Advent and the Art of Arrival
Guest post by Remy Wilkins
“The best way that a man could test his readiness to encounter the common variety of mankind would be to climb down a chimney into any house at random, and get on as well as possible with the people inside. And that is essentially what each one of us did on the day that he was born.”
~ G.K. Chesterton, On Certain Modern Writers and the Institution of the Family
I love it when the hero arrives. I get chills when a fedora appears in shadow or when a farmboy watches two suns set. I get tickled every time someone knocks on Bilbo’s door. And although the joy of my introduction to the dear Baudelaire siblings that grey and cloudy day at Briny Beach was mingled with sadness, I still cherish the miracle of their lives.
The season of Advent, the time just before Christmas, is all about arrivals. It is a preparatory season for the celebration of the incarnation, his first coming, and it is looking forward to his second coming. The Messiah’s first arrival was both inauspicious, sleeping in a feeding trough, and universally portentous, declared by astronomical signs. His second coming is also grand and mysterious: no man knows the hour or day in which he comes. It’s a good debut. As a reader, I can get excited about this story. Anticipating the end is also great fun. I love it when stories are interrupted by better stories. (more…)
We Don’t Need Another Type of Hero, III
Why We Should Jettison the “Strong Female Character,” Part III
The recurring characterization problems with such Strong Female Characters arise in no small measure from the struggle to show that men and women are interchangeable and can compete and cooperate with each other on the same terms. As I have already noted, this falsehood serves no one. It sets women up for frustration and failure as they have to justify their agency on men’s terms and it produces an embarrassment about male strengths that should be celebrated rather than stifled. It reflects a drive towards intense gender integration and de-differentiation in the wider world.
The traditional world of women—typically a different existential and intersubjective mapping of spaces that were shared with men—has been reduced through the migration of work away from the home, the expanding social role of the state and its agencies, the shrinking and contracting of families, the thinning out of neighborhoods, and the removal of much of the burden of domestic labour through technology. One’s value in society has also become increasingly contingent upon advanced educational attainment, career, wealth, and consumption. Within this new situation, women have had to forge new identities within worlds created by men and which play to male strengths. Shrunk to a sentimental reservation of domesticity, there is relatively little dignity to be found in what remains of traditional female worlds in most Western societies.
Often natural differences in tendencies and aptitudes between the sexes (as groups, there is plenty of individual variation and departure from the norm) replicate themselves in the wider economic world. Women are frustrated as their desire to have children and raise families prevents them from earning as much as their male counterparts, or enjoying the same social prominence. Women’s greater natural orientation towards relational and caring activities leads to their underrepresentation within the more lucrative and powerful professions. Women are drawn to subjects and occupations that are more personal, artistic, and relational, while men to those that are more realistic, investigative, and thing-based. Despite the expense of considerable money and effort to change male and female preferences, they are surprisingly resistant to change in many respects.
On men’s part, male dominance in realms of high achievement is frequently and often instinctively characterized as pathological. There is a zero-sum social game being played between the sexes and male privilege is a sign of a great injustice, something about which men should feel guilty. The possibility that men dominate because the realms in which they dominate play to their various strengths as a group or involve areas where they produce the most exceptional performers is not an idea that can be entertained in many quarters.
The push for ‘diversification’ and ‘inclusion’ can be a threat to many male groups because their natural rougher socializing tendencies are stigmatized, they are no longer permitted to play to their strengths, and their shared cultures and cultural products are jeopardized by a sort of gender gentrification imposed upon them. The existence of extreme misogyny in many of their reactions to such developments should not be allowed to disguise the presence of understandable concerns (and definitely vice versa too), even where the appropriate response to these concerns may not be that of wholly rejecting the diversification.
We have moved from a situation with distinct worlds of gendered activity—albeit typically deeply interwoven and involving extensively overlapping spaces—to one in which men and women are being pressed into a single intersubjective and existential world, one that was traditionally male. The result is a stifling of men, as manliness becomes a social threat and male strength a problem to be solved. Male strengths have to be discouraged to give women more scope for expression and achievement. Women, on the other hand, are caught in a world that seems rigged against them. The Strong Female Character is one way in which the anxieties, insecurities, resentments, and embarrassments produced by such a situation register in our imaginary worlds.
It is also a revelation of a failure of imagination. Fictional worlds are places in which we can explore possibilities for identity and agency. The fact that women’s stature as full agents is so consistently treated as contingent upon such things as their physical strength and combat skills, or upon the exaggerated weakness or their one-upping of the men that surround them, is a sign that, even though men may be increasingly stifled within it, women are operating in a realm that plays by men’s rules. The possibility of a world in which women are the weaker sex, yet can still attain to the stature and dignity of full agents and persons—the true counterparts and equals of men—seems to be, for the most part, beyond people’s imaginative grasp. This is a limitation of imagination with painful consequences for the real world, and is one of the causes of the high degree of ressentiment within the feminist movement.
