January 2020 Books
Novels
Medicine Walk, by Richard Wagamese: A near perfect novel, from an author who is quickly becoming one of my favourites. This is the story of Eldon and Frank Starlight, part-Ojibway father and son who barely know each other. Frank has been raised, well, by the “old man”, not by his father, and through the course of the novel we discover why. Eldon is dying, drink-sick, and he asks Frank to bury him in the wilderness in the old Warrior Way. On their journey towards Eldon’s death the story of his life is finally shared with his son. The writing is so powerful, the relationships so real, the description of the wild and a way of being in the wild so transformative and honouring.
The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy Lefteri: A heartbreaking yet hopeful story of a couple from Syria who, after losing their son to a bomb, make the long and dangerous trip through Turkey to Greece and then England. The husband is a beekeeper, the wife - who is blinded by the blast that killed her son - an artist. The story powerfully illustrates the immense difficulties faced by refugees. The author spent several years as a worker with refugees in Athens with the UN, so the narrative reflects many of the experiences of those she met who were fleeing their homelands for safety and hope. Ultimately the book is about what it means to “see”, and how tragedy and hopelessness can blind us every bit as much as a bomb.
San Manuel Bueno, Martyr, by Miguel de Unamuno: The simply told tale of a saintly (and sainted) village priest who believes that he does not believe, yet lives and teaches as if he does believe, in order to help his village believe. The question asked is this: does a life lived as if one believes mean that one does in fact believe, even if one believes that one does not believe?
The Festival of Insignificance, by Milan Kundera: An absurdist tale of four friends in Paris who discuss angels, “erotic eras”, navels, Hegel, Kant and Schopenhauer, and mothers and children (Stalin, Krutschev and Kalinin are also heavily featured as characters, sort of). The main theme is the deception of significance, the overrating of genius, and the ultimate victory of insignificance. Stalin at one points explains to his Politburo how Kant was wrong to believe there is a real Thing behind every representation. Schopenhauer, Stalin argues, was correct that only representations exist which can be manifested through a strong enough will (such as his own, but even that in the end seems wasteful). The only way to confront such a meaningless, insignificant world is through humour, except that jokes are now impossible: there is no access to an “infinitely good mood” which Hegel says is necessary for any true humour. So anyway, this novel is awfully strange, but kind of sticks with you.
Beirut Hellfire Society, by Rawi Hage: Set during the Lebanese Civil War, this is a fascinatingly written story of Pavlov, the son of an undertaker who believes in nothing but dogs. The only characters that are filled out in this novel are those who retreat to apathy, absurdity, hedonism and nihilism in response to the madness of war. Anyone with any faith or hope is caricatured. Everything ends in fire, which is presented as a more fitting fate than any faith-filled ceremony. It is an understandable motif from someone who experienced religious war and came out angry, and the style is extremely engaging and authentic. But there is nothing edifying here. The story revels in depravity, and is a deliberate assault on any notion of righteousness or hope. I cannot recommend it.
Go Set A Watchman, by Harper Lee: This is NOT a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird. It is genuinely not, in that it was (apparently) written first and rejected by publishers, leading to the classic novel that Lee is famous. It is also not a sequel in the sense that the tone and ideas are pretty jarringly different. A now 26 year old Scout returns home to Maycomb, Alabama from school in New York, near the beginning of the Civil Rights movement which is hugely effecting the South. At first her conflicts with her family are benign and winsome. The first half or so of the book is quite charmingly and humorously written - I laughed out loud several times at the way the characters turn phrases. But the second half of the book turns into a series of bitter shouting matches, having to do with Scout’s family and intended husband seemingly compromising with racist doctrines and groups that oppose the NAACP. It is a strange admixture of Lee’s political and cultural musings, and it really does not seem to fit at all. It does an excellent job of reducing Atticus Finch from a noble man to frail, flawed individual, which seems to be part of the point. But, in my view, it just doesn’t work, and I agree with those who argue that it should not have been released. Though if anyone wants to read about Scout screaming at Atticus Finch and calling him a ring-tailed son of a bitch, this is the book for you.
