MLK and St. Augustine

One hears whispers, now and again, that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., harbored imperfection. There are murmurs of improprieties in his doctoral thesis—mutters of infidelity in his marriage. The man was a genius, a visionary, and a great leader; also, he was a man. Not an Archangel, perfect in Heaven. It takes nothing away from his legacy to admit his flaws. Indeed, if he hadn’t been flawed, his achievements would be less admirable.

But contrast our reticence about the putative sins of Rev. King with our almost indecent revelry in the sins of Hippo’s bishop. You already see where I’m going with this: ask ten random people for an Augustinian anecdote, and at least ten of them will say, “Lord, give me chastity, but not yet.” It detracts from neither his sanctity nor his sagacity; if anything, it makes him more relatable, more encouraging, hence in a very real way a better saint, because God can make more use of his example to inspire us.

Now, obviously, there’s one crucial difference here: St. Augustine is not a martyr. His city was beleaguered by heretics—the original Vandals, in fact—during his terminal illness, but he wasn’t murdered by cowards in mid-crusade. Also, there aren’t any Third Century Manichaeans still slinking around, looking for ways to discredit Augustine. The reputation of Dr. King, on the other hand, might still be attacked by bigots and the sons of bigots. All that being the case, it’s only prudent to be more circumspect in mentioning his errors, at least for a few more generations.

Furthermore, the sin of Augustine was not less grave merely because he made a well-known joke about it. In fact, his sin—his mortal sin, that brought so many years of anguish to the soul of his mother, St. Monica—is all the more dangerous to the rest of us because his wit makes it seem roguish and charming. Ultimately, the  famous quip is comic, not tragic, for only one reason: that, in the end, he allowed the Lord to grant his prayer.

In short, a person’s failings are never, in and of themselves, to be celebrated. But, since we all fail, since all have sinned and fallen short, it can sometimes be consoling and encouraging to remember that our greatest heroes are no exception. And whatever their faults, it needn’t tarnish the inspiration we can take from their accomplishments.

I say all this because I happened upon an article alleging some things against Dr. King; I have no idea if those specific allegations were true, but I certainly know the man was a sinner, because he was a man. And I’m not afraid of finding out that a hero did ugly things. On the contrary, it tells me that even with all that extra weight and wounding on one’s soul, one can still reach the starlit peaks above.

Dad Abdication. Abdadcation? Dabdication!

Someday I’ll probably write a blog post that doesn’t mention G.K. Chesterton. But not today. GK once said of Aquinas that he always wrote with an eye on two qualities: clarity and courtesy. “And he did it because they were entirely practical qualities, affecting the probabilities of conversion.” I try to keep that in mind. I feel like I’m generally pretty courteous. But then I hear people say, “I don’t go to church because my parents made me go as a child,” and I just can't do it anymore. These are the words of an idiot. Did your parents not make you eat vegetables? Read books? Use the potty? If you’re not still doing anything your parents made you do as a child, how are you even alive?

Sonya’s almost two now. (When she was born, absolutely everyone told me they grow up fast; and yep, sometimes everybody’s right.) We’re well past the point where I can let her get away with things like—to pick a random example—throwing her food on the floor. Now and again, we have these titanic battles of will, hinging on the disposition of oatmeal or bath toys. It’s hard for me, because I adore this girl and it breaks my heart to hear her cry, let alone to make her cry. And it’s hard on her because I’m fifteen times her size and hold a black belt in Jiu-jutsu.

Waited a long time to bust out this pic.

As a father, I know perfectly well that it’s my responsibility to discipline my children and teach them to function in society. And I swear I can deal with her crying because I know it’s for her own good and I would be failing and maiming her if I didn’t hold these lines. (Also she’d probably starve if I didn’t coax her into eating once in awhile.) What really bothers me is the power disparity. Of course I can sit there and wait her out. She has no money, no geographical knowledge; she doesn’t have an ID, she doesn’t know anyone that would harbor a fugitive toddler. What’s she gonna do? Ultimately, she’s going to do what she’s told.

