Holy The Firm

Annie Dillard is quickly becoming one of my favorite writers- and that list is pretty short. After finishing Teaching A Stone To Talk, I recently picked up Holy The Firm. While I personally enjoy the writing better in the former, the content of the latter is earthshaking. For the AP fans out there, it's also quite apparent that these lines were heavily influential on at least a few of his records. A few excerpts...

A blur of romance clings to our notions of "publicans," "sinners," "the poor," "the people in the marketplace," "our neighbors," as though of course God should reveal himself, if at all, to these simple people, these Sunday school watercolor figures, who are so purely themselves in their tattered robes, who are single in themselves, while we now are various, complex, and full of heart. We are busy. So, I see now, were they. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? There is no one but us. There is no one to send, nor a clean hand, nor a pure heart on the face of the earth, nor in the earth, but only us, a generation comforting ourselves with the notion that we have come at an awkward time, that our innocent fathers are all dead- as if innocence had ever been- and our children busy and troubled, and we ourselves unfit, not yet ready, having each of us chosen wrongly, made a false start, failed, yielded to impulse and the tangled comfort of pleasures, and grown exhausted, unable to seek the thread, weak, and involved. But there is no one but us. There never has been. There have been generations which remembered, and generations which forgot; there has never been a generation of whole men and women who lived well for even one day. Yet some have imagined well, with honesty and art, the detail of such a life, and have described it with such grace, that we mistake vision for history, dream for description, and fancy that life has devolved. So. You learn this studying any history at all, especially the lives of artists and visionaries; you learn it from Emerson, who noticed that the meanness of our days is itself worth our thought; and you learn it, fitful in your pew, at church.


---


The higher Christian churches- where, if anywhere, I belong- come at God with an unwarranted air of professionalism, with authority and pomp, as though they knew what they were doing, as though people in themselves were an appropriate set of creatures to have dealings with God. I often think of the set pieces of liturgy as certain words which people have successfully addressed to God without their getting killed. In the high churches they saunter through the liturgy like Mohawks along a strand of scaffolding who have long since forgotten their danger. If God were to blast such a service to bits, the congregation would be, I believe, genuinely shocked. But in the low churches you expect it at any minute. This is the beginning of wisdom. 


---


Today is Friday, November 20. Julie Norwich is in the hospital, burned; we can get no word of her condition. People released from burn wards, I read once, have a very high suicide rate. They had not realized, before they were burned, that life could include such suffering, nor that they personally could be permitted such pain. No drugs ease the pain of third-degree burns, because burns destroy skin: the drugs simply leak into the sheets. His disciples asked Christ about a roadside beggar who had been blind from birth, "Who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" And Christ, who spat on the ground, made a mud of his spittle and clay, plastered the mud over the man's eyes, and gave him sight, answered, "Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him." Really? If we can take this answer to refer to the affliction itself- and not the subsequent cure- as "God's works made manifest," then we have, along with "Not as the world gives do I give unto you," two meager, baffling, and infuriating answers to one of the few questions worth asking, to wit, What in the Sam Hill is going on here?


The works of God made manifest? Do we really need more victims to remind us that we're all victims? Is this some sort of parade for which a conquering army shines up its terrible guns and rolls them up and down the streets for people to see? Do we need blind men stumbling around, and little flamefaced children, to remind us what God can- and will- do? 


I am drinking boiled coffee and watching the bay from the window. Almost all of the people who reef net have hauled their gears for the winter; the salmon runs are over, days are short. Still, boats come and go on the water- tankers, tugs and barges, rowboats and sails. There are killer whales if you're lucky, rafts of harlequin ducks if you're lucky, and every day the scoter and the solitary grebes. How many tons of sky can I see from the window? It is morning: morning! and the water clobbered with light. Yes, in fact, we do. We do need reminding, not of what God can do, but of what he cannot do, or will not, which is to catch time in its free fall and stick a nickel's worth of sense into our days. And we need reminding of what time can do, must only do; churn out enormity at random and beat it, with God's blessing, into our heads: that we are created, created, sojourners in a land we did not make, a land with no meaning of itself and no meaning we can make for it alone. Who are we to demand explanations of God? (And what monsters of perfection should we be if we did not?) We forget ourselves, picnicking; we forget what we are. There is no such thing as a freak accident. "God is at home," says Meister Eckhart, "We are in the far country."


