Because everyone loves a good story
Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet: Religious Motifs
Ready for a deep dive into some themes from a cinematic masterpiece? I know I am. Call me nerdy, but this is the kind of stuff I get really excited to talk about. Join me, won’t you?
Comedy or Tragedy
Last time we contrasted the dramatic forms of comedy and tragedy. If you were even semi-conscious in high school literature class, you probably remember which category the story of Romeo and Juliet falls into. Even though it’s a tragic tale, there’s still great benefit from studying the play and, yes, even a masterfully-directed film adaptation like Baz Luhrmann’s.
Two of the most pervasive motifs in this movie are religious icons and water. Today we’ll ask the question, “What kinds of religious imagery did Luhrmann use, and why on earth did he use them so much?” Later we’ll see how he uses water to highlight the ideas of strife, death, and peace.
Holy Motifs, Batman!
So what are religious icons, and what’s a motif? Glad you asked. A religious icon is a picture or statue of someone like Jesus, Mary, or the saints. Some religions use these images in worship, so an icon is basically a focal point for religious devotion.
Now, a motif is a recurring idea that adds depth of meaning throughout a story. It keeps popping up—sometimes so subtly that you don’t even notice it—but when you think about it later, you realize that it was underlining the theme the whole time. In this movie, for example, the constant barrage of religious icons is a motif that highlights the role of the stars—or Fate—in the tale’s tragic trajectory.
Replete with Religion
The original story of Romeo and Juliet is set in Renaissance Verona—a hotspot for Catholic tradition. Luhrmann catapults the story into modern-day Italy, setting the film in late-1990’s Verona Beach. The city is much more secular, and religion isn’t overtly valued anymore, but religious vestiges remain.
And Luhrmann makes sure these remnants stand out. In fact, he crams every transition and clutters every scene with holy pictures, statues, shrines, and candles. The movie starts out with a view of the city, focusing on a giant statue of Jesus between the opposing skyscrapers of Capulet and Montague. Another looming statue features Mary overlooking the city. Much of the music is religious, too—a children’s church choir blesses the union of the young lovers, while “Requiem Aeternam” haunts the death of Mercutio. Even the title foregoes “and” in favor of “+” in the shape of a cross: Romeo + Juliet.
The Angel Juliet
The characters themselves—especially the Capulets—also put a high value on religious icons. Juliet’s room features a shrine with dozens of saints and candles. At the foot of her bed is another collection of statues. Ironically, several of the characters’ pistols are adorned with pictures of Mary or Jesus, and some have little golden crosses dangling from the bottom. Tybalt’s vest is emblazoned with a gigantic picture of Jesus, and the priest has a massive cross tattooed on his back. None of this is remotely subtle.
And to make the religious motif as pointed as possible, Juliet attends her family’s costume party dressed as an angel, and Romeo arrives dressed in knight’s armor. When he gets a chance to speak to Juliet for the first time, Romeo kisses her hand and launches into an elaborate analogy of a pilgrim kissing a shrine at the end of his pilgrimage. I’m telling you—wherever Luhrmann could possibly squeeze in a religious image, he made sure to do it.
Who Is Fortune?
But why all the religious icons in every nook and cranny of the movie? Because Luhrmann recognized Shakespeare’s theme of fate. One of the major ideas of the play is that Romeo and Juliet are “star-crossed lovers.” Because they’re from warring families, their love was never meant to be. Even in Shakespeare’s day, some believed that the stars you’re born under have a direct influence on your destiny. Geminis shouldn’t marry Virgos, Aries should steer clear of Taurus, and Romeo should have left Juliet alone.
But Luhrmann didn’t interpret this as modern-day astrology and horoscopes. Instead, he interpreted Shakespeare’s fate, fortune, and stars as today’s religious saints. The one arranging matters behind the scenes isn’t an ancient Greek god or an astrological sign. Rather, God himself is Fortune.
Star-Crossed Lovers
We see this theme in several key lines. The prologue begins by telling us that Romeo and Juliet are “star-crossed lovers,” showing a torn picture of their wedding band over those same words. The camera immediately flashes to the statue of Jesus between the warring houses’ skyscrapers.
In a rapid montage of clips, the movie establishes the rampant violence and destruction between the families and intersperses close up shots of the Jesus and Mary statues. Those figures are just as prominent as the rest of the characters throughout the movie. So the stars—or the saints—are blamed for the eventual deaths of the young lovers right at the outset.
