Grief

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 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Momma, always self-conscious at public displays of emotions not traceable to a religious source, told me to come with her and we'd bring the bread and bowls. She carried the food and I trailed after her, bringing the kerosene lamp. The new light set the room in an eerie, harsh perspective. Bailey still sat, doubled over his book, a Black hunchbacked gnome. A finger forerunning his eyes along the page. Uncle Willie and Mr. Taylor were frozen like people in a book on the history of the American Negro. “Now, come on, Brother Taylor.” Momma was pressing a bowl of soup on him. “You may not be hungry, but take this for nourishment.” Her voice had the tender concern of a healthy person speaking to an invalid, and her plain statement rang thrillingly true: “I'm thankful.” Bailey came out of his absorption and went to wash his hands. “Willie, say the blessing.” Momma set Bailey's bowl down and bowed her head. During grace, Bailey stood in the doorway, a figure of obedience, but I knew his mind was on Tom Sawyer and Jim as mine would have been on Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, but for the glittering eyes of wizened old Mr. Taylor. Our guest dutifully took a few spoonfuls of soup and bit a semicircle in the bread, then put his bowl on the floor. Something in the fire held his attention as we ate noisily. Noticing his withdrawal, Momma said, “It don't do for you to take on so, I know you all was together a long time—” Uncle Willie said, “Forty years.” “-but it's been around six months since she's gone to her rest ... and you got to keep faith. He never gives us more than we can bear.” The statement heartened Mr. Taylor. He picked up his bowl again and raked his spoon through the thick soup. Momma saw that she had made some contact, so she went on, “You had a whole lot of good years. Got to be grateful for them. Only thing is, it's a pity you all didn't have some children.” If my head had been down I would have missed Mr. Taylor's metamorphosis. It was not a change that came by steps but rather, it seemed to me, of a sudden. His bowl was on the floor with a thud, and his body leaned toward Momma from the hips. However, his face was the most striking feature of all. The brown expanse seemed to darken with life, as if an inner agitation played under his thin skin. The mouth, opened to show the long teeth, was a dark room furnished with a few white chairs. “Children.” He gum-balled the word around in his empty mouth. “Yes, sir, children.” Bailey (and I), used to be addressed so, looked at him expectantly. “That's what she want.” His eyes were vital, and straining to jump from the imprisoning sockets. “That's what she said. Children.” The air was weighted and thick.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  A crawling, bedraggled streak of red fur, with tongue lolling, with agonized lungs filled to bursting, with the desperate eyes of the hopelessly pursued, bright with terror and glancing now this way now that as though looking for something; and the thought came to Stephen: ‘It’s looking for God Who made it.’ At that moment she felt an imperative need to believe that the stricken beast had a Maker, and her own eyes grew bright, but with blinding tears because of her mighty need to believe, a need that was sharper than physical pain, being born of the pain of the spirit. The thing was dragging its brush in the dust, it was limping, and Stephen sprang to the ground. She held out her hands to the unhappy creature, filled with the will to succour and protect it, but the fox mistrusted her merciful hands, and it crept away into a little coppice. And now in a deathly and awful silence the hounds swept past her, their muzzles to ground. After them galloped Colonel Antrim, crouching low in his saddle, avoiding the branches, and after him came a couple of huntsmen with the few bold riders who had stayed that stiff run. Then a savage clamour broke out in the coppice as the hounds gave tongue in their wild jubilation, and Stephen well knew that that sound meant death—very slowly she remounted Raftery. Riding home, she felt utterly spent and bewildered. Her thoughts were full of her father again—he seemed very near, incredibly near her. For a moment she thought that she heard his voice, but when she bent sideways trying to listen, all was silence, except for the tired rhythm of Raftery’s hooves on the road. As her brain grew calmer, it seemed to Stephen that her father had taught her all that she knew. He had taught her courage and truth and honour in his life, and in death he had taught her mercy—the mercy that he had lacked he had taught her through the mighty adventure of death. With a sudden illumination of vision, she perceived that all life is only one life, that all joy and all sorrow are indeed only one, that all death is only one dying. And she knew that because she had seen a man die in great suffering, yet with courage and love that are deathless, she could never again inflict wanton destruction or pain upon any poor, hapless creature. And so it was that by dying to Stephen, Sir Philip would live on in the attribute of mercy that had come that day to his child. But the body is still very far from the spirit, and it clings to the primitive joys of the earth—to the sun and the wind and the good rolling grass- lands, to the swift elation of reckless movement, so that Stephen, feeling Raftery between her strong knees, was suddenly filled with regret.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen never knew how they got her away while the nurse performed the last merciful duties. But when flowers had been placed in Barbara’s hands, and Mary had lighted a couple of candles, then Jamie went back and stared quietly down at the small, waxen face that lay on the pillow; and she turned to the nurse: ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, ‘I think you’ve done all that there is to do—and now I suppose you’ll want to be going?’ The nurse glanced at Stephen. ‘It’s all right, we’ll stay. I think perhaps—if you don’t mind, nurse . . .’ ‘Very well, it must be as you wish, Miss Gordon.’ When she had gone Jamie veered round abruptly and walked back into the empty studio. Then all in a moment the floodgates gave way and she wept and she wept like a creature demented. Bewailing the life of hardship and exile that had sapped Barbara’s strength and weakened her spirit; bewailing the cruel dispensation of fate that had forced them to leave their home in the Highlands; bewailing the terrible thing that is death to those who, still loving, must look upon it. Yet all the exquisite pain of this parting seemed as nothing to an anguish that was far more subtle: ‘I can’t mourn her without bringing shame on her name—I can’t go back home now and mourn her,’ wailed Jamie; ‘oh, and I want to go back to Beedles, I want to be home among our own people—I want them to know how much I loved her. Oh God, oh God! I can’t even mourn her, and I want to grieve for her home there in Beedles.’ What could they speak but inadequate words: ‘Jamie, don’t, don’t! You loved each other—isn’t that something? Remember that, Jamie.’ They could only speak the inadequate words that are given to people on such occasions. But after a while the storm seemed to pass, Jamie seemed to grow suddenly calm and collected: ‘You two,’ she said gravely, ‘I want to thank you for all you’ve been to Barbara and me.’ Mary started crying. ‘Don’t cry,’ said Jamie. The evening came. Stephen lighted the lamp, then she made up the stove while Mary laid the supper. Jamie ate a little, and she actually smiled when Stephen poured her out a weak whiskey. ‘Drink it, Jamie—it may help you to get some sleep.’ Jamie shook her head: ‘I shall sleep without it—but I want to be left alone to-night, Stephen.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She wept and she wept without any restraint, scarcely knowing what she said—at that moment not caring. And Sir Philip listened with his head on his hand, and Anna listened bewildered and dumbfounded. She tried to kiss Stephen, to hold her to her, but Stephen, still sobbing, pushed her away; in this orgy of grief she resented consolation, so that in the end Anna took her to the nursery and delivered her over to the care of Mrs. Bingham, feeling that the child did not want her. When Anna went quietly back to the study, Sir Philip was still sitting with his head on his hand. She said: ‘It’s time you realized, Philip, that if you’re Stephen’s father, I’m her mother. So far you’ve managed the child your own way, and I don’t think it’s been successful. You’ve treated Stephen as though she were a boy—perhaps it’s because I’ve not given you a son—’ Her voice trembled a little but she went on gravely: ‘It’s not good for Stephen; I know it’s not good, and at times it frightens me, Philip.’ ‘No, no!’ he said sharply. But Anna persisted: ‘Yes, Philip, at times it makes me afraid—I can’t tell you why, but it seems all wrong—it makes me feel—strange with the child.’ He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: ‘Can’t you trust me? Won’t you try to trust me, Anna?’ But Anna shook her head: ‘I don’t understand, why shouldn’t you trust me, Philip?’ And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir Philip committed the first cowardly action of his life—he who would not have spared himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on Anna. In his infinite pity for Stephen’s mother, he sinned very deeply and gravely against Stephen, by withholding from that mother his own conviction that her child was not as other children. ‘There’s nothing for you to understand,’ he said firmly, ‘but I like you to trust me in all things.’ After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip very quiet and reassuring . ‘I’ve wanted her to have a healthy body,’ he explained, ‘that’s why I’ve let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we’d better have a governess now, as you say; a French governess, my dear, if you’d prefer one—Later on I’ve always meant to engage a bluestocking, some woman who’s been to Oxford. I want Stephen to have the finest education that care and money can give her.’

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  The conviction of the writer to the Hebrews was that, if under the old law rejection of the faith was a terrible thing, it had become doubly terrible now that Christ had come. He gives us three definitions of sin. (1) Sin is to trample Christ underfoot . It is not mere rebelliousness against law; it is the wounding of love. It is possible to stand almost any physical attack; the thing that brings submission is a broken heart. It is told that, in the days of the Nazi terror, there was a man in Germany who was arrested, tried, tortured and put into a concentration camp. He faced it all with gallantry and emerged upright and unbroken. Then, by accident, he discovered who it was who had produced the information against him – it was his own son. The discovery broke him, and he died. Attack by an enemy he could bear; attack by one whom he loved killed him. When Caesar was about to be murdered, he faced his assassins with almost disdainful courage. But when he saw the hand of his friend Brutus raised to strike, he wrapped his head in his mantle and died. Once Christ had come, the awfulness of sin lay not in its breaking of the law but in its trampling of the love of Christ underfoot. (2) Sin is the failure to see the sacredness of sacred things . Nothing produces a shudder like sacrilege. The writer to the Hebrews says in effect: ‘Look at what has been done for you; look at the shed blood and the broken body of Christ; look at what your new relationship to God cost; can you treat it as if it did not matter? Don’t you see what a sacred thing it is?’ Sin is the failure to realize the sacredness of that sacrifice upon the cross. (3) Sin is the insult to the Holy Spirit . The Holy Spirit speaks within us, telling us what is right and wrong, seeking to check us when we are on the way to sin and to spur us on when we are drifting into lethargy. To disregard these voices is to insult the Spirit and to grieve the heart of God. All through this, one thing comes out. Sin is not disobedience to an impersonal law; it is the wrecking of a personal relationship and the wounding of the heart of the God whose name is Father. The writer to the Hebrews finishes his appeal with a threat. He quotes Deuteronomy 32:35–6, where the sternness of God is clearly seen. At the heart of Christianity, there is always a threat. To remove that threat is to diminish the effectiveness of the faith. Ultimately, it is not the same for the good and the bad alike.