The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club, which reads a classic horror book every October. We also dress up based on a theme from the book, our hosts decorated their house to the nines, and we have a good time. 

One of the things I enjoy about this club is that I end up reading interesting books that I never would have discovered on my own. While I do have a couple of other Shirley Jackson books on my list, I had, believe it or not, never read anything by Shirley Jackson. Not even “The Lottery,” which it seems is part of the standard literature curriculum. Speaking of that short story, my wife insisted that I read it before our meeting, so that I would know what everyone else was referencing. 

The Haunting of Hill House is the quintessential haunted house story, with so many recognizable tropes: the house that seems to have a mind of its own, a dark family backstory, a spooky housekeeper, places of unnatural cold, thumpings and bangings in the night, and so on. It wasn’t the first of its kind. That place of honor likely belongs to Edgar Alan Poe’s story, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” which also told of a house with a bad personality. The gothic story existed long before that, of course. In the European tradition, it was usually a castle, not an old Victorian-style house, that was haunted. Tales of apparitions and monsters date back millennia. But it was Poe who brought them together into the recognizable American form. (For those counting, Poe also originated the detective story, with “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”)

While Shirley Jackson’s novel cannot be considered groundbreaking, it is widely acknowledged as one of the finest of the genre. I have to agree with that sentiment. The writing is outstanding, and Jackson does so much with so little. The atmosphere, the suspense, the psychological terror - these predominate despite very little of the book having anything out of the ordinary. The apparitions, such as they are, are brief, and often left to the imagination. For example, the two women discover some sort of a ghostly picnic while out walking. But it is never described, and the reader never learns just what they saw or why it was frightening. 

The four main characters are Dr. Montague, the researcher who organizes the expedition to Hill House; Luke, the heir to the house; Theo, an artist invited because of her supposed experience of the supernatural as a child; and Eleanor, invited for the same reason, but with a more traumatic history. Eleanor is a spinster who lives with her sister and family, but is treated like a servant and never given her own space. Eleanor spent her adult life caring for her invalid mother, and now feels guilty for her mom’s death. The four arrive at Hill House determined to document their experiences. However, Eleanor becomes more involved, and feels that the house itself has called her to remain there. 

One of the reasons that the book works so well is that Jackson seems to be writing from experience, as it were. The events do not shock her but seem like something that was expected, normal (for hauntings at least), and mostly unremarkable. Her characters may find them disturbing, but their emotions are set down with the same nonchalance. In some ways, this emotional distance allows Jackson to add layers of psychological depth. 

Another technique which Jackson uses to full advantage is withholding information and doling it out gradually throughout the book. We know a little of Eleanor, but most of her background emerges gradually as the plot progresses - she reveals things in her conversations with other characters. And, in some cases, we learn things about Eleanor when other characters repeat things Eleanor apparently told them earlier. For this reason, the psychological connection between the house and Eleanor’s trauma doesn’t emerge until late in the book. She is still trying to find her mother, so to speak, and the house plays on that. 

There are a few lines worth mentioning. First is from the opening paragraph - and is repeated in the closing paragraph as well. 

Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years, and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone. 

I think this ranks in the list of best opening (and closing) lines to a book. It is certainly memorable, sets the tone, and sums up the feeling of the book at the end. 

There is also an interesting exchange between the characters early on, when they find that it is difficult to navigate the house, which appears to have been set up kind of like an onion, with layers of rooms, many of which do not have windows to the outside, and connect in unexpected directions. 

“Why did they mix themselves up so?” Theodora asked. “Why so many little odd rooms?” 

“Maybe they liked to hide from each other,” Luke said. 

Later, Montague is talking about the house, and the distinction between being “haunted” and being “sick.” The focus, in the doctor’s mind, is less on spirits, and more on the house itself. But he also notes that there are rational theories that have become popular as well. 

“What else would you call Hill House?” Luke demanded.

“Well--disturbed, perhaps. Leprous. Sick. Any of the popular euphemisms for insanity; a deranged house is a pretty conceit. There are popular theories, however, which discount the eerie, the mysterious; there are people who will tell you that the disturbances I am calling ‘psychic’ are actually the result of subterranean waters, or electric currents, or hallucinations caused by polluted air; atmospheric pressure, sun spots, earth tremors all have their advocates among the skeptical. People,” the doctor said sadly, “are always so anxious to get things out into the open where they can put a name to them, even a meaningless name, so long as it has something of a scientific ring.” 

This is rather true. Just like people from my Fundie background tend to want to assign “spiritual” explanations to everything, skeptics often insist on finding (pseudo)scientific ways of describing experiences they can’t explain. Seeing a demon behind every door isn’t that different from grasping at a rational explanation for an unexplainable experience. (I’m not going to get into it in this blog post, but there are stories I have heard from family and friends across the religious to atheist spectrum that are quite interesting - as are the attempts at explanation. And no, I am not at all prepared to offer an explanation myself.) 

In connection with this idea, one of the most puzzling yet fascinating sections in the book comes when the doctor’s wife suddenly shows up. She is a big believer in the paranormal, but...isn’t successful at experiencing it. In fact, she is the one person in the party who never experiences the manifestations. She never hears the banging, or sees the apparitions, and she can’t even feel the cold spots. There is certainly a bit of irony there. 

In addition to these themes, Jackson utilizes an obsessive repetition of a few phrases in Eleanor’s head. The most common is “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” At the time, I thought this was familiar, but couldn’t place it. After our club meeting, I looked it up, and discovered that it was from Twelfth Night, Shakespeare’s bizarre comedy. Namely, it is a song sung by the jester. Here is the entire song: 

The Clown, singing

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?  

