I’m reminded now and then of a list of names I read last year. They were the names of children killed by unmanned aerial drones. American drones. I forced myself to read every name. I’m reminded now and then when I see kids playing in a park, or walking through town with their families. If this was Yemen or Pakistan, they could be dismembered at any moment by something from the skies. Their arms and legs, still growing, could be scattered like sticks in a storm. Snapped. Tossed.
I’m reminded now and then of the way I felt when John McCain lost the election. Thank God, I thought, no more warmongers in charge. It was a bright day for acolytes of peace. So we thought. The slaughter of children is something against which a human conscience hurls itself desperately. The subject of the slaughter of children, however, is something from which a human intellect retreats with a fearful passion. I’m reminded of the fire with which acolytes of peace railed against Rumsfeld, Cheaney and Bush. We could use a little of that fire now.
My family and my co-workers think any talk about this subject is the raving of lunatics. Keep our shores safe, support the lesser evil, vote and vote and vote and vote they say. Someone needs to stand up for those kids. Someone needs to demand accountability and justice. Someone braver than I am; I’m reminded now and then, but that’s where it stops.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 3, 2014
Somedays Alyosha, Somedays Ivan
Last night I met a writer at a birthday party and we talked about Alyosha and Ivan Karamazov.
She had a son--Alyosha--named after her favorite literary character. Surprised, I told her that Ivan is my favorite literary character and I tried to explain why. I feel like Ivan Karamazov most of the time, I told her, before droning into a flood of autobiographical musing.
Once, I lived in an apartment with three other people. All four of us were reading The Brothers Karamazov. I don’t think any of the others finished the book, but I was struck by how closely we roommates corresponded to the titular brothers in Dostoyevsky’s novel. One roommate, our Dimitri, was full of passions he could not control. A second roommate was decent and gentle, our Alyosha. A close friend of ours squatted with us, only Smerdiakov in jest. And as we read, I was deeply wrapped up in Ivan. His voice was so similar to my voice, and his angers and doubts were just like mine.
Last night, I tried to explain to the writer that I feel like Ivan. I am fond of making devil’s-advocate arguments, I doubt the sincerity of the Alyoshas of the world but I find them lucky and I want to be one of them, though I can never stop being haunted by cruelty, no matter how distant. I am not willing to accept suffering and murder (particularly that of children) as part of a divine plan, pushing us to greater things or teaching us valuable lessons or happening for a reason. Or any of that bullshit. If these things happen for a reason they are not worth it. I refuse any plan that justifies or accepts them. Out of love for humanity, I return the ticket. Like Ivan.
The writer listened patiently and told me why she loves Alyosha, and why she could never be an Ivan. She praised Alyosha’s actions. His actions. his forbearance. There’s a scene early in the novel when Ivan and Alyosha have a conversation that spans chapters. The distance between them is immense. I felt that distance between the writer and I, but I also felt a kind of resonating sympathy, as with Ivan and Alyosha. I saw a startling goodness in this writer and I was humbled by it.
Allegedly, Dostoyevsky planned to write more about these characters, but his death prevented him from doing so. Ivan is left guilt-stricken, lovelorn and sickly. Ivan is frozen on a good Friday, never given his Easter. Some of the things we can be, especially some of the things that people need us to be, are not happy things to be.
She had a son--Alyosha--named after her favorite literary character. Surprised, I told her that Ivan is my favorite literary character and I tried to explain why. I feel like Ivan Karamazov most of the time, I told her, before droning into a flood of autobiographical musing.
Once, I lived in an apartment with three other people. All four of us were reading The Brothers Karamazov. I don’t think any of the others finished the book, but I was struck by how closely we roommates corresponded to the titular brothers in Dostoyevsky’s novel. One roommate, our Dimitri, was full of passions he could not control. A second roommate was decent and gentle, our Alyosha. A close friend of ours squatted with us, only Smerdiakov in jest. And as we read, I was deeply wrapped up in Ivan. His voice was so similar to my voice, and his angers and doubts were just like mine.
