Rethinking, Rebooting, Reconnecting (Part 2)

In Part 1 of this series, which I did not intend to be serial at all, I announced that I would no longer offer political commentary here at Contratimes. I admitted that politics was not the intent of this blog; that I had gotten off track. It would have been perhaps incisive of me to admit I was a victim of the Zeitgeist I meant to confront: that the spirit of the age divides us unnecessarily along all sorts of lines -- political, ideological, philosophical and religious -- and I was so divided. But currently, or so it seems, the Zeitgeist splits us largely along political lines. And I am tired of those splits. 

It would be as silly to overlook the argument that all things are political as it would be to make such an argument. Surely some will see here, even in this sentence, evidence of a political scam, some agenda driven by a push for political dominance. But I have nothing to give those who harbor such suspicions. All I can say is we are known by our fruits. 

In the end, there is no reason for me to offer here what can be found elsewhere. There are better writers, thinkers, pundits. The internet is rife with such. There is no need to add to the list of choices -- or to the din of ceaseless chatter. Is it any different to offer a blog more distinctly Christian? Who knows. 

Not everything is wrong that one does, and surely not everything done is right. I am sorry for what I've done wrong here. I feel bad for those I may have offended. But such contrition does not mean I believe I could have done anything else, or that I could have avoided offending everybody. Such is life. Even the Perfect has enemies. Even Love is hated. I tried to stay above the fray and found that I was beneath it. I tried to elevate the discussion and found that I was debased. I tried to bring Reason to the forefront and found in that effort something akin to spiritual resignation: "This, too, is vanity." I tried to be more than I am, and became less in the process. For what I had hoped would edify did not. 

Peace to you.

On Biting Midges And Ensuing Chaos

It is a lesson in causality. 

I will spare readers the details. Some of them are dull, others ugly. Too ugly.

Last night, because it was the night of the Full Buck moon, I ventured out on a 141-acre pond I had never before kayaked around. I had been by this lovely pond many times, but I had never circumnavigated it either by boat or on foot. (There are no paths or roads that circle it, though a town road skirts the north and western edge.) The pond is 12 miles from my home. 

It was a beautiful evening, and the breeze was perfect for keeping the mosquitoes away. Despite the breeze, the paddling was relatively easy. Several small coves were even rather calm. And I was able to get close to a pair of loons, which was a pleasant surprise. 

Just as I made myself to the north/northwest end of the pond, I looked south and east and, through a gap in the hills, spotted the glorious full moon. A front had come through a couple of hours earlier, chasing away the humidity. The sky was crystalline, crisp, and getting cool; the moon was brilliant. I drifted for a while adoring the cosmos and thanking God. It was perfect, just a gentle breeze. No bugs. Nothing but Beauty. And Bliss.

Until I got out of the kayak. Then I discovered that my bare legs had been ravaged by ceratopogonidae. Biting midges, no-see-ums. These nasty, invisible vicious little creatures had found refuge from the wind inside the cockpit of my kayak and feasted on my naked legs (I prefer to kayak in shorts). Their legacy looked like a burn; it felt worse than poison ivy. And then I remembered a friend warning me about the very pond I was standing next to. "The no-see-ums will kill you!" he warned, and I believe I not only doubted him, but I chose to forget his words. Why would I forget such a warning, especially since, of all the biting bugs that bug me, no-see-ums ravage me? 

When I got home -- everyone is away so I am a bachelor -- and having made peace with nature, I made myself a huge salad with tomatoes, extra sharp cheddar, avocados, mandarin oranges, raisins and other pleasures, and then made a curious decision: I concluded that the messy kitchen, including the imperishable groceries from the day before that had not been put away, could wait. Besides, I told myself, I really love cleaning the kitchen in the morning... 

Did I tell you my dog died in April? And did I tell you we still have a pet door to the outdoors that the cat just loves to use? Well, both things are true. I just thought you should know. 

After the Mighty Midge attack, I knew that I could not sleep with the windows open, as no-see-ums (that's what we call 'em in these here parts) can easily pass through the typical window screen. So I closed the windows -- things had cooled down a lot anyway -- and turned on a fan to circulate a steady breeze over my bed. This is a capital idea, as the air current affects the flight of any no-see-um intent on doing me harm. Of course, with a fan near your head and your windows closed, you don't hear a thing. But last night there was something I probably should have heard, clearly and instantly. 

