Thoughts on Writers

Tonight I picked up Henri Nouwen's book, Return of the Prodigal Son. It's a book that I've been reading on and off for a year or so. I picked it up today, curious to see how far I had gotten, as well as to look again at the passages that I had underlined.

As I looked through the book, I began thinking of the different styles and voices of the authors that have meant so much to me over the past couple of years. I think much of the power of Nouwen's writing comes from his honesty and vulnerability. He's very open, sometimes uncomfortably so, but I think he reached a point in his writing where he decided that it was better to bare more than less, since the story of God's redemption in his life was all the more powerful.

Here's an example of his openness:

Constantly falling back into an old trap, before I am even fully aware of it, I find myself wondering why someone hurt me, rejected me, or didn't pay attention to me. Without realizing it, I find myself brooding about someone else's success, my own loneliness, and the way the world abuses me. Despite my conscious intentions, I often catch myself daydreaming about becoming rich, powerful, and very famous. All of these mental games reveal to me the fragility of my faith that I am the Beloved One on whom God's favor rests. I am so afraid of being disliked, put aside, passed over, ignored, persecuted, and killed, that I am constantly developing strategies to defend myself and thereby assure myself of the love I think I need and deserve. And in so doing I move far away from my father's home and choose to dwell in a "distant country.

It can be difficult reading about someone who is asking those kinds of questions, and at times, when I read Nouwen, I cringe. Perhaps it's because he's sharing so much of his inner life that I don't feel comfortable reading it, or perhaps I cringe because it hits a little too close to home. What I find in reading him, however, is that he has a very distinct voice, one that desires to come alongside the reader and says, "You know, you and I are very much alike. I have traveled the same journey as you, and in fact, probably have known valleys of despair as deep as your own. Come. Let us travel this road together, you and I."

Elisabeth Elliot's voice is completely different. She tends to "call it like it is," and sometimes her voice is a clarion call to wake up and grow up. Nouwen could be accused at times of being a bit whiney. That's not Elisabeth Elliot at all. At times, I think some could call her a bit harsh at times, but there's no question that she speaks the truth.

Here's some classic, no-nonsense Elliot, from A Path Through Suffering:

"It'll never work for mine," someone is tempted to say. Are you sure that your problems baffle the one who since the world began has been bringing flowers from thorns? Your thorns are a different story, are they? You have been brought to a place of self-despair, nothingness. It is hard even to think of any good reason for going on. You live in most unfavorable conditions, with intractable people, you are up against impossible odds. Is this something new? The people of Israel were up against impossible odds when they found themselves between the chariots of Egypt and the Red Sea. Their God is our God. The God of Israel...looks down on us with love and says, "Nothing has happened to you which is not common to all. I can manage it. Trust Me."

Elliot calls a spade a spade, and calls her readers to wake up to the adulthood that is theirs in Christ Jesus, where as Nouwen woos with empathy and compassion. Merton seems to me to be more dispassionate in his writing. His voice is more matter of fact, writing about the way things are, and with the implication that if you are wise, you will choose to accept that wisdom. His writing seems to me to reflect more the writing of the early church fathers, speaking of the value of giving one's life to complete abandonment to God, for His sake, and for ours. Merton continually appeals to the belief that true happiness will only come from submitting to the will of God. It's not a wooing through empathy, or a wake up call, but rather he describes what Clement of Alexandria called the "Blessed Life." I think the power of his writing comes from creating a description of what our true calling is as Children of the Most High, and the belief that by revealing the truth, the image of God in all of us will recognize it and be drawn to it.

I've excerpted the following before on my blog, but if you read it, I think you'll see what I mean.

Every baptized Christian is obliged by his baptismal promises to renounce sin and to give himself completely, without compromise, to Christ, in order that he may fulfill his vocation, save his soul, enter into the mystery of God, and there find himself perfectly "in the light of Christ."

As St. Paul reminds us (1 Cor. 6: 19), we are "not our own." We belong entirely to Christ. His Spirit has taken possession of us at baptism. We are the Temples of the Holy Spirit. Our thoughts, our actions, our desires, are by rights more his than our own. But we have to struggle to ensure that God always receives from us what we owe him by right. If we do not labor to overcome our natural weakness, our disordered and selfish passions, what belongs to God in us will be withdrawn from the sanctifying power of his love and will be corrupted by selfishness, blinded by irrational desire, hardened by pride, and will eventually plunge into the abyss of moral nonentity which is called sin.

