“Thelonius” by Christopher Raley
June 25th, 2008 § Leave a Comment
Thelonious used to call life and death play things.
Rocking mirth on his knee,
he spoke in dissonant bursts.
He led us to the night sky lake
where he sent out accusations
to bob on havoc-rippled reflections of the moon
and to float ashore to the line of us.
I watched him
like a man watches the gauge go to end,
gripping the wheel and steering
though he just as well stop.
It will stop here
or it will stop there,
and here or there
are both a thousand miles from towns and borders
in a waste of dry words
split before and behind by a long black line.
Death is easy.
It paints what it has heard of beauty
and then describes the painting
while shadows pool in its sallow cheeks.
Death’s words are severed hands
that scratch and scatter like November leaves
on cracked and gray, forgotten streets.
Death hobbles down empty halls on broken feet,
calling for the doctor with a bitter back to God.
Yet hasn’t my heart found definition in words?
None other than the tongue can lift up this confession:
I stood with him by the lake pronouncing accusations
until I became dizzy from the hazard alterations of light and dark,
hypnotizing into memory with a permanence
that seemed not to weigh on the others.
Their words were tossed about to someone else’s shore,
but the wind brought mine to my feet.
Death is easy, yes,
but life is hard.
We struggle, my friend,
and always have.
Answering Questions About My Novel
June 19th, 2008 § 2 Comments
Last week, someone showed me a review of my novel Fallen on Amazon. The reviewer, Keith Hammond, made my day with some very generous praise, and then raised an issue that I’ve encountered often:
My only complaint is that the story seemed too personal and allegorical to be completely fictional. I would have preferred the book to have an addendum where the author directly talks about the issues or situations that caused him to write such a compelling book.
The first person to make this kind of comment to me was one my editors at Kregel, who, during our line-by-line slog through the manuscript, said that the dialog was “a little too good.” He wondered what experiences I had plundered. After the novel was released, my secretary gave it to a relative, who finished it and made the hair-raising assertion, “Obviously, Raley’s had an affair.” Then there are the youth at my church, who have dissected the story with frightening precision, tracing eccentricities and obsessions from my habits into my narrative.
If only they were so devoted to their schoolwork.
So I guess I’d better tell all.
From start to finish, Fallen is invented. I didn’t model any character on a person I’ve known, nor have I ever had to endure what Jim, the narrator, goes through. I’ve found that fictionalizing real-life scenarios and personalities almost always yields a flat story because there is too much authorial judgment on the characters and too little sympathy. A novelist needs to keep his cool.
Yet, for me, Fallen is a personal book. Mr. Hammond and others are right. The book is personal in this sense: almost every vile act I portrayed in the story was invented from what I have seen in my own soul.
When I drew characters for the story, for example, I tried to load them with contradictions. Jim loves his wife and daughter, but also treats them with selfish disregard. He wants to be gracious, but gives favor with calculation. Pastor Dave is an emotionally driven man, yet he disguises his motives by intellectualizing. Also, Dave wants to see himself as compassionate towards others, yet his core motivation is self-pity.
Each of these contradictions — and many others in my characters, male and female — has its origin in some struggle of my own for integrity. I simply implanted my hypocrisies within the quite different personalities of my characters. I hate confessing this procedure, because it makes the story feel like public nudity. But that’s what I did.
The same is true of the relational struggles that the book portrays. I put my follies into all of the marriages and working partnerships. I invented the male characters’ misconceptions of women, from their flippant infatuations to their ordeals in marriage, out of similar misconceptions of my own. While the power struggles among church leaders in the book grew out of the invented scenarios, my own anger in sympathy with each character showed me how the struggles would deepen.
The crimes in Fallen, then, were not written as veiled reports but as shame-faced extrapolations.
There are two important differences between my approach and the method of fictionalizing personal experiences.
First, as a matter of technique, memoirs-as-novels start with scenarios and create characters to fit, which yields a false story. A human being is not a robot. Fictional human beings cannot be robots and be true. So I started with characters and then shaped the scenarios. Every day I wrote, the characters surprised me.
Second, I would only write a memoir-as-novel to vent bitterness. I may be unusual in this tendency, and other authors might have other motivations. But, as a matter of repentance, I don’t write to vent. I used to. Creating a little world in which all of my judgments are validated can be satisfying. But writing such things does not edify anyone. I found the method of spreading my darkness among many characters to be sanctifying. Instead of judging the sins of others, I was able to examine my own.
This is a method that I feel bound to follow. The subject matter of Fallen does not need more angry scribblers. But, I hope, a repentant one might do some good.
“The Violin” by Christopher Raley
June 18th, 2008 § Leave a Comment
Your lover sits in the straight backed chair
with her old lady’s shawl,
draped over the green cushion,
and her old lady’s charms
within her acoustic body.
Years ago you made those climbing notes
in the dark halls of tall stone
when the thousand associations held out palms of echoes
and gave to thunder.
You were the master facing his slavery.
Now, with the mysterious halls abandoned,
with all associations left there
and your mind forced into the words
that people hang on for grace or for condemnation,
your lover waits to speak.
But when she does,
will it matter what she says?
