I forget how I first came across Frank Boreham. I remember that my interest was initially grabbed by his connection with New Zealand. He was an English Baptist preacher who, beginning in 1895, pastored a church in Mosgiel in the South Island, before moving onto Hobart and Melbourne in Australia. He was a prolific and popular writer (publishing over 50 books and around 3000 editorials for the Hobart Mercury over the course of 47 years) and, according to Wikipedia, was a famous enough evangelical that Billy Graham sought him out for a private meeting in 1959.
'A Handful of Stars' is part of a series of books he published based on his sermons under the general theme 'Texts that Made History'. In it, he presents the stories of heroes of British Christendom (my term, not his, chosen because it inevitably carries the whiff of empire) and the particular scriptures that transformed and defined their lives and became their assurance and security.
Although the book was published in 1922 it feels Victorian in its sensibilities. I can imagine it being read as edifying fireside or Sunday afternoon reading, and it is written in often earnest tones, which I'm certain come from a genuine place of conviction and ardency for the gospel. Though the approach may have aged, there are inevitably things to be gained by reading the book with an open heart - it would be arrogant and overly-clever to say otherwise. The ardency and conviction can be infectious.
I usually have more than one book on the go at any given time. One thing that interests me is how different (and sometimes quite disparate) books converse with each other by being placed side by side. Usually the connection is relatively random happenstance, though of late I've been thinking more of deliberately experimenting along these lines. I'm interested in the way new ideas, concepts and pictures emerge when you place two separate and/or diverse elements together. This approach also hopefully helps to mitigate epistemological echo-chambers (to use the overly technical jargon which nonetheless communicates exactly what I mean).
So to deviate from the mode of reviewing, to follow this random thread: I read 'A Handful of Stars' (1922) alongside (as it happens, non-deliberately), J.B. Phillips's 'Your God is Too Small' (1952) and Pádraig Ó Tuama's 'In the Shelter' (2015).
I won't speculate on how each of these writers would critique the work of the others (though that might be a fascinating game). While the Baptist Boreham presents a turn of the century appeal to the ardent convictions of the reader, the Anglican Phillips undertakes a mid-century intellectually-reasoned, psychologically-informed dissembling of popular constructs of God, and the Catholic Ó Tuama puts forth a thorough-going work of postmodernism - non-linear, non-didactic and non-dogmatic. Here, hosted by my beside table, we have a conversation, albeit bounded by the wider Christian tradition, between three very different voices.
The theme for discussion that my mind lands on for our unusual symposium is the question of certainty. 'Certainty' gets a bad rap in contemporary thinking, which actively seeks to embrace unknowing and the arbitrary nature of life. The proposition is that the embrace, or at least the acknowledgement, of these things is the healthiest way to be. (Disclosure: I am tending to concur.)
But Boreham (writing 100 years before the current era) in chapter after chapter reinforces a kind of certainty that is very strongly held. Now, this certainty, of course, is contingent on faith, but, through conversion by the various scriptural texts, his main characters become adamant and remain adamant to the very end. They all die in a state of utter conviction. And I love it, but I confess I'm not thoroughly familiar (at least yet) with the feeling as Boreham conveys it.
Meanwhile, Phillips in dissembling popular (and, he argues, inadequate) constructs of God, dissembles aspects of mine. I haven't got to the bit where he completes his proposition of a vastly bigger God. So for now, we stand amidst the pieces of the deconstruction (I use that term in the non-technical way, though I do think aspects of what Phillips is doing anticipate postmodernism). What role does the question of certainty play in this in-between space?
Then along comes Ó Tuama, who welcomes everything - the good, the bad and the ugly. And, in fact, what do we mean by 'good', 'bad' and 'ugly' anyway? Certainty is not the winner as he undertakes his gentle (theo)poetic critique and re-visioning.
If this all sounds like over-analysis, over-thinking and the makings of an existential crisis, you'd be right. But I'm excited. And I'm excited because I believe there's a space and way of being in which all these threads can be pulled together. My inkling is that in the real unpredictability of life, where certainty has given way, perhaps a synonym of certainty that is more nuanced can come forth - assurance in the midst. In fact I believe in that possibility.
Out of a critique of certainty and a dissembling of false constructs, there can emerge a post-critical assurance, a homecoming. Because indeed all three writers, Boreham, Phillips and Ó Tuama share a common thread, sparked by the compelling nature of Jesus Christ - the desire to bring people home. A journey which, I'm sure all three writers would agree, is most definitely worth undertaking.