I'll take Sharp Objects for $300, Alex.

“It’s always so hard to describe these things,” she said, and since I was in full agreement, I grunted an affirmation. We’d been having a desultory conversation on pain. The problem with trying to talk about pain is that the thing being discussed can only be felt by one person. The same is true of any feeling, from pain to joy to fear. Each, by its very nature, can be felt only by the person feeling it. Someone may be experiencing the same feeling, but it is not the same feeling being felt by the other.

If you see what I mean.

These feelings are inherently subjective, and so coming up with agreed-upon terms for them is all but impossible.

Or, like she said: “It’s always so hard to describe these things.”

But — how do we manage to describe them at all?

And there’s no question that we do.

Not always with a great deal of accuracy, but considering that our accuracy rate for reporting on the physical world is often a little skewed, I’d say we do pretty well with the abstractions.

Want a quick demonstration?

Think of “sharp” and “dull.” Don’t pay attention to the words themselves, but to the meanings. For as long as we’ve had fingers, we’ve been devising newer and better devices for cutting them off. And we’re universally familiar with the difference in the feel of these devices when they’re “sharp” and when they’re “dull.”

You get poked with a knife, you draw back and say “ouch!” So does everyone else when it happens to them. When we see people draw back from a knife and say “ouch,” we know what they’re feeling, even though we’re not feeling it at that moment. It’s a common perception. We can make a word for it. “That’s sharp!” we say accusingly, generally at the offending knife itself.

So understanding the feeling of “sharp” physically, and being able to communicate this feeling to another, is quite understandable.

But along with knives, edges, tin cans, and porcupines, we also tend to agree that the sound ”Eeeeee” is inherently sharper than “ohohohohoh.”

More than that, we are in general agreement that it is “higher.”

The sound of glass falling to the floor is “sharper” and “higher” than that of a watermelon, which is “duller” and “lower.”

In fact, I think most would agree that the word sharp is “sharper” than the word dull.

Through words we manage to tell doctors not only where it hurts, but that the hurt is kind of “grainy.” And in many cases that information will be important to the diagnosis.

To take this to another degree of wonder, not only can we communicate these inner states to each other, we sometimes do so for hours on end.

“I’m feeling blue, man, but there’s a really jagged edge to it.”
“You know when the world seems to be bearing down on you?”
“I’m so happy! I feel light as a feather!”

What do we mean when we say that the soda has gone flat? We mean that the tingling sensation we expect to feel on our tongues isn’t there. What do we mean when we say a movie is flat? We mean that the movie was written and directed by a committee, employing audience focus groups to decide the outcome of every major scene.

“He spoke with a flat inflection.”
Upon hearing the news, Dierdre’s expression flattened.
“You’re not going!” he said flatly.

So very many words describing physical properties, yet used in an agreed-upon manner for inner states.

It may be hard to describe these things, but I think it’s really cool that we manage as well as we do..

Death and Transfiguration – by Richard Wagner

Corvallis-Oregon State University Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Marlan Carlson.
The sound begins about 40 seconds into the video, and is very soft at first.

(0:45 – 2:00) An old man sleeps, stirs, and begins to wake up. These are the faint horns at the beginning, like the dawning of consciousness; but even as his mind rises from sleep, a deep counter-point intrudes, a low beat, a chronic pain, silent only during sleep, but almost immediately palpable upon awakening. Despite this, he continues to regain consciousness, the beat fading as the orchestra takes up the theme of his increasing awareness. A sustained horn, the orchestra echoing and holding the note a moment later — he is aware again. He opens his eyes, sees the sunlight, and while the low beat picks up again, subdued but insistent, he rejoices in the morning air, listening to the songs of the birds outside his window.

(2:00 – 6:00) A harp introduces a new theme, perhaps the beginning of memories, for there is little else the old man has left; but fortunately, the memories are pleasant, without regret, sweet. A flute picks up the harp’s quiet joy, accenting it, but for a moment is almost overpowered by the low beat, the darkness that hovers at the edge of his awareness. The old man drifts, waits it out. After a bit, the thrumming ceases, and the harp returns, this time with more strength reflected in the confidence of the flute which, a moment later, is backed up by the entire orchestra.

And then the violin comes in. For a time, he is aware of nothing but the happiness he feels at simply being alive and hearing the sounds of life around him. Then there is a gradual weakening. A pause. The flute picks it up again. The orchestra comes in behind it. The flute picks it up yet again. The orchestra backs it. The flute again. A pausing. A drifting.

(6:00 – 9:08) And then the pain comes crashing in. Jagged, jangled. No longer a mere deep thrumming, now it includes all the orchestra. Harsh. Strengthening, A fight between the humanity of life and the inhumanity of pain revealed through the sustained crescendo with horns.

(9:08 – 9:41) Fading. Fading.

(9:41 – 12:30) The fit is over. A flute picks up a new memory, holds, and then is joined by the trilling violins, one of which soars for a moment, enticing the others to follow. For a time the violins and flute play together in a memory of childhood, or perhaps of a first love. There is no sign now of pain or sorrow. The only trace now of the low beat of pain is an occasional and not unpleasant thrum far in the background. The memory slows. Becomes fainter.

(12:30 – 13:48) Suddenly, there is a resurgence of pain, almost immediately defeated by the theme of triumph  played by the entire orchestra. He is no longer feeble, but is once again young, vibrant. The orchestra rejoices and exalts.

(13:48 – 15:09) But then there is the beat, interrupting it.

The triumph fights to overcome it, and wins — temporarily. Back and forth, pain and joy, defeat and triumph battle for supremacy. In each round, pain and defeat become weaker, while joy and triumph become stronger. But then the tide begins to turn. The periods of triumph grow smaller, while those of defeat gain in strength. For a time they even coexist.