We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all. We sleep to time's hurdy-gurdy; we wake, if we ever wake, to the silence of God. And then, when we wake to the deep shores of light uncreated, then when the dazzling dark breaks over the far slopes of time, then it's time to toss things, like our reason, and our will; then it's time to break our necks for home.

Doing Good Something Well

A man and a woman sat in the teachers' lounge in mid-afternoon, sharing a pot of tea and arguing about the English language. The man, a science teacher, had been grading essays on Einstein's work in the field of electromagnetism when he'd been stumped by what he thought to be a grammatical error on the part of a student. In a new initiative to approach education in a more holistic manner, their principal had been promoting "cross-training", as he called it, among subjects. History teachers were encouraged to include simple math problems on tests. Math teachers were tasked to integrate the complex numerical elements of composers like Bach into their lessons. It was even suggested to gym teachers that they conduct annual chariot games and assign each student a classical name like Diagoras or Astylos. Many teachers hadn't fully bought into the concept yet; but some were trying.

The science teacher repeated his question again, at the request of his colleague, an English teacher. "Is it he did something good OR he did something well?"

The woman, an English teacher, turned her head to the side once more. "I honestly think they're both right," she said after some deliberating.

The man let out a chuckle. "Well, now, isn't that very post-modern of you? Einstein would have been disappointed."

"I thought Einstein was Mr. Relativity," she asked. "Why would he be offended by something seeming equivocal?"

Shaking his head, the science teacher replied, "No, no, no… Einstein's theories of relativity are not about being equivocal or wishy-washy or any of this new-age mumbo jumbo. You may be surprised to know that Einstein was chiefly concerned with the Absolute."

"How so?"

"Take special relativity, for instance," he said. "The term relativity comes from the relationship between space and time. These two things are indeed relative. But Einstein discovered this characteristic not by a weakened view of either component… but rather by his strengthened view of another component: light. Light, he determined, travels at 186,282 miles per second no matter who is observing it, no matter where they're observing it from, and no matter how fast they are going when they observe it. You could say that he took 'absolute' to a whole new level."

"So what is your question about grammar again?"

"Right… good or well? Well or good? Which is right?"

"Both."

A slight grin formed on one side of his face. "Are you absolutely certain about that?"

"Yes. Because it's not the contradiction you think it is. You think the two sentences sound weird because grammatically they're completely different. The terms good and well are different parts of speech and, thus, play totally different roles in your sentences."

"Like time traveling twins who were born at the same time but meet later in life having lived completely different spans of time?"

"I highly doubt it. 'Good' is an adjective, which means that it modifies a noun. 'Well', on the other hand, is an adverb, meaning that it modifies some other part of speech besides a noun… often a verb."

"Holistic approach my ass…"

"Think about it this way- The phrase 'he did something good' would be an acceptable answer if the question were 'what did he do?' On the other hand, the phrase 'he did something well' would be an acceptable answer if the question where 'how did he do it?' How and what are completely different questions, requiring vastly different answers.  Because of this, both options are reasonable correct in a certain situation."

"Hmm. That makes a fair amount of sense, I suppose. But what about this one… if I wanted to combine these two 'acceptable' answers into one, would I say 'he did something good well' or 'he did something well good'?"

The English teacher frowned deeply. Now she was stumped.

Within moments a philosophy teacher in the corner perked up and joined the conversation. "I think the one who asks the question which calls for one of your two responses is mistaken in his fundamental assumptions about the human condition."

The science teacher and the English teacher turned to him. They were going to need another cup of tea.

The philosophy teacher continued, "We humans have the capacity, you see, to do something good and also the capacity to do something well. But these capacities are, as a general rule, mutually exclusive. One can seek to conduct himself in a way that brings about a good end result OR one can seek to conduct himself in a way that gets to results (whatever they may be) in the most efficient manner possible. But the closer you move towards pursuing one, the farther you become from the other. It's a fundamental tradeoff."

