The Teetotaller Torches The Claret

No.65: July 9, 2021

Dear Friends,

I have to make a quick correction. Last week I made a rather ironic Freudian slip: I called Winston Marshall (the former Mumford & Sons band member) Winston Smith. Winston Smith, of course, is the protagonist of George Orwell’s 1984, so I guess I wasn’t too far off the mark because Winston Marshall is basically a present-day Winston Smith—unwilling to lie for a peaceful life.

On that note, Marshall has written a thoughtful follow-up to last week’s viral letter, this time in the UK Spectator. It’s worth a read.

I hope you’re having a fine summer! It is strange that it is almost half over, given that I never really realized it began. Montana continues in the throes of a dry spell, and I’ve pretty much given up the fight over the grass this year.

I’m happy to report that in terms of current events, we seem to be in the “dog days” of summer. Almost nothing provokes or inspires commentary from me, so I’m not going to fake having something important to say about something I care little about. And if I wrote every week about the few important things I do care about, I’d bore you to death. So here’s something different.

When The Teetotaller Torches the Claret

I was recently getting acquainted with a lesser-known collection of essays by C.S. Lewis, entitled, Of Other Worlds: Essays & Stories. One of the chapters is a deep reflection on the art of literary criticism, particularly with respect to science fiction. I myself am not a huge sci-fi buff (I never really made it past Robert Heinlein’s juveniles which—don’t get me wrong—I loved as a kid) so the nitty gritty aspects of the essay weren’t all that interesting to me. But then I ran across this passage that contains a penetrating observation that has far-reaching application:

Many reviews are useless because, while purporting to condemn the book, they only reveal the reviewer’s dislike of the kind to which it belongs. Let bad tragedies be censured by those who love tragedy, and bad detective stories by those who love the detective story. Then we shall learn their real faults. Otherwise we shall find epics blamed for not being novels, farces for not being high comedies, novels by James for lacking the swift action of Smollett. Who wants to hear a particular claret abused by a fanatical teetotaller, or a particular woman by a confirmed misogynist?

Good criticism, good analysis, good critique, requires, he seems to be saying, a kind of sympathy, and without that basic sympathy the critique loses all of its persuasive power. If, as Lewis says, you love a particular wine, you are not going to listen to a lecture about its deficiencies from someone who has never tasted or enjoyed wine.

Lewis again:

[M]ost of these articles were chiefly concerned to account for the bulge in the output and consumption of science fiction on sociological and psychological grounds. This is of course a perfectly legitimate attempt. But here as elsewhere those who hate the thing they are trying to explain are not perhaps those most likely to explain it. If you have never enjoyed a thing and do not know what it feels like to enjoy it, you will hardly know what sort of people go to it, in what moods, seeking what sort of gratification. And if you do not know what sort of people they are, you will be ill-equipped to find out what conditions have made them so.

“Those who hate the thing they are trying to explain are not perhaps those most likely to explain it.” You know what leaped immediately to my mind? NASCAR. I myself cannot fathom what is remotely interesting about a bunch of cars driving around an oval for a few hours. I’d rather watch paint dry. But you know what else? I must somehow have internalized Lewis’s point, because I’ve always been very reticent to criticize NASCAR or its fans. I know there is something thrilling about these races, to them. Lewis is articulating a point made ably by Atticus Finch to Scout: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view—until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” I can’t climb into NASCAR-loving skin, so I am not the person to explain NASCAR to you.

You know what leaped to my mind next? The cottage industry of big national media outlets sending intrepid reporters from New York or D.C. to write essays on how rural “red state” people live. Lewis has produced the perfect maxim for this phenomenon: Those who hate the thing they are trying to explain are the least likely to explain it. And that’s why they can’t really explain it—they could never really explain Trump’s popularity beyond “what a bunch of ignorant rednecks,” and they currently cannot explain the visceral resistance to Critical Race Theory beyond “what a bunch of ignorant rednecks.” It’s all dripping condescension about these unenlightened rubes who just don’t know what’s good for them—these writers lack all imagination for what it might be like to actually be one of these rural conservatives.

And I’m sorry: I have to be equal-opportunity toward the political right. If I had a dollar for every snarky, condescending, and dismissive comment about “Oh, you’re just a NeverTrumper and Every Bad Thing is your fault,” I’d have a pretty fat bank account.

Once you internalize this basic principle—good criticism requires a kernel of sympathy—you start to see violations of it everywhere. Read any major media op-ed about guns; is there any imagination about what might make people, you know, like or want them? Not likely. Instead these journalists impute reckless and violent motivations to millions of their fellow citizens, all the while demonstrating incredible ignorance about the topic itself.