Fortune’s Fool
Romeo also blames fate for two more deaths that precede his own. After Tybalt kills Romeo’s friend Mercutio, Romeo is blinded by rage and a desire for revenge. He chases Tybalt to the center of the city, where Luhrmann shows Romeo shooting Tybalt in the heart repeatedly with Tybalt’s own gun. As Tybalt dies, his arms stretch out in the shape of a cross, and he falls backward at the foot of the towering Jesus statue. Romeo drops the gun, and the camera zooms in on a picture of Mary on the pistol’s grip.
As the weight of his actions sinks in, Romeo screams up at Jesus, “I am fortune’s fool!” He’s fortune’s toy or plaything. God and the saints have rigged events for his destruction, and he feels like a puppet in their hands. Despite his accusation, his only answer is a thunderclap and a downpour of rain.
Defying the Stars
For this murder, Romeo is banished to the dusty wasteland of Mantua where he waits to hear from the priest, who had promised to help reunite the newlyweds. Instead, his manservant arrives and informs Romeo that he’s just seen Juliet stretched out dead at her own funeral.
Romeo’s shock quickly turns to fury. He falls to his knees, turns his face to the sky, and screams, “Then I defy you, stars!” He will no longer be fortune’s plaything. He’s going to be with Juliet if it’s the last thing he does.
Stay Tuned
And, of course, it is. Romeo, enraged at being the puppet of fate, decides to end the game by ending his life. Next time we’ll see how Luhrmann styles this scene to bring his motif of religious icons to a resounding crescendo. You won’t want to miss it.
Romeo + Juliet: Baz Luhrmann’s Thematic Genius
The first time I watched Baz Luhrmann’s movie Romeo + Juliet, I was really taken off guard. Maybe you can relate.
Since I was a totally normal kid, I requested the massive tome of Arden’s Complete Works of Shakespeare for my birthday when I was in high school. Yea, verily, I posthaste read the sonnets, comedies, and a sprinkling of the tragedies, including Romeo and Juliet.
As much as I relished the early modern English and the antiquated wordplay, it did give off “olden day” vibes. It was hard to picture any of it happening anywhere but the Globe theater.
Taken by Surprise
When I saw the cover of Luhrmann’s film adaptation years later, I figured it would be a modernized spin on the old text. As soon as the characters started talking, though, I saw my mistake: it WAS the old text. The story is set in modern day Verona Beach—complete with Hawaiian shirts and hand guns—but the script is the original Shakespeare.
I was shocked, but I was not appalled. After I recovered from the initial jarring sensation of watching the Montague and Capulet boys have a shootout at a downtown gas station while hearing the words, “Have at thee, coward,” I thoroughly enjoyed it. This is when I discovered that Baz Luhrmann is one of my favorite directors.
Comedy or Tragedy
Despite the fabulous filming of the movie, the story of Romeo and Juliet really is a bummer. I mean, loads of people die in a senseless feud. The young lovers kill themselves hastily just moments before learning that things aren’t as bad as they seem. The families finally make peace, but it’s in the midst of a wreckage that their stubbornness has caused. This, my friends, is a tragedy.
Of course it’s a tragedy that everyone dies, but it’s also a Tragedy—the literary form that ends with death rather than joy. In Shakespeare’s comedies, for example, the plays usually end with a wedding to show joy, celebration, and reconciliation. His tragedies, however, end with death. The tragic storyline shows futility, confusion, and hopelessness. It’s a wonder they’re so popular.
A Winning Structure
And they’re certainly popular. There are a plethora of modern books and movies that follow the tragic storyline, although I’m not familiar with many of them. But a quick examination of some of my own favorites revealed how many of them are in the tragic form: Romeo and Juliet, The Great Gatsby, The Yearling, Anna Karenina, Moulin Rouge!, The Fountain, Frankenstein, Lord of the Flies, 1984…the list could go on.
What is it about this form that resonates so deeply with us? I think it’s the familiar pattern of tension, triumph, and tragedy. It’s so basic to the human experience that, even though we don’t like it, we know it’s true.
