A pet peeve of mine: When a junior scholar—say, a PhD student—writes a hyper-critical and dismissive review of a seasoned, well-respected scholar’s book. Now, in saying this, I don’t mean to suggest that established scholars are above criticism. Far from it! In getting to the place they now occupy, they’ve surely received more criticism than any of us mere mortals ever will. What irks me specifically is when this imagined junior scholar writes with a dismissive tone, giving off the distinct impression to readers that they could’ve produced a much better volume. There’s a certain decorum at work here (or lacking, I suppose). If you’re wanting to write a critical review of N. T. Wright’s latest book, that’s fine. But, if you treat Wright’s work as something easily dispensed with—his arguments easily demolished by your superior intellect—you reveal yourself to be an unserious person. Don’t be that person. So, if you’re going to review a book by, say, Oliver O’Donovan, or Matthew Levering, or Katherine Sonderegger, please don’t write it in such a way that readers are left thinking you believe you deserve their post more than they do. It’s not a good look.
It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn’t matter. I look up at the night sky. Is anything more certain than that in all those vast times and spaces, if I were allowed to search them, I should nowhere find her face, her voice, her touch? She died. She is dead. Is the word so difficult to learn?
Currently reading: Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis 📚
Alan Jacobs, with what begins as a balanced take on Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s conversion to Christianity, but which blossoms into a more general meditation on how we all begin the life of faith with mixed motives:
My view is that everyone has to start somewhere — she’s very forthright about being a newcomer to all this — and what matters is not where you start but where you end up. One person may seek a bulwark against relativism; another may long for architectural or linguistic or musical beauty; another may crave community. Christian life is a house with many entrances. I became a Christian because I fell head-over-heels for a Christian girl who wouldn’t date me otherwise, so how could I judge anyone else’s reasons for converting? As Rebecca West said, “There’s no such thing as an unmixed motive”; and God, as I understand things, is not the judge but the transformer of motives. It’s a how-it-started, how-it’s-going thing, but often in a good way. Or so my experience suggests.
Lily and Bella got me NBA trading cards for my birthday. This one of Scary Terry (Rozier) is my favorite.
One bookshelf down (made completely from scrap wood), two or three to go. At least my books in the “historical theology” category have a place to rest their heads.
Matt Feeney, on the deepest, essentially philosophical, reason for resisting the triumph of digital technology over family life—deeper than utilitarian arguments about mental and emotional health:
My objections to the encroachment of digital technology on my own family’s life…were never about mental health. The dark intuition that came up when I watched my young children sweeping their way into an iPad trance was not that this device would make them unhappy or unsafe. It was that it would make them unfree. Indeed, what remains the most compelling finding, to me, about the psychological effects of computer use is the one in which this question of human freedom is directly implicated—the possibility that, over time, engagement with digital technologies shortens our attention span, alters the balance of power between our short-term urge to forage for new stimulation and our ability to tame this urge for the sake of sustained concentration. Digital technology erodes the trait that, arguably, makes us human, our power to posit ends for ourselves, consciously, and to pursue those ends with a measure of focus and planning, and to take pleasure in these sustained efforts. Setting and pursuing our ends is how we use our human endowments to form our selves, how we integrate our disparate impulses and appetites into a single life story. Curating these capacities and habits in our children, seeing them grow under the influence of their human as opposed to rodent tendencies, would seem to be one of our most basic jobs as parents.