Should We Still Require Shakespeare?

“‘A department of English,’ he said, ‘cannot exist without requiring, for its majors, at least one semester-long course in the study of Shakespeare. To require any less would be irresponsible; it is a dumbing down.’”

That quotation is from The Shakespeare Requirement, Julia Schumacher’s novel about the lives of college professors.

This is Schumacher’s second novel in a trilogy; one of my former students gave me a copy of it. In one of life’s odd coincidences, another student once gave me the first novel in Schumacher’s trilogy, Dear Committee Members. Apparently I must somehow give off the vibe to my students that I would appreciate snarky satirical accounts of the faculty and administrators at a college. Go figure.

The quick review of the novel: it’s amusing, but not as funny as the first one. Well worth reading if you like books that really show that it is impossible to write a parody of a college, because reality is always more absurd than the events in the novel which were created to be outrageously absurd. (You can, by the way, easily read the second novel in this trilogy without reading the first.)

It’s not the novel itself, though, that is inducing ruminations. It is the idea of a Shakespeare requirement.

First, let’s be absolutely clear that Shakespeare is the GOAT. As T.S. Eliot said, “Shakespeare and Dante divide the world between them. There is no third.” (Eliot is the third, but he could hardly say that about himself.) Nonetheless, Shakespeare is as good as it gets. If you want to read great literature, you have to read Shakespeare. In order to understand anything written after 1600, you have to read Shakespeare. He is fun to read. He is intellectually stimulating. You can read anything he wrote dozens of times and still learn from it. I really really really do believe that Shakespeare is incredible.

But…what about assigning Shakespeare to students?

At the collegiate level, a Shakespeare requirement makes enormous sense. It is depressing to imagine talking with someone who majored in English in college, but does not know Shakespeare well. It would be like meeting an economist who skipped supply and demand graphs or an astronomer who didn’t bother leaning about stars. If you major in English in college, you really should need to read and study Shakespeare.

It’s the earlier levels of education that are disturbing me. Until I started thinking about requiring Shakespeare in the wake of reading Schumacher’s book, I was firmly in the “Obviously any decent high school education includes Shakespeare” camp.

I am having second thoughts. I would be quite pleased, by the way, if you, Dear Reader would convince me that I should not be having second thoughts.

Here is where I am getting stuck. Since I regularly teach students who are graduating from high school, I have been getting increasingly alarmed in recent years. (Covid has only amplified this trend.) Many high school graduates, even those attending college, can’t read. Well, technically, they can read in the sense of knowing how to move the eye across the page and recognize English words. But, they cannot read in the sense of engaging in the physical act of reading and having comprehension of what they just read. They cannot sit down with a book, any book, for 30 minutes and just read it. Particularly because they tend to read on electronic devices, their attention wanders away long before they have finished reading a chapter, let alone a whole play.

Many people have noted this decline in the ability to read among the graduates of the nation’s high schools. It is a real problem. I have no idea how to solve that problem, and I have yet to see anyone offer a viable solution that does not require intensive one-on-one teaching. (Homeschoolers, in other words, probably have an easier time solving this problem…but even there, the problem is increasing.)

So, here is the question which is gnawing at me. Imagine a 16 year old who would have an impossible time sitting down to read Austen or Dickens or Hemingway or any of the myriad of other writers of English prose who present no real structural problems for reading. Their prose is fluid; the stories are great. But, imagine a student who can’t keep enough attention to read with comprehension novels like Pride and Prejudice or Oliver Twist or The Old Man and the Sea. Now give that 16 year old student a copy of Hamlet. What happens?

The idea of assigning Shakespeare hinges on the presupposition that the students know how to read well. But, if students graduating from high school and going off to reasonably select liberal arts colleges cannot read well, then does it make sense to assume they can read Shakespeare?

Then, as I thought about it, the problem got even worse. The whole point of assigning Shakespeare is to show students how amazing he is, how he opens up whole vistas on the world. Shakespeare is one of those authors who will linger with you for your whole life, constantly teaching you. But, if your first experience with Shakespeare is simple torture because you are incapable of reading him, then will you ever pick up a copy of a Shakespeare play again?

