The Ball And The Cross

Book reviews have been rather haphazard around here lately, and this one is no exception. It seems the decision to write a review depends more on the time I have, and less on the actual significance of the book. It is something of an injustice that I am going to review The Ball And The Cross before I properly review what is - in my view - the superior work: Manalive. I've also listened to several noteworthy titles in audiobook form, and I'm currently reading Charles Dickens. Dickens is something of an anomaly in my literary diet in that I do not find his work particularly quotable or even intellectually provocative: it's just page after page of strong English prose - delightful, to be sure, but rather the opposite of deep. But I severely digress.

The Ball And The Cross, by (who else?) G. K. Chesterton, revolves around a lengthy duel between an Atheist and a Catholic. I say lengthy because the two combatants are continually prevented from completing their contest by some fantastic interruption - usually the police, but sometimes a motor-car accident or a rising tide. As an exasperated MacIan says in Chapter 9, "By the run of our luck we have never had time to be either friends or enemies. Something always jumped out of the bushes."

In Chesterton's typically anarchic style, they wind up being chased all over England by the law, while their escapades are cheered by the public and discussed enthusiastically in the newspapers. Eventually, the two antagonists have been through so much together that they become - somewhat against their will - a rather strange and extraordinary pair of friends, and begin to discover what they have in common and accept the missing pieces of their respective worldviews.

The ball and the cross are a bit of symbolism borrowed from the fixture adorning the top of St. Paul's Cathedral: the ball stands for the physical world, the cross for the scandalous paradox of righteousness and redemption. They are, in Chesterton's view, alike necessary in maintaining a stable and comprehensive worldview.

Near the beginning of the book, Chesterton colorfully describes the progression and inevitable self-destruction of the strictly scientific, anti-religious view of the world - the ball-without-the-cross:

"You begin by breaking up the Cross; but you end by breaking up the habitable world. We leave you saying that nobody ought to join the Church against his will. When we meet you again you are saying that no one has any will to join it with. We leave you saying that there is no such place as Eden. We find you saying that there is no such place as Ireland. You start by hating the irrational and you come to hate everything, for everything is irrational."*

If you reject the inherent reason of the unreasonable and think long enough and hard enough about an alternative, it is not particularly difficult to think yourself into the freedom of nothingness. It is as Chesterton says above in so many words: if you insist on abolishing the unexplainable, you will end up abolishing the universe, which has certain harmful consequences.

However, even as the world is vague and meaningless apart from the cross, so the cross is abstract and purposeless aside from the world. Clearly, while the cross originates outside and lasts beyond the world, the fact remains that the world is the only reason it exists at all. That's not a new idea - that's just John 3:16.

"I had a dream," said Turnbull, thickly and obscurely, "in which I saw the cross struck crooked and the ball secure--"
"I had a dream," said MacIan, "in which I saw the cross erect and the ball invisible. They were both dreams from hell. There must be some round earth to plant the cross upon. But here is the awful difference - that the round world will not consent even to continue round. The astronomers are always telling us that it is shaped like an orange, or like an egg, or like a German sausage. They beat the old world around like a bladder and thump it into a thousand shapeless shapes. Turnbull, we cannot trust the ball to be always a ball; we cannot trust reason to be reasonable. In the end the great terrestrial globe will go quite lop-sided, and only the cross will stand upright."**

The world, for the moment, anchors the cross. But the cross, in what it stands for, outlasts the world that it stands on. The cross is in the world, it is not of the world. This is a riddle and a mystery, and it will likely remain so until the stars fall. In spite of man's frantic search for the answer, he has remained, by and large, unsuccessful, with little to show for his weary quest but grim battlefields sanctioned with sophistry and drenched with blood. But there is hope, and Chesterton offers, in his farcical, fatherly way, the best answer we are likely to hear this side of heaven: not war, but wonder.

*G. K. Chesterton, The Ball And The Cross, (The Collected Works of G. K. Chesterton, Vol. VII (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004), 44)
**Ibid., 247-248

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Turning Over Tables

Occasionally when I'm down in the city I'll stop by Berean and browse the clearance books. I've found some useful (and not-so-useful) titles in this way, usually at a generous discount.

