Tenderness

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.

Page 100 of 145 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  A year later they gather on the Vineyard for Maizie’s first birthday. Caitlin is distant, distracted. Bru is careful and protective. When Maizie cries, Abby is the one who picks her up and comforts her. The next day Vix flies to Florida with Gus, to see Tawny. They haven’t seen each other in years. But Tawny has called, asking her to come. There’s someone she wants Vix to meet. And Vix has news for her, too. In Key West Tawny watches shopping channels. She says she likes to dream she has the money to buy everything she sees, though she knows most of it is junk and she wouldn’t want it even if she could have it. Everyone has fantasies, Vix supposes. Tawny seems relaxed, even happy. She lives in Old Town, in a tiny yellow conch house with a jacaranda tree shading the veranda. She can walk to the ocean every day if she wants to. The someone she wants Vix to meet is Myles, a beefy, suntanned man in a captain’s hat. Vix isn’t sure if Myles is his first name or last. “He’s retired navy,” Tawny says proudly. “With a good pension.” She shows Vix a photo of him in full uniform. “He was dashing, wasn’t he? Of course this was taken a while ago but you can still see it.” Vix knows it’s important for her to agree with Tawny. So she says, “Yes ... I can still see it.” Myles spends his days tooling around in a small wooden boat. Tawny still works for the Countess, who lives a block away in a pink eyebrow house on Francis Street. She’s tethered to an oxygen tank. She can hardly take half a dozen steps without it. Tawny supervises the round-the-clock caregivers. The Countess is partial to handsome young men. And they adore her. Tawny tells Vix the Countess is leaving most of her money to animal rights, but there will be a small trust set up for her. “I won’t be rich but I don’t need much living down here and I intend to stay, even after the Countess ... is no longer with us. This way your father can have his savings for himself and Frankie. So if all goes well, you won’t have to worry about taking care of us when we’re old. At least we can do that much for you.” Vix is stunned. She’d assumed Tawny had just written them off.

