I Like Whitman, Shoot Me in the Morning

 

At one of my first Patrick Henry meals, I sat down beside Dr. Walker. He asked me if I liked Walt Whitman.

I didn’t, particularly, and that relieved him.

But I must have drunk some post-modern water because I like Walt Whitman now. I even like his beard, particularly in its frostiest stage. I don’t think I drunk the post-modern water at college. I think I drunk it somewhere else.

Whitman says that when he heard the learn’d astronomer discourse about space, he went out by himself and looked at the stars. Similarly, when I heard Dr. Kucks ask me to discover by mathematical calculation and diagramming how much space I would need to maneuver a mattress up the staircase I said, “Just give me the mattress and let me try.”

I think I like “The Wound-Dresser” best. I like the question in the first stanza: “What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panies,/ Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?”

It’s a question about memory. Time boils memories down and leaves the important bits. Why have I sweated to scavenge every detail of my life when memory maintains those which shine brightest? I have seen it in my own writing. Those who stress the importance of journalistic novel-writing could not possibly trust their memories, for they are reporters of the minutest details of the external world as much as they are miners of their own thoughts.

But I don’t have to mention that Whitman’s trade is to mine his own thoughts. Perhaps this is a fault. Either way, he trusts his memory.

I easily take up the words in “The Wound Dresser” and apply them to my vocation as a healer in the cursed world. I would like to shout these words against evil:

“Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,

Straight and swift to the wounded I go.”

And,

“I onward go, I stop,

With hinged knees and steady hands to dress wounds.”

And,

“open hospital doors!”

May our knees by full of hinges, and may we be healers. Without, of course, us being transcendentalists.

Chelsea Kolz, Senior, American Lit, Fall 2012

 

Friday's dilemma

                               

In class last Friday, we broke up into groups and addressed the question of whether or not The Scarlet Letter is a Christian book or not, and now I’m really curious. No one seemed to be able to settle down on the issue one way or another, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it is a profoundly Christian book, gorgeous and complex (admittedly, a strong case can be made that it isn’t. Speaking personally, I think it is). As I was reading Hawthorne, I kept thinking about Flannery O’Connor, primarily because the two authors paint humanity in such dark, grim colors. Nevertheless, we can certainly recognize O’Connor’s Christianity (even if we question the value of her grotesque portrayals) and do not question that her stories are Christian. Perhaps part of it is just that O’Connor lived in a drastically different time than Hawthorne. Perhaps the two of them lived and wrote on a darker, more somber plane than most do, but I do think there is a profound sense of structure, for lack of a better term, which anchors Hawthorne (and O’Connor, for that matter) into some sort of real interaction with religion. Perhaps Hawthorne’s is not a saving faith, but he nevertheless doesn’t let his readers or his characters fade into the background, excusing their sin, though  he certainly seems to wish them peace, at least. Hawthorne’s best and most sympathetic characters are those who are hopelessly flawed, but still struggling toward the light (I make no excuses for Chillingworth. Hawthorne’s right: prying into a man’s soul is no light injury). 

Someone brought up Heart of Darkness in class as an example of a completely non-Christian book—the thing that keeps The Scarlet Letter from delving into that same nihilism is this idea that, even though Dimmesdale's and Hester's and Chillingworth’s stories are done, THE story goes on. Pearl has a life to live; Hester goes away into other parts of the world, outside the Puritan community. Perhaps, as Sarah said, it is unusual that such an event didn’t turn the Puritan community inside out, but I think that’s one of the story’s strengths. Mankind commits really ghastly sins that should make the world stop turning—creation should reject us as unclean—but it doesn’t, and that’s evidence of God right there. Does that make Hawthorne a Christian? No, it’s there because frankly, one can’t get away from some sort of interaction with God. I don't know if Hawthorne was a believer, but it's important, I think, to draw a distinction between the man and his book. Is it a Christian book? Yes, I do believe it is; it struggles with one of the biggest problems we as Christians have to face: the problem of sin and suffering and the hypocrisy that so muddies the waters of the soul. 

The Interesting Scarlet Letter

 We were asked to discuss the most interesting part of the Scarlet Letter. Well then, what makes a book interesting? I think it is the parts that hold the reader’s attention most thoroughly. What has held my mind most captive throughout the Scarlet Letter is the idea of sin. What is sin? What is its grip upon mankind? This the reader asks himself along with the characters, over and over again as the book evolves. I am not sure even Hawthorne is exactly sure what to make of sin. It is a curse upon the race of mankind, yet there are also beauties that only sin is able to produce. For instance, the beauty of Pearl cannot be separated from the sin of adultery committed between Hester Prynn and Arthur Dimmesdale. Her beauty is bewitching, though and her sweetness can be seen despite her strange passions. Is sin then a mix of good and evil?

