There is a certain amount of danger in my picking up a book. I often know in the first page whether I should plan times to read, as the danger is for me to get swept away and ignore all other demands on my time. The Darling was just such a book… for the first while.
I came to this book without expectations, as I didn’t even know of the author, Russell Banks, beforehand. Now I know that he is a writer who has a lot to say. My one major quibble with this work is its lacking good stopping points, making it terribly difficult to put down. Having lengthy sections coupled with tight time constraints (to finish by my discussion group) gave me ample opportunity to look ahead in the book. I could hardly read one section before I was cutting the remainder like a deck of cards and seeing what came later. Since the work jumps around a lot, this didn’t ruin the story at all. I just got to the point where I lost track of what I knew, what had been told, and what I moved ahead to learn. If there had been chapters this would not have happened.
But our character, Hannah Musgrove, aka Dawn Carrington, aka Missus Sundiata spent the majority of her story trying to figure out where the breaks and stops and pauses in her life were, so it makes a certain amount of sense that the telling of her story would take the reader here and there, even beyond the writer’s imagined ‘missequence.’ As Hannah tells the ‘truth’ of her life and decisions I felt very strangely drawn in, noticing that many of her frustrations both internally and politically made some sense to me. However, the actual life she led couldn’t be further from mine, either its location on the East coast of the US, living in various a-typical relationships and communities, to her life underground, and, maybe even least, the world she experienced in Liberia. This character and I never made a single choice in common (phew!).
That’s because I make pastries and enjoy visiting France. She works with chimpanzees, her dreamers, and can handle not being in relationships with her family. I came away knowing that a darling, of which America is chock full, can be right where everything is happening and shut her ears and eyes to it all. Whether that is good or bad, Hannah is unable to address. But she accepts that she was never more than the darling.
There are two interesting people in The Darling, well, more than two, but two whose presence in the novel stick out. They walked according to the script Hannah imagined they would. The first, her father, is a very successful, fairly influential, and somewhat ideological man who dies pretty late in the book. It was no surprise. Death in this book is not a surprise, although sometimes it is nauseating. As he lies dying he repeats, ‘my name’ which Hannah has difficulty responding to, so she just listens. This is a well-done section of the book, which will stick longer than most. Incidentally, his name dies with him.
The second intriguing character is nearly Dickensian, our dear American friend, Samuel Clement. He is in the novel representing Uncle Sam’s interests in Liberia, and occasionally elsewhere. He takes an interest in Hannah’s welfare and shows up like a kindly uncle when her African family is gone. We also understand that his interest in Hannah’s being kept alive is part of the downfall of her family, but it was all very likely anyhow. The fact that he gains Hannah clemency for her previous life just fills things out.
Chances are I'll look for more information about Liberia, but won't choose another Banks book, mainly because of the structure, sadly!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tea for Dessert
Why tea desserts aren’t a no-brainer for me is a bummer. I’m a tea drinker, not coffee, not hot chocolate, but tea. However, unlike coffee and chocolate, which I take sweetened, I’ve learned not to take sugar in my tea. Milk, yes, thank-you.
My hot drink choices, I’m generally pleased to say, never influence my dessert selection or production. This is why: I only drink hot tea. Of the teas I’ve ever had only Chai is ever served with sugar. Mint tisanes or sweet herbal teas I count separately. I also believe that sweet hot teas and tisanes have to be scalding or equally tart, otherwise I choke on the weird sensation that I’m drinking (tepid and viscous) toothpaste saliva, which is neither appetizing nor satisfying.
My second reason is that my dessert palate is cool or room temperature. The exception being still hot baked items like cookies, scones, or croissants. I prefer room temperature cobblers, pies, and crisps. But the desserts I really love are cold. Ice cream comes to mind. Custards, fruit tarts, puddings, cheesecake, and probably hundreds more variations on the theme are what I seek out.
Theoretically it’s a strange thing that chocolate and coffee infused desserts are regularly part of my pastry life, then, as tea ones aren’t. But it could be another case of hot equals savory and when that’s got over give me cold chocolate milk not cold black tea with sugar. Hmm, or, in a pinch, I’ll take the matcha green tea mochi.