(15:09 – 17:50) The triumph returns, almost frenetic now. Falters, the beat trying to overcome. But the triumph is not to be defeated yet. The violins, the orchestra all build to a climax of life. Quietly fading, this time out of contentment. They slowly build again, reaching for the climax, fading. Climbing again, confident, until all the sections join in to a climax, slowly fading. Quieting.

(17:50 – 18:53) The low beat returns. The orchestra rises a bit, then drops. Rises, then drops. But only a little. And through it all, the low beat. Each rise of the orchestra now is less than the one before. Exhausted. There can be no doubt that death is at hand.

(18:63 – 19:30) Once more, however, there is a burst towards life, which even as it rises to the top, fades, the low beat now replaced by the tolling of the death bell.

(19:30 – 27:21)The tolling continues, and for a short time there is nothing else. But then, against all odds, suddenly the orchestra begins to swell in power, gradually, but unencumbered, until there is nothing but the sustained note of the violin. Then the orchestra comes back, free of the jaggedness that had frequented it before. It rises again in triumph towards a climax — but this climax is not frenetic. It is a calm, majestic march towards the heavens: rising, then relaxing, then rising some more, each rise gaining in the glorious power. For a moment it stops, but only to build again, like a bird that swoops towards the ground only so that it can longer enjoy climbing towards the heavens.

And finally the sustained climax — and yet even this is followed by another climax.

And at the end, the peace.

Transfiguration — ascent to heaven. Call it what you will. I know of few pieces of music that can covey transcendence the way this one does.

Contrary to popular belief, there really are circumstances in which the courts allow private citizens to take the law into their own hands. If, for instance, your home is broken into by an armed, homicidal burglar, and if you are in legal possession of a firearm, you may take your gun from the safely-locked storage cabinet, get your ammunition from its secure and separate location, load the gun, and — with full sanction of the law — discharge it in the direction of your dog to make it stop barking.

That is your right.

The courts, however, are far less lenient on those who burn their wives to death to save her from being stolen by fairies.

It was this legal technicality that ultimately tripped up Michael Cleary in 1895.

The story of Michael Cleary and his unfortunate wife, Bridget, still has a vague life in Irish circles. A children’s rhyme, of the type inspired by Lizzie Borden only two years earlier, is still occasionally recited by children:

Are you a witch or are you a fairy
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?

But in general, the specifics and full import of the story are forgotten.

Angela Bourke’s The Burning of Bridget Cleary is a fascinating and detailed examination of the case, the people involved, and the ramifications it had upon the issue of Irish Home rule.

It started innocently enough when Bridget caught cold while delivering eggs to her father’s cousin, Jack Dunne. This soon developed into something more serious, which caused her husband, Michael, to send for both the priest and the doctor. The priest came, and while of no particular use, at least took the time to perform the last rights just in case. The doctor, on the other hand, delayed visiting for several days.

In the meantime, however, Jack Dunne showed up — possibly because he had run out of eggs.

Jack was one of the last of a dying breed known as the “fairy doctor,” and so when he walked into the Cleary’s home and exclaimed, “That isn’t Bridgie Boland!” (her maiden name) it had certain implications — namely, that Michael’s wife had been stolen and replaced by a changeling. The antics which followed were worthy of the best Cary Grant screwball comedy — except for the matter of the poor woman’s demise in a blaze of fire.

Bourke’s research is exhaustive and intelligent, and her narrative makes for fascinating reading. The Burning of Bridget Cleary is, and will remain for the foreseeable future, the definitive work on the case. But that isn’t to say that the book is without flaw, most notably in the author’s tendency to introduce questionable modern interpretations.

Bourke puts Michael Cleary’s actions under the high-power microscope of politically correct wisdom. “The Story of Bridget Cleary,” she intones, “is firstly one of ‘domestic violence.’” Unfortunately, this doesn’t quite jibe with the rest of the evidence. She stresses that Michael Cleary “may have used violence against [Bridget] before,” but is compelled by a sudden burst of honesty to admit, “Most witnesses said they got on well together.” By Bourke’s own evidence, Michael was wracked with worry for his wife and almost frantic in trying to get help for her. Looked at from any but the most modern men-are-the-root-of-all-evil vantage point, it seems almost certain that before the fairy incident, Michael had previously never laid a hand on his wife in anger.

But while Bourke examines Michael’s motives and actions with suspicion, her silence concerning Bridget’s own peculiar behaviour during this time is almost deafening. Take, for example, the final confrontation in which those attending to Bridget attempt to drive out the fairy by pouring kerosene on her and setting her on fire. Immediately preceding it, previous “cures” had been tried with apparent success. Things had almost returned to normal when, in a well-recognized test to determine that the fairy was really gone, Michael asked her to eat three small pieces of bread — a reference to the Holy Trinity. She ate two, but absolutely refused to eat the third. Does Bourke not find this in the least bit puzzling? While we’re not about to suggest that Bridget had really been stolen by fairies, it is obvious from this, and several other peculiar things she did, that something very odd was going on with her.

Another problem arises when Bourke goes all symbolic on the reader. (She is a Senior Lecturer at University College Dublin, and so possibly has an excuse.) She interprets Michael’s repeated attempts to drive out the fairy by forcing things into Bridget’s mouth as a “kind of oral rape.” But these “cures” are the same for both men and women. Nor are Michael’s threats inspired by any gender issues, as Bourke suggests, since he makes equal threats to the men who happen to be present.

The Burning of Bridget Cleary is unquestionably a valuable and readable resource book for anyone interested in folklore, fairy-lore, or true crime. The scope and detail of the author’s research is compelling, and her placement of the events within the context of the time is rewarding and insightful. Furthermore, it even works as a cautionary tale, much as Bourke claims the fairy-lore of old was supposed to have done. In this case its lesson is simple: when fairies attack, stick with the Medical Association.

They may not be prompt, but at least kerosene and open flames aren’t included in their pharmacopeia.

