Book Review: Vindicating the Vixens: Revisiting Sexualized, Vilified, and Marginalized Women of the Bible

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No sooner had I discovered that I’d won a review copy of Vindicating the Vixens than I began to worry. What if it’s too scholarly and I’ve lost IQ points since school and I don’t understand the theological arguments? I haven’t read scholarly work since graduate school! What if it’s a slog to get through and I’m bored and it takes hours and hours and hours to read and process? Why, oh why, did I claim I’d looooove to read the book? I don’t even like non-fiction! (Not much. There are exceptions. My mind has a flair for the melodramatic.)

I shouldn’t have worried.

This book was a delight to read. It was scholarly, yes, but not anything like the stuffy-and-snooty scholarship in the literary criticism of my graduate school days.

First of all, let me say that this is not a book aimed only at women. Men, particularly men in church leadership, should read this book. You don’t have to agree with everything; the authors themselves don’t agree all the time. (More on that later.) But the ideas and information are worth considering.

The premise is simple: many of the women in the Bible have a bad girl reputation (“vixens”) and in many cases, those reputations are undeserved. We all read the Bible through a particular lens, one that combines traditional, often skewed, interpretations and our own contemporary sensibilities regarding these ancient events. But reading the text and considering it within the context of its times, both of the events and of the actual writing, shows that our views are often far from Biblical.

For example, there’s no textual evidence that Mary Magdalene was a former prostitute and Jesus’ lover (or wife), but many people believe this. Even many churchgoers and devout, Bible-loving Christians believe certain incorrect ideas because they’ve failed to consider the context and text. (For example, the belief that Deborah was a judge only because “a good man was hard to find.”) Some Biblical women are vilified because of their sexual activities. Others are ignored.

This anthology serves as a correction to this. But it also serves as a catalyst for personal change and re-examination of our theological assumptions about gender, the gospel, and the nature of God.

The authors are diverse: female and male, white and minority, various denominational backgrounds, all well-educated. (All the authors have a MA, PhD, or ThM degrees from respected seminaries.)

They are united by this:

  • a common desire to take the text seriously
  • a desire to portray the cultural context as accurately as possible
  • a passion for God and his word, which they strive to interpret the way he intends us to interpret it, as a revelation of his character.

They differ on the issue of women preaching yet always show respect for those who disagree with their conclusions.

They are also united in this conclusion: God is concerned for the outsider. The powerless. The marginalized, feared, stereotyped. These women’s stories vividly show how deeply God cares for those whom the world has deemed unimportant. To miss this aspect of the stories is to misunderstand God’s nature.

In the excellent introduction, Henry Rouse discusses hermeneutics and how to responsibly interpret Scripture. Each subsequent chapter discusses a particular woman.

Section 1: the women in Christ’s genealogy: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary.

Section 2: women from Israel’s history: Eve, Sarah, Hagar, Deborah, Huldah, and Vashti.

Section 3: New Testament women: the woman at the well (the one with five husbands), Mary Magdalene, and a woman named Junia/Joanna, who may have been an apostle.

Some of the subject matter overlaps. (For example, the Sarah and Hagar chapters.) Because of the authors’ differing emphases, the assertions contrast and sometimes contradict. This might be disconcerting to some readers. One of the benefits, though, is that the different interpretations drive the reader back to the Bible. Rather than reading the book and passively accepting the conclusions without considering the logic and implications, I had to think harder. This is a book that demands interaction with the contents. (Much like the Bible does.) Time and again, I found myself discussing the ideas and interpretations with my husband and then in my own mind (when my husband wasn’t around).

All the authors stress the importance of the context. I was particularly touched and impressed by Carolyn Custis James’ handling of the patriarchal context in her chapter on Tamar. And Sarah Bowler’s discussion of Bathsheba was timely, considering how many women have become vocal about being sexually victimized. But it was also helpful in two ways.