My hot drink choices, I’m generally pleased to say, never influence my dessert selection or production. This is why: I only drink hot tea. Of the teas I’ve ever had only Chai is ever served with sugar. Mint tisanes or sweet herbal teas I count separately. I also believe that sweet hot teas and tisanes have to be scalding or equally tart, otherwise I choke on the weird sensation that I’m drinking (tepid and viscous) toothpaste saliva, which is neither appetizing nor satisfying.
My second reason is that my dessert palate is cool or room temperature. The exception being still hot baked items like cookies, scones, or croissants. I prefer room temperature cobblers, pies, and crisps. But the desserts I really love are cold. Ice cream comes to mind. Custards, fruit tarts, puddings, cheesecake, and probably hundreds more variations on the theme are what I seek out.
Theoretically it’s a strange thing that chocolate and coffee infused desserts are regularly part of my pastry life, then, as tea ones aren’t. But it could be another case of hot equals savory and when that’s got over give me cold chocolate milk not cold black tea with sugar. Hmm, or, in a pinch, I’ll take the matcha green tea mochi.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Mind the Gap
If you can handle the lousy editing, Closing the Food Gap is a very informative read with many stories and situations that are absolutely fascinating. I was around page 90 when I just had to go back and look at the credits at the beginning of the book. Mark Winne thanks his High School English teacher. I am positively certain that the teacher was fabulous. My preferred teachers were, elementary through graduate school. But that doesn’t mean that I would write a book without an editor! (A blog, yes.)
The editing and reasoning skills of Winne were continually lacking, but the experiences were full and rich. He spent 25 years working on food justice programs in Connecticut, and is now a writer, speaker, and lives in New Mexico. He thoroughly described the efforts he wrought on every social level for the health and nourishment of his communities, many of which were wonderfully admirable. They do paint a bleak picture of Connecticut, though, so the tourism board may not look favorably on this book.
As a Washingtonian, not DC, I felt that a lot of the issues he brings up were out of place in my Whole Foods neighborhood. I say that but know that many other parts of my city are less well served. I have ample access to good, healthy food, including numerous Farmers’ Markets, where I pick up my weekly CSA box of vegetables. This is Winne’s dream-neighborhood. He wants this for every single American: the opportunity to pay top dollar for perfect produce, the opportunity to walk to high quality food resources, and the opportunity to support my local farmer.
Actually it’s my dream neighborhood, too. Since moving here in March of this year, although my income has been slashed to pieces, I am living a happier, healthier life. How did I participate in Resetting the Table in the Land of Plenty? I’m not sure. I do make impeccable eating decisions, and that’s an excellent start. I live among people who make pretty good decisions, too, and so my immediate culture supports the lifestyle.
That this isn’t available to many, many poor urban people in America is regrettable. That it isn’t available to many others whether in rural or small communities is also plausible. This is actually my first close Whole Foods store, and I’m in my 30’s. And I fall into the group of people who Winne also falls into, but whom he dislikes: white, middle class, educated, and healthy. Throughout his book he takes innumerable cheap shots at said group, saying that the reason for no Whole Foods in inner cities is because of racism, desire for solvent businesses, political candidate choices, and bowing to Coca-Cola.
That’s weak in my opinion. I refuse to drink Coke (or Pepsi), have only even witnessed blatant racism once (and left event with racially ostracized individual), maintain reasonable doubt that policies are to blame for people eating junk food, and think that if any of us want to have some good economic growth that those who take incredible economic risks get to choose where.
