Putting Away Childish Things: a tale of modern faith

Marcus J Borg

Marcus J Borg; author of Reading the Bible for the First Time, Again and Meeting Jesus for the First Time, Again and a host of other works of popular theology has turned his hand to writing fiction.  This isn’t any old fiction, either; it is didactic fiction; a thinly-veiled attempt on the author’s part to promote his own theological perspective.

Not that there’s anything underhand or sleekit about this literary form.  The author is completely upfront and transparent about this.  He even provides suggestions for reading groups in an appendix which offers questions for readers to discuss among themselves.  That impressed me greatly, as the author has deftly managed to smuggle a lot of deep stuff into this compelling novel.

Professor Kate Riley is a popular religion teacher in a college somewhere in the American Midwest.  Her students love her classes. She loves her work, she is happy with both her personal and her spiritual life and she has had some success with a couple of her books; a scholarly look at the Epistle of James and a new one examining the differences between the two Christmas narratives in Matthew and Luke’s gospels.

It’s just in the middle of Advent that things start to go off the rails for Kate.  Her publisher has set up a number of interviews with radio stations up and around the country in order to promote her book.  These question and answer sessions introduce the reader to Kate’s liberal Christian perspective, but she falls foul of a husband and wife tag team on a Christian talk radio show, Rise and Shine, who accuse her of seeking to ‘debunk the truth about Jesus’.

Before long, she is named as Number One Un-American of the Week by an inflammatory pundit on a conservative network for ‘a secular humanist apology of a book’ that trashes ‘one of the most sacred parts of our country’s Christian heritage… at Christmas, of all times.’

Ironically at the same time Kate is beset with another problem.  One of her colleagues on the college faculty is a bit sniffy about her latest book. It’s too popular and too Christian.  He is one of those illiberal ‘liberals’ we all know; the kind who don’t want to see others doing things of which they disapprove.  This man notes that she attends church regularly and claims that this could be interfering with her teaching of religion in the college. She is condemned, not for what she actually does, but what she could do.  The reader gets to sit in on Kate’s classes and her one-to-one sessions with individual students, so we know that it ain’t so.

In the midst of all this, Kate receives an invitation to teach in a seminary as a visiting professor of New Testament Studies for a year. Conflicted and confused by the reaction of her colleagues and an organised campaign by some parent to deny her tenure at the college, Kate finds her faith coming under pressure as she wrestles with the possibilities in front of her.

As the story develops, we get to meet some other characters; Geoff,  her gay colleague on the faculty and her soulmate and confidant (every girl should have one); Frederika her minister; Martin, a professor at the seminary in question, her mentor and one-time lover (a long time ago) and Erin, a student who is a member of a conservative evangelical group on campus.

I rather suspect that any reader of this book will come with their own personal baggage, or to mix the metaphor, may read it through lenses tinted by the events and understandings of their own lives, I really identified with Erin in this story as she struggled with her faith when what she had been taught to believe came into conflict with the real world of flesh and blood human beings.

This is stirring stuff. Borg is didactic but it’s anything but preachy. I hope there’ll be a sequel. Borg introduces readers to some wonderful stuff too, as Kate goes through her daily devotions and her lectures. Not only are we treated to Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach but to a moving poem by Denise Levertov called The Avowal.  This is so powerful that it reduced me to tears.  Here it is…

As swimmers dare

To lie face to the sky

And water bears them,

As hawks rest upon air

And air sustains them;

So I would learn to attain

Freefall, and float

Into Creator Spirit’s deep embrace,

Knowing no effort earns

That all-surrounding grace.

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Is there Life After Death?

The Extraordinary Science of What Happens When we die

By Anthony Peake

Review: Tim Bragg

(Part of Body, Mind, Spirit & Time)

Am I treading the same road that I have trod so many times? Am I alone on my wanderings – have I walked this way before so often that I am in an inescapable rut – or – is there a guide, placing signposts for me to veer onto new lanes? A guide that has intimate knowledge of my many intended or worn trails…

What a curious mesmerizing book this is! Gripping, thought provoking and unsettling. Great – my cup of tea! With ideas fashioned around the theories of Many Worlds; Multi-Universes; Quantum Theory…Time itself (and the nature of its and our subjective perceptions); shared consciousness; neurology; psychiatry and more – the reader is guaranteed a stimulating read. A book that provokes thought and a thoughtful response.

For some time now (well this is my subjective perception!) I have had this rather clichéd and simple notion that “Time is the Answer”. And yet this notion has deepened and become deeper and been given more credence through reading Peake’s book. Time – subjective – bending to the occasion…speeding up and slowing down…and fragmenting? Time stretching so that at death we cease to be ‘time-full’ but enter a new relationship with it. Does time cease or are we catapulted back to its (our) beginning? What is the relationship between Time, Matter and our Consciousness?  Has our universe and human consciousness sprung from a time-less and matter-less place? Although Peake doesn’t answer this last question he does give his coherent idea of what happens to (our) time as death approaches…

Is there life after death? Existence after death – a continued existence…if you’re looking for reassurance about conscious existence after ‘death’ then you’ll be both excited and – perhaps disappointed by this book. Excited because through its pages we learn about Quantum Theory – about how we bring into existence external reality through our sensory perceptions – that we are subjective beings in a subjectively made reality. There may not be an identifiable, objective reality – at least to us subjective beings. But more than this – we might not even be alone. And when I use the word ‘we’ I don’t just mean the consciousness reading these words  – there is also a ‘we’ that is ‘us’ – a dual consciousness within that we all seem to share. The brain divided and mirrored – holding two different ‘mind-beings’.

I am not going to use Peake’s scientific or esoteric words in this review – this is my review (and accordingly may only exist in ‘my’ reality – and in your reality I may not actually exist!) – but respond simply as a reader who has been affected by and has given considerable thought to the ideas. I am also aware that I don’t want to spoil the unfolding of the book’s ideas by giving too much away – because you need to be taken on its journey (as was I). Also, I am not without criticism or further questioning of ideas within it and, ultimately, not without a sinking feeling that what Peake’s research and originality offers is no more comforting than the traditional idea of reincarnation.

