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.

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

  He agreed with Zwingli’s extension of salvation to all infants dying in infancy and to elect heathen; at all events, he nowhere dissents from these advanced views, and published with approbation Zwingli’s last work, where they are most strongly expressed.315 Bullinger’s house was a happy Christian home. He liked to play with his numerous children and grandchildren, and to write little verses for them at Christmas, like Luther.316

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

  In selecting their wives neither of the Reformers had any regard to the charms of beauty and wealth which attract most lovers, nor even to intellectual endowment; they looked only to moral worth and domestic virtue. Luther married at the age of forty-one, Calvin at the age of thirty- one. Luther married a Catholic ex-nun, after having vainly recommended her to his friend Amsdorf, whom she proudly refused, looking to higher distinction. He married her under a sudden impulse, to the consternation of his friends, in the midst of the disturbances of the Peasants’ War, that he might please his father, tease the pope, and vex the devil. Calvin married, like Zwingli, a Protestant widow with several children; he married from esteem rather than affection, after due reflection and the solicitation of friends. Katherine Luther cut a prominent figure in her husband’s personal history and correspondence, and survived him several years, which she spent in poverty and affliction. Idelette de Bure lived in modest retirement, and died in peace fifteen years before Calvin. Luther submitted as "a willing servant" to the rule of his "Lord Kathe," but he loved her dearly, played with his children in childlike simplicity, addressed to her his last letters, and expressed his estimate of domestic happiness in the beautiful sentence: "The greatest gift of God to man is a pious, kindly, God-fearing, domestic wife."594 Luther’s home life was enlivened and cheered by humor, poetry, and song; Calvin’s was sober, quiet, controlled by the fear of God, and regulated by a sense of duty, but none the less happy. Nothing can be more unjust than the charge that Calvin was cold and unsympathetic.595 His whole correspondence proves the reverse. His letters on the death of his wife to his dearest friends reveal a deep fountain of tenderness and affection. To Farel he wrote, April 2, 1549:—596 "Intelligence of my wife’s death has perhaps reached you before now. I do what I can to keep myself from being overwhelmed with grief. My friends also leave nothing undone that may administer relief to my mental suffering. When your brother left, her life was all but despaired of. When the brethren were assembled on Tuesday, they thought it best that we should join together in prayer. This was done. When Abel, in the name of the rest, exhorted her to faith and patience, she briefly (for she was now greatly worn) stated her frame of mind. I afterwards added an exhortation, which seemed to me appropriate to the occasion. And then, as she had made no allusion to her children, I, fearing that, restrained by modesty, she might be feeling an anxiety concerning them, which would cause her greater suffering than the disease itself, declared in the presence of the brethren, that I should henceforth care for them as if they were my own.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  the only living heir to the house of Saul is the crippled son of Jonathan, who is no threat to David (see 2 Samuel 9, where David shows kindness to him “for Jonathan’s sake”). His name, Mephibosheth, is probably a euphemism, concealing the name of Baal ( bosheth means “shame”). The name is given as Meribaal in 1 Chron 8:34 and 9:40. The dismantling of the house of Saul is finally completed in 2 Samuel 21. This entire strand of the narrative fits perfectly with the view that the Rise of David is an apologetic or propaganda document. But again it is not difficult to read the story against the grain and arrive at a rather unfavorable picture of David. The rise of David reaches its climax in 2 Samuel 5. He is again acclaimed as king at Hebron, this time by all Israel. Then he captures Jerusalem, the Canaanite city that was still in the hands of the Jebusites at this time. Jerusalem was an ideal capital for David because it was easy to defend and it had not hitherto been associated with any Israelite tribe, although it was in the territory of David’s own tribe, Judah. The acclamation of David is complete when he is acknowledged by the king of Tyre. The account of the bringing of the ark to Jerusalem is often regarded as the conclusion of the Ark Narrative in 1 Samuel. It makes excellent sense in its present context, however. The ark was the traditional symbol of the presence of YHWH. By bringing it to Jerusalem, David made the old Jebusite city the center of worship for the tribes of Israel that worshiped YHWH. David is ostentatious in his public celebration of the event, leaving no doubt about his devotion to YHWH. The disapproval of Michal, daughter of Saul, is of little consequence at this point. The house of Saul is no longer a factor in the kingship of Israel.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  known to us primarily from Deuteronomy, Ruth does not necessarily depend on the biblical law code. The practice of levirate marriage was presumably traditional, and Deuteronomy does not specify the obligation of the next of kin, other than the brother. The action of Boaz is not constrained by legal obligation, but is motivated by kindness toward a destitute kinswoman, who also happens to be attractive and adventuresome. The message of the story, in any case, should not be tied too closely to any hypothesis about its date. The view that it is political propaganda, whether for David or against Ezra, does not do justice to this gentle and humane story. The message is simply that people who act with fidelity and compassion are ultimately blessed by God, even if they have to endure difficult circumstances for a while. Ethnic origins are of little importance, and sexual propriety can be adapted to the needs of a situation. Ruth wins favor, both with Boaz and with God, because she did not abandon her mother-in-law in her time of need but was willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure the continuation of her husband’s family.