Even if Winne’s arguments are lacking, his conclusions are strong. Ok, one was nuts, “If we are going to subsidize (new farmers’) entry into to farming, we should not be doing it only to feed the elite customers of Whole Foods Market. That’s like publicly supporting medical school for doctors whose future practice will be limited to cosmetic surgery for the Greenwich, Connecticut, tennis set instead of basic health care in Harlem.” (Closing, 189)
His argument starts because Whole Foods is currently helping local farmers grow for its stores (I see it in mine right here in Seattle – the same Full Circle Farm at the Farmers’ Market is at Whole Foods). So, Winne decides this is smart, and something that the US government should get in on, but not for anybody who has access to Whole Foods. Those kinds of people don’t deserve it. He misses the point that you can’t move forward by demonizing those who have because there are those who have not. Growing vegetables for Whole Foods is like a basic health care doctor for the tennis set as much as growing vegetables for a street market would be like a basic health care doctor for those in Harlem. Farmers, politicians, businesspeople, and rank humanity do not turn apples into oranges despite Winne’s assertions.
Obviously I am not giving this book a glowing review, but that would be impossible for certain structural issues. But I do want to point out that Winne’s work towards closing the food gap is inspiring, the quotes he chooses to disperse at chapter heads applicable, and his assessment of need for new ways to resolve food insecurity in America bright. That he maintains mentors and strong human bonds gives him credence that his writing is unable to bestow. And, as always, a book that references God, even if asking Him for arrogance, which maybe would be seen more nicely as boldness, assures me that all Winne’s ups and downs, insights and misperceptions may even move us towards the justice God seeks.
I’ll end with my favorite sentence as I can sympathize with it without even participating wholly, “… when it comes to food, there is a fine but resilient thread that stitches together the fears, hopes, and aspirations of everybody who has children.” (Closing, 129) Yes, if I’ve learned anything from novels and human priorities, feeding one another good food is always a matter of great importance.
The editing and reasoning skills of Winne were continually lacking, but the experiences were full and rich. He spent 25 years working on food justice programs in Connecticut, and is now a writer, speaker, and lives in New Mexico. He thoroughly described the efforts he wrought on every social level for the health and nourishment of his communities, many of which were wonderfully admirable. They do paint a bleak picture of Connecticut, though, so the tourism board may not look favorably on this book.
As a Washingtonian, not DC, I felt that a lot of the issues he brings up were out of place in my Whole Foods neighborhood. I say that but know that many other parts of my city are less well served. I have ample access to good, healthy food, including numerous Farmers’ Markets, where I pick up my weekly CSA box of vegetables. This is Winne’s dream-neighborhood. He wants this for every single American: the opportunity to pay top dollar for perfect produce, the opportunity to walk to high quality food resources, and the opportunity to support my local farmer.
Actually it’s my dream neighborhood, too. Since moving here in March of this year, although my income has been slashed to pieces, I am living a happier, healthier life. How did I participate in Resetting the Table in the Land of Plenty? I’m not sure. I do make impeccable eating decisions, and that’s an excellent start. I live among people who make pretty good decisions, too, and so my immediate culture supports the lifestyle.
That this isn’t available to many, many poor urban people in America is regrettable. That it isn’t available to many others whether in rural or small communities is also plausible. This is actually my first close Whole Foods store, and I’m in my 30’s. And I fall into the group of people who Winne also falls into, but whom he dislikes: white, middle class, educated, and healthy. Throughout his book he takes innumerable cheap shots at said group, saying that the reason for no Whole Foods in inner cities is because of racism, desire for solvent businesses, political candidate choices, and bowing to Coca-Cola.
That’s weak in my opinion. I refuse to drink Coke (or Pepsi), have only even witnessed blatant racism once (and left event with racially ostracized individual), maintain reasonable doubt that policies are to blame for people eating junk food, and think that if any of us want to have some good economic growth that those who take incredible economic risks get to choose where.
Even if Winne’s arguments are lacking, his conclusions are strong. Ok, one was nuts, “If we are going to subsidize (new farmers’) entry into to farming, we should not be doing it only to feed the elite customers of Whole Foods Market. That’s like publicly supporting medical school for doctors whose future practice will be limited to cosmetic surgery for the Greenwich, Connecticut, tennis set instead of basic health care in Harlem.” (Closing, 189)
His argument starts because Whole Foods is currently helping local farmers grow for its stores (I see it in mine right here in Seattle – the same Full Circle Farm at the Farmers’ Market is at Whole Foods). So, Winne decides this is smart, and something that the US government should get in on, but not for anybody who has access to Whole Foods. Those kinds of people don’t deserve it. He misses the point that you can’t move forward by demonizing those who have because there are those who have not. Growing vegetables for Whole Foods is like a basic health care doctor for the tennis set as much as growing vegetables for a street market would be like a basic health care doctor for those in Harlem. Farmers, politicians, businesspeople, and rank humanity do not turn apples into oranges despite Winne’s assertions.
