On The Virtue Of Knowing Nothing

For some reason, today I remember M., a college acquaintance who years ago talked to me in my dorm room late into the night. You see, M. had just completed a semester at The Oregon Extension (OE),† a sort of academic retreat in the southern Oregon mountains, where students live in cabins while exploring their Christian beliefs in an open-minded yet academically rigorous community. Upon his return to our New England campus for the spring trimester, M. sought me out, eager to report on his experience in Oregon.

M. was not the first OE alumnus I knew. I had already heard back from several other alumni who found the place all rather magical. OE had provided a truly transformative experience, at least for most folks. However, one of my friends, a man I had known since middle school, was not as taken by the OE curriculum.

But M. was taken, completely. He had sought me out with an almost furious energy; there was an urgency in his tone. And so, as I reclined on my bed, my back against the wall, M. gave me his impassioned report on what he had learned, and what he had learned could be boiled down to two things: He had learned that Christianity is all about grace, and that he knew absolutely nothing.

I recognize that this is hardly news that suggests epiphany. But for M., well, he had been transformed. He waxed on about Karl Barth and presuppositions; he mentioned paradigms. And he could not reiterate often enough that what OE had given him was the liberation that can only come from great insight: He knew nothing at all.

What M. was not saying was what Socrates may have said, namely, that in order to learn a man must first admit that he does not know what he claims to know. M.'s sort of doubt wasn't even Cartesian, for Descartes at least landed on something relatively familiar: his own self. What M. was really saying was that he had found a new virtue; that not knowing anything, at least anything certain or foundational, was a glorious gift, one wrapped and tied in bows of God's abundant grace. Ignorance was a liberating virtue.

_______________________

I recall overhearing a psychology professor at my thoroughly Protestant college tell a colleague that he "love[d] shattering the presuppositions of the undergrads." I am sure this professor's pleasure was rooted in love, or so one should infer within the context of a Christian institution of higher learning. But what I noticed then, and notice even now, is that many so-called "Christian intellectuals" seem very much interested in the demolition of their students' presuppositions, but have little interest in renovation, which seems a rather limited view of things. After all, it is all very well and good to knock down walls, but if the building is left razed, is this pleasing and wise?

When I told another OE alumnus about the psych prof's pleasure in dismantling, he opined that he felt the prof's words encapsulated what his experience at OE had been: professors delighting in deconstructing without taking to time to help rebuild.º

________________________

So why do I think about M. today? Maybe because, in part, I am thinking of some of the "new virtues" before us: tolerance, multi-cultural empathy, open-mindedness, are forerunners of the new virtues, but they seem almost antique by comparison. No, there are even newer virtues, like "multi-tasking," flippancy, and maintaining a vital Internet avatar, to name a few. But the one virtue that I believe M. and his peers presented far ahead of their time is this necessary and seemingly humble admission that each of us knows nothing; that each of us must admit that we not only could be wrong, but we are wrong. To such humble folks, a sophisticated mind is a ceaselessly nuanced one; every answer, if one can be found, must be hopelessly complex, or complicated by the never-ending deferences that such a mind makes in the face of a problem, or in reply to a question. The truly smart person thinks, without necessarily ever landing on a solid answer; the inquiry is all that matters, complete with certain prescriptions against appearing too certain, too provincial, too anthropocentric or patriotic or partisan or American or patriarchal. An intelligent person is a cosmopolitan one, where everything bears equal moral and intellectual weight; where no one wants to land on one idea, even if it is demonstrably right, for fear of looking like that immodest man who decides, who prefers one country or region over all others; that simpleton who prefers Tuscany to Campania.

No, the intellectual is a person who believes in process, in pursuit. Actually landing on an answer, well, that is for those who possess a fearful mind, full of anxiety; an intellectually incurious mind that clings to God and other soothing constructs. The true intellectual is too democratic to have an answer, even a conviction, that is not arrived at by consensus, collaboration or roll call.

______________________

In reading G. K. Chesterton's glorious Orthodoxy once again, I find that in 1908 Mr. Chesterton was already aware of what would perhaps become the 20th- and 21st-centuries' most pervasive intellectual movement (or mood). And it appears that M.'s insight is really not that new at all, at least to Chesterton:

"At any street corner we may meet a man who utters the frantic and blasphemous statement that he could be wrong. Every day one comes across somebody who says that of course his view may not be the right one. Of course his view must be the right one, or it is not his view. We are on the road to producing a race of men too mentally modest to believe in the multiplication table. ...Scoffers of old were too proud to be convinced; but these are too humble to be convinced."

The new virtue, this humility and modesty of which M. seemed so enamored, is the result of upending the very meaning of humility:

"Humility was largely meant as a restraint upon the arrogance and infinity of the appetite of man. ... But what we suffer from to-day is a humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly that part he ought not assert -- himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt -- the Divine Reason. Huxley preached a humility content to learn from nature. But the new sceptic is so humble he doubts he can even learn. Thus we should be wrong if we had said hastily that there is no humility typical of our time. The truth is that there is a real humility typical of our time; but it so happens that it is practically a more poisonous humility than the wildest prostrations of the ascetic. The old humility was a spur that prevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that kept him from going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether."

Chesterton is quite clearly on to something here, while I am most likely not. Clearly, I am struggling towards something. I want to know why many of those folks who most often tout the virtue of "thinking for oneself" seem to think for themselves the least; and why what appears to be an intellectual trend toward solipsism, where the self can only know its own claustrophobic self, instead trends towards the fad, the popular, the consensus. Why do those who tell me that I must find my own truth -- a truth that is binding to no one but me -- always seem to fall back on what everybody else thinks -- what the committee or voters or members or citizens or consensuses or Europeans think?

And why is it that M., who claimed to know nothing but the grace of God, knew enough to tell me that knowing nothing was liberating? And why, in the end, is God always reduced to either His ferocious law (ostensibly by those absurd conservatives) or His judgment-free grace of which M. so passionately spoke?

And I wonder why my more religiously liberal peers believe that there is at least one thing God damns: the self who dares assert that something is absolutely true.

Food for thought, or not.

Peace.

†Please note that I am not interested here in besmirching what others have found so helpful. I am merely using OE as a springboard, though not entirely. Alas, there are some things I must keep to myself.
ºI recognize that the goal of many Christian educators is to knock down false idols, and then cultivate in each student the necessary skills and passion so that he or she might erect a faith and Christian worldview that are self-determined.

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Getting It Just Wrong

It was during one of those nights of many nights lying awake, mortality breathing on my cheek, when I took stock of my prayers. You see, my prayers are not really prayers. They are more like distress flares over a dark sea.

"Real" prayer, so to speak, that personal and intimate bending of heart, mind and will toward God when one is alone, has become far too intimate for me. I am afraid of what I will see, not of God, but of myself. I shudder at the thought of too much scrutiny, so I shutter the windows to my heart.

How silly, I know, to think God cannot see what I try to hide. The fact is, I am not hiding a thing from God, only from some part of myself. And even that is not true; the denial is of something, and that thing is known and understood. I see everything that is known. The denier knows.

But perhaps not even that is true. Perhaps that is why I do not pray, because I do not want to learn another heretofore unknown thing about myself, about how I have let another person down, or disappointed God. It is sad to say this, but it is true that the vast majority of my Christian experience revolves around disappointment: that my parents and teachers and friends and family and God -- always God -- expect more, are disappointed. How rare to hear a sermon about a God who is not disappointed, to hear of his pleasure, approval and delight. Is nothing ever good enough for him? Is he never happy? Has he no contentment? One wonders what sort of God we worship who never delights in his children without some reminder that they have left him a bit cross, a tad disappointed. Is this the way God -- our Father -- wants us to think of him? Surely there are days he wants us simply to be grateful that we are not under condemnation, celebrating the freedom of a love that perfectly casts out all fear. Or are we always and every day to feel that we have let him down? Is that the perfect love that casts out all fear? Or is that the imperfect love that casts out just some fear?

