Loreena McKennitt - In The Bleak Midwinter

"In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen,
Snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter,
Long ago...

What can I give him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him —
Give my heart."

Christina Rossetti

The Great Escape

Nothing says Christmas in Britain like The Great Escape!

The White Company

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote The White Company at the very beginning of his career. When he finished it he said that he would never write anything better in his life. It's a great boys adventure story set in late 1300s, medieval Europe. It paints an amazing picture of knights and wars and the constant battles between England and France. You can easily forget when you're reading it that the author lived in the late 1800s. He describes in perfect detail what a true knight of England should be, and you get easily caught up in wanting to see the hero become such a knight.

And yet, the thought crossed my mind that, despite all the trappings and talk of honour and nobility, these men are fighting for the sheer sake of fighting. Essentially it's gang warfare in medieval France. Battles are waged over issues of respect and territory is marked out and defended. The fact that men are dying so they can prove who is the stronger and more noble doesn't seem to bother them. These knights aren't fighting evil, they aren't defending their home or the home of another, they are fighting so that the prince of England can expand his territory, and they are fighting men they often see as friends.

But ignore my cynicism and read the book anyway. It's a fast-paced, fun story, and even if Sir Nigel bears a startling similarity to a David Eddings' knight called Mandorallen, it's worth reading.

"If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked will still wander free, then alas for the world!"

The Lost World

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was an amazing man. An Irishman born in Edinburgh; a medical student studying under a man whose mannerisms, logic, and methods would later be the basis of his most famous character (perhaps this doctor was the original Gregory House...); a faithful husband who devoted himself to his wife and family - nursing his wife through horrible illness and prolonging her life years after the doctors had given up hope; a genius storyteller; a defender of those falsely accused; a perceptive observer of world events (During World War 1 he contacted the War Office with several forward thinking suggestions, suggestions of things like a Channel Tunnel, body armour, inflatable lifeboats etc. These suggestions were largely ignored as too fanciful by all except a young Winston Churchill who wrote to thank him for his ideas.); and the man who gave us one of the greatest if not the greatest detectives of all time. Sadly Conan Doyle was also a man who spent his life spiritually lost - raised a Catholic, he rejected Catholicism in university, declaring himself an agnostic. After his first wife died, he sunk into a deep depression, and then he turned to spiritualism and the occult. And you see reflections of that in all his work - the God-given logic of a Biblical worldview, the drivenness of Catholicism, the sheer rationalism, and the emptiness that that rationalism brings. It's ironic that the master of logic and rationality becomes a disciple of the occult, but logic can give you no answers in the face of death, and if you don't turn to Christ, you will turn to something else.

Anyways, on to his book, The Lost World. This was written after Holmes in the latter part of his life. It was part of a small series of books starring Professor Challenger - a brilliant but obnoxious explorer and scientist. This was before the days of science fiction, but The Lost World is a classic science fiction story, in fact probably one of the earliest science fiction stories and one that influenced Michael Crichton in his writing.

The Lost World refers to a place in South America where a giant basalt formation is home to dinosaurs and other pre-historic creatures. Ironically, though this story like almost all science fiction is rooted and grounded in an evolutionary worldview, it presents an interesting alternative to evolution. The whole premise of the book is based on the idea that it is possible for animals to never evolve or become extinct if the natural conditions are right. In other words dinosaurs and men could, conceivably have lived side by side, and a natural catastrophe (like a Flood?) could have preserved some animals while killing others. However, this idea is weakened by the entry of the ape men who seem to be added almost as an afterthought and don't really contribute all that much to the storyline except in providing an escape route.

It's a good action-adventure. Short and entertaining.

The Taming of the Shrew

I ran across this charming modern version of Shakespeare on youtube a few weeks ago. Besides the fact that for once Rufus Sewell plays a good guy, it's really a very likeable adaptation of one of my favourite Shakespeare plays. Granted there are some pretty major and eyebrow raising liberties taken, but on the whole, entertaining. You can watch the whole version on youtube - at least for now.

Worth A Listen...

Hammer & Nails

Almost 500 years ago today, Martin Luther probably went rummaging through his things for hammer and nails. He was man with courage and a consuming love for the bride of Christ, a man not afraid to question why, when the Bible says one thing, folks are doing something else, and a man who definitely had a way with words.

