The Night the Devil Stole the Moon

Volzhskiy prospekt, Samara

Nikolai Gogol’s The Night Before Christmas is not the kind of Christmas story today’s readers expect to find on the holiday sale shelf.

The novella is unlike most Christmas stories. It opens with the devil flying above the small village of Dikanka, enjoying one last night of freedom before he must return to hell, when he decides to steal the moon and put it in his pocket in order to thwart the amorous designs of the local blacksmith, Vakula. In addition to being an excellent blacksmith, Vakula is also a talented painter, and his favorite theme is the vanquishing of Satan.

Micah Mattix writes, “perhaps no Russian writer is as foreign as Nikolai Gogol. He was even baffling to his own countrymen. ‘Gogol was a strange creature,’ Vladimir Nabokov famously wrote in his idiosyncratic biography of the writer, ‘but genius is always strange.’”

Flash fiction: “The Slaying Song Tonight”

(Phil and Loren Eaton have turned their skilled hands to flash fiction over the years. I never had a suitable idea before. But here’s one. Copyright 2015 by Lars Walker.)

The killer whistled a Christmas carol as he rinsed the blood from the knife. The stuff ran thick and dark at first, but grew thinner and clearer until the stream of water out of the faucet ran pure. The knife wouldn’t stand up to forensic analysis, he knew, but only the victims’ blood was there. And in any case, he himself was above suspicion. Still, he liked to leave things as clean and orderly as possible. It was a personal quirk.

The remote location of this house had been perfect for his purposes. The couple had screamed long and loud – they had known who he was and why he was killing them, and he had not let them die quickly. But he was methodical about his work. Now only the child remained, but that was a routine job.

He climbed the stairs and entered the room where the child lay sprawled on a bed. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. “You!” she cried. “It’s you!”

He unbuckled the straps that secured her to the bed frame. Tenderly he lifted her in his arms. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s all right. I’ll take you to your parents; then I’ll have to get to work. Lots to do tonight.”

The child wept great sobs and buried her head in his shoulder. He didn’t try to quiet her. It was good for her to cry. She would have to cry a great deal, and would need to talk to someone. But she would not die. Tonight this child would not die.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Everything will be fine. But you need to promise me one thing.”

“Wh-what?” she asked, through her sobs.

“Never tell anyone who rescued you. The children must never know of this – only the ones I rescue, like you. For most children, this is the happiest night of the year. For you it will never be the same. I understand that. You’ll have to help me carry my burden, to save the night for the little ones.”

“I will,” said the girl, holding tight to his red coat. “Does that make me one of Santa’s helpers?”

Today Is Yesterday Rolled Up

Today Is Yesterday Rolled Up

“It is a mistake to think that the past is dead. Nothing that has ever happened is quite without influence at this moment. The present is merely the past rolled up and concentrated in this second of time. You, too, are your past; often your face is your autobiography; you are what you are because of what you have been; because of your heredity stretching back into forgotten generations; because of every element of environment that has affected you, every man or woman that has met you, every book that you have read, every experience that you have had; all these are accumulated in your memory, your body, your character, your soul. So with a city, a country, a race; it is its past, and cannot be understood without it. It is the present, not the past, that dies; this present moment, to which we give so much attention, is forever flitting from our eyes and fingers into that pedestal and matrix of our lives which we call the past. It is only the past that lives.”

— Will Durant, “The Map of Human Character

How Christmas Grew Up in America

Going to church on Christmas Eve - a 1911 vintage Xmas card illustration
Penne Restad of the University of Texas in Austin and the author of Christmas in America describes how the celebration of Christmas in the United States began to come together in the 1850s.

The swirl of change caused many to long for an earlier time, one in which they imagined that old and good values held sway in cohesive and peaceful communities. It also made them reconsider the notion of ‘community’ in larger terms, on a national scale, but modelled on the ideal of a family gathered at the hearth. At this cross-roads of progress and nostalgia, Americans found in Christmas a holiday that ministered to their needs. The many Christmases celebrated across the land began to resolve into a more singular and widely celebrated home holiday. . . .

The ‘American’ holiday enveloped the often contradictory strains of commercialism and artisanship, as well as nostalgia and faith in progress, that defined late nineteenth-century culture. Its relative lack of theological or Biblical authority – what had made it anathema to the Puritans – ironically allowed Christmas to emerge as a highly ecumenical event in a land of pluralism. It became a moment of idealized national self-definition.

1386: Chaucer’s Chaotic Year

The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, Now Newly ImprintedJeff Strowe tells us, “If Chaucer were alive today, he’d be on the front page of ‘US Weekly.'” His marriage was strained by personality and circumstance. His employment was tedious. His world was remarkably unclean and violent, which isn’t what many people imagine when thinking back to 1386. Strowe pulls these details from Paul Strohm’s new book, Chaucer’s Tale: 1386 and the Road to Canterbury.

The best parts of Strohm’s book deal with the byzantine intricacies and flat-out craziness of life in the 14th Century. Primitive sanitation practices caused awful putrid smells to waft upwards, baking residents of Chaucer’s neighborhood with a daylong, unceasing stench that, despite its’ unceasing presence, undoubtedly caused constant suffering by those caught in the down and upwind paths. Several hundred feet away also laid forth the severed heads of various vagrants, thieves, traitors, and “enemies” of the King.

There’s also some time spent on his literary efforts, though they don’t make up the bulk of the book.

A week with the Crosstown

What a week it has been, for an introvert. The mad whirl of social engagements has me quite o’erwhelmed, and I find myself edging stealthily toward the fainting couch. If the week has had a central theme, it’s probably “I hate the 62 Crosstown.”

Not that I’m complaining. I wouldn’t have missed any of this week’s social contacts. I’m just not used to this many in so short a time.

One week ago today, we had the annual Walker Thanksgiving here at Blithering Heights. Everyone was on their best behavior, no fights broke out, and I didn’t ruin the turkey. So no complaints there.

On Monday morning, I drove my brother and his wife to the airport. They were accommodating and undemanding, and the only problem was that it was snowing. Not heavy snow. Quite light, in fact. But the temperature was precisely calibrated to turn that snow to ice under everyone’s car wheels. So we crawled along Highway 62, Minneapolis’ venerable crosstown artery. I’m sure Bob Dylan crawled on 62 in his time, and F. Scott Fitzgerald would have if he’d stayed around town long enough to see the thing built. We were in plenty of time for the flight, but I was late to open the library at work. This is always a distressing eventuality for the students at the Bible school, but as far as I know none of them actually required counseling.

On Thursday, I met a fan for the first time. This wasn’t just any fan, this was…

Well, let’s start with this movie clip, below the fold: Continue reading A week with the Crosstown

What Is Christ’s Message to the Church?

This is a stirring message from Sinclair Ferguson, giving at the beginning of the year at Ligonier Ministries’ national conference. He speaks on someone in the Reformed tradition, but his message from Revelation 2:3 isn’t limited to those churches. It’s a timeless message of seeking God’s favor over our comfort, of returning to our first love.

Making an Idol of American Exceptionalism

Nathan Finn summaries his Facebook friends’ political banter like this: “America is a Christian nation, we have lost our spiritual moorings, and political liberals are mostly to blame—but if we elect the right politically conservative (or perhaps libertarian) candidate, he or she (probably the former) will restore America’s greatness and perhaps usher in another Great Awakening.”

This, he says, is a false gospel. Believers are not called to make America great, but to expand the kingdom of Christ. We aren’t called to political action so much as we’re called to evangelicalism.

Finn writes to review what looks like a great book from John Wilsey,  American Exceptionalism and Civil Religion: Reassessing the History of an Idea. If we take the idea of American Exceptionalism to the extend described above, we have politicized the gospel, rendering to Caesar what should be rendered to God alone.

This is the idea I was getting at back when I asked this question, “How would your perspective change if you became convinced the United States was not founded as a Christian nation?

Why #Ferrantefever?

Orta San Giulio

“Why have Elena Ferrante’s four Neapolitan novels—My Brilliant Friend, The Story of a New Name, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay, and The Story of the Lost Child—become such a phenomenon with American and British readers?” asks Fernanda Moore. “The prose, in Ann Goldstein’s translation, is artless, repetitive, and stale. There are too many characters to keep track of, and much of the quartet’s cultural nuance . . . whizzes right over non-Italian heads.” Plus the stories don’t remind us of the beautiful, romantic Italy we’ve seen in many movies.

Moore doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see the fuel behind #Ferrantefever. She doesn’t get the appeal of overly long novels with vague backdrops and confusing, if not actually confused, details.

Alan Jacobs, on the other hand, finds them “utterly compelling.” “I had been telling myself for some time that I simply no longer have the tolerance for contemporary realistic fiction. Then I started this story and thought: Oh. I just haven’t come across anything this masterful in a while.” He sees the four novels as a single long novel, and not about friendship, but profound hatred. (via Prufrock)

Why Are Monsters Let Loose in Europe At Christmas?

Caitlin Hu describes the horrors of some European December Festivals.

Until Jan. 6, demons, witches and monsters haunt Europe.

The season of terror actually begins on Dec. 5, the eve of Saint Nicholas’ Day, with public parades of the saint’s supposed companions: Across the Italian, Austrian and Slovenian Alps, cowbell-slung demons calledKrampus storm mountain towns. In France, the legendary serial killer and butcher Pere Fouettard (Father Whipper) threatens naughty children with his whip, while in Belgium and the Netherlands, a controversial child-kidnapper called Zwarte Piet (Black Piet) rides through canals on a steamship.

Where did this come from? Christmastime in the old days meant drunkenness and demands for charity as well as these remnants of Saturnalia, which is not the forefather of Christmas but a competitor. This public carousing would have been one of the reasons Puritans, if not Christians at large, did not observe Christmas in their day. One Puritan wrote,

Especially in Christmas time, there is nothing else used but cards, dice, tables, masking, mumming, bowling, & such like fooleries. And the reason is, they think they have a commission and prerogative that time to do what they lust, and to follow what vanity they will. But (alas!) do they think that they are privileged at that time to do evil?

But why do monsters roam European streets in December? Perhaps the pagans recognize we will only be good (to the degree that we can) if someone is threatening to whip us or enslave us every minute of our lives.