  1. One, she points out that ancient understanding of rape emphasized physical force and violence, while moderns understand rape as also involving coercion and non-consent; thus, while the Bible does not explicitly call David’s sexual encounter with Bathsheba “rape” (given the writer’s cultural understanding of it), there’s textual evidence that his treatment of her would fit our modern ideas about rape. (See that chapter for details.)
  2. Two, she helps us to consider how we, as Christians–individually and corporately–treat the powerless and victimized, and how we can and must do better.

I’ve highlighted two chapters as helpful, but all of the chapters could be described this way.

The only times I felt confused were when the authors were discussing traditional views I was unfamiliar with. For example, I felt a little confused in the chapter about Mary as Timothy Ralston wrote about certain traditional ideas, such as her perpetual virginity or her bodily assumption. But I grew up in Reformed/Calvinistic circles and though I’d heard some references to these theological ideas, it was always given a disdainful treatment, almost a “can you believe these people are so stupid?!” attitude, and never treated with respect or with a desire to truly understand the origins of these concepts or the people who believe them. Hence my confusion. I slowed down and re-read those sections multiple times. (Is that a bad thing?) But my ignorance isn’t the author’s fault, nor is it a fault of the book.

This brings up something, though. I don’t think those who are Biblically illiterate would find the book helpful. The text assumes a baseline knowledge of Scripture, that the reader will know the gist of Israel’s history and Jesus’ ministry, and can find her/his way around the Bible. That’s the target demographic.

Note: The Christian reader who doesn’t know anything about the Bible (a new convert from an unchurched background, for example) could benefit from the book, though, if given guidance from mature Christian(s) and the tools to study the Bible, coupled with a fervent desire to spend time learning and praying.

There’s plenty of material for discussion in this book. Each chapter has a few questions at the end to serve as a springboard, but there’s much, much more that could be discussed in a group. It would be best if the group included women and men, as gender dynamics is discussed so much, and the group would benefit from having both male and female listening to God and each other.

Highly recommended.

I received a review copy from Kregel (through the editor, Sandra Glahn, whom I follow on Twitter) in exchange for an honest review.

Here’s my honest, Twitter-sized take: read this book. Seriously, I mean it. It’s available on Amazon. Vindicating the Vixens: Revisiting Sexualized, Vilified, and Marginalized Women of the Bible, ed. Sandra Glahn, Kregel Academic, December 2017. Contributing authors include Henry Rouse, Carolyn Custis James, Eva Bleeker, Marnie Legaspi, Sarah Bowler, Timothy Ralston, Glenn Kreider, Eugene Merrill, Tony Maalouf, Ron Pierce, Christa L. McKirland, Sharifa Stevens,  Lynn Cohick, Karla Zazueta, Amy Peeler. Great work, y’all.

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Correct . . . but wrong

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Recently, I’ve been re-reading the book of Job. I’ve read it before–that’s what happens when you attend Christians schools, church, and Sunday school for several decades–but I hadn’t picked it apart and thoroughly examined it. So now, instead of skimming through the rather tedious speeches of Job’s self-righteous friends, I’m stopping, pondering, and making connections between Job’s assertions and his friends’ arguments. And something struck me that I hadn’t taken note of before:

The friends’ theology is correct. Mostly. They recite some creeds and share ideas that, taken out of context, are beautiful. Uplifting, even. True. (For example, in chapter 20, Zophar speaks of the wicked’s future punishment and how they will pay for what they have done wrong; in the light of eternity and future justice from God, yes, that is true.)

Yet at the end of the book, God commands Job to make sacrifices for these three men’s sins. To the eldest man, he says, “I am angry with you and your two friends, because you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has.” (Job 42:7) Not sacrifices for Job, who argued with God, or his wife, who angrily told him to curse God and die. But the ones with the good theology . . . and the wrong application.

Here’s what stood out to me:

We can get our theology completely right but miss the most important thing: relationships. A relationship with God, yes, but also relationships with other people. The friends speak callously. They apply their good theology in the most unloving, uncompassionate ways to Job’s situation. They’d sat with him for seven days in silence; one wonders why they couldn’t have continued to stay silent and listen lovingly while Job grieved and argued with God. Here’s my theory:

Because humans like to correct other people.