An excited thought leapt into the mind of the science teacher. "Like simultaneously determining both the location and the trajectory of a particle!" he exclaimed.

After pondering the thought for a moment, the philosophy teacher looked at him and said, "Exactly."

Things That Resound (Part V): The Weight of Glory

A thing resounds when it rings true

Ringing all the bells inside of you

Like a golden sky on a summer's eve

Your heart is tugging at your sleve

And you cannot say why

Part IV: The Weight of Glory

Excerpts from C.S. Lewis' essay The Weight of Glory...

I turn next to the idea of glory. There is no getting away from the fact that this idea is very prominent in the New Testament and in early Christian writings. Salvation is constantly associated with palms, crowns, white robes, thrones, and splendour like the sun and stars(...) When I began to look into this matter I was shocked to find such different Christians as Milton, Johnson, and Thomas Aquinas taking heavenly glory quite frankly in the sense of fame or good report. But not fame conferred by our fellow creatures- fame with God, approval or (I might say) "appreciation" by God. And then, when I had thought it over, I saw this view was scriptural; nothing can eliminate from the parable the divine accolade, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." With that, a good deal of what I had been thinking fell down like a house of cards. I suddenly remembered that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised. 
(...)
Perfect humility dispenses with modesty. If God is satisfied with the work, the work may be satisfied with itself. In the end that Face which is the delight or the terror of the universe must be turned upon each of us either with one expression or with the other, either conferring glory inexpressible or inflicting shame that can never be cured or disguised. I read in a periodical the other day that the fundamental thing is how we think of God. By God Himself, it is not! How God thinks of us is not only more important, but infinitely more important. 
(...)
To please God... to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness... to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as the artist delights in his work or a father in a son- it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But it is so.
(...)
We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory means good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgement, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last. 
Perhaps it is rather crude to describe glory as the fact of being "noticed" by God. But this is almost the language of the New Testament. St. Paul promises to those who love God not, as we should expect, that they will know Him, but that they will be known by Him. It is a strange promise. Does not God know all things at all times? But it is dreadfully re-echoed in another passage of the New Testament. There we are warned that it may happen to anyone of us to appear at last before the face of God and hear only the appalling words, "I never knew you. Depart from Me." In some sense, as dark to the intellect as it is unendurable to the feelings, we can be both banished from the presence of Him who is present everywhere and erased from the knowledge of Him who knows all. We can be left utterly and absolutely outside- repelled, exiled, estranged, finally and unspeakably ignored. On the other can, we can be called in, welcomed, received, acknowledged. We walk every on the razor edge between these two incredible possibilities.
(...)
We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put to words- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves- that, though we cannot, yet these projections can enjoy themselves that beauty, grace, and power of which Nature is the image. That is why the poets tell us such lovely false-image. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can't. They tell us that "beauty born of murmuring sound" will pass into human face; but it won't. Or not yet. For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendour of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, may be very near the truth as prophecy. At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in (...) Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each of you will still be alive. Nature is only the image, the symbol; but it is the symbol Scripture invites me to use. We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects. 
And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life. At present, if we are reborn in Christ, the spirit in us lives directly on God; but the mind and, still more, the body receives life from Him at a thousand removes- through our ancestors, through our food, through the elements. The faint, far-off results of those energies which God's creative rapture implanted in matter when He made the worlds are what we now call physical pleasures; and even thus filtered, they are too much for our present management. What would it be to taste at the fountainhead that stream of which even these lower reaches prove so intoxicating? Yet that, I believe, is what lies before us. 
(...)
Meanwhile the cross comes before the crown and tomorrow is a Monday morning. A cleft has opened in the pitiless walls of the world, and we are invited to follow our great Captain inside. The following Him is, of course, the essential point. That being so, it may be asked what practical use there is in speculations which I have been indulging. I can think of at least one such use. It may be possible for each of us to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit- immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously- no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner- no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object present to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also is Christ vere latitat- the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden. 