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God

A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing;
Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing:
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great, and, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side, the Man of God’s own choosing:
Dost ask who that may be? Christ Jesus, it is He;
Lord Sabaoth, His Name, from age to age the same,
And He must win the battle.

And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us:
The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,
One little word shall fell him.

That word above all earthly powers, no thanks to them, abideth;
The Spirit and the gifts are ours through Him Who with us sideth:
Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;
The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,
His kingdom is forever.

Martin Luther

Paul Newman

I liked Paul Newman. I liked him in The Sting, I liked him in Nobody's Fool, I liked him in Cool Hand Luke, and I really liked him in The Long Hot Summer. I'm pretty sure I would've liked him in all his other films I haven't seen yet. Sure there were plenty of ungodly things in his life and work as with all film stars, but there were some good things there too. If nothing else he gave us the famous quote, "Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home" referring to his over 50 years of marriage to Joanne Woodward.

The Long Hot Summer is a brilliant film. Loosely based on a Tennessee Williams play, it was one of the first films Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were in together, and they were married shortly after filming it. The chemistry between the two is lovely. It also stars Orson Welles and a very young Angela Lansbury, and is as southern as they come. So, if you're trying to decide what film to rent this weekend - in memory of Paul Newman, I'd say go for this one. If they don't have it, go for The Sting - great soundtrack and clever plot. Here's a few cracking lines from The Long Hot Summer:

Ben: Miss Clara, you slam the door in a man's face before he even knocks on it.

Ben: I respect him. I admire his manners and I admire the speeches he makes and I admire the big house he lives in. But if you're saving it all for him honey, you've got your account in the wrong bank.

Ben: Life's very long and full of salesmanship, Miss Clara. You might buy something yet.

I Know, I Know

Ok, Ok, I know I haven't updated this in over a month. I still have to write about Conan Doyle and the Lost World...and I will, I promise, but in the meantime - here are some pictures from my summer...

The baby bird outside my office...



The longest day of the year - at the beach at midnight...



Absolute legendary camping trip with Brenda and Kathryn - tenting on the beach. Drinking hot chocolate while watching the sun set over the western isles of Scotland as you sit around your fire on the beach...doesn't get much better than that!



And then there was Skye - a week's holiday with my friend Linda, loads of sunshine, mountains, seascapes, seals, castles, and barbeques.

The Black Cuillin on a sunny day - tremendous!



Anyone fancy a farm here?



Macleod's Tables



Dunvegan Castle




That faint islands in the background are the Outer Hebrides - Lewis and Harris. Amazing to have such a clear day and be able to see them.



Coral Beach - only it wasn't coral- so beautiful!



Kilt Rock Waterfall



The Quiraing - I can't even begin to describe to you how much fun it was to drive this old cattle road through the mountains, and then to look back down where you'd been.



Ending our trip at Neist Point Lighthouse - just down the road from where we were staying.



So, all in all,not a bad summer. :)

Not Time To Worry Yet

Not time to worry yet
Trust Jesus one more day, and one more day
by Andrée Seu


I think I'm in love with Atticus Finch. The age is about right, and he's available, leastwise legally, being a widower and all. I'll keep out of Calpurnia's kitchen, and Aunty Alexandra can stay put. I just want to listen to him talk.

Jem had got his pants caught on the gate and had to kick them off during the midnight Boo Radley caper and, against Scout's 6-year-old panicked judgment, left a restless bed to fetch them. Says Scout: "He went the back way, through Deer's Pasture, across the schoolyard and around to the fence, I thought—at least that was the way he was headed. It would take longer, so it was not time to worry yet. I waited until it was time to worry and listened for Mr. Radley's shotgun."


Sometime later, Miss Maudy's house caught on fire. By perverse coincidence, it was also the first snow in Maycomb, Ala., since 1885, and when the old firetruck hose was attached to the hydrant it burst. "Oh-h Lord, Jem," said Scout. "Jem put his arm around me. 'Hush, Scout,' he said. 'It ain't time to worry yet. I'll let you know when.'"

Then there was the evening when Atticus had to have the little talk with Jem and his sister. "Your aunt has asked me to try and impress upon you and Jean Louise that you are not from run-of-the-mill people, that you are the product of several generations' gentle breeding." But the lecture wasn't going so well, and Atticus wasn't pulling it off, not just to them but to himself. And then Scout says through tears, "'Atticus, is all this behavin' an' stuff gonna make things different? I mean are you—?' I felt his hand on the back of my head. 'Don't you worry about anything,' he said. 'It's not time to worry.' When I heard that, I knew he had come back to us."

