Lucky Per, Henrik Pontoppidan

 

I don't think this Nobel prize winning novel is very much known in England, though I gather it is still very famous in Denmark and well regarded in much of Northern Europe. I certainly hadn't heard of it and yet again am grateful to the Times Literary Supplement for bringing it to may attention.

This is a painful read for people like me who have come to the Christian faith and found it joyous and fulfilling, alongside its many challenges. Per is brought up in a repressed and repressive Church family, so much so that the only way he can find any freedom or sense of being himself is to throw it all over and start again as an atheist. Then after years of searching he eventually finds his way back to the faith of his father – only to discover ultimately that it still doesn’t work for him and turn his back on God, at least as Christians understand Him, forever. More of this later, after a general survey of Pontoppidan’s masterpiece.

One service Lucky Per does in fact render to Christianity is its identification of atheism with the Oedipus complex. I have several times been told by arguably rather arrogant atheists who don’t know anything about me at all that belief in God comes from nothing more than my “daddy issues.” Unfortunately for their point of view, the Oedipus complex is the best attested daddy issue in psychological literature. So we may just as legitimately ask whether atheism is nothing but the desire to murder one’s father… 

That’s certainly Per Sidonius’s case. Dad, who is a Danish Lutheran pastor, and the distant judicial god who is the projection of dad’s judgmental mind, must both be rejected and trodden down if Per is to achieve any individuality. Pastor Sidenius presiding over the dinner table surrounded by his eleven offspring is a parallel Christ with his eleven disciples, and it’s Per who becomes cast as Judas in their eyes.

There is a further resonance with the story of the Prodigal Son, though Per doesn’t spend his capital on wild living and prostitutes (Luke 15:13 and 30). Yes he has affairs and associates with a  bohemian crowd: but his inner wealth is his genius for vast engineering projects. This is the far country to which Per flees, manifested in the city of Copenhagen where he hatches his masterpiece (his “Tower of Babel” as he calls it on p.288 of the Everyman edition). And of course as the Prodigal Son he has to have a disapproving older brother, a role more than adequately fulfilled by his brother Eberhart. At one point they meet and talk in a conversation entirely lacking in understanding or empathy. Eberhart says, “Of course we don’t judge you” – while it is very obvious that he and the whole family do.

Anyway Per sees his new friends and lovers, together with his own plans, as the herald of a new age in which Man (I should say humankind of course but Pontoppidan / Per says Man) throws off the shackles of superstitious priestcraft, seizes his destiny and achieves mastery over nature. Interestingly some of Per’s ideas, such as the harnessing of Denmark’s abundance of wind and wave power to produce energy, are back with us in a big way today. I recently flew over Denmark on a journey to Finland and there is an amazing number of wind turbines down there.

Although the novel is set in the lateish nineteenth century Per’s views seem to me more of the eighteenth century, at least as we experienced it in the UK: the triumph of rationalism, empiricism and utilitarianism. A character known as Dr Nathan, thought by the commentators to represent the historical Georg Brandes, a friend of the author’s, is a Voltaire figure who calls for the abandonment of the medieval faith that has held Denmark back for so long. 

However Per doesn’t stay in that Enlightenment mode for very long. When he goes on a premature honeymoon in the Alps with his long suffering fiancée Jakobe, he feels a Coleridgeian imaginative response to the imperturbable silent eternity of the mountains – see Hymn before sunrise in the Vale of Chamounis for the sort of thing, or Caspar David Friedrich’s alpine paintings. In effect Per, who is also under the influence of Jakobe’s ecstatic love for him, perceives the littleness of his engagement with utilitarianism by contrast with the vast beauty of his surroundings. It’s empty, it appealed to his mind but it cannot fill the soul which now awakens within him. Per comes to believe that, in the end, little humanity will never overthrow great nature. So Per is moving in parallel with the development of Western culture from Christendom to Enlightenment to Romanticism. The spirit of the Lake Poets awakens in him…

But this provokes a crisis because it compromises the whole foundation of Per’s life goals up to this point. Who exactly is Per? Is he the good Christian boy his family intended? Is he the heroic engineer who will yank Denmark into a brave new future? Is he the hedonistic lover of many women? The good fellow whose apparent openness wins over people’s hearts? Or the calculating man of the world in search of the main chance? Or now, could he be a great soul tugged heavenward by the majesty of the Alps? 

There is a resemblance here to another Bible source, the Book of Ecclesiastes, with its “Vanity of vanities” theme. In chapter 2 the writer tries everything his world has to offer: hedonism, “great projects”, the arts, philosophy. He finds it all meaningless. Nothing satisfies his desire for fulfilment. Per shares in this crisis of meaning, has a breakdown and runs away from everything – his project, his financial backers, his fiancée, the Alps – to try and work out the answers in the depths of rural Denmark.

This is where he falls in with Pastor Blomberg, who apparently is a stand in for a historical Dane, Pastor Grundtvig, who led a revival of sorts of Christianity in Denmark and is still apparently a major cultural influence. Blomberg also has an extremely attractive daughter, Inger. Per abandons Jakobe and attaches himself to both the Pastor’s daughter and his faith.

But this is a book full of shadow twins. Per has one in his brother Eberhardt. Jakobe has one in her lascivious sister Nanny. They take us deeper into the story and the characterisation by giving a very different point of view of the one Pontoppidan initially shows us. Nanny seems merely attractive and fun-loving until through Jakobe we see her in a different way. Per might be taken for a hero until Eberhardt shows us how shoddily he treats other people. There is a constant undercutting of our previously built up perceptions of various characters which the author seems deliberately to employ in order to unsettle us and make us question whether they all have depths which neither the people themselves, nor the other characters, nor the reader can fully get to grips with, a modernist view of personality as unfixed and unstable.

Pastor Blomberg also has a shadow twin in his fellow Pastor Fjaltring, whose much grimmer and more cross-centred faith makes Blomberg seem bland and superficial. There is a passage where Blomberg addresses a festival gathering and it’s all about the purity of the mother tongue, the virtues of Danish culture and people, land and race. It doesn’t have any Christianity, doesn’t even mention Jesus, it’s sentimental nineteenth century romantic nationalism of the kind that turned into twentieth century militarism and Hitlerism. Per’s meetings and discussions with the melancholic Fjaltring completely deflate this theological blancmange.

But Fjaltring is too extreme to take as a guide and Blomberg is too neutral to inspire. Between them Per ends up unable to feel at home either among Christians or in the world, neither one thing not the other. So he falls away from Christianity altogether.

After a crisis with her parents, Per tries to explain his dark moods to Inger, who is now his wife and has borne him children. He says, “I haven’t (believed in God) for a long time. Everywhere I looked for Him I found only myself. And for those who know themselves well, God is superfluous. For him there is nothing either consoling or frightening in the representation of such a supernatural being that is thought of either as a father or judge.” 

Sadly, in spite of his words, Per doesn’t seem to know himself at all, he has barely been able to keep in touch with all the different Pers that have been flowing through him at various times. It is possible that he has overlooked one of the benefits of Christianity, that of knowing a God who knows me better than I know myself, and letting those parts of my being that are hidden and mysterious to my consciousness be held in the mindfulness of God. It is certainly, in Christian terms, a very narrow view of God that confines Him to the roles of father and judge. What about Saviour? Stream of living water? Friend? Good Shepherd? Bread of life? Jesus spoke of his mission in terms of fulfilment when He said, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” This fulness of life is the pearl rejected by unlucky Per.

So is Per lucky or unlucky? He certainly has an amazing knack for getting his way. He needs money? People queue up to throw it at him. Sex? Any woman he fancies melts into his arms. Power? With a couple of exceptions, everyone he meets believes in him and his projects and gives an unbelievable amount of support to him. Spirituality? One trip to the mountains is all it takes to set his soul soaring. But unluckily none of these things is able to bring him the fulfilment he seeks…? But luckily he sees through them and renounces them…?

