..::: In Our Poverty :::..

Where Lashes Go in the End

2009-05-04T22:26:00.001-06:00

Daddy, where do they put the lashes?

Where do they put what?

The lashes. Sarah's lashes. Where do they put them?

You mean the ashes? Sarah's ashes?

Yeah. The ashes. How do they get them and where do they put them?

Well, after they put Sarah to sleep, they put her body with the bodies of other dogs and kitties who had to be put to sleep too. Then they uh, they burn them, with fire, to get the ashes. And they take the ashes and put them somewhere, so they can go back into the ground.

Why back into the ground?

Mmwell, so they can help the earth grow new things, I think.

Like what? Like flowers?

Yes, I think so. Like flowers.

And so went a serious and kind conversation with my six year old, before our bedtime prayers. I like the mental image of the flowers. I like it quite a lot.

I only cried for about an hour and a half when all was said and done today, when the gentle old dog Sarah and I had spent our final time on earth together, and she went to sleep for the very last time. And she went to sleep gently, with not so much as a jerk from the needle or even a whimper. She died in my arms, and it seemed right and it seemed complete. But it seemed oh so very odd, at the moment my mind played grainy images of a young dog running and playing with life abundant, to feel that life come to an end, and all go away. I understand very well that the magnificent beauty of life is inseparable from its final act; the act of dying. I even understand that in this way death is meaningful. But I do not like it. I do not like it at all.

The form of killing that is contextualized and assigned the symbol "euthanasia" is uniquely problematic; not that it is clearly wrong or right, but in that it involves an intimate foreknowledge I am unconvinced mortal creatures are intended to possess. Last night I sat outside on the grass with Sarah and I talked to her and I petted her, knowing she would never see another night. Today I held her tight and I talked to her knowing that in an hour she would never see day again. Is it not so very odd, so beyond being a contingent being, that I should know such a grave and final thing that she could not? That the moon and the sun would never shine down their light upon her coat again? That while I watched her sleep last night that she would never dream again? It may well be that I am supposed to learn something in that foreknowledge, and it may well be that I will think about it in the days to come, but I did not like it and I questioned it with an aching somewhere deep inside of me, in a place deeper than my heart. It seemed wrong to me; wrong in an ontological sense of cosmic proportions. I did not like it. I did not like it at all.

I am troubled tonight by the idea that it may be true that every sentient being deserves every possible day of life; that there is value in breath and blood and warmth and it should never be ended on purpose. I can see where this may well be true, and if so I ask solemnly for the forgiveness of a kind old dog and the God who created her. But I do believe it was time that good days were to end very soon for her, and I am comforted that she did not have a day of suffering. She would have suffered in patient silence, for it was her way. And today, while I was still trying to decide for certain, she refused her old favorite bits of meet with gravy and peas, and would not so much as take a drink of water. That meant enough to me. I think we cut the line as close as we could, my old friend. I love you, and I will miss you, and I will thank the Heavens for you. I promise you that I will remember you, until my line, too, is someday drawn and cut.

Sarah, may your great and gentle spirit mix joyously with the four winds of the Earth, forever and ever. I will pause more often now, old girl, to gaze upon the beauty of flowers.

Saying Goodbye

2009-05-03T22:04:00.001-06:00

Somewhere around fifteen years ago, I picked up a bouncy, clumsy little puppy with her tail all a wag, carried her out of an animal shelter and into my home, and named her Sarah. The life ahead of her was to be a good and long life for a dog, and she has deserved every game of fetch, every pat on the head and rub of the tummy, and every tasty little treat she's received in those fifteen years. I must admit that I cannot reconcile certain feelings of mine with my Christian faith—at least not in a way that most of my Christian friends would accept. Sometimes it seems like there are very old souls who roam this earth, and sometimes it seems as though they are not all in human form. I guess I just love this old dog, for her intrinsic gentleness and patience and simplicity. I love her because I admire and respect her, I guess, for the kind and loving creature that she is and always has been. I love her, I suppose, because she's been more human in this life than a lot of people I've met. I know I'm supposed to be grown up about all of this, because she is, after all, just a dog. But for the life of me, I can't seem to bring myself to make that step. She's a dog, I know. But she's Sarah, and I love her very much with a very real part of my very human heart. And tomorrow, unless I decide I simply cannot do it myself, I will pick her up as now an old and tired dog, and I will carry her from my home to a little room where a doctor for dogs will meet us for a particularly unhappy occasion, and I will feel her gentle heart beat in my arms for the very last time. My only hope is that she feels no pain, and my only question is how long I will weep.

The Weak and the Strong, Part… Whatever

2009-04-18T02:42:00.002-06:00

Well I haven't been able to get myself in the mood to blog over the past few months. Life is busy and there's a lot going on, but a lot of the reason is wrapped up in the following…

Some time back I posted a series of thoughts on the Weak and the Strong, from Romans 14. I'm not sure how much good all my prior thinking on the subject actually did once it came time to put it into practice. This year—yes, all year— I've been involved in a controversy resulting over decisions made about direction and forms of worship, and leadership approaches, at the congregation I've attended for over twenty-five years. I started out, with the best of intentions, by agreeing to jump into what I thought was the middle of the controversy and trying to bring factions together in a mutually workable solution. That ideal fell apart and turned into a grand mess pretty fast, and I remain saddened over the improper thoughts, words and deeds attributable to many people, myself included. It's going to take me quite a while to finish processing everything in my own heart and mind and get myself reoriented as far as how I view… well, lots of things about religion, faith, community and people. There's a whole book that could be written about what we've gone through, how and why.

I've done my best to apologize to those people who were hurt or disappointed by anything I did or said, but I've come to realize that apologies don't simply fix everything and make it new. Again, though, for any who may read this blog and who still feel injuries inflicted by my hand, I am deeply sorry. Any harm I caused to people, to a congregation, or to the name of God was not done in malice—naiveté, ignorance and foolishness, yes, but not malice. I made mistakes, and I'm sorry. If saying what you need to say will bring you healing, then I continue to extend an ear, and a hand of friendship.

I've learned several things anew and to a greater depth of conviction. Paul was right when he implied that the weak judge the strong, and that the strong hold the weak in contempt. Jesus was right when he said everything hangs on loving God and loving others. Paul was right when he said love is more important than faith. I was right whenever in life I first realized that the central problem of Man is pride. And I won't even try to list the dozens of other things.

