In singer/songwriter Josh Ritter's debut novel, grit and beauty come together in paradoxically close proximity.
Set in post-WWI Appalachia, the novel unfolds the implications of war and, perhaps, the mania of PTSD caused by it. The narrator toggles between scenes of the main character, Henry Bright, at war in France and fighting to save his life back in post-bellum America. His life during peacetime is infinitely complicated by three other characters: his newborn baby boy, his vengeful father-in-law, and (here it is) a nameless angel that inhabits his horse. This yells PTSD at the reader, but Ritter does well to keep the angel believable and unpsychologized per the era.
Ritter has done his homework. His knowledge of Appalachian flora and fauna is not only impressive - it is poetic. Example: in one scene, a nefarious character stares at Henry and his mother. As Henry's mother says hello, the other "said nothing in reply" while "swaying slightly like a pitcher plant in the stillness" (110). Not only is the image arresting, but the symbolism is even deeper: pitcher plants sway in the wind, but they are also carnivorous plants, intimating the character's ravenous desire to destroy and even consume Henry, his mother, and their livelihood.
As always, Ritter is the "Odysseus" of theodicy, if I may tinker with the homonym. Ironically, in "Bright's Passage" it's the angel that brings in the best conversation of the seeming contradiction of a loving, powerful God in world gone askew. At a crux in the story, the angel-horse stares at Henry and pushes his faith around:
"Answer me, Henry Bright: Is Jesus Christ the King of everything that you've seen?"
"Maybe he is."
"Why do you suppose a good King would let all those things happen? Doesn't a King have the power to stop them?"
"Why are you making me say all these things? I don't know why he does what he does-"
"Nor do I," the horse said. "Nor do I. The cruelty I've seen is beyond my understanding. So I've decided we need a new King of Heaven." (p. 177)
Ritter sets up the theodical problem well. In the face of WWI (here I'm thinking especially of Wilfred Owen's poem "Dulce et decorum est"), who could unwaveringly believe in a good, powerful God? As a Christian, I recognize this and hope that I am in solidarity with those who lament, in Wordsworth's words, "what man has made of man." But is this not also the lament of the disciples on Saturday night of Holy Week, or of the faithful women, spice-laden on their way to the tomb Sunday morning? We live in a world that is, in the words of Paul in Romans, groaning for redemption - yes. Precisely. And this is the reason we long for the day when Christ will come and aright the tipped over chairs of the universe; when he will come to wipe every tear away "and death will be no more."
To which Ritter will reply, "But you need faith for the same reasons that it's so hard to find."
Yes. Which is exactly why we need faith - trusting that the world will one day look different because Christ has dealt with death; trusting in this so much that we begin to live with the grain of the new creation.