faith

Book Break: The Search for God and Guinness

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Stephen Mansfield’s book The Search for God and Guinness is a fun read on many levels. It’s a solid biography of a family, a beer, and a brand that are recognized the world over. It tells the story of a man and his sons (and their sons, and their sons…) who obsessed with the quality, production, and distribution of their “extra stout porter” to the point that they pioneered innovations in brewing, packaging, distribution, marketing, and quality control, and who care so much for their workers and their native Ireland that they pioneered onsite healthcare and wellness for employees and their families, as well as education and cultural benefits, housing and childcare, and more.

Most people assume the Guinness family was Catholic, but that is not the case — though they worked hard to benefit their Catholic workers and neighbors. Many, if not most, of the Guinness men either became involved in the brewery or became Protestant ministers — and it’s in the discussion of theology and the tap that the book becomes problematic for me. In writing about the history of beer and brewing, Mansfield credits the Catholic Church and numerous patron saints of brewing, and mentions that abbeys and monasteries throughout Europe produced good ale until the Reformation, at which point many of the abbeys and monasteries closed. However, he then goes on to credit Luther and Calvin for defending the idea that it is not sinful to take pleasure in God’s creation, thus preserving brewing and the enjoyment of beer.

“As Reformation ideas captured hearts and minds throughout Europe, priests and nuns renounced their vows, Roman Catholic cathedrals became Protestant churches, and monasteries closed, thus decreasing the production of beer. While this decline in brewing would not have deterred Martin Luther from his reforming work, he certainly would have grieved the loss of any fine brew, for he was among the great beer lovers of Christian history. … He was German, after all, and he lived at a time when beer was the European drink of choice. Moreover, having been freed from what he considered to be a narrow and life-draining legalism, he stepped into the world ready to enjoy its pleasures to the glory of God. For Luther, beer flowed best in a vibrant Christian life. (Page 28)”

“Like Luther, Calvin worked hard to hammer out a consistently biblical worldview. He wanted all of his life to be submitted to the rulership of Jesus Christ and yet did not want to miss some grace or provision of God because of flawed theology or religious excess. He and Luther had seen too much of that in their pre-Protestant lives. … This robust Reformation theology, which taught enjoying God’s creation and doing all that is not sinful for the glory of God, filtered into the centuries that followed the reformer’s work. (Page 31)”

“Clearly, then, though the Reformation diminished the production of beer temporarily by closing many of the European monasteries where beer was brewed, it also served the cause of beer and alcohol well by declaring them gifts of God and calling for their use in moderation. (Pages 32-33)”

Mansfield’s tone when discussing the Reformation is by and large heroic, to the point that it sounds as if these men were defending beer against the Catholic Church. These excerpts represent the worst of it, but this pro-Protestant tone pervades the text even though it has little to do with the story at hand, making an otherwise enjoyable read strangely slanted. Nor does Mansfield acknowledge the obvious question raised by this assessment — how does this Protestant view of beer differ from the Catholic view that fostered so many medieval abbey ales?

Long story short: If the summary above appeals to you, this is a library read, not one to add to your collection. As a biography of a beer and a brand, I enjoyed it. As religious history, I did not. Interestingly, Mansfield appears to be a bit of an equal-opportunity “faith profiler” of current and historical figures, having wrote 16 books, including The Faith of George W. Bush, The Faith of Barack Obama, Pope Benedict XVI: His Life and Mission, and Lincoln’s Battle with God. I didn’t know this before I embarked on the Guinness book.

Nettles Or Nails?

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Some years back I wrote a brief personal essay on “the Jim-in-my-head.” The Jim-in-my-head is intellectually and physically fit, well-spoken and timely, gentlemanly even in revelry. He plays the upright bass and reads to his family. He hunts and fishes, writes and publishes, and still is home for dinner. He’s the idealized me, confident, unhesitating, and prudent.

Also, he does not exist.

I’ve known this all along, of course, but it hasn’t stopped me from chasing this phantom Jim, and stranger still, from feeling in recent years as though he’s slipping away. It should be no surprise, should it, that I am unable to catch a figment? But then, why these feelings of both failure and loss?

Last fall a couple of friends separately recommended to me the little book The Way, by St. Josemaria Escriva. I’ve been reading it little by little since then, waiting for the previous lesson to sink in before moving forward.

Fr. Escriva is no easy master, and his writings are loving, but direct and challenging, to the spiritually soft. One excerpt in particular has continued to influence my thinking on a daily basis:

“Many who would willingly let themselves be nailed to a Cross before the astonished gaze of a thousand onlookers cannot bear with a christian spirit the pinpricks of each day! Think, then, which is the more heroic.”  

— The Way, paragraph 204

I have said and written so many times that many people—many males, in particular—desire to be a part of something great and glorious, and our stories are filled with heroic deaths of good men. No man likes to imagine himself shrinking in the face of vice or violence, but perhaps it is easier to steel oneself for a bullet than to suffer a thousand paper cuts? Perhaps today’s nettles are heroic enough for now and serve not to wear us down, but to condition us for nails.