While it is true I do shop there, and sometimes fancy that I almost enjoy the experience, I must take issue with Berean's self-branding as a "Christian Store." Berean is not a Christian store. Berean is a religious store. There is a difference.

The spiritual squalor of the place never ceases to appall me. From the toothless grinning vegetables that gape at you from the children's section, to the glaring punk musicians that make Peter Jackson's Orcs look positively friendly, to the shameless nonsense advertised on the covers of cheap dating books, the whole thing begs the classic question: "Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?"

You may have noticed that the restroom in the back invariably smells of microwave popcorn. Last time I was there, I could not help but imagine the Devil kicking back with some buttery Redenbacher's in one of the back corners of the store, wickedly snickering to himself, finding the whole scene supremely entertaining, not to mention gratifying.

We are greatly deceived if we think that the cultural presence these stores provide scores an automatic point for Christianity. It doesn't. The Devil is perfectly happy to market Christianity, so long as he can vulgarize it, water it down, and generally make it cheap and stupid. (Besides, carnality sells so much better when dressed up as piety anyways. Why do you suppose immorality has been sacramentalized in nearly every pagan culture?)

It's not a Christian store. It's spiritual promiscuity scented with potpourri.


Perhaps you're thinking that it's been too long since I've smashed something and I'll feel better after I get some sleep. Perhaps you're right. But I really believe that there is some serious sabotage going on here and that we need to be awake and on the alert. ("I'm turning shepherds into sheep / And leaders into celebrities / It's holy sabotage - just look around you / 'Cause everything's for sale in the 21st century..." -dW)

None of this is intended to deny the relevance of Philippians 1:15-18 to this situation. Proclaiming Christ - "in pretense, or in truth" - always constitutes a miscalculation on the Devil's part. The name "Jesus" is eternally invested with a sublime power - whether uttered in anger, apathy or adoration. Indeed, one of the best arguments for Christianity is simply "all the fuss." G.K. Chesterton, recalling his own spiritual journey, speaks of the "odd effect of the great agnostics in arousing doubts deeper than their own:"

As I read and re-read all the non-Christian or anti-Christian accounts of the faith, from Huxley to Bradlaugh, a slow and awful impression grew gradually but graphically upon my mind - the impression that Christianity must be a most extraordinary thing. - G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, Doubleday, p. 85

You can still buy a plain Bible at Berean, provided you have the patience to sift through the reference versions annotated by the gurus and the teeny-bopper or God-and-graffiti ones marketed to the teenagers. Since we are all so blessedly "individual," we must of course also have the full round of "I-am-me-and-there-is-no-other" editions: "The Sportsman's Bible"; "The Teacher's Bible"; "The Sailor's Bible"; "The Policeman's Bible"; even "The Golfer's Bible." If these titles were tongue-in-cheek it would be funny. They're not, and it's not.

"Excuse me, Sir, where can I find a 'Sinner's Bible'?"

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The Post That Was Thursday

"'You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' I nodded. He suddenly lifted up his lion's voice. 'Why, then, dress up as an anarchist, you fool!'"

The Man Who Was Thursday is a story of conspiracy and intrigue, candor and insanity. Beneath the rollicking exterior, it is a sober reminder that things are not always as they seem, and that we mortals chronically underestimate the possibilities and are prone to leaving important contingencies out of our calculations. When all your enemies turn out to be traitors, you may suddenly and quite unexpectedly find yourself surrounded by confused and curious friends. It can be a most disconcerting feeling.

This story is not - as it might seem - a work of fantasy; it lacks the wide-eyed wonder and bracing air of Narnia or Middle-earth. It is rather, as the subtitle suggests, a dream; and more specifically, a nightmare, complete with the appropriate nonsense and familiar sensation of squinting and straining to breathe.

The creative license afforded by this dream-like atmosphere gives Chesterton plenty of elbow room to infuse the story with his hearty and wonderfully dry brand of British humor:

"'What are we going to do?' asked the Professor.
'At this moment,' said Syme, with a scientific detachment, 'I think we are going to smash into a lamp-post.'
The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree.
'Well, we smashed something,' said the Professor, with a faint smile. 'That's some comfort.'
'You're becoming an anarchist,' said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness.
'Everyone is,' said Ratcliffe."