The latest irony is that I've been asked to speak at a summer seminar in another city regarding what I've learned through all of this in terms of the Will of God and unity amongst Christians. At the moment I'm thinking that such a speech would take about one minute: what I've learned with deeper conviction is that we are all united in the basic fact that we are broken, frail and poor, and that God's Will is for us to love one another freely and deeply in the midst of all our brokenness. And, I suppose I could add that I've learned from all empirical evidence that actually doing this is much more difficult for us than I once thought.

Not much of a post for all this silent time, but it's a start. God's Love remains True, though it be carried on earth in vessels of clay.

I’m Still Here…

2009-03-05T22:09:00.001-07:00

Yes, I am still here. No, I'm not writing much these days. But, I am doing a lot of thinking.

Please be patient, and hopefully some worthwhile posts will result from the hiatus.

Blessings to you and yours…

Merton Monday 38

2009-01-05T00:02:00.001-07:00

In the long run, no one can show another the error that is within him, unless the other is convinced that his critic first sees and loves the good that is within him. So while we are perfectly willing to tell our adversary he is wrong, we will never be able to do so effectively until we can ourselves appreciate where he is right. And we can never accept his judgment on our errors until he gives evidence that he really appreciates our own particular truth. Love, love only, love of our deluded fellow man as he actually is, in his delusion and in his sin: this alone can open the door to truth. As long as we do not have this love… we have no real access to the truth. — Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, p 69

Oh. And Happy New Year.

2009-01-01T02:31:00.001-07:00

Geez I almost forgot.

To my friends, to my family, to all those with whom I am acquainted, to those I am yet to be, and to those I will never be:

This year, may God richly bless our lives, our homes, our nations and our world.

May we all come closer to God, and become more practiced in loving one another.

In the end, only this can save us.

Discourse and (In)consistency

2009-01-01T02:28:00.001-07:00

With due respect to my post immediately preceding this one:

My seminar paper for this past semester was a brief study of a small part of James Paul Gee's Discourse theory, applied to an online debate concerning a particular Christian doctrine. In a related sense, while reading some news today I was reminded that I'm pathetically, morbidly fascinated by the profound polarization of opinion expressed by folks who supply online comments to political stories.

One of the most popular attacks in these polarized situations, including the debate I was studying, is the claim that people from the "other side" are hypocritical. This is a pretty interesting phenomenon once you start to pull it apart. It's worth mentioning that "hypocrite" gets thrown around quite a lot, but I think the words "inconsistent" and "self-contradictory," which are also thrown around a lot, are closer to covering the majority of the cases. So let's stick with the idea of consistency for the rest of the post.

Gee (1989: Literacy, Discourse, and Linguistics: Introduction. Journal of Education , 171 (1)) notes that when we speak (or write, which is first speaking in our heads, I would say), the words we use are accompanied by values, beliefs, gestures, postures, and a myriad of other things, and are part of "saying (writing)-doing-being-valuing-believing combinations," he calls Discourses. You can name these combinations anything you want; in my work I call them "meme complexes," but you can make up your own name if you like. The point is, to be a credible, accepted, card-carrying member of a Discourse, you have to get all the talking, doing, being, valuing, and believing worked out just right. Mess one of them up, come up short in one area, and members of that Discourse will spot in short order that you don't belong. You're not a member of their Discourse. You don't fit in. You're an outsider. Gee claims that we each acquire at least one Discourse for free; it's our primary Discourse that we acquire early in our human development. After this one, most of us pick up additional "secondary" Discourses as we are exposed to various groups and institutions. There are Discourses associated with government and politics, work and careers and professions and crafts, various educational fields, religion, hobbies, and et cetera. Gee notes also that the Discourses which we acquire or attempt to acquire don't always fit together perfectly, and they cause tensions within us. For example, the beliefs of a woman's religious Discourse might conflict with her academic Discourse of Women's Studies. Somehow she has to manage the tension between the two, and she may well figure out how to do so, or if not then one of the Discourses will suffer and possibly be abandoned. So, oftentimes whenever two or more Discourses are competing for our action and demanding that we inhabit them, there's a problem. How do we act consistently in our living? The easy answer would be to avoid being part of a Discourse that creates this tension, but this is not easily done. To do so, really, one would have to remain a child, with only a primary Discourse, for his or her entire life. Long story short, in regard to this reality Gee makes the following statement, which seems fairly innocuous at first: "…humans are not consistent and well integrated from a cognitive or social viewpoint, although most Discourses assume that they are." As I was proofing my paper this past week, it struck me just how vital this passing point (a few sentences in the referenced work of Gee) really is. People are not consistent, but most Discourses assume that they are. This just strikes me, in its brutally simplistic observation, as vitally important in regard to how we try to communicate with one another. Here are the thoughts that have occurred to me so far:

When I am acting from within a Discourse (which I cannot avoid doing), it is assumed by the Discourse (and myself at the moment) that I am being consistent.

Discourses, also, assume that they themselves are consistent—or are made consistent by nature of their being held within a (presumed) consistent individual.

If I, with my repertoire of Discourses, cannot make a "logical" connection between two points for which another person claims that such a connection exists, I assume that person is being inconsistent.

There is a grand narrative, underlying most of our Discourses, that equates consistency with truth.

I assume, therefore, that what I say, value, believe is based in truth. I assume my actions are based in truth.

I assume, then, the other person's are not.

Given my assumption and because the other person defends his position, I assume he is ignorant, stupid, foolish, evil, etc.

Discourses contain lattices of beliefs that arise either: (1) for the sole purpose of making a Discourse appear consistent, or (2) because the Discourse is already assumed to be consistent.

A major portion of our belief systems is composed of these lattices.

We consider the links which compose these lattices to be fundamental elements, fundamental truths, which are on par with the major claims of the Discourse; that is, with the Discourse nodes which the links connect.

Your inconsistency is readily apparent to me because (1) your are inconsistent, and (2) I lack the lattice(s) that makes you appear consistent to yourself.

Notice that this is all based upon nothing more than the mere assumption of consistency.

This assumption is likely nothing more than a link in a latticework of a governing Grand Discourse.