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  brought by the devil upon Job, the representations in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, incidents from the Apocrypha and the cases of demonic agency in the New Testament were dwelt upon and applied with literal and relentless rigor. It is a long chapter which begins with the lonely contests the old hermits had with demons, recounts the personal encounters of mediaeval monks in chapel and cell and relates the horrors of the inquisitorial process for heresy. Our more rational processes of thought and our better understanding of the Christian law of love happily have brought this chapter to a close in enlightened countries. The treatment here given has been in order to show how greatly a Christian society may err, and to confirm in this generation the feeling of gratitude for the better sentiments which now prevail. It is perhaps also clue to those who suffered, that a general description of the injustice done them should be given. The chapter may not unfitly be brought to a close by allowing one of the victims to speak again from his prison-cell, the burgomaster of Bamberg, though he suffered a century after the Middle Ages had closed, 1628. After being confronted by false witnesses he confessed, under torture, to having indulged in the practices ascribed to the bewitched and he thus wrote to his daughter: — Many hundred good nights, dearly beloved daughter, Veronica. Innocent have I come into prison, innocent must I die. For whoever comes into a witch- prison must become a witch or be tortured till he invents something out of his head and—God pity him—bethinks himself of something. I will tell you how it has gone with me .... Then came the executioner and put the thumbscrews on me, both hands bound together, so that the blood ran out at the nails and everywhere, so that for four weeks I could not use my hands, as you can see from the writing .... Then they stripped me, bound my hands behind my back and drew me up. I thought heaven and earth were at an end. Eight times did they do this and let me drop again so that I suffered terrible agony .... [Here follows a rehearsal of the confessions he was induced to make.] ... Now, dear child, you have all my confessions for which I must die. They are sheer lies made up. All this I was forced to say through fear of the rack, for they never leave off the torture till one confesses something .... Dear child, keep this letter secret so that people may not find it or else I shall be tortured most piteously and the jailers be beheaded .... I have taken several days to write this for my hands are both lame. Good night, for your father Johannes Junius will never see you more.952 Innocent VIII’s Bull, Summit desiderantes. December 5, 1484: In Part:953 Innocentius episcopus, servus servorum dei, ad perpetuam rei memoriam.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The integrity of the supreme seat of Christendom was at stake. A prophetic function superior to the papacy Eugenius III. might recognize, when it was administered in the admonitions of a St. Bernard, but the Florentine prophet had engaged in denunciation even to personal invective. The prophet was losing his balance. On May 12,1497, for "his failure to obey our Apostolic admonitions and commands" and as "one suspected of heresy" Alexander declared him excommunicate. All were forbidden to listen to the condemned man or have converse with him.1191 In a letter addressed a month later "to all Christians, the elect of God," Savonarola again affirmed his readiness to yield to the Church’s authority, but denied that he was bound to submit to the commands of his superiors when these were in conflict with charity and God’s law. "Henceforth," exclaimed the Puritan contemporary, Landucci, "we were deprived of the Word of God." The signory wrote to Alexander in support of Savonarola, affirming his purity of character and soundness of doctrine, and friends, like Pico della Mirandola the younger, issued defences of his conduct. The elder Pico della Mirandola and Politian, both of whom had died a year or two before, showed their reverence for Savonarola by assuming the Dominican garb on their death-beds. At this time, Savonarola sent forth his Triumph of the Cross, in which were set forth the verity and reasonableness of the Catholic faith.1192 After proving from pure reason God’s existence and the soul’s immortality, the work proceeds to expound the Trinity, which is above man’s reason, and articles of the Apostles’ Creed, and to set forth the superior excellency of the lives of Christians, on which much stress is laid. It closes with a confutation of Mohammedanism and other false forms of religion. Savonarola kept silence in the pulpit and refrained from the celebration of the sacrament until Christmas day of 1497, when he celebrated the mass at St. Mark’s three times. On the 11th of February, he stood again in the pulpit of the duomo. To a vast concourse he represented the priest as merely an instrument of the Almighty and, when God withdraws His presence, prelate and pope are but as "a broken iron tool." "And, if a prelate commands what is contrary to godly living and charity, he is not only not to be obeyed but deserves to be anathema." On another occasion, he said that not only may the pope be led into error by false reports but also by his own badness, as was the case with Boniface VIII. who was a wicked pope, beginning his pontificate like a fox and ending it like a dog.1193 Many, through reverence for the Church, kept away from Savonarola’s preaching from this time on. Among these was the faithful Landucci, who says, "whether justly or unjustly, I was among those who did not go.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  hastened at daybreak to the temple without even taking time to bid his mother farewell. As he Stood in the chief entrance to the temple, which was in the form of a low tower, several people Started talking noisily about Hara-kiri. They said: 'Early this morning a young samurai is coming here to kill himself. They say that he is very beautiful. Even an ugly son is dear to his parents; the father and mother of this young samurai will be smitten with despair at realising that so accomplished a son must die. Surely it is a pity to kill such a splendid young man.' Uneme could hardly restrain his tears on hearing these people. The temple quickly filled, and he hid himself behind a door and waited for the arrival of his darling Ukyo. Shortly after, a fine new litter was seen to approach, borne by several men, surrounded by guards. It Sopped opposite the door, and Ukyo descended from it with the utmost calmness. He was wearing a white silk garment embroidered with autumn flowers, having pale blue facings* and a skirt. He Stopped for a moment and looked about him. On