Book v blogging

In case you miss this blog when I don’t write, which I doubt, I thought I should explain why my entries have been few and far between recently. It is because I am working on a book and it sucks up all my writing energy. In fact, it sucks up most of my energy, period, in something like two to five hours a day, and leaves me with long, low-energy stretches of time in which I am good for nothing except reading, watching TV and movies, and making endless, hamster-like rounds on the walking track at the Y.

The book is going well but I don’t want to talk about it yet. Which gives me little to do but list the books I have read recently to fill the dull-headed hours left after squeezing out a thousand words or two. Here is the list of recent reads on my Kindle, beginning with the latest. After a morning of writing I have enough energy only for one-line reviews.

All Our Names, Dinaw Mengestu. In the middle of this now. Intriguing but I wish I liked the characters more.

The Empathy Exams, Leslie Jamison. This is making the rounds and I read it with high hopes. Unfortunately I could not summon much empathy with the author.

From Times Square to Timbuktu: The Post-Christian West Meets the Non-Western Church, Wesley Granberg-Michaelson. This blew me away because it is an academic-ish exposition of the main themes of the memoir I am working on.

Flash Boys: A Wall Street Revolt, Michael Lewis. I have a horrified fascination with Wall Street machinations and if anyone can make sense of them, Lewis can.

Living with a Wild God, Barbara Ehrenreich. Amazing. I loved seeing this other side of social-activist-writer Ehrenreich.

The Husband’s Secret, Liana Moriarty. Pretty good chick lit.

Foreign Gods, Inc., Okey Ndibe. Started this novel about a Nigerian immigrant but lost patience with it.

Dust, Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor. Ditto. What’s happening? I usually love books by African novelists but these two left me cold.

Leaving Church, Barbara Brown Taylor. I love honest spiritual memoirs, whether by atheists (Ehrenreich) or ex-Anglican priests (Taylor).

Ghana Must Go, Taiye Selasi. I loved this African émigré novel, a portrayal of what can happen when brilliant people get lost in another culture.

The Luminaries, Eleanor Catton. An absorbing, prizewinning, long novel set in 19th century New Zealand that entertained me but didn’t quite live up to the hype.

Stringer: A Reporter’s Journey in the Congo, Anjan Sundaram. This guy went to Congo on his own, on an urge, without a job, and lived with/off of Congolese acquaintances. Nitty-gritty real.

I won’t begin to list the movies I’ve watched except to say that the BBC series Doc Martin has 33 episodes and is super-great escapism. Although I am getting royally fed up with the main character, the others (receptionist Pauline, the pharmacist who has a crush on the doc, the Larges, father and son) are a riot.

High priest of chocolate

Chocolate holy man Eladio Pop shows off a prize cacao tree to tourists.

Chocolate holy man Eladio Pop shows off a prize cacao tree to tourists.

The cacao farm was not our first choice for an excursion but Ian, our host at Hickatee Cottages in Punta Gorda, Belize, brought it up a few times on the evening we arrived, as we were planning our activities for the next three days, and so I finally asked him exactly what tours he recommended. He quickly said, “The cacao farm, Blue Creek Cave, the Mayan ruins of Lubaantum, and Rio Bianco waterfall. You can do all that in two days and I’ll get you the best guide. Then you can take a day to explore Punta Gorda itself.” Continue reading

When the Bible is wrong

Romanino, Pontius Pilate (Wikimedia Commons)

Romanino, Pontius Pilate (Wikimedia Commons)

In light of the latest anti-Semitic atrocity, at the Kansas City Jewish Community Center, it is necessary for Christians to go beyond papal and ecumenical apologies for anti-Semitism. We must boldly proclaim that our beloved Holy Scriptures are downright wrong on some points.

Plenty of Christians, especially those who have been to seminary and studied the Bible as the writings of very real people living in very real times, know this. But rarely do you hear preachers acknowledging from the pulpit the demonstrable errancy of scripture, let alone instructing congregations in how those mistakes were made, what harm they have done, and what we should do to correct them.

It is Holy Week. Instead of devotional readings I happen to be racing through Zealot, Reza Aslan’s biography of Jesus. I was looking for entertainment reading last Sunday afternoon and came across this while browsing popular selections in my local digital library. I don’t know why I thought it would be entertaining but it actually is a good read.

The story I’m thinking of is Jesus’s alleged trial before the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, in which Pilate finds Jesus relatively harmless and offers to set him free, following an alleged custom of releasing one prisoner for the holidays, but the Jewish crowd demands the release of another insurrectionist instead and screams for Jesus to be crucified. This is the basic story presented in the oldest gospel, Mark, but subsequent gospels embellish the story until, in John, Jesus himself is blaming the Jews and absolving Pilate.

Aslan points out, as others have done, that this scene conveniently slides the blame for Jesus’s crucifixion from the Romans to the Jews. Besides the gospel record there is no historical evidence for any of it except the fact of the execution itself.

