You Can't Get There From Here

I am on the train, returning home from AAR. Previously I mentioned that I would perhaps do some sort of liveblogesque posting from the conference but I was not going to pay the outrageous $13 per day they were asking for internetsitivity.

There are things I will pay too much for- booze... um... I guess that's it. Oh- a house in California- The Bean (shortened) and I will probably end up paying too much for that. So, there are things I will pay too much for- booze and real estate- but not the internets.

Though now that I write that I realize we are all paying too much for internets. I mean, it's the same internets we're all paying to have poured into our homes individually. We could just as easily have a big pile of internets in the middle of the street and share the cost with our neighbors but the prince of the power of the air has such a hold on us we mostly think that's stealing. So I guess I do pay too much for the internets. And from that, it looks like I/we will sell our souls for too little. But that's not as bad as it sounds. After all, we only really use our souls at Christmas. So... whatever.

Anyway, no internets this weekend and hence no experiment in online-diarying, but I can still share with you the highlights from this weekend. I stalked academic celebrities. I dazzled Emilie Townes with my wit. At various points, I felt what I imagine other people must be feeling when they raise their hands at church. I made some excellent connection$ for my dissertation work. The most important thing, though, was my trip to the Institute for Creation Research in Santee.

The Institute for Creation Research is exactly what the name suggests. It's an institute where they do creation research. Duh.

It's interesting to me that the title suggests creation concretely or abstractly and that the research that is performed and produced concerns the act of creation or that which results from a creative act. That struck me as particularly honest. They're not like those liars at the Discovery Institute who want to call creationism some type of science or give it some fancy name that makes people think they're doing something like science. These folks at the ICR make it clear from the get go that they are not doing science, rather they are doing creation research.

So, like I said, it struck me as particularly honest. Then I learned that they will award you an advanced degree in science.

An advanced degree in something called science.
Really.
Not so honest and a little silly.

Whatever- as fufilling as my time at AAR was, I felt the trip would be incomplete without a trip to the relatively nearby ICR. Even though it meant I would miss at least one session, a discussion of cultural identity in shifting environments, I figured I might be able to take something valuable from a visit to The Institute.

The Institute is as far from the AAR conference you can get on the San Diego Metro System- it is literally at the end of the line. Well, literally about a mile and a half beyond the end of the line. I guess we'll say that means something. It's also probably something that of all the religious events AAR hosted beyond the seminars, panels and receptions themselves, not one included even a mention of the ICR. You could go on an AAR affiliated visit to see the Dead Sea Scrolls. You could tour historic religious sites in San Diego, including the many nearby missions. You could even go to the zoo with AAR. I was the only one going to ICR. Go figure.

So I made the journey from the relatively cosmopolitan and somewhat manufactured urbanity of the San Diego Convention Center region swarming with its Gaslamp hipsters, downtown anti-hipsters, moneyed hotel and waterfront condo dwellers, resident homeless folks, tourists, conference attendees, other drunks of all stripes, and the rest of the cacophonous mix of people, languages, stinks, and colors all the way out to the soft pink stucco and tile roofs of Every Other Suburban Development, Southern California.

At the Santee Transit Center, I was supposed to take Line 854 a brief way and then walk a bit to the ICR Museum. At least that's what all of the Metro Maps indicated. Instead, when I arrived at the transit center I found that Bus Line 854 no longer existed- No- Wait. I'm sorry. It still exists as Bus Line 854- only it went to none of the places that it went to in its previous incarnation. In fact, no bus goes by the creation museum, even though the Metro Maps say otherwise and it lies near the heart of pink stucco Santee.

Thanks, jerks.

Really. Thanks. Even if it is pretty jerky of YOU to not make sure YOUR maps reflect where I can actually go using YOUR busses (or buses- both are correct). YOU helped me realize something that I may not have known had I easily visited the museum and snarkily took pictures and conversed with employees.

This can't really be something that means anything to me. If I took them seriously, I likely would have walked another thirty or so minutes to the museum. Even if I took them seriously only as some type of academic investigation, I probably would have walked the rest of the way. I would have trekked with my suitcase and computer bag up the hill to the storefront graduate school and museum. I would have spent time pretending this means something to my faith. As I disagree with it, find it confused and shallow, and fret over its influence in THE CHURCH, I would pretend there was something worthwhile to engage there. I guess I really just don't care that much. At least I don't care enough to go that extra distance. Or the there there is not worth the effort to get there.

There are many much more important things to deal with.

I guess.

So I went back to the conference.

And now I get to return home with and to what really does matter to me.

Tell Me, What Do You Do With Witches?