We love being right and we think we’re always right.  

It’s not only our theology. Our ideas, our political alignments, our opinions on anything and everything from national security to proper push-up form to the stuffing versus dressing debate each Thanksgiving. Other people must agree with us!

All of our arguments can be completely correct: convincing, eloquent, and designed to drag, kick, slam, or carry the enemy to our side.  Or at least whack them upside the head for standing on the wrong side. For being the enemy. Our enemy.

Once we view the other person as an enemy, we forget that they are human, like us. 

In the past few months, I’ve tried to develop my reasoning and logic skills. I read a book by the late Robert Gula titled Nonsense. After several chapters on various types of nonsense (and why they are nonsensical), he writes about how to argue well. One of his final points was this: the other person is human. Treat them as such. 

I realized that I often forget that. I forget that all people are made in God’s image, not only the ones I find sympathetic.  While that image is a broken and shattered one, warped and distorted by evil, it is still there because God made that person.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that the person is guiltless of wrongdoing and shouldn’t be brought to justice, whatever form that needs to be. It doesn’t mean that we can’t judge another’s actions as wrong. It doesn’t mean that we can’t stand with the victims or fight unjust systems wherever they are found. We can and should.

It does mean that we don’t treat that guilty person with contempt or scorn. Granted, this is very difficult to do. It’s much easier to ridicule and stereotype people we disagree with. To turn them into caricatures. To treat them as an enemy. To see them as less human than I am. I do it far too often.

This summer, I read lots of great novels and one horrible one. It will remain nameless, as there were multiple problems with the story. One of the worst was this: the villain was two-dimensional. He was your standard, run-of-the-mill serial killer. A stereotype. The kind of creep who’s easy to hate and view as inhuman.

We never got a deep view into his perspective, nor did we get a good explanation for his actions. It was all stereotypical explanations: he’s got this weird physical disfigurement (hypertrichosis, aka, werewolf syndrome), a bad childhood, a low IQ, and an evil (but wealthy) family. That didn’t explain his motivation. Not for this reader, anyway.

It was the easy way to create a villain: rely on stereotypes and the readers’ presumed preconceived ideas of how the “bad guys” act and why.

Even as I write about the book, I’m rolling my eyes. Why, oh, why, I think, did a bestselling author resort to this? C’mon, couldn’t she have dug deeper into her antagonist’s internal state and seen him as something more than an object of ridicule and scorn?  

Yet isn’t that what I often do when I interact with others?

I see only the wrong-headed views or the external appearance or their words. I read their arguments and think how laughable they are. Sometimes the arguments are truly laughable.

It would be far better to ask deeper questions.

  • Why does that person hold that view?
  • What informed their position? Who are they listening to?
  • What life experiences have they had that made them think this way?
  • How can I disagree with them while still treating that person with respect, dignity, and kindness?
  • Even as I disagree, take a stand, or fight for justice, how can I respond to those in disagreement without contempt?
  • In this disagreement, how can I hold in tension these two principles: loving others who are wrong and upholding goodness?
  • How can I see this person as God sees them?

Deeper questions. Challenging questions. Ones that sometimes I hesitate to ask from fear of what might happen. But maybe that’s exactly why I need to ask them: something good may happen. Like Job, we never know exactly what God’s doing or why or how or who or when. But he is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Distorted relationships

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Recently–as in, weeks or months ago–I ran into an old acquaintance. We’d known each other for years, from various churches and schools, but we’d never truly been friends. She was part of the popular kids during our teen years. I wasn’t. She wasn’t a “mean girl” or a bully. Only popular. And I wasn’t.

(And I was a bit of a snob regarding people I perceived as popular; I didn’t like them, had no use for them, suspicious that they must have compromised their standards to attain their popular status. How else could people climb the social ladder of success?)

So we floated around in different social circles, never connecting except when it was forced on us.

