Words of the Lord: the significance of the Bible resides in the sum of our disparate readings of it. Photo: HAROLD M LAMBERT/GETTY IMAGES
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The only way to approach the Bible is with intellectual humility

The Bible is, as Wilson’s title has it, the book of the people. We build our meanings together.

The Book of the People: How to Read the Bible
A N Wilson
Atlantic Books, 213pp, £17.99

Strong As Death Is Love: the Song of Songs, Ruth, Esther, Jonah, Daniel
Robert Alter
W W Norton, 234pp, £18.99

In 1800, at the age of 16, Mary Jones set out from her parents’ cottage at the bottom of Cadair Idris and walked barefoot the 25 miles to Bala to buy a Welsh Bible from the Rev Thomas Charles. She had saved for six years for this and was distraught to find that the reverend had none left. But he allowed Mary to stay with him until the new stock arrived. She later wrote on the flyleaf: “I Bought this in the 16th year of my age. I am Daughter of Jacob Jones and Mary Jones His wife. The Lord may give me grace.”

Mary’s story inspired the founding of the British and Foreign Bible Society. The same thirst that drove her down the mountain drove the intellectual history of Europe for 500 years. The rise of printing and of literacy, the hunger for liberty, the demand for engagement – all have their roots in Luther’s dream of a Bible in the pocket of “every ploughboy”. Yet you wonder how Mary read it when she got home. Did she slog through Leviticus, with its weird dietary restrictions and its detailed description of the parking arrangements for the 12 tribes? Was she strangely distracted by the Song of Songs? Was she unnerved and enthralled by Job? Did she take it all as literal truth? Or did she keep her Bible as a kind of household god, opened at random to tell fortunes and give advice? For a single volume of settled texts, the Bible has unleashed a bewildering diversity of readings. It has been used to prop up power and to topple it, to pursue knowledge and to smother it, to encourage both silence and ranting.

So it takes some bottle to subtitle your book – as A N Wilson has done – How to Read the Bible. People have been telling each other how to read it for centuries, sometimes with the aid of a Hebrew dictionary, sometimes with thumbscrews. But Wilson’s delightful and unexpectedly moving book is characterised by intellectual humility. We are living through a period of literalism: the loopy, poisonously selective literalism of the evangelicals; the pub bore “as if”-ism of Richard Dawkins. Academic quests for historical “truth” are all united, Wilson writes, by a catastrophic failure of the imagination. In their place, he offers us a set of more interesting “readings”, ranging from the prophetic rhetoric of Martin Luther King to the building of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. The book is haunted by another, more personal reading – a dialogue between Wilson and an anonymous friend. It’s a measure of how unusual this study is that I can’t talk about that bit without issuing a spoiler alert.

Growing up Catholic, I was not especially encouraged to read the Bible. After reading Wilson, I now realise that I was instead inhabiting a reading of it, a reading that would come to Catholics sensually through music, paintings, architecture and ritual and that structured our social life and our politics. I didn’t sit down for my own reading until I was in my forties and even then I did it for work: I had been commissioned to write a play about the (probably apocryphal) incident wherein rabbis in Auschwitz put God on trial for breach of the covenant.

Those weeks of page-turning were boring, shocking and thrilling. The God of Genesis, Exodus and the Psalms is fickle, furious and petulant. It wasn’t hard to find Him guilty. I was taken aback, though, when I got to the Book of Job and discovered that its shape was more or less identical to the Auschwitz incident. The rabbis end by finding God guilty and then praying anyway. Job says: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” His faith is an act of defiance, a confrontation with God.

The Bible is surprisingly full of doubt and God-directed anger and accusation. Wilson calls it “the first atheist text”. As Jesus dies, he cries out: “Why have you forsaken me?” I’ve always been moved by this, the idea of a god who loses faith in his own existence. It wasn’t until the year I wrote God on Trial, on Palm Sunday, that I clocked that these words come from the Psalms. What does that mean? Does it mean Jesus was quoting the psalm? Or did the evangelist pop that quotation in to make a point? Or does it mean that the entire New Testament is a literary creation – a tapestry of prophecies fulfilled and questions answered? The same questions could be asked about the Ausch­witz anecdote. Is it an entirely invented update of the Book of Job? Or did those rabbis, steeped in scripture, model their experience on the Book of Job?

Wilson is at his most interesting discussing the mechanisms we use to make meaning. For most of recorded history, the Bible has been a kind of epistemological Geiger counter, detecting and amplifying the buzz of meaning in our lives. I love the way in which Mary Jones – like my parents – added her genealogy to the flyleaf, writing herself into the story. I like to think of her struggling with these texts, as Jacob did with the angel, and after her fight, looking out of the cottage window to see, like Blake, Jesus tending the Welsh mountain sheep and Dolgellau shining like Jerusalem and saying, like Jacob, “This is a holy place and I did not know.” This is what the van Eycks did in the incomparable Ghent Altarpiece – painting real, raddled Flemish faces into Eden and Calvary. This process stretches forward to today and back into the Bible itself.

I was warned when I started to read the Bible: “It’s not a book, it’s a library.” But it’s a library in which all the books dispute each other and recycle each other’s imagery – as when Jesus quotes the Psalms or when Mary at the Annunciation does a cover version of Hannah’s song from the Book of Samuel. To have an emotional encounter of this sort, you probably have to free it from the shackles of its own authority and familiarity.

Strong As Death Is Love is Robert Alter’s edition of the Song of Songs and the Books of Ruth, Esther, Jonah and Daniel. Encountering these books in this form – as ancient literature, laid out as poetry, with copious footnotes – allows you to be dazzled by their range, from the frank eroticism of the Song of Songs to the bucolic idyll of Esther and the downright weirdness of Daniel. Alter also did an edition of the Book of Job, which for me is the richest, most troubling and purely beautiful thing I have ever read. Wilson is fond of a Dominican priest called Thomas Brodie who regards the entire New Testament as a work of fiction. He says you have to kill the historical to free the poetry.

Wilson has a moving account of listening to the Passion narrative on Palm Sunday with a congregation, accompanied by these ancient chants. That’s what I was doing the day I recognised the psalm – the year I’d questioned everything. That day, I listened to the story for the umpteenth time, the story of some fishermen who, blundering in to the city during a tense weekend, had triggered a riot and – being recognisable because of their thick country accents – had run away when the chips were down. This story has been retold on this day through wars, through persecution, through the Dark Ages and the ages of discovery, through plague and earthquake and enlightenment.

I was stabbed by how extraordinary it was to be able to hear these marginal, bewildered voices echoing down the years. For me, that day, the whole thing reeked of truth, of a particular historical moment. Yet I was also aware that the “meaning” was not just that moment but the sum of all our readings – the brilliant and the beautiful and the bad and the bonkers, those of the bigot and the liberationist. Milton, yes, but also the Borgias, Blake and Mary Jones. The Bible is, as Wilson’s title has it, the book of the people. We build our meanings together.

This article first appeared in the 06 May 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Power Struggle

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit