A Day In The Journey

What is a Christian classical school? Fair question. And one which I hope to answer.

First I will address the idea of a Christian school. Most people think they know what being a Christian school entails: uniforms, standards and a Bible class. Yet that is little more than your average private school with some denominational orientation thrown in. A truly Christian school seeks to remember that the "chief end of man is to glorify God. . . ." A truly Christian school remembers that the very act of living is in praise of Him and thus every act of living should be surrounded by Him. And a truly Christian school gives students the opportunity to discover the answers to the "negotiable" questions on their own. Thus, a Christian school should teach every subject from a biblical perspective--teaching in the light that the all-powerful, sovereign God controls every aspect of life and infuses every discipline of man--rather than simply tacking on a chapel or a Bible class. However, a truly Christian school should not fall to the temptation to institute a box for thinking. Students should and must be taught the basics of the faith--and the reasons why they are true. But beyond the basics, students should be allowed to discuss the sides, to turn to their parents for answers, and to come to the conviction they see best. For without training the students to reasonably examine and determine their own position on "negotiable" issues--students are left with a set of "beliefs," but no idea why they are true, or why they should believe them. A truly Christian school should not discourage questioning, it should equip the students with the tools and scriptures to answer the questions.

Now, to the harder task: answering the question, "what is a classical school?" I will warn you that you will have to think outside of "traditional" educational methodology for a few minutes. For about a hundred years, schools have been structured according to the idea that students should be given a set of "subjects" to master by the time they graduate. For example, History. We take a student and teach them over the period of 12 or 13 years a large number of chronological facts that are mainly divorced from every other area of study. These facts we expect them to absorb and spit back out for tests, etc., and then we turn said students out into the world with a vague idea that the world has some historical facts and events. But they never learn more than that. The idea behind what is termed "classical" education goes beyond the mere mastery of subject matter. The idea is to teach children the methods of learning so that they can master any subject they find to be interesting. We'll get back to history in a minute. The basic structure of a classical education follows the Trivium: grammar, logic (dialectic), and rhetoric. Grammar is the study of the parts of language. Every discipline has its own "grammar." History has facts, dates, events; Math, numbers and processes; English, parts of speech and syntax; Science, elements and definitions. In the grammar stage, students learn these tools--the elements and order of the languages. They learn to take apart a "subject" to examine and learn its basic parts. Logic is the study of using and applying those parts of the language. By experimentation and application they understand how the parts work together. Rhetoric is the study of expression. Now that students have learned the elements of a language and how those elements are used and applied, they can learn to express their own thoughts and ideas in that language. These steps helpfully mirror the intellectual development of students (a discussion I will leave to wiser minds, like Sayers). So, back to history. How is history different? Classical students learn facts and events, also, yet not nearly as many. The emphasis is on learning the watershed points. They learn to place these facts and events in their historical context, through literature, and they also learn to apply the lessons learned. In the Grammar stage, facts are learned. By the logic stage, students are learning the connection that historical events have with literature and philosophy. Because the emphasis is on mastery of a process that is the same in all disciplines, students are able to learn connections. A caveaTITLE: the average classical student in middle school will have less individual subject knowledge that the average traditional student. The difference is that the classical student has learned a methodology that will enable him to master any subject he desire to study, whereas the traditional student has only learned the content knowledge. Classical students learn the tools they have to work with, how the tools work and how to apply them to their personal expression.

Wow. I don't know if that makes a great deal of sense. I hope so. It is only a brief overview of Christian classical education. I will leave you with a link to an excellent speech/essay by Dorothy Sayers. She explains things much better than I do. So for a deeper look, please read "The Lost Tools of Learning."
lost tools

Posted by Renee at 06:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So. I really wasn't expecting all the prep work in going to this school. Okay, maybe I was, but I was hoping it wouldn't be quite so much. The movie part won't be so bad :) but the reading was. . .well good and bad. Recovering the Lost Tools of Learning by Doug Wilson was good. I enjoyed it because it spoke from his personal experience founding a classical Christian school. Not beign Presbyterian, I didn't agree with all of his philosophy, but I found the book very helpful in getting my teeth around the general philosphy of classical Christian education. The Seven Laws of Teaching, on the other hand, was not so easy to get through. The book, by John Milton Gregory, was excellent as far as thesis and core information was concerned. It was inceredibly wordy, however. Of course, that could be because it was written in the 1880's and the style then was rather. . .overly word-filled. However, as repetition is the key to learning, I guess I can't get too irritated about it. Actually, he really explains the keys to being a good teacher--keys that are often forgotten in a day of curriculum methodology and psychology classes. I really felt that he had a handle on what to keep in mind as one is teaching. Right now, I feel well prepared to tackle both classical Christian philosophy (from Wilson) and the application of it (from Gregory). I say this knowing full well that after my first day my feelings of well-preparedness will very likely shatter and I will return to both books to regain myself. But that, I suppose, is the lot of everyone who embarks on a new endeavor!

Posted by Renee at 11:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

They put up big wooden gods.
Then they burned the big wooden gods
And put up brass gods and
Changing their minds suddenly
Knocked down the brass gods and put up
A doughface god with gold earrings.
The poor mutts, the pathetic slant heads,
They didn’t know a little tin god
Is as good as anything in the line of gods
Nor how a little tin god answers prayer
And makes rain and brings luck
The same as a big wooden god or a brass
God or a doughface go with golden
Earrings.

--Carl Sandburg

Posted by Renee at 06:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

These birds in hundreds rained like pelt-like kamikazes the day the heavens caved in because of God’s anger.
Man was floating in circles in a boat made of pitch.
Fish were freed to a place of utter mobility.
And the screaming children were swallowed up by the sea.
Inside the fortress, man smelled like the earth, even though the earth was not yet to be seen.
My curious cohorts would play late in their pens of mud,
And furious others clamoured until they fell into sleep.
The old man’s hand was blood-soaked in teeth-marks,
For the floating zoo had no admission park.
And this lonely dove, the soul of God in image,
Found a twig that set every one off,
In the water circus.

--Kevin Smith

Posted by Renee at 06:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Who is there who so loves me, that he
Will throw away his own dear life?
If someone will die for me in the ocean,
I will be brought back from stone
Into life, into life redeemed.
How I long for blood’s rushing;
Stone is so still.
I dream of life: life is good.
Has no one the courage
Through which I might awaken?
And if I once more find myself in life,
Given everything most golden,--

------------------------------

then I will weep
alone, weep for my stone.
What help will my blood be, when it ripens like wine?
It cannot scream out of the ocean
He who loved me most.

--Rainer M. Rilke

Posted by Renee at 06:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A young knight comes to mind
Almost like an old saying.He came. Thus sometimes in the grove
The great storm comes and wraps around you.He left. Thus often the wild benison
Of the great bells breaks off
In the midst of prayer...
Then you want to scream in the silence,
And yet only weep softly inside,
Deep in your cool shawl.
A young knight comes to mind,
Riding far in full armor.
His smile was so soft and fine:
Like gleaming on old ivory,
Like homesickness, like a Christmas snowfall
In the dark village, like turquoise
Around which many pearls are fashioned,
Like moonlight
On a favorite book.

--Rainer M. Rilke

Posted by Renee at 06:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is my favourite of every piece that I've every written.

Earth. London, England. A.D. 2471. Secondary Headquarters for the United Earth Colonization Federation.

Just inside the entrance to a large oval briefing room, a young woman sits, waiting. In her mid twenties, she is attractive, yet hardened by labor and trouble. She waits. Finally, the secretary calls her name.

"Kyla Erwyss Langdon."

She stepped forward to the table and sat in the chair indicated to her. The general in charge gazed at her for a moment before beginning.

"Miss Langdon, you understand that you are not here because you are in trouble, don’t you. We do realize that while the measures taken by you and your friends were extreme, they were necessary in your situation. What we don’t understand is what exactly the situation was. That is what we are here to discover. You and your parents were among the second migration to the colony, am I right?"

A small ten-year-old girl faced the transport. New adventures; but also new fears to face. A new world. To a ten-year-old girl, the fears almost outweighed the sense of adventure. But, her dad walked over to her took her hand. "It’s time to go." And with that he led here into the transport and her new life.

"Yes, sir." In a voice calmer and surer than her years would account for, Kyla Langdon began her tale. "For my parents, Terga Prime seemed like the best opportunity they would ever have. My father lost his English professorship at Oxford over a textual debate regarding Henry IV, and my mother had just finished her Master’s in Biological Science. They were looking for something new. They had both been offered teaching positions at the newly established colony school, and they accepted. The transport left the next week. It was one of the last transports to Terga Prime."
"What was the colony like when your family arrived?"

She stepped off the transport to a bewildering cacophony of sensations. The colony’s one story square buildings and round Velor Quonset huts marched around the central square, but straggled lazily at the edges. People bustled around fulfilling duties and accomplishing tasks, just like any Earth town, but it was different. The air was rough-hewn, daring, courageous. Slowly the girl’s fears melted away as the spirit of the place trickled into her. Adventures beware: Kyla was coming.

"It was thriving. It was full of spirit and life. The colonists were so very proud of everything they had built and done. It was incredible."
"What was the government like at that time?"

"The Council meets tonight." Her father had come into the kitchen and placed himself at the table.
"Isn’t it early for them to meet? They always meet on Saturday." Kyla’s mother turned to her husband with a puzzled frown.
"They want to discuss expanding the school. They’ve called a special session because they know I can’t make it on Saturday."
"Good. I assumed that after it was discussed at the colony meeting they would rule about it."
"We need more room. I think we’ll get it. The Council really does manage to get whatever is in the colony’s best interest. It certainly has worked out well."

"We were governed by a council of 21 men and women. They were elected every year. The council met every Saturday evening. Colony meetings were held on Mondays, which gave the council time to think about what was discussed in the colony meetings before ruling on it. From what I could tell, it seemed to work very well. I did not find out until later that several council members were plotting a change."
"That correlates with the information that we have. Up until the year ’61, we feel our information is fairly accurate; it is after that year that we cannot be sure whether our information is true, or a fabrication of the Tri. What happened in the year 2461?"

The young girl who had stepped off the transport to such a new world was now a teenager. She stood at the edge of one of the colony’s fields and gazed over the rows of withering, blighted crops. It seemed they shriveled away even more as she watched. This year there would be no harvest.

"2461. I was fifteen years old. That was the year that the crops failed. . . ."
"Did anyone ever discover the cause for the crop failure?" This time the question came for the Secretary of Agriculture.

A group of worried men stood in the rows of blasted corn. They pulled off leaves randomly and scanned them with a small instrument. By the shaking of heads, it was obvious that they were not finding anything. Finally, with desperate and hopeless look they left the field.

Kyla considered him for a moment before continuing.
"At first, no one had any success trying to discover the cause. Then the epidemic came and no one had the time or energy to devote to sick crops with so many sick people. Then no one had permission. Over time, a theory developed that the blight of the crops was merely a different strain of the disease that struck the colony. Later it was theorized that the disease had been developed and integrated by the Tri so that they could establish power. Both theories were substantiated, but the evidence is no longer in existence." Her voice had grown hard over the last phrase. The general pondered her face and then nodded.
"I am persuaded to believe you. Excuse my interruption, General McDairmant. Please continue, Miss Langdon."
Kyla swallowed, and obeyed. "The crops failed that year. We watched them as they wasted away from a blight that we could not identify. Around what would have been harvest came the Epidemic. The first to fall ill was Adam Rowle."

"Old Adam Rowle fell ill today. Doctor Fischer said he’s never seen this before." Kyla’s father placed his briefcase on the table and hugged his wife. "He wasn’t really worried, though. He said that it’s probably just old age and Adam’s weak immune system, not anything serious."
"That’s good," came her mother’s relieved sigh. "The colony can’t afford illness right now."
"I wouldn’t worry about it, Rebecca. Doctor Fischer said not to. It should be okay."

"No one really thought about it then, because Mr. Rowle was older and had a weaker immune system than most. But then more people grew ill. Within two weeks Adam Rowle was dead, and the entire council grew seriously ill. Then the entire colony began to fall victim to the disease. The colony fell into ungoverned chaos. The Tri stepped in to maintain order. They certainly did that, and well."
She stopped at General McDairmant’s upraised hand. "What exactly do you mean by restoring order?"

The Tri. It seemed strange to call them that after having known them all this time. But no longer were they Senator Bendley, Laretha Omar and Jonson Rafet—now they were the Tri, the new government of the colony. Kyla’s father vehemently expressed his uneasiness at the development.
"I do not think dissolving the office of the council was a good idea. I’m afraid this government is turning sour, and the scent of it is authoritarian."
"Alex, don’t worry about it. So many people are ill now, I don’t think we could elect a new council if we wanted to. After this is over, we’ll reinstate the council, I’m sure."
Alex Langdon just sighed.

"They abolished the council and set themselves up as the government of Terga Prime. Almost immediately, they instated a strict state of affairs. Everything was rationed. Anyone over the age of twelve had to work, taking the place of those who were ill. At first, we went directly to the Tri with problems and questions. After six months, though, they appointed a "general" to be the liaison between the colonists and the Tri. The authoritarian government that my father had feared was developing."
"Your parents were victims of the epidemic weren’t they?"
"Yes. Almost everyone over the age of twenty was."

