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Morning rain, so no morning run. Hot breakfast, Morning Prayer at home, then reading and odds and ends from work.

I noticed that Nijay Gupta (and based on his post, Michael Bird) is writing a retrospective overview of his publications. As part of a motivation for me to apply myself to writing more, again, I’m taking their cue to reflect on my own books and their background.

My first book (written) is, as so often for recent graduates, a refinement of my doctoral thesis at Duke. I wrote most of the thesis while I was in residence at Durham, but after a year I had to take a job to support Margaret and the boys, so during my first year of full-time teaching I would take a day or so a week to stay overnight in my office at Eckerd College to hammer out the last chapters of my thesis. Finished in 1991, I set about seeking a publisher. In those days there were fewer theological presses, especially for lightly-converted dissertations, so I turned first to the obvious place, the SBL Dissertation Series (the clue is in the name).

But the SBL Dissertation Series turned me down; after that, I don’t remember whether I submitted it to any other presses. There were some mills that would publish anything they could sell to a library, but I had hoped for at least a modicum of selectivity in my first publisher. The rejection by a dissertation series disappointed me significantly, since the SBLDS should, in principle, have been the easiest place for me to place my thesis: that was the series’s raison d’être. If it didn’t fit the Dissertation Series, how likely was it that a university press or a commercial publisher would want it? I knew it fell outside the bounds of what most presses were taking in the early 90s — biblical theology was passé, postmodern thought was not yet marketable, questioning the prevalence of historical criticism’s paramount role marked one as a minor troublemaker — and I felt uneasy about my prospects.

At the time Charles Mabee was editing the American Biblical Hermeneutics series for Mercer University Press; he also chaired the Hermeneutics section of the SBL Southeast Region, where I gave a couple of papers that he liked. After one session, I described my thesis to him and asked whether he thought it might fit in his series. Charles — very different as we are — encouraged me enthusiastically, so I submitted my ms to Mercer, and they accepted it. I needed to translate all the French and German that I’d left in the thesis (partly to make it explicit that I could read the languages, partly to avoid quibbles with my committee over better or worse translations, and possibly to avoid making it easier for them to question my reading). I wanted to make more gentle my disagreement with Leander Keck, a brilliant scholar who had shown a graciously kind interest in my studies and my work, which I had expressed more poointedly in my thesis with a view to making clear the contours of my argument. On the whole, though, it was an easy transition, and >Making Sense of New Testament Theology: “Modern” Problems and Prospects was published in 1995 as 11th book in the series of Studies in American Biblical Hermeneutics.

The argument of the book and thesis is, simply, that the felt problem with ‘biblical theology’/‘New Testament Theology’ at that historical moment (I feel very old to referring to my thirties as ‘at that historical moment’) could be ascribed to the contradictory aims of observing rigorously historical criteria (often in the name of ‘reality’) as the paramount criterion while simultaneously delivering satisfactorily theological conclusions. Scholars treated this as a matter of necessity, of the nature of New Testament theology, as self-evidently integral to responsible scholarship. I proposed, contrariwise, that there is no ‘nature’ of New Testament theology, that many of the supposed bedrock arguments in support of this model were either intrinsically flawed or derived their authority not from nature or necessity but from the cultural assumptions typical of modernity. The scholars could more readily attain their goals scholars I discussed took modernity to provide the necessity for their imperatives, while I noted that modernity constitutes only one possible array of cultural forces, and that readers who want a more theological New Testament theology should simply prepare to part ways to some extent with the cultural imperatives of modernity and identify other criteria for the soundness of their interpretations.

For various reasons, including my involvement in other projects on postmodern biblical interpretation, some readers took my argument to mean something along the line that everyone should be postmodern and not give a fig about truth or history, only being witty and confounding their neighbours. This serves mostly to confirm my argument that once you write something, however clearly, people will make of it what they will, and you just have to live with that. I admire arguments in behalf of postmodern thought where they help me puzzle out the peculiarities of the discursive worlds I inhabit, and I find those arguments tedious to the extent that they amount to casual denunciations of the ‘Words have menaings, cos you think it’s wrong to use [fillin an expletive or racial or sexual slur].’ Bore me.

