I have already said how much I like Jamie Quatro’s collection of short stories, I Want to Show You More. My review can be read here. She is a gifted artisan, crafting words with thoughtfulness and practiced skill, a beguiling storyteller, and an author that reveals, for those who have eyes to see, an imagination deeply steeped in a Christian worldview.

As I also noted in my review, some people—including some Christians—may be surprised by some of her stories. Since posting my review, a few friends have asked for help understanding or interpreting some of the stories in the collection. I have never met Quatro, and claim no special insight into her intentions or motivations as an author, but I am willing to suggest a question that seemed crucial as I read her stories. This question is not unique to Quatro’s work, but is one of a series of questions worth asking as we read fiction. You can find more detail about reading fiction with discernment here.

The question that helped me gain insight into the deeper levels of meaning in the stories in I Want to Show You More is this: Does the story function as a slice of reality, or a microcosm of reality, or a metaphor for reality? A slice of reality is just that, a story that we can imagine happening just as the author tells it—the films, Babette’s Feast (1987) and The Station Agent (2003) are good examples. A microcosm of reality is a story that every reader knows didn’t happen as it is told, but realizes instead it is intended to capture a sense of all of life within its narrow confines—see, for example, the films The Matrix (1999), The Lord of the Rings (2001), or The Tree of Life (2011). A metaphor for reality is a story that can be imagined as happening as it is told, except that it contains some aspect that is, by itself unimaginable unless it is allowed to be a symbol for some issue of significance—see, for example, Lars and the Real Girl (2007) or Snow White and the Huntsman (2012).

Some of Quatro’s stories in I Want to Show You More are slices of reality, stories we can very easily imagine unfolding in life just as they do on the page. “1.7 to Tennessee” is surely in this category, and we can imagine driving along the highway up the mountain needing to keep an eye out for Eva Bock as she walks along the shoulder of the road. Her grief over the loss of her son and the form letter generated by the White House resonate with the frustration many of us feel when our vote is required by faithfulness yet seems not just powerless, but worthless. The same holds true for “The Anointing” and some of the stories dealing with sexual desire like “Caught Up” and “You Look Like Jesus.” We may be uncomfortable with them but that makes them no less real. The level of reality is such that we can imagine them not only happening, but we can imagine inhabiting the stories ourselves.

Other of her stories are metaphors for life, so that the details may be unrealistic in the narrow sense but serve to help us see deeper levels of reality with greater clarity. “Decomposition: A Primer for Promiscuous Housewives” isn’t told to make us believe a decaying body appeared in this couple’s bed—the corpse is a metaphor for the lasting effects that unfaithfulness brings into a marriage. The story gives the lie to the myth that infidelity can be so innocent, so pleasurable, so removed from the need for commitment that a spouse can engage in it without fear of lasting repercussions when their betrayal is discovered.

I suspect that Quatro is a runner, because the details in “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pavement” are quite exquisite. Still, is it intended to be the story of an actual race? Or is the race here a metaphor for life’s pilgrimage, and the statues a metaphor for the silly weights we lug around in a society obsessed with athleticism and sexual vitality? What is it we get through the mail that might produce those ungodly burdens?

If I am correct in these musings—and I suspect there is much more waiting to be discovered in Quatro’s stories—would you not agree that she writes not just good stories, but stories that subversively expose the weak moral and metaphysical foundations of postmodernity?

I think it’s winsome and brilliant.

            In terms of genre these three films are very different: Lincoln is a historical drama, Waste Land is a documentary, and Traitor is a spy thriller set in the international world of terrorism. In terms of craft, all three are well made films, telling very different stories in ways that show how cinema is able to imaginatively sweep us into worlds unlike our everyday experience. And all three present us with realities that rightly need careful reflection, and if you are a Christian, some unhurried prayer.

