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Theology of Hope (SCM Classics)
Theology of Hope (SCM Classics)
by Jurgen Moltmann
Edition: Paperback

4.0 out of 5 stars Very heavy going, 17 Sept. 2015
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It’s been a few years since my introduction to Moltmann, which came in the form the The Crucified God. Since then, I’ve read his autobiography, but have been putting off reading this work, his first, which launched his reputation in the theological world in the 1960s. The introduction by Richard Bauckham is warm, gracious and readily accessible. The latter quality is one that I cannot say applies to the start of the main text itself.

You see, Moltmann doesn’t make for easy reading. While some of this may be down to the translation from German to English, I suspect it is far more about the intricacies of the workings of Moltmann’s own mind, as communicated via the written word.

The theme of the book is eschatology. Is that an unfamiliar word to you? If so, this is perhaps not the best place to start; for that I would direct you to Tom Wright. Yet Wright treads partly in the footsteps of Moltmann. For eschatology is a longer way of saying ‘hope’. It is often written about by more conservative theologians as ‘end times’ but Moltmann is here keen to point out that that’s not quite right. It’s not wholly wrong, but the emphasis is misplaced.

Moltmann opens by trying to assess hope in the context of some of the greatest thinkers known to the Western world. With apparent ease, he moves from Parmenides to Kant, from Anselm to Bultmann. There is a dazzling array of references here which would only be readily understandable to someone who is far better read in philosophy and theology than I am. So I confess that much of section one was glossed over a bit. Yet this does give rise to a criticism of Moltmann. For though I am not a specialist reader, an intellectual if you will, it’s not unreasonable to expect that a well-written work should be reasonably understandable. Part of this is that Moltmann is rather fond of his Latin, with an obscure phrase used on just about every page, which the editors decided should go untranslated. I am no linguist and wasn’t taught Latin in school. So while I could work out something simple like fides quaerens intellectum, most were lost on me and I didn’t fancy doing a search on Google translate every 3 minutes.

It’s a humbling experience to read something and admit that you don’t understand it. I was definitely in this territory in the opening section, including a chapter entitled ‘The Theology of the Transcendental Subjectivity of God’. If that seems like small potatoes to you, then by all means, read on. If I were to be critical here, it might be said that Moltmann is showing off that he is a well-educated person, as much this section is peripheral to the central argument of the book, which comes in parts 2 and 3.

Part 2, entitled Promise and History, begins to really get to the title of the book. In it, Moltmann is keen to rescue eschatology from the hands of what we might call fundamentalists. He doesn’t engage them as such, but points out that thinking of eschatology as purely an understanding of “end times” misses the point. Instead, eschatology is an understanding of hope. Where his masterstroke is, is that when he comes to the subject of history, we can only understand the past if we can readily identify what the past has in common with the now. That common feature: the future. It is then that Moltmann details that how we think of the past, must be in terms of what the hopes and shapes of the future are. I couldn’t help but think in terms of understanding the civil rights movement and in particular Martin Luther King’s ‘I have a dream speech’ as a particular example. Here, we can only understand the movement if we understand what their hopes were.

One of the questions posed regards why it was that the nomadic Israel kept their God once they had settled and changed into an agrarian culture; one might have expected that once the promise of the land was fulfilled they would no longer need a God of promise, of hope. Yet they kept him. It’s not a question that I had thought about much before, but it’s an interesting one to consider.

The real meat of the book gets on to look at the resurrection and the hope that is for, and embodied in, Jesus. Here, my main bugbear is that, as with much of the rest of the book, in fact, it appears to be written as a stream of consciousness instead of in a methodical manner. So there is not so much of an argument to progress through as there is a splurge of thoughts that seem to come all at once and which Moltmann is struggling to write down.

In dealing with the resurrection, Moltmann flips the notion of history on its head and inside out. He posits that to ask the question “was Jesus physically raised from the dead” is to ask the wrong question. In Moltmann’s world, the question of hope takes central place and what we think of as history (which he argues is an example of positivism) is a wrong-headed construct. At times he seems to contradict himself. He agrees with Paul that the resurrection is the single event upon which the christian faith hangs or falls but goes on to say, “That the resurrection actually took place is not denied, but does not lie within the field of interest.” If you’re reading this review thinking Moltmann might be offering a line of reasoning within which to understand the evidence for the resurrection, then this is the point to give up and refer to N.T. Wright’s The Resurrection of the Son of God instead.