Is then the reason Per renounces everything at the end because it all came much too easily? Or is it because in some way there’s nobody there inside him to receive all these gifts? He’s had very strong emotions and experiences, but they’ve all come in episodes, none of them lasted that long. It’s like he’s kept swapping personalities all his life until finally he just gets too tired to keep on doing it. 

He says, “We seek a meaning in life, an aim for our struggles and suffering. But one day we are stopped by a voice from the depths of our being, a ghostly voice that asks, ‘Who are you?’ From then on, we hear no other question… Is what we call the soul merely a passing mood?  … Or do we have as many souls in us as there are cards in a game of Cuckoo? Every time you shuffle the deck a new face appears: a jester, a soldier, a night owl.”

For me, for all its Buddhist overtones, Per’s final days look like a kind of suicide rather than the attainment of enlightenment. Some of his “shadow twins” have committed suicide, like his rival for the love of a society mistress in his early days in Copenhagen, or the depressive Pastor Fjaltring, and I think Pontoppidan leads us to expect Per to follow their example. But his suicide is social, personal and aesthetic rather than physical as he rejects his wife and children and goes to live far away from his friends in the most barren and inhospitable part of Denmark he can find. 

I view this as an act of self harm, not a spiritual renunciation. He says he can now truly be himself, but we, and I’m sure he, still have no idea who he really is. One refrain that pops up two or three times in the course of his journey is that of a cave troll who is drawn to the light and to human society but who also can’t cope with it and so always returns to his gloomy cave. Somewhere in there among all the Pers is therefore a person who has a deeply negative self image. 

This I think connects with Per’s off / on / off relationship with God. As he says himself, “I looked for God but I found only myself.” If his view of himself is so maimed, then his view of God is maimed too. If he is an unlovable cave troll then there must also be something wrong with the God who says He loves him. This is painfully manifest in the attitude Per takes when he has abandoned his schemes, his patrons, and his fiancée, who is his most direct connection to wealth and power. Having rejected all of this, he blames God for wanting him to be poor and needy and decides that God is doing it to force him to make atonement for his past sins. 

This is not the God who forgives! This is not the Father who welcomes back His prodigal but beloved son! Per has no conception of the grace of God. He, not the Lord of the Cross, must make atonement. Somewhere among his final thoughts, Per expresses his regret that he was baptised as an infant into the Christian faith, as if the crucifixion were the kiss of death. There is no resurrection in Per’s distorted version of Christianity.

I would like to hear from women readers what they think of Pontoppidan’s female characters. I felt one part of the ending, where we are to believe that not just one but both of the women he has been closest to, made love to, who have borne his children, but whom he has now jilted and rejected, trampling on their most intimate feelings, these women come to thank him for doing so. One, his wife Inger, writes a letter of thanks. She would not have remarried a man more suited to her and to the children if Per had not divorced her. The other, his fiancée Jakobe, when she hears that Per has died, also thanks him. His rejection of her enabled her to find her destiny in caring for poor children.

I just don’t believe this. I think a high-minded or a pious woman might be very capable of finding meaning and purpose in a profoundly negative experience, and even of perceiving a duty to forgive Per – but to thank him? Come on!

More positively, I think Jakobe is absolutely wonderful. I wonder whether women readers, in this age where men are felt to be underequipped to portray female characters, find her as vivid as I do?  She is so passionate, so principled, so full of fire and tenderness, of soul and intellect, that I’m sure every reader will feel Per’s biggest mistake ever was to turn his back on her. Per doesn’t even bother to find out that she is expecting their child. What a skunk. She has given everything to him, heart, soul and body and he just sends a letter. Jakobe is the real hero of this story. Her going on to work with underprivileged children is a testimony to her own resilience and resolution, not to anything Per did for her by rejecting her. By comparison with Jakobe Per’s episodism comes to seem shallow.

One final reflection on Christianity in relation to Lucky Per. Pontoppidan was ahead of our post-modern times in presenting character as protean, indeterminate, essentially fluid. We have completed a journey here which began in Christianity, led through enlightenment and romanticism and is now meandering through the muddy delta of post-modernism. But I think Pontoppidan, from the viewpoint of structuring his novel around a main protagonist, takes it too far. It feels as though we are trying to connect with a person who isn’t really there, or if, momentarily, he is, won’t stay there for very long. 

Though I see this as a fault in Lucky Per, it nevertheless reminds me that character has fluidity in Christianity too. In the Christian universe the real me is someone who is known only to God, not very much to others and often not to myself. Therefore character in Christianity is a process of formation, not a steady state, and we should not be the same at the end of the process as we were at the beginning, or we have stagnated, and are of the tomb rather than the resurrection. It’s a journey of metanoia, discipleship and personal growth that demands change, “from one degree of glory to another,” God and I working together to release the true potential God put inside me and to achieve the destiny He desires for me in Christ.

So will I keep this book? Space is very limited on the bookshelf these days, and I often write these reviews to retain some handle on what inspired or gripped me in them so that I can move the actual ink and paper book along. If I do keep it, it will be for Jakobe, not Per.

The Earth Transformed, Peter Frankopan

 

The Earth Transformed, Peter Frankopan

The Earth Transformed is truly planetary in its scope and ambition. It's 658 numbered pages don't even include introductory material, plates, index, or the very comprehensive footnotes: to see those you will have to go to the publisher's website at bloomsbury.com and search there. It is unfortunate that there doesn't appear to be any mention of the whereabouts of the footnotes in the published edition. Just as well that they are online though because this is already one bulky tome and to include the thousands of footnotes would make it too awkward for use.

Frankopan takes us back temporally 4.5 billion years to the formation of the earth and forward into the future. We travel upwards and outwards from the earth’s core to ocean depths and land masses, then through the atmosphere to the farthest reaches of the solar system. Even more impressive is the scale of his learning. He has not only mastered the histories of most cultures in most parts of the world, he has also immersed himself in all the latest research on anthropology, biochemistry, climatology, dendrochronology, epidemiology, all the way through to zoology, and goodness knows how many other disciplines besides. 

However I am concerned about one or two errors of fact and interpretation that I have come across. Most of my knowledge, especially over such a vast purview, is general and fairly superficial. Often it's acquired through my pursuit of literature, rather than academic research into say ethnology. So when I come across statements that from this limited perspective I know to be inaccurate, it weakens my confidence in the project as a whole: what if there are similar mistakes present in other areas I know far less about? I'm very impressed by the breadth of Frankopan's learning, but I don't have the means to assess its depth. Here are two examples that have caused me concern:

• John Newton is castigated on page 363 for hypocritically writing hymn lyrics about being set free from his chains in Christ while having participated in the slave trade. There is a massive error of fact here and an even bigger failure of perspective. The words quoted are not by Newton, they are a 21st century insertion into his hymn Amazing Grace in a reworking of it as a contemporary worship song, one I have sung myself in Church. It's easy to look up Newton's words in the Olney Hymns, on which I wrote a dissertation while studying English Lit at Cambridge. If you do so you will not find the offending words but you will notice that the insertion is not even in the same metre as Newton's original. But that's piffling compared to the implied charge that Newton's sympathies were all with the slave traders. He certainly was sent to sea as a boy, press ganged into the Navy, became a slave himself at one point, and sailed on a number of slave ships. He led an unimaginably hard life in those days. However he rejected this wicked past and took a very prominent part in the abolition movement, writing pamphlets and preaching powerfully against slavery, and mentoring the young William Wilberforce. Is Frankopan unaware of these salient facts? Or is he going along with a contemporary campaign to discredit Newton, also manifest in Empireland, reviewed elsewhere in this blog?
• Also on the subject of British involvement with slavery, on page 366 Frankopan badly misrepresents Lord Mansfield's handling of the notorious Zong* massacre. Mansfield, who was Chief Justice at the time, is stated to have approved of the slaughter by throwing overboard of a number of slaves on the grounds that they were merely chattels, on a par with farm animals. This totally horrifying view is probably nonetheless a fair statement of British Law at the time. However the case actually came to Mansfield on appeal, after the lower court had found for the ship owners and against the insurers. Mansfield summarised the findings of the jury in the lower court as above, but clearly did not approve of their view, because he decided in favour of the insurers and against the wicked ship owners. That Mansfield was a prominent abolitionist I again discovered through literature: an anniversary programme on the BBC was trying to establish that Jane Austen was a firebrand social activist on the basis of a single remark in her novel Mansfield Park - and also on the much more substantial grounds that its titular setting emblazoned the name of a known abolitionist, Lord Mansfield. Suspicions aroused, I checked it all out on Wikipedia...

