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June 25, 2003
Hello everyone,
My English 517 class this semester is specifically devoted to the American Novel, a rather ambitious class to take and continue to keep up with all the other demands life places on me (including a second English class centering on British literature from the Middle Ages through the Restoration—ca. 673 to 1785). Among the collection of five novels we are threading our way through in eight weeks’ time (approximately a novel a week) is Song of Solomon by the noted African American author Toni Morrison: a book which garnered the 1977 National Book Critics Award. Among her numerous accomplishments, she received the Pulitzer Prize in 1988 and was awarded the prestigious Nobel Laureate in Literature in 1993.
As part of our class lecture this evening, we watched a half hour interview conducted on March 11, 1990, by Bill Moyers for his television series A World of Ideas. (For those who might wish to track down the source, note that he conducted a follow-up interview with her on September 23, 1990.) Moyers asked Morrison what metaphor she would choose if she were to express to the world at large the life of the inner city. Her metaphor of choice, she said, would be love: not that the city itself was necessarily love, but rather love would be a metaphor of the dynamics played out within it: the metaphor of love’s power to affect it. I found her comments fascinating as she began to unfold what she meant by this concept of love.
Her characters are typically placed in situations that test their character to the limit; she says she places them on a cliff and pushes them almost to the edge. She seems to thrive on looking at love that starts out grounded on a solid and positive base, but evolves into something more skewed as the circumstances of life embitter and change. Perhaps her goal is to cause us to examine our own lives? Perhaps this hypothesis is why she is so fascinated in part with the African American male’s tendency (at least statistically speaking) to leave lover and children behind? Speaking specifically of the badly abused character Pecola in her book The Bluest Eyes, she described her as finally succumbing to the “master narrative.” If Bill Moyers was familiar with this term, he certainly did not seem to be, asking her for clarification (whether for himself or his viewers).
What our class knew that Bill Moyers seemingly did not, is that she was referring to a concept born of postmodernity. Because we live in an increasingly pluralistic society, it is not always easy to know what is true and what is not. But there is more to it than this. Beginning approximately in the fifties, Western civilization saw a marked increase in technology—and information. In fact, you may well have heard of the Information Age, a rather fitting description of our time. The fact that you are reading this newsletter delivered to your inbox (or else you have accessed it directly via the web) demonstrates that you are linked to the Information Super Highway, better known as the Internet. With such an influx of information, finding a way to fit it all together in a coherent way—much less with any hope of finding out a final truth that transcends and cements it all together—began to seem an increasing improbability. This factor is what causes professors like Dr. Robert Harris of the Vanguard University of Southern California (now retired) to put together critical thinking courses so that students can learn how to think through the massive amounts of information that are thrust their way each and every day. In fact, according to his article The New World of Information, this factor has now become the dominant focus of education. Under the second main heading “The Educational Model Then and Now,” Dr. Harris writes of the “now”:
Perhaps the most important role for the professor today is to help students manage and use information. In this mentor model of education, the professor is now “a guide by the side.” The professor helps students identify a problem, find resources, evaluate them, apply them, and create a result—a knowledge product. Further, since education is at least as much about who you become as what you learn, the professor serves as a guide to help you become a better, more human, circumspect, thoughtful person. Since the professor cannot always be with you to give you an answer, it is important that you learn how to learn. The professor should foster a lifelong learning ability in the student. This dramatic change means that students can no longer sit passively in class writing notes and memorizing them for tests. Students must take charge of their own learning, and look within to find the motivation to educate themselves, under the guidance of the professor now, and without that guidance later on.
As Ravi Zacharias suggests, the formerly united disciplines within the Universities began coming into conflict with each other as the idea of God became less and less important to the purveyors of higher education. Where once the theology department joined all the various disciplines together, now no such universal point of cohesion is recognized. (Incidentally, Zacharias differentiates between theology—literally “the study of God”—as opposed to the more common religious studies programs which deal with the human aspect of spirituality.) No longer unified, each is its own competing flavor of pie. Thus, Morrison’s use of the term “master narrative”—also referred to as the “dominant ideology”—refers to the definition decided by the particular group(s) who hold(s) the power, hence the “master” and “dominant” adjectives. If you will, they write the story or “narrative,” which becomes the “ideology” by which people are forced to live with or assimilate. It is not so much a case any more of what is true or what is false, for postmodernity has all but given up the quest for this question. Instead, the pathway to knowledge is more a case of uncovering what the “culturally constructed” or “man-made” narrative is that is being espoused at any given moment.