In section 4, he reverts back to the philosophy and heuristics of history. This section begins with a puzzle: if history is constantly in motion, changing from moment to moment, yet philosophy is inherently atemporal (that is, it is true regardless of the time frame), then how can there be such a thing a philosophy of history? For my mind, I then wondered if he might extend this to questioning whether there can be such a thing a history of philosophy, though this isn’t a point Moltmann actually raises.

The whole of the 4th section is entitled “Eschatology and History” but for much of it, the eschatological aspect is conspicuous by its absence. Ironically, it does drift in towards the end of the section with an intriguing discussion on the nature of tradition. Moltmann argues that what christianity understands by tradition is vastly different from what most others do. For most, tradition means harking back to the past (and my opinion is that many expressions of christianity do this, though not helpfully) but Moltmann argues that christian tradition, though rooted in the past, is inherently a forward-looking thing.

The book concludes by returning from the world from of high philosophy and back into the real world that most people inhabit day by day. Entitled ‘Exodus Church’, I had expected to see here the roots of liberation theology, a feature of the 1960s and 1970s theology in which he played a significant part, but any resemblance to it here is only as much as the resemblance between an acorn and an oak.

Probably the fairest summary of the book is given by Moltmann himself, with this quote from near the end of the book:

“If, however, the Christian Church is thus orientated towards the future of the Lord, and receives itself and its own nature always only in expectation and hope from the coming Lord who is ahead of it, then its life and suffering, its work and action in the world and upon the world, must also be determined by the open foreland of its hopes for the world.”

How God Became Jesus: The Real Origins of Belief in Jesus' Divine nature---a Response to Bart D. Ehrman
How God Became Jesus: The Real Origins of Belief in Jesus' Divine nature---a Response to Bart D. Ehrman
by Michael F. Bird
Edition: Paperback
Price: £10.99

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars Only read if you've read Ehrman, 16 Sept. 2015
This was written as a response to Bart Ehrman’s recent work, How Jesus Became God. With two subtitles, ‘A Response to Bart D. Ehrman’ and ‘The Real Origins Of Belief in Jesus’ Divine Nature’ it should be clear to any would-be reader that this should not be read as a standalone book. If one were to do so, then it might appear a bit of a hodge-podge of different aspects of christology.

The lead editor of the work is Michael Bird, who contributed to the introduction, conclusion and two of the chapters. The other contributors are Craig Evans (1 chapter), Simon Gathercole (1 chapter), Chris Tilling (2 chapters) and Charles Hill (2 chapters). After obtaining an advanced copy of Ehrman’s book, this team set about a quick response, which is why this was published almost in conjunction with How Jesus Became God.

I was particularly looking forward to reading Michael Bird’s contributions as I greatly enjoyed his contribution to Justification: Five Views where he advocated the ‘progressive reformed’ view of justification. How disappointed I was, then, when I read the flippant tone with which Bird had written. Appealing to mass popular culture, he takes some cheap pot-shots at Ehrman, unnecessarily denigrating him and failing to treat Ehrman’s views in a mature and reasonable way. Later on, he attempts to pass these incidents off as humour, but there is nothing funny about them. Rather, it is demonstrative of a poor lack of judgement on Bird’s part.

Thankfully, the other responses are, on the whole, much more carefully thought out. To pick up on one item, there is a good response to one appeal made in form criticism: that of the criterion of dissimilarity. If you’re unfamiliar with it, please allow me to summarise:

In textual criticism of the gospels, there is a presumption that if there is something written which resembles early christian belief then it must be an anachronistic back-projection of the gospel authors, writing into their books things that reflect the beliefs of their (later) times. The flip side of this is that anything present in the gospels which doesn’t readily seem to fit with early christian belief then that is much more likely to be a genuine reflection of the historical Jesus. To many this seems to be an obviously absurd viewpoint, yet in the world of form criticism there has been a loss of sight of the wood for the trees; one that Ehrman falls prey to, and which is dealt with swiftly and bluntly.

Probably the chapter that chimed most with my own critique of Ehrman’s work is that by Chris Tilling, where he questions the use of the word ‘divine’ and casts doubts upon the doubts raised by Ehrman as to whether Judaism was truly monotheistic. In particular, one of the targets is Ehrman’s use of Galatians 4:14 as the primary text through which to understand all of Paul’s christology.

Craig Evans’ chapter on the burial traditions makes for a fascinating read and could well be explored further. In some was, it was indicative of a slight problem with the book. That is, it is so specifically written as a response to Ehrman that some potentially fruitful and enlightening avenues are left unexplored. Had such routes been covered in more depth, then it would have made for a much longer book.