Things That Resound (Part IV): Echoes of a Song Not Yet Sung

A thing resounds when it rings true

Ringing all the bells inside of you

Like a golden sky on a summer's eve

Your heart is tugging at your sleve

And you cannot say why

Part IV: Echoes of a Song Not Yet Sung

You'll notice a lot of italics in the next two posts. That's because if my suspicions are correct, "things that resound" are old truths, told over and over again, throughout the history of time. In some cases, I feel inclined to write my own account of whatever resounding noise I hear. In other cases, I'm inclined just to listen. These next two posts come from one who has made me feel what Peterson calls the "heart tugging at your sleeve" more than anyone else...

Excerpts from C.S. Lewis' essay The Weight of Glory...

The Christian, in relation to heaven, is in much the same position as (the schoolboy learning Greek). Those who have attained everlasting life in the vision of God doubtless know very well that it is no mere bribe, but the very consummation of their earthly discipleship; but we who have not yet attained it cannot know this in the same way, and cannot even begin to know it all except by continuing to obey and finding the first reward of our obedience in our increasing power to desire the ultimate reward. Just in proportion as the desire grows, our fear lest it should be a mercenary desire will die away and finally be recognised as an absurdity. But probably this will not, for most of us, happen in a day; poetry replaces grammar, gospel replaces law, longing transforms obedience, as gradually the tide lifts a grounded ship. 

(...) Now, if we are made for heaven, the desire of our proper place will be already in us, but not yet attached to the true object, and will even appear as the rival of that object. And this, I think, is just what we find. No doubt this is one point in which my analogy of the schoolboy breaks down. The English poetry which he reads when he ought to be doing Greek exercises may be just as good as the Greek poetry to which the exercises are taking him, so that in fixing on Milton instead of journeying on to Aeschylus his desire is not embracing a false object. But our case is very different. If a transtemporal, transfinite good is our real destiny, then any other good on which our desire fixes must be in some degree fallacious, must bear at best only a symbological relation to what will truly satisfy.

In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open an inconsolable secret in each of you- the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth's expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things- the beauty, the memory of our own past- are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.

Things That Resound (Part III): The Basin

A thing resounds when it rings true

Ringing all the bells inside of you

Like a golden sky on a summer's eve

Your heart is tugging at your sleve

And you cannot say why

Part III: The Basin

There is in each of us a garden. In the middle of that garden is an elevated basin, almost like a birdbath. It is large and it is deep, and at the top of the basin- just in arm's reach- we find a lever. If we pull this lever, water begins to pour out of a pipe that descends from above. The pipe isn't perfectly aimed at the center of the basin. Its flow isn't always steady and, in fact, it's sometimes quite violent. When pulling the lever, one can never know exactly where the water will land or precisely the rate at which the water will come out. There are even times when a jet shoots directly at the one pulling the lever- bearing a startling resemblance to what would otherwise be perceived as assault.

Beneath and around this basin is a collection of plants. These plants are at various stages- some mere seeds, others with expanding roots, and others grown with buds or blossoms. If each of us has such a garden, we can in that sense be called gardeners. And gardeners must decide how to best care for their garden.

You see, the gardens we now have were developed in an especially arid climate. The rains are few and far between. They're refreshing when they come, but before you know it they've passed on. Fortunately, there is another source of water- that of the basin, lever, and pipe. Trouble is... the unpredictable nature of this alternate source (as previously mentioned) lead many a gardener to be satisfied with the occasional passing shower. For gardeners in this category, there is danger that the showers will one day become too infrequent- perhaps that they will cease entirely. And then, their garden will die.

Some gardeners have learned to supplement the rain by using the alternate source. There's a risk involved, they realize, but they have a garden to tend to. And so, when they see the leaves begin to shrivel, they put on the raincoat, rainboots, and even, perhaps, some sturdy eye protection- and they approach the lever. They know what could happen. It's happened before. But if they can just bear it for a few moments, they think, they'll get enough water in their basin to last through the current drought.

Those who risk pulling the lever are faced with a curious predicament. At what point do you release it? When do you move on to gathering a pitcher, filling it from the basin, and watering the plants in your garden? When do you reach a reasonable level- enough to feel confident you'll be able to make it 'til the rains come again- that you can turn off the unpredictable, violent stream bursting forth from the pipe? When do you go back to being a normal gardener?