            Lincoln (2012) is, of course, the story of Abraham Lincoln, set during his presidency as the Civil War rages and he seeks to lead the Congress and the nation in forever banning slavery through the passage of a Constitutional amendment. Daniel Day-Lewis, who plays Lincoln and Sally Field, who plays his wife, seem to lose themselves in their roles in powerful performances on the screen. One proof the film is great cinema are several scenes in which little happens. Film depends on action, but in these instances we watch people watching a still Lincoln, deep in thought as he faces a crucial decision. Somehow Day-Lewis fills the stillness with tension, so that as the moments slide by we are not bored but filled with anticipation of what comes next. Based in large part on Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, historian Doris Kearns Goodwins’ magisterial study, Lincoln reveals the man and the period as heroic yet far from perfect.

            Waste Land (2010) documents a multi-year project in the life and career of Brazilian artist Vik Muniz. Having achieved success in New York City, Muniz decides to return to Brazil and make art in collaboration with the garbage pickers in Jardim Gramacho, the largest landfill of the world just outside Rio de Janeiro. The pickers are among the forgotten people of the world, doing a job that is as dangerous as it is unseemly. They dodge trucks dumping dripping, rotting garbage from the city to pick out scraps of recyclable matter to sell for pennies in an attempt to make a living. The film does a good job of revealing Muniz’s conception of the art slowly, so we see it come together in an act of creativity that unfolds before us as it does within the lives of the pickers he befriends. Waste Land reminds us of the humanity of all people even those on the far margins of society, the meaningfulness of creativity even in the midst of filth and decay, and the dignity of all work even in jobs that are despised by everyone except those who have no other choice.

            Traitor (2008) takes us into the world of international terror. Don Cheadle plays Samir Horn, a CIA agent so deep undercover that the FBI has formed a team with the express purpose of tracking and eliminating him as a terrorist threat. Horn is a Muslim, a skilled maker of bombs who is slowly gaining the respect of a terrorist cell intent on striking a significant blow in the heartland of America. The story unfolds naturally, as we follow Horn living in the shadows of a fanatical world and as the FBI team uncovers his tracks, so not until the end can we be certain who are the good guys—or whether any fully good guys even exist. To win acceptance Horn must make and detonate bombs, and in the process innocent people perish. It is a price that must be paid if Horn is to win acceptance and work his way up the ladder among the various terrorist cells to those calling the shots at the top.

            Three remarkable and remarkably different films, yet each truthful in the stories they tell about the human condition. And so they pose questions worth careful reflection and prayer.

            Lincoln. In 2013, as in 1865, America is deeply divided and increasingly polarized politically. Is there on the horizon stateswomen and statesmen who can be principled leaders to help achieve the common good? Are we as Christians, by our rhetoric and involvement in the public square, adding to the division and polarization or are we fulfilling our God’s given call to be agents of reconciliation in a broken world?

            Waste Land. Who are the forgotten people that inhabit the margins of our world? Do we know the names of the janitors, dishwashers, or clerks that work in the background of our lives, and are there small ways in which we can show them the dignity they deserve?

            Traitor. Can we provide a safe place to discuss the emotionally charged and impossibly complex ethical issues that attach to America’s war on terror? Are we clear on the difference between seeking justice and desiring vengeance? Are we supportive of the people—soldiers, spies, or other agents of government—that must inflict harm or perhaps do what they believe to be evil in order for good to prevail?

            Lincoln, Waste Land, and Traitor—I enjoyed them as movies but even more because each, in its own way, reminded me of what it means to be human in a fallen world.

Sometimes I think much of what we call civilized behavior is nothing more than socially accepted gestures that allow us from being considered impolite as we assiduously sidestep having to listen to one another. I referring here to really listening, to actually hearing another person—an act that is, as we all know, all too rare.

A friend of mine, Zack Eswine recently published a book that is a superb exploration of what it means to care and minister to people in a broken world. Sensing Jesus: Life and Ministry as a Human Being, as the title implies, never trails off into theory removed from the realities of ordinary, daily life. Though written by a pastor for church leaders, because it is rooted explicitly in the life and teaching of Jesus, it sheds light on what it means for ordinary people to intentionally walk through life caring for others in the ways that matters

Including learning to hear.

