Into this Alien Land...

"We are not left alone in this frightful world. Into this alien land God has come to us."

Karl Barth, Dogmatics in Outline; (as quoted by Stanley Hauerwas,With The Grain of the Universe)

The Dancing Street Light

For some reason there were not any light poles as we know them today. In those days of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, to illuminate the streets of the small rural town, lights were stretched across the streets; wires would go from a pole on one side of the street to another pole directly across the street and the street light would dangle there suspended in the middle, the metal fixture including a shade that directed the light from the incandescent bulbs downward, illuminating the street and immediate adjacent sidewalks and lawns.

It was the end of October, the Halloween time of the year. The local fire department had put on their annual Halloween party for the kids of the area; bobbing for apples, the “haunted house”, and we in our varied Halloween costumes. Along with the fire department festivities we also did the usual trick or treating; a time to fill the sack with candy, popcorn balls, cookies, and other goodies. This was a whole generation before sick psychos used Halloween trick or treating to intentionally put harmful things in the treats handed out on Halloween. That year was going to be my last year of trick or treating. The general rule of thumb was once you were in junior high, your trick or treating days were over. So it was I headed out from the school were the firemen's Halloween party was held, to hit the town and pick up a few treats.

The first street of houses I worked that particular night was a cul-de-sac running off of the main street. At the corner of the main street and the cul-de-sac was a street light stretched across the main street as previously described. I had hit all the houses on the cul-de-sac and was ready to head back to the main street. There were was a good steady wind blowing, and I was struck with how the street light was swaying back and forth, dancing in the wind. It was there that a sort of magic took hold of my imagination.

Oddly enough the sense was not a foreboding fear of some evil supernatural apparition coming to life an All Hallows Eve. It was more a sense of being alone in a deserted place. There was no traffic on the street. There was just the street light dancing in the wind. For those few brief moments the only living things in that town were myself and that dancing street light. In those moments, the image of that dancing street light was forever indelibly imprinted on my mind and in my memory.

In the years that followed I would from time to time come across a few literary descriptions that reminded me of that image.

In Ray Bradbury’s “Martian Chronicles” the point comes toward the end of the book were all the Earth people who settled on Mars are called back to Earth at the outbreak of war. The Earth colonies and settlements on Mars are abandoned, but a few people are left behind; left behind to wander over the surface of Mars from deserted town to deserted town living out the rest of their lives alone. In that narrative the image of the dancing street light comes to my mind.

I sat in the theater as the movie; “To Kill a Mockingbird” was nearing its end. The fall harvest festival at the local school is over, and Scout and Jem are about to walk home and into the dramatic climax of the whole story. It is night and we see the street lights of that small rural town through the eyes of Scout as she peers through the eyes of her ham costume. In that image, I see the dancing street light of my youth.

Over fifty years later as the fall of the year comes around and the leaves on the trees are changing color, and the corn is ripe for the picking, and the days grow colder, I think back to that autumn night so long, long ago when the street light danced, sparking the imagination and stirring the feelings; one of those magical moments that stay with you for a life time; those moments in life that give hints of stories to be told, other worlds to be discovered, and adventures yet to come.

~ The Billy Goat ~

Losing the Meta-Narrative in Noah

All stories told assume a larger story of which which the specific story is a part of. It is that larger story which gives context and meaning to the people and events of the story being told. It is this Meta-Narrative issue that is particularly highlighted in Darren Aronofsky's March 2014 film release "Noah".

I knew from seeing the very first trailer release for "Noah", that it was going to be a film that at some point I would want to see. I never expected that this would be a film that closely followed the Biblical narrative of Noah and the flood in the book of Genesis. Subsequent reviews and rantings and ravings confirmed that.

I did not really follow how well "Noah" did at the box office. My general sense was that after the usual initial flash of a new "epic" film, it faded to the obscurity of the cheap re-run theaters where I just this week finally went to see "Noah" for myself. We live in a day when so called epic films have very little staying power in the mind of our media soaked and sated pop culture; that shallow culture that seems incapable of taking time to really think deeply about what it is seeing and hearing, and so quickly rushes on to the newest and "greatest" info spot factoid that grabs its attention. Only time will tell if Aronofsky has made a film that becomes a classic.

