Bewilderment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  The shock of discovering that this royal “servant” was called, as part of his obedient vocation, to die an unjust and shameful death is almost too much, and perhaps it was for the prophet as well, or at least for his anticipated readers. But this is where the poem seems to point. The themes of the divine kingdom, the divine victory, and the divine forgiveness of sins all converge on this point. Thus, if the “servant” is the coming king through whom God’s redemptive purposes will be accomplished, one can at least imagine the possibility that his horrible death might be seen—with help, perhaps, from some of the Psalms—as a vocational necessity. David, already anointed but not yet recognized as the coming king, had to go to battle against Goliath; he was one man representing the whole people. Similarly, this “servant” has to take upon himself the consequences of the people’s age-old sins. But at least David defeated Goliath and killed him! How can the death of a hypothetically royal servant be part of the overwhelming loving purposes of Israel’s God? Here the second point comes in. The powerful action of YHWH is spoken of in this poem as the divine “arm”: See, the sovereign YHWH comes with might , and his arm rules for him. (40:10) Awake, awake, put on strength , O arm of YHWH: Awake, as in days of old , the generations of long ago! Was it not you who cut Rahab in pieces , who pierced the dragon? Was it not you who dried up the sea , the waters of the great deep; who made the depths of the sea a way for the redeemed to cross over? (51:9–10) YHWH has bared his holy arm before the eyes of all the nations; and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God. (52:10) Finally, it seems, the “arm” of YHWH is revealed—in the person and in the fate of the “servant” himself: Who has believed what we have heard? And to whom has the arm of YHWH been revealed? For he grew up before him like a young plant , and like a root out of dry ground. (53:1–2) The only way this seems to make sense is if somehow, having been anointed with YHWH’s own spirit (42:1), the “servant” is now somehow embodying the powerful, redeeming love of Israel’s God himself. Like many other questions thrown up by the turbulent ocean of this mighty poem, this is not something on which we can be dogmatic. It is as though the prophet is pointing into the dark, hardly able to believe what he finds himself saying.

• From Story of O (1954)

  From where I stand, there is at least one danger I can easily perceive. It is a modest danger. From every indication, Story of O is one of those books which marks the reader, which leaves him not quite, or not at all, the same as he was before he read it. Such books are strangely involved with the influence they exert, changing in accordance with that influence. After a few years, they are no longer the same books, and consequently the initial reviewers soon seem to have been a bit simple-minded. But that cannot be helped, a reviewer should never be afraid to make a fool of himself. With this thought in mind, the simplest thing for me to do is admit that I hardly know what to make of it, or what it all means. I advance through O with a strange feeling, as though I am moving through a fairy tale—we know that fairy tales are erotic novels for children—through one of those fairy castles which appears abandoned, and yet the armchairs in their slip covers and the ottomans and the four-poster beds are all neatly dusted, and the whips and riding crops are too: they are, if I may say so, dusted by definition. Not a speck of rust on the chains or a trace of steam on the multicolored windowpanes. If there is one word which comes to mind when I think of O, that word is decency. It is a word which would be far too difficult for me to try and justify, so I shall not even try. And then this wind which blows endlessly through all the rooms. In O, there also blows some indefinable, always pure and violent spirit, endless and unadulterated. It is a decisive spirit which nothing disturbs, whether it be moans or horrors, ecstasy or nausea. And, if I must make another confession, this type of thing is not, generally speaking, my cup of tea. I incline to works in which the author is hesitant, indicating by some show of embarrassment that he was at first intimidated by his subject, that there were moments when he doubted he would ever be able to bring it off. But from beginning to end, the story of O is managed rather like some brilliant feat. It reminds you more of a speech than a mere effusion; of a letter rather than a secret diary. But to whom is the letter addressed? Whom is the speech trying to convince? Whom can we ask? I don’t even know who you are.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  The question, “Why did Jesus die?” in fact, subdivides. There is the “historical” question: Why did Pontius Pilate, egged on by the chief priests, decide to send Jesus to his death? Then there is the “theological” question: What was God hoping to achieve by Jesus’s death, and why was that the appropriate method of achieving it? Underneath these there is another, even more difficult one: What did Jesus himself think was going on? That one is both historical (giving an account of the mind and motivation of one historical person) and theological (even if you don’t believe that Jesus was the incarnate son of God, he was certainly very much in tune with Israel’s scriptures and the question of their fulfillment). Or to go on walking cautiously around these questions: What deep layers of meaning are hidden in the deceptively simple phrase “for our sins”? How did people in the first century hear that kind of language, and why did the first Christians speak like that? Why did they regard it as “good news”—granted that it doesn’t seem at first glance to have anything to do with the “good news” announced by Jesus himself, which was about the “kingdom of God”? What themes, images, and stories—and, not least, what themes and narratives from their Bible—did they already have in their heads that enabled them to make fresh and joyful sense of the fact that the man they had come to regard as God’s anointed king had just been killed by the imperial authorities? Why did they see that not as the end of any potential Jesus-based revolution, but as its real beginning? These questions are not, of course, new. We are only the latest in a long line of people who have wrestled with the meaning of the cross down through the years. The way we approach the questions and the problems we meet as we try to do so are inevitably shaped by these previous expositions. We therefore need to have at least a basic understanding of some key moments in the story of the church’s wrestling with its foundational and revolutionary event. 2 Wrestling with the Cross, Then and Now THE QUESTION OF why the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth was perceived from the first to have such power is heightened by one of the earliest writings of the New Testament, which declares that the cross is a scandal. Or, to be precise, it is “a scandal to Jews and folly to Gentiles” (1 Cor. 1:23). True, Paul goes on to claim that “to those who are called” it is the revelation of the Messiah, the unveiling of God’s power and God’s wisdom. But that only intensifies the puzzle. How on earth did something so obviously crazy or scandalous or foolish become so central so quickly?

