I don’t know how many times my mother read the Pilgrim’s Progress to me when I was young. It was certainly enough that the story has become part of how I process my experience of the Christian life. And that is precisely what it is meant to do! Because of Bunyan, I think of the Christian life as a particular kind of journey, I have fallen into sloughs, been ensnared by Flattery, imprisoned by Despair.

The ‘normal’ fiction that we regularly read engages our interest by opening a window through which we can indwell another person’s world. That experience is often powerfully transformative: we learn to see our shared world from angles that weren’t previously available. Fiction is our ethical workshop. Between the pages of books (or between advertising breaks) we develop shared views of ‘the good life’, we construct characters who embody our ideas of virtue, and then we watch them try to solve our ethical dilemmas. Without this kind of imagining, we would not have society. People who refuse to read novels or watch TV are free-loaders in the world of communal deliberation.
[Fortunately, they are often good at fixing stuff and paying taxes, otherwise the Philosophers of the Future would be forced to enslave them for their own good]

But an allegory isn’t fiction. At least, not in the ‘normal’ sense. Rather than being a window onto someone else’s world, it is a mirror, a looking-glass, through which we indwell our own experience in a new way. John Bunyan doesn’t tell us someone else’s story and invite us to watch and learn, he tells us our own story with a form and completeness which had previously been hidden. The character ‘Christian’ isn’t a figure who is more or less like myself, engaged in activities that are more or less like my own. If I am a christian, he is me. Actually, he is a ‘hyper-me’. He is more real than I am. Christian is me, viewed from a God’s-eye perspective, viewed with the truthful gaze of an ultimate knower. The narrator knows Christian in a way that I wish I knew myself. As I read, Bunyan expects me to interrogate my own experiences rather than Christian’s, and to consider how I am more or less like Christian, and whether my own activities are more or less like his. In reading The Pilgrim’s Progress, I am learning the narrator’s knowledge of myself.

In a ‘normal’ work of fiction, I observe and judge the characters, that’s how I engage in the ethical workshop. But in an allegory, the characters judge me. They teach me the form in which I am to interpret my story, and the norms by which I am to engage in it.

It’s interesting to note that Bunyan’s allegory only works if there is some sense in which every christian’s story, is Christian’s story. It’s an idea that challenges us right at the heart of our ethical and ontological pluralism. For Bunyan, as for the early Church Fathers who engaged in allegorical interpretation of the Bible, we don’t live fundamentally individual existences, given a superficial commonality by the pressures of convenience or environmental and cultural necessity. We are not solitary knowers, we are the unified known.
There is one basic story, the true truth about each one of us, which is refracted and tinted according to our personal, natural, and social topography. That story is the gospel, its character is Christ.

One of my favourite scenes in The Pilgrim’s Progress is the final stage of the journey. Christian and his companion Hopeful are heading up to the Celestial city and are confronted by a final obstacle: a deep and fast flowing river which they must pass through to reach their destination. The image conjures up the Israelites passing through the Red Sea in the Exodus, overlaid with the crossing of the Jordan into the Promised Land. It is the river where Jesus commenced his ministry, walking at the head of his people into the Kingdom of Heaven. It is the river where the Negro slaves in America’s deep South stood and prayed that Elijah’s chariot would swing low and carry them home. It is the river of death that leads to life. For them, and probably for us, there is no chariot. We must pass through it.
What I love about this scene, however, is the support which Hopeful gives to Christian as his faith threatens to give way. How many times I have needed a friend like Hopeful! Someone to say to me when I can’t believe, “Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the bottom, and it is good.” How little did Christian realise that with the hand of a friend, his Father held him tight.

Lord, give us grace to follow.
God, give us the grace to walk home with our friends, rather than ride home with Elijah.

They then addressed themselves to the water and, entering, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head, all his waves go over me! Selah.

Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the bottom, and it is good.

Then said Christian, Ah! my friend, the sorrows of death hath compassed me about; I shall not see the land that flows with milk and honey; and with that a great darkness and horror fell upon Christian, so that he could not see before him. Also here he in great measure lost his senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met with in the way of his pilgrimage. But all the words that he spake still tended to discover that he had horror of mind, and heart fears that he should die in that river, and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here also, as they that stood by perceived, he was much in the troublesome thoughts of the sins that he had committed, both since and before he began to be a pilgrim. It was also observed that he was troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, for ever and anon he would intimate so much by words.

