Because everyone loves a good story
Regarding Liturgies and “Every Moment Holy”
Every Moment Holy
Today I’d like to do something a little different: rather than waxing eloquent about a poem or author, I’d like to recommend a book I’ve never read. Sound risky? Maybe so, but read on to see why I’m willing to take this risk.
While browsing through the recent posts of Andrew Peterson’s “The Rabbit Room” website, I stumbled across an article entitled “A Liturgy for Setting Up a Christmas Tree.” Obviously, my curiosity was piqued. I remembered that The Rabbit Room had published a collection of modern liturgies for everyday situations, but I never got around to ordering one last year. I sure meant to, though, since I love so much of what comes from Andrew Peterson and the folks he endorses.
I dug a little deeper and found an article in which Peterson explains the purpose of this book. He says, “Doug McKelvey’s Every Moment Holy reminds us that there are no unsacred moments; there are only sacred moments and moments we have forgotten are sacred.” And this reminder was just what I needed to hear.
Why Liturgy?
Maybe the better question to begin with is, “What is liturgy?” I looked up several definitions and examples, and they all seem to say the same thing: liturgy is a religious tradition made up words and sometimes actions in which one person leads and the congregation participates. Often, liturgy refers to a set reading or a performed ritual. From these definitions, you may be getting the impression that liturgies are pretty boring. Granted, it’s not a word that usually connotes much excitement or enthusiasm.
So why recommend a book of liturgical prayers, especially one I’ve never read? Because, until I read the article by Andrew Peterson, I had forgotten how helpful these sorts of prayers can be. In my own pursuit of God, I’ve read two or three books that fall into this category of laid-out prayers, and they have all been immensely helpful. Let me share a couple of them with you.
Handbook to Prayer
First, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed a tiny little book called “Handbook to Prayer: Praying Scripture Back to God,” by Kenneth Boa. Now, Kenneth Boa didn’t really write the book, per se, since almost the entire thing is made up of scripture passages. But he selected the passages, arranged them by topic, and laid out a way to pray through various aspects of the Christian life for each day. Each day’s prayer includes scriptures of adoration, confession, renewal, petition, intercession, affirmation, thanksgiving, and closing prayer. While there’s nothing magical or extra-holy about praying through a book like this, I’ve found it very helpful. When I use it, it keeps my prayers from becoming lazy or drifting away entirely, which they sadly tend to do. Granted, this isn’t strictly liturgical because it is meant for private prayer instead of corporate, but its formulaic structure seemed similar enough to mention here.
The Valley of Vision
Second, I love the collection of Puritan prayers called “The Valley of Vision.” The Puritans in general were much cooler than we give them credit for, and this little gem is a great example of why. The book has collected old prayers in all kinds of categories, including redemption and reconciliation, penitence and depreciation, and gifts of grace. The prayers are so simple, honest, and deep that it makes me realize how shallow and rushed my own prayers often are. Praying along with these old saints helps focus my heart on things deeper and better than I would have thought of on my own. And while these aren’t necessarily laid out to be read in public worship, I’ve seen them used for that purpose to great effect.
Read These Articles
I’ve kept today’s post short and sweet in hopes that you’ll head over to the Rabbit Room website and read the two articles I’ve been talking about. First, read Andrew Peterson’s description of Every Moment Holy. I think you’ll find the explanation helpful and encouraging, even (or especially) if your church isn’t very liturgical.
Then, if you’re in the mood, read the prayer entitled “A Liturgy for Setting Up a Christmas Tree.” You may already have finished your decorating, but it’s not too late to use the tree as a reminder of the sacredness of every moment, especially in this Christmas season.
And if you’re up for even more, maybe we should both order a copy of Every Moment Holy. After all, our days have plenty of routine already; we may as well intend to sanctify the moments. Books of liturgy are a great practice to help us do just that.
Masterful Poems, Part 2: “Meditation 1.1”
What love is this of Thine that cannot be
In Thine infinity, O Lord, confined,
Unless it in Thy very person see
Infinity and finity conjoined?
With this beautiful, mind-bending question, Edward Taylor begins his poem “Meditation 1.1.” His wit, wordplay, and sincere devotion are evident in this little three-stanza gem, so read on to have your heart challenged and encouraged.
Edward Who?