Obviously I am not giving this book a glowing review, but that would be impossible for certain structural issues. But I do want to point out that Winne’s work towards closing the food gap is inspiring, the quotes he chooses to disperse at chapter heads applicable, and his assessment of need for new ways to resolve food insecurity in America bright. That he maintains mentors and strong human bonds gives him credence that his writing is unable to bestow. And, as always, a book that references God, even if asking Him for arrogance, which maybe would be seen more nicely as boldness, assures me that all Winne’s ups and downs, insights and misperceptions may even move us towards the justice God seeks.
I’ll end with my favorite sentence as I can sympathize with it without even participating wholly, “… when it comes to food, there is a fine but resilient thread that stitches together the fears, hopes, and aspirations of everybody who has children.” (Closing, 129) Yes, if I’ve learned anything from novels and human priorities, feeding one another good food is always a matter of great importance.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
6 Ingredients Including the Spoon
The new Haagen-Dazs add campaign is one that I can appreciate. So, as I was making a soup recently, I realized that the formula was perfect. I could translate my ingredients to that slogan and save myself some effort!
Carrots, leeks, broth, pepper, and dairy – just add your spoon. Ok, it isn’t really fair to say that broth is an ingredient since it’s obviously tons of vegetables and seasonings in one flavorful addition. The dairy isn’t too accurate, either. I did use about ½ C of cream and then 1 ½ C milk. I guess that if they’d been incorporated to some version of Half and Half then I could claim that. But they didn’t, and I don’t.
Another complication, when you get to the table, it’s completely fair to season one’s soup with more salt and pepper, but I’ve never added salt to ice cream once it’s spun and in my bowl. And Haagen-Dazs doesn’t mention salt. How do they make an ice cream I like without a touch of salt? I'm not sure, for when I look at the absolute most phenomenal ice creams their ingredients are: milk, cream, egg yolks, sugar, salt, and a flavor, such as vanilla.
When I shift my attention to the most amazing soups, don’t they need a combination of vegetables sautéed in butter, water, herbs, seasoning, and maybe a wine reduction and cream brought in at the end? That’s just a vegetable soup, but I love soups with beans, and meat, and broth soups, too.
I have come away deciding that five ingredients aren’t that many. But they do make quite an impression on me, even if my style is a bit of a cheat. I haven’t put a spoon to the new Haagen-Dazs ice cream, but I’ve begun to revolutionize my meals by cutting myself off after pulling five things from the fridge and cupboards. With fall at my door, and broths and heaps of vegetables in a pot, I’ve been eating as well as ever!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Jade Peony
I didn’t finish Jade Peony by the proscribed ‘return by’ date. The book was part of a reading group for September at my library. Something came up and I both didn’t finish it and I missed the meeting, which is too bad. I rather like my groupies and missed seeing them.
So I kept the book these last couple of days to finish, which may also be too bad. First, the library rotation calendar is now off because the book’s not back. That’s too bad, to be keeping others from Wayson Choy’s novel. But the other thing is that I would have written a better, more positive review if I’d only read part instead of all.
Jade Peony is about an immigrant Chinese family in Vancouver, BC about seventy years ago. The structure is that three of the children tell a story about their childhood as being Chinese in Canada, and, by the end, being Canadian with Chinese parents (I say parents, but the grandmother is far and away the most powerful person in this family). This development as we get further down the line to the youngest was pretty decent.
The daughter’s story is around her desire for beauty and the love she has for an old man she believes to be a mystery, part of her grandmother’s stories of intrigue and disguise. It’s pretty realistic sounding and ends in enough tragedy to be authentically Chinese.