Heroic Women and Good Story Telling
The Bechdel Test originally appeared within the comic strip, Dykes to Watch Out For. It is an informal test to determine whether or not a film passes the lowest bars for the portrayal of women: 1. Does it have at least two women in it? 2. Do the women talk to each other? 3. Do they talk about something other than a man? It is a helpful heuristic tool for alerting people to the degree to which women and their intersubjective worlds fail to appear within the frame of so many movies and works of fiction. It is far from scientific, nor is it an accurate tool for determining the existence of stunted portrayal of women more generally, but it does often provide an initial indication of limitations or problems.
The Stone Upon the Well
Sunday morning found me kneeling at the foot of my bed, trembling, pebbles of sweat leaping off the edge of my brow and nose, and hitting the floor in front of me, but not from piety was I procumbent; though as a minister for over a decade, I had made threadbare the knees of my pants from petitionings. No, I was crouched and quivering, begging in half-measures, because of a shooting pain in my side, caused by kidney stones. Doc Thomas said my trouble breathing was purely in my head, but he had given me ample painkillers to make it through the weekend. The new church building was being dedicated today and he’d midwife my suffering on Monday.
I swallowed my medication. The pill a seed from which, I pray, nothing will grow. I dressed and walked across the expanse of grass, spendthrifting the morning glories, to stand beneath the shade of the pecan tree. The white of the slat wood chapel bounced the brightness of dawn to high heaven and the heat was rising, so I staggered back to my study in the little manse across the field.
My study was inviolable, a sanctuary, and only one person was allowed to ascend the mount to meet with me. My father-in-law, my ex-father-in-law, practically my father, an elder, the elder, my only elder in the church, Doc Thomas would knock on the door fifteen minutes before the service and we would pray together; for the church, for the city, for the sick by name, for the lost by the inward groaning of the spirit, for all the burdens of his heart and mine that we dare mention aloud.
After the loss of our building fund, he came through, funded the rest of it from his own pocket. Having given so much, I was ashamed to take more, prodigal of his gifts, but he felt the betrayal in our marriage more intently than I did, for I knew my faults and knew what I deserved far better than he. She left me and I could hardly blame her. She had so much to give and I was fearful of how much I wanted. I took too little, too little notice, too little care, belittling and of little faith.
There was a soft knock and Thomas entered. I was crouched over in my chair, sweat crowning my forehead. “Good morning, Doc,” I said softly. He thought I was weeping.
He was silent as he took a seat at my side, his hand resting on my shoulder, and then prayed. I had not realized until then that it was the anniversary of her leaving. Doc Thomas was aware and his words invoked an unspoken sorrow, a burden I had not been aware of until now. I remembered the last time I saw her.
When I found them I was too stunned to talk. Joe stood up, as guilty as Adam and as nude, and told me he was invited. My wife was too shocked to speak. Joe wrapped himself in a linen sheet and left. I followed him, wanting to ask a question, but all I could think to ask was how soon would the roof would be finished.
I stood at the front door and watched him walk across the field. I could think of only one thing to say, so finally I called, “That’s mine!”
He thought I was talking about his makeshift loincloth and he paused. Then he let fall the linen sheet and ran away naked. His truck was parked at the far end of the construction site, and as the great vehicle revved and wheeled about, my wife pushed past me with a suitcase and an abrupt goodbye. He waited for her and then they were gone. Over the next several weeks, I let the rain ruin the unshingled roof. The tarps were windtorn and rot set in. Plywood had to be replaced and a new crew had to be found to shingle it. And then the money was gone.
I could’ve tracked down Joe and gotten the rest of it back, but forgiveness is more needful than money and I owed my wife a great debt in that department. But I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her.
I amen’d at the end of Thomas’s prayer. We shook hands, then we hugged, and he said something about it being a happy day for the church. We walked over and I was feeling better. The stitch in my side and the thunder and lightning of pain was gone.
The congregation was gathering on the grass. I offered a prayer, a ribbon was snipped, and we trickled inside to the cool of the sanctuary. Pews were selected. A row of children jumped in place until they got their chance to pull the bell’s fat rope. Every soul got its ring. Miss Mattie could not play the piano loud enough, our voices outdid her hands for once. She was glad to be back at the upright, hammering away like a smith at his anvil.
I read the text and prayed to the Spirit for illumination. The passage was the woman at the well. She’d had five husbands when Jesus found her there.
When I looked up, I saw her. Maggie still talked to her father once a week. She knew what today was. She’d think I did it on purpose, dedicate a church on the anniversary of the dissolution of my marriage. I was of a mind to believe it myself. I’m that sort of fool. Married to the church, she’d say with vinegar under her tongue. She knew I measured poorly as a bridegroom. She’d slipped in for the sermon and stood in the back.
And Jesus said, “And the one you are with is not your husband.” Jesus said it, but I could not. I felt her eyes on me. The woman at the well switched topics to the question of where to worship and I did the same.