Last night, I tried to explain to the writer that I feel like Ivan. I am fond of making devil’s-advocate arguments, I doubt the sincerity of the Alyoshas of the world but I find them lucky and I want to be one of them, though I can never stop being haunted by cruelty, no matter how distant. I am not willing to accept suffering and murder (particularly that of children) as part of a divine plan, pushing us to greater things or teaching us valuable lessons or happening for a reason. Or any of that bullshit. If these things happen for a reason they are not worth it. I refuse any plan that justifies or accepts them. Out of love for humanity, I return the ticket. Like Ivan.
The writer listened patiently and told me why she loves Alyosha, and why she could never be an Ivan. She praised Alyosha’s actions. His actions. his forbearance. There’s a scene early in the novel when Ivan and Alyosha have a conversation that spans chapters. The distance between them is immense. I felt that distance between the writer and I, but I also felt a kind of resonating sympathy, as with Ivan and Alyosha. I saw a startling goodness in this writer and I was humbled by it.
Allegedly, Dostoyevsky planned to write more about these characters, but his death prevented him from doing so. Ivan is left guilt-stricken, lovelorn and sickly. Ivan is frozen on a good Friday, never given his Easter. Some of the things we can be, especially some of the things that people need us to be, are not happy things to be.
Jun 30, 2014
Checking In
It is strange to come back here. This place, tertiary and virtual as it is, houses words and ideas that were deeply important to me at one time. many of these ideas are still important, but I don’t hold them as close to me as I once did.
I recently realized that I felt the most alive from about 2004 to about 2011. That was a span of years that began when I met my dear friend Jesse and ended when I began a career. These events are perfect markers. In that span, I pursued ideas with a hunger that is a stranger to me now. I wrestled with many painful questions and I faced them with courage. I lived a life of creativity and vibrancy. In those years I felt alert and engaged. I changed profoundly from month to month. I had conversations I will never forget. It was a good time for me.
That stands in pretty sharp contrast to now. I work full-time and pay bills and I stagnate intellectually. The rush of discovery given to me by Tillich and Zizek and Rumi and Ellul is a faint memory. I can only recall it about as well as I can recall the pain of a past injury; I remember the way i would have described it at the time. I don’t really remember how it felt.
This is not a happy time in my life, but it is a better time. Those contemplative, bookish years were fulfilling to me, but they were useless to others. Now, despite all the anger and frustration I feel (and maybe even because of the anger and frustration) I am devoted to the well-being of others. If I have the luxury of lucidity in my final moments, I’ll remember being the contemplative with fondness, but I will be slightly ashamed. These years, with their unhappiness and anger, are the ones I will value.
I recently realized that I felt the most alive from about 2004 to about 2011. That was a span of years that began when I met my dear friend Jesse and ended when I began a career. These events are perfect markers. In that span, I pursued ideas with a hunger that is a stranger to me now. I wrestled with many painful questions and I faced them with courage. I lived a life of creativity and vibrancy. In those years I felt alert and engaged. I changed profoundly from month to month. I had conversations I will never forget. It was a good time for me.
That stands in pretty sharp contrast to now. I work full-time and pay bills and I stagnate intellectually. The rush of discovery given to me by Tillich and Zizek and Rumi and Ellul is a faint memory. I can only recall it about as well as I can recall the pain of a past injury; I remember the way i would have described it at the time. I don’t really remember how it felt.
This is not a happy time in my life, but it is a better time. Those contemplative, bookish years were fulfilling to me, but they were useless to others. Now, despite all the anger and frustration I feel (and maybe even because of the anger and frustration) I am devoted to the well-being of others. If I have the luxury of lucidity in my final moments, I’ll remember being the contemplative with fondness, but I will be slightly ashamed. These years, with their unhappiness and anger, are the ones I will value.
Dec 6, 2012
Upbringing
When I was young, my interest in religion was something people encouraged. In my adult life, it's become something people tolerate. It makes me feel like all the religious stuff that was pushed on me as a kid was just a way to stop me from having sex or doing drugs. I saw the church-world as fraudulent. Even though I knew lots of sincere, compassionate, honest people there (including some ministers), I couldn't help but feel that their goodness was being wasted in a den of dullness and spiritual sloth. And now that I am old enough to drink and fuck (apparently), it seems like people want me to drop the whole Jesus thing before it becomes dangerous. But it was always dangerous, they just tried to hide that from me, or didn't know about it.
