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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."]

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

On Paying Attention: Maureen Dowd, Welcome Back

As some of you know, The New York Times at 12:00 am (EST) today, discontinued its "TimesSelect" service, a subscription service providing access to a lot of NYT on-line features, including access to the Times' well-known columnists. The news of the program's cancellation means at least one thing: I am SO happy. Gratitude knows no bounds in my household this morning.

Today's column by Maureen Dowd is a perfect example of intellectual barrenness masquerading as intellectual fecundity. Ms. Dowd has proven -- again? -- that it matters not what you know; what matters is the style with which you present what you clearly don't know. And what Ms. Dowd clearly does not know is the news in her own newspaper.

In Alan (Not Atlas) Shrugged, Ms. Dowd gives us a list of several men who slinked away from the public eye only -- in a "fashion" -- to slink back. Her list includes O.J. Simpson, Donald Rumsfeld, Larry Craig and -- curiously -- former Fed chair, Alan Greenspan.

Consider what Ms. Dowd says of Mr. Greenspan:

Even though he rubber-stamped W.’s tax cuts, Alan Greenspan is now upbraiding the president and vice president for profligate spending and putting politics ahead of sound economics.…

Irrational exuberance, indeed. [emphasis added]

Surely we cannot deny Ms. Dowd her success at being the NYT's equivalent of the popular high school girl cheered -- not for her academic prowess -- but for her aptitude at gossip. For surely this is pure gossip; perhaps it's even the very antithesis of polemics. How did Ms. Dowd not know the facts as reported in her own paper?

Read this from the New York Times, March 2001:

Mr. Greenspan's support for a tax cut and his warnings about runaway spending have given Republicans a lift as they seek to push Mr. Bush's plan. [emphasis added]

Those of us who remember Mr. Greenspan's testimony on Capitol Hill regarding the Bush tax cuts recall that he did not offer his support to those cuts without also issuing stern warnings about spending: to Greenspan, the Bush cuts would only have the desired effects if Washington scaled back spending on all levels.

How did Ms. Dowd not know this? The answer is simple, really. Perhaps it can best be expressed in what could be the NYT's new motto: We know so you don't have to.

And note that Ms. Dowd avers that Mr. Greenspan "rubber-stamped" George W. Bush's tax cuts. The use of this tired verb -- intended to imply that Greenspan and his peers were little more than automatons in the Bush regime -- is used with such facility that one would be right to point out that those who use it do so automatically, even robotically. Plus, has Alan Greenspan ever rubber-stamped anything in his career?

In the end, perhaps the most important point in all this is that Ms. Dowd does not really know her Ayn Rand. After all, Atlas IS shrugging. Surely Steve Fossett's disappearance proves this, no?

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

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.

Atheism On Negation In Tuscany

[Note: Since I attempted to be clever in this essay by using double-negatives, I ended up confusing myself and making a mistake. The mistake -- failing to create a double negative where needed -- has been corrected. If some of you read this and said, "What the-?", well, now you just have to say, "Huh?"]

I turned to the atheist next to me and asked if he ever thought in anything other than negation. He said he did not.

I've decided that an essay on atheism is all wrong. There are starting points that offend my pretensions, everyone being smarter than I. Irrespective of my ever-maturing idiocy, I've convinced myself that the starting point for a theist is always a positive - God. I've even noticed that the starting point for a theist is a positive predicate - God is. In contrast, the atheist is forever chained to negation; the atheist can only say that God is not, or that there is no God. The atheist cannot, however, tell you what is; there is no affirmation offered that is not mere subjective whim, mere preference or pet-interest.

But if the atheist is right, my theism is really the denial, the negation. Yet I protest that I do not know what it is I am negating: I assert there is something rather than nothing. I am not saying -- am I? -- that God is not non-existent, nor am I negating some principle common to atheism. Perhaps I must content myself with being a non-atheist, with atheism, of course, being some form of positive position. I can't deny then that my non-atheism is an abuse of the positive positions of atheism, those jolly positions I often hear described as bursting with "alacrity" and optimism and liberty. (Indeed, I really can't deny that I am thoroughly abusive of these notions.)

