In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.…
The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. (Gospel of St. John 1:1-5; 14)
____________________
Merry Christmas, dear friends. May your hearts be filled with wonder and peace; may your hearts overflow with thanksgiving; and may hope never leave you.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
When Faced With The Past, The Strongest Man Cries
Dan Fogelberg has died. His music touched me profoundly. I don't think I would be who I am today without his romantic, lovely, painfully beautiful muse touching my obdurate heart when I was a young man. I am not sure I could have even made it through my first year in college without his soulful, evocative voice.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Death At The Diner: A True Story
Yesterday (Friday, Dec. 7) I sat in the corner booth of the Peterborough Diner, my back to the wall. Across from me sat my nephew, David, 28 years old, looking far older than he should. I was finishing my BLT and fries, while David talked between bites of his bacon cheeseburger. We were pretty quiet despite the fact that the diner, one of those old metal railroad car-type dives that dots the American landscape, was nearly filled to capacity. Plates chimed in the dish washing-room out back; diners tapped coffee spoons on the edges of white ceramic mugs. There was chatter at the counter; newspapers crinkled.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Blahs, Blues and Barack
Friday. A blogger's nadir, the Death Valley of the week. How is it that folks stop visiting on this day of all days? Is Friday 'dress down day' at the office, when everybody takes off for an early and long lunch? Is Friday 'home office day,' where countless workers huddle around laptops -- coffee, spouse and kids nearby -- with Saturday scratching at the door and blogs tossed into the garbage bin?
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT: Existence, Faith, and Atheism
[What follows is drawn from a comment I made at Debunking Christianity in response to an essay, "The Cost of Atheism." I was sharing my thoughts with a person from Illinois and Wisconsin who writes under the lovely screen name, GoPrairie. Our exchange was fun and gracious.
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
FOR FUN: THE SPEED OF LIGHT AND YOUR EXISTENCE
Let me note this: If the speed of light is finite, and yet it is the "fastest thing" (186,000 miles/sec) in the universe, then it follows that there is no present, there is no "present tense." Every perception MUST be delayed; we only know the past, irrespective of how quickly light reaches our eyes. From object to eyeball, from fingertip to wine glass, there is a delay; even the body's neurology operates at a finite speed. Hence, we only know a present by inference; but such an inference is rooted in faith. †
Let me go with this further. If the speed of light is finite,†º then know that when you look at the stars in the night sky over Wisconsin none of those stars "exists." Only their light "exists;" their fiery furnaces may have gone out long ago. Every single one of them may be gone, burnt out and dead in some distant explosion or some crushing implosion. We CANNOT "know" they are there, we can only know that they once were there, or so we induce from the light we see.
Now, go with me even further. All your life light has been bouncing off of you, traveling about the earth. Imagine for a moment that the light from your skin travels out from the earth and into space. Assuming that you are only about 40-years-old, then you are, in a very real sense, 40-light-years old, too. What does this mean? It means at least this: to the overwhelming majority of the universe, YOU DO NOT EXIST. Anyone 100 light-years away CANNOT know you exist. But, and here's the rub -- YOU DO EXIST. So, alas, we have a problem: Most of the universe cannot even know that life on earth exists -- and yet it does. Nearly every quadrant of the universe could never -- ever -- be shown ANY evidence of your existence, and yet you are in fact a very real being. What does this say about our sense of knowledge? What does this say about our demands for proofs for the existence of God? For if you exist and yet the universe cannot and does not "know" it, then perhaps God exists and you cannot know it -- or do not know it -- yet.
Surely I can at least make this concession: if it is extremely hard for me to prove my own existence to myself,† and if it is hard for me to prove my existence to you, then surely it would be hard for me to prove God's existence at all.
But you do ask for "proof " for God's existence, and I have none. But what if I said that the sun is God? You might counter that the sun is nothing more than a fusion reactor where the helium atom is smashed about. But what if I said this: How do you know God is not a fusion reactor? How do you know God is not a big ball of gas? What I am saying is that just because science has "explained something," it does not follow that science has not described the evidence which points to God; a thing explained is NOT God explained away. God may be proved by my pointing to a prairie dog. How do you know that such evidence is not evidence?
†[To explore this further, please see my essay, "A Letter to Christopher Hitchens;" therein I examine the impossibility of the self proving its existence -- to itself. The main examination occurs following the sub-head, The Transcendental Ego.]
†º[It should be noted that if the speed of light is instantaneous, then there is no delay except that between our senses and our perception. But let's assume that there is no delay even here. With that said, light that is instantaneous removes from us the ability to determine the age of the universe.]
_____________________
I would like very much to thank Chris from "Sorry We're Open" for his kind support and many encouraging words over the last several days. He particularly liked this "proof," and so I felt obliged to share it with the rest of you. If you hate what I've written, well, then direct your ire at Chris. Of course, I jest. But I'd surely love to know what you think.
_____________________
This New York Times piece by physicist Paul Davies is interesting -- especially if you draw your worldview from science. See? Faith is not so bad.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
On Belief: My Great Protest
My dear readers,
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
- If Jesus the Christ is real, and if He was a blogger, what would He blog about? What tone would He take?
- If Christ accepted comments at His blog, what would be the first question you'd ask?
- If Satan is real and he had a blog, what would he write about? What question would you ask him?
- If there is a God, does He love Satan? If so, why? If not, why not?
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
An Update On Pain
In haste, I want to let my friends here know that it has been discovered that my dental pain is not due to an infection. Instead, what appears to have happened is that I have -- a sprained tooth! I kid you not! The ligaments which attach my tooth to my upper jaw or maxilla are torn or strained and wildly inflamed. The news boggles my mind, as I forget that the tooth-to-jaw connection is, in fact, a joint.
So, what is the cure? Well, the remedy is not the sort of thing one wants to hear about on Thanksgiving Eve: I have to give my teeth a rest! What? Do you mean I have to elevate my tooth on a pillow while I sit and watch football tomorrow? Do I have to put my tooth -- the one dragged a mile over the last four years to fill the gap left by an extraction -- into a tight little splint? Can't I just wear a palatal sling?
Had this been an infection, relief would have come more swiftly, though an infection portends the imminent demise of one's tooth. Hooray! My tooth lives! But I cannot tell you how hard it will be to enjoy tomorrow's turkey as I wear those tiny dental crutches. Better that, of course, than the very greasy -- but speedy! -- molar wheel chair.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
So, what is the cure? Well, the remedy is not the sort of thing one wants to hear about on Thanksgiving Eve: I have to give my teeth a rest! What? Do you mean I have to elevate my tooth on a pillow while I sit and watch football tomorrow? Do I have to put my tooth -- the one dragged a mile over the last four years to fill the gap left by an extraction -- into a tight little splint? Can't I just wear a palatal sling?
Had this been an infection, relief would have come more swiftly, though an infection portends the imminent demise of one's tooth. Hooray! My tooth lives! But I cannot tell you how hard it will be to enjoy tomorrow's turkey as I wear those tiny dental crutches. Better that, of course, than the very greasy -- but speedy! -- molar wheel chair.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
Monday, November 19, 2007
On The "Virtues" Of Vicodin
Last week, while in a meeting for parents about to send a child off to college, I could not help but think of death. You see, I had just come from the fitness club where I train; at the club there is a man who in his thirties suffered a stroke after one particularly arduous workout. As a result of that devastating stroke, that man now walks around the gym sliding a lame leg and awkwardly managing a lame arm. I recall him telling me not too long ago that, right after his ill-fated workout 10 years ago, he went home with a splitting headache. Later that night he collapsed. The rest, as we say, is history.
So while meditating on a dragging leg and a lame arm as I strained to listen to a guidance counselor, I sat in my auditorium chair seized by the realization that I was suffering the worst headache I could ever recall. Pain radiated through my jaw, up my cheek, under my left eye and on up into wherever pain goes. It was almost impossible to keep from lying down on the floor. Panic nearly set in. Inevitability and futility were words that came to mind. I thought of asking if anyone present had a weapon.
As I've said before here -- though only in passing -- I am a patient of a nearby orthodontist. I've been dealing with braces for the past 4.5 years; the process included moving a molar some considerable distance. But during that process, the molar became brutally temperature-sensitive, its root being left slightly exposed. Needless to say, hot or cold, anything other than 98.6 degrees could send me soaring.
And thus I chalked my pain up to something dental. And I was right: I was not having a stroke. But I was wrong about the intensity of the experience, for the pain just got ridiculous over the weekend. And why wouldn't it, now that I've learned that the temperature-sensitive tooth is currently sporting a raging infection? No wonder my left eye closes and tears in pain, and my brain slows to a crawl as I wait for some relief. Antibiotics can't work fast enough; and the pain-killers I've been given work for but a short time (I refuse to take a whole dose because I am pill-phobic -- and, without question, supremely tough).
All this to say that I am in the throes of a double whammy: temperature changes of the slightest kind course through a wimpy tooth and slam into an abscess. That I have a healthy perspective regarding those whose pain is far more insufferable is true, but I cannot help but wonder how painful pain can be. I mean, when I am asked to scale pain between 1 and 10, I always ask (myself, of course) to what the scale is compared. Pain, it seems, teaches us at least one thing: Today's 10 can be tomorrow's 25.
I pray it isn't so, for anyone.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
So while meditating on a dragging leg and a lame arm as I strained to listen to a guidance counselor, I sat in my auditorium chair seized by the realization that I was suffering the worst headache I could ever recall. Pain radiated through my jaw, up my cheek, under my left eye and on up into wherever pain goes. It was almost impossible to keep from lying down on the floor. Panic nearly set in. Inevitability and futility were words that came to mind. I thought of asking if anyone present had a weapon.
As I've said before here -- though only in passing -- I am a patient of a nearby orthodontist. I've been dealing with braces for the past 4.5 years; the process included moving a molar some considerable distance. But during that process, the molar became brutally temperature-sensitive, its root being left slightly exposed. Needless to say, hot or cold, anything other than 98.6 degrees could send me soaring.
