The cover has the look of a pre-Modern Tyson v. Holyfield poster: the profile of John Calvin, 16th-century Reformer, nose-to-nose with John Wesley's, his younger Anglican counterpart. Calvin vs Wesley: Bringing Belief in Line with Practice (Abingdon Press, 2013), is Professor Don Thorsen's cutting compare-and-contrast between the fathers of Calvinist and Wesleyan streams.
For someone wrestling with the big historico-theological questions, the book provides a solid review of the various themes operating in the thought of Calvin and Wesley. It covers sovereignty, scripture, predestination, grace, salvation, spirituality, the church, and ministry from the perspective of each theologian. Alternating between each Reformer, the book reveals a deep well of research into these writings which have had such an impact on the history of Christian thought. Thorsen's work encourages the reader to reflect with gravity on how one's theology impacts one's Christian practice, and vice versa. No matter the setting, or the heavyweights brought as champions, this reflection always bears good fruit.
I opened this book expecting a neutral theological assessment, but received instead an endorsement of Wesley over Calvin. Once I perceived this bias, the rhythm of the book made more sense. Thorsen's ostensible goal is to help Christians avoid Socrates' "unexamined life," which goal I cherish as well. However, in its concluding remarks the book's attempt at a balanced tone tips openly in the direction hinted at in every chapter: "If you want to become more intentional about conceptualizing your Christian beliefs in ways that fortify--rather than weaken--biblical teachings and your Christian living, then I strongly encourage you to learn about, reflect upon, and then follow Wesley's theology and ministry" (p126). I can only imagine the Genevan Reformer's response to a 21st-century professor suggesting that Calvin's writings "weakened" biblical teachings and Christian living!
An area left unexamined by the book is how the historical circumstances of these two greats may have shaped their systematic (or, in Wesley's case, semi-systematic) theologies. It may have been necessary, for reasons of space, to deal only with their writings, but human authors do not compose in a vacuum of objectivity. I found myself wondering, often, whether a Calvin writing in 17th-century England would have written more like Wesley; or whether a Wesley would have been possible in 16th-century Geneva. Entertaining this question opens the door to the possibility that our theologies--no matter how rigorously derived from the Bible--are conditioned by our circumstances. If this is the case, then I wonder how useful it is to pit one historical figure against another.
In many places, Calvin vs Wesley reveals clearly the similarities between Calvin's and Wesley's thinking. The strength of these similarities suggests to me--who has read some of Calvin but none of Wesley--that much of the contrast between the two is nit-picking in support of a Wesleyan bias. I hold this suspicion lightly; Thorsen's work is thought-provoking, challenging to me as a practitioner of Christian theology, and I am happy to leave a complete assessment to another scholar more familiar with both fathers of Protestantism.
With Thorsen's driving aim for his readers I whole-heartedly agree: Our theology ought to line up with our practice. If we believe in Jesus Christ, we ought to live as if we believe in him; and airtight theological rationalism will not stand in for sincerity of ethics. For helping me to examine this connection in my own life, I am thankful for this book.
And thanks to Ben Shaw, colleague and fellow student of the scriptures, who brought this book to our group of rabbis for study and discussion. I am enriched.
~ emrys
Friday, May 08, 2015
Tuesday, May 05, 2015
You, Too, Fans
I just finished a massive tome of interviews and photos entitled U2 By U2 (2006). I enjoyed getting such an in-depth chronological look at the growth of U2's music and career as a band. For those will only a passing interest in the Fab Four (who, ultimately, cannot do what they do without a host of others), or for those who are only interested in the music, this book will provide way too much.
But for those of us who like drinking from the fire hose, it's perfect. In the midst of vast amounts of autobiographical data about the band's struggles and relationships, there are little gems of humor, like Edge's assertion that it's never a good idea to let Bono play lead guitar. The book reveals how four awkward Dublin teenagers could become super rock stars and, at the same time, remain four awkward boys trying to figure out how to play together.
When the house was asleep and I couldn't, this book gave me an entree to the dream land of impossible arcs of musicianship, fame, and living poetry. Well worth the read to me, and might well be for you, too.
~ emrys
But for those of us who like drinking from the fire hose, it's perfect. In the midst of vast amounts of autobiographical data about the band's struggles and relationships, there are little gems of humor, like Edge's assertion that it's never a good idea to let Bono play lead guitar. The book reveals how four awkward Dublin teenagers could become super rock stars and, at the same time, remain four awkward boys trying to figure out how to play together.
When the house was asleep and I couldn't, this book gave me an entree to the dream land of impossible arcs of musicianship, fame, and living poetry. Well worth the read to me, and might well be for you, too.