The willfully absurd tone of the narrative is a peculiar vantage point from which to examine anarchy, justice, and meaning in life. Perhaps it would be good for us to learn to see mortal existence as Chesterton did - for the great joke that it is. It is something of an emancipation to concede that reality is absurd.

A positive word about the Modern Library Classics edition: the introduction by Jonathan Lethem, himself an author, is quite good as introductions go, and this particular volume also includes useful commentary on the story from William Barry, Hillaire Belloc, William Morton Payne, and Chesterton himself. I recommend it.

If we stopped taking ourselves so seriously and always insisting that everything make so much sense, things might well be simpler. Chesterton understood life for the trifle that it is, and he reacted to this truth in much the same manner as Syme did near the end of the book- not with the morbidity of nihilism, but with the exuberance of having discovered something more: "He felt he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality."

The Gardener

On the third day the friends of Christ coming at day-break to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of the gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but the dawn.

-G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man, Ignatius Press, p. 213

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Inspiring Ireland

I don't know what it is about the place; I'm quite taken with it. I guess green grass, gray mist, and old churches just go together. Hark! - There's music pouring out across the lake!

Gougane Barra, County Cork, Ireland

For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad:
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.

-G. K. Chesterton

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On Heretics and Hilarity

Since I insist on being logical about everything, I have been reading the works of G. K. Chesterton in careful order. Unfortunately, as it turns out, I have had it precisely backwards.

Heretics marked Chesterton's entrance into the realm of Christian apologetics. It is of course everything that is generally said about the man: always witty, often wise, never wilted. The book is properly paired with Orthodoxy; together they constitute the tour de force of Chesterton's outlandish and irresistible worldview.

Chesterton is a master at calling the cowards on the carpet while at the same time making them feel that it was their own idea. There are no smears or sophistries here, just the merry spirit and sparkle of a man who loves everything - even his enemies.

The way the book mentions so many specific personages by name, as if it were an informal conversation on a Sunday afternoon, takes a bit of getting used to; it seems somewhat out of step with our 21st-century literary sensibilities. Even so, by the end of the book, individuals such as Mr. Shaw are like old friends - almost, anyway.

Chesterton cuts a wide swath through the philosophical jungle in this book, taking on everyone from aesthetes to ascetics. His main plea is that we stop ignoring (or denying) the obvious questions and the obvious answers. As he puts it, near the end of the book, "Religion is exactly the thing which cannot be left out - because it includes everything. The most absent-minded person cannot well pack his Gladstone-bag and leave out the bag."

From Chesterton I am slowly learning never to underestimate the power of understatement (which is, evidently, a trademark of British humor). Few literary devices are nearly as effective in creating instant rapport with one's reader - with this reader, at least.

As a technical note, the particular edition I read (Saint Benedict Press Classics) contained a disproportionate number of typographical errors. There were numerous misplaced, commas and several adjoining words missing thespace in-between. I don't know that this Waking Lion Press paperback would be much better: it appears to have Chesterton's name misspelled on the front cover.

Read as I say, not as I do. This one comes first.


"Wherever you have belief you will have hilarity, wherever you have hilarity you will have some dangers." - Chapter 6, Christmas and the Aesthetes

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Emotions, Eagles, and Eternity

It is astounding to me how well our very-human nature lines up with God's very-spiritual nature. There are only two possible explanations for this. We must either write off the congruency as a cosmic coincidence, or we must warm to the wonder of being made in the very image of God.

Human emotions, as chaotic as they seem, are nevertheless rooted in spiritual reality. I was reading along in my Bible the other day, minding my own business, when I was suddenly struck by how the great themes of existence - the rush of romance, or the bravado of battle, for instance - are weighted with divine significance. Which brings us to a classic chicken-and-egg dilemma: which came first?

Is spiritual reality built like a scaffold around human emotions? Or are human emotions born on the wings of spiritual reality? I believe we know the answer, but it seems we forget.