While consistency of systems should remain something we value at a certain level, we must realize that absolute consistency does not exist and should not be the litmus test of "true" views.

If we could get past the idea that truth necessitates something referred to as "logical consistency," a whole bunch of interpersonal and intellectual overhead would cease to exist.

Wow. Gosh. You Must be Really Smart.

2009-01-01T02:25:00.001-07:00

One of the things, perhaps the only thing, I find difficult about being in school is the requirement to write in analytical terms. To be brutally honest, I don't personally gain much of anything by doing so. I don't mind reading analytical work that other people put on paper and certainly I learn a great deal from doing so, but for myself it all seems like a lot of work for something that is not much of an accomplishment. I write that way sometimes (including in this blog), and I think it is necessary sometimes, but it always leave me flat. I know as I begin to write it, I know while I'm writing it, and I know after I've written it that many other counter arguments exist and are at least as convincing as my own, so, what's the point?

I suppose this is why I like the contemplative writings of Merton, the work of Khalil Gibran, and the personal essays of Loren Eiseley. I see great truths in these works, but the works aren't intended to convince the reader of anything he or she can't intuit; of something he or she has to construct from if-then and therefore. They don't stand or fall by the impeccable use of logic. They say what they say. The words resonate with the reader, or they don't. I guess I'm saying, I like reading and writing from the "heart" more than the head. [At this point, I should note that when I say heart, I'm not being terribly explicit about what I mean by it. In general, I mean the part of your chest that gets heavy, the part of your gut that turns inside out, the very deep part of your reasoning that beyond words—almost beyond intellect itself—cannot deny you've read something that to you, is absolutely true.]

I mention this because in recent years I've been thinking about it quite a bit in terms of faith vis-à-vis religious doctrine. There is a strong parallel present wherein faith is a matter of the heart and religious doctrine is more like intellectual argument. [This is not to say that faith is not, in large part, a function of human reason. I would not claim faith is independent of reason, and indeed I would say that faith relies upon reason to a large extent. However, I would say that the reasoning that faith relies upon is, itself, based upon a framework determined by the heart.] I'm thinking of a pretty random example at the moment:

Take Aquinas when he's talking about the interpretation of scripture:

The author of Holy Writ is God, in whose power it is to signify His meaning, not by words only (as man also can do), but also by things themselves. So, whereas in every other science things are signified by words, this science has the property, that the things signified by the words have themselves also a signification. Therefore that first signification whereby words signify things belongs to the first sense, the historical or literal. That signification whereby things signified by words have themselves also a signification is called the spiritual sense, which is based on the literal, and presupposes it. Now this spiritual sense has a threefold division. For as the Apostle says (Hebrews 10:1) the Old Law is a figure of the New Law, and Dionysius says (Coel. Hier. i) "the New Law itself is a figure of future glory." Again, in the New Law, whatever our Head has done is a type of what we ought to do. Therefore, so far as the things of the Old Law signify the things of the New Law, there is the allegorical sense; so far as the things done in Christ, or so far as the things which signify Christ, are types of what we ought to do, there is the moral sense. But so far as they signify what relates to eternal glory, there is the anagogical sense. — Summa Theologica 1.1.10

For one thing, I don't think a person needs an article like this to feel and to therefore reason that, say, the word "battle" signifies a conflict, and that the conflict signifies things moral and/or allegorical and/or anagogical. Furthermore, establishing an article such as this (although Aquinas didn't originate it) causes two main problems: (a) that people feel the need to stick to it, as if it is now a requirement as well as the only way to interpret scripture "correctly" and (b) other people will analyze the article and explain why it's a load of garbage, thereby making their own articles, which strictly prohibit any interpretation that smacks of Aquinas' article. It seems to me much more straightforward to intuit that sometimes scripture means something quite literally, sometimes it doesn't, and well, sometimes it's anybody's guess as to which is which. This seems to be a much more honest, reasoned, heart-felt view and, to me, results in a deeper, stronger faith.

There are probably thousands of examples of this in faith vis-à-vis religion, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and at times like this I wonder why I ever, ever venture into the world of talking beyond what seems right to me, daring to trod into the land of if-then-therefore; as if such things can convince somebody of something. And now I'm getting closer to the intended points of this whole post…

First, I've posted two Merton quotes dealing with seeing Christ in others. I may be speaking a bit from ignorance here, but it seems to me that there is a rift in thought between the evangelical ideal of being Christ to the stranger, and the Catholic ideal of seeing Christ in the stranger. Growing up in an evangelical framework (well, at least officially), I am no stranger to the ideal of being Christ to other people. This should be a natural result of following Christ; if you follow him, you become like him. I have no intellectual problem accepting this. Additionally, there is an ideal based upon corollary, so to speak, that we see Christ in the lives of our Christian brothers and sisters. I have no intellectual problem with this, either. But there is very little talk, in the traditional evangelical circles I've trod, about seeing Christ in every stranger you meet. So I have found myself over the years captivated by what I consider to be a Catholic ideal of welcoming the stranger as if he or she is Christ himself. One of the surface-level intrigues about this idea is that to me it is not explicitly biblical as far as our biblical texts go, yet I find it impossible to deny with my reason that within my heart this idea is profoundly and lucidly Christian in character. And I think, in general, it is essentially the pure spiritual lucidity of some of Catholicism's contemplative tradition that I find to be so compelling about Catholicism in principle. It has nothing to do with theological, doctrinal or dogmatic debate in my own mind. It is simply that in the core of my being, it seems absolutely "right" to view others in this way.

Second, a great deal of evangelical Christianity has traditionally been about convincing other people of the correctness of particular "facts," about the indubitable nature of certain doctrines, and the absolute nature of certain moral adherences. I find this far too much like the if-then-therefore approach and far too fragile. It is little—if anything—more than one set of arguments amongst many. And if Christianity is to be real, if it is to be anything at all that it claims, it cannot afford to rely on anything so imperfect. It must exist at a level far deeper than the intellect. It must be at the very center of the human heart; the part of the heart that was birthed by God and within which the light of God still shines—even if hidden from the outside.