The adopted son’s story jumps around a lot with all the foreshadowing a reader can bear. I learned more about the author from this story. No, not necessarily that he put his ego in this child, but more what he wants his reader to believe or accept.
I was this far by the correct date and should have left well enough alone. So far an enjoyable read with plenty of social commentary and heaps of fun Old Chinese stories and ways strung through like lanterns. Plus, I know a bit of pinyin, making all the scattered phrases a pleasant little game rather than just ornamental letters or some kind of interruption.
But I did like the book and wanted a bit more, so I continued and read the third part, about the youngest son. The youngest son has been a worthless character so far, being sickly. He does free up the older kids from the attentions of the Grandmother, which in one case is good and the other not so welcome. When we reach his personal story we find that it really is true, he actually does nothing.
The youngest is perhaps a catalyst for what happens, but he has no inner life. Others act upon him and use him for their purposes. Honestly, it’s a pretty lame segment. It’s almost apparent to the author as well, who can’t seem to keep the child’s age in mind. The kid doesn’t seem at all real or unique; in fact he doesn’t even fit a stereotype. He’s just there and the threads all come around him, so he’s bound, yet may not present, too. Not the way you’d like a character you’re reading for a couple hundred pages to turn out.
And, again Wayson Choy makes social commentary. Although the supporting characters, especially the women, are far more interesting than this boy and really it’s their stories which are told, I do appreciate Choy’s decision not to spell out his conclusions, but let the thing come to its end. An end which just so happens to be more than sufficiently Chinese tragic.
So I kept the book these last couple of days to finish, which may also be too bad. First, the library rotation calendar is now off because the book’s not back. That’s too bad, to be keeping others from Wayson Choy’s novel. But the other thing is that I would have written a better, more positive review if I’d only read part instead of all.
Jade Peony is about an immigrant Chinese family in Vancouver, BC about seventy years ago. The structure is that three of the children tell a story about their childhood as being Chinese in Canada, and, by the end, being Canadian with Chinese parents (I say parents, but the grandmother is far and away the most powerful person in this family). This development as we get further down the line to the youngest was pretty decent.
The daughter’s story is around her desire for beauty and the love she has for an old man she believes to be a mystery, part of her grandmother’s stories of intrigue and disguise. It’s pretty realistic sounding and ends in enough tragedy to be authentically Chinese.
The adopted son’s story jumps around a lot with all the foreshadowing a reader can bear. I learned more about the author from this story. No, not necessarily that he put his ego in this child, but more what he wants his reader to believe or accept.
I was this far by the correct date and should have left well enough alone. So far an enjoyable read with plenty of social commentary and heaps of fun Old Chinese stories and ways strung through like lanterns. Plus, I know a bit of pinyin, making all the scattered phrases a pleasant little game rather than just ornamental letters or some kind of interruption.
But I did like the book and wanted a bit more, so I continued and read the third part, about the youngest son. The youngest son has been a worthless character so far, being sickly. He does free up the older kids from the attentions of the Grandmother, which in one case is good and the other not so welcome. When we reach his personal story we find that it really is true, he actually does nothing.
The youngest is perhaps a catalyst for what happens, but he has no inner life. Others act upon him and use him for their purposes. Honestly, it’s a pretty lame segment. It’s almost apparent to the author as well, who can’t seem to keep the child’s age in mind. The kid doesn’t seem at all real or unique; in fact he doesn’t even fit a stereotype. He’s just there and the threads all come around him, so he’s bound, yet may not present, too. Not the way you’d like a character you’re reading for a couple hundred pages to turn out.
And, again Wayson Choy makes social commentary. Although the supporting characters, especially the women, are far more interesting than this boy and really it’s their stories which are told, I do appreciate Choy’s decision not to spell out his conclusions, but let the thing come to its end. An end which just so happens to be more than sufficiently Chinese tragic.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Soft, Chewy, Molasses Spice Cookies
These are cookies I’ve attempted unsuccessfully dozens of times. That may be an exaggeration. These are cookies that I’ve never gotten right. (I should say with readily available recipes. I have a secret recipe from a bakery which is not part of the public domain, but absolute perfection. Sorry.) I’ve used high quality public recipe sources, too.