O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming  

That can sing both high and low;  

Trip no further, pretty sweeting,  

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—          

Every wise man’s son doth know.  

  

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;  

Present mirth hath present laughter;  

What’s to come is still unsure:  

In delay there lies no plenty,—          

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,  

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

It is a pretty normal carpe diem poem, honestly. But I guess it makes for an interesting contrast with Eleanor, who has done the opposite, letting her youth decay and never asserting herself. Until she comes to Hill House. 

There is undoubtedly more to say about the book. We had an interesting discussion, as usual (it’s a great club with thoughtful people), and I am glad to have read The Haunting of Hill House. I will definitely read the other Shirley Jackson books on my list. 

***

Just for fun, here is the list of books that our book club has read. At least the ones I have read too. Most of these were read for the club, but a few were ones I read previously - those posts pre-date the club discussion - and some I read afterward, because I missed the discussion. 

There There by Tommy Orange

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Educated by Tara Westover

Stiff by Mary Roach

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne

Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Artemis by Andy Weir

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov 

The Radium Girls by Kate Moore

The Zen of Fish by Trevor Corson

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

From time to time, I read a book just because one of my kids checked it out and it looked interesting. This one was selected by my second kid - the one who loves Japanese food and culture. And sushi. 

The book is mostly about a class of students at a sushi-chef school in Los Angeles, particularly Kate, who starts out as a hopelessly bad (and inexperienced) cook. But the story that binds the book together is just one part of it. Corson takes the time to tell the history of sushi (which is both fascinating and very different than I expected - it has more in common with lutefisk than fresh cuisine) and also give details on the various aquatic animals which are served. Plus, there are sections on the history of sushi in America, sushi culture, the restaurant business, and giant Hollywood parties. It is quite a bit in one, but it actually works pretty well. 

Corson actually sat in on the classes he describes, so that part of the book comes from first-hand knowledge. Kate makes for an interesting protagonist. On the one hand, she is sympathetic, and it is natural to root for her to succeed. On the other, as someone who has been cooking since I was a kid, her mistakes are pretty horrifying. It just seems weird to me that someone could grow up and not know his or her way around a kitchen enough to get by. But, I suppose I was raised differently. (Seriously, some of this stuff my 11 year old is competent at - it just takes practice and experience.) 

While most of the students remain nameless, there are a number of memorable personalities. Toshi, who runs the school, is obsessive about correct technique and cleanliness - something my daughter, who has her food safety certificate, appreciates. Toshi’s assistant, Zoran, is unexpected. An Australian of Yugoslav descent, he is both jovial and demanding. One of the more interesting students is Takumi Nishio, who was once famous (in Japan at least) as a singer and actor. In addition to being the hardest working and most competent student, he is obsessed with Italian cuisine, which is unexpected for everyone. Teenager Marcos also gets some space in the book - he is interested in leveraging his skills to meet girls. 

Corson thoroughly researched the book, I must say. The information presented on everything from history to biology is just on the edge between understandable and scientific. Likewise, he writes about culinary technique really well, making it come alive while preserving accuracy. In particular, I found the descriptions of fish gutting and boning fascinating - I may have to try some techniques myself. Likewise, the section on Bluefin Tuna was enlightening. I was not aware of how much they function like warm-blooded creatures. 

I will also be a better-informed sushi eater now. Corson spends a decent bit of time explaining the different types as the students learn to make them. I did smile a bit at the rolls Takumi came up with: a “domino roll” with two square sections. And the classic “Russian Roulette Roll,” with the cucumber in one slice replaced with wasabi. Spin the plate and pick…

This was definitely a fun random read. I noticed that this book is also found under an alternate title, The Story of Sushi, so if you can’t find it as The Zen of Fish, try the other title. Trevor Corson also wrote The Secret Life of Lobsters, which our library system does not have, alas. I may have to look for a used copy somewhere. 

Democracy by Henry Adams

Source of book: I own this

Henry Adams was an intriguing character. He was the grandson of president John Quincy Adams, and seemed destined for a political career. He eventually decided against this, and pursued a more academic one, working first as a journalist, then as a Harvard professor (in Medieval Literature, of all things,) and eventually as a respected historian. His nine volume (!) work on the Jefferson and Madison administrations is still considered an excellent work. 

His personal life had a few skeletons, and some of his views have aged better than others, so to speak. His wife suffered from mental illness, and eventually committed suicide. Since he destroyed most of her letters, there isn’t much of a consensus on her reasons, although Henry’s treatment of her appears (from other evidence) to not have been a factor. He later had an emotional and almost romantic long term relationship with a woman who had been pressured by her family into marrying a corrupt and drunken senator more than twice her age. It is easy to see a bit of this senator in the book, in my opinion. 

Adams was a fierce opponent of government corruption, which is certainly admirable. He appears to have been generally a fair and decent man in his personal life. However, like others of his time, he was openly anti-semitic and anti-immigrant. (Particularly those immigrants from places other than England, which, at the time, was most immigrants…my ancestors from Germany were suspect.) 

Democracy was published anonymously. The publisher eventually revealed his identity after his death. Although the stigma has faded a bit now, back in the Victorian Era (and before), the writing of novels was considered beneath the talents of serious academics. This is a shame, because Democracy is likely Adams’ most read work today. 

The book tells of Mrs. Lightfoot Lee, an attractive and wealthy 30 year old widow, who moves from New York City to Washington DC to learn about politics, and find what she believes to be the gem at the center of the American system of government. Instead, what she finds is a wretched hive of scum and villainy - naked lust for power, rampant corruption, and an utter lack of moral principle. 

