Anne Rice and Christ the Lord out of Egypt: A Novel
Remember Interview with a Vampire? Remember the feeling, as you read it, that you were probably treading very close to the essence of evil, and that evil was seductive and incredibly attractive? Anne Rice created a world of believable vampires, vampires you could identify with, vampires who created a cult following, and a legion of goth vampire wannabe’s, her prose was that seductive, that inviting, that . . . . irresistable.
Like a siren song, the voice pulled you from book to book, leading you along. With each book, a twist, and suddenly all the assumptions from the previous book were turned upside down, no longer valid when seen from another perspective. Rice lured you down the garden path step by step, and it’s hard to tell at what point you give up your will to resist the siren call.
Recently Anne Rice experienced a re-conversion to Christianity, and is now devoting her writing talents to serving God. This newest book, Christ the Lord out of Egypt, is as thoroughly researched as all the earlier books, and speculates on the early years of the Christ. The book opens in Egypt, with a seven year old Jesus, wise beyond his years but still a child. He sees things he doesn’t understand, he hears things he knows to be significant but doesn’t know why, and when he asks questions, like what happened in Bethleham around the time of his birth, Joseph and Mary, his parents, won’t answer. In fact, they don’t want him to bring up the subject at all, and they tell him they will give him the answers when he gets a little older.
Meanwhile, he hears things, and ponders them. He asks older relatives, and wise teachers. Little by little, he gathers pieces of a puzzle, the puzzle of his background and his identity. He accidently kills a playmate, and brings him back to life. He prays for snow, and it snows. He learns self control through the exercise of powers he doesn’t know he has, he learns to limit himself, and to hide himself.
With his family, they leave Alexandria and return to Jerusalem and then Nazareth, building a new life with their extended family. He grows, he ponders, and he is given a few more pieces of information.
You would think that with Anne Rice’s talent and with her research skills, this would be a fascinating book, but sadly, it is flat, and dull. I wonder why it is easy to make evil so seductively alluring, but it is so hard to bring goodness to life in a believable way? I read the book all the way through, hoping it would get better, but it never did.
There are people – Jan Karon comes to mind – who write about goodness and good people in a vibrant way, making goodness vital and attractive. Wish Anne Rich could find that vein.
Backing Against Hacking
This morning, a wonderfully quiet Friday morning in Kuwait*, I spent my time backing up all the entries in this blog. A fellow blogger, Fonzy went online to find his entire blog blank. Some mean-spirited hacker had gone in and wiped it out. Maybe those incapable of creating, destroy. I can’t imagine the nastiness it takes to wreck and destroy, to harm the innocent. I don’t want to try to wrap my mind around it, but I will take the warning.
Fortunately for the Fonz, he had back-up. Unfortunately for me, in spite of all my good intentions, I haven’t backed up in a long time. Months. So this morning I thanked God nothing had happened to my blog, and I backed it up.
It turned out to be kind of fun. I’d already forgotten some of the things I blogged about. Life moves on, and at such a rapid pace! And whew, now I am finished, at least for the time being. Thanks Fonz, for the reminder to back yourself up.
*For my non-Kuwait/non Middle Eastern readers, Friday morning is like Sunday morning in the western world. Relatively quiet, most people sleeping, not a lot of cars on the road – a day of rest.
Valentine
Talking with a friend the other day, about being married a long time, we were both stunned into momentary silence by the realization that we had lived with our husbands longer than we had lived with our birth families.
We think of all the forces that created who we are as children, but we forget the years of tumbling around in a marriage that helps to wear off all the sharp edges and smooth the jagged surfaces.
It’s not the boxes of candy or the roses, not even the romantic dinners (no! I am not cancelling!) It’s everything . . . the financial struggles, raising children, building a family life, taking care of aging relations, and, God willing, grandchildren . . . good times and bad times. In the long run, it’s all good.
Adventure Man, Happy Valentine’s Day. Through thick and thin, big guy.
