Monday, January 06, 2020


I love detective fiction, especially Nordic Noir / Scandi-Noir. I love it for binding-together past and present, person and place, body and soil; for the psychological profiling, the forensic attention to details, the pooling of patterns. I love it for the detectives at the heart of the story; for the way they lay bare, as on the autopsy table, the consequences of the decisions we make; for the exposition of human nature, in its complexity, and the dark secrets we all hide like a landscape lying beneath virgin snow. I love it for the wrestling with chaos, and order; the exorcising of ghosts; the guarding of community, and of the human heart.

And I realise that this is the manner in which I read, and find myself read by, scripture. The way I construct sermons, and conduct investigations into faith, hope, and love.

I recognise that this is not the only way in which scripture might be read. That it is not necessarily the best way. That some might not even consider it to be an appropriate way. But, when it comes down to it, it is the way I love.

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