This morning I will go to church. I will be reminded again to sing about how wonderful God is; I will be reminded that I must say nice and right things about him, or else. I will also be reminded that I have fallen short, that repentance and contrition are due once again. That I still have things to work on, to improve. That God loves me unconditionally -- but.

St. Paul declares that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. None! Nada. No condemnation at all. And yet there is so little freedom in the wake of such great news. Nearly every Christian I know worries, worries so much they weigh their words, their prayers, with diligence bordering on obsession. They speak watching their tongues, afraid to say the wrong things, afraid to upset God, afraid that he will take something away from them in order to teach them some hard lesson. Most of the time, it all seems like a great big bargain: "God, I will be obedient and grateful and prayerful and adoring, just don't mess up my plans, kill me before I have lose my virginity, take my well-paying job from me, harm my children or strike me with illness. Deal?"

And I notice that when I raise this issue about fear, about there being no condemnation for those who are in Christ, I am greeted with a rejoinder that leads inexorably to some anxiety about whether anyone is really certain about being IN Christ Jesus.

I have heard Christian teachers of prayer exhort their charges to "pray with precision," to pray with bold "accuracy." But why? What will happen if I don't? Something bad? Will God punish me if I fail to put the name of Jesus in every sentence I speak? Will I be in trouble if I forget to close my prayers with the "in-Jesus'-name-I-pray" coda? Will I be in trouble if I am not "specific"? Will I disappoint God again?

Indeed, if my prayers in the dark are not always signal flares over a vast silent sea, they are, sometimes, a question. What, O Lord, does it mean that "perfect love casts out all fear?" Where, O Lord, is this love, this place of fearlessness where love is not disappointed?

Admittedly this personal essay carries with it the potential cause of more anxiety, namely that we should be anxious about having God wrong. But that sort of anxiety would be silly. What is not silly is that there is a gospel that claims to have set us free, free from guilt, anxiety, fear; from having to weigh our words; from worries about whether God will smite us if we don't get everything right. Even the signal flares in the night are OK, no? Surely God does not shame us for being afraid. Does he?

If there is anything he might shame us for, however, is that as Christians we believe that fear is normative, that God must always be approached with language that appeases his short temper; that God's default emotion toward us is anger and that he is always looking for reasons to chasten. But the irony suggests paradox: God might be angry for our seeing him as fundamentally angry.

To rephrase another St. Paul passage, if God is against us, who can be for us? Sadly it seems I believe that God is against us. Unless, of course, I get everything just right.

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

A Crisis Of Credit, Identity Theft

It is nearly impossible for me to write anything anymore. I have overdrawn my checking account; I am deep in the negative. There are little slips showing up in my mail box: the bank wants its money. I dig deep into my pockets, I search beneath the cushions of the sofa, I paw through the rejectamenta of my car's glove box. Nothing but a few coins.

Surely the bank will not care if I tape them to a card and toss it in the post.

____________________

Perhaps I am exhausted by a particular pleasure. It's a sordid one, I admit, and one thoroughly pervasive in our culture. It is the pleasure derived from criticism, of reading criticism, of being a critic. It is the fatigue that befalls the cynic, particularly the reluctant cynic.

But maybe it's not about criticism. Maybe I am tired of defending what I believe. Maybe I am worn through, having given way like the denim that covered a little boy's knees. Or maybe I am empty, not because I have given too much away, but because I can't find anything to replenish my mind. In this case, it's not what comes out of a man that corrupts him. What corrupts a man is that there is nothing going in.

Perhaps.