In Western societies the concept ofre-incarnation can sometimes be used to make sense of our existence and offer the hope of rebirth and re-existence rather than a one off life followed by annihilation…and yet, I, the ego am not aware of this pre-existence except through unusual “flash backs” to a supposed previous life. Thus the ‘I’ – the ‘me’ that I am fully aware of – will face obliteration. Now, without giving too much away (I hope) Peake argues for (and there is always enough scientific corroboration to make his points) that each human has indeed dual consciousness – that there is a Higher and Lower self…and that these entities exist in a form of communion, but that the Higher Self is only manifest (seemingly) at certain times – including in dream states and during hypnotism. This Higher Self also plays its ultimate significant part at the approach of death. This is where the possibility of “life after death” comes – though technically there is no death – only the perception of one’s death by other folk!

All sounding a bit much? Well you will discover the strange world of quantum particles and their unresolved existence until brought into ‘focus’ by sentient life…you will glimpse into the world of the schizophrenic which might be the world of your other consciousness (Higher Self) – an unfiltered world that our lower self finds overbearing; a world where ALL is perceived…why do we perceive all? You will have insight into those who experience Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and the idea that life is experienced between epileptic fits at birth and death…And how our mind has (perhaps) evolved to cope with the dying experience.

Sometimes we are treated to great rabbit-holes of fun and imagination that ultimately lead nowhere. We rush off after the White Rabbit – constantly eyeing his watch – “I’m late, I’m late!” – but find that though this pursuit is fascinating we are left somewhat perplexed and unfulfilled. This might result from my own intellectual failing. I have to state again: I LOVE this book. I love how it takes me into my own mind and for my mind to question itself and its very reality – but the ending felt a touch like bathos with questions seemingly left unanswered: what is the point of the eternal return (if any); is this reliving simply a product of a peculiar universe and mortal existence or is there some higher hand at work; can we escape this reliving – and if so how? …Perhaps there’s another ending waiting to be written – it felt a little unbalanced. I appreciate Peake’s desire to fuse science with areas of enquiry normally dealt with by religion or philosophy – but there’s so much more to delve into surely? I prefer to fuse science with spirituality – looking to science to answer WHY as well as HOW (however beguiling that HOW is!). It is in that WHY – that questioning that the spiritual element will be found – if we are the way we are and we are programmed to an eternal return – then WHY? Why does that mechanism exist?

The brain and the mind (co-dependent?!) are fascinating – figures given in the book reveal the brain’s amazing complexity. It’s a wonder people can manage to be so ‘un’ conscious having such a tool! Can consciousness exist apart from the brain – and if so – how? What can/could sustain it? Are “out of body experiences” proof of the ability of consciousness to exist independently? I have had an OBE – but was it within the capacity of my mind to PROJECT such a reality at an extreme type of stress…thus I wasn’t “out” of anywhere – just experiencing a different perspective?

Perhaps, as Peake suggests, we all eventually “fall out of time” – perhaps we stretch time into a kind of infinity…perhaps we re-tread this life over and over and over again. But if there is an escape to this mundane repetition it is an escape denied to ‘us’ (the ‘us’ that is connecting with these words) because the escape itself will exist in another universe, in another reality. Trillions of versions of us – like a mirror reflecting upon itself – like an infinite number of mirrors reflecting infinitely! And even the word ‘infinite’ is useless here because it suggests Time! And the BIG question – what for? Is there any profound reason behind all this? Becoming Perfect?  – How close to perfection would we need to come to escape this Eternal Return? Has anyone ever achieved perfection? Jesus gave into anger, was he forced to return and, if so, why didn’t he become Greater Than Jesus – or did he – yes you’ve got it – manifest in a different reality/world/universe? Not so much a Second Coming but a long time coming.

 Déjà vu, that notion of being here before, of experiencing the same feelings and senses before, is perhaps the key to unlock our sense of return…but – for “us” who have but an inkling of a re-run – so what? And even those in Peake’s book that seem to re-live their lives – and be aware of such – there is no comfort or satisfaction. There doesn’t seem to be a sense of justice in getting things right simply for a version of ourselves to exist in another Quantum Leap. And if ALL has happened to ALL then any sense of meaningful independent reality is lost! The subtlety of difference between ‘this’ and ‘that’ choice would be diluted in a vat so large that any such choice would be rendered meaningless! And given that people seem to go on making the same mistakes, are some ‘souls’ bound to re-live nightmare lives that are short and brutal over and over again!?

There certainly is more to Heaven and Earth than meets the eye, it seems. Quantum physics shows us a micro existence without common sense. But can we extrapolate into the world of Here and Now? Are there realms of the brain we can lose ourselves in? When we dream are we dreaming a reality? Perhaps this is evidence for survival of death – when I dream I certainly am in a ‘reality’ and though it is me – this ‘me’ is unconnected to the me that wakes into my apparent ‘normal’ reality (but only made ‘normal’ by the act of waking and of a sense of repetition). There is a connection at times (lucid dreaming fuses these two realities) but normally ‘I’ can live in two very different experiential worlds that have similarities – each seemingly with its own integrity and continuity – but that are DIFFERENT! And passing from one state to the other is unconscious – I am unaware of slipping through that ‘twilight’ world between wake and sleep.

Finally, though I can see and understand Peake’s idea of consciousness and its perception of time as one’s death looms, I wonder about those folk who have lost contact and consciousness with this world…did they see their mental death approaching – was any mechanism in place for them? If there is a ‘breather’ between returns – in which existence is it to be found? Again I apologise for being a tad cryptic – but you need to work through this book – take in the various speculations and new scientific research it provides and explores, and get led down Peake’s rabbit-hole world. As he says – he may not even exist in our world – well, my world – well, your world. Just as I might not exist in the world of whomever is reading these words. So in which case – who wrote them?

Il est vrai que je ne savais pas exactement où j’allais en France. Mais je savais qu’il ferait encore plus chaud que tout ce que j’avais pu connaître en Angleterre. Je m’attendais à la chaleur des vacances en Espagne qu’on ne m’avait jamais accordées. Pourquoi n’étions-nous jamais allés rendre visite à mon Oncle et ma Tante auparavant ? Était-ce lié à la mort de l’un de mes Grands-parents français ? Mais cela faisait déjà un mois et j’étais restée en Angleterre avec mon grand frère qui détestait s’occuper de moi. J’imagine que c’est un frère normal – Dieu merci, il ne me ressemble pas du tout… À l’époque, mes parents avaient beaucoup râlé avant de partir. Maintenant, ils semblaient si calmes.