In conclusion, Ehrman was not openly seeking to deny Jesus’ divinity, but he writes with a kind of dog-whistle theology that is intended to show that the case for Jesus being one and the same as God is not as clear as modern christianity teaches. Such scepticism is needed for healthy belief, so one cannot reasonably object to the person who wishes to cast doubt upon the veracity of tradition. What this work does is cast doubt on the work of the doubter. There is by no means a complete rebuttal of Ehrman’s work here, but there is sufficient work done to cast doubt upon Ehrman, just in case one were to read him uncritically.

The Early History of Rome: Bks. 1-5 (Penguin Classics)
The Early History of Rome: Bks. 1-5 (Penguin Classics)
by Livy
Edition: Paperback
Price: £10.68

3.0 out of 5 stars One for historians, not casual readers, 14 Sept. 2015
If you know anything about the foundation of Rome, then you will have heard of Romulus and Remus and how they were raised by wolves. This is pretty much at the start of Livy’s work, though one should note the introduction by R. M. Ogilvie. I probably ought to add, since there are multiple versions, that this was the Penguin Classics edition translated by Aubrey De Selincourt. It’s rare for me to comment on the faithfulness of a translation, though here I couldn’t help but notice the appearance of some seemingly anachronistic idioms cropping up in the text. Seeming quite out of place and out of tone with the rest of the work, I do query whether this was the most faithful rendering of Livy’s work.

The opening of the book reads rather more like a work of mythology rather than history. The story of Romulus and Remus is fleshed out in a little detail, yet they were all too fleeting in their appearance, particularly Remus who was murdered by his brother. From here we read a little about an early period where Rome was ruled by kings, many of whom were corrupt or incompetent, so we see the seeds of a resentment of monarchy. A running theme throughout the foundation of the republic is the desire to have competent government and resisting the temptation to return to monarchy nomatter how bad things got.

Much of the book is very reminiscent of the History of the Peloponnesian War as we just get battle, death, rebuttal and a little political insight into how the early Romans organised themselves. With tribunes, consuls, military tribunes and the dastardly group known as the Decemvirs there is a fair array of models of governance on display, though without a detailed political theory, there is some ambiguity over the precise constitution. The other feature is that as seemed to happen all too frequently, in times of crisis, they would dissolve the republican model of government and appoint a dictator whose decisions could not be challenged. The idea seems to be that a single person’s choices are more readily made than a consensus. If one is familiar with later Roman history, you will be aware that the last person to hold this position was one Gaius Julius, or as he is more often referred to, Julius Caesar – the first emperor; a dictator who never gave up his position.

The most interesting parts are certainly towards the front of the book, with various episodes recounted which have seeped into later collective consciousness and re-imagined by later writers. I think in particular of the rape of Lucretia and the account of Coriolanus, the latter being adapted into a play by William Shakespeare.

That said, the end of the book (that is, book 5 of Livy’s work, the end of this volume) sets up nicely the next part of Livy’s work, in that we get an introduction to the Gauls, who are described as being quite unlike any other enemy Rome has faced and where the entire existence of the city is not only under threat, but seemingly doomed.

It’s a shame really, because while it does hint at a certain level of interest in reading on, I must confess that I think I have just about reached the end of my tether when it comes to reading the source material of ancient history. I still have a copy of Tacitus’ Histories on my bookshelf, waiting to be read, as well as a later summary: Gibbons’ The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, but I don’t think I take as much from reading the early works as others with a keener interest in history. So while I pondered Plutarch, I think that will have to wait for some considerable time.

To conclude then, this is not a book for the casual reader (a category in which I place myself). It’s more for those who have an abnormal desire to dig into the origins of Roman history, but who probably already have a good understanding of the overall period, gleaned from later historians and summarisers. If that sounds like you, then absolutely do read it.

Dear Life
Dear Life
by Alice Munro
Edition: Paperback
Price: £8.99

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars Stories that leave their mark on you, 3 Sept. 2015
This review is from: Dear Life (Paperback)
I first heard of Alice Munro when she won the Nobel Prize for Literature a few years ago. So poorly read am I that most winners are, to me, unheard of until they win. Having greatly enjoyed some of the work of previous winners, notably Gabriel Garcia Marquez and John Galsworthy, I was looking forward to this collection of short stories.

This is one of Munro’s later works and the opening story gives the impression that it was written with a sense of a retrospective, but told with great gentleness.

The back cover of the book states: “Alice Munro captures the essence of life in her brilliant new collection of stories. Moments of change, chance encounters, the twist of fate that leads a person to a new way of thinking or being: the stories in Dear Life build to form a radiant, indelible portrait of just how dangerous and strange ordinary life can be.”

