All About Love (thoughts on Romantic Theology)

"He that has seen Me has seen the Father...." John 14:9

"He is the image of the invisible God...." Col. 1:15

In the Divine Comedy, Dante reaches the end of his journey in the last cantos of "Purgatory". I say it's the end of his journey because he finally reaches his true love, Beatrice. However, he will soon discover that this "ending" is only another beginning. He meets her at the top of Mt. Purgatory where she comes at the end of strange pageant: a train of creatures and people, all representing the books of the Bible, theological and cardinal virtues, and even Christ Himself (represented by a Griffin). Every element of the pageant is meant to symbolize a different sacrament, i.e., a means and point of contact with God, whether it be divine revelation, "the law written on our hearts," or Christ (who is the Sacrament).

Beatrice belongs to this train. She symbolizes how romantic love (when done properly) is yet another sacrament, a doorway to the divine, a means of ascension higher and higher into the love of God. This is not only the central conceit of the entire Comedy, but also a key component in the Christian view of marriage. Christianity has always viewed marriage as a sacrament, a means of contact with God where He administers and ministers grace to us. This is what Charles Williams called "Romantic Theology," though he never claimed the idea to be novel. Christian orthodoxy has always believed and taught that romance, though it can go awry like anything else, was always meant to be an avenue of communion with God through another person, which was the entire point of marriage: two people brought together by God to be used of God to sanctify each other. The grace of God given to us through each other---that is the essence of Christian romance, and it is a sacramental essence.

The Bible reveals the sacramental essence of marriage in some surprising ways. One of those ways can be found in Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. Now, First Corinthians is all about love (and not just the 13th chapter). "Let all things be done out of love" (16:14) is the summation and theme of the whole book; furthermore, if we love each other, then we will seek each others "well-being" (10:24) and do all things "for edification" (15:26). In other words, love should lead us to be a means of grace (i.e., a sacrament) to other Christians. If you belong to God, then you have been made a sacrament to others, especially those inside the Church.

What does this have to do with marriage? Well, in chapter 7, Paul explains how men and women can "avoid fornication": "let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband" (vs. 2), i.e., get married and have sex. That's right. Paul (that cranky old curmudgeon) is telling Christian spouses to have sex, and (get this) it's not just a matter of practical morality: "Let the husband render unto his wife due benevolence, and likewise also the wife unto her husband" (vs. 3). This is not just about keeping yourself sexually pure (and faithful) in marriage; this is also about showing "benevolence" to your spouse by not withholding sex (vs. 5). Thus, in marriage, sex is tied directly to edification. It is one of the ways a husband is a sacramental means of grace to his wife (and vice versa).

Is your mind blown yet? It should be. Who views sex like this? Not our culture. Whether inside or outside of marriage, sex is merely a means of domination: two individuals mutually working their will on the other. It has nothing to do with grace at all. Furthermore, I daresay that the Church in America does little better. Marriage is important, at least politically and socially, but what about theologically and sacramentally? All of marriage (whether it be sex or something else) is meant to be sacramental, i.e., about grace, about meeting God. That is why wives "submit" themselves to their husbands and husbands "lay down" themselves for their wives: it is a mutual sacrifice on behalf of the other, and into that loving matrix the presence of God comes into our midst.

That, of course, is the whole point: of the Divine Comedy, of Christian marriage, of Christianity and Christ Himself. God is a sacramental God. He meets us in the midst of our moments, especially (as Dante showed us) in our darkest moments. Love reaches out to us in the dark wood, and it will lead us home, even through Hell itself. It is what T.S. Eliot meant by "mid-winter spring": those moments of light and life in the midst of the cold, dead lands, the intersection of our time with God's eternity. This is not about abstractions; this is about love, about Christ, who is the fullest proof of God's love (Rom. 5:8; I John 4:9-10), a love that manifested itself in our midst, that was made flesh and blood and bones and veins and fat and walked into our winter with all the glories and colors of spring. The point of the story, of all good stories (whether Dante's, Christ's, your marriage, or your walk with God), is love, love manifested in our midst with all its surprises and its unapologetic, relentless and reckless sacrifice for its beloved.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2013

A Prayer for Writers (as compiled by an orthodox rebel)

(original work with adaptations from Psalm 78, T.S. Eliot, C.S. Lewis, and Beethoven)

We praise Thee, O God, for Thy glory displayed in all the creatures of the earth,

In the snow, in the wind, in the storm; in all Thy creatures, both the hunters and the hunted.

For all things exist only as seen by Thee, only as known by Thee;

All things exist only in Thy light, and Thy glory is declared even in that which denies Thee.

The darkness declares the glory of light.

We praise Thee, O God of glory, power, and mercy; all creation praises Thee.

We, Thy creatures, would adore Thee now and through eternity.

Saved to magnify Thy goodness, grant us strength to do Thy will

With our pens as with our stories, Thy commandments to fulfill.

We praise Thee, O God, as we gather here before Thee, the Author of our Salvation and Faith,

Acknowledging our need of Thee, and asking that Thy grace and true beauty

Would fill up what lacks in our meager endeavors and halting metaphors

As we strive to declare Thy glory and goodness in this way:

We will open our mouths in a parable.