My point is that I'm moving farther and farther away from doctrinal systems in my life. I'm finding them more and more the root of problems all the way around. In fact, I think it's fair to say that I'm growing quite sick and tired of them. I have said this many times, but I will say it again: My role as a Christian is to love people. To love them deeply, to love them profoundly, and to love them no matter what. My role has nothing to do with anything else, except the working out within my heart of what I must become, why, when, where and by what mysterious mechanisms, in order to love like this Naturally, as the Spirit of God assumes more and more control over my being.

Finally and quite honestly, if you know me and you feel you really must argue doctrinal specifics with me, well, then come on; roll up your sleeves and show me what ya got. But I must say beforehand that I seriously doubt God cares much about our intellectual opinions, though I am rather certain God cares a great deal whether or not we are willing to lay down our egos and simply Love one another. And we should think about this before we open our mouths and try to pretend how smart we are.

Merton Monday 37

2008-12-29T22:39:00.001-07:00

[one must] choose life, and the things that favor life. This means respect for every living thing, but especially for every man, made in the image of God. Respect for man even in his blindness and in his confusion, even when he may do evil. For we must see that the meaning of man has been totally changed by the crucifixion: every man is Christ on the Cross, whether he realizes it or not. But we, if we are Christians, must learn to realize it. That is what it means to be a Christian: not simply one who believes certain reports about Christ, but one who lives in a conscious confrontation with Christ in himself and in other men. — Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, p 219

Christmas Wishes

2008-12-22T00:37:00.001-07:00

An extract from my annual holiday letter to family and friends…

While I type this letter, I am reminded that the Christmas season brings with it imagery of love's simplicity, of humility, and of peace on Earth. Hanging on the wall beside my computer is a small crucifix [L and S] bought for me while on their summer trip. I cannot articulate what and how much it means to me that my wife and daughter, when selecting souvenirs for me, would pick this particular item. But to put it simply, it means that apparently, in spite of all my weaknesses and shortcomings, people who know me understand that I believe in certain things, that my interior life is about certain things, and that I trust in certain things. As I sit here and stare at the crucifix, I can't avoid seeing significance in the fact that it was cut from an olive branch and handcrafted somewhere in the West Bank; that from a hot-bed of strife, contention, hatred and violence comes this ultimate image of the one who said love one another, pray for your enemies, forgive them, and blessed are the peacemakers. Think about that for a second.

I would like, in this holiday letter of 2008, to bring this image into the forefront of our thinking, with the rampant polarizations within our current culture forming a contrasting background. I would like to ask all of us, we who believe and trust in the message of the cross and of he who was hanged upon it, to deeply and profoundly internalize the call of that message. I would like to suggest that we ask ourselves what, at the end of our lives, will matter. Will it be that for a moment we once held a particular set of intellectual opinions in an ever-changing world, or will it be that we chose above all things the timeless call to love other people no matter what the cost? I would like to suggest that whether we are engaging friends, family, neighbors or enemies, our calling is obscenely and scandalously simple: to love deeply, to love profoundly, and above all to love humbly. I would like to suggest that if this crucifix means anything at all, that we must begin with it, anew, today. I would like to suggest that if we believe in peacemaking, we must allow peace to begin now, in this very moment. And I would like to suggest that for peace to begin, it must begin in your heart and mine. It is not our calling to change those who are different from us. It is, rather, our calling to be different, to be changed—to be transformed by God's love, poured out upon us through a little child born long ago, in a land we call the West Bank.

Merton Monday 36

2008-12-22T00:23:00.001-07:00

The Truth man needs is not a philosopher's abstraction, but God Himself. The paradox of contemplation is that God is never really known unless He is also loved. And we cannot love Him unless we do His will. This explains why modern man, who knows so much, is nevertheless ignorant. Because he is without love, modern man fails to see the only Truth that matters and on which all else depends. — The Ascent to Truth, prologue

Merton Monday 35

2008-12-14T23:29:00.001-07:00

We must know the truth, and we must love the truth we know, and we must act according to the measure of our love. — The Ascent to Truth, prologue

Merton Monday 34

2008-12-08T00:38:00.003-07:00

With the last two Merton Mondays, I left seven or eight months of New Seeds at a pretty good place. I now need to decide from which book I should start taking the next Merton Monday series. In the meantime, here are a few little thoughts which hang out in my brain, in the little shoebox labeled "Merton."

As I sit here working on the close of the semester, which means I am struggling as always to write a final paper, I'm thinking about the tension between taking my interest area seriously enough and taking myself too seriously. For example, I find this semester that I've started to cite my own work when writing papers. I've always found this uncomfortable when I read other people's work and they cite themselves. I'm not sure why I find it that way, but I do. It seems… ostentatious. But then again, isn't this what I'm supposed to be doing, if I take my interests seriously and believe in the idea of bringing about something new?

I think I'm taking myself too seriously just by nature of the fact that I'm worried about such things. I should just do what I do, because it's what I do. And so be it.

Merton didn't take himself too seriously. He took his subject matter extremely seriously, but not himself. I was thinking tonight about a discussion I had at the Abbey, with an old monk who knew Merton. The old monk made a remark about Merton once saying of himself that he belonged to the world. Then the old monk, in a statement that left me amazed, said something like this: "I've heard that his writings have become quite popular; that there are even little groups of people who read his books and sit and talk about them. I hear he's sort of famous. I guess, in the end, he was right. He does belong to the world."

I was left with the distinct impression that this old monk never had, and never would, learn of just how famous Merton became. And that impression left me… I don't know… emotionally and intellectually moved in a very positive, but very strange, way.

If I remember correctly, that old monk said he stood outside in the snow and waited for Thomas' casket to arrive at the Abbey one day in December of 1968. It was planted in the ground beside those of all the monks who had previously committed their lives to that place—simply, humbly, and away from the world to which they each belonged.

Sad Little Discussions…

2008-12-03T01:16:00.001-07:00

I understand this is part of being human, and therefore not really sad, but usually I wish I was beyond such things. I offer it as an example of the human creature. Submitted for your approval, in the twilight zone.

A recent discussion, entirely within my own skull, while browsing this web site:

Voice 1 (Creative, Passionate, Carnal): Oh. My...

Voice 2 (Reason): What? That?

Voice 3 (Spiritual, Higher Reasoning): Awwww man… things were so quiet here in the moment. Here he goes again…

Voice 1: Yes. That. The one on the right. Oh my…

Voice 2: You don't need that. You…

Voice 1: I know. I don't care. Geez. That's. So. Cool.

