You may have read this week that Amazon has started a Christian book imprint that will publish “faith-based non-fiction and fiction.” I first saw the story on Yahoo News. The article only has a few comments, but I wish to address them because they unfortunately indicate common opinions that I find objectionable. The first comment, by a “Chad Vader,” finds “faith based fiction” problematic:
“will publish “faith-based non-fiction and fiction,”
Faith based non-fiction? Really?
Religion has one intent. To save souls. I could never understand “faith based fiction.”
Isn’t that the definition of a snake oil salesman?
It’s hard enough, and takes “faith”, to follow what you wish to believe is true. Now let’s generate fiction (truly, make believe) to really get the holy spirit rolling?
Religion should NEVER use fantasy to help convince.
Amazon sees how easy it is to make money selling snake oil.
My advice. It’s an area of business that’s only purpose is to take advantage of others. Stay out of it.
It may be easy to dismiss “Chad Vader” and like-minded folks as philistines, but Chad Vader likely appreciates “non-faith based fiction” (though we might ask if there is such a thing), given his pen name and avatar. Though apparently a Christian, Chad may be a victim of creeping secularism that has built a “wall of separation” in Chad’s mind between religion and art. What justification can there be for such a separation? Man is a worshiping animal, and man is a creative animal. Only a bizarre psychic schism would prevent a man’s religion from informing his art. For a man creates from his inner resources—training, talent, experience, knowledge, inner state—and his religion has probably affected a large portion of those resources. Why would one want to enfeeble the life giving springs of art?
Chad’s worry seems to be that Christian fiction would sully the truth value of the gospel, and such reminds him of a snake oil salesman. One obvious difference is that the artist is transparent about his fiction; he does not pass it off as a historical record. He “sells” a story that the muses (or divine light, though I repeat myself) inspired him to create, and the truth value of such rests in its honesty about its subject matter (usually the human condition), though its particularities are made up. The snake oil peddler, by contrast, deceives his customers by claiming that his product is something that it is not.
Moreover, one would think that a Christian would readily see the usefulness of fiction to religion—especially since the author and finisher of our faith was so adept in making up ingenious parables that have taught billions of largely uneducated people many rather profound lessons. “Religion should NEVER use fantasy to help convince.” But what about using fantasy to elucidate? Or what about using fiction as a form of doxology? There are many literary genres that convey truth, and it is meet and right to employ all the treasures of the arts to glorify God. I am reminded of McGuckin’s essay on the Beautiful. Religion informs art, and art informs religion. They are both gifts from God to be rendered back to him in gratitude.
Another commentator—“J”—makes the following cynical point:
“and authors and promoters alike are still trying to understand the perfect formula for turning those books into dollars.”
Religion and money. That’s what it’s all about. Get the rubes to buy your books, What a racket.
I addressed J’s point in “Disney the Corrupter of Youth?”:
I watched a fascinating but revolting documentary a year or so ago about marketing to children, but I cannot remember the name. The program argued that companies manipulate children to determine their parents’ spending behavior. I believe that the documentary even stated that some cartoons were produced with the intention of selling merchandise. Obviously, the coin counters at Disney have mastered that game. Nonetheless, we cannot reduce the artistic product to the merchandising, even if, in one sense, the chief reason for the product’s existence is the merchandise. For there were writers and animators who crafted a piece of art. Their efforts may have been commissioned, facilitated, and perhaps even directed by the coin counters, but their actions as producers of art are not identical to their actions as money-makers for the company.
The abbot’s criticism could be applied to any human undertaking that coexists with paid work. We who find the coin counters merely pallid shades of real manhood hope that artists create art for the love of such creation and that teachers disseminate their learning for the love of knowledge. Yet, for most artists and teachers, their work has some component of wage-earning, as well. Unless one is rich, one has to pay for shelter and victuals. A person has to feed his children. Consider the history of art, and you will quickly see how most of the revered masters worked for commission. I think that it is clear that their work far transcends simply the desire to pay the bills, but practical matters matter in our human life of scarcity.
Perhaps, the abbot has a point about Disney the company—the commodification of culture in the age of mass production is disgusting. However, fine works can come from sordid circumstances. The nineteenth century amply supplies examples. Moreover, we should ponder the difficulties that underlie this issue. What is the end of production? Is it simply money-making, or are there other proper ends for human endeavors that may earn a living?
The head honchos at Amazon likely just want to increase profits and to grow the company. So? Many aristocrats over the centuries just wanted to show off their status when they commissioned sculptures, musical compositions, and paintings. Is there any doubt that their petty desire to invoke jealousy amongst their peers resulted in a marvelous enrichment of Western civilization? May Amazon’s venture bring forth good fruit.
Speaking of Amazon and of Christian fiction, fellow Orthodox Ohioan (and Beltway transplant) Deacon Brian Patrick Mitchell has published a new book set at the beginning of the fourth century—A Crown of Life: A Novel of the Great Persecution. I wish the good deacon much success and many more visits by the muses.
