Episode #53: Ruth Chapter 1 - Background

Jan,16 2026

<-#52: Preface to the expanded edition by Ruth#54: Ruth Chapter 2 - Submission ->

I write this not as a prophet's daughter but as a clerk of a complicated family.

Too many things have been said about these two books that do not belong to them. Some readers treat them as if they fell from the sky already numbered and bound. They did not. My grandfather wrote his manuscript in a school notebook with a soft pencil that smeared in the summer. My father wrote his on a second-hand typewriter that skipped the letter e whenever he was tired. What you hold is the result of later hands, mostly my mother's and mine.

For the sake of honesty, I will place the facts first.

Christopher died on August 9th, 1937, after a long fever that weakened his heart. He was buried without a marker at his own request. My father, Daniel Mercer, author of the second book, died on March 2nd, 1962. My mother, Myriam Mercer, née Hale, died on October 14th, 1970. I was born June 3rd, 1921. My wife, Eleanor Price, was born November 9th, 1922, and has agreed that her name may stand here beside mine.

These dates matter because the books are often read outside of time. They are not ancient history; there are people who knew Christopher who are still alive to this day. People who still bear direct witness to his messages.

The first book was written before the Great War, the second between the two wars and during a depression. Christopher did not change as much as the world around him did. My grandfather and my father lived in the same rough places, but they did not live in the same era. With modernity came conformity; with convenience came centralization by the state.

I have been asked to clarify "misunderstood verses." I will do so only to prevent harm, not to settle theology.

The only reason I accepted my new role was to prevent the creation of a unified dogma, as Christopher preferred people to make up their own minds. He spoke of freedom, not of doctrine, for his main focus was the freedom of choice.

When Christopher spoke of nakedness, he spoke of choice without shame, not of obligation. The sentence in the first book that says, "Clothing is born of fear," has been used to shame those who choose to dress. That use contradicts the man I knew.

And yet, after my grandfather's death, everyone around Christopher chose to live unclothed, and Christopher never again told someone they were not ready.

This contradiction is something that sparked controversy, and my book will not solve it for you, for Christopher wouldn't have wanted such clarity.

When he warned against movements, he was not condemning fellowship. He feared only the day when people would obey a banner more quickly than their conscience. I have seen that day arrive more than once. With my new position, I will not impose a doctrine any more than Christopher would have.

The passage concerning submission to our husband in the second book has caused the greatest injury. Christopher refused to answer because the question was already crooked. But also because he was already tired from a long life. Some have taken his silence as approval of hierarchy. I do not. Silence can also mean exhaustion with a trap. But then again, I do not have a husband, so it is not my place to clarify his thoughts.

I admit openly that I read these books as a naturist. I do not pretend neutrality. Christopher lived without shame; my family continued to live without shame; I have built my adult life on the same ground. Those who wish the books to argue against naturism will find little help from me.

Even when they speak of wearing clothes during the winter, this is often just putting a cloak over your shoulders to protect against the wind when outside.

In truth, when visiting friends, when in the inside spaces, we enjoyed our shared nudity even when the wind swept outside. And on warm winter days, nudity would return as a hope of a coming spring.

In reality, I had to buy proper clothing only to travel for the conference. I admit I had never worn panties and was confused at to their purpose. I never wore a bra and don't intend to. Feminists have burned them anyway. My legs have been encased in pants. This is how we lived. Simply.

My grandfather never lived undressed; my mother and my siblings never lived dressed. This is our way, but this isn't doctrine.

I include these personal details because distance has already begun to blur us into symbols. We were not symbols. We were a noisy household with arguments over dishes and irrigation bills. Christopher was a man who often forgot his hat and laughed too loudly at bad jokes. My father snored. My mother worried about food reserves. I loved a woman when that love could still cost a person everything, anywhere but around our town.

If the books survive, let them survive as documents of real lives. Do not polish them into marble. Marble forgets how to breathe.

I offer this book as a set of keys, not as a fence. Use what opens a door. Leave the rest on the table where you found it.

<-#52: Preface to the expanded edition by Ruth#54: Ruth Chapter 2 - Submission ->