Honesti and Trouth

As I finished reading another essay by Raymond Carver on writing, I began ruminating about the author's whose works, or better stated as voices, continue to whisper into the ears of my heart and mind. C.S. Lewis, Phillip Yancey, Raymond Carver, Henry David Thoreau, A.W. Tozer, Augustine, George MacDonald and the list may go on, but these are the names that spring forward initially. I asked myself why? This followed an essay -as I said- by Raymond Carver who was examining his influences, namely a man by the name of John Gardner: a creative writing prof at Chico State Univ.. I am going to jot down a small excerpt from the piece that cleared my creative eyes from the poor advice that builds up like groggy salinated boogers.

"It was his [John Gardner's] conviction that if the words in the story were blurred because of the authors' insensitivity, carelessnes, or sentimentality, then the story suffered from a tremendous handicap. But there was something even worse and something that must be avoided at all costs: if the words and the sentiments were dishonest, the author was faking it, writing about things he didn't care about or believe in, then nobody could ever care anything about it."

So then, why the authors I mentioned? This statement blew the clouds away and I began to understand myself better: I enjoy sincere honesty more than mere reiterations of truth.

Literature classes and philosophy books are more helpful to me than an insincere theologian that's been simply molded by the seclusion from the "world" for the sake of never being tempted, nestling himself in the lofty seminary classroom, then, in the church he "leads". If I sound bitter, I am.

There was a time in my life when I soaked up theology like a parched sponge. I wanted to know the greek NT, what Barth, MacArther, Calvin, Wesley and the Armenians thought about predeterminism, soteriology, pneumatology, the "original sin" and on down the list. It was exhilarating, I was wild with discovery as I learned new perspectives, a new way of thinking; I was able to intelectually discect scripture with the scalpel of theological science. The Bible, the life giving, deeply nutrient rich nectar that it is alone, became a cadaver on an operating table; something that I, with the aid of other theological surgeons, could tear into and discover. What I found, at least, was something so unsatisfying, so confusing, so incredibly vain, that I nearly quit from exhaustion.

What saved me was what Jesus brough into my life in the form of a Renaissance Lit. class and the rediscovery of simply good writing about tangible, honest things. No, Candide was not a real account nor Don Quixote or Gulliver's Travels. They were simple, honest perspectives on life. I might get a bit carried away here, I feel the ability to be rational is slipping from my grip eagerly. Let me conclude.

Brennan Mannings words about his battle as a Catholic priest with alchohol and depression; Augustine's meticulous account of his life, the first account of deep, spiritual introspection in literature; C.S. Lewis' simple, concise, yet poignantly accurate approach to lofty spiritual concepts, all the while not asserting total accuracy -the great theological error; Then Raymond Carver's "dirty realism", the view from the corner of his eye on Neighbors (an early work of his) as he tells the filthy stories of America's subculture keeps my feet grounded in the real society, not the pop-cultural society I see on the big brother tv shows; Thoreau and his stinging words about the vanity in our lives checks me at every step.

"That's really interesting, Jason" a sincere voice, laden with good intentions says, "but what about truth?" I want to take John MacArthur as an example of one who (from the devout studying of his work) I have come to see as possibly dishonest, in so far as being relatable to those who really strugle in life. His books are no doubt -I want to emphasise this point- TRUE. He nails it. I agree with him on 8 of 10 theological points (not that my concurring means a thing). But his writing as well as preaching are so void of honesty, it fills my mouth with the Colosseum's sand while the grain of Alexandria sits at the dock, rotting.

I have found an immense pleasure in the proclamation of truth with honesty far more relatable than the cold, lifeless, faceless and mere distribution of orthodoxy via a whitewashed tomb.

Therefore, the authors, like the people I choose to be around are ones of whom I would say with Thoreau have a "certain positive originality", like the Canadian lumberjack who was "observed...thinking for himself and expressing his own opinion, a phenomenon so rare that I would any day walk ten miles to observe it, and it amounted to the re-origination of many of the institutions of society". I too would go the distance to commune with such entities.

In conclusion: I am drawn to the honest man's writ on his toil with truth, his doubts and pains when it proves itself, than the man who merely knows the right answers and never allows himself the pleasure of the fight with truth.