A few gardeners- a very few, in fact- implement a different strategy. The strategy is an very old one... so old that it's now considered by some to be no more than a myth. As the legend goes, there are gardeners who give little consideration to the rain at all. It may rain or it may not, but these gardeners rarely notice. Their apathy (as it's perceived by others) is the product of their methodology. For these gardeners view the pipe not as a supplement, but as a primary source. If you ask them directly, they might even go so far as to say that it's a purer source than even the rain.

Oddly enough, these gardeners don't have pitchers. They may have had pitchers at some point in the past, but they have since lost them. Stranger still, these gardeners spend little (if any) time maintaining the individual plants in their garden. They do not prune, they do not weed, they do not fertilize. As it turns out, they are incapable of doing any of these things- their arms are attached to the lever, their bodies withstanding the force of the inverted geyser above them. The oddest thing of all, it turns out, has nothing to do with these gardeners or their unusual methodology, but rather pertains to their garden.

You see, the basins in these gardens aren't mere storage devices. The water inside of them wells up, grows into a stream... a river... an ocean... and overflows its barriers. This water rains down onto the plants in the garden. It overtakes the formerly barren paths, infiltrates the depths of the soil, and nourishes every plant with all that it ever longed for. These gardens are real gardens. And in them you will find real beauty and life.

Things That Resound (Part II): Story

A thing resounds when it rings true

Ringing all the bells inside of you

Like a golden sky on a summer's eve

Your heart is tugging at your sleve

And you cannot say why

Part II: Story

Dots on the graph represent single events. The x-axis is time. I suppose you could conceive of the y-axis as space, but I think it would probably be confusing to do so. It's better to think of it as some sort of good / bad continuum, though I fear that this, too, is ultimately misleading.

The most important concept to start with is that

TIME is not the same as THE PASSAGE OF EVENTS

While the physicist knows a specific formula that describes the relationship between these two things (an equation, if you will), we know from practical experience that in the real world no such obvious correlation exists. 

For instance, in the graph below, the passage of events is slow relative to time.

(A real-world example of this might be the Dark Ages)

Conversely, in the graph below, the passage of events is fast relative to time.

(A real-world example would be the Enlightenment)

We all, both as individuals and as groups, have a sense of the relationship between TIME and the PASSAGE OF EVENTS at any given moment. Sometimes we feel that the passage of events is too slow, and we want change (which is, by definition, the presentation of an event or a sequence of events). At other times, we fear that there may be too much change in too short of a time, and we seek to slow down.

But the thing that seems obvious to me is that no one wants zero change. Imagine the following sequence of "events"...

There are few people, if any, who genuinely desire this. I have a theory for why that is.

I think we hate the idea of zero change- of zero events between the beginning and the end- because events are actually the representation of something deeper.

As we all know, events don't stand independent of one another. Event A influences Event B which influences Event C. This is what we call causality.

But even causality isn't the whole story. In fact, the previous sentence inadvertently answers the next question. What is beneath causality? Why do we ask the question "why"?

The reason is that causality is a byproduct of something bigger. It is the byproduct of STORY.

By drawing connections between events, we receive a picture that tells a story. Each individual dot, each separate event, if considered in isolation, is without meaning, and thus, tells no story.

Let us then go back to an earlier question. Why is the graph below unsatisfying?

It's unsatisfying (and deeply so) because there is no story. A beginning and an end, by themselves, are not enough.

If at my birth I am at Point A and at my death I am at Point A, and no single event happened in between, then my birth and death had to have happened at the same time, because it is physically impossible for me to have not moved or acted in some way in the time between them. And if they are the same and there were no intermediate events, then I did not actually exist at all. I would have no story.

However, each of us knows that we have a story- both as individuals and as groups. We know that between point A and point Z,

SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED,
SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, and
SOMETHING WILL HAPPEN

What we call the WHAT HAS HAPPENED, WHAT IS HAPPENING, and WHAT WILL HAPPEN, when grouped together, is story.