Things got more serious afterwards. Excitement had been building for weeks. Atticus was going to defend Tom Robinson before all the eyes of Maycomb County that turned up for the spectacle. Hours of deliberation in triple-digit temperatures were followed by evidence thrown to the wind, and they got Tom on charges of raping a white woman. Jem, who by rights shouldn't have been in the balcony watching the proceedings but was, starts to cry. "'It ain't right, Atticus,' said Jem. 'No, son, it's not right.'" Next morning the conversation continues thus: "'It's not time to worry yet,' Atticus reassured him, as we went into the dining room. 'We're not through yet. You can count on that.'"

Later, Tom Robinson was at Enfield Prison Farm, off in Chester County. "I asked Atticus if Tom's wife and children were allowed to visit him, but Atticus said no. 'If he loses his appeal,' I asked one evening, 'what'll happen to him?' 'He'll go to the chair,' said Atticus, 'unless the Governor commutes his sentence. Not time to worry yet, Scout. We've got a good chance.'"

I reckon now you all know why I'm in love with Atticus Finch. It also brings to mind an O. Henry story we read in seventh grade called "The Last Leaf," in which a woman on her deathbed is convinced that she will expire when the vine outside her window sheds its last autumn leaf, a conviction which she shares with her bedside friend. Autumn comes upon them, and leaf by leaf the foliage is released, save for one stubborn leaf that hangs on and on. The woman hangs on and on too because the leaf does, and after a while of this, rallies her strength and recovers. Turns out an elderly artist neighbor had braved an icy storm to secretly paint an autumn leaf on the windowpane, in the process catching pneumonia and dying himself.

You can tell me the gospel in all different ways. You can say "Trust in Jesus" when I confide that I'm nervous about my new high-school teaching job with a syllabus (including To Kill a Mockingbird) to stagger far more worthy candidates. Or you can know something about my psychology and just talk to me like Atticus: "Andrée, it's not time to worry about it yet." And maybe I'll keep postponing worry five minutes at a time, and trust Jesus one more day, and one more day.

Copyright © 2008 WORLD Magazine
August 25, 2007, Vol. 22, No. 31

And speaking of REM...

For most of you this post will be meaningless...but some will understand.







"I'm glad you're here with me Sam, here at the end of all things"



To new horizons...

REM Hollow Man

Interesting new song from REM...



If the rest of the album is as good, it will be worth getting. Interesting song to come from the poster boys of postmodern lyrics.

"What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself." - Blaise Pascal

"You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are rest-less till they find their rest in you." - Augustine

Indiana Jones

Ok, ok, it's true - I love Indiana Jones - always have since I was a wee girl. The Matrix generation will probably not get it, but when Raiders of the Lost Ark first came out it was billed as "The Return of the Great Adventure". It wasn't like anything else - it was a classic adventure film, and it was amazing. There's nothing James Bondish or computer generated about it, and I'm happy to say there still isn't. I think No. 4 is great! Old school, very entertaining, Harrison Ford still does all the stunts himself, and he doesn't pretend to be younger than he is. Plus, Marian is back...

So, here are some of the better lines - but like all true action films, they sound better in the film...

Mutt Williams: You know, for an old man you ain't bad in a fight. What are you, like 80?

Agent Irina Spalko: Belief, Dr. Jones, is a gift you have yet to receive. My sympathies. Indiana Jones: Oh, I believe, sister. That's why I'm down here.

Agent Irina Spalko: No defiant last words, Dr. Jones? Indiana Jones: I like Ike.

[Indiana realizes he's in a nuclear testing site when sirens begin wailing] Indiana Jones: That can't be good. That can't be good at all.

Indiana Jones: Oh, Marion, you had to go and get yourself kidnapped. Marion Ravenwood: Not like you did any better. Indiana Jones: Same old, same old.

Indiana Jones: Marion, take the wheel! Mutt Williams: That's not fair, she drove the truck! Indiana Jones: Don't be a child. Find something to fight with!

Indiana Jones: Drop dead! [Dovchenko punches him in the face] Indiana Jones: I'm sorry; I meant, "Drop dead, *comrade*."