And that’s good, because it happens that I do love her and have her best interests at heart. But somehow, it still just seems unfair. I feel like a bully, calmly sitting there holding a spoonful of applesauce while she writhes and shrieks in her high chair. I do it anyway, because I’m her dad and I have to. And you’d better believe we take her to church every week. Why in the Name of God do people think they’re being “deep” (whatever damn fool thing that means) when they reject “organized religion” for “spirituality”? We have organized English. Organized Math. Organized rules for operating a motor vehicle, a bathtub, a toaster. How is it smart to accept no guidance, no fundamentals, in the most important thing of all? Anyway, that’s a whole blog post worth of ranting. If Sonya chooses another spiritual path as an adult, that’s her right; but at least she’ll have a solid foundation from which to make intelligent choices. We’re not going to let her subsist on candy corns because I’m too much of a weakling to make her eat her broccoli.

Also, piano lessons.

A Gold Pig

Sooner or later, every author does some variation of the one where the characters realize they're in a story and end up interacting with the author. Personally, I think the universal impulse to write oneself into one's own stories is a clear adumbration of the original Author's drive to Incarnation; but that's a debate for another day. The point at present is simply that you can't be a vocational creator without having some sense of divinity. And again, as always, if that sounds almost blasphemously audacious, then welcome to the Catholic Faith, where we eat and drink the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Christ on a weekly basis. Pants-shitting terror is a vastly more realistic reaction to the fact of our religion than the ho-hum queue-shuffle we typically adopt on Sabbath Day.

Alan Moore, the crazy old man of Comics, once said this:

"My probably imperfect understanding of what is meant by pride in this context came during a magical exploration of the sixth sphere, undertaken as usual with one of my similarly minded associates, in this instance a musician. At one point during the event, I got carried away with a self-serving monologue on how special and wonderful creative people were, completely opiated by my own marvellousness. At this point, my glazed and trancing companion spoke for the first time in twenty minutes, making a single, gnomic utterance: 'A gold pig.' As soon as he'd said it he looked puzzled, told me that the phrase had just popped into his head, and advised me to ignore it as meaningless, which of course I was unable to do. It struck me, at the time, as a perfect image of the pride of artists: a gold pig. Flashy, brilliant, and valuable, but also vaguely squalid, absurd, and tasteless. It seemed to me that creators should not confuse themselves with whatever light comes through them. At best, they can take comfort in the clarity and lucidity of the window that their work lets the light into the world by. They can try not to block the light with their own shadow, they can try to widen their window or aperture, and they can take satisfaction in their success at this. But they are not the light."

As an artist (and, perhaps, particularly as a writer), I identify with this to the point of cringing apotheosis. If we're speaking the truth at all, if we're doing our job, living our vocation, at all, then we're Prophets. It has to be someone. But holy God, am I ever not a prophet. I wear the Deadly Sins around my neck every day of the week, I'm a train wreck. I'm not a prophet. Except, I am. I have to be. I've got this gift, this talent; and what am I gonna do, bury it? We already know how that turns out.

It was a long time ago, but I was once a callow youth. And back then, I had the opposite approach to this dilemma. Back then, I elevated myself: I felt that, as a creator, I was above "ordinary" folk. I reveled in my own transcendence. In simple terms, I was a d____bag. And then, for many years, I swung to the opposite extreme. I came to see that the "artiste" was, at best, an instrument of Truth, and that the art (dropping the capital A) was infinitely nothing compared to the destiny of the soul of a farmer who might happen to glance at the art and find a moment's inspiration. Eventually I bounced off the conviction that art was almost vanishingly insignificant.

But I'm swinging back, these days, to the belief that Art does indeed matter. Not in and of itself! The Iliad and the Mona Lisa will burn and freeze when the universe dies. There's no immortality in this world. But it matters because it is indeed one manifestation of God's Creative Power within the creatures who bear His Image. Also it's important because it can be a vehicle of His Truth and Redemption; but what I'm trying to wrap my head around, these days, is that it matters even without that. It matters because the creation of Beauty matters, independently of Truth. Obviously Truth and Beauty go together. But it turns out that it's okay to focus solely on Beauty, and let the Truth worry about itself. In short, art for art's sake is in fact a worthy undertaking for a Christian. The Christianity will find its own way to the surface of the art, if the artist does his job.