This idea is not necessarily a strike against Morrison, for she is working within the confines of a culture that embraces this ideal. In fact, she is a professor of humanities at Princeton University since 1989, so she is steeped in the “dominant ideology” of the theorists and critics who are currently shaping academic thought. Trends in higher education come and go as the people of the following generation push the envelope and ask the hard questions of their elders. The currently fashionable and sophisticated way of looking at the world is through the eyes of postmodernity, brought about in large part by the French thinkers and their tendency to push the study of human consciousness into the realm of language and linguistics.
With this concept serving as a backdrop, let us not forget that anyone wishing to influence culture must work within the given framework of the day, at least to the degree that they will not be able to coin a radically new language overnight. We must understand one another, requiring preexisting language, if for no other purpose than to define unfamiliar terms. For example, during the time when the Apostle Paul and his fellow coworkers in Christ were seeking to witness to the Gentile world, there was no really good word to describe the unique status of Christ as being transcendent above all earthly dominions. Hence, He became the King of kings and the Lord of lords, for “king” and “lord” were terms with which the Gentile world was familiar. In the same way, we must be careful in our analysis of terms we associate with a given genre until we make absolutely certain we have listened to the message and content of those words. Words are merely containers into which ideas are poured and the context can have a great deal to do with the final message with which we are presented.
With this being said, before we move back to Morrison and her examination of love, let us also note, however, that the use of such terminology can serve as a red flag as well. If there is anything that I have begun to learn, it is that artists of all types operate with a certain set of assumptions and presuppositions that affect the way they view their world: their worldview, in other words, shapes the way they perceive reality. To a large degree, we are all like this, whether we be erudite scholars, “good ol’ boys” who “never hurt nobody,” or something in between. There are certain beliefs we hold to be true that affect the way we view our world. In fact, this is the form of Christian evangelism Francis Schaeffer and others use, referred to as “presuppositional apologetics.” The basis for this method of evangelization is the idea that for years Christianity was on the defensive, sitting in the “hot seat.” However, while being fully prepared to defend the Christian faith, presuppositional apologetics also operates on the offensive as well: “You say Christianity is flawed? What is your basis for such allegations? What do you believe? Can you defend these beliefs?” This approach effectively pushes the skeptic to consider the logical ramifications of his or her view of the world without a personal and/or infinite God. (See Schaeffer’s Thought Provocation: A Pagan Dialog.)
It quickly became apparent to me in the interview with Morrison that, whether for good or bad, she has been strongly impacted by the thinking of postmodernity, not to mention her status as a “double minority”—she is black and she is a woman—introduces other ideas into her thinking as well that can help us understand her ideology. Now if we were to merely stop here, we would be thinking like good postmodernists. In order to understand meaning, we must deconstruct a person’s narrative, taking into consideration who they are and where they come from, and then we will understand the social construction that was involved in assembling their “personal narrative.” However, this is where we, as Christians, differ from the rest of the world.
I was listening to part of “Moral Absolutes with Josh McDowell” on June Hunt’s radio program Hope for the Heart, and she and Josh were in a discussion about Christian youth and the effects of postmodernity. He made some insightful comments in asking Christian youth why it was wrong to do things such as lie or steal. Most answered that their parents had told them so. He then pressed them further, informing them that they had unwittingly given credence to all kinds of atrocities, for what about children raised by parents who believed in the Holocaust? What about children raised by atheists? What about parents who taught that lying or stealing was okay? His point was that there had to be a stronger background behind it all than just “my parents said so.”
The next response he received was that “the bible said so.” Again, he said this explanation was not good enough; he described this as mere “legalism.” His underlying point is that the reason it is wrong to lie or to steal is because the antithesis to lying or stealing flow from the very character of God. He is truth. The words in the bible are merely a shadow of him; in order to have a solid foundation for truth, our children must know God himself. We are once again back into our discussion about Christ as being a Person and not a path. When we, as Christians, are dealing with truth, we are not weighing philosophy against philosophy so much as we are examining truth in light of the mind of Christ who lives within us. In order to find the “master narrative”—a term disgraceful to truth, but we’ll play with it anyway—we must know the “Master Narrator,” the Story Writer that exists behind all that there is. Only when there is a God to define what truth really is can we have any hope of finding something beyond a master narrative in life: a mere story that happens to help us survive existentially. I don’t know about you, but I am not prepared to give up my quest for Truth: if we are to say that “personal narratives” (little stories) are the only meaning to life, my “personal narrative” is to suggest that there is no meaning in that. In order for life to have meaning, it must have a higher purpose that goes beyond just some cleverly crafted story invented by men. (2 Peter 1:16 anyone?)