~ emrys
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Dancing with the New Testament
As part of last week's Study Leave I took up Stephen Neill and Tom Wright's The Interpretation of the New Testament: 1861-1986 (Oxford UP: 1988). This thorough review of scholarly work surveys the big names of New Testament criticism, exegesis, and theology from a century which still undergirds so much current thinking. I read with joy and wonder the ability of Neill and Wright to summarize, honor, and criticize--the latter always with the humble reserve of OxBridge scholarly culture--such a vast landscape of literature. I appreciate their honest recognition that the work of New Testament studies brings the persistently human in contact with the persistently divine, so that in spite of the excellent quality of the labors of the Ivory Tower a certain incompleteness always remains. But I am enriched from having received Neill and Wright's engagement, often very personal, with these labors.
At the end of the book--which, we must remember, is a survey rather than a thesis in itself--Wright draws our attention back to the very source of Enlightenment criticism, from which all the scholarship surveyed here grew. The insistence of the Protestant Reformation on the "literal sense of scripture" gave birth to all the critical tools of evaluating the text we have in the Bible. The use of these tools leads us, however, to a realization the Wright describes and which resonates with my own experience: "we find that this literal sense points us beyond itself" (p445).
Throughout the book, Neill and Wright drop hints that historical criticism, form criticism, redaction criticism, and the rest of the members of the critical family have not (at least as of 1986) gotten to the matter of Jesus' resurrection, the Easter moment. Questions of "the historical Jesus," raised by all Three Quests (maybe there's a Fourth Quest by now), have only skirted this primary historical criterion of faith. Even the review of E.P. Sanders' novel idea that Paul had a "participationist eschatology" (p427) does not bring up the strange event of Paul's conversion, which hinges on a Resurrected Jesus encountering Paul personally.
I find the academic work described so masterfully in this book profound and greatly helpful in my own vision of what it means to be an interpreter of the New Testament for today. But it seems that this work keeps its distance from the experience to which the New Testament itself testifies: a Resurrected One who speaks with the voice of God to persons in every generation. Perhaps this is a necessary limit of the scholarly task. Perhaps Wright humbly recognizes the proper bounds of this task, when at the very conclusion he seeks to describe New Testament interpretation in the metaphor of music with its melodies and harmonies. Criticism bounded, as it must be by reason, may not be able to grasp the essence of the New Testament, any more than one can grasp why a shift from a major to a minor chord changes the mood of a melody. One may simply require experience and participation to understand. (This is not to cast doubt on whether Neill and Wright have such an experience, but only to recognize that experience may not be welcome in the scholars' colloquy.)
One thing remains, on which this book and I agree: We must continue to grapple with the New Testament, to wrestle with it, to dance with it, to sing its melodies and improvise its harmonies. After all, it is the story of Jesus Christ, and by faith in him it is also our story. I thank God for such a chorus of thinkers who continue to offer us their meditations, that we may be built up and equipped for our good works.
~ emrys
At the end of the book--which, we must remember, is a survey rather than a thesis in itself--Wright draws our attention back to the very source of Enlightenment criticism, from which all the scholarship surveyed here grew. The insistence of the Protestant Reformation on the "literal sense of scripture" gave birth to all the critical tools of evaluating the text we have in the Bible. The use of these tools leads us, however, to a realization the Wright describes and which resonates with my own experience: "we find that this literal sense points us beyond itself" (p445).
Throughout the book, Neill and Wright drop hints that historical criticism, form criticism, redaction criticism, and the rest of the members of the critical family have not (at least as of 1986) gotten to the matter of Jesus' resurrection, the Easter moment. Questions of "the historical Jesus," raised by all Three Quests (maybe there's a Fourth Quest by now), have only skirted this primary historical criterion of faith. Even the review of E.P. Sanders' novel idea that Paul had a "participationist eschatology" (p427) does not bring up the strange event of Paul's conversion, which hinges on a Resurrected Jesus encountering Paul personally.
I find the academic work described so masterfully in this book profound and greatly helpful in my own vision of what it means to be an interpreter of the New Testament for today. But it seems that this work keeps its distance from the experience to which the New Testament itself testifies: a Resurrected One who speaks with the voice of God to persons in every generation. Perhaps this is a necessary limit of the scholarly task. Perhaps Wright humbly recognizes the proper bounds of this task, when at the very conclusion he seeks to describe New Testament interpretation in the metaphor of music with its melodies and harmonies. Criticism bounded, as it must be by reason, may not be able to grasp the essence of the New Testament, any more than one can grasp why a shift from a major to a minor chord changes the mood of a melody. One may simply require experience and participation to understand. (This is not to cast doubt on whether Neill and Wright have such an experience, but only to recognize that experience may not be welcome in the scholars' colloquy.)
