On An Experienced Joy

Bottom line: My kids bring me an unquantifiable amount of joy. Joy, my pastor described recently, understood as a sustained happiness. For me, I ask no questions after a day of battling with Isaac to take a nap or be potty-trained (Only three pairs of pants today!) that a simple gesture or comment or facial reaction can resonate so deeply as to make the whole day seem like it was filled with that singular moment. I don't contemplate why. I analyze everything and I don't analyze that when it happens. Because it fills me with such joy for my son.

It's another thing entirely to understand that your child can do that for others. Today, Lucy made a surprise visit to her aunt's work to see the elderly women she cares for. One of the particular women, well into her 90s, recently suffered several strokes and has been put on hospice. Today had been quite a bad day for her. And so to her came Lucy, all 10lbs of her, wrapped in blankets and jeans and a t-shirt. Both frail, both communicating in simple ways. She held Lucy for 20 minutes. Silently. More than one can count, Dolores pressed her faint lips to Lucy. Watched her. Smiled weakly at her. Lucy reciprocated it in the way babies do. Never took her eyes off of her. Lucy was the first to fall asleep. Dolores soon followed, holding Lucy has tightly and lovingly and joyfully as her old arms would let her.

I heard this story when I returned home tonight. I felt proud. Not of my daughter's ability to comfort and provide a joy for a particular person. She's four months old. She smiles and then toots. But a pride at what exists outside merely parental love. That things can be shared and experienced that truly can sustain us. Great things. Deeply felt things. Musical things like: Love. Joy. Laughter. These are the sustained and suspended chords we experience. Even if and though we know life will resolve itself again tomorrow.

Working On A Review

My first Springsteen Album was The Rising. Then, for $10 bucks a few years later, I elected to go with a 4-disc Best of collection. Then I got Devils and Dust. Then The Ghost of Tom Joad, Nebraska, The Seeger Sessions and Magic. Finally: Working on a Dream. I'm a relatively late comer to Springsteen. So much so that for me to even claim The Rising is his best album might get me shot. 41 times too.

I liked Magic. Not at first. Not for a number of listens. And not for the reasons of it being overtly political. I know it is. But it doesn't sound political to me. Not when I listen to it. I'm a sucker for good lyrics I guess. But Magic grew on me. So much so that I get extremely sad when I hear Long Walk Home. Mainly because if you juxtapose that with the grandeur and excellence of Thunder Road, you hear the voice of a musician who's done with the speed, cars and pace of life. Who's set to talk that slow, deep greens of summer walk into the night. It was a great final song for what was to be a final album (not including the tributary Terry's song as a hidden track). It summed it up.

Then I hear word of a new album. And I get excited. Maybe we're stopping to smell the roses on that walk home. Maybe we want to get carried home by a little bit of a breeze. But then Working on a Dream comes out. And I don't like it. And I'm one of a very few who don't.

Gone, most notably, are the Walt Whitman working man dirges backed by the greatest band in the world. Replaced with effervescent lyricism that only works to Bruce's strength when it's just him and his guitar and only then hidden in a story. With the backing depth of the E-Street Band he needs nitty-gritty lyrics. And this album doesn't have that. Too much attention to lyric bridges and chorus' that repeat. Springsteen, in a band setting that echos deeply of rambling instruments, needs to ramble. When he doesn't, everything gets held back. And so I don't like the album.

Working on a Dream and My Lucky Day are cool songs. I like them. But I expect more than a pop music number from Bruce churned out to satisfy that radio hit. Much, much more. I expect unbalanced, rambling poetry. Stories set to music. Almost psalmic in nature. What Working on a Dream is is a manufactured, forced work that, while great because the artists are great, fails to reach the level we'd expect. Except for one thing...

I can't dance. At least not well. But I can hear rhythm. One time, at a dance lesson, the instructor, waiting a half-step for me to begin my role of leading, stopped me after the dance. She said I was one of only a few people she had met who danced to a singular, backing, un-obvious beat of the music. I've thought long about that. How to explain what maybe that means. Music is a lot like math. If a song has a beat. A number of beats per measure. The beats that people dance to. Then maybe what I listen for and hear so vividly is the factor that goes into making that number.