Now then, let’s let Morrison off the hook and hear what she has to say about love. To large degree, she looks at love through the individualistic eyes of the American culture, yet her observations are revealing in their own right. She claims that when we fail to love another, it is a gift we fail to give ourselves. While I think that within her animated descriptions, the choice of the idea that life is “more interesting” with love falls a little short of some of the more passionate terms she chose, she nonetheless painted an overall poignant picture. More interesting yet was her observation that having children was for her a liberating experience. This caused Bill Moyers to raise an eyebrow and question her, stating that the popular “clichés” (he chose his word delicately) suggest that a career woman having children is anything but liberating.
According to an interview with Julia Kristeva, world renown semiotician, feminist theorist, psychoanalyst, novelist, and philosopher in “In Quest of the Feminine: The Strange within Us” from Feminist Issues (Spring 1997, Vol. 15, Issue 1 & 2, p. 73), there is good reason why Moyers would handle this subject so delicately. One might be inclined to dismiss Kristeva’s comments as a caricature until one stops and considers that she knows that of which she speaks: she has kept company with the crème de la crème of Parisian intelligentsia. Arwad Esber begins by asking Kristeva the following:
A.E. The reader of your novel The Samurai comes away with the impression that you are antifeminist, although in your own work and throughout your career you exemplify what these movements stand for. How do you see the women’s movements? What are your reservations? And do you think that these movements have advanced the cause of women or have veered away from what they initially set out to do (knowing full well that the gains women have accomplished and the ensuing developments have not come about as a result to women’s movements only)?
J.K. I am very sympathetic to the women’s movements, but I am also highly critical of them. This ambivalence finds its way to The Samurai and reflects my current views on the matter. I have taken part in the women’s movement since its inception, around 1968, when it gained momentum within leftist movements. I was particularly drawn by the movement’s determination to go beyond the achievement of Simone de Beauvoir. It seems to me that the women’s movement in Europe went through three phases. The first is that of the early suffragettes at the end of the nineteenth century. The second is the period of Simone de Beauvoir and the struggle for gender equity. The third, which is the subject of our discussion, is the current phase, in which the emphasis is not so much on gender equality but gender disparity and difference. In this last phase, the focus is on the characteristics of women, their distinctive contribution to civilization, their relationship to the other, the idiosyncracy of their sexual pleasure, the uniqueness of their writing, the peculiarity of their mental traits, and so on. These issues found their way into a number of movements in 1968, and it is within these movements that I was active.
These movements, however, have quickly developed into the worst forms of leftist dogmatism, such as those that came out of communist parties. What happens is that an authoritarian group gathers around a “ruling” woman whose despotism is not much different from that of any “ruling” man. This authoritative figure used to exercise tyranny over the rest of the women in the movement, leading to both an economic and sexual subjection. Although I was very critical of these practices, the dogmatic mentality that was regnant in these movements made the descending voice of a single individual virtually inaudible. It then became clear to me that, in this atmosphere, the positive aspects and the important ideas that these movements have generated started to take a tense and dogmatic valence that alienated the rest of women outside the confines of the movement. Addressing such issues as motherhood or conjugal life was unthinkable because it was considered either a form of betrayal to the cause of the woman or simply a submission to patriarchy. I find such rampant extremism and extravagance—which still persist although with less intensity—totally unacceptable; but again there was no room for debate.
