Ironic Advent Meditation #4: Bummer Advent*
I don’t know if people say bummed out anymore. Well, more precisely, I don’t know if other
people still say it. I say it. And I said it several times today. In back to
back classes—British Lit and World Lit. Of course, I get used to students
staring at me like I’m crazy (especially when I’m acting out the role of
Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner like I was today), so I’m not sure if their empty
gazes meant that they didn’t know what I meant by bummed out or if they were just sick and tired of waiting for class
to be over. I did get an email from a colleague the other day, responding to my
note saying I had to miss a meeting, which just said “Bummer.” But, after all,
he’s a member of the intelligentsia and probably talks like that all the time.
Anyway (or as Jennifer Lynne Ricke says, anyways), I was talking about the way
certain works of literature seem designed, at least to some degree, to bum you out. Or induce a downer, if you will. Or take the pep
out of your step. Or slap you upside the head. Or, remind you that you live in
a fallen, flawed, undependable universe, dude, if you insist on philosophizing. The
works in questions were Ozymandias, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Candide. Can I get a witness?
This topic
was not in my lesson plan for the day. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a
lesson plan for any day ever. But still, let's just say that I didn’t have bummer written in the margins of my books or in my notes or
anywhere. It was just a spontaneous overflow of powerful teaching when we
analyzed the state of mind and heart of the so-called “wedding guest” at the
end of Mariner, and the intended “mighty”
audience of Ozymandias, and the
intended butt of the satire in Voltaire’s Candide—that would be pretty much all of humanity since the dawn of time, I think, especially German and Dutch humanity. These authors WANT to take away our false optimism (Candide), our arrogance (Ozymandias), and even our trust in the
state of things as they are (Mariner)
by reminding us of the world’s mutability, humanity’s inexplicable moral
lapses, and the downright horrors that attend the lives of “featherless bipeds
with a soul” in this “the best of all possible worlds.” Bummer Dude.
How can this be salutary? For that matter, why am I using
the word salutary in an ironic Advent meditation? I really can’t think of a
better word to make my point, and even if I could I would stubbornly resist using
it because I like the sound of salutary. These literary works intend to be, or
at least pretend to be, I think, salutary despite their harsh effects. And, in
doing so, they exemplify and embody a belief that literature, and other cultural
works, can give us pleasure (one quality usually included in most definitions
of art) even while leaving a nasty taste in our mouths (or whatever metaphor
makes sense here—perhaps a grating noise in our ear). Sweet things are good.
Happy noises make us happy, sometimes. And everyone who knows me well knows
that I love comedy, especially the overwhelmingly joyous and redemptive
comedies of Shakespeare (despite their dark patches).
But. Sometimes a poem, a song, a story, not to mention
talk with a friend (or an enemy), a newscast, or any number of other things can
hurt or sting or just obstruct the flow of what we think ought to be smooth
reality. AND THAT CAN BE A GOOD THING. In the Ancient Mariner, the “wedding-guest”
was just trying to go a friend’s wedding when the old sailor accosted him, fixed
him with his hypnotic gaze, and told him his strange story of sin and guilt and
slooooow redemption. At the end, the wedding guest skips out on the happy day’s
events, “a sadder and wiser man.” And the Mariner stalks off in search of his
next victim/patient. For his disturbing story, we are meant to see, disturbs in
order to teach difficult wisdom.
This Sunday, the First Sunday of Advent, just after we lit
the first candle and sang a wonderful Advent song (the utterly brilliant and
moving 9th Century evening hymn, “Creator of the Stars of Night”),
we stood up to be cheered by the good news of the Gospel. Something surely
about Mary and an angel. Maybe a begat or ten. Or some other news that is good in the
way that we want good things to be good. Something Ricky Bobby, for example, would like. Instead, we hear Jesus totally bumming out his
disciples. Whoa, Son of Man, what a downer! Why you messing with my Advent bliss? How about some peace, love, and
beatitude, bro . . . I mean, Rabbi?