Hopeful, therefore, here had much ado to keep his brother’s head above water; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful also would endeavour to comfort him, saying, Brother, I see the gate, and men standing by to receive us: but Christian would answer, It is you, it is you they wait for; you have been Hopeful ever since I knew you.

And so have you, said he to Christian.

Ah! brother! said he, surely if I was right he would now arise to help me; but for my sins he hath brought me into the snare, and hath left me.

Then said Hopeful, My brother, you have quite forgot the text, where it is said of the wicked, “There are no bands in their death, but their strength is firm. They are not in trouble as other men, neither are they plagued like other men. [Ps. 73:4,5] These troubles and distresses that you go through in these waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you; but are sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live upon him in your distresses.

Then I saw in my dream, that Christian was as in a muse a while. To whom also Hopeful added this word, Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ maketh thee whole; and with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, Oh, I see him again! and he tells me, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.” [Isa. 43:2] Then they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian therefore presently found ground to stand upon, and so it followed that the rest of the river was but shallow.

It has become the age of the self; confessions in public all over the place, the spillage of the ‘I’, and in private, in a quietly structured structured manner (the therapist has replaced the priest). And who is doing this talk? Not ill, at least not seriously, the self-obsessed personalities have a concentrated, almost technical interested in the self, as if they were specimens. Interest in others tends to be perfunctory, impatient, showy. It is they who have a natural attraction to analysis, where again they can dwell solely on themselves, the problematical ‘I’, and , since this is the very source of their difficulties in the first place, there is a real danger of psychoanalysis not uncovering, but giving shape to, and confirming, a person’s self-obsession. Eight, ten years in analysis is not uncommon. In Sydney parents have been sending their own children, not yet in their teens, into psychoanalysis – ironing out the unformed mind before the unevenness of everyday life could give proportion of self-correction.
Years spent murmuring the endless circling sentence, while the analyst remains almost, though not quite, hidden.
A philosopher would not allow this; but when needed there were none.

There are allusions to Foucault’s History of Sexuality here, and indeed, the second chapter of the novel is a mini-archaeology of the Sydney-self. But Bail’s concern with Sydney, and with the long trip out to the Western Plains, alerts us to the fact that geography rather than history is the more dominant concern: the ways in which our mental geography is moulded to the contours of our physical space. As always, Bail’s dense, brushstroke-like prose is relentlessly external to his characters: we know what his people think, but only in the same way that we know what the dust smells like and how the trees stand. The confessing self is almost totally excluded.

Anyway, I was feeling bitter about Elmo so I did a bit of research and discovered that Cookie Monster has always been an ambassador for responsible nutrition. His 1987 hit, Healthy Food conveys a far more positive message with a much funkier tune. Why did Elmo have to send his Owlish minion to mess with my Monster?
Because he is pure evil wrapped in faux cuteness, that’s why…

P.S. I’m currently in love with Monsterpiece Theatre – check out Chariots of Fur. It’s a timeless morality tale that speaks right into the heart of modern life. And it’s got all my favourite Blue Monsters.

And while you’re there – what about the flannel-wearing grunge of Fur Jam, Don’t waste the Water (the fish will remind you).
And a new favourite of mine: Norah Jones singing, Don’t know Y (basically, the saddest song about a letter of the alphabet that’s ever been written, “Don’t know why, Y didn’t come”. Don’t worry though, because he was just a bit late…)

I think I could spend all day on sesamestreet.org

… never was there a truer word than “except a man believe rightly he cannot” – at any rate, his artistic structure cannot possibly – “be saved”.

What do you do then, with propaganda? With works of art that certainly have a profound relation to truth and belief, but where that relationship is 90 degrees to the horizontal?