One thing remains, on which this book and I agree: We must continue to grapple with the New Testament, to wrestle with it, to dance with it, to sing its melodies and improvise its harmonies. After all, it is the story of Jesus Christ, and by faith in him it is also our story. I thank God for such a chorus of thinkers who continue to offer us their meditations, that we may be built up and equipped for our good works.
~ emrys
Monday, April 27, 2015
Living Color
Yesterday, April 26th, more than 5,000 people gathered at our local community college-cum-SUNY satellite campus for a fun run called "Color Run." The 5K "race" includes getting sprayed down at half-mile intervals with brightly colored corn starch. By the end of the 3.1 miles, participants have been doused in orange, pink, yellow, green, and blue dye. (The dye works its way out of skin in about a week, and out of blonde hair in a month or so--I'm told.) I call it a "race" because the throngs are so thick that runners can't manage more than a jog, and walkers are really just sauntering. A better way to describe it is a fast parade of people who have finally found an excuse to wear their loudest, most brightly colored ensembles and get messy. Here's a shot back at the first mile:
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Thursday, April 23, 2015
The Right Questions
I have for some time struggled with the contours of what we Christians call the "inspiration" of the bible--"inspiration" being a term pulled from 2 Timothy 3:16. Though I have been unable for a long time to put words to my quandary, I generally sensed a disconnect between the plain text of the bible and descriptions of the bible, common in the circles I run in, which use words like "inerrant" and "infallible" to describe our sacred texts.
I have found in the writing of James Barr (Holy Scripture: Canon, Authority, Criticism, Westminster Press, 1983), work which formulates with precision the questions I have done only roughly myself. And, of course, being a Regius Professor at Oxford, Barr has gone much further. In this book he describes in clear and readable detail some of the necessary boundaries and possible horizons of our understanding of scripture.
The book presents a series of lectures, which makes the content at once more accessible and, I think, less deep than I ultimately wish to go. One of the regrettable features of the book is, in spite of its title, that it spends a good deal of time on criticism, a good deal more on canon (especially in critiquing the school of "canonical criticism"), and not nearly enough time on authority. Though I appreciate the precise attention to the landscape of canon and criticism, my present goal is to find a proper understanding of authority.
The authority of the bible is of singular importance to Christians, of course. But as soon as we declare that it has some authority over our lives, questions abound. Particularly poignant to me is how the New Testament, so interested in relating an experience and stunningly uninterested in establishing a new written law, can be seen as an authority for the Church. How can one affirm the authority of a text without somehow diminishing or setting aside the authority of the One to whom it points?
A good beginning. On to the next read.
~ emrys
I have found in the writing of James Barr (Holy Scripture: Canon, Authority, Criticism, Westminster Press, 1983), work which formulates with precision the questions I have done only roughly myself. And, of course, being a Regius Professor at Oxford, Barr has gone much further. In this book he describes in clear and readable detail some of the necessary boundaries and possible horizons of our understanding of scripture.
The book presents a series of lectures, which makes the content at once more accessible and, I think, less deep than I ultimately wish to go. One of the regrettable features of the book is, in spite of its title, that it spends a good deal of time on criticism, a good deal more on canon (especially in critiquing the school of "canonical criticism"), and not nearly enough time on authority. Though I appreciate the precise attention to the landscape of canon and criticism, my present goal is to find a proper understanding of authority.
The authority of the bible is of singular importance to Christians, of course. But as soon as we declare that it has some authority over our lives, questions abound. Particularly poignant to me is how the New Testament, so interested in relating an experience and stunningly uninterested in establishing a new written law, can be seen as an authority for the Church. How can one affirm the authority of a text without somehow diminishing or setting aside the authority of the One to whom it points?
A good beginning. On to the next read.
~ emrys
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Church Rules
Two Sundays ago, the following exchange happened, on paper, in the church pew during worship. The players: Kerri is a beloved friend of the family, college student, and wise mentor to my precocious 6-year-old daughter.
It's amazing what can be said in the silence of pen and paper.
"Dear G: Today is Sunday, April 12th, 2015, and your bony bottom is squishing me. However, even though your dress is itchy beyond belief I still love you very much. Love, Kerri"
"Dear G: I love you. Sit on your own buns. Remember church rules. Love, Mom."
I love the women in my life.
~ emrys
It's amazing what can be said in the silence of pen and paper.
"Dear G: Today is Sunday, April 12th, 2015, and your bony bottom is squishing me. However, even though your dress is itchy beyond belief I still love you very much. Love, Kerri"
"Dear G: I love you. Sit on your own buns. Remember church rules. Love, Mom."
~ emrys
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Falling Off the Edge of Theolo
There is an old Hebrew koan: "What conclusions can be reached by doing theology with a Buddhist?"
In his 2009 book, Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, Paul Knitter lives out this question.
Knitter's book serves first as a personal memoir. His intimate revelations--deeply candid, often anxious and sometimes tortured--will resonate with readers who have become dissatisfied with rigid and exhaustive categories for Christian faith. Knitter's self-reflective journey serves a practical theological purpose: to crack the shell of historical Roman Catholic theology with the non-theistic tools of Buddhist teaching. He does so with the expertise of a man steeped in academic Roman Catholic discipline who is at the same time well trained in Buddhist thinking and practice.
As such, for those exploring the interfaces between Christianity and Buddhism Without Buddhism will prove an invaluable resource. Knitter's deep knowledge of Christian doctrine allows for a complex and thorough comparison with the ancient Asian philosophy. The book wrestles with the big questions of Christian theology: theodicy, trinity, the effect of prayer, divine and human justice. In spite of the book's often over-apologetic tone (concerned as it is not to give offence to either Christians or Buddhists), its thinking is clear, informative, and on some points persuasive. I am certain that for many of Knitter's generation--Baby Boomers who still struggle to emerge from the perceived cocoons of pre-1970s structures--Without Buddhism will offer a breath of fresh air and a new engagement with religious thinking.
As I read this tortuous journey from Christianity to Buddhism and then (maybe) back to Christianity, I was struck by a paradox lurking largely unspoken beneath the text. The book's starting point, like Knitter's journey, is a problem with Christian theology: the water in which Knitter spent so much of his life thoroughly immersed. Buddhism, on the other hand, is at its root non-theistic. While Christian practice of emptying the self compares well with Buddhist practice, doing theology with Buddhism seems comparable to a dog asking the hemlock how to wag its tail.
In Christianity, theology is distinct from the scriptural witness, confession, and experience. The weaknesses in Christianity which this text attempts to address with Buddhism are chinks in the armor of Christian theology. As the book often admits, many (non-papal) strains of Christian theology, confession, and practice do not suffer the problems of Knitter's theological training. This is especially true of mystical sects of Christianity. The existential edge from which Knitter fell into Buddhism was not that of faith per se, but the precipice of theology.
Because of its theological starting point, Without Buddha constantly wobbles (Knitter's terms: "passes over," "passes back") between worldviews, producing difficult questions. Is there such a thing as evil, or not? Is Christ a person, or just a spirit of non-self? Does justice meaningfully exist such that it may be pursued? Of course, vacillations on such crucial points as these fit nicely into one of Knitter's persistent themes: seeking oneness in duality, that which is both one-and-not-one. In spite of Knitter's clearly positive interpretation of his journey, this reader is unsure whether the tensions in the text are necessarily creative or simply fraught.
Among the many other questions raised by the book, the reader must wonder if another book, "Without Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) I Could not be a Christian," could be written (especially if Knitter's wife were Muslim). To cast the net more widely, might we soon be reading "Without Confucius I Could not be a Jew"? Does Knitter's book suggest implicitly that, at least theologically, every religion is insufficient without all the others? Does it point us to a reductive or historical humanist position on religion?
We are told in the introduction (page xi) that Knitter feels his understanding of Christianity is necessarily incomplete without reflection on other religions. This lens shapes the entire book, and Knitter's calling as Professor of Theology, World Religions, and Culture is evident. As the title suggests, the book describes his synthesis of Christian theology and Buddhist teaching. The synthesis, for Knitter, is so complete that he finally asserts, "To have one without the other is to have neither" (227). That is a strong statement for the necessity of syncretism--at least for Knitter.
This reader, taking personal privilege here, has found that attempting to follow Jesus faithfully leads to all sorts of creative conundra around questions of oneness, duality, the nature of evil, pursuit of justice, and the nature of heaven (to name a few). Coming home to one spiritual spouse (to use Knitter's metaphor) has proven to be richer and more challenging than sharing the marriage-bed of faith with multiple partners. So, it seems to me, one of the overarching questions in Without Buddha does not suit the case.
For the challenge, and passion, and thoughtfulness of Knitter's work I am thankful. And thanks to my brother, Chris, for blessing me with this book as a gift. I thank God for you!
~ emrys
In his 2009 book, Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, Paul Knitter lives out this question.