Sectarianism
IRISH PROSTITUTE
An Irish daughter had not been home for over 5 years. Upon her return, her father cussed her. “Where have ye been all this time? Why did ye not write to us, not even a line? Why didn’t ye call? Can ye not understand what ye put yer old mum thru?
The girl, crying, replied, “Sniff, sniff….dad….I became a prostitute….”
“Ye what!!? Out of here, ye shameless harlot! Sinner! You’re a disgrace to this family.”
“OK, dad– as ye wish. I just came back to give mum this luxurious fur coat, title deed to a ten bedroom mansion plus a savings certificate for $5 million.
For me little brother, this gold Rolex and for ye daddy, the sparkling new Mercedes limited edition convertible that’s parked outside plus a membership to the country club…. (takes a breath)….and an invitation for ye all to spend New Years Eve on board my new yacht in the Riviera, and….”
“Now what was it ye said ye had become?” says dad.
Girl, crying again,”Sniff, sniff….a prostitute dad! Sniff, sniff.”
“Oh! Be Jesus! Ye scared me half to death, girl! I thought ye said a Protestant’. Come here and give yer old man a hug!”
Mark 11:25
From our lectionary readings for today:
25 ‘Whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses.’*
A Special Birthday in Germany
Birthdays aren’t my favorite days, and in spite of that, I’ve had some really good ones. The best birthday I can remember, ever, came as a gift of sharing that totally blew me away.
I was living in a small German village. Little by little, I mastered enough German to be able to interact with the villagers, who were very kind to me. They included my husband and I in the village events, including private birthday parties, which in Germany, are a BIG deal.
Birthdays are YOUR day. Every woman in the village brings a cake – or two. Competition to provide the fanciest, most lucious cake is keen. The cakes are not overly sweet, but are incredibly full of fresh cream. And of course, it is rude not to try a little of everyone’s cakes . . . all eyes are all watching.
The two women in the village who took care of me were my landlady and her mother-in-law, who lived in a house just across the courtyard. My landlady sang in the village choir, which performed at a variety of locations throughout the year – festivals, local events, schools – and at 50th birthday parties. The 50th Birthday Party was very special. The whole choir would sing JUST for the birthday girl.
It was a very small village. Everyone knew everyone. Some people didn’t speak because their grandmother didn’t speak to someone else’s grandmother. People carried grudges for a long time. Memories were long, and tongues were longer. My landlady’s protection was very valuable to me, an outsider in the village, who might, from time to time, violate customs without even knowing about it.
My husband and I were leaving Germany, after four years in the village. It was around this time of the year, the cold cold of winter in Germany. One evening my landlady came down and asked us to come to her birthday party the next night – our birthdays are only two days apart, and we had often celebrated together. We were delighted for the invitation, as we knew the choir would be seranading our landlady.
There was a lovely catered sit-down dinner. Everyone was in dress-up clothing, and the wine and beer were flowing. We knew it would be our last dinner in the village, and we felt so honored to be included.
And then the choir arrived. The choir master made a speech to our landlady, congratulating her on her special birthday and giving her a long list of good wishes. And then he turned to us, and said that tonight our landlady was sharing her birthday with me, and they would sing two songs for us on our departure.
This was her special day. Her 50th birthday is the day the whole village would honor her. It only happens once in your lifetime. And she shared it with me.
The choir sang “The Gypsy Wanderers”, and truly, it was appropriate for my husband and I, departing for our next life in Doha. From the first notes, I cried. I’ve never minded my vagabond life, but for that brief moment, I regretted not having the kind of deep roots that kept me anchored in one place. I would never have a village singing for my 50th birthday; I had never earned that honor. And my landlady gave it to me, simply, without fanfare, sharing the honors she had earned day by day, living in the village. She gave it expecting nothing in return for it, sheerly for the joy of sharing.
Sebille Collection: New Addition
My husband and I are delighted by the variety of sebilles in Kuwait. I probably didn’t spell it right, and I am probably going to give some semi-erroneous information to my non-Kuwaiti, non-Muslim readers.