A Day in the Life
Think of how often you go through the cycle of tension, triumph, and tragedy. You have an unmet desire—for love, success, validation, or even just a slice of cake—and you start working toward it. There’s tension as you strive, wondering whether you’ll achieve the goal you desire. Finally, your hard work pays off! You triumph. Your love is requited, your success is acknowledged, your point of view is validated, and you find a slice of cake in the break room. In a comedy, this would be the end of the story. You’d marry your love and share the cake.
But this is a tragedy, so you lose it all. Somehow, factors beyond your control rob you of the prize for which you worked. Just before you take your first bite, the cake slips off the plate and lands on the floor. You’re left with nothing but brokenness and the reminder of what could have been. We may only experience this on a catastrophic scale a few times in our lives, but we go through it in small ways all the time. It’s just life in this broken world.
Why Bother?
Talk about a Debbie downer. Is there any value in studying stories like this? Absolutely. On the most basic level, they work as cautionary tales: beware of putting all your hope in love, success, validation, or cake. But even more importantly, the failure of these things to satisfy us is a reminder that they weren’t meant to satisfy us in the first place. We were made for more that love and cake, and nothing reminds us of that more than losing them.
Although there’s nothing wrong with pursuing cake. In my experience, it’s still a worthy goal.
The Challenge
So if you’re already a fan of Shakespeare, Baz Luhrmann, Romeo and Juliet, or the young Leonardo DiCaprio, I think the next two posts will interest you greatly. If you’re not already a fan, let me challenge you: rent the movie. Watch the movie. Think about the movie. Then come back next time ready to analyze the movie.
Because, like any well-made film, there are symbolic layers at work that give it a richer depth of meaning, and I’m so excited to look at two of those with you: the motifs of religious icons and water. Until next time, friends, I hope your life is a comedy so you can enjoy that cake. I fully intend to.
Coming of Age: The Yearling and Family
The dual meaning of The Yearling’s title is no accident. It’s true that Flag, the fawn, becomes a yearling by the end of the book, but so does his owner, Jody Baxter. In fact, Jody grows even beyond yearling status to become a young man—a truth that his father recognizes. While death and first love play major roles in Jody’s coming of age, his family is probably the most effective catalysts.
Love and Worship
Jody Baxter is an only child because Ma lost all six babies that she’d had before him. As a result, Ma became brusque and sharp-tongued. She doesn’t let herself get affectionate with Jody, probably for fear that she’ll lose him too. Pa, on the other hand, puts all his stock in his boy. He spends time with Jody and spoils him in countless small ways. As a result, Jody still loves Ma, but he worships Pa.
And, of course, the worship of any fallible mortal is a setup for disaster.
Jody’s first shock comes when his invincible Pa gets bitten by a rattlesnake and nearly dies. Instead of Jody’s depending on Pa, Pa depends on Jody to run for help. Pa barely survives the ordeal and struggles with his health for the remainder of the book. This weakening of Pa’s body scares Jody, but it only strengthens his trust in Pa’s unimpeachable character.
Tension and Trust
Throughout the story, Jody is let down by various friends and neighbors. Oliver Hutto betrays his friendship with Jody by choosing to marry the unfaithful Twink Weatherby. Grandma Hutto is a more loving figure to Jody than his own mother is, but she chooses to move away with Oliver, leaving Jody and Pa nearly friendless. The Forresters become embroiled in a vicious battle against their neighbors, the Baxters, putting strain on their relationships. But through it all, Jody can rely on Pa to be his hero and his ally.
Devastatingly, Jody’s fawn becomes the source of his worst heartbreak. Flag the fawn is Jody’s precious pet and best friend. Pa often sticks up for Flag when Ma wants him gone, and Jody knows that Pa understands how important Flag is to him. Even when Flag becomes not just a nuisance but an actual threat to the Baxters’ supply of food for the winter, Jody still trusts that Pa will take his side on the issue.
Betrayal
At this point in the story, Jody is well on his way to maturity. He replants the garden corn that Flag destroyed, and he constructs a tall fence around the garden to keep the yearling out. It’s man’s work, and Jody’s young hands become calloused and his little muscles become stronger. His mind and body are growing up, but his heart is still the heart of a child.
When all Jody’s work does nothing to deter Flag from destroying the corn again, Ma is on the warpath. Jody relies on Pa to talk sense into her and help protect Flag. But Jody’s unquestioning belief in Pa is shattered in an instant when Pa, bedridden with another sickness, gives Jody the verdict that Flag must be shot, and Jody must be the one to do it.
