On Being an Inkler, and the Dark

Way back in the sands of time (the 1930's-the late 40's, to be a bit more exact), an informal group of writers met weekly, either at the Eagle and Child pub in Oxford or in the rooms of C.S. Lewis, to read aloud unfinished works for mutual entertainment and criticism. The more prominent members of this group were Lewis (obviously), J.R.R. Tolkien, Owen Barfield, and Charles Williams, though any number of other people filtered in and out over the nearly 20 years the group met. This group called themselves the Inklings, and, while they were known for their good-humor, they also undertook a very serious task, which was to discuss the culture and form an appropriate response to it. This can be said to a greater or lesser extent of each of the members, but it is telling that at least three of them (Lewis, Tolkien, and Williams) came up with similar responses, born from their discussions and laughter over their weekly pint and pipe (notice the giant pitcher of beer next him at the end too).

In all three of these authors, we see the rejection of the desperate disconnection of the modern mindset, through the use of mythic or supernatural stories, in which the transcendent had a place. To be an Inkling was to seek an answer to the purported solitude of man in the cosmos, to seek to rehabilitate in the modern mind an openness to a world beyond the immediate senses, beyond the ken of science, which really functions as control. Simply put, it was to seek to restore the eyes to see.

The name "Inklings" was chosen for its double meaning. On the one hand, it can be seen as a tongue-in-cheek pun; these authors are spilling ink, producing little "inklings." On the other hand, it has the connotation of the beginnings of a thought, or of just beginning to apprehend something, or a vague idea about something.  This is the humility of the person standing before the immensity of life, just beginning to have an inkling of the presence of God, infusing it all with wonder. Even among those of us who see the connections (as the Inklings hoped to restore to us), it is still only an inkling of the intimacy of what's to come. To be an Inkling then means also being humble in the task of opening eyes: it is not done to shock or accuse, but to point at the heart-filling shape of the shoulder of God that looms.

But "inkling" in this second sense also carries a negative aspect: if we're only barely beginning to have an apprehension of something, that means that there is much, much more of it still veiled in shadow.
Think of it like this:

And this is the Dark, which is where I so often find myself in the spiritual life. I have no doubt about the immensity of the Father's love, just as I have no doubt about the rest of the moon, but I only see so little of it. The Dark can be a lonely place, but it can also be comfortable, like a child in the womb. Tolkien once wrote, "Not for me the Hound of Heaven, but the silent, never-ceasing appeal of Tabernacle, and the sense of starving hunger" (Letters, p. 340), and I think this is a very common experience, even among the most faithful of us (as Tolkien certainly was). What's interesting to note is that even for Thompson, the Hound was only really seen in retrospect, after years of struggle and suffering. But for most of us, I think Tolkien is nearer the mark. To paraphrase him, I have never known the pursuit of the Hound, but I have sat with Christ in the Dark and starved, and yet known this to be Christ's appeal of love to my own heart. And this is perhaps the most important directive for the spiritual life: do not give up. Do not interpret the Dark and the silence as abandonment, absence, or disinterest. See in it the inkling, the briefest fingertip of God reached to brush so lightly against your heart, and rejoice.