Introduction

During the 1950s, John’s gospel enjoyed a surge of popularity. Already well established as the Love Gospel, its portrait of Jesus appealed to a generation engaged in the spiritual (and often chemical) reawakening of society. The Gospel According to John assured us of God’s compassion, telling us “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosever believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life (Jn. 3:16). He is a protector who calls himself “The good shepherd” (Jn. 10:11), as well as a conscientious host who goes to prepare our “dwelling places” in his father’s house (Jn. 14:2). It is a Jesus who is one part older brother, one part New Age guru, and one part Marcus Welby M.D. Even his role as lover is not neglected: aside from short references in the synoptics, it is the Johannine tradition (both in gospel and revelation) which is most articulate about the bride and bridegroom when speaking of the relationship between Jesus and his believers.

But despite this, there is a curious flip side to the Johannine messiah which runs directly counter to his image of love and compassion. Bible scholar Robert Fortna comments with no little puzzlement upon Jesus’ decision to wait two days before going to Judea and raising Lazarus from his severe and incapacitating case of death.

Verse 6 seems pointless on any factual level…After the reminder in the preceding verse that Jesus loved Lazarus, this deliberate delay can only appear arbitrary. Perhaps it is designed in part to deepen the miracle story’s dramatic tension (The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor).

To explain it, Fortna conjectures that the delay is a Johannine addition necessitated by the contradiction of Lazarus being “four days buried” upon Jesus’ arrival, whereas the journey itself takes only forty-eight hours. Such an exegesis comes about largely through treating the incident as though it were an anomaly. The truth is that, in an ironic twist to the gospel’s reported portrait of a tender and compassionate Saviour, this type of incident is the rule rather than the exception. Upon closer investigation, The Jesus who appears in the Love Gospel is in reality stubborn, recalcitrant, and impatient.

The Johannine Nature of Jesus

The refractory nature of the Johannine Jesus is made apparent in the very first miracle performed in Cana. Upon being told by his mother that the wedding feast is running out of wine, his response is, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?” (Jn. 2:4). Mary, in the tradition of all mothers throughout history, ignores her son’s protests, and encourages him to perform for the guests — thereby ensuring that his career as a miracle worker gets off the ground. Likewise, at the end of the gospel, when Peter asks a rather innocuous question concerning the “beloved disciple,” he is told, “If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?” (Jn. 21:22). These two remarks, like plaster-cast ravens holding the works of Edgar Allen Poe, form remarkably appropriate bookends to the gospel.

Yes, I made the whip myself. Thanks for asking.

Immediately following the wedding feast, the writer of the fourth gospel whisks Jesus off to cleanse the temple (Jn. 2:13-17). While this incident is common to every gospel, the synoptics reserve if for a later date when the dark clouds of his crucifixion are rushing over the horizon. Only in the Johannine account does this violent exhibition make its appearance as his second official act. And only here are we given the added detail that the whip he used was constructed by his own hand (Jn. 2:15). At this point, the Johannine comment “Zeal for your house will consume me” is perhaps redundant (Jn. 2:17).

Still within the second chapter, Jesus gains many believers during the Passover festival in Jerusalem (Jn. 2:23). While this would appear to be a cause for celebration, and while at other times he will revile people for not believing, in this case “Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to testify about anyone; for he himself knew what was in everyone” (Jn. 2:24-25). This is a comment as ambiguous as it is cynical.

Another inappropriate and, by most standards rude comment is made to a royal official who is distraught over his son’s illness. In this instance Jesus impatiently complains that “Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe” (Jn. 4:48), even though the man’s concern would apparently have less to do with religion than with the life of his son. Compare this to the parallel accounts in Matthew and Luke. Luke’s Jesus departs on his mission of mercy without a word of complain (Lk. 7:6), and Matthew’s Jesus even takes a moment to console him, saying “I will come and heal him” (Mt. 8:7). Yet in these accounts, the invalid of which Jesus speaks is not even the man’s son, but merely a servant — albeit one whom Luke says was “valued highly” (Lk. 7:2). The synoptics do report an incident in which Jesus lashes out in anger when a boy possessed of a demon is brought to him, but unlike the case of the royal official’s son, this anger is not occasioned by the request for healing, but by his disciples’ failure to accomplish the cure on their own.

Having now lectured one man for not believing “unless you see signs and wonders,” Jesus is later annoyed at a crowd for the opposite reason. “[Y]ou are looking for me,” he says, “not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves” (Jn. 6:26). Only John adds this condemnatory postscript to the feeding of the five thousand. In Matthew and Mark he simply heals the sick who are brought to him. We may conjecture that the phrase “Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t” crossed the minds of his disciples on more than one occasion.

This is not to say that the other gospels never showed an angry Jesus, but the reasons for his anger were generally quite apparent and understandable. In the other miraculous loaves-and-fishes story in which he feeds four thousand rather than five, the synoptics record Jesus’ irritation at being asked to perform signs. Mark’s Jesus asks peevishly, “Why does this generation ask for a sign?” (Mk. 8:12), Matthew’s Jesus delivers an implicit condemnation, “An evil and idolatrous generation asks for a sign” (Mk. 12:39), and Luke’s Jesus takes the gloves off as he snaps, “this generation is an evil generation; it asks for a sign” (Lk. 11:29). In each case, however, it is clear that the crowd had approached for the specific purpose of requesting a sign. Under the circumstances,  a little display of temper is understandable.