Knitter's book serves first as a personal memoir. His intimate revelations--deeply candid, often anxious and sometimes tortured--will resonate with readers who have become dissatisfied with rigid and exhaustive categories for Christian faith. Knitter's self-reflective journey serves a practical theological purpose: to crack the shell of historical Roman Catholic theology with the non-theistic tools of Buddhist teaching. He does so with the expertise of a man steeped in academic Roman Catholic discipline who is at the same time well trained in Buddhist thinking and practice.
As such, for those exploring the interfaces between Christianity and Buddhism Without Buddhism will prove an invaluable resource. Knitter's deep knowledge of Christian doctrine allows for a complex and thorough comparison with the ancient Asian philosophy. The book wrestles with the big questions of Christian theology: theodicy, trinity, the effect of prayer, divine and human justice. In spite of the book's often over-apologetic tone (concerned as it is not to give offence to either Christians or Buddhists), its thinking is clear, informative, and on some points persuasive. I am certain that for many of Knitter's generation--Baby Boomers who still struggle to emerge from the perceived cocoons of pre-1970s structures--Without Buddhism will offer a breath of fresh air and a new engagement with religious thinking.
As I read this tortuous journey from Christianity to Buddhism and then (maybe) back to Christianity, I was struck by a paradox lurking largely unspoken beneath the text. The book's starting point, like Knitter's journey, is a problem with Christian theology: the water in which Knitter spent so much of his life thoroughly immersed. Buddhism, on the other hand, is at its root non-theistic. While Christian practice of emptying the self compares well with Buddhist practice, doing theology with Buddhism seems comparable to a dog asking the hemlock how to wag its tail.
In Christianity, theology is distinct from the scriptural witness, confession, and experience. The weaknesses in Christianity which this text attempts to address with Buddhism are chinks in the armor of Christian theology. As the book often admits, many (non-papal) strains of Christian theology, confession, and practice do not suffer the problems of Knitter's theological training. This is especially true of mystical sects of Christianity. The existential edge from which Knitter fell into Buddhism was not that of faith per se, but the precipice of theology.
Because of its theological starting point, Without Buddha constantly wobbles (Knitter's terms: "passes over," "passes back") between worldviews, producing difficult questions. Is there such a thing as evil, or not? Is Christ a person, or just a spirit of non-self? Does justice meaningfully exist such that it may be pursued? Of course, vacillations on such crucial points as these fit nicely into one of Knitter's persistent themes: seeking oneness in duality, that which is both one-and-not-one. In spite of Knitter's clearly positive interpretation of his journey, this reader is unsure whether the tensions in the text are necessarily creative or simply fraught.
Among the many other questions raised by the book, the reader must wonder if another book, "Without Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) I Could not be a Christian," could be written (especially if Knitter's wife were Muslim). To cast the net more widely, might we soon be reading "Without Confucius I Could not be a Jew"? Does Knitter's book suggest implicitly that, at least theologically, every religion is insufficient without all the others? Does it point us to a reductive or historical humanist position on religion?
We are told in the introduction (page xi) that Knitter feels his understanding of Christianity is necessarily incomplete without reflection on other religions. This lens shapes the entire book, and Knitter's calling as Professor of Theology, World Religions, and Culture is evident. As the title suggests, the book describes his synthesis of Christian theology and Buddhist teaching. The synthesis, for Knitter, is so complete that he finally asserts, "To have one without the other is to have neither" (227). That is a strong statement for the necessity of syncretism--at least for Knitter.
This reader, taking personal privilege here, has found that attempting to follow Jesus faithfully leads to all sorts of creative conundra around questions of oneness, duality, the nature of evil, pursuit of justice, and the nature of heaven (to name a few). Coming home to one spiritual spouse (to use Knitter's metaphor) has proven to be richer and more challenging than sharing the marriage-bed of faith with multiple partners. So, it seems to me, one of the overarching questions in Without Buddha does not suit the case.
For the challenge, and passion, and thoughtfulness of Knitter's work I am thankful. And thanks to my brother, Chris, for blessing me with this book as a gift. I thank God for you!
~ emrys
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Quality On Tap
I'm giving public kudos to the manufacturer of an increasing number of our faucets: Aquasource (http://www.aquasourcefaucet.org/). Because of idiosyncrasies in our home, we've had to make two repairs to a faucet we bought three years ago. All it takes is a call to their customer service department, and a new part is on the way, at no cost to us.
Better yet, I describe the problem ("The handle on the faucet is getting harder to turn, and water has been dripping underneath the sink when the cold water is on") and customer service identifies the problem and sends the part ("You need a new ceramic three-way valve. We'll send you one. What's your address?).
When the part arrives, I call the same number and have patient, knowledgeable tech support to help me through the repair process (still at no charge). For a reasonable cost, the faucets are reliable and good-looking. We get them at Lowe's.
Now I'm eyeing the upstairs bathroom hardware and wondering how long before I'll have it in the budget to change those . . .
~ emrys
Better yet, I describe the problem ("The handle on the faucet is getting harder to turn, and water has been dripping underneath the sink when the cold water is on") and customer service identifies the problem and sends the part ("You need a new ceramic three-way valve. We'll send you one. What's your address?).
When the part arrives, I call the same number and have patient, knowledgeable tech support to help me through the repair process (still at no charge). For a reasonable cost, the faucets are reliable and good-looking. We get them at Lowe's.
Now I'm eyeing the upstairs bathroom hardware and wondering how long before I'll have it in the budget to change those . . .
~ emrys
Sunday, February 01, 2015
I'm a Dork
I scanned the shelves of our local Rotary book giveaway kiosk. Dork Diaries: Tales from a Not-So-Popular Party Girl by Rachel Renee Russell (2010) caught my eye. My daughter is now a beginning reader, which means that in the blink of an eye she will be picking up teen fiction. I might as well get a taste of what will be on the school library bookshelves. (The back cover of Dork Diaries states, in understated print, that "this edition is only available for sale . . . through school book clubs and school book fairs.")
The formatting of Russell's book captures the adolescent imagination with its hybridizing of hand-printed typeface on notebook paper and Japanimation cartoons. The latter add humor and poignancy to the repetitive, predictable drama of an adolescent girl's life. I must be clear here, for the drama of adolescent life was for all of us repetitive and predictable: projecting our anxieties on friends, trying to lie to our parents, over-expressing or stuffing our emotions at precisely the wrong times, and fretting over who would go to which dance or party with whom. Russell's character, Nikki, who journals about pedantic youth with the articulate erudition of a college English major (Will my daughter know and use the word "sashay" in seventh grade?), goes through the whole roller-coaster of tweenager life in 279 pages.
It's a page-turner: Will Nikki stay on the good side of her friends? Will Nikki's nemesis (MacKenzie Hollister) completely ruin Nikki's social life? Will Nikki and her BFFs (yes, txt-gen abbreviations are retained for authenticity) rescue the school Halloween party from disaster? It's all the drama you'd expect from the life of a tween "dork." (That term must be clarified, here, as a purely self-referential moniker. All the characters are pretty Anime twigs, the girls indistinguishable except for slight differences in hair style.)
Once, though, Russell peeks with us into the abyss of adolescence. After snubbing the cute boy who is (we intuit) about to ask her to the dance, Nikki writes, "WHY was I acting so crazy? WHY was everything so confusing? WHY was I hurting a person I really cared about?"
Good questions. Of course, tween fiction can't begin to render a response. Even beginning to entertain these Big Questions violates the rules of the genre. Wrestling with the angel of angst must be put off, our existential needs receiving only the bone of a BFF group hug and . . . well, I don't want to spoil the whole ending. But it's fair to say that Nikki isn't yet ready to crack the cocoon of middle school. Which makes me wonder . . .
Does this book have any function besides mindless entertainment? One approach to recovering from difficult events in our lives is to tell our experience to others. In the telling, so one gathers, there is healing. Through the telling comes the therapy. The "Aha!" moments arise from putting to words one's remembered reality. Is there similar value, for tweens, in reading Dork Diaries? Or is it literary bubble gum? To return to the small print on the back cover: Does this genre have educational value?
Or--I continue to wonder--perhaps the value is in my reading such books with my children. Perhaps discussion of whether we should emulate the lives we read in such fiction will provide enrichment and growth. (In which case, God help me if my daughter really likes this material!) Maybe the task is to use the narrative as a mirror for my kids' own lives. Are you really a "dork" because your brain suddenly starts hiccuping around that boy?
A third (non-exclusive) option: Maybe series like Dork Diaries will serve as reading exercise for my kids. Genetically, odds are high that they will become bookworms. And not every book can be The Catcher in the Rye. Maybe one just needs sometimes to read as a way to zone out of the day-to-day world. Maybe my kids will read just for entertainment's sake on occasion, and nothing more. Like . . . bubble gum.
And maybe they'll come away from it knowing words like "sashay."
Thanks, Ms. Russell, for making me think. Now I'm going to put my nose back into some writing on comparative theology.
~ emrys
The formatting of Russell's book captures the adolescent imagination with its hybridizing of hand-printed typeface on notebook paper and Japanimation cartoons. The latter add humor and poignancy to the repetitive, predictable drama of an adolescent girl's life. I must be clear here, for the drama of adolescent life was for all of us repetitive and predictable: projecting our anxieties on friends, trying to lie to our parents, over-expressing or stuffing our emotions at precisely the wrong times, and fretting over who would go to which dance or party with whom. Russell's character, Nikki, who journals about pedantic youth with the articulate erudition of a college English major (Will my daughter know and use the word "sashay" in seventh grade?), goes through the whole roller-coaster of tweenager life in 279 pages.
It's a page-turner: Will Nikki stay on the good side of her friends? Will Nikki's nemesis (MacKenzie Hollister) completely ruin Nikki's social life? Will Nikki and her BFFs (yes, txt-gen abbreviations are retained for authenticity) rescue the school Halloween party from disaster? It's all the drama you'd expect from the life of a tween "dork." (That term must be clarified, here, as a purely self-referential moniker. All the characters are pretty Anime twigs, the girls indistinguishable except for slight differences in hair style.)
Once, though, Russell peeks with us into the abyss of adolescence. After snubbing the cute boy who is (we intuit) about to ask her to the dance, Nikki writes, "WHY was I acting so crazy? WHY was everything so confusing? WHY was I hurting a person I really cared about?"
Good questions. Of course, tween fiction can't begin to render a response. Even beginning to entertain these Big Questions violates the rules of the genre. Wrestling with the angel of angst must be put off, our existential needs receiving only the bone of a BFF group hug and . . . well, I don't want to spoil the whole ending. But it's fair to say that Nikki isn't yet ready to crack the cocoon of middle school. Which makes me wonder . . .
Does this book have any function besides mindless entertainment? One approach to recovering from difficult events in our lives is to tell our experience to others. In the telling, so one gathers, there is healing. Through the telling comes the therapy. The "Aha!" moments arise from putting to words one's remembered reality. Is there similar value, for tweens, in reading Dork Diaries? Or is it literary bubble gum? To return to the small print on the back cover: Does this genre have educational value?
Or--I continue to wonder--perhaps the value is in my reading such books with my children. Perhaps discussion of whether we should emulate the lives we read in such fiction will provide enrichment and growth. (In which case, God help me if my daughter really likes this material!) Maybe the task is to use the narrative as a mirror for my kids' own lives. Are you really a "dork" because your brain suddenly starts hiccuping around that boy?
A third (non-exclusive) option: Maybe series like Dork Diaries will serve as reading exercise for my kids. Genetically, odds are high that they will become bookworms. And not every book can be The Catcher in the Rye. Maybe one just needs sometimes to read as a way to zone out of the day-to-day world. Maybe my kids will read just for entertainment's sake on occasion, and nothing more. Like . . . bubble gum.
And maybe they'll come away from it knowing words like "sashay."
Thanks, Ms. Russell, for making me think. Now I'm going to put my nose back into some writing on comparative theology.
~ emrys
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Scripture, History, and Interpretation
With fundamental questions about interpretation of the bible continuing to surface in our congregation and denomination, I decided to go more into depth with the scholarly work on the subject. I picked up an e-book edition of Behind the Text: History and Biblical Interpretation, Volume 4 of the Scripture and Hermeneutics series, editors Bartholomew, Evans, Healy, and Rae. (The year . . . I can't find the year on the title pages of the e-book. What the ? 2003, I think.)
First, a comment on e-book reading, as this is my first textbook length book read in electronic format. I found not knowing where I was in the book by the weight and thickness of the pages disorienting--or, better put, fatiguing. Many times when I've read dense scholarly works and come upon a section that drags, I think to myself, Well, it can't go on for that long, because there's only this much (perceived by my fingers holding the pages) left in the book. I couldn't do that here. Even with the page numbers labeled at the bottom of the screen, I felt like I didn't have a handle on how much I had read and how much I had to go. I never realized before how important this sense was to my process of reading.
On to content. The contributors to this volume reveal a vast depth of research and knowledge in the field of hermeneutics, history, and philosophy. I gained great insights into the impact of thinkers like Spinoza, Duhem, and Troeltsch--though, taking as long as I did to read this text without a book club, I already feel myself losing the ability to articulate what I read! I had many "Aha!" moments when I recognized within myself patterns of interpreting scripture that come from these modern and post-modern currents of philosophy and their associated views of history and hermeneutics.
The format of Behind the Text, an interaction of scholars with each other's essays in the same volume, made for compelling arguments tempered by thoughtful critique. At times, it also made for some repetitiveness, though for someone not immersed often in this level of discussion that redundancy could be helpful. (I don't use the adjective "Troeltschian" often.) Even when the going was tough because of the high-powered academic writing style, my labor was rewarded by greater understanding.
