
I am not very qualified to write a commentary on a work of Flannery O’Connor, as I am no scholar and barely understand half of what she writes. Her work is visceral and raw and challenging and confusing, but I love it. I find myself wrestling with her characters and stories and wanting to somehow engage with her genius and let some of it penetrate my searching mind. I am also no film critic, but I really liked “Wildcat,” the recent Ethan Hawk film about O’Connor. He took some creative license with a well-known line from one of O’Connor’s letters, adding it to a response she awkwardly, now famously, made at a dinner party when her sophisticated hostess was misrepresenting the Catholic belief in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist . . . ” If it’s a symbol, then to hell with it,” O’Connor said. And then in the film portrayal: “It is much harder to believe than not believe. What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is some electric blanket, when of course, it is the cross.”
I think it is O’Connor’s unapologetic realism that draws me in. She makes no false pretenses. Faith is hard. Living as a Christian is hard, and it costs a lot. To many, Christian life seems foolish, even quaint. Wouldn’t smart, educated, “with it” people know better? O’Connor certainly was not all about the popular “warm fuzzies” that make religion seem appealing to many. In her estimation, Christianity embraces the brokenness and mess of the human condition, because this is precisely where Christ chooses to join us. Faith is not a comforting affirmation for those who do all the right things. Grace is not the gift reserved for the bright, shiny people who have earned it. As O’Connor rightly claims, “faith . . . is the cross.”
I have been replaying this scene, this line, again and again in my mind . . . “how much religion costs.” What is religion? What does it cost me? What is my cross?
I think, as open to life mothers, we are familiar with the costs of faith and are frequently confronted with the unsavory aspects of our humanity. We have ample access to the cross. Hopefully our lives aren’t as wackamaney as an O’Connor story, but should our need for grace become so intensely distilled as it is for her characters, may we be receptive enough to seize it when we can.
Perhaps this is why I keep coming back to O’Connor. I’m hoping for a glimpse of the truth she is able to bluntly convey in a sometimes brutal, seemingly nonsensical reality. Am I willing to struggle and choose the more difficult way? What cost am I willing to pay? Do I recognize my desperate need for grace? And, ultimately, thinking back to the Eucharist, am I truly open to receiving God himself?

