The other day, Lydia (2) uttered a string of gibberish that was kind of elegant and thoughtful, such that it actually sounded like a real language. I turned to Nathan and joked, "It sounds like she's speaking Elvish!"
Of course, Josie (6) jumped on the comment and had to ride it all the way home - What did I mean? What language is Elvish? Did Lydia really speak it? Etc, etc.
In the course of the conversation, we hit a major impasse. I explained that Elvish was the made-up language spoken by the Elves in The Lord of the Rings.
"Oh," she chuckled - "and they probably sound pretty funny, huh."
"Well, not really." I said. "The elves in the Lord of the Rings are very wise and serious, and their language is smooth and flowing and lovely."
Josie - (slowly computing) - "But - elves are funny."
"Well, not THESE elves."
We talked and talked, but it didn't seem to matter how long we described Tolkien's elves.
Josie, by no fault of her own, was very accustomed to only one type of elf. She was probably picturing funny little men with pointy ears and pointy hats fashioning Christmas toys for Santa. It was as if Josie could not fathom an elf that didn't fit into her already established criteria for elf-dom.
And because of that fundamental breakdown, the whole conversation was lost. The word "elf" meant something different to Josie than it did to us. We were stuck.
I think adults are a little bit like that, too.
Words are such a gift, and yet they can be so tenuous. A word can have many different definitions and still more connotations, so that to the speaker or the hearer, there could be hundreds of plausible interpretations based on the arrangement and delivery (and context, and audience, and speaker) of a given word.
I think this is where we can tend to get hung up when looking at Orthodoxy.
We're coming at these things from different angles. We come with different definitions, different expectations, and different experiences that shape the way we see these words. So when someone talks about "praying to the Saints," for example, we immediately have ONE definition of "prayer," ONE definition of "Saints," and a whole host of personal or historical baggage about what this phrase must mean.
So we march on, trying to defend our position (because, after all, "Elves are funny!"...and "Praying to dead people who aren't God in any way shape or form doesn't make any sense!") - and there is a disconnect. We can't go forward, because we are using the same words to talk about completely different things, but we can't seem to land on the problem. So we scoot away from the issue entirely, never bothering to learn what kind of elves may have been in Tolkien's imagination. We are absolutely wrapped up in the ones in ours.
In "The Illumined Heart," Frederica Matthews-Greene writes, "The Western Christian who begins to explore these things faces a difficult entry phase. Our worldview is very different from this one, and sometimes we use the same words but mean different things. We can also encounter entirely unfamiliar words. In general, we will have the disorienting sensation that things we always presumed were distinct and separate are being put back together. This whole process will take some patience."
I work with high school aged exchange students coming to America. When they come, I talk to them about culture shock. I talk to them about how hard it may be for them at first, and some common symptoms or pitfalls they may experience as they try to integrate into their new cultural setting. This may sound disheartening, but I tell them that it's far better to be able to look culture shock in the eye and to deal with it than to get swept along unknowingly by its tumultuous current.
I suppose I'd like to remind all of us Westerners of the same thing. There is a very real culture shock that happens when one seriously begins to open themselves up to considering Orthodoxy. Far better for us to be able to identify it than to get swept away by our emotions or assumptions.
In the end, the only way to "know" Tolkien's elves is to read the series. To walk with Legolas through capter after chapter, to hear the strong, slow, somewhat terrifying voice of Galadriel, to see the slow, steady movements of the ever-hopeful Arwen.
One Orthodox "motto" I have heard from various groups is "Come and see."
This is fitting. Just as we can't know anything other than "Christmas elves" without first reading Tolkien, we could not even begin to imagine a different kind of Christian worldview without first experiencing Orthodoxy. Visiting a service. Talking with an Orthodox priest or layperson. Reading some Orthodox literature. Praying some Orthodox prayers.
Let's all heed that simple call: "Come and see." But let's not just assume our elves are the only elves and leave it at that, or that the very nature of elf-dom is ambiguous enough to allow multiple interpretations.
Because (excuse me if I'm letting the analogy run away with me a bit!) - I can say "I believe in elves" all I want, but if the "elf" I am putting my hope in is entirely different than the actual elf who really exists - if I'm "believing" in little men with pointy hats who make toys, but the reality is a race of graceful immortals who detest evil and promote beauty....well then. My "believing in elves" doesn't amount to much use, if the thing I'm believing in is a construct of my own interpretation.
So let us go. And let us see. And let us cry out, "Lord have mercy," and let our eyes be opened to whatever it is that is the fullness of Our Lord's revelation to mankind.
No comments:
Post a Comment