"Any man-any artist, as Nietzsche or Cezanne would say- climbs the stairway in the tower of his perfection at the cost of a struggle with a deunde-not with an angel, as some have maintained, or with his muse. This fundamental distinction must be kept in mind if the root of a work of art is to be grasped." -Frederico Garcia Lorca.

With the appearance of Mircea Eliade's The Sacred and the Profane came the inauguration of theologians and philosophers questioning the preeminence of scholarly attention given to time to the virtual exclusion of space.

Judges is about loss: a loss of the individual which leads to a loss of the tribe, and, if circumstances remain unchecked, a loss of the nation.

We lose something central to our humanity when we divide our world into neat little packages of sacred and secular.

We want God to make sense, to be reasonable, to act according to how we think God should act. This kind of thinking, though, is not far from where we live today. If I give money to the church, then God will bless me financially. If I have my “quiet time” in scripture, then God will bless my day. If I raise my children right, then surely they will turn out right. In themselves these actions are good and right; however, (...) we have to ask ourselves, “Do our motives emerge from the desire to give a place to the mystery of faith, or, rather, to conquer mystery?”. (shrink)

It is quite fair to say that to the degree language works is also to the degree language does not work.

Art, beauty, and the voice of God. And what of beauty?

We live in a world of many odd-shaped pieces, a cosmic jigsaw puzzle that often seems to have been further complicated by cruel fate.

It is only the story... that saves our progeny from blundering like blind beggars into the spikes of the cactus fence. The story is our escort. Without we are blind. -Chinua Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah.

Our generation is turning to mentoring as an instrument of God to repair the ruin of our personal losses.

Aimee did not want to survive; she neither wanted to live nor to die.

"Everything is a pretext for a good dinner.".

Narcissus has no need of art because his own reflection preoccupies him.

It was the summer of 1984, the American dollar was strong, and this was my first venture to Europe. I found her and didn't even know I was searching for her. Mysteriously she crossed my path one day in Rome. I should confess though- at this point in my life, I am an uneasy Protestant.

An encyclopedic exploration of the images, symbols, motifs, metaphors, figures of speech and literary patterns of the Bible.

What is the relationship between prophetic vision and vision in terms for a hoped-for future? How might vision for a church or person best be defined today?

"I tried to find out for myself, from the start, when I was a child, what was right and what was wrong-because no one around me could tell me. And now that everything is leaving me I realize I need someone to show me the way and to blame me and praise me, by right not ofp ower but ofa uthority, I need my father." -Albert Camus, The First Man.

Compassion is called out of us when we see situations where there is an obvious absence of something or someone life-giving.

"He who is satisfied has never truly craved. And he who craves for the light of God neglects his ease for ardor." -Rabbi Abraham J. Heschel.

What do we do with Judges? This two-edged word? This ambidextrous book? These ambivalent heroes? The Judges were drawing their last fleeting breaths shipwrecked and scattered upon the shores of historical-critical-grammatical-linear-modernist-masculine interpretation. "The narrative is primitive," they said. "The editors have made a mess," they exclaimed. "The conclusion is really an appendix," another said. Then the bible-acrobats jumped in pretending there was no literary carnage while at the same time drawing our eyes away from the literary carnage. "No, no, there (...) is an order to this disorderly book!" "Gideon is a man of faith," they explained. "Gideon is a sham," others retorted. "Long live the king," they cried. "Oh no, the king will bring down the nation," others said. Enter the latest literary critics and the fresh feminist readers to save the day. And save they have. Barry noted the irony. Cheryl called attention to the elaborate, spiraling labyrinth. Phyllis remembered the forgotten. Mieke heralded the incoherence. Deborah the Bee slings Barak with irony. Cowardly Jephthah sacrifices his virgin daughter immediately after he is filled with the spirit. Blind Samson remains stuck in some adolescent, Pinnochio-like stage milling around the same old vices. The Levite, the man of word and sacrifice, lies to the people and dismembers his wife. To beat it all the myopic narrator joins in lock step with the other blind characters stumbling around in the narrative. What manner of text is this? These Judges, these stories, are even more troubling now that we take them seriously. Now what do we do with Judges? The recent scholarship is most promising, but I think we must press forward, or is that backward, or perhaps to another plan. Perhaps Judges hearkens forward to the postmodern. What would Judges look like if we viewed the story through a postmodern lens? Would we see the text in another dimension? Would we let the characters live and breathe as confusing, confounding, intricate characters? Judges speaks to me. These judges, they teach me. How can I ever forget my reading of Judges? For once I found a text reflecting the madness of faith in my maddening world. For once I saw a text like Pablo. I heard the echo of Umberto. I noted the faint murmurings of Jacques. I danced a most joyous jig with Julia. I saw, up ahead, or was that behind me, or over to the side, Martin's flickering candle. Mieke, meet Jael. Barak, meet Barry. Jacques, meet Gideon. Samson, meet Martin. Umberto, meet the narrator or two or three. Pablo, meet the Levite's wife---sorry, she has no name. (shrink)