“Creativity is an act of hope.”
By DAVID CRUMM
Editor of ReadTheSpirit magazine
In mid-November, I was so anxious about the state of the world to come, that—in addition to my morning Bible reading—I found myself reaching for a new volume on my library shelf: a crystal-clear English rendering of Homer’s Iliad, the ancient tale of Achilles and his allies wreaking vengeance on Troy. This widely celebrated new version is by MacArthur Fellow Emily Wilson, crafted both for clarity and for the lyric cadence of her translation.
Following this unexpected impulse, I tucked the volume under one arm, poured a cup of coffee, sat down and opened the book to Wilson’s “Introduction.”
Then, I stopped cold at the very start of her explanation of this epic’s timeless power. She writes: “Achilles’ wrath is far deadlier than ordinary human rage, and Achilles pushes conflict beyond its usual bounds.” In re-reading this epic, she writes, we are moved to see what happens when Achilles’ vengeance not only destroys countless lives—but also what happens in the aftermath, when Achilles knows no compassion over the destruction he has wrought. Instead of acknowledging the losses piling up all around him, Achilles tries to destroy even the memory of the fallen. That’s particularly true with the Trojan hero Hector whose dead body Achilles publicly desecrates.
I sat back and simply pondered this wisdom. Sipping my coffee, I remembered the whole arc of the Iliad from past readings over my 60-some years. I decided to read Wilson’s new translation slowly, deliberately, thoughtfully—a bit each day like I read passages from Scripture each morning.
And remember: I was starting my journey through this dense epic in November, months before I would read how Elon Musk gleefully fired staff and slashed funds for USAID. Those headlines are deeply personal for me. Musk’s cuts left friends I have admired for years for their selfless service to the world’s needy both out of work and seemingly out of hope for the countless people they were helping. People are dying as a result of Musk’s cuts. But, like Achilles, Musk seemed to have no compassion, because he compounded the destruction of USAID by boasting that he was happy to have tossed the agency into “the wood chipper.” He went on to trash its employees—including my friends—as “insane” and “criminals.” (And if you are unclear how USAID has been saving lives around the planet—until now—then read this overview published by The New York Times.)
What’s Homer’s Iliad got to do with it?
As even more slash-and-burn campaigns were unleashed by Musk’s minions—why on earth was I finding solace in reading an ancient Greek epic?
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I decided to ask Emily Wilson herself, since she now is celebrated around the world as one of the greatest contemporary translators of Greek classics. (She’s also got a terrific rendering of The Odyssey) It took a couple of months to converge on an appropriate time for a Zoom with such an in-demand scholar. But, when we did meet across Zoom recently, I told her about finding comfort in reading her Iliad in this moment of global anxiety.
“Does my finding comfort in the Iliad right now make any sense?” I asked.
“It both does and doesn’t make sense—and, in your question, you already understand how this seems so paradoxical at first,” she said. “The Iliad is very violent—very much focused on mortality and conflict. And normally we don’t think of those themes as at all comforting, right? I mean, where is there comfort in being reminded that there is no way to get away from grief—and, at least in the world of this poem, that there is no possibility of a world without conflict. Those things don’t seem like comforting themes!
“And yet—think about the way this poem invites us to look at these really difficult themes with a sense of what people over the years have described as ‘grandeur.’ In other words, these events, and these themes, matter. They matter if we remember these lives, these stories. And therefore as you re-read this poem that so many have read over so many years—you too matter in this world because you are a part of this long line of people who are remembering the suffering and the death of each person in this story. In the act of re-reading and sharing this poem, you are recognizing and remembering their lives. You become a part of the living memory. And that can be quite comforting.
“And remember, the poem’s great narrative arc shows us that there is more than one possible way to respond to violence, loss, grief, mortality—these things that we know are inevitably a part of human life. One way involves choices that will result in more violence, loss, grief and mortality. Or, we can decide to find ways to build communities of compassion and hope—with a full awareness of how difficult it is to do this, given how fragile communities are.
“The poem itself recognizes that it is possible in some way to begin building these connections person by person, even knowing how difficult these things are in light of the violence in the world. That starts with somehow finding a way to be together—to stand together, to weep together—in the midst of these difficult truths. There’s something very comforting about that.
“Remember how the Iliad ends: There is a powerful scene of Priam, Hector’s father, and Achilles weeping together, and then there are the Trojan women weeping together. There’s something about these scenes of togetherness as the Iliad ends—something about this shared recognition and awareness that we can somehow come together with others in our grief and anger—that I think is comforting.”
From the epic sweep of the Iliad to the Silver Screen
And, then, as I began drafting this ReadTheSpirit Cover Story—as if a nudge of Spirit was continuing to push me along this creative path—I read the February 18 Reformed Journal column by Jonathan Hiskes about how he has found comfort in recent months by watching some of the earliest movies ever made.