Les arbres étaient moins hauts et la végétation plus claire entre les nombreuses zones où la terre marron et orange était nue. Je savais que c’était spécial de me trouver là, dans ce pays étranger où j’avais de la famille. C’était la première fois que j’allais à l’étranger et tout m’enthousiasmait. La présentation des passeports, le ferry, tout. La mer brillait d’un bleu tellement profond – une couleur si exotique pour la Manche. Oui, j’étais si enthousiaste que mes parents se moquaient de moi : ils pensaient que j’avais une imagination débordante et me le disaient. J’étais connue pour mes histoires, après tout. J’aurais même pu inventer des contes narrant « comment j’ai été trouvée dans un panier dérivant sur une rivière large et profonde ». Bien sûr, je n’avais absolument pas été « trouvée ».

La mer brillait d’un bleu profond et on voyait la crête des vagues se briser, même en plein milieu de la Manche. La brise marine agitait mes cheveux. Et j’étais ravie que les épingles placées avec soin par ma Mère soient tombées et que mes cheveux cascadent librement. Des gens me remarquaient ; pas les garçons, mais les hommes plus âgés. Oui, j’étais curieuse, mais naïve et il m’a fallu du temps pour grandir et comprendre. Mais je les ai vécu en moins de temps que cela, ces années. Maintenant, je m’en souviens et je repense à cette jeune fille avec un brin de nostalgie. Car, à cette époque, mon innocence était si sincère.

En France, j’étais comme un beau cheval laissé en liberté. Les gens parlaient différemment. Bien sûr, je le savais déjà, mais je n’en avais jamais fait l’expérience, en réalité – car savoir est une chose, mais vivre en est une autre. L’air avait une autre odeur, les garçons avaient une allure étrange et les maisons étaient bizarres, comparées à celles en Angleterre. J’avais l’impression que ma vie commençait à nouveau. Je ne me sentais pas du tout opprimée, pas du tout menacée. Je vivais simplement ma vie.

Le trajet en voiture jusqu’à la villa de l’Oncle et la Tante que je n’avais jamais vus (sauf sur quelques photos jaunies) me sembla durer une éternité. Je sais que j’ai sûrement agacé mes parents, je le savais déjà à ce moment-là car je n’étais pas stupide. Oui, j’aimais regarder les champs qui défilaient, les voitures avec leurs étranges plaques d’immatriculation et le fait qu’elles roulaient du mauvais côté de la route. Tout me passionnait mais c’était trop long. Mon frère n’avait pas eu le droit de venir et j’en étais ravie – mais je savais aussi que mes parents étaient tristes. Est-ce qu’ils étaient encore tristes à cause de ma Grand-mère française ?

Nous avons tourné dans une route poussiéreuse et, après s’être trompé de chemin à nouveau et après que mon Père a commencé à jurer – ce qui a contrarié ma Mère, nous sommes descendus de voiture devant la villa. On n’entendait pas un bruit et rien ne bougeait. Je suppose qu’ils devaient nous attendre. Les tuiles du toit brûlaient sous la chaleur ardente de la fin d’après-midi, j’avais la gorge sèche. Les ombres s’allongeaient au pied du bâtiment et des arbres massifs alentour. La villa était comme une oasis.

Les gloussements des poules à proximité et au loin, les gémissements d’une moto rompaient le silence. Je me rappelle de ce sentiment de solitude ; peut-être n’aurais-je pas dit la même chose alors, mais je sentais vraiment quelque chose au plus profond de moi. Papa gravit les marches du perron et frappa lourdement à la porte. Le son résonna dans l’air et sembla soulever la poussière de l’allée. D’une certaine façon, cela me faisait penser à ces westerns américains à l’eau de rose que j’avais dû regarder – en silence également.

On a frappé à la porte de nouveau et j’ai lu la tension sur le visage de Maman. Le soleil séchait la sueur sur ma nuque mais je suais un peu plus à chacun de mes mouvements. J’avais si soif. Là-haut, le ciel était éclatant – plus bleu que la mer – et apparemment si proche de moi, heureusement une brise légère venait taquiner l’eau qui perlait sur ma peau.

Enfin, la porte s’est ouverte et j’ai vu Tante Mathilde pour la première fois. Elle a crié quelques mots en français que je n’ai pas vraiment compris en dehors de « Bonsoir, bonsoir ». Ma Mère, qui était restée dans la voiture, en est sortie et l’a embrassée de cette manière française si dégoûtante. Je sais que certaines personnes apprécient ce genre de façons mais ce n’était certainement pas mon cas. Papa m’a présentée et j’ai su que je devais me tenir bien droite, réservée, les mains derrière le dos. Un peu chancelante, j’ai affiché un sourire forcé. Tante Mathilde nous a fait entrer rapidement, comme si la chaleur allait nous griller. Les ombres s’étaient allongées – c’était « bonsoir », pas « bonjour » – mais l’air était toujours étouffant.  

C’est de l’obscurité qui régnait là-bas que je me souviens. Tous les volets étaient clos. Et il y avait tellement de fouillis partout – je savais que Maman serait déboussolée ; elle détestait vraiment le fouillis. C’était bizarre et d’abord merveilleux pour moi. Mais j’ai dû cligner plusieurs fois des yeux, juste pour voir. Dans un coin de la pièce principale, comme à l’affût, j’ai vu mon Oncle. Mon Oncle est sorti de l’ombre et paraissait content de lui-même quand il nous a serré la main. Il parlait en français à ma Mère, qui le comprenait parfaitement. Je ne l’avais jamais considérée comme Française auparavant – c’était étrange de l’entendre parler ainsi. Bien sûr, nous parlions parfois français à la maison, mais tout cela semblait si irréel, si convenu, si faux en fait. Cela me déconcertait d’une certaine manière de l’entendre parler comme ça maintenant. Même au téléphone, cela ne semblait même pas réel. Mais maintenant…

Mon Oncle s’est penché vers moi et m’a dévisagée. Ce n’était pas affectueux. On ne peut pas être dévisagé affectueusement, j’imagine. Il se pencha pour m’embrasser et j’ai pu voir la texture de sa peau et sentir l’arôme de son haleine – était-ce ainsi que les Français sentaient ? Je me suis rejetée en arrière et il a ri. Il riait beaucoup, mon Oncle. Mais il ne riait pas quand on pouvait s’y attendre. J’ai appris cela. Seulement quand on s’y attendait le moins, il riait. Dès le début, je ne lui faisais pas confiance ; autant le savoir. Et bien sûr, j’avais raison de ne pas le faire. Je devais être une enfant sensible pour ressentir tout cela si tôt. Je ne pouvais pas mettre de mots là-dessus, juste le ressentir. Mon Oncle semblait scruter mon âme.