Some of the short stories are actually quite long, the 2nd story being some 36 pages. These make them just a little bit too long to do in a single commute (when I do most of my reading). Not wanting to split a story across journeys, I took to reading one per weekend, so it’s taken me some 3 months to get through this book, moving at a relatively slow pace. Because there is no overarching narrative, this has resulted in me getting to look in through a window for a short space of time every Sunday afternoon. I catch a glimpse of what is going and then move on.

For what one is left with is not a memory of each plot, each character, each decision that they make. What one is left with is a feeling.

It is interesting to note that some of the stories were first published in The New Yorker, which also published the wartime stories of Mollie Panter-Downes. As I had read some of her short stories recently, I couldn’t help but think of the parallels between them. For again, none of Munro’s characters stick with you for long after you’ve finished reading the stories. Even as I write this, I cannot think of more than a couple of names and very few of the plotlines. But this does not mean it is bad writing. If anything, it is quite the opposite, because what I have been left with is the impression that the stories have made, their footprints on the sand of my mind. They get you thinking as you read and it is those thoughts that linger with you. So I suspect many a reader will take away from this work something different, something unique to them and how they relate to Munro’s writing.

But in order to take that something away, you must first invest the time to read Munro, and that is something I would encourage you to do. Don’t expect her to blow you away with dazzling imagery or turns of phrase that make the heart ache, but let her abide with you for a season.

The Blind Watchmaker
The Blind Watchmaker
by Richard Dawkins
Edition: Paperback
Price: £6.99

4.0 out of 5 stars Starts excellently; gets sidetracked, 27 Aug. 2015
This review is from: The Blind Watchmaker (Paperback)
Having read The Selfish Gene and The Extended Phenotype, I wanted to carry on reading Dawkins’ earlier works, as I have found him to be a great communicator when it comes to his specialist field of evolutionary biology. Such writing is rare and ought to be highly valued, though I fear that his later writings on religion have done his reputation more harm than good. But even though there is a sprinkling of thoughts on religion here, including in the opening premise, this is a book of science, not one of anti-religion. So let us delight in this master’s work and dive in.

The title of the book, if one weren’t aware already, is derived from William Paley’s work on natural theology, where he infers from his observations of nature that there must have been a grand designer behind it all, namely God. Dawkins’ aim is to rebuff the particular argument that Paley made. In taking this approach, Dawkins does not dismiss Paley as a fool, but in fact pays credit to him. Yet there is also an implicit understanding that Paley’s view is the peak of natural theology when it comes to biological design.

I emphasise biological design for one should be careful not to think of Dawkins’ work applying to a wider scope than is justified. For this remains a book primarily of biology. There is a bit of computer programming, along with some analogies with physics and history, but these are not what The Blind Watchmaker is primarily about. In fact, after the opening, Paley’s views seem to fade somewhat into the background, as Dawkins gets into his evolutionary stride. For while Dawkins states that he plans to counter the inferences Paley makes, the bulk of the book is stated far more positively, giving us insights into evolutionary biology, some of which Dawkins has used before in The Selfish Gene and The Extended Phenotype.

The counter to Paley is done fairly on and with some deftness. The heart of it is to dispel the idea that evolution is random. This can be used a good shibboleth to determine if anyone had reasonably understood evolution: if they insist that evolution is an entirely random process, then you can determine that they do not understand it. Rather, it is a sequential process. The image that came to my mind was a combination lock. If there are 5 cogs, each with 10 settings, then there 100,000 possible combinations. You might then argue (as Paley) that to find the right combination is phenomenally unlikely and therefore there must be another factor at play. But what Dawkins notes is that randomness only applies at any one cog, not on all 5 simultaneously. So have a 1 in 10 chance of getting the first cog right. Once that is in place, then we can look at the 2nd cog. If you work this way, then the probability against ending up at the final answer is substantially reduced from 100,000 to 1. Dawkins makes reference to the fact that he wrote another book, Climbing Mount Improbable, at around the same time as The Blind Watchmaker and recommends it as a companion piece.

There’s a wonderful section on the varieties and evolution of echolocation. One of the reasons it stayed with me is because it coincided with a DVD I was watching at the time (David Attenborough’s ‘The Trials of Life’). From bats to dolphins, we can see a variety of different forms, some of which are better than others. As well as providing a fascinating insight into the natural world, it shows that evolution doesn’t have an end goal (and why the combination lock analogy isn’t perfect) but there are hints here of convergent evolution; an area that isn’t emphasised in this work.

