Category Archives: Literature

Preachers Who Are Not Believers

Spring                                   Waxing Awakening Moon

Gave Liberal II this morning.  Lot of conversation, a little consternation.  Best piece was a conversation with Ian Boswell, the music director.  We discussed the limits of rationality and the integration of reason and soulfulness that great music represents.  He pointed to the late sonatas of Beethoven.  This has given me food for thought for Liberal III:  The Future.

The work I do for Groveland and the transition from Christian to Unitarian got a piece of context I hadn’t had from this very interesting paper:  Preachers Who Are Not Believers.  This is qualitative research done by a social worker with five subjects.  She has done extensive interviewing with each one and her co-researcher, Daniel Dennet, the theophobe philosopher from Tufts University carefully explain that the sample is too small to allow any general conclusions to be drawn.  Each of the clergy self-describe as non-believers though what they mean by that phrase has enormous plasticity.

If the topic interests you, I encourage you to look at the paper, the link above will take you there.  What intrigued me was their guess about why there is such a phenomenon in the first place; that is, how to people end up in the ministry then come to lose their faith.  I think they’re right.

Let me quote:  “The answer seems to lie in the seminary experience shared by all our pastors, liberals and literals alike. Even some conservative seminaries staff their courses on the Bible with professors who are trained in textual criticism, the historical methods of biblical scholarship, and what is taught in those courses is not what the young seminarians learned in Sunday school, even in the more liberal churches. In seminary they were introduced to many of the details that have been gleaned by centuries of painstaking research about how various ancient texts came to be written, copied, translated, and, after considerable jockeying and logrolling, eventually assembled into the Bible we read today. It is hard if not impossible to square these new facts with the idea that the Bible is in all its particulars a true account of actual events, let alone the inerrant word of God.”

They don’t mention the equally corrosive discipline of church history.  In church history the actual stories of doctrinal development give a historically relativistic inflection to them that does serious damage to their confident assertion.  My favorite example is the trinity, a concept which passed by one vote at the Council of Nicaea embedded in the Nicene Creed.   There are many other unsavory moments in church history.  Among them is Martin Luther’s response to a peasant’s rebellion –Against the Murderous, Thieving Hordes of Peasants. Another is the annihilation of the Cathars in France and, in general, the often violent response to those not in agreement with one particular doctrinal nuance or another.

If you put the historical reality of church history in tandem with textual or higher criticism of the Bible, it is impossible not at least consider whether the church and its foundations are things of this world, not another.   It is the frisson of doubt, strengthened by a hundred small instances that leads to faith changes, often of considerable magnitude.

“Biblical criticism is a form of Historical Criticism that seeks to analyze the Bible through asking certain questions of the text, such as: Who wrote it? When was it written? To whom was it written? Why was it written? What was the historical, geographical, and cultural setting of the text? How well preserved is the original text? How unified is the text? What sources were used by the author? How was the text transmitted over time? What is the text’s genre and from what sociologial setting is it derived? When and how did it come to become part of the Bible?”

The biggest problem though, and the Preachers research spells this out, too, is the gulf this creates between clergy and congregation.  The gulf between clergy and congregation only grows over time and it does so for some very straight forward reasons.  First, to teach others a new and especially an unpleasant truth you have to have a clear and profound grasp of it yourself.  Though the training in biblical scholarship in seminary is extensive, the actual field of information is vast.  Old Testament Ph. D.s are among the most difficult in scholarship.  At least five languages have to be mastered:  Ancient Biblical Hebrew, ancient Greek, Latin, Aramaic and Ugaritic or Akkadian.  Then are the techniques of higher criticism themselves:  literary, form-critical, historical, redactive, rhetorical, source, narrative and textual.  Not only do they have to be  learned and applied to a vast body of literature, much more than the Old Testament contains, one also has to learn the history of these disciplines themselves.

Textual criticism alone is a large field.  The Dead Sea Scrolls come into play, for example, in attempting to discern the oldest texts available for certain biblical passages, as do many other documents.  This is all in search of the oldest and therefore closest to the original text, one presumed to be more authentic for that reason.  It also involves comparing available texts against each other.

My point here is that this is a difficult body of scholarship to assimilate, let alone deploy creatively in the development of sermons once a week.  Without substantial command of the disciplines involved it, it is difficult at best to explain this material to laypeople.  This is a task fraught with tension for a clergy because each instance of information that runs contrary to biblical views received in childhood runs the risk of creating real problems in the life of the congregation.