Voice 2: You do not need that. You don't even...

Voice 1: I know. But that's, just, cool. Don't you think?

Voice 2: Well, yes, but, do you have any idea how much that must cost?

Voice 1: Does it matter?

Voice 2: Hah! Uh-yeah… Let's see… Uhhh-yep. As I expected. This is four or five grand. Four or five thousand dollars…

Voice 3 Good Lord!! You shouldn't even be thinking about this. You should be way beyond…

Voice 1+2: We know.

Voice 3: It's humanly criminal for you to think about that. You don't even…

Voice 1+2: WE KNOW!

Voice 2: But yes, one. Three's right. And look… Seriously... Come on. You don't even play.

Voice 1: I know. (That hurts, by the way) But that's… that's not the point. If I did play, I'd play that. This. Just like David Gilm…

Voice 3: This is sad. Just, really, really sad.

Voice 2: I know. Very.

Voice 3: Is this humbling you, two? It should be. I mean, one's completely out of the question, but you...

Voice 2: I know. Yes. Yes it is. Well, I hope it is…

Voice 1: I am going to learn. I want to. I really do. And I am. Soon. I'm not getting any younger, you know.

Voice 2: Aw geez. Blah, blah, blah. Why are you always in a hurry? Why do you have to do things now, instead of…

Voice 1: I see. I desire. I feel. I imagine. I create. It's what I do. You know this.

Voice 2: Yes. (sigh) Yes, yes I do. Fine. I can give and take. So do it, but do it later, after…

Voice 1: Helloooo! There may not be a laterrrr…

Voice 3: Well, that's true. There really is no later; there is only an eternal now, and…

Voice 2: Stow it, three.
Helloooo yourself, two: if there isn't a later, do you really want to spend now on this trivial crap, instead of, oh, I don't know… Your family? Writing?

Voice 1: Well I…

Voice 2: Has it ever occurred to you that maybe later is the proper time for frivolity?

Voice 3: (Excellent point, two. Excellent, excellent point.)

Voice 1: Well I… But I…

Voice 2: And for Pete's sake: did you even notice that this thing doesn't come in a lefty?

Voice 1: Huh? It… what? Oh. (Damn!) Right. Of course it doesn't.

Voice 3: I think I see an easy resolution to the moment coming…

Voice 2: Um-hmmm… me too...

Voice 1: That's… that's good, I guess. That's a good thing. Yes. That's… that solves a lot…

Voice 2+3: Yes. Yes it does…

Voice 1: Well, sure, and better, I mean, I can be sensible. I can give and take. We'll just get an American Standard lefty for a quarter of that, you know, replace the pick guard, change the electronics…

Voice 2: Oh gawd… We're losing him…

Voice 3: (Charging…) CLEAR!!

Merton Monday 33

2008-12-01T00:17:00.001-07:00

And now for the second part of last week's Merton Monday:

Yet we must not deal in too negative a fashion even with the "external self." This self is not by nature evil, and the fact that it is unsubstantial is not to be imputed to it as some kind of crime. It is afflicted with metaphysical poverty: but all that is poor deserves mercy. So too our outward self: as long as it does not isolate itself in a lie, it is blessed by the mercy and the love of Christ. Appearances are to be accepted for what they are. The accidents of a poor and transient existence have, nevertheless, an ineffable value. They can be transparent media in which we apprehend the presence of God in the world. It is possible to speak of the exterior self as a mask: to do so is not necessarily to reprove it. The mask that each man wears may well be a disguise not only for that man's inner self but for God, wondering as a pilgrim and exile in His own creation.— New Seeds, chapter 39

These words of Merton are very near the end of New Seeds, and although he goes on immediately to echo St. Benedict by making a statement about seeing Christ in every person, I chose to end the quote where I did. I find the last sentence in the above to be one of the most lovely statements I have ever read concerning Christian spirituality and doctrine, and quite ingenious for everything that is wrapped up, neat and tidy, within it. Seriously. It's brilliantly insightful. I am also very much taken by the simplest of statements: all that is poor deserves mercy. I am not far from being willing to claim, at the moment, that these two statements could, on their own, comprise a wholly sufficient personal Christian faith.

Witherington on the Shortcomings of Intellectual Coherency

2008-11-27T22:06:00.001-07:00

I haven't made the time to watch the embedded video, but Ben Witherington's comments in this article track quite well with my own views on the risk of placing much stock in "intellectually coherent" theology.

Offering Thanks for Nonlinear Functions

2008-11-27T14:42:00.002-07:00

As I was doing my best to get some grocery shopping done quickly this past weekend, I found it interesting how embedded we can become in the vocabulary of given discourses; not always happily. I was doing my time-and-a-half shuffle, pushing my cart, looking at my shopping list. The last thing left was a few twelve-packs of Coke products, according to the provisions of an advertisement. So, to myself, half out-loud, I said determinedly as I slid around an end-cap, "Okay, all I've gotta do is converge upon an acceptable soda solution…" To which, I immediately thought, "…converge upon an acceptable soda solution? What the heck is that? Who says stuff like that? Why can't I just say, 'All I gotta do is grab some coke?'"

But then again, sometimes embedded vocabulary works out to be quite cool. Back in the day, during freshman physics lab, one of my lab partners was spilling her guts about something to the rest of us around the black-topped tables, talking about how life was difficult and challenging and asking why it couldn't be more predictable. To which, a clever partner replied dryly (and perhaps a bit unsympathetically) after a moment's thought, "Well, life's not linear."

I'm pretty sure I've heard that phrase several times since, maybe because I hang out in professional circles where converging upon an acceptable soda solution would seem normal, but I still like the phrase very much and for some reason it seems more profound and insightful coming from an adolescent in a science lab.

Life is not linear, and it's so far from being so that one wonders why anybody would expect it to be. And, in fact, it's actually a good thing that it's not. If it were, we would never learn the hard—and most important—lessons. We would never be awestruck by beauty. We would never be swept off our feet by romantic gestures. We would never cry, in sorrow or in joy. We would miss most of what it means to be human at the deepest, most meaningful levels.