She comes under the influence of a certain Senator Ratcliffe, who is a rising star in his party, and aspires to become president. He sees Mrs. Lee’s money as an asset, sure, but more than that, he sees a devoted wife as a great help in his political career. 

The crazy part about his “courtship” is that he is actually quite open and honest with her about his lack of morals. Instead, he lays out for her his decisions, and why he made them, and she ends up agreeing that he took the least-bad alternative. Well, at least from his personal and political point of view. Others would describe the situations differently. That said, Ratcliffe isn’t completely wrong. A man who approached politics with pure convictions and an unwillingness to play the game, compromise, and trade favors wouldn’t last long in most cases. And for that matter, as the last few years have demonstrated, the most “principled” ideologues can actually do the most damage - because they believe that god and morality are on the side of their evil beliefs, such as racism, xenophobia, social darwinism, and other ideas that throw vulnerable people under the bus in the name of principle. 

This is definitely not to say Ratcliffe is admirable. He isn’t. His worst crime (as he freely confesses) is rigging an election when he was governor of Illinois. This is slipped pretty casually into a conversation, and it somehow doesn’t completely register with Mrs. Lee. Which is why, when she uncovers evidence of blatant bribery, his only effective return blow is to point out that this (relatively) harmless instance of bribery was nothing compared to disenfranchising millions of people. (Hmm, this suggests precisely why the GOP’s current strategy to defeat their, um, demographic challenge is such an issue…) 

Although Mrs. Lee and Mr. Ratcliffe are the central characters in the book, there are a panoply of other memorable and colorful sorts. The ancient ambassador from Italy, who bemoans both his loss of virility and the fact that dueling is no longer permitted. The jaded and sarcastic English ambassador, who has to figure out how to save a diplomatic dinner party from disaster after a princess and the president’s wife take an instant hatred to each other. The Washington gossip corps, and their rumor-mongering. Mrs. Lee’s younger and less sophisticated sister, who nonetheless has more common sense and emotional intelligence. Mr. Carrington, a lawyer with an impoverished family, who tries to live up to his principles while caught in the machine as a small, inconvenient person. And, of course, the President and his wife, who are imaginary, but fit the mold of vulgar, dull, and ambitious sorts with no clue what they are doing. (Also fits the present a bit too much - although the book characters aren’t narcissists.) 

The characters are based loosely on actual people, but they are often composites. For example, many have identified Ratcliffe with James Blaine. And it sort of fits with the political intrigue. But it fits as well with the personal details of J. Donald Cameron, the husband of Adams’ paramour - and it would have fit even better had Mrs. Lee actually married Ratcliffe. 

Democracy may have been written a hundred and forty years ago, but it works well as an indictment of our current age. Humans are, after all, still humans. Politics is politics, and democracy is the worst form of government...except for every other form which has been tried. The problems are to a degree predictable. As this novel was written in the Gilded Age, many of the same problems plague politics in our new gilded age: the influence of powerful corporations, the drowning of principle in money, the crushingly expensive elections, and the identification of personal or party success as synonymous with the good of the country at large. 

But there is more. Here are the quotes which stood out to me the most. 

This one comes near the beginning, and is both an indication of Mrs. Lee’s naivete and a razor-sharp putdown of politicians:

But, in truth, her notion of legislative bodies was vague, floating between her experience at church and at the opera, so that the idea of a performance of some kind was never out of her head. To her mind, the Senate was a place where people went to recite speeches, and she naively assumed that the speeches were useful and had a purpose, but as they did not interest her she never went again. This is a very common conception of Congress; many Congressmen share it. 

  Another bit of rapier wit is directed against Ratcliffe, as an explanation given by Carrington as to why the senator was once an abolitionist, but wouldn’t take a controversial position now:

“He is older, more experienced, and not so wise.”

Alas, this expresses my own sentiments about the conservative Baby Boomers in my family and acquaintance. I feel very much like they have betrayed the values they raised me with in favor of partisan politics and reactionary ideas. They are older indeed, and indeed more experienced. But far, far less wise than they perhaps once were. (Or at least as I thought them.) 

How about this bit about the British Minister, Lord Skye, and Senators? 

A certain secret jealousy of the British Minister is always lurking in the breast of every American Senator, if he is truly democratic; for democracy, rightly understood, is the government of the people, by the people, for the benefit of Senators, and there is always a danger that the British Minister may not understand this political principle as he should.

Adams also skewers the elitist and condescending sort of congressman, more educated than wise, and all too eager to display both facts. 

He had reform principles and an unfortunately conceited manner; he was rather wealthy, rather clever, rather well-educated, rather honest, and rather vulgar.

Not that Adams spares the insufficiently educated, however. Ratcliffe is pushed around by the Italian, Count Orsoni, who says witty things in French to Mrs. Lee, which Ratcliffe cannot understand. One particularly funny bit occurs when Ratcliffe confuses Moliere and Voltaire. The thought of Moliere having “unfortunate influence...on the religious opinions of his time” is actually pretty funny. Like Tartuffe. 

Much less funny, but more chilling, is Adams’ description of how men like Ratcliffe view morality and politics. 

The beauty of his work consisted in the skill with which he evaded questions of principle. As he wisely said, the issue now involved was not one of principle but of power. The fate of that noble party to which they all belonged, and which had a record that could never be forgotten, depended on their letting principle alone. Their principle must be the want of principles. 

It was impossible for me not to think of a certain current Senate leader in this connection, for whom power and party have crushed all principle. But, as I noticed later in the book, the issue isn’t just with him: it is with the voters of said party, who have openly abandoned the principles they taught me, as soon as power and party - and white supremacy - were in view. 