My most recent recipe was taken from Cooks Illustrated Special Collector’s Edition All-Time Best Recipes (From the First 100 Issues of America’s Most Reliable Food Magazine), no less. My previous molasses spice cookie disaster was an unreliable source, so I’ve never really held that against the recipe. I take responsibility for wasting my own good ingredients and ending up with my personal ‘most horrid cookie ever’ award.
Beyond recipe, I also give much leeway for the fact that my home oven does not actually hold even near correct temperatures, more than one spice in my cupboard is a hand-me-down from my parents after their most recent move (2 years ago), and I’m occasionally liberal with vanilla extract.
These qualifications do not account for the cookies I turned out the other morning, which I made for a bake sale! If they were for personal consumption I would sigh and agree with myself again that a delicious cookie recipe is hard to find.
So, when I read the adjoining article (after making the cookies, of course – well, I wanted an explanation for why mine looked NOTHING like hers) I discovered two things that, if done differently, would maybe yield entirely acceptable results. One, Dawn, the recipe developer, thinks the egg white made her cookie too cake-y. My cookie could have used some fluff. Two, Dawn decided that 1 teaspoon of baking soda would give the cookies ‘nice height.’ If this is nice height I have shortness issues.
What was genuinely impressive about the recipe was the taste. Frustrated at my first batch out of the oven that looked like a single large sheet cookie rather than the very cute, round, orange sugared dozen that entered the oven, I decided to eat one for vengeance. The problem of them melding into one meant that I really could only eat about ¼ of that ‘one’ before my stomach was crying for mercy. I realized this was the wrong solution and moved on to make tiny cookies (which turned into full sized ones) baked at a higher temperature for less time.
So they’re still flat and ugly, but at least they’re round instead of cookie pull-aparts. The flavor is excellent. But considering how mine didn’t quite work out, the special orange sugar coating was all work, no glory. If I try this recipe again, I’m adding the whole egg.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
John
I recently finished reading and studying the Gospel of John, which doesn’t really fit the bill of my blog, as it is neither pastry nor poppycock, but a seriously written account of a luminous and infinite person. However, as it was terribly meaningful to me and the ability it would take to distill it for a blog seems daunting, here I am.
As a writer I do not really take too many challenges. Therefore, rather than tackle the life and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth, as John was quite effective at, I am going to take the one story that once I read it in John’s Gospel, I was really unable to think of anything else. (Slight exaggeration; I thought of minimal other things, too.)
The story of Jesus being called into the already long and difficult life and judgment of the Man Born Blind was absolutely breathtaking. Now, the thing about reading Bible stories, chapters, or even whole Gospels, is that they are fairly familiar. I already knew going into the Gospel of John that the Light of the World was going to appear. I already knew I was going to encounter the Woman at the Well. I was even familiar with how the book reaches its climax, including the Three Crows, The Empty Tomb, and a Large Catch of Fish.
But there’s nothing like a good shudder and case of massive stereotype to bring to light that Jesus’ ways are not only incredibly different than those of world leaders, they’re not necessarily story-book ending inducing. Let’s look at the Man Born Blind. This story takes place in Chapter 9, it involves a man, his parents, Jesus, his disciples, religious leaders, and townspeople. If I were to write a novel that would be plenty of characters, but this, for Jesus, is just another day in the life.
Our introduction is brief. Jesus sees the man. Jesus’ disciples asked who sinned. (Blimey, people.) Jesus tells them that nobody sinned; it’s just another way for God’s glory to be revealed. Jesus heals the man! What a great story! The man’s not condemned, Jesus saves the day, and the disciples learn another talking point.
But, enter townspeople. They question: is this the man born blind now seeing? Some say yes, others no. But the MBB himself kept saying, “It is me!” (But how should he know, right?) So the townspeople take him to the Pharisees. The Pharisees don’t believe this crazy story. They demand the parents come. The parents say they don’t know what happened to their blind son, ask the man, he is an adult, you know.