Today is Thanksgiving, and so I offer my thanks for the nonlinear nature of my life:

I make many mistakes. I am thankful to have learned the value of forgiveness.

I am imperfect. I am thankful to have learned the beauty of Grace.

I am ignorant and unwise. I am thankful for humility.

I have known the pain of sorrow. I am grateful for compassion.

I fear not being loved. I am thankful for wanting to be loved.

Love hurts. I am thankful for something worth far more than pain.

Death comes unexpectedly. I am thankful for today in all its fullness.

I am not the father I would like to be. I am not the spouse I would like to be. I am thankful for wanting to be.

Life is difficult and comes at great costs in many currencies. I am thankful that life is not cheap.

As I sit and think about it, the list could go on and on, but the point is simple enough. All that is great and meaningful in life is purchased at a great price, but life would not be worth living otherwise. I am frail and I am broken. Truth be known, if I were not, I would have no need for the love of others, and no ability to love them in return. And that life, simply, I could not bear. On this Thanksgiving Day, I give thanks for imperfection, and all that heals it.

Merton Monday 32

2008-11-24T00:08:00.001-07:00

At the end of New Seeds, Merton closes with a thought I find particularly wise, peaceful, and therefore comforting. It is, at the same time, greatly challenging. This is the first part of it, and I plan to offer the second part (which I find to be quite lovely) next week, with a couple of additional comments.

The presence of God in His world as its Creator depends on no one but Him. His presence in the world as Man depends, in some measure, upon men. Not that we can do anything to change the mystery of the Incarnation in itself: but we are able to decide whether we ourselves, and that portion of the world which is ours, shall become aware of His presence, consecrated by it, and transfigured in its light.

We have the choice of two identities: the external mask which seems to be real and which lives by a shadowy autonomy for the brief moment of earthly existence, and the hidden, inner person who seems to us to be nothing, but who can give himself eternally to the truth in whom he subsists. It is this inner self that is taken up into the mystery of Christ, by His Love, by the Holy Spirit, so that in secret we live "in Christ." — New Seeds, chapter 39

What Changes, and Does Anything Not?

2008-11-23T00:11:00.001-07:00

I'm taking a break at the moment, to do some mental garbage collection and a bit of a flush. As an exercise, because I was just reading about Baby Boomers and Millennials, let's take the ideas, tossed about during the recent political campaign, that America isn't what it used to be, that there are "types" of America, that there's a "real" America, and so forth.

Immediately as I type this, I succumb to the imposing theoreticals of deconstructionism. Echoing rather brutally in my mind are questions, allegations and half-formed sentences like, "But really, was America ever America? Isn't America just an ideological model that has persisted but yet never truly existed in the form the model represents…" or, "Which America would we be speaking of? Is it the America of established white male privilege, is it the America of the young neo-capitalist, is it the America of the African-American community circa 1964, or is it …" and things like that. At this point I close my eyes tightly, rub my temples, and sigh heavily.

On the other hand, my current school project has me reading a debate involving a Christian fundamentalist (all the way down to six literal days of creation and an earth that is no more than about 8,000 years old), who can't write for very long before slinging some epitaph at "postmodernists" without ever saying what he thinks a "postmodernist" is, and knows only that every single word of the Bible is literal truth and can be interpreted (by the proper faithful person like, well, him) without error. He likes to consider himself and a fairly small group of others as contemporary Noah's, with only a few saved from the flood while everyone else on Earth "bubbles" their way into an Eternity of torment. Again, I close my eyes tightly, rub my temples, and sigh heavily.

In the midst of the usual end-of-semester mini-panic and micro-depression, I find myself thinking critical theory and deconstruction are being pushed to the point of absurdity, and concurrently musing that people who know nothing about them yet complacently condemn them are sad, ignorant little people who… well, whatever. I get irritated all around, standing right in the middle. (And by the way, it's the complacency and smugness, not the ignorance, that bothers me.)

Life is dynamic from day to day, and as sure as the sun n the sky, it is dynamic across decades and millennia. Life is lived by us largely based upon things which have no absolute basis in fact and are, simply, social constructions we accept as Ultimate Reality. I agree with this totally, and yes I am stupefied by those who think otherwise. But, I am frustrated and confused by those who go to extreme lengths of argument to demonstrate this while leaving little as far as pieces to put together into something… human. (And, again, I am plagued by half-formed sentences concerning the meaning of the word "human.")

What presently intrigues me about deconstruction and critical theory is that the latter is based in the former and uses its ideas, ostensibly, to better the lives of the marginalized by changing institutions. The grand question is: why?

This is a grand question for two main reasons: One, the irony that left to run amok, deconstruction itself will remove all possible motives for a why; and two, any motivation for bettering the lives of the marginalized is born of a motivation originating long, long, long ago—it's not like critical theory in terms of feeling compelled to solve institutional ills is postmodern in this sense. It's pre-modern, ancient, actually, and it is at this thought that I'd like to make my point for today. I began this post, inside my head, with a question of whether there are any long-standing, decidedly human, truths that exist across the millennia. Is there something that doesn't change? Is it all dynamic or is there something at the core of us that is relatively static? (AGAIN, I'm fighting half-formed sentences; now about meta-narratives and their seeming but not actual stasis being due to their relative longevity in human history…) So what I'm wondering is this: why do critical theorists not more often come to question the motive behind their work? Why do they not more often deconstruct that? Are there, perchance, any implicit assumptions that to "better" the lives of the marginalized is unquestionably, absolutely, forever and always right and proper? If so, from whence do such assumptions originate?

For now I'm clinging to whatever it is that might form the basis of those assumptions. (And by the way, I find the pure biological model to come up wanting…)

Against all odds

2008-11-18T18:50:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, in "Faith and Respect," I posted about a classmate of mine who is a young Muslim woman. During class one evening a week or two before that post, she appeared very upset, on the verge of tears and possibly ill. She left class briefly, and as I recall another young woman in class followed her, to make sure she was okay. I hadn't thought much of it until this week, when another classmate told me what had happened that evening. The Muslim woman had been walking to class, and a passerby walked up to her and spat on her. Actually, "spat" seems too refined; the passerby spit on her.

