How a Book Changed My Life: Reading John by Christopher Skinner

I’m fairly new to the whole academic approach to the study of the Bible. Let me just say that there are A LOT of words, and very few of those words are familiar. That means that reading these books is a long slow process, and as a lifelong skimmer of fiction, presents a new kind of challenge.

Bill, knowing my desire to further understand the fourth gospel, bought me a copy of Christopher Skinner’s Reading John when he saw that I was trying to win a copy from the Jesus Blog.  We have a plethora of books in our home, many of which have been faithfully opened and bookmarked for my personal study by the aforementioned husband of mine, but I have mostly felt frustrated and completely out of my depth.

Reading Skinner’s foreword was encouraging. He states that the book is about “thinking at the highest level and communicating with those who want to learn” and though it isn’t the mission statement, per se, it very well could be. This book strikes just the right tone for readers like me who would like to dive into further study, but aren’t strong swimmers. Yet.

It’s a life jacket. I have to keep kicking, but I’m not going to drown. Hallelujah.

The book systematically discusses the different aspects that are important for a better reading and context for the Gospel of John.  Chapter by chapter, Skinner gently guides the reader through the the differences between this gospel and the synoptics, the language used by the author and the scholarship surrounding the mystery of the writer himself.

His writing is clear, and the use of analogies at the beginning of a new topic is helpful. Even better, once he’s done describing the analogy, whether it’s watching the movie Toy Story, or his wife’s feelings about the end of a great fiction series, his switch into academic language is not jarring. You get the sense that the author is a good classroom teacher- one who truly wants his students to get the topic and will meet them where they are without a condescending tone.

The chapter on the language of the gospel (“An Alien Tongue”) was a personal favorite in which Skinner discusses the use of irony, double entendre and literary asides. It is read-out-loud-to-your-spouse-able, and definitely flipped a light switch on for me.

Because an interest in the Samaritan woman is how I got into this mess to begin with, I do wish the book had elaborated a bit more on her character, rather than taking the tact of predecessors and assuming her “marginalized” status, but I’m truly influenced by Cohick’s scholarship which infers that there is more to her character than just ostracized hussy. Comparing and contrasting the story of the woman at the well with the conversation Jesus had with Nicodemus is the context for bringing her up, so I appreciate that he had other fish to fry.

While reading, I found myself making connections and moving along a trail of thought only to find it confirmed at the end of the chapter/paragraph. That’s damn good writing right there, and it works on two levels. One, obviously- it helps guide the reader to the conclusion the author is making and two- it makes the reader believe in their ability to think/process/learn. Now I feel smart, or at the very least, not dumb. I think I can tackle Bauckham with less frustration.

I will be keeping this book on my shelf and referencing it, not just for the valuable material it contains, but as a reminder that there is a way through the difficulties of studying the New Testament, and that there are people out there who have blazed a trail and who want others to find their way.

PS. I just finished reading Bauckham’s “The Beloved Disciple as the Ideal Author” from “The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple." It's hard to believe how different the experience of reading it AFTER finishing Skinner’s book was from before when I threw the book down in tears of frustration. It is literally like night and day.

                                                

Four stars and two thumbs up for Reading John.

Study of the Samaritan Woman- Introduction

In 1997 in a living room outside of Atlanta, I heard a message on the Samaritan Woman.  The speaker had the traditional viewpoint of her character: that she was ostracized, that she came to the well alone because of the scorn of others, and that she was a whore. I was very moved by the message, and though I can’t remember what exactly struck me so significantly, since that night I feel a pull to TELL HER STORY every time she is brought to mind.

I always considered that I would write a fictional account, due to an apparent dearth of information, but that has changed. In the last year as I have slowly begun to dig into her story, I think it must be told as truthfully as we can determine, based on the more-than-I-ever-imagined resources that exist. Whether the writer of the fourth Gospel puts this incident in for literary quality only, or remembers her as an amalgam of several experiences are possibilities I haven’t personally ruled out yet, but at this point I am taking the tack that she was a real woman whose interaction with Jesus became history, not only because her story was written down (halleluiah) but because she was pivotal in spreading the gospel in Samaria.

