Summer reading lists have appeared in the last few weeks, giving readers (especially beach-going ones) suggestions for enhancing their leisure time. As strange as it might sound, I'm using today's blog to recommend adding the Bible to your summer-reading list.

One of the most significant trends of biblical scholarship of the late twentieth century was a renewed interest in the literary aspects of scripture. Scholars focused on standard questions raised in high school or college literature courses--What metaphors pervade this passage? What does this narrative say about the main character? What significance does this symbol have? Probing the Bible along these lines helped reinvigorate biblical criticism and open up a new appreciation for biblical artistry.

The great promise of a literary approach to the Bible is that it tears down some barriers between reader and text. Oftentimes, when people open the pages of the Bible, they feel a need to "get something" out of their reading, whether that be guidance, inspiration, knowledge, or moral instruction. Of course, these are all worthy goals of Bible-reading, but sometimes they can be daunting. The goal-oriented approach can make reading the Bible a serious task, undertaken only with a serious mindset.

Contrast that mindset with what we expect from our summer novels. If we think at all about "getting something" from our reading, that something would be pleasure. My contention--a claim supported by my own experience--is that the Bible can provide pleasurable reading, if we allow it.

Two examples, one from the Old Testament and one from the New:

Read Jacob's story, from Genesis 25:19 to 37:36. (If you can find a Bible without chapter and verse divisions, so much the better.) Jacob is one of the only characters in the Bible that we get to see mature from boyhood to old age. This narrative of his lifespan has mixed-up family dynamics, treachery, divine intervention, sexual attraction, comedy and tragedy. It presents some of the most intriguing marriages in the Bible and raises fascinating questions about parental roles. I can never decide, for example, if Rebecca did the right thing. Is it ethical to trick one's spouse and favor one son over another? What if the favored son is obviously superior and the spouse has lost his faculties? These and a host of other issues present themselves to the reader in the short span of twelve chapters.

In keeping with the family issues, the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15: 11-32) rightly deserves its status as one of the most beloved stories of the Gospels. The genius of Jesus' parables is tied to their ability to provoke. Jesus never intended to teach simple moral lessons through them (Mark 4:10-13); he wanted to awaken a new sense of what the Kingdom of God entailed. The Prodigal Son story certainly does that. The three characters of this short story each represent certain familial characteristics--the doting father, the wastrel younger sibling, and the moral but resentful older sibling. We are programmed to side with the father, but most of us would certainly call his actions bad parenting. We also like to think that the younger son has learned his lesson, but suppose he's just play acting? Doesn't the older son have plenty to grouse about? The interplay between these characters gives the story its power, and its open-endedness allows us to ponder how it illustrates the Kingdom.

The questions I've posed in these two brief examples are intentionally provocative, but they arise from the wonderful stories themselves. The Bible deserves its place on the beach towel next to your mysteries and romances. (For that matter, the Bible itself contains mystery and romance.) Start with the Old Testament narratives (Genesis, Exodus, Samuel and Kings), move to the Gospels (and read each in as few settings as possible) and Revelation. Then go back to the Prophets and Psalms for poetic appreciation. Reading the Bible literarily can be, in the ancient poet Horace's words, "profit with delight."

The Bible is populated with many characters that appear briefly and then vanish from the scene. Philip, the most prominent person in Acts 8, is one of these. Except for a brief mention of his name in 6:5 and 21:8, all we know about him involves two scenes of preaching--one to the Samaritans and one to the Ethiopian Eunuch. Yet he plays an important role in the expansion of Christianity in Acts.

At the beginning of Acts, Jesus famously tells the apostles: "You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, throughout Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth" (1:8). Essentially, this statement serves as the outline for Acts. The apostles receive the Spirit in chapter 2, they witness in Judea in 3-7, and in chapter 8, the proclamation of the word reaches Samaria in the person of Philip.

The reading for this Sixth Sunday of Easter begins sparsely: "Philip went down to the city of Samaria..." The text does not say why he chose Samaria or why he even decided to preach in the first place. (He, like Stephen, was originally chosen to distribute food, not to preach.) Whatever the reason, his preaching was wildly successful. The converts even included Simon the sorcerer, known to later history as Simon Magus. The response of the Samaritans prompted Peter and John to follow Philip to Samaria, and when they get there, they aid in completing the work he began. After the apostles pray for and lay hands upon the Samaritans, the Holy Spirit descends, and the Christian community gains a foothold outside Judea.

