Author Archives: Aaron Mead

A Lesson in Anti-Racism: Esi Edugyan’s Washington Black

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Washington Black, by Esi Edugyan

In recently reading Esi Edugyan’s majestic 2018 novel, Washington Black, I noticed a thematic similarity with Paul’s New Testament letter to Philemon, which I have studied for the past few years as I’ve been writing a novel telling a backstory of the letter. Both works suggest an important distinction between two possible motives for helping someone.

In this post I’ll spell out the distinction in both works, then draw from it what I think is an important lesson for white allies hoping to support their black and brown neighbors in the swelling anti-racism movement. Spoiler alert: What follows will divulge plot information you may not want to know if you plan to read Washington Black (which I highly recommend doing).

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Complete First Draft

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Photo by Yusuf Evli on Unsplash

After a year of research and just under two years of writing — early mornings, late nights, and everything in between — I’ve finally finished a complete first draft of my first novel. Whew!

Next up: revisions. After working through the many notes I’ve given myself on earlier chapters, I plan to follow this framework for revising, laid out by the good folks at Gotham Writers Workshop. Seems like a wise approach.

Zechariah in the Temple: An Advent Devotion

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Frankincense Incense
Frankincense. Image by xbqs42 from Pixabay.

The following is an imaginative fictional account of Zechariah’s experience in the temple (Luke 1:5-20). I suggest reading the passage of scripture first, and then my fictional account.

I hurried through the Nicanor Gate and into the Court of the Priests, the sun low in the sky. The smell of smoke, blood, and animal dung drifted on the breeze. I shimmied out of my traveling clothes and immersed in the cool water of the bronze laver. I washed off the hill-country dust, still clinging from the day’s journey, and I thought of Elizabeth. With her tender hip, she couldn’t manage the animals anymore, and the boy from next door knew little about goats; they always looked too scruffy, too dirty when I returned home. If only we’d had a son. 

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Flash Fiction: Lost and Found

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Keys
Image by Uwe Baumann from Pixabay

Rain pelted the windshield of Marcie’s fifteen-year-old sports car as she turned into the driveway of the subterranean parking lot. Some of the rain was virtually snow, translucent splatter sticking to the glass before a wiper blade cast it aside with other unwanted water. As she descended the steep ramp into darkness, Marcie’s thoughts drifted back to her annual review meeting that morning. As usual, her numbers weren’t great, and her supervisor had hounded her about setting a new round of goals she really didn’t care to meet. She’d spent the afternoon updating her resume.

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Flash Fiction: Since the Divorce

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Bookshelf
Photo by Renee Fisher on Unsplash

Janet passed the third bookcase and turned down the self-help aisle. “Brad?”

“Janet!” said Brad, slipping the book he’d been browsing behind his back. “What a surprise.”

“It’s been a long time,” said Janet. “I hardly recognized you with the beard. And something’s different with your hair?”

“Yeah, wearing it a bit longer,” said Brad, sheepish about his thinning pate. “And you look great. Coming from the gym?”

“Zumba,” she said.

“Nice,” he said, and then after a brief pause, “So, how’s Mr. Right?”

Janet raised her eyebrows slightly. “He’s fine. Enjoys his job. He just got promoted, VP of something. He’s off in Davos right now.”

“Oh, yeah, all the money people. I’ve been hearing about that on the news. That’s a pretty big deal.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said.

He noticed her lack of enthusiasm. “Economics not your thing?”

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Flash Fiction: Envy

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Umbrella Drink
Image credit: artisano on Pixabay

Walter returned from the bathroom and struggled to remount his barstool. He gripped the bar with both hands, threw one pudgy leg onto the padded seat, and wriggled and scooted his way up like a seal on the beach. When he had finally resumed his seat, a bead of sweat trickled down his temple, out from under greasy, badly-cut hair. In need of refreshment, he sucked at the straw in his fruity mixed-drink, temporarily lodging the peak of the paper umbrella in his left nostril.

Eugene smirked from the next stool over. “Wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” he said.

“Shut up,” said Walter. “Don’t you hate these work functions?”

“I don’t know,” said Eugene, “they’re all right. Free drinks.”

“If the boss didn’t treat them like loyalty litmus tests, I’d totally skip,” said Walter. His eyes drifted to the dance floor as he drew again on his straw. “Look at Mitch,” he said.

“What about him?” said Eugene, turning his attention to the man Walter had fixed on.

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Flash Fiction: Black Lung Son

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Image credit: tunaolger on Pixabay

Momma threw the first handful on the coffin, and then we all done the same. Black dirt. Just like the coal. There we were, throwin’ dirt in our Sunday best, just come from church. After that, the boys from down the hill started in with the shovels, and by God, Pop was all covered up in no more than fifteen minutes. Smellin’ that dirt set me coughin’ and hackin’. Up come some slime and I spit it out, black too, drippin’ and slimin’ down the grass blades, all thick and slow.

I remember the day I come home and told Pop school wasn’t for me. Too much readin’ and writin’, too much talkin’ and thinkin’. I wasn’t fifteen, but I’d had enough of it to know. What I wanted, I told him, was to work in the mine, to pull out the coal, to do a man’s job. Sittin’ in a chair all day, staring at some woman scribblin’ on a chalkboard, everyone talk, talk, talkin’. No sir, wasn’t for me. I got the fever for that coal, I says to him, standin’ over him, tall and proud, him sittin’ there on the porch, in his rockin’ chair, black dust from the day still in the cracks of his face, under his eyes, between his mouth and his cheeks. Wanna be like my Pop, I told him.

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Mind the Gap: The Gospels and Oral Transmission

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Image credit: Pixabay

In recent posts (e.g., here and here), I’ve been writing about the authorship of the Gospels, and the degree to which Gospel content may be traced back to eyewitnesses of Jesus.

The point of the work has been to counter Bart Ehrman’s view (in How Jesus Became God, pp. 90-91) that the authors of the Gospels were not eyewitnesses or close disciples of eyewitnesses (as traditionally claimed) but rather were Christians of a later generation, whose writings are thereby less historically reliable. I have resisted Ehrman’s view and claimed that, in fact, there is decent (though perhaps not conclusive) evidence for the traditional view.

Mind the Gap

However, even if I’m right, there is still a problem for the historicity of the Gospels, namely the gap between the time of Jesus’s ministry and the writing of the Gospels.

For example, if we assume that Jesus died around 30 CE, then the time between his ministry (late 20s CE) and the composition of Mark (late 60s or early 70s CE), is at least 40 years. Given the apparent reliance of Matthew and Luke upon Mark (discussed in this post), those two Gospels would entail an even longer gap—maybe 50 years. The Gospel according to John is thought to have been written in the 90s CE, suggesting a still longer gap for that Gospel.

Scholars generally agree that during this in-between period the stories and teachings in the Gospels would have been passed on orally. Ehrman claims that such oral transmission would be unreliable, leading to distortions that further call into question the historicity of the Gospels. Continue reading →