The political satire has held up well to time, as I noted. Along with the politics, however, comes a good deal of social satire, which is more of its time. In my view, that is a feature, not a bug, as I rather enjoy the novel of manners and the quaint customs of times gone by. And, as far as that goes, I find that sometimes outdated customs shed light on our own. Take, for example, this delightful bit about the visit of European royalty. 

In the middle of April a sudden social excitement started the indolent city of Washington to its feet. The Grand-Duke and Duchess of Saxe-Baden-Hombourg arrived in America on a tour of pleasure, and in due course came on to pay their respects to the Chief Magistrate of the Union. The newspapers hastened to inform their readers that the Grand-Duchess was a royal princess of England, and, in the want of any other social event, everyone who had any sense of what was due to his or her own dignity, hastened to show this august couple the respect which all republicans who have a large income derived from business, feel for English Royalty. 

Yep, I laughed out loud at this one. Things haven’t exactly changed. I confess to an utter failure to understand the appeal of the English royals to American tastes. Okay, except for Queen Elizabeth II, because she is basically a badass old lady, and I have a soft spot for them. But Charles? Oh god no. Can he and the rest of the Windsor males just go away already? 

Here is another witty remark regarding male-female relationships among a certain social class; one I think is rather apropos today as well. 

She [Mrs. Lee] regarded men as creatures made for women to dispose of, and capable of being transferred like checks, or baggage-labels, from one woman to another, as desired. The only condition was that he should first be completely disabused of the notion that he could dispose of himself. 

 While not exactly characteristic of women in general, I can say that I am familiarly acquainted with women of this sort, and of situations such as these. 

On the flip side of this are men who, like Ratcliffe, have a similar difficulty of understanding and accounting for the feelings of the members of the opposite sex in question. 

Did he seriously suppose that she, who was bored to death by New York, and had been able to find no permanent pleasure in Europe, would live quietly in the romantic village of Peonia? If not, did Mr. Ratcliffe imagine that they could find happiness in the enjoyment of each other’s society, and of Mrs. Lee’s income, in the excitements of Washington? In the ardour of his pursuit, Mr. Ratcliffe had accepted in advance any conditions which Mrs. Lee might impose, but if he really imagined that happiness and content lay on the purple rim of this sunset, he had more confidence in women and in money than a wider experience was every likely to justify.

That last line is just fantastic. I love it more every time I read it. There are plenty more witticisms in this vein in the book - Adams was a sharp observer with a good command of language. 

There are two political observations which I think are worth closing this post with. The first actually comes near the end of the book, during the final denouement between Ratcliffe and Mrs. Lee. Ratcliffe basically grabs a shovel and starts digging his own grave. But, in a certain way, it is an accurate defense of his politics. They may be morally appalling, but they make sense from a certain worldview. 

“Mrs. Lee...there are conflicting duties in all the transactions of life, except the simplest. However we may act, do we what we may, we must violate some moral obligation. All that can be asked of us is that we should guide ourselves by what we think the highest. At the time this affair occurred, I was a Senator of the United States. I was also a trusted member of a great political party, which I looked upon as identical with the nation.”

I swear, this was the most common defense I heard in the aftermath of the 2016 election, by people who voted for the Ku Klux Klan in the form of Donald J. Trump. The idea of voting for the other party - or neither - was unthinkable, because the party was identical with the nation. Never mind throwing the majority of Americans under the bus, and causing hardship to many. Party above principle. Party above human decency. Party. Party. (And white supremacy, yo.) 

And guess what? Like Ratcliffe, you sell your soul. You sell out your principles and values, and those of us raised on those values are left wondering what the fucking hell happened. As Adams tells the tale, what happened was a gradual destruction of morality by the reality of politics - and particularly with loyalty to party and power over principle. And sure, politics is messy. But as a human being, with allegedly strong religious principles, it is sad to see those co opted by rank partisanship, until every value is now its opposite. 

Perhaps the best line in rebuttal, though, is delivered by Mr. Gore, a rather minor character, but one who represents a progressive and practical viewpoint - one that I am inclined to share. 

“But since you ask for my political creed, you shall have it. I only condition that it shall be for you alone, never to be repeated or quoted as mine. I believe in democracy. I accept it. I will faithfully serve and defend it. I believe in it because it appears to me the inevitable consequence of what has gone before it. Democracy asserts the fact that the masses are now raised to a higher intelligence than formerly. All our civilization aims at this mark. We want to do what we can to help it. I myself want to see the result. I grant it is an experiment, but it is only the direction society can take that is worth its taking; the only conception of its duty large enough to satisfy its instincts; the only result that is worth an effort or a risk. Every other possible step is backward, and I do not care to repeat the past. I am glad to see society grapple with issues in which no one can afford to be neutral.”

This basic sentiment would be repeated by others, including Winston Churchill, over the ensuing century and a half. Democracy is messy, imperfect, maddening, corrupt, and all the other things that have been said about it. Churchill himself would also say that the best argument against democracy was five minutes spent talking to the average voter. But, on average, it is, amazingly enough, better than the other options. 

In the end, Henry Adams seems to have come to the same conclusion, even while despairing of the state of politics in his time. And, for that matter, it is difficult to blame him. He wrote during the height of the Gilded Age, when government jobs were dispensed according to the Spoils System - it wouldn’t be until the most unlikely person ever, Chester Arthur, signed the first Civil Service laws that this changed. Indeed, there is hope that people of good will can make positive changes in politics, even if the battle is never-ending. From the Civil Rights Movement to the Sufferage movement to the rise of unions and labor laws to the creation of the social safety net - things can be changed. The corrupt and pragmatic Ratcliffes of the world don’t always win - but are often remembered for the scoundrels they are. 