            A story is told about a naturalist and his friend walking amid the frenzy of a New York City sidewalk. The naturalist suddenly stops as if he is listening for something. “Do you hear that cricket?” he asks his bewildered friend. “How can you hear a cricket with all of this noise?” the friend replies. “We hear what we are trained to hear,” the naturalist replied. Then he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it upon the sidewalk. Immediately a handful of passersby stopped and looked down.

            While this story is fable-like, there is truth to recognize in the notion that “we hear what we are trained to hear.” Jesus knows this. The widow among the rich [in the Temple] puts in her two small coins. It is hard to hear her two coins amid the jingle and clink of the wealthy. Theirs drown out hers. Their voices fill our ears. Her tiny devotion, small, unnoticed, underestimated— it calls out and says among all the importance, “Look around. Listen. God is here.” Jesus recovers the sound of the widow and her coins, and the disciples learn to hear again (Luke 21:1-4).

            According to Jesus, there are two kinds of hearing. This is what Jesus means when he says, “If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear” (Mark 4:23). Jesus calls us beyond recognizing sounds to obeying or responding or discerning the meaning of the sounds.

            To hear with the ear only is to recognize.

            To hear with understanding is to discern.

            To hear with the ear requires only that one's eardrums work.

            To hear so as to understand requires that one's soul remain attentive and receptive to the goings on in another.

            To hear with the ear one need only nod the head and shuffle the voice into “mhm” and “uh-huh.”

            To hear truly, however, one must ready herself to experience the life of another, and from that experience, to understand that other.

            To hear with the ear only is to categorize, explain, and move on.

            To truly hear is to name the nuance, to understand the meanings, to separate out what is consistent from what is not, and to let what is mysterious or confounding remain for another day.

            To hear with the ear only is to quote the Bible.

            To hear truly is to bend one's life toward the meaning of the quote in Jesus and by his grace. (pp. 194-195)

Learning to hear might be one of the most difficult tasks imaginable in our postmodern world.

On his new Facebook page, my friend Ellis Potter asks an intriguing question. “Which is more humanizing: The Good, the True and the Beautiful or the Gratifying, the Affirming and the Empowering? Which set is more self-centered?” It’s also a timely question since it touches on some of the swirling eddies of ideas and values that compete for attention in our postmodern world. Perhaps compete for attention is the wrong way to express it—it’s more like a series of eddies that suddenly twist into a vortex that pulls us under before we a fully conscious of the change.

The categories of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful are profoundly clarifying and helpful. They help us think about reality in a more full-orbed way, and provide ways of naming things that otherwise would be difficult to talk about. Just the fact that they have stood the test of time for over 2 millennia means we must take them seriously. For Christians, of course, there is an added attraction. Not that they form a trinity, for certainly they together point to aspects of the being of God rather than describe separate members of the Godhead. God the Almighty is the essence of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Yet there is, I think, a flaw. I stumbled upon it several years ago when I set out to do a biblical study of the Beautiful. An easy enough task, as far as that goes, because art, creativity, and comeliness are themes that are woven throughout the Scriptures. But then I hit a snag. Using my concordance to identify all the biblical texts in which “beauty” and “beautiful” appear, I discovered there were very few. I dug deeper and discovered the Hebrews didn’t talk and think about Beauty: they were concerned for Glory. A concordance search for “glory” and “glorify” brought an overwhelming flood of references.

This discussion brings us to a significant difference between the Greek and the Hebraic worldviews. The Greek categories of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful are so very helpful, but are also pagan in origin, and are in the final analysis abstract, cerebral, and impersonal. The Hebrew categories of the Righteous, the Wise, and the Glorious, on the other hand, are rooted in the nature of the biblical God, and are always revealed to be concrete, practical, and personal.

This is not a criticism of Ellis’ good question. It is a good and insightful question that people should reflect on it carefully. Nor am I suggesting that the Good, the True, and the Beautiful are categories that we should somehow avoid. But I would argue that as categories they are in a crucial way insufficient and incomplete. In the end, the Righteous, the Wise, and the Glorious contain all that the Greek categories included, but sweep on past them to be demonstrated and rooted in the revelation of the infinite, personal God, in creation, Scripture, and ultimately the living Word.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ellis-Potter/274439865939134. Like it!