From Devastation to Comprehension
The ensuing chaos—of Ma’s shooting Flag but failing to kill him, of Jody’s having to finish him off, of Jody’s running away from the home he now hates—seems like a nightmare. Perhaps even worse than the actual events is Pa’s fall from grace. Jody’s heart reels knowing that “Pa went back on him.” Pa, the one he had always trusted implicitly, had done the unimaginable and betrayed Jody. His heart wasn’t mature yet, but it was no longer innocent either. “[Jody] hung suspended in a timeless space. He could neither go forward nor back. Something was ended. Nothing was begun.”
When Jody begins to feel true, miserable hunger, he finally understands that Pa was just protecting the family from starvation. Ma, for all her brusqueness, has always loved the family in the practical way of filling the table with all their favorite foods. Flag threatened their survival, and Pa did what he had to do in order to protect those he loves most. Jody’s mind is finally starting to process the events. He’s on his way toward maturity.
The Boy Becomes a Man
When Jody finally makes it back home and talks with Pa, his coming of age is complete. Pa speaks to him as to a man. He tells Jody hard truths about life, speaking to him as an equal. He confides in Jody about loneliness, disappointment, and life. Jody takes it all in not wonderingly as a boy but wisely as a man.
He’s no longer the trusting, naïve child who delighted to follow his pa around the farm, awestruck at his father’s strength. Instead, he has become a source of strength for his father. When Penny is ready for bed, he asks for Jody’s help. Jody supports his frail father to his room and tucks him into bed. He plans to take over the farm work in the morning. He’s no longer a boy but a man.
And yet…
In his sleep, he cries out for Flag and for the lost innocence he can never regain. He’s come of age, and there’s no undoing the growth. But for as much as he gained, his heart knows there’s much he’s lost, too. Growing up can be a bitter pill to swallow.
Take Your Time
The plaintive ending of The Yearling echoes that of Peter Pan: growing up is an inevitable, melancholy loss. Looking at it from the far side of coming-of-age, you and I know that there are joys as well as sorrows that come with maturity. It’s nothing to dread, but it’s nothing to rush. For those of us who guard little ones today, let’s enjoy the moments while they’re still “gay and innocent and heartless,” knowing that our fawns will be yearlings soon enough.
Two Poems for Good Friday and Easter
This year, in lieu of posting my own poems, I wanted to share with you some beautiful gems by two of my favorite poets. I hope these verses draw your thoughts first to the cross and then to the empty tomb!
“Spit in my Face” by John Donne
This poem was written in the early 1600’s, around the same time Shakespeare was writing. That’s why you’ll notice some antiquated spelling and diction. But in spite of that (or because of it) the poem is well worth a Good Friday meditation.
Donne acknowledges that his daily sin is an affront to the sinless savior and knows that Donne himself deserves the hateful treatment Jesus suffered at the hands of the Jews. He marvels at the juxtaposition between man’s willful sin and Christ’s willing suffering. Instead of simply excusing sin with a pardon, this King chose rather to pay the price himself. He took on flesh not for selfish gain but to suffer in salvation. Hallelujah, what a savior!
Spit in my Face
Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee,
For I have sinn’d, and sinn’d, and onely hee,
Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sinnes, which passe the Jewes impiety:
They kill’d once an inglorious man, but I
Crucifie him daily, being now glorified.
Oh let mee then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came cloth’d in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainfull intent:
God cloth’d himselfe in vile mans flesh, that so
Hee might be weake enough to suffer woe.
“Easter” by Gerard Manley Hopkins
After dwelling on the cross, turn your eyes to the empty tomb! Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote during the mid-1800’s, and while his spelling is more modern, this poem is full of biblical allusions.
The poem points to the whole earth’s celebration of Jesus’ resurrection. The first stanza alludes to Matthew 26, where Mary of Bethany anoints Jesus with costly perfume. The joyous reality of Easter demands an extravagant celebration! Stanza two paints Jesus as the groom at a joyful wedding celebration in heaven, and the third stanza shows nature herself reflecting the joy of resurrection in springtime.
