Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times (New York: Riverhead Books, 2020).

Now that much of the world is emerging after a more-than-year-long season of pandemic-driven isolation and anxiety, Katherine May's Wintering may provide a means to think through all that has occurred within our private and corporate psyches. In memoir-like fashion, May artfully shares her own life as a backdrop to draw the reader to understand wintering.

Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you're cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness or a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you're in a period of transition and have temporarily fallen between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence (10).

May's writing style is articulate, graceful, precise and expansive. Word-lovers will find a delightful repast served on a vocabularic table of plenitude. Especially enchanting are her connections between the worlds of nature (plant life, birds, bees) and the vicissitudes of human experience. Not to be missed are her carefully crafted descriptions of the thrumming life within the beehive, the glory of aurora borealis and the joyful elation of the robin.

Divided by seasonal months ("September" through "March") Wintering is a credible journey through life's dark valleys and frigid vistas, helping the reader dislodge him- or herself from emotional "stuck-ness" in order to experience the truth of life: there are deep, difficult moments of hardship, but there are also times when winter breaks into spring, with renewed life, vigor and song.

Whether you are currently wintering, have had a history of cold, dark times or recognize you are on the verge of entering such a season once again, you need to read this book. May does not encourage the reader to avoid winter seasons, but rather to embrace these times for the eventual good such times bring to our deepest human yearnings.

Who Stole My Bible? Reclaiming Scripture as a Handbook for Resisting Tyranny (Jennifer Butler, Faith in Public Life, 2020)

Butler's book has at least three audiences in mind: (a) the religious progressive seeking rootage in the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, (b) those beginning a journey into a theologically progressive environment, and (c) those who seek to better understand how "progressive Christian" is not an oxymoron.

The author has distinguished herself over the years in her progressive social activism, closely connected to Faith in Public Life. Her distinctive contribution is the desire to show how Scripture creates a progressive mindset.In her relatively short volume (149 pages) the author guides the reader from Genesis to Revelation in understanding the wide scope of Scripture's consistent heartbeat: resist tyranny and serve God. The kind of service the author sees is undergirded with liberation (her helpful bibliography includes the recognize "names" of liberation and womanist theologies, to name two categories). Early on she cites her goal: to connect biblical and post biblical leaders "whose work has shown just what can and should be done to resist tyranny" (xxv).

This is a helpful read for those seeking an introduction to progressive religious thought, as well as a refresher for those reappraising their own faith stance. Regrettably, the book was written just before the 2020 elections, so much of the rhetoric is formed in response to (what was at the time the current tenure of) President Trump. Published in 2020, but released after the election, the book was too late to pique the thinking of voters, and cannot consider the possibilities offered by the blue-wave 2020 election results. A publication and release date a year earlier may have been especially relevant.

That said, Butler's work is helpful. She elucidates the possibilities of a progressive social agenda and skillfully weaves biblical and theological thought to make a convincing argument. For Christians disheartened with the radical right, Butler is a helpful antidote. For those already committed to a progressive theological and social agenda, Butler affirms and strengthens.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR,Part 255.

The End Is Music: A Companion to Robert W. Jenson's Theology (Chris E. W. Green, Cascade Books, 2018)

Author Chris Green acknowledges, within the first few words of his Preface, the difficulty of writing a worthwhile companion to a theologian's broader work. This is especially the case, he writes, for a theologian of such prodigious writing volume as Robert Jenson (1930-2017). Because I am virtually unfamiliar with Jenson's work, I picked up this volume as a means to acquaint myself

with Jenson and to help me decide whether or not to investigate more deeply his theology.

In spite of Green's reservations, his relatively brief (around 125 pages, without bibliography) companion to Jenson is well done. He lays out with clarity Jenson's theological program in broad terms and then systematically parses his work into chapters which include: God, Truth, Creation, Salvation, Church and Kingdom.

Green captures my attention in several ways. (1) I'm fascinated by the connection Jenson, a devoutly Lutheran theologian, has with the pre-Colonial Puritan Jonathan Edwards. Green's several references to this connection intrigue me to investigate more deeply this unlikely trans-historical, cross-denominational theological match-up. (2) Throughout Green's brief companion volume, he references Jenson's explication of the nature of time and its relationship with a creative God in ways that open new thinking vistas for the practical theological (i.e., the "pastor," the "preacher"). (3) His final chapter, especially his thoughtful coverage of Jenson's eschatology is hopeful and faith-inspiring. It is a healthy, optimistic contrast to much of Christian publishing's past two or more decades of "Left Behind" nonsense.

Like many pastors, I have taken little time since seminary days to intentionally devote time to reading theological tomes. Occasionally I have dipped into some of the past's heavy-hitters (Barth and Brunner, for example), but not for any protracted period of time. The ever-present hum of sermon and Bible study preparations have garnered my attention for much of my vocational life.

Green, however, has whet my appetite for more of Robert Jenson's theology. Green's focused, brief but meaty companion to Jenson is a good start.

Kin: A Memoir (Shawn Kay Rodenberg, Bloomsbury Publishing, releasing June 8, 2021)

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When I saw Rodenberg's memoir publicized on NetGalley, I was caught by two features: its connection to Minnesota (the state I called "home" for most of my life) and its promise to detail life in a selective religious commun(e)ity from the viewpoint of a child. The book delivers on both levels, although its structure and details may create momentary befuddlement for the reader (more on that in a moment).

The author describes how her childhood is radically changed when her parents decide to move to northern Minnesota, several hundred miles away from their home in Kentucky. Her grandparents are protectively concerned, but offer support throughout the young family's transition. She writes with candor and provides the unique perspective of life through a child's eyes. Living in community (of whatever kind) is a challenging proposition, but especially when living in the closest of proximities with those who share a religious life together. 