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

  He was "by inclination and fortune tossed between the silence of a contemplative life and the tumult of church administration, unsatisfied with either, neither a thinker nor a poet, but, according to his youthful desire, an orator, who, though often bombastic and dry, labored as powerfully for the victory of orthodoxy as for true practical Christianity."1965 Gregory Nazianzen was born about 330, a year before the emperor Julian, either at Nazianzum, a market-town in the south-western part of Cappadocia, where his father was bishop, or in the neighboring village of Arianzus.1966 In the formation of his religious character his mother Nonna, one of the noblest Christian women of antiquity, exerted a deep and wholesome influence. By her prayers and her holy life she brought about the conversion of her husband from the sect of the Hypsistarians, who, without positive faith, worshipped simply a supreme being; and she consecrated her son, as Hannah consecrated Samuel, even before his birth; to the service of God. "She was," as Gregory describes her, "a wife according to the mind of Solomon; in all things subject to her husband according to the laws of marriage, not ashamed to be his teacher and his leader in true religion. She solved the difficult problem of uniting a higher culture, especially in knowledge of divine things and strict exercise of devotion, with the practical care of her household. If she was active in her house, she seemed to know nothing of the exercises of religion; if she occupied herself with God and his worship, she seemed to be a stranger to every earthly occupation: she was whole in everything. Experiences had instilled into her unbounded confidence in the effects of believing prayer; therefore she was most diligent in supplications, and by prayer overcame even the deepest feelings of grief over her own and others’ sufferings. She had by this means attained such control over her spirit, that in every sorrow she encountered, she never uttered a plaintive tone before she had thanked God." He especially celebrates also her extraordinary liberality and self-denying love for the poor and the sick. But it seems to be not in perfect harmony with this, that he relates of her: "Towards heathen women she was so intolerant, that she never offered her mouth or hand to them in salutation.1967 She ate no salt with those who came from the unhallowed altars of idols. Pagan temples she did not look at, much less would she have stepped upon their ground; and she was as far from visiting the theatre." Of course her piety moved entirely in the spirit of that time, bore the stamp of ascetic legalism rather than of evangelical freedom, and adhered rigidly to certain outward forms. Significant also is her great reverence for sacred things. "She did not venture to turn her back upon the holy table, or to spit upon the floor of the church." Her death was worthy of a holy life.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It so happened that Aurelius, head over heels in love with Dorigen, happened to meet her in the busiest street of the town. She had to go that way in order to make her rendezvous with him in the garden. He happened to be going in the same direction. He had kept watch on her, and checked on her movements whenever she left the house. Whether by accident or design, therefore, they encountered one another in the high street. He greeted her warmly, as you would expect, and asked her where she was going. She replied, in a distracted and almost mad fashion, ‘I am going to the garden. Where else? That’s what my husband has told me to do. He has ordered me to keep my word.’ Aurelius was astonished by her reply. Yet he felt pity for her guilt and obvious grief. He also felt sorry for Arveragus, who believed so strongly in the sanctity of the oath that he was unwilling to allow his wife to break it. So he felt compassion, and perhaps shame. He weighed up the matter, and decided that it was far better for him to forgo his lust than to perform a wretched deed. Principle came before pleasure. So he addressed Dorigen with a few well-chosen words. ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘send my greetings to your husband. Tell him from me that I recognize his graciousness towards you. I see your distress as well. I understand it. He would rather endure any shame than see your oath violated. In turn I would rather suffer any woe, however great, than come between you. I release you from your promise, ma dame. I renounce any claim I have upon you. I tear up any pledge or covenant there ever was between us. You have my word upon it. I will never take issue with you. I will never remonstrate with you, or rebuke you. And now I must say farewell to the noblest and truest wife in the world. Yet I will say this before I leave. Every wife must beware of large promises. Remember the plight of Dorigen. And I know this much. A lowly squire such as myself can be as honourable as the truest knight. Goodbye.’ She fell down on her knees, and thanked Aurelius for his generosity. Then she went back to her husband, and told him what had happened. You can be sure that he was pleased. He was so gratified that I cannot put it properly in words. What can I add, in any case? Only this. Arveragus and Dorigen spent the rest of their lives in married bliss. There was never a word of anger between them. He treated her like a queen. She was always loyal and faithful. I will say no more about them.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  P insisted that Israelites must honor all life. Death was the great contaminator. It was an insult to come into the presence of the living God without undergoing a simple ritual of purification after coming into contact with the death of one of his creatures. In the dietary laws forbidding the eating of “unclean” animals, P developed a modified version of the Indian ideal of ahimsa. Like other ancient peoples, the Israelites did not regard the ritual slaughter of animals as killing; sacrifice was universally held to give the beast posthumous existence, and it was usually forbidden to eat an animal that had not been ritually consecrated in this way. P permitted the Israelites to sacrifice and consume only domestic animals from their own flocks. These were the “pure” or “clean” animals, which were members of the community; during their lifetime they must be allowed to rest on the Sabbath, and nobody could harm them in any way.62 But the “unclean” animals—dogs, deer, and other wild creatures— must not be killed at all; it was forbidden to trap, exploit, or eat them under any circumstances.63 This was not because they were “dirty.” It was perfectly all right to touch them while they were alive. They became unclean only after death.64 The law that forbade contact with a dead animal’s corpse protected it: because the carcass could not be skinned or dismembered, it was not worthwhile to hunt or trap it. For the same reasons, those animals classed as “abominations” (sheqqets) must be avoided only when they were dead. These tiny “swarming creatures” were vulnerable and should inspire compassion; because they were prolific and “teemed,” they enjoyed God’s blessing, so it was an “abomination” to harm them.65 God had blessed the unclean animals on the day of creation, and had saved pure and impure animals during the Flood. To damage any one of them was an affront to his holiness.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  No one wants to hear a long story without a point, or a story in which the point is long delayed. All the fun goes. The patience wears thin. The narrative loses its savour. So, without more ado, I will put an end to this walk in the park. Canacee was having a delightful time, when suddenly she came to a dry and withered tree as white as chalk. In its branches perched a falcon that set up such a shriek that the whole wood resounded with her cries. The bird had beaten herself so badly, with both of her wings, that her red blood ran down the white tree. She kept up her bitter lament all the time, stabbing her breast with her beak. There was no beast, no tiger, so cruel that it would not have pitied her. All the animals of wood and forest would have wept with her, if they had been capable of tears. There had never been a falcon so fair of shape and form, so beautiful of plumage, so noble of nature. She seemed to be a peregrine falcon from some foreign land; she was perched on the tree, but she had lost so much blood that several times she was close to swooning. She might have fallen out of the tree. Now the fair princess, Canacee, who wore the ring, understood everything that the falcon had said. She could listen to her, and reply to her in her language. In fact she was so filled with pity for the bird that she might have died. So she hastened up to the tree, looking up through its branches at the falcon; then she spread wide the skirt of her dress, in case the bird fell through lack of blood. Canacee stood there for a long time, saying nothing, until eventually she spoke out loud.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘What is the cause of all this pain, if you can tell me? You are in hell, I know. What is the reason? Are you mourning a death? Or the loss of love? Those are the two reasons for sorrow such as yours. No other woe comes near to them. You are injuring yourself so grievously that fear or fury must be goading you. There is no one, as far as I can see, hunting you. Have pity on your own sufferings. For the love of God, tell me. How can I help you? I have never, in all the world, seen a bird or beast enduring so much self-inflicted pain. You are killing me with your sorrow. I feel such sympathy for you. I entreat you. Please come down from the tree. I am the daughter of a noble king. If I know the cause of your suffering, I will try to alleviate it as best as I can. As far as it lies within my power, so help me God, I will cure your woe before night comes. Here. Look. I will find herbs for you now, to cure the wounds you bear.’ On hearing the words of the princess, the falcon gave out a shriek more piteous than before. She toppled from the branches and fell down upon the ground, where she lay as still as any stone. Canacee took the bird into her lap, and caressed her gently until she had awoken from her faint. As the falcon recovered from her swoon, she began to speak to the princess in the language of the birds. ‘It is true that pity runs freely in a gentle heart. It is only natural to feel another’s woe as if it were your own. We have all experienced it. We have all read about it. A gentle heart manifests gentleness. I can see well enough, Canacee, that you have pity for my distress. Nature has given you compassion, fair princess, as one of the principles of your being. You are the paradigm of female kindness. I have no hope of getting better but, in honour of your kind heart, I will tell you everything. I will, perhaps, be able to set an example and act as a warning to others. You may beat the dog to warn off the lion. For that reason, while I still have breath in my little body, I will confess the whole truth.’