What historical evidence there is would suggest that the story was fabricated. Historical evidence identifies Pontius Pilate as a particularly cruel tyrant who didn’t blink at executing Jewish troublemakers, which Jesus certainly was. Historical evidence identifies crucifixion as the favorite Roman method of execution for revolutionaries and bandits and guerrilla fighters, of which there were plenty at the time. Most important, historical evidence suggests that the audience for the gospel writers and the spreading Christian movement at the time these stories were written was Rome, the gentile world. So in fleshing out the whole Jesus story, 30 to 100 years after his death, the writers did not hesitate to spin the story in a way that would take the edge off of Roman responsibility. The Jews were, at that time, a lost cause, recently decisively crushed by Rome after a futile uprising and, besides, most of them didn’t accept Jesus as the Messiah, whatever one might mean by that.

“Thus, a story concocted by Mark strictly for evangelistic purposes to shift the blame for Jesus’s death away from Rome is stretched with the passage of time to the point of absurdity, becoming in the process the basis for two thousand years of Christian anti-Semitism,” Aslan writes.

Anti-Semitism is not Christian. As a Christian I don’t want to share any blame for evildoers like Frazier Glenn Cross/Miller or any of his ilk. I would like to wash my hands of him. But the anti-Semitism of today has its roots in the very beginnings of Christianity. Pretending this is not so is like turning away from clerical child abuse. Continuing to tell such harmful Bible stories to ourselves and our children is to perpetuate the conditions for abuse. Let’s set the record straight.

 

Holy Communion at the Hibachi

“I guess this is our secret vice,” I said to my husband over our after-church lunch. “We’d never invite our friends to join us here, would we?” He chuckled and glanced at the not-too-clean couple at the table next to us, then down at his plate piled high with samplings from the bounteous buffet of the Hibachi Grill.

It is possible to eat healthy at Hibachi if you choose carefully. But we don’t always. And it is not the nice array of fruit right out front that draws the clientele of the Hibachi Grill, or even the to-order stirfrys in the back, which give the place its name. It is the price–$4.99 for seniors like us, $5.99 for other adults, $2.99 for kids for all you can eat of a hodgepodge array of vaguely Chinese/Japanese/American foods guaranteed to fill you up. Continue reading

Terrible Tuesdays

What is your hardest day of the week? Mine is Tuesday. My husband leaves early Tuesday morning for three days of work in the city and, if loneliness is going to hit me, it is always that day. It gnawed at me yesterday. I needed somebody else around to anchor me. Even my late cat would have helped. I found myself missing Lalo even more than my husband (sorry, Vic). Continue reading

A brother’s death

I can write about small things like the death of a cat but it is really hard to write about big things like the death of a brother. I am used to tackling subjects head-on and burrowing to the truth of them but I can’t do that with this landmark event. I can only write around the edges of it. The first death among my siblings. Continue reading

Celebrating compromise

trees verticalThe snow has been here for so long that I feel like we need more vocabulary for it, like the people of the north do. Light and fluffy, heavy and wet, settled snow, crusted snow, plowed snow, dirty snow, melting snow. Patterns of snow melt. Do you notice that it melts first around the bases of trees? A pocket for each tree, perforating the puffy snow duvet like knots in a comforter. It must be because the dark color of the trees absorbs what little sunlight there is, heating a bit, prompting the first melt.

Sunlight. The days are longer and the temperatures bump up now and then, but not enough to bring spring. One longs for real sun, real warmth. I just dawdled away an entire week planning a vacation in the tropics. It helped me get through the latest blizzard. Continue reading

Practicing good life

I would like to be happier. My source of unhappiness is almost always myself. I seem to be profoundly, unalterably dissatisfied with myself. I often ruminate over my faults and consider my good qualities ephemeral exceptions to the rule of my nature.

And yet I do not feel like a sinner to be forgiven. I do not identify with that language at all. It’s not forgiveness that I need. Forgiveness implies staying the same, accepting one’s faults and missteps. It’s strength and persistence and discipline–all those qualities in which I feel deficient and yet which I possess in certain measure–that are called for. I just want to be better, to do better. That, however, is a source of constant dissatisfaction, i.e. unhappiness.

Obviously, if I am to be happier I need a different story. Not self-improvement. Not forgiveness. Not even self-acceptance.  What? Continue reading

Dead cats

A dream this morning between 6 and 7. Vic and I are at home but it is my childhood home. We are looking after some children. Toys are scattered everywhere. I am sitting at a table reading. Suddenly I feel Lalo on my lap, real as life although I know he is dead. I pet him and he stretches in pleasure, turning almost upside down, sliding down between my legs. Continue reading

My solar guy

Sometimes the best thing about church is community, a pool of friends and acquaintances who share the burdens, joys, and responsibilities of life and who unite often in common cause. Building that kind of community, however, requires work. You can’t pay pastors and leaders to do it all because then it’s not community; it’s spectator church. Because that kind of church does not feed our souls, Vic and I find ourselves taking on assignments and responsibilities in whatever church we attend. Continue reading