On the Theological Perfection of Being a Clevelander

The other day, as I was driving with a friend in the midst of a Cleveland slushfest, she expressed the opinion that snow is a direct result of the Fall. As I sit at my desk now, watching the snow float lazily down outside, I can't help thinking it's a bit more complicated than all that. While the snow certainly means that we can't gallivant about  naked as we came (at least not if we hope to survive for long), it does teach us certain things. For one, you can't drive like an idiot (though that doesn't seem to stop people from doing so). Second, there is a power out there that dictates some of our choices, even down to very small things (do I wear flip flops or boots? Do I have to take a shower today or can I hide my gross bedhair under a hat?). So it's true: maybe snow wasn't present in the Garden, but it does confront us with our limitations, and reminds us of our mortality. And this side of Eden, those are very good things.
But Cleveland is more than simply snowy. It's also a rusted-out reminder of former glory (back in the 20's, Cleveland was the fifth largest city in America. Now it's almost an afterthought to include it on a map). Not only that, but, to state the obvious, our sports teams suck. The closest we've come to glory in recent history was King James, who was unfairly expected to carry an entire team almost by himself (I can't count the number of times that he scored between a third and half or more of the points in a game. Mostly because I haven't taken arithmetic since grade school and I'm too lazy to actually look up the stats, but I'm sure it's impressive anyway). Regardless of that, when he left for warmer climes, he left most folks around here with a bad taste in their mouths (funny story: when James left, the stories-high banner of him by the arena was replaced with a picture of the Cleveland skyline. So in place of a poster child, we now have a picture of what we're already looking at). Beyond this, the economic downturn has left thousands of homes empty and huge, unused & crumbling warehouses scattered across the region. Add to this the fact that our 'theme song,' "Cleveland Rocks!" is so annoying that it would be difficult to find a more potent psychological disruption tool than forcing someone to listen to it on loop. Such an action would undoubtedly call down heavy recriminations, as well as the wrath of God.
What we've determined thus far: Cleveland is the embarrassing balding cousin that other cities don't like to mention, but wrinkle their noses at the thought of. So where's the good news? Cleveland is like the snow: it reminds us of our mortality, it teaches us humility, and it takes a certain kind of courage to love. Because Cleveland is loved, which is perhaps the most surprising of all. There's something deeply chest-warming about the underdog, even when that underdog is a city that hasn't won any titles other than "#1 Poorest City in the Nation" in decades. Why is that? Maybe it's because we all know ourselves to be the underdog, at some point in our lives. Maybe, even if not consciously, we identify with the broken because we know ourselves to be broken. And maybe, despite it all, we love Cleveland because it is beautiful.
Consider the snow again. Snow is inherently beautiful, from the freshly-fallen fields down to the uniqueness of the flake. It's a beauty that carries a lot of consequences (and doesn't beauty always?), but it is undeniably beautiful. So it is with Sunny Clevelandtown, where the sun nearly never shines. The city is beautiful. You look into the smashed-out-window eyes of the homeless, and, if you're looking, you're looking at Christ. That is where the city's greatness lies: it shows us a face of the suffering Christ. And not just the suffering Christ, but the joy-filled and loving Christ as well. The laughter of Christ resounds in these churches, houses, and streets. Not in any over-spiritualized or abstract way, but by teaching us about ourselves. By recognizing both the depression and the beauty, the rusted-out and the beating heart, and yes, the slush & ice and the sparkling fields, we hold two things in tension. On the one hand is death and decay and isolation; on the other, life and beauty and connection. Both hands are part of our lives. Think of a Browns fan: both great disappointment and hope, even when it makes no sense whatsoever, coexist.
And isn't that the common experience of every Christian? Of gradually coming to recognize our many faults and failings, and even more gradually coming to live that hope that dares to hope that "all men be saved?" We are not true if we cannot recognize our faults, yet we are even less true if we cannot accept being loved even in the midst of those faults. That is why I love Cleveland. It is a blighted city, a remnant of the long-departed steel industry, but it is full of hope, even hope without much real grounding. Think of the snow again: it is not always desirable, but it is beautiful. We are in the midst of it, and all we have is grace, even when that grace functions only to remind us of our limitations.

The Blog Itself

This blog is a new thing for me and will probably take a bit of getting used to (meaning that I don't really have a clear idea of what form it will take, but I hope that it may evolve somewhat organically). First, its purpose: I am in the throes of writing my master's thesis for an M.A. in Theology, and I hope to use this platform to explore some of the ideas I hope to work with. The thesis itself is much like this blog: unclear and growing (mushrooming, even) almost by itself. I am interested in looking at how Beauty can be used as a tool for evangelization (though words such as 'used' and 'tool' may already be wrong when applied to Beauty). To this end, I have read and am reading much (eventually I'll get around to putting up an exhaustive bibliography). Having been an English major in college, I'll be looking particularly at the effective (as well as affective) power of Beauty in literature (though undoubtedly the same exploration might be pursued in the realm of the visual arts or even of music).
In a nutshell: at the risk of sounding absurdly self-important (the undeniable bane of any blogger, but undoubtedly most of all of him who tries to "share ideas"), I took a brief glance back across the twentieth century and noticed a couple of movements: a rise in active-contemplative orders/ spirituality (Bl. Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Bl. Charles de Foucauld, to name a small few) as well as, especially in the 50's and 60's, a rise in major Catholic writers, producing important literature. Here one may name Francois Mauriac; Georges Bernanos; Shusaku Endo; Graham Greene (to an extent); J.R.R. Tolkien; and, in our own country, Flannery O'Connor and Walker Percy, among many others. Having noticed these two movements, I asked myself rather audaciously what the Holy Spirit had been trying to communicate through them. This I answered with a further question: how does one restore the contemplative mind and heart to modern man, trapped as he is in this hyper-individualistic, excessively scientific, post-modern, post-Christian, even in some sense post-spiritual context we call life? The way to do this, the only way to give man back his heart of flesh and his mind of wonder and awe, is to allow him to be increasingly confronted by Christ. This is done through prayer and work (active contemplatives) and through allowing our hearts to be pierced by Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. The last of these is perhaps the most excorciated of the three, at least in our present time, but it is undeniable that where one is denigrated, all three suffer. For this reason, the M.A. will focus on Beauty.
As for The Blog Itself - many things will be posted here; quotes I find interesting, musings about art, and perhaps once in awhile some poetry or a short story. I hope to post at least once a week as I read and (eventually) begin writing. It is for no less than the salvation of our souls that I hope to write this, not so that I may save our souls through whatever paltry work I may do, but it is my sincerest hope that the Holy Spirit will use this research, this thesis, and even this blog as a locus of the in-breaking of the presence and life of God, who longs to be held in our hearts, as he once was held in the arms of both Mary and Joseph.
Feel free to respond, share ideas, and comment on my windbaggery - Art is always and above all participatory and community-building. Pray for me as I for thee.