Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow, & the Trinity

A few people requested that I write something brief about my recent visit with Tanya and Wendell Berry at their farm last Sunday.  I didn't tell Wendell that I would be writing about the experience because I didn't intend on writing about it.  I'm therefore reluctant to say too much about our discussion, apart from generalities.

Tanya and Wendell were generous hosts who made myself and my two companions - Kaya Oakes and my wife Kim - feel very welcome (I arranged the meeting with Wendell Berry because Kaya shares a publisher with him, and she was in town to teach a class for the M.A. in Spirituality program, which I direct).  Our conversation revolved around the state of higher education, farming, marriage, publishing, and Kentucky.  And after I mentioned to him that I use his novel, Jayber Crow, in my introductory theology class, we ended up having what I hope was a mutually enriching conversation about the Trinity and the importance of having a truly incarnational theology.  "Are you an incarnational theologian?" he asked me, and when I said that I was, I saw a glimmer of relief in his eyes.  His concern was that I, as a theologian, might bear some resemblance to the beauty-in-the-world-denying preachers about whom he so frequently rails.  Indeed, when I was later briefly out of the room, Wendell looked over at Kim and said, "Well,  I'm enjoying this quite a bit more than I thought I would."  I was not one of those theologians!

Many others like myself understand Wendell Berry to be a theologian himself, and our conversation about the Trinity revolved around the theological insights found in Jayber Crow.  What I said to him about his book is essentially what I wrote on this blog in 2012, so I'll conclude by cutting and pasting my previous thoughts:

To me, Jayber Crow is a parable of the Kingdom of God.  It is a novel told from the viewpoint of an unmarried barber in a fictional Kentucky town called Port William.  And the account Jayber gives of the community of Port William is one of the most beautiful accounts of the meaning and purpose of community I’ve ever read.  Not everyone in the community was loving or even lovely.  Some, like Cecelia Overhold, actually refuse to accept the generosity and openness of the town.  But the community itself held together because, whether you wanted it or not, you became known.  Jayber describes Port William as a place where your business simply is the business of everyone else, with the result that the community shares in your gains as well as in your losses.  It’s a community in which a crop is harvested for a sick farmer, where cooked food goes where it is needed, where fuel is provided to those who need it, where toys go to kids who wouldn’t have any otherwise.  “This is,” Jayber tells us, “a charity that includes the church rather than the other way around.”

Berry doesn’t have many kind words for the church in Jayber Crow.  The church in Port William frequently displays a kind of anti-community sentiment, an us-against-them attitude, and a body/soul dualism that always comes up for criticism from Berry.  The town is where real community occurs, because it is in the town that real love is demonstrated.

This is most clearly and beautifully expressed in the love Jayber has for Mattie.  Jayber, upon finding out that Mattie’s husband is cheating on her, decides that she deserves to have a husband who truly loves her and is faithful to her.  Jayber takes it upon himself to be that husband.  And so, tormented by the possibility that someone as worthy of love as Mattie is not, in this world, being given the love she deserves, Jayber decides to take a vow of fidelity to her in his own mind, without her being aware of it

It is telling to me that others often give me a look of incredulity or disgust when I talk about this vow of fidelity.  There is to many a sense that such a vow is strange, and perhaps even perverted.  But I would suggest that this vow is an expression of a completely selfless love, a love that is utterly giving, a love that exists solely for the sake of love.  And it is no accident that Jayber, upon taking this step of selfless love, suddenly comes to understand something profound about the nature of God:
“I imagined that the right name [for God] might be Father, and I imagined all that that name would imply: the love, the compassion, the taking offense, the disappointment, the anger, the bearing of wounds, the weeping of tears, the forgiveness, the suffering unto death. If love could force my own thoughts over the edge of the world and out of time, then could I not see how even divine omnipotence might by the force of its love be swayed down into the world? Could I not see how it might, because it could know its creatures only by compassion, put on moral flesh, become a man, and walk among us, assume our nature and our fate, suffer our faults and our death?
Yes. And I could imagine a Father who is yet like a mother hen spreading her wings before the storm or in the dusk before the dark night for the little ones of Port William to come in under, some of whom do, and some do not. I could imagine Port William riding its humble wave through time under the sky, its little flames of wakefulness lighting and going out, its lives passing through birth, pleasure, suffering, and death. I could imagine God looking down upon it, its lives living by His spirit, breathing by His breath, knowing by His light, but each life living also (inescapably) by its own will - His own body given to be broken."
A barber in small-town Kentucky ("Can anything good come out of Nazareth?") provides for us an image of true love, becomes truly a theologian with a more profound understanding of the divine than almost anything I've ever read.  And in articulating the meaning of love, Wendell Berry - through Jayber - provides a parable of true community, a community based on self-giving, generous, vulnerable, and open love.  If only the Church looked so much like paradise.