Marion Ravenwood: I'm sure I wasn't the only one to go on with my life. There must have been plenty of women for you over the years. Indiana Jones: There were a few. But they all had the same problem. Marion Ravenwood: Yeah, what's that? Indiana Jones: They weren't you, honey.

Indiana Jones: You want to be a good archaeologist... [Mutt drives them out of the building on his motorcycle] Indiana Jones: ...you've got to get out of the library!

Indiana Jones: You're not from around here, are you? Agent Irina Spalko: And 'vere' do you think I am from? Indiana Jones: Well, judging by the way you're sinking your teeth into those 'wubble-yous', I'd say Eastern Ukraine.

Outer Banks

Well I'm back in the trenches, but here are some photos of my holiday on the Carolina coast.

Karma vs. Grace

Right, see if you can guess who says the following in an interview...

"I'd be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge...It doesn't excuse my mistakes, but I'm holding out for Grace. I'm holding out that Jesus took my sins onto the Cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don't have to depend on my own religiosity.

Interviewer - The son of God who takes away the sins of the world. I wish I could believe in that.

But I love the idea of the Sacrificial Lamb. I love the idea that God says: Look, you cretins, there are certain results to the way we are, to selfishness, and there's mortality as part of your very sinful nature, and, let's face it, you're not living a very good life, are you? There are consequences to actions. The point of the death of Christ is that Christ took on the sins of the world, so that what we put out did not come back to us, and that our sinful nature does not reap the obvious death. That's the point. It should keep us humbled...It's not our own good works that get us through the gates of Heaven.

Interviewer - That's a great idea, no denying it. Such great hope is wonderful, even though it's close to lunacy, in my view. Christ has his rank among the world's great thinkers. But Son of God, isn't that farfetched?

No, it's not farfetched to me. Look, the secular response to the Christ story always goes like this: he was a great prophet, obviously a very interesting guy, had a lot to say along the lines of other great prophets, be they Elijah, Muhammed, Buddha, or Confucius. But actually Christ doesn't allow you that. He doesn't let you off that hook. Christ says: No. I'm not saying I'm a teacher, don't call me teacher. I'm not saying I'm a prophet. I'm saying: "I'm the Messiah." I'm saying: "I am God incarnate." And people say: No, no, please, just be a prophet. A prophet, we can take. You're a bit eccentric. We've had John the Baptist eating locusts and wild honey, we can handle that. But don't mention the "M" word! Because, you know, we're gonna have to crucify you. And he goes: No, no. I know you're expecting me to come back with an army, and set you free from these creeps, but actually I am the Messiah. At this point, everyone starts staring at their shoes, and says: He's gonna keep saying this. So what you're left with is: either Christ was who He said He was - the Messiah - or a complete nutcase. I mean, we're talking nutcase on the level of Charles Manson. This man was like some of the people we've been talking about earlier. This man was strapping himself to a bomb, and had "King of the Jews" on his head, and, as they were putting him up on the Cross, was going: OK, martyrdom, here we go. Bring on the pain! I can take it. I'm not joking here. The idea that the entire course of civilization for over half of the globe could have its fate changed and turned upside-down by a nutcase, for me, that's farfetched..."

Right, any ideas????

Well, love him or hate him, that was an interview with Bono from the bestselling book Bono on Bono. Whether you agree or disagree with his politics, music, or life, at least here he's dead on.

Small Community

G.K. Chesterton
from Heretics, 1905

It is not fashionable to say much nowadays of the advantages of the small community. We are told that we must go in for large empires and large ideas. There is one advantage, however, in the small state, the city or village, which only the willfully blind could overlook. The man who lives in a small community lives in a much larger world. He knows much more of the fierce varieties and uncompromising divergences of men. The reason is obvious. In a large community we choose our companions. In a small community our companions are chosen for us. Thus in all extensive and highly civilized societies groups come into existence founded upon what is called sympathy, and shut out the real world more sharply than the gates of a monastery. There is nothing really narrow about the clan; the thing which is really narrow is the clique. The men of the clan live together because they all wear the same tartan or are all descended from the same sacred cow; but in their souls, by the divine luck of things, there will always be more colours than in any tartan. But the men of the clique live together because they have the same kind of soul, and their narrowness is a narrowness of spiritual coherence and contentment, like that which exists in hell. A big society exists in order to form cliques. A big society is a society for the promotion of narrowness. It is a machinery for the purpose of guarding the solitary and sensitive individual from all experience of the bitter and bracing human compromises.

