Tonight, another Scandinavian hymn. It was written by N. F. S. Grundtvig (1783-1872), a controversial Danish pastor who adjusted his theology several times over his career, but rarely lowered his voice. (I think he believed – wrongly – that the origin of the Creeds preceded the writing of the New Testament and therefore they had greater authority. My Haugean forebears always considered him a dangerous thinker.) He also had the delusion that the ancient Vikings were some kind of proto-Protestants, and invented the term “Asatru” (popular among reenactors today) for worshipers of the old gods. You may remember a mention of him in Catherine Marshall’s novel Christy, which praises his development of the Folk High School movement in Scandinavia – one of the roots, I believe, of modern alternative education systems.
His followers were known as “the Glad Danes,” while the Pietists were called “the Sad Danes.”
What we have here is a hymn I remember well from childhood (we may have suspected Grundtvig’s theology in my home church, but we were fine with his hymns): “Built on a Rock the Church Shall Stand.” The original Danish text says “The Church, It Is an Ancient House.”
“Return of the Prodigal Son,” by Rembrandt van Rijn, 1668. Public domain.
No review tonight; I’m reading a book that’s taking me a while, but is very well worth the time. I’m looking forward to reviewing it, probably tomorrow.
My summer cold persists in my head. It’s not as bad as it was at its peak, but this sucker has settled in for the duration. Today I actually dug out the old leftover Covid test I still had laying around. Negative. This means little, of course, as the virus has probably mutated, and the test kit has probably passed its expiration date. Nevertheless, I choose to believe it. As far as I know, that plague passed over my house like the Angel of Death over the homes of the Israelites in Exodus.
So here I sit. Of what shall I write? One racks the brain and furrows the brow (or wrinkles a stamp and thoughtfully licks the brow, like the absent-minded character in one of Ogden Nash’s poems). What do I have an opinion on, which I can inflict on my readers?
How about something inspirational? The Parable of the Prodigal Son. Luke 15: 11-32.
I think that, even in our time, a lot of Americans are somewhat familiar with the story. A younger son persuades his father to give him the wealth he would have inherited right now, then grabs the proceeds and runs to a far country, where he lives large until the money runs out. He is then reduced to working as a swineherd (a particularly shameful job for a Jew), and finally reaches the point where he’s sufficiently broken to go home and beg forgiveness, offering to become a hired servant. His father receives him with joy, orders a feast prepared, and returns him to his former status as a son of the house.
That’s the story most people know. And it’s perfectly good as such. It’s often cited by evangelists, which is appropriate.
But a lot of people aren’t aware of the rest of the story – the behavior of the Older Brother. When I look at the context, I note that Jesus tells this parable directly to the Scribes and Pharisees, in response to their criticism of his socializing with disreputable social elements. (Continued on page 2)
This Friday night, instead of music, a poem. Actor Richard Burton (a lost soul, if there ever was one) reads one of the great English Christian poems, “The Hound of Heaven.” Francis Thompson (1859-1907), an impoverished Catholic poet who died young of tuberculosis, wrote this amazing ode to the relentless love of Christ, which was published in a collection in 1893.
There was a time — it doesn’t seem long ago, but it was — when I could recite this entire poem from memory. I still have big chunks of it in my head, and can recall the others when prompted.
I always recited it more slowly and meditatively than Burton, who reads it rapidly, in the tone of a fugitive, his pacing tight with dramatic tension.
Should I comment on the Sydney Sweeney controversy? Let’s see – I’m an aging, lifelong celibate male with a shyness disorder. Obviously well qualified to opine on issues of sexuality.
First of all, I shall declare myself entirely on the side of American Eagle. I salute a return to traditional, sex-exploiting advertising. People (even women) like to look at beautiful women, and beautiful women sell product. I’ve missed that crass commercialism. Not only is it good for business, it makes the world (I think) a happier place.
Many Christians, I’ve noticed, strongly disagree. They caution against the display of sexiness, arguing that it incites men to lust in their hearts.
I’ve agonized over that issue all my life. Now that it’s pretty much an academic one for me, I want to say this publicly (many will disagree, I’m sure): When Jesus said that lust in a man’s heart was equivalent to adultery, I don’t think simply seeing an attractive woman and being sexually interested, was what he had in mind. I think Jesus was speaking in hyperbolic terms here, to demonstrate to us our complete inability to be clean before God. He certainly wanted us to curb our lust, but I don’t think He intended to demand asexuality of men, except for when they’re alone with their wives. (I think the sin is in actually contemplating an adulterous act.)