A slender, work-worn hand placed a single white lily on her parents’ coffin. Then, sixteen-year-old Kyla, the hand’s owner, straightened and threw the customary handful of dirt into the grave. Then she turned and walked away. She knew she couldn’t bear watching the shovelfuls of dirt smother her parents’ coffin. Now, suddenly, for the first time, she was alone.

"They died almost a year after the Tri came to power. I was sixteen."
"What happened to you after their death?"

This is your new home." The general held her shoulder as they faced the large Velor Quonset. It didn’t look very inviting, but it was the only place she had anymore.

"The Tri saw to it that I was place in their orphanage. It was a terrible place to live; very hard."
"Hard?"
"Cold, forbidding, uncaring. The administrators were hard, cold people who made the place hard and cold. They didn’t care about us beyond whether or not we’d done our work. They ran the place like a military camp. We had rigorous schedules and strict discipline. At times it seemed they disciplined us simply because they didn’t know what else to do with us. As more people died, more children came in, and the administrators grew harsher and harsher. They began to beat us down emotionally, trying, and basically succeeding, to make us believe that we deserved the harshness and hard labour. Frankly, it was evil and dehumanizing."
"What kind of work did you do?"

Scrape, scrape, scrunch, scrape. Eighteen-year-old Kyla hand hoed the field. Glancing up, she sighed, relieved that it was almost sun-down. She couldn’t wait to get back, eat, shower, and sleep. She doubted if she had felt rested once in the entire two years since her parents’ death. She had moved out of the orphanage several weeks before, so at least she had some privacy and now. But still, no wages. The Tri still claimed that the colony hadn’t recovered from the crop failure of three years before. Kyla had begun to doubt that. She wasn’t the only one, either.

"About the same as we had been doing before: working in the fields, making necessities, loading shipments of trade goods. The difference was the hours: sunrise to sundown, no exceptions. I was a field worker. I suppose they thought that was a great irony since my parents had been intellectuals. And there was no pay, even for those out of the orphanage. We had necessities, and no more. They did give us a house—typically our parents’ house—but meals were served at the town hall so we wouldn’t waste time cooking. And all this time, the Tri and their inner circle of friends grew more and more wealthy from our labour. Those of us who could remember knew it was wrong; we just couldn’t do anything about it."
"When did the dissenters first begin to meet? Who were they? You were one of the first, I believe."

She had been sitting beside him for several minutes in silence. She never spoke to anyone in the dining hall. He spoke to her.
"I’m Joram Adliss. You’re Kyla Langdon, am I right?"
Kyla stared at him for a moment. Warily she replied, "Yes, I’m Kyla Langdon, how did you know?"
"You’re father was Alex Langdon, correct?" At her nod he continues. "I was one of his students. He used to talk about you and your mother all the time. He kept a picture of you both on his desk. You look just like her, you know."
"That was almost eight years ago! You remembered?"
"Yes. I tried to find you after your parents died, but I couldn’t. The orphanage refused to let me look for you."
"Well. Now you’ve found me."
The pair began to spend dinner together every night. It didn’t take long for them to discover common ground: they were both dissenters. Joram had met three other dissenters over the past two years. Now they were coming together.

"I was one of the first. I met Joram Adliss not many weeks after leaving the orphanage. He had been one of my father’s students. He knew several other dissenters. They had remained fairly separate because of the surveillance. The Tri didn’t tolerate any dissenting talk, so they placed cameras and microphones everywhere.
"My father had built a study for his books under our house. We began meeting there on Saturday evenings, in honour of the council, and because we had Sunday off. Over the next year, our number grew to twenty."
"What did you do after that? What happened in the six years between then and the revolt?"

Four years had passed since Kyla had first met Joram. Over those years, the Tri had pressed harder and harder on the colony. They had started a school for young children, but it was little more that a propaganda mill to teach support for the Tri. Kyla’s hear broke to see it. This day had been a particularly hard day in the fields. She almost skipped dinner but decided against it as it might raise questions of her loyalty to the Tri. As she trudged home, she wondered how much longer she could take it. How much longer until something could be done. She stopped to let two bedraggled schoolchildren race across the street. "They aren’t discouraged," she thought. "But that’s because they don’t know any different." Tears began to stream down her face. How much longer could she watch young children be oppressed by the Tri, teenagers forced into adulthood by hard labour.
She walked into her house and was surprised to find the lights on. Then she smiles, seeing Joram asleep on the couch.
"Joram, wake up," she whispered in his ear. Slowly he awoke and looked at her. She smiled and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. She smiled and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. Joram came in behind her, slipped his arms around her waist and hugged her.
"I have a not from Elca. I thought you would want to read it. It’s on the table." He paused. "You’re going to make it, Kyla."
"Sometimes, I doubt it. If I see many more children scrubbing floors and hoeing fields, I think I’m going to break down. I knew their parents, Joram. They were better than this." She swallowed. "On top of that, I’m being watched. I’m so tired of planning every move I make and everything I say. I long to just speak my mind. It’s been so long already; how much longer will it take?"
"I don’t know. All I know is we’re together in this." And kissing her on top of the head, he left.

"We struggled. We starved. We hid from the Tri. We worked. The Tri took more of our freedoms. It was worse than the Communism that plagued the Earth hundreds of years ago. By 2466, we weren’t aloud to speak during work hours because they were trying to curb dissent. By ’67, we couldn’t talk at dinner. But the more they pushed, the more dissenters found our group. By ’69 there were too many of us to meet at all. It was hard for more than ten people to meet anywhere safely. The group elected five of us to handle information and plan. We now knew we had to do something. Children in the orphanages were starting to die from overwork. The Tri was experimenting with cloning and droid technology to eliminate the need for us at all. We had to take action; we just didn’t know what action to take yet."
"When did you finally decide that outright revolt was the action to take?"

The five straggled around the underground study.
"We have to take action soon." It was Elca. "There won’t be a better time than Senator Bendley’s birthday soirée. Security in the main colony will be minimal at best."
"Yes, but it will be tighter than usual around the Tri’s compound."
"Laster, you’re just cynical." Elca protested. "Nobody said we were going to storm the compound."
"You may call it cynical, but it’s true."
"Even so, Laster, Elca has a point. Whatever we are going to do, we couldn’t look for a better time than Saturday," Kyla agreed. "What we should do is the question. If we wanted to send a signal to Earth, Saturday would be a perfect opportunity."
"A signal won’t accomplish much," Laster rejoined. "Earth wouldn’t believe us, and the Tri would find out about it."
They sat in silence for several minutes. Then:
"Why don’t we storm the compound? There are enough dissenters to stage a revolt. The Tri rules by fear and propaganda, not numbers."
"Joram, you can’t be serious. It wouldn’t work." It was the first time Aren had spoken all evening.
"How do you know it won’t work; we haven’t tried it yet."
Laster and Elca just stared. Aren shook his head in disbelief. Kyla, crouched in front of a bookshelf, slowly stood and turned around. After staring thoughtfully at Joram for several long moments, she spoke.
"Revolt. Do you honestly think we could storm the compound and win?"
"I don’t see why not?" Joram answered, startled by Kyla’s interest. "We have the numbers, we just need a plan."
"Then let’s get a plan."
The five pulled their chairs around the table and started in.

