Lessons from Literature: The Grace of a Gradual Reveal (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)

Sometimes when reading a good story, a single sentence will stand out and cause your thoughts to wander to other things. Such was the case recently as I was reading a Sherlock Holmes tale called “The Engineer’s Thumb” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In introducing the case, the narrator and Holmes’s friend, Dr. Watson, makes this statement:

The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth (Doyle, 213).

The resonance of this statement not only provides a good example of how fiction can be just as much a vehicle for truth as nonfiction can be but also leads us to consider how it might reflect an even deeper idea regarding the way in which the greatest Storyteller operates in relation to us. Essentially, Doyle (through Watson) is pointing out that a story’s end makes more of an impression when it is not revealed until—well, the end. Furthermore, he suggests that the details of the story are essential to a full understanding of it as a whole.

We intuitively know this, as is evidenced by our general dislike of spoilers and our (especially women’s, it seems) propensity to want to tell every part of a story instead of just “the bottom line.” We admire storytellers who masterfully lay out more and more pieces of information throughout the telling instead of hitting us with everything at the beginning. Even those stories that start in the present and then flash back to tell the backstory illustrate the importance of the preliminary details to our understanding of the story’s conclusion. Think of the excitement you get from books or films that cause you say, “Wow, I didn’t see that coming!” or “Oh, so that’s what that line meant! I get it now!” This all illustrates that we appreciate storytellers who gradually reveal.

So why don’t we appreciate that about God?

When it comes to the story of our lives, we encounter a myriad of plot twists and a lot of seemingly mundane occurrences. Sometimes we wish we could jump to the end and see how it all turns out. We know that God knows how this curveball or that confusion, these disappointments or those delights, fit into the narrative of our story, but sometimes we wish He would share what our life looks like from His point of view. Sometimes we wish the Storyteller would reveal not gradually but all at once. And now.

But when we think about our lives as a story that’s being written, we begin to see the gradual reveal of events’ relevance as an evidence of the mercifulness and graciousness of God. God is merciful in not preemptively showing us how all the pieces of our story fit together, because frankly we wouldn’t be able to handle it. I can look back on my life now and see that certain sorrows were not nearly as unbearable when they came because of previous sorrows that God had used to grow and strengthen me in different ways. But if I knew at the point of those previous struggles that part of their purpose was to prepare me for other hard things? Let’s just say I would not have appreciated it.

But because of God’s gradual revealing of that purpose, not only am I able to draw strength from it instead of being drained or crushed by it, but also I am able to marvel at God’s magnificent plan and praise Him for His wisdom. And that’s where we see His grace.

We don’t deserve anything from God but judgment, and we certainly don’t deserve answers to our questions regarding the exact reasons for everything that happens in our lives. But God in His kindness chooses to give us glimpses every now and then that we don’t deserve, glimpses of how He is working in our lives through the circumstances and relationships that make up our story. He allows us to see that it was because we went through that trial, that we were then able to face this loss. It was because I met this person that I got involved with this group and then met this person, who changed the entire direction of my life.

In helping us see these things over the course of time, God graciously invites us to look upon the magnificence of His character. He draws us into deeper relationship with Himself as we come to love and appreciate Him more for Who He is—the all-wise, all-knowing, Supreme Storyteller. And one day, when we followers of Christ come before His presence for all eternity, I have a feeling that the conclusion of the story of our time-bound life will be all the sweeter and richer for our having lived through the gradual reveal of details that led our story Home.

PC: Pamela Hollis. Used with Permission.

 

Source: Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan. “The Engineer’s Thumb.” In The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 213-237. New York: Scholastic, 2003. 

Lessons from Literature: Relationships that Last (The Last Battle)

This past weekend, I had the joy of reuniting with a dear friend from childhood. We’ve known each other since we were about four years old and were pretty much inseparable until I moved away at age ten. Since then we’ve kept in contact off and on, though not as much as either of us would like, and when we see each other, we can step right back into our old familiarity. As someone who is given to fierce loyalty and hates to experience lost relationship, I treasure this friendship that has survived over two decades, multiple moves, and different stages of life. It may look different than it did when we were in elementary school, but it still exists and is a reminder of the strength of true friendship.

Someone once told me that we shouldn’t try to hold on to early relationships our entire lives. As we enter different stages of life, he said, we can’t expect friendships from one season to move into the next, and we shouldn’t be disappointed when they don’t. In some ways, I could see his point, and I have come to see the blessing of season-specific encounters. But in other ways, I find it difficult to acknowledge that friendships are not meant to last.