We will utter dark sayings of old,

Which we have heard and known,

Which those before us have taught us.

We will not hide them from our children,

And we will show to the generation to come

The praises of the Lord, and His strength,

And the wonderful works that He hath done.

So that they might set their hope in God,

And not forget the works of God,

But keep His commandments.

We praise Thee, O God. Where we doubt Thee, help our unbelief.

Where we are broken, heal us. Where we are stubborn, break us.

Where we are confounded, shine Thy light.

Where we are self-confident, bring Thy darkness.

Teach us to hunger and thirst only after Thee,

And may Thy Spirit take us into the deep things of God.

Amen.

-Jon Vowell (and others noted) (c) 2011

 

Why I Am a Writer (the confessions of an orthodox rebel)

G.K. Chesterton told a story once about a young lady that he knew. She had lived in mainland England her whole life and had never been to the coast, never been to the sea. Chesterton felt the need to rectify this and escorted her out there himself. They came to some random beach on the coastline and watched the dark green waves cresting and falling across white sand. Chesterton turned to the young lady and asked her what she thought. After a moment's hesitation, she said, "It looks like cauliflower." Chesterton would later say that he had never heard a more poetic statement.

Chesterton's assessment of that statement is why I love him. I don't always understand him, but that's not the point. It is his way with words that astounds me, how he understands the way that they work. I remember perusing some of his books online, and I got to his Father Brown collection. I only read the first line of the first story: "Between the silver ribbon of the morning and the green glittering ribbon of the sea, a boat touched Harwich and let lose a swarm of folk like flies." I stopped and immediately bought the book. I was in the middle of my college days back then, and I had no idea what to do with myself. All I knew was that I wanted that book and all the words it contained.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cartoonist, mostly because I spent hours doodling and also because Garfield the Cat had reached a cult-like status for me. By the time I was biologically mature enough to go to college, I began looking into graphic arts programs. One of my cousins and her husband were both graphic artists, so I took some samplings of my best stuff to show them. I sat at their dining room table one afternoon, passing graphite-laced pieces of paper back and forth between them and myself. I asked what they thought. My cousin said nothing because her husband beat her to it: "You draw well, but you really need to be a writer."

He was right. At that very moment, I knew he was right. His statement seemed absurd, yet it was completely true. As he would point out to me, every single picture that I showed them had been accompanied by a story. Every doodle was a scene, every piece a part of some whole. I was a writer. It was instinctual to me. I wanted to be one. I had always wanted to be one. I just didn't realize it until a graphic artist told me so.

So I abandoned the graphic arts programs and enrolled in a literature program, because I figured (as only someone cusping the age of twenty could figure) that I could learn how to write by simultaneously writing often and reading great writing. Thus I spent four years as a fish out of water, surrounded by academic bookworms concerned with theories and research. I just wanted the books themselves and their words, words fitly spoken, burning like stars or cold like steel. After all, I had bought Chesterton's entire Father Brown series on the merit of its first sentence alone. Another time, for kicks and giggles I sat down and read T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. During "Burnt Norton," I got to these lines: "Garlic and sapphires in the mud / Clot the bedded axle tree. / The tilling wire in the blood / Sings below inveterate scars / Appeasing long forgotten wars." For some reason my whole chest felt like it was burning, and my head felt cleansed and clear. I read all of his poems soon after.

Only two of my professors seemed to really understand how I felt. One was Dr. Kieth Callis, a wry man with a small mustache and a thin strap of messy gray hair. He was a true academic and scholar, but he also loved the written word for itself. On occasion during class, he would be reading something (usually Shakespeare) and he would constantly interrupt himself with "oh that's just beautiful!" I came to understand this sentiment firsthand. Last year I was teaching an English literature class, and we were reading through The Faerie Queene. When Redcrosse Knight reached Lucifera's House of Pride, I read the line: "and underneath her scornful feet / the dauntless dragon lay." I paused. It was beautiful, and I let the class know it.

The other professor was a creative writing instructor. His name was John Walker, and he was paralyzed from the collarbone down. He spoke with a soft, soothing voice and always waved a limp hand in the air whenever he was making a point. His class was the only one that I purposefully took twice, and I often frequented his office. On one such visit, he asked me to pull a book off of his shelf and hand it to him. It was Hey Jack!, a book by Barry Hannah, his old creative writing teacher. He flipped through it, his hands moving like flippers, and read to me the first few sections of the first chapter. I remember standing mesmerized. Every sentence was perfect, and not a word was wasted. It reminded me of Chesterton. I bought the book about a week later and devoured it.

Reading Barry Hannah reminded me why I wanted to be a writer, why I loved writing itself. It's the words, the power and beauty that they can have, how they can fit together so perfectly, bouncing off of each other like light between a thousand prisms. There's music in them, a submerged symphony desiring excavation, and every note I hear (either from myself or others) makes me want to dig deeper. There's that image in the Bible from Ezekiel of the dry bones coming together to form a standing army. That's what writing does: it makes the bones live. And that's what I wanted to do.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2011