The next time Philip preaches, he does so at the urging of an angel (8:26). His meeting with the Ethiopian eunuch, therefore, is explicitly coordinated. What's intriguing about today's passage is that he seems to have no inkling that his work is a specific part of a divine plan. Like others who were scattered (8:4) after Stephen's martyrdom, Philip simply preaches the Messiah wherever he happens to find himself.

Søren Kierkegaard said that we live forward but understand backward. This certainly applies to Philip and the other characters in Acts. The entirety of God's plan for them comes into focus only through hindsight. Philip's activity in Samaria demonstrates that faith in the eventual knowledge of God's plan can be powerful enough to initiate acts of discipleship.

Kyle A. Keefer

Though the compilers of the lectionary probably did not have the Presidential primary season in mind when selecting this week's passage from 1 Corinthians, it is difficult for me, as a resident of South Carolina, to read these words from Paul without thinking of electoral politics. With the Republican primary last weekend and the Democratic one this weekend, campaigners have cajoled me with flyers, phone calls, billboards and commercials, all with the intent to get me to vote for their candidate. To use Paul's language, they want me to belong to their camp.

After a brief opening, Paul addresses the problem that plagues the Corinthian congregation--factionalism. Each person defines himself or herself according to personal allegiance. One can almost hear Paul's exasperation: "I mean that each of you is saying, 'I belong to Paul,' or 'I belong to Apollos,'?or 'I belong to Cephas.'" (1:12). (The final group--with mocking condescension perhaps? --simply states, "I belong to Jesus.") This hyperindividualism, in which each person desires a distinct status, permeates the letter. Eventually Paul will use the vivid metaphor of the church as body (12:12-26) as a means to jolt them away from their wrong-headedness. Rivalries and factions dissolve when and if the Corinthians can think of themselves as an organic whole. Individuality is not lost of course--each person has a unique function within the body--but unless the individual finds her or his place within the body, the cross of Christ is "emptied of its meaning" (1:17).

Paul is not, I think, a Pollyanna who thinks that "united in the same mind and in the same purpose" means that everyone will agree. He does not simplistically urge the Corinthians to all just get along. He does expect, however, that individual differences of opinion or personality will be subordinated to the purposes of the church as a whole.

In an election cycle, the two-party system tempts the electorate not only to attach our loyalty to one candidate but also to disdain those who make choices different from ours. Within the church, this urge can be pernicious. I fear we sometimes define ourselves primarily by the party we vote for rather than the Lord we serve. Paul's letter to the Corinthians is a healthy reminder that we are not baptized into the Republican or Democratic Party but into the one body of Christ.

A classic American text, John Graves's Goodbye to a River, celebrates its fiftieth anniversary this year. This non-fiction work chronicles Graves's three-week trip down the Brazos River in Texas, and along the journey, Graves reflects on nature, his own life, and local history with remarkably crisp insights. At the beginning of this solitary trek, he scribbled in his notebook, "The hard thing is to get slowed down." Later, in trying to discern what he meant, he writes,

"Probably it means I was impatient with my own dawdling slowness, prodigious and no trouble at all to attain, and that I then grew irked with my impatience. Impatience is a city kind of emotion, harmonious with 'drive' and acid-chewed stomachs, and I presume we need it if we are to hold our own on the jousting ground this contemporary world most often is. But it goes poorly on a river....To let it erode one's calm for the time that it must last, is to deny the worth of being there."

I thought about Graves's words as I read the New Testament lesson for this third week in Advent:

"Be patient, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You too must be patient. Make your hearts firm, because the coming of the Lord is at hand" (James 5:7-8)

In the run-up to the celebration of Christmas--a holiday that supposedly epitomizes peacefulness--the Advent season proves remarkably chaotic and turbulent. The usual culprits are obvious: Christmas shopping, travel plans, finishing work before the new year, final exams and family dynamics on Christmas day. If we think about "the coming of the Lord" in terms of Christmas, one quality least on display during December is patience. By the time December 25 is "at hand," many people's wellsprings of patience have run dry.

James uses an agricultural metaphor to emphasize waiting. From this metaphor, we see that impatience goes just as poorly in the field as it does on a river. A farmer cannot make the crops come up any more quickly or any more slowly than the rains intend. Neither will Christmas come any sooner or later due to our fretting.