At the same event where I reunited with my first friend, I had a conversation with someone else about the loss of friends’ presence, whether through their moving to another state or passing away. “But we’ll all be together again in Heaven,” she said. What a beautiful thought that is. It got me thinking about Heaven and about a book I just recently finished reading, The Last Battle, by C. S. Lewis. Until the last few chapters, I had decided it wasn’t my favorite installment in the Chronicles of Narnia series, but I loved the last two chapters so much that they singlehandedly catapulted the book into my top three.  

**SPOILER ALERT**

In the last two chapters, Lewis paints a captivating picture of what he thinks Heaven and eternity will be like. When I finished the book, I didn’t spend much time analyzing why I felt so stirred by these chapters, but the experiences of this past weekend led me to identify one of the elements that connected so powerfully with me—the reunions. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy reunite with friends from every season of their Narnian adventures and with their family from Earth as well; other characters reunite with their own friends and family; and all meet those whom they had heard of but had never known. It’s beautiful.

For some reason, I often sense that we tend to minimize the relational aspect of Heaven. Of course, it’s all about being united with God and meeting Jesus face to face, but it seems that in the Church we often dismiss the human element that will be present in Heaven. It’s as if we think of Heaven solely in an individualistic way, as if it’s going to be just “me and God.” But it’s not. Everyone who is in Christ will be there. And what basis do we have for thinking that we will not know each other or that if we do we won’t be cognizant of any prior relationship with anyone?

The only thing I can think of that perhaps feeds this idea is the statement Jesus gave in response to a question from the Sadducees about whose wife a woman would be in the resurrection, since she had been married and widowed multiple times. He replied, “You are wrong, because you know neither the Scriptures nor the power of God. For in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven” (Matthew 22:29b-30, ESV). So we know that those who are married here on earth will not be married in the afterlife, but sometimes it seems as if we have expanded this idea to the point that we think people won’t even remember that they were married. I’m not so sure that’s going to be the case.

We know that God is a relational God. Relationship is woven into the very fabric of His nature as a triune Being. We also know that He created us to be in relationship with Him and with each other. He created Eve for Adam so that Adam would not be alone. He sacrificed His own Son so that we could be restored into relationship with Him. So why wouldn’t relationships still be important once we all reach Heaven? True, they will not look just like they did when we were on earth. For starters, we won’t have our fallen natures to deal with! But I tend to think that we will remember our earthly experiences and that our joy in reuniting with those we know will bring glory to God, the One who created us and gave us each of those relationships to begin with.

Ultimately, apart from what Scripture tells us, anything we imagine Heaven to be is purely speculation at this point. We have no way of knowing how close Lewis’s conception of the land to which we are called is to reality. But the lesson of Lewis’s description is still powerful because it is based in the very relational character of God: friendships are gifts, and they are worth cultivating and celebrating. Our sovereign God has brought people into our lives, and, whether He has them there for only a brief season or the remainder of our earthly existence, He has put them there for a reason, and it behooves us not to regard them flippantly, even if we cannot ascertain what the reason is. And who knows, maybe Lewis isn’t that far off base after all.

I’ll close with a few of my favorite passages from the final chapter of The Last Battle, because, as usual, Lewis says it best.

Then Tirian saw King Peter and King Edmund and Queen Lucy rush forward to kneel down and greet the Mouse and they all cried out “Reepicheep!” And Tirian breathed fast with the sheer wonder of it, for now he knew that he was looking at one of the great heroes of Narnia [...] (p. 203).

Everyone you had ever heard of (if you knew the history of those countries) seemed to be there. […] And there was greeting and kissing and hand-shaking and old jokes revived, (you’ve no idea how good an old joke sounds when you take it out again after a rest of five or six hundred years) and the whole company moved forward to the center of the orchard […] (p. 205-206).

About half an hour later—or it might have been half a hundred years later, for time there is not like time here—Lucy stood with her dear friend, her oldest Narnian friend, the Faun Tumnus, looking down over the wall of that garden, and seeing all Narnia spread out below (p. 206).    

And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before (p. 210-211).

Lewis, C. S. “Farewell to Shadowlands.” In The Last Battle. New York: Scholastic, 1995.

Lessons from Literature: A Cautionary Tale for the Difficult Path (The Silver Chair)

Before the craziness of the new semester starts, I decided to enjoy a fast and easy read. There’s something about quickly getting a book in the “finished” column that helps to start the new year off in a positive frame of mind. My selection in 2019 has been C. S. Lewis’s The Silver Chair, the sixth book in his well-known Chronicles of Narnia series (or fourth, depending on which order you adhere to), and I’m almost half-way through (So no spoiler alerts! It’s my first time reading it—and, yes, I am well aware I’m woefully late to the game).

