The Lord of the Rings, Considered

You know, late August is actually very pleasant. This had never occurred to me before, as for the past twenty years I had always been distracted at this time of year by the beginning of school. I must say, I do not particularly miss being so busy that I have no time to devote to worthwhile things beyond the scope of my studies. For the first time in many years I am re-reading The Lord of the Rings. I must say, it is a different experience reading the book when one is finally past adolescence. One never steps in the same river twice; nor does he read the same novel, apparently.

Tolkien's two deep and abiding passions, it seems, are nature and words. The strengths and weaknesses of his writing reflect these. He is fond of writing about landscapes — trees and hills and valleys and such — and I think he is quite good at this: certainly his descriptions of places are strong enough that I have always found the movies rather disappointing on that front. (New Zealand looks like a pleasant enough place, but it lacks the grand scope of Middle-earth. They are little islands, after all.) The other thing Tolkien clearly enjoys is poetry, and the books are littered with songs. Some of these are effective, and many are not. (One presumes that they all might be better with music, but then, that is a limitation of the medium.)

Tolkien's greatest strength as an author is his capacity for depth: as in a Netherlandish painting, the background (the histories, the geography, the languages of Middle-earth) is just as interesting as the foreground (the main characters and their travails). Indeed, the background is often more interesting. Tolkien's chief defect, I think, is a general lack of humor; even his intended levity (mostly hobbit matters) comes across as rather strained. Nor is he particularly good at writing about action — but then, few writers really are. The characters are best read as archetypes, as in myth, for in most cases there is little evidence of compelling underlying psychology. These faults — and all those songs! — aside, I'd still say The Lord of the Rings is not so easily dismissed as some literature snobs would have it. It is more than the sum of its parts.

Eucharistic Distraction

The first thing anybody must come to terms with, regarding any sort of understanding of the Eucharist that is not strictly memorialist, is that it doesn't make any sense. Whether you're for transubstantiation, consubstantiation, or the sacramental union, there remains that moment — that crucial moment — when the Body and Blood of Christ becomes present where once was only bread and wine. Ultimately the only justification for such a belief is Scriptural: if the Eucharistic narratives in three of the Gospels and Paul's first letter to the Corinthians are to be taken as true — and indeed, what is Christianity if they are not? — then we have some license to believe that Christ is truly present in the Eucharist. (The question, then, is whether Jesus was speaking literally. This is another topic of debate that is better discussed elsewhere.)

This is all to say that there is justification for a belief in the Real Presence, if one is willing to accept a number of things as a matter of faith. What I'm actually wondering about, today, is whether the Eucharist should ever feel different. What faith I have in the Real Presence is, apparently, quite fragile, for I find that the feeling of receiving Communion varies drastically, depending on the situation. We know, if Augustine is to be trusted, that the worthiness (or, as the case usually is, unworthiness) of the priest does not effect the efficacy of the Sacrament: ex opere operato, and all that. This I can believe, readily enough. The problem is that I find it difficult to take the Eucharist as seriously as I should when I am the only one attempting to do so. My experience of the Real Presence depends very much upon external factors: is the Host treated in a manner befitting the very Body of Christ? Do my fellow congregants approach it as the Body of Christ? Do the non-essentials — the aesthetic considerations, from the music to the architecture to the altar-cloth — serve to enhance or distract from the experience of partaking in the Body of Christ? None of these things, so far as I can tell, should change the efficacy of the Sacrament, and yet they all affect me an awful lot. I find this troubling. I must ask myself the question all those of a high-church persuasion must ask themselves: am I merely a shallow aesthete? Why am I so distracted by those things that are, after all, of little importance when compared to the awesome (and I use the word in its older, better sense) mystery of the Sacrament?