Explaining all that my point is this: on the album, maybe Queen of the Supermarket is the key. The legend. The factor. It embodies the old Whitman rambling poet style with a tinge of maturity and profundity. It has some weird, almost off-putting musical interludes. And the lyrical line delivered with the quiet intensity of beginning a rise to crescendo. This song maybe is the beat to which the rest of the album is to be understood. But even still, I won't like this more than Magic.

And certainly not more than the all-encompassing energy and transcendence of The Rising. And as I talk the long walk home staring into a sky of memory and shadow, I keep finding myself returning to Thunder Road, Rosalita, Sandy, Born to Run, Jungleland. And when I get there...home.... to a place of quiet... then give me any of Bruce's solo stuff.

The Wrestler

There is always lots of laughter. Giggling, chuckling, a chortle. And he usually sets himself up across the room from me. I, on my hands and knees, growl, lower my shoulders, engage the enemy. He laughs some more. Puts his hand to his mouth and thinks. But only for instant. I am sure the tactics of Patton cross his mind. Some advanced mathematics perhaps. But it only takes him an instant before he moves forward. Before he is resolved to the fight, to the war, to the wrestle. Sometimes there are weapons. He will use his prized green blanket. Either it will be a cape or a whip. In the latter, picture the stylings of Linus imitating the Power Rangers. And there is laughter. Much, much laughter.

He is a cheater. A little bit of a cheapskate. He will jump on my back, usually by way of my fulcrumed shoulder. From there, he may bite me, right below my scapula. Right on a good piece of skin. It is his arrow. He is Bard and I am the Middle Earth dragon. And I will fall and roll. Throwing him off. Begin again. Subsequent times he will use his fingers, eye gouging, mouth pulling little fingers. The ones not holding the green blanket.

Wrestling is something boys and Dads do. Since time immemorial. Isaac has learned some strategies recently. And it's gotten to the point where it's a little more of a struggle. A little more of a wrestle before it descends into tickling and calling out to Mommy because someones bumped his head or been unfairly (whatever, he ran at me, I just lowered my shoulder and lifted him up) tackled and pinned beneath Daddy.

But there is always lots of laughter. And it is the most fun.

Now unlike a particular wrestling episode with my father, I've yet to break a bone in him. Yet to be forced into naming a place in the living room Peniel. Though I've more than once found it profoundly moving that God wrestled with man. Like a father and son. I know I complain more than often about unfair pinnings, lowered shoulders and have bitten much in my own time. And it is here I am most like my Isaac. Grossly out-manned, out-strengthened, out-maneuvered. Constantly relying on weapons. But each time I am pinned. And there is this great foolishness. This great silliness prevailing over those times. Like I could out-wrestle The Wrestler. Still it is something that must be done. Must needs be part of our relationship. And He presses me, but does not crush. And while laughter does not permeate the engagements, there is, by the end, this deep abiding Joy. A closeness with God. A Peniel.

Tell me, friend, can you ask for anything more?
Tell me can you ask for anything more?

Bob Dylan: How Does It Feel To Win A Pulitzer?

So perhaps you've seen the news: Bob Dylan received a special nod from the Pulitzer Prize committee. It's the first time the award has been given to a rock musician. As I read online yesterday, this is interesting given the anti-establishment bend of the genre. It's supposed to be revolting against these high class honors and what they mean. But truthfully, there is no one in the industry more deserving of the literary merit. No one else who's body of work can be considered with the great writers. Dylan is a great writer. Despite what you may think of his voice (the Mrs can't stomach it). Despite what you may think of his music. Dylan is and was lyrically the best. On par with the prosody of the best.

Now there are other musicians who's body of work could be considered deserving of the award. Neil Young comes to mind. But most notably is Bruce Springsteen. The Nebraska album alone is a lyrical collection of short stories. Tom Joad is another astonishing musical panoply of short fiction. If Dylan, I say, then Springsteen.

Anyone else I'm missing?

A Good Man Found On The Edge Of Town

I stumbled across a very interesting association between my favorite fiction writer and my favorite musician. It's a connection I never supposed or suspected, so you can expect my surprise when I discovered that Bruce Springsteen has been heavily influenced by Flannery O'Connor.

I did some more digging, finding that he was most influenced shortly before the Nebraska album. Which, if you know the album, figures. The final line of title track borrows right from O'Connor, "Sir, I guess there's just meanness in the world." He even penned a song for the epic Tracks album in 1998 called "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and captured the essence of the story fantastically.