The capstone of the book was the final article, written by Stephen I. Wright, entitled "Inhabiting the Story: The Use of the Bible in the Interpretation of History." His first insight, which put into words something I sensed reading the rest of the text, was that most of the work so far had been "on the defensive" for historical-critical interpretation of the bible. Coming from the conservative realm as texts published by Baylor and Zondervan are wont to be, I think the milieu of this slice of the academy is generally suspicious of or hostile to the historical-critical method. While I found this apologetic work enlightening for its elucidation of the philosophical contours of historical-critical method, I personally have always assumed the method to have some validity. Wright's pointing to the elephant in the hermeneutical room allowed me to take a deep breath and realize my relationship to this gaggle of articles.
Wright's second helpful insight was his move from "whether the bible should be interpreted with a critical historical eye" to "how shall we use the bible critically to interpret history?" As someone who does this every week--nay, every day--I engaged his closing article with relish. His descriptions of the work of figurative interpretation of the scriptures resonated with my own regular hermeneutical work, and stretched my thinking around new facets of how that work is done.
For any scholar--academically credentialed or not--interested in getting a better handle on the issues of interpretation that arise from the problems of history, this book is worthwhile. It is a reminder that even before we--and I'm thinking especially of pastors and preachers like myself now--begin to think about interpreting a text, we have already made philosophical decisions of which we may not be aware. Part of the value of reading this book, for me, is becoming aware of those decisions and exploring whether I want to make different decisions in the future. What do I assume about history? What do I assume about how God acts in history? Do I want to continue assuming that? If I don't, how will that affect my speaking about and speaking from the scriptures?
~ emrys
First, a comment on e-book reading, as this is my first textbook length book read in electronic format. I found not knowing where I was in the book by the weight and thickness of the pages disorienting--or, better put, fatiguing. Many times when I've read dense scholarly works and come upon a section that drags, I think to myself, Well, it can't go on for that long, because there's only this much (perceived by my fingers holding the pages) left in the book. I couldn't do that here. Even with the page numbers labeled at the bottom of the screen, I felt like I didn't have a handle on how much I had read and how much I had to go. I never realized before how important this sense was to my process of reading.
On to content. The contributors to this volume reveal a vast depth of research and knowledge in the field of hermeneutics, history, and philosophy. I gained great insights into the impact of thinkers like Spinoza, Duhem, and Troeltsch--though, taking as long as I did to read this text without a book club, I already feel myself losing the ability to articulate what I read! I had many "Aha!" moments when I recognized within myself patterns of interpreting scripture that come from these modern and post-modern currents of philosophy and their associated views of history and hermeneutics.
The format of Behind the Text, an interaction of scholars with each other's essays in the same volume, made for compelling arguments tempered by thoughtful critique. At times, it also made for some repetitiveness, though for someone not immersed often in this level of discussion that redundancy could be helpful. (I don't use the adjective "Troeltschian" often.) Even when the going was tough because of the high-powered academic writing style, my labor was rewarded by greater understanding.
The capstone of the book was the final article, written by Stephen I. Wright, entitled "Inhabiting the Story: The Use of the Bible in the Interpretation of History." His first insight, which put into words something I sensed reading the rest of the text, was that most of the work so far had been "on the defensive" for historical-critical interpretation of the bible. Coming from the conservative realm as texts published by Baylor and Zondervan are wont to be, I think the milieu of this slice of the academy is generally suspicious of or hostile to the historical-critical method. While I found this apologetic work enlightening for its elucidation of the philosophical contours of historical-critical method, I personally have always assumed the method to have some validity. Wright's pointing to the elephant in the hermeneutical room allowed me to take a deep breath and realize my relationship to this gaggle of articles.
Wright's second helpful insight was his move from "whether the bible should be interpreted with a critical historical eye" to "how shall we use the bible critically to interpret history?" As someone who does this every week--nay, every day--I engaged his closing article with relish. His descriptions of the work of figurative interpretation of the scriptures resonated with my own regular hermeneutical work, and stretched my thinking around new facets of how that work is done.
For any scholar--academically credentialed or not--interested in getting a better handle on the issues of interpretation that arise from the problems of history, this book is worthwhile. It is a reminder that even before we--and I'm thinking especially of pastors and preachers like myself now--begin to think about interpreting a text, we have already made philosophical decisions of which we may not be aware. Part of the value of reading this book, for me, is becoming aware of those decisions and exploring whether I want to make different decisions in the future. What do I assume about history? What do I assume about how God acts in history? Do I want to continue assuming that? If I don't, how will that affect my speaking about and speaking from the scriptures?
~ emrys
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