• From The Case for God (2009)

  80 BCE—30 CE), who had emphasized the importance of the spirit rather than the letter of Mosaic law. In a famous Talmudic story, it was said that Hillel had formulated a Jewish version of Confucius’s Golden Rule. One day, a pagan had approached Hillel and promised to convert to Judaism if Hillel could teach him the entire Torah standing on one leg. Hillel replied: “What is hateful to yourself, do not to your fellow man. That is the whole of the Torah and the remainder is but commentary. Go learn it.” 3 It was a provocative and daring piece of exegesis. Hillel did not mention any of the doctrines that seemed central to Judaism—the unity of God, the creation of the world, the Exodus, Sinai, the 613 commandments of the Torah, or the Promised Land. The essence of Jewish teaching was the disciplined refusal to inflict pain on other human beings: everything else was only “commentary.” Rabbi Yohanan had absorbed this lesson. Shortly after the destruction of Jerusalem, when he and his companions had occasion to walk past the ruined temple buildings, Rabbi Joshua had been unable to contain his grief: “Woe is it that the place, where the sins of Israel find atonement, is laid waste.” But Rabbi Yohanan replied calmly, “Grieve not, we have an atonement equal to the Temple, the doing of loving deeds, as it is said, ‘ I desire love and not sacrifice.’ “ 4 Kindness would replace the temple ritual; compassion, one of the pillars on which the world depended, was the new priestly task. Compassion was also the key to the interpretation of scripture. As Hillel had pointed out, everything in the Torah was simply a “commentary”—a mere gloss—on the Golden Rule. Scholars had a mandate to reveal the core of compassion that lay at the heart of all the legislation and narratives of the Bible—even if this meant twisting the original meaning of the text. In this spirit, Rabbi Akiva, Yohanan’s successor, insisted that the chief principle of the Torah was “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” 5 Only one of the rabbis disagreed, preferring the simple sentence “This is the roll of Adam’s descendants,” because it revealed the unity of the entire human race. 6 In Rabbinic Judaism, the religion of Israel came of age, developing the same kind of compassionate ethos as the Eastern traditions. The rabbis regarded hatred of any human being made in God’s image as tantamount to atheism, so murder was not just a crime against humanity but a sacrilege: “Scripture instructs us that whatsoever sheds human blood is regarded as if he had diminished the divine image.” 7 God had created only one man at the beginning of time to teach us that the destruction of a single life was equivalent to annihilating the entire world; conversely, to save a life redeemed the whole of humanity.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “Lie back,” I said, folding my legs into a cross-legged position. She put her head in my lap and closed her eyes. I traced each of her eyelids with my pointer fingers. I softly rubbed her eyebrows and between them, moving in circles up to her forehead and slowly tickling her scalp. I became less aware of time passing. I seemed to drift in and out of myself for a little while, as though the act of giving this sweet nurture somehow relieved me of having to be a person—or made being a person bearable. But every time I’d almost let go of myself completely, disappear into the experience, I remembered that I had somewhere else I was supposed to be. I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to forget all about my plan. But I felt that I had to go through with it, as though some other part of me that was not my head or my heart—more like an internal magnet—was grabbing me and pulling me toward another magnet. “I’m going to have to go,” I said to her, giving her one final pat on the head. “Where are you going?” she asked, looking up at me. “The airport,” I said. “My cab will be here in a moment or two.” “The airport?” “Yes, I booked my ticket.” “Oh no, don’t go,” she said. “I felt like I should leave you guys alone.” “No, I don’t want that!” she said. “Please stay. Steve is at work all day and it’s going to be so lonely without Dominic. I’m scared to be alone.” “I can’t,” I said, standing up. “I have to get back to the university.” “But I need you,” she said. Suddenly I wanted to stay. For maybe the first time in my life, I didn’t want to abandon an uncomfortable feeling. I wanted to give her motherly love in the way she had tried to give me motherly love. Hers had always been from a distance, but it was there. And I wanted to give her motherly love in the way that she couldn’t give me motherly love: by staying, even when it was uncomfortable. Wasn’t it time that I showed up for her? I also wanted to give her love in the sisterly way I had given Claire and Diana love. The group had taught me how to do that, imperfectly, but I knew what it was now. You just sat there with someone and listened. That was all you had to do. I wondered if Diana had finished fucking her way through all the tennis pros—if she had moved on to her son’s friend. Or if she was doing better again. I thought about Claire and wondered if I stayed in Venice how long we would stay friends. How long she would stay alive. Had I chosen her as a friend because she had an end date too?