Sin is the refusal of spiritual life, the rejection of the inner order and peace that come from our union with the divine will. In a word, sin is the refusal of God's will and of his love. It is not only a refusal to "do" this or that thing willed by God, or a determination to do what he forbids. It is more radically a refusal to be what we are, a rejection of our mysterious, contingent, spiritual reality hidden in the very mystery of God. Sin is our refusal to be what we were created to be-sons of God, images of God. Ultimately sin, while seeming to be an assertion of freedom, is a flight from the freedom and the responsibility of divine sonship.

Every Christian is therefore called to sanctity and union with Christ, by keeping the commandments of God.

As I write myself, I wonder what voice will emerge through my writing. One thing that I've learned from Merton is the beauty that is our individuality, that it is through our very uniqueness that we reflect the love of Christ to others in ways that no one else can, or ever will again. That's what comes through in the different voices of Nouwen, Elliot and Merton, and all the other great Christian authors we look to for guidance. I think the temptation for me is to try and parrot the voice of these authors I love so much. As I write sometimes, I find myself thinking about their writing, and how mine might resemble certain passages from their books. I believe that what any Christian writer must do to become a great writer is to learn to find his or her own voice, not as he or she desires it to be, but as God intends for it to be. That could be a very different thing than what we desire, but as with all parts of life, it is by submitting to God's will and direction for our writing that we will find the most fulfillment, and by extension, where our writing will be used most powerfully in the lives of others.

My prayer is that my genuine voice will come through, loud and clear, and that I won't attempt to parrot the writing of my literary heroes.

Musings on Women and Dating

I received an email today that I feared would come. As I live my life as a bachelor, wondering when and if God will bring me a wife, I often think about the women I encounter who most certainly are asking the same question. Throughout my life I seem to attract occasional attention from women who are hopeful that I might ask them out, or who seem to hope that there might be a chance for a relationship with me. I'm reminded of a passage in Elisabeth Elliot's book, A Path Through Loneliness where a woman writes that God somehow had created a hedge of protection around her. She didn't necessarily like it, but it resulted in God protecting her from any romantic entanglements because, as she put it, all the men she was interested in didn't seem to know she existed, while the ones who were interested in her weren't her type. I feel the same way about most of my life and most of the women who have expressed interest in me. They're just not my type.

I saw a woman at our opera production this weekend who I used to know at one of the colleges I taught at for awhile. It was clear then that she was interested in me, and I think the fact that I made a point to say hello to her and catch up with her this past weekend caused her to think about the possibility again. I just received an email, hopeful that we could get together sometime, that she felt it was unfortunate that we hadn't had enough time to chat, etc.

I'm not going to do that because I don't want to send her the wrong signal. But I know she feels the pain of loneliness just as acutely as I ever have, probably more. It's not my job or anyone's job to salve that pain however. In fact, to get together with her because I know her pain would actually be a disservice. The answer for her, and for me, and for anyone, is to turn to Christ. That's why I think Elliot's book is so, so brilliant. If you know anyone who is single, divorced, widowed are is just struggling with what God wants to do in his or her life during this time of loneliness, have them read this book. It's amazing and powerful.

I also have decided I don't like it when women initiate things with me. That's my job, not theirs. Elisabeth Elliot writes about this too--if a woman initiates anything with me, that's a surefire sign that I'm not biting, ever. My job is to be the pursuer and the initiator and I don't want any woman to usurp that role from me. I think most men feel this way, or at least men who know what their God-ordained role as a man needs to be. Elisabeth Elliot speaks of this in her books on relationships, The Mark of a Man, Passion and Purity, and the latest book I read of hers, Quest for Love: True Stories of Passion and Purity. Incidentally, I hate the cover the latest edition of The Mark of a Man. It's hogwash, since the model they used is a GQesque model, perpetuating the mythic status of what the world thinks a man should be. Notice below the new cover compared to the original. Elisabeth Elliot wrote the book to her nephew, who is pictured with her on the front cover of the old book. Nothing spectacular about either of them--they are real people. Notice the chiseled features of the guy in the new edition. The very cover of the book is in direct conflict with all that Elisabeth Elliot writes in her book. I fall short of that sort of worldy ideal, and so I ripped the cover off of the book, (in admittedly Dan M. fashion). I'd prefer to be like Elisabeth Elliot's nephew Peter than this GQ guy, though I of course sure wish I was more handsome. But that's the lie of the world, isn't it? Shame on Revell for succumbing to worldy marketing in selling their book. They should have a picture of dowdy C.S. Lewis on the cover instead of this yahoo, who probably needs what's written on the inside of the book as much as anyone. Genes don't make a man a man.

E.E. Again

I've been reading a slew of books lately, bopping from one to another. This afternoon, I spent some time reading some Elisabeth Elliot and two sentences rang out, clear as day. A good reminder for someone who's always pining for a wife, and a good reminder for all of us who feel the need or absence of something in our lives.

