Doctor Faustus and the Buddy System

I know it's been a while, but I've been haunted by the story of Doctor Faustus and decided to write an article in an attempt to get rid of him. I don't think it worked, but it was just posted at the John Adams Center for the Study of Faith, Philosophy, and Public Affairs:
http://johnadamscenter.com/2013/12/doctor-faustus-and-the-buddy-system-or-the-dangers-of-thinking-for-yourself-by-yourself/

Doctor Faustus, as performed by the Grassroots Shakespeare Company

In Memoriam: My Grandmother

“The great secret of death, and perhaps its deepest connection with us, is this: in taking from us a being we have loved and venerated, death does not wound us without, at the same time, lifting us toward a more perfect understanding of this being and of ourselves.”  - Rainer Maria Rilke

Johnny Chuck, Old Mother West Wind (1913)

I have been wounded.

Renee Godfrey—one of the sweetest and most cheerful influences in my life—passed away on a calm, sunny morning a few days ago. Her health had been deteriorating for a while, so I knew this was coming. And while Dante might be right in saying “The arrow seen before cometh less rudely” (Divine Comedy, “Paradise,” canto 17, line 24), the passing of a loved one still pierces the heart, no matter how much warning is given.

Grandmother and me

My hurt comes from a feeling of absence. It will be difficult to visit my hometown, knowing that I won’t be able to count on the sly smile and chuckles of my grandma. I can’t look forward to hearing her sing-song voice in person, or on the phone. My arms will feel much emptier.

But I also understand Grandmother and myself more perfectly.

Renee loved to read, and often read to me as a child. Some of my fondest memories are of my grandma reading me “Mother West Wind” stories at night when I visited her house. There was something magical about the way that she would make the stories come to life, so much so that they lived inside me for a time. A few years ago, I stayed the night at her house again. Remembering those long-ago evenings, I asked my grandma if she’d read me “Mother West Wind” stories again. She was happy to, and as I curled up next to her and listened to the melodic tones of her storytelling, I wept. I didn’t weep because of any pain or sense of impending loss, but from a sense of fullness – my heart was so full that it came spilling out of my eyes.

It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

My grandma’s love of reading impressed me from a very young age, and was one of the reasons why I wanted to learn to read for myself. I wanted access to that wonderful world of stories; a world in which she was so often my guide.  She loved beautiful stories, and through her enthusiastic example, a similar love was planted deep within me.

As a tribute to the woman who blessed my life with her presence and her stories, here is an excerpt from the Mother West Wind story, “Mrs. Redwing’s Speckled Egg” in Old Mother West Wind (1913):

Picture by Eliza Wheeler

Old Mother West Wind came down from the Purple Hills in the golden light of the early morning. Over her shoulders was slung a bag – a great big bag – and in the bag were all of Old Mother West Wind’s children, the Merry Little Breezes.

Old Mother West Wind came down from the Purple Hills to the Green Meadows, and as she walked she crooned a song:

Ships upon the ocean wait -

  I must hurry, hurry on!

Mills are idle if I’m late -

  I must hurry, hurry on!

When she reached the Green Meadows, Old Mother West Wind opened her bag, turned it upside down and shook it. Out tumbled all the Merry Little Breezes and began to spin round and round for very joy, for you see they were to play in the Green Meadows all day long until Old Mother West Wind should come back at night and take them all to their home behind the Purple Hills.

First they raced over to see Johnny Chuck. They found Johnny Chuck sitting just outside his door eating his breakfast. One, for very mischief, snatched right out of Johnny Chuck’s mouth the green leaf of corn he was eating, and ran away with it. Another playfully pulled his whiskers, while a third rumpled up his hair.

Johnny Chuck pretended to be very cross indeed, but really he didn’t mind a bit, for Johnny Chuck loved the Merry Little Breezes and played with them every day.

Mother West Wind (1916) by Bertha Lum

My grandma’s death has lifted me closer to her, closer to my true self, and closer to the Divine.

I will always love you, Grandmother.

Thanks for lifting me.

The Myths of History (or, the History of Myths)

*This is a continuation of my first post on the power of stories, which you can read here.