I’ve become familiar with my biases. I want her to be strong, independent, respectable. I can hardly avoid looking for the angle that tells the story I want told. However, the research and the study I have done so far have proved that the possibilities are fascinating, and digging into her actual story will benefit far more than just using her story for my own agenda. Whether I will succeed remains to be seen. Right now, I’m trying to set my biases aside, and explore the biases that really matter here- those of the author of the gospel of John.  More on that soon.

Benediction

"I would hope that as they read scripture more that they read it with their whole self. That they don’t separate out intellectual questions from obedience questions and that they don't see the project of learning more about the Bible as different from becoming a more faithful follower of the Lord. I wouldn’t want them to lose their first love as the Ephesian church was claimed to have done right in Revelation 2. But it’s a danger, the more knowledge one has, especially the way knowledge is understood in our education system. We can kind of bifurcate action and head knowledge and that’s not how the biblical text understands a wise person. A wise person is one who acts wisely, not just thinks grand thoughts. So I think that would be a caution and I worry about myself as well, being in this field and I would hate to in any way present the idea of learning about the Bible as somehow something you master. The Bible is to master us, so our exploration in the biblical text is not so that we have a greater command of it, but rather that it has a greater command over us. And I hope then that by studying the Bible they would grow in love of the Lord and also grow in the recognition that the Lord loves them beyond measure."

Dr Lynn Cohick (her stated hope for all her students at the end of this podcast)

Ten Years.

On April 30, 2005, I posted for the first time. It is now May 4, 2015. Those children who were 3 and 5 are now 13 and 15.

I haven't looked back through the archives in a long time, and I started today and Emma and I laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm so glad I took the time to blog! I'm so grateful I wrote down the things I thought I'd never forget. 

Because I did. I forgot. I forgot what a funny  little fairy child Emma was, and how Bo used to talk and talk and talk and never stop talking. Even though so many of my posts were about how bad I felt and how tired I was and how busy we were, I still get a sense of my own happiness in re-reading them. With my 20/20 hindsight, I see that writing was a big part of that.

The best thing about this blog is that I documented a few little stories about our days.  I stopped documenting all the funny/cute/silly things my kids said as soon as I realized that they could read them. It wasn't their story I was worried about telling, the problem was that I was, in fact, telling MY story and that they might not be able to claim their stories as their own. I was telling my version of their childhood.

I pretty much talked about scrapbooking, the church and the kids. And when 2 out of 3 were gone from my life, and it wasn't fair to expose my kids to vicious schoolmates reading about their adolescent struggles, the complaining about my daily life just couldn't hold up. It's taken me some years to process why I felt so reluctant to blog about them in later years, and why the well seemed to dry up. I want to blog about my kids. I'm crazy about them and they occupy most of my time/thought/energy still. But their story is their story. So I found myself without a story to tell - at least, one that I felt was worth sharing.

The good news is that I'm finding one. The bad news is that I've done so much reading that now I can't bear to share it without doing a crap-load more reading, so it might be a minute before things pick up around here.

With this post, I'm building a little altar. I'm taking time to say I'm grateful for the writing that I've done, and I'm grateful for the writing that is to come. I'm grateful for what I've learned, how I've grown, who I've loved, and for you who walked a ways with me when our paths crossed.

Earth truly is crammed with heaven.

Non-Fiction

I've been thinking about story- non fiction, mostly. I've always been far more comfortable with fiction (like, the only non-fiction I'd ever read would be the Bible, and that only with motivation.) Recently, I feel compelled to read more non-fiction- the end being I don't know what, but hoping for some gain. My new year's resolution was to read one work of fiction and one of non fiction every month, and I had a list going on my phone but it got deleted. I cried a little, because I'm really bad about remembering books and movies, and I wanted to keep track of them! So I'm going to post here what I have so far in the non-fiction genre, because I won't be as likely to delete it when I'm checking instagram. 