I know already that you know what it is I wish I had heard. I know you know what I found when I awoke this morning. I found that I did indeed need to clean my kitchen this bright morning, as raccoons had broken into my house and made a mess of my already messy kitchen. Ever seen a whole container of perfectly good and brand new oatmeal dumped all over your kitchen island? Even the red leather on the boutique-y barstools my wife bought was scratched by eager claws. Glasses were toppled, though not broken, and avocado pits were gnawed on. My brand new bag of awesome corn chips was ripped open. There was even a huge chunk of my kitchen sponge that was missing. It was all really rather unpleasant.

And the outside garbage bins -- which I really do like to keep in order -- were toppled over in the backyard.

Needless to say, I blame this on the midges. Well, maybe not. Maybe my friend is to blame -- for not warning me sufficiently. Yeah. It's his fault. 

It's amazing how much harm can come from what you don't see. Or hear. 

Or heed. 

Peace. 

©2010/All Rights Reserved. 

Rethinking, Rebooting, Reconnecting

The other day I asked Contratimes' guests to help me, as I found myself no longer sure of what the Zeitgest -- the spirit of the age -- is, or was, or what it looks like. I still don't know with anything approaching certitude, but I think I am getting nearer to an answer. 

I have come to realize that Contratimes is no longer doing what I initially intended. What I mean is that I am not doing what I intended to do at Contratimes. This blog did not start out to be political. I did not intend to expend so much time and effort criticizing liberal policies and ideas or defending conservative ones. But I just got sucked in. And then I got lost. 

What this blog was meant to do was to be a place where a Christian worked out his faith in a world that stands against that faith. What this blog was meant to be was an example of how Christianity can help a person live in a world of despair, alienation, moral and intellectual confusion, and temptation. I grant not only that such would be a huge undertaking, it also presumes I am not desperate, alienated or confused. Or so such a charge could be made. But this site was not to be about me. It was supposed to be about Christianity. It was supposed to be about how Christianity confronts the spirit of the age. It was supposed to be about how Christianity helps in difficult times and how Christianity helps us realize that all times are difficult. It was not to be a Christian para-church one might find in digital form, but a sort of salon for discussion, reflection, inquiry, and candor. A safe salon. 

What is the spirit of the age? Let me guess. 

It is the "spirit of the power of the air" that sows doubt, that calls us to find meaning in things, things carnal, things political, things material. The spirit of the age beckons you to find life and love in idols -- in things created -- and not in the Creator of all things. The spirit of the age whispers -- "Surely you will not die" -- and then tells you to taste, eat; enjoy the idols that await. The spirit of the age offers temporal joy and yet delights in temporal despair, and even finds in that despair a reason to be happy, and even a  reason to boast of "authenticity" or "gravitas" or "brutal honesty." Better an honest hell than a dishonestly happy heaven. 

The spirit of the age tells you that you can have it all -- here, now, soon. It tells you that God is nothing but love, though the attentive know that if God is nothing but love, there is no God at all (at least not one that matters). 

The spirit of the age denies all absolute truths but one: that it's absolutely true that absolutes don't matter. 

The spirit of the age tells you that truth and meaning are not discovered but created, invented. The spirit of the age encourages you to "think for yourself" and "be your own person," but it never encourages you to see that in taking its advice you've not thought for yourself and thus are not your own. And it never tells you that someone had to discover that meaning and truth are created, invented ...

The spirit of the age imparts fear at every turn, fear of not belonging to the right group, or the newest ideas. The spirit of the age demands that you not worry about your destiny, and then tells you that you should be ashamed for looking old, unfit, or for driving a certain type of car. It tells you death is nothing, and then it tells you that life is everything -- and only then a certain kind of life, an enviable one -- and that you better not die too soon. 

The spirit of the age tells you that the Church is too legalistic, and too invasive, always poking its nose into your business. And then it tells you that you MUST act and think a certain way and -- Oh, by the way, why are you so prudent, so incessantly modest, about your love life? The spirit of the age mocks at those who would legislate morality, and then brings the gavel down in approval of laws that ensure every one is decent, in the "right" way. The spirit of the age proclaims "Live and let live!" and then wishes that those who disagree with such a generous precept would just die. 