• From Story of O (1954)

  During the winter following its publication, Story of O became the talk of the French salons and cafés. Even in Paris, where scandal is slow to ignite, there was an element of shock in these exchanges—that such a book, such a total anachronism, could appear, full-blown, in the mid-twentieth century. But the real interest centered around the mystery: who was Pauline Réage? Until her identity was bared, people found it difficult to assume a reasonable stance vis-à-vis the work; if Pauline Réage was the pseudonym of some eminent writer, they would feel compelled to react one way; if she were a complete unknown, another; and if indeed she were a literary hack merely seeking notoriety, then still another. The mystery entered a new phase when, in February, 1955, the book was awarded the Prix des Deux Magots—a prize established for and generally awarded to new works of an unconventional nature, which counted highly respected novelists Raymond Queneau and Antoine Blondin among its laureates. At this point, the newspapers seized on the book—and the mystery—and headlines blared the news to the general public. Inevitably, the sanctity of the general public being menaced, the police moved in. Although there was never any official notification that an investigation was under way, numerous personalities, including Messrs. Paulhan and Pauvert, were interrogated. But suddenly, as unofficially as it had begun, the investigation ceased. It is said that the desist order was sent down by a high government official, but this remains unsubstantiated. In any event, there have never been any further censorship problems. To this day, no one knows who Pauline Réage is. In his Preface, Paulhan speculates that the author is a woman, citing as evidence not only the uncommon attention to details of dress and make-up, but that telling scene in which O, abandoned by her lover, René, to the torments and tortures of his Roissy colleagues, still has the (feminine) presence of mind to notice that René’s slippers are worn and frayed, and to note in her mind that she must buy him another pair.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  How did people in the first century hear that kind of language, and why did the first Christians speak like that? Why did they regard it as “good news”—granted that it doesn’t seem at first glance to have anything to do with the “good news” announced by Jesus himself, which was about the “kingdom of God”? What themes, images, and stories— and, not least, what themes and narratives from their Bible—did they already have in their heads that enabled them to make fresh and joyful sense of the fact that the man they had come to regard as God’s anointed king had just been killed by the imperial authorities? Why did they see that not as the end of any potential Jesus-based revolution, but as its real beginning? These questions are not, of course, new. We are only the latest in a long line of people who have wrestled with the meaning of the cross down through the years. The way we approach the questions and the problems we meet as we try to do so are inevitably shaped by these previous expositions. We therefore need to have at least a basic understanding of some key moments in the story of the church’s wrestling with its foundational and revolutionary event. 2 Wrestling with the Cross, Then and Now THE QUESTION OF why the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth was perceived from the first to have such power is heightened by one of the earliest writings of the New Testament, which declares that the cross is a scandal. Or, to be precise, it is “a scandal to Jews and folly to Gentiles” (1 Cor. 1:23). True, Paul goes on to claim that “to those who are called” it is the revelation of the Messiah, the unveiling of God’s power and God’s wisdom. But that only intensifies the puzzle. How on earth did something so obviously crazy or scandalous or foolish become so central so quickly? The very mention of crucifixion was taboo in polite Roman circles, since it was the lowest form of capital punishment, reserved for slaves and rebels. As for the Jews, the very idea of a crucified Messiah was scandalous. A crucified Messiah was a horrible parody of the kingdom-dreams that many were cherishing. It immediately implied that Israel’s national hope was being radically redrawn downward. But if the Messiah’s crucifixion was scandalous to Jews, it was sheer madness to non-Jews. The early cultured despisers of Christianity had no trouble mocking the very idea of worshipping a crucified man.