What I love about Lewis is his way of illuminating realities of the human condition and experience of which we only become conscious once we read his words. It’s as if his statement in The Four Loves about friendship could be applied to the relationship between him and us his readers when we exclaim, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one” (p. 65). Having not even made it to the midway point of the book, I’ve already marveled at his insight on several occasions. One particularly thought-provoking passage comes near the end of chapter six. . . .

Eustace and Jill are making their way through giant’s country with their new acquaintance Puddleglum in search of the lost prince of Narnia. It has been a long, difficult journey with little in the way of physical comforts, and after crossing an unexpected bridge, they meet two figures on horseback—a silent knight and a lady. The woman tells them of Harfang, a city of supposedly Gentle Giants where they can find food and comfortable shelter, before bidding them adieu. Lewis then describes the aftermath of their encounter with the woman:

They could think about nothing but beds and baths and hot meals and how lovely it would be to get indoors. They never talked about Aslan or even about the lost prince, now. And Jill gave up her habit of repeating the signs over to herself every night and morning. She said to herself, at first, that she was too tired, but she soon forgot all about it. And though you might have expected that the idea of having a good time at Harfang would have made them more cheerful, it really made them more sorry for themselves and more grumpy and snappy with each other and with Puddleglum. (pp. 92-93) 

In this short paragraph, Lewis masterfully does what allegorists do best. Disarming us with a compelling story, he hits us with a gut punch of truth about our own tendencies to misapply our focus and the negative consequences of doing so. Line by line, we see warnings of what we can succumb to when faced with trying, uncomfortable situations.

We so easily can become obsessed with the physical to the neglect of the spiritual, just as Jill and Eustace did. We can fixate on what we don’t have, as they did, instead of being thankful for what we do have. Getting wrapped up in our temporal condition, we can cease setting our minds on God, just as the children stopped talking about Aslan. We can forsake the cultivation of spiritual disciplines and the practice of meditating on Scripture, just as Jill forgot to meditate on the signs that Aslan had told her to remember. We can wallow in self-pity instead of counting our blessings, and we can become cross with others, even those who are closest to us, just as the children did.

The scenario described in this scene is reminiscent of another of Lewis’s works, The Screwtape Letters, in which the demons use temporal cares to distract the human from more meaningful, eternal concerns. And just like The Screwtape Letters, this passage from The Silver Chair is a literary gift, reminding us to be watchful for the enemy’s snares and to be diligent in consciously choosing to focus on the spiritual blessings we have in Christ (Eph. 1:3) instead of on how distressing and challenging our immediate circumstances may be or on how supposedly verdant the grass on the other side of the proverbial fence is.

In 2019, let’s learn from Lewis’s cautionary tale and catch ourselves when our attitudes start drifting toward griping and dissatisfaction. Let’s consistently cultivate our relationship with God, show care in our relationships with others, and live in the difficult, beautiful, sanctifying present with contentment and joy. Because no matter what discomforts we face, we have the hope that never fails, the eternal love and grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Happy New Year!

Lewis, C. S. The Four Loves. Orlando: Harcourt, 1991.

Lewis, C. S. The Screwtape Letters. New York: HarperCollins, 2001.

Lewis, C. S. “The Wild Waste Lands of the North.” In The Silver Chair. New York: Scholastic, 1995.

Lessons from Literature: Jumping to Conclusions while God’s Not Done (The Baron’s Apprenticeship)

We’re returning to George MacDonald’s trilogy for another literary lesson (see this post for the previous one), but this time the golden nugget comes from the third book, The Baron’s Apprenticeship. And this time, the goodness is delivered via a character’s mouth. We’ll get right to it and join Barbara as she is recounting a conversation she had with the curate, Thomas Wingfold:  

Mr. Wingfold said that it was not fair, when a man had made something for a purpose, to say it was not good before we knew what his purpose with it was. “I don’t even like my wife to look at my poems before they’re finished,” he said. “But God can’t hide away his work till it is finished, as I do my verses, and we ought to take care what we say about it. God wants to do something better with people than people think” (p. 95).

The truth and accompanying implications here, stated another way, are these: 1) God does things with a purpose; 2) God’s purpose in a given situation is not usually apparent to us at the outset; 3) we should avoid jumping to conclusions about our circumstances, assuming we know His purpose, and judging Him and our circumstances according to those assumptions. As these thoughts were simmering in my mind, I came across several Psalms that help us look deeper into this idea.

