I’ve always loved books.
I fell in love with books before I could read, when my parents would read story after story to me, and I’d memorize the stories, and my mom would tell her friends that I could read before I could because I not only knew the books word-for-word, but I knew when to turn the pages and where to look at which words. (Don’t worry–she always revealed her joke before they called the nightly news.)
Year after year, I handed my parents my Christmas list–a list of books. Then I’d spend Christmas day and the rest of the week finishing those books. At the annual school book fair, I’d dog-ear the catalog and make my selections, parceling out the little money I had to spend on lengthy books that would last longer.
I read books because I wanted to be like the people I read about (especially Anne of Green Gables, but that’s no secret). I wanted to live in their worlds. I wanted to bring something from their worlds into mine.
Sometime later, I noticed how all the smart people analyzed books, and I wanted to learn how to do that. I wanted to glean more and more from the book. I had learned how to analyze music, and it made me love and understand music deeper and wider. I had learned how to analyze Scripture and theology, and it made me love and understand God and his ways more. I wanted the same for books. I wanted to love books and short stories I hadn’t understood before. I wanted to see deeper into the books and stories I already loved. I wanted to know why I loved them, what made them so great.
At first, learning different ways that people tell stories and develop characters and unfold themes and paint images did just that. It opened up the wonders of a book and its construction and the genius of the writer. I began to learn how to discern between a fun read and something much deeper. But sometimes, it became something ugly.
It became a way for me to feel superior to people who only read those kinds of books. And it became a voice censoring the books I could read and enjoy.
There is something objective to art, what makes a book well-written, well-developed, and long-lasting, what makes the characters linger on our palates, the stories mingle with our memories, the themes sneak into our theologies and ideologies and all those other -ologies that guide how we choose jobs or clean our homes or love our neighbors. Analyzing a piece of art can help us understand its meaning and why it means something to us.
But here’s where I erred: I forgot to first enter into the story. Sometimes I forgot to enjoy reading. I looked first at what I was supposed to think about it, what the author said about the book, what the critics said about the book, what the smart readers said about the book. I forgot because I feared not looking smart.
We fall in love with reading because we enter into these stories, into the lives of these characters, and they mean something to us. The stories reflect our own. We realize we’re not alone. We understand something we didn’t understand before about ourselves, our world (micro and macro), or about the woman down the street.
When I enter into a story, I may (gasp) miss something that the author intended or the critics got, but I may also get something else entirely out of it. It may relate to me in a way that it never related to the author because we have different experiences, different backgrounds, different lives.
I learned to be okay with looking dumb when I read and talked about a book (or play, for that matter) because here’s the other thing: I can learn from a community of readers who also entered into the story and gleaned something entirely different than what I did. I learned to be okay with admitting that the most influential authors on my life and writing include, yes, Chimamanda Adichie and Richard Russo and Jennifer Egan and Anne Tyler and (now) Jonathan Safran Foer, but they also include Carolyn Keene (or the group of writers who make up Carolyn Keene) and L.M. Montgomery and (here’s the big reveal that may destroy my reputation [in my head, I have a grand reputation]) Janette Oke. I learned to be okay with admitting that some days I read a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, some days I read a whodunit, and some days I even read an Oprah-pick (don’t judge me).
I love books. The bookshelf in my bedroom is reserved for the books dearest to me (except for some that I purposely display in the living room because I think they’ll tell you something about who I am–books like Nancy Drew and Anne of Green Gables). I want to see them when I go to sleep and wake up. And this is why I read.
Julie Salamon undertakes a daunting task: writing a biography on Wendy Wasserstein, Pulitzer-Prize and Tony-award winning playwright. In fact, Wasserstein was the first woman to receive a Tony award, making her somewhat of a standard in theater studies. Through her plays, Wasserstein reflected the issues of the Baby Boomer woman: career, birth control, love, marriage, and children and the ambition and self-doubt enveloping those issues. She portrayed women in a way that had never been portrayed before. This made some uncomfortable, but it gave others freedom. In her life, she created a network of playwrights, producers, directors, actors, and critics. Everyone knew Wendy. She defined Off Broadway of the 80s and influenced Broadway.