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Of course, my little princess,” he’d say, and then he’d settle into the heavy oak chair in the middle of the family room. I’d scramble onto one of his black-trousered legs and dangle my own legs between his, kicking back and forth. Often, my sister Mary Catherine joined me, sitting on his other leg. “And what song would you like tonight?” My answer never varied. “You know—‘La Très Sainte Vierge’!” It was one of several French-Canadian songs in his vast repertoire, a song about Our Lady when she was a little girl, walking to school. My dad would stroke my own long brown hair as he sang “avec les beaux cheveux pendant,” which he explained meant “with her beautiful long hair hanging down.” And later when he tucked me into bed, I held my breath, waiting for the words I knew he would whisper in my ear: “Good night, my little princess.” On nights when my parents attended classes at the Center, one of the Big Brothers or Big Sisters would be our “Angel,” the Center’s word for babysitter. I had a few favorite Angels: Brother Sebastian was one of them. His role as my brother’s godfather gave him a special place within our family and his bedtime stories were legion—St. Patrick came to Ireland and kicked out all the snakes; St. Francis tamed the wolf in Gubbio; St. George killed the dragon; St. Frances Cabrini sailed on a ship to America from Italy and traveled throughout South America riding on a donkey. Those tales of the saints became my internal encyclopedia, and I relished memorizing facts about countries and cities, history and nature, all intertwined in a riveting story about life long ago and out in the now-verboten world. I imagined visiting each city where a saint grew up—Rome, Constantinople, Besançon, the Isle of Lindisfarne, Lisieux, Padua, and on and on. I tried to picture the hills of Tuscany and the Arno River, the Sea of Galilee with fishermen throwing out their fishing nets. Then, as I fell off to sleep, I vowed to myself that someday I would visit those places. But my favorite Angel was Sister Mary Elizabeth, whom I still thought of as Betty Sullivan. The red fence had put an end to our time together picking flowers by the river or walking to the Center, but the bond we had forged since my infancy only grew. When I was too young to understand such things, she had been engaged to marry one of the men at the Center—but that was before they all took vows. Perhaps I represented the child she knew she would never have. Then one day, she was gone. I didn’t see her at First Breakfast or second breakfast. She didn’t come out to the yard and play with me after dinner. A sense of dread mounted inside me: Had she been kicked out? Kicked out was the term we used when someone was no longer with us.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “I’m here to find a job in the investment business, not drive some old lady to her shrink.” “It’s just while you’re looking for a new job, princess,” he cajoled. He paused and then went on: “I told her you would call her this evening.” More to please my dad than to earn the five dollars an hour that Mrs. Taylor grudgingly agreed to pay me, and convincing myself that this position would be for a few weeks at most, I tiptoed my way into scenes of a life of both privilege and horror. The position of chauffeur lasted for less than a week, by which time it had morphed into a mélange of roles including gal Friday, confidante, friend, lunch companion, and chauffeur. Mrs. Taylor (as I addressed her) needed help to bathe and dress in the morning because her breakfast consisted of a handful of pills (her “vitamins” as she called them) washed down with several large gulps of “water,” as she described clear liquid, which was quite obviously vodka. The routine was the same each day. After extricating Mrs. Taylor from her bathtub, terrified that I might break her rail-thin bones either by holding on to her too hard or by letting her slip and fall, I helped her through what generally ended up as a two-hour dressing ritual. Stumbling her spindly legs into a pair of white linen trousers was the first step in the process. Once seated at her makeup table, she embarked on a ceremony of sorts—namely, re-creating Brenda Diana Duff Frazier, debutante of the year 1938. Between sips of what she kept referring to as water, but I knew better, she drew with a deep black makeup pencil the shape of her eyebrows, which were nonexistent, as well as her once famed widow’s peak, which was now simply part of her nearly bald head that she adorned with a jet-black wig, another replica of days gone by. By the time she powdered her face and painted on her ruby-red lipstick, she looked more Kabuki than debutante, more a caricature than a re-creation of her once exotic beauty. Despite her intense reliance on pills and alcohol, Mrs. Taylor had a bright eye, a sharp tongue, and a wickedly good sense of humor. And deep inside there was also a kind, but badly broken, heart. Snippets of stories from her past that spilled out of her as we drove each day depicted a woman who craved love because it had been denied her. For a reason I couldn’t explain to myself, likely because I was well aware that this was a temporary employment situation for me, I found her fascinating rather than revolting. After visiting her psychiatrist, who seemed oblivious to her state of addiction, she and I would lunch at the Ritz Carlton, the same meal every day—beef tongue on rye bread with mustard for each of us, accompanied by a double martini (for her alone).