I meet people like this all the time. They read Shakespeare in high school and hated reading Shakespeare in high school and so they have never been tempted even once in their life to read Shakespeare again. Imagine you had a room full of 16 years olds and you knew in advance that every single one of them would have that experience, would you still assign Macbeth? To what end?

In other words, as I have been thinking about it, I am no longer convinced there is a value added in making high school students (let alone junior high students) read Shakespeare before they have learned to read other Great Books. If I was designing a curriculum for a high school English class now, there is a whole set of authors I would assign long before we even thought about reading Shakespeare. If you have to teach students how to read, then surely you have to start with Great Books which are not written in Elizabethan verse.

As I contemplated junking the Shakespeare requirement in high school, however, a chill went down my spine. I imagined replacing Shakespeare with more Fitzgerald, Ellison, Poe, Steinbeck, or George Eliot—a reading list of Great Books slowly showing how amazing it is to read these deep works. But, then I remembered that these other authors are no longer the staples of a high school curriculum. Instead, the preference these days is books written in the last few years.

The Shakespeare requirement, in other words, is standing in for a requirement to read something written in another era, something that has stood the test of time. By setting up Shakespeare as an immovable idol, schools are still requiring that at least once students will be exposed to a book that is larger than our modern fixations. Remove Shakespeare and he isn’t necessarily replaced by something Great. He may be replaced by the latest trendy novel. Once the Shakespeare requirement goes, does anything written more than a couple decades ago still get assigned?

So, what do we do about the Shakespeare requirement? Should he still be assigned in schools? I am truly stuck on this question.

But here is one thing I know. If you, Dear Reader, are thinking that we should not get rid of the Shakespeare requirement, then ask yourself which Shakespeare play you most recently read for pleasure and how long ago that was. (For me: Henry VI, part 2, last week.) Shakespeare really is amazing, and instead of worrying about whether he should be required reading in high school, perhaps I should spend more time reading him and talking about how amazing he is.

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Salome is Always With Us

“It is thy mouth that I desire, Iokanaan. Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine-press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who inhabit the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings!…It is like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is painted with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth….Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. […]I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth.”

Ardent, over-the-top love poetry? Not exactly.

The quotation comes from Oscar Wilde’s play, Salome, which is a retelling of the story of the beheading of John the Baptist. Iokanaan is John. The speaker is Salome, step-daughter of Herod. Iokanaan has been imprisoned by Herod. Herodias, Herod’s wife and Salome’s mother, hates Iokanaan because he has been loudly and publicly condemning her behavior. So far, the story closely follows that of the gospels.

But, of course Wilde would never just write an adaptation of a Biblical story for the purpose of inspiring faithful Christians. The twist? Salome desperately tries to seduce Iokanaan. She has him hauled out of the cistern where he is imprisoned and launches into a lengthy seduction routine. Iokanaan is unmoved. Herod then wanders in; he is a bit drunk and heads out from his party to get some air. He asks Salome to dance for him. Herodias vehemently objects; she doesn’t like the way Herod looks at her daughter. Salome dances the Dance of the Seven Veils. Herod, completely besotted and rather aroused, promises to give her whatever she asks. Salome demands the head of Iokanaan. Note: she does not consult her mother here. She wants the head for herself. Herod reluctantly agrees.

Salome gets the head. “Ah! Thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.[…]Ah! I have kissed thy mouth. Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood?…Nay, but perchance it was the taste of love.”

Seeing Salome fervently kissing the still bleeding head is a bit much for even Herod. He calls out to his soldiers “Kill that woman!” They do. End of play.

Do you want to watch the play now? It is a very short and for the most part lightweight play. The only reason to watch it is to watch the depravity of Salome. You get to watch a woman kissing a severed head! How has this not been made into a Hollywood movie yet? (Curiously, there is a 1953 movie entitled Salome (starring Rita Hayworth), but it is not based on Wilde’s play—rather than ending with Hayworth kissing a severed head, it ends with her listening to Christ delivering the Sermon on the Mount. Ah, the innocent 1950s.)