Church Doesn’t Work
June 12th, 2008 § 4 Comments
Sometimes I find a post that hits me in the gut. On Tuesday I saw “Confused Christian” on the new and anonymous My Bloggerings, and read expressions of what many evangelicals feel these days. It made me ask whether God’s eye has left his people.
MB, the blog’s creator, wrote that she grew up charismatic but turned away from the sign gifts movement after she got married. “I just didn’t think that is what the Bible was all about.” But now she feels that she can’t replace it with anything.
At her current church, she says, “I am so unsatisfied with watered down preaching and ‘anything goes’ philosophy because God after all will still love you. I want more than this.” She sees professing Christians living as immorally as non-Christians, being focused on their careers rather than their children. “My church has lost the art of mentoring younger people and feeding them spiritually. Instead, the goal is to make friends who drink and have poker games at their house and hit on girls at the Champs restaurant in our city.”
MB says she wants a deeper community where life with Christ is more vibrant. “But I’m afraid that this is only a dream. For I have visited so many churches only to be let down by them all. Am I just expecting too much?”
Her experience is depressingly common. I often look at the demands of ministry and echo her question, adding another of my own. Is there any tool for nurturing spiritual life that works?
Morality doesn’t work. Parents and church leaders who focus on raising standards of behavior only have scare tactics to motivate people. There’s a wealth of material to use — a culture that is spiraling into anarchy, case after case of self-destruction, evidence from medicine and social science about the effects of vice. But the reality is that people are not primarily motivated by fear. If future danger and immediate pleasure compete for people’s attention, who wins?
Community doesn’t work. The old line that embers burn when they’re close together is true as far as it goes. But a pile of sticks won’t make its own spark. Strong community without vibrant spirituality just strengthens people’s selfishness under the cover of love and loyalty.
Family doesn’t work. The fumes of human sin are most toxic when inhaled up close. The flame of the tongue, the heat of anger, the slow burn of bitterness have a way of suffocating all godly aspirations. Far too many families, if we’re honest, have a well-preserved skin of faith, but their vital organs have been pickled.
Doctrine and preaching don’t work. Neither do programs, buildings, or media. Truth be told, I can’t think of a single spiritual tool that makes any impression on a heart that refuses to seek God. The tools only make that heart worse. Which means that, when people will not listen to the claims of God on their lives, the tool that is so useful at so many other times, the church, doesn’t work.
There is only one thing that affects hearts like we have among evangelicals today. It is a single moment, the moment when the presence of Jesus Christ becomes frighteningly real, when a professing believer raises his face and discovers that God’s eye, far from leaving him, has been locked on him all along, and has seen everything.
For that, MB and the rest of us have to pray.
Jesus’s Sense of Artistry
June 5th, 2008 § 5 Comments
The plain fact in John 2.10 is that Jesus makes the best wine. The contrast with Coke is instructive.
No one makes the best Coke: what you’re drinking is either Coke or it isn’t. Coke is mass-produced according to a famously secret recipe, and the production is quality-controlled to ensure the brand keeps its identity. Indeed, the whole point of Coke is that the dose you drink now is indistinguishable from what you drank fifteen years ago.
Here’s a ruthless reality: mass society has no interest in beauty. Mass society is fanatical about sameness because, in order to make money, a product has to appeal to the largest number of people. Any unusual characteristic that might irritate customers must be eliminated.
Maintain the ruthlessness just a moment longer. Churches that serve mass society have no interest in beauty. The ethic of sameness dictates that a church fit the prevailing tastes. If it does not, it will lose people. Such churches emphasize conformity rather than depth.
There are other reasons why the churches of mass society don’t care about beauty.
For one thing, beauty costs too much. European churches of the 1700s had maintained music directors, composers, instrumental ensembles, and choirs for hundreds of years – a cultural investment that eventually matured into the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. The fact that his music is one of the few remaining gospel witnesses on that continent doesn’t ease the jaw-dropping impact of the price tag.
Beyond that, people who make beautiful things are weirdos. Bach was notoriously hard to get along with. He played the organ too loud. His music was too complicated.
Further, they’re pretentious weirdos. Bach couldn’t just play the violin. He had to write three and four parts for one violin to play at the same time.
Contemporary church people weigh these exalted considerations and agree that getting the masses to pray the prayer is more important than art.
This puts mass society churches in direct conflict with Jesus.
Two women anointed him with costly perfume (Luke 7.37-38; John 12.3). This means a craftsman fussed over the ointment, mixing it according to a refined recipe and throwing out the batches that weren’t up to standard. His weird fixation with getting the stuff to smell exactly right was what made it so pricey. Jesus accepted the women’s offering of scent.
According to John (19.23-24), Jesus wore a seamless tunic valuable enough that the Roman soldiers gambled for it rather than tear it into four parts. This means a weaver put extra labor and skill into the garment, creating a unique cloth that would be valuable not for its utility but for its beauty. Why was Jesus wearing such expensive threads?
Because he cared about physical expressions of beauty. He knew that beauty ministers to the human soul. So when he made wine – just as when he made the souls that would consume it – he made it surpassingly well.
The question today is not how we will win souls to Christ if we invest in beauty, but how we will win them if we don’t. Our Coke society – with its killing conformity – is creating an audience thirsty for wine.