God has promised to supply our needs. What we don't have now we don't need now.

That's pretty clear cut, ain't it? That's worth chewing over for awhile, at least for me.

Elisabeth Elliot, again

Elisabeth Elliot has catapulted her way this year into the pantheon of my favorite authors. She's definitely in the top ten for me, and has to be listed as one of the most influential writers who have shaped my thinking. Doesn't it seem we often find the right book just at the right time?

Here's a passage I read tonight in one of her books, with an admittedly lachrymose title: The Path of Loneliness.

Acceptance of discipleship is the utter abandonment of the disciple, the surrender of all rights, to the Master. This abandonment, in all cases, will mean pain. Christ listed some of the troubles His followers could expect, so that they would not be taken by surprise and thus discard their faith in Him. He didn't offer immunity. He asked for trust.

As we have noted, Jesus published no false advertising. He was offering the kingdom of heaven--bliss, eternal life, fullness of joy. But He spoke of the small gate and the narrow road. He promised suffering, not escape from suffering. You cannot take up a cross and at the same time not take up a cross, or learn how to die and how not to die.

And another passage:

There are many things that God does not fix precisely because He loves us. (Emphasis is Elliot). Instead of extracting us from the problem, He calls us. In our sorrow or loneliness or pain He calls us---"This is a necessary part of the journey. Even if it is the roughest part, it is only a part, and it will not last the whole long way. Remember where I am leading you. Remember what you will find at the end---a home and a haven and a heaven."

As Lewis said, "we're like blocks of stone, out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of His chisel, which hurt us so much, are what make us perfect. The suffering of this world is not the failure of God's love for us; it is that love in action."

Elliot says later that, "It is possible both to accept and to endure loneliness without bitterness when there is a vision of glory beyond."

I feel that this misses the mark in some ways, despite how valuable I think her writing is. For me, the most compelling reason that makes suffering endurable is not the "glory" that might or might not come, but the fundamental belief that suffering is an invitation to love. Any later glory is ultimately irrelevant to a flesh and blood man whose only basis for belief in our coming glory is rooted in faith. My neighbor is someone I don't need faith to believe in--I can shake his hand and help dig his car out of the snow. A faith that believes that our suffering, whether it be loneliness or something else, is something that can be used to gain salvation for those we love, as Peter Kreeft says, is the strongest reason, and also I believe the most beautiful reason, for accepting, enduring and embracing suffering.

This is a necessary part of the journey.

Aftershocks

You know, overall, life is getting better for me. I was thinking about this last week and I envisioned myself being in the tail end of the storm. Rain might still be falling, but it's no longer a gale, and in the distance, the first fingers of sunlight can be seen fighting to break through. Clouds are still over head, but the worst of it is over. The storm hasn't passed, but it's moving on.

Today however, was one where I felt the absence of Meg in my life quite poignantly, coupled with a rekindled sense of the profound feeling of rejection that I have been dealing with since she said no to me. It's an aftershock, a rumbling tremor that went right through me. The good news though is that it's not as strong or as biting as similar moments were a month ago, but it still stings. The wound isn't completely healed yet.

But then on other days, I see more sunlight than clouds. I finally feel a sense of closure which resulted in one final plea to her to tell me what happened. I needed an answer, a way to say, "OK...I get it." I wrote her a long email and about a week later I got a reply back that helped me find the closure I was so desperately lacking. The job of truly moving on could begin at that point, and honestly, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from me. It still stung, but I could begin to move forward.

I don't think about Meg as much as if she is "the only one" who I could be happy with. It still saddens me that things didn't work out between us, but I'm at least reaching the point where I can believe that there are other possibilities for me. It's amazing--when you're in the midst of being rejected by someone you love so deeply, it just doesn't matter what your rational mind comprehends--you are guided primarily by your emotional attachment to that person and you can see no other possibilities. It really is living in a place of despair, and the good news is that I'm beginning to get out of that trench.

Here's the reality that dawned on me not so long ago: I won't marry anyone unless upon marrying her, I say, "I'm so thankful that things didn't work out with Meg." I know that those are the words I will be saying, otherwise I wouldn't be marrying that person. And I trust and know that this person is out there. It's just a matter of finding her, and in that, I must trust God.

