Wired Mesh

I wonder to what extent the Protestant pretence about tradition is influenced by an overemphasis and misunderstanding of the "priesthood of the believer" doctrine. Too many Protestants deny the necessity of tradition altogether, choosing to believe instead that the Reformation somehow liberated them from such stodgy institutions and into their own personal quiet time. All we need now is some Protestants with a good grasp of theology who can also write some decent fiction. Aaron?

As to novel reading, I really need to take up the practice again. I think the only ones I read at Covenant were those assigned in Dr. Foreman's American Novel Class. Before that, I had been working my way through the Russians, having just completed Anna Karenina.

I remember trying to "work" my way through some of the Russian writers. It spoiled reading for me for a little while after too much of that. At the point where it is work to read, maybe it is time to find something more enjoyable to try for a while. I find it pretty easy to get turned off to reading when the reading is selected for the greatness of the book, and not for being enjoyable to read. Its not all about having fun, but sometimes its worth a try. (And after more than a couple hundred pages of any translated writer, no matter how good, it gets rough on me.)

Maybe it's the Protestant ethos as it has evolved in a distinctly American setting that is partly to blame, and not so much specific doctrines. Many of the doctrines of the Reformation are communicated in such a way as to make the church, and her life, an afterthought. Too often, salvation is merely about "going to heaven," and thus sola fide is perfectly fine and can be experienced apart from the body of believers and her rites of passage. America, on the other hand, combined with the Reformation, maybe creates a space in which salvation is abstracted away from any kind of corporate context and focused mainly on the individual and his experience of grace. Even while the latter is true, I wonder if maybe we cannot always see that it's not exhaustively true.

The Catholic novelists, Mesh - it's really wild, to me, how so many of the most wonderful novelists of the century, written by Christians, were Catholic. Have you read any of Graham Greene or Sushaku Endo? Endo reminds me of Greene (and apparently, having read some writings about Endo, he kind of hates that constant association of being the "Japanese Graham Greene"). I need to read Waugh, too. I had never heard of him (I thought he was a woman for the longest time) until a little while ago, when I read so many bloggers commenting about him.

maybe he was so grumpy 'cos he had a girl's name....

Scott: I agree with your assessment on the American evolution of the Protestant ethos; I just identify the misuse of this specific doctrine as the chief culprit. The individual idea of salvation does seem especially prevelant in America, but I was also wondering how Protestantism has evolved in other cultures. Do non-English writing Protestant novelists suffer from the same traditional pretences?

Jeremy: Perhaps "working" was not the best verb. I enjoy Russian novels and wish that I could read them in their original language. Somewhere in the middle of the last one I managed to lose my copy and had to procure another. It wasn't the same edition and the translation philosophy differed right down to the names. Very confusing.

Kevin, I wonder if Protestants have not only misused the Priesthood doctrine, but that of "Sola Scriptura" as well, refusing to comprehend temporal context or literary genre. The combination of these two misunderstandings in an American individualist setting leaves no room for any tradition other than that provided by personal conviction (the "nudging of the Holy Spirit.") And without a wider, catholic context for faith, artistic freedom becomes impossible, since every word you write must be gospel truth. Why else do all evangelical "novels" have a conversion scene at the book's two-thirds mark?

Scott, Graham Greene's "The End of the Affair" ranks among my top two or three favorite novels, along with "The Last Gentleman" by Walker Percy and "Wonder Boys" by Michael Chabon. Greene is often overshadowed by Waugh, but to my mind he is the far more insightful Bristish Catholic writer. I've not yet read any Endo, although half a dozen friends of mine say his "Silence" is one of the most powerful things they've ever read.

And yeah, I used to think Waugh was a woman too.

Mesh, did you see the movie version of The End of the Affair, and if so, what'd you think of it? After having read that novel, then seeing the movie, it was pretty interesting to notice how the first 1/3 to 1/2 of the movie was nearly verbatim the book - even down to some of the most banal dialogue and characters - and then the second half to last two-thirds veers away from the book. The meaning of the title, "the end of the affair," takes on different meanings depending on the book or the movie. In the book, she never returns to the affair, but interestingly, she does in the movie. I was wondering what you thought. I have some thoughts, but it's been so long since I saw the movie, and read the book, that I can't remember the specific scenes, except that I wondered if in the hands of the director/screenwriter, the movie becomes far different than what I felt Greene was doing in his book.

Silence is what I'm thinking of, too. It is very powerful. It's definitely worth reading. It reminds me of Greene in the way that, like Greene, these ideas about piety and sainthood are juxatposed with apostasy.

Scott, I did see the film version, and it frustrated the heck out of me because of that last-third deviation. The crux of the book is a scene where the narrator gloats in a chapel, staring at an icon of Christ and taunting that the girl loves him more than God, that he has won. And the next morning (SPOILER WARNING!) she is dead. It's the ultimate reversal in a book full of reversals. The narrator is wrestling with a real, personal God that he doesn't want to believe in, and finally has to admit that God has won, an admission that may or may not lead him toward faith. The film skips this entire epiphany in favor of a seaside sequence, and the woman surrenders not to a personal Diety to to some vauge notion of faith. Really a pity, because the first half of the film is so solid: the acting is great, and most of the crucial themes are established.