Edward Taylor (1642–1729) was a Puritan minister and a gifted American poet. He wrote prolifically during his lifetime, compiling several long collections of religious and other poems, although only two stanzas were published while he was still alive. In fact, his complete works weren’t published until 1960! So what makes this old poet so interesting to me? As usual, it’s the combination of his heart and his head.
Taylor was a pretty smart cookie. After he sailed from England to Boston in order to pursue religious freedom, he immediately enrolled in Harvard University. After his graduation, he accepted a position to become minister of a congregation in Westfield, MA, and there he stayed for the rest of his life. This is where he wrote his best poetry, often as personal preparation for his sermons or communion.
Taylor’s Got Style
Judging from his poetic style, he must have read widely in both classic and contemporary literature. His poems range anywhere from showy to sincere. But don’t be deterred by his ornate analogies and his old-timey words; the poem we’re looking at today is pure gold. It’s referred to as “Meditation 1.1” because it is the first in a series of poems called Preparatory Meditations. He wrote these to prepare his heart to serve the Lord’s Supper.
As you read the poem, look for the various word pictures that he paints to describe the indescribable love of God for undeserving sinners. In these three stanzas, he eloquently depicts the irony of God’s humanity, sacrifice, and grace.
“Meditation 1.1”
What love is this of Thine that cannot be
In Thine infinity, O Lord, confined,
Unless it in Thy very person see
Infinity and finity conjoined?
What hath Thy godhead, as not satisfied,
Married our manhood, making it its bride?
Oh matchless love! Filling heaven to the brim!
O’errunning it: all running o’er beside
This world! Nay, overflowing hell; wherein
For Thine elect there rose a mighty tide!
That there our veins might through Thy person bleed,
To quench those flames that else would on us feed.
Oh! that Thy love might overflow my heart!
To fire the same with love: for love I would.
But oh! my straitened breast! my lifeless spark!
My fireless flame! What chilly love, and cold?
In measure small! In manner chilly! See.
Lord, blow the coal: Thy love enflame in me.
Stanza One: God’s Humanity
Even if you’ve pulled nothing else from the poem yet, I’ll bet you did notice that he’s pretty awe-struck by the love of God. He uses a few different literary techniques to express his amazement. In stanza one, he employs irony to highlight the indescribable magnitude of God’s love: it is so big that infinity itself cannot contain it! In order to express His love fully, God chose to “marry” His infinite godhead with our finite humanity, resulting in the birth of Jesus. The life, death, and resurrection of Emmanuel—God with us—was the best way for God to display the fullness of His love to us.
Stanza Two: God’s Sacrifice
In stanza two, Taylor uses the metaphor of a flood to elaborate on this love and redemption. God’s love was not content merely to stay in heaven and look down on condemned souls in hell. Instead, His love overflowed heaven, spilled over onto earth, and poured down into the deepest chasms of hell. Taylor pictures this flood of love as a rising tide on which God’s elect, like Noah, are carried safely out of judgment and into salvation. The flood that quenches the flames of hell is nothing less than the blood of Christ, whose veins bled in our place and quenched our condemnation.
Stanza Three: God’s Grace
The last stanza is a prayer, and it’s one that I think we can all relate to. After considering the earth-shattering, mind-blowing love of God for us, Taylor looks into his own heart and is appalled to see the comparative apathy that he feels for God in return. He finds no flood of love, no fire of passion. But Taylor knew that we can’t conjure up a love for God on our own; our response of love is a gift of grace from God Himself. So rather than despair, Taylor asks God to fill him with love. In His grace, we know this is a prayer that God is delighted to answer.
And after seeing God’s love through the eyes of Edward Taylor, I echo his prayer as well: “Lord, blow the coal: Thy love enflame in me.”
Sources:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edward-taylor#tab-poems
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/preparatory-meditations-first-series-1/
Awesome Children’s Books, Part 4: “Where the Wild Things Are”
If you’ve never read “Where the Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak, then I’m not sure where you’ve been all your life, but I know where you need to go: to the library.
A.S.A.P.
The book will take you less than two minutes to read, but it will probably take you much longer to digest. On the surface, it seems like a simple book with few words and many pictures. But the longer I’ve read it and thought about it, the more I’ve realized there is a lot going on under the surface of the story. Want proof? Read on!
