Calvin in Elfland

I don't normally write poems inspired by articles posted at DesiringGod.org but this article by John Piper about G.K. Chesterton and Calvinism really tickled my imaginative fancy, specifically this statement:

Here’s the reason Chesterton’s bowshots at Calvinism do not bring me down. The Calvinism I love is far closer to the “Elfland” he loves than the rationalism he hates.

He would no doubt be baffled by my experience. For me the biggest, strongest, most beautiful, and most fruitful tree that grows in the soil of “Elfland” is Calvinism. Here is a tree big enough, and strong enough, and high enough to let all the paradoxical branches of the Bible live — and wave with joy in the sunshine of God’s sovereignty.

And so here is my little offering in response to Piper's intriguing declaration. I like to think that, if John Bunyan had written a poem about a visit to Elfland with Calvin as his guide, it might have gone something like this. It's written 30% with my tongue in my cheek and, I suspect, 70% with my hand firmly placed on my heart.

Calvin in Elfland

…and in the forest I saw two trees

each representing different heresies

which had driven the trees rotten at the roots

and sickened the ground wherein the trees stood.

The first, a wizened, stunted thing, curled around

a sign labelled “Free Will”, stuck in the ground

where the roots most needed life and space.

“This tree,” my guide said, “has taken the place

of the tree of truth which once grew bountifully

and sheltered all in its branches, til foolishly

the gardeners cut it down and put

their shrivelled righteousness where it stood,

leaving only truth’s stump.” Thereat, I wept

at the thought of beauty once strong now kept

locked in this sickened, deadly ground.

The second tree, which I then found

beside the stunted one, was named

“Reason”. The name, though grand,

betrayed the rot that lay below

the seeming beauty. Although

it blossomed and grew pleasing fruit,

my guide drew my eyes to the roots

which were grey and lifeless.

“Why,” asked I, “can this bless-

ed tree of reason be so dead?”

“Ah, because,” my learned guide said,

“reason unsanctified is but wand’ring

proudly in the dark. The rings

of this tree declare its ancient age,

yet years that pass do not make sage

the folly of a mind enclosed within

its own ignorance; therein

lies all the blindness of our race.”

But my eyes drew then apace

to where another, grander tree

stood shining, tow’ring sovereignly

over all else in the deathly wood.

I took my guide to where it stood

and gazed wond’ringly at its leaves

and branches through which the breeze

was wondrous gentle, and I knew,

without my guide’s words, that here You,

the mighty God, had let Your grace grow

splendidly; whereat, my guide show-

ing me the sign there, which proclaimed,

“The Sovereign God Has Made His Fame

Known”, we stood in wonder and both prayed

that all might know this splendid shade…

"Chesterton's a swell guy"

Something inspired me recently to re-read some of Chesterton's wonderful Father Brown short stories. I was remembering how Father Brown's "arch nemesis" for the first several stories, the extremely tall French criminal mastermind Flambeau, later becomes his closest friend and partner in - well - solving crime. Something about this attracted me to the stories again, and I've been very pleased to rediscover them.

Here's the wonderful moment when Father Brown confronts Flambeau for the last time (and, of course, there's a spoiler alert):

"'Stand still', [Flambeau] said, in a hacking whisper. 'I don't want to threaten you, but -'

'I do want to threaten you,' said Father Brown, in a voice like a rolling drum. 'I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched.'

'You're a rum sort of cloakroom clerk,' said the other.

'I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,' said Brown, 'and I am ready to hear your confession.'"

Most people love Father Brown because he is such an unlikely sleuth. Where Holmes has become a cliché - wandering around with his deerstalker hat and magnifying glass - Brown trades on people's trust in him, and their common assumption that he's, at best, a bit of a dill. As a young reader, I was inspired by the concept of a man who no-one suspects and who is thus enabled to see what no-one else sees. I tried my hand at creating a few "unlikely" detectives myself, although, sadly, they were all a little too unlikely, and hence it became quite unlikely that anyone would want to read about them.

Father Brown, on the other hand, is brilliant but misunderstood - by Chesterton's characters, and also by his readers. Often, the point people make about Father Brown is that he seems so innocent (indeed, the first collection was called "The Innocence of Father Brown"). After all, he's a priest, isn't he? Of course he'd be innocent, if not a bit ignorant. How can he solve crime? I mean, that's funny, right? A priest who can solve crimes?

Chesterton, I suspect, would be having a bit of a jovial chuckle at that idea. How can a priest possibly be ignorant of crime, and of sin? What makes Father Brown so wonderful as a detective is his intuitive knowledge of human nature. And what makes me love him, for many other reasons, is that he offers his criminals a chance at redemption. Flambeau is testament to that. Holmes solves the mystery, but quite often doesn't give a stuff if the criminal is brought to justice or let run free to commit more crimes (see "A Case of Identity" if you need proof of this). For Father Brown, however, crimes - all human crimes - run deeper than the mere identification of "whodunnit". In fact, if there were to be a truly theological approach to writing detective fiction, surely the real question should be - who didn't do it?

And Chesterton, just like Father Brown, would be ready with the answer. When asked by The Times, along with other "eminent authors", to comment on the question, "What's Wrong with the World?", Chesterton wrote a suitably short, witty and profound response:

"Dear Sirs,
I am.
Sincerely yours,
G.K. Chesterton."