She continues with her account, of course, but we now have the context that requires Moyers to choose his words carefully, knowing Morrison’s own leftist leanings. Before we go back to Morrison’s answer, however, there is one other aspect of this interview I cannot resist commenting on as a quick aside. It would appear that Kristeva is a Freudian psychoanalyst, the latter famed for his questionable theories such as the Oedipus complex and penis envy. In response to a question pertaining to a character in one of her novels that is supposed to represent the fear men have of women, Kristeva responds: “. . . contrary to what we believe, the weaker gender is the male, at least for the simple reason that men are obsessed with castration.” My comment to this is that while it might indeed be true that a minority of men fear castration, I maintain that the fear men hold of women is the same fear women hold of men: fear of rejection. It is not genitalia that is so much at stake as the human heart. I would further submit to you that almost all relational fears—fear of commitment, fear of abandonment, etc.—are primarily emotionally based. We might fear physical harm at times, but the deepest fears are always those of the heart.
Now then, I fear we have wandered far from Bill Moyers question to Toni Morrison (a totally different author, of course) about women finding fulfillment in children. To this query, Morrison brings her idea back into the picture of love as being a gift we give ourselves. In her experience as a single mother, she said that children place demands on her as an individual that bring out the kind of person she likes to be. This observation is sound, by the way: in giving the best of ourselves to others we find ourselves again. Children, she says, do not look at the world as others do. They do not care if your clothes are nice or if you are sensual and seductive. They care only about “What are you going to do for me now? And these are things we can do now.”
She was expressing something another learned man with an education that would make your eyes water once discovered through the rough and tumble of life. I do not remember the man’s name now, but I shall never forget his story. He began a job working with mentally handicapped children and suddenly all the academic acclaim he had built for himself meant nothing. All alone in a room full of such children, everything he had ever identified with himself was meaningless. They did not care about nor even understand the sophisticated world with which he flirted. In their eyes, they were face to face with just another “grown-up.” I think this point is along similar lines to the one that Morrison is expressing. Children are not pretentious. They do not care about fame and acclaim. The games they play are of a different sort altogether: while the end desire may be similar (that is, acquiring love, affection, attention) the games are played with an innocence and purity born of the simplicity of a child.
Some of Morrison’s observations fascinated me because of her unique perspective as a woman. It is a known fact that women tend to define themselves more in terms of their relationships, which is the greatest source of their meaning and identity. Men, on the other hand, tend to be more restless and ambitious, defining their identities more with a job well done. If you ask a woman who she is, she is far more likely than a man to describe herself as a mom or a sister or a wife or a friend. On the other hand, a man is far more likely than a woman to focus on what he does: I am a plumber, I am an engineer, I am an artist. Admittedly, these are generalizations that don’t always apply, but I think there is an underlying sense in which this is true about the complementary natures of men and women.
Morrison also went on to describe businessmen who would take their lunch breaks and spend time with the inner city children as they played, apart from the bureaucracy in a non-threatening environment. I also found it interesting to note her description of men who volunteered their time to hold crack babies in orphanages: she said (and I paraphrase from memory): “Think what it did for those men. I’m sure that it helped the infants some too, but just think what it did for those men to hold a crack baby for an hour at a time.” Typically, Christianity portrays love as a selfless act that does not consider what it gets out of the deal, but she makes a valid point. I am reminded of “Show You Love,” a song performed by contemporary Christian recording artist Jaci Velasquez: “Live love: That’s how you give love,” except I believe Morrison might say, “Live love: That’s how you get love.”
In her observation that love is a gift we give ourselves, I think Morrison has inadvertently stumbled on a principle that flows directly out of the Person of Jesus Christ. Is He not love? And what about the lessons He was always teaching about the first shall be last, the one who loses his life shall find it, you must give to get? He was the servant leader; He was the epitome of self-sacrificing love. And we, as followers of Christ, can attest to Morrison’s words, for she has uncovered a universal concept that goes far beyond any “master narratives” she might discuss. We do find our identity when we give of ourselves. If there was any flaw in her logic at all, it would simply be that if the focus is defining “myself,” I will not discover the full joy of giving because I have the Master’s heart within me. When Christ’s heart beats within me and I begin to learn to surrender myself more and more to His will, I find my greatest happiness here. Again I return to the classic hymn, for it is indeed the secret to happiness: “Trust and obey, for there’s no other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” In the end, it would seem that even the greatest literature can at best do no more than mirror the grandest love story ever told: the Master’s narrative.
God bless,
Eric
“No man hath seen God at any time. If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us. Hereby know we that we dwell in Him, and He in us, because He hath given us of His Spirit. And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Saviour of the world. Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in Him, and He in God. And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him. Herein is our love made perfect, that we may have boldness in the day of judgment: because as He is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.”
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