A little-known O’Connor story explores the human cost of self-deception.
The faith-infused southern fiction of Tim Gautreaux, Robert Olen Butler, and Jamie Quatro
If O'Connor's stories are shocking, that's only because the gospel is, too.
This collection is suffused with one of poetry’s most fundamental aims: making meaning out of suffering and loss.
Rectify is unlike any series I've watched. Its slow burn reveals the viewer as well as the characters in the story.
It’s hard to deny these little echoes of the synoptics which John reshapes for his own dramatic purposes. It seems narratively wrong for Jesus to cleanse the temple at the beginning of his ministry rather than at the climactic end. It makes more sense if one hears Luke in the background ever so slightly—Jesus’ claiming of the temple as his father’s house and his identity as the Son. Here in John, he has just performed a miracle at his mother’s behest, bringing spirit into the most fleshly event of human life. Now he goes to what is supposedly a spiritual place and finds only flesh. No wonder he is annoyed.
Flannery O’Connor never wrote just for herself, God, and an elite group of peers. She was eager for an audience with ears to hear about grace.
O'Connor's artistic signature involved a severity of image, dark-as-night humor, and a relentless preoccupation with sacramental violence.
Halloween's tradition of shadowy characters makes it as good a time as any to think on the reality of evil, sin and death that besets us.
She was the best confessedly Christian writer of the 20th century, maybe one of the very best of any time or place. With dark wit, always tinged with a threat of horror, she packed into her stories the guilt, blood, violence, blinding light and costly redemption that is our encounter with the living Christ, though she seldom made explicit reference to Christ. Her stories are parables of a world with everything out of balance, not just because most of them occur in the unbalanced American South, but because she deeply believed that we have been whopped upside the head by a God who is determined to have us—even if God has to venture into inhospitable rural Georgia to do it.