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  On a warm summer evening, I was sitting with him in his apartment on New York’s Upper West Side, coddling a glass of white wine, the light of day still pouring into the living room through the skylight above. I had my feet tucked underneath me as I excitedly explained my upcoming business trip to Paris. He mentioned that his mother lived in the town of Orgeval, a few kilometers outside of Paris. She had recently broken her hip, he said, and was struggling with her recovery. “I’d love to visit her,” I told him. That’s when he got silent, and I sensed something was wrong. “Tell me,” I said. A tear came to his eye, and he reached out his hand, with its slight tremble, to take my own in his. The words formed slowly. “My mother’s a lesbian,” he said, and the tear rolled down his cheek. His pain touched me—he’d spoken of his mother before, but only in reference to his parents’ divorce when he was barely old enough to walk and how he would go for months at a time pining for her. I knew deeply what that separation felt like, yet I had not braved sharing with him the story of my own parental loss. But in that moment, something sprang free in me. That his mother was a lesbian seemed to me hardly a matter of shame. Compared to the tale I was hiding, I thought it trivial. His emotion acted as a catalyst, and I burst out, “Well, I have a secret, too.” And for the next hour, I let spill out of me for the first time ever the tale of my life. Punctuated with sobs and even laughter, I unveiled my story while he listened intently, without interrupting, his soft blue eyes moist with emotion. And when I was spent talking, he expressed his fascination with my childhood and his interest in meeting my extended family. I was immensely grateful for his interest and particularly for his lack of prejudice toward my parents. I found it surprising that he knew nothing of the Center because he was a Harvard man—class of ’51—which put him in Harvard Square at the very time of the disruption that shaped my life. But his sybaritic life as a member of the elite Fly Club at Harvard during that tumultuous time kept him far removed from the revolution at the Center. He told me he loved my story—the unusualness of it, the fact that I still cherished the place I knew as home for so many years. We shared our childhood sorrow over losing the daily love and affection of our parents—he because his mother ran away from marriage, I because my parents were convinced that sacrificing their marriage would help to save my soul.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  It was late February, a month after we’d moved, and the flu epidemic returned. I prided myself on being one of the few children who hadn’t succumbed. Then one night, I coughed as Sister Maria Crucis came into my cubicle to kiss me goodnight. Just a little nothing cough. “I think you’re coming down with the flu,” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, I’m fine,” I responded, desperate to maintain my status as one of the “strong” and “healthy” children. But to her my cough was an opportunity to envelop me in her protective cocoon. She swooped into action, armed with a jar of Vicks VapoRub that she proceeded to slather on my chest. “I’ll be back with some brandy,” she said as she headed off down the corridor to return with the only enjoyable part of the treatment—warm brandy mixed with honey that, with the help of additional heavy woolen blankets that she piled on top of me, was meant to sweat the flu out of me. Even story time (Sister Catherine reintroduced bedtime stories) was ritualized. Sister Maria Crucis would position herself in the middle of the bed in one of our cubicles, with her back against the wall. Once she had sorted her long black skirt so that it lay in a tidy fashion around her legs, she signaled the five of us to set ourselves up on either side of her, with our hands in our laps and our bathrobes neatly closed and tied. As Sister Maria Crucis read to us, my mind would wander.... What is Sister Elizabeth Ann doing? Why can’t she be reading to me?