If you watch Wilde’s play, you also get to see the Dance of the Seven Veils. What is that dance? You probably think it is some ancient Middle Eastern striptease. It isn’t ancient at all. Wilde just made up the title of the dance and tossed it into the play. But it sure sounds like a real dance, doesn’t it? It subsequently became a real dance. Richard Strauss liked Wilde’s play and wrote and opera based on it. The opera has a section for the Dance of the Seven Veils. Rita Hayworth does the dance in the movie! You can also watch the operatic version if you prefer.

The play was banned in England. But, it is not clear that the ban had a real effect. In Wilde’s lifetime, it was only performed twice in France. When the ban in England was eventually lifted, it didn’t exactly become a hit. It truly is a rather shallow play, relying on the shock value for its raison d’etre.

So, is this just vulgarity for the sake of shocking the rubes? Conditioned as we are in the modern age to an endless stream of shallow vulgarity, it is easy to dismiss the play as such. But, there is one aspect of the play that should give us pause before tossing it aside.

Remember Wilde’s source material. The Biblical story is also a rather shockingly vulgar affair. One of the problems with the way we read the Bible is that the horror is lost. We read this story and think that Herod is nasty guy. We remember his father, also Herod, ordered the slaughter of the innocents. The beheading of John the Baptist becomes a tale showing the apple did not fall far from the tree. Wilde didn’t invent the erotic dance leading to a head on a platter. Is right there in the New Testament. But, it seems like a much tamer story in the Bible.

Read the gospel account of the story. Matthew 14:3-11 (Herod had seized John and bound him and put him in prison for the sake of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, because John had been saying to him, “It is not lawful for you to have her.” And though he wanted to put him to death, he feared the people, because they held him to be a prophet. But when Herod’s birthday came, the daughter of Herodias danced before the company and pleased Herod, so that he promised with an oath to give her whatever she might ask. Prompted by her mother, she said, “Give me the head of John the Baptist here on a platter.” And the king was sorry, but because of his oaths and his guests he commanded it to be given. He sent and had John beheaded in the prison, and his head was brought on a platter and given to the girl, and she brought it to her mother.

Now translate that story to modern times today. A governor of one of the smaller states, Rhode Island or Wyoming, is married to his brother’s wife. A local Baptist pastor has publicly condemned the relationship. One night, the governor is hosting a dinner party at the governor’s mansion for his birthday. As entertainment for the guests, he asks his step-daughter to do a striptease. Filled with lust, the governor promises to give her whatever she wants. She asks for the head of the Baptist pastor on a platter. The head, still dripping with blood, is delivered on a platter to the girl in front of all the guests.

You think outrageous things happen in the world of politics today. I don’t care what Outrage of the Day is particularly bothersome to you. The story of Herod and John the Baptist is a whole lot worse.

People are depraved. This is not a new phenomenon. Wilde didn’t invent depravity. So, why are we still shocked when people do depraved things?

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“Apathy in the Face of Evil”
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Free to Explore Ideas

From an Interview published by the Academic Freedom Alliance.

Q.: You frequently publish articles at a variety of outlets. Many of your writings deal with important economic matters, but you also explore other big questions through the topics of literature, art, and culture. Finding controversy seems to be getting easier these days, even with subjects that were completely uncontroversial only years ago. My question is this, how important is the protection of extramural speech, as part of a broader defense of academic freedom, for academics who want to write and publish as you do?

A: The idea of academic specialization is relatively new. Before the start of the 20th century, it was common for scholars to write about matters beyond the narrow fields in which they had expertise. One of the advantages of working at a small liberal arts college is that there is not the expectation of staying in your narrow research lane. Ideas are not bound by the modern divisions in the academy; there is much to be learned when experts in one area of knowledge explore other areas. For academic freedom to have any meaning, a scholar must have the freedom to roam widely on the intellectual terrain. If academic freedom only applies to narrow bands of research and others are allowed to determine what constitutes that narrow band, then there really is no academic freedom.

It is true that not all speech is covered by academic freedom. A scholar cannot make death threats and then plead that academic freedom means they should not be fired for doing so. But, we need to be very careful to keep small the realm of speech uncovered by academic freedom. This is particularly vital in the classroom. There is a strong temptation in colleges to claim that academic freedom does not include the right to say things which upset students. This temptation must be fiercely opposed if academic freedom is to have any meaning.

