"Matthew 25 Christianity: Redeeming Church And Society"

Donald Heinz, Lutheran minister and Chico State emeritus Professor of Religious Studies, offers in his new book what he calls a field guide to a new Christian movement, one based on the words of Jesus in Matthew 25.

"You've heard the story," Heinz writes; "it is the end of the age and all people are lined up, like sheep and goats, before Jesus as the cosmic judge. A series of questions ensues and judgments are made. Did you see me among them, Jesus as King asks, when there were homeless to be sheltered, naked to be clothed, hungry to be fed, thirsty to be given a drink, strangers to be welcomed, the imprisoned to be visited? If you did these things for the least of these, you were serving me. Now you will inherit the kingdom prepared for you since the foundation of the world."

For Heinz, "Matthew 25 Christianity: Redeeming Church And Society" ($29 in paperback from Cascade Books; also for Amazon Kindle) has both an inner and outer expression. Within the Christian tradition "new movers and movements came to take Christianity seriously, and were gripped by it, and made the concern with 'the least of these' the cause of their religious life" (think Francis of Assisi, Martin Luther King Jr.).

But today "we have isolated or distanced the poor, or insulated our social imagination" until "it is nearly impossible to see them." He proposes churches identify as "Matthew 25" congregations--but there must be more.

If his book seeks to take the likely original reference in Matthew 25 (to Jesus' itinerant disciples, often poor) and bring it into "new social contexts" and a care for "all the people of the world who are in need," he also advocates for the institutionalization of such a social gospel framework within governmental structures. It's not a theocracy, Heinz writes, but a call for the voice of Matthew 25 to become part of public discourse. 

In the end Heinz invites readers to "sell all and sign on": "The apostle Paul took a world-friending God public, rendering the Jesus movement a light to the world. What are we going to do with this?"

"Chico's Chapmans: The California Years 1861-1899"

"Augustus Hartley Chapman's name," writes historian Michele Shover, "hovers like the wisp of a phantom in Chico…." Gus Chapman died in 1899, when Chico had fewer than 4000 residents, and though he had a remarkable part to play, except for "Chapmantown" his name has mostly been lost to history. Until now.

"Chico's Chapmans: The California Years 1861-1899" ($35 in paperback from Stansbury Publishing) is Shover at her indispensable finest. The fruit of forty years of research, her book is a compelling narrative of daily life in Chico focused on the man from Michigan who worked for John Bidwell and then turned into a longtime rival. 

In more than four hundred pages, including dozens of historical images, Shover captures a community beset by economic downturns, fires, political squabbles, controversy over whether to split Butte County (take that, Oroville!), failing wooden water pipes, family tragedies, anti-Chinese sentiment, murders. 

It was Chapman who in 1877 "formed a private vigilante committee of business leaders—the Citizens' Executive Committee on Anti-Chinese Crimes—to circumvent Chico government's refusal to act"; it was "the only vigilante committee in Chico history" and burnished his reputation "as a man of principle, courage and leadership."

Gus was also very much a man of his times. 

In 1865 he "left with Bidwell's partner George Wood to open a competing store." Five years later, with both Bidwell and Chapman selling lots on their respective subdivisions, Chapman, elected as a school trustee, voted to put the new Oakdale school near his own property. That despite Bidwell's offer to sell property for the school "on the east side of Orient Street ('Old Chinatown')" for a dollar.

As Shover notes, "A schoolboard member today who did what Chapman had done would be indicted. However, nineteenth-century government, in general, enforced no business standards or public ethics."

Chapman and his wife Sarah celebrated "their shared birthday and their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary" in 1883. Sarah kept the family together (and Shover pays due regard to her work). 

When Gus died, despite his many failures, "only his creditors were aware of one point central to his honor: he had paid off every debt in full. He died owing no man."

"Generation Dread: Finding Purpose In An Age Of Climate Crisis"

Whether she and her husband Sebastian should have a child is a question that suffuses Britt Wray's deeply researched report on the effects of "eco-distress" felt by many young people today. In an era of climate extremes thirty-something Wray, born in Toronto and later a Human and Planetary Health Postdoctoral Fellow at the Stanford Center for Innovation in Global Health, traces the effects of what is called "global dread." 

It's defined by author Glenn Albrecht as "the anticipation of an apocalyptic future state of the world that produces a mixture of terror and sadness in the sufferer for those who will exist in such a state." Should one bring a child into such an uncertain world?

Wray's analysis focuses on those who feel pain as wildfires, droughts, floods and hurricanes ravage the globe. The overwhelming problems, exacerbated by racism that makes the most vulnerable even more vulnerable as the climate changes, can produce either a depressed apathy or ill-directed energy from culturally privileged eco-warriors. 

There is a better way, she writes. "Generation Dread: Finding Purpose In An Age Of Climate Crisis" ($24 in hardcover from Knopf Canada; also for Amazon Kindle) proposes "a way of transforming fear into radical hope." 

Wray is scheduled to give a talk on "teaching climate change and resilience" Thursday, October 13 at Chico State's ARTS 150 Recital Hall at 6:00 p.m. The public event is free and will be available on Zoom (details at bit.ly/3rKsG3g).

"If you're resigned to the idea," Wray writes, "that everything before us spells out a very particular vision of mass suffering, bring that thought into your arms and legs with a big inhale, and be present in the moment. Then feel that you actually don't know what exactly is going to happen. No one does! … There's an excitement about the future that can arise in that dark place." 

For Wray, it's not about grasping expectations, but rather exerting one's agency in the moment, and building a community-based model of mental health care. We feel the pain—and "invest in the future anyway." 

So what about having a child? That, dear reader, is Wray's story to tell.

"Don't Mess With Me Texas"

Chicoan Nancy Good, writing as Skye Ryter, has published a harrowing account of abuse and "comeuppance" which she calls a "memoir/novel based upon actual and fictitious events…. The author is offering her personal perspective on the subject of protecting children from their abuser(s)."

"Don't Mess With Me Texas: Based On The Satanic Panic, Child And Domestic Abuse And The Children's Underground Network In The 1980's" ($7.99 in paperback, self-published; also for Amazon Kindle), contains graphic descriptions of what the author calls "sexual child abuse," "satanic ritual abuse," and spousal abuse. It is not for the squeamish.

Narrator Kiftin O'Tool, after a college stint in Redding, finds pool parties and popping pills for back pain not quite the career she planned. At 26, promised a cush job in Hawaii by an Army recruiter, she enlists as a motor-pool driver. That's where she meets troubled Scott McConnell.

"I'm ashamed to admit it," the narrator tells readers, "but I was obsessed with him. Everything inside of me was telling me to help him. To love him into decency. It could be my purpose in life to show him how to behave responsibly." She adds: "I have since learned that when a child is abused by a parent, they will unconsciously seek out a mate who produces similar high anxiety. Having an overwhelming desire to 'fix' the mate is really a deep desire to fix the relationship with the abusive parent."

She can't quit Scott. They marry and later, with new daughter Kali, move to Texas where Scott's bizarre parents reside (his mom is stone cold, his dad a spider-keeper) and it becomes clear Kali is being sexually abused in satanic rituals that revel in human dismemberment and death.

And so the narrator goes into hiding with Kali. Mind-bending custody battles ensue over many years, and there's another marriage, but it's clear in the late 80s that police don't believe her abuse reports and the Texas judicial system is stacked in favor of the father (and the handsome Scott can talk his way out of almost any situation). 

Sadly, the eventual comeuppance fails to wash away images of the immense cruelty humans inflict on one another.