I’ve spent a lot of time lately with my novel Troll Valley. The audiobook version is being evaluated by the Amazon ACX people, and I’m almost ready to release a paperback version too. This is my most autobiographical book, despite the fact that almost none of the events in it bear any relation to my own experience. It’s autobiographical in terms of the Haugean, pietist community in which I grew up. I hope the book expresses, to some extent, how much I appreciate that heritage, but also the problems I discern in it.
One of those problems, I think, is the guilt it lays on boys and young men, the impression conveyed that just being a functioning male is somehow a shameful thing. Sadly, that view of manhood finds support in our time among the feminists, who say the same sort of thing, even more emphatically.
I have never solved the problem of “lusting in the heart” in my own life. In my youth, as an interested non-player, I was an outlier – a weirdo. But in more recent times – to my horror – I see young men rising around me everywhere who seem just like me. Sometimes they’re called Incels. Basement dwellers. There are probably other nicknames for them I haven’t heard yet, but they all describe much the same thing – unfinished young men who are too terrified to find a mate in a world that seems determined to portray them as subhuman losers. I am, in a sense, a father to those young men; I am their avatar.
I think the church needs to offer something to those young men. Something stronger than what we’ve got. Something a little more dangerous. Something edgy.
But I don’t know what that is. I certainly never found it in my own life.
The ideal solution, I think, would be arranged marriages. Historically, arranged marriages have an excellent track record. However, I don’t think the young people would go for it. Also, it’s probably illegal.
But we need something new. I want to see young men swaggering like Kirk Douglas. Grinning at women like Burt Lancaster. Sweeping the girls off their feet like Clark Gable.
I think – personally – that (generally speaking) that would please God, who made Sydney Sweeney beautiful, not without reason.
Had a nice day today, but it stretched long, which is why I’m posting late. The board of the Georg Sverdrup Society, whose journal I edit, met in Mankato, Minnesota. And then we were treated to a tour of the archives and museum of the Evangelical Lutheran Synod, on the campus of Bethany Lutheran College in that same town.
There’s probably a lesson in the fact that our different church bodies are the offspring of two opposing sides in 19th Century controversies among Norwegian Lutherans in the U.S., and yet we find ourselves today, if not allies, at least amiable rivals. The ELS is a legacy group out of the old Norwegian Synod, the most conservative and rigidly orthodox of the Norwegian immigrant church bodies. My group, the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations, comes from what was then the liberal, free-wheeling, revivalist Lutheran Free Church. Our spiritual forefathers were bitter enemies who anathematized one another in fiery sermons and editorials. Now we find much to unite us.
That observation is, I suppose, the wrong way to introduce my topic tonight. Because I want to talk about objective truth. Eternal verities that must not be compromised.
Yesterday I described my delight at the new, sharp sight I’m enjoying in my left eye since my cataract surgery, less than a week ago as I write. My drive to Mankato today was along one of my favorite scenic routes in my state, Highway 169 along the Minnesota River valley, through Le Sueur, St. Peter, and Mankato. The skies were clear and colors were bright, and I felt ten years younger than I had a week ago.
But, as I mentioned, I do now have minor retina damage that slightly warps everything I see through that eye. Straight lines no longer look straight to me.
The lesson modern thought would have me learn from this experience is that I should abandon the whole idea of straight lines. Since I can’t see them anymore, obviously they don’t exist for me. We all live in our own reality, and my reality no longer includes straight lines.
I say phooey. I can remember straight lines. I can listen to the testimony of reliable people who talk to me about them. I can study geometry if I care to, and learn all about parallels and right angles and so on.
It’s like that bloody elephant in the famous secular parable. One blind man touches its flank and thinks an elephant is very like a wall. Another touches the trunk, and decides an elephant is very like a snake. And so on. Moderns take all this to mean that elephants don’t exist as such, but are something different for each person.
But the actual point of the parable is that they’re all wrong. What those blind men need to do is to get together and pool their information. After some frank consultation, they’ll probably be able to construct a pretty reasonable description of a whole elephant. If not, they can ask somebody who can see.