And thus I chalked my pain up to something dental. And I was right: I was not having a stroke. But I was wrong about the intensity of the experience, for the pain just got ridiculous over the weekend. And why wouldn't it, now that I've learned that the temperature-sensitive tooth is currently sporting a raging infection? No wonder my left eye closes and tears in pain, and my brain slows to a crawl as I wait for some relief. Antibiotics can't work fast enough; and the pain-killers I've been given work for but a short time (I refuse to take a whole dose because I am pill-phobic -- and, without question, supremely tough).
All this to say that I am in the throes of a double whammy: temperature changes of the slightest kind course through a wimpy tooth and slam into an abscess. That I have a healthy perspective regarding those whose pain is far more insufferable is true, but I cannot help but wonder how painful pain can be. I mean, when I am asked to scale pain between 1 and 10, I always ask (myself, of course) to what the scale is compared. Pain, it seems, teaches us at least one thing: Today's 10 can be tomorrow's 25.
I pray it isn't so, for anyone.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A Whole New Sort Of Rescue Dog
Marriage between a man and woman. So quaint. So old-fashioned. So "Christian."
I thank my "lucky stars" I was never given this sort of marital counsel.
I am quite certain the whole thing makes sense of Christian missionary commitments.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes.
I thank my "lucky stars" I was never given this sort of marital counsel.
I am quite certain the whole thing makes sense of Christian missionary commitments.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes.
Can You Say "Oy Vey?" How About "Oops?" Sorry?
[I tip my hat to James Taranto for directing me toward the absurdity -- one that incites laughter and tears -- pulled from the Letters to the Editor section of the Concord Monitor (I used to work for its sister paper) that has inspired this post.]
It is striking how interesting -- and perhaps even prejudiced -- some people can be. Take Mr. Peter Davis of Laconia, NH, for example. Here is a passionate man, full of fire and political consternation. Here is a man clearly given to analyzing the most complicated issues; he is probably noted around the house for his scrupulous attention to detail. He's probably got a ferret's relentlessness for sniffing out balderdash and rot. Surely his recent letter to the editor of the Concord Monitor ably bolsters that perception. If it doesn't, well, then surely it might present him a moment to reflect on his presumed certitude.
In response to an opinion column published in the Monitor on Sunday in which the word 'kafuffle' appeared, Mr. Davis takes a very curious tack. (How could he know that kafuffle can also be spelled 'kerfuffle' and that it comes from the Gaelic words meaning 'confusion' and 'disorder?') See for yourself:
For the Monitor:
What is a "kafuffle"? It's not in the dictionary. Is it just another proofreading error? Or is it a further example of your acquiescence to the Israelization of American culture by attempting to pass obscure Yiddish words into the mainstream of the American language?
It's bad enough that we are steered toward war with the entire Arab world and beyond because our "friend" Israel won't relinquish its occupation of Palestine and make peace with its neighbors. Still we are suckered into giving Israel, the 14th richest country on earth, billions and billions of our tax dollars in foreign aid every year, and we gave it carte blanche to rampage through Lebanon destroying everything in its path and inflicting collective punishment on its people, an aggression internationally condemned as a war crime, yet condoned by the Bush administration and sheepishly accepted by the American people.
How can we hold our heads high and proud when our own county illegally attacks and invades an Arab country that had done nothing to us, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and wrecking their entire infrastructure, clearly Bush war crimes, all for the benefit of Israel because Saddam was assisting the families of Palestinian martyrs in their struggle against the illegal Israeli occupation of their land? We shouldn't be proud to be associated with Israel, and I don't appreciate their insidious adulteration of our language.
PETER DAVIS
Laconia
What Mr. Davis fails to note is that the word was actually coined by George W. Bush during a pig roast in Texas. The president had a huge and happy mouthful of ice cream and peach cobbler when he was asked, "Why are the Israelis building a wall?" Bush replied, "They're fearful." But all the scribes heard was "kerfuffle." So, in a roundabout way, the word does have Jewish origins.
But only to Mr. Davis from New Hampsha!
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
It is striking how interesting -- and perhaps even prejudiced -- some people can be. Take Mr. Peter Davis of Laconia, NH, for example. Here is a passionate man, full of fire and political consternation. Here is a man clearly given to analyzing the most complicated issues; he is probably noted around the house for his scrupulous attention to detail. He's probably got a ferret's relentlessness for sniffing out balderdash and rot. Surely his recent letter to the editor of the Concord Monitor ably bolsters that perception. If it doesn't, well, then surely it might present him a moment to reflect on his presumed certitude.
In response to an opinion column published in the Monitor on Sunday in which the word 'kafuffle' appeared, Mr. Davis takes a very curious tack. (How could he know that kafuffle can also be spelled 'kerfuffle' and that it comes from the Gaelic words meaning 'confusion' and 'disorder?') See for yourself:
For the Monitor:
What is a "kafuffle"? It's not in the dictionary. Is it just another proofreading error? Or is it a further example of your acquiescence to the Israelization of American culture by attempting to pass obscure Yiddish words into the mainstream of the American language?
It's bad enough that we are steered toward war with the entire Arab world and beyond because our "friend" Israel won't relinquish its occupation of Palestine and make peace with its neighbors. Still we are suckered into giving Israel, the 14th richest country on earth, billions and billions of our tax dollars in foreign aid every year, and we gave it carte blanche to rampage through Lebanon destroying everything in its path and inflicting collective punishment on its people, an aggression internationally condemned as a war crime, yet condoned by the Bush administration and sheepishly accepted by the American people.
How can we hold our heads high and proud when our own county illegally attacks and invades an Arab country that had done nothing to us, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and wrecking their entire infrastructure, clearly Bush war crimes, all for the benefit of Israel because Saddam was assisting the families of Palestinian martyrs in their struggle against the illegal Israeli occupation of their land? We shouldn't be proud to be associated with Israel, and I don't appreciate their insidious adulteration of our language.
PETER DAVIS
Laconia
What Mr. Davis fails to note is that the word was actually coined by George W. Bush during a pig roast in Texas. The president had a huge and happy mouthful of ice cream and peach cobbler when he was asked, "Why are the Israelis building a wall?" Bush replied, "They're fearful." But all the scribes heard was "kerfuffle." So, in a roundabout way, the word does have Jewish origins.
But only to Mr. Davis from New Hampsha!
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Necessary Myth Mashing
A recently released study on media bias in news coverage during the first few months of the US presidential campaign season is enlightening. The study, produced by the Harvard-based Joan Shorenstein Center on the Press, Politics and Public Policy and Project for Excellence in Journalism, is thorough and engaging (read the PDF here), even if it is an erudite statement of the obvious: there IS a left-wing, pro-Democrat bent in the media. Look at the study for yourself. It will dispel few myths.
But there is one myth it will dispel, namely, that Fox News is some blaring mouthpiece for all things Republican. Not so, says the study, especially when compared to other cable news programs, like CNN, which leans decidedly left. Here's the report's statement about Fox:
The programming studied on Fox News offered a somewhat more positive picture of Republicans and more negative one of Democrats compared with other media outlets. Fox News stories about a Republican candidate were most likely to be neutral (47%), with the remainder more positive than negative (32% vs. 21% negative). The bulk of that positive coverage went to Giuliani (44% positive), while McCain still suffered from unflattering coverage (20% positive vs. 35% negative).
When it came to Democratic candidates, the picture was more negative. Again, neutral stories had a slight edge (39%), followed by 37% negative and 24% positive. And, in marked contrast from the rest of the media, coverage of Obama was twice as negative as positive: 32% negative vs. 16% positive and 52% neutral.
But any sense here that the news channel was uniformly positive about Republicans or negative about Democrats is not manifest in the data.
Surely we can all be confident that left-wing claims that Fox News is really Faux News will cease. I mean, it is well-known that we more conservative folk have an implicit trust in our liberal friends' ability to base their arguments on sound facts and methodology.†
But perhaps some trenchant thinkers, like those found at the Daily Kos or the Huffington Post, will not read this study and hence will be spared much troubling apoplexy. Their ignorance is a merciful ignorance.
And, for fun, this screen shot from the report showing the balance between positive and negative commentary on talk radio, conservative and liberal:
Granted. I post this table merely to incite laughter. It's clear the samples were rather small. But I do love the 100% tallies in the liberal talk radio columns. That's pretty funny.
It's sad that two seconds after you read this, you will most likely return to a world driven by media that lie to themselves about themselves. Media bias? Who really cares?
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
†I have not read the full text nor have I analyzed the study's methodology. For now, I'll make an assumption that this study intends to be taken seriously and hence has not been done shoddily.
But there is one myth it will dispel, namely, that Fox News is some blaring mouthpiece for all things Republican. Not so, says the study, especially when compared to other cable news programs, like CNN, which leans decidedly left. Here's the report's statement about Fox:
The programming studied on Fox News offered a somewhat more positive picture of Republicans and more negative one of Democrats compared with other media outlets. Fox News stories about a Republican candidate were most likely to be neutral (47%), with the remainder more positive than negative (32% vs. 21% negative). The bulk of that positive coverage went to Giuliani (44% positive), while McCain still suffered from unflattering coverage (20% positive vs. 35% negative).
When it came to Democratic candidates, the picture was more negative. Again, neutral stories had a slight edge (39%), followed by 37% negative and 24% positive. And, in marked contrast from the rest of the media, coverage of Obama was twice as negative as positive: 32% negative vs. 16% positive and 52% neutral.
But any sense here that the news channel was uniformly positive about Republicans or negative about Democrats is not manifest in the data.
Surely we can all be confident that left-wing claims that Fox News is really Faux News will cease. I mean, it is well-known that we more conservative folk have an implicit trust in our liberal friends' ability to base their arguments on sound facts and methodology.†
But perhaps some trenchant thinkers, like those found at the Daily Kos or the Huffington Post, will not read this study and hence will be spared much troubling apoplexy. Their ignorance is a merciful ignorance.
And, for fun, this screen shot from the report showing the balance between positive and negative commentary on talk radio, conservative and liberal:
Granted. I post this table merely to incite laughter. It's clear the samples were rather small. But I do love the 100% tallies in the liberal talk radio columns. That's pretty funny.
It's sad that two seconds after you read this, you will most likely return to a world driven by media that lie to themselves about themselves. Media bias? Who really cares?
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
†I have not read the full text nor have I analyzed the study's methodology. For now, I'll make an assumption that this study intends to be taken seriously and hence has not been done shoddily.