the tombs were some thousands of wooden tablets bearing the names of those who were buried there. Among them rose a wild cherry tree with white blossom on the upper branches only. Ukyo looked at the pale, fading flowers, and softly murmured an old Chinese poem: The flowers wait for next Spring, Trusting that the same hands shall caress them. But men's hearts will no longer he the same, And you will only know that everything changes, 0 poor lovers. The seat destined for the Hara-kiri had been placed in the garden of the temple. Ukyo calmly seated himself on the gold-bordered mats and summoned his attendant, whose duty it was to cut off the condemned man's head to shorten his suffering after he had manipulated the dagger in his belly. This attendant's name was Kajuyu Kitji Kawa, and he was a courtier of the same Lord, Ukyo cut off the wonderful locks of his hair, put them in a white paper and gave them to Kajuyu, praying him to send them to his venerable mother at Horikawa in Kyoto as a keepsake. The priest then began to pray for the salvation of Ukyo's soul. Ukyo said: 'Beauty in this world cannot endure for long. I am glad to die while I am young and beautiful, and before my countenance fades like a flower.' Then he took a green paper from his sleeve and wrote his farewell poem upon it. This was his poem: I loved the beauty of flowers in springtime; In autumn the glory of the moon Was my delight; But now that I am looking upon death face to my face, These joys are vanishing; They were all dreams. Then he thrust the knife into his belly, and Kajuyu at once Struck off his head from behind. At that moment Uneme ran to the mats and cried: 'Finish me also,' and pierced himself. Kajuyu Struck off his head. Ukyo was sixteen years old, and Uneme eighteen. The tombs of these two young men remained for a long time in the temple, and Ukyo's farewell poem was inscribed on their joint Stones. On the seven teenth day after their death, Samanosuke also died by Hara-kiri, leaving a letter to say that he could not survive his lovers' death. Such was the tragedy of these young men who died for love.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The first stars were shining, but as yet very faintly, when she found herself driving through the gates of Morton. Heard Puddle’s voice calling: ‘Wait a minute. Stop, Stephen!’ Saw Puddle barring her way in the drive, a tiny yet dauntless figure. She pulled up with a jerk: ‘What’s the matter? What is it?’ ‘Where have you been?’ ‘I—don’t know, Puddle.’ But Puddle had clambered in beside her: ‘Listen, Stephen,’ and now she was talking very fast, ‘listen, Stephen—is it—is it Angela Crossby? It is. I can see the thing in your face. My God, what’s that woman done to you, Stephen?’ Then Stephen, in spite of the corpse against her heart, or perhaps because of it, defended the woman: ‘She’s done nothing at all—it was all my fault, but you wouldn’t understand—I got very angry and then I laughed and couldn’t stop laughing—’ Steady—go steady! She was telling too much: ‘No—it wasn’t that exactly. Oh, you know my vile temper, it always goes off at half cock for nothing. Well, then I just drove round and round the country until I cooled down. I’m sorry, Puddle, I ought to have rung up, of course you’ve been anxious.’ Puddle gripped her arm: ‘Stephen, listen, it’s your mother—she thinks that you started quite early for Worcester, I lied—I’ve been nearly distracted, child. If you hadn’t come soon, I’d have had to tell her that I didn’t know where you were. You must never, never go off without a word like this again—But I do understand, oh, I do indeed, Stephen.’ But Stephen shook her head: ‘No, my dear, you couldn’t—and I’d rather not tell you, Puddle.’ ‘Some day you must tell me,’ said Puddle, ‘because—well, because I do understand, Stephen.’ 4That night the weight against Stephen’s heart, with its icy coldness, melted; and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief that she could not stand up against that torrent, so that drowning though she was she found pen and paper, and she wrote to Angela Crossby.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She hardly ever opposed her daughter these days in matters concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging the sale had been Stephen’s; one by one she had said good-bye to the hunters, one by one she had watched them led out of the yard, with a lump in her throat that had almost choked her, and when they were gone she had turned back to Raftery for comfort. ‘Oh, Raftery, I’m so unregenerate—I minded so terribly seeing them go! Don’t let’s look at their empty boxes—’ 2 Another year passed and Stephen was twenty-one, a rich, independent woman. At any time now she could go where she chose, could do entirely as she listed. Puddle remained at her post; she was waiting a little grimly for something to happen. But nothing much happened, beyond the fact that Stephen now dressed in tailor-made clothes to which Anna had perforce to withdraw her opposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting its claims on the girl, which was only natural, for the young may not be delivered over to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She still mourned her father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-one with a healthful body, there came a day when she noticed the sunshine, when she smelt the good earth and was thankful for it, when she suddenly knew herself to be alive and was glad, in despite of death. On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car into Upton. She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she was meaning to call at the local saddler’s, she was meaning to buy a new pair of gloves—in the end, however, she did none of these things. It was outside the butcher’s that the dog fight started. The butcher owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white West Highland terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car and turned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher ran out to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one obeyed; he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short and not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed from nowhere at all, there suddenly appeared a very desperate young woman; she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance with which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above the dog’s yells: ‘Tony! My Tony! Won’t anyone stop them? My dog’s being killed, won’t any of you stop them?’