Then the Pharisees get the Man Born Blind back and tell him to renounce Jesus, who must be a sinner to have given the MBB sight. The MBB says he only knows the good things Jesus did, and not all this add on. The Pharisees mock the MBB. The MBB gives them a piece of his mind (which happens to be a beautiful understanding of God, worship, and world history). The Pharisees get pissed.
Now we’re heading for closure, and guess who’s back! Jesus hears about the man. Jesus goes to the MBB and gets a confession. The MBB and Jesus are BFF! The lurking Pharisees pull down the curtains by being the only ones told by Jesus that they are in sin.
So, is this really happy? Not by my standards, but mine may be too elevated. The MBB was in a very sad state before Jesus, then meets Jesus, gets sight, but ends up in an even harsher drama. The townspeople who maybe before gave him bread refuse to believe he is himself, the Pharisees throw the book at him and toss him out, his own parents were unwilling to risk association with him. See, in a real happy ending the guy gets the girl, the car, and the job. Here, the MBB only gets Jesus. But he can see, so the MBB knows that this is truly a very good ending.
As a writer I do not really take too many challenges. Therefore, rather than tackle the life and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth, as John was quite effective at, I am going to take the one story that once I read it in John’s Gospel, I was really unable to think of anything else. (Slight exaggeration; I thought of minimal other things, too.)
The story of Jesus being called into the already long and difficult life and judgment of the Man Born Blind was absolutely breathtaking. Now, the thing about reading Bible stories, chapters, or even whole Gospels, is that they are fairly familiar. I already knew going into the Gospel of John that the Light of the World was going to appear. I already knew I was going to encounter the Woman at the Well. I was even familiar with how the book reaches its climax, including the Three Crows, The Empty Tomb, and a Large Catch of Fish.
But there’s nothing like a good shudder and case of massive stereotype to bring to light that Jesus’ ways are not only incredibly different than those of world leaders, they’re not necessarily story-book ending inducing. Let’s look at the Man Born Blind. This story takes place in Chapter 9, it involves a man, his parents, Jesus, his disciples, religious leaders, and townspeople. If I were to write a novel that would be plenty of characters, but this, for Jesus, is just another day in the life.
Our introduction is brief. Jesus sees the man. Jesus’ disciples asked who sinned. (Blimey, people.) Jesus tells them that nobody sinned; it’s just another way for God’s glory to be revealed. Jesus heals the man! What a great story! The man’s not condemned, Jesus saves the day, and the disciples learn another talking point.
But, enter townspeople. They question: is this the man born blind now seeing? Some say yes, others no. But the MBB himself kept saying, “It is me!” (But how should he know, right?) So the townspeople take him to the Pharisees. The Pharisees don’t believe this crazy story. They demand the parents come. The parents say they don’t know what happened to their blind son, ask the man, he is an adult, you know.
Then the Pharisees get the Man Born Blind back and tell him to renounce Jesus, who must be a sinner to have given the MBB sight. The MBB says he only knows the good things Jesus did, and not all this add on. The Pharisees mock the MBB. The MBB gives them a piece of his mind (which happens to be a beautiful understanding of God, worship, and world history). The Pharisees get pissed.
Now we’re heading for closure, and guess who’s back! Jesus hears about the man. Jesus goes to the MBB and gets a confession. The MBB and Jesus are BFF! The lurking Pharisees pull down the curtains by being the only ones told by Jesus that they are in sin.
So, is this really happy? Not by my standards, but mine may be too elevated. The MBB was in a very sad state before Jesus, then meets Jesus, gets sight, but ends up in an even harsher drama. The townspeople who maybe before gave him bread refuse to believe he is himself, the Pharisees throw the book at him and toss him out, his own parents were unwilling to risk association with him. See, in a real happy ending the guy gets the girl, the car, and the job. Here, the MBB only gets Jesus. But he can see, so the MBB knows that this is truly a very good ending.
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