His column raised some of the same questions that so many of our writers and readers tell us they have been struggling with over the past month or so. His column opens this way:
“In the face of a smash-and-grab presidency, with unelected powers destroying humanitarian aid, medical research, and educational institutions, what value is a quiet little art-appreciation project like watching classic movies? I don’t know. But, along with leaning into community, calling my representatives, and supporting local organizations working for housing justice and school equity, it’s one of my survival strategies. Here’s what I’m doing: Beginning with the earliest recorded film—generally accepted to be Roundhay Garden Scene from 1888—I’m going to watch one film from every year up to the present.”
Then, the certainty that a Spirit does unite us in this larger story of life was the show-stopper line at the bottom of Hiskes’s column:
“Creativity is an act of hope.”
In various formulations, that’s a line I have used as an editor coaching writers over many decades.
And a word from Ray Bradbury
So many dots were connecting. I recalled the email from a writer friend who had found comfort in re-reading Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451. As he pulled his dog-eared copy off his shelf and opened the cover—he was shocked to read the novel’s opening line once again. Six words:
“It was a pleasure to burn.”
“The violence of that line took my breath away, because I recognized it around us, once again,” my friend noted in his email. “And I sat there just reading those six words over and over again. I decided that was enough for today.” He sat down and wrote an entire journal entry about what that line said about our collective moment now. I’m not using his name, because he works on a still-grant-funded research project and fears raising his professional profile at such a moment might result in a minon reaching out to slash his funds.
Well, just like Jonathan Hiskes, I find great comfort in watching classic films. Several evenings each week, I make time to watch a bit of a classic film and jot notes in a film journal. In fact, I’m such a fan of French film auteur Francois Truffaut that I started watching his eye-popping 1966 adaptation of Bradbury’s novel.
What’s more, I have on my library shelf a copy of Truffaut’s own journal that he kept while directing this film. Midway through Truffaut’s journal there’s another startling sentence. It seems that Truffaut—and his entire film crew—discovered the real power in Bradbury’s novel about a society so self-destructive that its “firemen” are charged with burning all the books they can find. As a director of many earlier films, Truffaut knew that most of the professionals who work on the myriad daily tasks of film production are not big fans of literature. And yet, because of the creative power of Bradbury’s story—and the fact that the production required the crew to amass big piles of books so they could film the burnings—suddenly, the entire community of filmmakers began picking out books from the stockpile to read.
“Sometimes you can hear nothing but the sound of turning pages.”
A creative Spirit that reconnects us
Astonishing, isn’t it? I can’t help but read that line—and envision that scene—once again: “Sometimes you can hear nothing but the sound of turning pages.”
And so, as editor of this online magazine, I want to continue to foster the creative impulse I see flowing through so many colleagues’ lives right now—an impulse to continue reading and writing and fostering creativity.
I wish I could conclude this column with a call to religious community—an assurance that those who are hurting surely will find spiritual solace inside their local houses of worship. But—if you are reading this column as a member of clergy or lay leadership in a congregation—I hope you are hearing my warning that our worship services often are leaving long-time friends feeling alienated this winter.
For several years, I’ve been impressed with the occasional columns by philosopher, theologian and disability activist James Gould who just published a broadside against those congregations that are all but ignoring the distress of many members. I found myself sadly shaking my head as I read his column in the Reformed Journal, headlined Disenfranchised Grief. Throughout my life as a journalist, I have always been a strong supporter of congregational life—whatever your faith may be—so I was mourning over Gould’s feeling of alienation from his home church.
And then? Then, almost buried near the very end of Gould’s column are two sparkling rays of light: It turns out, Gould is finding spiritual relief by going into his backyard to enjoy “the flurry of life at my birdfeeder.” Yup. I was nodding now. Creativity. And next? He says he finds surprising solace in the music of Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan.
And then? Readers may miss the most important, unspoken truth in Gould’s column if they don’t pause to consider what they have just experienced with him.
He told his story. He wrote his column. He gave us an opportunity to look deeply into his life. And it is that creative impulse—to share our stories honestly—that will allow us to recognize again the far larger Story we share. That One Story is there in the tragic fields of Troy, in the stories and Psalms in the Bible and Quran, in the earliest of silent films, in the novels of science fiction visionaries—and in the column this week by James Gould.
These creative endeavors are not wasted time and effort.
Creativity is refueling.
Creativity is memory and love transformed into action.
Creativity unleashes a Spirit to energize our hope.
Creativity reconnects us even in a broken world.
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Care to read more?
There’s not a wiser or more inspirational book for times like these than Jeffrey Munroe’s Telling Stories in the Dark. Of course, we could recommend many of the books from our publishing house, but—for this story, this week—let’s start with Jeff’s book. He’s also the Editor of the Reformed Journal where I found two of the crucial columns that sparked my own reflection here.
If you are a regular reader of our ReadTheSpirit magazine and want more opportunities to hear from writers with similar viewpoints—please visit the online home of the Reformed Journal and sign up for their free emails letting you know about new columns.