I realize that that my faith is an affront to the values of the same people who first introduced me to the Christian tradition, but I believe that Christ is something that obliterates our assumptions and security and moral presumption. I believe that faith can be something that supersedes and cuts through nationalist allegiance, and despite the violence done in God's name, the faith that connects us over borders may be the only thing keeping nationalism in check. I refuse to allow my life to be ruled by the gods of Market, Nation and Ideology. And that refusal is dangerous. And it's lonely. And it's a lot to live up to. And it can make me a very self-righteous person sometimes. Other times, it makes me feel incredible guilt at how easily I fall right back into the patterns of consumption and exclusion and piety against which Christ hurled himself.
I know I seem arrogant, and I know I seem contrarian, but I can't get on board with the program. I've never been able to. I accept the civilising structures of power as a reality, but the cost is too high and I can not accept the world built in the image of these gods. Out of love for humanity, I must return the ticket.
I realize that that my faith is an affront to the values of the same people who first introduced me to the Christian tradition, but I believe that Christ is something that obliterates our assumptions and security and moral presumption. I believe that faith can be something that supersedes and cuts through nationalist allegiance, and despite the violence done in God's name, the faith that connects us over borders may be the only thing keeping nationalism in check. I refuse to allow my life to be ruled by the gods of Market, Nation and Ideology. And that refusal is dangerous. And it's lonely. And it's a lot to live up to. And it can make me a very self-righteous person sometimes. Other times, it makes me feel incredible guilt at how easily I fall right back into the patterns of consumption and exclusion and piety against which Christ hurled himself.
I know I seem arrogant, and I know I seem contrarian, but I can't get on board with the program. I've never been able to. I accept the civilising structures of power as a reality, but the cost is too high and I can not accept the world built in the image of these gods. Out of love for humanity, I must return the ticket.
Jun 18, 2012
Andrei Tarkovsky's Incomprehensible Planet-Sized Brain
Speaking of science fiction...
Andrei Tarkovsky is one of my favorite artists in any medium, and his films are rare examples of how popular art can explore spiritual questions with complexity, humanity, and humility. His third film, Solaris, is the story of a widower named Kris Kelvin who travels to a space station to study what appears to be a sentient ocean. Tarkovsky and his admirers often view it as something of a failure compared to the rest of his work. I disagree with this opinion, but I understand it. Unlike Tarkovky’s other films, Solaris is firmly rooted in a specific genre, and I might concede that it is slightly weighed down by melodrama from time to time. One could also argue that it is open-ended when it shouldn't be, and it isn't open-ended when it should be (the ending, for example.)
Like Stalker, Solaris dispenses with any overarching metanarratives or Absolute Truths in order to focus on the subjective, personal experiences of one person. Kris Kelvin matters. He isn't a generic stand-in for "humanity". This makes him an ideal stand-in for humanity.
A good friend of mine found the “power of love” theme in the film trite and disappointing. I posed this question to him: Which relationship in your life actually matters more? Your relationship with your wife, or your relationship with a literally-existing Godlike being?
Interpersonal relationships matter more, in Tarkovsky's view, than our relationship to what Physicist Prophets can bring us. In the film, a man named Snaut says "We don't need other worlds, we need a mirror". In other words, we need the world we've already got, and all the confused, messy people who inhabit it.
The ocean on Solaris can never really be understood by Kris and Snaut, unlike the Monolith in 2001, which follows an easily-understood pattern, operating mechanically. Kubrick's god is smooth and tidy and objective, orderly and east to grasp. It is a consummate professional, dull, systemic and rigd. it is exactly what many atheists think theists believe in. Tarkovsky's god, on the other hand, is a confused mess of feelings and inconsistent actions. When they beam Kris' thoughts to the surface of the ocean, they actually change the way it interacts with them - like a new covenant. Tarkovsky takes a (forgive the clunky phrase) Postmodern-Humanist-Christian view of things, where the experience is unstable and unpredictable, while Kubrick spins a good old-fashioned Enlightenment yarn about science.
Soalris is a flawlessly executed film and all that, but I love it mainly because it reflects where my own thinking has been lately.
Gun to your head: Would you rather encounter the 2001 Monolith, or the Solaris Ocean-Brain?