I don't know. If, dear reader, such questions do not interest you, I apologize for all this, which must seem like so much theological wankery. Here is something that everyone ought to appreciate, whatever their view of the Sacrament:

Thomas Tallis: Verily, Verily I Say Unto You (John 6:53-56)

St. Mary the Virgin (Observed)

Today the Episcopalians of Dixon, Illinois — whose organist I now, er, am — celebrated the feast day of St. Mary the Virgin. We did some fine hymns (including that versification of the Magnificat, set to "Woodlands", which is an eminently singable tune), and the assigned readings are also very good. Father's sermon addressed the place of Mary in the Christian tradition; in true High-Church Anglican fashion, he said enough things to alienate both Roman Catholics and Protestants. But I happen to think that in this issue — as in many others — the via media is the via optima. Taking into account Mary's special place in God's redemption narrative, one may reasonably consider her the greatest of the saints. Some Lutherans, and most other Protestants, forget this. (Recall, though, that there have always been Lutherans who have relied on the intercession of saints, with the proper understanding that God alone is the source of all grace.) But, on the other hand, not even the Theotokos is worthy of worship. Miffed Roman Catholics will insist that they do not worship but rather venerate her (a fine distinction, to be sure), but certain Romish ideas — such as the understanding of Mary as Co-Redemptrix — seem to me quite certainly idolatrous.

But enough of argumentative things. I'll refer you to the post I wrote at Annunciation, with a Pärt setting of the Magnificat and excerpts from a rather good sermon. And here is Mary's song (Luke 1:46-55), for your dose of sweet sweet Book of Common Prayer:

My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me, and holy is his Name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him, throughout all generations.
He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel, as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, for ever.

Speak, Euterpe

(An aside: I always thought it unfortunate that the muse of music should have such an ungainly name. Somebody should look into it.)

As a result, chiefly, of several nights of poor or insufficient sleep, I am in no state to do any serious thinking. (I would like to believe that some thought goes into posts on this-a-here web-log, though perhaps some readers may wish to correct that particular misapprehension of mine.) However, I would like to present two examples of admirable music, of divers and sundry kinds. Both are indisputably good, though the question of what makes music good will have to wait for another time.

Fretwork: Passacaglia in C minor, BWV 582:


Art Tatum: "Night and Day":

Religion Beyond Cliché

Clichés, as insufferable as they are, exist because they generally express things that are true. The most unfortunate thing about clichés is that, with prolonged exposure, they lose their effectiveness: we not only take the truth for granted, but begin to doubt its accuracy to begin with. This, as I see it, is one of the chief weaknesses of religion. Revolutionary ideas become Sunday-school platitudes, first disdained and then ignored entirely. (This goes some way towards explaining why, in a society permeated with Christian symbolism and mores, Christianity itself is not taken the least bit seriously. Granted, we've mostly ignored the teachings of Christ — "love thy neighbor", hmm? — for the last two thousand years, but at least there was a time when the religion itself was taken seriously.)

Occasionally we encounter situations that expose to us the very real truth behind the cliché: like a character in a Flannery O'Connor story, we are shocked into seeing the true nature of things, if only for a moment. Let us assume that it is better to seek unpleasant truth than to be contented with comfortable falsehood. (Only a hedonist could prefer the latter.) It is therefore beneficial to seek situations that lead to those experiences that make us more aware of reality, and likewise to avoid those things that keep us comfortably oblivious.

What is reality? From a Christian perspective, the ultimate — and indeed, the only — reality is that of God's love for us. (Come to think of it, this may apply to some other religions as well. But I won't make claims on behalf of other belief systems.) How, then, are we to become more aware of this? There are many arguments to be made for asceticism, for conscious renunciation of worldly pleasures. I suggest that the ascetic life, if it is one's vocation, is a good and noble calling; certainly we all "must achieve the character, and acquire the skills, to live much poorer than we do", as Mr Berry so admirably puts it. But it is clearly not the case that every man should flee to the monastery, or to the hermitage. What, then, is the course of action for he who is not called to seek God by himself? I hope to think about this further.

Washington, D.C.