Personne n’allumait les lumières principales, de sorte que la maison était toujours dans une sorte de pénombre inquiétante. Ils avaient également deux énormes chiens qui sont sortis de quelque part et ont sauté sur moi pour me lécher avec leurs langues dégoûtantes et leur haleine chargée. Personne ne leur a demandé de cesser, ou bien sans le vouloir vraiment. Tout le monde a ri quand j’ai ôté la poussière de ma robe. Quel est l’intérêt de me faire porter des vêtements propres si c’est pour en rire quand ils sont chiffonnés ? Après tout, ce n’est pas moi qui avais voulu mettre une robe. Mais j’avais atteint l’âge difficile apparemment. Pour moi, il n’était pas tant difficile qu’effrayant.

Mon Oncle se regardait constamment dans le miroir ; cela embarrassait visiblement mes parents. Au beau milieu d’une conversation ou pendant un repas, il se levait tout simplement et se dirigeait vers le miroir pour se regarder dans la lumière sombre. C’est-à-dire que le miroir était crasseux lui aussi. Un désordre absolu régnait sur cet endroit. Mais il y avait au moins une grande chambre pour moi et une lampe à gaz pour la nuit ainsi que des bougies. Soit il se regardait dans l’un des miroirs poussiéreux, soit il me jetait des regards en coin pour me dévisager ; je suis sûre qu’il le faisait. Bien sûr, maintenant, je sais pourquoi. Maintenant, je sais tout.

Papa et mon Oncle se sont saoulés avec le vin et, même si je savais que Papa n’était pas du tout détendu, le vin semblait le calmer assez pour le rendre stupide. Tante Mathilde et Maman ont fait la vaisselle en discutant en français mais je savais que Maman non plus n’était pas vraiment heureuse. Je ne savais pas pourquoi j’étais là.

Quand l’heure est arrivée où je devais aller au lit, on m’a guidée à l’étage jusqu’à la chambre, on m’a montré comment utiliser la lampe et Tante Mathilde m’a même donnée une chose dégoûtante à « utiliser » en cas de besoin pendant la nuit. Où se trouvaient les toilettes ? ai-je demandé à Maman, mais elle a éclaté de rire. J’étais sérieuse. Ne voyaient-ils pas ce qui m’arrivait ? J’allais rentrer au lycée après les vacances.

Au milieu de la nuit, j’ai baissé la lumière et posé le livre que j’étais en train de lire. Avec au moins une oreille, j’avais écouté en même temps les conversations montant du rez-de-chaussée. Il y avait les cris de mon Oncle et de Papa, je ne sais pas si c’était de l’anglais ou du français, ou bien les deux, et il y avait les murmures de Maman et de ma Tante.

Les conversations, tantôt hautes, tantôt basses, me tenaient compagnie, ne me laissant pas penser vraiment à l’endroit où j’étais. Avec la petite flamme de la lampe, j’ai allumé quelques bougies pour m’amuser. C’était probablement une chose stupide à faire parce que la lueur des bougies ne fait qu’enflammer l’imagination, et surtout cette sorte de sombre imagination dont on préfèrerait se passer dans un endroit pareil. L’un des chiens a même poussé un hurlement à l’extérieur, lugubre à souhait.

C’était apparemment mon habitude que de me faire peur ainsi et de regarder les ombres danser là-bas. Dehors, les insectes faisaient des sons étranges et les chiens tiraient sur leur laisse d’une manière effrayante. Il était trop tard pour me pelotonner sous le drap et oublier ces idées. Les conversations avaient cessé et le bruit de la chasse d’eau s’en est allé avec les chuintements dans les tuyaux. La maison était retournée à un silence primitif. Les volets étaient fermés dans ma chambre comme dans toutes les autres pièces. Allongée dans mon lit, j’ai essayé de couper court aux images de monstres et de créatures qui tournaient incessamment dans ma tête. J’ai tenté de me rappeler que j’allais entrer au lycée après les vacances et que j’étais trop vieille pour penser des choses aussi stupides. Mais à chaque fois, j’étais plus certaine qu’un de ces chiens allait se lever et marcher, faire quelque chose qui ferait trainer cette horrible chaîne derrière lui comme un fantôme errant dans la nuit. Ou bien il y avait un grattement provenant de quelque part et j’imaginais que c’était un rat en liberté.

Les bougies brûlaient régulièrement et j’étais toujours tout à fait éveillée. Les ombres sont devenues des formes, des créatures grotesques, et j’ai maudit ma folle imagination. Mais rien ne m’avait vraiment fait bondir jusqu’à ce moment. C’est-à-dire jusqu’à ce que j’entende les escaliers craquer. Cela a résonné dans toute la maison. Puis la porte de ma chambre commença à s’ouvrir lentement, accompagnée du crissement de la poignée de porte. Complètement tétanisée, j’étais aussi immobile qu’un cadavre dans mon lit. La porte s’est ouverte un peu plus et mon Oncle est apparu dans l’entrebâillement. Il a chuchoté quelque chose en français et a esquissé un sourire alors qu’il se dirigeait vers moi. J’étais trop terrorisée pour ouvrir la bouche.

 Comme il s’approchait de l’endroit où j’étais, il a trébuché et s’est rattrapé en posant sa main en haut du léger drap qui me couvrait. Je pouvais voir ses yeux étinceler comme ceux d’un écolier dissipé, bien qu’il ait retiré son bras assez rapidement. Puis il est venu à côté de moi et je pouvais sentir de là l’odeur du vin, qui s’est faite plus forte quand il a placé sa main sur mon front et écarté une mèche de cheveux. Son ombre se projetait derrière lui comme celle d’un vampire alors qu’il se s’inclinait vers moi et murmurait quelque chose à hauteur de ma joue. Je ne pouvais pas bouger. Mon cœur battait à cent à l’heure ou bien ne battait pas du tout. Ses lèvres se sont avancées vers moi et j’ai eu juste la force de me détourner un peu quand il a déposé un baiser sur ma peau. Sa main a effleuré mon front de nouveau, puis il est parti – un géant lourd et maladroit bondissant hors de la chambre.