Christ is born! May my fellow Orthodox Christians continue to enjoy the festive season. Happy birthday, as well, to my young nephew—many years!
The Orthodox commemorate the visit of the Magi with the Nativity and not on the feast of the Theophany. As it is still Christmastide for us, I would like to offer you two short pieces shared by Fr. Z. for Epiphany in the Roman Church. The first is “The Gift of the Magi”—a predictable but sweet short story by William Sydney Porter (O. Henry).
Fr. Z. also showcases an interesting passage in Helena by Evelyn Waugh: “An Epiphany Prayer to the Magi for Self-Absorbed Promethean Neopelagians.” Liber locorum communium provides a longer passage that put the Empress’ thoughts in more context:
But by Twelfth Night she rallied and on the eve set out by litter along the five rough miles to the shrine of the Nativity. There was no throng of pilgrims. Macarius and his people kept Epiphany in their own church. Only the little community of Bethlehem greeted her and led her to the room they had prepared. She rested there dozing until an hour before dawn when they called her and led her out under the stars, then down into the stable-cave, where they made a place for her on the women’s side of the small, packed congregation.
The low vault was full of lamps and the air close and still. Silver bells announced the coming of three vested, bearded monks, who like the kings of old now prostrated themselves before the altar. So the long liturgy began.
Helena knew little Greek and her thoughts were not in the words nor anywhere in the immediate scene. She forgot even her quest and was dead to everything except the swaddled child long ago and those three royal sages who had come from so far to adore him.
‘This is my day,’ she thought, ‘and these are my kind.’
Perhaps she apprehended that her fame, like theirs, would live in one historic act of devotion; that she too had emerged from a kind of οὐτοπία or nameless realm and would vanish like them in the sinking nursery fire-light among the picture-books and the day’s toys.
‘Like me,’ she said to them, ‘you were late in coming. The shepherds were here long before; even the cattle. They had joined the chorus of angels before you were on your way. For you the primordial discipline of the heavens was relaxed and a new defiant light blazed amid the disconcerted stars.
‘How laboriously you came, taking sights and calculating, where the shepherds had run barefoot! How odd you looked on the road, attended by what outlandish liveries, laden with such preposterous gifts!
‘You came at length to the final stage of your pilgrimage and the great star stood still above you. What did you do? You stopped to call on King Herod. Deadly exchange of compliments in which began that unended war of mobs and magistrates against the innocent!
‘Yet you came and were not turned away. You too found room before the manger. Your gifts were not needed, but they were accepted and put carefully by, for they were brought with love. In that new order of charity that had just come to life, there was room for you, too. You were not lower in the eyes of the holy family than the ox or the ass.
‘You are my especial patrons,’ said Helena, ‘and patrons of all late-comers, of all who have a tedious journey to make to the truth, of all who are confused with knowledge and speculation, of all who through politeness make themselves partners in guilt, of all who stand in danger by reason of their talents.
‘Dear cousins, pray for me,’ said Helena, ‘and for my poor overloaded son. May he, too, before the end find kneeling-space in the straw. Pray for the great, lest they perish utterly. And pray for Lactantius and Marcias and the young poets of Trèves and for the souls of my wild, blind ancestors; for their sly foe Odysseus and for the great Longinus.
‘For His sake who did not reject your curious gifts, pray always for all the learned, the oblique, the delicate. Let them not be quite forgotten at the Throne of God when the simple come into their kingdom.’
—Evelyn Waugh, Helena: a novel, chap.11, Epiphany ((London: Chapman & Hall, 1950), pp. 237-240).
Superb! And a very much needed prayer.
I wish my fellows on the old calendar a joyous Christmastide. On this day after Christmas, we celebrate the Synaxis of the Theotokos. I suspect that the Solemnity of the Mother of God that the Roman Church observes on January 1 evolved from this feast. The Synaxis of the Theotokos follows a pattern in the Church calendar whereby we remember holy men and women (and angels) on the day following a great feast in which they play a part. For example, we celebrate the Nativity of the Theotokos on September 8/21 and the feast of Joachim and Anna, her parents, on September 9/22. Similarly, we observe the Synaxis of John the Baptist (January 7/20) on the day after the Theophany (January 6/19), when we celebrate the baptism of the Lord, the feast of Simeon and the Prophetess Anna (February 3/16) on the day after the Meeting of Our Lord (Candlemas on February 2/15), and the feast of the Archangel Gabriel (March 26/April 8) the day after the Annunciation (March 25/April 7).
For your pleasure, here are many Ukrainian Christmas carols:
Snow is falling on this beautiful winter day. Merry Christmas to the new calendarists and Advent greetings to my fellows on the old calendar.
Fitting for the day is one of my favorite carols, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” Here is the choir of King’s College in Cambridge singing Gustav Holst’s “Cranham” setting for Christina Rossetti’s lovely poem:
Here also is a video of Julie Andrews in a Christmas special from A.D. 1973.
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.
The sweet little song reminds me of the uncanny power of poetry. It can be so simple, but the images that it deftly evokes move one’s soul in a fascinating manner.
Enjoy the festive season.