Over the years, I’d perceived that even though we were adults, she was still treating me that same way. We talked only when necessary (almost never) and I perceived a certain superficiality on her part. I loathe fake friendliness. Pretense. Artificiality. Bleh. So it was better that we didn’t talk, I told myself, because I would rather be around genuine people. Not fakes. (Notice the pride in my attitude!)

Circumstances changed. Some changes were small, others life-altering. When we ran into each other, I was startled that she was friendly to me. And I mean genuinely friendly. I assumed the changes in our lives might have contributed to this.

I was right about that, but only that.

I learned that she’d been living with pain for years. It had taken all her energy to keep this hidden from others.  Now that her life had changed, so had the pain. She could drop the pretense that life was fine and the oh-we’re-doing-wonderful-how-about-you? the churchy, socially-acceptable answer to the horrible phrase, “Hi, how are you?” (There ought to be a law against this question being used as a social greeting.) She was free to be honest.

I was flabbergasted. Not at the secret per se–I’d had a weird feeling about one aspect of her life for years–but at how badly I’d mangled my interpretation of our relationship. That artificiality? That perception that she was treating me like we were back in high school?

I was wrong. It wasn’t about me at all.

It was about a woman trying to protect herself from pain.

Never mind what this particular pain was. You can fill in the blank with whatever you think it might be; it could be physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, any sort of thing at all. And this particular situation could be applied to multiple people whom I’ve known for years; after living in the same area for twenty-eight years, I know a lot of people. So there’s no use trying to guess who it is (if you know me in real life) or what it is (if you know me online). That’s irrelevant.

What is relevant is how I made a situation revolve around me and my interpretations of events and people, and how I was wrong. 

It reminded me of the novel Rebecca. After the big revelation that the narrator’s husband not only killed his first wife but never loved her at all, the young narrator begins to look at all the things she’s misinterpreted since she got married. Her sister-in-law’s attitude. The estate manager’s manner toward her. Her husband, and a multitude of things surrounding his late wife Rebecca, who’d pretended to be perfection and was foul and rotten beneath the surface.

She hasn’t known any of this. Instead, she’d built up a picture in her mind of the wonderful life her husband Max and Rebecca had: love and devotion and passion. It had been none of those things. She hadn’t known because she felt inferior to the first wife and was too shy to ask questions.

It seemed incredible to me now that I had never understood. I wondered how many people there were in the world who suffered, and continued to suffer, because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve, and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth. —Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier, chapter 20

Like the unnamed narrator of Rebecca, I had done exactly that. I’d let my  self-perceived inferiority build up a wall between myself and the world. It was built, stone by stone, from insecurity, from past embarrassments, from present slights, from future fears. High school experiences had been perceived through the grey cloud of depression then. Now, those experiences were even more distorted by the extremes of bipolar disorder, the fickleness of memory, and arrogance. (What can be more arrogant than self-abasement? It emphasizes self, exalting it by giving it undue credit.)

The situation wasn’t about me. But it did reveal how distorted and self-centered my thoughts were. Now I look around and I wonder how many other times I’ve misjudged people’s attitudes and actions. All those things that I’ve seen as hostility or superficiality or some other negative attitude toward me could really be exactly what it seems: hostility or superficiality of spirit. It also could be hiding personal pain. I might never know.

But I can stop focusing on me and pray for a discerning mind and an open heart–and be willing to see that truth revealed, no matter how ugly it is.

Willing to die?

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Recently, I had the dubious pleasure of re-reading The Man Who was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton. I call it a “dubious pleasure” because, while the story is staggering and profound, it is bewildering. I’m not even certain where the sense of profundity derives from, only that it’s there, somewhere, beneath layers of anarchists and undercover policemen, dreams and symbols, balloon rides and accusations and costumes. Driving the entire story is a man named Sunday who is accountable to no one but himself. Is he God? What the heck is Chesterton getting at?

I read this book years ago. I scratched my head and recommended it to people who asked for book recommendations. (They usually didn’t ask a second time.)