But if reasons can be found for most of Jesus’ actions in the other gospels, they remain frustratingly opaque in the fourth. In one particularly puzzling incident, Jesus plainly tells his brothers that he is not going to the Festival of Booths in Jerusalem (Jn. 7:8). Despite this, however, “after his brothers had gone to the festival, then he also went, not publicly but as it were in secret” (Jn. 7:10). If this is confusing, it is merely a highlight to the motif of confusion which runs through the Johannine narrative. Admittedly, in every gospel his teachings are frequently misunderstood by those to whom he is speaking; in this gospel, however, he seems to go out of his way to make sure of it. For instance, all three synoptics record Jesus saying, “Take eat; this is my body” at the last supper, but the fact that he is passing around pieces of bread while saying it pretty much precludes anyone thinking that he is speaking literally. In John’s gospel, however, the symbolic act is removed. Instead we are given a much earlier discourse in which he dwells so cannibalistically on the concept that many of his own disciples turn away from him (Jn. 6:46-66), and rather than easing their minds by indicating the figurative nature of his words, he lets them go.

Water of eternal life! Step right up and get your water of eternal life! Never thirst again!

It is not merely a matter of what Jesus says, but his tone of voice that helps create the unusual character of this gospel. Gone are the friendly parables so common in the synoptics; in their place are long orations and obtuse discourses. Even his volume is more aggressive. Not content with crying out in a loud voice to raise Lazarus from the dead (a situation in which one can imagine that a good loud shout or two may be in order), nor while hanging from the cross (another understandable reaction), the Johannine Christ appears to deliver all his pronouncements at a pitch more suitable for cursing out an umpire than revealing God’s love. When we are told that “Jesus stood and cried, saying, ‘If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink,’” (Jn. 7:37) we don’t so much hear words of compassion as the barking call of a merchant selling his wares.

This change from compassion to aggression is perhaps the most important feature of the Johannine account. There is a profound lack of human interaction and compassion between Jesus and the people around him. And while such a statement may be open to the criticism of subjectivity, a more quantitative approach can be employed by examining those times each gospel writer specifically notes Jesus’ compassion. Matthew states that Jesus has compassion for the crowds (9:36, 14:14, 15:32) and two blind men (20:34). Mark tells us that Jesus feels compassion for a leper (1:41), a man of the tombs (5:19), and crowds (6:34, 8:2). Luke mentions his compassion for a woman whose son has died (7:13). In contrast, nowhere in John’s gospel is Jesus moved by compassion, except possibly when he weeps before Lazarus’s tomb (Jn. 11:35) — itself strange since he is just about to resurrect his friend, and the Jews (who in this gospel are always wrong) comment, “See how he loved him” (Jn. 12:6) leading us to believe that something other than compassion may have been involved.

His relationship with the disciples can only be described as anaemic. The healing of Peter’s mother-in-law is a warmly human act found in the first three gospels, but is typically absent in the fourth. While the calling of the twelve receives special attention in the synoptics, the Johannine writer mentions it in passing well after the fact, and then only to set up a dig at Judas (Jn. 6:70). The intimate little group formed of Jesus, Peter, James, and John is nowhere to be found in John’s gospel, although they ride together like musketeers in Matthew, Mark and Luke. When the Pharisees attack his disciples for plucking grain on the Sabbath in Matthew and Luke, and not washing their hands before eating in Matthew and Mark, Jesus defends them — as he also does when John the Baptist’s disciples complain in all three synoptics that Jesus’ disciples don’t fast. (Interestingly, John’s gospel records Jesus’ reply when he defended his disciples against the fasting charge, but subtracts the setting.) Jesus defends the “Sons of Thunder” when their impulsiveness angers the rest of the disciples in Matthew and Mark, and in Matthew he specifically refers to his disciples as “my mother and my brothers” (12:49). In all three synoptics, he gives them the power over unclean spirits — a nice little touch once again lacking in the John.

In the first three gospels Jesus appears as a real, living human — despite a propensity to raise the dead and stroll across lakes. The most poignant scene occurs during his vigil in the garden at Gethsemane, and is portrayed with pathos and anguish. In all four gospels Jesus goes to the garden with his disciples, but John’s account leaps immediately to the arrest. The synoptics, however, lead us through the intimate and touching events leading up to it. In Matthew and Mark he leaves the others behind as he withdraws further with Peter, James, and John — apparently choosing to spend his final free moments in close contact with his three closest friends. He prays meaningfully for a last-minute reprieve, saying “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.” Despite his own wishes, however, he displays his obedience by adding, “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Mk. 26:39). Upon returning, he discovers his friends fast asleep, and although disappointed and upset, he nevertheless displays an understanding of their frailties, even when, in Matthew and Mark, he finds them sleeping twice more.

Only a faint echo of the Gethsemane scene finds its way into the fourth gospel, and it does so somewhat earlier in the narrative, and with a far different flavour. “Now my soul is troubled,” says the Johannine Jesus while preaching in Jerusalem, “and what should I say — ‘Father, save me from this hour?’” While this vaguely recalls the prayer of torment recorded in the first three gospels, even this trace of humanity is immediately turned into a bloodless piece of heroic rhetoric as he answers himself with a resounding “No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name” (Jn. 12:27-28).

Equally bloodless is the arrest. Gone is the moving, and trenchant kiss of betrayal. In it’s place we are given a band of soldiers so intimidated by Jesus that it seems incredible they could stay on their feet long enough to do their job: “As soon as he said unto them, I am he, they went backward, and fell to the ground” (Jn. 18:6).

The Gnostic Connection

To understand the motive for the Johannine portrayal of Jesus, it is important to first fully grasp the central figure. In John’s gospel Jesus can be summed up as follows.

And don't forget to water the plants.

He shows little compassion, or even understanding, of human frailties. Although he is executed, he approaches the event as Lancelot does a joust. Even during his crucifixion, he remains steadily clear-headed, taking care of business as he arranges for his mother to take in “the beloved disciple.” (Had the event occurred in modern times, we suspect he would also have reminded Mary to send in the next insurance payment.) Rather than speaking in parables, which can both hide and reveal meaning, he seems purposely to court simple misunderstanding. He is loud, changeable, secretive, and apparently without compassion. Furthermore, like a Greek or Celtic hero, his very presence can bring dismay to his enemies.