If we were tomorrow morning snowed up in a street in which we live, we should step into a much larger and much wilder world than we have ever known. And it is the whole effort of the typically modern person to escape from the street in which he lives. First he invents modern hygeine and goes to Margate. Then he invents modern culture and goes to Florence. Then he invents modern imperialism and goes to Timbuktu. He goes to the fantastic borders of the earth. He pretends to shoot tigers. He almost rides on a camel. And in all this he is still essentially fleeing from the street in which he was born...

We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbour. Hence he comes to us clad in all the careless terrors of nature; he is as strange as the stars, as reckless and indifferent as the rain. He is Man, the most terrible of beasts. That is why the old religions and the old scriptural language showed so sharp a wisdom when they spoke not of one's duty towards humanity, but one's duty towards one's neighbour. The duty towards humanity may often take the form of some choice which is personal or even pleasurable. That duty may be a hobby; it may even be dissipation. We may work in the East End because we are particularly fitted to work in the East End, or because we think we are; we may fight for the cause of international peace because we are very fond of fighting. The most monstrous martyrdom, the most repulsive experience, may be the result of choice or a kind of taste. We may be so made as to be particularly fond of lunatics or specially interested in leprosy. We may love negroes because they are black or German Socialists because they are pedantic. But we have to love our neighbour because he is there--a much more alarming reason for a much more serious operation. He is the sample of humanity which is actually given us. Precisely because he may be anybody he is everybody. He is a symbol because he is an accident.

The Brothers Karamazov

"The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man."

Thus speaks Dimitri to Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov. Yes, I've finally finished it - all 701 pages. Like Crime and Punishment it's fairly easy to get into, and the characters represent ideas. If you're going to pick one Dostoyevsky book to read though, I'd say go with Crime and Punishment. It's more novel and less philosophy textbook, and it flows smoothly from start to finish. The Brothers Karamazov seemed to me to leave a lot of loose ends. Does Dimitri escape? What happens with Lise and Alyosha? What about Ivan - does he ever find peace? There's a lot of questions, and you're almost left to make up your own ending.

But the book is still genius! Really well written and making points in such a subtle way with so many interlocking themes. The whole book just takes a family and analyses what they make of God. First there is Fyodor Karamazov, a man given over to his sins, with no remorse and no thoughts of God. Then there is Smerdyakov - a man who thinks of God but only with hatred. In reference to Smerdyakov's suicide the defense lawyer says, "Conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have felt penitence, but only despair. Despair and penitence are two very different things." I thought that was interesting in light of Judas Iscariot committing suicide contrasted with Simon Peter's repentance.

Then there is Dimitri - the passionate soldier, who sees God and the devil as waging a war for his soul. He is redeemed by love, and at the point that the book ends has determined to submit to God but still has doubts over whether his old man is really dead. But if Dimitri shows the battle of the sinful flesh against God, Ivan shows the battle of the mind against God. In Ivan the torture of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment is replayed - the pain of a mind in rebellion against God. Finally, there is Alyosha, the hero, the man whose love for the Lord leads him to love men selflessly and who brings honour for the first time to the despised Karamazov name. His peace and joy is rarely shaken, despite all the horrific events that unfold round about him.

Dostoyevsky also brings out his perceptive themes of socialism as the outworking of atheism - as seeking to build heaven on earth. Again, as in Crime and Punishment, he deals with the fact that to the man who does not believe in God "everything is lawful". He also draws a devestatingly good picture of a Screwtape kind of devil, a "poor relative" snivelling to earn favour but secretly working his own agenda.

But for me, I think the real genius of the book is that Dimitri is wrong in his statement to Alyosha. God isn't fighting with the devil - God is clearly sovereign in this book - nothing the devil can do can thwart His plans. Despite being Karamazovs, despite their genetic make up, despite their circumstances, despite their desires - in the end God overrules, and every knee is bowed and every tongue, even Ivan's, confesses that Christ is Lord.