There’s a personal application in all this. Before you engage in criticism, of any kind, do you at least try to imagine why somebody might like what you dislike, hold a view opposite of yours, be concerned about something you find benign? Are there elements of truth or genuine (even if misplaced) concerns you can affirm? Dustin Messer recently posted this on Facebook:

When it comes to conversations around hot button cultural issues, it amazes me how incapable we are of granting the valid points of our interlocutor and/or acknowledging the problems on our own side. It's like we're in an all or nothing competition in the guise of a conversation. Our goal in such a dynamic is no longer truth.

As an example, the extreme right and the extreme left want you to believe that the choice is: (a) embrace all of CRT or (b) deny the reality of systemic sin.

Negative polarization is a drug that’s causing us to accept premises we’d never believe in our sober mind. For the culture warriors on the left and the right, facts are only valued insofar as they're useful in supporting their particular narrative/cause.

For both sides the goal is power, not truth. “Power is a poison well known for thousands of years,” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn taught us. Choosing power over truth is the perennial temptation. It was the temptation Adam succumbed to in the garden, and it was the temptation Jesus resisted in the wilderness.

In these cultural conversations, we prove if we're "of Adam" or "of Christ." Choose truth over power. Always.

I thought that was particularly well-said, and when it comes to the absolute negative polarization in our society right now, we’d do well to remember Lewis: those who hate the thing they are trying to explain are the least likely to explain it. To the extent you are a hater, the less persuasive or effective you are.

But I have good news: as Christians, we are called to be, and enabled to be, lovers. Lovers of God and our neighbors. We can “speak the truth in love,” as Paul commands us. Sympathy, imagination, stepping inside Boo Radley’s skin to the extent we can is the better way. Or, if I might co-opt a Pauline maxim: where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more. Let’s choose the way of grace, not only because it is the right thing to do but because it is the more effective thing to do.

A last note, just because I’m thinking of it. I mentioned the kind of condescending journalism regarding white rural America. You know who writes the most compelling and moving essays about the so-called “real” America? National Review’s Kevin D. Williamson. Oh, I know he gets trashed for his “tough love” style, but what makes his journalism compelling is his…sympathy. He was born and raised in the places he describes; he’s lived the dysfunction, sympathizes with it, and then supplies strong medicine. A “best of” collection is available now, with the punchy title: Big White Ghetto: Dead Broke, Stone-Cold Stupid, and High on Rage in the Dank, Woolly Wilds of the ‘Real America.” I’d read many of the essays in the pages of National Review over the years, but revisiting them made me appreciate them all the more.

Miscellany

• Here’s a maddening story: in California, pet shelters are being overwhelmed as people who adopted animals during the pandemic are returning them because, well, hey, we’ve gotta go back to work! We once made the mistake of adopting a kitten. Well, it turned out to be a mistake because that cute little kitten became a full-grown demon cat. Nobody—nobody—liked that cat. We kept her and took her along with us on countless moves. Why? Why didn’t we get rid of her? Because I had a strong theological conviction that I took responsibility for the well-being of that animal and it was my God-given duty to care for her as long as she remained in my care. One day, she disappeared and I was providentially relieved of that duty. I am not saying you have to share my exact convictions on the matter (there may be legitimate reasons to get rid of a pet), but I do encourage you to count the cost before you take an animal under your wing. They are not fashion accessories to be easily discarded.

• Related to our divine calling as the image of God (part of which is to care for animals), it was gratifying to discover that someone in academia has made good use of my doctoral research. You can read Dr. Jessica Joustra’s journal article on Herman Bavinck, race, and the image of God here.

• This is rare around here, but if you’re going to pitch a tent in Grizzly country, take all the precautions. A 65-year old nurse from Chico, California was dragged out of her tent and killed. The story notes an increase in human contact with the “Federally protected” Grizzly, and from my point of view that right there is a big part of the problem. De-list the Grizzly, start a lottery program for hunting tags, and let the coastal bankers and lawyers fly in and pay our Fish and Game Department 50 grand a pop to cull the population. Wildlife management is part of the imago Dei, too.

• Strange how all my “miscellany” notes involve the doctrine of the image of God—I swear I didn’t plan it this way. I don’t know if you saw it, but the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus released a video of their heart-warming new song, “We’re Coming For Your Children.” They seem legitimately shocked that anyone might be disturbed by their message announcing their intentions to subtly subvert your beliefs, values, and worldview in order to entice your kids to embrace the LGBTQ+ lifestyle. They have now taken the video down because of alleged threats of violence. This particular story pushed the folks at the Babylon Bee to the limits; how do you satirize something that cannot be satirized? Well, here’s how:

• My 14-year old has begun playing publicly at an Open Mic night, hopeful of maybe landing a few summer patio gigs. Her dad has a well-known love of small-stature ladies shredding really big acoustic guitars, so he couldn’t be more pleased and proud.

  

• She hasn’t done any videos in awhile, but I’ll sign off with a flashback to when she wasn’t any good. A whole fourteen months ago.