 It seems as if Hawthorne were implying that sin can be a good thing. It causes Hester to be the kindest person in the Plymouth colony. It also produces an empathy within Dimmesdale which would not have been seen otherwise. At the same time the sin eats Dimmesdale, tearing him apart piece by piece. But is it the sin that tears him apart? Or is it the hiding of the sin that so destroys his very being? It must be hiding sin that is destructive because Hester is not destroyed by her sin. The wickedness, instead of demolishing Hester, rather smoothes and polishes her into a thing of rare beauty.

The Christian knows that sin is horrible. It is what is destroying and perverting the world continually. It is what first separated man from his creator. Still there is something beautiful in sin because without it we might have known less of the mercy and justice of our God. Because of our great transgression we see His beauty through his acts of redemption. Our wicked hearts are drawn closer to Christ’s holiness as we recognize our evil hearts. Just as Hester and Arthur are perfected in their sin because they recognize it, so are Christians sanctified through their recognition of sin.

 interesting extra thought from class: The Puritans (as portrayed in the Scarlet Letter) are sort of the opposite of this society in their scales and weighting of sin. They view adultery as the highest of possible sins but passing judgment on others as of little consequence. Today we view adultery as insignificant whereas judging others is considered high treason. All societies have viewed some sins as great and others as lesser. It seems also that the one they are most prone to commit is the one they say is the least, whereas the one they are least prone to commit is of greatest import. Thus society provides a sin as a scape goat, something that people can look at and believe that they are better than. The society then continues to go on its way sinning freely and without thought. At least they are not committing the “Great Sin.” This idea of societies weighting sin differently and yet always being guilty of hypocrisy is, I think, very thought provoking.

 Katie Finnell sophomore, 2012

“This is the cause why the Lord loves the creature, so far as it hath any of His image in it; He loves His elect because they are like Himself, He beholds them in His beloved son. So a mother loves her child, because she thoroughly conceives a resemblance of herself in it. Thus it is between the members of Christ. Each discerns, by the work of the spirit, his own image and resemblance in another, and therefore cannot but love him as he loves himself.”
    John Winthrop

The first part of this statement causes me to wonder. Does God really love his creature because they are like him? Can a creature be so bold as to say, “God loves me because he sees himself in me”? Could even a child say, “Mama loves me because I have blue eyes as she does”? I really do not think so. It is true that man has been formed after the image of his creator. He is like God in that he is a spirit; he can reason, think, love. Yet to make such a statement, seems rather bold. We know that God relates with us and loves us. He treats us as his very children. Yet, even though we are like him we have treated him worse than anything possibly could treat its creator. Still he loves us. Never does he tell us that he loves us because we are like him. Rather, he tells us we must try to be more like him because we fall so short.  If we fall so short, can we attempt to claim to know exactly why God loves us? How impudent. We can wonder at his love, and stand in awe of him for his love. But to expound as to why exactly he loves us, we should never attempt. This is a mystery to great for us. Instead of standing boldly proclaiming why he loves us, we should fall at his feet in adoration of his undeserved love, praising him for this beautiful mystery. Anything else is arrogant pride.

















Katie Finnell sophomore, 2012

Fatherhood in the Scarlet Letter

I’ve now read the Scarlet Letter at least three times, and it must truly be a classic because it’s one of those books that never seems to lose its emotive power and I always seem to notice something new about it. This time around, one of the new things that struck me was the societal implications of the novel. There’s a great deal that goes on in a mechanical sense that’s very tied to the spirituality of the book. For instance, I think the familial relationship between Pearl, Hester, and Dimmesdale is very intriguing. It’s an excellent glimpse into the single-parent phenomenon that’s become such an issue in our nation at this time. 

Like many single-parent households, Hester’s is fundamentally broken. We have Dimmesdale, who refuses to acknowledge his parenthood not from a desire for freedom but from a fear of the societal implications of binding himself to a fallen woman. At root, he’s essentially an irresponsible character who won’t take ownership of what he has engendered. Hester does her best without Dimmesdale, but Pearl nevertheless feels the effects of not having a father. Hawthorne makes much of the fact that Pearl is basically a pagan: She does not believe in God. In fact, she can’t even seem to understand what God is. Yet I would point out that Pearl’s paganism is directly tied to the absence of a father figure in her life. She can’t connect to the idea of a Heavenly father because she has no earthly father. This leads her to a sense of “unconnectedness” with her society and her very being. She becomes a sprite, uncertain of her parentage and who she is as a human. A certain perversion ensues from her lack of familial grounding, as Hester notes with increasing dismay. 