Democracy isn’t a particularly well known book these days, which is a real shame. It is a worthwhile read which sheds a lot of well-deserved light on the rot at the heart of money-driven politics, as well as the partisan foolishness which drives ignorant and prejudiced voters to support it. 

The Bible Tells Me So by Peter Enns

Source of book: I own this.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Peter Enns saved my faith. Literally.

Although I haven’t spelled it out in the pages of this blog, my blogging career has coincided with a series of crises of faith, triggered by a series of events which have made it impossible to continue as I had been. At the heart of these crises (they are separate enough to divide into three categories) has been the Bible: what it is, what it means, and how it is used. 

The events and the results essentially break down into three categories. The first in time was a crisis over Fundamentalism. (I define what I mean by that in this post.) This issue had been brewing literally since I was a kid. I never fully bought into a lot of the Fundie baggage I was raised on, although I sure tried. I protested our family’s involvement with Bill Gothard’s cult. I breathed a big sigh of relief when I moved out because I could at least make my own decisions on cultural/religious matters. Things unfortunately came to a head in my mid-30s when my parents decided to attempt to impose certain Fundie values on my wife. The two results of that were that my wife essentially has no relationship with them, and I had to work through a significant crisis of faith over that. Central to that crisis was the issue of biblical interpretation. Specifically, the problem of imposing ancient views of gender roles on modern times, and use of scripture to enforce certain cultural preferences. My discovery of Enns at that time was a big positive, because he demonstrated a better way of approaching the bible, one that acknowledged that it wasn’t God’s Little Instruction Book™, but a human record of our forebearers’ quest to understand God, and live the godly life in the cultural times and places they inhabited.

The second category was triggered by the election of Il Toupee. Or, more accurately, the overwhelming support of my former religious tribe for a white supremacist and wholehearted embrace of his racist policies. This one was huge, to be honest. I had to ask myself the difficult question of whether I could remain a Christian and still retain my compassion and basic human decency. It was clear that we could not continue to participate in Evangelicalism, and that doing so was a moral hazard to our family. Fortunately, I had enough knowledge of the Bible and the teachings of Christ from my youth to recognize that this was actually completely contrary to the teachings and example of Christ Himself. And that, thus, white Evangelicalism was actually Antichristianity. But here too, Enns was a huge help. In his articles and podcasts (with some amazing guests too) during this time, he pointed out the root issues: proof texting, lack of context, belief that white Americans are the new Israel - justifying ethnic cleansing of non-whites among other evils. 

The third category also has been a long time coming. From my youth, I knew instinctively that certain “truths” held by Evangelicals to be self-evident were actually bullshit on a stick. They did not match experienced reality at all, and thus required a ton of cognitive dissonance to sustain. The first of these was Young Earth Creationism (which, to be fair, my dad didn’t believe, so I grew up with some alternative views.) But there were others, too. The teachings about gender pretty much fell apart whenever I was out of the Fundie bubble and experienced amazing female leaders. The “history” I was taught from a Fundie source turned out to be what might charitably be called “whitewashed” - but we got the same shit from the pulpit too. Oh, and working with victims of domestic violence pretty much made it clear that the theology was a huge problem. And then there was the issue of human sexuality, where reality and doctrine didn’t match up at all, and the serious historical inaccuracies (and propaganda) in the Bible, the theological contradictions, the serious errors when it came to science, math, and medicine...and...well, it was pretty clear that I was either going to have to find a different way to approach faith and scripture, or I was going to have to leave the faith altogether.

Again, it was Enns who eloquently expressed a better way. One that fit reality better. One that tended toward compassion and humility, rather than hate and self-righteousness. It wasn’t just Enns, though. I should definitely give credit to a couple of individuals who sadly passed away this year: Tim Chastain and Rachel Held Evans. Without the example of people like them, who demonstrated a Christianity that looked a lot more like Christ, and a lot less like the KKK, I would have been gone by now. 

All this is a preamble to my discussion of the book itself. I believe my own experiences mirror those of many of Enns’ fans - and we are the group to which he directs his ongoing podcast series, The Bible for Normal People. 

In essence, the book is a summary of an ongoing discussion that Enns has been having on his blog and podcast - and in his classroom - for the last few decades. None of this is new, of course: as Enns points out, the discussion and argument over the nature and meaning of scripture has been going on literally for thousands of years. It is the modern, Enlightenment-influenced, reactionary Fundamentalist approach to the Bible that pretends that we have all the answers, and that our beliefs are the same as they have always been, pure and unchanging. 

***

If I were to characterize the way Evangelicals handle scripture, I would say that they at best misuse it, and at worst abuse it, making it into a weapon directed at women, gays, and racial minorities. (And of course, anyone who doesn’t share their exact beliefs.) 

By misuse, I mean that they use the Bible in a way that it doesn’t work, as an instruction book or guide to systematic theology. They try to cram it into a box, where it can speak with a single voice, and give clear answers to difficult questions. And then they claim that their interpretations are the only true, objective, clearly correct interpretations. This is a view of the Bible that cannot withstand even a casual experience of reality, which is one reason so many former Evangelicals have decided to leave the faith altogether. If your faith depends on denialism, it won’t survive contact with reality. 

By abuse, I mean the use of scripture to do evil. To harm people. To justify atrocity. Which is, well, pretty much white Evangelical politics right now. I won’t get into that too much in this post, as I have done that previously.

Enns does a good job of tracing these problems to a fundamental problem:

Evangelicals/Fundamentalists have a theological need for the Bible to be something that it is not. 