"It just happened. Joram made the suggestion one night, more out of frustration that actual thought. But suddenly it seemed like the right thing. Senator Bendley’s birthday soirée was that Saturday, and it was the perfect time. We made our plans, and that Saturday we took back the colony."
"You did a very effective job."
"I read a lot. You would be surprised at how accurate even fiction can be."
"Somehow, I’m not all that surprised. Miss Langdon, who is responsible for the death of the Tri?"
"I am."

The banquet hall. She stood inside the doors she had just kicked open, tazer in had. The Tri stood facing her; their guests had already fled the room. Suddenly faced with the three people who had caused such great hurt to her and so many others, she felt tired and alone. She was a little girl again, seeing them for the first time.
"Kyla, dear." Laretha Omar stepped forward with a smooth smile. "You don’t really hate us, do you. We’ve only done what’s best for the colony. We’ve freed you from worry, you just never realized. We’ve freed you from worry, you just never realized it. We care about you. We’ve just been waiting for the right time to share our beneficence with the entire colony."
Kyla stood there, almost paralyzed under the gaze of the older woman. At first she didn’t know how to respond. Then she saw in her mind all the people who had died.
"Did you care about me when you infected me parents with the plague? Did you care about Adam Rowle or Harper Emme or Jareth Corbit? What about Doc Fischer? No. You never cared about anyone but yourself. You murdered hundreds of innocent people, and in case you’re wondering, I’m counting all the children who have dies in the orphanage. You shattered this colony, and all for your own selfish desires."
"That really wasn’t our fault. It was their fault. If they would have gone along with our plan to change the government, everything would have been fine." Senator Bendley had spoken. "We offered every one of them a share of what we would gain, but they refused."
Kyla stared at him. "That’s because they knew you would double-cross them sometime. It just happened while they still had their integrity."
Jonson Rafet looked at her for a moment. "Kyla, you don’t have to turn us in, or execute us, or whatever you are planning. You can join us. You’re a very pretty young woman and I’m a single man. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted."
"Do you honestly think that will tempt me? Will that undo everything you’ve done? No. My parents are still dead. And if I agreed to your terms, my friends would all be dead, too. As for executing you, that’s not my job. You’ll go back to Earth and stand trial as you ought."
"I doubt it," came Laretha’s voice. As she spoke, three armed guards came through the back door of the room. Kyla ducked to the side firing. Joram ran in behind her and shot the guards. Senator Bendley grabbed one of the guards’ weapons and aimed it at Joram. Kyla fired her small tazer three times. The Tri were no longer a threat. Joram helped her up, and together they left the room.

"I never intended to shoot them. I had intended to bring them back to Earth. Then three guards came in. When they fired, I fired back. Then it was over."
"I understand. It seems very clear-cut to me. Now I must discover how their tyranny went so long undetected and make sure it can never happen again. But I don’t need you for that. Miss Langdon, thank you for your time. I feel I must apologize for everything you and the other dissenters have suffered. I hope you will not abandon Terga Prime to its decay."
"No, sir. There are children there who need a better life."
"You are dismissed, Miss Langdon. I hope you will continue better than you have been."
Kyla Langdon strode out of the briefing room into the sunshine of Earth. So different from the cool sunshine of Terga Prime. She missed that sunshine. A hand took hers. "It’s time to go." She turned to Joram and smiled. A new life awaited.

Posted by Renee at 06:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

For Creative Writing, we had to write a short story. Here it is.

That was the weekend that Aunt Maella came to visit me. As if college didn’t have enough stress. I will say this much—she didn’t just "pop on over." No, she called the week before to tell me (warn, more like) that she was going to come see me. As soon as I said "Hello" into the telephone, I regretted it.

"Hey there, Joanne! How’s mah favorite niece?"

I knew she was hiding something behind her smooth Mississippi accents. For one thing, I’m her only niece.

"I’m fine, Aunt Maella, How are you?"

"Oh, Ah’m tolerable, tolerable. Listen, Joanne, Ah’m goin’ to be in that area neyext weekend, and Ah thought Ah’d come bah and see you. How’s thayt?"

I swallowed my shock, searched rapidly and futilely for an excuse, and found myself saying "That will be fine. I don’t have anything going on that weekend."

"Thayt’s wonderful! Ah cayn’t wait to see you, and meet your friends—" here it came "—especially the boys! Well, Ah have to go now. Ah’ll be theah about 4 o’clock Friday afternoon. Oh, and Ah just have plenty to tell you abouyt things back here. Ah cayn’t wait to talk to you. Bah now!" The conversation had ended.

Great. This was exactly what I needed. For those of you who haven’t made the acquaintance of my aunt, I suppose I should acquaint you. Aunt Maella is a dear sweet lady, but she has this one problem. She is an incurable meddler. Not in a bad way, really, she was just "trying to help," as she put it. Lately she’d been "helping" me to find a man. Actually, she tried to help every single woman to find a man, but in my case it was special. She felt it was her duty to my mother. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard "If your poor momma were alive," "Ah feel it’s mah duty to your poor momma," and "My deah sister would want me to." I could give myself the lecture if I wanted to. But, despite it all, I do love my aunt. I just try to ignore her faults. That weekend I had trouble.

Friday evening:

"Are these your friends? How nahce."

"Yes, ma’am. This is Amy, Cynthia, Karen, Eric, and Jon. Guys, this is my Aunt Maella."

"It’s so nahce to meet ya’ll."

Later that evening:

"Thayt Eric boy is cute."

"He’s dating Amy, Aunt Maella."

"What a shame. You’ah so much prettiah." (I nearly choked here.) "No mattah. What about thayt Jon. He’s nahce looking, and a real gentleman. Why don’t you two date?"

"We don’t like each other that way."

"Oh, come on, Joanne, Ah’m sure you two would be real cute togetheah. He’s not datin’ anyone is he?"

"No, ma’am. We just aren’t interested in each other like that." I made a mental note to tell Jon to get a girlfriend—any girlfriend.

"Well, isn’t theyah anyone you know? Ah guess Ah’ll just have to keep mah eyes open for a nice lookin’ young mayn for you."