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  David, already anointed but not yet recognized as the coming king, had to go to battle against Goliath; he was one man representing the whole people. Similarly, this “servant” has to take upon himself the consequences of the people’s age-old sins. But at least David defeated Goliath and killed him! How can the death of a hypothetically royal servant be part of the overwhelming loving purposes of Israel’s God? Here the second point comes in. The powerful action of YHWH is spoken of in this poem as the divine “arm”: See, the sovereign YHWH comes with might, and his arm rules for him. (40:10) Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of YHWH: Awake, as in days of old, the generations of long ago! Was it not you who cut Rahab in pieces, who pierced the dragon? Was it not you who dried up the sea, the waters of the great deep; who made the depths of the sea a way for the redeemed to cross over? (51:9–10) YHWH has bared his holy arm before the eyes of all the nations; and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God. (52:10) Finally, it seems, the “arm” of YHWH is revealed—in the person and in the fate of the “servant” himself: Who has believed what we have heard? And to whom has the arm of YHWH been revealed? For he grew up before him like a young plant, and like a root out of dry ground. (53:1–2) The only way this seems to make sense is if somehow, having been anointed with YHWH’s own spirit (42:1), the “servant” is now somehow embodying the powerful, redeeming love of Israel’s God himself. Like many other questions thrown up by the turbulent ocean of this mighty poem, this is not something on which we can be dogmatic. It is as though the prophet is pointing into the dark, hardly able to believe what he finds himself saying. But he claims to know three things: first, that redemption will come through the work of YHWH’s anointed; second, that it will involve intense suffering and death, through which the exile-causing sins of Israel would at last be dealt with; and third, that this achievement will be the work of YHWH himself. As the later passages put it: YHWH saw it, and it displeased him that there was no justice. He saw that there was no one, and was appalled that there was no one to intervene; so his own arm brought him victory, and his righteousness upheld him. (59:15–16) I looked, but there was no helper; I stared, but there was no one to sustain me; so my own arm brought me victory, and my wrath sustained me. . . .

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  Here, perhaps to our surprise, we find a bewildering range of material. We do not always stop to acknowledge the extraordinary explosion of new ideas and new understandings of old ones that occurred in the first fifty years of the faith. Turning the pages of the early Christian writings sometimes seems like turning the tube of a kaleidoscope: the same colors and shapes, but in constantly shifting combinations and patterns. Nothing in the ancient world, whether Jewish or non-Jewish, prepares us for the sudden flurry of themes and images that tumble over one another as the early Christians tried to express and interpret what had just happened to Jesus, the world, and themselves. Simply to set these out one by one will show what I mean. Each one will be explored further in Part Three, but it is important here to note them, if only because, though all readers of the New Testament realize how significant it all is, it is surprisingly difficult to give a coherent account of what is going on. I think this is in part because, as we saw in the previous chapter, many theologians and preachers have homed in on one part of the question only and have not succeeded in integrating the rest. I will not offer a comprehensive treatment either. But I hope that my later argument will go some way to revealing a deeper coherence among these early Christian writings than is sometimes imagined. The New Testament meets us with complex and puzzling information about the cross in both outline and detail. Many have struggled to fit together what the four gospels present (a story of Jesus announcing God’s kingdom and then going to his death) with what the letters appear to present (a story of God acting through the death of Jesus to save sinners). Within the gospels themselves, many have found it difficult to see how Jesus’s kingdom announcement and his approaching death somehow belong together. The early Christian writings refer in complex ways to Israel’s scriptures, and they formulate this into a rule (“The Messiah died for our sins in accordance with the Bible”), but it is difficult to see how their use of scripture worked even in their own minds, and especially in relation to the crucifixion: Was it a matter of individual “proof-texts,” or the whole narrative structure of scripture, or what? There are many particular passages that have challenged and puzzled commentators, not least the famous poem of Philippians 2:6–11, whose mention of the crucifixion forms a “hinge” at the middle. And there are many incidents in the gospels (such as the Last Supper) and many strands of meaning in the letters (such as the frequent reference to sacrifice) that have either defied explanation or been given an overly simple reading that clearly does not plumb the depths. If this is how the “early Christian” context of meaning for understanding Jesus’s death appears, we are in for a difficult time.