Oh, I Don't Know...Blasphemy, Heresy, Sacrilege, Excommunication, Perdition, Hate Crime ...
Today, take yourself aside and sit in silence. Be still, and meditate on the following news bit: two women were ordained as "Roman Catholic" priests in a St. Louis synagogue by an alleged Catholic female bishop; the women "priests" have been given permission to celebrate regular Masses in a local Unitarian Church.
Now, once you've absorbed this news item into the deepest recesses of your soul, ask yourself what words percolate up from the depths.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Now, once you've absorbed this news item into the deepest recesses of your soul, ask yourself what words percolate up from the depths.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Peggy Noonan On The Hill
Last week I directed readers to an incisive comment posted by James Taranto of OpinionJournal. Today I can't resist directing readers to Peggy Noonan's essay comparing Hillary Clinton and Margaret Thatcher. And like Mr. Taranto, Ms. Noonan pens one of the most trenchant comments I've seen in a long time. Here's what she said regarding Mr. Barack Obama's campaign to secure the Democratic presidential nomination vis-á-vis Mrs. William Clinton:
I am not sure of the salience of Mr. Obama's new-generational approach. Mrs. Clinton's generation, he suggests, is caught in the 1960s, fighting old battles, clinging to old divisions, frozen in time, and the way to get past it is to get past her. Maybe this will resonate. But I don't think Mrs. Clinton is the exemplar of a generation, she is the exemplar of a quadrant within a generation, and it is the quadrant the rest of us of that generation do not like. They came from comfort and stability, visited poverty as part of a college program, fashionably disliked their country, and cultivated a bitterness that was wholly unearned. They went on to become investment bankers and politicians and enjoy wealth, power or both.
It is a brilliant, devastating comment.
Ms. Noonan's essay makes me cheer for Mr. Obama; and it makes me wish I had met Ms. Thatcher.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I am not sure of the salience of Mr. Obama's new-generational approach. Mrs. Clinton's generation, he suggests, is caught in the 1960s, fighting old battles, clinging to old divisions, frozen in time, and the way to get past it is to get past her. Maybe this will resonate. But I don't think Mrs. Clinton is the exemplar of a generation, she is the exemplar of a quadrant within a generation, and it is the quadrant the rest of us of that generation do not like. They came from comfort and stability, visited poverty as part of a college program, fashionably disliked their country, and cultivated a bitterness that was wholly unearned. They went on to become investment bankers and politicians and enjoy wealth, power or both.
It is a brilliant, devastating comment.
Ms. Noonan's essay makes me cheer for Mr. Obama; and it makes me wish I had met Ms. Thatcher.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Your Comments, Dinesh D'Souza, Atheism And Faith
There have been some great comments here of late, and I want to thank you all for that. Your input makes things far more interesting -- at least for me.
Recently I recommended a book to you all, and now that I have finished that book (last Saturday), I would like to recommend it again.
What's So Great About Christianity, written by Dinesh D'Souza, is superb. But I will guess that -- at least to some Christians -- the book's major flaw, if there is one, might be its title. For this is not so much a celebration of Christianity as most Christians might celebrate it. It is more a look at theism's contribution to Western culture. Yes, the emphasis is on Christian theism, but the case for theism in general is more aptly made. In other words, while Mr. D'Souza's work might edify lots of Christians by his excellent defense of the role Christianity has played in the world, his book might not convert people to follow Christ. Of course, I admit this is probably not Mr. D'Souza's intent. And I know that some skeptics will indeed find in this book answers to many or even all of their questions. This book is an excellent polemic; it is a great contribution to Christian apologetics. But this book is not a companion to, let's say, the Gospels; this is not a piece like Romano Guardini's amazing and MUST READ classic, The Lord. Nor is it really that much like C. S. Lewis' Mere Christianity. For both of these great works feel far more "churchy" or Christian than what Mr. D'Souza has given us. So, the book might very much edify and interest, but I don't see it as an integral part of a discipleship program. That, too, was not Mr. D'Souza's intent.
None of this, for me, detracts from Mr. D'Souza's book. What I particularly liked about What's So Great... is that Mr. D'Souza explores epistemology, with Immanuel Kant as his centerpiece. This, as I've said before, is an excellent thing: Kant is a great starting point. Mr. D'Souza makes very clear what Kant himself could only manage to write about in an abstruse manner. Kant (if I have this right) made a compelling case that we cannot know "things-in-themselves," we can only know our perceptions of things. For Kant, our senses even corrupt what we experience: I say a lemon tastes tart when in fact "tartness" is not a quality of the lemon, it is a quality of my experience of the lemon. My taste buds create tartness; from them, I infer a cause of that experience, namely the lemon. But I cannot know the lemon as it is; in fact, my senses prevent me from doing so. In sensing an object, all we can know is that we have sensation. We experience phenomena. But the cause of the phenomena -- the thing-in-itself -- we can't know.
But that is just part of the argument, and I must give Mr. D'Souza high marks for how he presents it, especially as it opens the mind to the idea that faith is foundational to all knowledge.
Pertinent to this is the quite interesting fact that no atheist seems to have refuted this argument -- ever. I have asked dozens, perhaps hundreds of atheists to reply to my "Letter to Christopher Hitchens." Not one has done so. My letter, too, as noted above, incorporates ideas gleaned from Immanuel Kant. To date, no atheist has expended any effort here to even debate it in any analytical way (except perhaps this comment by JW Haws). Granted, this does not mean it -- or Mr. D'Souza's argument -- is irrefutable. My piece may be so much fluff and bluster; I know that I have lots of blind spots in my psyche. But one would think that someone would rise up and dismiss what should be quite easy to debunk if, in fact, I have written fluff and bluster.† (I further note that no one has rebuffed the ideas presented in "Speaking In Parables," a short-story I penned in mid-September. I think some skeptic out there would have a counter-argument.)
Now, back to your comments for a moment. A recent comment in this D'Souza thread left by reader Luke Buckham has made me unsure of something I drafted. I wrote:
"most of D’Souza’s detractors will not read any or all of the book. Many, in fact, will not expend the requisite intellectual strength necessary to read the entire thing."
Luke Buckham responded thusly:
"I agree, totally. This is a big problem in our culture: most of ANYONE'S detractors don't bother to read the whole book. I vow to be an exception."
Now, I am flattered Luke agrees with me. But, for whatever reason, I heard something ironic in his words. I confess that I may have added the irony; Luke probably did not intend it.
What I am saying is that I am not sure I agree with myself. Admittedly I averred what I did about Mr. D'Souza's detractors' laziness merely to be provocative -- appealing even to readers' vanity and conceit ("Well, I have what it takes to read the whole thing!"). But that only can be defended so far. Why? Because I think a reader can critique parts of some collection as long as the critic does not assume the parts make up the whole. I can critique argument A if I've not read B -- but only as long as I am sure my interlocutor has conveyed that B has nothing to do with A, or vice versa. Critics do this frequently. Egads, I do this frequently. And, yes, sometimes I get it right. But sadly I also sometimes get it quite wrong: I commit the fallacy many critics commit. In fact, this fallacy is one of the most popular and pervasive fallacies. It is the fallacy that argues that one false part nullifies not only whole sets of arguments, one false part nullifies the totality of the person making the arguments. If Mr. Smith is wrong about X, well, he must not only be wrong about Y and Z, he's really wrong about everything!
Besides, not being critical in Part A while waiting for Part B can lead to absurdities. If I can't denounce Mr. D'Souza before I get to the end of his current book, then it should follow that I can't denounce him until he gets to his LAST book. After all, he might emend things later on; he might even change his mind in his next volume, and the next one after that. Surely I should wait until he is finally done?!
So, all this to say that I am not sure I really believe myself on this one point.
Have a great life!
†Other puff pieces can be found here and here.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Recently I recommended a book to you all, and now that I have finished that book (last Saturday), I would like to recommend it again.
What's So Great About Christianity, written by Dinesh D'Souza, is superb. But I will guess that -- at least to some Christians -- the book's major flaw, if there is one, might be its title. For this is not so much a celebration of Christianity as most Christians might celebrate it. It is more a look at theism's contribution to Western culture. Yes, the emphasis is on Christian theism, but the case for theism in general is more aptly made. In other words, while Mr. D'Souza's work might edify lots of Christians by his excellent defense of the role Christianity has played in the world, his book might not convert people to follow Christ. Of course, I admit this is probably not Mr. D'Souza's intent. And I know that some skeptics will indeed find in this book answers to many or even all of their questions. This book is an excellent polemic; it is a great contribution to Christian apologetics. But this book is not a companion to, let's say, the Gospels; this is not a piece like Romano Guardini's amazing and MUST READ classic, The Lord. Nor is it really that much like C. S. Lewis' Mere Christianity. For both of these great works feel far more "churchy" or Christian than what Mr. D'Souza has given us. So, the book might very much edify and interest, but I don't see it as an integral part of a discipleship program. That, too, was not Mr. D'Souza's intent.
None of this, for me, detracts from Mr. D'Souza's book. What I particularly liked about What's So Great... is that Mr. D'Souza explores epistemology, with Immanuel Kant as his centerpiece. This, as I've said before, is an excellent thing: Kant is a great starting point. Mr. D'Souza makes very clear what Kant himself could only manage to write about in an abstruse manner. Kant (if I have this right) made a compelling case that we cannot know "things-in-themselves," we can only know our perceptions of things. For Kant, our senses even corrupt what we experience: I say a lemon tastes tart when in fact "tartness" is not a quality of the lemon, it is a quality of my experience of the lemon. My taste buds create tartness; from them, I infer a cause of that experience, namely the lemon. But I cannot know the lemon as it is; in fact, my senses prevent me from doing so. In sensing an object, all we can know is that we have sensation. We experience phenomena. But the cause of the phenomena -- the thing-in-itself -- we can't know.
But that is just part of the argument, and I must give Mr. D'Souza high marks for how he presents it, especially as it opens the mind to the idea that faith is foundational to all knowledge.