You can read the rest of the interview at the Academic Freedom Alliance

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Be Like Aquinas

“St. Thomas was willing to allow the one truth to be approached by two paths, precisely because he was sure there was only one truth. Because the Faith was the one truth, nothing discovered in nature could ultimately contradict the Faith. Because the Faith was the one truth, nothing really deduced from the Faith could ultimately contradict the facts. It was in truth a curiously daring confidence in the reality of his religion.”

That is G. K. Chesterton, in his book St. Thomas Aquinas. Chesterton is clearly concerned that the world is slipping back into a pre-Aquinas age.

Before Aquinas, Christian theology was heavily influenced by Plato. We can thank Augustine for that fact. As Augustine unfolded the meaning of the gospel of John’s opening line, “In the beginning was the logos,” Christianity ended up looking very Platonic. Plato believed there is an overarching logic and reason of the world, which he called the logos. There are what we now call the Platonic ideals, these perfect forms of things. There is the perfect form of the tree and of love and of friendship. All of these ideals exist up there in some abstract world. We are mucking around on Earth and can see pale reflections of all these things. We see a tree here or there, but they are not the ideal tree. We have friends, but they are not ideal friends. What we are constantly doing is seeing the things on the Earth and thinking about these perfect forms.

Aquinas comes along and says Christians are spending too much time thinking about Plato, about lofty things. Instead, they should be reading Aristotle and thinking about grounded things. The distinction between them is captured really nicely in Raphael’s painting “The School of Athens.” In the center, Plato and Aristotle are talking. Plato is pointing up because that is where the important things are. Aristotle has his hand flat pointing down at the ground, because that is where the important things are.

Aquinas comes along and says that the Church has been thinking way too much about Plato, the lofty stuff, and way too little about Aristotle, the grounded stuff. What we need to start doing is paying attention to the grounded stuff, the things of the world. Chesterton notes:

In a word, St. Thomas was making Christendom more Christian in making it more Aristotelian. This is not a paradox, but a plain truism, which can only be missed by those who may know what is meant by an Aristotelian, but have simply forgotten what is meant by a Christian. As compared with a Jew, a Moslem, a Buddhist, a Deist, or most obvious alternatives, a Christian means a man who believes that deity or sanctity has attached to matter or entered the world of the senses. 

That’s what being a Christian means. It means we believe the logos was made flesh.

We can see the tension in churches today. You can walk around churches and say, “Christ is God,” and everybody will say, “Yep, that is right.” Nobody will ever once correct you. But if you walk around churches and say “Christ is man,” everyone will instantly correct you and say, “Oh that’s not all; he is also God.” When we say, “Christ is God,” nobody ever says, “Oh, and he is man too.” But Christ is both fully God and fully Man 

That is what Aquinas is driving at. The incarnation means those two statements, “Christ is God” and “Christ is man,” are identically true. They are both imperfect, neither captures the totality of Christ. But one of them is not more true than the other. Christ is fully God. Christ is fully man. Can we learn about God by looking at both the things of heaven and the things of the world? Aquinas is saying we really need to be doing both of those things.  

Aquinas says that if you want to learn about God, you can think about the Bible. It’s great to think about the Bible. You learn a lot about God in the Bible. But you can also think about the things of earth. Both are ways to ultimately find out about God, because in the end, there is only one truth. God is discoverable by revelation, but God is also discoverable by reason. 

We have to keep this paradox constantly in mind. Christ is both divine and flesh, the logos is both with God and made flesh. Our temptation is to get off this balance beam entirely. We read the Bible to learn about God. We read other things to learn about things other than God. We make sure those things are totally separate in our lives. We can talk about the Bible, but if you’re going to talk about God in the Bible, you certainly don’t want to talk about Plato or Aristotle. Then we can talk about Plato and Aristotle, but don’t ever bring the Bible into those discussions. 

Aquinas is arguing that these things are not separate. We learn about God by reading the Bible and through divine revelation. We also learn about God by thinking about all the other things we see. This idea that we learn about God in all these ways is not a shocking statement to Augustine. It is not a shocking statement to Aquinas, It is also not a shocking statement to the Apostle Paul. 