The book takes a bit of a diversion away from biology and into computer programming. This is the one part of the book that hasn’t aged well. In it, Dawkins reveals his devotion to Apple computers and shows the result of a programme he used to create shapes that were randomly generated, but where he imposed conditions on them (to mimic evolutionary selective pressures) and shows how they resemble certain objects, many of them biological. What we get is what, as a maths student, I used to refer to as ‘proof by pretty pictures’. For while it is interesting, it lacks the rigour that would be necessary for a more serious scientific work, and is too far removed from the fieldwork of biological study to be of much use.

By now, Dawkins has moved a long way from his starting point of apparent design and is going through some of the finer points of evolutionary biology. He comes onto the subject of punctuated equilibrium (PE). Foremost in his crosshairs is Stephen Jay Gould, a writer who I must admit I have thus far unduly neglected; a copy of The Panda’s Thumb sits on my living room floor, waiting to be read. Gould was famously an advocate of PE. Dawkins, in his opposition to Gould, does not actually go so far as to deny the theory of PE, but instead wishes to attack the way PE advocates portray other evolutionary biologists. Dawkins comes up with an interesting analogy: that of the Israelites traipsing through the desert for 40 years. I found it interesting as it betrays his curious obsession with matters of a religious nature that were to later consume him. Dawkins states that PE advocates portray non-PE advocates as thinking the Israelites maintained a steady, but deathly slow, speed throughout their 40 year sojourn.

Yes, you did read that last sentence correctly. It all gets very accusative and, to a non-biologist like me, rather pointless. To the outside observer it appears like a pointless quibbling over the finer points of language, rather than any fundamental difference in the biology. That said, I am aware how, within christianity, differences between different denominations can appear equally pointless to the casual outside observer.

The last significant section of the book goes into even more obscurantist territory where Dawkins takes on a group known as the “reformed cladists”. It’s not a term this reader was familiar with; I doubt many non-biologists would be. As I finish this review a few weeks on from having finished the book, I struggle to think back. My interest had thoroughly waned and I was more keen ‘to have finished’ the book than I was ‘to finish’ the book, if you understand my meaning.

My conclusion therefore is that what starts as a brilliant piece on evolutionary biology, defending good science against poor theology, gets a bit sidetracked by computer programming and eventually fades into denominational name-calling and put-downs. It’s a terrible shame, because it is really a rather good book. So please do absolutely read it, but if you find yourself putting it down about three-quarters of the way in, I will forgive you if you heave a deep sigh before picking it up again to finish it.

The Koran: A Very Short Introduction (Very Short Introductions)
The Koran: A Very Short Introduction (Very Short Introductions)
by Michael Cook
Edition: Paperback
Price: £4.99

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
3.0 out of 5 stars A bit all over the place, 21 Aug. 2015
I read the Koran once when I was a teenager, but did so with no guidance and just went through it cover to cover. It seemed rather disjointed, with some oddly worded concepts and what I considered to be perversions of stories from the Old Testament. The one that stuck in my mind was a re-telling of the story of the garden of Eden, where the serpent of Genesis became Satan (or Shai’tan as I think it may have been rendered) and prompted me to wonder whether this was the impetus for christian theologians to make that identification or whether it was earlier, even if it is commonplace in most expressions of christianity today. Yet I haven’t touched the book since then.

In approaching this book, then, in the hope that it will go someway to filling a hole of ignorance. Already, one may think it wrong to refer to the Koran as opposed to the Qur’an. In his introduction, Cook states that while Qur’an is the more faithful rendering, Koran is readily recognised as an anglicised form that lends itself to a correct stressing of the syllables. As this is the way Cook refers to it, then so shall this review.

The manner in which Cook approaches the book is unlikely to be one that people expect. He works roughly in a sort of anti-chronology, looking at the modern usages of the Koran, moving back in time to tell its story. Though at times, this timeline gets a bit jumbled, that seems to be in order to avoid the exposition itself becoming jumbled. In case it needs highlighting, this is the VSI of the book of the Koran, it is *not* a VSI of Islam. If that it was you’re looking for, then this is not the right book for you.

We begin by considering what the notion of ‘scripture’ is and what the overall message of the Koran tries to tell us. The emphasis Cook brings out is that of the straight path and the nature of God (though I did wonder why Cook referred to God, rather than Allah).

After this introduction, we get to see how the Koran is used today and its influence, which is quite evident to many if you either live in an area where there is a high Muslim population or by putting on the news. Yet the disparity between these two is clear and not a little confusing for the non-Muslim. Such misunderstanding can give birth to Islamophobia.