I re-read it again, struggling for comprehension. It’s still elusive.

But one scene stopped me. I read it, re-read it, and slowly nodded.

Gabriel Syme is a detective has been engaged as a “philosophical policeman” to thwart a group of anarchists. He’ll end up going undercover and being elected as “Thursday” to the Central Council of Anarchists, a group of seven–all named for days of the week–headed by the mysterious Sunday. As it turns out, every other man/day of the week is also an undercover police detective posing as an anarchist and all of them have been hired by an extremely large man in a darkened room. None of them see that man’s face until the end. It is Sunday.

(Y’all, it’s fiction. Suspend your disbelief.)

In a flashback, Chesterton tells of Syme’s recruitment by another police officer and then his “interview” with a man in Scotland Yard. He enters a dark room. Another man, who has his back to him, asks if he is the new recruit.

“Are you the new recruit?” said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. “All right. You are engaged.”

Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.

“I really have no experience,” he began.

“No one has any experience,” said the other, “of the Battle of Armageddon.”

“But I am really unfit–”

“You are willing, that is enough,” said the unknown.

“Well, really,” said Syme, “I don’t know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test.” 

“I do,” said the other– “martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good-day.” 

–G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who was Thursday, chapter 4

Those final two lines of dialogue stopped me. Martyrs require no other qualification than a willingness to die for what they believe. I’ve heard stories of martyrs (usually early Christians) all my life and never considered that they did not have to be perfect or especially saintly or knowledgeable or hard workers or whatever; they only had to be willing to die.

Then I wondered: Would I be willing to die for what I believe? 

Then I wondered more: What does a “willingness to die” look like?

It could mean actual death, of course. Beheading. Stake-burning. Crucifixion.

But could it also mean a willingness to set aside

  • my own agendas?
  • my obsession with my opinions?
  • my own inclination to talk too much and listen too little?

Could it also mean

  • loving my enemies?
  • forgiving the unforgivable?
  • curtailing my spiritual freedom if it causes others to stumble?

Those aren’t things that I can do on my own. I definitely wouldn’t do them if left to my own desires. I’d sit around taking selfies and making certain every item on my to-do list is checked off and sharing my opinions on everything, including things on which I know nothing, and interrupting others every time they speak. Yuck.

But I know that my fitness for any God-ordained task doesn’t derive from my own innate abilities but from God himself. So I also have to conclude that any willingness to die for God–whether that’s physical or not–comes from him. And any ability to live for God–whatever form it takes, whatever task he gives–also comes from him.

So I’m neither unwilling nor unfit for whatever work God calls me to do.

In the eyes of other people, I may look like a very unlikely candidate for that job, and I may believe that myself at times. 

In the eyes of God, unlikely-looking is no deterrent. Those same people end up doing unimaginable things. He equips. He grows. He does the impossible. He gives me himself so I can be used by him for his work.

Who should I listen to: other people or God?

Chesterton’s novel may leave me with other unanswered questions, but even I know the answer to that one.

If God’s called me to a task, He’s already given me everything I need to do it. He’s given me himself. And that is enough.

 

 

 

Passion, Perseverance and Grit

file-5Currently, I’m midway through two books. One’s fiction (The Lay of the Land, by Richard Ford) and the other is nonfiction (Grit: the Power of Passion and Perseverance, by Angela Duckworth). I first encountered Duckworth’s research in one of Malcolm Gladwell’s books, so when I saw the cover of Grit at the library, I snatched it up.

If you’re not familiar with the concept of grit, then here’s the gist.

Passion + Perseverance = Grit

As she explains to a young entrepreneur early in the book, it’s not just doing what you love (passion). It’s doing what you love and staying in love with it. It’s consistency over time. That’s not easy. (Ask any couple who have been married five or six decades.)

I suppose that most people, if asked, would like to be gritty. But . . . those distractions. Setbacks. All that hard work. I’m just not good at that, they lament. “That” could be math homework or writing or a particular sport or an aspect of their job. And because I’m not good at it now, I’ll never be good at it.

