This summer as I was walking in the woods, alone, a lovely bird landed in front of me, gold and green – I’d only ever seen it once before, wondered if I’d ever see it again, and here it was.
Of course I just froze. It wasn’t the stealthy, calculated silence of a lifelong woodsman who knows how to approach; it was pure indecision and fear, and fixation. I desperately wanted to learn more, to coax her a little closer. But I knew if I gave any clear sign of just how much I wanted to it to come near, it would fly. If I even took out my camera for a picture it would be gone. I’m like a little kid that way, too jumpy and unable to be patient when certain things catch my attention. That my motives are the best and brightest there is no question, not in my mind. But sweet motives are not enough to coax an oriole or a goldfinch onto your shoulder – there needs, too, a high-wire finesse, a balance-trick of easy patience and persistent desire – that I don’t have, and wish very much that I could learn.
Maybe all it needs is, you know, time. I hear they like popcorn and bright feathers too.
This word presents some interesting opportunities.
Originally, around the 1300s, it meant ignorant, silly or foolish1, as used in “a nice distinction,” i.e., one so trivial it would only be made by an ignorant person. Chaucer used it as an insult2. Later, through the 1400s and 1500s, it acquired shades of fussy, dainty or delicate, and careful, so that in writings of that time it is often hard to determine which sense was intended3. Though the word is now mainly a synonym for pleasant, this use of the word was marked as “colloquial” by Merriam Webster all the way until 19364.
The implications are obvious: maybe nice guys really do finish last.
But at any rate, it is clearly time for a revival of the word’s original shades of meaning, in all their confusing, ambiguous glory. Offhand, I can think of a couple of modern cases where the word’s full nuance is made use of:
The schoolteacher in A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck (particularly as read by Lois Smith in the audiobook) frequently responds to awkward situations with a rather nervous “how…nice.”
In the Pixar movie Finding Nemo, you will recall, an underwater mine goes off, setting off a chain of explosions. The movie then cuts to a pair of pelicans floating on the water, and a couple of tiny bubbles from the explosion bubble up to the surface just behind one of the birds, giving a rather embarrassing impression. The other pelican utters a sarcastic “nice.” before flying away.
(I hope to continue this series, paragraph by paragraph, until I have gone through the whole book. I hope that those of you who haven’t read it before will pick it up, and that those for whom this may be old hat will be reminded and encouraged.)
Pilgrim’s Progress, Page 2:
Now, I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the fields, that he was (as he was wont) reading in his Book, and greatly distressed in his mind; and, as he read, he burst out, as he had done before, crying, “What shall I do to be saved?”
This one instance is not, by itself, “the crisis” – the man has burst out this way before. The question had been asked many times, without answer. This is not a triumphant question; it is a question of despair, a rhetorical question that implies an answer of, “There is nothing I can do! There must be, but there is not! There must be, but I can never see how there could be!”
How do I know this? Look closely at the man, and at the question. He is not depressed because of circumstance (as we’ll see more clearly a little later). He is in agony because of his depravity. “Depravity” means not just “I do sinful things” but also “I am sinful.” Everything I do is poisoned from the start by my sinful motives. Depravity means that every effort to help only adds to the problem – not only will I be judged and sentenced for my crimes, but also that every self-interested try at removing the guilt is its own crime and carries its own sentence.
So the man screams out, “What must I do to be saved?” To me, he seems to spit the question out – knows there must be some action required from him, but is also bitterly aware that all his actions1 are sinful and can only push him further from God, not closer.
He does not ask “what can I do to save myself,” but “what can I do to be saved”, that is, he cannot save himself. In other words, “Though I can do nothing but sin, what can I do that would incite God to have mercy on me?”
The question has no answer…but there must be some answer. The man thinks it all through again, arrives at the same terrible paradox, and cries out again.
And again. And again.