"He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart..." (Eccl. 3:11)

"...They should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from every one of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring." (Acts 17:27-28)

I owe a good portion of this idea, if not all of it, to G. K. Chesterton. His journey of faith, as presented in Orthodoxy, is a remarkable account of how a man who is honestly honest with himself will finally, joyfully, recognize and receive the truth he has been stupidly staring at for so long.

"The whole history of my Utopia has the same amusing sadness. I was always rushing out of my architectural study with plans for a new turret only to find it sitting up there in the sunlight, shining, and a thousand years old." -G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (New York: Image Books, 2001) pg. 126

Contrary to New Age thought, you do not have the truth inside you. But you do have inside you enough clues to make the truth very near. In "hunt-the-thimble" terms, you are "really hot."


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The Definitive Orthodoxy

I have completed my upside-down exploration of the authoritative Chesterton trilogy, consisting of The Everlasting Man, St. Francis of Assisi, and now, Orthodoxy.

It is rather intimidating to approach a book that has attained nearly mythical status. These days it seems that if you want your work to be taken seriously, you must include the obligatory quote from Chesterton, and this is hard to do without casting a pallid gray shadow over your own writing.

Because of this, it's the kind of déjà vu classic that continually stirs your consciousness with remotely familiar passages, like driving through the shaded streets of a town you have never been in but many people have told you about.

I was not disappointed. The work is deserving of its decorations: in the awed words of the Queen of Sheba, "The half was not told me." I just love the way authors like Lewis or Chesterton sneak Christianity up on you, skillfully presenting it as the surprising, satisfying thing that it properly is.

This is Chesterton's Mere Christianity; likely his most fundamental work, certainly his most formidable: a crashing coup d'etat of the sour skeptics. In a healthy but reasonable 170 pages, He embarks on a wild romp through doctrine and discovery, taking the Apostles' Creed as a sort of loose outline. His enthusiasm for life is unmistakable, converting one's anxious prejudices almost immediately.

A work of this impregnable proportion is difficult to criticize, and it is with fear and trembling that I suggest an oversight. It seems that Chesterton, in his zeal for provocative paradoxes, has overlooked the essentially nonviolent nature of Christianity. He appears to have accepted and even defended the legacy of the Church Militant, which I find extraordinarily difficult to do with a clear conscience. It is not enough for this history to be dusted off and propped up; it must be repudiated. For myself, I see nothing unorthodox about representing the Inquisition or the Crusades as colossal mistakes.

Foibles aside, this masterpiece has earned its place in the list of required reading for the conscientious Christian. But perhaps "required" is the wrong word; "rewarding" may be more appropriate.

"Whenever we feel there is something odd in Christian theology, we shall generally find that there is something odd in the truth." - Chapter VI, The Paradoxes of Christianity


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St. Francis of Assisi

Being, as most of you know, generally averse to all things Catholic, this is admittedly a stretch. Who knows, maybe it will help me avoid pulling a spiritual muscle later.

Francis was the Pantheist of the pantheists and the Ascetic of the ascetics. While it seems evident that he was altogether too mystical on these points, we must be careful to discern and not react. I am starting to feel that both pantheism and asceticism are somewhat undervalued in the western church, as we are usually not sensitive enough to beauty and rather too sensitive to pain.

Nature was created to be good, and, while it has felt the stinging curse of sin, it is still something good that has been marred and not something that is inherently bad. Christianity demands a deep apprecation for creation, not necessarily to see created things as God, but to see God in (through) created things.

Then there is the issue of the body. While certainly containing many weaknesses and often requiring restraint, the body, after all, is made in the image of God. Instinctively, we possess a natural, healthy concern for our flesh, (Ephesians 5:29) which the more extreme forms of asceticism attempt to reduce. It is nice to know that to be comfortable is not always evil, but we are reminded also of the uncomfortable side of things by injunctions to "mortify the flesh" and the account of Paul's urgent practice of subjecting his body in 1 Corinthians 9:27. Still, in all this, it must be seen that the solution is primarily a spiritual one, as in Romans 8:13. (Also Colossians 2:20-24, thanks Joseph for this one.) The virtue in restraining appetite is not to glorify abstinence, as the ideal in abandoning riches is not to love rags; rather, the aim in both disciplines is to love and glorify God, as in Romans 14:6.

