the deep comedy in shakespeare

Deeper comedy, stories that end better than they begin. This is the Christian’s motif—the one that points to the hope we have that, as the story progresses, it just gets better. Greek stories, unlike those written with the concept of self-denial in order to glorify God, are always depressing. Heroes, puffed up with hubris and concerned only for their own good, strut in and out of situations, involving themselves only in what would make them look good. When they found some cause that mattered to them, then the rest of the story centered on them and their great deeds ultimately leaded to an “honorable” death. Glory was ascribed to their names and tales of their might and nobility were told for ages to come. This paradigm was set on its head when, with utmost humility and self-sacrifice, Christ slew death and triumphed in resurrected life. Now people must look to an end of more than making themselves look good. The world does not center on individuals, emphasizing their particular achievements, rather the concept of living for others, through which hardships will be turned into good, is paramount. After this deeper magic of the vicarious atonement for sin was bled, the world has explored a new genera of storytelling; one where the victorious is weak and humble, one where the story actually gets better in the end.

Shakespeare gets at the heart of this in his play Twelfth Night. Tragedy is turned comic, identities are mistaken, loves are misplaced and wrongly given, but at the end of this play Shakespeare turns what would otherwise have been yet another tragedy into a comedy. He twists the circumstances around and surprises the audience by untangling many sticky situations and weaves them into the bigger picture. It is because of Christianity that we can see the humor surrounding us in this world—it is laughable. Sadly most of the world does not see it as such, but rather, without the expectancy of a redemptive Hero the prospects are rather bleak. Their stories wrestle with dark and clumsy themes of pride and end with depressing scenes. However, in this play, relationships are restored; but this story does not end there. These circumstances are embellished, not simply repaired—identities are discovered and lovers are united. This hope of resolution and peace leads to the final chapter, where it is life, not death, which closes the story. And here Shakespeare leaves us trusting that whatever else may happen to the characters, it will all work out for good. 

Author of LIfe Divine

Author of life, divine, who hast a table spread, furnished with mystic wine and everlasting bread, preserve the life Thyself hast given, and feed and train us up for heaven.

Our needy souls sustain with fresh supplies of love, till all Thy life we gain, and all Thy fullness prove, and strengthened by Thy perfect grace behold without a veil Thy face.

(pg 205 in the Cantus)

30 minute challenge

First Week's Writing Assignment: write 250 words in 30 minutes (split your time in half: first 15 write, second 15 edit). Your topic is "a meal"
I'd love to challenge ya'll to do this too. I'm sure you can find 30 minutes in your day. It doesn't have to be good writing, in fact it most likely won't be. You just need to get the words on the paper. So here's what I came up with--definitely not polished and perfected, but it is do-able. ready, set, go.

Time was taken to make the table beautiful, to prepare with love beforehand what would be so quickly consumed. Mother, my sister, and I poured hours into this celebration feast (as we do every week). It is devoured within minutes. Silverware set on either side of brightly colored plates, double salt and pepper, food steaming in the dishes set in the middle of the square table. Wine catches the light in its special way—made even more special because only on the Sabbath do we uncork the aged juice and pull out the stemware. A cloth and flickering candles adorn the oak table, dressing it up from its every day service-garb. The ladies stir and scrub and slice; the boys clear away the week’s motely collection; Dad grils to perfection: everything is prepared and waiting. This dinner is not a come when you please, just pop it in the microwave meal. It is not another quick bite and rush out the door. Today we sit together as a family—all eight of us—and delight in each other’s company. Song books are opened before we dig in and we bow to give thanks with hearts overflowing. Heavy wooden chairs slide up to the table and napkins unfold. Eagar faces smile expectantly as Daddy serves the green beans, potatoes, steak. Full plates are passed around, only to be emptied and sent back for more. We feast. Dessert is in the fridge, ready to be pulled out when the coffee pot beeps. 

magic of the soul traveling through fingertips

Art classes, art history, art galleries—all are attractive to me. Something in my soul is magnetic to canvas and paper. Why is it that the splotchy doodles of a preschooler and the impeccable works of famous artists can relate truth and cause me to wonder at the beauty within? Is beauty inherent in pencil touching pad and brush streaking thick?  People pay to see chiseled faces with ferret-like eyes hanging on museum walls but they complain about fingerprints of motley colors on a countertop after kids dig into the paints. But do they realize that the artists they most admire developed their skills somewhere? that they had to have made a mess of someone’s kitchen before their “Mona Lisa” could be respectable enough to be hung in the Louvre? Bleary-eyed we expect to have genius without practice, art without profound emotion, deftness without instruction. 

homesweethome

Northern New Mexican style, my home sits deep in the evergreen foothills of the East Mountains. The juniper trees (bushes, as those out-of-staters like to demean them) and tumble weeds and little Indian Paintbrushes are about all that naturally grows in my corner of the desert—except for rock, of which there is an abundance. From the driveway to the house there is a concrete sidewalk lined with aspen trees and moss rock—native herbs and flowering bushes bloom. Not only are the terracotta stucco and white trim a classic look for the Southwest, but also our wraparound porch is lined by the typical evenly spaced wooden posts. Below the high-pitched metal roof, five vertical double-hung windows catch the morning sun. Breath-taking, the view is extraordinary; the Rocky Mountains punctuate the spacious western sky. 

flooded with memories

Phone call. Explanation. Dad (saying he would met up with us in a day or so) had flown to Lubbock and we continued with plans to Phoenix. Uncle Buster and Aunt Judy had tried a bit of everything to distract our distraught thoughts. We went to Target Great-land; we ate at Organ Stop Pizza; we attended Major League baseball try-outs. I was helplessly worried (you know how it is to have annoying song lyrics on your mind—like that, except these thoughts of hearts and doctors and death didn’t have a catchy tune). Phone call. Mom’s voice was trembling—my eyes spilled over with burning tears; my Spring Break was devastated. I had no words. My fearful dreams were coming true. When had I last seen him? Had I remembered a departing kiss? Why did I have to be stuck in the middle of a desert when Grandpa was dying? Burning my arm through the glass, the 5 o’clock sun still shone into the back seat but could not dry up my salty crying. Nothing could. It was March Madness, and I didn’t care. Dad arrived, told us the details, and my vacation ended: flooded with memories.

When the timer on the oven beeps, when she can’t stand keeping the loaves locked behind the windowed door any longer, when the bread is perfectly golden brown, it’s time to pull out the serrated knife and soften a stick of butter. Seven-grain bread—the kind right out of Mama’s oven—cannot be beat. The warm and wheat-y aroma swirls through the air, filling it with a scent of my mother’s love. Slathered with smooth, sweet, and salted butter, the steaming slices of bread disappear as fast as Mama can cut them. Like trying to eat just one Cheeto, there is no way I can stop with just one piece of this yeasty goodness.  My sister adds honey, my brothers add jam, I don’t add anything—this bread, slightly drippy with a bit of toasted crunch, can stand on it’s own two feet.