All this the wind tells me is so much nonsense. I hear squirrels chattering more sanity, even when cats wait nearby. The atheist cannot tell me what is but only what isn't. An atheist's negation of my affirmation of theism is a bit like zero telling 1 that multiplication is a fantasy. And it is fantasy, if you embrace nothing. But the atheist recoils at this, shouting, I don't embrace nothing! If one listens for but a moment one hears what the atheist so passionately and earnestly embraces -- beauty, truth, love, progress, posterity, science. In fact the atheist, being incredibly zealous for his ideals, won't take long to dispel the annoying rumors of nihilism preventing him from enjoying his favorite peace. But point out to him that his creed is filled with ideals that hold no objective compulsion -- that his ideals are unique to him and his subjectivity -- and you will hear more bluster than a creationist sacked by a gang of Darwinists. Then add to the punch the obvious -- that if all truth is subjective and theism is one of those subjectively held truths (in a godless world) -- it thus follows that one man's atheism is no advantage over another's theism. If there is nothing but negation and subjectivism; if there is nothing absolute, then what can an atheist say to that man who knows there is no God and yet to spite the very universe believes in God anyway, comforted and compelled in his theism by the atheist's primary convictions, e.g. all truth is subjective and headed for oblivion? Why should an atheist enamored of subjectivism care at all that there are Christians, or other subjective theists, in a world rushing toward the void? We all share the same fate -- annihilation. Then what could possibly induce an atheist to expend one moment decrying theism when nothing he can offer and nothing he believes can save anything?

How odd that the zeros should care so much.

But, as I said, I am the dope in this room. Outside the door? The waiting, crushing abyss.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Ground Null Set: A Memorial Poem

We know the date well. We know the hour, even if this morning it passed on the very edge of dulled nerves. Anxiety is a phone call, a FoxNews alert, a broadcast interruption, that drags the heart toward the basement, where people and dreams were crushed in the old inertia that shook a runway in Boston, or a turnstile in Maine.

Today is also Tuesday, just like then.

In honor of this day, I post a poem I wrote nearly a year after 9/11. I have many 9/11 poems; this one addresses the pain of being a survivor.

We can't forget those who were left behind. They are many.

new york times in ridgewood, nj

the milk has turned bad in the frigidaire
your start to the day, cold, shaped in glass
the english muffins, green, wet and matted
in the plastic bag clipped tight, moldy mass

dirty socks, draped over the rim of jogging
shoes, stiff, and I’ll be damned if I pick them
up for you, or the ladder on the house, leaning
like a tower, windows dirty from inside fogging

the mailbox overdue, fully gestated, delivery
to be induced, or they will
force a caesarean, though i think miscarriage
or abortion and of the NYTs bundled on the path
you won't carry in your arms, though

the press has pressed itself against the patio
doors and through the phone lines and traipsed
into your favorite part of the yard, at night
talking about all of you - like friends - on the radio

while i sleep vertically, looking over where you slept
(the perfect mattress we jumped on in Mattress World
from the ledge of our dreams where hope was kept
and the weight of your arms around my waist, curled)

my feet anchored against attacks on the upper parts
of my fatiguing structure, swaying breathing
the injury like a spear in the side bleeding glass
and i fight not to collapse in a heap of fallen hearts

lights on in the night, all night, doggy-dog licking
the wounds on the back of the kitchen door
whining search for a walksy through the once present ever
after, the battery dead in the hallway clock unticking

i hung up on what you last spoke, and on the white house
and every other dismembered voice
best wishes still on the answering machine blinking
winking thinking shrinking sinking;
sinking;
sinking

8.07.02
©Bill Gnade/Contratimes 2007. All Rights Reserved.

On Media: More Fun With Face Time

Since my first installment of Fun With Face Time was fairly well-received (thanks for the emails), and since I promised photographs from my time with Democratic presidential candidate Bill Richardson (governor of New Mexico), I thought I'd offer Part II, though with some modifications (of Part I).

Brady, a dear soul and friend of Contratimes living in faraway Switzerland, asked if I could post images and invite readers to submit their own headlines. I think that is a capital idea. So I will post the very first image I took (ever) of Gov. Richardson when he visited Peterborough, NH on August 24, 2007. Remember that I have a thesis in mind when I take these pictures: a picture creates an impression, and all of these candidates for president sorely want to impress (and control their image). Without question the media play an important hand in forming our opinions about a person running for office; how we see these folks in photographs, and how those photos are connected to headlines, captions and stories, help frame our thoughts about a candidate. (If you read Part I, and the link provided therein, you'll get a clearer sense of my intent. And no, my intent is not to make any candidate look bad.)

So, here is the very first picture of Bill Richardson I took when I arrived -- late!! -- for his speech (which was on CSPAN, by the way. Did you see me? Well, some folks did.).


OK. Now, write your headlines!!

Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade/Contratimes 2007. All Rights Reserved.

In Awe Of Nature: Let Osprey

Today's photograph ran across the entire top of the front page of yesterday's Keene Sentinel, New Hampshire's oldest daily newspaper.

If you are into birds of prey, I think you'll like the following image. It's a bit static (the bird is not doing anything unusual or interesting), but it is a decent shot of an intense bird on the wing.

Peace.

BG




PS. Click on image for a larger view.