So it’s not an argument for postmodern New Testament theology, or even against modern New Testament theology, so much as it’s an argument against trying to square the circle of seeking an austerely historical, richly theological New Testament theology.Prove me wrong by showing an example of a New Testament theology that historians can enthusiastically adopt without committing themselves to Christian sympathies, or a profoundly theological NT theology which rests squarely on indisputably sound historical pillars.

As a relatively small university press, MUP wasn’t in a position to promote the book. People who knew about it received it more or less positively, and it got some distinctly enthusiastic reviews. Still, it didn’t make a splash. As far as I can tell, more people knew about me from my conference papers and book reviews than from Making Sense. Still it said what I wanted to and it reached some niche audiences (I believe that David Aune used it in his classes at Notre Dame, and Keikki Räisänen — whom I criticise in the , and helped get my job at Princeton Seminary, all things for which I’m tremendously grateful. It stands up over the years; you can see, for instance, that Joel GReen’s Practicing Theological Interpretation invokes many of the same arguments, though without citing me (and although he knew my work as a reviewer; Baker Academic asked me to blurb it, though my blurb doesn’t appear on Amaon’s list of endorsements — check the back cover, though). And Making Sense has continued to sell in infinitesimal numbers.

Good-ish run this morning, coffee and fruit, and I tinkered with my gold Waterman CF (which has persistent flow problems; I suspect the feed is misplaced relative to the nib and section, either too close or misaligned). Shower, Morning Prayer at home, and in a bit I will head in to Oxford to help my finalists revise for their exams at a contemporary version of Oriel’s former-days Theology Camp. I neglected to sign in for lunch, so I’ll come directly home and spend the afternoon reading and editing Pope Francis’s Letter on the Role of Literature in Formation for the Internet Archive.

O God, faithful rewarder of souls,
grant that your departed servant Pope Francis,
whom you made successor of Peter
and shepherd of your Church,
may happily enjoy for ever in your presence in heaven
the mysteries of your grace and compassion
which he faithfully ministered on earth.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.

Walked my morning miles out of sheer laziness and weariness, after a long night’s sleep; coffee and fruit, I’ll go in to say Morning Prayer, then on to R&R for coffee out. I may skip the church’s Morning Prayer services later in the week, maybe not, but I’m on low-expectations duty after Holy Week. (Colleagues sometimes say ‘week off’, but that’s not my understanding of clerical vocation.)

Margaret and I have been hovering over the Lincoln Cathedral Falcon Cam to see how the pair’s four eggs hatch. All our best to you, Peregrine Couple and soon-to-be-fledglings!

7 March, and then 16 March, would have been my sister’s 66th and my mother’s 90th birthdays, respectively; and then 1 April was the day Holly died last year; and since then, there’s been ‘Siblings Day’ (when did someone think that one up?), and soon enough 24 June will come, the day Mom died eight years ago.

From around the time of their birthdays, I thought I should say something about them. It’s difficult, because each relationship had its own pattern of distance with fewer bonds of familial intimacy than I’d wish, than I hope they’d wish too. What words can express that honest, practical remoteness to the relationships in my family without making us sound like a horrible novel about a chilly suburban household with people acting out in various dramatic, clinical ways? We were together, no doubt, though my mother and father were drifting; we had a certain closeness, but much of the time it was more similar to a positive teacher-student relationship (to parents) or congenial but not favourite classmates.

My mother had troubles with the men in her life, and I imagine that a son with autistic tendencies (before we knew how to gather those into an explicable, clinical characterisation) must have been among the worst possible matches for her. Though we rarely clashed, there just wasn’t much mother-son affection between us. She and her then-husband knew of my old-times hacking skills and offered me a job working at their computer graphics start-up in the eighties, but we still didn’t see much of one another (feel free to point the finger at me — I didn’t go out of my way to spend time with them). When eventually I realised that as a grown-up it was my job to reach out to her, to extend myself to keep in touch, she saved the weekly notes I sent her, but I had to take Aunt Harriet’s word that she was reading and appreciating them. She was much closer to Margaret than to me; she would talk to Margaret about me in the third person, with me right there in the room. And I know, I’m sure, I didn’t live up to what she might have wanted from a son. My vocation as an academic probably pinched, since she had felt let down by her father and my father, both academics before me.