Springsteen says it's her characters that intrigue them the most. How they are broken, shattered, imperfect and ultimately redemptive. Listening to that album, Tom Joad and Devils and Dust, you see the same dirty and dusty and grotesque characters searching for their "own piece of the cross."

That the connection was obvious was not what floored me. What got me was the roots of the connection itself. The Mrs, not much of a Springsteen fan aside from The Rising and a couple of live tracks, was also surprised to learn of the connection. And, as always, she summed it up adeptly: "You shouldn't be surprised. It just shows you're consistent in what you like." I love O'Connor's work for the exact same reasons I love Springsteen's work: Rich imagery compounded by the actual facts of the world and an attempt to redeem a little piece of it.

Suffice to say I've gone back through the albums I have and listened to them again. Unfortunately, I don't have the entire Nebraska or Joad albums, but the tracks I have make me feel like I'm in Andalusia, sitting next to O'Connor, with Springsteen spewing out throaty melodies on an old guitar. Give Springsteen credit, he's not just a political mouthed musician who plays in a cool band with a cool name and had a few hits. He's a brilliant writer. And that he was affected by O'Connor and not merely effected rises up in his body of work.

Meanwhile, reading O'Connor and listening to Springsteen at once is not possible. It's like being in the exact same place at the exact same time and trying to do something entirely different.

10 Years Ago Yesterday

I was reminded of it this morning on a post on this site. Hard to believe. I remember hearing the news over the answering machine about a week after it happened. I was getting back from a weekend retreat and our youth pastor's voice cackled over the speaker, telling us Rich had been killed in a car accident. So much for going out like Elijah I recall thinking.

Some 10 years later, Rich Mullins music still influences me. I spent many nights in my youth sitting, looking out the window, listening to songs about praise rising over prairies. Many nights up at Grammie and Grandpa's camp trying not to sing along as "Creed" bellowed over the headphones. And it was "Hold Me Jesus" that was playing through my headphones as I sat praying outside of the gymnasium in 1998 at Asbury College on a cool February evening, making the decision to attend the school. These days, it's most often Songs that I listen to. Especially, lately, "Boy Like Me/Man Like You" -- for obvious reasons.

I've always liked his music. It's something I always come back to. For all my forays into Ray LaMontagne, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews Band, Damien Rice, Wilco, it's Rich Mullins that I can't ever seem to turn off. Whether it's the underlying dulcimer, the haunting, poetic, transporting lyrics, or the simple voice echoing a simple faith of a simple man living a simple life who was transfixed by a simple fact: Jesus loved him -- Rich's music is new and fresh and ancient with each listen. Some new experience I attach to a lyric, song, melody, phrase, beat.

That's Rich. That's his music. As best as I can remember it.

A Self-Titled Day

Picked up a new CD yesterday. Not a common practice for me these days. Especially since I've discovered the Library -- where I can get all the music I want, for free, and rip it to the computer. I'm very particular about music -- as many of you know. But truth be told, my musical taste reflects my taste in clothes, most notably my penchant for wearing the same jeans over and over again. All this to say, I don't go for much more than what I already have.

But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.

That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).

Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.

Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.

One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.

A Deserving, Quiet Night

Caught Austin City Limits tonight. A show I frequently try to watch, but it usually airs about midnight every Saturday, and some nights I'm just too tired to enjoy the unique music. But I tuned in tonight 'cause Coldplay was on. Say what you will about them in terms of good music, but I like Coldplay. Clever melodies that stick with you. Music that always strikes the right now, grooves if you will. And lyrics that stick. Plus, the Scientist was a really cool music video.

Anyway, midway through the concert Michael Stipe came on for a couple of songs. I've always been a big REM fan. Especially since I spent all-night one summer listening to one particular song repeatedly with an old friend. A song, whose lyrics as I listen to them now, are eerie. And as I remember that night, I remember this song. And as I remember this song, I remember that night. Sometimes, music does that. It acts like an all-encompasing sense. When you taste, touch, see, smell and hear everything. All at once. And it takes you back and moves you forward all at the same time. Realizing where you are now, where you're going and we're you've been.

Well, as Chris Martin introduced the song, he said: "In my opinion, this is the best song ever written." Then, he broke into the piano opening of Nightswimming. I know I've mentioned it before, but I love this song. Now it wasn't the best rendition of the song. Lacking much of the emotion I hear in the album version. But still enough to make me close my eyes and remember that night where my friend and I debated life and love and everything in between. And some of the lyrics.