Today was a hard one, but the truly tough days are becoming more and more rare. There isn't a day that passes where I don't think of Meg many times, but it's not as all consuming as it was a few months ago. I was thinking the other day that at some point, and hopefully soon, I will be out of this morass and indeed will have found my wife. Despite my deepest desire to find my wife, and to find her quickly, and despite the fact that I've been single for so many years, I think there are still things I can learn that can only be learned while I'm in this place of being alone. Ironically, in some bizarre sense, I feel that the time is short for me. It hardly makes sense, but these past few months have stretched me so profoundly that I want to make sure I learn whatever it is that I'm supposed to learn through all of this. (Otherwise, I'll have to learn it some other hard way, right?) Elisabeth Elliot's writing has been so helpful to me that I picked up another book of hers, called The Path Through Loneliness. I began reading it the other day and it's just fantastic. She's a woman who knows what it's like to feel alone, having lost both of her husbands. I think it's going to be very helpful to me. I realize that all of this that I've gone through is helping to make me a better man, which hopefully in turn will make me a better husband. I'm reminded of William Wordsworth's words: "A deep distress hath humanized my soul." Amen, brother!

I know that eventually the pain of losing Meg will be gone. I'll have a scar from this experience and indeed, when I recall Meg, it will not be our relationship that comes to mind, but rather the aftermath of her rejecting me. I know this time in my life will always be a pivotal moment for me. This is no adolescent break up. It has rocked me to my very core, but I'm a better man for it and each day that passes brings with it less clouds and more sunlight. In Michigan in the middle of December, that gives one hope, and that's a very good thing.

Here's another Joshua Radin song that I think is absolutely beautiful. This is where my heart is today.

Elisabeth Elliot, IV

I am thinking today of two friends who have lost a loved one--one, the grandmother of her children and another an expected child, full of hope and possibility. I have found great comfort in the writings of Elisabeth Elliot, and last night I read these words which I found comforting. I urge you to read my friend Sherry's account of the funeral of her mother-in-law. It's beautiful, painful and full of hope all at the same time. God's people have hope!

The place where we must meet Him today is the cross where the Lord of the Universe dealt finally with death. It is no vague and silly optimism we speak of, no false mysticism, but a bowing in humble repentance and faith at the foot of that cross. We must be crucified with Christ. That is the beginning of the new life--the deathknell and the birthpeal ringing at the same time.

The resurrection happened. We believe it. We bank all our hopes on it. Jesus is alive. And yet...and yet we sorrow. There is no incongruity between the human tears and the pure joy of the presence of Christ--He wept human tears too. Nor is there sin in grieving, provided we do not give way to it and begin to pity ourselves. It is still appointed unto man once to die, and those who are left must grieve, yet not as those without hope. Resurrection is a fact. There would be no Easter and no basis for Christian faith without it. Hence there is no situation so hopeless, no horizon so black, that God cannot there "find His glory."

Crown Him the Son of God
Before the worlds began,
And ye who tread where He hath trod,
Crown Him the Son of man;
who every grief hath known
that wrings the human breast,
And takes and bears them for His own,
that all in Him may rest.

--Matthew Bridges

From Elisabeth Elliot's A Path Through Suffering, pp. 128-129.

Elisabeth Elliot, III

As I struggle with dealing with what's going on in my life, I find that my faith in God is being tested each and every day. It is hard to trust God in the face of losing the one thing you desired above all else in life--in the face of losing something that you believed with all your heart would have been the greatest possible gift God could ever bring into your life. But that is what I am obviously being tested in each day. I am trying more and more each day to trust in Him, with mixed success.

The chapter I read tonight in Elisabeth Elliot's book speaks more eloquently than I ever could about trusting God. These are the words I need to hear right now:

Each time the mystery of suffering touches us personally and all the cosmic questions arise afresh in our minds we face the choice between faith (which accepts) and unbelief (which refuses to accept). There is only one faculty by which we may lay hold of this mystery. It is the faculty of faith, and "faith is the fulcrum of moral and spiritual balance."

I write as one who has desperately needed a refuge. The bottom has dropped out of my world, as it were, more than once. What, exactly, was going on? Where was I to turn? To God? Is He God or is He not? Does He love me or does He not? Am I adrift in chaos or is the word true that tells me I am an individual created, called, loved, and purposefully placed in a cosmos, an ordered universe, a universe designed, created and completely under the control of a loving God and Father?

It helps me, at such a time of bewilderment and sorrow, to go to some of the simplest words, such as I am the good shepherd. My Lord chose that description of Himself, and He does not change. He was and is and always will be my shepherd. The word fits my need, for I am a sheep, helpless and bleating. He cannot forget one for whom He lays down His life. I bank everything on that.

"Shall there be a mutiny among the flocks and herds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, and suffers them not to wander into deserts and unknown ways?" wrote Jeremy Taylor. I choose to believe, to surrender, to trust, and to accept. That much I can do. God then does what I can't do--"When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord shall lift up a standard against him" (Is 59:19).

