I recall being rather dismissively treated by some of my college schoolmates; not a few of them found me too serious, too cerebral. A friend reported to me that, after my graduation, several underclassmen snickered at my senior portrait in the yearbook (published in the fall following commencement); my friend reported that some of my former Fighting Scots found my printed visage rather too professorial and stern. So, of course, in response to their sour and dour summaries, I cogitated in their general direction.†
The last few posts here at Contratimes prove that I am more than mind: I have a heart that can be quite passionate. And I am passionate about one thing: Even if I disagree with Barack Obama's answers to some of the world's toughest problems, he is my brother. And I've got a lot of feelings about that.
A few minutes ago, I spotted in my email queue a letter from Michelle Obama, Barack Obama's wife. It is titled, "What we didn't expect." Clearly, the title tells it all; I need not read it to know what it is she and her husband did not expect. Sure the cynic beneath my skin could voice rather glibly that she should have expected what most everyone else did -- we knew what the Clintons are like, at least as they pursue their dreams.
This morning, in the comments to my earlier post, In The Breakdown Lane: Seeing Red ... And Feeling Blue, I offered some advice to Mr. Obama. Yes, I know my advice is more heart than head and more dream than crafted policy statement, but it is my advice nonetheless. It is the idealist in me -- informed by cynicism -- that speaks here; it is the speech writer hidden in my breast that wishes to hear someone speak what needs to be said. I am reminded of the title of a book by Frederick Buechner given me this past Christmas; the title is drawn from Shakespeare: Speak What We Feel, And Not What We Ought To Say. It may be my dream, but it is a dream wherein my feelings are remarkably clear, vibrant, ringing like bells hammered on a crisp winter night.
My advice to Mr. Obama is for him to say the following during his next debate with Mrs. Clinton:
'...if leading this country, Mrs. Clinton, means that I have to act and campaign like you do; if it means being mean-spirited and cutting and underhanded and duplicitous; if it means that I have to offend my convictions in order to score political points over you or any rival, then I must say that I am tempted to walk away from this race. I shall not stoop to what you believe is "real politics;" I reject that very reality. Call me naïve and unrealistic or "unprepared;" I'll gladly take that as a compliment coming from you. But I believe in a presidency that is shrewd and prudent without dishonor; that is wise without mendacity; that is able to confront problems without feigning omniscience. I am a man who seeks the highest office in the world; but if you embody that office's ideals, then I can only say that -- for me -- the office is no longer sufficiently elevated. I want no part of it; my feelings are clear. I am not running to foment cynicism. I am running to lead this country towards greatness. But I can't be a great leader, Mrs. Clinton, if I follow you where no great leader should ever go.'
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
PS. The cynic in me suspects projection as a political weapon: I would not be surprised (forgive me!) if it was Mrs. Clinton who said something like what I've written above ... to Barack Obama!!
†Monty Python fans should get this allusion.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
In The Breakdown Lane: Seeing Red...And Feeling Blue
The beauty of being idealistic is that the idealist has not yet fallen into cynicism. Youth may be wasted on the young, but that is not the fault of those who happen to enjoy youth. And idealism may be youth’s beauty mark born of simple purity, but surely the ugly loss of ideals is rarely caused by the misdeeds of children. No, it is the adults who destroy innocence, who shatter ideals and scar beauty with subtle abuse. Cynicism is often handed down like a legacy, the last will and testament of what it means to be a ‘grown up.’
My sense as a middle-aged man observing the conflict between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton is that millions of Mr. Obama’s supporters are about to have their ideals smashed by the Clinton campaign. At best, at the end of all this, youth’s enthusiastic naïveté (which is not idealism’s sibling) will be chased with a bitter draught of gall.
How can the Clinton campaign, which has clearly misrepresented Mr. Obama -- the ever-gentle man -- expect to inspire that generation of voters who are just beginning to pay attention to politics? Do Mr. and Mrs. Clinton really believe they can ignore the damage they are inflicting on the youngest members of the electorate, that set who overwhelmingly support Mr. Obama in his bid to be the Democratic Party nominee? Or do they believe that, after winning the White House, they can heal the damage that is done? Maybe their forced remedy will come before the White House: perhaps they will offer Mr. Obama a job around the White House, like the vice-presidency or some high profile cabinet post. (He’d be a fool to take it.)
Or perhaps, like so many power-grabbing “me-first” go-getters, the Clintons just don’t care. Maybe this explains Mrs. Clinton’s very first campaign slogan: “I am in this to win.” Her transparency could not be more disgusting: she’s not in “this” to lead or serve America. She is in “to win.” Unfortunately, too few of us have the courage to remind ourselves -- and our neighbors -- of the ghastly truth that people who are “in to win” are generally the worst people in the neighborhood -- and the world.
I am no partisan in this fight, nor am I a supporter of any candidate. I am merely a witness to history, and the history I am witnessing makes me sick. Yesterday, while tuned to the Rush Limbaugh show on the car radio, I nearly cried as I listened to a clip of Mrs. Clinton’s grotesque misrepresentations of Mr. Obama’s statements; I felt like screaming as I heard her commit the fallacy of equivocation (among other things). If I was not a law-abiding citizen, I might have even stopped and exited my car so I could search for something to vandalize.
Largely, my sorrow was directed at the young voters I know who believe in a world that Mr. Obama also believes in, a world of decency and civility and even elegance. Mr. Obama’s vision is, in an ideal sense, a trans-partisan world where the ideals of civility and prudence and tolerance and understanding abound. But I was also angry for Mr. Obama, angry enough to shout to the world that he would be far better treated if he were a Republican; that he’d win his party’s nomination and even the presidency if he were a member of the Grand Old Party.
What do readers think would be the outcome of the GOP race for the nomination had Condoleezza Rice or Colin Powell run for the nation’s highest office? I am sorry...call me a fool; I think either one of them would have been a shoe-in. No other candidates could have stood a chance against them.
I know: I am a fool.
Of course, I admit my native idealism is showing through here, as is my cynicism: both are in a battle, and I’d like to believe my idealism might finally win. But today I am stubbornly prone to aver that if Mr. Obama was indeed a Republican, he’d be president tomorrow if the election were held today. And I further admit that even this very essay may fuel cynicism in the young, and even the old. But my aim is for something higher than merely venting my irascibility or distemper...I do not want to suppress the human spirit. My aim is this audacious hope: I hope that idealism will finally have victory over the deeply cynical, mean-spirited and dire campaign that is being run by the Clintons.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All rights reserved.
Momma's Boy Music video
It's just not possible for me NOT to share this with my readers. It's just plain funny. Yes, yes. That's a Gnade child playing air guitar while brushing his teeth (and wearing green facial cream). But it's all 'spoofery' and foolishness. It actually makes me quite giddy; I am glad to see such un-self-consciousness among teenagers. Not that everything they do makes me giddy. It's just that I know what I was like as a teen: there are far worse things to be doing than making parodies of music videos. And one of those things is to take oneself WAY too seriously.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, January 21, 2008
What IS This Day About?
Today, America celebrates Martin Luther King's birthday. In honor of such an inspiring man, I direct readers to this 2006 essay.
Also, I think this quote from Reverend King's "Letter from a Birmingham Jail," first published in The Christian Century, is worth posting here:
'…though I was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." Was not Amos an extremist for justice: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: "I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus." Was not Martin Luther an extremist: "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God." And John Bunyan: "I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience." And Abraham Lincoln: "This nation cannot survive half slave and half free." And Thomas Jefferson: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal . . . ." So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary's hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime -- the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth, and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. …'
Peace this day.
Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All rights reserved.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Audacity Of Fear: Playing Anxiety Politics
If one were inclined to rewrite holy writ for political advantage, perhaps the first thing one might pen is “Be anxious for everything.” No doubt this revision will offend certain Christians comforted by St. Paul’s exhortation to “be anxious for nothing,” but such Christians, generally, do not run for President of the United States. In fact, such a candidacy would be impossible: it simply is not possible to win votes without exploiting anxiety and fear. “Trust in God” will impress few voters as a campaign slogan, but “Fear Everything” has a chance at winning the White House.
Readers may scoff; I invite them to jeer and sneer. But the facts are evident: electoral politics is about fear – and nothing but fear. Yes, we all know the “playing the politics of fear” canard so well it has become a mere cliché, appropriate to the bumper sticker-set rather than the more reflective wing of the body politic. Ironically, nowhere is that cliché more popular than in Democratic Party condemnations of all things Republican, and – more specifically – all things Bush. Bush scared Americans into war, into torturing and incarcerating a quasi-mythic threat; into Gitmo and surveillance and civil rights erosions, solely because he was so effective at selling fear. The irony is in the telling fact that Democrats, if they do anything, at least exploit the fear of fear. And yet they do far more than that.
In Tuesday night’s Democratic debate in Nevada telecast on MSNBC (see YouTube clip here [00:25 min.]), Barack Obama perfectly executed the Democratic fear play:
“There is no doubt we’ve been dominated by a politics of fear since 9/11… But I have to say that when Sen. Clinton uses the specter of a terrorist attack … during a campaign, I think that it is part and parcel with what we have seen, the use of the fear of terrorism in scoring political points, and I think that’s a mistake. Now, I don’t want to perpetuate that. I think that’s part of why we ended up going into Iraq and made a big strategic error that has made us less safe. Resources that could have been spent on homeland security have been spent in Baghdad. Resources that could have been spent hunting down bin Laden, have been diverted to Iraq, and that’s what happens when your judgment is clouded, and what I intend to do as President of the United States is to be honest and straightforward with the American people about how I am going to implement all the 9/11 Commission Report findings, make sure that we are hunting down bin Laden, getting out of Iraq so we can re-focus our attention on building the networks and alliances that are required to reduce terrorism around the world. That’s going to be my priority and that’s part of the reason I am running for President of the United States.” [Emphasis added]
That Mr. Obama’s contradiction – I will not perpetuate fear but we are less safe than ever -- will be overlooked by his charmed supporters is unarguable; that his position is nearly identical with everyone else in his party is equally unassailable. His entire statement could be reasonably construed as a reformation – at least in spirit – of the “Bush lied, people died” mantra.
But I am not here to quibble about the genesis of the war, especially with those who find the roots of war in Genesis. My complaint is that Mr. Obama and his party are also peddling fear; Mr. Obama – and Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Edwards – are fear-mongers. “We are less safe” is hardly the only dire warning Democrats voice. There is a whole litany of warnings issued by Democrats at every turn. And hardly a soul challenges those party-faithful who serve as prophets of doom. Below is a short list of examples (not direct quotes) that capture the essence of Democratic fear-baiting.
On economics:
“We are in recession. People are insecure.”
“The gap between rich and poor is growing.”
“There have never been so many foreclosures.”
"We must rebuild the middle class."
On international relations:
“America’s reputation in the world has never been so tarnished.”
“We must restore our image in the sight of the Europeans.”
“Neo-conservatives have pushed America into colonial expansionism.”
On domestic issues:
“Republicans want to rob women of the right to choose, and due access to health care.”
“Republicans don’t care about those of you without proper health care. We need universal care now.”
“The Republican Party has no qualms denying to all -- regardless of gender identity -- the right to marry. ”
On energy:
“We MUST free ourselves of our dependence on foreign oil.”
“The profits of BIG OIL are unfair!”
“We must work to end global warming today, before it is too late!”
On the war:
“The war on terror is a failure.”
“Iraq was a mistake.”
“We must reallocate our resources and redeploy our troops so we can capture Osama bin Laden. He’s still out there!”
On EVERYTHING:
“Republicans are playing the fear card!”
Of course, I admit that Republicans do play the fear card; I also admit that I am not really singling out Mr. Obama. All candidates exploit fear. Candidates even issue warnings about other candidates. But Mr. Obama himself has opened the door to my criticism largely for his sophistry quoted above. Even the title of his book, The Audacity of Hope, is rooted in fear: we are doomed without audacious hope in the face of our problems. (Is he the Deliverer we MUST have to lead us out of our many difficulties?)
As I said, there is irony to be found when Democrats refer to right-wing fear-mongering. I don’t know if the irony is in that they don’t know they themselves are also peddling fear; perhaps they do. But if they do, there is something really disconcerting about it all.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Readers may scoff; I invite them to jeer and sneer. But the facts are evident: electoral politics is about fear – and nothing but fear. Yes, we all know the “playing the politics of fear” canard so well it has become a mere cliché, appropriate to the bumper sticker-set rather than the more reflective wing of the body politic. Ironically, nowhere is that cliché more popular than in Democratic Party condemnations of all things Republican, and – more specifically – all things Bush. Bush scared Americans into war, into torturing and incarcerating a quasi-mythic threat; into Gitmo and surveillance and civil rights erosions, solely because he was so effective at selling fear. The irony is in the telling fact that Democrats, if they do anything, at least exploit the fear of fear. And yet they do far more than that.
In Tuesday night’s Democratic debate in Nevada telecast on MSNBC (see YouTube clip here [00:25 min.]), Barack Obama perfectly executed the Democratic fear play:
“There is no doubt we’ve been dominated by a politics of fear since 9/11… But I have to say that when Sen. Clinton uses the specter of a terrorist attack … during a campaign, I think that it is part and parcel with what we have seen, the use of the fear of terrorism in scoring political points, and I think that’s a mistake. Now, I don’t want to perpetuate that. I think that’s part of why we ended up going into Iraq and made a big strategic error that has made us less safe. Resources that could have been spent on homeland security have been spent in Baghdad. Resources that could have been spent hunting down bin Laden, have been diverted to Iraq, and that’s what happens when your judgment is clouded, and what I intend to do as President of the United States is to be honest and straightforward with the American people about how I am going to implement all the 9/11 Commission Report findings, make sure that we are hunting down bin Laden, getting out of Iraq so we can re-focus our attention on building the networks and alliances that are required to reduce terrorism around the world. That’s going to be my priority and that’s part of the reason I am running for President of the United States.” [Emphasis added]
That Mr. Obama’s contradiction – I will not perpetuate fear but we are less safe than ever -- will be overlooked by his charmed supporters is unarguable; that his position is nearly identical with everyone else in his party is equally unassailable. His entire statement could be reasonably construed as a reformation – at least in spirit – of the “Bush lied, people died” mantra.
But I am not here to quibble about the genesis of the war, especially with those who find the roots of war in Genesis. My complaint is that Mr. Obama and his party are also peddling fear; Mr. Obama – and Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Edwards – are fear-mongers. “We are less safe” is hardly the only dire warning Democrats voice. There is a whole litany of warnings issued by Democrats at every turn. And hardly a soul challenges those party-faithful who serve as prophets of doom. Below is a short list of examples (not direct quotes) that capture the essence of Democratic fear-baiting.
On economics:
“We are in recession. People are insecure.”
“The gap between rich and poor is growing.”
“There have never been so many foreclosures.”
"We must rebuild the middle class."
On international relations:
“America’s reputation in the world has never been so tarnished.”
“We must restore our image in the sight of the Europeans.”
“Neo-conservatives have pushed America into colonial expansionism.”
On domestic issues:
“Republicans want to rob women of the right to choose, and due access to health care.”
“Republicans don’t care about those of you without proper health care. We need universal care now.”
“The Republican Party has no qualms denying to all -- regardless of gender identity -- the right to marry. ”
On energy:
“We MUST free ourselves of our dependence on foreign oil.”