You probably know what he said already, so I won’t belabor it. Wouldn't
want you to lose your Advent buzz from the Advent chocolate you get in your
Advent calendar. But it went a little something like this:
Jesus
said to his disciples:
“There
will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars,
and
on earth nations will be in dismay,
perplexed
by the roaring of the sea and the waves. (when
are we doing “Silent Night”?)
People
will die of fright (did he say die of fright? what about chocolate?)
in
anticipation of what is coming upon the world . . . .
For
that day will assault everyone (salt? . .
. what?)
who
lives on the face of the earth.
Be
vigilant at all times
and
pray that you have the strength
to
escape the tribulations that are imminent
and
to stand before the Son of Man.” (what
about candles?)
This is not what we expect our good
news to be. Sounds WAY like some Old Testament prophet thing that I’d rather
not understand anyway. Of course, truth be told, I do this Advent thing every
year, so I should be ready. But it doesn’t get any easier. I suppose that’s why we do it every year.
People think I do ironic advent because I don’t like warm, fuzzy feelings and
chocolate. NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH. I Like ‘em all. Bring ‘em on.
I’m just trying to explicate some texts, a liturgical tradition, and a little
something I like to call . . . reality.
Come to think of it, I did see a few
stunned looks on the faces of students today. A few of them had never thought
about the fact that they could be stunned by a poem or a story. Stunned in the painful way not the Facebook
way [as in, this story will STUN you because it is
STUNNING, and after all this is FACEBOOK, etc.].
And they probably also never thought that they would have a professor
who claimed that such an experience could be salutary. OK, maybe they just weren’t following me. But please,
dear Ironic Advent audience member of mine (may I call you that?), please follow
me. I am SORRY as heck that neither Advent or Christmas is going to end this
year (as it hasn’t ended the previous 2000 or so years) with peace on earth,
happy New Year’s, or a playoff appearance for the Chicago Bears. In fact, it’s
worse than that. Human arrogance, stupidity, and malice might just keep showing
its ugly head. There might even be yet another shooting incident, like, maybe
in San Bernardino, California. Alright, I actually wrote this after hearing
about that one. I'm so sorry. Every time that happens, I want to apologize to someone.
You want this to be a good Advent? And
I’m talking to myself more than you, believe me. The way to wait is not to
wait the way you usually wait. I mean the way to get ready for Advent is not to wait for something that’s
going to happen in exactly so many days from now (or many, many years in the future
when the little baby will come back as a big King and all that). Instead of
that do at least several of the following (the first two I assume, the others take a bit more will power): Light a candle (I mean your heart). Sing a hymn
(especially Creator of the Stars of Night).
Empty out your refrigerator and give it all away to someone who needs it. Or just fast for awhile until you figure out a new way of relating to food. Ring the
bell. No, really, I mean ring the bell for Salvation Army. Find someone who
needs the kind of love we say comes to us in the Incarnation, and do your best
to be that for them. Find a situation that needs the justice of the Son of Man and find
some way to do justice. Knit hats for (c)old people.
It will probably be slow going, like the Ancient Mariner's slow redemption. That's not all bad. One negative recommendation: don’t post on Facebook that everyone else should love
or bring justice like Jesus. That might seem like what Candide does, but it isn’t really (and I don't have time to explain it). It's virtue signalling, and I am well aware that I am tippy-toeing on that line right now. Well, I guess go ahead and do that if you’re
going to write a formal sonnet that people will still read in 200 years, or a long ballad in pseudo-medieval style, or
the greatest extended satire in the literary tradition. But not if it’s just going
to be more Facebook stuff. That’s what worries me. I should know. Like I said, it's hard to think about these things without sounding like a someone who is more adventy-than-thou.
Also, you might consider confessing
to someone, preferably not a wedding guest. That sounds like a downer, I know. But it might have a salutary effect. Or, it might just bum you out. Or both.
OK? While we are waiting for the kingdom to come, let's stun folks (and ourselves) with the goodness for which we long.
*This meditation first posted Advent 2015.
Dude.
ReplyDeleteI say "bummer." Unironically.