The Impossible retells the true story of a family literally swept from their holiday into terror by the Indian Ocean tsunami of December 2004. My heart was pounding during the tsunami scenes–the film’s sound and images helped me taste the incomprehensible shock of being engulfed by disaster. The courage of love is really the theme, and it moved me. Please see this film.
My Soul Is Dark
George Gordon, Lord Byron
My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now ’tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song.
How did Lewis understand people so well? Read The Four Loves and see whether all the “types” he describes don’t come vividly to your imagination.
The situation becomes suffocating. If people are already unlovable a continual demand on their part (as of right) to be loved–their manifest sense of injury, their reproaches, whether loud and clamorous or merely implicit in every look and gesture of resentful self-pity–produce in us a sense of guilt (they are intended to do so) for a fault we could not have avoided and cannot cease to commit. They seal up the very fountain for which they are thirsty. If ever, at some favoured moment, any germ of Affection for them stirs in us, their demand for more and still more, petrifies us again.
Why do we like movies like Shane? A fully happy ending seems impossible here–at least, it seems like a more Hollywood-style happy ending would leave Shane with Joe’s wife and little Joey. And it could have been done cleanly, with Joe getting himself killed by Wilson. I guess that’s why I like it: Shane doesn’t take that easy way, doesn’t take the happy ending he could have. He does what’s honorable, though it costs him a dream.
Every few years I watch Sydney Pollack’s 1972 mountain-man movie. I like the bigness of it, the majesty of the land, and the quiet of it. This time I’ve appreciated something else: the way Johnson reluctantly takes on a little boy who is mute from the trauma of seeing his family slaughtered and his mother driven mad, and he weds (sight unseen) an Indian princess in order to keep from offending the chief (and thereby forfeiting his life). He wanted no part of either the boy or the woman, but the circumstances in each case left him little choice.
Having taken on these charges, he stays with them. And over time a natural affection grows on him–and on them. They become an odd but happy family. This sets up an inevitable tragic turn, but for a few brief moments we watch him enjoy the fruits of his sacrifice and honor.
Ihesu, als thou me made and bought,
Thou be my love and all my thought,
And help that I were to Thee brought;
Withouten thee I may do nought.
Ihesu, als thou may do thy will
And naething is that thee may let;
With thy grace my heart fulfill,
My love and my liking in thee set.
Ihesu, at thy will
I pray that I might be;
All my heart fulfill
With perfect love to thee.
That I have done ill
Ihesu, forgive thou me;
And suffer me never to spill
Ihesu, for pity. Amen.
Glossary
als – as
withouten – without
naething – nothing
let – hinder, impede, thwart
fulfill – fill; imbue, endow
liking – pleasure, delight
set – to base on or ground in
at thy will – in accordance with your will
spill – perish; be damned
for pity – on account of [your] mercy
Prose paraphrase
Jesus, since you made me and bought me, be my love and all my thought, and bring me into your presence. Without you I can do nothing.
Jesus, since you can do as you please and nothing can thwart your purposes, fill my heart with grace, ground all my love and delight in you.
Jesus, I pray that my will would be in accord with yours; fill all my heart with perfect love to you.
Forgive the evil I have done, Jesus; and never let me be damned, for your mercy’s sake. Amen.
All my pleasures are like yesterday…
No, that’s not a line from Paul McCartney. It’s from a poet grieving more deeply than someone whose girlfriend broke up with him. It’s from a poet who probably said more than he should—or at least who said more than we might dare say—about his fear and grief as a Christian. We’re supposed to be a happy lot, right? Redeemed, blessed, filled with hope and overflowing with joy, yes?
Yes, of course—but not always. God’s good plan for us includes working out our salvation and hardening our faith in ways that sometimes must be compared to the refiner’s fire—burning away imperfections in withering flames: the flames of which we do not speak.
Maybe John Donne didn’t talk much about the flames either, since these sonnets were published after he died. But he took pains to record his pains in lines that often touch so deeply we have to turn away. In one sonnet he struggles with despair because he fears God hasn’t chosen him (though Satan clearly has). In another he compares his soul to a pilgrim who is reluctant to come home because he committed treason while abroad. In a third he imagines himself as some roasted animal on a plate, ready for Death to rip apart and devour—which will lead to something more terrifying: seeing God face to face. But when he faces down death, we wonder whether he might still be whistling in the dark.
Donne was struggling with doubts, fears, life-threatening illness, and thoughts of suicide. But as you read note the glimmers of hope here and there, the flickering flame of this dimly burning wick that our Lord refused to snuff out. Perhaps you have faced Donne’s demons in your past; perhaps they are bearing down on you as you read these lines—or perhaps grief will lay you low some years from now. Whenever that darkness comes, may our gentle Jesus keep and confirm us through it all.
Let me clarify up front for all you musicians that I’m no musician and have no credentials or any other qualifications to talk about music. So don’t take as expert testimony whatever I say about Julian Johnson’s Who Needs Classical Music? In fact, I’m going to do my best to say as little as possible about music–you can read his book yourself. But his theses not only seem sound to me, but they suggest other applications. That’s what I want to say a few words about, and what I’d like to spend more time thinking about.
In fact, it seems to me that some of what Johnson says here resembles C. S. Lewis’s analysis of literature and our judgments about it in An Experiment in Criticism. And it should, because the distinction both make is really between art and pop, and one major difference between them is that art has a depth to it that invites or even demands “rapt concentration” and reflection, multiple readings (or repeated listening) in order to tease out its thoughts more fully. (more…)
I first read Flannery O’Connor’s short-story masterpiece “A Good Man is Hard to Find” over 30 years ago. In the intervening years I’ve returned to that same story a few times and I’ve read one or two of her other short stories. I’ve bought copies of her collected stories and at least one of her novels. In fact, I think I might have the Library of America edition of her collected works stowed away somewhere in Texas. What I’m describing is a long-term intention to “get into” O’Connor. But I just never got around to it, okay?
Until this weekend, when I read Jonathan Rogers’ The Terrible Speed of Mercy: A Spiritual Biography of Flannery O’Connor. I say I read it; more accurately: I devoured it. I declare the book Unputdownable.
It’s more than a “spiritual” biography, though it certainly is that: I admired her strong faith and her ability to find and expose grace in such shocking ways. Her faith ran deep, not only in the sense of being rooted in her heart, but of being intellectually profound.
But it’s also a literary biography, and the best kind: it made me hungry to read her works and gave me some insights that I believe will help me read and enjoy them better. I’m always grateful for such aid from critics.
And of course it’s a biographical biography, a story of a life, of a personality–a personality I’d like to know. I intend to read her letters as well, since the quotations from those were the best tidbits of the book. I’ll leave you with one delicious sample and wish you bon appetit!
I can never agree with you that the Incarnation, or any truth, has to satisfy emotionally to be right … there are long periods in the lives of all of us, and of the saints, when the truth as revealed by faith is hideous, emotionally disturbing, downright repulsive.
