To Rejoice in the Weakness and Failings of Others

Twice, it seems, in the past few weeks, I have been compelled to defend dead people who I look up to as icons of Christianity, both times in light of their failures, confusions, and doubts. The first was probably the most personal, as I was defending C.S. Lewis, whose writings have probably done more to keep me sane in the long and confusing path of my doubts and faith than any other person. The biggest question for me was not so much "was Lewis a Christian?" as "why do I so passionately and earnestly feel compelled to defend the particular spiritual position of someone who was dead before I was born?" The same thing happened today, though in microcosm, in reaction to a blog dealing with the general reactions to Mother Teresa's letters.

In both case, the answer seems to be the same: It matters because in these people can be seen great failures.


Now there are (I believe) multiple interpretations of this statement. One is exactly what shook me in the linked blog:

There is a tendency in us — if we are honest — to rejoice in the weakness and failings of others. There are some that are quick to draw attention to this soul-struggle that is highlighted, and to say, “I told you so.” We spend our lives comparing and contrasting our standing with that of others. Pastors look at other pastors leading bigger churches and having a “more successful” ministry, and privately think “I’m actually better than he is, if only I had an opportunity to preach to thousands, they would know that. But I face evil opposition instead. My people don’t realize how blessed they are.” And with that mindset, we actually have inner rejoicing when that “more successful” pastor is caught in a scandal. “See, I knew I was better all along. Now maybe my people will appreciate me more.” Others must fall if we are to be raised. And our masks and robes must be carefully worn so that the status we have achieved is not defaced or lessened.

The logic is sound, and certainly this desire to elevate ourselves by bringing others down is a fundamental temptation to pride. But there is another side to the "rejoicing" in the revelations that one of the most looked-up-to icons of Christianity had many "weaknesses and failings." In a culture (and, alas, even a Christian Evangelical culture) that idolizes strength and success above all, that preaches so often that once you accept Jesus in, everything will be better, that faith naturally equals simplicity--is there not a wonder, a sort of breath of fresh air, that comes when we discover our potential idols, like us, are sinners, and all their righteousness but clinging rags?

I do "spend my life comparing and contrasting our standing with that of others." The way I do it, I know, is a sin--but it's also one of the reasons I'm befuddled by the Scripture passages that talk about how we shall "know a tree by its fruit." I know God has saved me, has given me this desire to love and serve him--but I feel doubt, and chaos, and the moral worthlessness of my so-often self-centered life. I feel these things and I wonder if I'm maybe Esau, crying without hope to a sad but firm God the pathetic words "father, please, is there any left for me." Or I wonder if I'm the lukewarm that Jesus spits out of his mouth. When the sins, doubts, and confusions of those Christians I most look up to are revealed, it is a marvel--because strangely I do believe people like Mother Teresa or C. S. Lewis to be saved, and their lives are a reminder that despite the confidence and "faith" I see around me, it is still only the sinners who feel their need for the Divine Physician, and it is them who the Man of Sorrows came to earth to save.

Top Five Cinematic Swordfights

There's nothing that says Classic Hollywood Goodness more than two guys trying wittily to cut each other in half with large metal swords. It just leads to happiness. So, I figure, I haven't done a top-_ list in a while, time for the Top Five Great Hollywood Swordfights.

1) Wesley v. Inigo Montoya, from The Princess Bride. Not only is the film an inspired (and nearly flawless) blending of the fairy-tale with the spoof, but the duel itself carved such fresh new territory in an almost-dead area--and inspired countless films to come. The two fencers are so confident, so cool, that the entire absurdly theatrical exchange is accompanied by a quiet, concentrated conversation one might expect of two tradesmen meeting over a pint of ale. Assuming, of course, that the two tradesmen sparkle with such wit and enthusiasm for life that every other sentence leaps into new levels of originality and hillarity. Brilliant, I say!

2) Tristan v. Er...um....Septimus? from Stardust. Minor spoiler, but arguably not if you've seen the trailer. The concept is brilliant, but seems likely to lead to hokiness: it's a high-adventure duel, only one of its participants is dead. And being remotely controlled. What sells it is the sheer talent of the wire-work. It simply isn't possible for a man to execute elaborate slashes and parries to the side while bent over backwards at a 90-degree angle, but it's done is such an utterly convincing manner that it's impossible to not end up rolling on the floor in laughter.

3) Luke v. Vader, from The Empire Strikes Back. Not much to say here, I guess. The greatest duel in the greatest episode of arguably the greatest adventure saga ever committed to celluloid. Sure the later films (even Jedi) have a bit better technical choreography, but as any audience knows choreography is never really what it's all about. It's about larger-than-life struggles, good vs. evil, Wagnerian scope, endless creativity, and just plain narrative intensity. In other words, it's about jumping out of a death(ish)trap, blocking the next blow with a steam pipe, then blowing the Greatest Villain in the face with a burst of steam so you can use the force to grab your dropped lightsaber. And, of course, screaming "No! That isn't possible!" in a way that fully lives up to Lucas' directing dictum of "Faster! More intense!"