Who Was Maurice Sendak?
Author and illustrator Maurice Sendak was quite an interesting fellow. He was born in New York in 1928 to a family with Polish-Jewish heritage. Because he was sickly, he spent much of his childhood in bed reading books. Believe it or not, he decided to become an illustrator after watching Disney’s Fantasia as a child. A much more tragic influence on his life was the death of many of his overseas relatives in the Holocaust, a fact that colored his fiction and influenced his thinking about mortality.
Sendak illustrated books for many other authors (including Else Holmelund Minarik’s “Little Bear” books!), but he also wrote and illustrated books of his own before his death in 2012. While some of his works are considered creepy or even controversial, he does have an undeniable gift for communication. “Where the Wild Things Are” is probably his best-known work, and when you experience its unique, haunting illustrations and simple, haunting story, you’ll see why. Let’s dig into it a bit more, shall we?
How to Tackle Literature
As you may know, I had the privilege of teaching literature (and other stuff) to students for many years. I absolutely loved the opportunity to pose questions and then watch their minds work. Literature—even well-written children’s books—is a great platform for mental development. I used “Where the Wild Things Are” in both my junior high Reading Comprehension class and my eleventh-grade American Literature class as a way to help them think through plot, purpose, and theme, and I’m excited to do that with you today!
It may be nerdy of me to get excited about studying books like this, but I really can’t help it. I’m a Hermione Granger through and through (even though parts of me often wander into Luna Lovegood territory). But I really do believe that training your mind to ask good questions about what you read, watch, or hear is critical to having a mind that isn’t just a receptacle but is a force of its own. When we interact with our entertainment, shifting into “Why?” mode instead of coasting along in neutral, we are much more likely to understand, enjoy, and benefit from it.
Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, let’s give it a shot together, shall we?
What’s the Plot?
The first question to ask yourself when you read this book is, “What is the plot?” Thankfully, this is the easy question. The book is about a naughty little boy named Max who puts on a wolf costume and wreaks havoc on his house one night. His mother calls him a wild thing, and he threatens to eat her up. In punishment, his mother sends him to bed with no supper. Max falls asleep and dreams that he sails to the place where the wild things are.
At first, he loves it there. He intimidates the wild things by glaring into their eyes without blinking, so they declare him their king. They celebrate all night long with a wild rumpus, of which Max is clearly the ringleader. He tells them what to do and when to stop. But by morning, Max is hungry, tired, and lonely. He “wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.” So, much to the dismay of the wild things, he hops back in his boat and sails home. When he wakes up from his dream, he finds that his mother had brought dinner to him in his room. “And it was still hot.”
What’s the Purpose?
Now, on the surface, it seems like a simple little story about a boy who had a fun dream. If you think about it a little deeper, it could also be a story about a mother’s unconditional love. And while those are true and viable takeaways, I think there may be another layer to the story. What makes me think so? Asking the question, “What’s the purpose?”
For example, whenever there is repetition in a story, it’s pretty likely that the author did it for a reason. This story begins with Max being called “WILD THING!” by his mother, and in return Max yells, “I’LL EAT YOU UP!” But later when Max has had his fill of the other wild things and wants to go home, they say, “’Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!’” Also, at the beginning of the story, we know Max’s mom tried to get him to stop making mischief and eventually had to send him to bed without any supper. Later, when Max becomes king of the wild things, he puts an end to their wild rumpus. “’Now stop!’ Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper.” So what’s the purpose of this repetition? In other words, why did Sendak write the story like this? I think he was doing it to communicate something about theme, or the “moral of the story.”
What’s the Theme?
Good books (and movies) don’t just tell a story; they tell a story with a point, or theme. In “Where the Wild Things Are,” the repeated elements help point us to a possible theme. For example, consider how the story puts Max in his mother’s place. At first, she is the one yelling at the “wild thing” to settle down and obey. She is the one sending him to bed without supper because he insists on being unruly. She is the boss, but you can imagine that she’s frazzled and probably discouraged. But Max is angry because he wants to call the shots. So when Max gets to the place where the wild things are, he decides to take charge and be the boss. He leads them. He commands a wild party. He tells them when to be still and when to stop. He sends them to bed with no supper. After all, he is the king.