One reason we are drawn to the manger scene, I think, is because its pastoral simplicity takes us out of our urbanized drive that leads to "acid-chewed stomachs." Christmas songs such as "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "It Came upon a Midnight Clear" place the Nativity within a framework of a quiescence that refreshes our spirits. Graves is probably right to say we need "drive" to keep our place in this hectic society, but Advent should help us "get slowed down." By slowing down and spurning impatience, we can, as James puts it, strengthen our hearts. Or, as Graves puts it, find "the worth of being there."

Kyle Keefer

Eschatology, the study of the end times, tends to get people fired up. To get a discussion going about eschatology, simply ask the question "What would you do today if you knew that the world would end tomorrow?" and people will talk. Changing the word "tomorrow" to "next week" or "next year," and the conversation can go on for hours.

In popular eschatological presentations--street-preaching, for instance--imminent doom tends to take center stage. Most of us have probably seen signs that read "The End is Near," "Turn or Burn" or the like. These serve to impress upon non-Christians that they will face eternal punishment if they do not convert to Christianity. The phenomenal success of the Left Behind series, with its 65 million books sold, demonstrates the enormous fascination that the final judgment provides.

The Left Behind series actually derives its title from this week's gospel passage, Matthew 24:37-44. In verses 41-42, Jesus describes two pairs of people, in which one person is taken and one is left behind. Matthew 24-25 comprise a long eschatological discourse that Jesus delivers just before his crucifixion. He compares the "coming of the Son of Man" (v.39) to the "days of Noah" (v.37), with the implication that his return will prove to be a surprise to all humanity and that many (most?) people will be morally unprepared for it. Clearly this passage, along with the three parables of chapter 25, emphasizes the judgment that will take place at the parousia, the second coming of Christ.

In the popular treatment of the parousia, however, the ethical emphasis of Matthew's gospel often disappears. When Jesus says, "stay awake" (v.42), he addresses Christians, not the unconverted. This passage urges listeners to "be prepared" so that they will be eager to lay bare their actions to Jesus when he returns.

While fear can certainly be an important motivator, a desire to please proves even greater. The parable of the talents in chapter 25 displays a frightened servant (the third one) and two eager servants. The ones who work without fear of reprisal enjoy a much more pleasant reunion with their master.

Returning to the question I posed at the beginning, I imagine all of us alter our plans if we knew our time was limited. The question that Jesus poses differs slightly, asking, "Would you act more ethically if you knew the world would end tomorrow?" The challenge of his eschatological teaching is to be able to answer "no."

Kyle A. Keefer

The story of the ten lepers (Luke 17:11-19) appears often in instructional material for children. I certainly remember learning from this story the lesson of gratitude. The moral of this story was that no matter how ungratefully others might respond to acts of kindness, I should always express thanks, either to God or to other persons. Sometime my parents reinforced the lesson with the gentle reminder, "What do you say?" whenever someone gave me a gift. While the lesson I learned as a boy still applies, this biblical story points not just to human behavior but to Jesus' extravagant grace.

In choosing this week's Old Testament and Gospel passages, the bishops have highlighted the brilliance and subtlety of Luke's gospel. In his first public pronouncement in Luke (ch. 4), Jesus explicitly links himself to the story of Elisha's healing of Naaman the Syrian. Just as Elisha went beyond the borders of Israel in order to demonstrate God's power to a foreigner, so also Jesus will include both Gentiles and Jews in his healing activity. Furthermore, Jesus includes a parallel reference to Elijah's provision for the Widow at Zarephath (4:26). To reinforce this connection between Jesus and Elisha/Elijah, in chapter 7 Luke includes two miracle stories (healing the centurion's servant and raising a widow's son), that mirror the great prophetic deeds spoken of in chapter 4.

Jesus links himself to Elijah and Elisha because he will bring a prophetic ministry to those who least expect it. In chapter 17, the focal character is a double outcast--both leper and Samaritan. However, he alone returns to Jesus, "glorifying God in a loud voice" (Luke 17:15). This Samaritan echoes Naaman, who proclaimed after his healing, "Now I know that there is no God in all the earth, except in Israel" (2 Kings 5:15). For both of these men, outsiders to Israel, the experience of healing led directly to praise. As their bodies are made whole, they undergo spiritual transformation.

But what about the other nine lepers? They did at least follow Jesus' command to go to the priests, so we should not be too harsh toward them. What is striking about this story is that Jesus did not act like a parent and prod them with, "What do you say?" In spite of the fact that they are not as admirable as the Samaritan, they still benefit from Jesus' extravagant compassion. When the Samaritan returns to Jesus, however, he benefits even more.

