Editorial

The first novel by Anna Burns, who won the Booker Prize for Milkman in 2018, was recently republished. Entitled No Bones it is a sometimes-disturbing, sometimes-funny account of Amelia, a girl growing up during the period of ‘the Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Burns captures the way in which the violent conflict of Amelia’s society is mirrored in the violence of her own home. She has a mother and a father who are always up for a fight, and a brother who bullies her and steals her precious possessions.

Burns’ ability to write hilariously about things that are anything but is most keenly displayed in her depiction of Amelia’s first date with Janto Pierce. Her friends tell her there are ‘warnings and dangers’ about him, but Amelia is ‘one of those unfortunates who had to learn everything from experience’ (Burns, [2001] 2018: 286). He is, after all, tall, muscular, and not bad looking. Janto turns up at the agreed place for their date, already furious with her. She tries to placate him by talking about a college course she is thinking of taking. This information enrages him still more: ‘What are you going to college for? Sure ye’re a girl!’ (Burns, [2001] 2018: 188). This observation leads to a protracted rant about ‘stupid females’ ((Burns, [2001] 2018: 188), which eventually turns into a digression about black people being less intelligent than white people.

It is at this point that the multilayered prejudices of white men like Janto come to the fore, and Burns writes with the kind of excoriating humour that made Milkman such a delicious delight. A thought suddenly enters Janto’s mind: ‘would it be better to be a man even if you had to be Black, or would it be better to be female with frailties, feelings, feebleness, fragility and no brains – but at least with a skin that was White?’ (Burns, [2001] 2018: 189). Burns describes the torment Janto is thrown into as he contemplates this question: ‘“Black man!” “No, White woman!” “No! Wait a sec! Black man!” “No! No! Give me a minute! White woman!”’ (Burns, [2001] 2018: 190) Eventually, laboriously, he reaches his conclusion:

In the end, for Janto couldn’t abide ambiguity, ambivalence, abstraction, paradox or any

sort of in-between mussed-up stuff, he decided to opt for being Black and managing as

best he could, rather than be a woman, no matter how White the colour (Burns, [2001]

2018: 190)

I’m not sure there is a better description to be had of the contorted logic of the interlocking hierarchies that structure patriarchal thinking, nor of the violence to which such thinking leads. There are static, divinely ordained hierarchies, and these operate upon gender and race lines, with the white male residing at the top of the pyramid.

How to challenge the kind of thinking that would divide the world into those who are perceived to be higher and those who are viewed as lower? The articles in this edition of the journal offer different ways of challenging ideas that would split human beings into the categories of superior and inferior. Each, in their different ways, offers an analysis of how such inequalities are created, sustained, and, also, crucially, how they might be resisted.

Jeane Peracullo provides an investigation of the different strategies for resisting the implications of such ideas in the writings of Sally Haslanger and Gayatri Spivak. Peracullo explores depictions of male and female, masculinity and maleness, and uses both theorists to offer ways of subverting and resisting the sexual stereotypes which maintain so rigidly their hold on so many people.

Chris Greenough takes up subversion as a means of resistance, exploring an innovative place for the practice of a theology: a salsa bar. Following the lead of Marcella Althaus-Reid, he explores the way in which queer theorising acts as a means of destabilizing identities that can all-too-easily become rigid. Through an imaginary conversation between a group of scholars, he considers the impact this way of thinking might have on what it means to be a theologian.

Adis Duderija turns our attention to the discussion in contemporary Islam of how the Quranic text is to be read. As someone who has written on this area, Duderija offers a sustained discussion of the methods used by male reformist Muslim scholars, each of whom is considering the relationship between cultural values and eternal truths. Important conclusions come out of their work about what this might mean for the role of women in Islamic society.

Alicia Panganiban offers a not-similar approach as she grapples with the Book of Ruth in the Hebrew Bible. In the story of Ruth she finds parallels with her own lived experience as a member of a foreign minority living in the United States. Her experience of resisting precarity finds a ready resonance in Ruth’s experience of living as an outsider in Israel. What emerges from Panganiban’s close reading is a message of hope where a ‘hermeneutics of resilience’ is based in the practice of loving kindness.

If the story of Ruth prompts us to think about the importance of relationship, Bryan Cones moves our discussions into the practice of the church as community. He offers a ‘feminist adjacent’ position, and through a consideration of liturgy and the limits of current feminist liturgical practice, he considers how to truly open up and create an inclusive church.

Gyrid Kristine Gunnes’ account of what an inclusive church might look like moves beyond discussion of the relationships between men and women to consider the kind of ‘open church’ that might be created for those living with different kinds of marginalization. Her ethnographic study focuses on the ecclesial practice of the Lutheran church of Our Lady, Trondheim, Norway. In this medieval church, the homeless and drug users find a place, and out of ‘the messy and chaotic lives of people, a powerful displacement of space, practices and bodies occurs’.

Gunnes’ article leaves a real sense of hope as to the kind of inclusive, equal space that the church might become. As we conclude, let us return to Amelia, Anna Burns’ protagonist with whom we began this introduction. What happens to Amelia, faced with Janto’s dismissive and brutal words about her and her sex?

Amelia, we will doubtless be glad to note, manages to escape his clutches: but not before he has pulled a punch that stops just millimetres from her face. Janto accompanies this action with a vivid account of just how easy it would be to kill a woman: ‘Just lift her up, dash her down, smash her to pieces on flagstones, pull her arms and legs off, then leave her lying and walk away after cracking her skull apart’ (Burns, [2001] 2018: 194). Rather than stay, Amelia realizes she doesn’t have to. She gets out of his car and makes good her escape.

It is not so easy for Amelia to leave behind the violence of her home and her country. The rest of the novel is a slow and often painful account of how she – and her community – move away from violence towards ‘a peace process’, the phrase Burns uses for the title of the final chapter. The structure of Burns’ novel tells us much: defeating the violence and injustice of masculinist society is never something that is done once-and-for-all. It takes work, it involves false steps and false hopes. But as the articles presented here suggest, it is possible to resist patriarchy, white supremacy and other forms of injustice. It is possible to cling to the promise that change for the better is possible: in our communities, our churches, and our countries.