I decided to read this book after a friend of mine posted a number of interesting quotes from it. Sleep has fascinated me for a long time, and for some reason I carried the assumption that we still do not know much about why we sleep or what exactly happens when we do. Added to this is the fact that I have regularly gone with 6 or less hours of sleep during the work-week over the last few years due to a 6:30am start time (meaning a 5am wake time + 1hr commute) and being a night owl. Regular good sleep has thus evaded me for quite some time, and I have had mixed feelings about it. Part of me embraced the “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” mentality that sees sleep as nothing but an obstacle to further productivity, while another part of me recognized that sleep deprivation was having an undeniable effect on my physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual health.
To put it simply, this book is an accessible summary of the most important scientific findings to have emerged in the ever-advancing field of sleep studies. I am by no means familiar with the world of sleep studies, so perhaps there are differing schools of thought, but the impression I got from the book was that we have learned an awful lot about sleep in the last few decades, and that this information has not yet become widely spread public knowledge.
The book itself is of considerable length, clocking in at over 300 pages (16+ hours of listening time). There is a lot of information in there, but a lot of it could be distilled down to a list of key findings. Much of the book is an exploration of how those findings were reached and what the implications of them are. Like any field of study, I am sure that some of these conclusions will be revised in the future, but hopefully not with the kind of yo-yo inconsistency that has characterized the science of food and diet (yesterday’s health food is today’s carcinogen, etc).
I came away from this book and a newfound respect and awe for the magical substance and activity we call sleep. As for my sleep habits, I certainly came away chastised for my past neglect of it and motivated to embrace this good gift. The book largely broke the mental connection I had between sleeping and laziness. While this obviously still applies to certain people, our society is one that is chronically and proudly sleep deprived. If there are two ditches we can fall into, our culture is firmly in the ‘too little sleep’ ditch, and quite a ways from the lazy over-sleeping ditch.
The only significant criticism I have to make of the book is one I make as a committed Christian, and which therefore will not be shared by those who do not share my convictions. Simply put, the author, like so many in the world of science, is entirely committed to a purely naturalistic view of biological development. That is, no matter what he discovers about sleep and the human body, no matter how amazing or intricate or fine-tuned or brilliantly designed he finds it to be, he can only ever attribute it to the blind impersonal force of natural selection or the slightly anthropomorphized ‘mother nature’.
Now listen, I am not surprised at this and it is perhaps more of a reflection than a criticism. I don’t realistically expect the author to start questioning his metaphysical assumptions about ultimate reality because he discovers something about how a certain hormone regulates the emotionally healing qualities of REM sleep. Well, it would be nice. It does however demonstrate starkly for me the blind allegiance of the scientific establishment to a secular naturalism, despite the massive problems with the theory of evolution, especially the obvious absence of any compelling model or explanation for the origin of biological life. This is simply glossed over: The edifice has been built already, don’t go asking questions about the foundation – it’s too late for that. Our hubris really cannot handle admitting ignorance or the possibility that we’ve taken a massive 2-century-long wrong turn down a dead end. And those with the intellectual honesty to express doubts about the reigning dogma are quickly ostracized and excluded. Following the evidence indeed.
I’ll admit these last two paragraphs have very little to do with the book itself and are more of a rant than anything else.
I enjoyed the book, learned a lot from it, and am grateful for it. If you want to learn more about sleep than you ever thought there was to know, get yourself a copy.
The Warden and the Wolf King concludes Andrew Peterson’s 4-part Wingfeather Saga. I finished the books more than two weeks ago, but have been trying to gather my thoughts before putting pen to paper – or fingertips to keys – in the form of a review and reflection. I’ve been trying to sort out where this series fits within the world of fantasy fiction by Christians.
That the books are eminently readable, accessible, and enjoyable is beyond doubt. They make for great reading at any age, and I wholeheartedly recommend them. But not many books are truly great books. Not all enjoyable series deserve to be classified with the ‘classics’. So where does this one land? I will tell you soon, but first: let’s think about the books themselves for a bit.
Peterson describes the genesis of the Wingfeather Saga as a story he wrote for his own children. One can sense the playfulness of that first book, with its silly names and laugh-out-loud moments punctuated by serious themes. The careful reader can tell that the author is not quite sure where it is all going to go quite yet, but that the very act of imagining and incarnating the characters seems to propel him forward. Peterson’s insights into the human heart are part of what makes the series so special. In particular, he delves deeply into the personalities and relationships of the two brothers: Tink (or later, Kalmar), and Janner.
The second book and third books have a surer step as the plot is developed, the writing improves, other characters and relationships are explored, and themes of evil, friendship, loss, suffering, failure, forgiveness, and family are deepened. The humor is still present but less prominent. The fourth book, by far the longest, reveals Peterson at his creative best. The tensions are ratcheted up and up until a final resolution is reached. The defeat of evil is not the end, however. A great symbolic act of healing actually serves as the thematic climax of the series. (I am being quite guarded in my descriptions to avoid having to warn you about spoilers).
