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I write memoirs in order to bring religious seekers closer to God and to gratify believers who wish to be re-enthused.


Most readers of my recent memoir are Christians, but some are not. The same applies to readers of my blog posts. Some are; some are not.


My point is that, irrespective of the religious stance of readers, I write from the perspective of a believing Christian who happens to be a Lutheran by denomination.




A memoir is a variety of writing that differs from, but is a sub-category under, autobiography. At a higher level, each is non-fiction.


Autobiography is an organized, factual, narrative recounting of the events that comprise the writer’s life, usually presented in order as they occurred. On the other hand, while a memoir also draws from the writer’s life, the word memoir has been traced back to a Persian term for that about which we ponder.


That Persian word is mermer.


The person who writes a memoir does relate factual events, indeed, but he or she devotes attention not so much to the events themselves or to the order in which they occurred, but to the ponderings which arise from the events.


The ponderings may be happy orsad. The pondering reveals the book’s theme.


The reader of memoirs experiences something that is more subtle and more nuanced than the reader of autobiography. Memoirs are closer to poetry than they are to general non-fiction. The reader of a memoir is engaged with the writer’s mind, imaginings, and soul.




During past centuries, published memoirs generally were written by persons of high achievement, or who had encountered some event of great significance as viewed by their entire culture. Near the end of the last century, and into our own, with self-publishing available, memoirs have exploded as a variety of published writing.


(My Amazon search just now, using the single word memoirs, pulled up over 60,000 titles…of course, my search was not nuanced, but that’s a lot of books that Amazon’s algorithm categorizes as having some relationship with memoirs!)




What is lamentable in our age of social media me-me-me-ism is that many persons who have lived their lives are stirred to write and to publish their memoirs, whether of general interest or not.


As a man who has written one memoir (and who is nearing completion of another), I am aware that I might be chided for deciding on my own authority that it is important to the world that I ponder in print on the truths of my life.


Who do I think I am, after all?


All I can say is that, manifestly, some memoirs rise above the ordinary into the significant. Since I write anyway, and am always working on another book, writing memoirs ought at least to be worth a try.


As a writer of memoirs, I am hungry to read them. What I want to gain from the reading of any memoir is two things. One, what is the story about? Two, how does this writer do the memoirist’s job?




I ask for your suggestions. What should I read?


As I select memoirs, especially I like to read--

  • Christian memoirs by believing Christians;

  • Jewish memoirs by committed Jews;

  • Memoirs by religious seekers who avowedly pursue Christianity;

  • “Spiritual” memoirs by religious seekers who view multiple religions phenomenologically with no struggle to select one over the others;

  • Skeptical memoirs that don’t desire to select any religion at all;

  • The “almost theres.”



I am eager for suggestions from you regarding memoirs you recommend, memoirs which have moved you, memoirs that are significant. Please give me a title or two and a sentence about them.


Particularly, coming from those of you who are Christian readers, I’m interested to read the “almost theres.”




In my language, an “almost there” is a memoir written by a serious-minded, skilled writer, who is pondering on the page about the nature of his or her life. Often there is a tone of anxiety. There may be an illness, or a relationship problem, or something else that produces a sense of wretchedness or emptiness of the writer’s soul.


A Christian reader of such a memoir may have a sensation that the writer suffers from lack of hope.


As a Christian, that reader has hope due to redemption provided by God through Jesus Christ. See, for example, 1 Peter 3:15, which speaks of that same hope.




When I finish reading an “almost there”, I may admire the writer’s skill, but I am left with sadness. The book is over. The life that the book depicted does not climax with the hope that is in me as a Christian, and which is available, through Christ, to all.


Of course, anything can happen for the Lord’s glory, and Channa and I ourselves came late in life to Jesus Christ. To those who knew us beforehand, perhaps our progress would have been judged unlikely, too.


I am left only with hope that another memoir might come from that same writer, whose craft I admire. I would welcome a new memoir that would reveal that the writer is no longer almost there, but there.


And still pondering….




So, my friends, what should I read?

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[Here in the Blue Ridge, I am thinking of the Maine coast this morning, where our family lived for 27 years. I'm thinking of Maine because, here, it is cold this morning--about 18 degrees--and it is going to snow in the next day or so. I'm thinking of Maine because when it snowed in Maine, our children and I skied regularly, and also because our son Sam and I have just returned this week from a Special Olympics ski meet in the North Carolina mountains, near Blowing Rock.


[This was Sam's and my third year at this invitational meet, along with four other Virginia skiers, a smaller Virginia contingent than usual. I was pleased for Sam that he duplicated his success from last year--he took a silver medal in slalom, which was particularly impressive because the snow was difficult to ski, being wet, and warm and slushy.


[I'm also thinking of Maine because Channa and I have been married a good long time, and I mostly lived on the Maine coast when I was courting her. Takes me back....


[Here's a piece I originally posted in 2014 and updated once later.]




Mainer Potatoes, Fire Baked


Recipe by Dikkon Eberhart



Ingredients:


1 13’ Whitehall Pulling Boat, with anchor

2 oars

some tinfoil

1 match – just 1

coupla potatoes and a chunk of butter; salt

good heavy knife


Mise en scene:


  1. Go down to my shore and shove off in the boat. Row to the island. Anchor the boat so she stays afloat. (Tide falling; half.) Oh, yeah, bring along a heavy coat because it’s December, three o’clock, and clear. Gonna be cold. There’s wind from the northwest. Also a blanket, a hat.

  2. Below tide line, dig a shallow depression among sand and rock, and ring it with stones. Find some down wood and sit by the pit stripping the wood with your knife until you have a few feathery pieces and some other small stuff. Watch the sun set. Don’t think about it; just watch.