Today, the term “myth” conjures up ideas of something false, fanciful, or ignorant. The truth about “myth,” however, is much different. In Greek, the word mythos originally meant “something that is spoken.” This term originated in Athens as the antithesis of the word logos, meaning “an objective account of an event or phenomenon,” and which followed the rules of reason and logic. Mythos was the spoken word, and logos was the specific type of word used in law, accounting, and the court.

In discussing the nature of humanity, gods, and the universe, there were two approaches that one could take. The philosophers discussed these in terms of logos, trying to reach truth through a purely intellectual process. Poets, on the other hand, used mythos, trying to arrive at truth through flashes of insight and focusing more on sets of ideas, attitudes, and emotions. As systems of logic and reason gained greater credibility, this alternative, “mythic” way of understanding existence began to lose its value in the eyes of many.

Detail of Plato from Raphael's "The School of Athens"

For instance, around the 5th century BCE, Plato used the word mythos to describe fictional stories and set this concept opposite of “the truth,” which could only be verified or falsified by logic. In other words, “myth” was something that lacked any resemblance to empirical reality. In Roman thought, the word mythos was translated as fabula, meaning a story or play, which entered the English language as the word “fable” and carried with it the sense that such stories were somehow less valuable than other, more straightforward explanations of the world and our existence. The fate of the word “myth” was seemingly sealed by the Enlightenment and its definition of “truth” as something that was logical, rational, or empirically verifiable, and “false” as anything that didn’t fall into these rigid categories (such as myth). It was this rational sort of truth that was to be sought at all costs, while anything resembling myth was to be discarded.

J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis

However, there were some in the academic world who recognized profound truths about our existence in the myths of the world. Some went so far as to argue that certain truths about humanity, the gods, and the universe could only be expressed through the medium of myth. J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), Professor of Anglo-Saxon language and literature at Oxford, was one of these. His close friend C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) disagreed strongly, saying that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though “breathed through silver.” In response to Lewis’ statement, Tolkien wrote a poem called “Mythopoeia” (meaning “myth-making”). In it, the poem’s narrator Philomythos (or “myth-lover”) addresses Misomythos (or “myth-hater”) and explains the value of myths and creative myth-making.

Tolkien begins his poem by describing what the world looks like to those who disregard “myth” and its enchanted worldview:

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are ‘trees,’ and growing is ‘to grow’);
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

He then goes on to show how looking at the world through the lens of myth (in its earlier sense of insight and emotion) enlivens our experience of the world:

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jeweled tent
myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.

Having shown the richness and expansiveness of looking at the world this way, in an intriguing turn, Tolkien then compares the creative act of myth-making to the creative acts of God:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind…
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.

Here, Tolkien endows myth-making and the creation of stories with immeasurable value, even going so far as to attribute this creative impulse to something higher than humanity. In conclusion, he writes:

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True…
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

Myth provides a way to explore the meaning of life, our lived experiences, and the infinite possibilities that life holds. For Tolkien, seeing the world through the eyes of myth is not only valid, it is invaluable insofar as it creates deeper ties between the author / audience and the world itself.

First editions of The Hobbit and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe

It goes without saying that Tolkien whole-heartedly embraced myth in his own writings, incorporating its elements into his tales of Middle Earth. And eventually, even C.S. Lewis (the “myth-hater” himself) would come to understand the value of myth and utilize these insights as he wrote perhaps his most well-known and best-loved works, The Chronicles of Narnia.

Mircea Eliade and Joseph Campbell

Around the same time, two more scholars were devoting their lives to the study of myth. Mircea Eliade (1907-1986), a Romanian-born professor of history and religion at the University of Chicago, argued that myth was not an obstacle to the study and practice of religion, but was rather the essential foundation of religion itself. His books The Sacred and the Profane and The Myth of the Eternal Return are extensive treatments of myth, examining the role it played in the lives of ancient societies and show how these same sorts of themes continue in contemporary religions. Similarly, Joseph Campbell (1904-1987) spent his entire career trying to understand why myths were so valuable to humans across time and around the globe. Campbell looked at “myth” as a global phenomenon, and in the three-volume The Masks of God, his comparative studies introduced many in the West to the beauties and significance of Eastern myths and religions, placing them in a global context. Both Eliade and Campbell laid the foundation for the academic study of myth and served to promote its value.