The well-read Christian will recognize the major influences immediately. J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis loom large. Behind them, present but distant, would be George MacDonald and G.K. Chesterton. It seems to me that Peterson adapts elements from both Tolkien and Lewis. The world of Aerwear is more like Tolkiens’ Middle-Earth than Narnia. There is a long history that is referred to at many points along the way, and hints at a long future as well. While nowhere near the complexity or comprehensiveness of Tolkien’s (frankly unsurpassed) world, Peterson manages to make the reader feel he is really in another place, a place that makes sense and functions according to its own nature, a place with a real history and a real future, with real characters making real choices. This alone is no small achievement.
The nature of divine involvement in The Wingfeather Saga charts a middle path between LOTR and Narnia. Unlike LOTR, there is a ‘Maker’ that the characters interact with, but unlike Narnia, that Maker makes no appearance and all interactions with him happen ‘off-stage’. The presence and use of humor was more prominent in Peterson’s work than either of these two major influences, although if I had to choose I would say it was closer to Lewis’ style than Tolkien’s. The structure of the ending seems to be a classic case of what Tolkien called the eucatastrophe, a concept he coins and explores in his famous essay “On Fairy Stories.” And it works.
The role and power of music and arts in The Wingfeather Saga was a special contribution as well. Leeli turns the tide of many battles with the power of song, which seems appropriate coming from an author who is best known for his songwriting and music. Clearly we are glimpsing here some of the ways in which Peterson sees the arts functioning in the world. I look forward to reading his more recent book, Adorning the Dark, which seems to be a set of reflections on these matters.
Despite all my admiration, I’m left with the question: does Peterson rise to the level of his esteemed masters? Is the Wingfeather Saga worthy to be classed with the Lord of the Rings and the Narnia Chronicles? My answer is: No. I believe that The Wingfeather Saga is a momentous achievement and a perfect homage to the genius of those works and authors. But, in my view, it is not groundbreaking in the same way as those were. It will not (sadly) have the reach and popular appeal that those works did (partly because of its merits, but also partly because of the cultural climate we live in compared to 70 years ago). That being said, it is a significant part of the small renaissance of fiction by Christians that we are enjoying in our day.
The Wingfeather Saga is a great gift to the church, and one that we should treasure and enjoy with our children. I can think of no better way to immerse the imaginations of our children with the truths and themes of the great redemption story than to hand them these books, or better yet, sit with them and read together.
On Saturday, November 7, I lost a friend and coworker in an accident. Eleven days later, on Wednesday, November 18, my wife gave birth to our daughter Lucy. It has been a month of stark contrasts; lows and highs.
Even as our family is overjoyed at the squishy little cuddle-cub that just showed up, the sting of the loss is still sharp. My friend’s name was Dan. He was a vibrant and brilliant person, irrepressibly positive, bountifully energetic, and unusually kind. While riding his jet ski in the late afternoon on an unusually warm November evening, he somehow fell into the water. The sequence of events is not entirely clear, but some time later witnesses saw him struggling in the water. By that time it was the dark of night. Emergency crews were called and immediately began a massive search effort involving helicopters and an army plane, but sadly he was only found the next morning, after having succumbed to the cold.
I have worked increasingly closely with Dan for the last few years, often spending a dozen hours or more on the phone with him in a given week working through technical problems of all sorts, planning projects, dealing with personnel issues, and sometimes even dipping into philosophy and metaphysics. He was my boss, but that word doesn’t really convey the relationship we had. He was incredibly supportive of me not only as an employee but as a whole person, and not only of me but of my entire family. As the founder and one of three co-owners of our small engineering / automation company, he made things feel a lot more like family than like ‘just business’.
I got the news of his death on the Sunday evening one week after moving into our new home, as I was working with my dad putting the finishing touches on our new farmhouse-style bed-frame. This farmhouse we bought has a sharp turn in the staircase and our queen-size boxspring had no hope of fitting through that opening. My wife, who was 9 months pregnant at the time and inching miserably towards 10 months, was therefore sleeping on our mattress as it lay on the floor. She had a great attitude about it, but it was not a state of affairs that any self-respecting husband could abide. But neither could I abide the thought of buying a bed-frame to assemble upstairs when I had two hands and some tools and a whole bunch of wood that someone left in these here barns on our new property. So as I was saying, I was working with my dad to finish the bed-frame when I got the call from the other two co-owners of the company.
You can’t really prepare for news like that. Numb shock, incredulity, horror, sadness. My imagination playing through the terrible scene as it unfolded in my mind’s eye. Something like guilt welled up inside as I thought back to what I had been doing the previous evening – relaxing at home and settling into the new house – while a few kilometres away my friend, unbeknownst to me, had been calling for help and fighting for his life. It’s not a rational thought, but why couldn’t I have been there to jump in, throw a rope, shine a light, do something to help?
My dad pretty much finished the rest of the bed by himself. I was useless.