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  She found my childhood deeply disturbing, and on one trip home from college, she demanded that I “drop everything,” as she put it, until I finished my book. Now I have finished it. Epilogue T he Center of my childhood was much changed by the mid-1970s. Leonard Feeney, under the auspices of Cardinal Madeiros of Boston and Cardinal Wright of Worcester, had become reconciled with Rome in the early 1970s and died in 1978 a few days shy of his eighty-first birthday. After more than a decade, the infighting among factions at the Center in Still River simmered down, and the two communities found a way to split up and yet remain on speaking terms with each other. I had taken no sides in their conflicts, and each of the separate entities reached out to me in a warm and welcoming way. In a turnabout, they sought me out for advice, most particularly on matters that had to do with finance, and I was happy to help them in whatever way I could. St. Therese’s House became a Benedictine abbey, changing its name to St. Benedict Abbey. It remains a vibrant community today. The Big Sisters at St. Ann’s House became a pious union of nuns under the Catholic Diocese of Worcester, teaching catechism and preparing children for First Communion, for which they are beloved by Catholic families in the local community. A number of the original Center members moved to Petersham, Massachusetts, and established their own Brother/Sister Benedictine monasteries, St. Mary’s Monastery and St. Scholastica Priory, under the auspices of Pluscarden Abbey in Scotland. Three other splinter groups settled in Ohio, New Hampshire, and California. [image file=Image00040.jpg] During the late 1970s, on one of my visits to Still River, I was astonished, as I entered the library, to find Betty Sullivan sitting in the red leather wing chair next to the piano. She caught my eye as I approached and her face lit up—as much as her doleful eyes would allow. She no longer looked decrepit. It was evident that whatever mental illness she had suffered years earlier was at least under control. For the next couple of hours, we shared reminiscences and caught up on our lives. She knew, to my amazement, that I had a career in the financial world. That pleased me—that she had made an effort to keep me in her sights. For her part, she said she had taken up oil painting and followed it with, “And I’d love to paint your portrait, and Davey’s, too,” referring to my brother’s name as a baby. “That would be wonderful,” I replied, intrigued by what she might produce. Sadly, time ran out before her dream became reality. She was ill with breast cancer at the time and succumbed before she had a session with either of us.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  So I was unprepared when the psychiatrist called me in to his office one day. “You realize, don’t you,” he said, “that you’re the only person in the world whom she loves. Would you consider moving in with her? It would help her immensely.” Poor Mrs. Taylor was all I could think. She loves me because I’m the only person in her sphere who’s not afraid of her—not her tantrums, nor her wailing, not even her histrionics when the police come to the apartment because I’ve inadvertently set off the alarm on her jewel-stuffed safe, evidence of the many lovers in her past life. Before replying, I asked him if he had any idea that Mrs. Taylor was blind drunk by the time she arrived for her daily visit. He was nonplussed, and I realized at that moment she was just a paycheck to him. No, I wouldn’t live with her, I told the doctor, but I promised to stay with her until I found a job. I didn’t share with the psychiatrist that, despite Mrs. Taylor’s eccentricities and her own self-loathing, there was a way in which I did love her. She and I flew to her house on the Cape, another home stocked with staff. There I discovered her insomnia. Come the time I was ready to retire for the night, she bade me sit at the foot of her bed and for the next six hours she regaled me, between gulps of vodka, with tales of a life lived long in the past and lived hard. The eastern sky was spreading the light of dawn by the time her increasingly garbled storytelling came to an end and she fell back on the pillows exhausted. When my birthday came around in August, I was touched by the presents she gave me—a painting of a hummingbird that she had done while we were on the Cape together and a leather briefcase with my initials engraved on it. She wished me good luck in my search for a job. Perhaps that present was my good-luck charm, because by September I had found a job that became a stepping-stone into the world of finance in New York City, where I was hired three months later.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I wondered sometimes if the two of them weren’t driving Sister Catherine crazy. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize the tautness that would grip her face, particularly when my father would openly flout the rules. She couldn’t control them, and I relished the distress it must have been causing her. The true state of my parents’ marriage was brought home to me one Sunday evening at our intimate family dinner. It was a homey setting, a freshly pressed white linen tablecloth covering the round dining room table, in sharp contrast to the institutional setup in Still River that was devoid of tablecloths and even place mats. That evening, when my mother had gone into the kitchen to get dessert, my father turned to me and spoke, his words seeming to be carefully chosen. “My little princess,” he began (I relished that he still called me that), “if something should happen to me and I die at the Center, I want you to take my wedding ring from inside my scapular and put it on my finger in the casket. I want to be buried as a married man.” It was a poignant moment—my father making a plea to his now-worldly eldest daughter to ensure that the message was loud and clear that, although he was living a celibate religious life today, in his heart he was a married man who loved his wife. I was not prepared to probe his heart or his mind on the matter. Instead, I responded with all my heart. “I promise you I will do that, but you’re nowhere near dying. You just turned fifty.” His request might have been an opportunity to question him about the Center, about the breakup of the families, about why he and my mother made the sacrifices they did, but I wasn’t comfortable going down that path. Instead I buried my burning desire to tell him how much I wanted to see that ring back on his finger, the ring I had played with as a tiny child long before he had been forced to take it off. In my heart, I felt I knew the reason he was still at the Center—four of his children were still there, and he held firm to his belief that an education at the Center provided the best opportunity for a solid grounding in Catholic doctrine and morals. While Mary Catherine was about to graduate from high school, my youngest sister, Veronica, was not quite fourteen, with several years of school still ahead of her. Little did any of us anticipate the turn of events that was about to unfold.