There is a famous chapter in this book called "The Grand Inquisitor". It is Ivan's great speech against the existence of God. The man who wrote the preface to my copy of The Brothers Karamazov felt that in this chapter God lost to the devil. He felt that the miscarriage of justice at the end of the book confirms this. But I think he doesn't see that God is changing people's lives and the circumstances are really incidental to that. And he misses the fact that the book ends with the redemption of the Karamazov name from one of shame and dishonour to one of love. Yes, injustices are done, and yes, people suffer, but through all this, God brings good. But most of all, the man who's written the preface misses that The Grand Inquisitor is not an argument against God at all. As Alyosha says, "Your poem is in praise of Jesus, not in blame of Him - as you mean it to be." Speaking of those Ivan describes as the enlightened ones who protect humanity from religion Alyosha says, "It's simple lust for power, for filthy earthly gain, for domination - something like a universal serfdom with them as masters - that's all they stand for...Your suffering Grand Inquisitor is a mere fantasy." And at the end of the day that's all atheism ever is - a fantasy.

And now...I'm off to Professor Challenger in The Lost World by A.C. Doyle.

Finally...Another Post - Chick Flicks and Fairy Tales

All right, all right...I'm updating my blog. All of you people who've been complaining that I never post anything - you know who you are, Linda :) - here it is. And wow, I can't believe it's been over a month, and a long month at that - what can I say - March was very busy!

Anywho...even though my "scholarly" (yah right) treatise on The Brothers Karamazov is long overdue - I still haven't finished it yet (on page 670 - about to read the speech in Dimitri's defense) but expect to be posting on that within the next week.

In the meantime - from the heady, philosophical realms of Russian literature to the more...well, not really mundane...what's a good word...ah, frivolous. I saw the film 27 Dresses on Saturday night, and I loved it!!!!!! Now before you rush right out to see it (or if you're in America inform me that it's been out since January), let me qualify - if you don't love chick flicks - you'll not like it. If you can only tolerate romantic comedies if they're quirky or more realistic or based on a novel written 150 years ago - you won't like it. This is a classic chick flick, which some (you know who you are) might say is code for "formulaic, predictable, cheesy, fake, unrealistic, and setting forth a false view of love based on lies, appearance, lust, selfishness, etc."

And yes, many chick flicks, just like all other film genres, have aspects that are either blatantly sinful or promote an unBiblical worldview. Yes, some of them portray a warped view of love, just like action movies can portray a warped view of killing, or period dramas can portray a warped view of the purpose of life, or comedies can portray a warped view of humour. We live in a sinful world with sinful men and women whose worldviews are, as my dear professor used to say, "messy". That's why we have to use the Bible to interact with films and music and literature and sort the good from the bad and think on whatever is true, beautiful, good etc. and not necessarily throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Are chick flicks unrealistic? Maybe. But maybe it depends on your perspective. There's an awful lot of girls in love with frogs they see as princes; and an awful lot of girls with princes they only see as frogs. And anyway, whose to say that realism is all it's cracked up to be. A friend of mine said today that when he goes to the cinema he doesn't want to go see Seven - yes, a head in a suitcase may be reality, but he wants to go to see a film for a bit of escapism.

I love chick flicks - I love every predictable bit from the start to the happily-ever-after ending, because I love fairy tales. But I have a theory that fairy tales and chick flicks and fantasy, all that great escapist stuff, is actually based in reality - a Puddleglum reality (see previous post for direct quote). Only God can make something out of nothing -

We Need More Puddleglums

I was reading some "stuff" about The Emerging Church, and I noticed that one of the subtitles of a book advocating this "movement" was "From Absolute to Authentic" And I suddenly missed Puddleglum who fought for the absolute over the authentic even when it hurt. The relevant passage from The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis is as follows:

For the last few minutes Jill had been feeling that there was something she must remember at all costs. And now she did. But it was dreadfully hard to say it. She felt as if huge weights were laid on her lips. At last, with an effort that seemed to take all the good out of her, she said:

“There’s Aslan.”

“Aslan?” said the Witch, quickening ever so slightly the pace of her thrumming. “What a pretty name! What does it mean?”

“He is the great Lion who called us out of our own world,” said Scrubb, “and sent us into this to find Prince Rilian.”

“What is a lion?” asked the Witch.

“Oh hang it all!” said Scrubb. “Don’t you know? How can we describe it to her? Have you ever seen a cat?”

“Surely,” said the Queen. “I love cats.”