A friend (thanks, Rebecca Wimer!) alerted me to a website displaying the artwork of Bryan Lewis Saunders who “takes every drug known to man [and] draws [a] self-portrait after each use.” Saunders’ portraits, it is noted, “aren’t all that different from artist Bobby Baker’s self-portraits of mental illness.”

It would be easy to sneer at Saunders’ project, wondering why he would want to subject himself to such a drug regimen and whether the resulting artwork has any significance.

A lot could be said about this, and an excellent place to begin the conversation would be with an essay, “Altered States” (The New Yorker, August 27, 2012) by physician (neurologist) Oliver Sacks. Though the entire essay is worth reading and discussing, Sacks’ opening three paragraphs puts the topic in correct focus:

            To live on a day-to-day basis is insufficient for human beings; we need to transcend, transport, escape; we need meaning, understanding, and explanation; we need to see over-all patterns in our lives. We need hope, the sense of a future. And we need freedom (or, at least, the illusion of freedom) to get beyond ourselves, whether with telescopes and microscopes and our ever-burgeoning technology, or in states of mind that allow us to travel to other worlds, to rise above our immediate surroundings.

            We may seek, too, a relaxing of inhibitions that makes it easier to bond with each other, or transports that make our consciousness of time and mortality easier to bear. We seek a holiday from our inner and outer restrictions, a more intense sense of the here and now, the beauty and value of the world we live in.

            Many of us find Wordsworthian ‘intimations of immortality’ in nature, art, creative thinking, or religion; some people can reach transcendent states through meditation or similar trance-inducing techniques, or through prayer and spiritual exercises. But drugs offer a shortcut; they promise transcendence on demand. These shortcuts are possible because certain chemicals can directly stimulate many complex brain functions. (p. 40).

It seems undeniable that there is a link between psychotropic drugs and ways of seeing. I say it is undeniable not because I am up on the research on such things but because I was in college in the Sixties, and lived in a commune in New Mexico in the Seventies. Drugs of all sorts were part of the social fabric of my life, and long hours talking with people stoned on LSD or psychedelic mushrooms made it obvious that the drugs had changed their perception of reality—mostly for curse, and occasionally for blessing. Plenty of people got high merely because it was a fad, or through peer pressure, or because it was entertaining, or to escape the pain of coping with a broken world. But I met some who took drugs seriously, as part of a pilgrimage in which they wanted to know the truth of reality and had come to think that drugs might be a way to gain some insight into realities hidden from ordinary perception.

The belief that there is a mysterious link between spiritual realities, mental illness, and drugs was widely held during the Sixties but it was difficult to get many people outside the drug culture to take the idea seriously—especially Christians. We should be receptive to such things since we do believe that reality includes both the seen and unseen, and there are surprising times when the veil between the two is parted in some way. One time, we are told, St Peter was hungry, went up onto the flat roof of a house to pray, and “fell into a trance” (Acts 10:10). He saw a vision, spoke with God, and learned something that was crucial to the early church. Christ himself fasted 40 days and nights—now there is a radical use of a spiritual discipline—and had a personal encounter with the evil one (Matthew 4:1-11). Mystics over many centuries have used spiritual disciplines—silence, solitude, fasting—and sometimes found their perceptions altered.

I am not here arguing that drugs and spiritual disciplines are somehow parallel, but rather that we dare not be dismissive of the notion that spiritual realities are easily perceived and comprehended, or that there is not great mystery here, or that intelligent, sincere human beings can go to extreme lengths to find significance or to peer into the depths of reality.

With the rise of paganism and decline of Christianity in the West I suspect that once again the church will be asked to consider such things. I hope the watching world does not find us sneering.

Graphics: Drawing by Bryan Lewis Saunders, “‘Bump’ of Crystalmeth;” portrait of Dr. Oliver Sacks.