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  We are indeed a nation that prides itself on efficiency. But here’s the catch: eroticism is inefficient. It loves to squander time and resources. As Adam Phillips wryly notes, “In our erotic life work does not work…trying is always trying too hard. Eroticism is an imaginative act, and you can’t measure it. We glorify efficiency and fail to recognize that the erotic space is a radiant interlude in which we luxuriate, indifferent to demands of productivity; pleasure is the only goal. Octavio Paz writes, “The moment of merging is a crack in time, a balm against the wounds inflicted by the minutes and hours of time. A moment totally eternal as it is ephemeral.” It is a leap into a world beyond. This leap entails a loss of control that we’re taught from a very young age to guard against. We are socialized to tame our primal side: our unruly impulses, our sexual urges, and our rapacious appetites. Social order is built on this restraint, and lack thereof threatens to create chaos. Because loss of control is almost exclusively seen in a negative light, we don’t even entertain the idea that surrender can be emotionally or spiritually enlightening. But experiencing a temporary suspension of our discernible self is often liberating and expansive. I have seen many people stumble when they can’t simply take the problem of eros and fix it. They are left feeling bewildered and frightened by their slackened command. I help them learn how to relinquish control intentionally, as a means of personal growth and self-discovery. Ryan and Christine have been in therapy for a year. I meet with them together and individually as they struggle through the transition from being a sexually entwined couple to being the parents of three small children. Following the birth of their twin daughters, the lovers’ erotic inspiration began gasping for air. While some couples accept fading intensity with gracious resignation, settling into affectionate companionship, Ryan and Christine don’t want to give up. The memory of what they once had is still dear to them. They make a clear distinction between having sex and making love, and they haven’t made love in a while. They’ve rented videos, they’ve taken baths together, and they are committed to their weekly date. They’ve tried a lot of things, some yielding satisfying results, others a total waste. Merely having sex is not really their issue. Of course they’d like to have it more often, but their concern is more about intensity than frequency. It’s not the diminishing amount of sex that bothers them, but its increasing dullness. They like to be proactive, and they’re shopping for new tools.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  He bled and died to take away my sin.8 It may indeed be true that we can scarcely “take it in.” It may even be ultimately true, as one popular contemporary jingle has it, that “I’ll never know how much it cost to see my sins upon that cross.” Though since the New Testament does tell us precisely what it cost (the blood of God’s own son), and since the jingle in question is as confused in theology as it is deficient in rhyme, we are not much farther ahead. But—and this is the point of writing this book—I believe it is vital that we try. All this brings us back where we began. Granted that the story of Jesus’s crucifixion as it is portrayed in the gospels and in art, music, and literature seems to have a power to move, console, and challenge people across widely different times, places, and cultures, what is it about this story, and particularly about the event itself, that carries this power? When the early Christians summarized their “good news” by saying that “the Messiah died for our sins in accordance with the Bible,” what precisely did they mean? Why, in short, did Jesus die? Why would anyone suppose that his death possessed revolutionary power? And why do so many people, without holding any particular theoretical answer to those questions, find nevertheless that the cross, in story, image and song, has a power to move us at such a deep level?

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  Nor is this simply a metaphor or a type that would point forward, like a signpost, to something quite different. (A signpost may offer a symbol of a particular building, perhaps a hospital or a restaurant. The symbol doesn’t need to look at all like what you will see when you arrive at the destination. By itself, the signpost will give you neither medication nor food; but it will point you in the right direction. That is how many Christians have seen the biblical story of exile and the promise of restoration: a truthful signpost, but a signpost to something essentially different.) Western culture has been so wedded to the platonic idea that God’s purpose for humans is to leave this world and go to “heaven” to be with him—as opposed to the biblical idea that God’s purpose for humans is to reflect the praises of creation back to him and to reflect his image in the world, so that ultimately heaven and earth will be one— that many who hear and understand the point I have been making will still try to see it as an “illustration” rather than as part of the story in which Jesus and his followers were still living. Such people, perhaps the most frustrating of dialogue partners, will at once insist on “translating” the Israel-specific historical and biblical context into an abstract idea, as though Israel itself were simply an example of something else rather than the people through whom the divine project of restoration was to be taken forward. Such readers will then have to create a new context for Jesus and his death. It will only be “in accordance with the Bible” in a thin, twisted sense. The new context will distort what the Bible itself—both Old and New Testaments—actually says. This has happened time and again. But if we keep our nerve, we may perhaps be able to get things straight at last. If exile is the result of Israel’s sin, and if this exile is therefore to be understood as death, it is not simply that Israel happens to have done on a grand scale what the human race, symbolized in Adam and Eve, had done all along. Israel—the people called by God for the unique role in his purposes—could never be merely an example, even a large-scale example, of something else. Israel’s idolatry and exile, Israel’s sin and death are seen in Israel’s scriptures themselves not just as the quintessence, but also as the radical deepening of the human plight. It is as if the lifeboat sent to rescue drowning sailors from a stricken ship has itself been submerged under a giant wave before it has reached those in need of it. But the project continues nonetheless.