It is very much to be hoped that these errors will be corrected in any future edition, and especially that there aren't more lurking in areas where I don't have sufficient knowledge to discern them. Nevertheless the focus of The Earth Transformed is not on particular details but on the state of our interactions with our home planet, and its strength is in its mind-bogglingly comprehensive overview . If you have ever bemoaned the fissiparation of knowledge into ever tinier areas of specialism that become more and more remote from one another and from the awareness of ordinary people, fear not! Peter Frankopan is out there: he gets it and is doing something about it. He wants to see how raft after raft of new discoveries stack up together, and thus give a big picture – a Frankopanorama - of what we are doing to the planet and what it is doing to us.

Some of his key findings:

• The earth has always been in a state of flux. Conditions were originally unrecognisably different from anything we experience today and would have been lethal to contemporary life forms. Changes have come in the form of cataclysms: asteroid impacts, massive volcanic events, the collisions of continents, soaring and plummeting temperatures, orbital changes for both the earth and moon… There have been periods of relative stability too, when the various forces that circulate energy round the world have been in balance: but only until the next catastrophe. The idea that the state of the world is pretty much a given, roughly what it is now, is an illusion deriving from our ignorance of the deep past.

• Climate is an important driver of this flux. Frankopan is not in any way a climate change denier. The research he quotes shows a clear correlation between higher levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere in the past and raised temperatures, and between lower levels and reduced temperatures. The connection is indisputable. Climate change deniers have to accept that the world’s climate is changing, as the evidence is there: but they attribute this to “natural cycles,” in a naïve way that omits to examine the role that levels of CO2 play in those cycles. Does it matter how the CO2 gets there? It’s still going to warm the planet, however it comes, isn’t it? So why add more when there's already a problem? Stop junking our atmosphere, you oil barons!

• Climate directly impacts human history, including pestilences, famines, migrations, the economy, the winners and losers of political struggles and so on. So for example, a wetter climate across Central Asia allowed the hordes more fodder for their horses and enabled repeated incursions Westward into Europe: a period of stable warmth supported the crops that underpinned Roman prosperity and expansion: rainfall promoted the rise of South American civilisations and droughts led to their fall. However this requires more nuance than many recent historians have given us. Why for example did the Romans succeed in benefitting from the Roman Warm Period in ways that their many rivals, Etruscans, Persians, Carthaginians, Dacians, did not? Was it military might? Or better administration? Or those beautifully engineered aqueducts that enabled the expansion of Roman cities? Or why did a grassier steppe enable the Mongols to spread West, but did not lead to Europe spreading East? What were the cultural differences that set Eastern expansion against Western defensiveness? 

• These questions militate against pure climatic determinism, thus putting human agency back into the mix. Was one people better organised, or more adaptable, or technologically or culturally better resourced than another, to resist adverse conditions and benefit from favourable ones? Like other forms of fatalism, climatic determinism robs us of decision. As it defines human strategies and policies for making the most of the conditions we inhabit, this enquiry – how we deal with the conditions that confront us - is of first importance. 

• Volcanic eruptions are a constant bass underpinning this vast song of the Earth. Huge clouds of particles block out the Sun, suspend photosynthesis, reduce plant growth and plunge the world into famine, often for years at a time. Some concentrated bouts of eruptions seem to have permanently altered the entire biosphere: but even the lesser eruptions of historical times have brought massive effects. My take on this is that recurrent proposals to artificially introduce reflective particles into Earth’s atmosphere in order to combat global warming by shielding us from solar radiation is absolute lunacy. We will duplicate the effects of all those eruptions: less photosynthesis, reduced crops, smaller harvests, it all adds up to starvation for the world’s burgeoning human population. Worse, it will actually be counterproductive since photosynthesis is the leading means of reducing atmospheric C02. Please, anybody who reads these words, speak out against this dangerous stupidity!

So how to make use of this monumental opus? It is so wide-ranging yet so detailed that any attempt to absorb it in one go is certain to fail: I really tried! In fact I'm a second read through now, to try to pick up on all the matter that flooded past me first time, and that's why this review keeps being updated. Like this book, Frankopan’s earlier and very popular The Silk Roads took a very broad survey of its subject through time and space, but The Earth Transformed feels like it is telling multiple stories rather than just one. This may be why it tends to exhaust rather than inform. Much better to take it as a reference book. Dip into particular epochs or cultures or places in the massive index, read what amounts to an essay on the subject you are exploring, then investigate further using Bloomsbury's footnotes, while checking out names, places, movements, technologies etc on Wikipedia. All the best with that!

* Zong was the name of the slave ship concerned.

Baltic - the future of Europe: Oliver Moody

 

The motivation for this timely book is renewed Russian aggression in Europe. Post Cold War stability has been severely shaken up following the invasion of Ukraine. Various countries formerly within the Soviet sphere are asking themselves, “Who will be in Putin’s sights next?” Formerly neutral nations – Finland and Sweden – have abandoned neutrality and joined NATO, despite Russian warnings, in search of security: but Donald Trump’s blinkered America First rhetoric has left them wondering whether they made the right choice. It was shocking to see all the various actions of Russian sabotage, harassment and surveillance listed together in one volume. Moody leaves us in no doubt that Russian hostility, only just below the level of open warfare, always testing and probing for vulnerabilities, is the reality of European political life.

Oliver Moody is a journalist who has worked for The Times in Northern Europe since 2018 and is a thoughtful contributor to The Times Literary Supplement. As well as seeking a strategic overview of the situation in the Baltic region, he is concerned to introduce us to some its lesser known nations, particularly the frontline states of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. They, together with Finland and Poland, will be first up in any Ukraine-style assault on Western Europe. Do they have the resolve and the resources to make Putin think twice? And what sort of support might they receive from other European powers?

I had a personal motivation for choosing this book. I am married to a Finn and frequently travel there to meet up with friends and family. I know firsthand how Finns reacted to the Ukraine war and to America’s recent anti-Europe stance. Having declared independence from revolutionary Russia in 1917, and fought a war of survival against them in 1939, and having Europe’s longest land border with them, Finland is seriously worried about the ambitions of their long term enemy. 

I have also been to Tallin via a ferry from Helsinki, shortly after Estonia’s exit from the Soviet empire. There I witnessed for myself the economic devastation visited on the country by their former masters. I wasn’t there very long, but the sight of a grandmother standing by the side of the road, trying to sell a couple of chipped teacups to be able to get a bit of bread for her family, has stuck with me. I also witnessed the sense of kinship with Finland, whose businesses were investing heavily in the country and already helping to bring about the Estonian resurgence so manifest today.

I certainly learned a lot about Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania (“the Baltic states”) from Baltic – as Moody rightly supposes, like most English speakers I have just about heard of them but have little further knowledge. There are potted descriptions of their pre- and post-Soviet histories, literature, national myths, musical traditions and other cultural strata, leading to an assessment of their resilience, particularly in terms of the strength of their sense of identity as peoples who have been subjected to russification and are determined never ever to go back there again. 