Sci-Fi/Fantasy
Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes: I have been wanting to read this book for a long time. It is the story of a man named Charlie who has an IQ hovering around 70. He works at a bakery, had a horrific childhood which he barely remembers, and is generally mocked by everyone around him but does not know he is the object of mockery. He is chosen however as the subject of an experiment that will make him a genius, a procedure they have already successfully tried on a rat called Algernon. The story is told through Charlie’s “Progress Reports” which are barely legible at the start of the book, but slowly transform into evidence of incredible intelligence. The book does a great job of slowly marking this transition. It also highlights serious problems with the way people with disabilities are treated, and illustrates that one’s intelligence quotient is not everything. Excellent book, but very sad.
Noir, by Christopher Moore: Every Moore book is an opportunity to laugh several times per page, meet bizarre characters (including in this case the original Men in Black; a moonman; a seven-foot black man who wants to be in the secret service; and a deadly mamba snake named Petey) and enjoy a ripping yarn. Set again in San Francisco, like many of his books, but this time in 1947, Moore weaves a tale noir or a ordinary palooka caught up in a dizzy, convoluted set of schemes and counter-schemes as a result of falling for a beautiful dame. Not as good as his previous novels like Lamb, Bloodsucking Fiends, or A Dirty Job, but better than Fool or The Serpent of Venice.
Mr. Splitfoot, by Samantha Hunt: A strange and haunting (literally) novel about cults, cons, and especially about the relationships between mothers and their children. Hunt weaves two tales together. One is of a young boy and girl raised in a religious cult of a foster home and who escape, but not really to safety, after “discovering” the ability to speak with the dead and taking up with a con man who can make use of this skill. The other is of the original girl, years later, on a silent and uncertain journey with her niece. The novel is dream-like, perhaps a con all the way around, with very genuine depictions of the pain that accrues when parents abandon or abuse. There is a pretty heavy critique throughout of faith and of the idea of God, but the ending casts doubt even on that cynicism.
Friday Black, by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah: The debut book of a major up-and-comer. Adjei-Brenyah tells a number of short stories in this book, some of which are connected around a fictional mall and coat store; another of which takes place in a hyper-realised racial environment; and yet another in a post-apocalyptic loop where the characters experience the same day repeatedly, but with their memories and abilities retained or enhanced. The writing is superb: short, sharp sentences and confident prose. The author seems to be drawing from his own experience as a retail worker and a black man in America, but with the extremes pushed slightly into the fantastical (Friday Black refers to the Black Friday shopping day at the mall, where the shoppers are zombified, the body count is high, and employees casually dispose of hundreds of corpses that are trampled or beaten to death.) Three of the stories in particular are incredibly violent, graphic and disturbing.
Theology
The Prophets, by Abraham Heschel: Such an important book. A massive and intricate look at biblical prophecy (Old Testament) set in context and contradiction to many of the world’s ideas about prophecy. Heschel powerfully describes what kind of man the prophet is (he only deals with the masculine) - someone who has sympathy for both God and humanity, someone who represents God to Israel and Israel to God. He rails against the notion of God’s impassiveness, arguing persuasively for God’s pathos as an essential quality of the prophetic engagement. God is interested, God participates, God is affected. This is what, in Heschel’s view, makes sense of God’s wrath - it is a temporary suspension of God’s patient love. Where I part with Heschel is in his refusal to accept the notion of humanity’s union with God, but I appreciate that from his view point that idea is blasphemous. I further appreciate that union with God, when considered from a strictly human perspective and attempted through human means (such as ecstatic or religious trances, meditation, etc…) is ludicrous. Heschel argues that God’s revelation to the prophet induces terror, not union, and this is evident in the accounts of the biblical prophets. But something changes when considering the life of Jesus of Nazareth, something Heschel does not do, for obvious reasons. Heschel denies the idea that God prophecy is God’s self-revelation, as God can never be revealed to us. I believe Jesus opens the door to knowing God in a new way, and is himself God’s ultimate self-revelation, a revelation which is continuing through the indwelling of God’s Spirit. I found the first half - which goes through each prophet in turn and describes the context of their message - more interesting than the second half, in which Heschel takes on what he considers various mistaken ideas about the source and meaning of the prophetic.