If we see Pearl as the driving force (or the litmus test, as Dr. Hake put it), then the somewhat disorderly plot begins to unravel in a more orderly skein. Just as Chillingworth attempts to discover who his wife’s adulterer is, Pearl seeks throughout the whole novel to find her father. She rejects the initial solution (starting over as a family unit somewhere else), because she feels that Dimmesdale still will not take complete ownership of his child. Only at the end, when he confesses his parentage in front of the whole community, does she run to him, kiss him, and become a true child (and eventually a woman). It is implied that Pearl’s spirituality is revived when her sense of parentage is restored. In short, Hawthorne draws a strong (and accurate) connection between fatherhood and spiritual wellbeing. Even today, boys without a father are more likely to adopt a gay lifestyle, just as girls without a father are more likely to seek a father-figure in sexual partners. Hawthorne’s portrayal of Pearl, Hester, and Dimmesdale, therefore, directly foreshadows issues that haunt American society today. 

Hawthorne’s Moral Authority

 

Hawthorne takes the pulsing A

And pins it onto Hester’s chest.

We look upon it constantly

Inside his seamless, rhythmic text.

Does life do this? Does one small thing

Bombard us with persistent theme?

It doesn’t. But we all agree

With Hawthorne’s selectivity.

The scarlet letter in its flame

The reader sears with Hester’s shame.

 

            I speak as an ENFP with an F bigger than France. Hawthorne provokes vicarious feeling, especially when it comes to Hester’s shame. That the didactic Hawthorne so effectively communicates feeling – and not just moral sense – doesn’t surprise me. Hawthorne does more telling than showing – but both his telling and his showing, produce feeling.

            The character of little Pearl some have criticized as implausible. I agree with them to a degree, then throw up my hands and admit that Hawthorne has so much genius he should be allowed to do as he chooses. Even if we cannot believe Pearl completely, we believe that she can capably illustrate whatever Hawthorne intends.

            As Susan Sontag says:

“To be a great writer:

know everything about adjectives and punctuation (rhythm)

have moral intelligence — which creates true authority in a writer.”

            I do wonder to what extent Hawthorne’s diction and rhythmic sense influence the reader’s opinion of his moral authority. As I read The Scarlet Letter I find myself grateful that I never read it in public high school. I would hate to watch my peers form an inaccurate impression of Christianity because of Hawthorne’s apparent moral authority.  In that setting I often felt the weight of defending Christianity (being, quite often, the only saint sitting in the room). I don’t know if I could have, at that time, defended the Puritans against Hawthorne’s apparent moral intelligence. Although Hawthorne’s moral intelligence is not apparent merely – for he rightly depicts Hester Prynne’s need for mercy. But he causes trouble in blaming Hester’s problems on society and not on her sin.

 

Chelsea Kolz, Fall 2012, Senior, The Scarlet Letter

I was quite surprised to come into class last week after reading Washington Irving and find that the class immediately put “Rip Van Winkle” on trial for failing to say anything.

It is like Billy Collins’s assessment of students reading poetry:

           

“I want them to waterski

across the surface of a poem

           waving at the author's name on the shore.

 

But all they want to do

 is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

 

They begin beating it with a hose

            to find out what it really means.”

 I didn’t know how to answer the suggestion that Irving presented no clear moral. While reading I forgot to demand one of it. I accepted the story like folk art, believing it must have truth because it rung true and sounded as though an honest human had made it. Irving’s writing – his apparently perfect diction, his flawless rhythm and careful construction – nourishes the ear, eye, and mind. It transports the reader.

And Rip’s sin – minding everyone’s business but his own – is lesson enough for me. I do occasionally come to the realization that I would get three times as much work done if I simply stopped talking. May I not soon forget Rip’s lesson in industry.

And if we seek morals, we must not forget the benefits we glean from the bad example of Van Winkle’s pestilential wife. Her exaggerated nature hardly smacks of disrespect to the whole gender. It rather echoes the Bible: “It is better to live in a corner of the housetop than in a house shared with a quarrelsome wife.” Irving’s paraphrase, perhaps: “It is better to sleep for decades and have your rifle rust and your house abandoned and your dog turn evil than to live with Dame Van Winkle."