____________________

Of course, the problem lies with me, within me. I am a fool for looking "out there" for things to fill the void. The poets and prophets know better (or so they say) and I should too, as I've read their couplets and been burned by their ire. To look elsewhere than myself is to cast blame, to look for a target onto which I might cast aspersions. It is to out-source, if you will, the problem, the cause of the malaise. My grief is not, ultimately, rooted in injustice, or in the vapidity of presidential campaigns, or in the obscenities of culture. My grief is mine: I am the source of my weakness. For I have, in part, put too much meaning, too much import and value, on things outside myself. Such objects of devotion are indeed idols, and they may take the form of real people, like a spouse or a president; or they may be ideas or ideologies or promises uttered by a candidate reported to be as good as Christ.

Indeed, I DO place too much meaning on things. I once was rejected by a woman -- a woman! -- because she thought I held sex in too high esteem: She chided me that sex was "too meaningful" for me. I recall at my 20th high school reunion a conversation I had with an old friend, Helen. She told me that in high school I scared women off because, as she said, "you wanted to get into their heads, and not their pants." How could I reply that I thought that was what women wanted?

I confess my guilt. I have put my hope and trust in things.

_____________________

What does it mean to be happy? Is it enough to to get up in the morning and drink tea while watching the day's birds gather outside on limbs and lawn? Is it enough to ask God to forgive me, again, for forgetting that He is not an idol, a talisman, a magic lamp? And is it enough to say little prayers, just little ones? Is it enough to ask God questions in the morning, and then, beneath the deep night's full moon, ask the same questions again? Does a loving father ever tire of little talks with his children? Is he deaf to the chattering choruses of "why, why, why?" Does he grow weary of giving answers?

In all my years loving birds, I've never heard one bird change its song, nor have I ever grown weary of hearing the same winged symphony. Let the chickadee sing the same song all day, for it comforts me. The crow soothes me. The oriole and the rose-breasted grosbeak bring me no small joy.

Of course, I correct myself. There is one bird I know that does change its song. I will not mention that bird here, for its name almost suggests harassment. But I love that bird's nocturnal tunes, though its voice is that of all other birds (and other similar sounds) and not its own. Perhaps today I am like that bird -- that voice of many voices -- calling out in the night, trying out many songs, hoping to land on one that is, in the end, the voice I thought I had.

And I wonder, in the end, if happiness is really rather simple, and it has just one voice: Gratitude.


Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

On God Or No God

You may not agree with it, but I can't help but think you will find Avery Cardinal Dulles' essay, "God and Evolution," very engaging reading. It's too bad that it is not in book form; it would be nice to explore the ideas presented therein more completely. Read the whole thing (in other words, don't quit). Let me know what you think.

Blessings!

Gnade

Speaking In Parables

[After reading Friedrich Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil earlier this summer, I wrote the following short story.]

Julie Cannon was a theology student with a cause: she wanted to live a life of gratitude. And she was walking through Harvard Square at a pace that meant she set out to prove it. But she also wanted to live a life worthy of those who called themselves followers of Christ, even if it meant acting crazy from time to time.

“I don’t understand why you should have a problem with this, Thomas. You’re the one who is always telling me about how grateful you are. Weren't you boasting about your grateful spirit just the other day? Why can’t I do this my way?”

“I am not saying you can’t do it your way, you little imp. I am telling you that it is just sort of weird.”

Thomas Lesser, too, was a theology student. He and Julie were second-year students at Harvard Divinity School. Today he found himself curiously furious with her: she was gorgeous and wildly desirable (he had attempted to ask Julie out several times, but failed for want of courage); she was his closest female friend in Cambridge, and yet here she was with thank-you notes to, well, whatever, and she was fixed on her task -- without affect -- in a way that perplexed him to no end and, for the first time since they met nearly two years ago, he did not know how to take her.

“Are you telling me,” Thomas said, trying to restrain his incredulity and nascent anger, “that you have thirteen more cards to hand out, and that we have twenty more things to thank beyond that? Really, two is enough already. One for the trees by Church Street, and one for the bench by All Creeds…I am down with that. But I had no idea you had a whole day of this planned.”