• From How to Read the Bible and Still Be a Christian (2015)

  The later Babylonian version dates to around 700 BCE and derives from the palace and temple libraries of Ashurbanipal, “King of the World, King of Assyria.” It is preserved today on twelve tablets in the British Library.3 In both of these Babylonian versions, Gilgamesh is the archetypal model for the tragic fact of human mortality—just as in those Sumerian laments that I have just discussed—but now he is also the paradigmatic example for the fruitless search for human immortality. For present convenience and focus, I summarize the epic’s content in three acts but I will emphasize the major difference between earlier and later Babylonian versions in Act III. In Act I, the protagonists are a heroic couple of male and male—the literary archetype for a hero and his sidekick. Gilgamesh is a human being created downward from the divine world, and Enkidu is a human being created upward from the animal world. The twinned twosome decide to obtain immortality by achieving eternal fame through heroic exploits in distant places. At first, all goes well, but then in Act II, tragedy strikes when Enkidu dies. Worse still than his death is the fact that he does not die exhausted by great endeavor or wounded in triumphant battle. He simply becomes sick, lingers in illness for days, and then dies—an ordinary, everyday, common death. Gilgamesh mourns inconsolably for his beloved friend, but even more, he mourns for himself: “Shall I die too? Am I not like Enkidu? Grief has entered my innermost being.” His mourning continues in that same dual fashion—for Enkidu and for himself: My friend whom I love so much, who experienced every hardship with me, Enkidu, . . . the fate of mortals conquered him. Six days and seven nights I wept over him. I did not allow him to be buried until a worm fell out of his nose. I was frightened and I am afraid of death, and so I roam open country. . . . Am I not like him? Must I lie down too, never to rise, ever again? This lament is repeated verbatim three times in the same tablet. The Epic of Gilgamesh and Enkidu has the honesty and integrity to face the truth: What does immortal reputation matter to a mortal human being? What Gilgamesh wants is eternal life, not just eternal fame. In Act III, Gilgamesh has reverted to Enkidu’s original state of roaming the wilderness as he laments his inconsolable grief across its trackless wastes. But maybe somewhere he can find the secret of eternal life for himself before it is too late. Here occurs a very significant divergence between earlier and later Babylonian versions of the epic. It is important for us to look at both, as the former clarifies the message of the latter. I begin with the earlier version and two admonitions lacking in the later one. Gilgamesh is first accosted by the Sun-God Shamash with this negative comment: “Gilgamesh, where do you roam?

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Momma, always self-conscious at public displays of emotions not traceable to a religious source, told me to come with her and we'd bring the bread and bowls. She carried the food and I trailed after her, bringing the kerosene lamp. The new light set the room in an eerie, harsh perspective. Bailey still sat, doubled over his book, a Black hunchbacked gnome. A finger forerunning his eyes along the page. Uncle Willie and Mr. Taylor were frozen like people in a book on the history of the American Negro. “Now, come on, Brother Taylor.” Momma was pressing a bowl of soup on him. “You may not be hungry, but take this for nourishment.” Her voice had the tender concern of a healthy person speaking to an invalid, and her plain statement rang thrillingly true: “I'm thankful.” Bailey came out of his absorption and went to wash his hands. “Willie, say the blessing.” Momma set Bailey's bowl down and bowed her head. During grace, Bailey stood in the doorway, a figure of obedience, but I knew his mind was on Tom Sawyer and Jim as mine would have been on Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, but for the glittering eyes of wizened old Mr. Taylor. Our guest dutifully took a few spoonfuls of soup and bit a semicircle in the bread, then put his bowl on the floor. Something in the fire held his attention as we ate noisily. Noticing his withdrawal, Momma said, “It don't do for you to take on so, I know you all was together a long time—” Uncle Willie said, “Forty years.” “-but it's been around six months since she's gone to her rest … and you got to keep faith. He never gives us more than we can bear.” The statement heartened Mr. Taylor. He picked up his bowl again and raked his spoon through the thick soup. Momma saw that she had made some contact, so she went on, “You had a whole lot of good years. Got to be grateful for them. Only thing is, it's a pity you all didn't have some children.” If my head had been down I would have missed Mr. Taylor's metamorphosis. It was not a change that came by steps but rather, it seemed to me, of a sudden. His bowl was on the floor with a thud, and his body leaned toward Momma from the hips. However, his face was the most striking feature of all. The brown expanse seemed to darken with life, as if an inner agitation played under his thin skin. The mouth, opened to show the long teeth, was a dark room furnished with a few white chairs. “Children.” He gum-balled the word around in his empty mouth. “Yes, sir, children.” Bailey (and I), used to be addressed so, looked at him expectantly. “That's what she want.” His eyes were vital, and straining to jump from the imprisoning sockets. “That's what she said. Children.”