I’m reading (again) Charles Williams’ final novel, All Hallows Eve. I’m not quite half way through it. Williams is not the easiest read, but I keep coming back to his books. Just a few thoughts tonight about my ongoing impressions.
A recurring theme in Williams’ novels is the city – properly spelled with a capital “C” when he deals with it. J. R. R. Tolkien was always a little leery of Williams, and I’d imagine attitudes towards cities had something to do with it. Tolkien was a countryman, reveling in woods and meadows, trees and flowers and butterflies. Williams was London-born, and felt best at home there, amid the noise, the crowds, the bustle.
I’ve never (yet) read St. Augustine’s City of God, but I understand it to be a meditation on the societal catastrophe of the fall of Rome. Augustine told Christians that they mustn’t identify the City of God with any city of man, however great its pretensions. Christianity could do without Rome – we look to the City with foundations, eternal in the Heavens.
Nevertheless, Williams saw something of eternity in London, and in any great metropolis. A city has a being of its own; a body, a pulse, and a spirit. Many members work together to support a common life. The man of God can find an image of Heaven in the city, if he looks for it. London is itself an active character in All Hallows’ Eve.
Another thing that always strikes me – bothers me, really – in this book is that the villain is a Jew, and his Jewishness is an important element. There is no hint here of Jewish inferiority – rather the opposite. The villain here, Father Simon, is, we are made to understand, the Antichrist. And as the true Antichrist, he has to correspond to Jesus Christ, but in an inverted way. The Jewish capacities that in part made Jesus Messiah are aped and parodied in Father Simon.
This is my personal opinion – we need to be careful, when reading, to understand that people didn’t view antisemitism the same way back then (Williams died in 1945, as the war was ending, but before most people knew the true extent of Hitler’s Holocaust). The old antisemitism was bad enough, but Hitler improvised a new kind. The persecutors of Jews before that time – Catholic and Protestant and Orthodox – had never considered annihilating the Jews. They wanted to convert them. Hitler cared nothing for the Jews’ souls. He was all about “pure” blood, and regarded the Jews as an infection to be removed.
I don’t think we can ever treat Jews the same way in literature again. And that’s a good thing.
In my ongoing project of audiobooking Troll Valley this morning (I’m about 80% through it now), I came on a mention of a spittoon, and it got me thinking…
But first, let me tell you about my day job. I’ve already declared that I won’t describe exactly what I’m doing (temporarily), but let me speak in general terms.
Imagine you’re a teacher. In Middle School, say. (The horror! The horror!)
And imagine you’re grading English essays. (I suppose some of you may have experienced this trauma in real life.)
And imagine (implausible as it may sound) that those essays aren’t very good. That the same mistakes are made over and over. You’re not even getting original mistakes.
And imagine the pile of essays is about ten feet high. And it never seems to diminish.
That’s what my temporary, online job is like.
Thank you. Now that’s off my chest.
So, there was a brief appearance by a spittoon in today’s chapter of Troll Valley. And that reminded me of something.
A while back, a pastor I know, who at one time served my home congregation, asked me, “Do you remember anything about spittoons in the back of Hauge Church? Somebody told me they used to have spittoons back there. The ladies let them have them, just in that section, but the men who used them had to clean them out themselves.”
And it seemed to ring a bell (no doubt a brass bell). This would be part of my very earliest memories – and with memories that old, I’ve learned that I’m highly suggestible. So I’m not at all sure here. But I have an idea I may have seen the spittoons back there, in the rear alcove of our church, next to the entryway, where my family always sat when I was little. There were warm air registers in the floor, I’m pretty sure, and I think I recall a spittoon sitting on top of one. I may have asked about it when they disappeared, too.
Or maybe not.
We Haugean Lutherans had a weird (I was tempted to say “fraught,” but I hate the way people use that word these days) relationship with tobacco in the old days. I remember discussing sin with my saintly grandmother one day, confidently asserting that drinking and smoking were both sins, but drinking was worse.
A pastor I knew years ago always used to link Haugeans to cigars. Somebody had told him that all the Haugeans back home had smoked big cigars, and that was all he knew about us, or cared to know. (I suppose it had something to do with the prosperity of some of the Haugean merchants back in Norway.)
Dad recalled how his grandfather was forced, by the two unmarried daughters who kept house for him in his old age, to always go out on the porch to smoke his pipe. (I incorporated this into Troll Valley.) Dad felt that was demeaning to the old man.
