Month: June 2024

a pile of open books
Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality, Writing

Lost in Translation

Christine Eberle

I really ought to get over it. The “new” translation of the New American Bible hasn’t been new since I was in college (1986), and it’s been in liturgical use for more than two decades now. But, every once in a while, something about the revised edition hits my ear badly and sets my head shaking again. This was one of those days.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is on his way to heal the dying daughter of synagogue leader Jairus when they are halted by an afflicted woman who (literally) reaches out for a cure by touching the tassel of Jesus’ cloak. The ensuing conversation delays the trip to Jairus’ house long enough for people to arrive with news that the child has died. Turning to the stricken father, Jesus says . . .

“Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

Seriously?

I suspect it’s the word “just” that bugs me. Such a dismissive little word. Like the “Just Say No” anti-drug campaign of the 80’s, or Nike’s “Just Do It” commercials, the reality is so much harder than the word “just” implies. In the old (1970) New American Bible—the version engraved on my heart—Jesus says: “Fear is useless; what is needed is trust.” That has always moved me. “Fear is useless” sounds so much stronger than “Do not be afraid.”

I remember, in grad school, learning about the continuum of approaches to biblical translation. On one end is literal translation–as close as possible to word-for-word. On the other is paraphrase–rendering the ancient languages in chatty, accessible prose. In the middle is something called dynamic equivalence, which aims to convey the meaning of the original as fluently as possible in the new language. As I understand it, this was the intent of the 1970 NAB, but it was perceived as having gone too far. The 1986 version is more literal, but to me it feels like they’ve sucked the poetry out of all my favorite texts.

I’m on this today not to lobby for the old translation—clearly, that ship has sailed—but because of a realization that hit me as I was fussing about it.

Last week, I reviewed the suggested copyedits for my new book, including the insertion of translation acronyms after every Scripture citation. In addition to the New American Bible Revised Edition (NABRE), I’ve use the New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE), the King James and New King James Versions (KJV & NKJV), and even something called the Complete Jewish Bible (CJB). What is wrong with me? I wondered as I went through the text. Why can’t I just pick a translation and stick with it? (Hah! Once again, “just” is harder than it sounds.) This morning, I realized why: it’s because the translation in my head doesn’t exist anymore, so I’m forever searching for the one that comes closest.

The next time a line of Scripture catches your attention, I highly recommend visiting Bible Gateway, where you can see it in over sixty English translations. (But not the 1970 NAB; for that, you have to haunt used bookshops like I do!) Perhaps you’ll discover a nuance you hadn’t grasped, or a phrasing that speaks to your present circumstances. The most important thing is that you let the Word “dwell in you richly” (to cite many translations of Colossians 3:16), remaining close to your heart where it can make a difference in how you approach the world.

As for me, I’m just going to keep muttering “fear is useless” . . .

Liturgy, Scripture, Spirituality

Do You Not Care?

Christine Eberle

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38)

These words from today’s Gospel are on my shortlist of saddest lines in Scripture. It’s right up there with Martha’s and Mary’s response when Jesus finally shows up after Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

In the other accounts of the Storm at Sea, the disciples simply cry out “Lord, save us! We are perishing” (Matthew 8), or “Master, master, we are perishing” (Luke 8). Those sound like the desperate prayers any of us might utter in a crisis. But in Mark, they say “Do you not care that we are perishing?” Ouch. (I suspect that “Do you not care?” was the subtext of the sisters’ words as well—implying that a caring Jesus would have arrived in time to save his friend.)

Mark’s Gospel is shorter and terser than than the other two, so it’s unusual that his account would have more words. It’s also the oldest Gospel, though, so perhaps the other evangelists edited out the apostles’ accusation, finding it unseemly. Yet their question strikes me as perfectly human—and refreshingly honest.

Read more: Do You Not Care?

The feeling that we are going under, or that someone we love is about to slip from our grasp, is indeed terrible. This morning, I’m thinking of the people evacuating Ruidoso, New Mexico ahead of raging wildfires, the couple from my parish racing across the country to be there for their son’s brain surgery, and all the suffering souls in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, Sudan, and countless other places. The enormity of what people endure is staggering; feeling like God is asleep or indifferent compounds the misery.

Does knowing that even Jesus’ closest friends doubted his care for them offer any consolation? Does belief in their eventual rescue—the storm stilled, Lazarus raised—offer the least bit of solace when we’re in the thick of our own distress? That, my friends, is a question only you can answer for yourself.

What helps me is remembering how many times I’ve reached the other side of a metaphorical storm—emotional, medical, financial, interpersonal—and found my feet on the damp sand of life’s next chapter. Awareness of what God has done nurtures trust in what God may yet do, so I try to begin from a place of gratitude.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is “Sing with All the Saints in Glory,” set to the tune of Beethoven’s “Hymn to Joy.” It contains these marvelous lines:

All around the clouds are breaking,
Soon the storms of time shall cease;
In God’s likeness we awaken,
Knowing everlasting peace.

The song doesn’t minimize suffering, but it does put it in perspective. No storm lasts forever. We will know relief, whether in this world or the world to come.

Whatever storms you are experiencing right now, I invite you to be as honest with God as Martha, Mary, and those soaking-wet disciples were with Jesus. From that place of honesty, may you grasp the outstretched hands of gratitude and hope, waiting to lead you to a place of peace.