Grief is a strange thing. I lost my mother to cancer in 2012 after two bouts lasting multiple year each, and with seven years of good health between them. That means that the spectre of losing my mom had been in my heart and mind for over a decade before she finally passed away. It is no slight to my friend Dan to say my mother was quite a bit more important to me and played a larger role in my life. Having had so much time to prepare for that loss, I experienced it as a painful conclusion to a long and drawn-out process. In contrast, my friend’s loss came out of the clear blue sky, totally unexpected, and left me reeling emotionally in a way that I hadn’t experienced before.
One thing stands out as tributes have come in for Dan from far and wide: we all agree that life is mighty precious, and that the loss of a life like this is a terrible tragedy. Similarly, as we have announced the birth of our fourth child, our precious little Lucy Mae, the wave of congratulations and kind messages convey the same essential truth: life is so precious.
I agree of course – no argument here. I just stare into the dark little eyes of my two day old daughter, marvel at the exquisite detail of her facial features, the skin so fresh and soft, her body so small and fragile, her mind and consciousness teeming with potential and yet not fully expressed, and I am overcome at the value and preciousness of life. Judging from the responses most people have to newborn babies, I am quite sure that this is the most common reaction.
And yet, given my bent to philosophical musings and interest in history, I can’t help but ask why we feel this way about life – both when it comes to the birth of a child and when it comes to the loss of a life. Is this simply a given universal fact? At the risk of committing epistemology, how do we know that this conviction about the value of life is, well, true? A look at human history reveals that this is by no means a universal truth affirmed everywhere. It was not true for Rome. It was not true for Greece. It was not true for that sordid list of 20th-century atrocities.
So why do we feel such pain at the loss of a life, and such joy at the new arrival of a life? For me the most compelling reason – intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually – is the imago dei; the idea that humans are made in the image of God and therefore imbued with eternal value. But this is so hard to believe these days – we are well into late modernity and the attendant mood does not encourage belief in such things, indeed it hardly allows it! There are many reasons for this, but this is not the time to get into that. It will suffice for the moment to point out that just because we are at this point in the intellectual arc of Western Civilization, where the world is disenchanted and everything has been seemingly explained materially, does not mean that it is true.
So if you believe life is precious, as I assume you do, the question is: does your worldview provide an adequate foundation for it? As I mourn the loss of my friend and celebrate the birth of my child, I’m thankful to have such deep roots to draw on and such a solid foundation to stand on.
In the Christian worldview, there is always a god.
In every person, there are desires and drives and values. Every person has purpose. Whatever most controls and compels you, that is your god. Whatever has the strongest hold on your emotions and behavior, that is your god.
In those with powerful addictions, this is easily seen. In others, however, and perhaps in yourself, it is not so easy to discern. But it is there, rest assured, as surely as there is a brain in your head if you are reading this. (Apologies to any brainless readers). This needs some nuance, as I recognize in myself the working of many different gods at different times, although I profess and strive to worship one God alone.
Speaking of the human heart, Thomas Chalmers put it this way: “Its desire for one particular object may be conquered; but as to its desire for having some one object or other, this is unconquerable.” This is from his excellent work, “The Expulsive Power of a New Affection” which lays this out about as well as I have ever seen.
How can I know what these gods are? Where can I find them? How will I uncover their hiding places? Often this is a good thing that we’ve turned into a god thing. This is a large part of what counseling tries to do – let’s find out why you do what you do and feel what you feel. Discovering the roots of your behavior and emotions can be profound, enlightening, and transformative. For Christians, this rooting out of false gods and replacing them with the worship of the true God is one way (among many) of conceiving of progressive sanctification – the lifelong stuttering journey towards maturity and Christ-likeness.
One sure way to identify such an idol is to find where in your life you experience what I call existential dread (apologies to any existential philosophers who feel they own this phrase). This is the feeling of the ground opening up to swallow you into darkness. We experience this when someone or something threatens one of our gods.
For example, as a young single man I took in a lot of solid teaching on marriage and developed a deep desire to be a good and godly husband. At some point this went from being a good thing to a god thing. It subtly became a part of my identity and hope. This was revealed over time as I experienced recurring existential dread when my wife would point out some obvious, glaring, usually minor shortcoming in me as a husband. These conversations would send me into the depths of despair and elicit unbidden a blizzard of dark emotions. Whoa. Touched a nerve, as they say.
This overly strong reaction was a flashing neon sign for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. It took me a few years to develop those eyes and ears. As a child of God I know I am to root my identity and hope in God Himself, but I only do this partially. I couldn’t accept the truth that I was not the kind of husband I wanted to be because I HAD to be that kind of husband. My worth was tied to it. And when that worth was threatened, a dark pit swallowed my heart.
Armed with this new insight, I can now repent of absolutely needing to be a good husband. In fact, shifting my hope from this god to Christ frees me to listen openly to my wife’s constructive criticism – the very doorway that edges me in the direction of being a good husband. Which, by the way, I still want to be.
Perhaps for you it is being a certain kind of employee, or boss, or leader, or spouse, or parent, or musician, or writer, or pumpkin-spice latte-maker, or anything else under the sun. This is what Calvin meant when he said that our hearts are idol-factories. To quote Chalmers again:
“[The heart’s] desire for one particular object may be conquered; but as to its desire for having some one object or other, this is unconquerable.”