“The profits of BIG OIL are unfair!”
“We must work to end global warming today, before it is too late!”
On the war:
“The war on terror is a failure.”
“Iraq was a mistake.”
“We must reallocate our resources and redeploy our troops so we can capture Osama bin Laden. He’s still out there!”
On EVERYTHING:
“Republicans are playing the fear card!”
Of course, I admit that Republicans do play the fear card; I also admit that I am not really singling out Mr. Obama. All candidates exploit fear. Candidates even issue warnings about other candidates. But Mr. Obama himself has opened the door to my criticism largely for his sophistry quoted above. Even the title of his book, The Audacity of Hope, is rooted in fear: we are doomed without audacious hope in the face of our problems. (Is he the Deliverer we MUST have to lead us out of our many difficulties?)
As I said, there is irony to be found when Democrats refer to right-wing fear-mongering. I don’t know if the irony is in that they don’t know they themselves are also peddling fear; perhaps they do. But if they do, there is something really disconcerting about it all.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Pain Of The Obvious
The linguistic-forensic specialists have unanimously concluded that a crime has been committed. Well, maybe only I have reached that conclusion. But it’s still unanimous.
Though it was a brain jarring slip-of-the-tongue moment, Hillary Clinton somehow managed to escape the watchful eyes of pundits everywhere. But I, your ever-vigilante sleuth, was not lulled into inattention by Mrs. Clinton’s performance on Sunday’s Meet the Press†. Of course, it was easy for me to be ever-vigilante: Mrs. Clinton’s misstep was the very first answer she gave in her conversation with MTP host Tim Russert.
MR. RUSSERT: When we arrived in South Carolina yesterday this was The State newspaper, and the headlines agree to this. And let me share it with you and our viewers: “Clinton Camp Hits Obama, Attacks ‘painful’ for black voters. Many in state offended by criticism of Obama,” and ‘remarks about’ Martin Luther King. Bob Herbert, in The New York Times, columnist, weighed in this way: “I could also sense how hard the Clinton camp was working to undermine Senator Obama's main theme, that a campaign based on hope and healing could unify rather than further polarize the country. So there was the former president chastising the press for the way it was covering the Obama campaign and saying of Mr. Obama's effort, ‘The whole thing is the biggest fairy tale I've ever seen.’ And there was Mrs. Clinton telling the country we don't need ‘false hopes,’ and taking cheap shots at, of all people, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. We've already seen Clinton surrogates trying to implant the false idea that Mr. Obama might be a Muslim, and perhaps a drug dealer to boot.” What is this all about?
SEN. CLINTON: Well, beats me, because there's not one shred of truth in what you've just read. And I regret that, because obviously a lot of people have been, you know, given information or an impression that is absolutely false.
Had I been sitting in Mr. Russert’s stead, I think Mrs. Clinton’s comments would have given me more than a moment’s pause. For what I hear is Mrs. Clinton regretting that there was not one shred of truth in the statements Mr. Russert cited; she would have NOT regretted things if they had been true. Perhaps if I parse her statement with a little more assiduity I will find some clarification:
GNADE: Why do you have regrets, Mrs. Clinton?
MRS. CLINTON: “…because obviously a lot of people have been, you know, given information or an impression that is absolutely false.”
GNADE: Do forgive me, Mrs. Clinton. But am I hearing you correctly? It sounds like you are saying that you would have no regrets if the impression, i.e., that Mr. Obama is offering “false hopes,” that Dr. Martin Luther King was essentially impotent without the help of a white president, that Mr. Obama is a Muslim or a former drug dealer, and so on -- you’d have no regrets if these were true? Is that what you are saying?
MRS. CLINTON: There you go again, Bill, putting words in my mouth and ripping what I’ve said out of context. I am tired of you people putting –
GNADE: With all due respect, Mrs. Clinton, but “you people”? Are you sure that such language is fitting? THIS interview IS the context of the words you just uttered. And rather than putting words in your mouth, I am taking them out, as you just offered them freely; they’re your words, not mine. And it sounds to me that you are saying you’d have no regrets if these things were true.
_______________________
SHE COULD NOT HAVE MEANT IT
In the past few days, I have heard pundits and press tell me that what Mrs. Clinton essentially said about Dr. King was entirely true, harmless, and not one whit racist. Fred Barnes, conservative commentator for Fox News and editor of The Weekly Standard, announced that he had no problem with what Mrs. Clinton averred. Conservative radio oracle Jay Severin stamped his imprimatur on Mrs. Clinton’s words. And the Wall Street Journal’s editorial page states that
“On the merits, Mrs. Clinton obviously is correct. It did take a President’s signature to bring the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to fruition. And the idea that saying so takes anything away from King’s legacy is absurd.” (WSJ, January 14, 2008)
To me this is so much pedantic affirmation. I am left with the sense that such pundits and opinion-makers think that it is OK for Mrs. Clinton to state “what every one knows.” For if that is indeed the case – if Mrs. Clinton was merely offering us a moment of historical clarity in pronouncements of the obvious – then we are still left wondering why she should be given a pass. Clearly she knows we “ALL KNOW” this historical fact; clearly we do not need her to suddenly turn into a school teacher with a Cliff Notes lesson. She’s not running for presidential pedagogue; her comments are indeed unnecessary if we are all well aware of the monumental importance of LBJ and his liberating pen. Surely Mrs. Clinton knows two things when she teaches us the plain history of the Civil Rights Act: First, that we all know Dr. King did not sign the Act; second, that many African-Americans will NOT respond kindly to the reminder that their liberation did not ultimately come from themselves. The Great White President set them free; HE granted their petitions.
Moreover, Mrs. Clinton was undeniably contrasting herself as the president who could deliver; she would be the (white?) executor of the sort of hopes that Mr. Obama could dream about but never fulfill. He offers mere hope while she offers action. He has visions; she makes decisions.
You get the picture, and it should not be a pretty one. Mrs. Clinton actually WAS playing a race card in her seemingly innocuous statements. (This all reminds me of a talk radio discussion I commented on regarding “racist facts.”) It means nothing to me that Mrs. Clinton was stating the truth, for the truth is, as we all know, often brutally painful. One recalls the biblical exhortation that we are to speak the truth in love. Telling one’s lover the truth – “Geez, you’re fat!” – may be a truth “everybody knows,” but sometimes love (and political wisdom) urges us to suppress the obvious. "The truth hurts" is no cliché. It is instead a reminder that we all need to be a little more circumspect when we speak, Mrs. Clinton included.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
†See transcript here.
Though it was a brain jarring slip-of-the-tongue moment, Hillary Clinton somehow managed to escape the watchful eyes of pundits everywhere. But I, your ever-vigilante sleuth, was not lulled into inattention by Mrs. Clinton’s performance on Sunday’s Meet the Press†. Of course, it was easy for me to be ever-vigilante: Mrs. Clinton’s misstep was the very first answer she gave in her conversation with MTP host Tim Russert.
MR. RUSSERT: When we arrived in South Carolina yesterday this was The State newspaper, and the headlines agree to this. And let me share it with you and our viewers: “Clinton Camp Hits Obama, Attacks ‘painful’ for black voters. Many in state offended by criticism of Obama,” and ‘remarks about’ Martin Luther King. Bob Herbert, in The New York Times, columnist, weighed in this way: “I could also sense how hard the Clinton camp was working to undermine Senator Obama's main theme, that a campaign based on hope and healing could unify rather than further polarize the country. So there was the former president chastising the press for the way it was covering the Obama campaign and saying of Mr. Obama's effort, ‘The whole thing is the biggest fairy tale I've ever seen.’ And there was Mrs. Clinton telling the country we don't need ‘false hopes,’ and taking cheap shots at, of all people, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. We've already seen Clinton surrogates trying to implant the false idea that Mr. Obama might be a Muslim, and perhaps a drug dealer to boot.” What is this all about?