On the flip side, there are people who are wondrously talented. No challenges get in their way through childhood or adolescence; people gush over their talent. But then something comes along and–wham! Failure. And they give up. They don’t know how to continue.

Duckworth, drawing on the work of Carol Dweck, says that this is a “fixed mindset.” Both sets of people think that their innate ability/inability to do (whatever it is) is fixed. It can’t grow. They’ll always be as bad or good at that task as they are now.

Recently, my daughter, who is on the varsity tennis team at school, told us a story at dinner. We were discussing two of the boys on the guys’ team. Let’s call them X and Y. Both are the same age, both were new to tennis last year, and as you’d expect, they were ranked low on the team. Only the top 6 players get to play official matches. X, who was slightly better, was ranked #6. Y was #7.

My daughter said that X never worked hard at tennis: he didn’t like running, ditched practice at least once (this year) because it was “crap”, and barely made it on time to his match for sectionals. In contrast Y worked hard. He took lessons outside of practice; he got better. (His balls still go over the fence, yeah, but not as much as before!) But X has a fixed mindset.

“He takes for granted that he will always be seeded higher than Y.”

-my 13-year-old daughter’s complaint

My daughter and another tennis friend urged Y to challenge X to a match in hopes that Y could be moved up a seed. Alas, the match was cut short. But my daughter maintains that Y could’ve beaten X. As Y took lessons all summer, I imagine that he will.

People become better at things through deliberate practice.  That’s not just any old practice: hitting the ball over and over without improvement, for example. It involves intense, often painful, practice that works on a particular component that is just a bit beyond their ability (call it a stretch goal), gets feedback, and seeks to improve with each repetition. Recognizing and applying this are key to having a “growth mindset.”

So perseverance is a huge part of this grit equation. But so is passion.

We don’t necessarily recognize our passion when we first encounter it. There’s spark: hey, that looks interesting. Then comes practice. And more practice. After a while, we seek to do this thing not just for ourselves but because we see how it benefits others. And then, finally, we find hope that these efforts can make us stronger. That when we fail, we can get back up. (We often need help with getting back up.) That out of those failures–the missed shots, the rejection letters, the setbacks–can come success.

There’s so much more in this book: about helping others develop grit, for example, and developing it within ourselves.

As for myself, I’ve decided to apply the principles of Grit to my own writing. I’ve often told myself that I’m a lousy blogger: too inconsistent in posting, too interested in writing fiction to bother with non, too focused on maintaining momentum in novel drafts to hit pause and type up anything of substance. Besides: my depression! my fatigue! my mania! I’m not a great blogger.

Fine. I’m not a great blogger yet. But I can improve. There is a definite skills set in successful blogging, just as there is in fiction writing, non-fiction writing, poetry. I have to learn, and that means deliberate practice: a clearly defined stretch goal (look at what skills I lack); full concentration & effort (no peeking at Pinterest!); getting informative feedback (listening to the advice of more successful writers); repetition with reflection and refinement (do it again, only better).

How about you? Have you read Grit? What things have you persevered at and improved in your own life? What skills would you like to develop? 

And, hey, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, what blogging skills can I improve? I love–okay, need more than love–feedback. 

When evil appears to win

ab351a672de44766956840771490c1f5Don’t you hate it when evil wins?

Recently, I read a novel where the antagonists win in the end. Actually, scratch that. “Read” isn’t accurate. “Began to read but felt uneasy as certain themes developed, skipped to the end, read the conclusion, and thought, ‘What the–?’, then skimmed through the rest of the book to find that if I had actually read the book, the way the author intended me to read it, page-by-page, then I would have come to the unsettling conclusion that the antagonists win.” Now that’s accurate.

The antagonists–the very people the protagonists are fighting, the evil ones, the ones you are supposed to suspect and dislike–those people win.

And the protagonists–the leading couple, the parents of two children, the ones you were supposed to be cheering for–they not only lost, but they succumb to the evil forces themselves.