It was one year ago my hands were on the smooth poles that ran along the side of the coffin. Along with five of my cousins, I had the privilege and solemn responsibility to bear the lifeless body of my grandfather Marcel from the church to the vehicle waiting to take him to a hole cut into the ground. A hole made to receive a resurrection seed. The room was silent and my mind was distantly aware of the hundreds of eyes following my movement through the sanctuary.
It was good to be with my cousins. Men I love, admire, and respect. That may sound strange, and it is: in fact it took me a long time to realize just how strange our family is. Strangely blessed would better describe it. I began by assuming such a thing was normal, for every child’s family is a normal family to them at first; and then I took it for granted – for years – while I should have known better. In recent years I have become more grateful and committed to stewarding and continuing this legacy of grace that I have been given.
It’s strange to say, but I have learned more about my grandfather Marcel’s ministry and kingdom impact since he passed away last year on April 22nd than I did while he was alive. The fact is, he was not my pastor or leader, but simply my beloved Grandpa. And yet how wonderful it has been to discover the ways the Lord used him, human and flawed as he was, to build up the body of Christ in Quebec and Canada.
Marcel was born in Coaticook, which is in southern Quebec, in 1930, in a French-Canadian home. Quebec at that time was almost uniformly Roman Catholic, and the Cotnoirs were no different. The Scriptures and the gospel were hardly known among the laity, and in fact reading the Bible was often discouraged by the Church. It held much of the society in an iron grip and was loath to let go. This is part of why the first Baptist missionaries from Ontario were met with such resistance, leading to arrests and jail time in rural Quebec in the 1940’s and 50’s. You can read more about that story in a little book edited by Marcel’s daughter-in-law, my mom Ginette. Another excellent little book on that era is D.A. Carson’s Memoirs of an Ordinary Pastor, written about his father.
For the Cotnoirs, the gospel first broke into this spiritually suffocating atmosphere in 1949, starting with Marcel’s father Ovila, who owned a leather-working shop. Marcel told me the story this way: he remembered, as a 19-year old, coming into the living room to find his father with his back to him, standing unusually still, listening to the crackling radio. It seemed he had walked in on some important moment. A simple gospel message was being shared over the airwaves, and Marcel’s father was listening with every fibre of his being. When he finally turned around to face Marcel, tears were streaming down his face. Despite having lived his whole life in the Church, he had never heard this message of free forgiveness through the cross.
Within a matter of weeks, this reviving grace reached 19-year old Marcel as well and he gave his life to Jesus. Not very long after, he met a lovely young woman named Verna and they were married in 1952. Their marriage would last 66 years, lead to five children, fourteen grandchildren, a gaggle of great-grandchildren, and be marked by a sweet tenderness that lasted until the very end. Verna proved to be a pillar of strength and support throughout Marcel’s life. And she has been a pretty incredible Grandma to me these 34 years.
From early on, Marcel was involved in the local church. He worked for the provincial electrical company (Hydro-Quebec) and every two years he was transferred to different towns in Quebec. In each case, he helped to plant a church or was a key helper in a fledgling church. It was in these local churches that Marcel discovered and developed his gifts and passion for ministry.
Eventually Marcel was hired as a project manager in industry in the city of Laval. His family now counted 5 kids, and he joined a young church plant in Laval. Five years later he felt God calling him to full-time ministry, and so at 43, he became Assistant Pastor at a church in the north of Montreal, L’Église Baptiste Évangélique d’Ahuntsic, and eventually he became its senior pastor.
Marcel’s ministry was characterized by a strong emphasis on Biblical teaching and preaching, a warm pastoral heart for his people, and a legendary emphasis on personal visits. Under his leadership, the church grew and planted 3 more local churches in the Montreal region.
One person shared with me how astounded he was in the early 1990’s when Marcel gladly spent twelve hours with him repairing his broken Hyundai. This was the happy marriage of two great passions: Marcel’s servant heart and his love for fixing things. I can relate with that man as I took full advantage of Grandpa’s love for fixing things as a broke teenager with an oft-broken car, including a particularly memorable six hours of quality time spent together under my 1988 Toyota Tercel (affectionately called Betsy) to replace rusted brake lines. Marcel loved people through his love of machines.
His shepherd’s heart left an impact on many. Echoes of that impact sometimes reached me in unexpected ways. For example, my Missiology professor at Heritage Bible College, Charlie McCordic, lived in Montreal as a young man during the time of Marcel’s ministry there. When tragedy struck and he lost his mother to illness, Marcel’s ministry of presence and comfort was so meaningful to him that, many decades later, he recounted it to me, on numerous occasions, with deep emotion.