On Media: Fun With Face Time

I have discussed this sort of thing before in my series of critical essays, The New York Times Drug Dealers. And now that we (Americans) are once again in the midst of the many great campaigns for the White House, I thought Contratimes readers might find today's post dealing with image not only different, but rather fun. Who knows?

Trust me when I say that all presidential campaigns are obsessed with one thing: image management. In the media-rich culture in which we live, news editors and photographers serve as midwives, delivering the fresh images each campaign hopes to use to nurture voter interest in their candidates. Irrespective of feigned "balance" in much image obstetrics, hardly a single journalist covering these campaigns is without partisan interest. Everyone, it seems, has a special interest.

Recently I attended a John Edwards event. I showed up with my photo gear; though I was dressed in yard-work rags, my cameras and lenses suggested to many in attendance that I was "media," despite the fact that I was and am merely an interested voter (I only shoot for myself now). My motives and status aside, the Edwards handlers continuously flagged me down: Who are you shooting for? Are you with the press? There's a ladder over there for a better view. At these events, such questions and advice come forth freely and in torrents -- image control is balanced with the highest possible visibility: show our candidate and show him (or her) well.

But as I shared in the essay to which I linked above, not everyone in the media is content with showing a candidate in the best light. I will allow you to explore that more philosophical dimension on your own. Today I merely want to treat you to the impressions created by a frame, a lens and a shutter curtain.

JOHN EDWARDS IN PETERBOROUGH, NH, AUG 23, 2007

When Mr. Edwards finally arrived at his meet-and-greet in a park at the confluence of the Contoocook and Nubanusit rivers in downtown Peterborough, I looked for a vantage that would give me a decent background for the presidential candidate. I wanted color; I wanted people, or signs, or a flag, or a lot or little of each. Indeed, I was able to find a flag, the one flag that was there; luckily, there was also a hint of racial diversity -- one black man and one hispanic woman -- standing in the crowd gathered beneath the Stars-and-Stripes. Unbeknownst to that small sample, they were backdrop; they did not know that I would edit and frame the scene -- a 360-degree world and ampitheater in the round -- to such a narrow slice. I wanted to convey patriotism (as did the handlers who hung the flag); I also wanted to show that Edwards was supported by a racially diverse crowd in what is considered lily-white New Hampshire. All this despite the fact that there was probably only one black man at the event, which boasted close to 500 supporters.

Unfortunately, the light was variable, often drab and low. Thus my lens and aperture choices resulted in very shallow depth-of-field: my backdrop, colorful as it is, is too blurred out to convey all that I was hoping.

Now, the fun. You'll see that John Edwards can look handsome, noble, good, kind, gentle. An editor might even pen a suitable headline: "Edwards Comfortable In NH". This picture proves that he's got the confidence and the looks to be president:


Not bad, really. Edwards looks fresh, solid, straight.

Of course, I could submit this image to an editor's desk:


The depth-of-field is a little better, though I don't like that Edwards' right hand is off-frame and that the flag has moved in the breeze. But surely he looks stronger and more assertive in this frame than in the one previous. Perhaps a headline writer could riff off the image: Edwards Unveils Bold Initiative In NH; Edwards Turns Tough On Campaign Trail; Edwards Determined In NH.

Of course, there are other impressions one can leave. The next picture gives us a sense of the whiff: Edwards' nose seems to have picked up a foul odor. How about "Edwards Smells Defeat In NH Primary"? (This image doesn't really work; it doesn't convey enough voter interest, as one person in the background is obviously interested in something other than John Edwards.)


Perhaps the following photograph lends itself to this headline: "Edwards Concerned Over Shrinking NH Poll Numbers". Perhaps.


But I could emphasize this sense of "My-advantage-over-Richardson-is-really-really-small" even more with an aggressive crop of the original frame.


Then there's the headline, "Edwards Soft-Pitches Plans On Iraq, Terror, Katrina":


When I look at the next image, surely I can believe this: "Edwards to NH's Poor: I Won't Leave You"; or, "Edwards To The Jobless: Help Is On The Way; or "Edwards Speaks To The Second America: I FEEL YOUR PAIN."


Personally, I find that, despite Edwards' strong left hand in the following image, his face suggests weakness, softness. There's even a pleading aspect to his countenance. No doubt it's a perfect facial expression should I want to imply such weakness, such need.


Maybe in a week or two we'll see this headline above the following image: "Edwards Feels The Heat: Moderate Dems Turning Elsewhere."


And just note how the next image could be used, especially since it is so close and tight, almost intimate: "Edwards Cool And In Control: Looking Good In NH."


Lastly, think what fun it would be to read this headline: "Singing A New Tune: Edwards' Croons, Women Voters Swoon."


I doubt this is the sort of image "Edwards in '08!" supporters wish to see. But I sure can hear him sing.

Look for my Bill Richardson images next time.

Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Permission required for use of any and all photos posted herein.