Greetings, dear reader, from Our Nation's Capital. Though this is apparently the very worst time of year, weather-wise, to be here, I have found it a pleasant-enough place during this past week's vacation. Well, it is not technically a vacation, as I have been put to work: this morning I served as organist at Luther Place Memorial Church, which is on Thomas Circle, in what is a nice — if terribly gentrified — part of the city. The organ is a 4-manual Möller that has undergone several renovations, but it's not as bad as I feared. The reeds are surprisingly robust, but the mixtures emit a rather awful shriek, like some examples of less-fortuitous Orgelbewegung design.

The more places in this world I visit, the less inclined am I to see the sights everyone is enjoined to see. This is chiefly because one is always surrounded by tourists in such places, and tourists — especially, I have noted, American tourists — are almost always insufferable. (Perhaps this amounts to a measure of self-loathing on my part?) At the National Gallery of Art — which is a fine museum, though rather disappointing compared to my beloved Art Institute of Chicago — my experience was severely hampered by obnoxious tourists talking loudly and ignorantly, with art-school-reject tour guides shouting to be heard over them ("Now, the art in this room is a style known as Byzantine!"). Despite the ambiance, the collection is a good one. I find I am drawn the most to late medieval painting (Giotto is a particular favorite, and he has a wonderful Madonna and Child there) and to early Renaissance Netherlandish paintings: there's a spiritual richness there that one doesn't see in many other times and genres. Some things (e.g. American colonial art) leave me entirely cold.

Whilst in the city I have availed myself of various things one cannot do (not well, anyway) at home. I have discovered several excellent restaurants: perhaps the nicest surprise has been Julia's Empanadas, on Connecticut Avenue between M and N. (An empanada is, apparently, the Hispanic equivalent of the Cornish pasty: it is very tasty, indeed, at least at Julia's, and they are quite reasonably priced.) Today I took a yoga class: it was at a level a bit above my current skills (that is, none), but enjoyable nonetheless. And I have been wandering around various parts of the city. From what I have seen D.C. resembles far more closely a European city than its American counterparts: there's a sort of Hausmanesque plan to the streets, and indeed some impressive Second Empire architecture down closer to the Mall. The strict guidelines for building height make it a cozier — if more congested, traffic-wise — place to live. The metro and other mass transit services are not nearly as convenient or ubiquitous as those of Vienna, but one mustn't complain about such things.

All in all, it's not a bad city. No, indeed.

Admirable Words, Vol. II

1. Brume
   
2. Catarrh
   
3. Embroglio (a better spelling than the more common Imbroglio)
   
4. Ibex
   
5. Plinth
   
6. Poltroon
   
7. Pottage
   
8. Reprobate
   
9. Sentinel
   
10. Tin

Ars Itineris?

Seneca, Ad Lucilium epistulae morales, XXVIII. "On Travel as a Cure for Discontent":

Do you suppose that you alone have had this experience? Are you surprised, as if it were a novelty, that after such long travel and so many changes of scene you have not been able to shake off the gloom and heaviness of your mind? You need a change of soul rather than a change of climate. Though you may cross vast spaces of sea, and though, as our Virgil remarks: "Lands and cities are left astern," your faults will follow you wherever you travel. Socrates made the same remark to one who complained: he said, "Why do you wonder that globetrotting does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you? The reason which set you wandering is ever at your heels." What pleasure is there in seeing new lands? Or in surveying cities and spots of interest? All your bustle is useless. Do you ask why such flight does not help you? It is because you flee along with yourself. You must lay aside the burdens of the mind; until you do this, no place will satisfy you.

Thomas Jefferson, from a letter to his nephew Peter Carr, 10 August 1787:

[Traveling] makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country, but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret — their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects, and they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men who travel are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood — it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile and condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, and its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first and most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, and they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this that a habit of idleness — an inability to apply themselves to business — is acquired and renders them useless to themselves and their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, and be industrious, and you will not want the aid of traveling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself.