“Well a lion is a little bit – only a little bit, mind you – like a huge cat – with a mane. At least, it’s not like a horse’s mane, you know, it’s more like a judge’s wig. And it’s yellow. And terrifically strong.”

The Witch shook her head. “I see,” she said, “that we should do no better with your lion, as you call it, than we did with your sun. You have seen lamps, and so you imagined a bigger and better lamp and called it the sun. You’ve seen cats, and now you want a bigger and better cat, and it’s to so called a lion. Well, ‘tis a pretty make-believe though, to say a truth, it would suit you all better if you were younger. And look how you can put nothing into your make-believe without copying it from the real world, this world of mine, which is the only world. But even you children are too old for such play. As for you, my Prince, that art a man full grown, fie upon you! Are you not ashamed of such toys? Come, all of you. Put away these childish tricks. I have work for you all in the real world. There is no Narnia, no Overworld, no sky, no sun, no Aslan. And now, to bed all. And let us begin a wiser life tomorrow. But first, to bed; to sleep; deep sleep, soft pillows, sleep without foolish dreams.”

The Prince and the two children were standing with their heads hung down, their cheeks flushed, their eyes half closed; the strength all gone from them; the enchantment almost complete. But Puddleglum, desperately gathering all his strength, walked over to the fire. The he did a very brave thing. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him quite as much as it would hurt a human; for his feet (which were bare) were webbed and hard and cold-blooded like a duck’s. But he knew it would hurt him badly enough; and so it did. With his bare foot he stamped on the fire, grinding a large part of it into ashes on the flat hearth. …

“One word, Ma’am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. “One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if their isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”

The Secret Life of Roses

If you travel far or tarry long - away from love and refuge,
If you've lost your way from right to wrong -- still my heart is true
If the seven seas rise up between and you sail to distant wonders
I will wait upon some foreign shore and live on dreams of love

Of all the things I never said and all the hope inside me
I am still the keeper of the flame that will not be denied
There is beauty in the silent bird there is light where none can see it
There is truth when no one says a word there is love for you and me
And the secret life of roses that bloomed out of the sun
Is like the love that I keep for you -- it never will be done
And the stars we wish on up in the sky - they fade into the night
But my love will grow where no one knows
Like a rose's secret life

And the stars we wish on up in the sky they fade into the night
But my love will grow where no one knows
Like a rose's secret life

Grace and Mardi Gras

Well today is Shrove Tuesday/Fat Tuesday/Mardi Gras/Pancake Day depending on where you are and who you are. For those who don't know, in Roman Catholicism the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday (or the start of Lent) is the end of a festival - essentially you party before the fasting and deprtivation of Lent. The festivals generally start from 12th night (January 6th) and climax today. You are not to eat rich foods for Lent, so on the Tuesday before you would use up your butter and eggs and flour and make pancakes or other rich pastries - hence the Fat Tuesday or Pancake Day.

Learning all this when I looked it up on Wikipedia earlier just filled me with thanksgiving that the law of new life in Christ has set me free from the law of sin and death. I'm glad that God doesn't deal with me on a scale system - and that feasts must not be followed by fasts. I'm glad that I don't need to keep the feasts and fasts to make it into heaven. I'm so thankful for grace. Grace that says I'm a worthless sinner, chosen by God before the foundation of the world, to be redeemed by Him for no other reason than because He wants to.

But I'm also thankful for common grace. Common grace that gives us pancakes, and jazz music, parades, and magnolias, the French quarter, Creole and Cajun food, and even feasts and fasts to remind you of the blessings and mercies of God. All these things are good and come from a good Creator who gave ol'Satchmo that wonderful voice.

So, today I'm going to light my magnolia candles, I'm going to play my Louis Armstrong cd, I'm going to close my eyes and imagine I'm in the Big Easy, but I'm also going to pray for all those men and women who think God is judging them on a point system and have yet to meet His grace.

A Constant Victory

Before the winds that blow do cease,
Teach me to dwell within Thy calm;
Before the pain has passed in peace,
Give me, my God, to sing a psalm,
Let me not lose the chance to prove
The fulness of enabling love.
O Love of God, do this for me;
Maintain a constant victory.

Before I leave the desert land
For meadows of immortal flowers,
Lead me where streams at thy command
Flow by the borders of the hours,
That when the thirsty come, I may
Show them the fountains in the way.
O Love of God, do this for me;
Maintain a constant victory.