But eventually he takes time to sit down and think. And what does the king come to realize? That being the boss can be a lonely, tiring job. That sometimes enough is enough. That maybe, just maybe, his mother was right. He had wanted a chance to be in charge and do whatever he pleased, but when he got it, he realized it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He felt lonely, and he didn’t want to be king anymore.
In fact, he realized that being where someone loves you best of all is even better than being king of the wild things.
In Conclusion
So how do we know that Sendak really intended us to learn this from the story? Well, unless an author leaves behind notes and quotes, we’re really just making educated guesses. But the more we practice this skill, the more educated our guesses will become. Go ahead—try it on some books or movies that you know!
And, for bonus points, watch the movie adaptation of “Where the Wild Things Are.” It’s wild, dark, tragic, and hopeful, and I think it promotes the same theme we just discovered. But don’t take my word for it; let me know what you think!
Source: Sendak, Maurice. Where the Wild Things Are. New York: Scholastic, 1963.
“On Fairy-Stories” Epilogue: Evangelium
“The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories” (155).
Remember how I told you that we’d be looking at the glorious intersection between fairy-stories and the Gospel? Today, my friends, that’s just what we’ll do. It’s our last installment in this mega-series, so buckle up for the last lap; it’s gonna be awesome!
A Realistic Fantasy World
Last week we saw that Tolkien coined the word eucatastrophe to describe the “good turning” of a plot from hopeless sorrow to inconceivable joy. This joy, he asserts, is the mark of a true fairy-story. This week he goes further. As he concludes his lengthy essay about fairy-stories in general, he focuses his epilogue on the way that the story of Christ is “the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe” (156). What makes this news even better is that “this story has entered History and the primary world [that is, the world in which we live as opposed to a merely literary world]; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation” (156).
Allow me to explain. Authors of fantasy worlds strive to make them as “realistic” as possible, not in the sense that the setting or plot should seem familiar but that they should feel authentic and believable in that context. Even the unlikeliest storyline can bring joy to our hearts when the eucatastrophe strikes a note for which we’ve been longing. We want the Beast to transform and marry Belle. We want the Ring of Power to be destroyed in Mt. Doom. We want Princess Buttercup and Westley to live happily ever after. When these far-fetched desires finally come true, our longings are consoled and satisfied.
But unless we are a little bit silly, we don’t really think they happened in the same sense that VE Day happened in 1945.
The Story That Came True
However, Tolkien’s point here is not just that well-orchestrated eucatastrophies are, in one sense, believable; his greater point is that the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the story we would most desire to be true, “has entered History and the primary world” where it really did take place (156)! Consider the idea that God Himself—the only Creator—would choose to take on a human body and then be slaughtered so that He could mend the broken relationship with his rebellious creatures. Preposterous! Sacrilegious! Absurd! But also completely and utterly true.
“The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy…. There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many skeptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath” (156). If you read the Gospels honestly, the only explanation for their structuring is that they actually happened. Hallelujah! What a eucatastrophe!
The Divine “Legend”
So why is the story of Christ “infinitely…high and joyous[?] Because this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused” (156). What does he mean by saying that the story of Christ is a “Legend” that became History? Doesn’t that degrade divine reality to the level of a made-up story? In this case, not at all. Consider this: what is a legend? It’s a story that someone constructed. Sure, some legends may have roots in a real story, and many legends have been tweaked by various tellers throughout the ages. But ultimately, a legend is a story that someone wrote.
The Divine Author
So who wrote the story of Jesus? I don’t mean who recorded the eyewitness details of His life on earth; Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John did that under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. I mean, who wrote the script for this most eucatastrophic of all stories? God did! Follow with me here: you and I don’t write the script for our own lives. Sure, we make our choices and live our lives accordingly, but we weren’t sitting around before birth thinking of how we’d direct the narrative of our lives. We simply show up and live.
But Christ’s story was written before the world was even created. The Trinity wrote the story of mankind’s redemption by means of the birth, death, and resurrection of the Son of God. That’s why He constantly reminded people that He wasn’t here to do whatever He wanted; He was here to do the will of the Father. In other words, He was sticking to the script. From His conception to His ascension, He was causing the Legend (or pre-written story) to become History in actual fact. Now that is infinitely high and joyous!