The spiritual life she describes is directed by a strong male authority figure (complemented by the expectation that the "man of the family" will provide similar leadership in his own family unit). Surprisingly, the author seems to have emerged from such a rigorous childhood without bitterness. In the midst of what seems like spiritual and emotional confinement, she relates moments of liberation where humane light shines forth. After a period of home schooling, she is allowed to attend a local public elementary, where her artistic capacities are recognized and encouraged. In a religious sect that didn't permit celebrations like birthdays and holidays, there are moments where her mother privately surprises her daughters with loving gifts.

The book, though, is about much more than a child growing up in a fundamentalist religious sect. It is a multigenerational memoir, in which the value of extended family is described. It is, of course, still a personal memoir, and Rodenberg discloses with sometimes painful honesty the highs and lows of her (to this point) life's journey.

While the author's multigenerational memoir helps to provide the reader helpful context, there are times when the alternating chapter pattern between generations offers too many names and details. The power of her personal story's narrative is at times compromised by the flood of family details. I wonder how my appreciation of her work might be enhanced if it were simply her memoir, with brief (not chapter-long) family references.

The author's concluding paragraph reminds the reader that hers is a story still being written. And perhaps that is the book's most notable feature: the recognition that for all of us, our life's story continues to be written and any attempt we make at memoir is but a snapshot, a picture in a moment of time. The rest of the story, for all of us, is still being written.

(Disclosure: I received this NetGalley ebook without charge and received no compensation; the only expectation is to provide this honest review).

Gilead: A Novel (Marilynne Robinson, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2004)

I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren’t very old, as if that settled it.

And so begins Marilynne Robinson's award-winning novel, Gilead. I've heard about this literary treat for years and finally resolved to read it in 2021. The novel's main character, Rev. John Ames, and I share a few things in common: we are both ordained ministers (he in the Congregational tradition, I in the Methodist tradition), we are both aging (I in my mid-50s and he in his late 70's), we both have loquacious, interior lives (his reflecting back into the late 1800s, mine reflecting back into the late 1900s), we both desire to leave a legacy (neither of us with much in terms of financial largesse, but much in the depths of life's interiority).

This is not a fast-paced piece ridden with glib conversation and surface characterization. While it does not require immersion in the 1950s (the era in which he writes this, his personal memoir) nor the cacophony that was Kansas and Iowa in the pre- and post-Civil War era (the era of his grandfather, an ardent and eccentric abolitionist, about whom he reflects often), it does require an appreciation for the way the human heart and mind process time, relationships and legacy.

Briefly, the story encapsulated in the midst of Ames' reflective work is that of a Congregational minister and a Presbyterian minister who are neighbors in small-town Iowa. Friends from the time they were young, Ames describes the texture of a relationship that has morphed over the years. At the center of the story is Ames' young son, his only biological son born from his marriage to a woman more than 40 years his junior. In the background, and making an occasional appearance, is his namesake, though not his biological son. His namesake, the son of his Presbyterian minister, is a befuddled, spiritually vacuous, doubter who is never able to make a sound decision. 

Robinson captures the essence of what it means to make peace with one's past, as well as insightfully helps the reader traverse the complexities of lifelong relationships, their joys and disappointments. While a serious book, it is not somber, and it is peppered with brief witticisms on the memoirist's part, appropriate to a health-challenged, aging man in his late 70's

It is, all told, a taste of the biblical "balm of Gilead," a time of gentle reflection, capturing the lamentations of aging and the deep-set need to leave a meaningful legacy for the next generation.

Snow (John Banville, Hanover Square Press, 2020)

An atmospheric, literary treat in the mystery genre, John Banville's Snow is and is not what you expect it to be. It is mystery in the Agatha Christie mode. Full of contextual description, relying on the ever-present snow motif, nestled in 1957 Ireland, with the characters you might expect: a Catholic priest whose sudden death is surrounded in intrigue, the obligatory detective in an unknown geographical locale, the esoteric personalities of a small community. And, of course, there is the overshadowing presence of the Roman Catholic Church and its hierarchy, depicted at the height of its influence in post-World War II Ireland. That's what you might expect.

You might not expect, however, the author's beautiful use of language. Whether he is loquaciously describing the falling snow, its variations and evidences, or in recording the unique dialects in this southeastern Irish community, Banville has crafted a literary volume unlike most mystery books you have read. Truth be told, there are times when his descriptions are so captivating and multi-layered, the reader becomes either enchanted or disoriented (you choose which), losing sight of the facts in evidence.

Especially notable is Banville's close attention to historic contextual detail. He carefully describes the eccentricities of 1957 automobiles (down to the way the gears are engaged). He reminds the reader that heating systems in 1957 Ireland are not like those of 2020. Flowing descriptions of clothing and food allow the reader to step back more than sixty years in time.

Another unexpected pleasure is his generous development of character. Unlike most popular mystery authors, Banville invests time and eloquence in his intriguing cast of characters. They are complex, unique and never relegated to the banality of much modern mystery writing.

In the midst of the beauty and depth of Snow, there is a final quality you might not expect. The reader (even one not enamored with character depth, expansive vocabulary and descriptive context) will deduce quite early in the book the cause for the priest's bloody demise, as well as the instigator of said death.

But wait. Are you sure? Do you know for certain who the killer is?

While there are enough details to allow the reader to close the book with some sense of finality, there is the nagging feeling that perhaps there is more to come. Perhaps Detective Saint John (yes, that is his first name, pronounced "Sinjin") Strofford (yes, that is with an "r") is not quite finished. With this case or others to come. Stay tuned!