Commentary on Romans, Volume 1, by Karl Barth: Barth’s mammoth commentary on Paul’s letter to the Romans, this first volume deals with chapters 1-7. It is impossible to truly summarise. Barth rails against the notion that sin and grace are simply two human possibilities, and pushes constantly towards the impossible possibility - that in Christ - by the Krisis of his death and resurrection - we are dead to sin and law and religion. Religion is the ultimate human possibility, but it is still in the realm of that which must die. The only salvation from death is to become alive to grace, which is the power unto obedience. We are, in grace, new people, new creations, on the other side of an uncrossable abyss, and not by our own power. The very best we can do is to know that all we do in this life leads us to death. The gift of the law, of religion, is to point out our impossible situation. And yet, the old Adam is dead, and the new Adam is alive, and brings us to life. It is a terribly disturbing and still hopeful message, one which sees no common ground between human effort and divine grace, but still calls us into the full expression of that effort, so we could know the full gift of grace.
Rescuing Theology From the Cowboys, An Emerging Indigenous Expression of the Jesus Way in North America, by Richard Twiss: A profoundly important theological treatise and counter-balance to the Euro-centric view of doctrine, mission and Church. This work calls for a genuine theology and practice that is embedded within Indigenous cultures and worldviews, and sees Western theology and Church as the compost from which this new way can grow - though in order for this to happen, the old way has to move aside. The question is: can this be done within a largely resistant Church structure, or will a new, Native ecclesiology need to be developed for this comprehensive “sacred and honouring gospel-telling” to find a home?
Non-Fiction
The Rights of War and Peace, by Hugo Grotius: The classic 16th century work that systematised the notion of rights and justice in war and peace, and in particular the rights and duties between nations. It was the first major attempt to do so, and much of our modern sense of international law is based upon Grotius’ work, even if few people have read it or would agree with it in the modern world. It is revolutionary even in the notion that there are laws and customs that should govern the behaviour of “sovereign” nations. (It also proved exceptionally dangerous, in that it defines the ‘Law of Nations” in ways that only accepted European ideals of governance and statehood, clearing the path for such atrocities as The Doctrine of Discovery and the subjugation of Indigenous peoples around the world). He details the requirements for a war to be just and to be pursued justly, requirements which would curtail most occasions of war today if taken seriously. He describes a just war as one based in a nation’s “right” to punishment, defense, or compensation - and this “natural” right is quite expansive in Grotius’ mind - but also points out that just because a nation has a right to act does not mean that it should, based upon the commands of love and mercy from Scripture. A dense, difficult read, but very illuminating.
The Ethics of Ambiguity, by Simone de Beauvoir: de Beauvoir tries to land the great existential problem introduced by Kant, Nietzsche, and especially her mentor Sartre: if there is no god, no plan, no universal morality, no infinite, then how do we make ethical decisions in a finite existence? Do “ethics” even make sense in that light? de Beauvoir grounds her thought in the ultimate “value” of individual freedom, but always tempered and conditioned by the intertwining of relationships between free individuals. There is lots that is very important and good here, even for those of us who do believe in God and a divine plan/personality to which we may conform. “We repudiate all idealisms, mysticisms, etcetera which prefer Form to man himself.” I suspect Jesus would agree. Each person is to be treated not as a means, but as an end, and each scenario must be exhaustively examined in the ambiguous light of freedom to determine what is right and what is wrong. It is a type of situational ethics, guided by certain pre-determined “values.” And it is largely how people do make decisions now, or at least how we all like to imagine we make decisions (I think most people are far more conditioned than free). But the issue remains: how did we come to these pre-determined “values”? Personally derived “values” which are based upon internal integrity are meant to replace God’s commandments or any kind of externally imposed morality. But why should we trust these values? And have not certain values already been assumed as good? Why should the freedom of individuals matter so much, if the thought just springs from our own will? Why should we expect good will? I don’t believe she has overcome the essential issue of the source of “goodness” outside of God. de Beauvoir uses the word “must” a lot, but I do not think she has created any foundation for its use. However, her method does have a lot to recommend it. She reckons with reality, with the demands of love and conscience, and rejects any escape into Hegelian infinities (though she admits they are comforting). And she rightly points to the importance of a revolutionary subjectivity in faith, politics, and art which gets subsumed under the “seriousness” of objective, systematised norms and rules. Once again, I think Jesus would say Amen.