A Takeaway for Authors
So what does this mean for those of us who aspire to be Christian authors? Should we fill every book with a re-telling of the story of Jesus in order to tap into the greatest Story ever told? No, not in Tolkien’s opinion. Rather, he affirms that “the Evangelium [aka, the story of Christ in the Gospels] has not abrogated [or nullified] legends; it has hallowed them, especially the ‘happy ending’” (156). When we write stories that reflect the hope and joy that we’ve found in the Gospel, we point our readers to the Greatest Author. Our stories aren’t cheapened by not stating the Gospel verbatim; rather, they are enriched by their resemblance to the story of Jesus.
This style of storytelling has very little in common with the “modernism” that Tolkien so dislikes. That’s why a well-written, modern story with true hope will certainly catch the attention of today’s readers. So is it worthwhile to pursue the life of a Christian author? Absolutely. “The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed” (156). Writing well is hard work, but it is well worth it.
A Takeaway for Everyone
And, finally, what does this mean for all of us, even those who aren’t interested in being authors? What’s our takeaway? Simply this: choose entertainment that reflects the evangelium. We saw in earlier weeks that there are many kinds of entertainment available—depressing, agnostic, nihilistic, sordid, and crazy. There are movies that scramble your brain and crush your hopes. There are books that drag your mind through the mud. There are songs that glorify the trite, temporary, and sensual.
But there are other options, too.
Rather than jumping like lemmings into the sea of pop culture, decide to be different. Choose movies that, while admitting the world isn’t always a happy place, provide the possibility of hope and redemption. Choose books that display a higher standard of style and content. Choose music that actually means something. We aren’t just mindless creatures; we are educated consumers. Consume that which is beautiful, and watch your thirsty soul drink it in. Show today’s entertainment industry that we don’t always want something edgy or dismal. Sometimes we want a good fairy-story. There is art out there that does a lovely job of this, so celebrate it, and then use it as a way to celebrate the Greatest Story.
Today’s Question: What movies, books, and music have you enjoyed that display hope rather than modernism?
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 5: Consolation
Hurray! We’re getting down to the real goods today, folks! This post and the next one are why I set about to discuss Tolkien’s “On Fairy-Stories” in the first place. Think it’s crazy that I slogged through four previous posts before getting around to what I really wanted to write about? Well, it probably is, but what can I say? I’m a girl after Tolkien’s own heart.
Recently we’ve looked at the first three purposes of fairy-stories (or imaginative literature): Fantasy, Recovery, and Escape. In today’s post, we’ll talk about the final purpose: Consolation. I’m so excited about it, because this is where he really starts to apply fairy-stories to the Gospel.
Wait, what?
I know! Unexpected, but very awesome. We’ll get just a glimmer of it this week, but it will explode into fireworks next week. Read on to find out more!
Escape from Society and Suffering
Last week we looked at how fairy-stories provide a kind of Escape from the drudgery of modern life, such as ugly, mass-produced electric street lamps. But he also acknowledges that “there are other things more grim and terrible to fly from than the noise, stench, ruthlessness, and extravagance of the internal-combustion engine. There are hunger, thirst, poverty, pain, sorrow, injustice, death” (151). Even though reading a fairy-story won’t solve these problems outright, a good story will provide a healthy way of escaping from these sad realities for a while. An even better story will give you a fresh perspective through which to view and deal with these realities.
But fairy-stories can do even more! In addition to providing a mental escape, it can also give consolation for our desires. “Even when men are not facing hard things such as these, there are ancient limitations from which fairy-stories offer a sort of…satisfaction and consolation” (151). But what does he mean by “consolation,” and what sorts of limitations is he referring to?
Consolation of Desires
To me, the word “consolation” can be a little confusing in this context. The term conjures up a “consolation prize,” or a little trinket that you receive for trying but losing. It also suggests a crying baby being consoled by a parent. But both of these do hint at the way in which Tolkien uses the word. You may not have won the game, but your desire to get a prize is consoled. The baby may still feel grumpy, but his desire to be cared for is consoled. To Tolkien in this context, the word “consolation” means a satisfaction of deep desires.