After my mother and father divorced, Holly — who had been more close to Mom in school days — gravitated to my father, and they developed a very strong connection.I had left for my undergraduate years by then, and my letters home (of which I apparently wrote many more than I would have guessed) gradually tapered off. She went off for her degree, then from a start in retail fashion in Pittsburgh during high school went to work at Vogue, Ralph Lauren, and ultimately Bloomingdale’s, where she headed men’s and children’s fashions. After Bloomingdale’s, she started a cashmere goods retail store in Greenwich, Connecticut. You can see how this plays out for me: I had no fashion sense at all, and if I have developed any since then it has been on the basis of avoiding taking fashion risks. For a very long time, if I had any clothes or accessories that looked especially snappy or sharp, they were gifts from her. Still, we were chalk and cheese, and I think she had some hard feelings comparing our lives.

This afternoon I saw a post on BlueSky showing the route of Paul Revere’s ride, with notations for the locations on his path where today he might obtain a refreshing cup of coffee and a donut from Dunkin’. I looked more closely and saw the locations of the Dunkin’ and the Trader Joe’s that I remembered from going to be with Mom during the last days of her life. And it cut through to my heart.

Got up, ran my two miles despite feeling as though I had less than zero energy — which recalled to my attention something John Darnielle had said on BlueSky the other day — since I realised, as I plodded along, that yesterday was a strict fast day. It actually makes physiological sense that I would not have much rapid-burn energy available. Duh!

Then had a hot breakfast, showered and dressed, to church for Morning Prayer on Holy Saturday, to the grocer’s for ingredients for Margaret’s Easter Lamb Cake, and home to blog and settle some planning for tonight, and finish and burnish tomorrow’s sermon.

Friday is usually a fast day; though many no longer remember, ‘meatless Friday’ or ‘Fish on Friday’ was once a near-universal observance among Roman Catholics and catholic-leaning high-church Anglicans. Good Friday, though, is a stricter fast, and can last through to the celebration of the Eucharist at the Easter Vigil. (St Helen’s doesn’t have a eucharistic Easter Vigil, so I’ll figure something else out.) Anyway, reflecting on my appetite brought to mind the impracticality of observing a severe fast on the busiest days of the liturgical calendar. But I digress….
Adequate two miles this morning (knees weren’t limber till well into the run), coffee, shower, dress, Morning Prayer, home to work on (a) Easter sermon (b) Stations of the Cross (c) where to locate the Stations indoors in case it rains tonight.

Shortly, I’m off to the church early to confirm or tweak the planned indoor path, make the arrangements for the Good Friday service, check the anticipated numbers for the Way of the Cross, lead Good Friday, go home to print materials for Stations, then back to church in time for the Way of the Cross at 8:00. Then home.

Yesterday I had an adequate run in blustery winds, hot breakfast, Morning Prayer, and spent a lot of the day working on the Stations of the Cross for Friday evening (and, of course, dealing with email).

This morning, a good run, will shower and dress and wander in for Morning Prayer, thence to Oxford for the Chrism Mass, back to Abingdon to open the Vestry for a silver-polisher, eventually home to grab a quick dinner before going to St Michael’s for the Maundy Thursday Mass.

Rainy morning, so I didn’t run; instead I gave myself a bit of a lie-in. Cup of coffee and fruit, dealt with a swarm of emails, showered and dressed, Morning Prayer, back home for coffee and toast, then a day of correspondence, editing, waiting for incoming mail, and planning Friday’s Stations of the Cross. My day off.

Two adequate miles this morning, coffee and fruit, showered and dressed and did a couple of tasks from my list, Morning Prayer, coffee and toast, Teams meeting, worked at a task but then was distracted by trying to improve the flow on a pen with shims (I think the problem is with the feed tube, not the nib itself), now off for my Easter haircut.

(That’s ‘Minus First’, since Easter Week is Noughth Week.)