It was because of the previous reviews and controversy and hype that I went into the theater with low expectations. This film has some strengths. The depiction of the wickedness of the humanity of the world that perished, though colored by Aronofsky's own meta-narrative context, was not sugar coated, and illuminated the depravity of that per-deluge world. It was finally nice to see a Noah who was not portrayed as some kind of half senile bumbling old man. The passing down of the oral tradition from generation to generation is clearly illustrated; that oral tradition that later would be written down by Moses under the direction of the Holy Spirit. The horror of the destruction is not muffled, and the film, in my mind correctly ties the incident of Noah's drunkenness to the resulting post-traumatic distress he had to deal with after the flood.

Darren Aronofsky clearly took liberties with the Biblical story. There are a number of points where the film departs from the facts as told in Genesis. Those have been more then adequately covered in the essays of other reviewers. I would like to focus on what is the one thing missing from Aronofsky's view of the greater meta-narrative that, in my mind, is a crucial and critical departure from the Biblical meta-narrative, and that is the loss of the place of the promise in the story. I would also submit that it is the loss of this critical point, the promise, that explains much of the factual departures from the Biblical story that Aronofsky made.

Consider the words spoken by God to the serpent; the proto-evangelium:

"And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; He shall bruise you on the head, and you shall bruise him on the heel.” (Genesis 3:15)

Add to that meaning of Noah's own name:

"Lamech lived one hundred and eighty-two years, and became the father of a son. Now he called his name Noah, saying, “This one will give us rest from our work and from the toil of our hands arising from the ground which the Lord has cursed.” (Genesis 5:28-29)

It was the purpose of God in the bigger story of the Genesis account, the purpose of redemption, that is absent from the film, and it is that loss which is the most disappointing thing about Aronofsky's telling of the Noah story. He gives us a Noah whose purpose in what he does is at best foggy and muddy; a Noah who seems to have no sense of the promise and meaning of his own name; a Noah who instead of believing the promise as Hebrews 11 describes him, is a Noah who despairs to the point of considering total xenocide; who as another "Adam" is put into the place of making a choice which way future humanity will or will not go. So it is that Aronofsky ends up giving us an essentially pagan Noah.

I leave it to others more qualified then myself to speak to the quality of the acting and the cinematography, as well as the special effects.

It is not my intent to tell you, the reader, if you should or should not see this film. Each of you are capable of making that decision for yourself. Whatever film you do or do not see, I encourage you to ask yourself the question, "What is the larger meta-narrative behind this version of this story?" The meta-narrative of the Bible contains as a crucial part of that narrative, the promise, and it is that promise that, in my mind, makes all the difference in the universe.

This Temporal Cycle of life and the Cosmic

It was a simple wedding; nothing very elaborate at all. As we sat there witnessing the simplicity of the setting and of the ceremony, I found myself with a sense that something of momentus cosmic consequence was happening. Yes, that is true of all weddings, but for some reason I felt it more keenly at this one.

Of course what that cosmic consequence will be will not be fully known in this life. But this I know and believe; the mundane things and cycles of this life in some way or fashion will echo into eternity. The story of Ruth comes to mind as a classic Biblical example. We are all part of a much bigger story. Our story ’s threads will and are being intricately woven into the fabric of that much greater Story.

For Love of A Mother

"What's the story with these chickens?"

"I don't know... We came down to visit Mom and Dad one time and they were here..."

Such was the reply I gave the dear little elderly gray haired lady standing next to me.

"I'd like to have those chickens. I really like them. They remind me of when we use to have chickens..."

The two fowl in question sat there on the lawn motionless as most lawn and garden ornaments and figurines are. They were part of all the accumulation of a marriage of almost seventy years that had reached its conclusion when my Mom passed away in early December, and Dad followed her a short two weeks latter.

Here we were four months later. All the odds and ends and household stuff to be sold off in the estate auction had been scattered around the yard, the garage, and the barn waiting to be bid off to new owners by the auctioneer. It was getting on into the afternoon, and the majority of stuff and already been sold off to whatever bidder was willing to dig deeper into their pocket then the other bidders.

"I really would like to get those chickens." the elderly lady said again. "I wonder if anyone else will bid on them?"

"Mom, if you really want those chickens, there is nobody here who is going to be able to outbid you for them..."