Specifically, they need the Bible to be the literally dictated Word of God™, completely infallible, inerrant. It needs to function as an instruction book, telling them what to do in every situation. It needs to be the final word about the nature of God, and how we relate to Him. (And in their view, God is definitely male…) 

As I discovered - by reading the Bible! - the problem is that the Bible is most certainly NOT what Evangelical theology needs it to be. And that is the problem that needs to be faced before we even get to such doctrines as Inerrancy. 

Here is the problem: if the Bible were in fact literally dictated by God, then that God would be in fact morally repugnant, horribly inconsistent, and wrong about science, math, medicine, and history. That God couldn’t even make his mind up about fundamental theological issues. Even such things as whether polygamy was good or bad, whether keeping Torah was important or not, and many other major issues. This is a problem when it comes to treating the Bible as a rulebook: what rules do you pick? As Enns puts it:

Many Christians have been taught that the Bible is Truth downloaded from heaven, God’s rulebook, a heavenly instruction manual - follow the directions and out pops a true believer; deviate from the script and God will come crashing down on you with full force.

If anyone challenges this view, the faithful are taught to “defend the Bible” against these anti-God attacks. Problem solved.

That is, until you actually read the Bible. Then you see that this rulebook view of the Bible is like a knockoff Chanel handbag - fine as long as it’s kept at a distance, away from certain curious and probing eyes. 

Once you do look closely at it, you can tell it isn’t what it is claimed to be. But the problem isn’t with the Bible. 

And now for some good news: I believe God wants us to take the Bible seriously, but I don’t believe he wants us to suppress our questions about it.

I don’t believe he wants us to be in constant crisis, in a stress-reduction mode of having to smooth over mass floods, talking animals, or genocide. 

I don’t believe God wants us to live our lives wringing our hands over how to make the Bible behave itself, expending energy 24/7 to make the Bible into something it’s not, and calling that “serving God.”

The problem isn’t the Bible.

The problem is coming to the Bible with expectations it’s not set up to bear.

So what happens when the Bible doesn’t behave? Well, one approach is to exert ever-increasing levels of pressure on believers to ignore the issues, and hew to the company line. As Enns tells the story of his own journey, he observes that the “system...apparently couldn’t hold it together without exercising some serious information control.” 

Enns eventually came to the conclusion (as did I), that the Bible is something altogether different from an instruction book or summary of systematic theology. 

When we open the Bible and read it, we are eavesdropping on an ancient spiritual journey. That journey was recorded over a thousand-year span of time, by different writers, with different personalities, at different times, under different circumstances, and for different reasons.

In the Bible, we read of encounters with God by ancient peoples, in their times and places, asking their questions, and expressed in language and ideas familiar to them. Those encounters with God were, I believe, genuine, authentic, and real. But they were also ancient - and that explains why the Bible behaves as it does. 

This kind of Bible - the Bible we have - just doesn’t work well as a point-by-point exhaustive and timelessly binding list of instructions about God and the life of faith.

But it does work as a model for our own spiritual journey. An inspired model, in fact.

And this is why we have, just to name a few examples that Enns uses in this book, two contradictory creation accounts, two contradictory histories of the kingdom of Judah and life of King David, and four inconsistent accounts of the genealogy, birth, and life of Jesus Christ. 

Enns also points out something that should be obvious: we humans love stories. We communicate our truth best, not through dry facts, but through narrative. That’s why a God who communicates with humans would be well advised to do so through stories. And the point with stories is not that they are “factual,” but that they are, on a certain level, “true.” For just one example of this, think of Shakespeare’s greatest works. For the most part, they are not “factually true.” Hamlet didn’t exist - or at least wasn’t the Hamlet of Hamlet, speaking those immortal lines. But Hamlet is true in a deep, spiritual and emotional, way. It resonates with our own knowledge and experience of ourselves. Much of the Bible works this way too. A lot of Genesis is myth - and that is fine. It doesn’t cease to be “true” just because it isn’t non-fiction as we understand it. Rather, the stories spoke to the present day of when they were written down in their present form (during the exile or afterward, depending on the book), and can resonate today in a related, but different, way. 

For me, this understanding came early and easily: I read other ancient books like The Iliad and The Odyssey as a teen, and saw striking similarities. Ditto for various mythologies and origin stories. These were both exotic (because the past is, so to speak, a foreign country), but also, deeply true, because humans are humans at a certain level, and our psychology retains links to the past. As Enns puts it, longing for the past brings dysfunction: to be relevant, we need to bring the past forward into the present, finding ways that the experiences of the past can inform and enlighten the present. 

Fretting over how the Bible presents the past, which is so unlike our way, and then smoothing over the differences to make the Bible behave, betrays a deeply held, likely unconscious, false expectation that the Bible should act according to our alien expectations.

Cramming the stories of Israel into a modern mold of history writing not only makes the Bible look like utter nonsense; it also obscures what the Bible models for us about our own spiritual journey.

…

We are “products” of our past, no doubt, but not forever so, as if our past has written our life script in cement. We choose - as did writers of the Gospels and of the stories of Israel - how to read the past, what we wish to accept now; we adapt and transform the past into who we are and what we wish to become in our relationship with God.

The past informs the present, but it also serves the present. When the present serves the past, we are stuck in nostalgia, longing for the good old days - a sure recipe for emotional and spiritual dysfunction. 

Woo boy, that last line is a doozy. This is (in my view) at the heart of how Evangelicalism turned to evil. They are stuck in nostalgia, and therefore see “godliness” as a return to the past. But recreating the past means in practice returning to the injustices of the past. And right now that means ethnic cleansing of Hispanics, putting African Americans back in their place, and pushing LGBTQ people back in the closet. And putting women back in their place too, it appears. This is also why “Make America Great Again” appeals so much to Evangelicals - and why the racism, xenophobia, homophobia, and misogyny inherent in that appeal is a feature, not a bug.