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  All that goes back to a ritual which is only of historical interest. But, behind it, there is an eternal principle – forgiveness is a costly thing. Human forgiveness is costly. A son or a daughter may go wrong and a father or a mother may forgive; but that forgiveness brings tears, whiteness to the hair, lines to the face, a cutting anguish and then a long, dull ache to the heart. It does not cost nothing. Divine forgiveness is costly. God is love – but he is also holiness. He, least of all, can break the great moral laws on which the universe is built. Sin must have its punishment, or the very structure of life disintegrates. And God alone can pay the terrible price that is necessary before we can be forgiven. Forgiveness is never a case of saying: ‘It’s all right; it doesn’t matter.’ It is the most costly thing in the world. Without the shedding of the heart’s blood, there can be no forgiveness of sins. Nothing brings people to their senses with such arresting violence as seeing the effect of their sin on someone who loves them in this world or on the God who loves them forever, and to say to themselves: ‘It cost that to forgive my sin.’ Where there is forgiveness, someone must be crucified. THE PERFECT PURIFICATIONHebrews 9:23–8 So, then, if it was necessary that the things which are copies of the heavenly realities should be cleansed by processes like these, it is necessary that the heavenly realities themselves should be cleansed by finer sacrifices than those of which we have been thinking. It is not into a man-made sanctuary that Christ has entered – that would be a mere symbol of the things which are real. It is into heaven itself that he entered, now to appear on our behalf before the presence of God. It is not that he has to offer himself repeatedly, as the high priest year by year enters into the holy place with a blood that is not his own. Were that so, he would have had to suffer again and again since the world was founded. But now, as things are, once and for all, at the end of the ages, he has appeared with his sacrifice of himself so that our sins should be cancelled. And, just as it is laid down for men to die once and for all and then to face the judgment, so Christ, after being once and for all sacrificed to bear the burden of the sins of many, will appear a second time, not this time to deal with sin, but for the salvation of those who are waiting for him.

• From How to Read the Bible and Still Be a Christian (2015)

  The unequal struggle awaits you now. The skirmish from which there is no escape awaits you now. Even though the Gods consult together about him, review his heroic exploits, and ponder making him an exception, nothing can save Gilgamesh. The only human granted immortality is the flood hero, Ziudsura (Sumer’s Noah), because he had saved life on Earth in his great boat. There can be no other exceptions—not even for Gilgamesh. In the lament section, all of that is repeated but with emphasis on the contrast between even the most absolutely extraordinary life and an absolutely ordinary death: The great wild bull has lain down and is never to rise again. Lord Gilgamesh has lain down and is never to rise again. He who was unique in . . . has lain down and is never to rise again. The hero fitted out with a shoulder-belt has lain down and is never to rise again. He who was unique in strength has lain down and is never to rise again. He who diminished wickedness has lain down and is never to rise again. He who spoke most wisely has lain down and is never to rise again. The plunderer (?) of many countries has lain down and is never to rise again. He who knew how to climb the mountains has lain down and is never to rise again. The lord of Kulaba has lain down and is never to rise again. He has lain down on his death-bed and is never to rise again. He has lain down on a couch of sighs and is never to rise again. These motifs of dream and lament already contain the core problem of the later Epic of Gilgamesh: the challenge of human mortality, especially as personified in the hero who lives an extraordinary life but dies an ordinary death—just like everyone else. It is probable, by the way, that those various Sumerian stories were integrated into an overarching epic only as the non-Semitic Sumerian language gave way to the Semitic Akkadian language and its twin dialects of Babylonian and Assyrian. Be that as it may, and granted at least its Sumerian bases, I turn now to look at the Epic of Gilgamesh or, to name it more accurately, the Epic of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. That great epic, that base narrative for entertainment and education from the Persian Gulf to the Levantine coast, is my matrix in this chapter for correctly understanding Genesis 2–3. The epic is extant today in two major versions. The earlier Babylonian version dates to around 2000 BCE and derives from four tablets preserved in separate museums around the world.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  “Maya, if you want to leave now, come on. I'll take care of you.” He didn't wait for an answer, but as quickly went back to speaking to his soul. “She won't miss me, and I sure as hell won't miss her. To hell with her and everybody else.” He had finished jamming his shoes on top of his shirts and ties, and socks were wadded into the pillowcase. He remembered me again. “Maya, you can have my books.” My tears were not for Bailey or Mother or even myself but for the helplessness of mortals who live on the sufferance of Life. In order to avoid this bitter end, we would all have to be born again, and born with the knowledge of alternatives. Even then? Bailey grabbed up the lumpy pillowcase and pushed by me for the stairs. As the front door slammed, the record player downstairs mastered the house and Nat King Cole warned the world to “straighten up and fly right.” As if they could, as if human beings could make a choice. Mother's eyes were red, and her face puffy, the next morning, but she smiled her “everything is everything” smile and turned in tight little moons, making breakfast, talking business and brightening the corner where she was. No one mentioned Bailey's absence as if things were as they should be and always were. The house was smudged with unspoken thoughts and it was necessary to go to my room to breathe. I believed I knew where he headed the night before, and made up my mind to find him and offer him my support. In the afternoon I went to a bay-windowed house which boasted ROOMS, in green and orange letters, through the glass. A woman of any age past thirty answered my ring and said Bailey Johnson was at the top of the stairs. His eyes were as red as Mother's had been, but his face had loosened a little from the tightness of the night before. In an almost formal manner I was invited into a room with a clean chenille-covered bed, an easy chair, a gas fireplace and a table. He began to talk, covering up the unusual situation that we found ourselves in. “Nice room, isn't it? You know it's very hard to find rooms now. The war and all ... Betty lives here [she was the white prostitute] and she got this place for me ... Maya, you know, it's better this way ... I mean, I'm a man, and I have to be on my own ...” I was furious that he didn't curse and abuse the Fates or Mother or at least act put upon. “Well”—I thought to start it—“If Mother was really a mother, she wouldn't have—” He stopped me, his little black hand held up as if I were to read his palm. “Wait, Maya, she was right.