I said a quick prayer for sudden, temporary blindness for Aunt Maella.

Saturday morning:

"Jon, deah, how long have you and Joanne been friends?"

"About a year and a half."

"Reahlly? What do you think of her?"

"She’s a real nice girl."

"A nahce girl? Is thayt all?"

Jon hesitated a little. "She’s a good friend, why?"

"Oh. I was just wonderin’. I think you two are too cute to be just friends! Your kids would be adorable."

I watched in complete humiliation as my poor friend flushed red under my Aunt Maella’s "knowing" glance. After a moment of complete loss, Jon replied with: "Um, no. We aren’t going to be dating anytime soon. We’re just friends. We don’t like each other that way. No."

Maella just smiled. Sometimes I wish I could direct thoughts rather than have her formulate her own. Her thoughts were dangerous. But, life isn’t quite so blessed.

Breakfast ended without further mishap, that is not counting several instances of "Thayt boy over theyah is cute" and "He looks like a nahce young mayn" that seemed to come at the most awkward times. "I can make it through this," I thought. "Only four more meals and countless hours until she leaves." It isn’t really that I don’t appreciate my aunt’s help, I know she does it because she loves me. It’s just that I’m afraid of what will come of it. My fears did come true, but not in quite how I expected.

Saturday afternoon:

"Well now! He’s a nahce looking boy!"

I turned once again to see who she was planning my marriage to now. Uh oh. It was just the one guy I didn’t want her to meet. I was actually interested in this guy, and while Aunt Maella’s "help" with Jon was just annoying and embarrassing, in this case her "help" might effectively take care of any future we might possibly have. My aunt’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Yes, he’s very nice looking," I heard myself say.

"Maybe you should meet him."

"Aunt Maella, a girl doesn’t just go up and introduce herself to a guy!"

"Why not. It’s fahn to be a little flirtatious every once in a whahl. Besides, meyn are so dense, they need a little encouragement to realahze what they could have."

At that moment, I wasn’t sure I wanted this particular man to have Maella’s particular kind of encouragement.

"This goes way beyond flirtation or even encouragement. He barely even knows who I am. I am not going to go up and introduce myself. I really don’t think it will accomplish the purpose."

"Ah suppose you are entitled to your opinion, but it’s wrong. If your momma were heah she’d tell you thayt, too. If you want a mayn, you have to let him know! You cayn’t just sit around waitin’; they nevah come."

I sighed and let my mind drift as she repeated her lecture on "The Way to Catch a Mayn."

"Joanne! Joanne! Joanne, have you heard a word Ah’ve said? Ah asked you what his name is."

I jolted myself back to Aunt Maella.

"Trevor. His name is Trevor."

"Trevah? Ah knew a Trevah once. He wasn’t a thing lahk this boy. Thayt’s probably a good thing! Maybe Ah should have a talk with this boy for you."

"I don’t really think that’s a good idea. He probably wouldn’t appreciate it."

"Nonsense. Besides, it isn’t about him, it’s abouyt you. Men don’t reahly appreciate anythin’, so it doesn’t mattah. But if you don’t want me to, thayt’s your business."

The subject was dropped from conversation, but I knew it hadn’t been dropped from Maella’s mind. Suddenly I didn’t mind her efforts to get Jon and me to date. The annoyance of it paled in comparison to the possible disaster of this new endeavor. I was sincerely worried about what she was going to do.

Saturday Evening:

"Joanne, why don’t we go thayt big bookstore down the road. Theyah’s a new Jessica Pahle mystery out thayt Ah’ve been wanting to get. We could take your girlfriends. I don’t guess we could take thayt cute Jon, could we?"

"Um, no, Aunt Maella, we can’t take Jon. I’m sure my girlfriends would love to go, though."

So we went. If I had known Maella’s plans, I would definitely not have agreed to go.

"Joanne, look! It’s thayt cute Trevah boy. And he’s readin’ a book. Well, theyah you go. You’re always sayin’ thayt you cayn’t find a boy thayt reads, theyah’s one raht theyah."

For a moment I wondered if there was something about Maella I didn’t want to know, like maybe she was clairvoyant. I had the strong impression that she had expected him to be at the bookstore. Maybe I was just paranoid. I watched Maella wander off to find her book, and then Amy and I found our way to the section labeled "Classic Literature." Why I left my aunt to herself I’ll never know. She appeared before me twenty minutes later with a triumphant "Joanne, you’ll nevah guess who Ah just introduced mahself to—Trevah Laymbert!"

I never doubted her truth for a moment. It was just like her to do it.

"He’s a real nahce boy."

"I know. Now he’ll be the real nice boy who doesn’t look at me."

"Oh no, Ah gave him your telephone numbah."

"Aunt Maella!" I stopped, realizing how loudly that had come out. I decided a whisper was more advisable. "Aunt Maella, I can’t believe you did that. Maybe he won’t realize who I am and forget all about you."

Maybe the sun would explode. We left quickly, despite Maella’s desire to introduce me to the "nahce Trevah boy." There are times when I wonder how Maella’s friends stand her meddling. Then I remember that all of her friends are either married or just like her. Jon was looking more and more like a viable alternative to Maella’s "help."

Saturday Night:

"You will not believe what my aunt did to me tonight!" I shouted as I opened the door to our dorm room. "She completely humiliated me!"

"That’s different from usual?" Kathleen asked. "Did she propose marriage to Jon for you? Oh wait, that was this morning. What happened tonight?"

I dropped my purse, assumed the "let me tell you" stance, and launched into the story. When I concluded with "And then, she gave him my phone number," my roommates exploded.

"That’s unreal! I can’t believe she would do that," was Lisa’s response.

"I can!" Allison broke in. "I’ve talked to her on the phone. I’m surprised she waited so long!"

"I think it’s hilarious!"

"You’re so sympathetic, Kathleen. ‘I think it’s hilarious.’ You try it sometime!"

"You should tell Jon," Allison suggested. "He’d really enjoy that story."

I decided that was a good idea. I needed some brotherly advice anyway, and since Jon was the closest thing I had to a brother, I gave him a call.

"Jon, you will not believe what my aunt did."

"Worse than this morning?"

"Much worse. Incredibly worse. There is no comparison. She walked up to Trevor Lambert, introduced herself, said heaven knows what, and ended by giving him my number!"

"That’s unbelievable. It’s also very funny, and it gets me off the hook."

"That’s all you can think about? What about me? I’m not going to be able to even be in the same room with him anymore!"

Just then our other phone line beeped.

"Oh. I have a call on the other line. Hold on."

"Maybe it’s Trevor."

"Shut up, Jon."

I answered the other line to fulfilled prophecy.