I wasn’t the only reader unsettled by the conclusion. Multiple reviewers on Goodreads mentioned the ending as problematic. Some felt that it was appropriate for this particular novel. Others believed the author wrote him/herself into a corner and saw no other ending. Still others wrote that they would never read another book by that author again.

Mind you, this wasn’t just an unhappy ending. My first novel has a bittersweet ending: the couple reconciles but their child still dies after a suicide attempt. Happy ending? No. But I tried to give this couple hope through both their faith in God and their love for their daughter’s newborn child. I think that’s a far cry from the bad-guys-defeat-good-guys ending.

I’ve read variations on the “evil wins” ending over the years, and I believe I understand why authors use it. They’re trying to reflect reality, and the reality is that human nature is evil. (So far, I agree.) Sometimes it appear that the ending of a life-story ends with evil (whatever form that takes) overcoming the good.

Again, I agree that sometimes in life, that’s how stories appear to end. Sometimes reconciliation doesn’t happen. Sometimes terrorists blow up a building and kill hundreds of people. Sometimes the justice system doesn’t work correctly and the murderer, the molester, the corrupt and unjust and predatory people in this world go unchallenged, undeterred, unpunished. And more people are hurt.

But appearances are deceptive. 

Here’s the reality: this world isn’t all there is. There is a world beyond this one. What appears to be the end in our world–death–is only a beginning there.

In The Last Battle, Aslan tells the children that in the Shadowlands, this world, they are dead. Now they will live in Aslan’s kingdom forever.

Lewis writes,

“And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

Does evil win on earth? Sometimes, yes. 

Does evil win in God’s kingdom? No. Emphatically, no. Those evils of this world–the injustices, the depravities, the sufferings–will be fully and justly dealt with there, regardless of whether they were here. God wins. Every. Single. Time.

We must continue to fight for justice here. That is right and good. Knowing that God will be triumphant doesn’t excuse us ignoring injustice in this world. But we can do so with the encouragement that we are not fighting in vain.

With God, there is always hope. The most realistic novels I’ve read, while they may have bittersweet or sad endings, also include some element of hope. It may be only a flicker of a candle on a starless night. But it is there.

A novel that ends without hope and with evil winning? Now, that’s unrealistic.

 

 

Downton Abbey, Jane Eyre, and the mad wife, a post by Jeannie Prinsen

My brain isn’t working in its typical brilliant way–the brilliant bit was a joke, ya’ll, in case you didn’t realize–and the doctors have concluded, after much pricking and poking and blood guzzling, that my vitamin D levels are extremely low. Apparently, at a certain level, depression, fatigue, cognitive problems, and interesting things like that can happen. And they are happening, right now, as I type, in my brain. I forget words. I cry. I feel wiped out, sometimes to the point where it’s hard to take care of the things I must take care of.

I only wish I could pop open my skull and take a look inside and see what shenanigans those chemicals are up to. They seem quite naughty. But I’ll have to be content with getting lots of rest and taking vitamin D3 supplements. It’s slowly getting better, but I doubt I’ll be a bundle of energy bouncing off the walls any time soon.

All of that to say, I’ve been struggling to write. But I thought I’d share a post that I enjoyed. Jeannie Prinsen wrote a moving essay on Downton Abbey and one particular character whose fate was a bit unsettling.

Spoiler alert! I don’t want anyone getting in a tizzy because the post ruined their entire life–or at least their favorite show–because it gave away a plot twist. Consider yourself warned.  Onto Jeannie’s post. 

Downton Abbey ended last weekend after its sixth and final season. Like millions of other fans of the show, I loved it, and I’m going to miss it. Yes, I still have my DVD’s, but it’s not the same.

The grande finale episode was very touching and satisfying. Still, I’m left with this feeling that the Crawleys and their staff are going on with their life without us, and we’re missing it!

In most cases I enjoy thinking about the characters moving on in life. Read the rest at Little House on the Circle.