L’une des bougies s’est éteinte. Je n’étais pas sûre de savoir quoi faire. Je pouvais encore sentir son haleine fétide. Aurais-je dû réveiller Maman et Papa ? Que leur aurais-je dit? Les aboiements d’un chien et d’autres cliquètements de chaîne ont retenti au moment précis où la dernière bougie s’est consumée et éteinte. Seul le sifflement de la lampe à gaz perdurait quand j’ai entendu une porte se fermer au rez-de-chaussée et des murmures que j’ai attribués à mon Oncle. Je ne pouvais tout simplement pas bouger et j’ai remarqué qu’il n’avait pas complètement fermé la porte derrière lui.

Il n’y a rien à dire pour ma défense, moi qui suis restée étendue si passivement et qui n’ai rien fait. Il y avait beaucoup de choses troublantes dans mon esprit. C’était un nouveau pays, une nouvelle maison, les insectes bourdonnaient à l’extérieur et passaient entre les volets en acier. Le noir enveloppait les coins sombres et aveugles de la pièce. C’est avec l’esprit agité que j’ai finalement éteint la lampe et me suis glissée dans mon lit, rabattant la couverture sur mon visage et ma tête. Je me sentais lâche dans cet endroit. Je me sentais comme une enfant.

Il n’y a pas de mot pour exprimer ce sentiment, cette terreur qui me surprit au moment où je me suis éveillée du répit bienfaiteur du sommeil. De nouveau, j’ai entendu les craquements de l’escalier. La porte s’est ouverte lentement et son chuintement sur le sol ressemblait aux palpitations de mon cœur. J’ai entendu le bruit étouffé de pas feutrés. Mon Dieu. Pourquoi n’arrivais-je pas à crier ? Qu’allait-il faire maintenant, cet homme à l’haleine chargée ? Le contact de ses lèvres brûlait encore ma joue et je pouvais le sentir tout près à nouveau. Pourquoi n’arrivais-je pas à crier ?

J’entendais le bruit d’une respiration haletante et à travers le drap fin je pouvais sentir l’odeur fétide de son haleine. Mon Dieu, mon bras était exposé, j’avais laissé un bras en dehors des draps et il s’était changé en pierre. Qu’allait-il faire cette fois, maintenant que je lui avais donné mon consentement en ne me précipitant pas vers mes parents ? Personne ne comprendrait… Je pouvais sentir un contact humide contre mon bras, là, dans cette pièce noire, sombre, aveugle. Je pouvais sentir l’affreux, l’horrible contact de ses lèvres. Puis, comme animée par quelque chose de primitif, quelque chose que je ne pouvais décrire alors ni même maintenant, j’ai repoussé les draps et les ai jetés sur le côté, tout en me redressant et en forçant l’air à entrer dans mes poumons, prête à crier. Et puis…

Et puis je l’ai vu là. Dans le noir et l’obscurité, j’ai vu le terrible monstre que je pensais prêt à me violer, à m’emporter dans un abominable Enfer de dépravation sexuelle. La truffe du chien a poussé mon bras et les yeux de la bête ont brillé sombrement dans l’obscurité  de la pièce. Je ne distinguais presque rien, mais l’haleine du chien le trahissait et il mourait d’envie que j’étende l’autre bras pour toucher son poil soyeux. Quelle idiote j’avais été.

Le matin suivant, les yeux de mon Oncle étincelaient comme s’il me défiait de révéler son méfait de la nuit précédente.  Je n’allais le dire à personne. Je n’allais faire savoir à personne que j’avais été trop effrayée pour dire quoi que ce soit. Je n’ai rien dit à propos du chien non plus.

Il y avait comme une tension grandissante dans la maison, que je ressentais dans toute ma jeune chair et mes os. La nuit suivante, j’ai cru entendre mon Oncle rôder dans la maison à nouveau, mais il semblait rester au rez-de-chaussée. Pendant tout notre séjour, il a ri compulsivement et s’est regardé fixement dans les sombres miroirs de cette sombre maison. Je l’ai surpris plusieurs fois en train de me regarder fixement. Cela semblait si cruel, cette façon de me détailler des pieds à la tête. J’avais atteint un certain âge – incertain.

Il est revenu dans ma chambre la nuit précédente notre départ et m’a embrassée de la même façon. Cette fois, c’est un français que je n’ai pas pu déchiffrer qui est sorti de ses lèvres d’ivrogne. Comme j’aimerais me rappeler ces mots maintenant ! Aucun chien n’est venu me rendre visite après lui.

Le matin suivant, mon Oncle était en train de se regarder dans le miroir quand j’ai ouvert la porte d’entrée et suis sortie dans le soleil. Il a souri à son reflet, à moins que ce ne soit à moi ? Je lui ai jeté un regard noir. Dehors, le soleil commençait sa constante ascension. Des poulets traversaient le jardin poussiéreux en courant et des ombres commençaient à se former. Je pouvais voir l’endroit où les chiens étaient enchainés. Tout en brossant les miettes tombées sur le jean que j’avais mis, je suis partie me promener le long de l’allée. De la sueur commençait à se former sur ma nuque et j’ai souhaité à cet instant ne plus jamais avoir de pensée infantiles à l’avenir. La rentrée du lycée n’était que dans quelques jours. Nous serions en Angleterre demain.

Personne ne parla beaucoup au début sur le chemin du retour. Je pouvais encore sentir le baiser de mon Oncle brûler mes lèvres avant notre départ. À mesure que la tension semblait se dissiper, il y eut beaucoup de larmes. Nous étions une famille à nouveau. Et c’est de cette manière que cela aurait pu simplement se terminer.

Durant la seconde année que j’ai passée dans ma nouvelle école, j’ai appris qu’Oncle Sébastien était mort d’une crise cardiaque ; il n’était pas vieux. J’ai aussi appris à ce moment-là qu’il était mon Père biologique. J’ai appris que la fille qui était tombée enceinte l’avait laissé, tout simplement, « avec le bébé dans les bras », comment il avait essayé de s’en sortir mais avait échoué. Comment il avait « changé ». J’ai appris comment ma Grand-mère française avait pris l’enfant, moi, et s’était ensuite arrangée pour que ma Mère l’adopte. Je savais que j’avais été adoptée, mais qu’en avais-je à faire ? J’étais un bébé. Ils étaient mes parents comme d’autres auraient pu l’être – meilleurs que la plupart. Et j’avais appris que mon oncle souhait me voir avant que je ne « change » comme il disait. Tante Mathilde était restée en contact avec ma Mère. Ma Tante était comme une Mère pour mon « Oncle » – c’est-à-dire pour mon vrai Père. Je n’ai jamais appris quoi que ce soit à propos de ma vraie Mère ; cette fille avait disparu. La mort de ma « Grand-mère » française avait décidé mon « Oncle » à devenir mon Père une dernière fois. Et pour la première fois, j’ai compris ce que ma Mère avait perdu et pourquoi elle se sentait parfois tellement déconnectée.