Baltic expects that the nations in the region will have national psyches that are reflected in their legends and cultures and are played out in their political and strategic aspirations. Estonia’s “Singing Revolution” is a great case in point: that country’s powerful choral traditions led its people to gather and sing as an act of resistance that helped to break Russian rule. 

Nonetheless Moody’s assessment has a rather nineteenth century feel to it, reminiscent of all those people who went about collecting folk songs, collating local tales into national epics whose episodes were then interpreted by leading artists of the day, championing their languages against those that had cultural ascendancy over them, and generally cultivating the late Romantic nationalisms that united some nations – Italy, Germany – and are still creating subdivisions in others – Basque and Irish separatism and the break up of Yugoslavia, among others. Finland is a great example of late 19th century nationalist awakening: Elias Lonnröt collated various folk tale fragments into the Kalevala, which were then iconised in music and paint by Jean Sibelius and Axeli Gallen-Kallela, and went on to challenge both Russian political and Swedish cultural hegemonies. Their new sense of identity made the Finns ready to seize their own destiny in 1917. 

This ferment undoubtedly brewed up negative as well as positive cultural effects. Arguably imperialism, colonialism, the first world war, and fascism are all dreams of romantic nationalism which soured into nightmares. An increasingly sceptical Europe turned from its Christian roots and made idols of its nations, which ended up, in the way of idolatries, devouring their children…

So is Moody right to look to a strong sense of national identity as the best way to repel Russian domination? He certainly does justice to the complexity of the issues in the Baltic states. After Stalinist russification Estonia was nearly 50% Russophone, so a key aim of the newly liberated nation was to suppress that alien culture, phasing out the teaching of Russian in schools, and closing down Russophile political parties and media. It’s very telling that although many people of Russian heritage are unhappy with these changes, none of them are so unhappy that they choose to return eastwards. 

But it’s also troubling for readers in a UK context, where the great aim seems to be to downplay ethnic and cultural difference so that we can all get along. Does this mean we are effete westerners who no longer have enough sense of our cultural and historical identity to resist 21st century aggressors and oppressors? Is cultural homogeneity too high a price to pay for national resilience? Do we need to become politically and culturally more conservative to withstand Russian ambition, and perhaps add to the growing list of “strong men” playing at identity politics among contemporary world leaders? Let’s hope not – but Baltic might have benefitted from further interrogation of these underlying issues.

What is apparent is Moody’s admiration for these small but tough and determined states. They are facing up to the challenges of Russian expansion and preparing to make Putin regret invading them if it comes to that. Having experience of Finnish “sisu” I get the attitude. They gave the Soviets a bloody nose in 1939 and if forced to are prepared to do it again: they have universal military service, up to date equipment and enough bunkers to shelter every single one of their 5 million population. Did you see the recent Scandinavia series on the BBC? It’s clear that Simon Reeves shares Moody’s admiration.

However facing down the overwhelming domination of Russia in arms and manpower will require some measure of unity among resisting countries. Moody evaluates the will to resist in each of the other states in the region, with varying results. Shakiest in his view is Germany, sadly enough as they are the largest West European nation in terms of population and economy. He sees them as still attached to the Ostpolitik of a now vanished era, hankering after the benefits of rapprochement with Russia in terms of trade and energy supply, and too ashamed of past militarism to convey deterrence in our period of heightened tensions. The description of shortages among German forces was both laughable and excruciating. There are signs that attitudes are changing and resources are being redirected: the question is, will it be too little, too late?

There are gaps in Moody's coverage. Sweden has recently joined NATO, like Finland, an example of Russian aggression producing the opposite rather than the desired effect, a strengthening rather than weakening of NATO. There was hardly any analysis of this, of how the Swedish people currently feel about it, or of the history and culture of Sweden, even though they are a much larger player than most of the others. There is a direct history of Swedish and Russian confrontation, for example Charles XII’s invasion of Russia (Poltova, where he was finally defeated, is in Ukraine). Sweden built castles across their then domains in Finland to keep the Russians out. Napoleon finally wrested the Grand Duchy of Finland from the Swedes and gifted it to the Czar, with whom he was temporarily allied, leading to a century of Russian rule.

An even bigger omission is some sort of handle on Russian motivation. Yes it is clear that Russia under Putin is deeply antagonistic towards the rest of Europe – but why? Is it the age old fear of invasion from the West, following in the footsteps of Charles XII, Napoleon and Hitler? Is it the constriction of geography? Russia’s only westward subarctic maritime outlets are via the Black Sea and the Baltic, both leading to narrow straits firmly in the control of NATO member states. Or is it just the remembrance of past glories? Is it even a Russified version of that rather 19th century romantic nationalism in which Russia is the state destined to rule the world? Sadly this is the odious view of Patriarch Kirill, leader of the Russian Orthodox Church, who has backed the unprovoked onslaught upon Ukraine, and clearly identifies these massacres as the will of Jesus Christ. Or is Kirill perhaps simply too aware of what would happen to him if he didn’t support his master, who is not Jesus but Putin? We don’t know, but if we did we might be able to counter the poison. There are more economic, spiritual and cultural prosperities available to Russia as a participant with the West than as a foe. Why can’t they see them?

Some conclusions:

• Baltic leaves us in no doubt that Russia is a hostile actor towards Western Europe that demands a firm and determined response.

• Little states such as the Baltics are not fazed by this and in spite of their small size are confident that they can be tough enough to give Putin pause for thought.

• Europe has cultures and traditions, sadly often obliterated in the case of the UK, which are worth cherishing and should not be given up to the oblivion of Russification.

• Strategically the first step Putin will take against NATO is likely to be in the Baltic. This is the impetus behind the multiple incidents of sabotage and surveillance in the area. From a Russian point of view this aggressive campaign has had the negative effect of drawing attention to their strategy. The Baltic Sea must therefore be sealed off immediately in the event of any Russian military incursion. It sounds as though Finland and Estonia are already taking steps in the setting up of anti-ship missile batteries on both sides of the Gulf of Finland.

• It’s getting late to respond adequately but it is not too late! The region is revising its priorities, reallocating its resources and is on the road to readiness.

• It’s all a double edged sword for Ukraine though. I don’t see how Russia could even consider an assault anywhere else as long as they are bogged down in Ukraine. But if peace were to be achieved in Ukraine, as we all long for it to be, that would free Russia to pursue its ambitions elsewhere…

 Femina - Janina Ramirez

A new history of the middle ages by the women written out of it.

This book was a pleasure but at times an annoying one! I have always enjoyed Janina Ramirez’s TV presentations about history and the arts and love watching this bouncy Goth discoursing about high culture. I certainly learned a lot, but also encountered highly opinionated views which I couldn’t always agree with.

Early on I was very interested to learn that the Suffragettes were inspired by their medievalism. This was a connection I have never made before, in the absence of Ms Ramirez’s guidance. I have recently been reading Sigrid Undset’s massive epic, Kristin Lavransdottir. Set in medieval Norway, there is clearly a bond being forged between medievalism, Christianity, and early feminism. Looking back to pre-Raphaelitism, Arts and Crafts and late Victorian Christian Socialism, it all makes sense in a UK context too. A great insight there.

However the fact that there was enough material to inspire the sisterhood surely indicates that it can’t have been entirely the case that women’s history was written out. Not even the suffragettes could have been inspired by a history that simply didn’t exist. So some medieval women at least did get into the records. I am a non specialist but even I can name several who for whatever reason don’t make it into Femina. What about…

• The Empress Matilda? Finding that her inheritance of the English throne had been usurped, she went into battle for it with King Stephen and was a tough and effective general.