“Is it not against all natural reason that God out of his mere whim deserts men, hardens them, damns them, as if he delighted in sins and in such torments of the wretched for eternity, he who is said to be of such mercy and goodness? This appears iniquitous, cruel, and intolerable in God, by which very many have been offended in all ages. And who would not be? I was myself more than once driven to the very abyss of despair so that I wished I had never been created. Love God? I hated him!”
—Martin Luther
1 “all actions” – meaning that seemingly good things – repentance, lifestyle changes, and religious “awakenings”, and even “belief” – can be counterfeited. Because counterfeits calm real fears with false assurance (besides being sinful in themselves), they are worse by far than nothing at all.
I had a note today from a reader, an entirely valid complaint, notwithstanding she gave me a false return address when she used my contact form.
From:‘Anna’ (anna@yahoo.com) Date:June 10th, 2008
I read your mocking remarks regarding an article written for an Ely, Minnesota local newspaper. I happen to know the author. I can only tell you how wrong you are in your characterizations. Perhaps you should consider a little research before you make fun of someone. Had you inquired about your target, you would realize that it is your comments that sound silly…not his.
Thanks for the note. I have to agree, my remarks were indeed silly, as they were intended to be. Most people, though, figured out that I was being satirical, and was not seriously pretending to have any insight into Michael’s character or history, which are obviously unknown to me.
Rather, the target of the satire was his writing style, about which no “inquiry” is really needed since he himself provided a fair sample of it to the public. The unwieldy grammar and imagery, in particular, are a source of advanced amusement to anyone with an ear for these things. I should add, too, that although I did kind of “single out” this particular letter-to-the-editor, I did attempt to represent his style as being emblematic of many efforts in the medium, rather than as an unfortunate or unique exception. As for myself, I do not at all discount the possibility of getting similar treatment regarding my taste in clothes, for example, should anyone happen to photograph me on the street. We all have our little weaknesses.
I realize it is unfair that my satire should reflect personally on Michael or affect his reputation, so I have removed any reference to his name and locale from the text of the article, to prevent it from turning up if people should google his name in the future. Thanks again for bringing that to my attention.
Regards,
—Joel
*
From:Mail Delivery System To:Joel Date:June 10th, 2008
This is the mail system at host —.—.—.
I’m sorry to have to inform you that your message could not be delivered to one or more recipients. It’s attached below.
For further assistance, please send mail to postmaster.
If you do so, please include this problem report. You can delete your own text from the attached returned message.
The mail system : host a.mx.mail.yahoo.com[209.191.118.103] said: 554 delivery
error: dd Sorry your message to anna@yahoo.com cannot be delivered. This account has been disabled or discontinued [#102]. – mta486.mail.mud.yahoo.com (in reply to end of DATA command)
(and it looks like you’ve already sent your response to the non-email address of the complaintiff…oh well)
Hi Joel,
For your response to your complaintiff (I like that!), you should point out that your (good-natured) critique is less of a jab at the Letter Writer and really a commentary on small-town life and newspapers. I think the complaintiff missed the other, slightly subtle thrust of your posting: in our land of opportunity and movement, we may find ourselves somewhere very different from where we started, yet still yearn for a connection to our ‘roots.’ I think you really captured the letter writer’s awkwardness in his attempt to do just that. In a way, you’ve made the Letter Writer a star of sorts; this could be a pitch for an episode of This American Life.
Recently finished this book, and now I have read all three in Lewis’ Space Trilogy.
In a couple of (probably superficial) ways I strongly identify with C.S. Lewis – his rich inner thought life, his aesthetics, his faculty for argument, and a perfect storm of experiences and psychological makeup that left him single well into his fifties. (Still waiting to see on that last one.) I feel too well in myself the weak sides of these things – never yet their strengths, as I usually see them in Lewis’ work – so I winced when I read this book, a panoply of the weak sides of Lewis’ power.