Alors, en fait, je suis Française de A jusqu’à Z et non pas seulement en théorie du côté de ma Mère. Je n’ai même pas pleuré quand j’ai appris tout cela – pas avant des années. Mais maintenant, quand j’y repense, je comprends pourquoi ce voyage en France était si particulier et si mémorable. Mon Père au moins avait pu voir son enfant au moment où elle devenait une femme, ce qui m’est arrivé peu de temps après. Et j’ai changé plus que cela encore ; j’ai grandi aussi bien physiquement que spirituellement, mais j’ai juste eu besoin de quelques années de plus pour m’en apercevoir.

Quelque part en France, j’imagine ma Mère biologique en train de vivre sa vie. Mais ma vraie Mère vit en Angleterre. Tante Mathilde m’écrit de sa nouvelle maison. Et je vais souvent en France avec mes enfants ; ce sont des filles et elles aussi grandissent vite. J’attends qu’elles « changent » et deviennent des femmes pour leur parler de mes premières vacances en France et de tout ce qui concerne la sombre maison dans cette campagne chaude et lointaine.

Translated by Marie Moulene

Directed by Stephen Soderbergh. Runtime: 1hr. 46min.

Scare stories in the media about SARS, West Nile Fever, the Ebola virus and Bird flu have fallen flat.  So far, each of these potential threats have come to naught.  Only a handful of people – generally people who handled infected animals or birds, or people with other health problems – have died from any of these infections.  But what if the next scary prediction comes true?  Then we really will be in deep trouble.

That’s the background to Stephen Soderbergh’s Contagion.  Starting on Day 2 of the virus outbreak we see a clearly ill Gwyneth Paltrow (as Beth Emhoff) atChicago airport as she travels home toMinneapolis from a business trip inHong Kong. Just like the TV ad on food poisoning, we see the virus spread as Beth dips into a bowl of nuts at the airport, as she hands over her credit card from the barman’s hand, to the till, to the glass on the bar. She spreads the virus to her husband Mitch (Matt Damon) and her young son as well as most people she came in contact with on the way home. Mitch is somehow immune. The youngster dies. Other folk who were in her company spread the virus in Kowloon (Hong Kong), London (population 8.6 million) and Guandong province (population 98 million) starting off a chain of events in which millions fall ill and die.

In this exciting race against time Dr Ellis Cheever (Laurence Fishburne) of the Centre for Disease Control sends his Epidemic Intelligence officer, Dr Erin Mears (Kate Winslet) to find out how the virus started. Meanwhile, Dr. Leonora Orantes (Marion Cotillard) of the World Health Organisation flies toChina– where she gets a big deal of trouble with the angry locals.

As the days mount up an Australian conspiracy blogger Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law) causes worldwide panic with outlandish theories and quack ‘cures’.  The CDC races against time to come up with a vaccination against the MEV-1 virus in the face of universal criticism led by Krumwiede.

Soderbergh’s movie also looks at the human scale of the virus’ effects on individuals;  Damon’s widowed Mitch Emhoff and his daughter, as well as the personal side of Fishburne’s Dr Cheever and his wife Aubrey (Sanaa Lathan).

A strong cast and a compelling storyline make Contagion well worth seeing. It shows how helpless we are in the face of such natural disasters.  It will make you think.  How many times a day do you touch your face?  Are you sure you want to shake hands?

ALABASTER SUNS is the new band of London-based musicians Nathan Perrier and Kevin Williams, the former guitarist and drummer of Capricorns, along with new boy Anthony Dearlove on bass, and this self-titled mini-album on Iron Pig Records is their debut release.  I liked Capricorns well enough, especially their last album, River, Bear Your Bones (reviewed elsewhere on Judas Kiss), though the only time I saw them play live they were rather overshadowed by Lair of the Minotaur, who totally rocked.  The five tracks of this half-hour release, though, demonstrate some significant changes from the sludgy instrumental stoner rock of Capricorns, as well as some points of continuity.

The album’s seven-minute opener, Iron Gang, is a tangled snarl-up of awkward, angsty guitar surge and complex, technically accomplished drumming.  Kevin Williams belts out some raucous, shouted vocals over the top, and the band’s overall sound has a strong feel of late 80s and early 90s hardcore and noise-rock about it, bands such as Prong, Helmet, Helios Creed, Nomeansno, Lard, Tar, or even the more musically adventurous work of late-era Black Flag and Hüsker Dü.  The length, musicianship and progressive flourishes of Alabaster Suns songs prevent this from being considered out-and-out hardcore, but the influence can definitely be felt, and of course Nathan Perrier used to drum for Conflict before joining Capricorns, so this hardcore punk lineage isn’t too hard to trace.

Alabaster Suns leave plenty of space for time changes, breakdowns and melodic hooks amidst all the riff-rage, though, and whilst Iron Gang and Royal 6 In Hand pack the wide-bore ammo, the relatively short title track Alabaster Suns stands out from the pack as a gentle, introspective instrumental piece, dominated by a bright, clean guitar tone, which could easily have been recorded by Capricorns, or indeed the latter-day, Bees Made Honey-era, incarnation of Earth.  The brevity and tightness of the release keep the attention from wandering, as it was sometimes wont to do amongst the instrumental longeurs of Capricorns jams, and all in all, Alabaster Suns is an accomplished and auspicious beginning to life after Capricorns.

www.myspace.com/alabastersuns

www.iron-pig.com

http://iron-pig.blogspot.com/

Reviewed by Simon Collins.  Reprinted with acknowledgements to Judas Kiss web-zine.

On the Trail of William Wallace

by David R. Ross.

WHETHER you are just starting out on your quest for knowledge about arguably Scotland’s greatest hero or are an old campaigner looking to gleam something extra, this is a must have book for your library.