After looking at how the Koran is communicated (both as a written text and as a self-contained oral tradition in and of itself), there’s a general discussion as to what it means for any text to be regarded as “scripture”. Of course, any writing is, etymologically scripture. Even this review is; but that’s not the common usage of the word, which tends to denote some sacred text of a religion. Contrasts are drawn between the Koran and some of the Vedas, though to many a reader, especially christians like me, the comparisons to the bible are rather thin and it left me feeling a little flat.

One of the bits that didn’t seem to make a lot of sense was the idea of coloured text. There is talk of it, but as the book is published in black & white, apart from the cover, then one cannot tell about the red and gold punctuation marks. It was only when I visited the British Library’s collection of Koran’s that this became clear.

What we don’t get is one clear story of how the Koran is said to have come about. There are hints here and there, but the whole story of Mohammad being told to read is rather lost in amongst the other chapters, partly as the story of where he was when various bits of the Koran were revealed.

Overall, it is a useful VSI, though I can’t say it was particularly memorable. I’m publishing this review some time after having finished it and find myself having to keep opening it to remind myself of the book’s contents. It’s one to keep and refer to, yet I couldn’t help but think there are better introductions available.

The Spark of Life: Electricity in the Human Body
The Spark of Life: Electricity in the Human Body
by Frances Ashcroft
Edition: Paperback
Price: £9.98

5.0 out of 5 stars I'd thoroughly recommend it, 12 Aug. 2015
The subtitle, ‘Electricity in the Human Body’, gives a flavour of what’s to come. Ashcroft opens by diving into the deep end by talking of K(ATP) ion channels which rather shot over my head. I think that’s the intention. Returning to the introduction after having finished the book it makes a lot more sense, so one can see how much we’ve gone through.

The heart of the book is Ashcrofts own passion: ion channels. But what are they? I’d never come across them, though you’re probably less ignorant than I. So it was for this reader a journey of discovery. In short, they are holes in the membranes of cells. i.e. they’re really really really small. They are holes that act sort of like valves, allowing the flow of ions in and out of cells. The upshot is that miniscule electrical balances (carried by the ions) are created inside and outside of the cells. This is the electricity of the human body that is referred to in the subtitle.

With this as our firm grounding, we can then go off exploring various aspects of the human body. I would imagine that everyone knows that nerves operate by electrical impulses. That much is GCSE level science. But how do these impulses operate and how do we know? These are the questions that Ashcroft sets about answering in a lively and engaging manner.

The book is full of fascinating vignettes, such as the details of how synapses operate, how a heart beats and why some goats go incredibly rigid when frightened. Possibly the most disturbing was the chapter on neurotoxins which I admit made me feel a little numb as I read it, though it hasn’t yet put me off wanting to try fugu sometime.

We get a brief overview of electrical activity in the brain, though as with any popular-level take on neuroscience, there is a fair admission that we simply don’t understand the details of how the mind works. This does make it a weaker chapter than the rest, though those who are interested in the workings of the brain (often worked out when things go wrong) will be pleased to see the mention of Phineas Gage. If this subject piques your interest, then I would suggest following up with The Emperor’s New Mind and in particular A User’s Guide To The Brain.

The final chapter examines the effects of electricity upon the human body, as opposed to that generated from within. Not wholly unlike the chapter on neurotoxins, this makes for uncomfortable reading in places. As someone who opposes the death penalty, it was most disturbing to read of the electric chair’s mechanism for bringing death. Yet the same chapter also tells of how a defibrillator works (hint: not how you may think if you watch a lot of fiction on tv).

With the tour over, what can we say in conclusion? It’s a captivating book, giving insight where previously this reader was blind. It is written plainly yet in such a way as to draw the reader along and infuse them with some element of the enthusiasm and passion that is evident in Frances Ashcroft. I’d thoroughly recommend it.

Simply Good News: Why the Gospel is News and What Makes it Good
Simply Good News: Why the Gospel is News and What Makes it Good
by Tom Wright
Edition: Paperback
Price: £9.98

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars The gospel according to Paul, according to Wright, 31 July 2015
Tom Wright manages to write books faster than most can read them. This work, subtitled ‘Why The Gospel Is News And What Makes It Good’ could be thought of as “Simply Paul”. For as some of his works published as “Tom Wright” have been closely linked to, and could be thought of an shortened version of, his longer works published under “N.T. Wright”, there is much here that is in common with Paul and the Faithfulness of God. If anything, this could be summed up as the ‘gospel according to Paul, according to Tom Wright’.

