Christopher Fisher

If I may be so bold, those of you who haven’t yet ordered your copy of Relief 4.1 are missing out on some great writing by some very talented authors. In the coming weeks, we will be featuring samples of work from a few of these writers, just to give you a taste of what you’re missing.

Sentimental as it sounds, I suspect this particular issue (my first as Editor-in-Chief) will always hold a special place in my heart. So to start off the sampling, below is the Relief 4.1 “From the Editor’s Desk” in its entirety.

res·o·nate (rěz’ə-nāt’)
v. intr.
1. To exhibit or produce resonance or resonant effects.
2. To evoke a feeling of shared emotion or belief: “It is a demonology [that] seems to resonate
among secular and religious voters alike” (Tamar Jacoby).
3. To correspond closely or harmoniously: “Symbolism matters, especially if the symbols
resonate with the larger message” (William Greider).1

WHEN I THINK OF RELIEF—when I try to explain where this journal fits in the scheme of
contemporary publishing—I think of singing and razor wire.

Bear with me.

In my short time as Editor-in-Chief of this journal, I’ve found that one of the most difficult
tasks is just explaining what Relief is, what we do, and for whom we do it. The truth, I have come
to believe, is that there is no particular category to which the book in your hand belongs. As our
subtitle makes clear, Relief is a religious literary journal (though not every piece we publish is
overtly religious). And yet it is clearly not like so many publications that are grouped in that particular
pocket of the publishing industry. Christian publishing has, over several decades, drawn
a clear line of demarcation between the religious and the mainstream. The natural consequence
of this is that the industry has so effectively entrenched itself and the genre, erecting tall fences
and posting loyal gatekeepers, that only a certain, rather sterilized kind of writing can get in, and
those writing from inside have little hope (and often little desire) of getting out. I realize this is a
gloomy illustration, but I’m really not criticizing the Christian publishing model at all. Of course
there are no sinister men in holy smoke-filled boardrooms plotting mass censorship on behalf
of some shadow Church. The “segregation” is strictly business, little more than marketing and
branding, as well as a kind of rating system—a way of telling the customer up front what she can
find in a “Christian” publication and assuring her that she will not be bothered by content she
may find offensive.

From a business standpoint, it is only logical to identify a customer base and offer up what
they want to buy. My objection is not, however, with the supply side of this market, but with the
demand. Knowing how art mimics life (and vice versa), I see in the current state of Christian
book publishing, music, and art in general only a microcosm of what Christianity in this country
and much of the world has done to itself over the last few generations—carved out a place of
safety and retreated inside, holding the line against infiltration, but at the same time running the
risk of becoming as culturally irrelevant as the Amish. What worries me is this voluntary cultural
and social ghettoization of religion.

For the person of faith—any faith—life is a constant struggle of balancing the hopes of the
spiritual and eternal with the needs and limitations of the physical, the temporal. It is—to quote
one author in this volume—as if we are each “part flesh, part hope.” Believers who acknowledge
this tension want more than a secure life behind the stained glass. And they look to spiritual
writing for something more than a saintly protagonist who doesn’t drink, smoke, gossip, or swear,
and who certainly does not—under any circumstance—experience real doubt about his or her
faith. For those readers, what often is called “Christian literature” may occasionally entertain and
inspire. It may even stir the soul with hope of how things could be, in an untarnished world. But
it doesn’t resonate with their own experience, because deep down they know the truth: that no real
person lives that way. Readers of Relief will find something more than a sugared dose of affirmation.
They will find stories, essays, and poems that offer resonance, that feeling of connection with
gifted writers—mere mortals, one and all—who share their doubts and fears, their struggles with
living as “part flesh, part hope.”

So if I were to offer an analogy that describes the mission of Relief, I can think only of a young
girl (who is, admittedly, perhaps too naïve for her own good) daring to climb that ghetto fence.
Not to escape. And not even to get a better look at the world outside. But to better be heard by
anyone within range on either side. At the top, she balances among the spools of razor wire, draws
a deep breath, and uncages her voice. It’s not a sermon, like the ones we’ve come to expect from
within these borders, but a humble song—a mere “expression” that says simply: “I am here. I exist.
I hope and dream, and bleed and despair. And I will not be defined by this stupid damned fence!”
Whether her audience finds the melody beautiful or grating, it is unashamedly honest and true,
and that—in today’s image-driven culture—is a beauty in itself.