In Psalm 105, the psalmist is recounting the history of Israel from Abraham to the exodus from Egypt and return to the Promised Land. In the middle of the psalm, we read, “When he [God] summoned a famine on the land and broke all supply of bread, he had sent a man ahead of them […]” (v. 16-17a, ESV*).  Here we see God’s preparation for His people, years before they ever knew a famine was coming. What a beautiful, good thing!

But in the rest of verse 17, we find an unexpected ending: “When he summoned a famine on the land and broke all supply of bread, he had sent a man ahead of them, Joseph who was sold as a slave.” So wait, our good God provided a means of survival for His people, but He did it by allowing a man to become a slave? You got it.

I think it’s safe to say that we can all agree that slavery is bad. And being kidnapped by your brothers and sold to foreigners isn’t something we would call “good.” Yet, Joseph himself acknowledged that God’s hand was in his slavery. He told his brothers, “And God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God,” (Genesis 45:7-8a). He later told them, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today” (Genesis 50:20). Very clearly, Joseph understood that what seemed like a bad situation was actually a good one. But likely, he had doubts when he was in prison in a foreign land, having been unjustly accused after having been sold into slavery.

Joseph’s story is probably the most common illustration for the idea that what looks like something bad can actually be something good, but that shouldn’t make it any less potent. And when we combine it with Thomas Wingfold’s admonition to avoid judging things as “not good” prematurely, it becomes even more thought-provoking. What would have happened if Joseph had insisted that God had sent this flood of horrible circumstances upon him and therefore couldn’t be relied upon much less worshipped? What would have happened if he had hardened his heart to God because he judged God’s purpose to be against him instead of for him? How often are we guilty of doing just that?

In other Psalms, we see this idea again, that God uses bad to bring about good. Psalm 66:11-12 reads, “You brought us into the net; you laid a crushing burden on our backs; you let men ride over our heads; we went through the fire and through water; yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance.” Notice God is the one doing the action here. God is the one bringing them into the net; God is the one laying a burden on them—and not just any burden, a crushing burden; God is the one letting them be ridden over. The verse prior to these tells us that God did these things to test and try His people; in other words, God put them through challenging times to refine them for their ultimate good.

Are we comfortable and confident enough in our faith to accept that God sometimes puts us in painful, difficult, even crushing situations? Do we believe in a God that is big enough to redeem evil and use it for good? In these verses, God is the one inflicting the “negative” things on His people, but He is also the one bringing them out of those things into a peaceful place where they can flourish. His purposes were sure all along, even though the process might have obscured them from view.

Elsewhere, the psalmist writes, “You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again” (Psalm 71:20). Again we see that God is the one making him experience trouble, but that God is also the one who brings back to life what has been crushed. God can send someone to the lowest of lows and then bring them up again.

In all of these cases, what is important to note is that God is not cruel in allowing bad to happen to us. In our finite existence, it can seem that sad and painful circumstances are always and forever bad, but in God’s infinite reality in which we live, where His ways are far above our understanding, His good purposes are always at work and will always prevail. As the psalmist testifies, “The works of his hands are faithful and just” (Psalm 111:7a). We must be careful, then, that we don’t unjustly accuse our all-wise God of cruelty or callousness simply because we cannot see the bigger picture or all of the details of His eternal plan.

Because we know who He is from His Word, we can trust Him completely—even in the midst of crushing burdens that weigh us down, grief that knocks our breath away, and pain that doesn’t relent. He is in control. And He is good. I can’t think of a better way to conclude than to revisit Thomas Wingfold’s words. May they sink into your soul, challenging and encouraging you as they have me.

Mr. Wingfold said that it was not fair, when a man had made something for a purpose, to say it was not good before we knew what his purpose with it was. “I don’t even like my wife to look at my poems before they’re finished,” he said. “But God can’t hide away his work till it is finished, as I do my verses, and we ought to take care what we say about it. God wants to do something better with people than people think.”

Source: MacDonald, George (Phillips, Michael, ed.) The Curate of Glaston. Minneapolis: Bethany House, 1986.

*All Scripture is quoted from the English Standard Version

Lessons from Literature: The Making of a Classic (Good Wives: Little Women, Part II)

Ancient history has never been my favorite period to study, perhaps because it seems so far removed from our own times that imagination and empathy require a great deal more effort. Nonetheless, my ancient history course in college did gift me with the opportunity to work on strengthening those skills and to expand my understanding of the world as it was and as it is.

Among the ways this was accomplished was through my professor’s use of original works for our textbooks. Thucydides, Plato, Suetonius, and others—authors of the “classics”—became our tour guides to the ancient world. And as my small group presented on St. Augustine’s City of God, I pondered what it was about these works—indeed, any works—that make them “classics.” Five years later, while reading another classic, I encountered the conclusion I had reached in that Ancient History classroom.