Review–The Gospel of Matthew: God With Us by Matt Woodley
IVP has a new commentary series, Resonate Series, edited by Paul Metzger, a theologian for whom I have much respect. The series seeks to bridge the ancient teachings of the Bible with today’s culture. In this book on Matthew, author Matt Woodley picks up the theme of God with us to challenge us to the adventure to which Jesus calls us, one that asks for wholehearted commitment but is “especially designed for all the ‘little faiths’ who never have to walk alone” (pp. 21-22). Woodley presents the challenge and encouragement found in Matthew.
I’m honored to be part of a blog review on this book and have been asked to take a particular look at Woodley’s essays on Matthew 18. (You can find out more about the book on its Facebook page, as well as links to reviews on other chapters.)
Matthew 18 is a difficult chapter–both to understand (with sections about binding and releasing on earth and heaven) and to follow (ach! that darned command to forgive and forgive and forgive!).
This commentary simplifies the passage so that as Christians, we can understand how Jesus wants us to follow him. Matt Woodley presents a more lay-level commentary. He doesn’t concern himself with verse-by-verse interpretation but with viewing larger passages in a culturally sensitive light–sensitive to the culture in which it was written and the culture in which we must now live it out. To facilitate this, the author writes in essays about sections of Matthew, including his interpretation, large-scale ideas for applications, and illustrations from his own life.
Or, to put it another way, this commentary reads less like a traditional commentary and more like collected preachings–or blog posts–on the book of Matthew. Those looking for a more in-depth commentary that surveys and works through the different theologies of difficult passages (such as that binding and releasing passage in 18:18-20) may be disappointed, but those looking for an aide to understand how to practically take these teachings of Jesus and apply it in our interactions with others will find a good resource in The Gospel of Matthew: God With Us.
The essays for chapter 18, “A Person’s a Person, No Matter How Small” (17:24-18:20) and “The Unnatural Act of Forgiveness” (18:21-35), both point out Jesus’s concern with how we treat others according to God’s compassion: the socially forgotten or outcast and those who have hurt us. In both cases, Woodley shows us how dealing with people God’s way differs from dealing with people according to the world’s way. I would have liked to have seen more connection and crossover between the teaching on confronting sin and on forgiveness (perhaps breaking the essays in 17:24-18:14 and 18:15-35), which gives balance for these two hard truths and more context for the passage on binding and loosing (which Woodley doesn’t deal with at all), but I also appreciate how Woodley connected them, using the value of respecting others and understanding that we’re all little people in God’s sight to bring together how we approach others. Of course, each teaching in this chapter flows into the next–chasing the lost sheep, restoring a lost brother through confronting his sin, forgiving a brother–that any type of break is difficult to do (and yet needed for practicality’s sake).
In the first essay, Woodley makes a comment about the childlike attitude Jesus calls us to have: “We enter through that door by receiving Christ, but we must reenter the same door every day for the rest of our life.” In context, I believe the author doesn’t mean that we must be re-saved every day but that we must persevere with a humble, childlike attitude so that we respond properly to God and to others around us. That being said, I would have liked to have seen him more careful with his wording to prevent misunderstandings. (I remember as a child feeling like I had to be saved again every day after that day’s disobedience until my dad explained to me Christ’s faithfulness and the assurance I had, so I’m sensitive to this issue.)
In the second essay, I came across a favorite line: “Jesus didn’t ignore ordinary human feelings; this Gospel begins and ends with a God who enters our godforsaken places.” Reminders like these make this a readable, challenging commentary that gets us on our feet for God’s kingdom.
I highly recommend this commentary for personal study, to use as a small group book study, or as a resource for lay-level teachers. The Gospel of Matthew gets to the heart of Jesus’ teachings and makes them hard to ignore.
I received a free copy of the book from IVP with the agreement that I’d review it on my blog. This in no way committed me to a positive review.