Catholic literature is not much better than Catholicism in general, but perhaps it's analogous to eating something you don't like: it doesn't taste very good, but it doesn't necessarily do any harm either. So, with generous disclaimers, St. Francis.

St. Francis of Assisi, G. K. Chesterton

This book is more about Francis as a historical phenomenon than Francis as a person, and it presents him more as a hero of humanity than a hero of the faith, which is probably wise. Anecdotes and narrative are somewhat sparse, while G.K. focuses you on the big picture. Arguing that a major purpose of the Dark Ages was to cleanse nature of the polluted associations given her by pagan mythology, he portrays Francis as pioneering a new appreciation for creation as the world was "waking up" from this long hibernation. Using this springboard, with characteristic wit and perception, he develops the character and ideology of Francis throughout the subsequent chapters.

"He had made a fool of himself. Any man who has been young, who has ridden horses or thought himself ready for a fight, who has fancied himself as a troubadour and accepted the conventions of comradeship, will appreciate the ponderous and crushing weight of that simple phrase." - Ch. 5, Le Jongleur de Dieu

The Life of St. Francis, Bonaventure

Written by the 11th-century monk Bonaventure in that sleepy, devout, Catholic style, this book is a simple overview of Francis's life. For some reason, substantial portions of it are printed in a sort of free verse, only adding to the dreamy atmosphere in which everyone appears as either a seraphic saint or a satanic sinner. Makes you want to yawn.

If you can get past the references to the "supreme pontificate," as well as the making of Francis into a sort of god, there are a few jewels lying here among the stones. But they are so few that I'm inclined to just pick them up myself and spare you the trouble.

"We should not stave off a visitation of heavenly light even a little because of the light which we have in common with flies." - Ch. 5

"What a man is in God's eyes, that he is and nothing more." - Ch. 6

"In beautiful things he saw Beauty itself, and through his vestiges imprinted on creation he followed his Beloved everywhere, making from all things a ladder by which he could climb up and embrace him who is utterly desirable." - Ch. 9

And, perhaps the best 15-word synopsis of Francis's life and place in history to be found: "Where the scholarship of the teacher stands outside, the affection of the lover entered within." - Ch. 11

On Writing and Writers

The mark of good writing is its deep respect for the reader and its simultaneous self-modesty. Alas, as all aspiring and accomplished writers know, this high calling is dreadfully elusive. The reader is cruelly forced to accept dozens upon dozens of unnecessary words and made to listen to meaningless, rambling sentences whose sole purpose seems to be to aggrandize the writer, suggesting a picture of a chef crafting a beautiful dish that can’t be eaten.

This idea of writing being written for the reader was first introduced to me by Will Strunk in his wonderful “little” book, The Elements of Style. E. B. White, (Elwyn Brooks, by the way,) who later edited the “little” book, was himself quite sympathetic to the reader. He wrote carefully and it made his writing genius. Why else would anyone read a 280-page tome about a misfit living in the backwoods of Maine, tending to pigs?

G. K. Chesterton, (Gilbert Keith, by the way,) was not as careful, and there are scores of red-eyed, word-weary readers to prove it. But, he was a genius, and so he got away with it. His observations strike you as the sort of thing you would never have thought of in a million years, and it is a pleasant, tickling sensation, as if you were just expertly fast-forwarded through leagues of drab and dangerous learning in six pages of shining text. Maybe there is economy at work here after all.

C. S. Lewis, (Clive Staples, by the way,) wrote with energy and humor, making his writing very human and sometimes downright personable. To be personable without being chummy is genius, no two ways about it, and to keep the reader happily anticipating a joke coming around the corner at any moment is no light task either: it requires a good nose, because (as he would say,) "the smell of frying food is very different before and after breakfast."

I don't yet know much about N. T. Wright, but his Simply Christian is laying on my desk and you should know that his name is Nicholas Thomas.