Sebilles are places where you can get sweet fresh water to drink or to wash yourself with before prayer. In some places, the government may provide them as a public service, and in other places you find organizations or individuals who will provide them as a charitable work, the way nobles in France would build a cathedral, or we might contribute a pew or a stained glass window to a church, or build a library for a city. In a hot country, sweet fresh water is a blessing to anyone who needs it.
My husband is really good at stopping when I want to take another photo, and even at spotting those we don’t already have. We love the creativity involved. There are some very utilitarian places, all stainless steel and refrigeration. But here are two of our favorite, more creative models. (Please, if I didn’t get this quite right, correct me in the comments section!)
The first is in near the Heritage Souks, back near the gold souks. It is a representation of the famous Kuwaiti Water Towers, which survived the invasion of 1990.
This one was in a residential area, but I have also seen a couple elsewhere. I think it represents the Liberation Tower. I understand that at night, the red light on top really lights up!
Taking “Normal” for Granted
Today a good friend sent a story about a guy driving a very expensive car and a kid hitting the car by throwing a brick. The guy stops his car, ready to kill, and the kid cries and says it was the only way he had to get his attention, he needs help getting his brother back into his wheelchair. The guy instantly goes from raging anger to compassion, and keeps the dent in the side of his car to remind himself that it shouldn’t take a brick to get his attention.
In the story, it says sometimes God uses a brick to get our attention.
I know, I know, you wonder where I am going with this.
It brings two very simple things to my mind. First, I have bored you more than once with my woes of jet lagging. Right now, I am sleeping great, although I am still falling asleep around nine at night, I am sleeping through the night. Thanks be to God! I wake up in the morning thankful for something so simple – a good night’s sleep.
Sleep isn’t so simple for those who suffer sleep deprivation – and their name is legion. My heart especially goes out to young mothers with their first baby . . . no one tells you how sleep deprivation can change your life. You think you can handle anything. Sleep deprivation is a big brick thrown into your life – it really gets your attention. Without adequate high quality sleep, life loses its lustre, and the simplest thing can be overwhelming.
Second, this is the time of year when many blogs feature colds and flu and lingering illnesses. I rarely get sick, but when I do – oh, I am such a baby. I don’t want concerned people around, I just want to be left alone to suffer. I just want the sickness to be OVER. And then, one day when it is gone – oh! how good it feels, just to be NOT sick! And I thank God for the every day blessing of good health!
We take so much for granted as we go through our daily lives. We forget how really good just being “normal” can be.
But maybe these are the bricks being thrown into our lives to get our attention, to help us to be thankful for our blessings?
Maybe slowing us down helps us to see things we might otherwise speed right by in the busy-ness of our active lives?
Maybe this is all a part of being thankful for the bad things that come into our lives, as well as the good? Alhamd’allah!
I think this is the first day of the Islamic New Year. If so, wishing my Moslem friends all the blessings of a new and, God willing, abundant and peaceful year.
Outrage: Rape Reporting from Monrovia and Iran
My energy is back. I felt so blessed – today I started my photo albums. I had it all organized, but just couldn’t make myself DO it. Today was a new day, woke up at a reasonable hour with energy! Alhamdallah!
Back in my workshop, Qatteri Cat helping, BBC on to keep me company . . . and two separate reports come on BBC News (radio). I can sit, or I can share my outrage with you. Here I am . . .
The report from Monrovia is about the continuous rape of children, even infants under one year. They are only now documenting it is happening, and to what extent. Before, it was deny, deny, deny.
Here is a direct quote from the program: “Rape is so entrenched in the society.” They haven’t begun to study WHY it is happening, only documenting that it IS happening. To children, the weakest, least powerful segment of society. And in other African countries, societal studies have shown that there is a belief that having sex with virgins, uncontaminated, can cure AIDS. So ignorant. So selfish. And as the virgins become fewer, the victims get younger. Who would rape an infant? Who would be so desperate and so depraved? It makes me shake, it makes me so angry, this violation of the most innocent.