The novel was Good Wives by Louisa May Alcott (which is actually the second half of Little Women), and in her usual insightfulness Alcott slips in powerful truth in a parenthetical statement. She is describing the scene of Beth’s sickroom, made as cheerful as possible by the March family, when she mentions, “father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago […]" (p. 244).

And there it was—the “old books” are “wise” because they ring just as true today as they did when written. What else makes a classic if not that? Just as the “old books” were still valued in Alcott’s 1860s world, so her works, now old, are valued in ours. Of the countless books published over the course of history, only a relative few have stood the test of time, and I would suggest that those that have survived have done so because they contain such perception, such enduring observations of and commentaries on human nature that they are just as useful for our growth today as they were when penned. Or as Alcott says, they are “as applicable now as when written centuries ago.”

Sometimes the application points may require a little more effort to discover because of changes in language or syntax, but the concepts and expressions that cause the reader to say, “Yes! I recognize this character or world!” are those that make classics what they are. And in finding this reality about the nature of classics, we stumble upon another, greater reality about the nature of ourselves.

If classics are classics because they contain enduring concepts, then classics are made possible because enduring concepts exist. In other words, because human nature is constant, observations made about a human mindset in 431 B.C. can also be made of a human mindset in A.D. 2018. This is why words written hundreds or thousands of years before our time can still affect us so powerfully. (It’s also why the Lessons from Literature series on this blog is even possible.)

Classics help us see, then, that we really are all the same at the root of things. As humans, we all have the same nature—the same capacity for good because of God’s image that we bear and the same propensity for evil because of our inherited fallen-ness. Realizing this truth should help us demonstrate more kindness, empathy, understanding, and grace to our fellow humans and should help us to see that there is a Being who created us all. His design for us was perfect, and we’ve gone and twisted it until sometimes it’s almost unrecognizable, but the core of our being is still dependent on Him and receives its very definition from Him alone.

Enduring words and ideas can exist because there is an enduring God who is Truth itself. He is the standard by which all “truth” is measured, and He has made Himself and His truth known to us. What a blessing He has given us to be able to comprehend truth ourselves, to receive it from those who have gone before us, and to communicate it to those around us and those who are still to come.

Source: Alcott, Louisa M. Good Wives: Little Women, Part II. New York: Penguin, 1994.

Lessons from Literature: How to Be Your True Self (The Lady’s Confession)

It has been fairly exactly a year since we last explored a lesson from a literary classic. In truth, I was stunned when I realized it had been that long! So let us end the drought by looking at a nineteenth-century Scottish author who inspired C. S. Lewis and whose books have been re-popularized in recent years through Michael Phillips’s editorial work. His name is George MacDonald, and he possesses that Austen-esque intuition into the human condition with the added potency spiritual astuteness.  

Having known of him for some time, it wasn’t until a few months ago, when a friend let me borrow one of his trilogies republished under the new title The Curate of Glaston, that I became acquainted with his work first-hand. I’m reading the last of the three novels currently, and MacDonald’s work so far has proved to be the kind that leaves me almost speechless from the sheer volume of truth it contains.

Sometimes, the only thing I can think to say, on repeat, is, “It’s just so good.” So good, in fact, that I could probably write a dozen “Lessons from Literature” posts just from the two novels I’ve already read. But let’s just start with one, shall we?

In previous posts in this series, we’ve seen truths expressed through the characters’ actions and some through the author’s commentary. MacDonald’s writings are full of both. In reading them we can learn much, both from what his characters do, say, and think and from his direct addresses to his audience. In this post, we’ll look at two passages of direct address that shed light on a central theme—namely, being fully ourselves.

We live in a culture that is preoccupied—even obsessed—with individuality, being confident in who we are, not being intimidated into hiding our “true selves.” But no one seems to think much about how we actually know who our true selves are. Do we get to define what makes us “us”?

If we listened to our culture, we would hear it say, “Absolutely! You define your own destiny. You can be whoever you want to be.” And in some small way, that is true insofar as we have been given the ability to make choices that have consequences that, in turn, can shape our circumstances and even our attitudes, mindsets, and personal contexts out of which we evaluate and respond to others. But is any of that what creates our core identity?

MacDonald doesn’t think so. He declares in The Lady’s Confession (originally titled Paul Faber, Surgeon), “Only in the unfolding of the Christ in every man or woman can the individuality, his or her genuine personality, the flower of his nature, be developed and perfected in its own distinct loveliness” (p. 193). Read that sentence again—slowly—and let it sink in. It’s message is in direct conflict with what our society’s impression of Christianity is, but it’s in complete agreement with God’s Word.