I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that in addition to the insult of being spat upon, in addition to the assault, in addition to the concern for disease, there are probably some serious issues of religion and faith involved here. Although certainly I don't know the issues possibly raised by this incident, I can imagine that it was quite possibly deeply serious for this young woman.

As for the person who did this to her? Who knows what provokes such things. Fear. Ignorance. Anger. Vengeance. Hatred. But if religion had anything to do with it, I will answer this: Jesus would never, ever, have spat upon this woman. To the contrary, he would have comforted her and defended her in the face of the one who did.

In my Swiss-cheese, worm-holed mind, this makes me think of the Beatitudes. To my thinking, the assembly of the beatitudes into the order they appear in the book of Matthew is fairly ingenious spiritually:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, blessed are the merciful, blessed are the peacemakers, blessed are you when you are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, blessed are those who are reviled on account of Jesus.

The reason these are so ingenious (although it's possible this is merely a modern analysis applied backward in time) goes like this: In a spiritual sense, there is a path a human takes. It begins with being broken in your spirit. This leads to spiritual mourning. This leads to a hunger for righteousness; not just in your own life, but in all of creation. This leads you to become merciful. This leads you to be a peacemaker. Some people will persecute you for trying to make peace. The place to which the path ends up taking you, along the path of Jesus, will make you hated by some.

That's the little hazelnut version, and how does it tie into this woman being spat upon? Lots of ways, but here's the one foremost in my mind. I don't get angry often, and I'm not a physically violent person. I'm not a physical fighter, and I've been blessed to avoid violence in my life. But it wouldn't surprise me if someday I get the living crap beat out of me for defending a kind, humble and marginalized person. Someday I just may be in a crowd, and somebody is going to pick on somebody else, for no other reason than the latter is of a particular religion, or color, or ethnicity, or orientation, or gender, or physical appearance, or whatever. And I'm going to step in, and I'm going to get seriously clocked. But that's not the kicker. The kicker rests in the fact that there will be people, some of them devotedly religious and considered quite moral, who will believe I had no business defending the person I did, and that I got what I deserved.

I'm seriously not wishing for this to happen, but intellectually I recognize it as essentially unavoidable. It is a core part of understanding and accepting the implications of Jesus as the logos. Part of the Message—the Message that was Jesus—is that the path to God is met with violent opposition from those who claim to be God's chosen. This is, plain and simple, the Way things go down. The Jesus Story is fascinating as it unfolds, as Jesus comes to fully grasp the Message of his own Selfhood. Think about it the next time you see a crucifix, and try to imagine the courage it must have taken—the courage to love people without boundaries, without limits, and against all odds.

My Money, My Body

2008-11-17T21:10:00.001-07:00

That's a dangerous title for a post, huh?

Presently, I will likely infuriate both ends of the political spectrum. This post is not really about politics; it's just that the recent election provided such a great example, I can't resist. Some setup is required, but I'll keep it brief, so some assembly is required by the reader.

I've talked a lot about money and wealth in this blog, always making sure I note that I'm preaching to myself as much as anybody else. I think about this have-and-have-not thing quite a lot, so it's no surprise that I was thinking about it when I worked on the Habitat house. That brief experience helped to support my fairly constant view that it's okay (in fact, a good thing) to make money, but the only good reason to make money is to use it to help others.

This eventually risks bringing up the idea that "some" folks "deserve" to have money, because "their" money gets used in the "proper" ways to help "other" people. Lots of quotes there, but this in turn brings up the idea that how a person uses the money he or she has, is a personal ethical/moral choice. In such a view, a person would make as much money as they possibly could, and then spend as much as they possibly could in the ways they choose to help benefit those without so much. And I must admit, with the exception of the first sentence of this paragraph, this is fairly close to the way I believe things should be. I've been given the opportunity in life to make a pretty decent wage. Therefore, I should share that wage. End of setup part 1.

I got an email the other day, and it featured a list of ways the "Democrats," from FDR to present, have worked with respect to Social Security to take money from those who have it. Beside the fact that this email is not terribly factual, what was intriguing to me about it was (1) the list of addressees and (2) its title. The majority of the addressees were self-professing Christians, and the title was, "Who keeps taking my money?" Upon receipt, I was a bit perplexed. Even if the email had been factual, the glaring thing to me is that I'm pretty much left at a loss when people refer to the money that is presently held in their name as being their money. Most especially when the list of addressees is predominately Christian, I would have presumed that the foundational understanding would be there's no such thing as "my" money. I thought it was God's money, and therefore existed for the sake of all of God's children. End of setup part 2.

Putting together parts one and two, I think that if I sat down with most Christians who have money, they would say that technically the money is God's money, and that they should use it to help others. But I also tend to think they would say that how this is done, when, and for whom, is their choice as stewards of the money. And, furthermore, I tend to think this would be their faith-based view of why the government should keep its hands off of "their" money. (The implication being, I tend to think, the first sentence of paragraph three). Having thought about it this way is about as close as I can come to understanding why a faith-based worldview would have such a hard time with the government "redistributing" wealth. And I don't think, actually, that such a faith-based view is that bad. I mean, if you really believe everything you earn should be "yours," that you should have control over it so that you can make the personal moral choice on how to use it best, in your best faith-based estimation, for God's Kingdom, then I can't fault that. I might even go so far as to say you're quite right; that the government has no business trying to legislate the moral issues of my wealth and how it's used. That's why I'm a moral person after all; to take this responsibility and make my choices sincerely, humbly, and with fear and trembling before God. That's my place. Not the government's. Fair enough. Let's go with that, for a moment.

But here's the tough part about blogging in the middle; there's a flip-side that, to me, is a bit interesting. Sit down, and hold on to your hats while I open a giant can of worms: Isn't this the same type of point that certain folks are trying to make regarding abortion rights? This is a provocative question, sure, but I think it has quite a bit of merit in opening up some interesting ideas.