“What? Are you not thankful, too?” asked Julie, her voice slightly crimped by shortness of breath.

“I am, Jules, but –“

“buuuuuuttt, what? You do have a problem, don’t you, and yet you won’t come out and say it. Oops! Too late. We are here. Come!”

Thomas - reluctantly - followed his Beatrice into Algiers, a place he knew Julie adored. He adored it too, perhaps because he knew it was so dear to Julie. He looked straight overhead as he walked in: He loved the vaulted ceilings of this café, and he loved all its nooks and crannies. The smell of roasting coffee beans blasted his nose.

“No, no, I am not here to order anything,” Julie said to the barista. She took a moment to sigh deeply, to catch her breath and gather her wits for an important task. “I merely want to thank the espresso machine. No, uh, what? … no, no. I was wondering if I could have a minute with your espresso machine. As you know, I LOVE the espresso here, and, well, I was just thinking last night that I needed to ‘overflow with thanksgiving.’ So I want to thank the espresso machine, and even the coffee beans, for giving me so much pleasure.”

Thomas dropped his gaze to the group of baristas gathering behind the counter. He could feel himself shifting from foot to foot and shaking his head ever so slightly. And he could feel blood rush to his face. Here we are, Thomas thought, and everybody here knows we are div students; we sit here for hours – Julie, me, Chad, Liam, Valli – talking God and exegesis and Greek, and now Julie has the temerity to ask if she could speak to a machine…she wants to thank it.

He could see from the baristas' faces that they were befuddled, and yet were too tolerant of so familiar a face, and a face so beautiful.

One undergrad - known by Thomas and Julie merely as Rafe - spoke up, his face broad with a knowing smile.

“Sure, Julie. Come behind the counter and have at it.”

Rafe looked at his colleagues and then at Thomas. He gave them a little smile and a quick shrug as if to say, “What can I do?”

Julie squeezed through the gap between countertops and walked up to the copper-plated espresso machine. She nodded before it, touched it lovingly – she’s caressing it, Thomas noted – and then said something no one could hear. She was behind the counter for no more than sixty seconds. But to Thomas it was a minute too long.

“Well, that was kind of you all,” Julie said as she made her way toward the door. “But I am wondering if you could give the coffee roaster this little card. It’s a thank-you note.”

The only barista to speak spoke again.

“But we all roast the beans, Julie,” Rafe said, looking at each of his colleagues. In unison, each barista nodded his head in agreement.

“I know that, you goofs. I want you to give the note to the actual roaster, the actual machine. You know, the big one you have out back.” Julie tilted her head back, inhaled deeply through her nose, and then raised a hand for dramatic effect. “I can smell it now. Ahhh!”

Julie handed the card to Rafe who, along with his fellow baristas, stood dumbfounded.

"I don’t... what? Uh..."

Thomas, unable to contain either his impatience or his blushing, spoke to Rafe as Julie turned to go.

“Just…please. Humor her. She has a fistful of thank you notes to THINGS! And she has her whole day planned around this happy little idea of thanking things for…for their… thingness…or…whatever!”

Julie turned as Thomas approached exasperation. She looked at him quizzically. “You do think I’m crazy, don’t you? Well, you’ve not seen anything yet! Come!”

At that, Julie flew down the stairs. Thomas muttered something toward the young men behind the counter, but he knew they could not hear him. He dropped his head and followed Julie.

But once outside, Julie immediately stopped. Quickly, she knelt on the sidewalk and lowered her face: Thomas thought of Muslim prayer. She’s doing salat, and she’s prostrate in the first sajdah!

“Thank you sidewalk!” shouted Julie.

“Julie, please!” Thomas shouted, concerned that someone might think she was mocking Islam. He moved toward her head to block pedestrians from crashing into her. But as suddenly as she had knelt, she was up and walking toward the corner.