Andrei Tarkovsky is one of my favorite artists in any medium, and his films are rare examples of how popular art can explore spiritual questions with complexity, humanity, and humility. His third film, Solaris, is the story of a widower named Kris Kelvin who travels to a space station to study what appears to be a sentient ocean. Tarkovsky and his admirers often view it as something of a failure compared to the rest of his work. I disagree with this opinion, but I understand it. Unlike Tarkovky’s other films, Solaris is firmly rooted in a specific genre, and I might concede that it is slightly weighed down by melodrama from time to time. One could also argue that it is open-ended when it shouldn't be, and it isn't open-ended when it should be (the ending, for example.)
Supposedly, this movie was (in part) a response to Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. That movie diminished humanity, depicting us as insects. In it, everything we've done and built is insignificant. From apes using bones as tools to men on a spaceship there has been no meaningful progress. We are stuck in a holding pattern until an archetypal person (David Bowman) comes into contact with a mysterious Monolith. Staunchly atheist, Kubrick made a movie about waiting around for divine intervention. I love Kubrick's movie, but its view of humanity is pretty low.
2001 needed a response, and Tarkovsky, whose glacial-pacing and meticulous visuals are superficially similar to Kubrick’s, was the perfect man to match Kubrick's classic in terms of quality and aesthetic achievement. For material, Tarkovsky used a novel by Stanislaw Lem and I get the impression that the two men saw the story differently because of their divergent worldviews. Lem was interested in What's Out There, and what would happen when humanity encountered something beyond our understanding. Tarkovsky doesn't seem as interested in Sentient Space Oceans except for their capacity to affect human lives and relationships.
This is typical of the pragmatic slant Tarkovsky seems to have on religion: God doesn't matter - the subjective experience of belief is what matters. This slant can also be seen in Tarkovsky’s masterpiece Stalker, a story about a man who works as a covert guide (a “stalker”) through a forbidden place called the Zone that is rumored to be dangerous and powerful. Maybe the Zone is real and maybe not, and maybe it is what the Stalker thinks it is and maybe not, but the film is far more interested in what that belief DOES to the Stalker and his family.
Like Stalker, Solaris dispenses with any overarching metanarratives or Absolute Truths in order to focus on the subjective, personal experiences of one person. Kris Kelvin matters. He isn't a generic stand-in for "humanity". This makes him an ideal stand-in for humanity.
A good friend of mine found the “power of love” theme in the film trite and disappointing. I posed this question to him: Which relationship in your life actually matters more? Your relationship with your wife, or your relationship with a literally-existing Godlike being?
Interpersonal relationships matter more, in Tarkovsky's view, than our relationship to what Physicist Prophets can bring us. In the film, a man named Snaut says "We don't need other worlds, we need a mirror". In other words, we need the world we've already got, and all the confused, messy people who inhabit it.
The ocean on Solaris can never really be understood by Kris and Snaut, unlike the Monolith in 2001, which follows an easily-understood pattern, operating mechanically. Kubrick's god is smooth and tidy and objective, orderly and east to grasp. It is a consummate professional, dull, systemic and rigd. it is exactly what many atheists think theists believe in. Tarkovsky's god, on the other hand, is a confused mess of feelings and inconsistent actions. When they beam Kris' thoughts to the surface of the ocean, they actually change the way it interacts with them - like a new covenant. Tarkovsky takes a (forgive the clunky phrase) Postmodern-Humanist-Christian view of things, where the experience is unstable and unpredictable, while Kubrick spins a good old-fashioned Enlightenment yarn about science.
Soalris is a flawlessly executed film and all that, but I love it mainly because it reflects where my own thinking has been lately.
Gun to your head: Would you rather encounter the 2001 Monolith, or the Solaris Ocean-Brain?
Jun 15, 2012
Robots and Aliens and Existential Questions
Released this month, Ridley Scott’s Prometheus is a return to the iconic motifs that comprise the two sci-fi films that bolstered his career early on. I admire the film for attempting to engage with big questions, but it chokes on its own hubris at times while at others it appears to give up its ambitions altogether, settling for something perfectly mundane. It’s disappointing, not because it’s a bad movie (it’s not) but because it’s an average movie that should have been terrific. I agree with the consensus that the film is a narrative mess saved by striking visuals and terrific acting from the two or three actors who are given something substantial to work with. Watching it, you get a sense that a much longer movie was slashed to appease the short attention-span contemporary audiences are trained to have. The horror is oddly neutered, the plotting and pacing are clumsy.
