, which I will probably give away; a history of Britain at the time of Shakespeare; a novel by Faulkner; and... a first edition of Robert Graves Poems 1938-1945. All for $3.75.



It took me a while to come across Graves the poet. I'd read several of his novels - I, Claudius, Claudius the God and Count Bellisarius. I'd also read his youthful autobiography Goodbye to All That, which I enjoyed. Then I encountered the schizophrenic poet. To be perfectly honest I'd never related well to Graves' poems. Some of them (his "left-handed" poems, he called them) are satirical. Satire doesn't age well, and I found them very dated. I also found them mean-spirited, but that didn't make them poor poems, just uninteresting.
Of more interest were his "right-handed" curative poems, which still seemed dense and arcane. The Greek mythological references were usually too obscure for me (that's what an English Comprehensive school education will do for you). More often than not, I'd no clue what they were supposed to be about. Then I read, somewhere, about Graves' fascination with pre-historical myth. Specifically, I learned that Graves' imagination was captured by the Goddess myth, which he attributed to the Pelasgians who apparently inhabited Greece about 3500 B.C.
According to this myth, it was a goddess who was the creator of all things. She arose out of the primordial chaos and danced wildly until her movements created a great wind. The wind somehow became a serpent, with which she danced, and by which she bore the Universal Egg, out of which all things came. Thereafter, the serpent tried to claim power for himself, but was banished to the caves beneath the earth.
Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,
Whose coils contain the ocean...
All very interesting, I'm sure; yet out of this myth, Graves constructed his rationale. For him, the goddess became the muse that moved him. Her usurpation by the later Greeks explained the violence of a male-dominated world. Just as Zeus begat Alexander the Great, Jehovah begat Napoleon. Instead of being warm, affirming and peace-loving, as the goddess intended, the world descended into war-mongering, bellicose, male-dominated monotheism. The solution, for Graves, is for the world to return woman to her rightful place as the dominant sex!
The most famous poem in the slim volume I picked up is called To Juan at the Winter Solstice, from which I have already quoted. Without the context of Graves' goddess infatuation it remains obscure; but with it, things begin to fall into place. The one story that explains everything to Graves is the grand theme of man's birth from woman, and his love and death in her arms.
Water to water, ark again to ark,
From woman back to woman:
So each new victim treads unfalteringly.
In a way, I can understand. Graves endured the war to end all wars. He served with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers in World War I, and was so badly wounded that, at one time, he was presumed killed in action. He had seen the worst that men could throw at each other. He had witnessed a generation being sacrificed on the bloody altar of nationalism. No wonder he preferred the embrace of a woman.


Yet the mythology around which Graves based his creative or curative poetry, and which became the defining meta-narrative of his life, was really nothing more than a romantic notion. His goddess may not have started any wars, but neither had she built any hospitals. The longing for a "female sense of order", as opposed to a "restless and arbitrary male will" may be laudable, but can you really base your life upon a tale of an empty egg?
Critics will say that that is exactly what Christians do, but I'm not falling for it. Christians have a grand narrative, by which we understand ourselves and our place within the world. But ours is based on the reality of a man who actually lived. And the empty tomb is not just a metaphor for a broken egg. For Christians it means something to say "Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again."
I don't want to imply that this is an either/or situation, that we must choose the hard masculinity of Christ over the soft femininity of Graves' goddess. You don't need to be a sabre-rattler to be a follower of Christ; after all, don't we call Him the Prince of Peace? But I do think it matters what story you take as the meta-narrative of your life, the lens through which you understand the world and your place within it. It can't just be a story that resonates with you; you can't pick a world-view on the basis of what you happen to prefer. Truth has to be external. It has to grab you. You understand your life through the story not because it gives you the results you want, but because the story is true. As I look at it, Graves accepts the myth because it fits his experience. Isn't it better to understand your experience on the basis of the story? And what is that story? For me, it's the glorious narrative of salvation history, the love story of a Creator from whom we had been alienated by our own foolishness and pride, who sent His Son to redeem us and to bring us home.
There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling...
And that is the story of Christ.