Christianity Today has posted my interview with Os Guinness, talking about his latest book, Fool’s Talk: Recovering the Art of Christian Persuasion (InterVarsity Press). Guinness is a thoughtful man who has some worthwhile things to say.
I’ve been fascinated by the upset caused by Harper Lee’s new rendition of Atticus Finch in Go Set a Watchman, her followup to To Kill a Mockingbird. Evidently Atticus does not come off as quite so morally heroic, and that bothers people.
To which I want to say: Atticus Finch is a fictional character. Another novel that uses his name is just another novel, and another character named Atticus Finch has nothing to do with the first Atticus Finch. The character in To Kill a Mockingbird is his forever; it was complete when Harper Lee published the book.
I think this way because I’m a novelist. I love novels, but I know that they are illusions, carved out with careful intentionality by their authors. Novels may tell you some important truths—I believe they do—but they do not create lives. Only God does that.
My wife explains to me that people long to believe in heroes during these dispiriting times, and Atticus Finch is a hero. I take her point. How many characters in modern fiction can one see as genuinely heroic? I am having trouble thinking of a single one, besides Atticus Finch. Perhaps the upset over Atticus represents people who want heroes left alone.
Okay, I get that, but could we focus on defending heroes whom we know to be real people?
My thoughts about fictional heroes apply almost identically to the trouble with Bill Cosby. Of course, it’s upsetting that Cosby has turned out to be a wretch. (Or is that too kind a word to apply to a serial rapist?) But there are many serial rapists in the world. The particular trouble with the idea of Bill Cosby, serial rapist, is that we believed he was such a nice man. We believed, in fact, that he was our friend. Naturally we feel betrayed.
But that feeling of betrayal is based on a hopeless and willed naivete. I will contend (and here I rely on my experience as a reporter, not as a novelist) that the public figures we read about and see on TV—the athletes, movie stars, politicians, preachers and even scientists—are just as much fictional characters as Atticus Finch. Enjoy their performance, and draw inspiration from it, but resist the temptation to think you know anything about the real person behind the performance.
I’ve had a few experiences of this, with Christian celebrities who were widely believed to be wise and saintly characters, and whom I came to believe (from personal encounters) verged on the psychotic. Unless you know people personally, and know them well, you have no idea what they are like. Their public persona is an image, as carefully crafted as a character in a novel.
Bill Cosby of public life—let’s call him “Bill Cosby”—was a lovely old curmudgeon, funny and wise and delightful. “Bill Cosby” represented a projection of something that the real Bill Cosby wanted to be, and perhaps in small portions could be. But “Bill Cosby” has no more fallen than Atticus Finch. And you don’t know the real Bill Cosby, and Bill Cosby wasn’t your friend. Thankfully.
Here’s an audio link to the sermon I preached on Sunday. It’s a sketch of Naomi (in the book of Ruth), her bitterness and disappointment with God, and the way in which God reached into her situation. The sermon lasts 23 minutes, and I think it’s pretty good!
This is a nice piece from the Sunday New York Times about Alzheimers, written by a man whose mother is actually much more playful and fun than she ever was in her regular life.
“Nice piece about Alzheimers” may seem an improbable collection of words, but I was reminded of my own father, who died nine years ago. Please understand that it was an agonizing process to witness a brilliant man gradually lose all his faculties. There were some compensations, though. He said thank you, and showed genuine gratefulness, in a way that he had rarely done in his more competent years. A more tender and relational side came out. As his speech ran out, we had physical contact we had never known before: holding hands, touching, hugging. When I remember those years, I don’t recoil in horror. It’s bittersweet.
I think people generally are scared to death of Alzheimers, as though it’s the worst thing that could ever happen. It’s bad. I wouldn’t wish it on any family. But I’m sure it’s not the worst thing.
I feel a lot of interest in Google’s development of a self-driving car. The technology is certainly here, now. We could roll out a whole new regime of driving in five years, from what I can see. What hold us back are political and legal concerns. People are made very uneasy by something so new occupying such a central place in society. They are wary of large, heavy objects hurtling about without human guidance.
So my question is: what will push us past these concerns? What positive attractions will convince us to adopt this exhilarating, life-changing innovation?