Pertinent to this is the quite interesting fact that no atheist seems to have refuted this argument -- ever. I have asked dozens, perhaps hundreds of atheists to reply to my "Letter to Christopher Hitchens." Not one has done so. My letter, too, as noted above, incorporates ideas gleaned from Immanuel Kant. To date, no atheist has expended any effort here to even debate it in any analytical way (except perhaps this comment by JW Haws). Granted, this does not mean it -- or Mr. D'Souza's argument -- is irrefutable. My piece may be so much fluff and bluster; I know that I have lots of blind spots in my psyche. But one would think that someone would rise up and dismiss what should be quite easy to debunk if, in fact, I have written fluff and bluster.† (I further note that no one has rebuffed the ideas presented in "Speaking In Parables," a short-story I penned in mid-September. I think some skeptic out there would have a counter-argument.)
Now, back to your comments for a moment. A recent comment in this D'Souza thread left by reader Luke Buckham has made me unsure of something I drafted. I wrote:
"most of D’Souza’s detractors will not read any or all of the book. Many, in fact, will not expend the requisite intellectual strength necessary to read the entire thing."
Luke Buckham responded thusly:
"I agree, totally. This is a big problem in our culture: most of ANYONE'S detractors don't bother to read the whole book. I vow to be an exception."
Now, I am flattered Luke agrees with me. But, for whatever reason, I heard something ironic in his words. I confess that I may have added the irony; Luke probably did not intend it.
What I am saying is that I am not sure I agree with myself. Admittedly I averred what I did about Mr. D'Souza's detractors' laziness merely to be provocative -- appealing even to readers' vanity and conceit ("Well, I have what it takes to read the whole thing!"). But that only can be defended so far. Why? Because I think a reader can critique parts of some collection as long as the critic does not assume the parts make up the whole. I can critique argument A if I've not read B -- but only as long as I am sure my interlocutor has conveyed that B has nothing to do with A, or vice versa. Critics do this frequently. Egads, I do this frequently. And, yes, sometimes I get it right. But sadly I also sometimes get it quite wrong: I commit the fallacy many critics commit. In fact, this fallacy is one of the most popular and pervasive fallacies. It is the fallacy that argues that one false part nullifies not only whole sets of arguments, one false part nullifies the totality of the person making the arguments. If Mr. Smith is wrong about X, well, he must not only be wrong about Y and Z, he's really wrong about everything!
Besides, not being critical in Part A while waiting for Part B can lead to absurdities. If I can't denounce Mr. D'Souza before I get to the end of his current book, then it should follow that I can't denounce him until he gets to his LAST book. After all, he might emend things later on; he might even change his mind in his next volume, and the next one after that. Surely I should wait until he is finally done?!
So, all this to say that I am not sure I really believe myself on this one point.
Have a great life!
†Other puff pieces can be found here and here.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
On Christian Risk
Several weeks ago, while I was leading the adult Sunday School discussion in my church, a participant said a very interesting thing. We were in the midst of discussing Jesus' well-known "Parable of the Talents" found in Matthew's Gospel. Those of you familiar with this parable recall that three servants, each entrusted with money by their master who was leaving on adventures, did different things with what they were given. Two servants invested it without any prompts from their master; both doubled their wealth. The other servant, aware that his master reaped where he did not sow, took the one coin given him and buried it. In other words, the coin was not invested and he gained nothing.
The parable is powerful on a lot of levels. To me, everything hinges on the third servant's words:
'Master,' he said, 'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed. So I was afraid and went out and hid your talent in the ground. See, here is what belongs to you.'
Of course, the master -- who only moments before praised the first two servants for their fine work -- rebukes this hapless fellow, casting him out into the darkness. But note that the master does not -- in word -- disagree with the servant's description. The master says:
'You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered seed? Well then, you should have put my money on deposit with the bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest.'
But let me back up. The parable begins with the notice that the master gave to his servants "each according to his ability." Fascinating. For this suggests that the master knew his servants well, that two were more capable than the third. Does this play into the parable, then? Should we expect the third servant to fail?
Perhaps. But, in part, he did not fail. He returned the one talent he was given; it was not lost. Afraid to lose either the talent or what he would have earned in the investment, the third servant literally proved competent in his trustworthiness, particularly since the parable mentions nothing about the master's wishes. The master merely entrusts his wealth to these men. And not one coin was lost.
But the third servant is not rebuked because he buried his coin. He is rebuked because he does not know his master; and he is not really telling the truth. Moreover, he is unwilling to lose what he might have earned.
"I knew you reaped where you did not sow," says the servant. Well, if that is true, then he would have done exactly what the other servants did -- he would have sowed for his master so that his master could reap what was not his to reap. After all, it was the servants who invested, not the master. But the third servant did not invest. Why? Was it because he did not want to lose what he would have gained, essentially saying to his master, "Master, you take what is not rightly yours?" Indeed, that seems to be the case. Hence the servant lies; he is really saying that he did not want to lose what would have been his wealth. So, fearful of losing everything, he buries the coin, intent on showing his master that things were safe and secure.
But what does the master show, not say, in his dealings with the third servant? He shows that he is NOT someone who sows where he does not reap; in fact, he is the opposite. For we see that he not only lets his first two servants keep their profits, he lets them keep their original coins! And, to show his generosity, he takes the one coin given to the third servant and gives it to the wealthiest of the three! In other words, the coins were always going to be the servants' -- but only on the condition that they truly understood who the master was and why the coins were given.†
Hence, to sum up: Those servants who took risks were rewarded, discovering that there was no risk at all; and he who refused to take a risk, lost everything. But, and here's the rub: the servant who lost everything did so because his failure to take a risk was the result of his misunderstanding the nature of the gift he was given and the giver who gave it to him.
OK. Forgive the Bible lesson. What I set out here to discuss was something someone said during class to what I essentially wrote above. This person said this: There is no risk at all in the Christian life. To which I said, "Really? Wow!"
What do you think? Is there no risk at all in following Christ? This week in Sunday School I led the discussion on the "Parable of the Good Samaritan." I was quick to note that the Samaritan took several profound risks helping a wounded man who was the victim of robbers who ambushed him on a treacherous road. Is the Samaritan representative of the Christian life? Is there much for which we can commend him if he did not face any risk at all? Where is Christian bravery and courage if there is no risk?
Or did my interlocutor mean something else, namely that there is no ultimate risk in the Christian life? But is this true? Does this not assume that we already know that everything we do will be approved by God, will be honored and praised and accepted?
Let me ask this as well: Is the Christian life worth living if it is filled with certainty? Is there any life worth living that is NOT an adventure? Does not risk give us our drive for excellence? Do we not need difficulties and obstacles to enrich our lives? Where would we be without risk? Would life not be the dullest thing without it?
I wonder.
Peace.
BG
†Admittedly, there is much more to say on all this. It seems likely, too, that the servants would've kept their gifts if they DID something -- anything -- with them. Imagine if the third servant reported to the master, "Master, I bought a needy family some food and clothes with what you had given." Would the master have rebuked him?
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The parable is powerful on a lot of levels. To me, everything hinges on the third servant's words:
'Master,' he said, 'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed. So I was afraid and went out and hid your talent in the ground. See, here is what belongs to you.'
Of course, the master -- who only moments before praised the first two servants for their fine work -- rebukes this hapless fellow, casting him out into the darkness. But note that the master does not -- in word -- disagree with the servant's description. The master says:
'You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered seed? Well then, you should have put my money on deposit with the bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest.'
But let me back up. The parable begins with the notice that the master gave to his servants "each according to his ability." Fascinating. For this suggests that the master knew his servants well, that two were more capable than the third. Does this play into the parable, then? Should we expect the third servant to fail?
Perhaps. But, in part, he did not fail. He returned the one talent he was given; it was not lost. Afraid to lose either the talent or what he would have earned in the investment, the third servant literally proved competent in his trustworthiness, particularly since the parable mentions nothing about the master's wishes. The master merely entrusts his wealth to these men. And not one coin was lost.
But the third servant is not rebuked because he buried his coin. He is rebuked because he does not know his master; and he is not really telling the truth. Moreover, he is unwilling to lose what he might have earned.
"I knew you reaped where you did not sow," says the servant. Well, if that is true, then he would have done exactly what the other servants did -- he would have sowed for his master so that his master could reap what was not his to reap. After all, it was the servants who invested, not the master. But the third servant did not invest. Why? Was it because he did not want to lose what he would have gained, essentially saying to his master, "Master, you take what is not rightly yours?" Indeed, that seems to be the case. Hence the servant lies; he is really saying that he did not want to lose what would have been his wealth. So, fearful of losing everything, he buries the coin, intent on showing his master that things were safe and secure.
But what does the master show, not say, in his dealings with the third servant? He shows that he is NOT someone who sows where he does not reap; in fact, he is the opposite. For we see that he not only lets his first two servants keep their profits, he lets them keep their original coins! And, to show his generosity, he takes the one coin given to the third servant and gives it to the wealthiest of the three! In other words, the coins were always going to be the servants' -- but only on the condition that they truly understood who the master was and why the coins were given.†
Hence, to sum up: Those servants who took risks were rewarded, discovering that there was no risk at all; and he who refused to take a risk, lost everything. But, and here's the rub: the servant who lost everything did so because his failure to take a risk was the result of his misunderstanding the nature of the gift he was given and the giver who gave it to him.
OK. Forgive the Bible lesson. What I set out here to discuss was something someone said during class to what I essentially wrote above. This person said this: There is no risk at all in the Christian life. To which I said, "Really? Wow!"
What do you think? Is there no risk at all in following Christ? This week in Sunday School I led the discussion on the "Parable of the Good Samaritan." I was quick to note that the Samaritan took several profound risks helping a wounded man who was the victim of robbers who ambushed him on a treacherous road. Is the Samaritan representative of the Christian life? Is there much for which we can commend him if he did not face any risk at all? Where is Christian bravery and courage if there is no risk?
Or did my interlocutor mean something else, namely that there is no ultimate risk in the Christian life? But is this true? Does this not assume that we already know that everything we do will be approved by God, will be honored and praised and accepted?
Let me ask this as well: Is the Christian life worth living if it is filled with certainty? Is there any life worth living that is NOT an adventure? Does not risk give us our drive for excellence? Do we not need difficulties and obstacles to enrich our lives? Where would we be without risk? Would life not be the dullest thing without it?
I wonder.
Peace.