I saw a short video recently – think it was by Rory Sutherland – in which he was asked what secret, heretical views he held. And he said he thought tobacco was good for you, and will make a social comeback in time.
I’d almost welcome it. I know, there are lots of people who find the smell revolting, and some even get sick from it.
But I grew up in a world of ubiquitous tobacco smoke. I always kind of liked the smell, myself.
And it is an appetite suppressant. We were all a lot thinner back when we were lighting up rather than munching on chips all the time.
I think my rooting in secret for tobacco, though, mostly rises from my instinctive dislike for everything that’s fashionable.
Here’s a quotation that shows up on my Basefook feed from time to time:
It is Christ Himself, not the Bible, which is the true word of God. The Bible, read in the right spirit and with the guidance of good teachers will bring us to him. When it becomes really necessary (i.e. for our spiritual life, not for curiosity or controversy) to know whether a particular passage is rightly translated or is Myth (but of course Myth specially chosen by God from among countless Myths to carry a spiritual truth) or history, we shall no doubt be guided to the right answer. But we must not use the Bible (our fathers too often did) as a sort of Encyclopedia out of which texts (isolated from their context and read without attention to the whole nature and purport of the books in which they occur) can be taken for use as weapons.
Of course the person who posts this snippet feels that they’ve laid down a trump card – look here, you Bible-thumper! Even your hero C. S. Lewis didn’t think the Bible was the Word of God! What do you say to that?
All right, let’s talk about it.
First of all, I already knew Lewis wasn’t an inerrantist. This is not news. As I’ve often said, when a man is ten feet away from you, it makes all the difference in the world whether he’s walking toward you or away from you. Ten feet is almost here for the first, almost gone for the second. I think Lewis was walking toward me (us). That’s my subjective opinion, but a pretty well-informed one.
And of course, in an important sense, Lewis is entirely right. Christ is and always has been the uncreated Word of God, a Person of the Trinity: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John 1:1, ESV)
But I don’t think Lewis would have ever claimed that Christ was God’s Word in an exclusionary sense – that God could not also speak words that weren’t the Son. I’m pretty sure Lewis accepted that God had spoken all kinds of words – to the prophets, to visionaries, to the evangelists and apostles. I don’t think he’d have denied that the canon of Scripture is the inspired Word of God, while being distinct from the Person of Christ.
The question I always ask when I read this passage is, “Who is this Christ that you think you can find anywhere else than in the Bible?” If you quote the Lewis passage to argue that you have a Christ of your own who’s a little different than the one the Bible shows us, I think, frankly, that you’re worshiping yourself. And I suspect Lewis would agree.
If you spend time in the Bible, does it bring you closer to Christ, or further away? What better place is there to draw near to Him?
Now, Lewis was a sacramentalist (as I am, being a Lutheran). We believe that Christ is especially present in Holy Communion – that He comes to us in a physical way in and under the bread and wine. So I’ll stipulate to that as a place where we meet Him truly.
And Christ Himself emphasizes that we can also meet him in our neighbor – especially our neighbor who’s poor and sick and suffering. “And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’” (Matthew 25:40)
So that’s most certainly true as well.
But where do I learn these things?
I learn them from Scripture.
It is my experience, and my observation, that any “Christ” that people talk about, who is separate from the Christ of Scripture, does not come from God.
Now and then, ideas converge for me, which is about the best fun I have in life. And then I feel compelled to write about them here, in the sight of my guardian angel and everybody, inviting public scorn and ignominy (I believe Ignominy is a town in Wisconsin. Good fishing, they tell me).
A while back I posted about what seemed like a breakthrough in my own mental life – by way of, of all things, a dream. I found a “place” in my brain where I could take shelter from intrusive memories. I even had an idea where that “place” was located – on the right side of the brain, just above the ear. The technique of resorting to this “place” has not proved the panacea I hoped at first, but it remains a useful trick for me in regulating my thoughts, and I still use it pretty much every day.
More recently, I discovered the psychiatrist Iaian McGilchrist, initially through the conversation with Eric Metaxas embedded above. I have not yet shelled out for any of his books, because they’re kind of pricey, but I’ve watched several more videos. So far as I can grasp his thesis, I understand it thus:
We all know that the normal human brain is bilateral. Most of my life I’ve been informed that the left brain (which controls the right side of the body) is the plodding, logical, workhorse of the mind. Meanwhile, the right brain is creative and spontaneous. Back in the sixties and seventies, the hippies were always trying to access their right brains.