Marcel also had a heart for fellow pastors. He was a regular fixture at annual FEB Conventions and could often be seen talking earnestly with pastors and leaders from across Canada. I recently learned how he played a prominent role in the life of one particular pastor, Gerry Sauvé, who shared this story with a group of us after Marcel’s funeral. Earlier in his pastoral career, Gerry had found himself in a difficult and draining church situation that ended with him out of that church and deeply discouraged. He confessed to us that his state of mind was so downcast that he did not think he would ever attend church again, let alone contemplate ministry ever again. Marcel and Verna showed up unexpectedly at his door and he was sure he was about to get reprimanded and rebuked. Instead, Marcel had with him a cassette tape of Christian music by Michael Card for them to listen to together. Afterwards, they talked about everything except the church.
Just as he was leaving, Marcel told Gerry to come to his church that Sunday. Over the next months and years, a quiet restoration and healing took place. Eventually they served together on staff and Gerry continues to serve as a pastor to this day. In fact, he was the one who led Marcel’s funeral service, ministering wonderfully the grace and comfort of the gospel to the hundreds who attended.
After nearly 20 years in Ahuntsic, Marcel worked for the Fellowship of Evangelical Baptist Churches in Canada, travelling from coast to coast and sharing about the spiritual and financial needs of the churches in Quebec. I discovered this first-hand as I met people in Fellowship churches in both Cambridge (Hespeler Baptist Church) and Hamilton (West Highland Baptist Church) who remembered fondly Marcel’s visits and exhortations in this role.
Marcel’s love for the Word and his burden for the church in Quebec led him to an unexpected partnership and friendship with John MacArthur. When he first came across the signature expository verse-by-verse teaching of MacArthur in 1980, he felt compelled to share this with as many Quebecois as possible. Solid Biblical teaching was sorely needed to strengthen the many Quebec French churches, filled with first-generation believers. What started at first with ordering and distributing cassette tapes of John’s sermons eventually led to the start of Grace to You ministry in Canada and the translation of a number of MacArthur’s works into French. Phil Johnson of Grace to You told the story this way in his tribute to Marcel:
I loved Marcel’s enthusiasm—but candidly, I thought he was overreaching. I was well aware that translation work is arduous, time consuming, and expensive if done right. I worried that Marcel might lose heart when he learned how difficult it is to get published material translated and printed in French. Anyone who knows Marcel understands what a ridiculous concern that was. Nothing ever seemed to discourage him. In retrospect I think it would have been utterly impossible to dissuade him from pursuing the fulfillment of what God had laid on his heart to do.
Marcel’s initial vision bore remarkable fruit. Grace to You Canada grew into a thriving ministry and all of MacArthur’s New Testament Commentaries as well as many of his popular books were translated into French for use in Quebec and across the French-speaking world. In addition, a relationship was forged between the Quebec church and MacArthur’s ministry which led to numerous visits and mutual encouragement.
Growing up, I was unaware of much of this. Marcel was simply Grandpa. He loved to go camping, listen to classical music, work on cars, read books, eat sweets, and gather as many family members and friends to his house as possible. At Christmas, when the house was full, he would set a cauldron atop the stove and pour can after can of maple syrup into it until it bubbled and frothed. We children would catch a whiff of that delicious aroma and make our way to the kitchen from every corner of the house and yard. We would stand around the tub of snow on the kitchen island, blinking and sniffing and clutching our forks, waiting while Grandpa tested and re-tested that maple taffy until it was just the right consistency. Then we ate until we felt sick.
As wonderful as those times were, it wasn’t until the Lord worked the miracle of new birth in my own heart, also at the age of 19, that I saw my grandparents with new eyes. I remember thinking: Here is a home filled with the warmth and welcome of the gospel. Here is a family, all of us, that has been given abundant grace. I listened with reverence to the mealtime prayers that he spoke, prayers rich with genuine gratitude to the Lord and an always-fresh appreciation for some gospel truth he had recently been turning over in his mind.
I thank God that I can say these astounding words: I worship the God of my parents, grand-parents, and great-grandparents. I meditate on the same Scriptures, I serve the same Lord, and I cherish the same cross that transformed the hearts of my forbears in 1949 and onwards since. Marcel has finished his labor and has entered into the joy of his Master. Until I join him, I have the privilege of continuing the kingdom work that was his life’s passion, a big part of which is loving and leading my own family so that we can continue and pass on that legacy of grace for generations to come.
Soli Deo Gloria.
My thanks to my dad (David) and Grandma (Verna) for help on this piece – getting the details and the words right!
When you read a hundred year old book dealing with a then-contemporary issue, you expect it to be rather dated. What you might not expect is for it to be readable, relevant and even prophetic for your own day. But if you’re reading an author who has a knack for seeing through the fog of rhetoric to the fundamental questions, like Gilbert Keith Chesterton, you should not at all be surprised to be underlining quotes, even lengthy passages, and drawing all kinds of parallels between his arguments and current 21st century debates.
I am referring to a booklet that was written in 1920 called “The Superstition of Divorce.” Now the occasion of this booklet is the radical idea of allowing people to divorce their spouses. This sounds very strange to our modern ears, since we cannot remember, let alone imagine, a society without legal and common no-fault divorce. But that very assumption, that our modern way is the best way to structure things, is exactly what Chesterton will have you question.