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  The first woman I slept with was big and beautiful. I still remember how she smelled. Her skin was so soft. She was kind when I was starving for kindness. It was just a one-night stand at a party. Several CDs played during our tryst. It was an experience. My tongue tingles when I think of her name. The next woman I slept with I called my girlfriend, even though we barely knew each other. We met on the Internet, and I packed up my stuff, and I flew to Minnesota from Arizona to be with her in the dead of winter. I had a suitcase, no winter clothing, and it was so cold the locks on her car froze. I did not know such a thing was possible. She lived in a dark, cramped basement apartment where I couldn’t stand all the way up because I was too tall. We were ridiculous and young. We lasted two weeks. For the next several years I dated a string of women who were terrible in new and different ways. There was the woman who grabbed my arm so hard she left a bruise. There was the woman who enjoyed the outdoors, camping, and womyn’s music festivals, all of which I found horrifying. There was the woman who cheated on me and left the evidence of the transgression in my car. The bathroom at an Olive Garden was involved, which only added insult to injury. There was the woman who told me she could see being with me in the future but didn’t know how to be with me every day between now and that hypothetical future. I was also terrible in new and different ways. I was equally if not more culpable in these relationships. I was far too insecure and needy, constantly needing affirmation that I was loved, that I was good enough to be loved. I was emotionally manipulative in trying to get that affirmation. I had terrible judgment with women because I labored under the delusion that a woman couldn’t hurt me, not like a man could. If a woman demonstrated any interest in me, I reciprocated her feelings, a gut reflex. I fell into the dangerous trap of being in love with the idea of being in love. I wanted to be wanted and needed. Time and again, I ended up with women who wouldn’t or couldn’t give me a fraction of what I desired. I ended up with women to whom I couldn’t or wouldn’t give a fraction of what they desired. I performed my queerness so I could believe this half-truth I had told everyone, that I had told myself. I marched. I was here and queer. In the way of young queers of my day, I wore an excessive number of pride rings and pins and such. I slathered my car in stickers. I was passionately militant about any number of issues without fully understanding why.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 28—Self-Giving Love According to John 189 ‹ Making this idea the center of the crucifixion narrative seems counterintuitive. After all, many aspects of the story suggest that death is the tragic interruption of Jesus’s work, not its fitting conclusion. The gospel has shown how Jesus’s opponents charge that he is a lawbreaker and a blasphemer; from that perspective, Jesus’s death is a victory for his opponents because it brings his activity to an end. ‹ John’s challenge is to show how crucifixion can possibly be seen as the meaningful completion of Jesus’s public activity. In doing so, the author depicts scenes that are unique to this gospel, including the appearance of Jesus’s mother and an unnamed disciple at the execution. ‹ In the gospel itself, the main action is remarkably simple. Jesus says to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” And he says to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, the disciple takes her into his home. What’s striking is that the crucifixion culminates in a scene where relationships are formed. Jesus completes his work by entrusting two people to each other, and as he does so, he forms the nucleus of a community that will continue beyond his death. ● Scholars note that John builds a kind of symmetry into the narrative. Jesus’s mother appears only twice in the gospel: once at the wedding in Cana and once at the crucifixion. At Cana, Jesus does the first of his signs, turning water into wine. And at the cross, Jesus gives people to each other before he drinks sour wine. After he drinks the wine, he speaks his final words, “It is completed,” and dies. ● The symmetry in the narrative invites readers to connect the giving of excellent wine at Cana with the drinking of sour wine at the cross. But that literary connection suggests meaning rather than making it explicit. At Cana, Jesus gives the wine as a sign of divine favor. And the scenes at the cross complete the act of giving, as Jesus gives people to each other and gives up his own life. In John’s gospel, that act of self-giving discloses the character of Jesus’s work. ‹ The final scenes in the crucifixion narrative are equally suggestive. We learn that it is late in the day, and the Jewish authorities don’t want Jesus or those crucified with him to remain on the cross until the next day. The two men crucified with Jesus are still alive, but Jesus is already dead. The soldiers pierce his side with a spear and out comes blood and water.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  Akiba’s most distinguished pupils, discussed a ruling in Deuteronomy: If a man guilty of a capital offence is put to death and you hang him on a tree, his body must not remain on the tree overnight; you must bury him the same day, for one who has been hanged is accursed of God, [ qilelat Elohim ] and you must not defile the land that Yahweh your God has given you for your inheritance. 21 There was self-interest in this legislation, because if the Israelites polluted the land they would lose it. But R. Meir suggested a new reading, based on a pun: ‘Do not read qilelat Elohim, ’ he said, ‘but qallat Elohim (“the pain of God”)’. R. Meir explained that the new text revealed the pathos of God, who suffered with his creatures: ‘When a person is in grave trouble, what does the Shekhinah say? It says, as it were: “My head is in pain, my arm is in pain”.’ 