Society often has the idea that becoming a Christian involves joining a community that strips you of the “freedom to be yourself” and makes you a cookie-cutter person following a set of rules. The world doesn’t understand that while we do, in a sense, lose ourselves when we follow Christ (Matthew 16:24, Galatians 2:20), we are only losing the worst part of us—our identity as sinners, our selfish desires, and pride—so that the best part of us—our God-given personalities, talents, and gifts—can actually flourish as our identity becomes children of God. 

Instead of the reality being that following Christ squashes a person’s individuality, the exact opposite is true—we can never truly be ourselves outside of a relationship with Jesus Christ. Why? Because God is the One who created us in His own image and, therefore, designed every part of who we are (Genesis 1:27, Psalm 139:14).

When we speak of our “fallen human nature,” there is no comma between “fallen” and “human.” The two words are not adjectives both equally describing “nature.” Instead, “fallen” describes “human.” In other words, Adam and Eve were perfectly themselves before they rebelled against God (and event we call The Fall); they were completely whole, fully human as God had designed them. But after their rebellion they were not complete. Their human nature was broken and flawed, and they were not able to be fully themselves.

As their descendants, we are born with the same problem, the same fractured nature. That’s why it is only when we let God inform us through His Word and His Spirit (who lives within us when we become God’s children) that we can know who we really are and live accordingly. And it is only then that we will find personal satisfaction and fulfillment.

A related truth that is counter to the world’s message is that our individuality is not best displayed in being self-sufficient. Especially in America, we’re all about “picking ourselves up” and taking pride in our personal independence. But is that the mark of a truly successful life? Will that bring satisfaction?

Again, MacDonald doesn’t think so. He explains through his character Thomas Wingfold’s words: “He is not the greatest man who is most independent, but he who thirsts most after a conscious harmony with every element and portion of the mighty whole, and who demands from every region its influences to perfect his individuality. […] The finest and strongest is that which to live must breathe essential life, self-willed life, God himself” (p. 112). The “mighty whole” he speaks of is God, the One in whom is the fullness of life, indeed, who is the origin of life itself. It is only in recognizing our need for something—or Someone—outside of and far greater than ourselves and in finding that need met in God that we become strong and can become most fully ourselves.

As Jesus (i.e. God) Himself said, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. […] These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full” (John 15:4-5, 11, ESV). True, enduring growth, flourishing, and joy can only come through Jesus.

We have a Creator who has designed us specifically, masterfully, and caringly, and He calls us to Himself so that in bearing fruit and becoming more like Christ we finally can be our true selves in order to display His glory and further His kingdom. He has made us who we are, and He uses who we are to bring glory to His Name. What a beautiful, encouraging, humbling truth to absorb!

Source: MacDonald, George (Phillips, Michael, ed.) The Curate of Glaston. Minneapolis: Bethany House, 1986.

Lessons from Literature: Sending or Savoring? (An Old-Fashioned Girl)

Previously in the “Lessons from Literature” series, we’ve looked at a lesson to be gleaned from the characters and one provided by an author’s editorialization. This time, as we turn to Louisa May Alcott’s 1870 novel An Old-Fashioned Girl, we see a lesson that can be learned from the author’s decision-making process (into which she so conveniently happens to give her readers a glimpse).

Once again, making the point requires a spoiler, so consider yourself forewarned. Nevertheless, I don’t want to give too much of the plot away, so I’ll simply share that Polly, the female protagonist, and Tom, the male one, have spent a year apart after becoming acquainted over the course of years and secretly falling for each other. Thus, they have been tortured over the past year, thinking that their feelings were not reciprocated or, worse, were directed toward others.

Suddenly, Tom returns, and he and Polly spend the evening in the company of Tom’s family. As the evening draws to a close, Polly is standing in the dining room preparing to depart, when Tom enters and soon declares his love for her:

“Do you want to know the name of the girl I’ve loved for more than a year? Well, it’s Polly!” As he spoke Tom stretched out his arms to her with the sort of mute eloquence that cannot be resisted, and Polly went straight into them without a word. (338)

And, here, Alcott makes her decision. Instead of continuing to describe the scene in detail, she writes:

Never mind what happened for a little bit. Love scenes, if genuine, are indescribable, for to those who have enacted them, the most elaborate description seems tame, and to those who have not, the simplest picture seems overdone. So romancers had better let imagination paint for them that which is above all art and leave their lovers to themselves during the happiest minutes of their lives. (338-339)

Even during the height of the Victorian era, Alcott’s readers no doubt would have appreciated a more detailed accounting, but she decides to step back and give her characters some privacy instead. In other words, she recognized that not everything in life had to be published.