BG
†Admittedly, there is much more to say on all this. It seems likely, too, that the servants would've kept their gifts if they DID something -- anything -- with them. Imagine if the third servant reported to the master, "Master, I bought a needy family some food and clothes with what you had given." Would the master have rebuked him?
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
On Sitting In Church, Squirming
I sat last Sunday in my seat at church looking for some way to feel comfortable. It was not the first time I've struggled to find even a semblance of peace for my body while sitting in a church, but it was the first time since I began attending -- about 4 months ago -- the local evangelical church that I was afflicted with the squirms and twitches.
In front of me sat a married couple I've known -- only casually -- for nearly twenty years. They were guests this particular Sunday morning, that much I knew, but it was what they said to me at the beginning of the service that set me on edge: they announced they were members of the Churches of Christ. This is not in any way a bad thing. In fact, it is as far as I know a good thing. But what makes the Churches of Christ unique is that they do not use musical instruments in any part of their worship or liturgical services. "We sing everything a cappella," the couple affirmed as we prepared for worship. The lovely couple also affirmed that their children -- all of whom I had known -- were indeed off and married, having graduated from Church of Christ colleges like Harding University (where their eldest son attended).
Now, trust me when I say this idea of "a cappella" singing attracts me to no end; trust me too when I say that the church in which we were seated was about as far from a cappella as one might get. There are on any given Sunday morning at least a dozen microphones on the stage in my current church, with amplifiers and keyboards and drums and guitars and flutes and cellos all raring to go. This network of electrified instruments and voices is what is known as the Praise Team; the team includes a Praise Leader who cues us as we sing a prolonged series of praise songs. As many of you know, this is fairly common stuff in evangelical churches these days; many of you also know that what my friends in front of me were about to explore was not going to be anything short of a G-rated rock concert. And for this Episcopalian-in-exile, as I call myself, I had been quite content adjusting myself to the Praise Team's rambunctious musicality, content right up until last Sunday morning when the a cappella couple sat in front of me.
Seriously, my first reaction was to want to apologize; my second was to look for two sets of earplugs. And my third reaction, honestly, was to pray for a power outage. But I mortified my flesh and chose option four: I squirmed and stewed and even left the sanctuary during the offertory. It was all rather juvenile of me.
But you see, the presence of this couple suddenly made me very self-conscious (or at least overly conscious of them). My pride and vanity were partly brought to the fore: I wanted to let everyone know that I was not overly given to this sort of exuberance in worship (which is quite true). And I was suddenly obsessing about hospitality; I was like a fool rushing around his house declaiming before his guests that his domicile was "not usually this messy." But I was a mute fool, unable to issue apologies because my guests were distracted by everything else, including their own courtesies.
And my obsession did not rest. I noted that it seemed the congregation was standing too long, singing too much. I noticed that the husband before me leaned on the back of the chair in front of him. "Oh, no! Is he tired?" I wondered. I noted how he and his wife looked around as others more familiar with protocol fell to their knees or sat down to pray while the Praise Band wound its way through another chorus. I swear the couple was asking, "Should we sit down? Should we kneel? When can we sit? When should we stand?" I wanted to be their own personal and certified Worship Guide: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith? How nice to meet you. This morning I will be your personal guide as we wend our way through worship. As you may have already seen, there is no bulletin or outline or form of liturgy here; after all, we must not thwart the Spirit. We are a country without maps where each of us citizens nevertheless moves about quite ably. I do hope you will enjoy this time with us. Now, if you will put in these earplugs and follow me, I will lead you safely away from this place."
OK. I would not have led them away. But I did feel a compulsion to intervene.
On top of all this I noticed that the Praise Band seemed unusually loud, unusually repetitive, and unusually and intolerably off-key. It was this last quality that forced me from my seat; I took refuge in the corner of the church kitchen as the offertory began. And believe it or not, as I stood in the corner with my forehead pressed against an overhead cabinet, a church elder came in to see if I was OK. (I am not lying about this.) I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and simply said, "You know, K., how I struggle with things." I then made my way back to my seat.
The Churches of Christ folks I know have told me that part of the reason musical instruments are not included in worship services is that instruments can be a distraction. I should think my incessant squirming proves their point. But maybe it only proves that I am at times prone to spasmodic fits and catatonia, symptomatic, I am sure, of underlying mental illness.
Or are my fits consistent with hospitality: that people are freer when there is a set, prescribed and known order? Is it loving for a church to have its visitors guessing what worship -- or the structure and discipline of it -- is all about? Is it hospitable to have guests guess? Is it polite to give them no guidance, no frame of reference or sense of time? Would a dinner party be fun if no one knew what to wear, what to expect, what to say or when to say it; would it be fun if no one knew when the party might end?
When I think of the times I dined as a child at my neighbors' homes, I was never relaxed at those homes where I was unsure of the rules, of the protocols. Those families who patiently and kindly taught me their forms and rituals were always my favorite families with whom I would dine; where there was no guidance, I was adrift and often unsure whether the snickers and glances at table were directed at me. And in those homes where meals were served so informally there was no predictability at all, such homes were not one whit comfortable, as chaos and turmoil and even hell seemed just one misstep away.
I guess I will simply have to let go of it all when it comes to church. Besides, to my surprise, the couple in front of me did not sprint out once the benediction was given. Instead, they lingered for the better part of an hour, meeting people and plunging into conversations with a few folks they knew from outside the church's walls. To be honest, it is a very loving and comfortable church; there is much, very much, that commends it. I know this very well, and that is why I attend services there. So there were many good reasons for my friends to have lingered.
I, on other hand, ended worship in a struggle to understand my own problems. I am sure some of my issues are rooted in some perverse pride. But I know that there has got to be something to this idea of order and form and even quietude; there seems to be something wise in the ancient forms of hospitality.
All I know is I say these words here a cappella. And I pray that I do not become a distraction. Perhaps I always need to busy myself in the kitchen when surprise guests arrive; maybe squirming is my a cappella call to action, and retreat.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
In front of me sat a married couple I've known -- only casually -- for nearly twenty years. They were guests this particular Sunday morning, that much I knew, but it was what they said to me at the beginning of the service that set me on edge: they announced they were members of the Churches of Christ. This is not in any way a bad thing. In fact, it is as far as I know a good thing. But what makes the Churches of Christ unique is that they do not use musical instruments in any part of their worship or liturgical services. "We sing everything a cappella," the couple affirmed as we prepared for worship. The lovely couple also affirmed that their children -- all of whom I had known -- were indeed off and married, having graduated from Church of Christ colleges like Harding University (where their eldest son attended).
Now, trust me when I say this idea of "a cappella" singing attracts me to no end; trust me too when I say that the church in which we were seated was about as far from a cappella as one might get. There are on any given Sunday morning at least a dozen microphones on the stage in my current church, with amplifiers and keyboards and drums and guitars and flutes and cellos all raring to go. This network of electrified instruments and voices is what is known as the Praise Team; the team includes a Praise Leader who cues us as we sing a prolonged series of praise songs. As many of you know, this is fairly common stuff in evangelical churches these days; many of you also know that what my friends in front of me were about to explore was not going to be anything short of a G-rated rock concert. And for this Episcopalian-in-exile, as I call myself, I had been quite content adjusting myself to the Praise Team's rambunctious musicality, content right up until last Sunday morning when the a cappella couple sat in front of me.
Seriously, my first reaction was to want to apologize; my second was to look for two sets of earplugs. And my third reaction, honestly, was to pray for a power outage. But I mortified my flesh and chose option four: I squirmed and stewed and even left the sanctuary during the offertory. It was all rather juvenile of me.
But you see, the presence of this couple suddenly made me very self-conscious (or at least overly conscious of them). My pride and vanity were partly brought to the fore: I wanted to let everyone know that I was not overly given to this sort of exuberance in worship (which is quite true). And I was suddenly obsessing about hospitality; I was like a fool rushing around his house declaiming before his guests that his domicile was "not usually this messy." But I was a mute fool, unable to issue apologies because my guests were distracted by everything else, including their own courtesies.
And my obsession did not rest. I noted that it seemed the congregation was standing too long, singing too much. I noticed that the husband before me leaned on the back of the chair in front of him. "Oh, no! Is he tired?" I wondered. I noted how he and his wife looked around as others more familiar with protocol fell to their knees or sat down to pray while the Praise Band wound its way through another chorus. I swear the couple was asking, "Should we sit down? Should we kneel? When can we sit? When should we stand?" I wanted to be their own personal and certified Worship Guide: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith? How nice to meet you. This morning I will be your personal guide as we wend our way through worship. As you may have already seen, there is no bulletin or outline or form of liturgy here; after all, we must not thwart the Spirit. We are a country without maps where each of us citizens nevertheless moves about quite ably. I do hope you will enjoy this time with us. Now, if you will put in these earplugs and follow me, I will lead you safely away from this place."
OK. I would not have led them away. But I did feel a compulsion to intervene.
On top of all this I noticed that the Praise Band seemed unusually loud, unusually repetitive, and unusually and intolerably off-key. It was this last quality that forced me from my seat; I took refuge in the corner of the church kitchen as the offertory began. And believe it or not, as I stood in the corner with my forehead pressed against an overhead cabinet, a church elder came in to see if I was OK. (I am not lying about this.) I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and simply said, "You know, K., how I struggle with things." I then made my way back to my seat.
The Churches of Christ folks I know have told me that part of the reason musical instruments are not included in worship services is that instruments can be a distraction. I should think my incessant squirming proves their point. But maybe it only proves that I am at times prone to spasmodic fits and catatonia, symptomatic, I am sure, of underlying mental illness.
Or are my fits consistent with hospitality: that people are freer when there is a set, prescribed and known order? Is it loving for a church to have its visitors guessing what worship -- or the structure and discipline of it -- is all about? Is it hospitable to have guests guess? Is it polite to give them no guidance, no frame of reference or sense of time? Would a dinner party be fun if no one knew what to wear, what to expect, what to say or when to say it; would it be fun if no one knew when the party might end?