  3. Construct a fire, a careful cone of dry twigs with the feathery bits inside. Lie down real close to the sand and the shale, so you can smell it, even in the cold, and, while protecting the wood with your body, light your match. This is a test. You’re twenty-nine and mythic. Intentionally, you’ve brought only one match.

  4. If you fail, go home and try this test on another night.

  5. But this night turns out to be the right night. Some things, at least, you can do well.


Method:


  1. Keep feeding your fire with small stuff and then bigger stuff. Notice that it’s dark now except for a sheen on the sea—we have a quick twilight in winter. Wind’s from the northwest and steadier than you thought it would be. Low waning moon chasing the sun. Faint, lambent shoreline: one gull patrols then settles for the night.

  2. Listen to the cold sea water gurgling in over rocks and snails, gurgling out over rocks and sails, gurgling in, gurgling out.

  3. The fire tends itself now, and the sky darkens. The moon is yellow: then gone. Overhead is an appearing of stars. The meander of the Milky Way is a pathway between here and the other place. Mostly by feel, cut your potatoes in half, smash some butter between the parts, salt them heavily, close them, wrap them in foil, and push them into the coals with your stick. Clean your hands on your pants, wrap the blanket around your legs, tug down your cap, lie still. Alone; no muddle.

  4. In, you breathe, and out again. In, and out again. Feel your chest as it fills with air and empties. In, you breathe, and out again. In, and out again.

  5. There’s a woman you want to marry, but you’re scared. No real snow yet. The last marriage hurt.

  6. Alarmed at your fire, a squirrel chitters from the wood behind.

  7. Allow your imagination to enter into the earth. Feel the to-ing and fro-ing of all her parts. The tug of tree roots in soil as their limbs swing back and forth in the wind. The tide’s pull on rockweed as it swishes on stone. The flicker of barnacle webs sweeping plankton in.

  8. Allow your imagination to rise. The cold steam of your breath, invisible now, streams eastward on the air, over meadow, over shore, over sea. It takes you to an island that is further out than ours.

  9. Out and out, allow yourself to spiral through tree and stone, through squirrel and gull, through earth and sea—from star to star—until you find the entire awesome ponderousness that is God. Devil and angel, you find, devil and angel there.


Chef’s note:


Don’t burn your fingers when you grub the potatoes from the ash, open them, and, while they drip with butter, you eat them in the dark.


Clean-up note:


Pour water on the coals until they are really out. Toss everything into the boat. Drag the boat down the beach to the sea. Wade out beside her and pull her farther until she’s afloat. Stare off for a time at the black horizon.


Await revelation.


What if I ask her?


Maybe I’ll dare.

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Dikkon Eberhart


I have a question for you. Remember Christmas? This post’s question for you is prompted by a discussion that came up at our house just before Christmas and that is based on two considerations.


One consideration is related to the way that early Christians experienced the anniversary of Jesus’ birth during their own time. The second consideration is not about what you might suppose. It is NOT about how differently we today encounter the anniversary of Jesus’ birth.


Of course there’s a difference between then and now. After two millennia, how could there not be a difference? But my question today is not to explore that difference.




In order to tell you what the second consideration is, I need to describe how this discussion arose in the first place.


My wife Channa and I host a weekly dinner and Bible study at our house on Thursday evenings, dinner being provided on a rotational basis among our group. We are eleven Christian men and women of approximately the same age and family status.


Our evening’s discussion usually begins by reviewing the sermon of the previous Sunday. However, on the Thursday before Christmas we suggested each person—who cared to do so—might bring along a Christmas-related essay or poem or song, and we would focus our discussion around those.


Searching for my own contribution, I found a short passage from a book of Advent readings by Dietrich Bonhoeffer entitled God is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas. I’ll provide the gist of Bonhoeffer’s passage below and then articulate the second consideration that powered my question for the group and engendered our discussion.



Here’s Bonhoeffer’s quote--


When the old Christendom spoke of the coming again of the Lord Jesus, it always thought first of all of a great day of judgment. And as un-Christmas-like as this idea may appear to us, it comes from early Christianity and must be taken with utter seriousness. …. The coming of God is truly not only a joyous message, but is, first, frightful news for anyone with a conscience. …. God comes in the midst of evil, in the midst of death, and judges the evil within us and in the world. And in judging it, he loves us, he purifies us, he sanctifies us, he comes to us with his grace and love. He makes us happy as only children can be happy. (Emphasis mine.)



So here’s what I asked our group, related to the two considerations.


The first. Bonhoeffer articulates what I believe are correct cultural and theological conditions concerning believers and their encounter with the birth anniversary of Jesus during the early church—their encounter is one of fright and judgment. Not—in the modern sense—very Christmas-like.


The second. Note that Bonhoeffer is speaking to us, to his contemporary audience. He reminds us—again correctly—that God’s love for us purifies and sanctifies us despite the evil of the world. But my question arises from what Bonhoeffer says next, which is bolded above.


Is it possible that God’s sanctifying grace and love makes us happy…as only children can be happy?





I acknowledge that children have the capacity in their innocence to experience total and unalloyed happiness. However, I do not believe that we adults have such a capacity, due to our mature acquaintance with doubt, misery, and sin.


Further, I believe that our limitation may remain with us even after God’s loving gift to us of purification and sanctification.


Yes, we are saved—thank the Lord!—but we are still aware that once we were not saved, that we are guilty of past failings (though God has mercifully un-remembered them), and that we retain our inherent evil inclination.




Does God’s sanctifying grace make us happy? Yes. But at a level at which anyone who has children and grandchildren has seen them attain, and which Bonhoeffer states is only available to them?


I don’t think so.


On the whole, the rest of the group did think so. I’m glad that I was in the minority—that fact testifies happily for the happiness of the others!




What do you think?


Let me know, if you care to….

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