As much as I love him as an author, I feel I am outgrowing
much of George Mac’s theology. I’m much more familiar with up-to-date scholarship
about comparative cosmogonies, religions, and mythology than I’ve ever been, and
that makes some of MacDonald’s theology—very progressive in its own time for its
overtones of universalism, inclusivity, and equality—feel outdated to me. It’s
my fault for thinking of his theology as current in the first place; but I came
from a very fundamentalist Christian background, and it took me a while. I am
profoundly grateful to have discovered MacDonald as a source of liberation from
my dogmatic heritage (thank you C.S. Lewis and John Eldridge for introducing
us), yet I find myself increasingly distanced particularly from his Christian
metaphysics, and this distance seems to increase each time I go back to read
one of his works.
On the other hand, the unparalleled sweep of his
imagination, his poetic grasp of beauty and existential significance, his love
of nature, his authenticity, and his supreme literary intelligence far outshine
the facets of his fin de siècle religious
framework that are dated. I just keep getting the feeling that I haven’t yet
plumbed the depths of all this guy has to offer beyond his Christianity. To be
sure, there are so many gorgeous concepts and phrasing side-by-side with
religious platitude, but his charm and range of vision blast through the
time-worn ideas. Although he would probably claim that his profundity is
borrowed from the deeper truths of Christianity, it seems to me that he is
borrowing from something much older which Christianity itself borrows from, and
perhaps from something further back within his own self that recognized some corollaries
within an established religion.
And I have to admire his honesty and attempt at integrating
even his darkest doubts regarding the existence of God and the meaning of life
into his faith. The protagonist of this book, Thomas Wingold, is a pastor who
begins to question his own beliefs regarding the existence of God and the
teachings of his sacred book. The entire work depicts a struggle between
secular humanism, religious fundamentalism, and an honest faith. Wingfold, of
course, represents an honest faith, and even though (spoiler alert!!) he ends
up being predictably confirmed in the same faith he started questioning, still
it is a purer, kinder, more honest sort of faith that cares for the lonely and
outcast. Seems more right than wrong.
I truly believe that the polarized personalities of the work
that represent the views of humanism (George Bascombe and Helen Lindgard),
religious fundamentalism (Helen’s mother, oftentimes her brother, Leopold, and
Wingfold’s own congregation), and an honest, inclusive Christianity (Wingfold
and Polwarth) highlight MacDonald’s raging internal debate regarding the
validity of each position, especially the contest between humanism and
Christianity . It’s clear that MacDonald was not portraying his brain-child
humanist in the most positive light—George Bascombe is conceited, selfish, and
prejudiced against the weak and ignorant—but even so, he puts some pretty damn
good munitions in the mouth of George against which to scrimmage. Perhaps if
MacDonald didn’t work so hard to vilify him—probably an attempt to quell that
voice in his own head—he could have been pretty close to creating understanding
between people of faith and non-faith. But he was definitely playing a side,
and gives some of the best apologias for the Christian faith—not bandying mere
fact-based propaganda—that I have ever heard. It is philosophical jujitsu at
its best with an understanding that the key to throwing an opponent isn’t
necessarily data-bashing (“Evidence! All of it that was to be had was but such
as one man received, another man refused…”), but rather using the weight of common
human experiences, desires, and fears to compel, being diligent not to “weaken
by presentation the force of a truth
which, in discovery, would have its
full effect.”
Though obviously predisposed, as are so many faithful
believers, to think that all nonbelievers must be either deluded or dishonest, MacDonald
was still extremely sympathetic to a sincere person whose heart seemed open to
others; and he empathizes to a degree with the some of the points made by a
more genuine secular humanism, namely, the lack of absolute certainty or
assurance in matters of faith. Wingfold himself, though reinforced in his faith
by the end of the story, is still a far way from absolute, untroubled
certainty. But against losing hope in the face of uncertainty, he affirms his self-election:
“What mighty matter is it if, thus
utterly befooled of Nature, we should also a little fool ourselves, by
believing in a lovely hope that looks like a promise, and seems as if it ought
to be true?” This sentiment reincarnates throughout the story, but the essence
is the same: the best one can do is hope, and trust that the very best of what one
believes is true. If there is a God, he or she will take care of the rest.
This, I think, seems fair and even laudable, and would be a great common ground
for people of different perspectives to meet if they could get past the need to
declare absolute certainty over absolute hope or determination.
I was surprised, however, at my own disappointment with a
tenor of poutiness on the part of MacDonald that I never noticed before in his
writings. It seemed most pronounced when he mentioned the hypothetical absence
of God in the universe. “Wingfold felt that if there was no God, his soul was
but a thing of rags and patches out in the masterless, pitiless storm and hail
of a chaotic universe.” World’s smallest violin ova’ heah. It was all very much
in the spirit of William Wordsworth when he wrote:
“One adequate support for the calamities of life exist—one
only—an assured belief that the procession of our fate, however sad or
disturbed, is ordered by a being of infinite benevolence and power, whose
everlasting purposes embrace all accidents, converting them to good” (from The Excursion).
MacDonald complained through his protagonists about life not
being worth living if there were no God to control every little contingency, in
which case all good experienced or hoped for were a complete illusion. It was
as if he reasoned, “If I can’t have life all my way, with a god of my own
perfect ideal, then I would rather not have life or god at all!” This whining
reverberates throughout this book, although I can’t say I don’t sympathize in
some ways. Nietzsche’s ‘does-a-mother-get-paid-for-her-love?’
rebuff against those whose virtue consists in a desire to receive a reward for
their love and goodness might well apply here:
“At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And
thus came its voice unto me: ‘They want—to be paid besides!’... Ye want to be
paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue, and heaven for
earth, and eternity for your to-day?...Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth
her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love?”
(from Thus Spoke Zarathustra)
But, again, a universe without a traditional concept of God,
immortality, and reward is a very hard thing for some who’ve been conditioned
to think of happiness with strings of very concrete, eternal guarantees. I won’t
begrudge a man or woman their prerogative to construct a system of metaphysics
or mysticism. It’s very…human. Happiness ‘with strings’ is what we all want; it’s
what we all work towards in one way or another; but when a string breaks, we
can either cry over spilled milk, or we can try to enjoy what we have while
searching for new strings. Simone DeBeauvoir, the French philosopher, said that
losing a god through disbelief hurts too much to come to terms with easily.
“After having lived under the eyes of the gods, having been given the promise
of divinity, one does not readily accept becoming simply a man with all his
anxiety and doubt” (Ethics Of Ambiguity).
This, she said, goes hand in hand with
the difficulty people have in “living without a guarantee.” Still, even without
a sharply defined guarantee, we are yet alive for this moment, and to waste our
only moment with the people we love is tantamount to wasting eternity.
In the end, Wingfold is content to “cast in my lot with the
servants of the Crucified”, despite his parishioners’ disapprobation concerning
his “lack of absolute assurance.” He lives what feels most real and hopeful to
him, and that, at the very least, sounds authentic for many Christians and
non-Christians alike. That is something a lot of us can get behind. Regardless
of MacDonald’s conscious message, the grandeur of his style and grasp of the
significance of human existence which lives on hope—on a chance—makes his works
thoroughly enjoyable reads.
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