SEN. CLINTON: Well, beats me, because there's not one shred of truth in what you've just read. And I regret that, because obviously a lot of people have been, you know, given information or an impression that is absolutely false.
Had I been sitting in Mr. Russert’s stead, I think Mrs. Clinton’s comments would have given me more than a moment’s pause. For what I hear is Mrs. Clinton regretting that there was not one shred of truth in the statements Mr. Russert cited; she would have NOT regretted things if they had been true. Perhaps if I parse her statement with a little more assiduity I will find some clarification:
GNADE: Why do you have regrets, Mrs. Clinton?
MRS. CLINTON: “…because obviously a lot of people have been, you know, given information or an impression that is absolutely false.”
GNADE: Do forgive me, Mrs. Clinton. But am I hearing you correctly? It sounds like you are saying that you would have no regrets if the impression, i.e., that Mr. Obama is offering “false hopes,” that Dr. Martin Luther King was essentially impotent without the help of a white president, that Mr. Obama is a Muslim or a former drug dealer, and so on -- you’d have no regrets if these were true? Is that what you are saying?
MRS. CLINTON: There you go again, Bill, putting words in my mouth and ripping what I’ve said out of context. I am tired of you people putting –
GNADE: With all due respect, Mrs. Clinton, but “you people”? Are you sure that such language is fitting? THIS interview IS the context of the words you just uttered. And rather than putting words in your mouth, I am taking them out, as you just offered them freely; they’re your words, not mine. And it sounds to me that you are saying you’d have no regrets if these things were true.
_______________________
SHE COULD NOT HAVE MEANT IT
In the past few days, I have heard pundits and press tell me that what Mrs. Clinton essentially said about Dr. King was entirely true, harmless, and not one whit racist. Fred Barnes, conservative commentator for Fox News and editor of The Weekly Standard, announced that he had no problem with what Mrs. Clinton averred. Conservative radio oracle Jay Severin stamped his imprimatur on Mrs. Clinton’s words. And the Wall Street Journal’s editorial page states that
“On the merits, Mrs. Clinton obviously is correct. It did take a President’s signature to bring the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to fruition. And the idea that saying so takes anything away from King’s legacy is absurd.” (WSJ, January 14, 2008)
To me this is so much pedantic affirmation. I am left with the sense that such pundits and opinion-makers think that it is OK for Mrs. Clinton to state “what every one knows.” For if that is indeed the case – if Mrs. Clinton was merely offering us a moment of historical clarity in pronouncements of the obvious – then we are still left wondering why she should be given a pass. Clearly she knows we “ALL KNOW” this historical fact; clearly we do not need her to suddenly turn into a school teacher with a Cliff Notes lesson. She’s not running for presidential pedagogue; her comments are indeed unnecessary if we are all well aware of the monumental importance of LBJ and his liberating pen. Surely Mrs. Clinton knows two things when she teaches us the plain history of the Civil Rights Act: First, that we all know Dr. King did not sign the Act; second, that many African-Americans will NOT respond kindly to the reminder that their liberation did not ultimately come from themselves. The Great White President set them free; HE granted their petitions.
Moreover, Mrs. Clinton was undeniably contrasting herself as the president who could deliver; she would be the (white?) executor of the sort of hopes that Mr. Obama could dream about but never fulfill. He offers mere hope while she offers action. He has visions; she makes decisions.
You get the picture, and it should not be a pretty one. Mrs. Clinton actually WAS playing a race card in her seemingly innocuous statements. (This all reminds me of a talk radio discussion I commented on regarding “racist facts.”) It means nothing to me that Mrs. Clinton was stating the truth, for the truth is, as we all know, often brutally painful. One recalls the biblical exhortation that we are to speak the truth in love. Telling one’s lover the truth – “Geez, you’re fat!” – may be a truth “everybody knows,” but sometimes love (and political wisdom) urges us to suppress the obvious. "The truth hurts" is no cliché. It is instead a reminder that we all need to be a little more circumspect when we speak, Mrs. Clinton included.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
†See transcript here.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Why Hillary?
Pundits and pollsters are perplexed. So am I. But I am neither pundit nor pollster. Politics is more a visceral rather than cerebral sport for me: I go with hunches and feelings and intuitions. And my hunches were wrong, dead wrong. I had Barack Obama easily winning New Hampshire, with John Edwards coming in second and Hillary Clinton stumbling in at third. All I can do is laugh at myself.
________________________
Why Hillary?
Since I am not a pundit of any professional stature, I will not bore you with lengthy expositions on theory. Instead, I will quickly offer several reasons I think Mrs. Clinton won.
1. The Vanity Vote (aka The Snob Factor)
New Hampshire voters are vain and they guard that vanity well: There is no way that New Hampshire voters will often permit themselves to like those folks from Iowa. Barack Obama's success in Iowa was his doom here. New Hampshire voters believe they are more perceptive, informed, discerning than other voters; they pride themselves in being deeply involved. In 1984, Iowans chose Walter Mondale, but NH chose Gary Hart. In 1988, Dick Gephardt took Iowa while Mike Dukakis took NH. In 1992, Iowa went with Tom Harkin as NH took Paul Tsongas. And though Al Gore and John Kerry won both states' early elections in 2000 and 2004, respectively, this year marks a return to the old trend. New Hampshire not only wants to preserve the image that its primary is truly unique, the state wants to maintain its image of fierce independence.
2. The 'Minority' Vote (aka The Nostalgic Feminist Vote)
On the 2008 Democratic ticket voters are asked to choose between two minorities, a black man and a woman. Since exit polls show that New Hampshire's gray-haired females voted for Mrs. Clinton, we can safely conclude that such voters believe it is 'Hillary's time.' New Hampshire voters apparently believe that the first minority to walk into the Oval Office as president should be a woman, and not a black man. No doubt Mr. Obama's youth worked against him here, as voters probably believe that his chance for the White House will come later; he cometh too soon. Now is the time for a woman.
Undeniably, voters believe Hillary hasn't a future chance at the White House: This time truly IS her time. And with a dearth of viable women candidates (who else?) coming up through the Democratic Party, Hillary's need trumps the African American dream, but only for a season.
Related to this almost nostalgic view of feminist aspirations, the Bill Clinton factor looms large in its own nostalgic way. When I reported yesterday that an amazing number of folks who attended a local Bill Clinton event on Monday exited with this on their lips -- "I wish I could vote for him again!" -- I failed to report that the vast majority of those who uttered those words were OLDER women. I, dope as I am, misunderstood their words: I was certain they realized that a vote for Hill was actually an impossibly nostalgic vote for Bill. No one who felt that way for him would vote for his wife, I assured myself; the swooning electorate had to realize that she and he are NOT identical.
No surprise. I was wrong.
3. The War Vote (aka The Commander-in-Chief in a Dress Vote)
Irrespective of how downplayed in the media the Iraq War has become, shrewd voters know that it remains the country's largest issue, at least its largest foreign policy issue. Voters also know that John McCain, who has a real shot at winning the Republican nomination, is a true hawk and is, in many ways, responsible for the "success" of the Iraq "surge" led by General David Petraeus. Hence, New Hampshire voters descried that any viable Democratic candidate could not be a flight-or-flight dove.
Hillary Clinton's win here is nothing short of a massive blow to the anti-war left. After all, it was the Clinton administration -- even after leaving office -- that issued dire warnings about Saddam Hussein's renegade ways and the threat he posed to national security. Mrs. Clinton was remarkably hawkish throughout the "run up" to war; she was not a protester but one of the principal supporters of the Iraq invasion. Her defenses of the Bush Doctrine even mollified the anxieties of many in the middle left of her party.
