Having Decided To Stay

The official website of Bryana Joy Johnson

Category: Videos

On That Always Aching Wound

OH MY GOSH, I want him to stay little!” a little girl wails in a viral video that has been making its rounds this week. Sadie has just learned that her baby brother is going to grow up, and it’s too much to take in tranquility. The look of stunned injury on her face has garnered over 21 million views on youtube, and certainly some laughter, but I expect I’m not the only one who feels something else too: a sort of cold, sick loneliness, anyone? The unutterable tragedy that just when everything is exquisitely right, everything is emphatically wrong.

It’s not even funny,” said my sister. “Except that you have to laugh, or you’re going to cry.

Because somehow this hysterical sorrow isn’t ridiculous, isn’t misplaced. Somehow it’s just exactly what the situation calls for.

And I don’t want to die when I’m a hundre-e-e-e-e-e-ed,” Sadie sobs. It’s that kind of grief that can’t be fixed or forgotten. On the other side of it, something has been shattered forever.

Or has it?

In Reflections on the Psalms, C.S. Lewis has something to say about this, something that reads almost as if it was written for this exact drama – simply because this exact drama plays out in everyone, troubles all of us:

Fish Out of Water

Hence our hope finally to emerge, if not altogether from time (that might not suit our humanity) at any rate from the tyranny, the unilinear poverty, of time, to ride it not to be ridden by it, and so to cure that always aching wound which mere succession and mutability inflict on us, almost equally when we are happy and when we are unhappy. For we are so little reconciled with time that we are even astonished at it. “How he’s grown!” we exclaim, “How time flies!” as though the universal form of our experience were again and again a novelty. It is as strange as if a fish were repeatedly surprised at the wetness of water. And that would be strange indeed; unless of course the fish were destined to become, one day, a land animal.

In the bitterest book of the sixty-six, there’s this:

He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their hearts.

So if I could say a few words to Sadie, I would say, Little Girl, never grow out of your deep discontentment. “Wrestle with the Not Yetness of things. With the good, broken, incompleteness of everything.

As my friend Sam also says, It is what it is. But it is not what it shall be.

On Volition and the Atheistic Literary Style

Illustrated_London_NewsAn interesting essay,” wrote G.K. Chesterton in the Illustrated London News a hundred years ago, “might be written on the possession of an atheistic literary style.”

In spite of possessing all of the faults that accompany reckless and impassioned writing, G.K. Chesterton had a penchant for the most powerful of all literary capabilities: he could express in dazzling terms the deeply buried knowledge that everyone already holds in their hearts, but does not know how to explain.

When a reader comes across a statement so expressed, he takes ownership of the idea. He cries in his mind, “I have always known this, only I have not known how to put it together!” This is the highest level of communication, and it may be argued that it is the only form which is of any lasting use.

Thus, when I came across these words of Chesterton’s, I knew at once that there was such a thing as an atheistic literary style, and that I had always known about it, and had been trying to find just those words to tell of it. And Chesterton beat me to it, as he so often does.

He continues,

“There is such a thing. The mark of it is that wherever anything is named or described, such words are chosen as suggest that the thing has not got a soul in it.

Thus they will not talk of love or passion, which imply a purpose and a desire. They talk of the ‘relations’ of the sexes, as if they were simply related to each other in a certain way, like a chair and a table.

Thus they will not talk of the waging of war (which implies a will), but of the outbreak of war – as if it were a sort of boil.

Thus they will not talk of masters paying more or less wages, which faintly suggests some moral responsibility in the masters: they will talk of the rise and fall of wages, as if the thing were automatic, like the tides of the sea.

Thus they will not call progress an attempt to improve, but a tendency to improve.

And thus, above all, they will not call the sympathy between oppressed nations sympathy; they will call it solidarity. For that suggests brick and coke, and clay and mud, and all the things they are fond of.”

These words are no less true now than when they were penned in a past century. The difference is that in the present era of televised journalism, the mechanized passivity and rigidity of communication has been largely exported from the page to the screen. Anyone who has suffered through a White House press conference or had the misfortune of listening to Jay Carney for even a few minutes is a witness to the modern meaninglessness of language.

What is missing in the automated soullessness of the atheistic literary style? What is it that strips from language its power and its glory?

I thought at once of a short video I saw some years ago when I was little more than a child, and the word that I learned while watching it. A word at once terrifying and cheerful, like a gift of courage. For oh! courage is found in unlikely places.

noun: volition
1. the faculty or power of using one’s will.

Within the context of atheism, a man may have the illusion of decision-making. Honest atheists, of which there are an alarming number, will admit this is only an illusion, and that a man acts only according to the ways he has been acted upon. However, the thing is not whether a man has a choice or not, but whether the choice that he makes has any meaning, which it can’t. For nothing shall be saved, and nothing shall be ruined. Not only because a man’s choice shall not save or ruin anything, but because there is nothing to be saved or ruined. Everything is ruined already. Or, rather, there was never any hope of anything being saved.

But the sobbing Nazi officer spitting a cigarette into the gutter, he may be saved. He has come to know his own wretched weakness and the weighty shame of the world. What stands between all of this and the hard relief of purity is a stand. A will waking up and doing.

“They will not talk of the waging of war,” warned Chesterton, “which implies a will.”

Well, shall we wage a mighty war against the culture of happenstance?

Love Is Making Its Way Back Home

I’m hitting the road tomorrow and will be traveling with limited internet access for awhile. In the meantime I hope you’ll be enjoying the way that the spring tastes on your part of the planet and maybe this charming little music video of Josh Ritter’s, a remarkable artist I just discovered this week (thanks to Corey!).

Magnificat

In honor of the joyful advent of the light, I have recorded a little song I wrote. It is based off of Mary’s Song, often referred to as the Magnificat, which can be found in the Gospel of Luke. Also referenced are these verses from the second chapter of Hebrews.

(For best results, switch the video quality to 720p (HD). This will make the lyrics easier to read.)

Cantata #147 On Harmonica

If Bach only knew of all the places and ways we would sing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring…

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