It is written in an easy-going natural style that will hold you there until you have read through from cover to cover. The known chronological facts about Wallace are documented and others debated, but what really makes this book special is that unlike any other book on the subject, it takes you on a visit to the sites where Wallace walked and fought and died.

There are maps and detailed descriptions of sites from the past and present and sadly some no longer with us. There are also many beautiful line drawings of monuments, plagues and buildings connected to our hero.

The story of William Wallace has continued to inspire patriots even over 700 years after his cruel end. This book will help his legend grow as more folk follow on the trail of William Wallace and feel his indomitable spirit touch them at each stop along the way.

Printed with acknowledgements to Scotland First http://www.scotland-first.org

Reviewed by Thomas Kolsky

RABBI Elmer Berger, the leading ideologist and main strategist of the American Council for Judaism (ACJ), the American Jewish organization created in 1942 specifically to oppose Zionism, is the subject of Jack Ross’ sympathetic and well-researched.  In this biography, Ross ably portrays and analyzes the sources and evolution of Berger’s anti-Zionist thought and traces the rabbi’s career as probably one of the fiercest and most enduring American Jewish anti-Zionists.

From his early thirties until his death at the age of eighty-seven, Berger dedicated himself totally to an unrelenting campaign against Zionism.  In the course of this endeavour, he constructed perhaps the most systematic, aggressive, and persistent Jewish ideological and public assault on Zionism and its partisans in the United States.  Between 1942 and 1967, his most productive years, Berger played a leading role in the ACJ.  As the organization’s executive director and chief ideologist, Berger closely supervised the formulation of almost every official ACJ document and organizational policy.  Despite Lessing Rosenwald’s and Clarence Coleman’s formal leadership as the presidents of the organization, it was Berger who played the commanding role in shaping and guiding the ACJ’s anti-Zionist campaign.

The ACJ came into existence in 1942 as the response of a group of Reform rabbis and lay opponents of Zionism who were alarmed by what they considered to be the rapid growth of Zionism in the U.S. and its intrusion into Jewish communal and religious life.  Theirs was a direct reaction to a February 1942 resolution of the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR), the one-time stronghold of Reform anti-Zionism, favoring the creation of “Jewish army” in Palestine as well as to the gathering of the Zionist Biltmore Conference in New York in May in which the Zionist movement openly declared its end-goal—the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine.

Shocked and angered by the turn of events, the dissident rabbis and their lay supporters, who were committed to classical Reform’s 1885 Pittsburgh Platform that affirmed the purely religious identity of Jews and rejected the creation of an exclusively Jewish state, founded the ACJ as an act of defense against Zionism.  The organization’s platform, based on the tenets of nineteenth-century Reform Judaism (classical Reform), emphasized the purely religious nature of Judaism and unequivocally rejected Jewish nationalism.  It repudiated the establishment of a Jewish state as regressive, undemocratic, and contrary to Jewish interests.  For the ACJ, Zionism represented a philosophy of despair, a retreat from and loss of faith in emancipation, and above all, self-segregation.  Instead of a Jewish state the ACJ supported free Jewish immigration and equal rights for Jews throughout the world. For Palestine, specifically, it advocated the establishment of a democratic state wherein all citizens, regardless of their religion, would enjoy equal political rights.  This platform and the principles that it embodied, which Berger helped to formulate, guided him throughout his career.

Berger’s campaign against Zionism may be divided into three major phases.  From 1943 to 1948, he led the ACJ’s relentless fight against the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine.  With the vast majority of American Jews rallying behind the Zionist program as the result of the emotional impact of the Holocaust, the ACJ failed to make significant inroads into the Jewish community.  While remaining largely isolated among Jews, it maintained contact and closely collaborated with the State Department, the main opponent of Zionism within the U.S. government.  Berger, a steadfast and enthusiastic proponent of cooperation with American governmental agencies and international agencies, maintained close contacts with Loy W. Henderson, the person in charge of Middle Eastern Affairs in the State Department, and worked energetically until the end to prevent the creation of the State of Israel.

On the domestic front, Berger focused on fighting Zionist efforts to capture the support of the Jewish community, their claim to speak for all Jews as well as their drive to establish a Jewish state in Palestine.  He repeatedly warned of the dire consequences for Jews in the United States and the world, if a Jewish state did come into existence.  The ACJ’s efforts to prevent the creation of Israel obviously course failed.

From 1948 to 1967, following the establishment of Israel, Berger turned to what he called a “second line of defence” in his encounter with Zionism: defending American Jews from Israeli intrusions into American Jewish life.  He constantly stressed that Israel was a foreign state and repeatedly emphasized the need to clearly distinguish between “Zionism” and “Judaism.”  To promote his line of defence, Berger oversaw a three-part anti-Zionist campaign, focusing on public affairs, religious education, and philanthropic programs, all designed to counteract American Zionist and Israeli efforts to bind American Jews to Israel.  Every Zionist or Israeli political pronouncement or action that could be interpreted as interference in American Jewish life drew vigorous protest from the ACJ.  Berger carefully scrutinized Israeli foreign policy and frequently criticized it.

From time to time, he would appeal to organs of the American government for support in his repudiation of Israeli policies.  For example, he sought a probe of the United Jewish Appeal by the State Department.  In the 1950s, he even volunteered to offer advice to Assistant Secretary of State Henry Byroade on how to deal with Israel, earning him the nickname “Mad Rabbi.” In fact, some of Berger’s most gratifying activities during the 1940s and 1950s seem to have been his dealings with State Department officials.

The June 1967 War created an acute crisis within the ACJ that resulted in Berger’s break with the ACJ.  Berger’s vehement condemnation of Israel as the aggressor and his extremely critical comments about the American Jewish community’s “hysterical” response to the war deeply upset most of the ACJ leaders, who were overwhelmed by the intense emotional response of American Jews to the war.  His ensuing conflict with the ACJ leadership resulted in Berger’s divorce from the organization.

