X, Xians and Xianity

OK, you know Xmas? As in Christmas - Christ + X = Xmas? And how lots of people see this as an egregious example of secularization and out-of-control political correctness in an insolent and rebellious world? And how these people are missing the fact that X has long been an abbreviation for Christ, since in Greek X (or χ or chi (say: kai)) is the first letter of Christ? And how thus, Xmas has nothing to do with the dilution of the greatest story ever told or ideological imperialism, but is really part of an ancient Christian tradition? Isn't that great?

Well I was thinking. X, of all the letters, is easily the most trendy, and has been for decades. Let's count the ways: the L.A. punk band X, the X Games, the X-Men, the X-Wing, the pirate connection ("X marks the spot! Arr!"), planet X, X as kiss (a step above O for sure), and all that's just a quick skim of the surface. Despite all this use, X still holds up as something mysterious and quite possibly dangerous. What luck, then, and how appropriate, that as Christians we had it first!

Now, I'm not really suggesting that we all start calling ourselves Xians (now that I'm looking at that, I'm thinking it might suggest we have some sort of extra-terrestrial delusion (quick research reveals I'm close: Xi'an is an important Chinese city (meaning? "Western peace."))) First of all, while we're all well aware of the atrocities that have been committed in the name of Christianity, the term (and how infinitely less the thing itself!) is nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Secondly, well, see paranthetical re: E.T.'s above.

Still though, it's nice to know we have that option. I do suggest that the three terms in the title are not bad short-hand type subsitutes, all of which preserve (revive?) the grandeur and mystery of the things themselves, while making no sacrifices, I hope, in the area of reverence?

UPDATE: It's becoming increasingly clear to me that this blog's primary purpose is to put my ignorance on display to the world. The day after I made this post, I found a letter in which C.S. Lewis (of all people -- I do read other things, honest) used "Xtianity." The first "t" confuses me; it suggests that X stands for Chris. My dad informed me that what I thought of as a pretty novel idea has actually been pretty common among theologians and other Christian scholars, especially those with knowledge of Greek, for hundreds of years. Sure enough, the next day I was reading Jonathan Edwards' "Narrative of Surprising Conversions," wherein the youngest of the Town seemed to be full of Love to whom? X.

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C.S. Lewis's Top Ten Most Influential Books: #4

(You can find #9 -- the first in this series -- here.)

The Temple, by George Herbert – a collection of poems with a most unfortunate subtitle. I used two editions of The Temple, both of which I borrowed from the under-rated University of Sussex library. One was a facsimile of the original 1633 printing, from which I borrowed the title page you see here, published in the 1970’s. It was exact, even down to the dimensions of the book itself (and got me ufed to reading fentecef like thif.) The other was a modern edition, published in 1899 as part of the Library of Devotion series. Inside the cover is written, in that elegant old-fashioned script you never see anymore, “To Dear Alice – In memory of May 4th & of all the old times. May, 1900.” I love that.

C.S. Lewis was less than two years old when that was written, and Alice was no doubt old enough to be his mother. I assume that it was much later when he discovered The Temple and found it to be such a source of comfort and wisdom. C.S. Lewis described Herbert’s poetry as “delicious, earthy, homespun,” and much preferred him to that more eminent Metaphysical poet, John Donne (who happened to be a friend of his mother). In that judgment Lewis seems to have anticipated current trends.

It’s interesting that some of the literature I’ve seen on Herbert (most notable this Wikipedia entry) has managed to almost completely avoid the subject, object and inspiration of his poetry – that is of course, God. They’d much rather talk about “transcendental signifiers.” But really, applying such terms to Herbert’s poetry seems to be to be a ridiculous attempt to obfuscate what is really quite simple. That quality – simplicity -- is what first struck me about Herbert’s poems. They are straightforward acts of devotion, expressions of love for Herbert’s lord and master. But despite the overwhelming sense of Herbert’s powerful piety, and despite the fact that he was a scholar, public orator and Minister of Parliament before he was a priest, one never loses the sense of George Herbert as a simple man like you and I, just trying to use the gifts of God – his life, his talents – in the best way he knows how. To the soul that longs to know God ever more, these poems offer much sympathy and inspiration, and it’s easy to see what C.S. Lewis saw in them.

These days, though, have probably received their greatest influence from George Herbert in a phrase of his coinage: “His bark is worse than his bite,” which I suggest might be an apt statement to have applied to C.S. Lewis, whose booming voice could strike fear into the most hardened undergraduate.

I’ll conclude with two poems from The Temple which I just can’t resist sharing with you:

Redemption

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
        Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
        And make a suit unto him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’old

In heaven at his manour I him sought:
        They told me there, that he was lately gone
        About some land, which he had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take possession.

I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth,
        Sought him accordingly in great resorts;
        In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

        Of theeves and murderers: there I him espied,
        Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, & died.

The World

Love built a stately house; where Fortune came,
And spinning phansies, she was heard to say,
That her fine cobwebs did support the frame,
Whereas they were supported by the same:
But Wisdome quickly swept them all away.

Then Pleasure came, who liking not the fashion,
Began to make Balcones, Terraces,
Till she had weakned all by alteration:
But rev’rend laws, and many a proclamation
Reformed all at length with menaces.

Then enter’d Sinne, and with that Sycomore,
Whose leaves first sheltred man from drought & dew,
Working and winding shyly evermore,
The inward walls and Sommers cleft and tore:
But Grace shor’d these, and cut that as it grew.

Then Sinne combin’d with Death in a firm band
To rase the building to the very floore:
Which they effected, none could them withstand.
But Love and Grace took Glorie by the hand,
And built a braver Palace than before.