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  There is one particular moment in the gospel stories as told by Matthew and Mark to which we must return, because only in the light of the fuller picture can we begin to address it in all its complexity. This is the so-called cry of dereliction in Matthew 27:46 and Mark 15:34: “My God, my God, why did you abandon me?” I have stressed that all four evangelists saw Jesus as the living embodiment of YHWH himself, Israel’s God, and that they saw his kingdom-bringing achievement, up to and climactically including his death on the cross, as the achievement of the one God himself. This was not about a human being trying to twist God’s arm, as in the famous illustration (used by Albert Schweitzer) of Jesus throwing himself on the wheel of history and making it turn in the opposite direction. It was about the Lord of history coming in person, in the person who represented the promise-bearing people, to do what had to be done. How then can this embodied God cry out to “my God” that he has been abandoned? When we return to this question we will, I believe, be able not only to answer it, but to show how that answer works its way out into the life and work of the followers of Jesus in the often dark realities and challenges of the world. 11 Paul and the Cross (Apart from Romans) WHEN PEOPLE WONDER about the meaning of Jesus’s death and go to the New Testament for clues, they normally turn to Paul. And Paul has plenty to offer them—too much, one might think. Hardly a page goes by in Paul without some reference to Jesus’s death. A quick glance through his letters produces a bewildering range of imagery: the Messiah as the Passover lamb; as the sin offering; as the curse-bearer; as the one who “loved me and gave himself for me”; as the one who was “made to be sin for us”; as the one who “was rich, yet because of [us] . . . became poor”; as the glorious victor over the “rulers and authorities”; as the “place of mercy” (if that is the right translation of hilastērion in Rom. 3:25); and much more. If only, we sigh, he had said it just once and said it clearly. Or if only he had said it several times and always in just the same way.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Just then, a large man popped up behind Phoebe, sliding his hands across her eyes. Guess who, he said. He raised his arms. A full lilac robe spilled out from beneath his peacoat, a priest’s white band at his throat. No, don’t get up, he said. I’ve left Liesl outside in the cold, and I told her I wouldn’t be a minute but hello, Phoebe, don’t you look tip-top. Tell me if you like this outfit. One of Liesl’s friends is hosting a themed night: come as you aren’t. So, you’re going as the pope, Phoebe said. Or a curtain. Curtain, he said. No. I’m a bishop, and I have a friend with me, a pocket-sized child. This little, pocket-sized protégé . . . Lifting his coat to the side, he showed us a rag doll in plaid shorts, its mouth attached to his robe, at his crotch. It’s a little boy, he said. Phoebe, I want to be introduced. This is Will Kendall. Will, this is Julian Noh. You’ve— Oh, you’re Will, he said. He whirled toward me, his robe flaring. Of course, you are. I’m delighted. Phoebe’s told me all about you. Julian, Phoebe said. Yes. The doll, she said. I know, it’s brilliant. I mean, he is. He’s a brilliant little child, so gifted. Oh, please. It’s an homage. I’m paying tribute to the Church, with its, hm, sacerdotal—I think Liesl’s waving at me. I’m going. If you want to find us, we’ll be at 161 Lowell all night. You, too, Will. Let’s be friends. He thumbed a cross on top of Phoebe’s head, and left. So, that’s Julian, I said. She’d talked about him: a close friend, the first person she’d met at Edwards. I asked what he’d said about an homage, and she explained he was raised Catholic. But he’s since quit the faith, she said. I had more questions, but singing burst out again. Three additional men, friends of Phoebe, tumbled toward us. They sported loose ties, silk leashes they’d pulled free. She introduced everyone, using full names. They asked if they’d see us at Phil Buxton’s tonight. She’d told me she had to go home in a little while: to fit in a bit of studying, for once, she’d said. But they teased Phoebe; they cajoled, like puppies. I smiled at jokes I didn’t understand. I’d attended Jubilee, the Bible college in California, until I lost my faith, at which point I’d had to give up a long-held plan to assign my life to God. I then applied to new schools, including Edwards, as distant from California as I could get. Child evangelical that I’d been, I knew as little about pop culture as I did about East Coast shibboleths. Why did Edwards men wear so much pink, and what, exactly, was a—cocksin? No, a coxswain.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  Likewise, some picked up the texts that spoke of Israel’s God himself coming back in a whole new way, as promised in Isaiah 52, to judge the world and deliver his people. But nobody connected that with either the possibility of a Messiah or the likelihood of intense suffering. There was no template of expectations out of which, granted the crucifixion of Jesus, one might have anticipated the sophisticated range of interpretation that the early Christian movement in fact produced, understanding the death of Jesus as a messianic victory and connecting it with the long-awaited divine return. For that we must look elsewhere. The larger picture of how Jews were reading their scriptures and how Jesus’s followers came to reread them in the light of his death and resurrection are topics to which we must return in the next part of the book. For the moment we must glance, in conclusion, at the world of the first Christians themselves. Approaching the New Testament Here, perhaps to our surprise, we find a bewildering range of material. We do not always stop to acknowledge the extraordinary explosion of new ideas and new understandings of old ones that occurred in the first fifty years of the faith. Turning the pages of the early Christian writings sometimes seems like turning the tube of a kaleidoscope: the same colors and shapes, but in constantly shifting combinations and patterns. Nothing in the ancient world, whether Jewish or non-Jewish, prepares us for the sudden flurry of themes and images that tumble over one another as the early Christians tried to express and interpret what had just happened to Jesus, the world, and themselves. Simply to set these out one by one will show what I mean. Each one will be explored further in Part Three, but it is important here to note them, if only because, though all readers of the New Testament realize how significant it all is, it is surprisingly difficult to give a coherent account of what is going on. I think this is in part because, as we saw in the previous chapter, many theologians and preachers have homed in on one part of the question only and have not succeeded in integrating the rest. I will not offer a comprehensive treatment either. But I hope that my later argument will go some way to revealing a deeper coherence among these early Christian writings than is sometimes imagined. The New Testament meets us with complex and puzzling information about the cross in both outline and detail.