I'm writing a novel about a vampiress whose destiny is entangled with the Blessed Virgin Mary. There's no way to tell the story without blundering through thickets of blasphemy and sanctimony. I keep wondering if I should just shit-can the whole thing; but then I remember that the Lord imposed a gift upon me. (Seriously, why do we call it a gift.) Of words, of writing, and I have to use it to tell my stories. I could write about something nicer, something less challenging. But that's not the story that's mine to tell. I can write about the Ultimate Dark and how it might just break upon the Ultimate Light, or I can go and bury myself for eternity. My personal sins of concupiscence and sulk are bound to infect the narrative, but then there's no perfect piece of Art—not even the universe itself. (Thanks to us.) All I can do is my damnedest.

And hey, who knows. Maybe I'll create something wonderful. I shall certainly try. If that happens, I hope someone out there will remember this blog post. And when (not if) I lose myself in vanity, I hope that someone will utter that phrase: A gold pig.

Catholic Vampire Authors

So yes, this is a thing. Karen Ullo of Jennifer the Damned, Eleanor Nicholson of A Bloody Habit, Gabriel Blanchard of Death's Dream Kingdom, and myself (hi! J.B. Toner, Whisper Music. How the hell are ya?) have begun a small thing which, hopefully, will give rise to great things. A pebble that starts a landslide. A flicker that sparks a wildfire. A Facebook page that like, you know, inspires some other Facebook pages!!!

Check it out, it's pretty cool. Mostly, I'm not gonna lie, I just wanted to write this post in order to showcase my wife's photographic acumen. Here's Felix again:

WHISPER MUSIC!

My first novel:

What if the Virgin Mary was bitten by a vampire? Danyaela Morrigan is an ex-Catholic, ex-college student, and ex-human, furious at the God who allowed her to be turned into a demoness. In the mountain town of Medjugorje, where the Blessed Virgin is rumored to appear, Danyaela seeks to share her eternal curse with the Mother of God. In the bitter, destructive battle that follows, she becomes afflicted with the power to enter the spirit world and touch the soul of every human being at will. 

On Christmas Day, two Boston cops unwittingly find the body of a man who used to hunt vampires. Following the twisted trail, Detectives Blake and McArdle uncover the disappearance of a girl called Danyaela—and the woman known as Lady Claudia, who turned her. As they track the mortal servants of the damned, they draw ever closer to the heart of the Dark Lady’s plan to return from Hell for a virgin birth and a resurrection of her own. 

But the thirsting dead and the hunters from the Vatican are both thrown out of their plans when Danyaela meets Blake and begins to remember ordinary human friendship. Her strange new powers have cracked the ancient detente between the Lord God and the Lord Satan, and the mortal world is becoming the field of all-out battle, as she finds herself questioning her loyalties for the first time in twelve years. When Easter comes, many things will arise from the shadows of death—for good, or for evil.

Available here.

The Santa Saga

Hey, guys! I know this blog is usually a place for me to gush about my feelings and stuff, but we're gonna do something different today. You see, Part Six of my Santa Saga has just appeared in the lovely online literary journal, Aurora Wolf. That means you can now see all three pairs of connected tales arranged like a deck of cards on my author's page. In my own teeny little way, it's like having collected all the Infinity Stones.

I won't go into any particular detail about the series—I figure, if you're interested, you won't want it spoiled, and if you're not, then it doesn't matter anyhow—but in brief, it's about a bunch of mystical and mortal folk who hang out together at a (sadly fictional) Boston tavern called Dill's, and end up getting embroiled in a bizarre adventure involving the one and only Father Christmas. The fun part is that the entire thing evolved out of me going on Facebook every Advent to complain about the fact that Santa's helpers are called elves. They're obviously not elves, they're short bearded craftsmen who live in the mountains. Doy.