This means that such fundamental clergy tasks as preaching and adult education often proceed from very, very different starting assumptions from that of the laity.  This makes honesty and authenticity in the ministry almost impossible.  The issue here is real and deeper than even this brief explication can suggest.  Just ask your minister.

Turning 63

Imbolc                            New Moon (Wild)

“Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”- Franz Kafka

It’s not an especially significant birthday in the way of things.  63 is a lull between OMG I’m in my 60’s and 65, the all purpose retirement age in former times.  The lack of symbolic significance and its very ordinariness makes me happy to turn 63.  I have no expectations about life at 63.  So far, the 60’s have been kind to me.  I’ve lost no friends, no family.  With the exception of Kate’s back trouble, no one I know has a serious ongoing health problem.  Frank Broderick who at 77 is now in his 15th year after his first heart attack manages his cardio problems, proving that even yesterday’s fatal condition can now fit into a long life.

(Rembrandt self-portrait at 63)

Turning the prism one more  time 63 astonishes me.  Why?  Because of its very ordinariness and because of its lack of symbolic significance.  Not so long ago, say when I was in my teens, folks my age had begun to teeter toward a time of serious old age and disability.  That point in life is still not on the observable horizon for me.  In fact, it’s possible some number of us reaching this age will be relatively healthy and able until our final days.  Quite a change.

On a personal note I have made my peace with the world in terms of success.  What I’ve had, little but some, will do.  I enjoy the love of a good woman and five dogs here at home and the circle  expands to nuclear family and extended family and friends like the Woollies, the docents and the Sierra Club folks.  My days have meaningful labor that changes with the seasons.  I live in a country I love, a state, and a home.

Intellectually and creatively, it seems, I’ve just begun to come into my own, which means there are satisfying frontiers still ahead.

Then there is Kafka.  Kafka.  What an odd and yet appropriate quote from  him.  He knew with fine detail the absurdity of modern life, yet he  found aesthetics central to a life of real engagement.  Me, too.

Not Known To Self

Imbolc                             Waning Cold Moon

“It is clear Charles, you know where you are going, and knowledge is the fuel.”   a fellow Woolly

Have you ever heard of the Johari window?  Here’s a graphic that illustrates it.  The white or open box represents common information shared between yourself and others who know you. The reddish brown box contains the stuff of which you are aware, but have shared with no one.  The third box is the one I’m interested in here, the green box.  It contains material not known to you, but known to others.  This is information to which you are blind for one reason or another, yet is apparent to at least one other.

This comment from a Woolly falls in the blind box for me.  Or maybe not.  A bit hard to tell.

It did make me reflect.  If someone else thinks where I’m going is clear, why would they think that?  Do I really know where I’m going?  Why is knowledge the fuel?

Here’s what came to me, after rolling the idea around for a week or so.

Long ago, perhaps in adolescence, the notion of a liberal arts education became central to my personal project.  How did it get there? It may have been my parents, could have been teachers, might even have been a minister, perhaps all of these plus things I read. The notion of a broad and deep education in the humanities, an education that began at least by the time of college.  There exposure to the great ideas, to the breadth of the human experience, to literature, art, music, theatre would open up a way of perception.  Perception that would inform life, even create a life.

There’s a lot more to this, but I’m tired.  Later.

Theodicy

Winter                                      Waning Moon of Long Nights

Explanations of theodicy run aground on Haiti, just as they do on the Holocaust, Rawandi, Sudan.  When a nation as poor and crippled as Haiti gets hit with a major earthquake, how does one reconcile that with a loving and just God?  No intellectual fancy footwork can answer that question.

I’m reading a book sent to Kate by Jon, Children of Dust.  It’s a memoir of a young Punjabi who makes several circuits through various perspectives on Islam from conservative to fundamentalist to ethnic and, I understand, eventually out.  This is the second memoir I’ve read recently, the other being Escape, about the FLDS.

With this one I have doubts about the accuracy of it.  Memoirs are tricky at best, memory changes as we remember, in fact it changes before it becomes solid memory.  Eye witness accounts are, according to some criminologists, the most unreliable testimony.

There is, of course, the need all of us to be the heroes in our own story,  the need to smooth out the most raggedy parts of our performance as a human being.  There is a desire to be accepted that goes beyond this tendency to encourage putting the very best light on what we do.  In addition, the most memorable moments are emotionally  highly charged and therefore subject to distortion in the moment, much less over time.