• Margaret of Anjou, one of several French queens who were power brokers deciding the fates of the realms of England and France?

• Clare, colleague and confidante of St Francis and founder of the Poor Clares?

• Eloise, former lover of theologian Peter Abelard and a writer, leader and thinker in her own right?

Completely new to me before I read Femina were the Loftus Princess, the Birka Warrior woman and Queen Jadwiga of Poland. I was absolutely delighted to find out about them and to know that they were treated with great honour and respect by their communities. 

Hildegard of Bingen was one person I already had some familiarity with. What an inspiring figure! Her accomplishments in leadership, music, letters, philosophy, medicine (as Femina informed me), theology and spirituality are outstanding. To be effective in one of these fields is good, to be exceptional in so many seems beyond mortal attainment. I am blessed that Ramirez extended my acquaintance with such a brilliant woman. However there is one part of her description which jarred, when she says that Hildegard was a “woman writing for women.” She clearly intended to write for everybody! Surely she saw her visions as intended for the whole of Christendom? Her letters to the Pope demonstrate that she thought her views belong to all humanity.

Also known to me were Hilda of Whitby, Margery Kempe, Julian of Norwich, and the embroiderers of the Bayeux tapestry. I find it hard to be a fan of MK, and I’ve got to say that, while acknowledging its importance as a vital historical source, I just cannot share Ramirez’s evaluation of the Bayeux Tapestry as a major work of art. It is crude, lumpy and misshapen, the people are expressionless, the text is messy and all the penises and severed limbs have a year 7 look about them. The exquisite illuminations in manuscripts of the era show just how refined and impressive medieval art can be. Julian of Norwich is a gem though, as most people seem to agree. 

Ramirez brings out an unavoidable point in her comments on Hilda, Julian, Kempe and Hildegarde: it was the Church that provided the arena in which women could escape from childbirth, housework and fieldwork, and gain education, independence, meaningful employment, leadership roles, the life of the mind and significant artistic power. We have been so blinded by a narrative that condemns the Church as backward and oppressive that we don’t see the opportunities it provided. Ramirez herself follows this lazy, me-too approach when she dismisses the Bible, in a completely non-nuanced way, as misogynistic. The Bible’s assertions that male and female, Jew and Gentile, slave and free are all one in Christ, were millennia ahead of their time.

Let’s face it, the vast majority of us, female and male, live lives of total obscurity and sadly are swiftly forgotten. We don’t always need to see a conspiracy behind every example of what is the common lot of almost every one of us. 

Another area where I felt uneasy was in the balance between texts and archaeological objects. Ramirez has a very modern suspicion of texts because they are likely to follow the biases of their narrators. She is much happier with objects because they can’t tell lies. However the reason they can’t tell lies is because they can’t actually tell that much: in the absence of text, the interpretation of objects is left up to us, and we of course inevitably bring our own narratives and prejudices to bear. For example, without any text we don’t know why a prominent Scandinavian woman was buried with a whole lot of battle goods. Could it be that she was a battle hardened warrior? Of course it could be – but it could also be that her tribe was merely following their custom for burials of the chieftain’s family. Or perhaps they intended some kind of protection for her in the afterlife. Maybe she was supposed to pass the weapons on to others who had predeceased her, but whose bodies were not recovered from the battlefield. Without any text, we just cannot know what their intentions were. It is only in text that the minds of people of the distant past can be made known to us.

For the women who really light up Femina for us are those, like Margery Kempe and Hildegard, whose personalities, thoughts and experiences have come down to us in writing. Ideally of course we would have both objects and texts to corroborate and throw fresh light upon one another. But without text our knowledge of Julian of Norwich, say, is all but a blank. With it, she lives and breathes before us and speaks deep wisdom to us. 

I am now going to invite controversy by asking some questions of Ramirez’s feminism. One passage that baffled me was a comparison between Alfred the Great and his daughter Aethelflaed, who married the king of Mercia and was co-ruler of that kingdom. In this comparison we are told that  Aethelflaed was the better ruler of the two, and if not for historical prejudices against women this would be an acknowledged fact. I just don’t understand why it’s a contest? I have no doubt that Aethelflaed was an able and astute leader, but then Alfred was also effective in a number of fields, including law, administration, literature and theology. How exactly do his achievements diminish hers? I don’t have access to their personal interactions, but I wish to hope that as father and daughter they were very proud of each other and took pleasure in each other’s successes. Unfortunately Ramirez doesn’t present us with her evidence for asserting that one of them should be seen as superior to the other, and I think in a work of history we should expect her to do this.

Another concerns Ramirez’ eagerness to identify women of the past as warriors. There certainly have been female warriors from time to time – Boudicca is a few centuries before the era surveyed in Femina – and by the law of averages there will always be some women who are larger, stronger and tougher than most men, and some men who are smaller, weaker and feebler than most women. However is there not a case for a feminism that looks to women to promote wisdom rather than warfare and compassion rather than carnage? I’m reminded of a brand of New York feminism that demands that women be equally represented with men in the ranks of billionaires and CEOs of blue chip companies. But these people are the ones who are pillaging the planet with their greed, destroying civil life with their toxic masculine games and converting education into a conveyor belt to feed the money machines. Couldn’t there be a feminism that challenges these coercive, mechanistic and dehumanising values?

I was also dubious about Ramirez’ support for gender fluidity in medieval times. I don’t know much about the subject but the instances she cites, of a tiny figurine of Odin supposedly wearing a dress and a story about Thor impersonating the goddess Freya don’t cut it for me. It’s hard to be sure what such a miniaturised Odin is wearing, looks like a surcoat to me, perhaps of chain mail. And the story about Thor and Freya reads like an extended joke about the stupidity of the Giants, who want Freya to marry their king and are thick enough to be taken in by Thor’s ridiculous subterfuge. I think she needs to give more evidence if she wants her position to be accepted. More than that though, it seems naïve in our times, when the fluidity agenda is so often used against women, to propose that it may be a good thing for feminism.

So – am I a feminist? As a follower of Jesus Christ I distrust all -isms. They represent a deification of some persons or principles over others which may lead on to disastrous idolatries. They form ideologies which limit people’s thinking, excuse their bigotries, create barriers between people and set them in conflict with one another. For example, I believe in communities, but I distrust communism, which historically has only replaced one set of Czars with another. I believe in humanity, but humanism has been wrenched from its Christian roots and now indicates mainly negative beliefs about the nature and destiny of human beings. I love my nation, but nationalism became an idol that has devoured millions of people in the last couple of centuries. I love many traditions - they give people a sense of roots - but traditionalism denies the present and the future in its fixation on the past. And so on. I distrust rationalism but I absolutely believe in reason. I accept and enjoy the reality of material things, but materialism, the indemonstrable belief that nothing except what is material can be allowed to exist, I find untenable…

So I believe in women. I wouldn’t exist without women. I have a wife, a daughter and a granddaughter and I am serious about promoting their welfare, wanting them to do well and fulfil their potential. When women do well, everybody benefits, men and women too, as has been demonstrated repeatedly by programmes for lifting people out of poverty. I detest misogyny, which is a dismal refuge for inadequate and fearful men. Of course women should have equal rights and equal value with men in society. I love women’s creativity, humour, resourcefulness, insight, wisdom and strength.

That is why, in spite of my quibbles, I am grateful to Janina Ramirez for sharing her stories of inspiring women in this book.