For example, Tolkien lists a few “pardonable weaknesses or curiosities” such as the desire to explore the depths of the ocean with as much freedom as a fish or to sail effortlessly through the air with the noiseless grace of a bird (151). He even mentions the desire to talk with and understand animals. These may be things that we think about more often as children than as adults, but if we’re honest with ourselves, desires like these never truly leave us. Fairy-stories offer consolation or satisfaction not by giving us skills to perform these feats but by letting us imagine ourselves in the place of those who can.
The Great Escape
He then goes on to list “the oldest and deepest desire, the Great Escape: the Escape from Death” (153). Stories about this desire can be written from numerous perspectives: scientific, medical, historical, science fiction, and fantasy, to name a few. Given the chance in many of these stories, the characters would choose physical immortality over a life of death and decay. And if we were given the choice, wouldn’t we be tempted to do the same? But Tolkien points out that this kind of “endless serial living” would not satisfy us like we think it would (153).
In fact, he imagines that when Elves write human-stories (much like we write fairy-stories), they probably fill their tales with the theme of the “Escape from Deathlessness” (153). Even worse than the curse of a mortal life is the curse of physical immortality in an ever-changing world.
Consider a scene from Peter Jackson’s movie version of “The Two Towers.” In speaking to his daughter Arwen, the elf Elrond paints a bleak picture of an immortal life in a mortal world. If Arwen chooses to stay in Middle Earth and marry the human, Aragorn, she will experience temporary happiness followed by eternal sorrow. See, Tolkien believes that it is not prolonged physical life that our hearts truly desire. Rather, he says, “far more important is the Consolation of the Happy Ending” (153).
A Happy Ending
Tolkien believes that one of the chief characteristics of a fairy-story is its happy ending. He states that “tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fairy-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite—I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function” (153). I love this! The opposite of tragedy is Eucatastrophe. Leave it to Tolkien to scour the English lexicon and reject all of its antonyms for “tragedy” in favor of his own Greek-derived concoction. But what on earth does he mean?
He defines eucatastrophe as a “good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’” just when you think the story is at its lowest point (153). In Greek, the word “catastrophe” means an overturning. The prefix “eu” means good. So think of a story’s eucatastrophe as the point at which the plot is overturned by something good. It’s the unlikely maneuver that changes the outcome of the battle. It’s the unexpected but much-desired change of fortune for the underdog hero. It’s Luke Skywalker’s using the Force to destroy the Death Star just moments before it’s too late.
But isn’t that just the wishful thinking of an escapist? Not necessarily. Tolkien argues that eucatastrophe “does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief” (153).
I hope you got butterflies from thinking about those last few lines. This idea of eucatastrophe being a glimpse of the Gospel, or evangelium, is what we will focus on next week, so be sure to tune in. It’s the grand finale, and I know you won’t want to miss it!
Today’s Question: What is your favorite example of eucatastrophe in a book, movie, or other story?
Check out the final post here!
Sources:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
Video clip from Peter Jackson’s “The Two Towers”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_i3Ax4YJySg
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 4: Escape
What do you do when you need a break from the grind of everyday life? Binge on Seinfeld reruns? Take a bubble bath? Enjoy some comfort food? Read my blog? Tolkien’s remedy was even better, although it wouldn’t be the default for most of us: he suggested escaping into the world of fairy-stories.
As a quick review, we’ve already mentioned the four purposes of fairy-stories: Fantasy, Recovery, Escape, and Consolation. By “Fantasy,” Tolkien means that fairy-stories can be a form of verbal art when the author sub-creates something with his or her imagination. When he talks about “Recovery,” he means that fairy stories can cure us of a snobbish dislike of what’s beautiful simply because it’s old. And this week we’ll take a quick peek at the idea of “Escape.” While Tolkien does point out that Escape and Consolation are closely related, I’d rather look at them one at a time. Then I won’t get too carried away, thereby sending one or both of us into mental conniptions.
What Do You Mean, Escape?
In typical Tolkien fashion, he wants to redefine the popular connotation of the word before he goes on to tell you what he intends to say about it. In the case of the word “Escape,” he takes offense at the negative tone that literary critics (or those who parrot the critics) use when talking about his beloved fairy-stories. They dismiss them as stories either for children or for adults who want to keep thinking like children. The critics refuse to acknowledge any real value or benefit from a story that ends “happily ever after.” In his use of the word Escape, Tolkien rejects this negative tone and redefines the word in its original sense of breaking free from confinement.
