Franny and Zooey Obsession Part 2: Seeing God in Chicken Soup
Franny and Zooey are the most sophisticated pilgrims I have ever had the chance to stumble upon. And the job of these pilgrims, of all of us, is the journey. The seeking, the wanting, the longing.
But what if what we’re looking for has been here all along? What if the real journey is to discover that the divine is all around us and within us and before us and behind us and never ever apart from us?
Franny and Zooey embark on a journey that leads them to discover that what they’ve been searching and scratching and scrambling toward has been there all along.
Zooey says to Franny,
"If it's the religious life you want, you ought to know right now that you're missing out on every single…religious action that's going on around this house. You don't even have sense enough to drink when somebody brings you a cup of consecrated chicken soup--which is the only kind of chicken soup Bessie ever brings to anybody around this madhouse. So just tell me, just tell me, buddy. Even if you went out and searched the whole world for a master--some guru, some holy man--to tell you how to say your Jesus Prayer properly, what good would it do you?
How in hell are you going to recognize a legitimate holy man when you see one if you don't even know a cup of consecrated chicken soup when it's right in front of your nose?"
Zooey’s right. If we can’t hear God in the whisper, how can we hear Him in the storm? If we can’t see God in the minutely beautiful, in the mundane acts of love and life and service and hope, how will we see Him in holy temples and mission trips? How will we ever reach a state of praying without ceasing when we can’t even partake in communion clothed in chicken soup?
We are in such constant need of reminding that every breath is proof that there is magic and every bowl of chicken soup is consecrated.
The job of the pilgrim is the journey to discover the Christ, the wonder, already among us.
Franny and Zooey Obsession Part 1: Fat Lady Love
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ ” Matthew 25:40
If you haven’t read Salinger’s Franny and Zooey yet, you must. And I must give you a spoiler alert because I am about to give away the revelation moment of the book—and my life.
Franny and Zooey are two insufferably nuanced yet lovable siblings (Zooey a man’s nickname for Zachary, not the female name like Zooey Deschanel) who are facing the worst kind of disillusionment: spiritual. I say worst because, of course, the spiritual never sticks to its manageable compartment of the “spiritual realm,” but spills over into every cranny of our lives, spoiling the whole barrel.
In sum: both Franny and Zooey, to some extent, are in crisis, looking for something real, something authentic, something that points to love and beauty and wisdom beyond the self-serving strivings of a world obsessed with counterfeit praise and lifeless knowledge.
Which brings us to the Fat Lady.
The Fat Lady is introduced to young Franny and Zooey by their much admired and idolatrized older brother, Seymour. Seymour asks Zooey to shine his shoes before a radio broadcast, which sends sends Zooey into a tirade about how everyone was a moron – the studio audience, the announcer, the sponsors – and he isn’t going to shine his shoes for them especially since they can’t see his shoes anyway. But Seymour tells him to shine his shoes anyway; shine them for the Fat Lady.
Seymour tells the same thing to Franny, only that instead of shining her shoes, she should be funny for the Fat Lady.
Years later, Franny and Zooey are dealing with the same problems: why try when it doesn’t matter? Why take all the effort to “shine your shoes” when the audience is too moronic or not in a position to see them anyway?
Because, Zooey eventually realizes, these morons, these dense audience members, these people surrounding us, annoying us, irritating us, THEY are the Fat Lady.
In fact, "There isn't anyone who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.”
Zooey says to Franny, “Don't you know that? And don't you know--listen to me now--don't you know who the fat lady really is? ... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy."
Christ Himself. Is the Fat Lady? Is the annoying coworker whose voice is just an octave too screechy? Is the vicious professor? Is the absent-minded listener who is texting and tweeting and tamping their foot as you pour out your heart? Is the man with the “Why Lie? I need a beer” sign at the street corner? Is whatever brand of personality quirks you are obliged to condescend upon?
Christ Himself is anyone?
It’s not like we haven’t heard it before, “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
The Fat Lady just so happens to be God with a non-alienating arbitrary name.
And that, I think, is enough epiphany for one blog post.
Sharing Underwear
Today I have the privilege of being the guest at my favorite Funeral Director's blog: Caleb Wilde's “Confessions of a Funeral Director.” Caleb also happens to be one of my favorite bloggers, period. Don't let the Funeral Director part intimidate you or mislead you into thinking he will be boring. Seriously, check him out. You will be challenged and encouraged. You will laugh out loud and you will cry in silence. And you will find yourself erupting in audible "hmms" as you ingest his wisdom (much to the annoyance of your roommates).
But, for reals, scurry on across the interwebs to see my guest post about cherishing the time left with my grandmother (and her lovely granny panties) and enjoy today's and many days of unempty moments with my favorite Funeral Director.