That debate settled on the line sung as "a bright, tight forever drum". We decided (in the days before Google and Wikipedia could settle any bet) it was actually "a bright tide forever drawn". Well, a couple of years later, still haunted by the song and hearing it infrequently, I submitted my school yearbook quote as "A bright tide forever drawn". Seemed appropriate, it being my favorite song. It being an obscure lyric that brought the whole mysticism of past experiences like high school together in one, solid line. Poetic, as I like to say.

Coldplay's finishing out with my favorite song by them, "Fix You". Great song. Kicks in perfectly. Just the right note. Then it drives through the end.

Some nights, like this one, like the one that street light on a camp road reveals fresh in my memory from years ago, I just love music.

I'll Know You By The Ringtone

So I've had to get a new phone after I'd had it with my LG Cingular phone. Between dropped calls and bad reception, it was time to part ways. Without much convincing I selected the Motorola RAZR for only $25. It's a great phone.

One of the perks of the phone is Bluetooth, which means I can link up my phone and my computer (iBook G4 w/Bluetooth). After a few google searches last night I found how I could send music from my computer to my phone. How is this cool? Well, if you have iTunes it's pretty freaking awesome.

In iTunes, there's a function that let's you edit a song based on start and finish times you manually enter. Then by a simple conversion to MP3's, iTunes basically copies the truncated song to your music playlist. Then you can export that 10,15,25 second song (or however long you want it) to your phone via Bluetooth.

So, what all does this mean? Well it means I've got some pretty cool ringtones that I haven't had to pay for. And that I can configure any part of any song to what I want that reminds me specifically of a person and then assign that, again, truncated song as that person's Ringtone ID. Here's my current list along with the part of the song I've used:

The Mrs.: "Trouble" by Ray Lamontagne: "I've been saved by a woman and she won't let me go.

eric: "Jimi Thing" by DMB -- the intro only, you played it ALL the time in college.

Dad: "It's the words Red Sox fans have longed to hear: The Red Sox are World Champions!" by Joe Buck. I'll fess up -- I payed for this one.

Mom: "Where You Are" by Bebo Norman: "The child in me would say, home is where you are."

steve: "T-Shirt Song" by Derek Webb: "They'll know us by the T-shirts that we wear."

mig: "A Little While" by U2: "A little girl, with Spanish eyes."

tim: "Into the Fire" by Bruce Springsteen: "Up the stairs, into the fire."

becky: "Piano Man" by Billy Joel: "Sing us a song you're the piano man."

sarah: "Mr. Tambourine Man" by Bob Dylan: "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man play a song for me in the jingle-jangle morning I'll be following you."

Obviously there are a few of you I haven't gotten to yet, like eric's Mrs., mike p., phil, OOBM, et. al. So if you've got suggestions, let me know and I'll get you on the phone.

Also this brings up an interesting idea for all of us. If we could be recognized by a song lyric, what would you want that to be? Would it just be from your favorite song? How would you describe yourself in song to be identified by someone else? Because, I have chosen these ringtones/songs as I did because I feel they best describe the person to me. Of course, it may also not be how such a person sees him/herself. But it's an interesting notion, that, first, we can be described as such and second, that different people would describe us differently.

Some Musings

Thoroughly enjoying the new John Mayer CD "Continuum". Fantastic, really. Easy on the ears, great lyrics and more than a few songs with a groove. One of my favorites, like everyone elses, is "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room". Also, a big fan of "Gravity". And bonus points to Mayer's imperative inside of the album jacket: "If your listening to this with an instrument on your lap: get to work, and deep in it. We all need you."

Finished my third book in two weeks, all by Nick Hornby. High Fidelity was by far his best of the books. Of course, I'd seen the movie already -- also a very good flick.

Next book is The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie. It interweaves the life of four, 1940s and 50s Catholic writers (The so-called Lost Generation): Dorothy Day, Walker Percy, Thomas Merton, and, one of my all-time favorites, Flannery O'Connor. The book examines their struggles with religion and art and discusses their approaches to writing. Thus far, I'm very intrigued.