"Hello. This is Trevor Lambert, I don’t know if you know me, but I’m in your Classics class."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, I know who you are. I’m really sorry about my aunt. I hope she didn’t bother you in any way."

"Actually, that’s why I’m calling."

Oh great.

"I’ve been thinking about asking you to church, but I thought you might be dating that blond guy—Jon, I think?—so I haven’t."

"No, Jon and I aren’t dating." I stared at Kathleen in shock as she laughed uncontrollably.

"Well, would you be interested in going to church with me in the morning?"

"It would be my pleasure," I said in bewilderment.

"Great! I’ll pick you up at 8:05."

"I’ll be there."

I hung up the phone and stared at my roommates. After several moments, they broke out into a cheer.

"Yay! Trevor asked you to church!"

I have to say, I never loved my aunt more than at that moment. All of my prior humiliation from her help suddenly seemed insignificant. Then I remembered that Jon was still on the other line.

"Jon, I hate you. You were right, it was Trevor."

"And?"

"I have a boy-date for church."

"Alright! Now people won’t think we’re dating!"

Suddenly the whole situation struck me as funny, and I laughed with him for several minutes. I promised to call him after church and tell him the important stuff: if he held the hymnal, whether or not he passed the offering plate over me, if he carried my Bible and opened the doors.

There isn’t too much more to say. I had a great time with Trevor--he did all the important stuff. When Maella left, I invited her to visit whenever she wanted. And, of course, she went home with a great big matchmaking story to tell the whole town. That was quite the weekend. I will certainly never forget it.

Posted by Renee at 06:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My mind is haunted by you.
I hear your voice when you aren't there.
I see you in the faces around me.
And when I close my eyes, alone. . . .
I have tried, many times,
To exorcise you from my heart,
From the very corners of my head.
But you always return.
I am hopelessly yours yet. . .
You choose not to come and claim me.
So I watch your spirit cavort
Through the pieces of my heart,
Wondering what to do.
Haunted by you.

Posted by Renee at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The noontide is dark,
No sunshine I see;
And all because of
A man on a tree.
All morning O watched
As he hung there so weak,
And then when he died
It seem'd God did speak.

The earthquakes are done,
But spirits still walk.
Who is this man
That makes the earth talk?
He must be God's Son
Just as he said.
But now it's too late:
God's Son is dead.

- - -

It's been three whole days
Since the man on the tree,
But of my despair
No end do I see.
But see, hear the news-
These women are mad!
They say to rejoice;
To no more be sad.
They say He is risen
That man on the tree;
They say from my sorrow
I now can be free.
'How is this true?'
I ask. 'He is dead!'
'Oh no!' they reply.
'It's just as He said.
'He is risen, alive!
And on the third day!'

And then I see Him.
What more can I say.

Posted by Renee at 06:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Rain pelting down,
Candles burning.
Silence interrupted only
By patters of drops
And peals of thunder.
The wind occasionally tousles
The trees
Teaching them a dance never learned
Before.
Candles burning still,
Their light supplemented only
By lightening;
Appearing and them vanishing
like fairies in hide-and-go-seek.
Rain continues to beat the ground,
The windows, the roofs,
Even the trees;
Lulling the earth to sleep
Only to be awakened
By the irate growls of thunder.
Over all there is an air of silence,
Though
It is only natural noises which
Pester the ear.
No automobiles; no beepers; no radios.
Only nature rants and raves
Save for one lonely moan
Of a tree.
No answer cries forth.
Only wind, rain, lightening, and thunder.
And candles burning.

Posted by Renee at 06:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Wildness was not really the word.
Zeal wasn't enough of a word.
Something of both blended there.
His eyes burned with a fire never seen
Since the days of the prophets.
Piercing, they were--
They saw the wickedness of men.
And in the rest of his appearance
He seemed like a prophet reborn:
Sunburnt, hard, unkempt hair.
Clothed in camels hair,
He drew the very air of the wilderness with him.
His message, too, was fiery--wild.
"Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!"
Intrigued by him--
The last prophet being 400 years dead--
All Israel, it seemed, came to him.
He baptized repenters.
And preached of one to come.
Messiah?
So it seemed.
Even the Pharisees came.
With baited breath the masses
Watched if John would baptize them,
The most righteous (it was thought).
No! John refused.
"Bring therefore fruits meet for repentance!"
His cryptic words for them.
It seems repentance is not
Righteous works alone.
Some whispered of his gall,
To speak to Pharisees that way.
Others marveled, remembering Elijah
And Amos.
Then descended to the waters edge
A humble carpenter.
He approached the fiery prophet
With a peaceful, calm demeanor.
Amazed at the zealots response
To Pharisees,
The crowds watched with baited breath
The carpenter.
To their utter shock,
The wild man of the desert
Knelt, protesting
"I have need
To be baptized of thee."
Tenderly, the carpenter raised him,
Explaining the need to
"Fulfill all righteousness."
Then, only then, the prophet
Baptized the carpenter.
As he rose form the water,
God was heard to speak:
"This is my beloved Son, in whom I am
Well pleased."
And then, to the awe of all,
The wilderness prophet
Who spat words of fire
At the Pharisees,
Knelt and humbly worshipped
The Carpenter.
The Son of God.

Posted by Renee at 06:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You.

My thoughts center on--
No--pivot around you.
If I do not think of you
In one certain moment
It is only for that single moment.
Then your face
Inundates and overwhelms
The mundane thought
That dared to supercede it
For an instant.
As I said before,

You

Are the central pillar
Of my being;
Of my essence.
The other thoughts of like
Are merely peripheral.
Underneath is only, simply

You.

Posted by Renee at 06:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My thoughts lie fallow on the ground.

I cannot react or respond.

The news is too heavy to allow

Me to think on it.

I stare in shock at the bearer.

She waits for response, for answer,

But nothing comes.

My mind is too overwhelmed.

I simply stare at her,

Unbelieving.

Posted by Renee at 06:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I touched your soul with hands of love and fire.
I reached and touched your heart, and in return
You gave me back an emptiness--a pyre.

I played entrancing song upon my lyre,
And sent my heart to catch in yours and burn.
I touched your soul with hands of love and fire.

And yet too much of me you would require
You took my heart to use and then to spurn.
You gave me back an emptiness--a pyre.

I looked at you and saw fit to admire;
So much in you my loyalty did earn.
I touched your soul with hand of love and fire.

I never dreamed to find in you a liar.
That for my loving heart you'd be an urn.
You gave me back an emptiness--a pyre.

And now I'm left with nothing to aspire
My dreams have been bereft without concern.
I touched your soul with hands of love and fire;
You gave me back an emptiness--a pyre.

Posted by Renee at 06:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The money changers are back.

The temple is full of buying

And selling of chattel.