Amy Carmichael

In Honour of the Bard

The Cotter's Saturday Night.


My lov'd, much honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun;
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposits her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi her needle and her sheers
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labors wi an eydent hand,
And ne'er tho out of sight, to jauk or play;
'And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o the same;
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi joy,
But blate an laithfu, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashful and sae grave;
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare,
'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.'

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o Scotia's food;
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin lint was i' the bell.

The chearfu supper done, wi serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
'An honest man's the noblest work of God';
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,
That stream'd thro Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
[The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!]
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Crime and Punishment

So, that's me finished with my first Dostoevsky. It's really good. Pick it up and read it sometime in your life. Unlike some of my favourite Dickens, it's not hard to get into - really, honestly it's not! I know, I know what you're thinking - Russian novels - bleak, gray, sad, depressing, and yes, Crime and Punishment has all these aspects, but you know what? So does Dickens, and he's great, just like Dostoevsky. Why? Because there's also themes of redemption and grace - of evil transformed into good.

I loved it because it has so many layers:
- the devestating critique of socialist and nihilist thought (I know, that doesn't really entice you to read it, but from a philosophical point of view, it's fascinating)Raskolnikov thinks that the end justifies the means, that great men have the right to 'overstep obstacles' for the good of society. Putting this theory into practice, following it to it's logical conclusions, results in destruction - self-destruction of Raskolnikov, two murders, and in a certain sense the destruction of others as well - like his mother. When the end justifies the means, the means ends up destroying the end.

- a vindication of total depravity. Raskolnikov murders and he spends the novel trying to justify his crime. At various times throughout the novel he claims he did it to better humanity, to save his mother and sister, to provide himself with the resources he needed to be truly great, etc. Towards the end he tells Sonya that he did it for power to prove he was different from the ordinary man, but that he did it out of a heart that was evil and base. He says that he is a bad man, but then he says he committed no crime and is unrepentant. Even his confession he sees as the logical outworking of his failure to consistently follow his theories. And everytime you start to feel sorry for him and sympathise a wee bit with him, his diabolical pride raises its head and puts you off. At the end of the day Raskolnikov himself takes away every excuse you might make for him, and you are left with only the sinfulness of his heart.

- guilt. Despite all his justifications, Raskolnikov is tormented with guilt and anguish over what he has done. Romans 1 - the law of God is written on his heart - though he tries to suppress it with his theories - he knows what he has done is wrong, and he is driven to attempt to atone for it through good works, to justify it with his theories of the man above the law, and to seek a saviour in Sonya. He needs her tears, because he can not cry them himself - he can't admit he's wrong - he needs to share his suffering with her, because he can't admit he should be suffering. It's almost as though the entire story is about the war going on between his head and his heart - between his theories and his experience; his principles and practice.

- redemption. My favourite theme is the allegorical one I see in Sonya and Raskolnikov. Sonya loves Raskolnikov, even though he is eminently unlovable. Her desire is for him to repent and believe in Jesus Christ. He comes and confesses to her. She takes his suffering upon herself. She continues to love him and demonstrates it by her faithful following of him to Siberia. And finally, finally at the end of the book on the last two pages - he is resurrected through his love of her. Her love brings him from death to life. The theme of Lazarus being raised from the dead is mentioned several times in the book, and it ties in to this relationship. So, yes, despite her sinfulness, I think there is a picture of Christ and sinners going on here.

- the other end of suicide. There is a character very like Raskolnikov, an evil depraved character called Svidrigailov, who also does these random acts of kindness to atone for the guilt that torments him, who also justifies his evil ways. But unlike Raskolnikov, he rejects the influence of his 'saviour', Dounia (Raskolnikov's sister)and ends up killing himself. Made me think of the contrast between Peter and Judas.

There's so much there - it's really very good.

Not Faint Canaries, But Ambrosial

More on Donne...Yes, I finished him off over Christmas. He really is brilliant, and the Divine Meditations are excellent, full of themes of repentance, redemption, grace, and the glory of God. Good stuff. I would lean towards thinking his "change" was genuine. Now I'm on to Fydor Dostovesky and Crime and Punishment - but more on that later. For now, I'll leave you with my favourite Donne poem so far:

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.