I am not happy with the pasture that I find myself in right now--shall I mutiny? Shall I rebel? Shall I protest that God didn't do for me what I wanted and expected Him to do? Do I believe that He laid out plans for me from before the foundation of the world? Can I trust Him that He has a woman and soul mate in store for me? Do I really believe it when God says that He knows the plans He has for me? And can I allow myself to trust that His will for me, that His plans for me will provide me with greater joy than if I was in charge? And even harder yet: can I trust Him so completely to risk the possibility that I will never marry, all the while saying to Him, "Thy Will Be Done?" Hard stuff, this.

He cannot forget one for whom He lays down His life. I bank everything on that!

We are Christ to each other--right now, Elisabeth Elliot is speaking the words of Christ that I need to hear most desperately. I can't recommend the book enough.

Elisabeth Elliot, II

I like this Orthodox prayer that Elisabeth Elliot prays daily:

"Teach me to treat all that comes to me with peace of soul and with firm conviction that Your will governs all. In unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by You."

Elisabeth Elliot

I've been reading a book I bought years ago by Elisabeth Elliot called A Path Through Suffering. I began reading it when I bought it but never finished it. As I scanned my bookshelf recently looking for books that could feed my soul I decided it was high time to dust it off and give it another try.

It's a beautiful book and I'm learning a lot from her insights as well as taking comfort in what she has written. There are a few excerpts that I feel are particularly meaningful to me, and so I'll share a few of them over the next few days.

So you can understand the book, she uses analogies from nature: the seasonal flow of winter into spring, or pruning of the vines by the master gardener, or the transformation of something called a gorse thorn into a beautiful flower. Life from death as shown to us in nature.

So here it is--in the gorse blossoming from thorns, in the harvest of wheat from the solitary grain--the gospel, the Good News of life out of death, a gospel for every individual, every need, every hopeless and helpless situation.

"It'll never work for mine," someone is tempted to say. Are you sure your problems baffle the One who since the world began has been bringing flowers from thorns? Your thorns are a different story, are they? You have been brought to a place of self-despair, nothingness. It is hard even to think of any good reason to go on. You live in most unfavorable conditions...you are up against impossible odds. Is this something new? The people of Israel were up against impossible odds when they found themselves between the chariots of Egypt and the Red Sea. Their God is our God. The God of Israel and the God of the gorse thorns looks down on us with love and says, "Nothing has happened to you which is not common to all. I can manage it. Trust Me."

He wants to transform every form of human suffering into something glorious. He can redeem it. He can bring life out of death. Every event of our lives provides opportunity to learn the deepest lesson anyone can learn on earth, "My present life is not that of the old 'I,' but the living Christ within me" (Gal 2:20, JBP). When our souls lie barren in a winter which seems hopeless and endless, God has not abandoned us. His work goes on. He asks our acceptance of the painful process and our trust that He will indeed give resurrection life.

This is exactly what I need to hear. A great part of the loss of Meg for me is a hard to shake belief that there isn't anyone out there who could possibly be more well suited to me than she. They are impossible odds in my mind. In my hubris, I seem to say to God sometimes, "good luck finding someone better for me than Meg!" Sometimes some straight talking like what Elisabeth Elliot wrote above is exactly what the doctor ordered. Do I actually believe that God can't handle it? I have to continually cling to the words I heard him say to me: "I can't wait to show you the ending--you're going to love it."

There is a story from Steve's and my trip to the U.P. that I keep meaning to relay but just haven't gotten around to it until now. It's germane to this post, so no time like the present.

We were in the U.P. on the heels of me professing my love to Meg. As we were discussing how she might respond to me, talk turned towards all kinds of things having to do with trusting God and putting your faith in him. I mentioned how Jeremiah 29:11 has at different times in my life been either solace or a stumbling block. The thought of "plans and a future" seemed to ring hollow for me sometimes, and I was struggling with thinking about it that day.

The following morning I started out driving so Steve could do his daily readings in the Liturgy of the Hours. After we traded seats, he handed me the Liturgy and asked me to read the Scriptures for that day. You can see where this is going, right? What do you think was included in that day's readings? How about Jeremiah 29:11?

That's no coincidence and a sign that God cares about me and my life, enough to do something so clearly directly related to my life. There's a hint of God's sense of humor there too, don't you think? Regardless, the message was clear: God really does want me to trust Him, and he means what He says. I just wish I could let go completely and trust Him fully. When I think of Meg right now though, it's just so hard.

I'm trying.

God help me, I'm trying.