22 It was possible to find love and the Golden Rule in the most unlikely parts of the Torah. As a modern scholar remarks: ‘the midrashic shuttle weaves a texture of compassion around a stern legal rule’; because the rabbi invited his pupils to change the text, they too became involved in the active process of endless reinterpretation. 23 The same applied to R. Judah’s exposition of God’s words to Zechariah: ‘Whoever hurts you [i.e. Israel] is like one who hurts his own ( eyno ) eye.’ ‘Do not read eyno (“his”), but eyni (“my”) eye,’ R. Judah instructed his colleagues; the text now claimed that a loving God shared the pain of his own people: ‘Whoever hurts Israel is like one who hurts My [ eyni ] eye.’ 24 There could be no definitive interpretation of scripture. This point was made in the very early days at Yavneh, when R. Eliezer was engaged in an intractable argument with his colleagues about a legal ruling ( halakha ) in the Torah. When they refused to accept his opinion, R. Eliezer asked God to back him up with some miracles, and – mirabile dictu – a carob tree moved four hundred cubits of its own accord; water in a conduit flowed uphill; and the walls of the house of studies shook so violently that the building seemed about to collapse. But the other rabbis were not impressed by this show of supernatural force. In desperation, R. Eliezer asked for a bat qol (‘voice from heaven’) to adjudicate and the divine voice obligingly declared: ‘What have you against R. Eliezer? The Halakah is always as he says.’ But Rabbi Joshua quoted a verse from Deuteronomy: ‘It is not in heaven’.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  17 A good midrash kept as close to the original meaning as possible and R. Ishmael contended that it should only be changed when absolutely necessary. 18 R. Ishmael’s method was respected, but R. Akiba’s carried the day because it kept scripture open. To a modern scholar, this method seems transgressive; midrash regularly goes too far, seems to violate the integrity of the text, and seeks meaning at the expense of the original. 19 But the rabbis believed that because scripture was the word of God, it was infinite. Any meaning that they discovered in a text had been intended by God if it yielded fresh insight and benefited the community. When they expounded Torah, the rabbis regularly amended the words, telling their students, ‘don’t read this . . . but that.’ 20 By altering the text in this way, they sometimes introduced into scripture a note of compassion that had been absent from the original. This happened when R. Meir, one of R. Akiba’s most distinguished pupils, discussed a ruling in Deuteronomy: If a man guilty of a capital offence is put to death and you hang him on a tree, his body must not remain on the tree overnight; you must bury him the same day, for one who has been hanged is accursed of God, [qilelat Elohim] and you must not defile the land that Yahweh your God has given you for your inheritance. 21 There was self-interest in this legislation, because if the Israelites polluted the land they would lose it. But R. Meir suggested a new reading, based on a pun: ‘Do not read qilelat Elohim,’ he said, ‘but qallat Elohim (“the pain of God”)’. R. Meir explained that the new text revealed the pathos of God, who suffered with his creatures: ‘When a person is in grave trouble, what does the Shekhinah say? It says, as it were: “My head is in pain, my arm is in pain”.’ 22 It was possible to find love and the Golden Rule in the most unlikely parts of the Torah. As a modern scholar remarks: ‘the midrashic shuttle weaves a texture of compassion around a stern legal rule’; because the rabbi invited his pupils to change the text, they too became involved in the active process of endless reinterpretation. 23 The same applied to R. Judah’s exposition of God’s words to Zechariah: ‘Whoever hurts you [i.e. Israel] is like one who hurts his own (eyno) eye.’ ‘Do not read eyno (“his”), but eyni (“my”) eye,’ R. Judah instructed his colleagues; the text now claimed that a loving God shared the pain of his own people: ‘Whoever hurts Israel is like one who hurts My [eyni] eye.’ 24 There could be no definitive interpretation of scripture. This point was made in the very early days at Yavneh, when R. Eliezer was engaged in an intractable argument with his colleagues about a legal ruling (halakha) in the Torah.

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  I watched Aunt Ruth’s bluish fingers clutch at Earle’s arms while he tried to keep his greasy black hands off her yellow chenille robe. “Oh, Ruth,” he groaned and gave it up. He hugged her back, picking her up in his arms. “Don’t cry on me. We’ll both be sick if you get to crying all over me.” He stumbled across the porch and went down on one knee to put her back in her rocker. “It an’t fair. I an’t never been able to argue with a woman when she starts crying.” I hung on to the porch railing, watching the two of them hug each other tight. I couldn’t imagine hugging Reese like that, telling her how I really felt, crying with her. It made me jealous, made me wish I was part of that embrace, that generation, as quick to yell and curse as to cry and make up. Daddy Glen said I was a cold-hearted bitch, and maybe I was. Maybe I was. The morning Mama drove up in Beau’s truck, I was on the porch with four little earthenware pots and Aunt Ruth’s big bucket of wandering Jew. She’d had the idea the day before that she’d like to hang those pots just under the eaves of the porch, and swore that I could leave half the plant in the bucket and break up the rest of the red-and-blue-green tangle into the little pots. “What you think, sister?” Aunt Ruth called to Mama. “An’t they gonna look fine up there under the eaves? Stuffs so sturdy it might even grow up over the roof.” “Might,” Mama agreed, coming up to give me a fast hug. “Grows quick enough anyway.” “People say it’s a weed but I’ve always liked it, specially since it don’t take any effort to keep it going.” Aunt Ruth patted the seat of the cane-back chair beside her rocker. “Come sit with me. An’t seen you in weeks.” She leaned forward to look directly into Mama’s face as she sat down. “You look different, almost rested. What you been doing, napping a lot?” Mama laughed and shook her head. “Just sleeping better since it cooled off a little.” She pointed at the pile of wet moss and clay I was mixing with black dirt. “Everything looks fresher now that the heat’s broke. I’d swear, Bone, you’ve grown a full inch this month.” I just grinned and went on gently separating the tightly meshed roots of the old plant. Aunt Ruth had said some of it would die back but if I could avoid bruising the fine hairs on the roots, most of it would live. So I had to go slow as I unraveled the long, pale shoots. “Oh, Bone’s gonna be a tall thing.”