When I think of the times I dined as a child at my neighbors' homes, I was never relaxed at those homes where I was unsure of the rules, of the protocols. Those families who patiently and kindly taught me their forms and rituals were always my favorite families with whom I would dine; where there was no guidance, I was adrift and often unsure whether the snickers and glances at table were directed at me. And in those homes where meals were served so informally there was no predictability at all, such homes were not one whit comfortable, as chaos and turmoil and even hell seemed just one misstep away.
I guess I will simply have to let go of it all when it comes to church. Besides, to my surprise, the couple in front of me did not sprint out once the benediction was given. Instead, they lingered for the better part of an hour, meeting people and plunging into conversations with a few folks they knew from outside the church's walls. To be honest, it is a very loving and comfortable church; there is much, very much, that commends it. I know this very well, and that is why I attend services there. So there were many good reasons for my friends to have lingered.
I, on other hand, ended worship in a struggle to understand my own problems. I am sure some of my issues are rooted in some perverse pride. But I know that there has got to be something to this idea of order and form and even quietude; there seems to be something wise in the ancient forms of hospitality.
All I know is I say these words here a cappella. And I pray that I do not become a distraction. Perhaps I always need to busy myself in the kitchen when surprise guests arrive; maybe squirming is my a cappella call to action, and retreat.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Confessions Of A Plain Man
In the comments thread of my recent essay "That Droll Man", I am criticized by a Contratimes guest for wasting my critical skills and resources on someone like Andy Rooney. I can't deny that my interlocutor is probably right.
Not a few of us who maintain blogs admit that it is not always easy to be interesting, let alone interested, in all things current, worldly, newsworthy. It is hard to be fresh and creative; it is hard to find a new meter or rhyming scheme, or to walk at a different cadence. The heart taps out its life in certain known and comforting rhythms; writers try to emulate the life-giving thrust of the heart but often find themselves speaking in arrhythmias and arrests.
What can I say if, instead of writing about pearls, I sometimes pick on swine? Have I wasted my time, and yours?
There are so many able writers in the blogosphere that I am nearly always hesitant to express an opinion for fear of being utterly superfluous. In political commentary, the likes of James Taranto render my comments rather insipid: I feel like there is more substance in prison-house gruel than in much of what I offer. In philosophic commentary, I take a backseat -- on a train -- to countless writers on the web. In religious discussions, I am a janitor working the pews after the College of Cardinals breaks for vespers.
So when I can find anything -- even something as small and insignificant as an Andy Rooney op-ed about baseball -- I have to confess that I've found it while dredging the murky depths in the swamp which is my current state of mind. I am a lot like that man sitting on a bench on some dirty subway platform playing old tunes on a borrowed harmonica. The only differences are that I have not put out a hat and I don't really know that many tunes. I strain to improve on the few tunes I do know; and I listen -- perhaps in vain -- for any new melodies I might bring to the waiting and hurrying travelers who pass my way with nary a nod.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Not a few of us who maintain blogs admit that it is not always easy to be interesting, let alone interested, in all things current, worldly, newsworthy. It is hard to be fresh and creative; it is hard to find a new meter or rhyming scheme, or to walk at a different cadence. The heart taps out its life in certain known and comforting rhythms; writers try to emulate the life-giving thrust of the heart but often find themselves speaking in arrhythmias and arrests.
What can I say if, instead of writing about pearls, I sometimes pick on swine? Have I wasted my time, and yours?
There are so many able writers in the blogosphere that I am nearly always hesitant to express an opinion for fear of being utterly superfluous. In political commentary, the likes of James Taranto render my comments rather insipid: I feel like there is more substance in prison-house gruel than in much of what I offer. In philosophic commentary, I take a backseat -- on a train -- to countless writers on the web. In religious discussions, I am a janitor working the pews after the College of Cardinals breaks for vespers.
So when I can find anything -- even something as small and insignificant as an Andy Rooney op-ed about baseball -- I have to confess that I've found it while dredging the murky depths in the swamp which is my current state of mind. I am a lot like that man sitting on a bench on some dirty subway platform playing old tunes on a borrowed harmonica. The only differences are that I have not put out a hat and I don't really know that many tunes. I strain to improve on the few tunes I do know; and I listen -- perhaps in vain -- for any new melodies I might bring to the waiting and hurrying travelers who pass my way with nary a nod.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
On Books: HIGHLY Recommended
On this All Hallows' Eve, I shall make a prediction: Dinesh D’Souza’s latest book, What’s So Great About Christianity, will become a classic of Christian literature. And this glowing augury comes from someone who has so far only read half the book.
D’Souza’s book is the book I wish I had written. He strikes a perfect balance† between the lay and the semi-professional intellectual. The book’s only weakness is that it is too short: D’Souza could have spent more time fattening some of his arguments, though I am not suggesting that these arguments are anorexic. They might be just right and I am simply unable to see it. But I wish that some of the chapters were a little more substantial. (The bibliography and notes are certainly complete enough to satisfy the interests of more inquisitive readers.)
I promise you will be challenged and edified by this book. I think the book will set record sales numbers; I can see book groups springing up all around it. I urge you to get a copy and read it, and then tell your friends, and then blog about it. It surely deserves the broad and intense attention it will get. In fact, it deserves even more than that.
Oh. Another prediction: most of D’Souza’s detractors will not read any or all of the book. Many, in fact, will not expend the requisite intellectual strength necessary to read the entire thing.
Blessings and peace,
BG
†D'Souza also strikes a glorious balance between Protestant and Catholic expressions of Christian faith. Both sides in the Christian complex will find much to cheer about.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
D’Souza’s book is the book I wish I had written. He strikes a perfect balance† between the lay and the semi-professional intellectual. The book’s only weakness is that it is too short: D’Souza could have spent more time fattening some of his arguments, though I am not suggesting that these arguments are anorexic. They might be just right and I am simply unable to see it. But I wish that some of the chapters were a little more substantial. (The bibliography and notes are certainly complete enough to satisfy the interests of more inquisitive readers.)
I promise you will be challenged and edified by this book. I think the book will set record sales numbers; I can see book groups springing up all around it. I urge you to get a copy and read it, and then tell your friends, and then blog about it. It surely deserves the broad and intense attention it will get. In fact, it deserves even more than that.
Oh. Another prediction: most of D’Souza’s detractors will not read any or all of the book. Many, in fact, will not expend the requisite intellectual strength necessary to read the entire thing.
Blessings and peace,
BG
†D'Souza also strikes a glorious balance between Protestant and Catholic expressions of Christian faith. Both sides in the Christian complex will find much to cheer about.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
That Droll Man
This is not about Andy Rooney. It is about talent, or the lack thereof. It is about mediocrity. It is about rewarding poor performance with fame, fortune, and power.
Let me correct myself: this is about Andy Rooney.
On Sunday night Mr. Rooney, the omni-incompetent commenter, brought his game to 60 Minutes and embarrassed himself, which is, perhaps, his wont. You see, Mr. Rooney does not get baseball. Here's a screwball comment pitched by Mr. Rooney:
'And, by the way, isn't it sort of silly that they call it "The World Series" when most of the world doesn’t know baseball from ping pong?'
Odd that Mr. Rooney should presume here that knowledge is important. Apparently Mr. Rooney thinks "The World Championships" in any sport can only be properly played when most of the world's inhabitants "know" that sport from an other. I am sure the World Championships in luge or badminton or curling equally irk Mr. Rooney; I am sure he has opined at length about how few countries are represented in the glorious list of winners of the International Tennis Federation's Grand Slam.
And I am sure Mr. Rooney has duly noted how 'silly' it is to call his program 60 Minutes when it is not really 60 minutes long. But let us forget our ironies for a minute, our petty iRooneys. Instead, let us note this irrelevancy from a Major League Baseball press release:
'Broadcast in 229 countries and territories, Major League Baseball game telecasts are re-transmitted in 13 different languages.'
That only 229 countries and territories receive baseball broadcasts -- with one of them being the sparsely-populated China -- can't mean all that much to Mr. Rooney, nor can the racially and ethnically diverse rosters of major league teams.
But if this essay is not really about Andy Rooney, it is also not about baseball. Instead, it is about people who are wrong who are praised as if they are right. It is about those who are rewarded for doing something well when they actually do something poorly. In short, it is about the death of excellence.
Mr. Rooney may have achieved great success in playing the misfit -- that tweedy, klutzy thinker who neither 'does' nor comprehends pop culture; he may have gained fame playfully denigrating himself or twisting ironic phrases to the delight of those viewers who perceive the hidden self-aggrandizement of it all, but it is all rather simplistic and tired.
But if Mr. Rooney's comments serve as a veil, one must note that the veil conceals his contempt for dull, doltish and conceited America: America's pastime is not one whit interesting to the world. Truly worldly people, like Mr. Rooney, are not given to such mindless excess; only the provincially-minded would dare call their game's zenith, "The World Series." Baseball's premiere event is, if anything, another example of American over-reaching and arrogance: We are the best; we have the best game. Mr. Rooney knows better, hinting that his ignorance is really deliberate: he's too smart for such small ball. That is why he thinks we all should know the IQ scores of baseball players, posted along with their stats; he wonders if we would better appreciate the game if we knew whether players scored well on their SATs. And despite Mr. Rooney's oafish self-deprecation in his droll conclusion Sunday night, viewers could not be fooled: this was a dig aimed at America, the America Mr. Rooney can't understand because he is really just too smart to understand it.
It's all part of a game.
No doubt Andy Rooney's few seconds of 60 Minutes is a pretty good game, too. To enjoy it even more, I would love to see his salary and IQ stats scrolling along beneath his mug, along with his dollars per word count. And I am sure many folks enjoyed his comments about America's pastime. But I for one cannot fathom how America does not see that Mr. Rooney has past his time.
It's time to call the bullpen -- or still that bullish pen -- and bring in some relief.
Sorry, Mr. Rooney. That's just how I see it.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
[PS. For a follow to this post, go to my "Confessions of a Plain Man."]
Let me correct myself: this is about Andy Rooney.
On Sunday night Mr. Rooney, the omni-incompetent commenter, brought his game to 60 Minutes and embarrassed himself, which is, perhaps, his wont. You see, Mr. Rooney does not get baseball. Here's a screwball comment pitched by Mr. Rooney:
'And, by the way, isn't it sort of silly that they call it "The World Series" when most of the world doesn’t know baseball from ping pong?'