Wendell Berry, The Unforeseen Wilderness, p. 43:

[T]he world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our own feet, and learn to be at home."

Adventures in Openmindedness, Part II

Well, I finished that Murdoch book. It was, at least, more satisfying than A Severed Head, though I suspect the discrepancy owes much to the different circumstances in which I read each: one was drudgery — and, as it seemed, not morally or intellectually profitable drudgery — while the other was my own choice to read, upon the recommendation of (relatively trustworthy) counsel.

A Fairly Honourable Defeat belongs in that class of books, along with The Picture of Dorian Gray and Lolita, in which people do wicked things — things which lead readers to denounce the books as immoral — but eventually receive their comeuppance — a fact that is often ignored by the outraged sort of reader. Such books have, as Wilde observed of his book, "a terrible moral". (This is, of course, the older and more etymologically correct meaning of terrible: "causing terror", not "very bad".) Murdoch's work differs from those two books, however, in that justice is not visited upon all transgressors equally. Indeed, the peccadilloes of relatively good characters result in harsh consequences, while far worse offenders go, for the most part, unpunished.

If a morality can be gleaned from this book, it is a decidedly anti-consequentialist one. We've all discussed the hypothetical scenario: it's 1941 and you're hiding Jews in your attic: when the Gestapo officer asks you whether you're hiding anyone, is it immoral to lie? If it is always immoral to lie, then the moral thing to do is to tell him, "why yes, they're in the attic." However, if morality is determined by the consequences of one's actions, and the result of honesty in this case would be the death of innocents, then the consequentialist would lie (normally a moral evil) to effect the saving of lives (considered — we must assume! — a good). But in Murdoch's world, even the best-intentioned lies lead to disaster and despair. It is, perhaps, a reminder that we are ultimately ignorant creatures, quite unable to judge the consequences of our actions, regardless of our intentions. It is not a reässuring moral.

In any case, I have reconsidered my opinion of Dame Iris. I don't believe I'd get along with her very well if we were to meet, but then, that is rarely the case with authors and composers and artists I admire. (Dürer or Mahler would probably be rather irritating in person, I suspect.) Hers is not a world I wish to inhabit, but it is an acceptable one — perhaps even a necessary one — to visit.

Adventures in Openmindedness, Part I

It is important to examine one's prejudices. This is not to say that all prejudice is bad; no, indeed! We need prejudice to adequately function in the world: without prejudice we'd have to impartially examine each and every person and situation we meet, and there simply isn't time for that. But we must, when we have time, reässess certain things, in case we have judged them unfairly.

The particular thing I wish to examine, in this instance, is the work of Iris Murdoch, which (and whom) I took a dislike to during my years of undergraduate study. My distaste was fortified by the opinion of one of my favorite writers, Flannery O'Connor, who said Murdoch's works are "completely hollow". Thus summarily dismissed, I was content to leave it at that. But considering the advice of a friend, who gave me a copy of A Fairly Honorable Defeat, I am prepared to give Dame Iris another chance.

I am now two chapters into that book. Almost immediately I noticed a similarity between it and A Severed Head, my other foray into Murdochiana. The chief characteristic of Murdoch's characters — at least, all those I've encountered so far — is that they are all terribly bored, and it is this boredom that leads them to do various wicked things. (I do not mean to say that the characters are boring; Murdoch is a good enough writer that she can at least keep our interest. And besides, I am not yet of the opinion that only virtuous people are genuinely interesting; there are enough books with bad sorts that are still compelling.)

Existential boredom — which we must differentiate from incidental boredom, the sort even the sanest man might sometimes have, as when waiting for a bus or discussing politics with a libertarian — is indicative of spiritual malaise. It is the result of a lack of joy in one's life. It is probably the same thing as acedia, which the desert fathers were right to consider the worst of sins. What is one to make of a writer whose every last character is existentially bored? May we fairly assume that Murdoch herself felt this way? I'm not sure. Further reading should prove useful; I shall continue my (re)evaluation.