Of course we understand that just as there are differences between the sources and traditions used in the compilation of the synoptic gospels, so there are bound to be differences between those  sources and John’s. But there are elements which can be interpreted as pointing to something other than a simple matter of differing source material. The Johannine writer is obviously aware of Jesus’ prayer for deliverance — the phrase “Father, save me from this hour” is far too similar to “Father,…let this cup pass from me” to be a matter of coincidence. Significantly, the added rhetoric in John serves the purpose, intentionally or not, of changing the unheroic incident reported in the synoptics into one of bravery and commitment. There are two questions of importance that this brings to mind: why would the writer wish to so alter the characteristics of this incident, and if it the incident was so disturbing, why include it at all?

The second of these is perhaps the easier for which to posit an answer.

Along with other evidence, the highly evolved theological discourses show that the fourth gospel was written later than the rest. While estimates range over several years, it would not be fatally inaccurate to assume a date of 90 A.D. it would seem reasonable to believe that by this late date the other three gospels (as well as their predecessors and progeny) would have been known to people over a fairly large area, including the Johannine communities. Indeed, John 12:27-28 could be used as evidence to support this. If that was the case, then certain stories and tales would already be known. It is possible, then, that Jesus’ words at Gethsemane (“Father, let this cup pass from me”) were too widespread to ignore, and yet too “damaging” in some way to incorporate without change.

This, of course, leads us to explore the nature of the message behind the Johannine gospel, and why its writer may consider Jesus’ simple plea for deliverance to be contrary to it.

Positing the spread of the synoptic gospels and their peripherals, we may assume that the Johannine community’s need for a new gospel was not solely for reasons of information. And the fact that so little of these other sources find their way into the Johannine account could indicate that this gospel was written to smooth over a clash of beliefs between the Johannine believers and the synoptic traditions. The nature of the Johannine beliefs can therefore be deducted from this. For this purpose, the character of Jesus in this gospel is quite revealing.

As noted, the Johannine Christ is less human than superhuman. Unlike the man we find in the synoptics, who comforts, suffers, and is hurt by betrayal, this Christ rises above the entire human condition. As a “type” he displays a perfection based more on physical and emotional values than moral ones. But such a type has never played any but a subordinate role in Jewish tradition. Samson and Solomon evince characteristics of physical and metal superiority respectively, but it is the honest, sweat-covered figures of Abraham and Moses who trudge predominantly through the Jewish religious landscape. This Johannine image of a perfection based upon personal rather than abstract virtues (stamina and emotional control, as opposed to love and compassion) is, however, typical in the Gnostic writings of some 60 years later. Much about the Johannine Christ fits comfortably with this development, and may well indicate an earlier move in this direction.

Evidence Showing Contact Between the Johannine Communities and Proto-Gnosticism

In Gnosticism and Early Christianity, R. M. Grant hypothesizes that Gnosticism is a means by which an apocalyptic belief system copes with the disappointment of an unfulfilled apocalyptic vision. It is his belief that Gnosticism would have gained its start from the fall of Jerusalem

Out of such shaking, we should claim, came the impetus toward Gnostic ways of thinking, doubtless not for the first time with the fall of Jerusalem but reinforced by this catastrophe.

As evidence, he points to Paul, claiming that the apostle’s early writing is distinctly apocalyptic, but as time passes, and the apocalypse fails to materialize, it begins to show distinctly “proto-Gnostic ideas.”

A large part of the Gnostic belief system involves a material world which is so naturally corrupt that it cannot manifest any form of perfection. A heresy arose which claimed that Jesus had not really appeared in the flesh, citing the innate corruption of matter as evidence of the impossibility. The Johannine gospel strongly emphasizes the material nature of his incarnation: “And the Word became flesh” (Jn. 1:14), “[U]nless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man” (Jn. 6:53), “Reach out your hand and put it in my side” (Jn. 20:27). The Johannine letters further support this, and even speak of “deceivers who have gone out into the world, those who do not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh” (2 Jn. 1:7).

Obviously, the Gnostic heresy was already showing its head.

Ironically, however, the idealized, barely human figure presented in the Johannine tradition also suggests that some aspects of it had already taken hold.

In the Johannine Jesus, we see an ideal who, to some degree, has removed himself from the world. This foreshadows the later Gnostic belief that “he who attains to this gnosis and gathers himself from the cosmos … is no longer detained here” (Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion). And in 1st and 2nd John we are told of a group who has left the Johannine community, apparently as heretics who do not believe in a material incarnation (1 Jn. 1:18-19, 2 Jn. 1:7). So strongly does the writer of these epistles feel about this that he even uses the term “anti-Christ” to describe the splinter group. To conjecture that this splinter group later grew into the Gnosticism of a later generation would not seem unsupportable.

Back to the Sixties

Not only is there a dramatic turnabout in the Johannine portrait of Jesus compared to that of the first three gospels, but it is a portrait which displays distinct signs of having undergone a change of values. The virtues of heart, compassion, and will to obedience give way to new virtues of self-control, impatience with the frailties of life, and even a kind of will-to-power. Such virtues fit well into the Gnostic scheme. Although there is a paucity of documented evidence that Gnosticism existed before the mid-second century, it is safe to assume that it did not spring up full-grown. It is already suspected that the Gospel of John contains motifs, structures, and dogma reflecting a contemporary proto-gnositcisim. it is only logical to expect the character of Jesus to illustrate these motifs.

The Sixties was a time of spiritual experimentation, introducing such varied movements as Wicca, Satanism, Zen, and Gnosticism to a new generation. While the popularity of John’s Gospel may at first blush seem odd during such a time, its hints at New Age philosophy, its call for a new, somewhat disassociated form of consciousness (which could possibly be aided by various drugs) makes it a natural for those who wanted to tune in and drop out. To that generation, its message of heroism and detachment was far more appealing than the message of self-sacrifice and service found in the rest of the gospels.