In many ways, even if the film had properly captured Greene's ending, it would have been disappointing, since the novel's greatest accomplishment is to get you inside the narrator's cynical, angry head completely, and then switch mid-novel to the voice of his lover's letters. I can't imagine a movie being able to put that off. Polyphonic novels rarely translate well to the big screen, because the camera always presents an "objective" point of view, and narration rarely compensates well.

That's exactly what I thought, too. It was actually kind of an interesting vision, in a way. It was clearly a purposeful recasting and reimagining of the book in the movie version - completely gutting Greene's characters wrestling honestly with a personal God, and replacing them with people who seem to actually have a somewhat more legitimate beef with God.

The title takes on different meanings in the book versus the movie. In the book, the affair ends precisely because the female character has pledged herself to God so that he might save her lover. And yet she is married, caught in an adulterous affair, and seemingly in love with this lover. So when the lover does not die, she keeps her promise, and if I remember correctly, the disease that she ultimately contracts, as seen from her journaling, almost seems like God helping her keep that pledge to him. God kills her, thus ending the affair, as a way of saving her. I'm not saying this exactly right, but hopefully you know what I'm saying here - it's as though we're watching God graciously providing her with help, all in the context of this affair. And then it ends with the lover and the husband together, and the lover expressing his hatred of God in letters written to God, and the reader is left feeling as though is actually the beginning of something for him, too. This is, incidentally, what I find so wonderful about Greene - the way in which he explores these seemingly paradoxical realities within the religious person - how can I feel on the inside as though I am a complete mess, and full of hatred even towards God, and yet somehow I am left after reading Greene that this is not at all abnormal for the saint. This is somehow what it means, at times, in following God. This is even more explicit in the "The Heart oft he Matter."

But in the movie, she does make that vow, and Fiennes' character awakes. Julianne Moore tries to keep her pledge, but eventually caves in, returns to the affair (and the director did not try to shield us from seeing this affair in all its gory detail; I could've done without those extended sex scenes, personally. For whatever reason, Julianne Moore has no problem with getting butt naked and pretending to do it with other actors on screen. That's my one complaint about her). And it's only then that she is struck with the disease, which eventually kills her.

It's such a different effect, because in the end, "the end of the affair" for the movie is more of an act of a vengeful God who seems almost bitter at this women who pledged love to him, whereas in the movie, it's almost like the disease is an act of kindness, because she knows she simply cannot stop herself from going back to her lover. But, I still found the movie interesting, only because I figured this director understood the book - why else would the first half be so nearly identical, down to the most minute details, to the film? - but chose to actually make those changes to fit a more personal vision of his own. That's kind of interesting, even if I feel like it's not really, in the end, the same piece as the book.

I'm glad you noticed that, though. You're the first person I've talked to who felt like that. It's a pretty stark recasting of the book, even though on some levels, it's really faithful to the story.

And I think you're right about the struggle of bringing someone like Greene to screen. His thrillers (The Third Man) and his political books (The Quiet American) probably do lend themselves to cinematic version much easier than something like The Power and the Glory or The End of the Affair. So much of what Greene does that I love involves his characters, and their calm acceptance of their own honest-to-goodness depravity, and the way in which he then situates God within the broken rubble of their own lives. This is one place where the novel can do things which I'm not so sure moving images can really approximate as well.

Aaron, I couldn't agree more about the misuse of "Sola Scriptura." My own switch to being Reformed was largely influenced by beginning to recognize both the temporal contexts and literary genres within scripture. All of which makes for an entirely different understanding. Related to this, I find your comments to be more applicable to broad evangelicalism than to Reformed theology. I have often seen one of the chief dangers for Covenant (and, perhaps, the PCA in general) that of giving up its Reformed distinctives in order to appeal to evangelical sensibilities. However, in abandoning these distinctives, it is less able to provide a significant voice to and participate in the cultures that surround it.

So much of what Greene does that I love involves his characters, and their calm acceptance of their own honest-to-goodness depravity, and the way in which he then situates God within the broken rubble of their own lives.

I love this about Greene too. Regressing to an earlier point, I think this is the sort of artistic freedom the Catholic tradition provides to its writers. An overarching authority in church structure, with diversity within it, creates wider minds in its laymen. Whereas a more individualist church places the burden on the writer to account for the entire system of his/her faith within an artistic work, leaving no room for the struggles of the human heart.

You remember "The End of the Affair" much better that I do, and I absolutely agree with your analysis of the two versions. What makes the book so interesting is that there are in fact three lovers battling for Sarah's heart: her husband, the narrator, and God. And God isn't just after Sarah; he's stalking her two men as well. The end of one affair may be the beginning of another. The film abandons the concept of God as a divine romantic rival, as if it were a concept the director didn't want to consider.

That's a fascianting observation about Catholicism. Great thoughts all around. I really enjoyed this thread.