Far from denying that fairy-stories offer a kind of Escape to modern readers, Tolkien heartily affirms it. “Though fairy-stories are of course by no means the only means of Escape,” he says, “they are today one of the most obvious and (to some) outrageous forms of ‘escapist’ literature” (147). But to those of us who, like Tolkien, feel that the modern world is lacking in moral goodness, creative freshness, and artistic beauty, the fairy-story’s promise of Escape is not a child’s trinket but a jailer’s key.
What’s Wrong with Escape?
As I said, Tolkien doesn’t deny that fairy-stories offer a form of Escape. Instead, he denies that there is any problem with wanting to escape. “In what the misusers of Escape are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds” (148).
If you were to wake up and find yourself in a prison cell when you hadn’t done anything wrong, wouldn’t you be justified in wanting to escape? Could anyone blame you for thinking and talking about things other than the cell, the bars, and the cot? This is the analogy that Tolkien gives for the imaginative mind imprisoned in the modern world. When critics accuse authors and readers of fairy-stories with being escapist, “they are confusing…the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter” (148). We aren’t betraying the United States of Reality; we are breaking out of Modernism Penitentiary.
Escape from What?
Although I’ve hinted at several things from which the writer or reader of fairy-stories would like to escape, Tolkien gets even more specific: he cites modern, electric street lamps. If you’ve read much by Tolkien, you know that he despises recent inventions that favor speed, uniformity, and efficiency over quality, beauty, and craftsmanship. For proof of this, just contrast the fiery forges of Isengard with the tranquil paths of Rivendell.
But why street lamps? Because, to Tolkien, they are just one more example of how ugly, modern conveniences are replacing lovely, traditional ones. Refusing to include such inventions in a fairy-story often proceeds “from a considered disgust for so typical a product of the Robot Age, that combines elaboration and ingenuity of means with ugliness, and (often) with inferiority of result” (148). He sees nothing wrong with crafting a story that doesn’t parade all the modern aspects of reality. Since we’re surrounded with these things in our everyday lives, Tolkien prefers to read and write literature that provides some variety in the form of beauty.
Escape to What?
So he proposes escaping from the drudgery of ugly technological conveniences by means of literature. I think we could all benefit from this kind of Escape once in a while. But does this mean that we all have to read fairy-stories, or fantasy tales, in order to escape? Definitely not!
Tolkien points out that your preference doesn’t always have to be for dragons and witches and fairies. You can enjoy escaping to ancient times when you read historical fiction. You can escape to the imagined future when you read science fiction. In Tolkien’s mind, the destination doesn’t matter, so long as it takes you out of our age of ever-increasing technology and the grim tide of progress.
“It is indeed an age of ‘improved means to deteriorated ends.’ It is part of the essential malady of such days—producing the desire to escape not indeed from life but from our present time and self-made misery—that we are acutely conscious both of the ugliness of our works, and of their evil” (151). Notice one distinction that he makes here: it’s not good to desire escape from all reality or from life itself. To live perpetually in a fantasy realm, to dream your life away like Miniver Cheevy, and to despise this world to the point of trying to leave it are all unhealthy reactions. Tolkien’s alternative is to make the best of the world we’re in while enjoying the Escape that well-written literature provides.
Today’s Question: What is your favorite kind of “escapist” literature?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Robinson, Edward Arlington. “Miniver Cheevy.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44978/miniver-cheevy
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 3: Recovery
A woman find a fabulous necklace that she absolutely adores, so she buys it but leaves it locked in her jewelry case. A man falls in love with the exquisite face of a woman, so he marries her and soon forgets to appreciate the features he once dreamt about. An art collector purchases a rare and intricate painting, but when he hangs it on his wall, he never remembers to look up at it. In Tolkien’s opinion, what these three need is Recovery.
Last time we began looking at the purpose of fairy-stories. In Tolkien’s opinion, creating believable, artfully-written Fantasy is a purpose in and of itself. But this week we’ll see another purpose for Fantasy: Recovery.
Recovery From What?
When you hear that someone needs recovery, you probably think of it in relation to a sickness or injury. After all, if there’s no malady, then from what is he recovering? But Tolkien describes some artistic sicknesses that had begun plaguing literature during his lifetime, and the symptoms are still around today.