• From The Case for God (2009)

  P made a startling legal innovation. The exiles would create a sense of the divine presence by living as if they were priests serving in the Jerusalem temple. Hitherto the laity had never been expected to observe the ceremonial laws, purity regulations, and dietary rules of the temple personnel.57 But now the exiles had become a nation of priests and must live as if God were dwelling in their midst, thus ritually creating an invisible, symbolic temple. There was a profound link between exile and holiness. God had told the Israelites that he was kaddosh (“holy”), a word that literally meant “separate,” “other;” God was radically different from ordinary, mundane reality. Now the exiles must become kaddosh too.58 The legislation crafted by P was based on the principle of sacred segregation. In Leviticus, Yahweh issued detailed directions about sacrifice, diet, and social, sexual, and cultic life to differentiate the exiles from their Babylonian captors. By replicating the condition of otherness, the exiles would symbolically relocate to the realm of holiness where God was. God would “walk about” in their midst, as he had once walked with Adam in the cool of the evening.59 Babylon would become the new Eden because the rituals of separation would heal the long estrangement from the divine. But holiness also had a strong ethical component, because it involved absolute respect for the sacred “otherness” of every single creature. Even though they kept themselves apart, Israelites must not despise the foreigner: “If a stranger lives with you in your land, do not molest him. You must treat him like one of your own people and love him as yourselves, for you were strangers in Egypt.”60 It was a law based on empathy and compassion, the ability to feel with the other. The experience of one’s own pain must lead to an appreciation of other people’s suffering. When P spoke of “love” he did not mean emotional tenderness. This was a law code, its language as technical and reticent as any legal ruling. In Middle Eastern treaties, to “love” meant to be helpful and loyal and to give practical support. Earlier biblical authors had commanded the Israelites to confine tribal loyalty (hesed) to their fellow Jews, but this was not true of P, whose purity regulations are remarkable in that other people are never regarded as contaminating.61 The foreigner was not to be shunned but loved. Impurity came only from yourself, not from your enemies.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Now she folded her arms. ‘In this house, Miss Astley, that’s possibly the very worst argument you could have hit upon.’ As she spoke, however, the front door opened and Ralph appeared. He had an evening paper under one arm, and Cyril under the other. ‘My word,’ he said, ‘look at the shine on this step! I am frightened to tread on it.’ He saw me and smiled - ‘Hallo, still here?’ - then he glanced about the room. ‘And look at all this! I haven’t come into the wrong parlour, have I?’ Florence stepped across to him to take the baby, then propelled him out towards the kitchen. Here I heard him exclaiming very warmly - first over Annie, and then over the beef and potatoes, and finally over the pineapple. Florence struggled with Cyril for a moment: he was squirming and fractious and about to cry. I went to her, and - with terrible boldness, for the last baby I had held had been my cousin’s child, four years before: and he had screamed in my face - I said, ‘Give him to me, babies love me.’ She handed him over and, through some extraordinary miracle - perhaps I was holding him so inexpertly, the grip quite stunned him - he fell against my shoulder, and sighed, and grew calm. I might have thought, if I had had more experience in the matter, that the sight of her foster-son content and still in another girl’s arms would be the last thing to convince a mother to allow that girl to stay in her own house; and yet, when I looked at Florence again I saw that her eyes were upon me, and her expression - as it had been once, last night - was strange and almost sad, but also desperately tender. One curl had worked its way out of her knot of hair, and hung, rather limply, over her brow. When she raised a hand to brush it from her eye, it seemed to me that the finger came away a little damp at the tip. I thought: Blimey, I was wasted in male impersonation, I should have been in melodrama. I bit my lip, and gave a gulp. ‘Good-bye, Cyril,’ I said, in a voice that shook a little. ‘I must put on my damp bonnet now, and head off into the darkening night, and find some bench to sleep on...’ But this, after all, proved too much. Florence sniffed, and her face grew stern again. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You may stay - for a week. And if the week works out, we shall try it for a month: you may have a share of the family salary, I suppose, for the sake of watching Cyril and keeping house. But if it does not work, then you must promise me, Miss Astley, that you will go.’