Technically a prequel to Alien (set in the same universe, utilizing the backstory of the nefarious Weyland Corporation and the “Space Jockey” corpse seen in Alien) but thematically closer to Blade Runner (questions of creation, responsibility and existence) this film feels like a return to the well, or a belated victory-lap/expansion similar to David Lynch’s Inland Empire, which takes the structures and themes dealt with so perfectly in the Lost Highway / Mulholland Drive duo and stretches them out into a rambling cinematic improvisation. Unnecessary, but interesting. Prometheus stretches too much to connect to Alien: A perfectly satisfying ending is ruined by a tacked-on epilogue showing the origin of that film’s creature. It’s a terrible scene that has little to do with the rest of Prometheus.
You could argue that the symbolism in both Alien and Blade Runner is heavy-handed, but I’m a fan of Ingmar Bergman so I obviously have no problem with heavy-handed symbolism. I actually find both of those films to be totally effective in their use of symbolism and open-ended exploration of open-ended themes.
There’s a scene in Alien where Ian Holm’s character attempts to kill a woman by shoving a rolled-up pornographic magazine down her throat. Soon after, he is beheaded, and white liquid spurts out of his mangled body (he is an android). Take this into account alongside H.R. Geiger’s iconic creature design (a big part of Geiger’s M.O. is to make everything evoke bio-mechanical genitals,) and the terror-of-sex theme smashes out pretty loudly. 
Blade Runner climaxes with a human-like artificial life-form asking his creator (who calls him “the prodigal son”) for more life. When he is denied, he says, exhausted and frustrated “I wasn’t more life, father” (or “fucker” in the sub par theatrical cut), kisses his creator, and then kills him by applying pressure to the man’s eyes. Soon after, the prodigal son is cradling a dove in the rain on a rooftop, a nail pushed through his hand, as he quietly dies, lamenting that the extraordinary things he has seen and done will vanish.
The symbolism in those films is not very subtle, but it is not overbearing either, and here's why: If those big themes aren’t your bag, you can always enjoy Alien as a well-crafted monster movie (probably the best monster movie ever made, in fact), and you can always enjoy Blade Runner as a futuristic film noir about a bounty hunter pursuing a band of outlaws. Both of these films are terrific on ether level.
Prometheus doesn’t allow us to enjoy it on multiple levels. The religious/reproductive themes occur literally within the reality of the film. The characters are aware of what their experiences imply, and they discuss them openly and literally. For example: A temple-like place that appears to be an alien weapons factory (installed by the race of aliens who ignited the start of all life on earth) is discovered to have been built “two-thousand years ago”. Based on the timeline of the film, that would mean our creators began making these bio-weapons in what we call the first century. The implication is muddled, but obviously Christian. Did we anger “The Engineers” (as the character Elizabeth Shaw names them) by killing Christ? By allowing Christianity to flourish? (I’m aware that not everything that happened in that century had to do with Christianity, but given the film’s explicit Christian motifs, I have to assume…)
I’m excited to see Hollywood tackle big, unanswerable questions, and I’m excited whenever science fiction is used to do what it does so uniquely well (that is, when it is used to contemplate, ask questions and explore ideas not easily explored by other genres.) Unfortunately, this film’s fundamentalist/materialist insistence on literally locating all of its ideas in the physical realm inhabited b the characters makes it less like Persona and more like Ancient Aliens.
I'm not interested in Lisa Brown's vagaina (or Jase Bolger's penis)
News from my home state of Michigan...
For speaking out against new abortion legislation, (or perhaps for the manner in which they spoke out,) two State Representatives were banned from speaking on the last day of this latest session of the House of Representatives.
Rep. Barb Byrum suggested that the legislation be amended to require men to prove that their lives are in danger before receiving a vasectomy. I'm not a fan of joke legislation, but I can accept that it is an effective way to impact public opinion. I'm not sure I can accept the equivalency of abortion and vasectomy, but I respect Byrum's point, however imperfectly made.