And each of these can loop back on themselves to create another level of distortion.  That is, I admit my tendency to smooth out the raggedy parts so I show you raggedy parts.  In fact, I may make them grimmer than they were in order to convince you I’m honest, which I’m not.  Anyhow, the labyrinth here is difficult at best.

Children of Dust is worth a read, perhaps less as a memoir than as an impression of the complex lives Muslims live in contemporary world culture.  It succeeds brilliantly in doing that.

The Titan

Spring           New Moon (Flower)

Lost sleep night before last, got up early yesterday and had a long day at the museum.  I still feel loggy, not quite focused this morning.   This kind of dulled down makes everything just a bit more difficult like walking and thinking through a bog.

I’m nearing the end of Dreiser’s The Titan, the second book in his trilogy of desire.  I finished the Financier awhile ago.  The book jacket on my copy, a used $.75 paperback from long ago, describes this trilogy as the forerunner of the modern business novel.  That may be so but it’s like saying the Mona Lisa is the forerunner of female portaitature.  Perhaps true, or if not exactly true, then you can see the point, but the point pales in comparison to the work itself, so much more than just a portrait.

These three novels:  The Financier, The Titan and the Stoic give a thick description of life in fin de siecle Philadelphia and Chicago, valuable insights into life itself, not only business, which is merely the fictive vehicle for the life of Frank A. Cowperwood, aka Yerkes.  His life has appetites for money, yes, but more for power, and more than power for beauty and for a particular kind of woman.

Both the Titan and the Financier have eerily familiar scenes developed around financial panics, panics that bear striking resemblance to the one underway right now.  In fact, these books could, at one level, be read as cautionary tales about the dramatic affect personal ambition and animus can have in economic affairs.  In the same vein they give a privileged insight into the mental calculations of a monied set, how it comes to be the case that, “This is only business, nothing personal.”

They show the Faustian bargain successful men (and women) make as they scramble for this rung, Continue reading The Titan

A Bit of Literary Criticism

Spring                  Waning Seed Moon

“This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”   D.H. Lawrence

And a damn fine creed at that.  I might just worship at this church.

I’ve noodled over a criteria for reading that Stefan put forward last Monday.  Something along the lines of If I don’t come away changed or with an altered perspective, then it’s not worthwhile.   He made this comment in relation to the Bill Holms’ essay, Blind is the Bookless Man.  Stefan found the essay too quotidian, too reportorial and, perhaps most important, too small.  The content of the essay concerned Bill Holms’ youth in Mineota, Minnesota and a couple of solitary Icelanders, friends of his family, who shaped his education, especially through books.

Holms’ follows a strategy I would call thick description, an almost ethnological narrative in which details pile upon details, in this case details about the homes and the reading habits of Stena and Einar.

I did not come away from the essay much changed, nor did I have my perspective altered.  Instead, I had my world expanded to include the early days of a young Icelandic boy growing up in unusual circumstances.  I now have Holm’s memories to include with my own.

Stefan’s criteria is a valid criteria for good literature, but not the only criteria.  Another criteria, also valid, gives us empathy, expands our sense of what it means to be human.   We may admit to our small clearing in the forest a god we had ignored.  We may see, for the first time, the god in another’s small clearing, clasp our hands together and say, “Namaste.”  Or, we may simply sigh, settle in to ourselves or to the quirks of another and say, “Well, interesting.”

I have a different reason altogether for liking the Holm’s piece.  That lies in the peculiar journey I have followed since college, that of a regionalist.  I did not set out to walk this ancient trail, that of one who loves the place of his days and dedicates himself to its expression in diverse ways.  But I ended up there anyhow.

The regionalist finds the universal in the particularities, the idiosyncrasies of their homeland.  Willa Cather.  Sherwood Anderson.  Henry David Thoreau.  Annie Dillard.  Wendell Berry.  Zane Gray.  Faulkner.  James Joyce.  Mark Twain.  Robert Frost.  All of these are either wholly or in good part regionalists.  Bill Holms.  Garrison Keillor.  James Whitcomb Riley.  Marquez.  Octavio Paz. Isaac Bashevis Singer.

This crowd often receives a gentle wink and a nod from the high literary crowd, but so what?  In the galactic context the whole of our planet is but a region.  All literature, all art must spring from some person, a person formed in some environment.  That some choose to focus their art on the way of the Mississippi River or the plains of Nebraska,  the ghettos of the Hasidim or uplands of Colombia is a matter for their heart.  Whether it speaks to you is a matter for yours.