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Back in chapter 1, I first underscored the power of a particular meditation practice, known as loving-kindness meditation, or LKM. LKM is an activity, honed over millennia in various Buddhist traditions, designed to condition your heart to be more open and loving. Although Buddhist in origin, LKM can be used to deepen any faith tradition, or be practiced without one. Here, throughout part II, I show you the ropes for how to practice LKM yourself. In each chapter, I introduce one or more facets of LKM, each designed to stretch your goodwill in new directions. Before I turn to the first meditation activity, however, I offer a few framing thoughts to help you get the most out of LKM, especially if you are completely new to it. As a preparatory tool for creating positivity resonance, LKM is well worth trying out. My research program confirms that it can open up many fresh possibilities for you. First and foremost, LKM helps you recondition your habitual ways of responding to others. Odds are you cruise through much of your day wrapped up in a cocoon of self-absorption, tightly woven with all of your wishes, plans, and goals of the moment. You consider what you’ll wear, eat, and do, and where you’ll go. You prioritize things on your to-do list. You puzzle over what you’ll say in an upcoming encounter that you suspect may be difficult. You, after all, are the lead character in the play that is your own day and life. Others play bit parts. They are not particularly consequential to the overall arch of your plotline, and by consequence they often undergo little character development in the script that your mind follows. You sometimes even treat them as though they were mere props, inanimate objects that populate the setting, yet bear no real importance to you or your day. Why wouldn’t it be this way? The play is all about you. You see where the illustration is going. Each person is, after all, the star of his or her own play and day. If you dropped the script of your own day and picked up the script of another person’s day, this other person would suddenly undergo considerable character development. You’d come to appreciate his or her own wishes, plans, and goals. You’d understand that this person isn’t merely a bit part or prop, but rather fully human, like you. Just like you, this person is full of yearnings and strivings, hopes and insecurities. This is true of every person. It’s equally true of all those with whom you cross paths, as well as all those you’ll never meet, not even once.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  In this chapter, I share techniques for accessing two forms of love that may perhaps be less intuitive to you: loving through and despite another’s suffering, and loving through and despite another’s good fortune. Compassion: Meeting Suffering with Love By nature’s design, we all recoil from pain. Suppose you’re cooking dinner with brand-new cookware and mistakenly pick up that fancy, all-metal, oven-ready pot lid, forgetting to use a pot holder. It’s only natural that you drop the lid in a clamor as you yank your hand away. The haste of your recoil probably spares several layers of skin. And so it may seem with suffering of all sorts. Your first instinct may often be to look, leap, or pull away, or otherwise hang back. Increasing your distance from the source of pain can seem like the best way to spare yourself the added suffering that may come from being too close to it. Compassion does just the opposite. It moves toward suffering, not away from it. It seeks connection, not distance. Compassion is what rouses the father who, without a moment’s thought, rushes toward his bloodied child after a playground accident, scooping her up in his arms to comfort her and attend to her wounds. It fuels the hospice volunteer, who reads poetry to the gentleman she met just last week who’s facing imminent death from colon cancer. It can move you to gently place your hand on a coworker’s arm, as you absorb her recounting of the difficulties her family is now enduring. Indeed, the latest evidence from studies of primates (both human and nonhuman) suggests that compassionate responding like this is just as natural, just as hardwired, and just as beneficial to our species as is our evolved instinct to recoil from burning sensations and other forms of physical pain. Compassion is love. It flowers when you recognize some kind of physical or emotional pain within the other person. I dare say that no human experience is purely 100 percent good. Life experiences are instead virtually always some rich amalgam of good and bad. Think of it as a vibrant tapestry, in which the gilded threads of love and good fortune are interwoven among the darker threads of pain, sorrow, and loss. Equally true, no human experience is purely 100 percent bad, nor need it be. Even the heaviest of human experiences—sudden grief or joblessness, natural or human-orchestrated disasters and other brushes with mortality—can be lightened appreciably when you recollect simple truths such as “this too shall pass” or “I’m not in this alone.” Indeed, such braiding of adversity with hope and love, of destructive with more reassuring emotions, is the secret to resilience. Resilient people are the ones who bend without breaking and who eventually bounce back from even the most difficult life challenges.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  This was a law code, its language as technical and reticent as any legal ruling. In Middle Eastern treaties, to “love” meant to be helpful and loyal and to give practical support. Earlier biblical authors had commanded the Israelites to confine tribal loyalty (hesed) to their fellow Jews, but this was not true of P, whose purity regulations are remarkable in that other people are never regarded as contaminating. 61 The foreigner was not to be shunned but loved. Impurity came only from yourself, not from your enemies. P insisted that Israelites must honor all life. Death was the great contaminator. It was an insult to come into the presence of the living God without undergoing a simple ritual of purification after coming into contact with the death of one of his creatures. In the dietary laws forbidding the eating of “unclean” animals, P developed a modified version of the Indian ideal of ahimsa. Like other ancient peoples, the Israelites did not regard the ritual slaughter of animals as killing; sacrifice was universally held to give the beast posthumous existence, and it was usually forbidden to eat an animal that had not been ritually consecrated in this way. P permitted the Israelites to sacrifice and consume only domestic animals from their own flocks. These were the “pure” or “clean” animals, which were members of the community; during their lifetime they must be allowed to rest on the Sabbath, and nobody could harm them in any way. 62 But the “unclean” animals—dogs, deer, and other wild creatures— must not be killed at all; it was forbidden to trap, exploit, or eat them under any circumstances. 63 This was not because they were “dirty.” It was perfectly all right to touch them while they were alive. They became unclean only after death. 64 The law that forbade contact with a dead animal’s corpse protected it: because the carcass could not be skinned or dismembered, it was not worthwhile to hunt or trap it. For the same reasons, those animals classed as “abominations” (sheqqets) must be avoided only when they were dead. These tiny “swarming creatures” were vulnerable and should inspire compassion; because they were prolific and “teemed,” they enjoyed God’s blessing, so it was an “abomination” to harm them. 65 God had blessed the unclean animals on the day of creation, and had saved pure and impure animals during the Flood. To damage any one of them was an affront to his holiness. This is the context in which we should read P’s most famous work, the creation hymn in the first chapter of Genesis. Like all ancient cosmogonies, its purpose was primarily therapeutic. In Babylon, the Israelites would have been painfully aware of the magnificent New Year rituals in Esagila that celebrated Marduk’s victory over Tiamat.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  Though neither of us was much of a talker, we brought out a chatty streak in each other. Those nights we discussed everything, opened up to each other with unusual candor. Woodell told me in detail about his injury. If I was ever tempted to take myself too seriously, Woodell’s story always reminded me that things could be worse. And the way he handled himself was a constant, bracing lesson in the virtue, and value, of good spirits. His injury wasn’t typical, he said. And it wasn’t total. He still had some feeling, still had hopes of marrying, having a family. He also had hopes of a cure. He was taking an experimental new drug, which had shown promise in paraplegics. Trouble was, it had a garlicky aroma. Some nights on our office-hunting expeditions Woodell would smell like an old-school pizzeria, and I’d let him hear about it. I asked Woodell if he was—I hesitated, fearing I had no right—happy. He gave it some thought. Yes, he said. He was. He loved his work. He loved Blue Ribbon, though he sometimes cringed at the irony. A man who can’t walk peddling shoes. Not sure what to say to this, I said nothing. Often Penny and I would have Woodell over to the new house for dinner. He was like family, we loved him, but we also knew we were filling a void in his life, a need for company and domestic comforts. So Penny always wanted to cook something special when Woodell came over, and the most special thing she could think of was Cornish game hen, plus a dessert made from brandy and iced milk—she got the recipe from a magazine—which left us all blotto. Though hens and brandy put a serious dent in her twenty-five-dollar grocery budget, Penny simply couldn’t economize when it came to Woodell. If I told her that Woodell was coming to dinner, she’d reflexively gush: “I’ll get some capons and brandy!” It was more than wanting to be hospitable. She was fattening him up. She was nurturing him. Woodell, I think, spoke to her newly activated maternal streak. I struggle to remember. I close my eyes and think back, but so many precious moments from those nights are gone forever. Numberless conversations, breathless laughing fits. Declarations, revelations, confidences. They’ve all fallen into the sofa cushions of time. I remember only that we always sat up half the night, cataloging the past, mapping out the future. I remember that we took turns describing what our little company was, and what it might be, and what it must never be. How I wish, on just one of those nights, I’d had a tape recorder. Or kept a journal, as I did on my trip around the world. Still, at least I can always call to mind the image of Woodell, seated at the head of our dinette, carefully dressed in his blue jeans, his trademark V-neck sweater over a white T.