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  Hence he did receive him back, which is a parable of the resurrection. T HE Isaac story, told in Genesis 22:1–18, is that most dramatic account of how Abraham met the supreme test of the demand for the life of his own son. To some extent, this story has fallen into disrepute. Some people argue that it presents an unacceptable view of God. Or it is held that the point of the story is that it was in this way that Abraham learned that God did not desire human sacrifice. No doubt that is true; but, if we want to see this story at its greatest and as the writer to the Hebrews saw it, we must take it at its face value. It shows the response of a man who was asked to offer his own son to God. (1) This story teaches us that we must be ready to sacrifice what is dearest to us for the sake of loyalty to God. There have been many who have sacrificed their careers to what they took to be the will of God. J . P . Struthers was the minister of the Reformed Presbyterian Church in Greenock, a little congregation which, it is neither false nor unkind to say, had a great past but no future. Had he been willing to forsake this church, any pulpit in the land was open to him and the most dazzling ecclesiastical rewards were his; but he sacrificed them all for the sake of what he considered to be loyalty to God’s will. Sometimes, people may have to sacrifice personal relationships. They may feel called by God to a task in a sphere which is difficult and in a place that is unattractive, and it may be that the person they hoped to marry will not face it with them. They must choose between the will of God and the relationship which means so much to them. When John Bunyan was in prison, he was thinking of what would happen to his family if he was executed. In particular, the thought of his little blind daughter, who was so dear to him, haunted him: ‘O,’ he said, ‘I saw in this condition I was a man who was pulling down his house upon the head of his wife and children; yet, thought I, I must do it, I must do it.’ In words from William Cowper’s hymn ‘O for a closer walk with God’: The dearest idol I have known, Whate’er that idol be, Help me to tear it from thy throne, And worship only thee. Abraham was the man who would sacrifice even the dearest thing in life for God.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  First, let us take the things that can be explained against the Old Testament background. In the lives of Elijah (1 Kings 17:17ff.) and of Elisha (2 Kings 4:8ff.), we read how, by the power and the faith of the prophets, women did receive back again their children who had died. Second Chronicles 24:20– 2 tells how the prophet Zechariah was stoned by his own people because he told them the truth. Legend had it that, down in Egypt, Jeremiah was stoned to death by his fellow Israelites. Jewish legend tells that Isaiah was sawn in two. Hezekiah, the good king, died; and Manasseh came to the throne. He worshipped idols and tried to compel Isaiah to take part in his idolatry and to approve of it. Isaiah refused and was condemned to be sawn in two with a wooden saw. While his enemies tried to make him renounce his faith, he steadfastly defied them and prophesied their doom. ‘And while the saw cut into his flesh, Isaiah uttered no complaint and shed no tears; but he ceased not to commune with the Holy Spirit till the saw had cloven him to the middle of his body.’ Even more, the mind of the writer to the Hebrews goes back over the terrible days of the Maccabaean struggle. That is a struggle of which every Christian should know something; for, if in these times of bloodshed the Jews had surrendered their faith, Jesus could not have come. The story is like this. About the year 170 BC, there was on the throne of Syria a king called Antiochus Epiphanes. He was a good governor, but he had an almost abnormal love for all things Greek, and saw himself as a missionary for the Greek way of life. He tried to introduce this into Palestine. He had some success; there were those who were willing to accept Greek culture, Greek drama and Greek athletics. Greek athletes trained naked, and some of the Jewish priests even went so far as to seek to obliterate the mark of circumcision from their bodies so that they might become Greek in every respect. So far, Antiochus had succeeded only in causing a division in the nation; the greater part of the Jews were unshakably true to their faith and could not be moved. Force and violence had not yet been used. Then, in about 168 BC, the matter came to boiling point. Antiochus had an interest in Egypt. He gathered an army and invaded that country. To his deep humiliation, the Romans ordered him home. We have already seen just how this happened in our consideration of 3:1–6.