C.S. Lewis does a good job painting pictures and scenes. His sketch of the interminable, frustrating uncertainty of NICE’s working atmosphere is a convincing one that sets up some real tension. The note of discord in Jane and Mark’s marriage is effective as well, creating a bittersweet interval on the very first paragraph that only just touches resolution on the last page.
He also does a great job at calling up a sense in the reader of some aesthetic of life & love which is beautiful, severe, and indescribably old; but the effect is an intermittent one.
Themes which Lewis loves to revisit and normally excels at seem somehow wedged into the narrative and overdone: the idea of wanting to get into the Inner Ring, the spiritual bankruptcy of progressive education, the fascination with self-deception. In fact, this triumvirate, in varying proportions, could almost be said to form nearly the whole basis of the book’s main characters. One gets the impression (mistakenly, I think) that Lewis’ understanding of human nature was perhaps a little overdeveloped on these lines, while lacking in others.
In the same way, I felt that Lewis’ perspective on marriage, which fights to make itself known throughout the book and never fully succeeds, showed signs of having come from a man whose ideas of marriage had been mostly theoretical and not personal. Perhaps that is a perspective worth listening to, but one tends to doubt of its utility.
The story itself is a real page-turner, but also full of holes because of Lewis’ unsparing use of the supernatural and mysterious. The conspiracy and manipulation-of-the-masses parts of the story are handled with a breeziness that ranks with the most mediocre “end-times” fiction (Illuminati, et. al.).
A final regretful thought as regards the accuracy of C.S. Lewis’ premonitions about Progressivism’s destructiveness (better understood in The Abolition of Man than in this book). He is still being proven thoroughly correct, it is true, except that he seems to have thought that progressives would end by destroying Nature along with Man. He did not guess that the progressives would end by purporting to take up Nature’s cause, and by pitting Nature and Man in a false conflict with each other.
Despite what it sounds like, I enjoy this book; in fact, I look forward to reading it with my wife (in thirty years when I’m married, that is). But I enjoy it better when I imagine that this was a first draft of Lewis’ that the publishers somehow got ahold of by mistake.
At this his Relations were sore amazed; not for that they believed that what he had said to them was true, but because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing towards night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him to bed. But the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears. So, when the morning was come, they would know how he did; He told them, “Worse and worse”: he also set to talking to them again; but they began to be hardened. They also thought to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages to him; sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect him: Wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery; he would also walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and sometimes praying: and thus for some days he spent his time.
The message of the first part of the true gospel – the reality of enormous sin and the certainty of destruction before God’s anger – was just as strange in 1680 as it is in 2008. We see this in the reaction to it by the man’s family.
We have a tendency to think that hellfire-and-brimstone preaching was pretty well the only act in town in those days. In fact, then (as now) the truth about sinful man was not common, and was rarely taken seriously where it was heard. This aspect of the man’s experience, which Bunyan very much intended to be a portrait of the typical, true conversion – shows that it was not common, but rare, even in a “Christian” culture, for someone to be so concerned about their soul that it should nearly incapacitate them with grief and despair.
The effect of this first part of the gospel on his newly awakened soul is worth looking at more closely. This burden finds its counterparts in Scripture, in the Psalms where sin and vanity are contemplated:
I am feeble and sore broken; I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart…my heart panteth, my strength faileth me: as for the light of mine eyes, it also is gone from me. My lovers and my friends stand aloof from my sore; and my kinsmen stand afar off.1
This effect is also seen in the lives of great Christians who lived before salvation became as “convenient” as it is today. A reading of just the first fifteen or so pages of David Brainerd’s journals (for example) is enough to show just how perfect a trap his soul was in, and how it distressed him.2 I would venture to say that David Brainerd had more spiritual understanding before his conversion than nearly every preacher of “the gospel” that I’ve heard in America in this young century.
I wrote an article awhile back about Prosper.com, explaining how scrutiny is required before Prosper loans can be fairly compared with other investments. That article is still worth reading, and I still think that, after taxes and defaulted loans, a Prosper portfolio is probably not that much better than a savings account and involves significantly more risk.