Odd that Mr. Rooney should presume here that knowledge is important. Apparently Mr. Rooney thinks "The World Championships" in any sport can only be properly played when most of the world's inhabitants "know" that sport from an other. I am sure the World Championships in luge or badminton or curling equally irk Mr. Rooney; I am sure he has opined at length about how few countries are represented in the glorious list of winners of the International Tennis Federation's Grand Slam.
And I am sure Mr. Rooney has duly noted how 'silly' it is to call his program 60 Minutes when it is not really 60 minutes long. But let us forget our ironies for a minute, our petty iRooneys. Instead, let us note this irrelevancy from a Major League Baseball press release:
'Broadcast in 229 countries and territories, Major League Baseball game telecasts are re-transmitted in 13 different languages.'
That only 229 countries and territories receive baseball broadcasts -- with one of them being the sparsely-populated China -- can't mean all that much to Mr. Rooney, nor can the racially and ethnically diverse rosters of major league teams.
But if this essay is not really about Andy Rooney, it is also not about baseball. Instead, it is about people who are wrong who are praised as if they are right. It is about those who are rewarded for doing something well when they actually do something poorly. In short, it is about the death of excellence.
Mr. Rooney may have achieved great success in playing the misfit -- that tweedy, klutzy thinker who neither 'does' nor comprehends pop culture; he may have gained fame playfully denigrating himself or twisting ironic phrases to the delight of those viewers who perceive the hidden self-aggrandizement of it all, but it is all rather simplistic and tired.
But if Mr. Rooney's comments serve as a veil, one must note that the veil conceals his contempt for dull, doltish and conceited America: America's pastime is not one whit interesting to the world. Truly worldly people, like Mr. Rooney, are not given to such mindless excess; only the provincially-minded would dare call their game's zenith, "The World Series." Baseball's premiere event is, if anything, another example of American over-reaching and arrogance: We are the best; we have the best game. Mr. Rooney knows better, hinting that his ignorance is really deliberate: he's too smart for such small ball. That is why he thinks we all should know the IQ scores of baseball players, posted along with their stats; he wonders if we would better appreciate the game if we knew whether players scored well on their SATs. And despite Mr. Rooney's oafish self-deprecation in his droll conclusion Sunday night, viewers could not be fooled: this was a dig aimed at America, the America Mr. Rooney can't understand because he is really just too smart to understand it.
It's all part of a game.
No doubt Andy Rooney's few seconds of 60 Minutes is a pretty good game, too. To enjoy it even more, I would love to see his salary and IQ stats scrolling along beneath his mug, along with his dollars per word count. And I am sure many folks enjoyed his comments about America's pastime. But I for one cannot fathom how America does not see that Mr. Rooney has past his time.
It's time to call the bullpen -- or still that bullish pen -- and bring in some relief.
Sorry, Mr. Rooney. That's just how I see it.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
[PS. For a follow to this post, go to my "Confessions of a Plain Man."]
Friday, October 19, 2007
IN ORDER
THE HOME OF THE BRAVE
In the United States of America, it is dangerous to protest the Bush regime. Heinous repercussions abound. One hears every day of dissenters being called 'unpatriotic,' or even 'enablers' of the enemy. Such brutality! The repression shocks even the most politically obdurate heart. I can hear God now: The wounded pride of these martyrs cries out to me from the ground!
Last week, James Taranto discussed the heroic acts of a few dissenters of the Ahmadinejad regime in Tehran. Though these protesters have much to fear, their fears pale in comparison to those experienced by American dissidents who speak truth to the 'real' power, George Bush. So perhaps Taranto's trenchant remarks will fall on deafened ears, ears bludgeoned and tortured by American expansionism and tyranny:
[The Iranian protest is] a reminder, too, of just what phonies and blowhards our American 'dissenters' are. They know it takes no courage to oppose a democratic government that holds freedom of speech sacrosanct. So they spin lurid fantasies of authoritarianism in order to convince themselves of their own bravery. [emphasis added]
One cannot find a more incisive statement ever penned about American anti-Bush protestations.
LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS
I don't know about you, but I thought compassionate people care about children, especially children who do not have health insurance. David Limbaugh quotes the singular Paul Simon who recently spoke in favor the SCHIP legislation vetoed by President Bush:
The president's veto of the reauthorization of SCHIP appears to be a heartless act. I'm here today to ask those of you who supported the veto to reexamine your conscience, to find compassion in your heart for our most vulnerable and sweetest citizens, our children.
Heartless indeed. At least apparently. But I'm certain that Simon's statement proves that George W. Bush is not, nor was he ever, a compassionate conservative. After all, the ever-cerebral Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi put the whole thing in perspective yesterday:
And so my colleagues, we have a decision today to override the President's veto, which would be in my view the right thing to do for our children and for our country. It's not about compassion, it's about fairness…
And so I urge my colleagues to think about the children, to think about Bethany and the other children.…
The President is isolated in this. Don't join him in his isolation. Come forward on behalf of the children…
Let's give a vote for the children and against the President's veto. [emphasis added]
Since Ms. Pelosi is the supposed leader of the Democratic House, we can conclude from her remarks that her house is not about compassion, but fairness. That sounds fair to me. Compassion be damned, and so too compassionate liberalism.
Isn't it good to know that the household of the United States is in the hands of a person so capable of simplifying things?
GOOD NEWS FOR THAT 2006 MANDATE: It is SO last year!
Remember that mandate given to the Democrats after last year's mid-term elections? You remember -- when the Democrats gained control of both the Senate and the House? It's amazing how time flies when you lead so effectively. I mean, Congress currently has the lowest approval rating in the history of polling. Put another way, this is the worst Congress in history. Talk about squandering goodwill. But the best part of it all is knowing that Americans prefer ANY previous Congress -- even the "rubber stamping" Congress of 2005-06 -- to the Congress we now have in session. Stunning, isn't it?
And we thought Newt Gingrich was disliked.
But there is a bright side: My guess is that Europe loves this Congress. At least that is something in which we can take pride.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Prophet Of Bale
Supporters of atheist -- and ersatz philosopher -- Richard Dawkins have visited us at Contratimes. One supporter has even gone to rather great lengths to convince me that Mr. Dawkins is an original and compelling thinker. Today, I concede that he is:
A renowned atheist cited the "Jewish lobby" as a model for his campaign to promote atheism in the United States.
A renowned atheist cited the "Jewish lobby" as a model for his campaign to promote atheism in the United States.
Richard Dawkins said he wanted to gain the same kind of influence as the Jewish lobby, saying it "monopolizes" U.S. foreign policy.
"When you think about how fantastically successful the Jewish lobby has been, though, in fact, they are less numerous I am told -- religious Jews anyway -- than atheists and [yet they] more or less monopolize American foreign policy as far as many people can see," Dawkins, a British evolutionary biologist who advocates atheism, told the Guardian newspaper. "So if atheists could achieve a small fraction of that influence, the world would be a better place."
Dawkins, an Oxford professor who wrote the best-seller "The God Delusion," told the Guardian that he wants to organize American atheists to counter the influence of religious groups.
"I think some sort of political organization is what they need," he said.
I wonder if Mr. Dawkins is the least bit suspicious that he might suffer from a Jew Delusion.
James Taranto, always wry and ironic, had this to say in response to Mr. Dawkins original thought:
Embracing anti-Semitic conspiracy theories does not seem the most effective way for atheists to expand their influence, at least not in America. Besides, to what end exactly does Dawkins seek to expand atheists' influence? Does he want to create a homeland for atheists, à la Israel? But there already was one--it was called the Soviet Union--and we all remember how well that worked out.
I concede that none of this destroys Mr. Dawkins' able arguments against the existence of God. Surely I can excuse his ignorance about America; I cannot expect him to know that a fairly large contingent of Christians in this country has vigorously defended Israel without any assistance from a "Jewish lobby." Consider Mr. Dawkins' ignorance of America excused. But I cannot absolve him of his blatant and public anti-Semitism; nor can I help him understand the capacious and able Christian mind he loathes. He may consider me deluded. But if his perspicacity leads to the type of thought quoted above, then I delight in the God Delusion.
(Perhaps Mr. Dawkins' remarks have been ripped from some justifying context. I would love to know.)
Peace.
BG
If you are interested in reading my starting points when discussing atheism, see my Letter to Christopher Hitchens.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
HT: James Taranto/Wall Street Journal
Monday, October 01, 2007
Esse Quam Videri
Contratimes readers familiar with Credenda Agenda, New St. Andrews College, or Douglas Wilson, should read the New York Times Magazine article, "Onward Christian Soldiers." (You may need to register at the NYT, but the process is quick, easy and worth it.)
I am eager to learn what readers think, not so much of the article per se, but of the vision of Christian higher education proposed by Mr. Wilson and New St. Andrews. Ask yourself (if you wish) what it might mean to be a "medieval Protestant"; whether such a goal is desirable. Some of us are currently in the market looking for colleges for our children: Is New St. Andrews good enough for our children, or too good? Do Wilson and company espouse true Christian intellectual virtues, or does their philosophy amount to so much pastiche? Is this all just some romanticized picture of a don in pedantic pose, or is this a picture of the true Christian mind in the raptures of rigorous discipline and inquiry? Are there idols afoot, or would this all be representative of the matriculating Christ, or Christ as senior fellow? Is this really about transforming culture or salvaging civilization, or is it Inklings Make-Believe, an almost idolatrous fixation on C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and Owen Barfield and Charles Williams maintained as a sort of academic theme park, complete with gay draughts of bitter, bawdy conversation and the apt Latin phrase?
What do you think?
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I am eager to learn what readers think, not so much of the article per se, but of the vision of Christian higher education proposed by Mr. Wilson and New St. Andrews. Ask yourself (if you wish) what it might mean to be a "medieval Protestant"; whether such a goal is desirable. Some of us are currently in the market looking for colleges for our children: Is New St. Andrews good enough for our children, or too good? Do Wilson and company espouse true Christian intellectual virtues, or does their philosophy amount to so much pastiche? Is this all just some romanticized picture of a don in pedantic pose, or is this a picture of the true Christian mind in the raptures of rigorous discipline and inquiry? Are there idols afoot, or would this all be representative of the matriculating Christ, or Christ as senior fellow? Is this really about transforming culture or salvaging civilization, or is it Inklings Make-Believe, an almost idolatrous fixation on C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and Owen Barfield and Charles Williams maintained as a sort of academic theme park, complete with gay draughts of bitter, bawdy conversation and the apt Latin phrase?