 

The Purple Plain, H E Bates

H E Bates is a Fauvist! He loves describing colours and has an intense palette of purple, orange, scarlet, brown and cream. Cream seems to be his sensuality marker: he paints the subject of the chief protagonist Forrester’s growing love, Anna, with cream, over and over again. He calls the moon orange multiple times in a couple of sentences. Brilliant white is his colour for evil so you get the glare of the sun overpowering you with its constant, grating repetition. Stylistically it’s disturbing and arguably distracting. Perhaps he doesn’t think you’ve really got his descriptions until he’s pounded them into you…

Sadly he can’t get over the “almond eyes” of most of his Burmese characters, or their flat faces. With our heightened awareness of racism these days it’s hard not to feel uncomfortable with this. It’s fine to mention physical characteristics here and there as neutral description, but the repetition makes it look unsettlingly obsessive. His Scots and Irish characters also have jarringly exaggerated accents, though he brings out their admirable and even heroic sides too as the story progresses. The Scots missionary lady Miss McNab is presented as constantly screaming, incapable of conversing at a normal level. She appears to have a strange fixation with Forrester, whom she has never before met, addressing every remark to him alone in spite of all the other people present: but then she has to deal with the aftermath of a terrible bombing and becomes cool and courageous.

Sadly, for me, Anna doesn’t really emerge from her creaminess as a full character in her own right. Or is this just part of her dignity and reserve, something always held back? Her role seems more to be as Forrester’s reward for his heroism in surviving danger and rescuing a comrade, for his new attitude to life and especially to other people, for the new person he is becoming…

For this is in fact a novel of redemption. Forrester has arrived in Burma after the death of his newly married wife in the Blitz. He is traumatized – The Purple Plain can also be described as a book about PTSD avant la letter: almost every single person has endured the most terrible atrocities of wartime, and everyone is striving to cope with the legacy of this shatterment in their own individual way. Forrester’s is through his death wish: he has come out to Burma as an RAF pilot in order to put himself in the line of fire: his only future is to die. But then he witnesses a horrific crash on the air base. A man rushes out of the burning plane in flames and dies in agony in front of him. His colleagues arriving on the scene tell Forrester they thought this man was him. This “substitutionary” death acts on Forrester like a revelation: he suddenly discovers in himself that he wishes to live.

This new perspective leads to a change of heart towards other people. Up till now they have been nothing but irritations, reminders of the bitter gall sucked from the pointless processes of a meaningless life when you only want it to stop. Now he starts to wake up to the fact that they have struggles and inner lives too. By the time he sets off on his fateful flight into the interior he is ready to recognise the humanity of his previously hated comrades, Blore and Carrington.

The suicide of Blore marks the nadir of the desperate sufferings of the three of them as they attempt to make their way from the crash site back to civilisation. The terrain, the heat, the uncertainty, the hopelessness are crushing. Blore fails because he has sought to survive on his own, with his heaps of protective and ridiculous paraphernalia and constant disagreements over the best course to take. He’s afraid of appearing weak to the younger men and identifies himself apart from rather than with them. 

Forrester and Carrington by contrast save each other by their co-operation, ironic banter, and understated awareness of each other’s pain. A certain stiffness of the upper lip is always present, nonetheless Forrester is learning to be human again. He is becoming fit to be a companion for the beautiful Anna, in the way that love has been thought to make you a better person since the days of Dante and Chaucer. When they first met you wonder what on earth she saw in this embittered man.

Bates has bookmarked the redemptive aspect of his novel through his references to Easter. When he first goes to the Burmese Christian village where he meets Anna, Forrester is roped into a game of choosing hymns for the forthcoming Easter services. He takes part reluctantly and ironically. When he gets back there after his odyssey in the jungle, Easter has come. His experiences of the Burning Man, and of three days lost in the hell of the jungle, form a terrible Good Friday to this Easter.

Is the author then trying to tell us that suffering can lead to renewal? In ways that Christians have sought to grapple with for centuries? It seems a far cry from the easy hedonism of The Darling Buds Of May… But Bates seems to be telling us that we may be able to find hope even in our darkest experiences: it depends on how we respond to our pain, whether we retreat inwards like Blore, or Forrester as we find him at the start of the book, or turn outwards, to life and to others…

 The Garden of Evening Mists - Tan Twan Eng

This novel has provoked the most searching of any discussion our book club has had so far. I feel I didn’t put my own views over terribly well at the time, so I’m making use of this review blog to articulate my perceptions a little better, or so I hope.

There was a lot to love about this book. The writing is mostly vivid with gripping descriptions and a powerful gift of evocation, with just a few lapses into cliché here and there. There’s a wonderful feeling for the Malaysian landscape and culture, and the political turbulence of the era. I really liked the characters, especially Teoh Yun Ling, the heroine / narrator, through whom the story’s outer and inner worlds are brought to us. Her doggedness, individualism and truth to her convictions are highly attractive. As may happen with people who have a strong sense of mission, she is often less than sweet with other people, for example to the municipal gardener she presumes to dictate to early on, or to Frederick, the lover she simply abandons when she meets Aritomo. She clearly has the implacability to be a prosecutor, then High Court judge, of war criminals. I also think Pretorius, the rugged Afrikaner tea planter, father of Frederick, who welcomes her into his family circle, is compellingly drawn.

I’m less convinced by Aritomo and his garden. Aritomo never discusses anything with anyone, he always commands and expects absolute obedience. Although he may have a rich inner world, this has to be deduced from his actions, because he never reveals himself or explains what he is about to anyone. He appears to come from a completely rigid culture which is only interested in total submission to those above you and total authority over those below you. Communion, communication do not exist in his spartan, and for me repellent, world.

The garden he is creating is therefore the manifestation of the imposition of his will on nature. Everything must be exactly as he decides. Unfortunately I am not convinced by his garden. To me there is a constant striving for effect which is about imposing a meaning upon it rather than communing with and expressing its own inner beauty. For example, there is a slightly unsettlingly trimmed lawn when viewed from nearby: but climb a certain hill and look through an old mill placed as a framing device and the lawn turns out to be the yin/yang Tao symbol. This is stagey. It’s not integral to the garden, it’s stuck on. It might as well be the Pepsi-Cola symbol. It’s not a Buddhist garden because it trades in illusion instead of trying to free us from it. Nor is it Tao because it showy effects are not about balance and harmony. Frankly I find it a bit of a sham. This is a pity for the book because of course the garden is where the title and the heart of the story are located. 

Interestingly the author puts a similar view of the garden into the mouth of Teo Yun Ling’s jilted lover who also considers the garden’s effects facile. Is this out of jealousy, or does the author really want to give us a chance to see Aritomo in a different light? H’mm.

Nor am I satisfied with Aritomo’s other demonstrations of his superiority over nature, his various feats of physical strength and training, for example, the ability to shoot a target dead centre while blindfolded. Aritomo can only do this because he is fictional. It is anti-rational to suppose that we can do better at archery without the use of our eyes. As far as I am aware, Japan has never entered a team of blind archers in the Olympics.

Unfortunately my representations to the club about these matters were challenged on the grounds that Aritomo’s feats are matters of spirituality and therefore perfectly to be expected. I was merely showing them how unspiritual I am. Gulp! This was such an unexpected line of argument that I just couldn’t think how to respond at the time. So here I am, sitting regally at my keyboard, dictating what I should have said. 

For me, spirituality is not about doing stunts, being mysterious and ordering lesser people about. Spirituality is about connection with God, forming a relationship with God in which it is God, not we, who takes the lead. Then our relationship with ourselves, others and the world can be reshaped in the light of our most fundamental relationship with God. The mindfulness of God embraces us, others and the world, so when we are connected with God we also reconnect in the fullest possible way with His world, with His people and with our own deepest but broken selves as His children. Unfortunately our connection with God is radically compromised by, in Christian shorthand, sin – fundamentally the orientation that the universe is actually all about me. But God offers healing from this by reorientating us in Jesus Christ. It’s a deeply painful healing requiring nothing less than death and resurrection:  but when we are re-connected with God in Christ we can start to achieve our potential to love and to be loved, and thus reach out to find our place in the universe. 