For example, he describes those who out of “boredom or of an anxiety to be original” have developed a dislike for literature and art that is “fine…delicate…and pretty” (145). Instead, they prefer “mere manipulation and overelaboration of old material, clever and heartless” (145). They’d rather see something new and hollow than old and beautiful. He also describes those who prefer to create distorted, misshapen stories. They enjoy “making all things dark or unremittingly violent,” depicting a world without hope or goodness (145-6). There are also those who, instead of displaying the world in bright colors and familiar shapes, choose to pass on “through subtlety to drabness, and the fantastical complication of shapes to the point of silliness and on towards delirium” (146).
If you took a modern literature course in high school or college, then these descriptions may bring several “-isms” to your mind. And if you know Tolkien, you know he dislikes almost all things modern, especially modern “-isms.” That’s why he proposes Recovery.
Familiarity Breeds Apathy
Part of the problem, Tolkien says, is that we’re suffering from a contempt of the familiar. Once we put the word “my” in front of anything, we risk taking it for granted or ignoring it entirely. The world around us tends to be like treasures that we “locked…in our hoard, acquired them, and acquiring ceased to look at them” (146). Rather than breeding fresh perspective, familiarity tends to breed apathy, if not contempt.
But this is why we need Recovery. Recovery, Tolkien says, is a “regaining of a clear view” in which we begin “seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them” (146). And this is where fairy-stories come in. When we see trees or sheep or cottages or wolves in the world around us, we may not give them much thought. Well, maybe we would give some thought to a wolf, but you know what I mean. If these are just objects in “my” world, then there’s nothing very remarkable about them.
But if the cottage is on the edge of an enchanted forest, or if the wolf has mighty big teeth and your grandmother’s bonnet, then we at last begin to see them in a new light. We no longer see them through a window smudged with familiarity; we see them clearly as for the first time.
Earth Is an Alien Planet
In a similar way, we may get occasional glimpses of the world around us as though it were an alien world. Have you ever felt that way before? I sometimes have little “out-of-body” experiences where I look at what’s happening around me and think, “If I didn’t know this was normal, I would think it was very strange indeed.”
I remember feeling that way in a large auditorium after an orchestra concert one night. The room was full of people who all spontaneously and simultaneously began clapping after the song ended. I mean, what in the world? Why are we slapping the extremities of our upper appendages together? I’ve felt the same way when a group of people suddenly breaks into laughter at a joke, everyone barking, braying, wheezing, or guffawing in his own way but at the same time. What is this cacophony? And how did everyone know to do it at that moment?
Humans are very odd creatures.
Mooreeffoc
The sudden realization that the world around us is a strange and foreign land can be referred to by the term Mooreeffoc. Although G.K. Chesterton popularized the term, Charles Dickens really began it. Dickens wrote about sitting at a table in a restaurant and staring out the glass window on which was written the word Mooreeffoc. From the street, of course, the sign merely said Coffee-room. But from his perspective, Dickens felt that he was in a strange and foreign place. That one word sharpened his perspective on the rest of his surroundings.
Chesterton seized on this word, using it to “denote the queerness of things that have become trite, when they are seen suddenly from a new angle” (146). In this way, Tolkien says that we may be able to see everything and everyone around us as utterly alien. We can look around us and “see the amazing oddity and interest of [the world’s] inhabitants and their customs and feeding-habits” (147). With a change in perspective, we can see life as an observer and not a mere participant.
Simple Is Better
While this may be an interesting experiment or an entertaining pastime, Tolkien doesn’t think it’s the most helpful tool for Recovery. In fact, he believes that more recovery of perspective can come from reading fairy-stories. It’s not that the story has to contain a bunch of made up creatures or previously-unimagined colors. Instead, he says that “fairy-stories deal largely…with simple or fundamental things, untouched by Fantasy, but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by their setting” (147).
The fantastic setting of a fairy-story sanctifies, as it were, the common inhabitants of the story. In fact, as Tolkien says, “it was in fairy-stories that I first divined…the wonder of the things, such as stone, and wood, and iron; tree and grass; house and fire; bread and wine” (147). It doesn’t take much to bring Recovery to our jaded, modern souls—just the fresh perspective that comes from a good fairy-story.
Today’s Question: Have you ever had a Mooreeffoc moment? I’d love to hear about it!
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
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