Bren Turns 16

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Our first child turns 16 today. My Facebook statement sums up my sentiments nicely: “Hard to believe my eldest son Brendan turns 16 today. He is smart, responsible, strong, gentle, persistent, respectful, and faithful — and I love him.” But don’t take my word for the type of young man he is (outstanding in many ways) or what motivates him (faith, food, personal goals, and a particular brand of ginger soda). Consider how he’s spending this special occasion:

  • The movie Cinderella Man and pie last night, and the actual Braddock-Baer fight from 1935 on YouTube this morning.
  • Breakfast burritos this morning, football this afternoon, stuffed pasta shells this evening, chocolate bundt cake for dessert — all here at home, with family.
  • No driver’s license until later this winter or early this spring — he’s got school, wrestling, Confirmation classes, and taxidermy work to earn money for a pilgrimage to Rome next summer.
  • On his birthday list: several Catholic books; the movies Big Jake, Captain America and Here Comes the Boom; the book Cinderella Man, and a “Vires et Honestas” (Strength and Honor) t-shirt from the Art of Manliness website.
  • Theology class tonight with his friends.
He opened his gifts this morning: a secondhand army dufflebag containing the following:
  • two 12-packs of Vernors, plus a book called The Vernor’s Story and a vintage Vernors recipe guide from the 1960s;
  • a handful of 100 Grand candy bars;
  • a jar each of smoked black pepper and hot dill pickles;
  • Fr. Richard Heilman’s books Church Militant Field Manual: Special Forces Training for the Life in Christ, Fortes in Fide: Church Militant Prayer Book, and Strength and Alliance: Church Militant Field Journal;
  • The Naval Academy Candidate Book: How to Prepare, How to Get In, How to Survive;
  • Three movies: Here Comes the Boom and the two recent Sherlock Holmes flicks;
  • and a set of keys to all three vehicles and the house on a Captain America key ring.
Some of it he asked for, all of it he’ll enjoy — and sweet 16 in this case is a relaxing day at home. He’s growing into a fine young man, and we’re proud of him. Much love to you on your birthday, son!

It’s In the Small Things

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“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”  — St. Augustine of Hippo

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged.

I’ve been thinking for a couple of weeks now that I’m neglecting this site. I’ve been thinking that I ought to just provide quick updates and anecdotes about the kids. That’s what my readership (largely friends and family) tend to read and comment on anyway. But I also have in my head these much grander posts I’d like to write, but can’t find the time for — and I second-guess myself about the smaller updates and think, “Why spend valuable writing time on the day-to-day, when you have bigger fish to fry?”

As a result of this back-and-forth, I’ve written nothing.

Last night, a dear friend, Fr. Tyler from Prairie Father, visited from South Dakota. As usual, we talked long and late about everything under the sun — most amusing were his interrogation of Trevor on the topic of Greek mythology, which Trevor knows primarily from Percy Jackson and not from the myths themselves, and his discussion with Gabe about the nature of reality and the unintended consequences of Copernicus’s work and the scientific method.

Later, we began to talk more practically about how we, as Catholic adults, can live our faith on a daily basis and act as missionaries wherever we happen to be. I admitted a tendency to downplay the little ways in which I can evangelize in favor of planned grand gestures in the future: a book I’d like to write, or a pilgrimage or retreat I’d like to take with friends or family. Several times during the discussion, Fr. Tyler repeated, “It’s in the details. It’s in the little things.”

“I know you’re right,” I replied at one point, “but that’s not how I’m living on a day-to-day basis.”

I’ve said before that I believe men want to be a part of something great and glorious — but although I had a great marriage and glorious family, I’m constantly, restlessly searching for that great and glorious thing — that other life — I should be leading.

It’s in the small things.

I thought about his words throughout a restless night and morning — then checked my personal email and found a new, anonymous comment on this blog post. It’s the most popular post on my little site, and I joke about it sometimes, because my web stats tell me that post, in particular, is big in Russia.

Yeah, I’m read internationally. Deal with it.

The point is, not only am I looking for the next big thing, but I downplay, and even mock, the little things I do well. Today an anonymous reader (Fr. Tyler, was that you?) reiterated the message of last night: It’s in the small things.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Postscript: Apparently I’ve written this post before. How soon we forget…

Book Break: Atlas Yawned

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Several months back, when I took a break from blogging, I spent many long weeks listening to an audiobook reading of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. From the opening chapter, I wanted to like it — it unfolds like a story that needs telling — but my guard was up: from what little I knew of the book and of Rand, I was certain to find parts of the book’s worldview objectionable.

In hindsight, I still believe there is a great story to be told in Atlas, buried among the monotonous monologues, ham-fisted philosophizing, immense egos, and sexual dysfunction and self-loathing. It is prescient in some ways, and in general, I agree with the dangers of rewarding inability and incompetence, and saw much I recognized in the progressive agenda and the corporate culture of political power, spin, and blame. On the other hand, the insistence upon ability as the sole criterion of the worth of a person, the overly simplistic and roundly negative presentation of religion, and the conflation of lust with love are fundamentally problematic for orthodox Catholics (and should be, I would argue, for Christians in general).
But as a reader and aspiring writer, the problems run deeper (or rather, shallower) than these. The books goes on and on, long after the point is made and the mystery solved. Dagny Taggart and Hank Rearden are among the brightest minds of their era, and neither can put these pieces together? The mysterious John Galt; Francisco’s odd, destructive behavior; the disappearance of the captains of industry — and no one gets it except the reader. There is an odd parallel here to The Blair Witch Project, which opened with the knowledge that the protagonists were never seen again, so that the viewer was left with little in which to be interested, except to see how they bought it. In this case, however, we know they haven’t bought it — and we’re waiting to see how long it takes for the heroes to figure it out.

Answer: A long dang time.

Really, the only thing I was a bit uncertain about right up to the reveal was who the nameless rail-worker in the Taggart terminal was, and who he was spying for. Strangely, his primary source, the ever-loyal and reasonably intelligent Eddie Willers, shared no such wonder.
The book could be half as long and thrice as engaging, if only the characters talked less and connected the dots more. I would recommend it only to help people understand the frequent political and cultural references we still hear today. I’m interested in seeing the film version, as even spread across three movies, I have trouble believing the filmmakers could have been so long-winded onscreen. This may be the rare instance in which the movie surpasses the book.