We Are Not Refugees, by Agus Morales: First-hand stories from around the world of migrants and displaced people who have been forced to flee, many of whom are not officially designated refugees and who are surviving without any governmental help. Most interesting to me were the stories from the southern border of Mexico, and from Syria/Lebanon, places I visited this past year. It was chilling to hear the stories from places where I stood and prayed. Morales emphasises throughout the stories that these are not victims, not refugees, not migrants, but people. She insists that we do not lose that humanity within a political category.
Spiritual Development and Prayer
The Interior Castle, by Teresa of Avila: A classic, a beautiful and peculiar book on the depths of prayer, composed by a woman who knew of which she spoke (though she constantly disparages herself and her wisdom throughout the book). Teresa writes for her monastic sisters, counselling them on what to expect as they enter their own souls in prayer, the place where they will meet the Master of the House. She warns them of the distractions and suffering they will meet as they move deeper and deeper into the castle of prayer, and also speaks movingly of the benefits and favours to be found through union with Jesus. It is not easy to read or understand everything Teresa writes; she sometimes refers to things she has told the sisters at other times or in other writings, and one suspects there is a language and culture they are all familiar with, but with which we are not. Still, this is an extremely important guide to contemplative prayer, and to the virtuous life that should emanate from prayer.
One Story, One Song, by Richard Wagamese: Another beautiful, grounded, and wise book of meditations by Wagamese. These are reflections from the Ojibway writer concerning marriage, the natural world, his struggles with the Sixties Scoop and being fostered and adopted, the rooming house he and his wife ran with compassion, and the confluence of Native tradition and spirituality with a broader understanding of God, faith and life. Wagamese’s style is funny, simple, confident, yet vulnerable. He laments and jokes in equal measure, and is not afraid to compare life’s deepest heartaches and hopes with the game of baseball. He is kind, generous, and truthful.
Hildegard of Bingen, a Visionary Life, by Sabine Flanagan: A very thorough survey of Hildegard's life and works. I was looking more for examples of her hymns and poetry, though, so the parts I enjoyed most were less the analysis, more the transcription of the thought and theology of this incredible 11-12th century anchoritess.
Poetry
The Temple, by George Herbert: 16th century poet, contemporary of John Donne and also a priest in the Church of England. Herbert’s poetry is devotional, doctrinal, convicting, and sometimes confusing due to the difference in time and culture between his era and ours. I love his poem “The Church Militant” and also “Aaron” (not just because it is my name). There are lines within many of his poems that I had to stop and write down because they express a truth so aptly and succinctly.
To Bless the Space Between Us, by John O’Donohue: I have heard a lot about O’Donohue, but this is the first book of his I read, at a friend’s house. It is a series of poems of blessing, designed for everyday life moments - morning, transitions, work, fear, wounds, meals, homes, death, sleep. They are beautiful and simple, and helped me prepare for a few meetings I had that were causing me some anxiety.
Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman: Whitman’s great, ranging ode to American Democracy, and his comprehensive vision of the American ideal of the 19th century. Whitman writes about America with the same hope and even worship that I might write about Jesus, and this is concerning. But he evidently really believed, and categorically so. Many of his poems are long lists of the elements of the Nation, physical, biological, technical, martial, political, economical and more. The poems are mostly unbound by metre or rhyme (he is called the father of free verse) and are aggressively populist rather than elitist. I would liken Whitman to Metallica in that respect. And, along those lines, no poet has ever loved the exclamation point as much as Whitman! My favourite from this collection is Respondez, which I take as horrifically prophetic, as Whitman looks at the ways his beloved society could become depraved and degraded.
Poems, by Gerard Manley Hopkins: A beautiful collection of sacred poems from the 19th century Jesuit poet. I found this stanza so powerful, from his poem “Carrion Comfort”: My own heart let me have more pity on; let / Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, / Charitable; not live this tormented mind / With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