Oh great Earth Mother, who has given us Buddha, Zarathustra, and Jesus, hear my prayer and let thy herb grow abundantly.

Rock and roll brings us together through a shared sense of power and locus. It is a kinship born of place (be it physical, social, or chronological) and our relationship to it. In essence, it is not unlike the kinship found among people who have shared travel destinations: except that instead of recalling the excitement of discovery we experienced as travellers in places such as Katmandu, Peking, or Kyoto, we recall the Intimations of Immortality we experienced as teens in friends’ basements, out-of-town rock concerts, or packed into a car cruising the city streets.

The beat did more than make him happy. It made him feel bigger, stronger, more there. When Franki Ford sang “Sea Cruise” or Eddie Cochran sang “Summertime Blues,” Richie was actually transported with joy (Stephen King, It).

It was perhaps inevitable that the activism of the ’60s — a time of shared purpose and place — played out to a sound-track scored by Steppenwolf, The Who, and The Rolling Stones. Rock and roll requires the participant to define himself as an active member of community, be it as an insider or outcast, from which he derives a feeling of potency.

The blues, on the other hand, requires the participant to define himself in terms of being human.

Rock is what we are: blues is who we are. There are no politics in the blues, no revolutions to fight, no injustices to take up — although a common theme running through the blues is life’s injustice. Despite this, there is no call to arms, only a recognition of the human condition: a condition which can be sometimes sad, sometimes funny, and sometimes so sad it’s funny.

It’s not that the blues ignores social issues — far from it — but the social issues it examines are on a human, not sociological scale.

I worked on a levee camp and the extra gangs too
Black man is a boy, I don’t care what he can do.
I wonder when — I wonder when — I wonder when
will I get to be called a man, or do I have to wait
till I get ninety-three?
(“When Will I Get to Be Called a Man?” — Big Bill Broonzy)

The blues is not a beacon around which we gather to plan the overthrow of a repressive regime, but the candle on the front porch where we gather to commiserate and draw strength through companionship. Like the best forms of humour, and the most noble instincts of mankind, the blues gains its power from that which we all share: pain — and our power to rise above it; loneliness — and the joy of discovering other people.

We were just waiting for Jimmy and then we could start the jam.

To Bryce, these “guitar nights,” as he called them, were opportunities allowing him a much-needed social release. Suffering from a hare-lip, which operations had only partially corrected, he suffered from a barely-contained embarrassment whenever he spoke. He lived with it well, even achieving a quiet popularity among the students he taught as a substitute high school teacher, but there were few conversations in which he did not display an unease. Music allowed him contact and communication as an equal.

Tonight, however, instead of old pop tunes — his normal musical genre — we were going to be concentrating on the blues. The reason for this change was “Junior,” a black blues player I’d met while covering the music scene for a small Toronto magazine. Junior, Jimmy and I had jammed a few times before, but this was the first time Bryce had met him, and so far it hadn’t been going well.

From the time Junior arrived, there had been a distinct current of one-upmanship between he and Bryce as each vied for a position of musical mastery in their conversation. On the surface it was friendly, and for Junior it was no more than a game he played with everyone. He’d tried it with me early on in our relationship, but I sidestepped by claiming that my favourite group when I was a teenager had been the Monkees. For Bryce, however, this game threatened the very defence he had so painfully constructed. Not a defence of ego, but of his self. Another person’s superior musical knowledge didn’t bother him so much as its use as a weapon.

When Jimmy finally arrived, however, his presence had a sudden and unexpected effect. We all knew and respected his guitar work, but he could be quite stubborn in his heavy metal approach. And when it came to other musicians’ failings, he could be outright contemptuous. In a previous session with Junior he’d turned in a deafening rendition of “Moondance” that owed more the Megadeath than Van Morrison, and with Bryce he was always free with “tips” on playing the guitar. He left me alone, but I suspected it was only because, like many guitarists, he was a little in awe of the violin.

We all liked Jimmy, but the affection felt by both Bryce and Junior was coated with a residue of resentment, and as soon as he walked in, the alliances shifted. Junior and Bryce began talking like old friends. The message was clear: the watchword of the night was to be mutual respect, and if Jimmy wanted to get into one of his moods, he would be facing a united front.

We were now tuning up — in more ways than one.

The common and simply phrased motifs covered in blues lyrics acts as a lingua franca.

Nobody knows you,
When you’re down and out.
In your pocket,
Not one penny,
And as for friends
You don’t have many.
(Jimmy Cox: “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.”)

No one is a complete stranger to the indignities of life, and putting such experiences into words can help create a bond. Sometimes hearing someone speak of misfortune in a way that demands we see the reality of his experience, and the similarity to our own, can bring home to us the reality that his relationship to the world is essentially the same as ours. That he is, in fact, real in the same way we are.

As Coleridge put it, we know a man for a poet by the fact that he makes us poets. We know that he is expressing his emotions by the fact that he is enabling us to express ours. (R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art.)

Such an expression need not be clever or particularly articulate, it need only be recognizable as an expression of truth. When we hear expressions which originate directly from internal states familiar to us, we are compelled to wrap the speaker into our own existence. He is “us” in another location and circumstance.

But in the blues, the words are only part of the story. The structure of the music itself is a mirror of our own way-of-being with other people. It is slippery, but there is form, manners and patterns.

The blues presents us with a personable informality. We can sit where we wish, bitch about the day, and take a break to go to the bathroom and pick up another beer from the fridge on our way back. Few blues singers have what we would call “good” singing voices, and in many cases even their playing skills are nothing special. But this only adds to the shared experience. When amateur rock musicians play “Smoke on the Water,” there is a general consensus that their rendition is less authentic than that of Deep Purple’s. In fact, there is no more meaningful compliment one can give them than, “Wow! That sounded almost like the original!” As a result, those participating in rock and roll jams are almost always doing so from a position of weakness — or perhaps it would be more fair to say from a position of “duplication.” They are once more defining themselves in terms of a community to which they are members of greater or lesser standing, and as members of that community they are fulfilling their duty to promote the values of that community.