In his letter to the Romans, Paul writes, “For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made” (ESV). Paul says everywhere you look, there’s God. We, on the other hand, always want to rip the world in two. We show up on a Sunday morning to think about God. Then we walk out of church and we go through the rest of our life. If we remember to do a Bible study or a daily devotion, then we think about God again. But what about the rest of all the stuff you are learning and doing in your life? Does that have anything to do with God? We’ve completely separated all that stuff out. 

The challenge of thinking about the Logos made flesh is to realize whatever you are seeing and doing Tuesday at 3:00 is somehow a reflection of the work of God. Christ really was a man, and what that means is he was a person like us. We think, “Sure, he was human, but he was a perfect human. Not like me.” The classic example is “Away in the manger.” “No crying he makes.” He was a baby who never even cried. But that is wrong. Christ really was a person like you. He went through life like you did. He pounded nails in boards, just like my friend Bob, who is a carpenter, does. Christ stood around and argued with people. That is what I do.  Christ slept and ate and walked and laughed just like we all do. He also, not incidentally, created the world.

We need to get rid of this division in our mind that the things of God and the things of the world have no connection. They are very tightly connected. As Aquinas teaches us, that is the point of the Incarnation. 

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Is The Bride of Christ Beautiful Too?

Beauty is all the rage. In the Movie of the Moment (Barbie, obviously), there is a scene in which Barbie sits on a bench next to an elderly lady, looks at her intensely, and breathlessly exclaims, “You are beautiful.”

Studio executives suggested cutting the scene because it served no real point in advancing the plot. But the director stood firm, “If I cut the scene, I don’t know what this movie is about.”

[Further reflections on what the movie is “about” are in Tremendous Trifles here. (And if you have not signed up for the newsletter yet, this is a great time to do so!)]

Philip Ryken’s new book was timed perfectly to coincide with the Barbie Phenomenon. Beauty is Your Destiny sure sounds like it could be the subtitle of the movie. But Ryken isn’t writing about the extended advertisement for Mattel toys. He is writing about God.

First, the definition. What exactly is “Beauty”? If you have never tried to define it, then give it a try right now.

How good is your definition? Not great, right? It is a notoriously difficult word to define in a satisfactory way. Ryken too leads off with “the conundrum of definition.” “Today we do not seem to be much closer to an answer than we were two thousand years ago.” This is an odd state of affairs for a concept that we do not doubt exists.

What is the way out? Ryken first turns to the most beautiful thing that exists: God. If anything can be described as “beautiful,” then God is surely beautiful. He quotes Jonathan Edwards, noting that God is “infinitely the most beautiful and all the beauty to be found throughout the whole creation is but a reflection of the diffused beams of that Being who has an infinite fullness of brightness and glory; God is…the foundation and fountain of all being and all beauty.” Ryken repeats the idea: “beyond simply being a divine attribute in its own right, beauty is an aspect of all God’s attributes.”

Starting with the idea that God is by definition beautiful, chapter by chapter, Ryken shows how God’s beauty radiates outwards to other things. Because God is beautiful, God’s creation is beautiful. The beauty of the created material world includes the culmination of that work; humans are beautiful too. (And, in a chapter which is rather specific amongst the rest of the chapters about broad themes, Ryken explains that the way humans create new humans is also beautiful—at least when the creative act happens within the bonds of matrimony.)

God, creation, and humans are all beautiful, so it naturally follows that the moment when God and Humanity combine in the incarnation of Christ is also beautiful. Following that beautiful moment when Jesus humbled himself and became human, we find another supreme act of beauty in the midst of the supreme act of ugliness: the crucifixion.

Throughout this exploration of the ways God’s beauty overflows to all these other things, Ryken draws heavily on thinkers of the past to show that this beauty has been widely recognized for thousands of years. In the chapter on the beauty of creation, for example, he quotes Chesterton:

I do not think there is anyone who takes quite such a fierce pleasure in things being themselves as I do. The startling wetness of water excites and intoxicates me: the fieriness of fire, the steeliness of steel, the unutterable muddiness of mud.