So over time, because I was a night janitor and had little else to do with my brain-mind, I started developing a mythos of my own regarding the Claus and his Arctic kinfolk. It became clear to me that Santa represented the Khazilim, an offspring of Angel and Dwarf, and that got me thinking about where the real Elves fit into all this, and that led me to discover the existence of Lyrilim, the offspring of Angel and Elf. And then of course the Nephilim got involved, not to mention the Cherubim, and things just went from there.

If my calculations are correct, the Santa Saga is now nearing its cataclysmic conclusion. The final chapters are set to be Parts One and Two of "The Eye of the Elohim." Look for the beginning of the end when April turns to May. And prepare. For. MAYHEM!

I am a servant of the Secret Fire

"Prometheus," you know, means Foresight. It was his brother, Epimetheus, that gave away all the gifts to the other animals, leaving none for Man. That name means Hindsight. That brother's folly led to the infinite sacrifice of Prometheus, who stole for us the Fire Divine, only to be lashed to a rock in Hell, to have his organs ripped from his steaming body and devoured by eagles every day, to regenerate, to be eaten alive, again and again, forever. For us.

I'd go to Hell for my baby girl. I would give up Heaven in a heartbeat. Even knowing that Hell means the loss of love, the loss of the memory of love, the poisoning of everything love was. For her I would sacrifice everything I am, even the very love of her, even the ability to cherish the remembrance of her face. I would fall into everlasting hate for her. Eat my organs? Pfff. Don't even waste my time. My wife had her organs eaten every day of our HG pregnancy, just to bring Sonya into this world. For the love of my daughter, if only one of us could go to Heaven, I would suffer the eternal loss of love. I love her like nothing I ever imagined before she came into our lives.

And I can't even tell you what she's done to make me love her so much. I think about it, sometimes. What if she gets older and asks me why I love her? What can I say? Because you're my daughter. Because you're my girl. Because you're my Sonya from God. It's not anything she's done, it's just—she's Sonya. How can I ever love her enough?

It's been a year now since that harrowing night when she came out of my beautiful screaming wife. She walks now, just a bit. She can say "kitten," and (I'm like 85% sure) "tree." She has a powerful personality, and I'm so excited to see the woman she'll become. She's going through a clingy phase right now, and it's exhausting that I can't put her down without her fussing; but the second she goes to bed and I'm free to move about the house, I miss her. She fills me up and past capacity in a way that redefines everything I ever understood about the concept of love. I love her so much it's impossible, yet there it is.

And here's what it feels like, most days. Ellie's pregnant again, which is wonderful, but also terrifying and crippling. I'm unemployed and still fucked up on anxiety since the car crash, and I spend my days trying to keep the house clean against this avalanche of entropy that constantly multiplies the amount of dishes and laundry that we own by ten and makes it all dirty, while trying to keep myself and Ellen and Sonya fed, and also trying to pursue a writing career, and also trying to sleep every now and again.

I'm no Gandalf. My Secret Fire is writing stories about other people going out and having adventures. I did that shit once. My time is over. That's okay. Getting Sonya's pants on while she kicks her feet like a pissed-off Michael Flatley is my adventure now. And grappling with my eel-like daughter while trying to wipe shit off every nearby surface and get her spurting diaper out the cat-door into the trash before she gets her flailing hands on it, is like stepping into the Octagon with a blood-doping Balrog as far as I'm concerned.

I would not have it otherwise. I would not miss one day with this girl. Nor with my wife, whom I wished I could marry the very same evening we met. But I cannot see one day ahead right now. Right now I'm clinging to the rock and offering my organs for the women I love. I'm a Prometheus with no Fire to offer.

But none of that matters. The Fire was never mine. God loves Sonya. He loves her better than I ever, ever could. If I can just be the conduit for His love, if I can just be instrumental, or even just involved, in her receiving love, then that's enough. I just want her to be loved.