“You remember last month when Pim, my cat, was lost?” she asked, shouting over her shoulder, her pace suddenly brisk and direct. “Well, I had put up posters around the Square urging people to be on the lookout. So there is a pole I have to see.”

After ten strides Julie stopped abruptly, with Thomas nearly crashing into her.

“Here it is.”

Thomas, now so perplexed that he could not hide his anger, looked around.

“Here’s what?!” he shouted.

Julie looked at him with a look of pain.

“Here’s what?” Thomas asked, the tone and volume of his voice lowered to levels approaching courtesy. “I see nothing here.”

“Yes, but I do,” Julie continued without so much as a pause in enthusiasm, “and I am glad I do. This pole, right here, was where I put one of Pim’s posters! Thank you, thank you, my dear pole. Oh! And look! The FedEx box. I use that box! Thank you, box!”

Thomas was appalled. What has happened to her? What am I doing here? He watched as Julie wrapped her arms around the metal box, as best she could. She’s hugging it! And now she’s up again!

“Look! A curb! You know, there have been many times I've leapt onto a curb to avoid getting hit by a taxi or some crazy cyclist. I have even used this curb. Thank you curb! And look! A picture of a dog! I had a dog once. Thank you, picture! Thank you, dogs! And look at – thank you sky, thank you clouds! And –“

“Julie Cannon!” Thomas knew he could shout loud, but was surprised he could shout that loud. Rage was settling in. “What the hell is going on here? If you think I’m spending my day while you traipse through Cambridge thanking things, then you are out of your freaking mind! I would be out of my mind to follow you – I have THINGS TO DO!”

Suddenly, Julie’s whole face changed. Her frenzy seemed to abate at Thomas’ words. She smiled softly, her eyes full of understanding. She walked slowly up to him, her eyes pouring into his. She stopped close to him, reaching out a hand to caress his arm.

“Tom, Tom. Let’s go back to Algiers. There is something I want to tell you.”

“More things to thank, Julie? No thanks. I’ve got things to do?”

“Come, Tom. Give me just a few minutes. I promise, no more thanking things. Not that I should stop on account of your anger, but I will stop on account of your embarrassment. So, you think it crazy of me to do all this. Why?”

Tom looked skyward, rolled his eyes and tilted his head to the right, and then brought his gaze back down to Julie. “Because you don’t thank things, Julie, you thank people, sentient, animate people."

“Hmm,” cooed Julie. “Come, coffee’s on me. Twenty minutes, tops!”

With a tug of her hands and a knee-buckling smile, Julie was able to get Thomas to walk a few steps, open a door, order a latte and sit in the downstairs corner of Algiers. Julie had made a joke with the baristas upon entering, saying something about “playing nutty and all.”

“Plain and simple, Thomas. Do you want to know what this was all about?”

Thomas looked unsure.

“I guess. I mean, only if it makes sense and does not bore me to tears, or piss me off," he answered. "And I guess I don’t want some sort of tragic news, like that you have a brain tumor and just days to live or something equally dreadful.”

Julie looked down at the coffee cup in her hands. She seemed to Thomas to be weighing what he had just said; there was a look of grave concern that passed over her face. But then that look passed with a brilliant smile. Thomas’ momentary anxiety slipped from him like snow on a metal roof in spring.

“Dearest Tom. You have to know me better by now…I’d never drop something tragic on you in this manner, nor would I ever be so gauche as to harass you for no good reason. I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever found me boring. Lord knows I’ve never had a dull moment with you.”

Thomas could feel himself blush. He squirmed in his seat, sat upright, and put both hands around his coffee mug. He did not want to give too much away.

Julie looked out the window and said, “You’ve got to know that I was very troubled during Religious Epistemology last week. You know, when you and Dr. Urns were talking atheism? I mean, the whole Nietzsche section has been fascinating."

Julie withdrew her gaze from the window. She looked right into Thomas's eyes.