 

Chelsea Kolz

"Rip Van Winkle

Senior

Fall Semester 2012

 

 

 

 

Gospel upon a hill

Is it worthwhile to seek to redeem a culture? Winthrop, with his “city upon a hill” doctrine, apparently believes so. I wonder, however, if seeking to create a “Christian culture” is even desirable. As far as perfecting a culture goes – we know that that is unachievable. But should we, in good, christian perseverance and hope, dredge onward as far as we can go? Even if that be only the halfway point. Should we push through? Should we drag the culture as far as we can towards christianization as we can and then still pull, knowing that we will never arrive at the finish line?

I don't think so.

The world is not “Christian.” Allowing it to pretend to be isn't veracious and I doubt it is at all helpful. Perhaps the best thing that ever happened to western culture is that Nietzsche rained on our moral parade. No more pretending to have moral capital without moral foundations being allowed. No more operating off of “Christian” morals and pretending that Christianity has nothing to do with it. Take it or leave it.

I don't say this because I don't think it's good and helpful when people do the right thing even when they don't have any kind of rational reason for doing so. I think they should. As Dr. Hake says, pagans are often better than their worldview. I hope they continue to be. Yet, I also believe that the line between paganism and christianity is as stark as the line tearing the veil in two. And seeking to blur that line only blinds the world to the fact that it exists.

As an alternative, perhaps we should instead try to create a culture that loves beauty and good when it sees it, rather than a culture that pretends to be good when it isn't.

 A city with the Gospel upon a hill.

- Sarah Betts, Junior, Fall 2012

            

             I like Anne Bradstreet, I confess, because she has done that good deed that many American poets do: She has kept her margins wide and her words between them short. I love brevity in writing. I think this disease I have- short attention – is supposed to be a personal flaw rather than a mere symptom of living in a distracted generation. But anyway, I have it.

            Also Anne Bradstreet’s introductory material contains one dashing sentence that I marked in yellow: “After her marriage she continued writing.” My two favorite things, writing and marriage, meet in one 16-year-old American girl who has big margins and skinny words!

And her marriage, I mention, must have found stabilization in the devotion that Bradstreet confesses in the poem “To My Dear and Loving Husband.” 

I get out my spade and dig: I like the poem’s clean words. But it doesn’t stick as hard to me as other poems have done. One line, in particular, I find a little grating: “Compare with me, ye women, if you can.” To me this line feels like Rachel gloating over Leah.

I like Bradstreet’s statement that “Thy love is such I can no way repay.” The kind of love she appears to have focuses on her husband rather than herself. That a woman should celebrate a man refreshes me. In our generation, women (I think) have a unique opportunity to glorify God and shape culture simply by giving honor to men as God has designed them to. Wives have the privilege of changing the world by honoring their husbands.

As to the last two lines - which Bradstreet has given extra feet and whose antiquated rhyme makes our eyebrows knit and our tongues stumble – I think she should be allowed them by virtue of her far removal in history.

 

 

Chelsea Kolz

Senior

"To My Dear and Loving Husband" by Anne Bradstreet

Fall 2012

Reading Jonathan Edwards’s “Personal Narrative” and listening to his sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” brought back many memories of lying in bed as a child, wrestling with God. I didn’t recognize the fervor of the experience until I saw it reflected in Edwards as in a mirror. It brought back that point in my life at which the Bible ceased appearing to me merely as black type on white paper and started to breathe. God’s Spirit brought about some similar soul-cries in the two of us, separated by centuries.

Edwards says, “It has often appeared sweet to me, to be united to Christ; to have him for my head, and to be a member of his body.” For some reason it seems that this love exhibits itself most strongly immediately post-conversion. That the fervor should diminish saddens me, and I pray against it.

            The introductory material mentioned that Edwards’s parishioners felt exaltation “when they experienced delight in God’s sovereignty.” Might this strike many members of our current culture as counter-intuitive? Should God’s sovereignty produce delight?

            I sometimes fondly call my home “Arminian county.” There, preaching often focuses on man’s efforts to attain God’s favor. At about the age of 12 I first started hearing preaching that focused on the bigness and the ability of God. Nothing was more exciting. Not only did my own salvation not depend on me, but I could identify in God a reality great enough to consume me. Glorifying him, I found, was a worthy end. The Bible, no longer a book of heroes who had “done the right thing” but rather a book about God’s greatness and grace, became delicious to me. I loved, as Edwards did, to be united to Christ, to have him for my head, and to be united to his body.

 

Chelsea Kolz

Jonathan Edwards

Senior

Fall Semester 2012

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-Dr. Hake