There is the possibility of greatly alleviating traffic woes, as computer-driven cars need much less safety space between them. There is the prospect of much greater highway safety, as drunk drivers, distracted drivers, and poor drivers no longer put themselves and the rest of us at risk. There is the attraction of reading a book, playing a game, or watching a movie while you drive.
There is the ambition (of car companies) to sell millions of new, wonderful, expensive gadgets.
For my money, though, the force most likely to propel self-driving cars into orbit is my generation: aging baby boomers. Old people don’t drive as well. Old people ultimately don’t drive at all. They thus lose control of their lives: can’t shop, can’t go to the doctor, can’t go to a concert, can’t go to church. Somebody else has to drive them.
But with self driving cars, elders can remain independent much, much longer. When they (and their children) realize this, they will be hard to stop.
My two favorite columnists, David Brooks and Ross Douthat, have now weighed in on Pope Francis’s encyclical on the environment, here and here. While both give Francis high marks for bravely tackling the subject, and both appreciate his wonderful personal qualities, neither one of them sees the encyclical very favorably.
Brooks approaches it more practically, noting that “Francis doesn’t seem to have practical strategies for a fallen world.” He’s consistently against any market-driven innovation and any technological advance. There’s no acknowledgement that market-driven economic growth (as in China and India) and technological advance (as in crops that grow more food) have led to a huge diminishing in world poverty and hunger in the developing world, and to environmental improvements in the developed world. Brooks concludes: “The innocence of the dove has to be accompanied by the wisdom of the serpent — the awareness that programs based on the purity of the heart backfire; the irony that the best social programs harvest the low but steady motivations of people as they actually are.”
I agree with that, but I thought Douthat’s comments were more penetrating. Douthat divides social commentators between “dynamists and catastrophists.” Dynamists recognize severe problems but have moderate hope that human society is capable of innovative solutions. They “see 21st-century modernity as a basically successful society.” Catastrophists are sure the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and nothing can stop it. They are “united in believing that current arrangements are foredoomed, and that only a true revolution can save us.”
These two are more rhetorical style and temperament than developed philosophy. You can find both liberals and conservatives on both sides. Living in Sonoma County, I often encounter liberals who see utter ruin just ahead: to the environment, to the economy, to education, to democracy. And being an evangelical Christian, I often encounter conservatives who also see utter ruin just ahead: to the family, to traditional values like love of country, to freedom of religion (or any other kind of freedom.)
Dynamists of the left believe in the power of governmental and technocratic solutions, while dynamists of the right believe in the power of market arrangements.
According to Douthat, Francis is a catastrophist. He sees nothing but ruin ahead for God’s creation, given our current political and economic relations.
As I say, I catastrophism is a rhetorical style, beloved of the prophets. Such doomsday verbiage captures the attention and the imagination. It may help motivate people to take global warming seriously, before it is too late. That, I feel sure, is Francis’ intent, and I suspect he is willing to pass by nuanced discussion of economics in favor of getting his message across. He is a preacher by nature and calling, it seems.
As Douthat suggests, however, there are other possible outcomes that could make Francis ultimately look as foolish as Paul Ehrlich and his population bomb. “It’s possible to believe that climate change is happening while doubting that it makes ‘the present world system … certainly unsustainable,’ as the pope suggests. Perhaps we’ll face a series of chronic but manageable problems instead; perhaps ‘radical change’ can, in fact, be persistently postponed.” Or perhaps we will settle into stagnation, unable to deal with our threats, but also unable to triumph over them.
“In that case,” writes Douthat, “the deep critique our civilization deserves will have to be advanced without the threat of imminent destruction. The arguments in ‘Laudato Si’ ‘ will still resonate, but they will have to be structured around a different peril: Not a fear that the particular evils of our age can’t last, but the fear that actually, they can.”
As I read the Bible, stagnation is not the main threat to worry about. Neither is ecological destruction, significant as it certainly is. I find the Bible offering no hint whether environmental degradation will destroy us in the end or not. I do find a clear warning that our sin—our selfishness, self-worship, arrogance, lack of concern for our neighbor, refusal to care for the poor and to steward God’s beautiful world—will lead us to be judged and found wanting by our creator. That catastrophism requires a different kind of analysis—not one based on our environmental survival, but on our standing before a God of love and power.