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The song stopped dead, on a single collective cry, so perfectly timed and attuned that it sounded like a single voice. Then, for a second, complete silence, but followed at once, as suddenly as earlier, by an explosion of strange and childish sounds that I have never been able to utter with the rest of them, being always struck dumb by a sense of the absurdity of it all. These tall young men were already adults as far as their social sophistication and cynicism were concerned, but here they all were uttering catcalls and other animal cries like children. This cacophony of theirs even had a special name of its own and was known as “the firemen’s cheer,” unless I’m mistaken. But the ice was now broken and they abandoned their stance at attention; the tone of the gathering became more familiar and the National Commissioner left the doorway and entered the room while someone closed the door behind him. His muscular face relaxed into a kind of fixed half-smile that beamed kindness (“A pathfinder must always be good-tempered,” as the Pathfinder’s Code asserts). Then our local Commissioner began to introduce us all: “Owl, Deer, Rhinoceros, Gazelle, Hippopotamus, Caribou, Willow tree, Forget-me-not, Apple...” The National Commissioner, himself known as Gray Wolf, shook our left hands and, in front of each in turn, raised his right forearm with a quick gesture. At the same time, he folded his fingers in such a way that his thumb was against his little finger. This was all according to the Scout Ritual. In front of me, the local Commissioner uttered my real given name: “Alexandre, Alex.” This seemed to elicit utter surprise: “How come, Alexandre? Not yet initiated?” The National Commissioner asked me. No, I had not yet been initiated, had not yet been given an animal name in the course of any special totem ceremony. “No,” the local Commissioner apologized on my behalf, “he’s a Pale-face,” which meant that I was an outsider, not a scout, “and we have asked him to organize our Hebrew classes for us.” “Well,” the National Commissioner said as if with regret, “I hope you will soon decide to join us too.” His face had resumed its calculated smile, though he quite obviously disapproved of the presence of strangers in the group. A stranger is always a problem, destroying the harmony of the gathering so that the rest no longer feel really at ease. For instance, I had failed to answer his greeting properly, with the appropriate gesture of the right arm. I admit that I had somehow felt like doing it but had refrained, being ashamed.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  When we return to this question we will, I believe, be able not only to answer it, but to show how that answer works its way out into the life and work of the followers of Jesus in the often dark realities and challenges of the world. 11 Paul and the Cross (Apart from Romans) WHEN PEOPLE WONDER about the meaning of Jesus’s death and go to the New Testament for clues, they normally turn to Paul. And Paul has plenty to offer them—too much, one might think. Hardly a page goes by in Paul without some reference to Jesus’s death. A quick glance through his letters produces a bewildering range of imagery: the Messiah as the Passover lamb; as the sin offering; as the curse-bearer; as the one who “loved me and gave himself for me”; as the one who was “made to be sin for us”; as the one who “was rich, yet because of [us] . . . became poor”; as the glorious victor over the “rulers and authorities”; as the “place of mercy” (if that is the right translation of hilastērion in Rom. 3:25); and much more. If only, we sigh, he had said it just once and said it clearly. Or if only he had said it several times and always in just the same way. Of course, it is possible to pull Paul into shape—our shape, all too often. We can set up a single scheme, as often as not the great penal substitution scheme beloved of those who embrace the “works contract.” Just the other day I received a long e-mail from a man previously unknown to me, setting out in great detail an entire theological scheme based on the idea of “imputation,” in which our sin is “imputed” to Jesus and his righteousness is “imputed” to us. The theory was laid out with copious references to learned writers from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and one or two of their more recent exponents as well. Within such a scheme more or less everything can be made to work, much as in a politician’s speech, where all the awkward bits of evidence that don’t quite support the party line can be either twisted into shape or quietly swept to one side. Thus sacrificial language (it is usually assumed) can be about “penal substitution,” since, it is thought, the animal would be killed as punishment for the sins of the worshipper. Victory over the powers can be a dramatic way of saying that we are freed from the power as well as the guilt and penalty of our sins. And so on.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  Starr drove too fast, bumping up the road, and chain-smoked Benson and Hedges 100s from a gold pack, listening to Christian radio. She was talking about how she used to be an alcoholic and a cokehead and topless waitress at a club called the Trop. She wasn’t beautiful like my mother, but you couldn’t help looking at her. I’d never seen anyone with a figure like that. Only in the back pages of the L.A. Weekly, chewing on a phone cord. But her energy was overwhelming. She never stopped talking, laughing, lecturing, smoking. I wondered what she was like on cocaine. “I can’t wait for you to meet Reverend Thomas. Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior?” I considered telling her that we hung our gods from trees, but thought better of it. “Well, you will. Lord, once you hear that man, you’ll be saved on the spot.” Carolee lit a Marlboro, lowered the back window. “That phony-ass con. How can you swallow such shit.” “He who believeth in me, though he was dead, yet he will live, and don’t you forget it, missy,” Starr said. She never called us by our names, not even her own children, only “mister” or “missy.” She was taking us to the Clothestime in the next town, Sunland, she wanted to get me a few things for my new life. I’d never been into a store like that. My mother and I got our clothes on the boardwalk in Venice. Inside the Clothestime, colors assaulted us from every side. Magenta! they screamed. Turquoise! Battery acid! under the flicker of fluorescent lighting. Starr filled my arms with clothes to try on, herded me into a dressing room with her, so we could continue our chat. In the cubicle, she wriggled into a tiny striped minidress and smoothed it over her ribs, turning to the side to see what it looked like in profile. The stripes widened and tapered over her breasts and bottom like op art. I tried not to stare, but how could you not be astounded. I wondered what Reverend Thomas would think of her in a dress like that. She frowned, pulled the dress over her head, and hung it back up. It still was stretched to fit her figure. Her body in the small dressing room was almost too much to bear. I could only look at her in the mirror, her breasts falling out of the top of her underwired brassiere, the cross hiding between them like a snake in a rock. “Sin’s a virus, that’s what Reverend Thomas says. Infecting the whole country, like the clap,” she told me. “They’ve got clap now you can’t get rid of. Sin’s just exactly the same. We’ve got every excuse in the book. Like what difference does it make if I shovel coke up my nose or not? What’s wrong with wanting to feel good all the time?