He follows this description of the beauty of creation with admonitions on how we should think about what God has created. We should pay attention to all this beauty; we should adore the beauty of the world; and we should protect that beautiful creation. Beauty, in other words, is not something to acknowledge in passing. We should continually and consciously immerse ourselves in what is beautiful, enjoying it and doing what we can to help others enjoy it too.

Similarly, in the chapter on the incarnation, Ryken asks what it is about that act that makes it so beautiful. The humility of what Jesus has done. The holiness of the incarnation. And the sacrifice inherent in the incarnation leading to crucifixion. These are all aspects of the beauty of Christ.

Chapters 1 through 7 of this book are a long reflection on all these beautiful things. A few discordant notes pop up now and then (sometimes beautiful things are destroyed by the activity of humans), but the tone of these chapters is continuously uplifting, pointing our attention towards the Good and the True and the Beautiful.

Chapter 8 thus comes as a complete shock. A chapter entitled “Beautiful Community: The Beauty of Christ’s Bride” sounds like it will be more of the same. The first two paragraphs describe the image of a transcendent bride representing the community of God’s people on earth. Then the third paragraph:

We need this vision because in the present time, we are living a different reality. The church we see is not as beautiful as this painting—not as fully global, as genuinely diverse, as truly unified, as clearly illuminated by the gospel, or as radiant in its witness. These shortcomings cause us to long for the day when the people of God will finally look as beautiful as our savior does.

That tone continues. The church should be beautiful.

Why then, are we so ugly? Everywhere we look, we catch glimpses of the beauty that our Creator has put into the world—his divine beauty displayed in creation and reflected in the people he saved. But we also see the deformity of sin wherever we look, and sometimes the church looks like the ugliest community in the world.

The ugliest community in the world? Really? Obviously there are some things about the modern church that are not so great, but can Ryken truly not imagine even uglier communities outside the church? Is God so absent from the modern church that there is nothing uglier in the world?

Ryken proceeds to explain what we all should be doing to make the church more beautiful: Practice Hospitality, Give Generously, Do Justice, Pursue Reconciliation, Live in Christian Unity. These are all very sound admonitions to Christians everywhere. But there is no escaping the fact that when Ryken looks at the church, he does not see beauty; he just sees ugliness:

Today we face a strong temptation to give up on the church—to watch from home, sit in the back, sleep in, or stop going altogether. Sometimes, in its ugliness, the church has become for us the scene of the crime. Nevertheless, God has promised to beautify his blood-bought bride.

At some point, God has promised to make the church beautiful, but right now Ryken just doesn’t see it.

In a different book, Ryken’s complaints about the modern church would fit right in. But, what are they doing here? Ryken looks at God and creation and humanity and sex and the incarnation and the crucifixion and steadfastly points out how beautiful these things are even if they sometimes appear ugly to us now. But when he turns to the church, the entire discussion changes into a focus on descriptions of ugliness.

Looking out at the world of Christians in the church today, does Ryken really see no beauty? Does he not see the people showing love to their neighbors, the people being light in dark places, the people meeting material needs with generosity and love? Does he not see the hospitals? Does he not see the schools? Does he not believe that Wheaton College, where he is the President, is not a magnificent and beautiful work of the Universal Church?

The change in tone when Ryken comes to this chapter is truly stunning. A chapter focusing on how the church is (not “could be” but “is”) beautiful, with a section noting that the church is not nearly as beautiful as it could be, would keep up the theme of a book which has a whole chapter on how the crucifixion (which surely is uglier than the modern church, right?) is really beautiful because of all the good that came out of such an ugly act. The chapter on the beauty of the creature made in the image of God is not centered on the Fall; it is not a chapter devoted to the ugliness of people corrupted by sin. So, why doesn’t the chapter on the church have the same emphasis? Is the church uglier than the imago dei which makes up the church?

The problem here is not that Ryken is noting the ugliness of the church. Original Sin is real. People are truly and totally depraved. I get that. If Ryken wanted to write a book about the ugliness of the world, he would have no lack of examples. But, that is not the message of the bulk of this book. In a book showing that the beauty of God radiates throughout all of creation, then surely the beautiful works the bride of Christ has done by the grace of God deserve an exploration too.