The spirit of the age believes that one ought "to move the boundary stone set by your forefathers," but that the stone ought to be moved only one way -- outward -- or removed altogether. No doubt there are times the spirit of the age seeks to move the stone inward in a false belief that even a more restrictive life in this world will grant the greatest eternal and temporal joy, but the spirit does this rather rarely: It's joy is to see humans always looking for an idol, new or old, to turn the heart toward nothingness. It's glee is found in destruction: misery loves company. 

And it's inspiration is envy, an envy that does not care to have or possess, only that others do not have; that no one ultimately possesses.

I initially attempted to confront this spirit at Contratimes, but I missed my mark. My interest is not really about confronting the Zeitgeist because such is a losing battle. I would rather resist it, and if I could, I would even ignore it. There is a different Spirit. A better one. One as old as forever. One as new as this moment. 

Contratimes will continue, I believe, but its days of political commentary are over. (I may take what I've started at Shallow Church -- which is evolving -- and meld them into what I've begun here.) The only time I will write of such things (i.e., political, economic, etc.) is if I believe they speak to our dangerous habit of idolatry. This is not a Republican thing I am doing here, or a Libertarian one; and it's not a conservative thing. It's just a kind of Christian thing, offered in grace to anyone living in this very non-Christian world. 

Peace to you.

Bill Gnade

Read "War of Words"

I found Andrew Ferguson's "War of Words" incredibly enjoyable. I hope you do too.

"A Theology Of Disunity, Part 1"

Continuing my series of shameless promotion, I remind readers -- by that I mean interested readers -- that there is a more distinctly Christian blog now offered by the author/administrator of Contratimes. Here's proof.

Confession Number 2,139.5

More to share.

A Shallow Statement Of Faith, Part 3

I don't think I can stop. It's serious.

A Shallow Statement Of Faith, Part 2

It may seem a strange new project, but it really isn't. Click here to see what I mean.

A Shallow Statement Of Faith (A New Project)

What Is The Zeitgeist?

This blog begins with a bold claim. Confronting the Zeitgeist "one day at a time" seems at first glance a noble goal, but it has proven an elusive one. The boldness lies not in the confronting but in the definition: my work assumes I know the Zeitgeist. Of course that is not all it assumes. But it does assume I have a working definition of the spirit of the age.

But do I? I am unsure.

If there is a spirit of this age, what is it? Perhaps we ought to change metaphors: If there is a fragrance to this age, what does it smell like? If there is a voice of the age, what is it saying? If there is a flavor of the age, have you tasted it -- and is it good? 

I don't think I can tacitly flatter myself anymore. I cannot divine the spirit of the age, at least I can't right now. I ask readers for help; I ask a neighbor to give me his coat. Perhaps one of you will even give me your shirt as well. 

Peace. 

Gliding Through The Prayer Book

Last night I kayaked over a mirror set beneath a silver half-moon. It was glorious, utterly quiet. I paddled slowly, even with stealth.  Tranquility was disturbed only by the occasional sound of my fly-rod, the soft splash of a fly, and the burst of a largemouth smashing the ceiling of its pond. I was on liquid glass beneath a night sky streaked with clouds, sky and water seeming the same thing. I drifted upside-down. 

When I finally thought fly fishing a sacrilege in such hallowed air, I broke down my gear and paddled the mile or so home from the far side of the pond; I wended my way down Moose Brook ever so quietly, moving nearly imperceptibly. Occasionally I would glide through pockets of cool air where breathing seemed easier. I wished I was drifting on a mattress, or in a baby's bassinet. I wanted to fall asleep. I thought of a baby, alone, drifting among the water lilies, floating in a basket woven of rushes, of love. 

And then I wanted to just roll over, to fall into the crystalline sky, to be baptized again. One final time. 

Last night was the latest I had been out this summer on the water, and I think as the full moon approaches, I may stay out till dawn. I've gone out nearly every night during the past two weeks. It's almost a discipline.

It's like compline. It's my evening prayer.  

Peace. 

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