This is a million miles away from the flashy feats and dictatorial manners of an Aritomo. Yes he disappears up a mountain in the end, just like Moses, or even Jesus at the Ascension, and like them his body is never found. Thus in a work of fiction we can cast a spiritual glamour over the creations of our imagination. But Moses and Jesus worked out their spirituality in the much deeper labour of living with God, others, the world and themselves.

Finally I also took a different view of the conclusion of the story from everyone else, and again I didn’t articulate my thoughts particularly well. I was disappointed that the heroine’s quest to keep her promise to her sister, who was murdered by the Japanese during the occupation in World War 2, is simply abandoned in the end. It was objected that a novel hasn’t had to tie up all its loose ends since the Victorian era: Camus doesn’t resolve anything in L’Etranger. 

For me however this  betrays a failing in the novelist’s art: the artist has created this quest to form the basic emotional motor that propels the entire novel, therefore to just let it go suggests that he didn’t know what to do with his own material. But on reflection even this doesn’t go far enough. I was drawn to Teoh Yun Ling because of her gutsy commitment: she never gives in and takes no prisoners. To just roll over and let it be just isn’t like the person whose story has so powerfully engaged us.

Because in spite of these faults, this is still a powerfully engaging novel. That is why it produced such a stimulating and far reaching discussion. Thank you Tan Twan Eng for a bumpy but beautiful ride!

 Can We Trust The New Testament? John A T Robinson

Why do a blog on this little 1977 paperback? A mix of personal and intellectual reasons. First, I knew John Robinson when he was Dean of Trinity College Cambridge and I was a student there from 1974 to 77. He was of course the controversial Dean who had written Honest to God as Bishop of Woolwich a few years before. In this earlier work he had slated several Christian doctrines which he considered no longer tenable in the Twentieth Century, most famously the Virgin Birth and bodily resurrection. He championed very liberal German scholars who rejected any historical basis for the Gospels on Humean  grounds: stories of miracles could not by definition be historical and therefore must be much later fantasies created long after the facts about Jesus had been forgotten, in order to boost the credibility of their founding figure. But it was OK, because we could follow Rudolf Bultmann in dividing the unknowable Jesus of History from the Christ of Faith. The fact that according to 1 John this division forms the basis of all heresy was overlooked: “Who is the Antichrist but he who denies that Jesus is the Christ?” Bultmann leaves Christians free to create Jesus in their own image and make it all up as they go along – any claims to truth in some factual sense are reduced to tatters. Academic theology lapped it up: PhDs flourish in this suddenly expanded field in a way they cannot when it is asserted that Jesus is substantially revealed to us in the Gospels.

All this got very wide coverage in the popular press. It most certainly fed the growing disillusionment with Christianity in the UK: “If their own bishops don’t believe all this stuff, then why should we?” Further developments flowed from it: a roughly contemporary Bishop of Durham, David Jenkins, announced that the bodily resurrection of Jesus meant nothing more than “a conjuring trick with bones.” A book called The Myth of God Incarnate appeared. A movement arose called The Sea of Faith, whose adherents seemed mostly to be clergy who didn’t believe in God any more. Churches of course emptied at an accelerating rate: why should anyone go through the motions of a faith which its own leaders renounced? An acquaintance went to Emmanuel College Cambridge where Don Cupitt was Dean of Chapel, responding to Cupitt’s stripped out faith by abandoning his own. And I asked myself, “Maybe it is honest to God to confess that there are aspects of Christianity you reject – but then isn’t it dishonest to hang on to your pay packet as a Bishop?” 

Robinson was undoubtedly a central figure in this disaster for the Church and the Gospel and ought to bear responsibility. There was a good intention of sorts behind his stance: it was clearly hoped that if a few relatively unimportant doctrines were stumbling blocks to the faith of a great many ordinary Brits, why not jettison them and watch the lost sheep come flocking back in? However this begs the question, “What are the central and unalterable tenets without which our faith ceases to be Christianity and is turned into something else?” 

Things have improved a bit since Bishop Robinson’s day: following the exodus of so many unbelievers, the churches are much smaller but are more likely to be committed to their cause by choice rather than inertia. This is actually a healthy, pruning process: as half hearted, ill-informed churchgoing is stripped out, the quality of discipleship in those who remain is increased and this gives potential for growth. Nonetheless it seems clear that the effect of Robinson’s public statements was to lower rather than boost the credibility of the Gospel in the UK.

I remember Bishop Robinson as an austere figure about the College, not greatly given to smiling, and able to leave much of the day to day contact with students to a pair of chaplains while he pursued his theological interests. He was however given to surprising members of the Christian Union by showing that he often knew the Bible better than they did. For example he put on a Lent course called “He being dead yet speaketh,” and went round asking CICCU  people where the verse comes from (Hebrews 11 if you want to look it up.) I rather think he enjoyed confounding people’s expectations: he’d enjoyed being the enfant terrible of the Church of England with his disturbing views – did he enjoy ruffling the feathers of the liberal establishment as well, by teasing them that he was more conservative than they thought? I think this teasing quality is there in the tone of Can We Trust the New Testament, a delight in renouncing the role of master heretic that had been widely ascribed to him. Perhaps the same spirit underlay his later book The Priority of John (1984) which undermined the liberal case that John was a very late spiritualising addition to the canon. Together these titles seem to indicate that the direction of travel was back to a more conservative faith.

What fun to reminisce! But there are still important questions. Where has the debate got to in the fifty odd years since those days when the issues used to get an airing in public, at least occasionally? Robinson’s book is too short to be a comprehensive analysis of the theology of the New Testament in his day, but it does make for a very useful summary of the state of play, together with trenchant observations on some of its key features. So let’s see whether his definition of the field still stacks up today.

He begins by summarising the various views of those who are uncomfortable with biblical scholarship and makes clear his absolute commitment to the academic freedom to question everything. The third chapter, The Tools of Discrimination , briefly sets out the main critical methods which scholars apply to the New Testament:

• Textual criticism - which of the various texts that have come down to us are the most reliable?

• Source criticism – who wrote this and what sources did they draw on?

• Form criticism – what literary processes have shaped the composition?

• Redaction criticism – who pulled the document together into its final shape and what were they trying to achieve? You must try to imagine what might have been the needs and expectations of the people for whom the Gospels were written.

Robinson doubts some aspects of form criticism: “some of these critics…” have been “unwarrantably sceptical about the historical value of the tradition;” and even (the Gospel writers) “have been relegated to scissors-and-paste men.” However he is most scathing about redaction criticism: “Greatly inflated claims have been made for this method!” One of the most damaging outcomes has been the atomisation of the text into often minute subsections, called pericopes, each assigned a different authorship and history. With this operational method it is no longer possible to see broad themes in the Gospels. Any wider vision they may wish to impart is frittered away into fragments.

Bishop Robinson’s response to his own titular question is strongly that we can indeed trust the New Testament. He is very good on the sheer weight of documentary evidence, very many times more abundant than any other document dating from before printing was invented, and for the dates of the surviving manuscripts – because everything had to be copied out by hand over and over again – being very much nearer to the original date of writing than those available for any other literature. There are literally thousands! Yes there are some copying errors when some NT manuscripts are compared to others of the same portion of Scripture, and one or two occasions when explanatory notes were added to the text by well meaning later scribes, for example in Mark chapter 16, which somehow ended up being included as part of the Gospel in later versions. However Robinson points out that there are very few such variations and none of them make any difference at all to Christian teaching or to the events of Jesus’ life.

And Robinson adds the important point that more and more fragments of NT manuscripts keep turning up. Since the 19th century heyday of German scholars like Harnack and Levi-Strauss, the very late dates of composition they worked with have had to be abandoned because fragments of writings keep surfacing which are demonstrated to be of earlier date. Who knows when even earlier copies may surface? A great example is a fragment of Matthew’s Gospel dated to 85CE which was the subject of Carsten Peter Thiede’s The Jesus Papyrus, published in 1996. The response of those who held to established views? The exact correlation of the Greek letters in the fragment with a section of Matthew must be a coincidence! This is the triumph of received opinion over hard evidence.

