"O Raphael, lead us toward those we are waiting for, those who are waiting for us: Raphael, angel of happy meeting, lead us by the hand toward those that we are looking for."
This is the beginning of a prayer that Flannery O'Connor prayed everyday to the archangel Raphael, patron of happy meetings and healing. There's a story of Flannery O'Connor as a young girl hating the idea that her guardian angel was always looking over her shoulder. This odd, imaginitive little girl would try to corner her guardian angel in the closet, turning suddenly to swing a punch at her invisible lurker.
This anecdote sums up Flannery O'Connor's sometimes perplexingly orthodox theology: She never, ever questioned the Truth of the Catholic Church in which she was born and raised, but she also never failed to wrestle with this illusive, persistent God she professed.
This short but detailed book gives us an engaging, theologically-rich introduction to Flannery O'Connor and her art. Admittedly, I have never been wild about O'Connor's stories. Her "Christ-haunted" South, filled with mad preachers, drunkards, senseless violence, etc. was always a bit harsh for my taste. I appreciate it artistically but her stories never failed to leave me feeling a bit hollowed out inside. I do, however, greatly appreciate O'Connor's essays on faith and fiction. Her understanding of the Christian artist is probably the deepest, most honest, I've read in contemporary works.
O'Connor's life, from odd, disgruntled little girl, to a serious, wildly talented and original writer is gripping. Perhaps all the more interesting because the objective 'facts' of her life are so limited - most of her time was spent on a farm with her mother. Their routines didn't change much and no scandal, romantic or otherwise, ever touched Flannery's brief life. This writerly life, free of so much of the predictable dramas of the artist, is perhaps all the more compelling because of its lack of cliches.
O'Connor undoubtedly confused a number of her contemporaries, many of whom consistently misunderstood her fiction. They only saw the surface level (those things that, admittedly, irk me) - the violence, the poverty, the despair. They failed - in their lack of sacramental imagination - to see the 'terrible mercy,' 'the wise blood,' - that persistent, inescapable God that offers salvation to even the most despicable characters. O'Connor, a devout Catholic, saw the Protestant South stumbling through life - accidentally finding their way into Grace every now and then - consisently offered choices they do not understand - right or wrong, yes or no, heaven or hell?
This deep theology ran counter to the nihilistic, indulgent fiction of the day, offering a counterpoint to an increasingly secular and confused world. O'Connor's eccentricities - her chickens, her peacocks, her wry humor, her love-hate for the Southern culture that she knew so well - established her as utterly unique and singular. She died at age 39 from Lupus, having struggled with the illness for much of her adult life.
One of the most famous stories has O'Connor defending the literal presence of Christ in the Eucharist - "If it's a symbol, to Hell with it!" O'Connor's Art insists on the LITERAL, REAL convergence of mystical realities with the spoiled, death-ridden physical world. There are no symbols here. Just the terrible, awe-inspiring, entirely undeserved, entirely true, Redemption of the Human Story.