Conversely, authenticity in the blues is less a case of doing it “as good as” B B King, but rather of doing it with the same involvement. There are no communal values to be promoted — or rebelled against. The blues simply provides us a setting in which we can get together; a meeting place as comfortable as a friend’s living room. It could be said that what the blues does is to recognize R. G. Collingwood’s admonition that by attending to an emotion, we master it — and we do so in the company of others.

As the evening progresses, rivalries fade. Status is a function of community, and we’ve reached a point far more fundamental than that. We’ve reached the very foundation of community, where the standing of its members is still unformulated and all that exists is a recognition of each other.

We’re in the middle of some piece I’ve never heard of before, but Junior says it’s called “Rollin’ & Tumblin’.” Revealing ancestral roots planted firmly in the banks of the Mississipii Delta, it’s one of those dirty-blues numbers with a slide guitar that slips around like Fred Astaire in a mud patch. Towards the end I leap obliquely up the musical monkey-bars to gain some higher ground I’ve had my eye on for a while. Once there, I’m surprised to find myself running neck and neck with Jimmy, who has arrived at the same place by a different route. We look at each other and laugh. Junior smiles. “Nice scramblin’ boys. Now walk it on down.” Still happy to be together, Jimmy and I keep each other company as we do a step-and-skip descent, our footing illuminated by Junior’s bass. On the way we pick up Bryce and come to ground as a group.

Junior trades his bass for a lead. “We don’t wanna be workin’ that hard again right away. See how you guys feel about this one,” he says, and begins Robert Johnson’s “Walkin’ Blues.” It’s a slow piece with a laid-back boogy beat in its spine. We listen for a moment, each of us looking for his way in. Leaving Junior to take the detailed and delicate finger work, I come in high, slow, and drifting just behind the beat. Jimmy takes a similar path, staying to a lower register so as not to step on my toes, while Bryce provides a rhythm that keeps Junior’s embellishments company even as he supports Jimmy and I with a solid foundation for our dance.

As we each find our respective places in this little segment of humanity, we surround Junior like a family around the bereaved.

The blues moves as we do. It may focus on any number of things, but there is always an indeterminacy around the edges — just as there is always an indeterminacy around our own actions and motivations. The music is less a matter of form than it is an expression of what it is to be a person.

We can easily imagine Beethoven’s 9th being played to a universe devoid of people: something about it is as eternal and self-sufficient as the stars and planets themselves. But if there were no people to hear the blues, the universe would be forced to invent them.

To this end, we offer one book for each of ten categories with which the well-rounded man should have at least some familiarity.

1) Adventure: Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing

It isn’t often that we celebrate explorers who fail, but Shackleton’s disastrous third attempt to lead a party to the South Pole is such an astounding and inspirational tale that it has come to be honored as a success in its own right. Stranded on a frozen island 1,200 miles from the nearest human settlement, Shackleton’s leadership and courage brought his crew through one of the worst ordeals imaginable without a single life being lost.

Additional reading: Shackleton’s Way: Leadership Lessons from the Great Antarctic Explorer, by Margot Morrell and Stephanie Capparell.

2) Classics: Hamlet, by William Shakespeare

It’s impossible to find one work that can encompass all the merits of classical literature, but Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which wraps a ghost story within a murder mystery and a play within a play, comes surprisingly close. So influential is it that even the most uneducated English speakers unknowingly quote from it on a regular basis. Each time we mention our “mind’s eye,” do something “more in sorrow than in anger,” or feel we must be “cruel to be kind,” we are echoing the words of the tormented Danish prince.

Additional Reading: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard

3) Science: The Double Helix: A Personal Account of the Discovery of the Structure of DNA, by James D. Watson

From biologists exploring the mysteries of life, to criminalists tracking the murderers who destroy it, one of the most important tools of the modern world is DNA. In The Double Helix, Watson offers his readers an intimate look into the frantic race between competing teams of researchers as they sought to reveal the nature of our genetic code. With breathless narrative and clearly-explained scientific principles, Helix is a Boy’s Own adventure story about this remarkable chemical that makes us who we are.

Additional Reading: The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins

4) Religion: A History of God: The 4000 Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, By Karen Armstrong

Where did we get our idea of God? How can the God represented in Judaism, Christianity and Islam be so different to his various followers, and how have our views of Him changed over the millennia? In this ambitious and meticulously researched book, Karen Armstrong traces the evolution of God through the last 4,000 years looks to answer the question, “Does God have a future?”

Additional Reading: The Varieties of Religious Experience, by William James

5) Women Authors: Saint Maybe, by Anne Tyler

While Accidental Tourist is probably her most famous novel, a better introduction to her work is Saint Maybe. This story about a young man who is indirectly responsible for his brother’s suicide and his sister-in-law’s fatal overdose is laugh-out-loud funny as Tyler’s refreshingly honest observations of men and women touch upon the quirks and foibles of us all. She remains one of the few female authors who treats men as human beings rather than villains or comic relief.

Additional Reading: Mister Sandman, by Barbara Gowdy

6) Detective: The Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Edgar Allen Poe

Considered by many to be the first detective novel, The Murders in the Rue Morgue introduces the brilliant theorist, C. Auguste Dupin, who solves crimes in the seclusion of his own home. There he is attended by an assistant who, foreshadowing Dr. Watson, also narrates the story. As an added bonus, this book also has the distinction of giving us one of the most peculiar murderers in the history of the mystery novel.

Additional Reading: The Doorbell Rang, by Rex Stout

7) Politics: The Prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli

Despite its reputation as endorsing cold-blooded manipulation, the underlying principle of Machiavelli’s most famous work is that a population enjoys more personal freedom and security from a stable government than from a government that is always in conflict. Other books may give insight into this or that specific political situation, but with The Prince, readers gain an understanding of the fundamental complexities of nation building.