Hopkins was a Jesuit priest, and in stanza four he encourages his fellow priests to trade their Lenten suffering for Easter’s glad renewal. The final stanza ends with a beautiful challenge: to “make each morn an Easter day.” He is risen! He is risen indeed!
Easter
Break the box and shed the nard;
Stop not now to count the cost;
Hither bring pearl, opal, sard;
Reck not what the poor have lost;
Upon Christ throw all away:
Know ye, this is Easter Day.
Build His church and deck His shrine,
Empty though it be on earth;
Ye have kept your choicest wine—
Let it flow for heavenly mirth;
Pluck the harp and breathe the horn:
Know ye not ’tis Easter morn?
Gather gladness from the skies;
Take a lesson from the ground;
Flowers do ope their heavenward eyes
And a Spring-time joy have found;
Earth throws Winter’s robes away,
Decks herself for Easter Day.
Beauty now for ashes wear,
Perfumes for the garb of woe,
Chaplets for dishevelled hair,
Dances for sad footsteps slow;
Open wide your hearts that they
Let in joy this Easter Day.
Seek God’s house in happy throng;
Crowded let His table be;
Mingle praises, prayer, and song,
Singing to the Trinity.
Henceforth let your souls alway
Make each morn an Easter Day.
Is Parenting a Waste?
Remember when I discovered The Literary Life podcast and it filled me with joy and longing? I’m joyful when I hear sharp minds discussing books I love, but I long to use my mind like that again on a regular basis. Instead, I’m making dinner, wiping noses, and pretending my brain isn’t just a bowl of cold oatmeal.
This led me to mourn the seeming exclusivity of life trajectories. If I choose A, I thereby forego B. As a totally hypothetical example, if I choose to be a wife and homeschool mama who does some editing on the side, I choose not to be a single reader, writer, and teacher. I can add a dash of the latter to a vat of the former, but it will be just enough to give a whiff of what once was.
The Lies of Self Entitlement
Most of the time, that’s totally fine with me because I’m too pooped out and preoccupied to give a rip these days. But sometimes I find myself buying into this fairly-modern, fairly-first-world belief that I should be able to have it all at the same time—that I deserve to have it all. This lie steals sanity and peace.
Is it impossible to do both—to be a great wife and mother while still spending maximum brain power on the things I enjoy? No, it’s not impossible. Has it been done before? Definitely, and with great success, I’m sure. But I’ll tell you right now, that hasn’t been my experience in my illustrious, five-year career as a mother.
The Road Not Taken
So yes, I admit that there are times when my former life rears its gorgeous head and beckons me with its siren call. “Emily,” it croons, “think of all the books you could have read by now. Think of the amazing things you could have written.” Of course I tie myself to the mast and sail on, but I can hear them screeching behind me, “You blew it big time, you sucker!”
But rather than wallowing, this is the perfect opportunity to remind myself of something amazing: while the world may call my choices a waste, Jesus calls them beautiful.
Mary’s Commendations
To be clear, it’s not just motherhood that’s beautiful; it’s a life of grateful obedience and worship. A life spent in pursuit of Jesus and his kingdom is never wasted. God comforted me with this reminder the other day when I was reading through Matthew 26. Here we see Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus, being commended by Jesus—again. The first time was when she chose to sit at his feet and simply listen. He said she’d chosen the best way to spend her time.
Later on, we see Jesus commending Mary again. In Matthew 26, while Jesus is reclining at the dinner table, Mary breaks open her jar of costly perfume, pours it on Jesus’ feet, and wipes him clean with her hair. Almost everyone is outraged—even the disciples. They consider her actions a waste, and they tell her so.
But do you know who doesn’t consider it a waste? Jesus. In fact, he calls it beautiful. Her gift is beautiful because it’s offered selflessly with a heart of gratitude. Her actions embody grateful obedience and worship, even if Jesus is the only one to understand it.
A Deeper Understanding
Mary chose to show lavish love instead of shrewd self-preservation. This love isn’t at odds with wisdom; it’s the outpouring of wisdom. When Mary spends a year’s wages on a single display of devotion to Jesus, she’s showing more understanding than all of the men who’ve been traveling with Jesus for the past three years. “In pouring this ointment on my body, she has done it to prepare me for burial,” Jesus says in verse 12.