Recently, though, I found another use for the site.
I wanted to help my brother Steve get some financial know-how, and to encourage him to save money. But real banks are so much hassle for kids to deal with. So I set myself up as a bank for him. He opened an account and deposits money in my cardboard box, if you will. I pay him a generous interest rate (currently at 4.45%) and give him a statement every month showing his deposits and withdrawals and how much interest he’s earned.
So like a real bank, I’m paying him for letting me hold his money; only I’m paying him far more than a real bank would1. But here’s the deal: like a real bank, I don’t keep all of that money in my cardboard box. I made clear to him that if he ever needs to withdraw more than half his money, he has to wait three business days before he gets the cash. So I take the money he deposits and invest it, and try to earn more on it than I’m paying out.
In order to make more than the 4.45% I’m paying Steve, I’ve lent the money to a couple of people with low-grade credit ratings through Prosper.com, where I aim to get an 8.6% annual return on that money. It’s like I’ve created my own little subprime credit crisis in a teapot, and it’s kind of cool.
I’ve taken on more risk in hopes of earning more, but the upfront cash cost to me is nil since I’m using Steve’s money. The risk to Steve is nil since I’ve agreed to repay him his money plus interest no matter what happens2.
1 The interest paid on savings account for a minor is almost less than negligible; and even grown-ups are lucky to get 4% on a savings account (as of this writing).
2 Let’s just say my credit rating within the family is pretty golden.
In this plight therefore he went home, and refrained himself as long as he could, that his Wife and Childen should not perceive his distress, but he could not be silent long, because that his trouble increased: Wherefore at length he brake his mind to his Wife and Children; and thus he began to talk to them: “O my dear Wife,” said he, “and you children of my bowels, I your dear Friend, am in myself undone by reason of a Burden that lieth hard upon me; moreover, I am for certain informed that this our City will be burned with fire from Heaven; in which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee my Wife, and you my sweet Babes, shall miserably come to ruin, except (the which yet I see not) some way of escape may be found, whereby we may be delivered.”
Where to start. As I alluded to in the last post, one of the reasons I find this book so interesting is the huge difference between its gospel & its experience of the gospel – and what we hear in church today. Even if you are religious, try to read this with a fresh eye, and ask yourself whether it rings true with your experience – or whether, if someone you know began to behave like this, you would respond with as little understanding as this man’s family did.
We read that the man “refrained himself as long as he could,” which is immediately understood by anyone who has been in his position. It is bad enough to be confronted with great danger to yourself, but even worse to see that those nearest to you, who will also be destroyed, cannot see the danger and will probably only think you crazy. When you read it, you are likely to share his family’s opinion of him.
Well, let us hear the man try to explain himself. He gave two reasons for his trouble. The first was the burden on his back. This burden represents his sins, which were too numerous to count. Even the good things he had done were so infused by sinful motives as to render them worse than worthless. The burden was so great that the weight of the whole mess of all his actions was too great for him to bear.
The burden was strapped on so tightly that (as will be seen) neither he nor anyone else was able to get it off. This shows that his sins were inextricably linked with his very personality. One way of putting it: a person who is a murderer or a pedophile becomes linked with their sin in our minds, so we can hardly think of one without the other; but of the two, we are less horrified by the sin than by the kind of person who could do such a thing and be casual about it afterwards. The problem was not just that the man had sinned, it was that he was a sinner – it was his nature to sin. This man’s burden would not have been so bad if he could get rid of it somehow (by going to church, for example) but he found it so tightly connected to his body that there was no separating the two.
It is worth noting that he had to tell his family of his burden – they couldn’t see it. This shows how the awareness of sinfulness is intensely personal, and not only invisible to others, but strange. No other character in the whole book is directly described as having borne such a burden, though it is plainly inferred in certain specific passages.