McGilchrist’s thesis does not contradict these distinctions, but refines them. The left brain, he says, evolved for the purpose of concentration and task completion. It learns routines, devises systems, puts things in boxes and labels them. It’s what allows us to do things automatically. Its functions are necessary to our survival. But it considers itself very smart – smarter than it is. Its true purpose is to be the servant or “emissary” of the “master” – the right brain.
The right brain is where our real intelligence lies. The right brain makes imaginative leaps. It maintains a global awareness of its surroundings. It is creative and inventive. It’s meant to be in control.
All my life, the left brain has been associated with people like me – the orthodox, the conventional. Left brain people reduce everything to set formulas and are quick to judge. Which – I can’t deny – is not far from a description of my own nature.
But McGilchrist also directs his spotlight onto other kinds of idealogues – the leftists and fascists and communists and feminists and environmentalists, etc., etc. who’ve infested our politics and history for so many decades. They’re left-brain people too, he says, and we’re beginning to get tired of them (or so he hopes).
But here’s the point of tonight’s essay. In a recent McGilchrist video I watched, he made a comment that rang a little bell for me – he said, in so many words, “The left brain is, in fact, mad.”
I immediately recalled something G. K. Chesteron wrote in Orthodoxy:
If you argue with a madman, it is extremely probable that you will get the worst of it; for in many ways his mind moves all the quicker for not being delayed by things that go with good judgment. He is not hampered by a sense of humour or by clarity, or by the dumb certainties of experience. He is the more logical for losing certain sane affections. Indeed, the common phrase for insanity is in this respect a misleading one. The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.
McGilchrist is not a Christian. By his own account, he values Christianity but is unable to believe in the miracle of the Resurrection.
Yet he has managed, after a century, to catch up to Chesterton, by the empirical rather than by the theological road.
Chesterton, I imagine, was thinking with his right brain.
The legacy of Cain is murder. It is the attempt to kill the accusing image of God within us and re-create the world in the image of the desires we mistake for ourselves.
The novelist Andrew Klavan has morphed himself (in between writing marvelous mystery stories) into a philosopher of art in recent years. His book The Truth and Beauty examined the English Romantic poets, linking their artistic strivings to the search for God. I loved that book, but had trouble understanding its ultimate point. This led me to do some theorizing of my own (I’ve posted some of my thoughts on this blog). Klavan’s latest book, The Kingdom of Cain, suggests to me that I’ve been generally on the right track.
Andrew Klavan has often mentioned wryly that one of his great fears, when he became a Christian, was that he’d become a Christian writer – the kind of writer who tells stories about a little girl who prays that God will help her find her bunny rabbit, and God obliges. Instead, he has made his uneasy way working at his proper craft, writing the kind of stories he cares about and suffering the criticism of those readers who want bunny stories.
So this book begins as a sort of apologia for realistic (even earthy) Christian fiction – an issue that matters to me as well, in my humble way. Can depictions of the darkness of life – the ugly things that evil, twisted men do to each other and to the innocent – serve to glorify God?
Klavan thinks they can.
He starts out with the ancient, original murder – that of Cain upon Abel. He describes how the spirit of Cain has passed down through history to find full expression in post-Christian thinkers and psychologists – men like Nietzsche and Freud – and de Sade. How Dostoevsky pondered such ideas, found them wanting, and brought forth brilliant, moral works of art – Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov. He describes the crimes of a nondescript Wisconsin psychopath named Ed Gien, whose hideous career inspired “Psycho,” “The Silence of the Lambs,” and a score of inferior knock-offs.
Then he ponders the mysteries of creation, the fall of Man, and redemption. The book ends in a vision of what the author considers possibly the greatest work of human art – Michelangelo’s “Pieta,” an achievement that contemplates what Christians consider the greatest crime of all time – the greatest crime possible – and transforms it into sublime beauty.
Here, he suggests, is an answer to the mystery of Theodicy, the question how a good God could permit evil. The answer, Klavan suggests, cannot be parsed in logic or spoken in words. Only Beauty, a gleam of light from Heaven received by the soul, can provide answers for those who have eyes to see.
But read The Kingdom of Cain for yourself. I’m certainly going to read it again. I experienced genuine physical thrills as I followed its line of thought.
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