George Lucas (left) filming Star Wars: A New Hope

In the 1970s, a young filmmaker named George Lucas noticed that there didn’t seem to be anyone in Hollywood approaching film from the perspective of myth. Lucas explains his realization—and its effect—in the following:

The Western was possibly the last generically American fairy tale, telling us about our values. And once the Western disappeared, nothing has ever taken its place. In literature we were going off into science fiction...so that's when I started doing more strenuous research on fairy tales, folklore, and mythology, and I started reading Joe [Campbell’s] books. Before that I hadn't read any of Joe's books...It was very eerie because in reading The Hero with a Thousand Faces I began to realize that my first draft of Star Wars was following classic motifs...so I modified my next draft [of Star Wars] according to what I'd been learning about classical motifs and made it a little bit more consistent...I [then] went on to read “The Masks of God” and many other books (Stephen and Robin Larsen, Joseph Campbell: A Fire in theMind, p. 541).

At a 1985 National Arts Club banquet honoring Campbell, Lucas said something similar. Perhaps it was this conscious use of myth that resonated with audiences and contributed to the wild success of the Star Wars franchise (which has picked up even more steam recently as Disney purchased its rights and plans are underway to create even more movies set in this mythic world). After creating the original Star Wars trilogy, Lucas developed a friendship with Joseph Campbell, and before his death, most of Campbell’s final interview with Bill Moyers (“The Power of Myth”--available in video, print, or audiobook--is well worth watching/reading) was filmed at George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch in California.

Harrison Ford as Han Solo and me as Harrison Ford as Han Solo

The myths of Star Wars hold a special place in my heart, as it shaped the way I looked at the world. Having watched the Star Wars movies incessantly as a child, collecting its toys, and reading its related books, I started looking for adventure everywhere. From time to time, epic light saber battles would erupt between my brother, me, and my father (though sometimes I would yell “You’re not my father!”). The world around me became alive with heroes, villains, and perilous journeys. My entire world became enchanted because of myth. Unfortunately, this world became disenchanted for a time as I leaned toward logos (see my previous post on the power of stories), but after embracing anew myths and stories, my life has become more rich and much more real.

In future posts, I’ll gather some of the stories that have been most meaningful, influential, and world-enchanting for me. I’ll need your help to find more of these sorts of stories, so please come back and help me create a list of stories that can help others to recover (and maintain) an enchanted worldview.

The Man of Steel and Capitalizing on Christianity

I just wrote a brand new blog post for the John Adams Center for the Study of Faith, Philosophy and Public Affairs (which you can read here). I'm really interested to hear what you think about this really interesting tension between Hollywood and Christian churches, so please join the discussion in the comments section of that blog post!

Popes, Atheists, and the Image of God

I just wrote a guest blog post for the John Adams Center for the Study of Faith, Philosophy and Public Affairs. Check it out here.

The Prodigal Story Seeker

When I was young, I lived in a world of stories. Some of my earliest and most cherished memories are of my father creating stories for my brother and me. The story that survived the longest was the ongoing adventures of Spaceman Spiff (a heroic space ship commander) and his seemingly constant battles with the Dreznaks (evil and grotesque aliens who had constantly-running noses). My brother and I were absolutely captivated by these stories and thrilled when our father would sketch scenes from these on the back of church bulletins.

As I learned to read, I kept myself immersed in stories—Star Wars movie books, comic books, and novels. Each book I read was a sort of temporary reincarnation as I experienced new lives and new worlds. Stories were part of my life throughout my youth and helped carry me through even the most difficult of times.

Near the beginning of my college career, an intense thirst for knowledge inadvertently pulled me away from my home in the world of stories. Thinking that straightforward non-fiction books and other classical literature were a more “concentrated” form of knowledge (and therefore more valuable), I focused my attention on books such as the Meditations of Marcus Arelius and the Analects of Confucius. These works had great lessons to teach me, and that fact further convinced me that non-fiction books and related literature (the more ancient, the better) were what I needed to learn as much as possible.