Another fantastic point that Enns makes is that forcing the Bible to be what it is not, so that it becomes what we want it to be is actually idolatry. 

As a person of faith, journeying onward along the Christian path, I want to do my best to take the Bible for what it is. I want to try, as best as I can, to watch how the Bible behaves and then try to understand what sorts of things the Bible is prepared to deliver. I want to align my expectations with the Bible as an ancient text and accept the challenge of faith: letting go of how I think things should be and submitting to God. 

There’s an irony: the passionate defense of the Bible as a “history book” among the more conservative wings of Christianity, despite intentions, isn’t really an act of submission to God; it is making God submit to us.

In its most extreme forms, making God look like us is what the Bible calls idolatry.

I am reminded of another Enns quote (from a blog post) that clarifies this thought:

We honor tradition best when we take seriously the sacred responsibility for shaping it for our time and place rather than preserving it in past iterations out of nostalgia or fear.

There is another chapter in the book that strongly resonated with me. It is entitled “Raising Kids by the Book. FYI, It Doesn’t Work.”

Just that title alone is awesome. As is the chapter. It begins with Enns recounting some conversations with his kids, which change as they grow up. So, from “that soda isn’t good for you” through “just one sip of my wine” to “I recommend the White Russian, but tell the bartender not to be skimpy on the vodka.” There is no one formula for parenting, despite the trillions of dollars spent telling you otherwise. The Ezzos don’t have the formula. Bill Gothard doesn’t have the formula. James Dobson doesn’t have the formula (and he turns out to be nastily racist too.) As children grow and mature, a parent’s approach has to change as well, or the relationship will be damaged. (I have far too much personal experience with this one…) And no two children are the same. An approach that works for one won’t work for another. 

Being “consistent” with your children day after day and year after year, and treating each child and each situation “the same” sounds nice on paper, but in real life it flops more than the Brazilian soccer team in the penalty area. Life mocks our puny attempts to nail down a sure set of parenting rules.

Enns relates this to the Bible as well. 

Likewise, spiritual maturity won’t happen by looking to the Bible as a one-size-fits-all-how-to-grow-up-Christian instructional manual. We can’t “go to the Bible” for ironed-out answers, or even principles, to many - or most - of the specific and important decisions we make every second of the day, on the fly. 

Waiting for the Bible to “tell me what to do” means we’ll either be waiting forever, in silence, paralyzed about making any decisions, or we’ll wind up baptizing our bad decisions with a Bible verse that, let’s face it, has about as much to do with what we’re dealing with at the moment as a Shakespearean sonnet has for guiding roof repair. 

This is so. Very. Much. True. My experience has been less characterized by paralysis than by the “make a terrible decision and baptize it using the Bible” error. Looking back, every single source of religious conflict I experienced derived from this problem. That includes the decision to become involved with Gothard’s cult, and also the decisions during my adulthood that severed relationships. It was parenting and relationship decisions based on misused and abused scripture, rather than on kindness, empathy, or respect. I am reminded of a fantastic quote from T. David Gordon (in The Insufficiency of Scripture):

“Theonomy, therefore, is not merely an error, though it has manifestly been regarded as erroneous by the Reformed tradition.  It is the error du jour, the characteristic error of an unwise generation.  It is the error of a generation that has abandoned the biblically-mandated quest for wisdom on the assumption that the Bible itself contains all that we need to know about life’s various enterprises.  It is the proof-textual, Bible-thumping, literalist, error par excellence.  It is not merely the view of the unwise, but the view of the never-to-be-wise, because it is the view of those who wrongly believe that scripture sufficiently governs this arena, and who, for this reason, will never discover in the natural constitution of the human nature or the particular circumstances of given peoples what must be discovered to govern well and wisely.”

Enns fleshes this out a bit in his chapter on Proverbs. Which is a great book of the Bible. But it is not a book of answers. Rather, it is a book of wisdom, containing obvious contradictions (or paradoxes), which admonishes the reader to seek wisdom. 

Proverbs doesn’t tell its readers what to do, because Proverbs teaches wisdom.

Wisdom isn’t about finding a quick answer key to life - like turning to the index, finding your problem, and turning to the right page so it all works out. Wisdom is about learning how to work through the unpredictable, uncontrollable messiness of life so you can figure out on your own in real time.

This relates back to that T. David Gordon quote. Learning wisdom isn’t learning formulae or reading the Bible more literally. It is learning to make good decisions in the circumstances you find yourself. And that takes practice. And also empathy and compassion, which are the two things that have most been beaten out of white Evangelicals by decades of weaponizing scripture. But a formula is SO attractive! It eliminates the need to think. It creates a false promise of a guarantee. But it doesn’t work, and just leaves a trail of destruction behind as increasingly unwise decisions are made to protect the formula. 

The book itself is divided into sections representing specific problems that end up being flash points about the Bible. Thus, it starts with the one which the New Atheists have harped on constantly: the Canaanite Genocide and what it says about the character of God. It then moves on to the problems of history (lots of stuff in the early pages of the Bible didn’t actually happen), then the theological inconsistancies and other contradictions. It also spends a great deal of time on Jesus and Paul, who, shall we say, didn’t interpret the Bible AT ALL like Evangelicals do. Rather, they worked in the Jewish interpretive tradition, and made creative leaps to completely new understandings of the text. This too was something that bothered me about the Bible. Jesus and Paul took things out of context all the time - every bit as egregiously as Fundies. The difference was the conclusions, clearly. 