Those words of assurance came from the younger man standing with us; the elderly lady's son who was a friend of mine going way back to another lifetime ages ago when we had been in high school together.

It was going to be another ten to fifteen minutes before the auctioneer got around to bidding off the chickens. A few more times in that interval the conversation was repeated. The mom expressed her desire to get the chickens and also her fear someone would outbid her for them. The son again quietly assured her that if she wanted those chickens, no one was going to have enough to outbid her.

Finally it came time to auction off the chickens. I expected that at most they might bring twenty or thirty dollars. The bidding started. The son was bidding for his mother. I don't know how many bidders there were initially, but very quickly the bids were much higher then ever expected.

At that point the two remaining bidders were the son and another woman who I did not recognize. The woman would make a bid and the without batting an eye, the elderly lady's son would immediately raise the bid. The bids continued on up past all reasonable expectation. The other bidder stared over at my friend in frustration, then finally gave it up.

I smiled in my heart. Mom and Dad's chickens were going to a good home where they would be loved and appreciated by a kind elderly gray haired lady who has a son who demonstrated that you do not and can not put a price tag on love for a mother.

Copyright May 2013, J. William Newcomer, all rights reserved.

History, Memory, & Connection

A few reflections on Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Gilead”

John Ames was dying. Of course in this life we are all terminal the moment we exit the womb. So many heartbeats; so many breathes in and breathes out; so many seconds, minutes, hours, days, years. Then we will be gone. Grim prospect that is, but it is what happens between that first and last breath that defines, for better or for worse, what our life is.

John Ames, the Congregational pastor in Gilead, Iowa was dying. At the time Marilynne Robinson writes his story in her somewhat strange but moving novel titled “Gilead”, he is in his mid-seventies. He is writing a chronicle for his young seven year old son; the son of his old age birthed by his much younger bride who had brought solace to him so many, many years after his first wife had died in childbirth. John Ames wants to leave his young son something through which after his death, his son can connect to his father and to the heritage that is his through his father. It is that epistle of the dying John Ames to his son that is the content of “Gilead”.

There are a number of story threads woven throughout “Gilead”, but perhaps among the more compelling ones is that relating to John Ames’ abolitionist grandfather; the Congregational minister from New England who was a Kansas Jayhawker and friend of John Brown of “moldering in his grave” fame, as well as acquaintance of that grim chieftain, Jim Lane; the grandfather who went marching off to the war as a Union soldier and came home minus an eye as a result.

John Ames’ grandfather was gripped by a cause; a cause which to him involved the righting of the wrong of a grave and malevolent injustice to fellow human beings created in the image of Almighty God. It was a cause that so gripped him that he engaged in activity that, in reflection, horrified his son for its extremeness; that son who was to become John Ames’ father.

So the stage was set for that Ames family play in which in the second act, the son and grandson watch in horror as World War I unfolds and challenges their pacifist preferences; a pacifism rooted in John Ames’ father’s aversion to what he had witnessed of the grandfather’s involvement in Bloody Kansas and the Civil War.

It is here we come to the matter of history, memory, and connection. John Ames’ seven year old son was entering a life further and further disconnected by time from the tumultuous events leading up to and including the Civil War. He was connected to a great-grandfather who had participated in some momentous historical events. That participation was coming down to him through the filter of his grandfather and the further reflection of his father, John Ames. It would remain to be seen how that young seven year old lad growing up some hundred years after those events, would process and understand his great-grandfather’s involvement in those events.

In the area of history, and the history of the Civil War in particular, there has been in recent decades, a focus in historical studies not just on the events of history, but also a study on how, over time, those events have been understood and remembered not just in history books or Memorial Day speeches, as important as they can be, but in the popular psych of a culture over time. A case in point is how the Civil War is remembered in literature that is not so much about the events themselves, but how the memory of those past events affect the characters involved in the story taking place. It was this history, memory, and connection that made this particular story thread in “Gilead” compelling. It also hit me in a very personal way.

My Great-Grandfather was a Union veteran of the Civil War. He served three enlistments in three different Ohio regiments for varying lengths of service. He died in 1931, when his grandson, my Father, was thirteen years old.