In all this discussion Robinson takes a donnish delight in his own contributions to the New English Bible as part of the translation team. He seems genuinely to expect the readers of his supposedly popular title to be familiar with the footnotes, especially the ones he personally drafted, and to enjoy sifting through them. Ah, those ivory towers!

For Robinson then, “Can we trust the New Testament?” seems to mean, “is the text of the NT reliable?” and his conclusion is essentially, “Yes it is.” However that is the limit up to which he considers the NT as a whole to be reliable. He doesn’t follow through by saying that therefore the NT is also a reliable guide to what happened historically, nor that it is reliable in relation to present faith, theology or conduct. If the Gospels were written much earlier than the liberal scholars had thought, the time required for their supposed mythologising process to take place is denied them and their whole argument is shown to be flawed. We are brought into the context which Professor Richard Bauckham explores so vividly in his excellent Jesus – the Eyewitnesses, that there were still people about who remembered what happened. I personally believe that all the evidence shows that the Gospels were written by the time of the catastrophic destruction of the state of Israel by the Roman army in 70CE – that’s within 40 years of the crucifixion… 

The other major problem with Can we trust the New Testament is that it almost entirely concerns the Gospels. These had been the focus of the quest for the historical Jesus as the foundation for the liberal consensus of that time. But what about the other 23 books? Robinson offers one trenchant comment on Hebrews, pointing out the very many references to the Temple, its worship and its symbolism, without a single hint that it has been destroyed by the Romans – and this in spite of its constant recurrence to the theme that the Temple in Jerusalem was merely a passing shadow of the lasting spiritual reality now brought about by Christ. This can only mean that Hebrews was composed prior to the destruction of 70CE.

A survey of the other books of the New Testament provides a very interesting background for Gospel studies. It is generally acknowledged that many of the epistles pre-date the writing of the Gospels: yet they present a high Christology, like that in Hebrews, in which Jesus Christ is portrayed as Saviour, Redeemer and Lord through his cross and resurrection. The aforesaid liberal consensus does not sit at all well with this background. Far from Jesus needing a bit of a boost from a good write up by fourth or fifth generation Christians, he was already acknowledged as the name above all names from earliest days. No artificially inflated stories were necessary.

I am now going to throw in a few other reasons why we can trust the New Testament, not because they are in Robinson but because they should be and I am frustrated at their absence.

• As others have pointed out, the grey figure who said and did little that was remarkable, as proposed by the pursuers of the quest for the historical Jesus and their ilk, could not possibly have launched the Christian movement. It is very hard to see how his humiliating death could have failed to overthrow such a person’s following and terminate his influence, apart from a subsequent resurrection.

• If the Gospels are an official history, why do they give Peter and the other apostles such a bad press? Remember that these are supposed to be people charged with passing the message on to ensuing generations. Yet they are portrayed as often foolish, wavering, unbelieving, wrong-headed – just like us in fact. One of the great testimonies to the truth of the Gospels is their warts and all presentation of the early Christian leaders.

• John the Baptist is a key figure in all four Gospels and in Acts, getting more coverage than any character except Jesus Himself. A broad range of incidents and sayings are included in this coverage, showing a multiple attestation to John. In spite of this breadth, a consistent message is always concurrent: John is the messenger of repentance from sin, preparing the way for Jesus who will baptise with the Holy Spirit and fire. Here we clearly have a polemic. The evangelists aim to establish that Jesus, not John, is the Messiah and that to follow John means acknowledging Jesus, as John himself is shown to do. The existence of this polemic establishes that John’s disciples were still a significant presence in the world of the Gospel writers. This in turn connects to the dating of the Gospels, since they must have been written while John still had followers. But how long did John’s influence persist? As his mission seems to have been primarily to Jewish people it seems improbable that it can have lasted beyond the end of the Jewish state in 70CE, and indeed after Josephus we find no references to John in the record, in contrast to the various commentators who mention Jesus. We also find clear blue water between the canonical and the apocryphal Gospels, the latter hardly bothering with John at all and showing no interest in the polemical concerns of the former. The apocryphal gospels therefore clearly date from after the waning away of John’s following. They are not playing in the same park as the canonical Gospels. I would love to research this if I can find an academic prepared to supervise me!

• As C S Lewis points out somewhere, if the Gospels are fiction, they anticipate the techniques of realistic prose narrative, as we find it in say the rise of the eighteenth century novel, by many hundreds of years. It surprises me how little theologians who base their criticism of the Gospels on literary grounds show any awareness of actual literary form and composition. Composition by patchwork as they often propose is vanishingly rare.

• Still thinking in literary terms, I am convinced that the person of Jesus as described in the Gospels is not fictional. Just as there is nobody else remotely like Him in history, He is also without parallel in fiction. I studied literature at Trinity and I certainly never found anyone to compare with Him in the great works of Western civilisation. His powerful and beautiful combination of compassion, challenge, simplicity, profundity, authority, gentleness, penetration, practicality and spirituality are utterly unique. Our literary heroes have to have weaknesses or we don’t believe in them. These weaknesses are often the obverse of their strengths, so that a charismatic leader often lacks humility and vice versa, or a practical person is impatient of contemplation and vice versa. How did the Son of Man manage to have all the strengths of human character without the corresponding flaws? Yet I am utterly convinced by Him and long to follow Him and become more like Him…

I’m going to conclude with two examples in which Robinson, having asserted that we can trust the text of the New Testament, refuses to trust in its teaching. The first is the virgin birth. Part of the context for Robinson was probably the Lady Chatterley trial of 1960. He had spoken in defence of D H Lawrence’s novel at the trial on the grounds that the work had artistic merit and this justified its publication and readership. Lawrence in some of the purpler passages of his books mythologises sex as holy and meaning-laden. I therefore think that Robinson may have felt that the virgin birth demeans sex through God’s non-participation in the usual means of human procreation, almost as if the morally responsible thing for God to do would be to engage directly with human sexuality. The whole area has become much more convoluted since then and all kinds of interesting variations would now need to be involved to keep it inclusive! Anyway Mary wouldn’t have existed without a mother and a father, or their mothers and fathers, so sex is never far away…

The second example is the bodily resurrection of Jesus. It is odd that Robinson rejects the virgin birth in order to champion the body but then abandons the body when it comes to God’s long term purposes in the resurrection. In Can we trust the New Testament he is satisfied with the survival of the human spirit as the intention of the many passages in the Gospels and epistles that feature the risen Christ. For Robinson the point of the resurrection narratives is that they offer proof that something of us survives death. However the Lord came to do very much more than simply survive: He came to conquer! The point of those embarrassingly physical (for Robinson) testimonies to the resurrection is that Jesus takes back everything that death has robbed us of and sets in train a movement of redemption for the whole universe in which it too will be set free from its bondage to decay for a life no longer subject to the power of death. All sorts of peoples, religions and mythologies have believed in some sort of afterlife. A currently popular version seems to be that you become a star or a robin... The resurrection is totally different, a power from God breaking into the cosmos and revolutionising it. That’s what the apostles got so excited about! To miss this while surveying the reliability of the New Testament is to miss its entire point.

While it is a positive that Robinson affirms the undoubted reliability of the text of the New Testament it is sad to see so little trust in its central message. Perhaps Robinson was on a trajectory which would ultimately lead him back into the fold of believers, as a contemporary who was a postgraduate at Trinity and later one of my tutors at Oak Hill used to think. The evidence of Can we trust the New Testament however is that at the time of writing it Robinson was still a long way from the goal of that journey.