Additional Reading: The Art of War, by Sun Tzu

8) Humor: The Thurber Carnival, by James Thurber

Thurber set standards for humor writing that have occasionally been equaled, but rarely excelled. His stories, often factual, convey the most extraordinary events in the most mundane fashion. No matter how loudly the bed falls on father, how many shoes mother throws through the neighbor’s windows, or how many miles the townsfolk run before realizing the damn has not, in fact, broken, Thurber recites it all in such a calm manner the reader can’t help feeling that this is the stuff of normal life.

Additional Reading: The Best of Robert Benchley, by Robert Benchley

9) Philosophy: The Story of Philosophy: the Lives and Opinions of the Greater Philosophers, by Will Durant

With the clarity and brilliance that made him one of the world’s best philosophical writers, Durant takes the reader on a journey of philosophy through the millennia. Beginning with Plato and ending with Nietzsche, The Story of Philosophy is a revealing glimpse not only into the major philosophical schools that have influenced Western Civilization, but also into the minds of the philosophers who founded them.

Additional Reading: Philosophy Made Simple, by Richard H. Popkin

10) Crime: The Criminal History of Mankind, by Colin Wilson

Using Maslow’s Hierarchy of Values as a starting point, Wilson traces criminal motivations as they progress from simple needs (muggings and murder for profit), through sexual gratification (Jack the Ripper), to the self-actualizing spree killer (Ted Bundy). Careful scholarship, intelligently passionate writing, and a clear, provocative thesis make this one of the most compelling books on crime you’ll ever read.

Additional Reading: Thinking About Crime, by James Q. Wilson

Far from being an "idiot box," the television set has acted as a window into a world of liberal values

It’s been called “the idiot box,” “the boob tube, and “the electric teat.” In short, TV has been considered by many to be a complete and utter waste of time. According to its critics it has no redeeming features – aside from the occasional PBS documentary and high-brow British comedy featuring men dressed in women’s clothing. Its only legacy: a brainwashed, docile, and homogeneous society. Questioning this assertion is tantamount to admitting that you accidentally tossed your brains into the blue box – along with your copies of Weekly World News and National Enquirer.

So I guess what I’m about to say at least shows I recycle: I think television has been one of the greatest agents of liberal change in the history of North America.

During the racially troubled ‘60s, TV did more to advance the cause of civil rights than all the public debates, newspaper articles, and painfully earnest books combined. Television signals blanketed the continent with narratives: narratives of families, friends, bus drivers, police, lawyers, and talking horses. And many of these narratives included messages of tolerance and racial unity. While conservative regions had been able to largely isolate themselves from encroaching liberal values by means of local newspapers and radio stations, they were unable to withstand the increasingly diverse stories beamed into their homes through the national television networks.

I’m not talking about news reports and serious documentaries. Admirable as they may have been, they were ultimately only seen by a relatively small percentage of the viewing public, most of whom already had the liberal attitudes being espoused. The real influence came from the sitcoms, the variety shows, and the courtroom dramas that made up the greatest bulk of the TV diet – the very shows most often pegged as mindless, brain-dead drivel. Many deserved the criticism; many didn’t. What was important, however, was that when Robert Culp and Bill Cosby joined forces in I Spy, the unprecedented collaboration of white and black as equal partners was beamed into the living rooms of northerners and southerners, urbanites and farmers, bigots and non-bigots alike.

Dr. Martin Luther King recognized the social power of popular shows. When actress Nichelle Nichols contemplated leaving Star Trek to do more socially significant roles, Dr. King told her she “could not give up” and that she was “a vital role model for young black children and women across the country” (Nichelle, 2007).

The scene the midwest wouldn't watch

Admittedly TV wasn’t exactly cutting-edge in its depiction of racial harmony. It took a long time for black actors to find their way as major characters, and when Rodenberry showed the first inter-racial kiss on TV (between Captain Kirk and Uhura) he used the actors’ heads to hide the actual kiss – and even then, the episode wasn’t shown in some of the southern states for fear of boycotts and reprisals (William, 2007). But despite the often hysterical criticism from its more regressive viewers, TV continued to push a message of tolerance and integration.

But TV’s benefits extend far beyond issues of racism; it chipped away at scores of seemingly unassailable prejudices and outmoded societal mores. The previously unquestioned value of corporal punishment was gently undermined as parents watched Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, Rob and Laura Petrie, and even Gomez and Morticia Addams handle their children without benefit of spankings (although in the Addams household there were no end of casual explosions). Long-stigmatized life-styles found growing acceptance. Despite its less-than-stellar comedy, That Girl showed a single woman following a career path without benefit of a husband. Sitcoms like One Day at a Time and Alice featured respectable single mothers. Julia did the same with a single black mother. My Three Sons and The Andy Griffith Show featured single males raising children.

This progressive influence did not come about through the intelligence of the shows, nor even the quality. In fact intelligent shows, of the kind often promoted by academics and professional intellectuals, would never have had the same impact. We needed the goofiness of I Love Lucy to highlight a Cuban TV star; the n’er-do-well adventures of The Honeymooners to give dignity to the working class, and the action-packed adventure of I Spy to give co-star status to a black actor.

TV has been saddled with many insults, but it has also been called a “window on the world.” Sometimes the window opens onto an unfolding moment of history, such as the assassination of a president or the first man on the moon; sometimes it opens onto a critically acclaimed drama, such as Arthur Halley’s Roots or Rod Serling’s Requiem for a Heavyweight; and sometimes (perhaps most times) it opens onto a vignette of total idiocy, such as Rob Petrie falling over an ottoman or Klinger wearing a dress and bucking for his Section Eight. But the important thing is that it opens. And in doing so, it allows us all to discover there are more ways to live than we had known – and that changing channels in life is far easier than we thought.