Bill Bryson's At Home

Anthony Le Donne's Historical Jesus, 

Dale Allison's The Historical Christ and the Theological Jesus

Sarah Bessey's Jesus Feminist

Addie Zierman's When We Were on Fire

David McCollough's The Greater Journey,

Multiple Long Form Articles from the New York Times

and this month I'm working through Stephen Pyne's Voice and Vision: A guide to Writing History and Other Serious Non-Fiction

As part of my practice, I try to tell portions of my life to myself while I'm on a walk. It's a way of trying to figure out if it's MY story I need to be telling, or someone else's, I guess. I keep thinking it's not mine. Mine's too boring. There have been a few highlights, though and in the spirit of my recent bumbling around in non-fiction narrative,  and keeping tabs on my own learning pace, I'd like to repost this old true story. I'm fairly satisfied with the way I told it for blogging purposes, but if I were to edit it, I'd make it clear that the "towers" I refer to throughout are the policeman on either side of the bed. 

But, to the point, if I were to write it from the memory I currently have of that event, without reviewing this version, I think the details would be different. And if I had come home and written this down the night it happened, I'm sure there would be even more detail. So is it the story that matters more, or the effect of the story? Is what I remember feeling about the situation more important than the critical details of it? 

In any case, this is a good story. Maybe the best one of my life, so far. It's worth telling, I think. 

A Nurse Story

It started out just like any other shift. I had 6 patients... a full load, even though many days we had to take 7 or 8, because of short staffing. Nothing major. The day was going well. I was caught up on my charting by 1:45, and had discharged a patient. I kept my fingers crossed that I would not get a new patient this late in the day, but to no avail. The charge nurse informed me that I would be geting the next admit, and he was coming from Fulton County Jail. That was really no big deal. We took care of prisoners all the time, and except for the somewhat unnerving handcuffs keeping them locked at the ankle to the foot of the bed, they were quite easy to take care of, and generally undemanding as long as you ordered double portions for their meals.

We saw the police coming down the hall, bearing the stretcher in their midst as if they were the Macy's parade, protecting the mayor's float. There were 6 of them. Six police officers to one prisoner. Don't think we even bothered whispering. We wanted to know who this guy was, and what he did that he needed six armed guards! One of the nurses found out while I was in the supply closet getting the admission kit and towels.

"Sarah. He decapitated his wife."
"He WHAT?"
"Yep. They found him sitting cross-legged on the floor with his wife's head in his lap."
"Are you lying?"
"No, that officer just told me."
Oh, Lord.
"Well, why is he here?"
"His blood sugar dropped, and while they were bringing him here, he was so combative that they had to give him Ativan. " Well, thank God for that. At least he'll be out.

It was a really long walk down that short hall. I had been a nurse for less than a year at this point, still extremely green, and very naive, though I had learned alot in the past six months. Unfortunately, not one of those valuable lessons ever involved "The Care of a Man Who Decapitated His Wife."

I arrived at the door. The police were still all in the room, and as I started to move in, slowly, like a hobbit among these tall, buff, black guards, I could tell that they wanted to clear me out of there, simply from force of habit. "I'm the nurse," I squeaked, sounding every bit as confident as I'm sure I looked, stringy blond hair, stooped shoulders and pale countenance. The forest of security parted with a guarded reverence.

On the bed I saw an asian man, short, stocky, with well groomed hair, lying there in a t-shirt and underwear. He was tied to the bed at the wrists and ankles with police tape and leather restraints. He was covered in blood.

I had a moment. "I need to clean him up." My voice had recovered it's normal low pitch, and I made eye contact with the policeman standing like the North Tower on the side of the bed, indicating to him that he would have to loosen the restraints. "Ma'am, we can't uncuff him." "Well, we've got to get him bathed and in a gown. " He shook his head, and said "Sorry. We can't uncuff him." I sighed and stood for a minute wondering how I was ever going to get this accomplished. I went back out to the nurses station for a pair of sissors, a glucometer, and some sympathetic glances from my teammates. Glances were all I got. No one volunteered to go in there.