Kyle A. Keefer

Leading up to the publication of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Harry Potter fans speculated as to who might die, since author J.K. Rowling had indicated that major characters would meet their demise in the final book. The biggest question of all involved Harry himself. Would Rowling dare to kill him off?

I felt certain that I knew the answer to this question because ever since the fourth book of the series, I have viewed the novels as a parallel to the Book of Revelation. Given this parallel, there was only one possible ending for Harry.

As in all apocalyptic literature, the characters within the narrative confront a force of evil that seems to wield unabated authority. In Revelation, Satan holds the reigns of earthly power and can bend society to his will because of his ties to Roman rulers. Ordinary citizens must either side with this evil empire or choose loyalty to God. If they do not succumb to the Empire, they will undoubtedly, as John the narrator implies, undergo hardship, torture, and possibly death. Although the situation seems bleak, all is not lost. The downfall of evil will come at the hands of an unlikely hero--Jesus--whom Rome has ignomiously executed as its enemy.

As one progresses through Revelation, however, there is never a doubt about the outcome of the book. John not only foreshadows but also explicitly gives away the ending by describing Jesus as the one who holds the keys to Death and Hades (1:18). No matter how troubled the persons within the narrative are about evil (cf. 6:10), the reader knows us that Satan's (and Rome's) reign is only temporary.

The general arc of the Harry Potter narrative differs very little from this brief sketch of Revelation. The strongest power in the magical world, especially after book 4, is Voldemort. Although various wizards fight against him, they seem hopelessly overmatched and doomed to failure. Yet the battle continues because certain virtuous wizards cannot imagine their world dominated by such a heinous force. They refuse to give in. As the novels progress, almost every wizard must decide between following the Dark Lord or fighting against him. No middle ground exists either in Rowling's world or in Revelation.

According to the pattern of Revelation, it seemed clear to me that Harry certainly would not die. Like the lamb who was slain (Rev. 5:6), Harry bears the mark of his near-death experience, and that mark indirectly saves him and his cohorts. If Harry had not destroyed Voldemort at the end of the series, it would be like Revelation ending without the defeat of Satan. According to the norms of the genre, such an ending was bound to occur. For the world to be put right, the unlikely hero must kill the unvanquishable power.

But what remains when evil departs? That's where following an apocalyptic pattern can get a modern author into trouble. Once evil is defeated, the world as we know it has to end; one cannot imagine human existence without some struggle between good and evil. So Revelation rightly replaces this earth with a new one. Rowling does not have this option, so she concludes with a brief epilogue that hints at Harry's adult life. The general consensus of sympathetic critics and fans is that this epilogue fails. Readers have rejected it, I would argue, because like the Laodiceans, the final chapter is neither cold nor hot (Rev. 3:15-16). Having beautifully crafted apocalyptic dualism in her novels, Rowling should have known to end with a bang or a whimper. Apocalyptic cannot abide a middle ground.

Kyle A. Keefer

Some New Testament scholars use the model of a sage, a novel dispenser of wisdom, to explain how Jesus might have looked to his contemporaries. Though the idea of Jesus as sage does not do justice to the entirety of the gospel stories, it certainly fits Luke 11:9-13. On the heels of the Lord's Prayer, a succinct but very concrete model for asking things from God, Jesus delivers some of the vaguest instruction in all the New Testament: "Ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."

These verbs need direct objects. One can imagine the disciples saying, "Ask for what? Seek where? Knock on which door?" While the Lord's Prayer is quite specific about what to ask for---daily bread, forgiveness---these verses enjoin the disciples to quest after an unknown object.

The text is quite clear, however, about who will allow the asker to receive, the seeker to find, and the knocker to enter. Jesus promises that the Father will "give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him." It is instructive to compare these words with Matthew, where Jesus says that the Father gives "good things" to those who ask. Luke, both in his gospel and in Acts, highlights the activity of the Holy Spirit. One characteristic of the Spirit, especially in Acts, is that it continually surprises those who see its manifestation.

Perhaps what Jesus wants his disciples to say to God is, "Surprise me." If prayer only takes the form of a wish list that gets checked when God grants each wish, it constrains what God might give (or, more accurately, what the person recognizes as God's response). Prayer, according to these verses, might take the form, "I am asking for I don't know what, except that it be a gift from you." Sometimes the quest can be more fulfilling if one cannot see the goal with clarity. The promise given here is not that the one who prays will get what she or he wants but that God will give the Holy Spirit. That answer would be "far more than all we ask or imagine" (Eph. 3:20).

Kyle A. Keefer