“‘Our fathers worshipped on this mount, but ye say in Jerusalem,’ the woman said.” I told them how Christ replied, and I told them about mountains, and about the faith that could move mountains.
“Every valley shall be exalted,” I said. “And every mountain laid low, saith the prophet Isaiah. Jesus quotes this too and I’ve always found it a curious thing.”
I was off script and wandering in the wilderness of the Word of the Lord. “We hear about the faith that can casts mountains into the sea and we think that means faith can be strong. And maybe that’s true.”
I felt a gonging in my stomach. The pain returning. And I felt bad, nobody likes to hear about a faith that might not be strong, but I pressed on. “Why would mountains need to be moved? Or really, the question is what are mountains for and why would we not need them in the new covenant?”
Maggie started to walk to the exit and pain whited out my sight. I clung to the pulpit to steady myself. “We have to understand, in the old covenant, mountains were meeting places, ladders to heaven. You could think of mountains as full sized altars.”
I was losing my breath. All other faces grew cloudy, a cloud of witnesses.
“The reason why mountains will be laid low or cast into the sea is because,” I nodded at Miss Mattie so she could get to the piano. She liked to play through the final prayer, which would have to come soon. I gripped my side. “Now, we no longer need to ascend the mountain to meet with the Lord. Where two or three are gathered together in his name—”
A man entered, I couldn’t see who, and he whispered something into the ear of someone in the back row. I tried to continue, but there was a ripple of talk and Doc Thomas stood, raising his hand. I ceded the service to him.
Doc had a voice I envied. A tremulous tone with a lilt that could break anger like a dry twig. “Brothers and sisters,” he said and all heads rotated his direction. “The house across the street, the Peterson house, is on fire.”
The commotion was instant. A pastor has never seen such a response to his own words. Every man stood and rushed out the door, the children followed with their mothers in tow.
I slowly made my way to the door, a hand to every pew, and looked across the street as the flames broke through the roof of the Peterson’s. The fire formed a steeple and a siren sounded far off. The Petersons weren’t members and weren’t home. I tried to pray, but the roar of pain inside me swallowed it. I think I saw my wife, my ex-wife, my sister-in-law and once bride, she hugged her father. He knelt before her and clung to her waist, laying his head against her stomach.
The engine arrived and two men jumped out, one of them slung some extra gear at the foot of Paul Milligan, our deacon, who was a volunteer. He had already stripped off his tie and shoes and went about frantically stuffing himself into the flame retardant pants, boots, and jacket.
The hose was hooked up to the hydrant at the corner and water was shot into the fire. A long black pillar rose into the sky. Another couple of volunteers showed up later, but the fire was too far gone. They only sought to control the burn and save the houses on either side.
The Petersons came back and their son sobbed while the mother and father took turns swearing into the cell-phones or under their breath. The crowd had thinned out and as the fire worked its way to the ground, the sun did the same.
In the dark, I had only made it to the pecan tree before I was stricken with a pain too great to move. Leaning against its the scaley bark, I could feel a ring where a sap-sucker had drilled holes. I labored to breathe.
Heat rose up in me and I unbuttoned my shirt. I’d not worn an undershirt and smelled. My cell buzzed in my pants pocket. I fished it out, hunching and resting my head against the tree. “Hello?”
“Mark,” she said and my face screwed up in sadness.
“Forgive me,” I stuttered.
“Was that sermon for me?”
“No,” I gasped. I felt a pressure in my bladder. I grit my teeth and cinched tight my eyes. “It was the doing of the lectionary. I would’ve avoided it if I could.”
I heard her breath crackle in the receiver. I couldn’t tell if it was scoff or sigh. If a scoff, it echoed the scoffing of my heart. If a sigh, it was the breath of my own soul.
“I’m staying at dad’s.” She said softly. “For now.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “The sermon—”
“Yes.”
“You never finished. What were you about to say?”
I wanted to scream: “I am the woman at the well, I am the unfaithful bride, I am the faithless husbands.” I felt nauseated and I badly needed to urinate. “I am the mountain that must be cast into the sea.” But I did not say this. I was too weak.
“What was I saying? I don’t remember.”
“Where two or three are gathered…”
“Yes, yes,” I said and the conclusion to my sermon came to me unbidden and full. “But then we shall see face to face.”
I nearly cried out in pain as some dagger of starlight danced upon my kidney. I felt severed. She thanked me, said goodnight, and hung up, instinctively closing with “I love you,” like children ending prayers with “Jesus name amen.” A thoughtless utterance that held all truth and anchored us to the world.
I could no longer wait and fumbled at my belt and let my trousers fall. In the dark, in the dark of the tree, on the tree, I passed the stone. I left a curse on my tongue and let a blessing well up inside me and flow free.
Remy Wilkins teaches at Geneva Academy in Monroe, Louisiana and the author of two middle grade novels, Strays (Canon Press, 2017) and Hush-Hush (forthcoming).
This post appeared originally at Theopolis blog and is reposted here by permission
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