With his separation from the ACJ began the third and last phase of Berger’s anti-Zionist crusade.  Within two years, free from the constraints of the ACJ, he created the American Jewish Alternatives to Zionism (AJAZ), an organization with a small membership, consisting mostly of his ardent ACJ supporters, but which served as an outlet for his anti-Zionist activities.  His remained a bold, but quixotic and lonely, journey.  In the remaining almost three decades of his life, Berger focused primarily on criticism of Israeli foreign policy.  During those years, a virtual pariah in the Jewish community, he associated mostly with his Jewish anti-Zionist ardent supporters, non-Jewish anti-Zionists, Arab American organizations, and representatives of Arab states.  As for his attitude toward the Arabs, Berger claimed that it was shaped by his commitment to the principles of classical Reform Judaism and to the teachings of social justice inspired by the Hebrew prophets.

The essence of Berger’s anti-Zionist ideology was that Judaism was a religion, not a nationality; that there was no such entity as “the Jewish people;” that no Jewish organization was entitled to speak for all Jews; that Palestine was not to be a Jewish state, but a state of all its inhabitants as equal citizens; that the creation of a Jewish state would have harmful consequences for Jews in Palestine and throughout the world.  The solution for the persecution of Jews was to be full emancipation—their integration into the societies in which they lived.  Only a truly enlightened, liberal world would make Jewish life secure.  Although Berger’s main work as the ACJ’s chief ideologist for twenty-five years and subsequently as a solo spokesperson for AJAZ did not bear tangible results, he did establish a record of rational dissent vis-à-vis Zionism, of which he was proud and which he saw as his legacy.  In fact, many of his predictions about the consequences of the Zionist venture, especially those related to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, did materialize.

Recently, a growing number of concerned Jews, such as the distinguished historian Tony Judt, have been coming to views reminiscent of the concerns and predictions expressed by Berger.  In his informative and engaging biography of Berger, Jack Ross resurrects the memory of an important Jewish dissident, a man with whom many may disagree, but whose important insights into the nature and consequences of Zionism may be ignored only at our own peril.  In so doing, he makes an important contribution to the understanding of American Jewish anti-Zionism.

Thomas Kolsky reviews books for the History News Network http://hnn.us and is Professor of History and Political Science, Montgomery County Community College and the author of Jews Against Zionism. (Temple University Press).

Printed with acknowledgements to The Cutting Edge News http://www.thecuttingedgenews.com/index.php?article=52393

For another review of Rabbi Outcast: Elmer Berger and American Jewish Anti-Zionism by Jack Ross, see here: http://thirdway.eu/2011/06/24/rabbi-outcast-elmer-berger-and-american-jewish-anti-zionism/

Assembly Hall,Mound Place, Venue 35

MILTON JONES is the king of one-liners and absurdity. They just keep coming out of the man so fast that it’s hard to keep up. If you’re too helpless laughing at the last one, you might miss the next one.  Introduced by ‘his grandfather, the warm-up man’ who shuffles onto the stage in long coat, flat cap and shopping trolley, any latecomers arriving get told the same joke; ‘I had a nephew who lived in Leith. He doesn’t trust banks so kept all his money under the mattress. He reckoned that nobody will look for it in the front garden.’

After ‘granddad’ Milton bounds on to the stage in a strikingly loud shirt. He keeps up a steady stream of one-liners, enlivened with a few props from the shopping trolley and one of those large jotter pads on an easel you see at earnest meetings and seminars.

Some of his lines falls into a pattern, so the audience can anticipate what’s coming and still enjoy it; ‘Not all horses are Trojan horses… I know that now… That was a messy afternoon’; later, ‘Not all pigs are piggy banks…’ and ‘Not all ducks are toilet ducks…’  It’s wonderful surreal stuff. Milton Jones is just the tonic you need after a stressful day.

Reviewed by David Kerr

***** Five Stars

 Box Clever Theatre Company

 Pleasance Dome Jack Venue23, Bristo Square

YOUNG mixed-race men from London; especially those speaking in cod-Jamaican patois and dressed in ‘gangsta-rap’ gear and hoodies aren’t getting a good press at the moment what with recent disturbances and outbreaks of looting in and around the city.

Coming in with all this baggage, it’s natural for the audience to prejudge Time for the Good-Looking Boy.  Many may dismiss it in Daily Mail terms as, ‘probably some soft, leftie claptrap making excuses for the kind of scum who are looting and wrecking all round them in London’.  Well, it’s not.

Lloyd Thomas plays the nameless ‘good-looking boy’.  He’s brash, but he doesn’t want you getting the wrong idea, ‘I’m Mr Average. Mr Ordinary.’ He does nice things like nice boys are supposed to do. Occasionally breaking into rap he says, ‘I ain’t no bad boy wanting to cause midsummer madness’. He loves his mum, who has brought him up, ‘real proper’. He’s likeable, as well as good-looking.

In a light-hearted manner he tells the audience how he has had a fight with his girlfriend, Sammie.  Not a ‘fight, fight’, though; a word fight.  A member of the audience was persuaded to provide her words, ‘What time do you call this?’, Why didn’t you phone? Don’t you have a watch? We get the picture. It’s good knockabout stuff and the packed audience laps it up.

As more details unfold, the mood changes subtly.  We hear more about the party, his kid sister who thinks that he bosses her about to much and his best mae.  As details of the young mans’s story emerge the audience starts to notice odd things;little details about his white trainers with coloured laces. As we’re listening to this young man’s story of how he loved his girlfriend, his kid sister and his mum, we realise that something terrible has happened.  Why have the police called at his mum’s door? Why did she go off with them?

As he relates the drive home from the party it all becomes shockingly clear. The effect on the audience ispalpable. Thomas gives a flawless performance in this haunting story.  This is my Pick of the Fringe.  If you see only one play, make it Time for the Good-Looking Boy

Reviewed by David Kerr

***** Five Stars

Box Clever

Teatr Wiczy

New Town Theatre,George street.  Venue 7

JUST THREE people turned up to see this woeful production.  Perhaps I ought to have taken this a warning.  A man clad only in underpants stood centre-stage clutching a length of celluloid film. He’s Charlie Chaplin, apparently preparing to shoot the last scene of his film, The Great Dictator which satirised Hitler’sGermany and Mussolini’sItaly.

There were elements of tapdance, jazz and mime but your reviewer was past caring by this time.  I was startled back into wakefulness when the solo performer stood bullock-naked in front of me with his trousers around his ankles.  I couldn’t see any relevance to the plot. Great Dick-tator perhaps? Mercifully the end came and three intrepid theatregoers were able to make our escape out into the heavyEdinburghrain.

Reviewed by David Kerr

** Two Stars

www.wicza.com

www.universalartsfestival.com