So this friend of mine, the one who's blog I named, changed the name of his blog. No. I'm not bitter. Not at all. Though, I must admit, his new name, very strong. Meets the criteria. Check it out.

If you don't watch Scrubs, shame on you. Last night's episode was classic. Any song where you can combine diverticulitis and barium enemas (been there, done that. Sorry. TMI.) is instantly a classic. And what's wrong with hearing singing in your head?

This English Football team thing may have been a bad idea. One of the teams I picked, Newcastle, got drubbed on national television Wednesday at home, against a lower seeded team. Oh...and there's now accusations of racism against the team.

No predictions on the big game Sunday. Rest assured however, that I am in full superstition mode...even down to the way I shave.

On Musicians As Poets

It's not that I think you care. I know you don't. But I like music. In fact, I pretty much have to have music on somewhere at any point in the day. Last week working the overnight shifts I brought in the iPod and listened to music for 4 hours straight while working. And I'm not lying when I say I was working at my most efficient level ever here at the network. Funny thing is though, when I'm listening to music while doing something else, I hardly hear the music -- it fades into the background really.

All that said, I've gotten some new CDs in the rotation. First, I'm thoroughly disappointed with Damien Rice's lastest foray 9. Other than the title track and maybe two others, it's not very good -- at least not for my ears. No worries though, I've kept my musical interests within the United Kingdom (even my latest reading material is by a British author). And I am thoroughly ensconced in the music and lyricism of David Gray. Many will know him from that song Babylon -- which I never really liked until now. His two CDs you should pick up: Life in Slow Motion and White Ladder (featuring the aforementioned song). My favorite tune by far Ain't No Love(though The One I Love is sweeping and feels like autumn and is therefore a close second).

It's haunting. I like music that's haunting. Music that feels like it's just you, the artist, some musical instruments and a room with the lights off. Music that feels like your daringly craning your next over a precipice to see the crashing whitecaps below on a cloudy English morning. Music that gets your heart racing in that fearful sort of way. Music that feels like it's sneaking into a giant's house and your Jack. Music that, like a good book, is an adventure. I'm not much for just instrumentation doing that job. I like lyrics that do that. Musicians are, in some cases, poets. The good ones are. And like any good poet, they help me get my "head into the heavens."

Lover, By Derek Webb

These aren't my words. But I share these thoughts.

like a man comes to an alter i came into this town

with the world upon my shoulders and promises passed down

and i went into the water and my father, he was pleased

i built it and i’ll tear it down

so you will be set free

but i found thieves and salesmen living in my father’s house

i know how they got in here and i know how to get ‘em out

i’m turning this place over from floor to balcony

and then just like these doves and sheep

you will be set free

i’ve always been a lover from before i drew a breath

some things i loved easy and some i loved to death

because love’s no politician, it listens carefully

of those who come i can’t lose one,

so you will be set free

but go on and take my picture, go on and make me up

i’ll still be your defender, you’ll be my missing son

and i’ll send out an army just to bring you back to me

because regardless of your brother’s lies

you will be set free

i am my beloveds and my beloved’s mine

so you bring all your history and i’ll bring the bread and wine

and we’ll have us a party where all the drinks are on me

then as surely as the rising sun

you will be set free

A Narrative In Concert

There is something about a song that I have never been quite able to nail down. Something that has always echoed somewhere deep inside.

Tonight, I attended a concert. Two of my favorite musicians, Derek Webb and Sandra McCracken, were playing. Their role in the concert was brief, but their music, as always, was powerful. The majority of the concert revolved around another musician Andrew Peterson and a CD he made a few years back entitled Behold The Lamb.

I've been to many Christmas events. This was unlike any other. I have seen the "greatest story ever told" acted out. I have participated in more than a few of those reenactments. I have listened many Christmas' in church, and on Christmas Eve at home, to it being read aloud. I have heard many cantatas. I have participated in a few as well. But, I don't think I have ever heard it in song.

This is a difference that is clear to me, but perhaps not to you. By song, I mean to suggest a poem set to music. Cantatas are wonderful, but they are typically too stiff for me. It's not lyrical enough -- it's too musical...too polished. But the Christmas story in song....well...there's an idea.

Tonight was just that. But it wasn't just a poem. It was an epoch poem. The entire course of the Old Testament, Intertestimental Period and the "fullness of time" was represented in uninterrupted music. No talking. Just the playing of instruments and the lyrical singing of voices.