Post-Ireland Adventure Post

Before I returned home from England I spent ten days travelling around Ireland. Click the link below for a bit of a summary and some pictures.

Day 1 - Galway, County Galway



I only stayed in Galway as a means of getting to Inishmor (see day 2). It is one of the most important and largest cities in Ireland, yet it seemed quite medium to me. This here is the River Corrib, and those dark figures are fishermen. This is around 10:30 PM on one of the longest nights of the year.

Day 2 - Kilronan, County Galway



Kilronan is on the largest of the three Aran Islands, off Ireland's west coast. It's covered in a net of ancient stone walls and dotted with even more ancient stone forts and comparatively new early Christian churches, huts and crosses. This is the view of the cliffs from the huge, mysterious clifftop fort called Dun Aengus. (Apologies for the poor quality of this and all subsequent vertically-oriented pictures.)

Days 3-4 - Enniskillen, County Fermanagh



This Northern Irish town is an island surrounded by rivers, hence Ennis-, which is derived from Inis, Gaelic for island. This was the only time I had the luxury of spending two nights in one place, but it was a very disappointing two nights. All the things I wanted to see were on small islands in Lower Lough Erne north of town, but ferries only ran on weekends, and I was there on a Thursday. This picture is of Castle Coole, just outside of town -- my consolation attraction. It's not really a castle, but an 18th century manor house set in a large, beautifully landscaped estate. And when is the house open? Every day but Thursday.

Day 5 - Dunfanaghy, County Donegal



Back in the Republic now, although this small seaside town is further north than most of Northern Ireland. I spent my birthday trying to get here by a few coaches, and celebrated my eventual arrival at the Cove Restaurant. Quite a swanky place. This picture was taken during a long walk on the next day, when I was a bit lost -- in a good way.

Day 6 - Derry/Londonderry, County Derry



If you're a unionist you say Londonderry, if you're a republican you say Derry, and if you're a tourist you're very careful. Even more than Belfast, London/Derry is full of reminders of the Troubles. Here's one. I had just one night here, no days, but enjoyed myself with good company in some of the pubs.

Day 7 - Belfast



There were two things I wanted to do in Northern Ireland's capital: go east, to see the house, church, etc. where C.S. Lewis spent his childhood, and go west, to see the political murals and the Peace Line in West Belfast. To do this without a car on a Sunday would be almost impossible and possibly dangerous. Fortunately, at Great Victoria Street Baptist Church I met a lovely couple who brought me to their house and fed me a delicious lunch, packed me sandwiches for dinner, and gave me a guided tour of everything I wanted to see. Hooray for them! This is Little Lea, home of C.S. Lewis until the age of nine. Thanks also to the lucky family who lives there now and who graciously allowed me to take this picture of their home.

Day 8 - Drogheda, County Louth



Back in the Republic of Ireland. Took a bus a few miles outside the city to the early Christian monastic site of Monasterboice, which includes a round tower (to watch out for Vikings), a few high crosses, and two ancient church ruins, some of which is pictured here. Afterwards I hitched a ride to Old Mellifont Abbey, Ireland's first Cistercian monastery.

Day 9 - Dublin



Oh, Dublin. It has a great Natural History Museum, but that's pretty much all I can say for it. Maybe I needed to give it more time. Here's the Ha'Penny Bridge, over the Liffey.

Day 10 - Ennis, County Clare



I just had one night here, before catching my flight back to London the next morning. Here are the ruins of an old Abbey. Easily my favorite part of Ennis was the 24-hour supermarket.

Fiction Fragment 2.1

Well hello. It has been a while, hasn't it? I won't be so presumptuous as to apologize, but I'll give as my excuse that I've spent the last month in four different countries, and haven't had many thoughts worth putting down.

This, though, was written before all that. It's the latest installment in a series of very short fragments of fiction. You'll notice that this one is called 2.1, while the others (one, two, three, four and five) were signified by just a single digit. I've decided to call fragments one through five chapter one, and this here is the first part of chapter two. It wouldn't hurt too much to revisit chapter one before reading this one. It has been a while. (A post regarding my short trip to Ireland should be forthcoming.)

---

I walked along a rocky shore. Ahead of and behind me the shore stretched, ending and beginning —- if it could do either —- past the far horizon, which played the role of sentry, keeping the shore from meandering up into the dark purple and black sky. To my right was nothing, and to my left was the sea, which was also nothing. I walked for days.

I saw a light out at sea. It was far away, but the light was bright and when it came, it poured all up and down the shore, filling the cracks between the rocks. It came and went, came and went, came and went. I saw that the light came from a lighthouse.

I was near the base of something tall. Something brick, something sea, something light —- I was near the base of a lighthouse, towering above me in endless rows of bricks, at the base of which was an open door. Through the door I could just see the start of a staircase running along the interior. I was near the base of a spiral stair.

In a lighthouse off a rocky shore a man called I was climbing a tall spiral staircase. Presently he reached the top. A bright light circled just above me like a vulture, lighting up my surroundings. After one sweep of the light, my surroundings were nothing. A second sweep answered the long mystery of what was at the top, for there the woman stood, but the light moved on and she was gone.

A third sweep —- she stood like Nike, noble and proud, but her eyes were closed. Her hair was wild in the salty wind and she held something in her outstretched hand.

The light swung around again for a fourth sweep —- she held a rabbit, its ears caught in her white-knuckled fist, dangling terribly. Its fur was caked and matted with dried blood. The wind rocked it gently as it dangled and stared out at me with black eyes over its bloodied whiskers. The light had stopped its rotation and it now shined mercilessly on the woman and her attentive prize.

At the top of a lighthouse I was looking into the eyes of a dead rabbit; it looked also into mine.