Let us not lose sight, though, of Ryken’s main point. Once you realize the beauty of God, the beauty of what Christ has done, then it immediately follows that beauty is indeed your destiny. There is beauty all around you; you should notice that beauty and enjoy that beauty and do everything you can to protect and enhance that beauty. Lift your eyes up off the ugliness and notice the beauty of God shining forth everywhere. Or as Chesterton put it in a poem Ryken discusses:

The world is hot and cruel,
We are weary of heart and hand,
But the world is more full of glory
Than you can understand.

Related Posts:
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Kingsolver, Barbara Prodigal Summer “The Beauty of Appalachia”

(Alas, a not so beautiful note to end a reflection on beauty. The publisher insists that I remind you that federal regulations require that I tell you that I received a copy of this book from Crossway so that I could write a review of this book on the topic of beauty.  Having done so, I now encourage you to think on more beautiful things than federal regulations.)

Is Phantastes Worth Reading?

“Yet I know that good is coming to me—that good is always coming; though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it. What we call evil, is the only and best shape, which, for the person and his condition at the time, could be assumed by the best good. And so, Farewell.”

That is the end of George MacDonald’s Phantastes: A Faerie Romance.

Phantastes has a fame that far outstrips the number of people who have read it. Why? Because one cold evening at the bookstall in a railway station, C.S. Lewis picked up a copy in a “dirty jacket.” (The “dirty jacket” is a really odd detail to mention.) Lewis marks that moment as one of the biggest events of his life. As he later reminisces in Surprised By Joy, “I had not the faintest notion what I had let myself in for by buying Phantastes.” “That night my imagination was, in a certain sense, baptized; the rest of me, not unnaturally, took longer.”

With that note in his autobiography, Lewis inaugurated an eternal interest in MacDonald’s book. The book that sent the great Christian apologist on the path of conversion to Christianity! What could be more exciting than that? To those for whom Lewis is their Patron Saint, Phantastes is like a Holy Relic. But wait, there is more! In The Great Divorce, Lewis has MacDonald play the role of Beatrice, his guide to Heaven!

But, truth be told, the three pages in Surprised By Joy which describe Phantastes do not exactly make the book come alive. In describing the book, Lewis gets completely wrapped up in his mystical language of Joy. Piecing it together, it is obvious that this book is in the genre of fiction Lewis had grown to love—tales of faeries and Norse Gods and medieval legends—and that somehow this book made all that realm he loved seem more real than reality. But, Lewis never really explains the book. His description was just enough to make me think, “I should probably read Phantastes someday,” but not even remotely enough to make me want to rush out and track down a copy.

Interestingly, I do not seem to be alone in that reaction. I never saw a copy in a bookstore or ran across any mention of the book outside of discussions about Lewis. Sure enough, when Lewis would get discussed, sooner or later a mention of Phantastes would be made. But, again, I never met anyone who said that they had actually read the book, let alone that it was life changing or even recommending that I should read it.

I finally read it. Having done so, I finally understand its strange reputation.

The quick evaluation: it’s good, but not great. [Insert gasps of horror from those addicted to Lewis.]

It is really obvious why Lewis loved it, why it had such a huge impact on his life. It is a very self-conscious book, a painstakingly deliberate attempt to take the genre of the fairy story and use it to convey the essence of Christianity. It contains a nonstop series of episodes, every one of which tries to capture the inexpressible parts of the nature of God and what Christ has done. It’s not exactly a Christian allegory. It is more a mystical book which conveys the same impression as the mystical parts of Christian theology. You read it and you recognize the religious feeling.

I am well aware that the last paragraph makes zero sense to anyone who has not read MacDonald. Indeed, it probably makes less sense than Lewis’ attempt to explain the impact of the book. Phantastes seems to defy explanation, which is exactly the point of the book.

Here is another way of describing it. Take any Neil Gaiman book and make it far less concrete. There is a real world and there is this other world lingering right outside the real world; this is, by the way, a summary of every story Gaiman ever wrote. But Gaiman explains the connections between the worlds. Phantastes conveys a sense one gets when contemplating things that are there but just beyond our comprehension; the connections of the fairy world and the real world are just hovering there, incapable of being explained.