Profits change hands over

The souls of the "saved."

Money is made, but is glory there?

Should Jesus come in now,

Where would His scourge lay?

Where would His purifying begin?

Our worship is tarnished and tainted,

Focused on numbers and "success."

Success for the money changers.

Profits for the merchants.

The temple needs cleansing again.

Posted by Renee at 06:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This morning I watched a movie called Pitch Black. I will give the brief disclaimer that it is rated "R" because the language is profuse and there is some gore. (However, anyone who has watche a Robert De Niro movie--language in this isn't nearly so bad.) That said, this was a great movie. The storyline is intriguing. There is definitely a point at which it goes in a copletely different direction than you were thinking. The characters are interesting and believable. And the story starts right in the middle--a touch I love because it requires the seeding of back-knowledge into the plot. The movie is worth watching if you can deal with the language.

But here is the point that really got me about it. As Christians, we should be able to see the hand of God everywhere and in all things. As a Christian classical educator, I especially want to be able not only to see His hand, but also to convey to my students that they should see His hand in all things. Even in secular works of art/film/fiction. This movie has such a heart-stopping Christ-figure moment. And I would never have expected it. Unfortunately, I do have to somewhat spoil the end to give it to you. But knowing the end doesn't really spoil the movie. And I'll try to be vague enough. . . . Don't read it until after you watch it if you might be disappointed.

Near the end of the movie, Riddick is about to make his getaway, leaving some people behind on this planet. He is stopped by one of the characters who has braved the incredible danger to follow him. There is a scuffle and this character ends up immoblized with Riddick's knife at his/her throat. He/she is refusing to leave the others behind and he asks "Are you willing to die for these people?"
"I'm willing to try."
"That isn't what I asked. I asked if you were willing to die for these people."
pause. "Yes."
"Interesting."
They return for the others. When they are almost to the ship, Riddick is stopped by two of the creatures. While the rescued ones get into the skiff, the character returns to help Riddick, finding him wounded by the creatures, but alive. He/she begins to help him back to the skiff encouraging him with "I said I would die for them, I didn't say I would die for you--now come on. Let's go!" Suddenly, as they struggle back you realize this character has been stabbed. For a moment, as the camera switches between their eyes (eyes being a huge theme in the film) you fall back on your ealier opinion of Riddick and wonder if he has stabbed he/she. Then he/she is ripped away--stabbed and grabbed by one of the creatures as Riddick cries "Not for me! Not for me!"
At the end, Riddick escapes with the others--free because he has "died" on the planet. I was stopped. I sat focused on the fact that this man--who admittedly believes in God yet hates Him--received mercy by the death of another. Even he felt himself unworthy of the sacrifice. Yet beyond that, the death was even more vicarious--because his identity was able to die in that instant. He did die on that planet--as someone else.
Admittedly, I don't think an unbeliever would rush to church over that one. But for me, the literary Christ figure was haunting. Another example of seeing God in even the most unlikely of places.

Posted by Renee at 05:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The first time I read this epic was in college--English literature from the Norton Anthology. I hated it. Horribly. And since then I have always felt vaguely guilty about being such an Anglophile while fiercely hating Beowulf. Then a couple of years ago, I read or heard something about a new translation that was wonderful. I filed that information away in my head and thought passingly of trying the ancient epic yet again. After reading the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid and parts of Dante, I felt that perhaps I should brave Beowulf again just to see if I truly/still hated it. My mind turned to that peice of translation info I had filed away earlier. Re-delving in Tolkien added fule to my mental fire (as he loved it). But I never acted on my mental inclination. Until now. I recently picked up and finished Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf. It is amazing. Before I started, I compared his translation to the one in Norton. No comparison. If you, in the past, have slugged through the horrific prose translation found in Norton, please, please, forget it. It is more remote to the real fire in this epic that a paragraph summary would be to a Shakespearean play. This translation not only preserves the verse form of the original, but it also highlights the beauty of the ancient language. Heaney preserves the Celtic adjective-nouns like "ring-giver," "mail-shirt," and Geat-hero. The story fleaps off of the page--you can see the bard narrating the adventure before later dukes and wanderers. My guilt is gone--this epic is truly amazing: beautifully God-honouring and passionately alive. All those years I was completely wrong about Beowulf--and my fervour re: the importance of literary translating has been vindicated. Heaney's translation is real and vivid--worth every moment--unlike the "scholarly" prose that no-one should ever have been subjected to! Read it.

Posted by Renee at 05:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Although I wrote this paper as a class assignment, it is truly the position that I hold. The debate over what is "appropriate" or "inappropriate" topical matter for Christian fiction, or any fiction that Christians read, is very delineated. Here's where I stand.

REALISM AND MORALS IN CHRISTIAN FICTION

Fiction—the realm of the fantastical, the imitation of daily life, the place where reality may not be as clear as we think. The realm of fiction contains so many differing areas of work and expression. Yet all areas of fiction, from the utterly fantastical to a story that could take place next door, have one very serious element in common: because they deal with fallible beings, they will contain the mistakes of fallible beings. In order to portray realistic characters in any setting it will be necessary to deal with what are often termed "objectionable elements" in many Christian circles. Yet they don’t have to be dealt with in an objectionable manner. It is very easy to see how pagan writers deal with these elements, but finding examples of proper handling in Christian literature is often a hard task. How is a moral or Christian person to deal with sinful elements in the lives of their characters? And in what way should their dealings with these elements be different from the world’s methods? One has to look no further than the Bible to find examples. From this source, a Christian writer of fiction can formulate his philosophy for handling so-called "objectionable elements" in fictional literature.

The first question probably asked by most readers is whether or not these elements need to be included in fictional literature. In order to answer that question, the purpose of fiction needs to be understood. Rolland Hein reminds us that

the novel presents an imaginative vision of life in order to tell a higher truth. This is the compelling quality of the serious novelist’s vision: he has something true to say about life, but he can way it only by embodying it in an imagined real world.(1)

Fiction becomes the mirror of life and human nature no matter how fantastical it is. If the work has anything to say to its readers, the characters must be real and believable, their struggles identifiable with us. In order to accomplish this, an author must realize that sin is a very prevalent aspect of life. An accurate picture of humanity in any time period can rarely be presented without having to deal with instances like cheating, stealing, deception, adultery and so on. All of these are human frailties caused by sin nature—all actual occurrences in many lives. Therefore, to overlook or ignore them is to be false to life itself. If an author is not honest with life, he cannot present truth to his audience.