What do you think?
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Glenn Beck Is Right; But Christians, What Do You Believe?
A few moments ago, while driving in my car on my way to and from chores, I heard radio and TV talk personality, Glenn Beck, urge his listeners: Please, do not take Iran's president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad lightly -- do not dismiss him! Mr. Beck's language was not only urgent, it was dire, spiritually dire. His tone was apocalyptic; he freely admitted that he was talking even in spiritual terms, terms that transcend earthly politics.
Perhaps I heard too much, but I don't think so.
Mr. Beck further described how he felt while watching Mr. Ahmadinejad deliver his speech last night to the UN General Assembly: he felt he was listening to pure evil, evil of the most deceptive and capricious kind, and it made him literally tremble.
Christians might want to take note of what Mr. Beck seems to be implying, namely, that if Mr. Ahmadinejad is not the anti-Christ, or perhaps the false prophet promoting the beast described in St. John's "Revelation," then he comes awfully close. Of course, I cannot confirm what Mr. Ahmadinejad said in last night's speech; I've yet to read the transcript. But let me simply quote from Mr. Ahmadinejad's speech to the General Assembly delivered last year; permit me to quote his last few sentences, which end in prayer:
"He [god] commands His creatures to enjoin one another to righteousness and virtue and not to sin and transgression. All Divine prophets from the Prophet Adam (peace be upon him) to the Prophet Moses (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Jesus Christ (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Mohammad (peace be upon him), have all called humanity to monotheism, justice, brotherhood, love and compassion. Is it not possible to build a better world based on monotheism, justice, love and respect for the rights of human beings, and thereby transform animosities into friendship?
"I emphatically declare that today's world, more than ever before, longs for just and righteous people with love for all humanity; and above all longs for the perfect righteous human being and the real savior who has been promised to all peoples and who will establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet.
"O, Almighty God, all men and women are your creatures and you have ordained their guidance and salvation. Bestow upon humanity that thirsts for justice, the perfect human being promised to all by you, and make us among his followers and among those who strive for his return and his cause."[emphasis mine]
Interesting, no? Here we have a president of an important nation, praying before the General Assembly of the United Nations, imploring "God" to "bestow" upon us all the "perfect human being" who will "establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet."
Dear reader, what do you think? And my Christian friends, I ask you: Who is this "real" savior, the savior for whom Mr. Ahmadinejad eagerly awaits, if Jesus Christ is not the real one at all?
Peace.
BG
PS. I expended a few words on this whole thing in the not-so-distant past in this essay.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Perhaps I heard too much, but I don't think so.
Mr. Beck further described how he felt while watching Mr. Ahmadinejad deliver his speech last night to the UN General Assembly: he felt he was listening to pure evil, evil of the most deceptive and capricious kind, and it made him literally tremble.
Christians might want to take note of what Mr. Beck seems to be implying, namely, that if Mr. Ahmadinejad is not the anti-Christ, or perhaps the false prophet promoting the beast described in St. John's "Revelation," then he comes awfully close. Of course, I cannot confirm what Mr. Ahmadinejad said in last night's speech; I've yet to read the transcript. But let me simply quote from Mr. Ahmadinejad's speech to the General Assembly delivered last year; permit me to quote his last few sentences, which end in prayer:
"He [god] commands His creatures to enjoin one another to righteousness and virtue and not to sin and transgression. All Divine prophets from the Prophet Adam (peace be upon him) to the Prophet Moses (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Jesus Christ (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Mohammad (peace be upon him), have all called humanity to monotheism, justice, brotherhood, love and compassion. Is it not possible to build a better world based on monotheism, justice, love and respect for the rights of human beings, and thereby transform animosities into friendship?
"I emphatically declare that today's world, more than ever before, longs for just and righteous people with love for all humanity; and above all longs for the perfect righteous human being and the real savior who has been promised to all peoples and who will establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet.
"O, Almighty God, all men and women are your creatures and you have ordained their guidance and salvation. Bestow upon humanity that thirsts for justice, the perfect human being promised to all by you, and make us among his followers and among those who strive for his return and his cause."[emphasis mine]
Interesting, no? Here we have a president of an important nation, praying before the General Assembly of the United Nations, imploring "God" to "bestow" upon us all the "perfect human being" who will "establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet."
Dear reader, what do you think? And my Christian friends, I ask you: Who is this "real" savior, the savior for whom Mr. Ahmadinejad eagerly awaits, if Jesus Christ is not the real one at all?
Peace.
BG
PS. I expended a few words on this whole thing in the not-so-distant past in this essay.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Myth And Columbia
It is not a black-and-white issue for me. I wish it was; no doubt it began as one.
When I first heard (last week?) that Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was to speak at Columbia University yesterday, I was in high dudgeon. Immediately I decried Columbia president Lee Bollinger's decision to permit the man even to visit Columbia's campus. 'How can these things be?' I asked myself, incredulous at such indecency.
But now I am somewhat ambivalent. I applaud Mr. Bollinger for taking a hard-line stand with Mr. Ahmadinejad; I am glad that he called the Iranian president a 'petty and cruel dictator.' Or am I?
Yes, it is good to confront and debate ideas and policies. Yes, it is noble to challenge the zeitgeist; to take a moral stand in the face of evil. But there are dangers, very subtle dangers, in taking the 'higher road.' Two such dangers come to mind this morning.
The first is to confuse calling a guest at an American university a "petty dictator" significant or even courageous. On one level it is plainly bad manners. On another level it is the sort of spoken deed that is really a boast and conceit: look at us confront! look at us fight! look at us inquire, challenge, decry! (We must also not forget that other great conceit: look at how tolerant we are! see how open-minded we can be! look at the depth of our understanding!)
Is Lee Bollinger really a fighter? Is he really courageous? Yes, of course he is. At the very least, he is willing to speak in a manner that might offend supporters of the Iranian president who live, work and study in the west, particularly on the west side of Manhattan. But is insulting a guest in one's own parlor anything like a bold confrontation, particularly when the guest expects it, even desires it? What about Mr. Bollinger traveling to Tehran to berate the Iranian president? What about him standing in Mr. Ahmadinejad's own parlor and pompously declaring his Iranian host "uneducated"?
What I am ultimately saying is that I fear some Americans think the country has now "dealt" with Mr. Ahmadinejad, that we have torn off his mask, shown him to the world as an ego-maniacal simpleton, and sent him on his way, duly chastised, duly warned. We have faced evil, confronted it, stared it down; we have shown evil and ignorance the face of goodness and knowledge.
But we have done no such thing at all.
Secondly, we have ineluctably fallen prey to a new mythology: The Iranian president came to America in peace, but the peacemaker was mocked, abused, ridiculed! He came with an olive branch, but he will leave having been scourged with that very symbol of peace! The fodder for propaganda is perhaps now even more abundant than ever. Had Mr. Ahmadinejad been kept at a safe distance, his propaganda could only reach so far. But now he has proof -- soundbites and vidclips -- that America is a capricious host, a divided and unfriendly place, full of spies (he called one reporter a CIA interrogator), dripping with sarcasm, antagonistic towards peace. He is that peace; his is a peaceful nation.
How sad, even tragic -- or so the chorus will sing -- that America -- and its Jewish constituency, no doubt -- should have rejected a 'noble' man bringing such a noble, gentle peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
When I first heard (last week?) that Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was to speak at Columbia University yesterday, I was in high dudgeon. Immediately I decried Columbia president Lee Bollinger's decision to permit the man even to visit Columbia's campus. 'How can these things be?' I asked myself, incredulous at such indecency.
But now I am somewhat ambivalent. I applaud Mr. Bollinger for taking a hard-line stand with Mr. Ahmadinejad; I am glad that he called the Iranian president a 'petty and cruel dictator.' Or am I?
Yes, it is good to confront and debate ideas and policies. Yes, it is noble to challenge the zeitgeist; to take a moral stand in the face of evil. But there are dangers, very subtle dangers, in taking the 'higher road.' Two such dangers come to mind this morning.
The first is to confuse calling a guest at an American university a "petty dictator" significant or even courageous. On one level it is plainly bad manners. On another level it is the sort of spoken deed that is really a boast and conceit: look at us confront! look at us fight! look at us inquire, challenge, decry! (We must also not forget that other great conceit: look at how tolerant we are! see how open-minded we can be! look at the depth of our understanding!)
Is Lee Bollinger really a fighter? Is he really courageous? Yes, of course he is. At the very least, he is willing to speak in a manner that might offend supporters of the Iranian president who live, work and study in the west, particularly on the west side of Manhattan. But is insulting a guest in one's own parlor anything like a bold confrontation, particularly when the guest expects it, even desires it? What about Mr. Bollinger traveling to Tehran to berate the Iranian president? What about him standing in Mr. Ahmadinejad's own parlor and pompously declaring his Iranian host "uneducated"?
What I am ultimately saying is that I fear some Americans think the country has now "dealt" with Mr. Ahmadinejad, that we have torn off his mask, shown him to the world as an ego-maniacal simpleton, and sent him on his way, duly chastised, duly warned. We have faced evil, confronted it, stared it down; we have shown evil and ignorance the face of goodness and knowledge.
But we have done no such thing at all.
Secondly, we have ineluctably fallen prey to a new mythology: The Iranian president came to America in peace, but the peacemaker was mocked, abused, ridiculed! He came with an olive branch, but he will leave having been scourged with that very symbol of peace! The fodder for propaganda is perhaps now even more abundant than ever. Had Mr. Ahmadinejad been kept at a safe distance, his propaganda could only reach so far. But now he has proof -- soundbites and vidclips -- that America is a capricious host, a divided and unfriendly place, full of spies (he called one reporter a CIA interrogator), dripping with sarcasm, antagonistic towards peace. He is that peace; his is a peaceful nation.
How sad, even tragic -- or so the chorus will sing -- that America -- and its Jewish constituency, no doubt -- should have rejected a 'noble' man bringing such a noble, gentle peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
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