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  20. And the multitude cometh together again, so that they could not so much as eat bread. 21. And when his friends heard of it, they went out to lay hold on him: for they said, He is beside himself. 22. And the Scribes which came down from Jerusalem said, He hath Beelzebub, and by the prince of the devils casteth he out devils. BEDE. (ubi sup.) The Lord leads the Apostles, when they were elected, into a house, as if admonishing them, that after having received the Apostleship, they should retire to look on their own consciences. Wherefore it is said, And they came into a house, and the multitude came together again, so that they could not eat bread. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (Vict. Ant. e Cat. in Marc.) Ungrateful indeed were the multitudes of princes, whom their pride hinders from knowledge, but the grateful multitude of the people came to Jesus. BEDE. (ubi sup.) And blessed indeed the concourse of the crowd, flocking together, whose anxiety to obtain salvation was so great, that they left not the Author of salvation even an hour free to take food. But Him, whom a crowd of strangers loves to follow, his relations hold in little esteem: for it goes on: And when his friends heard of it, they went out to lay hold upon him. For since they could not take in the depth of wisdom, which they heard, they thought that He was speaking in a senseless way, wherefore it continues, for they said, He is beside himself. THEOPHYLACT. That is, He has a devil and is mad, and therefore they wished to lay hold upon Him, that they might shut Him up as one who had a devil. And even His friends wished to do this, that is, His relations, perchance His countrymen, or His brethren. 1But it was a silly insanity in them, to conceive that the Worker of such great miracles of Divine Wisdom had become mad. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Now there is a great difference between those who do not understand the word of God from slowness of intellect, such as those, who are here spoken of, and those who purposely blaspheme, of whom it is added, And the Scribes which came down from Jerusalem, &c. For what they could not deny, they endeavour to pervert by a malicious interpretation, as if they were not the works of God, but of a most unclean spirit, that is, of Beelzebub, who was the God of Ekron. For ‘Beel’ means Baal himself, and ‘zebub’ a fly; the meaning of Beelzebub therefore is the man of flies, on account of the filth of the blood which was offered, from which most unclean rite, they call him prince of the devils, adding, and by the prince of the devils casteth he out devils.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  Running her fingers through her hair, Rosa seemed to be trying to groom herself. “Aren’t you hungry?” Martin persisted. “No.” I was fascinated by this interchange. Since everyone always tiptoes around eating-disorder patients (so defensive, so fragile, so much denial), I had never before witnessed an anorexic patient being confronted so boldly. “I’m always hungry,” Martin said. “You should have seen what I had for breakfast today: around twelve pancakes, eggs, two orange juices.” He paused, hesitated. “Don’t eat? Haven’t you ever had an appetite?” “No. Not as far back as I can remember. I don’t like to eat.” “Don’t like to eat?” I could see Martin struggling to get his mind around this concept. He was genuinely baffled—as though he had just met someone who didn’t enjoy breathing. “I’ve always eaten a lot. Always liked to eat. When my folks took me for a ride in the car, they always had peanuts and potato chips. In fact, that was my nickname.” “What was?” asked Rosa, who had turned her chair slightly toward Martin. “Mr. Crisp. My mom and dad came from England and called potato chips ‘crisps.’ That’s what they called me, Mr. Crisp. They liked to go down to the harbor to watch the big ships come in. ‘Come along, Mr. Crisp,’ they’d say, ‘let’s all go for a ride.’ And I’d run out to our car—we had the only car on the block. Of course I had good legs then. Just like you, Rosa.” Martin leaned forward in his wheelchair and peered down. “You look like you got good legs—a little skinny, though, no meat on ’em. I used to love to run—” Martin’s voice trailed off. Puzzlement furrowed his face as he pulled the sheet around him. ‘“Don’t like to eat,’” he repeated as if to himself. “I always liked food. I think you missed a lot of fun.” At this point Magnolia, who, true to her agenda, had been listening intently to Martin, spoke up: “Rosa, chile, Ah just reminded me of when mah Darnell was small. Sometimes he wouldn’t eat either. And you know what Ah used to do? Change the scenery! We’d get in the car and drive into Georgia—we lived right near the border. And he’d eat in Georgia. Lawd, how he ate in Georgia! We used to josh him about his Georgia appetite. Honey”—here Magnolia leaned toward Rosa and dropped her voice to a loud whisper—”maybe you ought to leave California to eat. ” Trying to mine something therapeutic from this discussion, I stopped the action (in the jargon, I called for a “process check”) and asked the members to reflect upon their own interaction. “Rosa, how are you feeling about what’s happening now in the group, about Martin’s and Magnolia’s questions?” “Questions are okay—I don’t mind them. And I like Martin—” “Could you speak directly to him?”