The major thesis is that what we refer to as “the gospel” is often misunderstood. He is not here proposing that the church has wholly misunderstood christianity, but that when we speak of the gospel, it is often more spoken of as advice rather than as news. Of course, there is a right an appropriate response to the news, but that response should not be mistaken for the news itself. So calls to repent are not inherently the gospel. Giving your life to Jesus is not the gospel. Taking part in the sacraments is not the gospel.

A master of the analogy, Wright begins by taking us not to the gospels, but to England’s victory in the rugby world cup final in 2003. The game was in Australia, but Wright was in America at the time (a country not exactly well known for its love of rugby). He was excited by news of the victory but found that anyone he wanted to tell simply didn’t care. Until he found some Australians, that is, who weren’t exactly keen on hearing the news of England’s triumph. His excitement about England’s victory was irrelevant foolishness to the Americans and was unwelcome to the Australians. It is in this way that Wright gets across what he understands by Paul’s statement that gospel is foolishness to the Gentiles (what does anything to do with a Jewish teacher have to do with us) and a scandal to the Jews (this person cannot be the Messiah if he died in ignominy).

The heart of the book is laid out very early on. What is the news? Firstly, it is a development, something unexpected happening within a wider context. Secondly, it is an announcement not only that something has happened, but that because of it, things will be different from now on. This then brings about a period of hopeful, expectant waiting.

The rest of the book is the fleshing out of this. So we get an overview of what the wider context was. This entails an overview of 1st century Judaism and the Roman Empire. The second part necessitates the “now and not yet” of christianity to be discussed, though Wright skillfully avoids the technical jargon of inaugurated eschatology, which can be so off-putting to many. Indeed, throughout the book, the theologically well-informed will recognise many a familiar concept, but Wright communicates them with the utmost clarity and gentleness.

In reading this, I could not help but think that the misrepresentations of the gospel Wright is so keen to correct are largely that of the more right wing American churches. In so doing, he does seem to rile up others who interpret him as saying that the whole church has failed to understand the gospel for centuries but thank goodness that Tom Wright has now arrived to correct us all. I don’t think that’s what he intends at all. It is rather that he is here trying to write for as wide an audience as possible, but having in mind particular ways of teaching of christianity that miss the central point of the gospel.

So he is neither being an heresiologist nor a general teacher, but trying to incorporate both aspects in his writing. A tough task, indeed, yet it is my view he does this just about as well as anyone could hope for. In so doing, he does bring a challenge; a challenge to our current understanding and our ways of communicating the news that God has come to earth to restore creation through Jesus as the Jewish Messiah, and that we are all invited to be a part of that ongoing story which has already reached its dénouement in his death and resurrection.

To finish this review, one must think of who it would stand to gain most from reading this work. Might it be for the curious non-christian who wants to find out what we mean by ‘the good news’? Perhaps, though Wright does assume a level of familiarity with the ancient world that the person on the Clapham omnibus doesn’t have. Maybe it is more suited to the more Calvinist christian who, though familiar with the bible, doesn’t always seem to get the emphasis right. Maybe it is best for the person who has recently become a christian but is still trying to navigate their way around the rich, vast and multitudinous expressions of christian belief across different churches.

I would suggest that it may be read in conjunction with a few other works. Firstly, the gospels themselves. Examine the source material and make an assessment for yourself. Secondly, it might go well with Rowan Williams’ Being Christian or C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity. I hope that gives you a fair impression. If it at all piques your interest, then please do read it. It is well-written, gently provocative and has the gospel of our Lord Jesus, the Messiah, running through it like a stick of Brighton rock.

Before I Say Goodbye
Before I Say Goodbye
by Ruth Picardie
Edition: Paperback

4.0 out of 5 stars Death: up close & personal - and sneering at its face, 29 July 2015
This review is from: Before I Say Goodbye (Paperback)
I am somewhat at a loss for how to give it a fair and reasonable review in the same way that I try (to a varying degree of success) with anything else I read. For the title should be fairly unambiguous: Ruth Picardie is dead. She died in September 1997, in her early 30s, after having had cancer for a little under a year. The book is not a memoir or the impartation of a brief lifetime’s worth of wisdom. It mostly consists of letters to and from Ruth in the months between her diagnosis and her death. It is interspersed with the occasional article that she wrote for the Guardian and also features a handful of the responses she received from readers.