Of course, analytical Democrats have ALWAYS known that the invasion of Iraq was not merely cooked up by the Republican Bush; in 1998, President Bill Clinton signed the Iraq Liberation Act that called for regime change in Iraq, which became part-and-parcel integral to the Bush Doctrine. Analytical Democrats know that Iraq is a central foothold for American self-preservation in a hostile Middle East; and they know that ANY Republican success there will leave someone like John McCain in a very pretty and patriotic light; someone like Barack Obama -- who boasts of opposing the war even when he was a mere state senator in Illinois -- will be left in the worst possible light (the worst thing that can happen to Barack Obama's ambitions is for Iraq to go well). Voters know that Mrs. Clinton has maintained a conveniently ambiguous and politically expedient position that allows her to take credit for positive gains in the War on Terror.
In other words, Hillary Clinton's success in New Hampshire has everything to do with ensuring that the Democrats' nominee for president can defend American military involvement in the Middle East, particularly in the face of John McCain's strong military background and political successes. The only viable candidate on the Democratic ticket who can address the war issue in a responsible manner is -- without question -- Hillary Clinton. Unless Iraq turns into a glaringly obvious mess, which is quite possible, Hillary Clinton takes the nomination.
_______________________
I should add that there was also the "Pity Vote" based on Mrs. Clinton's apparent struggle as a woman to get a fair hearing; and the "Blame the Media" vote (the Pity Vote's little sister) managed by Bill Clinton, which included the suggestion that Barack Obama has been given a pass by the media -- enamored as they are with Obama's alleged "fairy tale" life narrative -- partly because he is black.
Again, just some hasty post-primary thoughts.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
________________________
Why Hillary?
Since I am not a pundit of any professional stature, I will not bore you with lengthy expositions on theory. Instead, I will quickly offer several reasons I think Mrs. Clinton won.
1. The Vanity Vote (aka The Snob Factor)
New Hampshire voters are vain and they guard that vanity well: There is no way that New Hampshire voters will often permit themselves to like those folks from Iowa. Barack Obama's success in Iowa was his doom here. New Hampshire voters believe they are more perceptive, informed, discerning than other voters; they pride themselves in being deeply involved. In 1984, Iowans chose Walter Mondale, but NH chose Gary Hart. In 1988, Dick Gephardt took Iowa while Mike Dukakis took NH. In 1992, Iowa went with Tom Harkin as NH took Paul Tsongas. And though Al Gore and John Kerry won both states' early elections in 2000 and 2004, respectively, this year marks a return to the old trend. New Hampshire not only wants to preserve the image that its primary is truly unique, the state wants to maintain its image of fierce independence.
2. The 'Minority' Vote (aka The Nostalgic Feminist Vote)
On the 2008 Democratic ticket voters are asked to choose between two minorities, a black man and a woman. Since exit polls show that New Hampshire's gray-haired females voted for Mrs. Clinton, we can safely conclude that such voters believe it is 'Hillary's time.' New Hampshire voters apparently believe that the first minority to walk into the Oval Office as president should be a woman, and not a black man. No doubt Mr. Obama's youth worked against him here, as voters probably believe that his chance for the White House will come later; he cometh too soon. Now is the time for a woman.
Undeniably, voters believe Hillary hasn't a future chance at the White House: This time truly IS her time. And with a dearth of viable women candidates (who else?) coming up through the Democratic Party, Hillary's need trumps the African American dream, but only for a season.
Related to this almost nostalgic view of feminist aspirations, the Bill Clinton factor looms large in its own nostalgic way. When I reported yesterday that an amazing number of folks who attended a local Bill Clinton event on Monday exited with this on their lips -- "I wish I could vote for him again!" -- I failed to report that the vast majority of those who uttered those words were OLDER women. I, dope as I am, misunderstood their words: I was certain they realized that a vote for Hill was actually an impossibly nostalgic vote for Bill. No one who felt that way for him would vote for his wife, I assured myself; the swooning electorate had to realize that she and he are NOT identical.
No surprise. I was wrong.
3. The War Vote (aka The Commander-in-Chief in a Dress Vote)
Irrespective of how downplayed in the media the Iraq War has become, shrewd voters know that it remains the country's largest issue, at least its largest foreign policy issue. Voters also know that John McCain, who has a real shot at winning the Republican nomination, is a true hawk and is, in many ways, responsible for the "success" of the Iraq "surge" led by General David Petraeus. Hence, New Hampshire voters descried that any viable Democratic candidate could not be a flight-or-flight dove.
Hillary Clinton's win here is nothing short of a massive blow to the anti-war left. After all, it was the Clinton administration -- even after leaving office -- that issued dire warnings about Saddam Hussein's renegade ways and the threat he posed to national security. Mrs. Clinton was remarkably hawkish throughout the "run up" to war; she was not a protester but one of the principal supporters of the Iraq invasion. Her defenses of the Bush Doctrine even mollified the anxieties of many in the middle left of her party.
Of course, analytical Democrats have ALWAYS known that the invasion of Iraq was not merely cooked up by the Republican Bush; in 1998, President Bill Clinton signed the Iraq Liberation Act that called for regime change in Iraq, which became part-and-parcel integral to the Bush Doctrine. Analytical Democrats know that Iraq is a central foothold for American self-preservation in a hostile Middle East; and they know that ANY Republican success there will leave someone like John McCain in a very pretty and patriotic light; someone like Barack Obama -- who boasts of opposing the war even when he was a mere state senator in Illinois -- will be left in the worst possible light (the worst thing that can happen to Barack Obama's ambitions is for Iraq to go well). Voters know that Mrs. Clinton has maintained a conveniently ambiguous and politically expedient position that allows her to take credit for positive gains in the War on Terror.
In other words, Hillary Clinton's success in New Hampshire has everything to do with ensuring that the Democrats' nominee for president can defend American military involvement in the Middle East, particularly in the face of John McCain's strong military background and political successes. The only viable candidate on the Democratic ticket who can address the war issue in a responsible manner is -- without question -- Hillary Clinton. Unless Iraq turns into a glaringly obvious mess, which is quite possible, Hillary Clinton takes the nomination.
_______________________
I should add that there was also the "Pity Vote" based on Mrs. Clinton's apparent struggle as a woman to get a fair hearing; and the "Blame the Media" vote (the Pity Vote's little sister) managed by Bill Clinton, which included the suggestion that Barack Obama has been given a pass by the media -- enamored as they are with Obama's alleged "fairy tale" life narrative -- partly because he is black.
Again, just some hasty post-primary thoughts.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
O'bummer
To say that I am shocked by the result of tonight's Democratic Party primary in New Hampshire is undeniable. I have been walking around for the past few days predicting that Barack Obama would EASILY win in New Hampshire, and that John Edwards would come in second. Hillary Clinton, I predicted, would come in third. Tonight, while watching the precinct reports come in, my incredulity was so pointed I suspected voter fraud! Hillary Clinton wins? Are you kidding me?
Tonight I will go to bed with one fact to consider: I am terrible at prognostication. I shall leave off making predictions from now on. I've no right playing the prophet. No right at all.
(This night also raises further questions about the predictive value of exit polls. Of course, I noticed on Fox News that there was something of a prediction about the predictions: Fox News was citing in advance what the polls suggested without waiting till all the exit polls were tallied. Around 9:oo pm EST, Fox posted the final exit poll data; Clinton won by two points [or thereabouts]. Moreover, about midday I heard a radio report that some exit polls were showing Obama was winning by 10 percentage points or greater. Such reports could surely affect those voters heading to cast a ballot who have a bit of the love of the underdog in them, you know, they are sympathy voters. Yesterday Hillary "cried"; yesterday her husband declared that the media were being unfair; today it seemed she was getting beaten up. Could not a few voters have cast their votes Hillary's way simply so she would not be too badly beaten, too badly embarrassed?)