Again, this difference boils down to the view of what scripture is. If scripture is an instruction book, then we can - and maybe should - use it as a weapon against those who hold different beliefs. If scripture is something else, then maybe it isn’t a weapon. Enns discusses this in his final chapter. 

The Bible is not, never has been, and never will be the center of the Christian faith. Even though the Bible (at least in some form) has been ever present since the beginning of Christianity, it’s not the central focus of the Christian faith. That position belongs to God, specifically, what God has done in and through Jesus. The Bible is the church’s nonnegotiable partner, but it is not God’s final word: Jesus is.

The Bible leads us to Jesus. Not the other way around. Enns also addresses the misuse of the passage in Hebrews which refers to the word of God as a sword. 

The Bible isn’t a lightsaber for lopping off the heads of people we disagree with. For one thing, “word of God” here in Hebrews doesn’t mean “the Bible” but God speaking in fresh ways by what he was doing through Jesus. If you look just before this passage, the author of Hebrews goes through a lengthy creative interpretation of Psalm 95, giving it new meaning in light of the new thing God is doing among them centered on Jesus. 

More important, the word of God as a two-edged sword is supposed to be turned inward, piercing us, not everyone around us. You don’t wield the sword. God does. God doesn’t call his people to do that, and thinking that he does is a sign of our own insecurities.

The Bible is not a weapon, a sword to be wielded against modern-day Canaanites or Babylonians. It is a book where we meet God. It brings hope, encouragement, knowledge, and deep truth for those willing to risk, and to “die” to themselves, as Jesus puts it, to accept the challenge of scripture, knowing they will be undone in the process. 

And this leads to a final thought. Enns notes that the deconstruction of theonomic and literalist views often leads to conflict with one’s religious community. He, after all, lost his job at an Evangelical university over his views. So many of his words in this passage could be my story. 

All this to say, if your present community sees your spiritual journey as a problem because you are wandering off their beach blanket, it may be time to find another community. One should never do that impulsively. But if after a time you are sensing that you do not belong, that you are a problem to be corrected rather than a valued member of the community, maybe God is calling you elsewhere and to find for yourself that “they” aren’t so bad after all. 

That decision is very personal (sometimes involving whole families) and can take some courage to make, but it is worth the risk. One thing is certain: if you stay where you are without any change at all, the pressure to either conform on keep quiet will work in you like a slow-acting poison. 

And if you go too far down that road, it can be a tough haul coming back from bitterness and resentment - especially for children. 

Just wow. This was absolutely the case for me with Evangelicalism in general, and my longtime church in particular. 

Despite devoting the first 40 years of my life to the church, and 18 to a particular church - and I wasn’t just a pew-sitter, I was heavily involved in serving in music and other jobs - it is clear in retrospect that I NEVER was a valued member of the community. I was a resource to be exploited. I was welcome as long as I gave freely of my time and passion - and kept my mouth fucking shut. As soon as I pushed back against the toxic politics or damaging teachings, well, I was a problem to be solved. And eventually evicted. I never really mattered. Not really. I was thrown under the bus as soon as I stopped parroting the party line.

And people wonder why I haven’t returned to church. 

Sadly, Enns is right about the last bit too. I believe he has a child who has struggled a lot over the years, and that the rejection by the church was a factor. On the one hand, I am so glad that we got out when we did. Subsequent events have shown that staying would have caused significant trauma for the kids (and one in particular, for reasons.) But leaving was traumatic for them too. It was better to leave, but I can’t help but wonder if it would have been best had we never taken them to church. (Just like, looking back on my own traumatic church experiences, if I might not have been a mentally healthier person had I left Evangelicalism before having kids. It’s hard to know. But, of course, that intersects with my family experience, and the toxic effects of religion over generations. It’s...messy at best.) 

So I find myself here, where I am. I still am a Christian (but definitely NOT an Evangelical.) I still am drawn to Christ, and the revolutionary teachings he gave us. And I am inspired by the hope of a more positive true Christianity. 

Peter Enns has been a huge part of that journey for me, giving me permission (so to speak) to reject a literalist and theonomic approach to our sacred book. Ironically perhaps, it was when I felt free to see the Bible as literature, poetry, experience, a journey, and as a source of wisdom, not rules, that I found my love for the book re-kindled. While there are still spots that are associated with Gothard or Fundamentalism that give me a bit of PTSD, I find that I am able to read scripture again - and love it. 

The Bible Tells Me So is a good entry point to Enns’ ideas. There wasn’t that much in there that I hadn’t heard or read elsewhere - I have, after all, been following his podcast during lunch at work for the past two and a half years. And I have read pretty nearly every blog post he has written. But the book is concise, and has a number of pithy lines, as you can tell. Enns writes with wit and self-deprecating humor, which helps lighten the topic a bit - a good thing for those of us recovering from religious trauma. More than anything else, Enns provides an alternative approach to scripture, one which doesn’t run away from reality, seek to recreate the injustices of the past, or paper over the genuine issues the Bible raises. 

***

Several things I want to recommend in connection with this book:

First, the blog and podcast that Enns (and Jared Byas - can’t forget his excellent contributions) runs. 

Second, Professor Christine Hayes of Yale has a video course on the Old Testament that is an order of magnitude more helpful than any sermon I have ever heard. I really wish I had seen this as a teen - it might have saved a lot of struggle. 

Third is Mark Noll’s outstanding book, The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind. It helped clarify that I wasn’t imagining things, that Evangelicalism really was deeply anti-intellectual, expecting dogma to trump reality, and making catastrophically bad decisions as a result.