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  Things haven’t been helped by the tendency in some quarters first to regard the Bible as a book of “moral examples” and then to express shock and alarm when a significant number of the stories, particularly but not exclusively in the Old Testament, display various characters behaving extremely badly. The book of Judges provides several examples (Jephthah and his daughter, for a start), but there are many others. Often it seems to be the women who come off worst: a daughter killed, a concubine raped and murdered, a slave girl treated as a substitute wife and then sent packing with her child. In fact, of course, the Bible was not written as a collection of “moral examples” in the first place. The stories are regularly told in quite a sophisticated way, nudging alert readers into seeing serious and complex underlying patterns and narratives that warn against simplistic readings and that, indeed, encourage them to draw conclusions beyond anything stated on the surface of the text. But this both does and doesn’t help. People naturally ask: Does the Bible justify violence? And, in particular: Is the death of Jesus a supreme example of the God of the Bible using violence—violence, it seems, against his own son!—as a way of achieving his purposes? (I once heard that argument made explicitly in the 1970s by some who wanted to use violence to oppose South African apartheid; they were saying, in effect, if God could do it, so can we.) Even supposing those purposes are ultimately loving and aimed at rescuing people, is this an appropriate way for the one true God to behave? These questions come to a head when some preachers and teachers present the meaning of the cross in relation to punishment. Here we have to be careful. There are many ways of talking about the “punishment of sin” and how that might relate to the event of Jesus’s death. At least one of those ways is clearly taught in the Bible, but it means something significantly different from what many people suppose—many, that is, of those who teach it and many who oppose it. But another way in which the cross has been interpreted in connection with “punishment” has been very popular in some quarters. In this view, God hates sinners so much that he is determined to punish them, but Jesus more or less happens to get in the way and take the death blow on their behalf, so they are somehow spared. It would (I think) be difficult to find a work of serious theology in any tradition that puts the matter as baldly as that.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  S. Lewis’s Narnia stories, Lucy, the younger of the two heroines, finds herself in a magician’s house. There she browses through an extraordinary book full of magic spells and comes upon a wonderful story. Lucy reads it with excitement and delight, but then finds that she can’t quite remember it all—and when she tries to turn back the page to refresh her memory, she finds it’s impossible. As the memory fades, all she can cling to is that “it was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill”; and ever afterward what Lucy meant by “a good story” was a story that reminded her of the one she had read in the magic book. I suspect—from conversations with many readers over the years—that plenty of people who read the Bible have that sort of feeling about Paul’s Letter to the Romans. It’s about righteousness and faith and love and wrath and God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit and Adam and Abraham and Moses and Israel. At times it sweeps you along on a tide of extraordinary writing and glorious hope, while at other times it plunges you not only into gloom, but into serious puzzles, knotty intellectual problems, and arguments that will make you wonder whether St. Paul is losing his balance or whether, perhaps, you are the one losing your balance—which would hardly be surprising with all that complexity. And yet at the heart of it, particularly in chapters 5–8, Romans sums up in a few sentences what the early Christians wanted to say about the death of Jesus: Jesus our Lord . . . was handed over because of our trespasses and raised because of our justification. (4:24–25) This is how God demonstrates his own love for us: the Messiah died for us while we were still sinners. (5:8) You too died to the law through the body of the Messiah, so that you could belong to someone else—to the one who was raised from the dead, in fact—so that we could bear fruit for God. (7:4) And then in more detail: God sent his own son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and as a sin-offering; and, right there in the flesh, he condemned sin. This was in order that the right and proper verdict of the law could be fulfilled in us, as we live not according to the flesh but according to the spirit. (8:3–4) And in a glorious climax: If God is for us, who is against us? God, after all, did not spare his own son; he gave him up for us all!