O'bummer, indeed.
By the way, Barack Obama's concession speech was the best of the night. My conviction is rather bland but not blandly held: Obama's concession speech was more inspiring -- and more interesting -- than ANY victory speech Hillary Clinton could ever deliver.
Just a few post-primary thoughts.
Peace to you,
Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tonight I will go to bed with one fact to consider: I am terrible at prognostication. I shall leave off making predictions from now on. I've no right playing the prophet. No right at all.
(This night also raises further questions about the predictive value of exit polls. Of course, I noticed on Fox News that there was something of a prediction about the predictions: Fox News was citing in advance what the polls suggested without waiting till all the exit polls were tallied. Around 9:oo pm EST, Fox posted the final exit poll data; Clinton won by two points [or thereabouts]. Moreover, about midday I heard a radio report that some exit polls were showing Obama was winning by 10 percentage points or greater. Such reports could surely affect those voters heading to cast a ballot who have a bit of the love of the underdog in them, you know, they are sympathy voters. Yesterday Hillary "cried"; yesterday her husband declared that the media were being unfair; today it seemed she was getting beaten up. Could not a few voters have cast their votes Hillary's way simply so she would not be too badly beaten, too badly embarrassed?)
O'bummer, indeed.
By the way, Barack Obama's concession speech was the best of the night. My conviction is rather bland but not blandly held: Obama's concession speech was more inspiring -- and more interesting -- than ANY victory speech Hillary Clinton could ever deliver.
Just a few post-primary thoughts.
Peace to you,
Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Frame of Reference: Politics of Perspective
I would urge readers to take a few minutes to read Bret Stephens' wonderful op-ed in today's Wall Street Journal, Great (American) Expectations.
Let me know what you think.
BG
Let me know what you think.
BG
The Day Of Evacuation
Happy New Year!
Despite the belatedness of that salutation, I sincerely pray as I begin today a new year of blogging, that this new year will truly be a blessed one for all my readers and friends. God speed!
________________________
In just a few short hours, THEY will all just leave. They will leave New Hampshire faster than autumn foliage flies off trees in an October hurricane; they will leave faster than leaf-peepers empty their rooms at sundry inns at the first sign of heavy snow, or as fast as skiers leave the slopes in a downpour.
But in their rush to get out of here, jetting off to South Carolina or Michigan, THEY will leave behind thousands of campaign signs buried in December's record-breaking snows. It should be an ugly spring, as receding snowbanks reveal evidence of some strange temporary civilization, like creeping sand dunes reveal the detritus of a forsaken temple and court. Huckabee and Obama signs will appear in March; and Henry Hewes' name will stick out of the April mud, prompting not a few to ask, "Who the hell is Henry Hewes?"
Obama, Clinton, Edwards, Richardson, Kucinich, Dodd, McCain, Romney, Huckabee, Guiliani, Paul, Hunter -- these are just a few of the names that peer over snowbanks, that shout from telephone poles, that litter the New Hampshire landscape. Yes, tomorrow morning staffers will try -- in theory, at least -- to ride the roads and byways to retrieve the refuse of the democratic process; to collect signs of their favorite names. But they will not completely succeed to rid our land of this blight; there will be more than enough forensic evidence left behind to prove that some sort of crime has been committed.
Outsiders cannot know what it is like to be in this state, especially in those particularly gorgeous or photogenic or quirky areas of the Granite State that attract candidates for photo ops. Satellite trucks and news crews and photographers and placard-carrying supporters -- many supporters from every state but this one -- choke our streets, our sidewalks: a parking spot Saturday in Peterborough, NH was won with a prayer and toss of the dice, as was a seat in any restaurant, as McCain, Kucinich and Clinton campaign workers (these three were the most evident this day) brought their message everywhere. Such would be the routine the next day, and then the day after that, and then the day after that. And then? Well, tonight, everyone disappears.
________________________
Yesterday I saw Bill Clinton. While his presence in my hometown was not huge, it was -- to some -- hugely disruptive.
Here's something for you to consider. As I stood outside the Peterborough Town House after Mr. Clinton's town hall-type meeting, dozens of folks walked by me as they exited that fine event. Not everyone exiting that impressive red-brick hall passed my way, but many did. And the most common statement I overheard was this, always uttered with a mix of dreamy nostalgia and wistfulness: "I wish I could vote for him again!" One must assume that such comments are not good news for Mrs. Clinton: voters LIKE her because they LOVE her husband. Such comments prove that this might very well be all about Bill: a vote for Hillary is really a vote for some vague, shadowy even mythological past. Indeed, as I stood in a gaggle of gawkers hoping to ogle the former president, everyone to a person commented with all due conviction just how "good he is" at communicating; that Bill Clinton just loves to work a crowd. But there were no similar comments in this nearly all-blue Democratic town directed at Mrs. Clinton. She was just "nothing special."
________________________
Barack Obama comes out of New Hampshire the winner, or so I (easily!) predict (McCain will win the Republican vote, but it will not be the big news, nor will it last). But it must be remembered that New Hampshire has become something of a very quirky state: This is a state obsessed with politics (in a sense, it is probably our biggest industry). In fact, I would say politics are far more a religion in this state -- especially for those on the left -- than in many other parts of the United States. This ardor and zeal -- entirely overwrought, in my opinion -- is the direct result of New Hampshire's grip on the first in the nation primary. Should a national lottery be instituted that breaks that grip, the power base in this state -- also overwrought and misplaced and even a bit unnatural -- would be weakened considerably. In fact, a case could be made that the primary in New Hampshire is a stranglehold: diversity of opinion and opportunity are suppressed by a machinery that prepares constantly to mold a new leader every four years. Money pours in here by the train load; shakers and movers keep shaking but they don't really move, staying put to prepare the ground for the next election cycle.
For me, I am all for sharing the first primary with other states. I think a different state should start the process every cycle, and that a state should learn whether it will host a primary no more than 9 months in advance. I think we would get a better sense of the democratic process if candidates were unsure where they should begin their bids. Just think of how fun it would be to see candidates hastily stake out turf in a state that -- unlike New Hampshire -- has not been preparing for them for 3 or 4 years.
But I did start this section by pointing out that New Hampshire is a quirky state. In 1992, Republican Pat Buchanan nearly won the primary over George Bush I. But this was simply a protest vote: it was meant to push the elder Bush further to the right (Buchanan would win in 1996 over Bob Dole in a similar protest). The Buchanan protest tactic was to send a message: don't forget your values. The Obama victory may -- I emphasize MAY -- be in part a message to other Democratic front-runners, particularly Mrs. Clinton: We want you to be more like HIM.
Just primary thoughts.
Peace to you,
Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Good News Of Great Joy For All The People
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.…
The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. (Gospel of St. John 1:1-5; 14)
____________________
Merry Christmas, dear friends. May your hearts be filled with wonder and peace; may your hearts overflow with thanksgiving; and may hope never leave you.
Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.…
The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. (Gospel of St. John 1:1-5; 14)
____________________
Merry Christmas, dear friends. May your hearts be filled with wonder and peace; may your hearts overflow with thanksgiving; and may hope never leave you.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
When Faced With The Past, The Strongest Man Cries
Dan Fogelberg has died. His music touched me profoundly. I don't think I would be who I am today without his romantic, lovely, painfully beautiful muse touching my obdurate heart when I was a young man. I am not sure I could have even made it through my first year in college without his soulful, evocative voice.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Death At The Diner: A True Story
Yesterday (Friday, Dec. 7) I sat in the corner booth of the Peterborough Diner, my back to the wall. Across from me sat my nephew, David, 28 years old, looking far older than he should. I was finishing my BLT and fries, while David talked between bites of his bacon cheeseburger. We were pretty quiet despite the fact that the diner, one of those old metal railroad car-type dives that dots the American landscape, was nearly filled to capacity. Plates chimed in the dish washing-room out back; diners tapped coffee spoons on the edges of white ceramic mugs. There was chatter at the counter; newspapers crinkled.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Blahs, Blues and Barack
Friday. A blogger's nadir, the Death Valley of the week. How is it that folks stop visiting on this day of all days? Is Friday 'dress down day' at the office, when everybody takes off for an early and long lunch? Is Friday 'home office day,' where countless workers huddle around laptops -- coffee, spouse and kids nearby -- with Saturday scratching at the door and blogs tossed into the garbage bin?