One of the simplest points he makes is that those arguing to legalize divorce do not understand what marriage is. And I think it’s fair to say many of us don’t really know either.
“And the chief thing to say about such reformers of marriage is that they cannot make head or tail of it. They do not know what it is, or what it is meant to be, or what its supporters suppose it to be; they never look at it, even when they are inside it. They do the work that’s nearest; which is poking holes in the bottom of a boat under the impression that they are digging in a garden. This question of what a thing is, and whether it is a garden or a boat, appears to them abstract and academic. They have no notion of how large is the idea they attack; or how relatively small appear the holes that they pick in it.”
What many of them did know was that marriage was a confinement and a limitation, and it chafed against that powerful liberalizing spirit which still moves today. That spirit which sees every fence and every wall as holding slaves in need of emancipation, without stopping to ask if perhaps such structures were useful for keeping harmful things out.
The parallels between the liberalizing of marriage laws and the subsequent avalanche of liberalizing that has swept through the West, especially since the sexual revolution and continuing unabated today, forces the reader to stop and consider when and where it will all stop. Is there an end goal? What does that look like? Chesterton had no illusions about the end result of this attack on what he understood to be the foundation of civilization:
“This triangle of truisms, of father, mother and child, cannot be destroyed; it can only destroy those civilisations which disregard it.”
And in what is perhaps the most prescient statement of this prescient book, he says this:
“The obvious effect of frivolous divorce will be frivolous marriage. If people can be separated for no reason they will feel it all the easier to be united for no reason.”
There can be no doubt that the onset of no-fault divorce has led to a wave of shallow marriages which are themselves all the more ripe for divorce. Knowing that the decision to marry need not be a permanent one, the effect could not be other than to undermine the care and effort involved in making that decision and the determination to making it last.
To adapt a Chesterton quote from another of his books, we find ourselves as a society in a situation where the ideal of marriage has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried. Marriage today is like a highway to a great and glorious city, but that city is many thousands and thousands of miles away. It will take a lifetime of traveling to get there. But in the last hundred years we have built off-ramps, restaurants, malls, and amusement parks every two miles, with flashing neon signs and free admission. And we are shocked that so few couples make it to that great and glorious city. I admit it is a weak metaphor – I am no Chesterton. But perhaps it begins to make a point.
Of course in making these arguments and observations, I can hear the objections coming hard and fast from the modern reader. It is unthinkable… to imagine locking people into unhappy marriages, forced to live with brutes, abusers, and cheaters. I admit I have many of the same objections. And yet there is something very healthy about listening carefully to the argument that seems so alien. It may shed light on just that point in our own moral thinking where we are blind. Unless, enlightened progressive moderns that we are, we don’t believe we have any blind spots?
Near the conclusion, he writes this:
“If a man had a hundred houses, there would still be more houses than he had days in which to dream of them; if a man had a hundred wives, there would still be more women than he could ever know. He would be an insane sultan jealous of the whole human race, and even of the dead and the unborn. I believe that behind the art and philosophy of our time there is a considerable element of this bottomless ambition and this unnatural hunger; and since in these last words I am touching only lightly on things that would need much larger treatment, I will admit that the rending of the ancient roof of man is probably only a part of such an endless and empty expansion.”
This striking image of a man with a hundred wives being like a jealous sultan speaks loudly to the pornographic age we live in – truly a sea of ‘bottomless ambition’ and ‘unnatural hunger’ that Chesterton could not have imagined. What was only possible for the sultan is now digitally possible for every 13 year old with an internet connection and a harem – I mean a hard drive.
As one poem says:
The secret that no one seems able to fathom In our age of Botox and she-bots and atoms That crystalline stream could more than the ocean Fulfill that desire made apt in proportion.
In our age we question and undermine every law, rule, authority, and tradition except for the law, rule, and authority of our desires. We have deposed everything that has built our civilization and crowned our desires in its stead. Lead us! Teach us! we say. And what do we find? That our desires keep growing, shifting, morphing. There is a very old bit of wisdom, from a very old book, that argued that our desires could be changed, made new, and purified. They could be made apt, in proportion to our actual need, and then we would find what we had been after all along, the true and lasting satisfaction of our desires.
I fear that we have a generation of young men who are so lost in a far and distant country of sexual chaos and dysfunction that they will not even be able to stumble upon this truth and perhaps find happiness. Why? Because that far country never stops, just as one’s desires never stop – each growing beyond measure and recognition. But that is a topic for another day.
One last quote, on why the marriage vow is esteemed and respected:
“The soldier is not respected because he is doomed to death, but because he is ready for death; and even ready for defeat. The married man or woman is not doomed to evil, sickness or poverty; but is respected for taking a certain step for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness or in health.”
“In short, everybody recognises that there is some ship, large and small, which he ought not to leave, even when he thinks it is sinking.”