Within a week, Jesus would be hanging on a cross, and yet Mary seems to be the only one in the room who understands that. This knowledge drives her to spend her most precious treasure on Jesus because she believes he is worth it. When she had been sitting at his feet, maybe she’d heard him say, “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” So when she chooses grateful obedience and worship, the disciples call it waste, but Jesus calls it beautiful.
A Society of Narcissists
Today, I think most of society would fall into the disciples’ mindset. “Don’t waste yourself and your gifts. Love yourself. Chase your dreams. You deserve it.” We’re inundated with advice to prioritize self-care, distance ourselves from toxic influences, cut ourselves off from negative energy, and do what makes us feel good.
Friends, there’s a place for taking care of ourselves, but these obsessions can amount to shrewd self-preservation. And, when we find that it’s not practical to put ourselves first all the time, these expectations can lead to bitterness and resentment. But when our lives display grateful obedience and worship, God takes care of us as he promises to do countless times throughout scripture. We don’t have to “look out for ourselves” because our Maker is already on the job.
The Best Defense
One more encouraging aspect of this story is that Mary didn’t defend herself. She didn’t have to—Jesus defended her. In the three gospel accounts of this story, Mary never says a word. She wasn’t anointing Jesus to win the approval of the disciples; she was doing it to show selfless gratitude to her Lord, and he recognized her gift for what it was.
There will be no end to the opinions of others. Some people are so certain they know what you should have done with your life. You will never please everyone, but the good news is that you don’t have to. There’s only One whom it matters if you please. If our lives of grateful obedience are beautiful to Jesus, then it’s enough.
Comfort and Joy
So there you have it. Those are the thoughts that have been rolling around in my head as I contemplate my past, present, and future. I realize it makes me sound like a horribly reluctant mom (which I promise I’m not—at least most of the time), but I’m sharing it anyway because I don’t think I’m alone in these feelings. This stage of life may not always fit my ideal of what it could or should be, but there’s peace in knowing that I’m right where God wants me.
It’s comforting to know that I don’t have to plan out my whole life. If I’m seeking to learn at the feet of Jesus, his love and his worth will motivate me to live a life of grateful obedience and worship even in the midst of what may sometimes feel like a waste. With God’s help, I can start thinking about myself less often and start loving my family with a grateful heart. When I make tiny strides in this direction, Jesus calls it beautiful.
Beautiful Obedience
And thankfully, there are seasons of life. I may occasionally mourn parts of the life I left behind, but it may not be gone forever. Passions are perennial. When my brain is less cluttered with the minutia of family life, the seeds of who I once was may have space to bloom again. Until then, I can make small decisions to water them periodically, remembering that good things are ahead, and good things are right now, too. May God help me find joy in the beautiful obedience of today.
A New Podcast and a Plate of Pasta
Attention, literature nerds! I recently discovered a new-to-me literary podcast, and it’s as bookish as they come. It has over 200 episodes already, so I’ll never have to sit around waiting for a new one to drop.
I’m currently listening to their series on one of my favorite novels, C.S. Lewis’s Til We Have Faces, and I’m burning through it. It’s been so fun to listen to sharp minds talk about a book I’ve loved for years but haven’t heard much discussion about. And because there are so many episodes, I can have this experience again and again! Woohoo!
A Prodigious List
Are you dying to know what the podcast called? All right, I’ll tell you: it’s called The Literary Life Podcast, with Angelina Stanford, Thomas Banks, and Cindy Rollins. I was so excited to see that their list of discussed authors includes many that I know and love—and plenty more that I neither know nor love but hope to in the future.
They’ve discussed writers from George MacDonald, Dorothy Sayers, G.K. Chesterton, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis to Shakespeare, Euripides, Aristotle, and Plato. There’s also a handsome smattering of other works in between—George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allen Poe, Jane Austen, and so many more! Doesn’t it just make your mouth water to read the authors on that list? Or are you normal?
The Great Conversation
Another fun part of the podcast is their premise that great works of literature are all connected in a conversation across the ages. Stanford always says, “The books are talking to each other.” This idea isn’t unique to her; it’s actually a major premise of the Classical Conversations approach to education and other thinkers as well. But the more books you read, the more you realize how great minds in the distant past have influenced great minds in the more recent past who are, in turn, still influencing great minds today. It’s a long, beautiful, ongoing conversation.