The act of writing should be neither painful nor easy, as both make for terrible reading. Writing well should require skill, effort, and persistence, while remaining as natural and fluid as possible: like a precisely thrown pitch or a deftly drawn line. One word of caution: precisely thrown pitches, and deftly drawn lines, are rarely straight.

Book Reviews, Round 2

I'll admit this is probably a bit boring, but it's a good exercise for me. It is helpful to regurgitate the gist of a book before it is entirely digested and irretrievable.

The Everlasting Man, G. K. Chesterton

Considered by many to be Chesterton's best work, I had high expectations for this book. Some of those expectations it met, some of them it didn't. Chesterton is, beyond doubt, a master with words. There are many passages that are difficult to match for sheer beauty of expression. That said, the prospective reader should be warned that the writing is somewhat denser than, say, that of Lewis; it doesn't exactly whisk you along. But the hardest roads often deliver the grandest vistas, and the attentive and diligent will be rewarded. Enough about the writing: perhaps I should tell you about the book.

Starting out, dealing with the origins both of civilisation and man himself, Chesterton presents a masterful, philosophical critique of evolutionary theory. "It is the simple truth that man does differ from the brutes in kind and not in degree; and the proof of it is here; that it sounds like a truism to say that the most primitive man drew a picture of a monkey and that it sounds like a joke to say that the most intelligent monkey drew a picture of a man. Something of division and disproportion has appeared; and it is unique. Art is the signature of man." (Pg. 34, Ch. I, The Man In The Cave) Here he delineates a crisp distinction in the matter of art, and again in the matter of spirituality: "It is of little use here to compare the head of the man with the head of the monkey, if it certainly never came into the head of the monkey to bury another monkey with nuts in his grave to help him towards a heavenly monkey-house." (Pg. 274, Appendix I, On Prehistoric Man)

From here, he goes on to examine the philosophical - not historical - development of civilisation. After defining and dealing with mythology at length, he establishes the uniqueness of the Christian God and prepares to introduce the story of Jesus, which, as told, is the most uncommon presentation of the gospel that I have ever heard; it is refreshing. Sometimes the old, old story needs to be dusted off a little. (Chesterton said as much in the introduction: "In the specially Christian case we have to react against the heavy bias of fatigue. It is almost impossible to make the facts vivid, because the facts are familiar; and for fallen men it is often true that familiarity is fatigue." (Pg. 17)) Consequently, it is worth reading the book for that chapter alone, ("The Strangest Story In The World,") which ends with what is very likely the most beautiful paragraph describing the resurrection ever written. "On the third day the friends of Christ coming at day-break to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of a gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but the dawn." (Pg. 213)


Heroes And Herectics, Barrows Dunham

If Chesterton was Solomon, Dunham must certainly be Rehoboam. The writing is similarly weighty, and also somewhat drier, or at least more concrete; names and places and dates abound. It requires a broader literary base than I possess to grasp the full import of what these authors have to say, as they are forever referencing man and myth and metaphor to illustrate their ideas; Dunham writes about Ancient Greece as if he has been there.

The premise of the book centers around the twin but distinct questions of heresy vs. orthodoxy and truth vs. error. "The question whether a sentence is true or false is a question in science, in logic, and in philosophy. But the question whether a sentence is orthodox or heretical is an organizational question... The sentences in [an] ideology are the ones that are there, whether they are true or not. Truth-falsity and orthodoxy-heresy are thus two different questions." (Pgs. 18-19, Ch. I, Man and Membership) Working off this idea, Dunham traces both threads through history for the bulk of the book, observing where they (in his view) marry and where they diverge.

It took me a long time to figure out where Dunham was coming from. Although there are numerous clues, it's not until the end of the book that you realize he is a full-fledged advocate of Darwinism, Socialism, and extreme Humanism. His appraisal of Christianity is weak, and his view of Jesus is careless and confused. (He portrays Jesus as a politically-minded social revolutionary, and believes that Paul espoused separate ideals.) In his Bibliographical Essay, Dunham notes that "The life of Jesus, the Bible, and the problems relating to both, ... are matters of much ... difficulty. A vast literature surrounds all these, such as only a scholar devoted to the subject can adequately know. I confess at once a limited acquaintance. My belief that the historical Jesus was leader of an insurrectionary movement comes directly from Archibald Robertson's The Origins of Christianity..." (Pg. 477) On this basis, it seems fair to dismiss Dunham as a scripturally-grounded authority; he essentially dismisses himself.