My Dad was old enough to have had some kind of meaningful relationship with his Grandfather. I don’t know if such was the case for the simple reason I never thought to ask him about the nature of his relationship with his Civil War Grandfather. Now my father is gone and what memories he may have had are gone with him. He did not leave my siblings and I any kind of “Gilead” chronicle. Dad never spoke much about his Grandfather. But it is also true that I never really asked him what he could tell me about my Great-Grandfather. Now it is to late.

History, memory, and connection… Don’t take them for granted. This tri-fold composite has not only to do with the very public historical events, but also with the more private events of a family history.

In “Gilead” we are made privy to that relationship of John Ames to the son of his best friend, that son Jack Boughton, whose full given name is John Ames Boughton, so named by the Reverend Boughton of the Gilead Presbyterian church; this Jack Boughton who is Robinson’s portrayal of the classic prodigal son.

This is a thread of the novel that most clearly holds out the hope of redemption, however faint it might seem to be. And it is such a story that John Ames dare not keep it from his son, even though he struggles with the argument in his soul over the telling or not telling of it. In the end that soul argument is laid to rest in a revelation Jack confesses to his namesake, and John Ames with clear conscience gives Jack his blessing. The hope of redemption has not totally been lost.

So it will be that in the future the son of John Ames will read his Father’s account of Jack Boughton, and perhaps make sense of things he saw and heard back when he was too young to understand the import thereof. But when understood at that future time, young Ames will have an understanding and insight into his then deceased father’s character that will be a precious memory. Of such are history, memory, and connection.

~ The Billy Goat ~

The Work of Writing

The Work of Writing

Anyone who has ever tried to do serious writing knows it is not easy. I've had occasion to reflect on that truth in the past few weeks as I have sat at the laptop, working on a couple of stories.

If I have a serious hobby at all, it is writing. At one point in my life I entertained the idea of writing the next great American novel. In assessing my desire to write, I came to a point where I realized that if I was to ever do any good writing, I needed to practice. I needed to sit down and write. I still have the notebook containing the pages pounded out out on the old mechanical typewriter that had been in my possession since high school days. Then came the PC, and now the laptop.

I remember someone saying that if you wanted to write, write about the things you know; the things that come from your own life experiences. So it is I have written a number of short memoirs; recalling incidents and happenings from my life. I have tried my hand at poetry and on the left of this page you will find a link to my poetry blog. I've also written a few more lengthy essay type pieces which are found here on the Billy Goat Blog. And yes, blogging itself provides opportunity for practicing the art of writing.

None of what I have written has ever been formally published, but has been self-published in some forum or other on the internet. Irrational as it may be, my greatest fear is the fear of what some editor might do to the things I have written. The stories, essays, and poetry are my life, the revelation of some intimate corners of my soul, and as such are sacred ground.

There have been only a few times that I have tried my hand at writing an original fiction piece. The two projects in the works at this time are both fictional. My inspiration for trying my hand at fiction came about a year or so go when I re-read Ray Bradbury's "I Sing the Body Electric and Other Stories" along with "The Martian Chronicles".

Through his writings, Bradbury taught me that what makes fiction work is in how it pictures the human condition. What made his stories memorable were not the mechanics of projecting the advanced science of science fiction, as interesting as that may be, but the human condition that remained the same in Sci-Fi, historical novels, or any other kind of genre, fictional or real life.

And so I write. I wrestle with words and sentence structure and paragraphing. You struggle with writing in a way so that the story the reader is reading is the story you are telling. You go over what you wrote, asking yourself if a first time reader is getting the same message you think you are telling. It is classic communications class 101 all over again. Life demands its priorities. You have to work a paying job, and there are family responsibilities, and the opportunities to spend any lengthy time on a writing project is limited.

As a writer, I do not "make up" a story. A writer does not create the story; the writer tells the story that he or she discovers is already there. It is not always clear how the story is going to develop. The basic story line is there, but as you fill in the details, you find the development is not going where you thought it was.

Other stories intersect the story you are telling. The one story I am working on could lend itself to a trilogy, but I'm not sure it has been given to me to tell the other two intersecting stories.

In writing, one story develops in a relatively straight forward somewhat logical manner. The other story develops in bits and pieces that are not in any logical chronological order.

How many times through the years I have thought about writing, and than sat down to read a favorite established author, and conclude that in comparison to that author I don't know how to write at all.