So as the hosts are discussing one work of literature, they’re weaving in threads from countless other works. “This theme reminds me of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” “Remember when we discussed this same idea in The Wind in the Willows?” “This character is facing the same struggle as the Greek goddess Aphrodite.” Some of their allusions are familiar to me, and many call up memories that are rusty, dusty, or nonexistent. It’s exciting and intimidating all at the same time. But, to misquote Hwin from The Horse and His Boy, “I’d sooner be intimidated by you than bored by anyone else.”
From Contentment to Envy in 2.6 Seconds
And now, for the downside of the podcast.
You know that feeling when you go out to eat with someone, and you each order a different meal? You read carefully through the menu. Your eyes linger long over the filet with a baked potato, but in the end you opt for creamy pasta with smoked chicken. It sounds great, and you know you’ll love it. When the food comes, you’re thrilled. You take several bites of your pasta, and it’s delicious. It’s exactly what you wanted. In fact, it’s perfect.
Until you look up and notice that your friend ordered the filet.
She’s cutting into that beautiful hunk of meat, the steak yielding like soft butter, its red center drawing your appetite like a bull toward the matador. You clench your teeth and swallow a lump of chicken. You look down at your plate. The linguini stares back at you, lounging insipidly in its sauce. Pasta? Pasta is for losers. Why didn’t you get the stake like a sensible person? You wanted it. You could have had it. But you blew it, and now you’ll be eating these blasted noodles for the rest of the week.
The Grass Is Always Greener
…What was I talking about? Oh, yes, the podcast. Well, in some ways, it feels like that to me. A decade ago, I was given a menu with two main choices: continue as a single teacher of literature who can use all her free time in the summer to read, write, and study to her heart’s content, or else get married and pour her heart into raising a beautiful family. They’re both great options. I had an appetite for both, but I could order only one. So I chose the family. And let me tell you, the pasta is really good.
But sometimes I glance over at other people’s plates and see them cutting into that filet. Then, for a brief moment of insanity, I wonder if the pasta is really as good as I’d expected it to be after all. I wonder how my meal would be going if I’d ordered the steak. Would it taste better? Would it be more satisfying? Did I make the right choice?
Trading Plates
Now, to be honest, I never actually want to trade meals. I don’t want to get rid of the pasta; I just want to add the steak. I want to pour myself into loving and serving my family with young children, and I also want to use my brain like I used to. And I’ll freely admit that I have more of these moments of envy when I’m surrounded by a toy tornado, drowning in housework, listening to one child scream from a minor injury while standing in a cloud of stench, wiping the dirty bottom of the other child. At times like that, the steak sounds pretty good.
But you know what? If I’d chosen to stay single, I bet I’d be looking at happy couples with beautiful kids just like mine and wondering if I’d missed out. Because that’s how humans are—we’re so quick to default to envy and doubt and so slow to choose gratitude and peace. Trust me, I’m the world’s leading expert on this problem.
Later Doesn’t Mean Never
But despite all this—the good, bad, and ugly—I haven’t lost hope. I can still enjoy the podcast, even if the green monster raises its ugly head in my heart once in a while. I can still rejoice that God has given me a wonderful family to spend these years with, even if my mental capacity tapers off to a trickle for a while. I can be thankful for this delicious pasta, trusting that I’ll be able to order steak later on.
And even better than that is the fact that Jesus looks at a life of selfless obedience and calls it beautiful. This is the big idea that I want to unpack with you next time. I’ve been so encouraged as I meditate on this truth, and I hope you will be, too. For now, I’m off to enjoy my new podcast with a big ol’ bowl of noodles. Until then, no matter what’s on your plate, bon appetit!
Coming of Age: Death in The Yearling
The death of a beloved pet is never easy, especially for children. They may want to have a small funeral in the back yard. They’ll probably make a little cross out of sticks to mark the grave. They’ll cry and wonder why this happened. I remember all this from experience, and you probably do too.
But what if it was more than just a pet; what if it was the child’s only true friend? And what if the child didn’t merely discover that the pet had died but was forced to kill it himself in a horrific way? This child would come face-to-face with reality in a way that few others will experience for years to come, if ever. The coming-of-age process would be thrust upon him, and there would be no going back.
This is the story of Jody Baxter.