On a positive note, Dunham shows himself to be a firm proponent of freedom of conscience. "Coercion... cannot make a man hold 'good opinions' in the way in which good opinions ought to be held, by simple awareness of their truth and value." (Pg. 22, Ch. 1, Man and Membership) Remnant-minded Christians will resonate with His distaste for Geneva, the Inquisition, and other such institutions. It is unlikely that I will reread this book, but I will probably reference it occasionally. Highlighters are great.


Annapurna, Maurice Herzog

The runt of the litter, this mountaineering chronicle from the 1950's documents the first successful climb of an 8,000 meter mountain: Annapurna, Nepal, by a French expedition. Written by the expedition leader who was also one of the two men to summit, the book abounds in cheap sentiments and nostalgia. Notwithstanding, it remains classic mountaineering literature (I'm not exactly sure why). If you're not into mountains, don't bother; if you are, use plenty of salt.

The expedition itself lacked seriousness; it seemed half-witted and haphazard. The poor planning became evident in the frightful, badly-timed descent. Herzog paid for it, losing most of his fingers and toes to frostbite and suppurating all over India on the return trip.

This is my third mountaineering book, (behind Teewinot by Jack Turner and Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer.) I don't think I'll read any more. They make me sick.


On Writing Well, William Zinsser

I love reading books on writing because they are always written so precisely. Good writers know what they are doing and they do it well.

This little volume is no exception - guaranteed to make you chuckle, think, and (Oh my, I almost forgot!) write better to boot. Zinsser makes no effort to hide the zeal he has for his craft, and, as is typical of a healthy zealot, he occasionally flares up in righteous anger against vague, stuffy, insecure writing.

If you write, read it. If you don't write, you ought to.

Late for School

Not having found the opportunity to post for awhile, I have really missed my little project. I'm secretly hopeful that some of you have, too. Please excuse my tardiness, as it is truly unavoidable under the circumstances.

I realized, within the first hour on the road, that I was in need of a dictionary to aid my reading. Dunham seemed a rather learned man, and, as is a sorry habit of many learned men, was generally loath to allow the reader to forget his caste and (heavens no!) just read along undisturbed. A strategic rest stop in front of a Berean afforded me some welcome help from Webster, but it yet escapes me why one would write "desuetude" instead of simply "disuse," and the watery "pellucid" seems a dubious improvement over the biting "lucid." Tendentious, opprobrious, veracious, and various other fastidious, insidious nouns continually robbed my unsuspecting train of thought, and such words don't look any shorter when bouncing along at 75 mph in the back of the van with a flashlight in your mouth.

Chesterton is offering little respite: my vocabulary continues to be bloated beyond recognition. Just today we encountered "somnambulist" (sleepwalker), "supercilious" (arrogant), and "tautology" (repitition), to name a few. I am not always in the mood to look up words while reading, so I am pushing it as far as it will go.

In between my frolicking escapades into higher education, I was able to try my hand at water-skiing. I was somewhat surprised to actually like it, not usually caring much for the aquatic side of things. I'll spare you the details, as it is really not that interesting unless you've done it.

Regarding culinary concerns, David and I are a little disgruntled with what passes for salad here in the south. Picture a cold bed of iceberg, a few chunks of mealy tomato, and some wispy shreds of cheddar cheese. The whole affair is sadly lacking in chlorophyll. Around here, it seems that the term "down-home cooking" is a nice way of saying that everything is brown.

Not to complain, mind you. We have been treated the last few days to some excellent eating at the home of some Missouri friends, and I'm still amazed how good Mom's lasagne can taste after trucking it 40 hours through the desert. It's humbling when the only thing you yourself can cook is Top Ramen.

Stay tuned for an upcoming account on "The Shooting of the Armadillo."