I just got back from backpacking in the eastern Sierra. At least a dozen years had passed since I was last in the back-country for a solid week, and it reminded me that there’s a big difference between being out of civilization for seven days instead of three. We spent the whole week over 10,000 feet, climbing over four near-12,000-foot passes. I discovered that I can’t go as far or as fast as I once could. Six miles with a pack and I was thrashed. But that’s okay. You can take the Sierra slow.
That is decidedly not the theory animating those hiking the 2,600-mile Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). I was frankly shocked at how many of them we saw. They were easy to spot by the men’s (and they were mostly men) scraggly beards. They were young, tall and lean. They had very similar equipment. (I assume they all read the same guidebook.) And they were burning up the trail, traveling unbelievable distances each day. Of course, they had already hiked nearly 800 miles, so they were in pretty good shape!
One Kings Canyon National Park ranger said he heard that 4,500 PCTers had registered. Granted that many drop out, that’s still a lot of bodies traveling on one narrow wilderness trail. They start in roughly a one-month window, in order to make it from Mexico to Canada before the snow. You do the math. If half drop out, that’s 75 a day.
Another ranger told us that the numbers have been ratcheting up year by year for a long time. Apparently the movie and book Wild has stimulated a big increase. I suspect the numbers will ratchet back down. Who can spend upwards of six months hiking? Who wants to? (It’s not all scenic wonderland.) The ranger, however, was doubtful. He sees no end.
When I was a boy, backpacking was a niche phenomenon. After a two-week hike we would find people at the trailhead who had no idea that anybody did such a thing. They acted as though they had discovered Neanderthals still living in the remote reaches of the woods.
Then, during my college years, “nature” met its cultural moment. The trails grew so popular that the National Parks and the Forest Service had to implement daily trail quotas. But hikers went in mostly for short trips—weekends or weeks. They hiked to experience wilderness and see the mountains. Most of that died out, when we had children.
Today, the focus is on feats of endurance. It’s very impressive, completing the PCT. And anybody who has fought long and hard to accomplish a goal knows there are great personal benefits. But still it leaves me with questions. Is this what the mountains are for? A proving ground for our toughness?
I suppose it goes with the growth in extreme sports. Our time seems driven to test our limits—on an individual and personal basis, not as a society. (We seem allergic to sacrifice and goal-setting as a nation. We can’t even agree on how to fix our bridges and pave our roads. Maybe we’re balancing that out with demanding physical feats.)
I thought about John Muir, who wandered these same mountains. When you read what he did you are struck by his heroic and stoic endurance. The dude was tough and fearless. In that sense, he would have identified with the PCTers. But he wasn’t tough to prove himself; he was tough because that was the easiest way for him to be in the mountains. It was the wilderness he sought, not an affirmation of himself.
The mountains will outlast this cultural moment. They will speak for themselves. I wonder whether some of the PCTers will come back for a second look, when they can slow down. I bet they will.
Don’t miss this column by Ross Douthat on the critique of the church emphasizing culture wars over concern for the poor. It’s a corrective to liberal bias, but also a fundamental challenge to the church. I think he’s hitting something very important.
For the last six weeks I have been writing fiction Monday through Friday. It’s what I’ve wanted most to do since I was in the third grade. I love fiction, and I believe in the power of fiction. In my mostly-journalistic career I’ve managed to carve out time to write five novels; this will be my sixth. None of my novels has been anything like commercially successful, but what does that have to do with anything? I have the freedom to write fiction, and that’s what I’m doing.
I have to report, though, that fiction is much harder to write than non-fiction. I’ve written enough fiction that the techniques are not a mystery. I’m not floundering as I sometimes did in earlier novels. It’s just hard—hard every minute and every day. The reason can be expressed very simply: you have to make things up. You start with nothing. Every day you begin with a blank screen, and you try your best to breathe life into words so that people—real, three-dimensional people—walk and talk through your pages. So that real things of consequence go on. So that relationships develop and change. So that life is lived on the page.
It’s so much harder than non-fiction I can’t even put them under the same heading of “writing.” I know how to write. I’m a good writer. I am not sure I know how to create out of nothing. I’m trying, but I teeter on the edge hour by hour and often fall off.
All this to say: when you read the first words of Genesis, where it says, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” understand that this is a stupendous statement. A novel is a shadow of reality; God created reality. From nothing.