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

  1. Apostles. These were originally twelve in number, answering to the twelve tribes of Israel. In place of the traitor, Judas, Matthias was chosen by lot, between the ascension and Pentecost.701 After the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, Paul was added as the thirteenth by the direct call of the exalted Saviour. He was the independent apostle of the Gentiles, and afterward gathered several subordinate helpers around him. Besides these there were apostolic men, like Barnabas, and James the brother of the Lord, whose standing and influence were almost equal to that of the proper apostles. The Twelve (excepting Matthias, who, however, was an eye-witness of the resurrection) and Paul were called directly by Christ, without human intervention, to be his representatives on earth, the inspired organs of the Holy Spirit, the founders and pillars of the whole church. Their office was universal, and their writings are to this day the unerring rule of faith and practice for all Christendom. But they never exercised their divine authority in arbitrary and despotic style. They always paid tender regard to the rights, freedom, and dignity of the immortal souls under their care. In every believer, even in a poor slave like Onesimus, they recognized a member of the same body with themselves, a partaker of their redemption, a beloved brother in Christ. Their government of the church was a labor of meekness and love, of self-denial and unreserved devotion to the eternal welfare of the people. Peter, the prince of the apostles, humbly calls himself a "fellow-presbyter," and raises his prophetic warning against the hierarchical spirit which so easily takes hold of church dignitaries and alienates them from the people. 2. Prophets. These were inspired and inspiring teachers and preachers of the mysteries of God. They appear to have had special influence on the choice of officers, designating the persons who were pointed out to them by the Spirit of God in their prayer and fasting, as peculiarly fitted for missionary labor or any other service in the church. Of the prophets the book of Acts names Agabus, Barnabas, Symeon, Lucius, Manaen, and Saul of Tarsus, Judas and Silas.702 The gift of prophecy in the wider sense dwelt in all the apostles, pre-eminently in John, the seer of the new covenant and author of the Revelation. It was a function rather than an office. 3. Evangelists, itinerant preachers, delegates, and fellow-laborers of the apostles—such men as Mark, Luke, Timothy, Titus, Silas, Epaphras, Trophimus, and Apollos.703 They may be compared to modern missionaries. They were apostolic commissioners for a special work. "It is the conception of a later age which represents Timothy as bishop of Ephesus, and Titus as bishop of Crete. St. Paul’s own language implies that the position which they held was temporary. In both cases their term of office is drawing to a close when the apostle writes."704 § 61. Presbyters or Bishops. The Angels of the Seven Churches. James of Jerusalem.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In a famous Talmudic story, it was said that Hillel had formulated a Jewish version of Confucius’s Golden Rule. One day, a pagan had approached Hillel and promised to convert to Judaism if Hillel could teach him the entire Torah standing on one leg. Hillel replied: “What is hateful to yourself, do not to your fellow man. That is the whole of the Torah and the remainder is but commentary. Go learn it.” 3 It was a provocative and daring piece of exegesis. Hillel did not mention any of the doctrines that seemed central to Judaism—the unity of God, the creation of the world, the Exodus, Sinai, the 613 commandments of the Torah, or the Promised Land. The essence of Jewish teaching was the disciplined refusal to inflict pain on other human beings: everything else was only “commentary.” Rabbi Yohanan had absorbed this lesson. Shortly after the destruction of Jerusalem, when he and his companions had occasion to walk past the ruined temple buildings, Rabbi Joshua had been unable to contain his grief: “Woe is it that the place, where the sins of Israel find atonement, is laid waste.” But Rabbi Yohanan replied calmly, “Grieve not, we have an atonement equal to the Temple, the doing of loving deeds, as it is said, ‘ I desire love and not sacrifice.’ “ 4 Kindness would replace the temple ritual; compassion, one of the pillars on which the world depended, was the new priestly task. Compassion was also the key to the interpretation of scripture. As Hillel had pointed out, everything in the Torah was simply a “commentary”—a mere gloss—on the Golden Rule. Scholars had a mandate to reveal the core of compassion that lay at the heart of all the legislation and narratives of the Bible—even if this meant twisting the original meaning of the text. In this spirit, Rabbi Akiva, Yohanan’s successor, insisted that the chief principle of the Torah was “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” 5 Only one of the rabbis disagreed, preferring the simple sentence “This is the roll of Adam’s descendants,” because it revealed the unity of the entire human race. 6 In Rabbinic Judaism, the religion of Israel came of age, developing the same kind of compassionate ethos as the Eastern traditions. The rabbis regarded hatred of any human being made in God’s image as tantamount to atheism, so murder was not just a crime against humanity but a sacrilege: “Scripture instructs us that whatsoever sheds human blood is regarded as if he had diminished the divine image.” 7 God had created only one man at the beginning of time to teach us that the destruction of a single life was equivalent to annihilating the entire world; conversely, to save a life redeemed the whole of humanity. 8 To humiliate anybody, even a slave or a goy, was a sacrilegious defacing of God’s image 9 and a malicious libel denied God’s existence.