More problematically, there is always something disturbing about the relation of art to truth. The process of representation (taken broadly) offers access to hidden truths, revealing relationships that were always there, offering an altered perception. There has always been a intimacy between art and knowledge – special knowledge (religion, economics, politics, interesting that Art-History, in particular, has become the preserve of the cultured – the Gnostic classes).
And therefore, between art and power.
Hmmm,
…
It’s also disturbing that it seems the process by which art gives access to truth is through falsification. Art mediates reality through illusions, paint, and props. And through words. It communicates experiences that I have not had, and could not ever have.
Actually, isn’t this also the case with all forms of language? Every form of communication is an artiface, a word is a thing standing in for what it is not. A ‘representation’, a ‘proposition’, is an invitation to a certain kind of experience that we would not otherwise have.
Unfortunately (or not), there are no other kinds of experience, no other forms of knowledge. Everything is Art.
This is even more profoundly true for anyone who accepts the Christian doctrine of creation. Literally, everything is the handiwork of a Creator, an artefact. And humanity is ultimately not something ‘natural’ but an image: a work of form and craft.

All of which makes me think that one of the most pressing and important things to get our heads around is Art Criticism. The question, ‘what makes a good work of art’ is ultimately one of the most profound forms of the problem of truth, it’s right at the core of epistemology.

Is it really so easy to judge between theologies by how they work themselves out in Art? I think the idea is probably right, but then, how would you compare Caravaggio with Rembrandt with the Papunya Tula artists of the Western Desert of Australia? All of them in various ways give expression to significantly divergent theologies.

The minimum duty of religious broadcasting to those outside the churches is to say: “Listen! This is the truth about the world, and life, and you”. But how were we to say it so that people would listen? Conventional church services and religious talks were of little avail. Obviously, something new was needed.
Now it is a fact of history that every Christian revival during the past nineteen hundred years has come, at least in part, from a fresh study of the life and teaching of the Christ. It is also a fact of today that while the majority are not gripped by “the Church”, or Christian dogma, or conventional religious exercises, or even by the word “God”, yet scarcely anyone denies the attraction of the man Christ Jesus and of his teaching. Now the task of the Church in any age is to reveal Christ. It cannot do more, and it should not attempt less. To reveal Christ and to persuade men and women to respond to that truth is the whole task of the Christian Church

Hmmm, Religious Broadcasting really has come a long way from the 1940′s, hasn’t it? These days it’s possible for a former head of the ABC Religion Unit, Stephen Crittenden, to be a professed atheist.

What made Dorothy Sayers’ plays so shocking for some listeners was her willingness to give Jesus a real physical human presence within the drama of his life and death. It’s hard for us to conceive of how remote the human conditions of Jesus’ life must have seemed to the average Briton (which also meant Australian). People had lost the ability to imagine him. And if you can’t imagine something, you can’t believe in it.

Britain in the 1940′s had anti-blasphemy laws that banned any representation of a member of the Trinity in a stage play. Sayers was able to evade the ban on the proviso that the radio performances did not occur in front of a studio audience. And further, the King James (Authorised) Version of the Bible was the only complete English translation widely available to the public. The language of this translation had become seriously dated so that the average British punter had never heard the Bible in his or her own language. When Jesus spoke in the Gospel accounts he sounded like Shakespeare rather than the earthy, powerful country preacher that he was.
Sayers went back to the original Greek texts and retranslated the words of Jesus (she claims to have worn out a Greek New Testament while writing the plays), and she was happy to restructure the various Gospel accounts, and even make up words for Jesus to say that would aid the drama.
People had never heard Jesus like that before. She presented him as really real. Dorothy Sayers re-imagined Jesus for people who had lost the resources and ability to do so. If you ever needed convincing of the power and importance of the imagination for human life and flourishing, then this is your moment: here we have Art as an act of loving imagination for others and in the service of truth.

In her preface, Sayers talks about the important binary relationship between Art and Theology:

… never was there a truer word than “except a man believe rightly he cannot” – at any rate, his artistic structure cannot possibly – “be saved”. A loose and sentimental theology begets loose and sentimental art-forms; an illogical theology lands one in illogical situations; an ill-balanced theology issues in false emphasis and absurdity. Conversely; there is no more searching test of a theology than to submit it to dramatic handling; nothing so glaringly exposes inconsistencies in a character, a story, or a philosophy as to put it upon the stage and allow it to speak for itself.

How well would your theology play?