Rep. Lisa Brown's comment? "I'm flattered you're all so interested in my vagina. But no means no." There has been a strong reaction to the idea that Brown is being punished for using the word "vagina" but I think she is being punished for using sarcasm (which is as unprofessional as it is un-clever). I doubt anyone is bothered by her (probably intentional) evocation of rape and sexual assault with the words "no means no". They should be. Comparing this legislation to rape is intellectually dishonest, and throwing around rape humorously, even if it is pointed humour employed in a serious situation, is tasteless.
That being said, Brown's comments are hardly the most offensive thing said in a legislative session, and Byrum's are even milder. This is an obvious case of one political party censuring and silencing another. I wish I could say that this kind of thing is shocking. It isn't.
What is so interesting to me about this incident is how it highlights the impossibility of approaching the abortion issue in an intellectually honest way. I sympathize with these two lawmakers for that reason.
I've written at length about abortion before, but I'm more twisted up now. Please excuse the following burst of cognitive dissonance, I just have to get it out of my system: I wish there was a way to frame this issue that didn't involve simplistic narratives depicting a two-sided war between backwoods Biblical-fundamentalists/True-Believers and enlightened/myopic cosmo-feminists. Coercing a woman to do something isn't very Christian, and squelching the act of childbirth isn't very feminist. No, both of those statements are absurd. Maybe. We can't and shouldn't legislate based on Biblical values if we wish to remain consistent with the principles of this government's secularist founders. I suppose that also means we can't legislate based on feminist values, because those founders were also, for the most part, staunchly patriarchal. I don't really mean that, obviously. I believe in keeping the US government totally secular, and I certainly want to defend the reproductive rights of women, but aren't there other, less painful methods? Isn't our willingness to accept abortion a symptom of the same values that fuel our militarism? The idea that I have more of a right to exist than you do is the most destructive idea in the history of ideas. Abortion must be allowed in order to keep our laws consistent with the values of our culture. On the other hand, fuck those values. Human life, even though I can't define exactly where it begins, should be cherished, not trivialized and devalued like it is in our selfish, irresponsible, late-capitalist cesspool of callous violence and myopic ideological crusades. Women should be allowed to get abortions. No one should get an abortion. Except in cases like ectopic pregnancies, maybe incest, maybe rape. Rape is the most evil act imaginable because it attempts to reduce a person to a disposable hunk of flesh that can be thrown away. Abortion is rape. No, that is a false equivalency, like abortion = vasectomy. The government has no right to decide what people do with their bodies. Abortion is good for society. Abortion is a violent act. Our society's survival requires certain acts of violence. Is it worth it? What are we preserving?
That didn't feel good. In fact, it felt terrible, just like it feels terrible every time I think about this issue.
For speaking out against new abortion legislation, (or perhaps for the manner in which they spoke out,) two State Representatives were banned from speaking on the last day of this latest session of the House of Representatives.
Rep. Barb Byrum suggested that the legislation be amended to require men to prove that their lives are in danger before receiving a vasectomy. I'm not a fan of joke legislation, but I can accept that it is an effective way to impact public opinion. I'm not sure I can accept the equivalency of abortion and vasectomy, but I respect Byrum's point, however imperfectly made.
Rep. Lisa Brown's comment? "I'm flattered you're all so interested in my vagina. But no means no." There has been a strong reaction to the idea that Brown is being punished for using the word "vagina" but I think she is being punished for using sarcasm (which is as unprofessional as it is un-clever). I doubt anyone is bothered by her (probably intentional) evocation of rape and sexual assault with the words "no means no". They should be. Comparing this legislation to rape is intellectually dishonest, and throwing around rape humorously, even if it is pointed humour employed in a serious situation, is tasteless.
That being said, Brown's comments are hardly the most offensive thing said in a legislative session, and Byrum's are even milder. This is an obvious case of one political party censuring and silencing another. I wish I could say that this kind of thing is shocking. It isn't.
What is so interesting to me about this incident is how it highlights the impossibility of approaching the abortion issue in an intellectually honest way. I sympathize with these two lawmakers for that reason.