Now the most immediately apparent and directly corresponding lesson might be something along the lines of respecting the privacy of couples and not expecting them to share all the minute details about their dates, their engagement, their honeymoon, their everyday life, etc.

But the lesson that first came to mind, prompting this post, is the recognition that some things are meant to be savored, not sent.

This reality was first brought to my attention by a chapel speaker during my time in college who pointed out the effect social media has had on our ability to enjoy the moment. For example, instead of soaking in the sunset, we’re too busy trying to fit just the right portion of it in our frame for a post-worthy photo. Instead of absorbing all the sights and sounds of a celebrity encounter, we’re too busy trying to capture the person’s image to prove and/or boast that the encounter did, in fact, happen.

Ever since that day in chapel, the speaker’s message has stuck with me, because it’s so true. How often do we think in terms of social media posts, or, put another way, how often do we do things that we wouldn’t normally do just because we could post about it on social media?

Even that extreme aside, how often do we focus more on documenting moments than we do on living them? Or worse, how often do we miss the still, small whisper of God because we are consumed with snapping a photo before the moment flies by? These are penetrating questions, but ones worth wrestling with.

Don’t get me wrong, as a historian and archivist the impulse to document moments is a strong and often useful one, but I have come to realize that sometimes there is more value in absorbing the full measure of a moment than there is in rushing to document it. As Alcott so elegantly wrote, some things are “above all art,” so trying to capture them and force them into written words or a conglomeration of pixels not only is futile but also detracts from the moment’s poignancy.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that we should never record videos, post pictures, or write entries in our journals. There are certainly appropriate times to do each of these things. But sometimes we should consider what we are missing when we choose to publish instead of pause. What moments we squander when we neglect to savor them and instead send them across the web!

So let's learn a lesson from Louisa May Alcott and leave some things undescribed. Who knows what raptures await?

Citation: Alcott, Louisa May. An Old-Fashioned Girl. New York: Puffin, 2004.

Lessons from Literature: The Process of Change (Silas Marner)

Literature can be a goldmine of applicable lessons. Sometimes these lessons can be drawn from the narrative itself, where the character’s actions and words provide a teaching point. An example of this kind of lesson can be seen in the first post of this series that examined a portion of Pride and Prejudice.

Other times, however, an author writing from a position of complete knowledge about the characters and storyline (called an omniscient perspective) will include an aside as commentary that often contains profound nuggets of truth. One such authorial comment can be found in George Eliot’s Silas Marner, first published in 1861.

Let’s begin with a little context.

Silas Marner, the protagonist of the story, is a man who has become obsessed with his gold and who would today be called a “loner,” though he was not always one. But circumstances in his life and his own response to them has caused him to reach the point where it can be said of him that “year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being” (68).

One day, to Marner’s horror, he finds that he has been robbed of his precious coins, and he ventures out to the local tavern to make the theft known to the community . . .

This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe neighbors, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his passionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us: there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud (108, emphasis added).

Here we find Eliot’s moment of reflection as she displays a truth about the nature of change. It’s easy to think of change as something sudden, an abrupt shift in circumstances or attitude. But as this passage from Silas Marner explains, change is often gradual and even imperceptible, particularly when it is internal.

This knowledge can serve as both an encouragement and a warning, for internal change can be either for the better or for the worse. In the case of Marner’s story, the change is a positive growth instigated by a number of factors, one of which is his interaction with his fellow neighbors in seeking their assistance. But negative characteristics can bud and blossom too, and many times they do so in small, incremental steps or “circulations of the sap” that we fail to notice if we are not vigilant.

Maybe you’ve woken up one day to realize that a friend that you’ve been hanging out with has rubbed off on you in a negative way, changing your attitude or outlook for the worse. Maybe you’ve overlooked slip-ups on the “little things” time and time again to the point where you’ve fallen into a strong trap of sinful thoughts or behavior.

Those of us who are followers of Christ should be reminded that we must be alert and mindful that even small decisions can have a powerful and cumulative effect on our growth in holiness and our relationship with God and others. Thankfully, we don’t have to try to “manage” ourselves on our own (although we do have responsibility in the matter). We have the Holy Spirit within us who convicts us when we go astray and has the power to strengthen us so that we can be alert and can resist the little (and big) temptations that come our way.

Even those that do not know Christ for themselves have God’s gracious gift of a conscience that provides internal signals concerning right and wrong, and the same Holy Spirit brings conviction to them, as well, of “sin and righteousness and judgment” (see John 16:8-11).