[I realize that "abortion rights" is a bit of a questionable phrasing, according to some people. I realize that the general populace prefers to place discussions in the "pro-choice" versus "pro-life" framework, and that those who talk about the fundamental right of reproductive choice are talking about more than abortion; but they are talking about abortion in the mix and for me this needs to be addressed. I also realize that the "pro-life" group, who has adopted a name not so cleverly implying that the "other side" is "anti-life (read: pro-death)," largely ignores those other issues involved in reproductive choice, going so far in some cases as to (with a gross failure in internal consistency) oppose birth control. In a politically negative view, what "pro-choice" really means is the right to have an abortion regardless of how and why someone became pregnant, and therefore it is, in part, a call for the "right to terminate a problem" after one has already made a free choice resulting in the problem. In the other politically negative view, what "pro-life" really means is that all people should be legally forced to have only the choices certain other people are willing to afford them. As with most political claims, each of these has some truth and each of them is conveniently incomplete. As I note in the rhrn.net faq, both labels are trouble. I, for one, am both pro-life and pro-choice, unless those terms are seen as cultural labels representing pre-packaged platforms, in which case I am neither. I have digressed…]

Anyway, are the two points, about keeping one's money and keeping one's reproductive rights, the same? Well if they were identical they wouldn't be two points, but they are very similar. Both sides can argue that their cause is a matter not of morality per se, but of freedom and rights, with morality only coming into play if you consider freedom and rights to be moral issues per se. Both sides can argue that their cause is indeed a moral issue, and that morality concerning their particular cause should not be legislated. Both sides can argue that the other side is the more potent biblical issue; the Bible is not too keen on the murder of innocents, and it is no less keen on greed and social injustice (which are, essentially, the murder of innocents). Both sides can argue, on the other hand, that their cause is not explicitly condemned in the Bible. Both sides can argue that their cause honors personal responsibility, and both sides can argue that the other side's cause allows and promotes selfish irresponsibility. Both sides can be either right or wrong on any of these points, depending upon their personal, heartfelt motives.

What astounds me, all things considered, is that the two issues are seen as separately as they are, and how successfully they are separated by those who play politics. Do you believe that the government has the right to tell you what to do with those things you consider most private and personal, most yours, or do you not? If not, then they shouldn't be telling you about reproductive rights, nor should they be sticking their fingers into your wallet. If yes, then let them decide who should have your hard-earned money, and when you should or should not be allowed to have an abortion. Take your pick; but don't let people fool you into thinking the issues are all that different from one another.

I think maybe there is an alternative view, and it goes something like this: Let's give to Caesar what is Caesar's—which in practicality means Caesar is going to do whatever Caesar wants to do anyway—and to God what is God's. Maybe we should stop looking to institutions to solve our problems, and stop looking at them as if they are the cause of our problems. Maybe we should each look instead inside of our self, deeply and profoundly, and choose. Choose to rise above political rhetoric, and cease to be a victim of it and of those who succumb to it. Choose to see that "they" and "it" are not the problem. Choose to see that the selfishness inside of you and me is the problem. Choose to see that ultimately the solution rests gracefully in the Kingdom of God, a Kingdom of and for all people who choose to enter into it, and so each choose not for the sake of our own lives, but for the sake of all of us together; the poor, the sick, the marginalized, and the unborn.

My money? My body? No, they aren't.

Merton Monday 31

2008-11-17T00:05:00.001-07:00

To find love I must enter into the sanctuary where it is hidden, which is the mystery of God. And to enter into His sanctity I must become holy as He is holy, perfect as He is perfect.

How can I even dare to entertain such a thought? Is it not madness? It is certainly madness if I think I know what the holiness and perfection of God really are in themselves and if I think that there is some way in which I can apply myself to imitating them. I must begin, then, by realizing that the holiness of God is something that is to me, and to all men, utterly mysterious, inscrutable, beyond the highest notion of any kind of perfection, beyond any relevant human statement whatever.

If I am to be "holy" I must therefore be something that I do not understand… — New Seeds, chapter 9

Aircraft Report

2008-11-14T23:49:00.004-07:00

I'm considering this to be cathartic:

Aircraft flown this month, starting with the least pleasant:

Airbus 319. This series makes me nervous because of initial flight control problems (to name one, pilot says to plane, "take off," and plane says to pilot, "No, sorry, landing...") I'm sure they've fixed them by now, but I know way too much about software systems to feel super-comfy on one of these. And the one I flew rattled and shuddered pretty badly. I'd prefer not to fly one again.

Boeing 737-300. I flew three of these, of various ages. The newer ones are much more spiffy than the older ones. Typically I don't worry too much about a 737 now that they got that horribly terrifying jackscrew thing worked out. Well, *cough* I presume they did...

Bombardier CRJ700. A coworker traveling with me joked that the way this plane was designed was that they took a "real" jet in AutoCAD, set the scale to 7/8, and were done. The one we flew was pretty new and tight. It was a nice ride. I'm learning that an axiom in my paranoid mind is that smaller planes are safer than bigger ones. I'm sure there's a lower limit, but...

Bombardier Dash 8. I'm not sure which variant I flew, but, I think it was the -100 series. I have to say, it was almost (almost, okay?) fun. I was in the very last row, in the only middle seat on the plane, and I probably stood a good chance of being able to hit the cockpit door with a spitball. I couldn't escape the feeling that at some point during the flight we were all supposed to function-check our weapons and wait for the green "go" light to indicate our jump zone. The thing I liked about this plane was that it felt like half of it could fall off and the rest would still fly. I was charmed enough that I had to post a pic. Here's one I grabbed from the web, copyright included:

Words Are a Small Portion of Meaning

2008-11-14T23:20:00.002-07:00

Well, I have four more airplane flights behind me and I'm presently doing my best to relax now that I'm home again. My notebook that I purchased early this year supports Dolby five channel surround, and I finally got around to digging out my speakers and trying it out tonight. Me like.

So the testing out of the sound involved playing a whole bunch of stuff, which included a favorite pair of videos. I've probably mentioned this before on this blog, but these two covers of U2's "One" are a not-so-subtle example of how words are truly the smaller portion of meaning in a text. It's a story about a man and a woman… no… wait… it's a song about a race relations in America…

The effect works best if you watch them in the order I list them.

Wings, and Water

2008-11-09T12:12:00.001-07:00

I don't like flying, and I don't like water. Well, a glass of water is fine. Bottled water is fine. Taking a shower is fine. Deep water is a problem. I was not created as a creature of the air, nor one of the sea. I have hands and I have feet. I have no wings, and I have no flippers nor fins.

Flying out of LA, you always get to depart over the pacific. That's just great. Perfect.

I'll be glad to be home. In my house. It's on land.