A Contrast of Experiences
Last time we looked at how death affects the children in Peter Pan. The story is carefully crafted to preserve Peter’s naiveté and innocence—after all, he’s the boy who never grows up. But the other children all choose to grow up, and part of that is their experiences of death. Even while characters like Hook and Mrs. Darling die in the story, things are still fairly lighthearted, albeit poignant and nostalgic.
But death in The Yearling is approached from a completely different angle. Both stories hold the premise that certain events can’t help but speed the coming-of-age process. However, while Peter Pan intentionally spares its characters from most of those realities, The Yearling takes Jody Baxter right to the heart of them. Let’s see how the various kinds of death in The Yearling cause Jody to grow from a boy into a yearling.
Jody’s Familiarity with Death
A polar opposite of Neverland, Baxter Island is a rural Florida farm that sees all kinds of death on a regular basis. Jody’s family raises animals to slaughter and eat. Pa hunts for food, guts it, and hangs the meat in plain sight. Animals kill each other out of hunger or pure meanness, and natural disasters wipe critters out by the hundreds.
Even the crops provide a reminder of death when a flood destroys nearly everything the Baxters had been growing. Jody Baxter is daily faced with death constantly. But as the story progresses, not even this familiarity with death can prepare him for some of the great losses he will experience.
Relational Deaths in The Yearling
Jody is closer and more affectionate with Grandma Hutto than he is with his own mother. While Grandma Hutto not actually his grandmother, she is a comfort and an inspiration to him. Her son, Oliver, is the closest thing Jody has to a brother. That’s why the intrusion of unfaithful Twink Weatherby, Oliver’s gal, is the beginning of the end for Jody’s close relationship with the Huttos. When the Huttos eventually leave town and Jody watches them sail away, he thinks about how their fading from view is like watching them die.
Before moving away, Oliver gets into a fight with the Forresters over Twink, and Jody and his Pa are forced to get involved to save Oliver’s life. This puts Pa at odds with the Forresters, who are his only neighbors. The Baxters had enjoyed a tense peace with the Forresters up until this point, but now they have to watch their backs. Even worse for Jody, his only friend, Fodderwing, is a Forrester, and now Jody can’t spend time with him like he used to.
But the most heartbreaking relational death is between Jody and Pa. When Pa resignedly gives the order to shoot Jody’s yearling, Jody’s unwavering trust in and love for his Pa are destroyed. Bitter and spiteful, Jody runs away from home. Pa’s betrayal had broken his heart. It was quite a while before Jody came around to considering Pa’s side of the issue, but even then their relationship never returned to the blind worship that it had been before the incident.
Physical Deaths in The Yearling
As we mentioned, Jody is pretty familiar with death because of the harsh realities of farm life. But the first death that actually breaks Jody’s heart is the death of his friend Fodderwing. Fodderwing is a kind boy and is Jody’s only real friend. He is born slow-witted, though, and his body must have been weaker than most. He succumbs to a sickness with almost no warning. Jody is blindsided — his only friend, ripped unexpectedly from his life. He never quite recovers from this brutal reality.
But the most devastating death is the death of Flag, his beloved pet deer. Flag wasn’t just a normal pet to Jody; it was his only remaining friend, a symbol of his growing responsibility and the trust his parents had in him as he took care of it. It was his companion, his baby, his best friend. So when Flag becomes an unmanageable threat to the Baxters’ winter food supply, Pa eventually makes the decision that Flag must be shot.
Jody flat out refuses to do the deed himself, so Ma takes the initiative while Jody isn’t looking. The horrific details are a crimson gash at the end of the story. Ma’s shot injures but fails to kill Flag. Jody is forced to finish the deed himself, taking the life of his beloved friend at the same pool where he had previously experienced such delight and innocence at the creation of his little water wheel. When he comes to his senses days later, he is no longer Jody the child; he is Jody the yearling.
The Monster, Death
Death is terrible. There’s no way around that fact. But it does play a role in the inevitable progress from childhood toward maturity. While Peter Pan seems to get a pass, allowing him to stay young and innocent forever, Jody Baxter comes face-to-face with the monster, death. It doesn’t kill Jody, but it devours his naiveté. Jody is never the same boy again.
While death is the worst way to experience coming of age, it’s not the only factor. We’ve already looked at the role that first love plays, and next time we’ll see how family plays a vital role in the journey from childhood to maturity. See you then!
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