You, Dear Reader, are now exclaiming, “Enough with the mystical feelings stuff. What is the book about?”

Plot summary: Anodos, our hero, wakes up one morning in Fairy Land. He wanders around the land for many days. Then one day he wakes up back in the real world.

Ah, but what does he do in Fairy Land? Therein lies the problem with describing the book. Anodos really does simply wander around. It is just a steady stream of episodes, with no apparent forward motion. A few characters show up more than once. But, there is no quest, no grand thing that Anodos must accomplish. There are villains, but they also just wander in and out. There are also allies who join Anodos every now and then. Some inexplicable episodes are later explained when a character pops back in for a chat.

I enjoyed reading the wanderings of Anodos. But, if I had read this when I was younger, back when I was obsessed with fantasy literature but before I knew how to read well, I would not have enjoyed the book at all. As a straight fantasy story, it is a miserable failure. This is undoubtedly why the book is not nearly as popular as Lewis would have liked it to be. Nobody coming from The Lord of the Rings and picking up Phantastes looking for more of the same is going to be impressed at all.

Since the book doesn’t make it as a ripping good yarn, how does it rate as a disguised work of philosophy? Again, it is good, not great. It echoes a lot of the themes that Lewis promulgated—the influence of MacDonald on Lewis’ thinking is obvious.

Consider:

Why are all reflections lovelier than what we call the reality?—not so grand or so strong, it may be, but always lovelier? Fair as is the gliding sloop on the shining sea, the wavering, trembling, unresting sail below is fairer still. Yea, the reflecting ocean itself, reflected in the mirror, has a wondrousness about its waters that somewhat vanishes when I turn towards itself. All mirrors are magic mirrors. The commonest room is a room in a poem when I turn to the glass….In whatever way it may be accounted for, of one thing we may be sure, that this feeling is no cheat; for there is no cheating in nature and the simple unsought feelings of the soul. There must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in part lay hold of the meaning. Even the memories of past pain are beautiful; and past delights, though beheld only through clefts in the grey clouds of sorrow, are lovely as Fairy Land. But how have I wandered into the deeper fairyland of the soul, while as yet I only float towards the fairy palace of Fairy Land! The moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding night, had rapt me away.

That is a nice description of the idea that this world is not all there is. That world of reflections is showing us a glimpse of heaven, a world more beautiful than anything contained in this world. That feeling that the reflection world is more beautiful than the real world is not a cheat; “there must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in part lay hold of the meaning.” Though now we see through a glass darkly…

Or this:

They who believe in the influences of the stars over the fates of men, are, in feeling at least, nearer the truth than they who regard the heavenly bodies as related to them merely by a common obedience to an external law. All that man sees has to do with man. Worlds cannot be without an intermundane relationship. The community of the centre of all creation suggests an interradiating connection and dependence of the parts.

Again, MacDonald draws out that sense that the physical world, the laws of nature, are only a part of the great cosmic dance in which we participate.

There are also the moral lessons:

Then first I knew the delight of being lowly; of saying to myself, “I am what I am, nothing more.”…I learned that it is better, a thousand-fold, for a proud man to fall and be humbled, than to hold up his head in his pride and fancied innocence. I learned that he that will be a hero, will barely be a man; that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work, is sure of his manhood. In nothing was my ideal lowered, or dimmed, or grown less precious; I only saw it too plainly, to set myself for a moment beside it. Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal. Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself. Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past. Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record. Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? or a clear morning after the rain? or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?

That passage the sort of thing that gives the sole reason for reading Phantastes. If you like the sudden appearance of moral lessons drawn from the Bible and then dropped into a tale, lessons that make you long for greater understanding, lessons that make you think you are surely missing something important, then Phantastes is a book you should read.

Just don’t mistake the book for something by Tolkien or Gaiman. Don’t expect that the lessons will be succinctly explained. Don’t expect that the allegories will be clean and obvious. If you are willing to go along for the ride with an interesting raconteur telling tales that are somehow larger than life, then you will enjoy Phantastes. And maybe, if you are a lot like Lewis, it will change your life.

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