It wasn’t until I began graduate school that I “came to myself” and realized the wealth I had forsaken in leaving the world of stories. One of my dear friends (whom, years later, decided to marry me) began reading Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. I had read that book on my own in 5^th grade, and remembered really enjoying it. I wanted to have something to talk with her about.

So I read.

The story was as good as I remembered it, but it somehow seemed even more relevant to the world I now lived in.

In the process of finding a copy of Fahrenheit 451, I stumbled across a collection of short stories by H.G. Wells. As soon as I finished Fahrenheit 451, I started in on this one. Two stories in particular really resonated with me: “The Country of the Blind” (where an overly ambitious man’s attempt to rule a hidden village of blind people ends in disaster), and “The Man Who Could Work Miracles” (where an ordinary man is granted the ability to bend the world to meet his own selfish needs, with disastrous results). After I somehow—almost unconsciously—worked the moral of these stories into an everyday conversation with a friend, I began to question the stance I’d taken on stories.

Shortly thereafter, I was in the middle of reading through all of C.S. Lewis’ theological writings when I learned he had penned a science fiction trilogy. I was familiar with The Chronicles of Narnia, but I’d never heard of this series. The intermingling of theology and science fiction was too intriguing for me to ignore.

In Perelandra, the story’s protagonist travels to an Edenic planet (Venus) where he meets the fairer of the planet’s two native inhabitants. She looks relatively human (despite the greenish tint to her skin, as seen in this illustration), but is surprisingly innocent. Another character arrives, bent on corrupting Venus’ Eve, and the protagonist battles to prevent this.

I was initially struck by the incredibly vivid imagery that Lewis used to describe this new world. It wasn’t until after I began thinking about the dialogues between the characters that I realized the theological and philosophical weight of their statements. Within this fictional setting, Lewis was able to explore a wide range of important topics in ways that would be near impossible in works of non-fiction. The force of this epiphany carried me back to the world of stories, which practically ran to welcome me home with open arms.

The Prodigal has returned, but he has returned a transformed man. I’ve re-immersed myself in the world of stories over the past several years, and have continued to increase in my appreciation for how stories function in people’s lives (both past and present). I’ve actually become somewhat of an advocate (or maybe an evangelist?) for the beauty and power of stories, which has bled into my professional life. For instance, last year I presented a paper at a scholarly conference proposing that instructors could easily use comic books to teach unfamiliar religious subjects, and elsewhere delivered a talk on how to use Batman to explain sacred clothing (the video of this presentation is available on iTunes here).

This is the first of a multi-part post I’m writing on the world of stories. In the following weeks (and probably months), I’ll explore the history of religious stories (or “myths”), modern uses of such stories, and the transformative nature of creating meaningful stories. Finally, I’ll wrap up this series of posts with a list of some of the stories that have impacted me most recently.

Enough of all this talk—worlds await us.

To Enjoy the World

I recently came across an awe-inspiring time-lapse video of the earth, taken from the International Space Station. In a previous blog post on “Infinite Beauty,” I quoted from the Anglican poet Thomas Traherne (ca. 1636-1674). Perhaps unsurprisingly, as I watched this video, it reminded me of yet another of Traherne's beautiful descriptions of what an enchanted worldview looks like.

So, as prelude to the video, I present to you Thomas Traherne on enjoying the world:  

Your enjoyment of the world is never right,

till every morning you awake in Heaven;

see yourself in your Father’s Palace;

and look upon the skies, 

the earth, 

and the air 

as Celestial Joys:

having such a reverend esteem of all, 

as if you were among the Angels…

You never enjoy the world aright,

till the Sea itself floweth in your veins,

till you are clothed with the heavens,

and crowned with the stars…

Till your spirit filleth the whole world, 

and the stars are your jewels;

till you are as familiar with the ways of God in all Ages as with your walk and table:

till you are intimately acquainted with that shady nothing out of which the world was made:

till you love men so as to desire their happiness, with a thirst equal to the zeal of your own:

till you delight in God for being good to all:

you never enjoy the world.

(Centuriesof Meditations, First Century, Sections 28-30)