• From From Jesus to Constantine: A History of Early Christianity (2004)

  Perpetua was a highly educated woman who was able to compose in Latin, and she had kept this diary. Somebody, a Christian, later discovered the diary. It was bequeathed to Christians who survived this particular martyrdom in early third century North Africa. Somebody took the diary that Perpetua had prepared and added a short preface to it. Then, he or she added an ending to it that actually describes her martyrdom. The diary records the events transpiring while she was in prison awaiting her martyrdom. It is therefore quite a remarkable and unique piece of literature that we have the Martyrdom of Perpetua. Included in this diary is a record of what happened to her and her fellow Christian martyrs while they were awaiting their executions. It records accounts of her trials, her reactions, her fears, and it also includes a series of visions that she had while awaiting her death, where she described dreams that she had had, which were symbolic of what she expected to have happen to her. One of the most gripping elements of the story was the reaction that Perpetua herself records toward her poor father, not economically poor, but as a poor fellow whose daughter was facing death and refused to recant in the face of her approaching execution. Her father was a pagan who didn’t understand why she was insisting on dying for the faith. He tried in vain to get her to see reason for his sake, and for the sake of her own child. She had a young infant who was still nursing, and he was trying to get her to recant, because this baby was hers, and if she died, what was to happen to the child? He’s also, of course, trying to get her to recant for her own sake. Let me read several passages from this diary of Perpetua’s about her reaction towards her father: 201 While we were still under arrest [she says in her diary] my father, out of love for me, was trying to persuade me, and to shake my resolution. ‘Father,’ said I, ‘do you see this vase here, for example, or water pot, or whatever?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, and I told him, ‘Could it be called by any other name than what it is?’ He said, ‘No.’ ‘Well, so, too, 1, cannot be called anything other than what I am, a Christian.’ At this, my father was so angered by the word ‘Christian’ that he moved towards me as though he would pluck my eyes out, but he left it at that, and departed, vanquished, along with his diabolical arguments. She therefore considers his arguments to be diabolical, so she was rejecting her father, who after all, was just concerned for her own well-being. A little later, we have another account:

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Know that your body sensations deserve your awareness as much as the phrases or thoughts that emerge from your mind. Gently call forth an image of someone who is currently facing ill fortune or otherwise suffering. Without getting mired in these difficulties, explore their scope. Then, lightly remind yourself of this person’s good qualities, and how much you would wish to ease his or her pain or lighten his or her load. Say the following classic phrases, or your own versions of them, slowly and from your heart. May you find safety, even in the midst of pain (or misfortune, difficulties). May you find peace, even in the midst of pain. May you find strength, even in the midst of pain. May you find ease, even in the midst of pain. Repeat these ancient wishes one by one, with each breath you take. Let each phrase infuse and soften your heart. Visualize yourself simply standing beside this person, recognizing his or her courage in the face of whatever difficulty life now delivers. As your practice deepens, experiment with new ways to soften and expand your heart’s capacity. Shift your focus to new people who are suffering, whether they’re people you know well or not. Keep in mind that your aim is not to make this or any other person’s pain or adversity magically disappear. Rather your aim is to condition your own heart to move in toward others’ suffering when you see it, to open up to it a bit more, so that you may offer comfort and strength, rather than to turn away in self-protection. If you find that the words of this practice stand in the way of your ability to call forth true tenderness, try simplifying your focus. Draw on images. Visualize before you the difficulty that this other person faces, whether it’s physical or emotional pain or uncertainty. Imagine what this difficulty might look like. Give it a color and a shape. Where do you see it in relation to the person on whom you focus? Next, visualize your own heart as it yearns to be compassionate. Imagine that this is your well of healing positivity. Imagine its color, shape, and movements. Is it bright or golden? How much does it expand? Now, with these visual details painted in your mind’s eye, imagine that as you breathe in, you inhale the other person’s ill fortune, lifting a portion of it away from him or her. As you inhale, let this ill-fortune enter in and be transformed by your steady, loving heart, pausing for just a moment before you exhale to witness this change. Then, as you breathe out, imagine that you are giving some thread, however small, of good fortune to this person, relief from his or her pain or suffering. Visualize this process of hope and change with each breath you take. Breathe in pain.