"Don’t get me wrong, that crazy atheist makes me think. But when you agreed with Urns, that you even admitted you recently became an atheist – well, I guess I am fine with that sort of statement if it is meant as a confession of doubt, because we all have doubts – but when you, well, when you agreed with him that you could be an atheist and live a meaningful life, one filled with gratitude and joy, well, it really felt empty to me, so hol—“

“But Julie, it is my choice to – “

Thomas stopped himself. He could feel that he was somehow blindsided here; something was coming and yet he could neither see it nor control its effect. Yes, it was true what Julie was saying; in fact, he was like probably too many div-students – he had become an atheist studying for “ministry.” Yes, this was a change for him, since he came from a United Church of Christ background, one with an evangelical flavor (at least while his old youth pastor worked at his family's church during his commuting days at Brompton Prep). And he knew in his heart that it was wrong not to have told Julie this until he announced it in class to Dr. Urns, who was also an atheist. For Julie was devout: she had more faith, even certainty, than anyone he had ever met.

“I’m sorry, “ he said. “Go on.”

Julie continued.

“It all just felt hollow and contrived. So what I did today was try to show you the absurdity of your position. Forgive me for pointing this out, but you pointed out the absurdity of your position. You JUST scolded me outside by declaring - with the conviction of a true believer - that it was absurd to thank things. And my point was to show you exactly that – that it is impossible to live a life of thanks and gratitude as an atheist, for the atheist can only thank things. There is no person, no ‘sentience,’ to steal your word, to be grateful to.”

Thomas could feel heat pour into his face. He knew he had been caught in a…seeming?…contradiction, one that he had created, and yet he could not just concede. How could he? He had been adamant in his opinions with Dr. Urns; he had enjoyed connecting with the professor so fully and uniquely. And now he could feel all that sentiment slip away as so much nothing.

“Well, I suppose I could be thankful to the universe," Thomas offered with conciliation in his tone, "though you would counter that it, too, is a mere thing. So perhaps I could say that I am grateful for having been born, that I am glad my parents met and decided to have me.”

“But you know full well your parents made no such decision," Julie rejoined. "At best, they chose to have a baby, but they had no choice who you would be. Besides, who are they grateful to for their existence -- their parents? Well, what about the first parents? Who are they grateful to? Plus, as you know, most atheism is entirely mechanical in its ontology: this is all a machine and no one really has any choice at all ... your parents, then, had no choice in even meeting, let alone having a child. Think eternal recurrence, for that Nietzschean belief is rooted entirely in determinism. I mean, if we ain’t got choice, then we can’t thank each other for anything. Oh, sure we can say we are thankful for beauty or health or wealth or Brahms or brie or this coffee. But we don't thank the gift, we thank the giver. So either we thank God for these gifts -- God being at least a conscious, willing, sentient Being -- or we have nothing to thank at all.”

Thomas felt stumped, though he held on to the suspicion that Julie’s argument had to be superficial and fallacious. He knew she was right – absolutely right – about one thing: He had said what he said, and he had felt it, too. It was absurd to thank things. It was absurd to be grateful to inanimate objects or even creatures who had no choice being what they were. And he could feel the power of Julie’s challenge, that it was impossible to be a grateful atheist in the sense he had used it with Dr. Urns. 'Yes, he said so enthusiastically to Urns, 'I can live a life filled with as much gratitude as any Christian’s.' And now he knew he couldn’t defend that sort of position at all. But he knew he had to say something.

"I can always thank you, for bringing me here, for allowing me the privilege of your beauty and friendship and even this insight, can't I? I mean, I can always thank people? So I can live a life of gratitude, no?"

Thomas couldn't say more. He had admitted too much -- "the privilege of your beauty" was too revealing. Besides, there was something hollow -- just as Julie had said -- to the position he was attempting to defend: he was still thanking things, and he knew it to be futile. But he quickly forgot himself as he looked into Julie's eyes.

"'So, the 'privilege of your beauty,' eh?" Julie said, her eyes full of love and joy. "Don't you know, Thomas, that I can't help myself at all?"

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.