4) Indy v. Sword-Wielding-Arab, from Raiders of the Lost Ark. So maybe this isn't a duel, per se. It was scripted as one, though. And then Indy shot him, and walked on in that world-weary way that only a lifetime of watching Humphrey Bogart films can impart. And he can get away with it, too--because he's Harrison Ford, and he always shoots first.

5) William Wallace v. Robert the Bruce, from Braveheart. Historically, it's bunk. The central theme of struggling for freedom doesn't hold any water. The chronology is shifted 10 years to give Mel an extra sex scene. Bruce is shifted from one of the most brilliant tacticticians in military history to an adolescent raging against the inhumanity and complexities of his father's world of corruption and compromise. But he's an utterly brilliant raging adolescent, and when he looks into Wallace's eyes, and sees the passion with which he fights, and takes it from him--none of that matters. Because it's great cinema, and great story, and all told with a gritty "realism" that may not be historical, but is nothing if not mythic.


Fights not making the list include Aragorn v. Ringwraith and Undead Jack Sparrow v. Undead Barbarrosa, and the climactic fights from The Adventures of Robin Hood (starring Erroyl Flynn) and The Three Musketeers (the original), starring everyone and continued in The Four Musketeers). Perhaps I'll say why later, time and internet access permitting.

Of Grandmothers and Literary Pretensions

I've read and written a lot about fiction, and Art, and Christian Art, and Horrible Bad Trite Things that Must Be Avoided. I shall read and write a whole lot more.

I've thought a lot about what type of narrative art Christians should create, and specifically how Christians can justify a life dedicated to stories that are literally false. I try to put these principles into practice, writing novels and short-stories that will almost certainly never find their way into a Christian bookstore, but that reflect intensely many struggles and beauties that are somewhat unique to or prevalent in the Christian life. I want to make good art; I want to make art that is glorifying to God; I want to make stories that are well-crafted, honed, and as precise as a surgeons scalpel, even when they're targeted at ripping the reader's heart out through a gaping and jagged hole. I want to write mythological fantasy and be unapologetic about it, because we need large stories as well as small. And I will fight with all my might to make sure that honest, personal and worthwhile stories come to be a recognizable form of Christian literature again, so that we can have more works such as Pearl, Crime and Punishment, or Jane Eyre.

But I think that the first step in any literary criticism should be something entirely different. I spent at least an hour in a car, talking with my grandmother about the books she reads. Her reactions are largely plot-level, and she's ready to use phrases such as "too deep for me." She wants books that are in recognizable, comfortable real-world settings. She doesn't like murder mysteries because they are too dark. When she asks me about my short story, there's an awkward moment of mental grasping for any way to put my dark quasi-literary fantasy about the darkness and difficulties of faith. And yet--books are immensely important to her life. They give her opportunities to exercise her mind, exploring places and sights and situations beyond her immediate horizons and stretching her mind to absorb and understand these stories. They give her humor, and interest, and experiences of sorts. They stir her mind to an interest in the places and times in which they take place. Books are just one element of many in her life, but without their stories I just can't but think she would be that less whole, that less relaxed, that less capable of being the powerful force of hospitality and friendliness and life-making that she is.

I can (and will) talk about art v. entertainment until I'm blue in the face. I can (and will) write stories that are challenging, that show life and genre from odd and often unexpected angles. But it is good to remember that books are a service, and at the end of the day writers are only craftsmen hoping to serve those whose lives exist far away from the world of words and stories.

Just an Observation

Fact: It is impossible for the English language to have two synonyms about any subject people feel strongly about, but that they will become sharply differentiated so as to mean "good" and "bad" to a certain group of people. This is true even if they're the same word. This is true even if one of the words was invented by the speaker five seconds ago--people will just accept it.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean, I live and breathe words, and this certainly gives authors lots of opportunities to be original and fresh. It makes people see that the same thing can be two very different things to different people. It has the power to jerk people out of apathy, get away from baggage that seems incidental, and remind them what a word presumably meant in the first place. "This newspaper is not a liberal publication, it's a progressive publication." "He's not retarded, he's developmentally delayed." "It's not just another book, it's a work of literature." The only problem is, people believe these phrases to actually have meaning, rather than being poetry. Which is problematic.

Why was I thinking about this? I'll show you:

"It takes a lot of intellect to have faith, which is why so many people only have religiosity."
--Madeline L'Engle

Now I see her point. The difficulties of faith are really quite worth thinking about. I also disagree strongly with her Plutocratic view of Christianity ("He has told the, O man, what is good and what does the lord require of thee? But to...um...come intellectually with grips with the fact that "God is a s--t" and yet persist in faith due to one's own intellect?" Somehow I seem to recall a justice, mercy, and humility as being a bit higher on the totem pole. Even maybe a few comments about children entereing the kingdom.)

Mostly, though, I wonder if someone as self-admittedly bright and authorial as L'Engle really needs to be introducing the word "religiosity" to the language that already has "narrow-minded funamentalism," "pharasaism," "legalism," and "puritanism?"