• From Educated (2018)

  When I was young these tussles usually ended with Mother screaming over a broken lamp or vase, but as I got older there were fewer things left to break. Mother said we’d owned a TV once, when I was a baby, until Shawn had put Tyler’s head through it. While his brothers wrestled, Tyler listened to music. He owned the only boom box I had ever seen, and next to it he kept a tall stack of CDs with strange words on them, like “Mozart” and “Chopin.” One Sunday afternoon, when he was perhaps sixteen, he caught me looking at them. I tried to run, because I thought he might wallop me for being in his room, but instead he took my hand and led me to the stack. “W-which one do y-you like best?” he said. One was black, with a hundred men and women dressed in white on the cover. I pointed to it. Tyler eyed me skeptically. “Th-th-this is ch-ch-choir music,” he said. He slipped the disc into the black box, then sat at his desk to read. I squatted on the floor by his feet, scratching designs into the carpet. The music began: a breath of strings, then a whisper of voices, chanting, soft as silk, but somehow piercing. The hymn was familiar to me—we’d sung it at church, a chorus of mismatched voices raised in worship—but this was different. It was worshipful, but it was also something else, something to do with study, discipline and collaboration. Something I didn’t yet understand. The song ended and I sat, paralyzed, as the next played, and the next, until the CD finished. The room felt lifeless without the music. I asked Tyler if we could listen to it again, and an hour later, when the music stopped, I begged him to restart it. It was very late, and the house quiet, when Tyler stood from his desk and pushed play, saying this was the last time. “W-w-we can l-l-listen again tomorrow,” he said. Music became our language. Tyler’s speech impediment kept him quiet, made his tongue heavy. Because of that, he and I had never talked much; I had not known my brother. Now, every evening when he came in from the junkyard, I would be waiting for him. After he’d showered, scrubbing the day’s grime from his skin, he’d settle in at his desk and say, “W-w-what shall we l-l-listen t-t-to tonight?” Then I would choose a CD, and he would read while I lay on the floor next to his feet, eyes fixed on his socks, and listened. I was as rowdy as any of my brothers, but when I was with Tyler I transformed. Maybe it was the music, the grace of it, or maybe it was his grace. Somehow he made me see myself through his eyes. I tried to remember not to shout.

• From Educated (2018)

  Luke made a gargled noise, as if he were choking. I ran back into the kitchen and found the bags that fit the can, then held one open for Luke and told him to put his leg in. He didn’t move, but he allowed me to pull the bag over the raw flesh. I righted the can and stuffed the garden hose inside. While the bin filled, I helped Luke balance on one foot and lower his burned leg, now wrapped in black plastic, into the garbage can. The afternoon air was sweltering; the water would warm quickly; I tossed in the pack of ice. It didn’t take long—twenty minutes, maybe thirty—before Luke seemed in his right mind, calm and able to prop himself up. Then Richard wandered up from the basement. The garbage can was smack in the middle of the lawn, ten feet from any shade, and the afternoon sun was strong. Full of water, the can was too heavy for us to move, and Luke refused to take out his leg, even for a minute. I fetched a straw sombrero Grandma had given us in Arizona. Luke’s teeth were still chattering so I also brought a wool blanket. And there he stood, a sombrero on his head, a wool blanket around his shoulders, and his leg in a garbage can. He looked something between homeless and on vacation. The sun warmed the water; Luke began to shift uncomfortably. I returned to the chest freezer but there was no more ice, just a dozen bags of frozen vegetables, so I dumped them in. The result was a muddy soup with bits of peas and carrots. Dad wandered home sometime after this, I couldn’t say how long, a gaunt, defeated look on his face. Quiet now, Luke was resting, or as near to resting as he could be standing up. Dad wheeled the bin into the shade because, despite the hat, Luke’s hands and arms had turned red with sunburn. Dad said the best thing to do was leave the leg where it was until Mother came home. Mother’s car appeared on the highway around six. I met her halfway up the hill and told her what had happened. She rushed to Luke and said she needed to see the leg, so he lifted it out, dripping. The plastic bag clung to the wound. Mother didn’t want to tear the fragile tissue, so she cut the bag away slowly, carefully, until the leg was visible. There was very little blood and even fewer blisters, as both require skin and Luke didn’t have much. Mother’s face turned a grayish yellow, but she was calm. She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, then asked aloud whether the wound was infected. Click click click. “You were lucky this time, Tara,” she said. “But what were you thinking, putting a burn into a garbage can?” Dad carried Luke inside and Mother fetched her scalpel.