The second case is about an Iranian woman, Norouzi, who killed a man who was attempting to rape her. Convicted of murder, and given the death penalty, the court said she had used “too much force” in defending herself.
So, in your experience, what happens if you defend yourself but leave your attacker still capable? Your self-defense only makes him/her more angry, more lethal, and raises your probability of ending up dead yourself. Hmmmmm. . . . experience rape and likely death, or kill my attacker?? I know, in a heartbeat, which I would choose.
The family has forgiven her IF she pays the blood money of nearly $63,000 dollars. Pay $63,000 for the SCUM that tried to rape her??
Share my outrage. You can read the entire story on the BBC website, here.
A quote from this newsarticle:
Women’s rights activist and lawyer Sara Irani told The Associated Press news agency she welcomed the resolution of the case.
“Norouzi’s freedom will give new breath to women to find the courage to stand up for their rights and defend themselves,” she said.
In Iran, a married woman who is raped risks the death penalty for adultery if she cannot prove she was violated.
If she kills her attacker, she may also face the death sentence for murder.
You may wonder why I tag this a political issue. Politics is all about power. This woman, and these children are victims because 1) they are physically weaker than their attackers and 2) their attackers don’t believe there will be any repercussions; they believe they are entitled to what they take and that there will be no penalty. It’s about power. It’s political until there are laws strong enough to protect the weak and innocent against their attackers, and those laws are enforced.
Horror Movies: Night of the Living Dead
I used to love horror movies. At university, we would gather together late at night and watch the scariest movies we could find. I slept great. None of them really influenced me, none of them frightened me. Or . . . if they did, I guess I liked it.
And then a friend told me to go see The Night of the Living Dead. The Night of the Living Dead is a horror-genre cult movie, by George Romero. It was a low budget movie, filmed (if I remember correctly) in black and white. It wasn’t a smooth film, it had a lot of the same pseudo-authenticity of The Blair Witch Project, shot years later with hand held cameras.
It was a shocking movie. It crossed a lot of boundaries. While compared to the violence of Tarantino, it might appear mild, it was gruesome for its time. Woven through the movie were what we now call “issues.” Black/white issues, marital issues, death taboo issues, subtle incestuous references.
You may never have heard of it, but years after it was made, there were making sequels – Night of the Living Dead 2, Return of the Living Dead, etc. The movie has been re-done, I hear, I have never seen another.
Night of the Living Dead was too real for me. It’s related to Training Joke #2 which really isn’t very funny if you read it closely. it describes a world of “me first” when facing an enemy with whom you cannot reason. It’s supposed to illustrate the benefits of maintaining a low profile when living or working in a country where you may face hostility, but what makes it “funny” is the unexpected treacherousness of one friend to another.
And, as the bear in the training joke, the zombies were not malicious, they were just hungry. You can’t charm them out of their hunger, you can’t intimidate them. They have no compassion, no pity, no feelings whatsoever. Just hunger, a driving hunger, for flesh.
The zombies in Night of the Living Dead were occasionally known by the non-dead humans. Survival was based on recognizing that the zombie was no longer the person they had once known and loved – getting away, or killing the zombie, overcoming the emotions wrapped up in the person the zombie had been before death and re-activation.
One of the things I like about the movie is that they never really adequately explain how this all happened. There is speculation, and there is dealing with the immediate problem, but there is no real resolution as to cause. Just like real life, where we scramble to deal with things, but often, even years later, fail to understand what we were really dealing with.
And I have met a human zombie or two. No, they are not undead, but neither are they really living. About as close to emotion as they come is a curiousity about why feeling people feel as we do, and a mild niggling feeling that they might be missing something. If they are psychopathic, they can appear to be normal, but underneath is a great void. They know who they are. Sometimes, in an effort to feel, they inflict pain, the way a cat will toy with a mouse before killing and eating it. And, just as you can’t blame a cat for being a cat, I think these people are born that way, and can’t take responsibility for what they are – or are not. Scary people. Stay away, far far away.
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