This particular issue of Relief features many authors and narrators dealing honestly with
questions of death and mortality, as well as the corporeal nature of being human, developing a
theme of Memento mori (Remember that you must die), or Hominem te memento (Remember
that you are only a man)—warnings once recited to Roman generals after their military triumphs
to remind them that human glory is fleeting. At the same time, that somewhat dreary thread is
punctuated by hopeful pieces that remind us to seize opportunities for love, for showing empathy
and compassion, and for taking time to slow down and appreciate the wonder of creation, to stop
and consider the immanent and transcendent. So a Carpe diem theme is also present. The image
on our cover ties these two themes together, presenting in one scene elements of celebration, love,
family, friendship, community, all the things we value most highly in life, but in a tone that is
surreal and with a “ghosting” effect that suggests the temporal and transitory, reminding us that
this life does not last and to make the most of what time we have.

I OWE A PERSONAL THANKS to every person who has made this issue of Relief possible. Some have
(anonymously) contributed vital resources, without which no one would be reading this now.
Others have given freely and abundantly of their personal time to read submissions and proofread
text. Most of all, I want to thank the Relief editorial staff (who have lived and breathed these
pages every day for the past several weeks) and the many talented authors who have allowed us
to publish their work.

I believe you will enjoy these stories and poems. My hope, however, is that (as they did with
me) these words will resonate with your own experience as a creature of humble but hopeful flesh.

1. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, s.v. “Resonate,” http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/resonate (accessed May 26, 2010).

Photo courtesy of Michelle Pendergrass.

Directions:

1. Write a haiku inspired by the photo and post it in the comments.

For extra chances to win:

2. Follow @reliefjournal on Twitter

3. Follow @Quo Vadis on Twitter

4. Twitter @reliefjournal with your haiku and #PHW (Photo Haiku Wednesday)

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The good people over at Quo Vadis have generously donated some prizes!!

The weekly winner will receive a Quo Vadis Habana Journal and a bottle of J. Herbin ink!!

Every week Relief will choose a random winner! So play along and tell your friends. See the information below for extra chances to win.

* * *

Winner will be announced via Twitter Thursday afternoons.

We can only ship to U.S. addresses right now.

You may only win once every three months, but you may play along every week for Twitter Super Bonus Points.

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Would you like to have your photo featured on Photo Haiku Wednesday?

Email your photos to Michelle: photohaiku@reliefjournal.com

You’ll get a photo credit link here on the main blog and you’ll also be entered in the drawing for the Quo Vadis Habana journal and bottle of J. Herbin ink the week your photo appears on the blog!

Relief is excited to welcome Michael Dean Clark as Guest Fiction Editor for the upcoming Relief 4.2 . Many of you are familiar with Michael as a writer and veteran Relief author through his posts here on our blog. Below is a more detailed look at the man who will be wielding the red pen for fiction in our next issue.

Michael Dean Clark

As an author of fiction and nonfiction, I have a hard time with the question people always lead with: “So, what do you write?” The answer, course, is whatever I’m currently in the mood for, which for some reason is a very unsatisfactory answer in conversation. So I often follow that up with the fact that I hold a PhD in English from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. This prompts many people to assume I write things nobody will buy and might be incentive just to call myself a developing author. But the process of getting said degree over the past four years led to several very valuable realizations.

First, the years I spent as a print journalist were not wasted (even when looking at the anemic state of print journalism today). Along with winning Los Angeles Press Club and California Newspaper Publishers’ Association  awards during that period of my career, I also learned that what some writers consider crushing criticism, most reporters call a chat with their editor. This lesson has provided me comfort in the face of (many) rejection letters and a more gentle approach to working with the stories of others, as I did in the creative nonfiction editor’s slot at the cream city review for the past two years.

Another valuable lesson Milwaukee taught me is that while Wisconsin winters are beyond brutal they are also surprisingly tough on those who suffer from seasonal depression. As a result, when my dissertation defense drew near, my job search grew increasingly location conscious. Consequently, I will begin work as an assistant professor of writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego, California this fall. This immense blessing (as getting the job had as much to do with providence as professional skill) has enabled me to (re)discover my geographical muse in the southwestern corner of America. Leave Brooklyn to Lethem, the Mexican border to McCarthy, and the South to whoever wants to try and fill the shoes of O’Connor and Faulkner. I’ve taken my hometown and made it my literary home by focusing most of what I write (except, ironically, my dissertation novel set in West Africa) in California’s richest backdrop for stories. Most recently, my work has appeared in Fast Forward and the forthcoming Coach’s Midnight Diner. I’m also a regular contributor to Relief’s blog where you can find my wandering thoughts on writing, teaching writing, failing to climb mountains, and marmots.

One final lesson I chipped from the ice just south of the Frozen Tundra is that a community of writers is not just helpful, nor is necessary strong enough a word to describe its impact. It is literally life and death for an artist’s work. And the effort the staff of Relief puts into fostering a strong writer’s network is the primary reason I am honored to serve as the guest fiction editor. It is also the reason I can’t wait to see (early, no less) and help shape what will be on the pages of the next edition.