But I keep practicing. I keep writing. And if any of my writing is ever formally published or not, I would still write. I would tell the stories, and leave them for my children's children.

I do not want to write for the "Christian market". If I can't write a story that touches all kinds of people, Christian or otherwise, I would rather not write at all. Yes, a Christian view of life gives philosophical foundation for my writing, but I loathe and resist a pop Christian cultural concept of Christian writing. I resist being bound to that mediocrity. True Christian writing should be much, much better then that.

So I write, and as long as I am able, will continue to write. And just maybe, God helping me, I might possibly write something that actually has some literary value for the ages.

Shalom...

(Here is a link to a list of my writings that are published on Scribd. )

A Stranger to His Own Child

A STRANGER TO HIS OWN CHILD

There never was a war so prolific of personal incident in every shade of experience possible to human life. The devastated provinces of France offer perhaps more of these happenings than any other part of the steel-swept, shell- wrecked fronts of all Europe. An Associated Press correspondent tells one that is especially touching.

He was motoring toward Denaen, one of the cities the Germans had occupied through four hard years, when a French officer going in the same direction asked him for a lift, explaining that he had lived there but had neither seen nor heard from his wife during all that time.

Entering the city and turning into his street the officer saw the first house was in ruins. He gave a nervous start. A few doors farther on was his home. The officer climbed out with an effort, his eyes fixed on the place.

There was no sign of life. The windows were shuttered and on the door was a sign showing German officers had been living there. The officer pulled the bell with shaking hand. No one answered. He backed away like a man in a trance and leaned against the car, trembling.

Suddenly the door opened and an aged servant appeared, leading a beautiful baby girl with a wealth of golden curls. The officer took one step toward the child and halted. He was a stranger to his own flesh and blood. The child hid behind the nurse, peering out in fright.

The half blind eyes of the old nurse had recognized her master and she held out her hands, repeating, "Monsieur! Monsieur!" in ecstasy. He crossed the road and grasped her hands, but the baby drew back.

A door opened and a comely young matron came to see what was going on. She caught sight of her husband, then stopped. Her hands flew to her breast. She swayed for a second. "With a sob of joy she hurled herself into his arms.

The correspondent moved away. And thus they were left, the nurse beaming on the happy couple and the curly headed youngster looking with troubled eyes at this strong man who had appropriated her mother so completely without a word.

Taken from "The Great War", published by The Christian Herald, (1919).

Requiem for Ronnie

It is now February, 2012, some twenty years after this story first began to gestate in my mind. Another chapter has unfolded. I found out that this past week Marilyn passed away. She too is now gone. I never had an opportunity to talk to her again; to tell her that if she wanted to, I would dance with her one more time; to tell her that her life had meaning and purpose; that she would not be forgotten... May she indeed finally rest in peace...

It has taken me a number of years to write this story, as over the years revisions would be made and the story continued to unfold. One of those earlier revisions can be found on this blog. This past week the final chapter unfolded and fell into place so that now there is a sense of closure that before, the story did not have. I also included in this revision a separate but related story published here earlier.

So it is gentle reader I now present it to you in what I believe will be the final form. Click on the link above for the full story. Read and handle with care the baring of another's soul...

Shalom...

Just When You Think You Have Written The Last Chapter

There are times when you think you have written the last chapter of a particular story, but then you find another chapter is unfolding itself before your very eyes... The story when first written may lay dormant for years at a time, but then events and people coming together in a way you had not thought or expected. Along with that unfolding of another chapter, information comes to light that makes you go back and edit previous chapters.

This week I found myself in the midst of one of those times. A comment a friend made on Facebook. A quick Google search that oh so quickly found a story that is vitally connected and intertwined to the larger story you thought you had finished. Then the realization that for the story to be complete, another chapter needs to added, and previous chapters will need some minor editing.

I could go on about how this corresponds to the unfolding of the story of redemption as found in the Bible. To be honest, I don't really want to pursue that line of thought at this time, though it would be legitimate to do so.

I will comment though on how stories nest within larger stories and how all stories nest within and are encompassed by the Story. You see that in the Bible too, especially in stories like those of Ruth and Esther to name a few.

And it is also true that within that meta-Story, from our perspective, the final chapter is yet to come.

Come quickly Lord Jesus...