Each Time I Go To Sleep

Spring                   Waning Seed Moon

I have been playing a game before I go to sleep.  It soothes me, helps me relax.

It began when I wondered what my five favorite movies were.  Seventh Seal jumped into my mind immediately.  2001:  A Space Odyssey.  The Day The Earth Stood Still. (1951)  Invasion of the Body Snatchers. (1956)  Seven Samurai.  Sleep would come because I knew this was not the list, it was a list, a list I could come up at night as I drifted off to sleep.

Later, five novels:  Glass Bead Game.  The Trial.  Steppenwolf.  Moby Dick.  Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy.

Five favorite paintings at the MIA: Goya’s Dr. Arrieta, the Bonnard, the virgin by the master of the mille fleurs, Poet by A Waterfall,  The Cardinal.  again, a list, not the list.

Five pieces of music:  Unanswered Questions by Ives, Messaein’s symphony for the end of time, Coltrane’s A Train,  Drift Away.    definitely a list, not the list.

Five favorite classical sites I’ve visited:  Ephesus, Delphi, Delos, Angkor, Conwy castle in Conwy, Wales.

So on.  Works for me.

Megrims Burn in Sun

Spring         Waxing Seed Moon

“Knowledge can be communicated but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.” – Herman Hesse

Hesse was a key author in my youth.  I’ve revisited him since, as I am Dreiser right now.  They both hold up well, though Hesse can sometimes seem a bit feverish.  Still, his Steppenwolf had an adult anguish that I did not understand when I read it first at 20.  The Theatre for Madmen Only was a place we all could go if we understood the world in which we lived.  6 months ago, when I re-read Steppenwolf, I realized Harry Haller was mad in an existential way, that he had seen too much, walked too close to the flame.  At 20 he was my hero, today he is a cautionary tale.

The mental megrims of last week have receded, perhaps the sun today burned them out or the root canal gave me some concrete pain.  Whatever the reason, I feel once again whole and engaged.  These ups and downs, a neurotic cycle now much milder than in former years, do get tiresome, as I said a few posts ago, but they no longer paralyze me, stop me in my  tracks.  Thank Jung, John Desteian, age and Zoloft for that.

Tomorrow morning Kate flies off to Denver.  She will be in Grandma heaven.  I saw a license plate holder that said, Parents say no?   Dial 1-800-Grandma.  She’s a good grandma, more a doting grandma than a Jewish grandma, though she is both.

A Source of Mutual Creativity and Emotional Support

15  steep rise 30.31  NNW2  windchill 14  Winter

Waxing Gibbous Wolf Moon

Kate has responded well to the injections.  She is pain free and giddy about it right now.  She bought me supper at Canyon Grille tonight.  A nice place and good to be out with her.   We reaffirmed our love for each other and the joy we have in our relationship, a source of mutual creativity and emotional support.   This pain has been constant since early November so it is difficult to overstate the relief she feels.

That was the high point of the day.

Finished The Given Day by Dennis Lehane yesterday and began White Tiger, a book recommended by Woollies Charlie Haislet and Paul Strickland.  A good read for those of you in Southeast Asia.  An Indian entrepreneur communicates his life story to the premier of China via e-mail.

Much to do tomorrow, then preaching on Sunday.  We’ll see how Homecomer goes over.

Story of Edgar Sawtelle

6  bar rises 29.89  3mph W  windchill 6  Winter

Waning Crescent of the Moon of Long Nights

Last night before bed I finished reading the Story of Edgar Sawtelle.  This is a big book and well-written.  The arc of the story brings Greek tragedy to mind.   A few people wend their way through a period of some 16 years or so, making choices and living out their consequences.  This book features notable passages of an American magic realism with ghosts playing significant roles.  There is, too, a village crone, Ida Paine, who dispenses sour wisdom as she runs a small grocery store.

Edgar, a mute boy, and the title character has a life of wonder and pain.  He interacts with a cast of well-drawn and closely observed dogs, his mother and father, an Uncle, a veternarian and his sheriff son.  The isolation of their circumstance in northern Wisconsin near Lake Superior and Chequamegon National Forest provides an at turns bleak and rich natural world for this story.

If you like a good story, well-told, this is a book for you, but beware.  It will break your heart.