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT: Existence, Faith, and Atheism
[What follows is drawn from a comment I made at Debunking Christianity in response to an essay, "The Cost of Atheism." I was sharing my thoughts with a person from Illinois and Wisconsin who writes under the lovely screen name, GoPrairie. Our exchange was fun and gracious.
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
FOR FUN: THE SPEED OF LIGHT AND YOUR EXISTENCE
Let me note this: If the speed of light is finite, and yet it is the "fastest thing" (186,000 miles/sec) in the universe, then it follows that there is no present, there is no "present tense." Every perception MUST be delayed; we only know the past, irrespective of how quickly light reaches our eyes. From object to eyeball, from fingertip to wine glass, there is a delay; even the body's neurology operates at a finite speed. Hence, we only know a present by inference; but such an inference is rooted in faith. †
Let me go with this further. If the speed of light is finite,†º then know that when you look at the stars in the night sky over Wisconsin none of those stars "exists." Only their light "exists;" their fiery furnaces may have gone out long ago. Every single one of them may be gone, burnt out and dead in some distant explosion or some crushing implosion. We CANNOT "know" they are there, we can only know that they once were there, or so we induce from the light we see.
Now, go with me even further. All your life light has been bouncing off of you, traveling about the earth. Imagine for a moment that the light from your skin travels out from the earth and into space. Assuming that you are only about 40-years-old, then you are, in a very real sense, 40-light-years old, too. What does this mean? It means at least this: to the overwhelming majority of the universe, YOU DO NOT EXIST. Anyone 100 light-years away CANNOT know you exist. But, and here's the rub -- YOU DO EXIST. So, alas, we have a problem: Most of the universe cannot even know that life on earth exists -- and yet it does. Nearly every quadrant of the universe could never -- ever -- be shown ANY evidence of your existence, and yet you are in fact a very real being. What does this say about our sense of knowledge? What does this say about our demands for proofs for the existence of God? For if you exist and yet the universe cannot and does not "know" it, then perhaps God exists and you cannot know it -- or do not know it -- yet.
Surely I can at least make this concession: if it is extremely hard for me to prove my own existence to myself,† and if it is hard for me to prove my existence to you, then surely it would be hard for me to prove God's existence at all.
But you do ask for "proof " for God's existence, and I have none. But what if I said that the sun is God? You might counter that the sun is nothing more than a fusion reactor where the helium atom is smashed about. But what if I said this: How do you know God is not a fusion reactor? How do you know God is not a big ball of gas? What I am saying is that just because science has "explained something," it does not follow that science has not described the evidence which points to God; a thing explained is NOT God explained away. God may be proved by my pointing to a prairie dog. How do you know that such evidence is not evidence?
†[To explore this further, please see my essay, "A Letter to Christopher Hitchens;" therein I examine the impossibility of the self proving its existence -- to itself. The main examination occurs following the sub-head, The Transcendental Ego.]
†º[It should be noted that if the speed of light is instantaneous, then there is no delay except that between our senses and our perception. But let's assume that there is no delay even here. With that said, light that is instantaneous removes from us the ability to determine the age of the universe.]
_____________________
I would like very much to thank Chris from "Sorry We're Open" for his kind support and many encouraging words over the last several days. He particularly liked this "proof," and so I felt obliged to share it with the rest of you. If you hate what I've written, well, then direct your ire at Chris. Of course, I jest. But I'd surely love to know what you think.
_____________________
This New York Times piece by physicist Paul Davies is interesting -- especially if you draw your worldview from science. See? Faith is not so bad.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
On Belief: My Great Protest
My dear readers,
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
- If Jesus the Christ is real, and if He was a blogger, what would He blog about? What tone would He take?
- If Christ accepted comments at His blog, what would be the first question you'd ask?
- If Satan is real and he had a blog, what would he write about? What question would you ask him?
- If there is a God, does He love Satan? If so, why? If not, why not?
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
An Update On Pain
In haste, I want to let my friends here know that it has been discovered that my dental pain is not due to an infection. Instead, what appears to have happened is that I have -- a sprained tooth! I kid you not! The ligaments which attach my tooth to my upper jaw or maxilla are torn or strained and wildly inflamed. The news boggles my mind, as I forget that the tooth-to-jaw connection is, in fact, a joint.
So, what is the cure? Well, the remedy is not the sort of thing one wants to hear about on Thanksgiving Eve: I have to give my teeth a rest! What? Do you mean I have to elevate my tooth on a pillow while I sit and watch football tomorrow? Do I have to put my tooth -- the one dragged a mile over the last four years to fill the gap left by an extraction -- into a tight little splint? Can't I just wear a palatal sling?
Had this been an infection, relief would have come more swiftly, though an infection portends the imminent demise of one's tooth. Hooray! My tooth lives! But I cannot tell you how hard it will be to enjoy tomorrow's turkey as I wear those tiny dental crutches. Better that, of course, than the very greasy -- but speedy! -- molar wheel chair.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
So, what is the cure? Well, the remedy is not the sort of thing one wants to hear about on Thanksgiving Eve: I have to give my teeth a rest! What? Do you mean I have to elevate my tooth on a pillow while I sit and watch football tomorrow? Do I have to put my tooth -- the one dragged a mile over the last four years to fill the gap left by an extraction -- into a tight little splint? Can't I just wear a palatal sling?
Had this been an infection, relief would have come more swiftly, though an infection portends the imminent demise of one's tooth. Hooray! My tooth lives! But I cannot tell you how hard it will be to enjoy tomorrow's turkey as I wear those tiny dental crutches. Better that, of course, than the very greasy -- but speedy! -- molar wheel chair.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
Monday, November 19, 2007
On The "Virtues" Of Vicodin
Last week, while in a meeting for parents about to send a child off to college, I could not help but think of death. You see, I had just come from the fitness club where I train; at the club there is a man who in his thirties suffered a stroke after one particularly arduous workout. As a result of that devastating stroke, that man now walks around the gym sliding a lame leg and awkwardly managing a lame arm. I recall him telling me not too long ago that, right after his ill-fated workout 10 years ago, he went home with a splitting headache. Later that night he collapsed. The rest, as we say, is history.
So while meditating on a dragging leg and a lame arm as I strained to listen to a guidance counselor, I sat in my auditorium chair seized by the realization that I was suffering the worst headache I could ever recall. Pain radiated through my jaw, up my cheek, under my left eye and on up into wherever pain goes. It was almost impossible to keep from lying down on the floor. Panic nearly set in. Inevitability and futility were words that came to mind. I thought of asking if anyone present had a weapon.
As I've said before here -- though only in passing -- I am a patient of a nearby orthodontist. I've been dealing with braces for the past 4.5 years; the process included moving a molar some considerable distance. But during that process, the molar became brutally temperature-sensitive, its root being left slightly exposed. Needless to say, hot or cold, anything other than 98.6 degrees could send me soaring.
And thus I chalked my pain up to something dental. And I was right: I was not having a stroke. But I was wrong about the intensity of the experience, for the pain just got ridiculous over the weekend. And why wouldn't it, now that I've learned that the temperature-sensitive tooth is currently sporting a raging infection? No wonder my left eye closes and tears in pain, and my brain slows to a crawl as I wait for some relief. Antibiotics can't work fast enough; and the pain-killers I've been given work for but a short time (I refuse to take a whole dose because I am pill-phobic -- and, without question, supremely tough).