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Momma, always self-conscious at public displays of emotions not traceable to a religious source, told me to come with her and we'd bring the bread and bowls. She carried the food and I trailed after her, bringing the kerosene lamp. The new light set the room in an eerie, harsh perspective. Bailey still sat, doubled over his book, a Black hunchbacked gnome. A finger forerunning his eyes along the page. Uncle Willie and Mr. Taylor were frozen like people in a book on the history of the American Negro. “Now, come on, Brother Taylor.” Momma was pressing a bowl of soup on him. “You may not be hungry, but take this for nourishment.” Her voice had the tender concern of a healthy person speaking to an invalid, and her plain statement rang thrillingly true: “I'm thankful.” Bailey came out of his absorption and went to wash his hands. “Willie, say the blessing.” Momma set Bailey's bowl down and bowed her head. During grace, Bailey stood in the doorway, a figure of obedience, but I knew his mind was on Tom Sawyer and Jim as mine would have been on Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, but for the glittering eyes of wizened old Mr. Taylor. Our guest dutifully took a few spoonfuls of soup and bit a semicircle in the bread, then put his bowl on the floor. Something in the fire held his attention as we ate noisily. Noticing his withdrawal, Momma said, “It don't do for you to take on so, I know you all was together a long time—” Uncle Willie said, “Forty years.” “-but it's been around six months since she's gone to her rest … and you got to keep faith. He never gives us more than we can bear.” The statement heartened Mr. Taylor. He picked up his bowl again and raked his spoon through the thick soup. Momma saw that she had made some contact, so she went on, “You had a whole lot of good years. Got to be grateful for them. Only thing is, it's a pity you all didn't have some children.” If my head had been down I would have missed Mr. Taylor's metamorphosis. It was not a change that came by steps but rather, it seemed to me, of a sudden. His bowl was on the floor with a thud, and his body leaned toward Momma from the hips. However, his face was the most striking feature of all. The brown expanse seemed to darken with life, as if an inner agitation played under his thin skin. The mouth, opened to show the long teeth, was a dark room furnished with a few white chairs. “Children.” He gum-balled the word around in his empty mouth. “Yes, sir, children.” Bailey (and I), used to be addressed so, looked at him expectantly. “That's what she want.” His eyes were vital, and straining to jump from the imprisoning sockets. “That's what she said. Children.” The air was weighted and thick.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  This is the inevitable problem with all attempts to portray trans women as “fake” females (whether media or feminist in origin): They require one to give different names, meanings, and values to the same behaviors depending on whether the person in question was born with a female or male body (or whether they are perceived to be a woman or a man). In other words, they require one to be sexist. When people insist that there are essential differences between women and men, they further a line of reasoning that ultimately refutes feminist ideals rather than supporting them. From my own experience in having transitioned from one sex to the other, I have found that women and men are not separated by an insurmountable chasm, as many people seem to believe. Actually, most of us are only a hormone prescription away from being perceived as the “opposite” sex. Personally, I welcome this idea as a testament to just how little difference there really is between women and men. To believe that a woman is a woman because of her sex chromosomes, reproductive organs, or socialization denies the reality that every single day, we classify each person we see as either female or male based on a small number of visual cues and a ton of assumption. The one thing that women share is that we are all perceived as women and treated accordingly. As a feminist, I look forward to a time when we finally move beyond the idea that biology is destiny, and recognize that the most important differences that exist between women and men in our society are the different meanings that we place onto one another’s bodies. 3 Before and After: Class and Body Transformations TRANSSEXUAL LIVES ARE full of obstacles—childhood isolation, denial, depression, coming out, and managing our gender difference in a less than hospitable world. We have to navigate the legal limbo that surrounds what “sex” appears on our driver’s licenses and passports, which restrooms we can safely use, and who we are allowed to marry. Many of us face workplace discrimination, police harassment, and the constant threat of violence. Yet the media focuses very little on any of this. Instead, TV shows and documentaries about transsexuals tend to focus rather exclusively on one particular aspect of our lives: our physical transitions.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  In fact, in the days when the letter to the Hebrews was written, this very argument would have been considered an exceedingly clever piece of exposition. (2) His second answer goes back to the Hebrew sacrificial system and to Leviticus 17:11: ‘For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to you on the altar for making atonement for your lives; for, as life, it is the blood that makes atonement.’ ‘Without the shedding of blood there can be no atonement for sin,’ was actually a well-known Jewish principle. So, the writer to the Hebrews goes back to the inauguration of the first covenant under Moses, the occasion when the people accepted the law as the condition of their special relationship with God. We are told how sacrifice was made and how Moses ‘took half of the blood and put it in basins, and half of the blood he dashed against the altar’ (Exodus 24:6). After the book of the law had been read and the people had signified their acceptance of it, Moses ‘took the blood and dashed it on the people, and said, “See the blood of the covenant that the Lord has made with you in accordance with all these words”’ (Exodus 24:8). It is true that the memory of the writer to the Hebrews, in citing that passage, is not strictly accurate. He introduces calves and goats and scarlet and hyssop which come from the ritual of the Day of Atonement, and he talks about the sprinkling of the tabernacle, which at that time had not yet been built; but the reason is that these things are so much in his mind. His basic idea is that there can be no cleansing and no confirmation of any covenant without the shedding of blood. Why that should be so, he does not need to know. Scripture says it is so, and that is enough for him. The probable reason is that, for the Jews, blood is life, and life is the most precious thing in the world; and people must offer that most precious thing to God. All that goes back to a ritual which is only of historical interest. But, behind it, there is an eternal principle – forgiveness is a costly thing . Human forgiveness is costly. A son or a daughter may go wrong and a father or a mother may forgive; but that forgiveness brings tears, whiteness to the hair, lines to the face, a cutting anguish and then a long, dull ache to the heart. It does not cost nothing. Divine forgiveness is costly. God is love – but he is also holiness . He, least of all, can break the great moral laws on which the universe is built. Sin must have its punishment, or the very structure of life disintegrates.