While we all experience and, to varying degrees, know our individual stories, it is considerably more difficult to see, know, and believe... The Story.

I would argue that there are four fears that we have about The Story, and I would argue that most all of mankind's troubles with seeing, knowing, and believing The Story boil down to one of these four fears:

1. There is no Story.

Despite the fact that we cannot deny our own individual stories, some fear that the large-scale nature of the universe is not so clearly connected. There is not always causality... Sometimes there is just chance.

2. The Story isn't big.

We love to read books, watch movies, or hear the telling of stories. And despite the beauty of some of the small, momentary stories, we have a special affinity for the big ones. Why do stories like Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Chronicles of Narnia become immediate blockbuster hits? Among other things, the reason is their magnitude.

We see something when Aragorn leads an army into an epic battle or when Luke destroys the Death Star that is fundamentally big. We are drawn to these stories like a flying insect to light. But in approaching these stories and seeing their "bigness", we can't help but wonder if such bigness is not confined to the movie screen... to the imagination.

3. The Story isn't good.

Some of us are able to accept that there is a Story and that it is a big story. But when they look at the parts of that story they see around them or the parts that they experience directly, they do not like the story's plot.

4. The Story isn't my story.

Finally, some may accept that there is a Story, that it is big, and that it is good. But they have a story that seems as though it is different from The Story. They think that while there is such a big and good Story being told, they are not a part of it. They have their own story- and while it's considerably smaller and not nearly as good, it's the story that they are a part of and... it will have to do.

The Bible tells a story.

It claims that it is The Story.

It claims that it is big.

It claims that it is good.

And it claims that we are a part of it...

It claims that this Story is our story. 

Things That Resound (Part I): Intro

A thing resounds when it rings true

Ringing all the bells inside of you

Like a golden sky on a summer's eve

Your heart is tugging at your sleve

And you cannot say why

-Andrew Peterson, More

As I wrapped up the "chronicles" of my journey thus far, I struggled to identify the most appropriate transition to my long-term plan for this project. Do I just dive right in? Do I start rambling on about whatever island I happen to pass, whatever fellow sailor I happen to meet? I could do that. It would probably be pretty boring.

So I thought again about what it was that I was really trying to do here. Why is it that I'm typing into this screen for this blog at this moment, rather than doing so for some other one? I enjoy writing. But why am I writing this? And why now?

I then came to the realization that these answers came down (as they often do) to the line of an Andrew Peterson song. In his album The Far Country, Peterson brings his audience time after time into an unyielding encounter with the reality and nature of death. True to form, his lyrics paint truth upon the canvas of the listener's heart. One encounters in his songs all that is most beautiful in both death and life- the sense of where we really are and where we're going. He concludes the record with a song called "More", in which he begins at a somber grave site and ends in the midst of our wildest dreams.

It struck me that a verse from this song (which I've included above) ultimately encapsulates what is likely a major impetus for my sitting here at this moment working on this particular project. You see, I really enjoy reading books. I start more than I finish- but I start a lot. The world is fascinating to me. You could give me a book about some obscure topic and (if I wasn't allowed to be distracted by the many stacks of other books sitting on my desk) I would most certainly find something within its pages that was interesting.

For that reason, my journey of leaving England hasn't been all hardship and struggle. It's been tough, no doubt, but even a lonely boat can encounter some incredible things. Having said that, after acquiring a certain amount of "knowledge", I began to recognize that there was a subtle distinction between certain types of knowing. Most languages, in fact, have multiple words for the verb we English-speakers simply refer to as "to know". For instance, in Spanish there is saber (to know a fact, or to know about) but there is also conocer (to know in the sense of  a relationship, to be familiar with, or even to know intimately). In More, I believe Peterson is referring to the latter when he sings about a "thing that resounds".

As we all know (you decide if this is an instance of saber or conocer), the world is not merely a collection of facts and pieces of information. Even at the most rudimentary level, there really is more. I don't yet fully recognize what more there is. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I feel deep within me, even if just on occasion, the sense of ringing bells, golden skies, and tugging hearts. In the next series of posts, I hope to share a few of those "things that resound" which seem to have stayed with me no matter where I travel.