• From Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  Remember that a destructive cult cannot be all bad and that there may have been some positive aspects or associations linked to cultic involvement. Time in the group or under the undue influence of a leader may have produced some positive changes, developments, or realizations. It’s important for those who are concerned not to make sweeping generalizations and needlessly negative comments. Destructive cults prey on and exploit human frailties and emotions to fulfill their needs. Those hoping to help former cult members must recognize their fragility and be sensitive to their situation. Don’t be critical of spirituality, idealism, or some form of awareness. The stated goals and ideals of the group may have been laudable despite the bad behavior. No one willingly joins a “cult” or volunteers to be abused and exploited. People are essentially tricked into cultic involvement. Don’t try to convince or convert a former cult member regarding a certain set of beliefs. Respect individual expression and the personal process of discovery. Each former cult member must begin to make his or her own choices, free of coercive persuasion and undue influence. As the surveys indicate, many cult members may take some time redeveloping their critical-thinking skills and beginning to think independently again. Likewise, their ability to tolerate ambiguity may slowly return. No one can reasonably expect an instant, overnight transformation after departing from a cultic situation. Placing pressure on former cult members to speed up the process is also unwise. As Conway and Siegelman noted, the longer a person has been in a destructive cult, the longer it may take him or her to sort things out and regain his or her past cognitive abilities. This may also depend on the severity of the group or leader. Some groups called “cults” are more destructive than others. Conway and Siegelman found that this was true depending upon the degree of personal involvement and the level of destructive behavior and control within a particular group. Because there are so few support groups devoted to the issue of cult involvement, simply reading books on the subject of cults and thought reform may be easier. It is also possible to gather historical information about cults and their coercive persuasion techniques through the World Wide Web. Understanding the common elements of deception, coercive persuasion, and undue influence inherently present in destructive cults may help to sort through postcult issues and serve to assuage unreasonable fears, ease stress, and reduce anxiety. The family and friends of a former cult member may also require help understanding cultic influence to better cope with someone who has recently ended such a situation. Again, this can be accomplished through a similarly focused educational process, which includes reading helpful books about cults and relevant research. Much like a former cult member who is coming to terms with the broader context of his or her involvement by learning about how cults affect others, family and friends can also benefit by broadening their knowledge base in regard to this subject.

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

  AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) A Samaritan coming by, far removed by birth, very near in compassion, acted as follows, But a certain Samaritan as he journeyed came where he was, &c. In whom our Lord Jesus Christ would have Himself typified. For Samaritan is interpreted to be keeper, and it is said of him, He shall not slumber nor sleep who keeps Israel; (Ps. 128:4.) since being raised from the dead he dieth no more. (Rom. 6:9.) Lastly, when it was said to him, Thou art a Samaritan, and hast a devil, (John 8:48.) He said He had not a devil, for He knew Himself to be the caster out of devils, He did not deny that He was the keeper of the weak. GREEK EXPOSITOR. (Severus.) Now Christ here fully calls Himself a Samaritan. For in addressing the lawyer who was glorying in the Law, He wished to express that neither Priest nor Levite, nor all they who were conversant with the Law, fulfilled the requirements of the Law, but He came to accomplish the ordinances of the Law. AMBROSE. Now this Samaritan was also coming down. For who is he that ascended upon into heaven, but he who came down from heaven, even the Son of Man who is in heaven (John 3:13.). THEOPHYLACT. But He says, journeying, as though He purposely determined this in order to cure us. AUGUSTINE. He came in the likeness of sinful flesh, therefore 1 near to him, as it were, in likeness. GREEK EXPOSITOR. Or He came by the way. For He was a true traveller, not a wanderer; and came down to the earth for our sakes. AMBROSE. Now when He came He was made very near to us by His taking upon Himself our infirmities, He became a neighbour by bestowing compassion. Hence it follows, And when he saw him he was moved with compassion. PSEUDO-AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) Seeing him lying down weak and motionless. And therefore was He moved with compassion, because He saw in him nothing to merit a cure, but He Himself for sin condemned sin in the flesh. (Rom. 8:3.) Hence it follows, And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine. AUGUSTINE. (Serm. 171.) For what so distant, what so far removed, as God from man, the immortal from the mortal, the just from sinners, not in distance of place, but of likeness. Since then He had in Him two good things, righteousness and immortality, and we two evils, that is unrighteousness, and mortality, if He had taken upon Him both our evils He would have been our equal, and with us have had need of a deliverer. That He might be then not what we are, but near us, He was made not a sinner, as thou art, but mortal like unto thee. By taking upon Himself punishment, not taking upon Himself guilt, He destroyed both the punishment and the guilt.