But there is the other side to the equation, too; not all internal developments are negative. As we saw with Silas Marner, the result of gradual change can be positive as well. Indeed, positive change often is gradual. Believers especially can find encouragement in this truth, knowing that sanctification (i.e. the process of becoming more like Christ) is a process.

When discouragement is knocking at our door and we feel as if we are not growing in holiness at all, we can remember that God “who began a good work in [us] will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6, ESV), and we can be confident that God is always at work “circulating the sap” to produce the buds of holiness and the fruit of the Spirit in our lives.

Citation: Eliot, George. Silas Marner (New York: Penguin, 1985).

Lessons from Literature: Avoiding Defensiveness (Pride and Prejudice)

Have you ever wondered what makes some literature “classic”? Aside from purely literary criteria, I’d venture to guess that one quality of classic literature is its enduring message, i.e. its ability to transcend time and place with its treatment of human nature and its illumination of realities in the world around us.

If you’ve ever read a classic, then you likely know the moment of “Ah! Yes!” that comes from reading a sentence written hundreds of years ago yet delivering a message so relevant it could’ve been written yesterday. In short, there are loads of lessons to be learned from literature, and this post serves as the inaugural “Lessons from Literature” vignette. And who better to begin with than Jane Austen?

Unfortunately, Austen’s works are often pigeon-holed into the “chick-flick” category due to the romantic plot lines, but her novels are so incredibly deeper than boy-and-girl-meet-and-fall-in-love. Her understanding of humanity, of both the self and society, is so perceptive as to leave me shaking my head in amazement. In fact, when it comes to an Austen novel, I will actually mark in it as if it were a non-fiction book. Her insight is just that profound.

Perhaps this is why Dr. Richard Land, former president of the Southern Baptist Convention’s Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission, once told a young man who asked him for book recommendations to read all of Jane Austen’s novels. Dr. Land shared that he himself reads one a year until he reads them all then cycles through them again.

This year, as I’m participating in The Light Theater’s production of Pride and Prejudice (which you can learn about here), I’m on my second read-through of the 1813 novel and am enjoying it just as much as the first. One particular “light-bulb” moment came in Chapter 36 where Elizabeth Bennet is reading Mr. Darcy’s letter. . .

 **SPOILER ALERT—although if you haven’t read the novel, the following might whet your appetite!**

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

“How despicably have I acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! Who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or [blameable] distrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself” (Austen, 162).

The context here is that Mr. Darcy has just enlightened Elizabeth to a series of circumstances of which she was completely unaware and which now have revealed that she has been harboring unjust opinions of not one but two men. Simply put, she was in the wrong, and she has just been awakened to the fact. Yet her response is striking.

Instead of shooting back arrows of defensiveness, she humbly allows the letter’s information to sink in and honestly assesses the influence it must now have on her perspective moving forward. Recognizing that the very attitude she thought was a virtue is instead a terrible vice, she becomes ashamed of her actions and confesses her error.

What a wonderful example! How often, when we are confronted with our own failings, do we bristle up and throw out a stream of excuses instead of responding with humble reflection and change? When others offer constructive criticism or when circumstances make apparent our weaknesses, what is our response? Hopefully, it is like that of Elizabeth’s.

I can’t help but see the parallels especially between the mode of revelation for Elizabeth and the one for greater humanity. Just as Mr. Darcy’s letter exposed Elizabeth’s misjudgment, so another letter exposes our depravity, i.e. the Bible, written to us from God to reveal Himself to us and show us our sinful nature and need for Him.  

The Word of God is like a sweeping spotlight and laser beam all in one, illuminating our lives and pinpointing where we fall short of holiness. It never fails to accomplish its work (see Isaiah 55:11), and we would be remiss to balk at the instruction it gives. Yes, the process will be painful, as confessing our own error often is; we will be able to say with Elizabeth, “How humiliating is this discovery!”

But if we follow her example and avoid defensiveness, we will also be able to utter with her, “Yet, how just a humiliation!” We will be able to allow the change to happen that needs to take place, and our lives will be the sweeter for it.

So when we read God’s Letter to us and are convicted, let us follow in Elizabeth Bennet’s footsteps and resist the urge to be defensive. Let us respond with humility, remembering the admonition, “My son, do not despise the LORD’s discipline or be weary of his reproof, for the LORD reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights” (Proverbs 3:11-12, ESV). And when we are confronted from any source with our own failings, let us heed the call, “Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD, and turn away from evil” (Proverbs 3:7).

Citation: Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. London: Penguin, 1994.