I've written at length about abortion before, but I'm more twisted up now. Please excuse the following burst of cognitive dissonance, I just have to get it out of my system: I wish there was a way to frame this issue that didn't involve simplistic narratives depicting a two-sided war between backwoods Biblical-fundamentalists/True-Believers and enlightened/myopic cosmo-feminists. Coercing a woman to do something isn't very Christian, and squelching the act of childbirth isn't very feminist. No, both of those statements are absurd. Maybe. We can't and shouldn't legislate based on Biblical values if we wish to remain consistent with the principles of this government's secularist founders. I suppose that also means we can't legislate based on feminist values, because those founders were also, for the most part, staunchly patriarchal. I don't really mean that, obviously. I believe in keeping the US government totally secular, and I certainly want to defend the reproductive rights of women, but aren't there other, less painful methods? Isn't our willingness to accept abortion a symptom of the same values that fuel our militarism? The idea that I have more of a right to exist than you do is the most destructive idea in the history of ideas. Abortion must be allowed in order to keep our laws consistent with the values of our culture. On the other hand, fuck those values. Human life, even though I can't define exactly where it begins, should be cherished, not trivialized and devalued like it is in our selfish, irresponsible, late-capitalist cesspool of callous violence and myopic ideological crusades. Women should be allowed to get abortions. No one should get an abortion. Except in cases like ectopic pregnancies, maybe incest, maybe rape. Rape is the most evil act imaginable because it attempts to reduce a person to a disposable hunk of flesh that can be thrown away. Abortion is rape. No, that is a false equivalency, like abortion = vasectomy. The government has no right to decide what people do with their bodies. Abortion is good for society. Abortion is a violent act. Our society's survival requires certain acts of violence. Is it worth it? What are we preserving?
That didn't feel good. In fact, it felt terrible, just like it feels terrible every time I think about this issue.
Apr 6, 2012
Good Friday, 2012
As a Christian, I am more of an atheist than you could ever be.
Your atheism is an empty, intellectual assurance. Like the Fundamentalists, you cling to timeless, objective truths.
We who go with Christ to be crucified are not swearing loyalty to any truth. We are suffering the loss of a truth. We are forsaken. We are separate from everything that tethered us. Morality, meaning, and metanarratives are bled out into the dirt beneath us.
I envy the passive secular atheism that you enjoy. You don’t feel the collapse, the hemorrhaging, the terror as God is ripped from your chest. I would be far happier there than I am on this hill, in this place of skulls.
I don’t claim that God does not exist. I claim that God is crucified and buried. The Earth is unspun, and Ultimacy is emptied. That is an atheism that lives and moves.
I believe that this loss of divinity is the trauma that all of humanity is sharing, and I choose to stand in solidarity and love with the rest of humanity. We are all going together to Golgotha.
Today is Good Friday, but really, it is always good Friday.
Your atheism is an empty, intellectual assurance. Like the Fundamentalists, you cling to timeless, objective truths.
We who go with Christ to be crucified are not swearing loyalty to any truth. We are suffering the loss of a truth. We are forsaken. We are separate from everything that tethered us. Morality, meaning, and metanarratives are bled out into the dirt beneath us.
I envy the passive secular atheism that you enjoy. You don’t feel the collapse, the hemorrhaging, the terror as God is ripped from your chest. I would be far happier there than I am on this hill, in this place of skulls.
I don’t claim that God does not exist. I claim that God is crucified and buried. The Earth is unspun, and Ultimacy is emptied. That is an atheism that lives and moves.
I believe that this loss of divinity is the trauma that all of humanity is sharing, and I choose to stand in solidarity and love with the rest of humanity. We are all going together to Golgotha.
Today is Good Friday, but really, it is always good Friday.
Dec 2, 2011
Kierkegaard on Exegesis
The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined.
Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church's prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament. I open the New Testament and read: "If you want to be perfect, then sell all your goods and give to the poor and come follow me." (Matthew 19:21) Good God, if we were to actually do this, all the capitalists, the officeholders, and the entrepreneurs, the whole society in fact, would be almost beggars! We would be sunk if it were not for Christian scholarship! Praise be to everyone who works to consolidate the reputation of Christian scholarship, which helps to restrain the New Testament, this confounded book which would run us all down if it got loose.
-Søren Aabye Kierkegaard
Nov 19, 2011
The Death of God on Google Video
I want to share with you a fascinating, vintage documentary (about 30 minutes long) about the controversy surrounding Thomas J.J. Altizer’s “Death of God” theology. It’s fascinating how much has changed and how little has changed.
Part I
Part II
Part I
Part II
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