And then it hit me, why songs echo within me.

Songs have this uncanny ability to tell a story. And, frankly, there is no better story to tell in song.

I Hate The Foo Fighters

Back in college, my roommate was obsessed with the Foo Fighters. He frequently played their CDs. Quite often I would enter the room to "...there goes my hero." Me being the straight-shooter, I would say "I hate the Foo Fighters." And that's true (it still is Eric).

Of course, one-time he caught me. Unbeknownst to me, he was playing their CD and I remarked that "I like this. Who is it?" He smiled when he told me -- like he'd won some battle. But he should've realized that he needed to concede that the Foo Fighters sounded like "everything else on the radio" and I was unable to differentiate between them and the Vertical Horizon's of the world. He didn't and it's become this running joke.

Well...this may be the end of the joke. While watching an episode of Scrubs this past week this song played as Turk and Carla introduced their new child. The song playing was "Miracle":

Hands on a miracle
I got my hands on a miracle
Leave it or not, hands on a miracle
And there ain't no way
Let you take it away

I really liked it and spent considerable time hunting down the author of the song (potentially for the Baby Mix CD, which I'm still working on, btw).

It was sung by the Foo Fighters.

I hate the Foo Fighters.

O Come, Let Us Not Sing Carols

It has always annoyed me: Christmas Carols. I've nothing against them as a whole. My problem lies in that we only sing them at Christmas -- the traditional ones especially (note: I'm not condoning the singing of Jingle Bells in the more verdant(GRE word!) times of the year). No, we restrict great hymns like Adeste Fidelis and O Come Let Us Adore Him to the commercialized portions of our year, namely: between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

It's sad I think. Unfortunate really. These hymns are timeless. With lyrics that are just as relevant as Amazing Grace and When I Survey (all-time greatest hymn). For this reason, I despise Christmas Carols. I despise the comparmentalization of some magnificent lyrics and melodies.

One time in college during a chapel in the spring time, the music director had everyone open their hymnals to Joy to World. I've never heard so many groans and utterances of confusion: It wasn't Christmas! He quickly silenced the chapel discontent with a similar diatribe: these songs deserved to be sung at all times of the year. Are we only joyous at Christmas time?

So I don't like Christmas carols and try really hard to not sing them. Of course, it being the only time of the year that I get to hear them played, the irony could not be greater.

The Grand Inquisitor

If you've never read The Brothers Karamazov, I encourage you to because it's an excellent novel. But it's not something you read for fun -- no Russian novel is a fun read.

Anyway, The Grand Inquisitor is labeled as, perhaps, the greatest chapter in all of literature. Which, is somewhat funny because I think it's the second best chapter in the book (The first being "The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare". A close third is the chapter that precedes The Grand Inquisitor entitled "Rebellion").

For precis of the chapter, I recommend you click on the link. But here's my summary: Set during the Spanish Inquisition and describes the return of Christ to the town of Seville, Spain. There, the day before, 100 "heretics" were burned alive by the presiding cardinal who is called The Grand Inquisitor. Christ, as he walks through the town begins to perform miracles. This leads to his imprisonment and eventual interrogation by this cardinal. The Cardinal, believing He is who He says He is, eventually takes the lines of questioning back to Christ's temptation in the wilderness when Satan tempted Christ three times.

The Grand Inquisitor questions him on the nature of "free will" and comes to the conclusion that it is too much for any human to bear -- except for the elect, the strong -- and Christ was wrong to make it this difficult. He should've, the cardinal points out, turned the stones to bread, for that would've made it easier for humanity to follow him. Instead, the burden and responsibility of free will is too difficult and Christ had too much faith in humanity to leave us with it.

Really, you should read it -- even if you only read the chapter. I was struck by the idea of "the burden of free will". On the iPod this morning was Derek Webb's "New Law" . A song with much the same idea:

Don't teach me about politics and government ;
Just tell me who to vote for.
Don't teach me about truth and beauty;
Just label my music.
Don't teach me how to live like a free man;
Just give me a new law.

So...the burden of free will. Reminds of the scene in Bruce Almighty when Bruce is overcome by the difficulty of his omnipotence and the inability to make people love him (This isn't the actual scene I'm referring to but it carries a similar point).

I've never thought of free will as a burden. But I'm seeing it now...hmmm.