Reading this book opened my eyes to the fascinating nature of the marriage vow, and to the idea of a lifelong binding promise. It is an idea so large that we do not see it. True, there is still some hint in our collective memory of the high honor due to it that we still make a big ceremony for the speaking of this vow, but even there for the most part we pay attention to all the wrong things: What a nice dress. Such pretty flowers. Sermon was a bit long. The food was good.
Chesterton’s point in that last quote is that, of all the institutions known to man, marriage is the most foundational, and therefore most deserving of our honor, and effort, and refusal to give up on it.
This view of marriage is a long way in the cultural rear-view mirror, barely visible. To many, unthinkable.
I am not saying we should make divorce illegal. I’m not convinced it would help much. But one thing I am quite sure of, having read this book, is that making divorce legal made it common; and making it common made marriage weaker; and making marriage weaker led to the implosion of the family; and the implosion of the family has not led to the happiness and freedom that was promised when divorce was made legal.
No doubt many individuals have been rescued from terrible marriages by legal divorce. I do not mourn that, just the opposite. But if we take a look around at the state of marriages and families today, we see a desolate wasteland abounding in human misery.
A clear pastel blue sky and bright sunlight held hands and bowed to announce the arrival, finally, of spring in Quebec. It was a perfect Saturday morning. I woke last of all to find the kitchen humming with activity and billowing the smell of pork sausages, fried thick-cut ham, scrambled eggs, orange juice, fruit salad, yogurt, and warm buttered toast. To this marvelous bouquet of aromas I was soon to add the union of freshly ground espresso beans and boiling water, pressed into frothy warm milk to make a strong but smooth cappuccino; the crowning capstone of any morning feast.
The table groaned happily under the heft of this hearty home-cooked breakfast. Gathered around were our three children, ages 8, 6, and 3, just coming in from playing outside in their pyjamas and bringing with them the unmistakable smell of spring; the smell of growing, greening, and gathering warmth.
It is the most fitting thing in the world for such undeserved blessing to flower into words of gratefulness and thanks. We held hands and addressed the great Giver together.
Perhaps it was the height of the goodness and pleasure of this meal that made the subsequent conversation so striking in contrast. Not that the conversation was bad and painful, but simply unexpected in such a time and place. For we are, if nothing else, a simply orthodox Christian family, affirming and holding dear what almost all Christians throughout almost all ages have believed. It was thus a great shock and surprise to find ourselves, in a few short minutes from the start of our feast, engaged in what I can only call a good-humored heresy trial.
Now let me hasten to explain lest your mind be filled with visions of thumbscrews, racks, and gallows. While we denounce the use of force or violence or any external means to inculcate what we might be convinced are good and right beliefs, we are nonetheless unusual among our contemporaries for believing firmly that one’s beliefs are important.
The madness of the original heresy trials is the madness of the man who strikes and swears at the ground for growing poison ivy instead of tomatoes and cucumbers. It takes a seed, good earth, sunlight, and water – in other words: something like a miracle – to grow a vegetable, and a faith is a lot like a vegetable.
Anyways, it began like this.
“Jackson called Emma a dummy this morning,” was the opening salvo from our middle child, Addie. Our children have a bit of a tendency to tell on each other.
Frowns gathered like storm clouds on the faces of the accused and the parents.
“Jackson, is that true?”
“Yes,” he answered after a pause.
My wife Kaitlyn, ever conscious of the power of hurtful words to wound the heart and mind of a child, calmly reproached our eldest child for speaking in this way towards his littlest sister.
An uneasy silence settled over the table after this.
“Emma said she was the best person in the whole world, even better than God. That’s why he said it.” It was Addie again.
This new and unexpected charge seemed to turn the whole situation on its head. The accused and the defendant switched places like dancers in a jig. Kaitlyn and I both turned open-mouthed and amazed towards our youngest daughter, who is so cute that it really makes it harder to parent well. Perhaps not unlike how the rich sometimes seem to have an easier time in the justice system. Emma sat there mute but calculating, evaluating her situation with a speed and insightfulness that only parents of young children would believe possible in a three year old.
“Emma? Did you say that?” I asked slowly.
“No! I didn’t say that!” she answered defiantly, with stony indignation chiseled upon her face.
“Well you are a dummy if you said that,” said Kaitlyn, with a kind of acknowledgement that her earlier chastising of Jackson’s words were not quite applicable in light of this new information.
I sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, considering the claim. Could my adorable daughter, the very delight of my heart, be capable of – what else to call it? – this diabolical thought? For who else but the great serpent himself would say such a thing? Had we been too easy on her, as it is so easy to be with your youngest child? Especially one as cute as she is.
“Well,” started Jackson, “she said she was the best person in the whole world, and I said ‘No way, you’re not better than God. He is the best person.” He paused. “So that’s why I said that.”
“Well that’s kind of different, isn’t it?” I said, realizing now the string and sequence of events that had led us here. The usual trio of misunderstanding, misquoting, and assuming the worst.
“Jackson,” I said, “you shouldn’t assume you know what Emma meant when she said that. And Addie, you were wrong about what Emma actually said.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. I wasn’t actually there,” admitted Addie with a shrug and a flash of her gap-toothed smile.