• From Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  If a cult member considers leaving the group, this ongoing outside support may become a crucial factor in such consideration. By continuing to express love and commitment, family and old friends send the message that there is a way out and that the possibility of a better life still exists. Personal Visits Visiting and making face-to-face personal contact with cult members is important. Concerned family members and old friends should frequently try to make and encourage such visits. These visits could potentially include birthdays and special occasions such as anniversaries and holidays. Again, they must be done with sensitivity regarding the group’s influence. Most cult members don’t live in isolated compounds, and doing personal visits is often relatively easy to do. If there is a history of arguments concerning the group or leader, it may take time to diminish the stress level that exists and resume more relaxed conversations and visits. Always remember that what is said and done has consequences. Consider this whenever communicating or visiting a cult member. That is, confrontational and negative behavior may lead to an end of communication. Organizing visits with cult members away from the cultic group is always preferable. This could include visits at home or in a private residence, such as an invitation for a meal. Always remain courteous, even if rebuffed. Visits may include long descriptions of group activities and projects. Listen patiently but don’t confuse courtesy with feigned feelings. Expressing support for the group and its activities isn’t necessary. But be polite and attentive; if there’s nothing positive you can honestly say, it’s preferable not to comment. Remember that every comment you make will be viewed through the lens of the group and could potentially be repeated to others in the group. That is why you should exercise caution when making comments. When you are in doubt about what to say and how to act, doing nothing is preferable. It is much easier to add comments later than to retract those you’ve already made. Encourage happy memories or talk about things that can be seen as universally positive, such as someone who recovered from an illness or something as simple as good weather. If possible, try to draw on the cult member’s known sense of humor to strengthen rapport. If possible, everyone should be encouraged to maintain contact through face-to-face visits. These visits may be the only meaningful personal contact and emotional connection the cult member has outside the group. Hopefully the cult member can be courteous too. But if you aren’t being treated respectfully, it’s all right to offer a gentle reminder, such as, “I am doing the best I can to understand and be respectful.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Finally, he felt the cool pillows of her bottom on his hips. “Now please continue to fuck in and out of my asshole,” Koizumi said, “and when I come you will feel the ring tighten very hard and that is when you must come and put your seed in my bowel, so that I can push out your souvenir.” Wade pulled almost all the way out so that he could feel the blunt, strong rim of her sphincter clenched on his underdick. Koizumi was in a dream world, and Wade could hear her vibration going rum, rum, rum and her little panting sounds. She said Japanese or perhaps Sanskrit words he didn’t understand. Then he felt a sudden distinct spasm of tightness from her anus, followed by a catlike mew of orgasm. It was so primitive and pure and in a strange way mystical that his comesack clenched once, twice, three times, and he could feel the come shudders zithering down into her body. She collapsed and he lay on top of her, smiling. Her asshole tightened one last time and pushed Wade’s softening cock out of it. “Ah, a good experience,” she said. “Now we must wait. I am going to have a bath.” “I’ll run it for you,” said Wade. He rinsed off his cock, which was surprisingly clean, and then ran her a warm bath. She came in holding her stomach. “I can feel it growing in me,” she said. She got in the water and held Wade’s hand. After a moment’s time, she reached down and poked into herself. Then her face contorted, and her upper lip pushed out, and she drooled a little. She practically broke his fingerbones in her grip. In the water was a large brown object. She slumped back for a moment, resting. “That hurt very, very much, even more than your cock hurt,” she said. “But I will recover.” “I think you may have just crapped the bathtub,” said Wade. She looked up. “No, I did not ‘crap.’ That is incorrect. You will see. This is one of my sculptures. It is made of asswood.” She washed it off and dried it with a towel and handed it to him. The sculpture was indeed in the shape of a woman, with a wide face, made of dark polished wood. “It’s beautiful, I stand corrected,” said Wade. “I will give it to you. I have others for sale in the HOHMA gift shop. Now I will go. I enjoyed our dream. Good-bye.” She nodded to him. “Good-bye,” said Wade. “Thank you very much for the sculpture.” Henriette Surfs the Lake Henriette was sitting in Lila’s office. The book of men’s faces lay open and unregarded on the glass table next to her chair. Poplars were waving their little leaf shadows on the floor. “I imagine a sensual man,” Henriette said, “strong-jawed, financially secure, who understands my needs and is not threatened by them.”