All this to say that I am in the throes of a double whammy: temperature changes of the slightest kind course through a wimpy tooth and slam into an abscess. That I have a healthy perspective regarding those whose pain is far more insufferable is true, but I cannot help but wonder how painful pain can be. I mean, when I am asked to scale pain between 1 and 10, I always ask (myself, of course) to what the scale is compared. Pain, it seems, teaches us at least one thing: Today's 10 can be tomorrow's 25.
I pray it isn't so, for anyone.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
So while meditating on a dragging leg and a lame arm as I strained to listen to a guidance counselor, I sat in my auditorium chair seized by the realization that I was suffering the worst headache I could ever recall. Pain radiated through my jaw, up my cheek, under my left eye and on up into wherever pain goes. It was almost impossible to keep from lying down on the floor. Panic nearly set in. Inevitability and futility were words that came to mind. I thought of asking if anyone present had a weapon.
As I've said before here -- though only in passing -- I am a patient of a nearby orthodontist. I've been dealing with braces for the past 4.5 years; the process included moving a molar some considerable distance. But during that process, the molar became brutally temperature-sensitive, its root being left slightly exposed. Needless to say, hot or cold, anything other than 98.6 degrees could send me soaring.
And thus I chalked my pain up to something dental. And I was right: I was not having a stroke. But I was wrong about the intensity of the experience, for the pain just got ridiculous over the weekend. And why wouldn't it, now that I've learned that the temperature-sensitive tooth is currently sporting a raging infection? No wonder my left eye closes and tears in pain, and my brain slows to a crawl as I wait for some relief. Antibiotics can't work fast enough; and the pain-killers I've been given work for but a short time (I refuse to take a whole dose because I am pill-phobic -- and, without question, supremely tough).
All this to say that I am in the throes of a double whammy: temperature changes of the slightest kind course through a wimpy tooth and slam into an abscess. That I have a healthy perspective regarding those whose pain is far more insufferable is true, but I cannot help but wonder how painful pain can be. I mean, when I am asked to scale pain between 1 and 10, I always ask (myself, of course) to what the scale is compared. Pain, it seems, teaches us at least one thing: Today's 10 can be tomorrow's 25.
I pray it isn't so, for anyone.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A Whole New Sort Of Rescue Dog
Marriage between a man and woman. So quaint. So old-fashioned. So "Christian."
I thank my "lucky stars" I was never given this sort of marital counsel.
I am quite certain the whole thing makes sense of Christian missionary commitments.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes.
I thank my "lucky stars" I was never given this sort of marital counsel.
I am quite certain the whole thing makes sense of Christian missionary commitments.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes.
Can You Say "Oy Vey?" How About "Oops?" Sorry?
[I tip my hat to James Taranto for directing me toward the absurdity -- one that incites laughter and tears -- pulled from the Letters to the Editor section of the Concord Monitor (I used to work for its sister paper) that has inspired this post.]
It is striking how interesting -- and perhaps even prejudiced -- some people can be. Take Mr. Peter Davis of Laconia, NH, for example. Here is a passionate man, full of fire and political consternation. Here is a man clearly given to analyzing the most complicated issues; he is probably noted around the house for his scrupulous attention to detail. He's probably got a ferret's relentlessness for sniffing out balderdash and rot. Surely his recent letter to the editor of the Concord Monitor ably bolsters that perception. If it doesn't, well, then surely it might present him a moment to reflect on his presumed certitude.
In response to an opinion column published in the Monitor on Sunday in which the word 'kafuffle' appeared, Mr. Davis takes a very curious tack. (How could he know that kafuffle can also be spelled 'kerfuffle' and that it comes from the Gaelic words meaning 'confusion' and 'disorder?') See for yourself:
For the Monitor:
What is a "kafuffle"? It's not in the dictionary. Is it just another proofreading error? Or is it a further example of your acquiescence to the Israelization of American culture by attempting to pass obscure Yiddish words into the mainstream of the American language?
It's bad enough that we are steered toward war with the entire Arab world and beyond because our "friend" Israel won't relinquish its occupation of Palestine and make peace with its neighbors. Still we are suckered into giving Israel, the 14th richest country on earth, billions and billions of our tax dollars in foreign aid every year, and we gave it carte blanche to rampage through Lebanon destroying everything in its path and inflicting collective punishment on its people, an aggression internationally condemned as a war crime, yet condoned by the Bush administration and sheepishly accepted by the American people.
How can we hold our heads high and proud when our own county illegally attacks and invades an Arab country that had done nothing to us, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and wrecking their entire infrastructure, clearly Bush war crimes, all for the benefit of Israel because Saddam was assisting the families of Palestinian martyrs in their struggle against the illegal Israeli occupation of their land? We shouldn't be proud to be associated with Israel, and I don't appreciate their insidious adulteration of our language.
PETER DAVIS
Laconia
What Mr. Davis fails to note is that the word was actually coined by George W. Bush during a pig roast in Texas. The president had a huge and happy mouthful of ice cream and peach cobbler when he was asked, "Why are the Israelis building a wall?" Bush replied, "They're fearful." But all the scribes heard was "kerfuffle." So, in a roundabout way, the word does have Jewish origins.
But only to Mr. Davis from New Hampsha!
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
It is striking how interesting -- and perhaps even prejudiced -- some people can be. Take Mr. Peter Davis of Laconia, NH, for example. Here is a passionate man, full of fire and political consternation. Here is a man clearly given to analyzing the most complicated issues; he is probably noted around the house for his scrupulous attention to detail. He's probably got a ferret's relentlessness for sniffing out balderdash and rot. Surely his recent letter to the editor of the Concord Monitor ably bolsters that perception. If it doesn't, well, then surely it might present him a moment to reflect on his presumed certitude.
In response to an opinion column published in the Monitor on Sunday in which the word 'kafuffle' appeared, Mr. Davis takes a very curious tack. (How could he know that kafuffle can also be spelled 'kerfuffle' and that it comes from the Gaelic words meaning 'confusion' and 'disorder?') See for yourself:
For the Monitor:
What is a "kafuffle"? It's not in the dictionary. Is it just another proofreading error? Or is it a further example of your acquiescence to the Israelization of American culture by attempting to pass obscure Yiddish words into the mainstream of the American language?
It's bad enough that we are steered toward war with the entire Arab world and beyond because our "friend" Israel won't relinquish its occupation of Palestine and make peace with its neighbors. Still we are suckered into giving Israel, the 14th richest country on earth, billions and billions of our tax dollars in foreign aid every year, and we gave it carte blanche to rampage through Lebanon destroying everything in its path and inflicting collective punishment on its people, an aggression internationally condemned as a war crime, yet condoned by the Bush administration and sheepishly accepted by the American people.
How can we hold our heads high and proud when our own county illegally attacks and invades an Arab country that had done nothing to us, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and wrecking their entire infrastructure, clearly Bush war crimes, all for the benefit of Israel because Saddam was assisting the families of Palestinian martyrs in their struggle against the illegal Israeli occupation of their land? We shouldn't be proud to be associated with Israel, and I don't appreciate their insidious adulteration of our language.
PETER DAVIS
Laconia
What Mr. Davis fails to note is that the word was actually coined by George W. Bush during a pig roast in Texas. The president had a huge and happy mouthful of ice cream and peach cobbler when he was asked, "Why are the Israelis building a wall?" Bush replied, "They're fearful." But all the scribes heard was "kerfuffle." So, in a roundabout way, the word does have Jewish origins.
But only to Mr. Davis from New Hampsha!
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
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