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It's very gratifying to look back over the past week of discussions, isn't it? Exiles certainly provoked a great deal of thought and conversation -- what a good book should do.

 

I was struck in this last round by how we seem to be settling down with such strongly Catholic themes -- most profoundly the paradox of the self and, as Bishop Flores so powerfully described, the sacramentality of this life on earth and of the creative act. I think the bishop's exploration of the saloon scene, lit by the six candles, will stick with me for a long time. I also think that his words about writing -- "The success or failure of a work of Catholic fiction depends on how well, how fluidly and effortlessly, the combination of event and word conspire to lead the reader to ponder the meaning of the intended sign" -- stand as perfect companions to two of my most trusted writing guides: Flannery O'Connor, who advised the writer to leave the preaching to the preachers and stick to describing what he or she sees, and Dorothy Sayers, who, in her essay "The Image of God," described human creativity in light of God's creative nature.

 

Matthew and Joseph have both teased out that first element: the paradox at the heart of the Christian life, the paradox that is about losing one's life in order to gain it, the Pauline assertion that it is no longer I but Christ who lives in me.

 

In Hansen's tale, Hopkins certainly grapples more with this than the sisters do, but the struggle is not absent from their lives, either. Each of them answers what they see as a call to leave behind various certainties, confident assertions about who they were and what would bring them happiness and answer a call that would demand abandonment of so much.

 

But it remains a struggle for all of them to live with some sort of balance, to discover what it means to abandon the self in answer to Christ's call, which we trust is in our best interest and will bring us greater joy than we could find, left to our own devices.

 

When I look at how this issue emerges in the lives of Hopkins and the sisters, it seems that the struggles of every Christian are reflected there. They may be religious -- and further, 19th-century religious, where formation was marked by a suspicion of individuality and an emphasis on obedience -- but we contemporary laity are no more exempt from this paradox if we are trying to follow Christ seriously and totally, in obedience, willing to leave all behind.

 

But neither are we dull, homogenous automatons. God created each of us with various gifts and capabilities . . . but how to use them? I am called to give my best to the Lord, but how can I keep pride at bay? How can I discern when this stops being about God and starts being about me? I may be tempted to pity these religious for that old-fashioned oppressive obedience culture in which they lived, but should I? Do my strivings actually put me under obedience to forces even more oppressive than Mother Superiors and Father Generals?

 

Most importantly, in sorting all of this out, how can I avoid falling into the trap of cheerily and vapidly celebrating my "gifts and talents" as the goal of my spiritual life? And inscribing it all on felt banners? (Or on my blog?)

 

 

Which brings up a talking point about the predominance of religious members in so much of "Catholic" fiction. From Greene's whiskey priest to Bernanos's country priest to Rumer Godden's nuns -- they are everywhere, in every genre, even in science fiction (A Canticle for Liebowitz) and mysteries (Father Brown, Brother Cadfael, and many more). Why are they such compelling -- almost, it seems, necessary -- figures?

 

It is not, as some might think, simply because religious men and women are so much more intrinsically interesting than the laity or because they hold positions of "honor" or tend to wear interesting clothes or because their sins are so much worse than anyone else's. It is because their lives embody a radical and stark commitment to the gospel -- a gospel that we are all called to follow, but that, in the vows and promises of a religious, is dramatically magnified. They promise to be dependent on God, obedient to him, body and soul.

 

But you know what? So are we.

 

So in great writing, when a priest "falls," the reader does not gawk. When, in the compelling and beautiful prose of Exiles,suffering priests and religious women suffer and confront death, the reader does not sigh at a pious distance.