Describing herself as a ‘fast-track kind of girl…an evolved post-feminist chick’ one shouldn’t be surprised at her very forthright and occasionally fruity turns of phrase. She gives it what-for and doesn’t beat about the bush in her criticisms of the doctors who she felt passed her from pillar to post, getting diagnoses wrong and not being as straightforward with her as she would have liked.

With the diagnosis of her breast tumour being malignant, one cannot help but feel something of the anger Ruth expresses as well as the desperation to do anything. One of the things that struck me was how quickly she turned to alternative “medicine” in search of anything that might help. But this is not a miserable book. It is a last hurrah of a great spirit of wit and humour. With an opportunity to take a wry look at the end of life, the to-ing and fro-ing of repartee with her friends gives an insight into a world that many of us have been affected by in some way or another, but far fewer live in, day in, day out.

Ruth’s writing then stops fairly abruptly, in the middle of an article which was finished by her sister, Justine. There is then an afterword by Matt, her husband, describing her last days and paying homage to Ruth. From this other perspective, we can see the dehumanisation that cancer can wreak upon people. In line with much of the rest of the book, there is little beating about the bush. I would wholeheartedly recommend the book to you; just be prepared for some fairly frank talk. It’s not a great work of philosophy, nor a guide on how to go through cancer treatment. Indeed, there is much railing against the euphemisms surrounding cancer; the word ‘ontology’ coming in for a lashing in particular.

The Nicomachean Ethics (Penguin Classics)
The Nicomachean Ethics (Penguin Classics)
by Aristotle
Edition: Paperback
Price: £8.99

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
3.0 out of 5 stars An interesting read in the history of thought, 27 July 2015
The book begins with a very long introduction by Jonathan Barnes. I also ought to note that this particular version was translated by J.A.K. Thomson.

The introduction makes clear what others have told me about the book, that is not really meant to be read cover to cover. There is also a lot of background on Aristotle, placing the work within his surviving corpus of work. One of the frustrations is that the introduction contains lots of seemingly random references. Only at the end is it stated what these are; but they refer to a different edition, so are very little use to the reader of this Penguin Classics edition.

What might one expect from an early book on ethics? Well, I wasn’t expecting a vast amount of deliberation or references to earlier writers. I thought this was just going to be a straight-from-the-hip exposition. That is more or less what we get.

Aristotle’s aim is that this is not a work to be merely studied. Rather, the aim is that it is a transformative work that should make one a better man. The fact that it comes to us in book form might be something of an oddity as there is some suggestion in the notes (as well as hints in the text) that this is really a set of lecture notes. I also use the term ‘man’ in the masculonormative sense that Aristotle himself uses, so I shall stick that form for the purposes of this review.

The fact that it was lecture notes didn’t really strike me at first, as the work (made up of some 12 short books) is really rather gripping to begin with. I could faintly see how this could be in terms of the history of thought, though reading a modern translation made it just seem like a treatise on common sense. If anything, the fact that it was so unscandalous is testimony to the influence that Aristotle has upon western culture. It is only when we get to a question of ‘continence and incontinence’ that the book slows somewhat.

Up until then, the whole tenor of the book had been about moderation. The ideal man, in Aristotle’s view, was not a person of extremes, but who took everything in their stride with due consideration, who could be allowed to be passionate, but who was not quick to be inflamed. That’s the overarching message. What we don’t get, which many modern readers may come with, are questions over particular moral dilemmas.

Having laid out this vision of the moderate man, the remainder of the book is a little bit turgid to get through. I think I rather lost track in book 7 entitled ‘continence and incontinence’. Through my own ignorance, my immediate thought on reading that header regards the ability of a person to maintain control of their bladder. So what does Aristotle (or the translator) mean by these terms? Well, I was no more enlightened after reading it. There was no clear definition given and without that I couldn’t get a grip on the topic.

Thereafter, I rather struggled to maintain interest and the remainder of the book became more of a chore than a joy to read.

With that said, I would still recommend it as a reading in the history of thought. Not having formal training in philosophy, I probably skimmed over many of the finer points and failed to appreciate it to its full, but it remains (mainly in the first half) an interesting work.

In the end, though, I cannot say it has made me a better man for having read it. In the culture I’ve grown up in, moderation has always been instilled as a good thing. Yet here is where we may well find the origin of that idea. In a world that has its fair share of extremism, moderation is clearly a tempting alternative. Though as I sometimes hear, extremism is only bad is it directed in a bad direction. Can there be anything bad about an extremist for love? Or someone who has extreme generosity? Aristotle would argue that while those things are virtues, an extreme bias towards one of them will detract from a person being capable in another.

Whatever your view here, there’s certainly plenty to think about here.

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