It was with some relief that we realized our Emma was innocent of that awful blasphemy, and guilty only of vanity and pride. Her with all of humanity for company.
The sun rose higher into the sky and gave us what we unanimously agreed was the best day of the year so far. And I for one am glad that we don’t have heresy trials anymore. Or at least that they haven’t made a complete comeback just yet.
As night’s majestic silence swallows day angelic moonlit faces peaceful lay My conscience robbed thereof by daytime’s flight to brink and break and points beyond what’s right.
When scroll of time in time’s unfurled and meas’ring eye t’wards past is curled I fear to know that estimation – fear the nearing accusation For childhood like a veil obscures what then will be in need of cures.
My son and daughters love without a thought to merit or a doubt their father is the very best Esteemed adored above the rest I know this myth cannot persist life’s rising sun will melt the mist.
Gently’s best if you don’t mind lest I, myself at once do find Esteemed in opposite proportion To the ‘riginal distortion Despised by they who once adored Severing family’s sacred cord.
I’ve seen it happen, felt the pull to open gates of feeling full Unleash heart’s currents without rein of truth adorned by bitter pain. To reap regret as failure’s harvest is all I see in future’s farthest.
This dark concern has brimmed my mind with care Eclipsing thought of He through all is there And lone can weave with bent stalk and bruised reed a blessed masterpiece: for this I kneel and plead.
As I am reading through ‘Fool’s Talk’ by Os Guinness, there are quite a few ideas of his that are ricocheting in my brain and bouncing off ideas I’ve picked up elsewhere.
In chapter 6, he draws a distinction between apologetics and evangelism. He goes on to argue however that they must be “joined seamlessly” in the sense that apologetics must always be pre-evangelism if it is to remain faithful.
“Needless to say, many of us are better at one task than the other, and few are equally good at both. […] Even C.S. Lewis admitted ‘that my own work has suffered very much from the incurable intellectualism of my approach. The simple emotional appeal (‘Come to Jesus’) is still often successful. But those who, like myself, lack the gift for making it, had better not attempt it.'”
This comment by Lewis just stopped me in my tracks. What a thing to say! It reminds me of something else of his I read recently in the book of essays called ‘Christian Reflections.’ In the chapter called ‘Christianity and Culture,’ he spends many pages reflecting on the role of culture and the arts in the Christian life, as well as in bringing people towards Christ or away from Him. The heart of it is a serious consideration of certain principle values in European literature (of which Lewis was an expert scholar):
“(a) honour, (b) sexual love, (c) material prosperity, (d) pantheistic contemplation of nature, (e) Sehnsucht awakened by the past, the remote, or the (imagined) supernatural, (f) liberation of impulses. These were called “sub-Christian. This is a term of disapproval if we are comparing them with Christian values: but if we take” sub-Christian” to mean “immediately subChristian” (i.e., the highest level of merely natural value lying immediately below the lowest level of spiritual value) it may be a term of relative approval. Some of the six values I have enumerated may be sub-Christian in this (relatively) good sense. For (c) and (f) I can make no defence; whenever they are accepted by the reader with anything more than a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ they must make him worse. But the other four are all two-edged. I may symbolize what I think of them all by the aphorism ‘Any road out of Jerusalem must also be a road into Jerusalem.'”
He goes on to explain in more detail how the remaining values function to bring certain people closer to Christ. (It is to my mind a phenomenal passage worth reflecting on.) But certainly someone could accuse him at this point of something like ‘incurable intellectualism,’ especially when he cites untranslated German, Latin, and Greek in a single essay. Nevertheless, my point is to draw your attention to this little paragraph at the end of that section:
“On these grounds I conclude that culture has a distinct part to play in bringing certain souls to Christ. Not all souls – there is a shorter, and safer, way which has always been followed by thousands of simple affectional natures who begin, where we hope to end, with devotion to the person of Christ.”
Again such an interesting assertion for him to make, and so similar to his first comment I came across in Fool’s Talk. Maybe it strikes me because to some extent I can relate: it reminds me of how encouraging it was after being in a demanding intellectual environment for six years to move to a new city and attend a simple little church where many of the people had simple love and faith in Jesus. It was very refreshing. They indeed were where I hoped to end: ‘with devotion to the person of Christ.’
Finally, it is interesting to contrast Lewis, who is arguably the greatest apologist of the 20th century, with Billy Graham, who is inarguably the greatest evangelist of the 20th century, and, arguably, of any century. If anyone was gifted at making ‘the simple emotional appeal,’ it was Graham. I really enjoyed this interview with Graham biographer Grant Wacker where this aspect of Graham’s gifting came out. It will leave you wanting to pick up Wacker’s new book: ‘One Soul At A Time.’
I think it is only right to appreciate the contributions of both of these remarkable 20th century Christians. Guinness is right that we need both apologists and evangelists. And wherever you are on that spectrum, I encourage you towards greater self-awareness like Lewis evidenced in his comments, and genuine appreciation for those whose strengths lie where you are weak.
“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.” – 1 Cor. 3:7