There are, of course, certain barriers to the presentation of realism in fiction. One has only to glance at many examples of modern fiction to realize that. In modern fiction one finds factual, and often graphic, presentations of instances with either no moral commentary on the actions at all, or an "open-minded" approach. Not all modern fiction is bad. As one writer stated, "That there is some value in contemporary fiction, poetry, or drama they may not doubt; but often the values remain only half-formulated or completely hazy." (2) The values and intent of the author are often difficult to find or very ambiguous lest they offend a reader. Whatever the reason, these works of fiction become filled with unnecessary graphic details of events that, while true and many times integral to the intent of the author, are explained far more than any reader needs or wants to know.

This trend in modern fiction has tended to cause certain kinds of response in Christian writers. The general response is to withdraw from any kind of realism altogether. In their stories, the morals must be primary, sacrificing realistic characters for "values." They forget, however, that if the characters are not realistic, the audience will not identify with them so the values are overlooked. One author writes, "Evangelical churches have not fared well in the area of the novel." He goes on to note that often

it has been handled sympathetically by pious but artistically limited writers. The latter give either a shoddy two-dimensional picture of life or a prim and proper portrait, so emasculated, so colorless, or so obviously faked that the books say nothing about life of any significance, and can be read only by the already convinced who believe that they are keeping themselves ‘pure,’ ‘unspotted from the world,’ by reading an adulterated rather than an adulterous version of life.(3)

Too often Christian writers seem to forget that eliminating sin from one’s picture of life leaves readers with a sappy sweet picture of perfection, a picture that cannot be applied to real life. But if that is not the proper response for Christian authors to overemphasized realism, what is? The first place to look for the answer is the Bible.

The Bible contains many examples of the foolish acts of sinful men. From Mr. Ingles we learn that

if the Bible is to be our standard, we must admit that nothing lay outside the province of the inspired writers. There are passages in the Bible concerned with the grossest and sometimes the most shocking forms of evil. There are stories of Sodom, of the Benjaminite war, of Amnon and Tamar. And there are the less startling but no less realistic stories of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife, of David and Bathsheba, of Hosea and his faithless wife. (4)

Another author, Leland Ryken, states it simply:

Thinking Christianly about realism begins with an awareness that the Bible affirms the necessity and legitimacy of realism as an artistic technique. The Bible depicts the full range of human depravity and as such adopts the basic strategy of realism. (5)

God included realistic elements of life in His Word. But there is an important principle for the Christian writer to learn from their inclusion. God did not cause these instances to simply be included as factual events, He showed the consequences of the actions. The major difference between the Bible’s presentation of sinful elements and the world’s is this:

The realism of the Bible is realism within definite bounds. Modern realism frequently differs from biblical realism in the following ways:

The Bible does not contain a preponderance of depravity in its account of human experience. It does not leave the reader with the impression that degradation is all there is to life, or that there is no alternative to ugliness and depravity.
The Bible does not dwell on the sordid details of sexual immorality. It avoids dramatizing profanity by using narrative summary instead. It does not share the clinical or descriptive approach of so much modern literature and are in the portrayal of sex.
The Bible never condones the evil that it depicts. A majority of modern. . .literature, however, portrays immorality as a normal and inevitable part of human behavior. (6)

God always reminds his readers of the consequences for sinful actions.

From the example of the Bible, the principle can be obtained that

it certainly is not necessary for the Christian writer to dwell on the portrayal of evil in human experience. Indeed he cannot be a Christian writer if he prefers to wallow in human perversity and sin, to titillate the perverted taste and the defiled imagination of the carnally-minded reader. But, on the other hand, he cannot be a true artist, he cannot he a significant writer, is his vision does not include the whole of human life, the depths of depravity as well as the heights of aspiration. (7)

That is the balance of being a Christian writer.

Of course, without application, all of this is merely a listing of facts, rather than a formulated philosophy of writing. The application must begin with a simple, yet foundational fact--"the Christian novelist is distinguished from his pagan colleagues by recognizing sin as sin. According to his heritage he sees it not as sickness or an accident of environment, but as a responsible choice of offense against God which involves his eternal future." (8) It is always important for the Christian author to bear in mind that man is sinful, and that his follies are sin. Thus, when sinful acts are needful to present a real and necessary picture, the duty of the Christian author is to present them as sin rather than glorifying them as many modern authors do. The Christian author needs to also keep in mind that "the portrayal of evil per se does not make an evil book. If that were true it would be necessary to cut out great portions, not only of the Bible, but of the works of Shakespeare as well." The literary market needs fiction that presents sin in its true face, rendering the consequences for that sin rather than excusing or praising it. "So long as certain areas of life are handled only by the non-Christian writer, we will continue to advance a non-Christian view of life in its deepest recesses." (9) The ministry of believers extends even to the area of literature. Pagans will not be able to see sin for what it is if Christian authors eliminate if from their literature for fear of appearing "indecent." As shown before, the Bible itself "uses the technique of realism to tell us something that we need to know, namely, the sinfulness of the human condition and the misery of a fallen world." (10) The Christian writer is an artist and "art had two main themes—life as it should be and life as it fails to match that ideal. As with the Bible, much art portrays things that the artist wishes to reject and denounce." (11) Though it may be easy to forget, "The only way to offer a negative perspective on something is to portray it in a negative light. But notice in the meantime that artists have to portray evil before they can show their indictment of it." (12) The bottom line for Christians and realistic portrayal of "objectionable elements" is this: in order to present life and humanity in a truthful and relevant manner, Christian writers must present certain sinful elements—but the Christian author has a responsibility to present these elements as sinful. The consequences of all actions, especially sinful ones, must be included and presented to the audience so that they become aware of what is sin. Balance in this area, as in all others of the Christian life, is the key. With that kept in mind, the Christian author can offer to his reading public a powerful and realistic portrayal of life that contains a meaningful lesson for application to his readers lives.

1. Rolland N. Hein, "A Biblical View of the Novel," in The Christian Imagination: Essays on Literature and the Arts, Ed. Leland Ryken (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1981), 257.

2. Virginia Ramey Mollenkott, "A Christian Approach to Modern Literature," in The Christian Imagination, 187.

3. James Wesley Ingles, "The Christian Novel and the Evangelical Dilemma," in The Christian Imagination, 339.

4. Ibid., 341-42.

5. Leland Ryken, The Liberated Imagination, (Wheaton, Illinois: Harold Shaw, 1989), 239.

6. Ryken, 242.

7. Ingles in The Christian Imagination, 341-42.

8. Flannery O’Connor, "Novelist and Believer," in The Christian Imagination, 324.

9. Ingles in The Christian Imagination, 341-42.

10. Ryken, 240

11. Ibid.

12. Ibid.

WORKS CITED

Ryken, Leland. The Christian Imagination: Essays on Literature and the Arts. Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1981.

Ryken, Leland. The Liberated Imagination. Wheaton, Illinois: Harold Shaw, 1989.

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