I returned to the room, and after checking his blood sugar, which had returned to a safe level, I had to clean him up. But to get his clothes off, I needed to cut them off. I had to cut the underwear off of this dangerous criminal, while surrounded by police officers. It was a surreal moment to say the least. I managed to get him undressed, washed his upper body, and put the gown on him. His hands and feet were brown and crusty from dried blood, where he had strained against his cuffs. I cleaned him in the quiet of the room, when he whispered- "Do you have a knife?" Many, many responses banging at the door of my lips, screaming to reply. I looked up at the South Tower, my eyes wide. "No, sir." was all I said.

I moved down his legs to his feet, and still no one was saying a word. They all stood there watching me. I glanced up at his face. Unreadable. I was fascinated. "Lord, what do you really, I mean really think of this guy? Look at him. He killed his wife...no, he cut off his wife's head! He's the worst of the worst. How do you really see him?" As I glanced down at my hands, I heard the Still Small Voice.

"You are washing My feet."

An audible sob escaped my lips. I knew it was true, and yet it was so unbelieveable, and so wrong somehow! In the midst of the horror of what I'd heard, I was blinded by the revelation of His grace.

He had been this man. He took on all sin at the cross- yes, even this sin, and put it to death. There is nothing that He has not covered by His grace, by His love, by His power. There is nothing that can keep us from Him! Nothing. He loved and wanted even this one! So much so that He covered the man's sin by His own death, knowing there was nothing he could do to redeem himself. He is our Redeemer.

That man might have never known it. I didn't tell him. I hope that someone did, or does if he is still alive. I simply did my job, got him cleaned and passed him to the next nurse. It was enough.

When you are doing it to the least of these, you are doing it to Me.

What about manners?

I haven't known what to tell my son about opening a car door for a girl. I mean, manners and all, right? But right now he is listening to Regina Spektor singing "I'm the hero of this story, don't need to be saved."

And I think, amen, Regina. AMEN.

Oh we all want to be saved sometimes. It's such a relief. But mostly we save ourselves. God gives us that. Of course, it's all him, but he walks us through the path to him. We are definitely walking it. Who is this God of my youth who is all bridegroom and swoony and the perfect gentleman? The provider. The romantic. My Jesus walked straight out of a Jane Austen novel, never challenging me, but just loving me tenderly through all my failures, while I did nothing but simply fall in his arms all the time. I read Guyon too young. That's the weakness of the Mystics. For those of us not living in abject misery or poverty or chastity, it seems a bit of a sham to cry into our Starbucks and plead to God to open the door for us to get beyond this vale of Target. But you know what? He sometimes does.

Praise be to the kind intention of His will.

This door-opening thing.  It's not a carte blanche rule, is it? Some women have their doors held open for them, and some don't. I can only hope that it is the result of communication of preferences rather than old habits and resentments.

 Here's what I think.

Err on the side of kindness and thoughtfulness. Open her door at least the first few dates. Ask later if it comes up. Start a conversation about it. But do it for kindness, and not to impress anyone, ever.  But really, kiddo, hold the door for anyone struggling. Moms or Dads with babies. People with heavy loads. Elderly. Any one using something other than flesh and blood to ambulate. Be patient. Smile. Be kind.  If you are open a car door for a woman, and then proceed to ignore her conversation, or belittle her to your friends, then psshhhh, you might as well just slam the door in her face.

There's the whole "what would Jesus do." thing.

 Scratch that. Reverse it.

What would you do if it were Jesus? Because whoever you are with,  you are acting toward him. Let your actions honor him, and I think that by that rule, you can be fairly safe. And just so you know, I'd high five Jesus just about every day of the week. Including Sundays. He's awesome. And worth my kind attention. And if I were walking in front of him and he were right behind or next to me, I'd hold that door open for him. Heaven knows he's held enough doors open for me.

One Small Change

I don't know if any of you read Addie Zierman's blog, but it's one of my current favorites. I have found her series One Small Change so helpful for a person like me who is trying to be more conscientious about wasteful habits.
In that spirit, I'm happy to introduce yet another way to reduce, reuse, recycle!  Linda, my talented friend and sister (her story is amazing, by the way) has made these adorable re-usable and washable produce bags that make my Walmart cart look so stylish. I was pretty sure that people were going to come up to me and ask to be my best friend based solely on my produce bags. (they didn't. their loss.) You can get your own right here!