There are certain things I tell myself to avoid if I don't want to spend more time shaking my fist at the sky yelling, "I try to believe in you and now this?!"
So when a friend told me Chuck Colson wrote a tossed-off apology for torture I thought I would avoid it. But the wind blows wherever it pleases and I was led right to it. Here it is:

Justified Under Some Circumstances
"Centuries of Christian ethical reflection would lead to the answer 'no.' Inflicting bodily or psychological harm on a helpless captive would be inconsistent with the Christian understanding of human dignity. But as with all moral obligations, there may be circumstances for exception.

It is well understood in Christian tradition that while we are supposed to obey the law, there may be times when there is a higher obligation (see Aquinas, Augustine, and Martin Luther King). To rescue a drowning person, a Christian would be justified in disobeying a 'no trespassing' sign.

So it is with torture; if a competent authority honestly believed that this was the only way to get information that might save the lives of thousands, I believe he would be justified. That is not moral relativism. It is making a difficult decision when human life and dignity will be affected either way. The Greeks called it prudence."

Tossed-off indeed.

This isn't the intro to it. This isn't a reference to a more thorough explanation elsewhere. This is it.

Centuries of reflection would lead one way. Four sentences later, we have something else. You have heard it said, "Blah blah blah," but I say to you, "Torturing someone is like rescuing a drowning person."

Accept for a moment that not torturing someone is based on some general Christian understanding of human dignity over anything else. Accept also that moral obligations can be understood like signposts we sometimes follow and other times disregard. Accept the premise that Christians are supposed to obey something called "the law." Get over any objection to the idea that someone who would torture someone is doing something akin to what Martin Luther King Jr. did. Accept too that a "competent" (let alone legitimate) authority could possibly believe that a tortured person would reveal anything useful. Never mind that this is a complete misunderstanding of the virtue of prudence. Disregard every deadly thing that is swimming in this stinking and dripping necrotic sore and just accept it as it is.

See that it is.

There was a time when some were saying that it could not possibly be true- that we would never torture anyone. (wink) Then some said, maybe some people were tortured, but if they were it was by a few bad apples, and it certainly is not likely to happen again. Later, we had to say that some harsh and ugly things are inevitable in harsh and ugly times, but we are not as bad as the worst and we certainly don't think what we do could be called torture. Then we find ourselves at a point where we say, "It looks like a duck, smells, tastes, acts, quacks, and everything else like a duck- but I would not call this duck torture." And before you knew it, we're saying, "Yes, we torture, and it is good."

You get that, don't you? That's what this is. This is a Christian, a Christian you may look up to- certainly a Christian that someone in your congregation looks up to- saying, however thoughtlessly, "Torture is good. It is noble. It is something that the truly prudent would do." He is not saying, "The world, in its worldliness, has people that will torture others." He is saying, "The truly wise and judicious Christian knows they do good by torturing."

-Sigh-

We suck our teeth at those backwards Dominicans who strung up every Jew and Muslim in sight. With every high school production of the Crucible, we wag our heads and thank God we live in better times now. We're happy knowing that we're not the kind of Christians who would try to sanctify slavery. We look at the Christians of fifty years ago and ask how they could have ever justified segregation with a straight face and how others could stand by and watch. Whatever the embarrassment, we say it was in the past and now we know better.

But here we are, choosing the wrong side of history. And fifty years from now others will look back at us and see that we chose sides. They'll laugh at how absurd we were and wonder how we could not see as plainly as anything else this was not where we should want to be.

It was bad enough when we simply held theologies that said this isn't something we needed to care about. Looking at boobies, lying, stealing- those rise to the level of worry. This? Torture? M'eh, it's not really something we need to worry about.

It looks like somebody's been worrying about it, and this is what they came up with.

We are the Body of Christ and this is not a problem. We are the Body of Christ and we're saying this is consistent with what that could mean.

Okay. I guess. Though I feel like I should be sitting in a fireplace right now.

This New Learning Amazes Me, Explain Again How Sheep's Bladders May Be Employed To Prevent Earthquakes
Low Light- Pearl Jam
Light and Day/Reach For The Sun- The Polyphonic Spree
Baby You're A Rich Man- The Beatles
Shoplifters of The World Unite- The Smiths
The Trial- Pink Floyd
Days Like This Keep Me Warm- The Polyphonic Spree
Master of Puppets- Metallica
Super Bad- James Brown
Ego Tripping At The Gates of Hell- The Flaming Lips
Shrink- Dead Kennedys
Happiness Is a Warm Gun- The Beatles
La Vie En Rose- Edith Piaf

I Palindrome I

I was raised Catholic but got out of practice in high school. I was dogged by skepticism that wouldn't allow me to believe bread and wine really turned into flesh and blood. I could pretend that happened. I could also believe that while we pretended it happened we were remembering or contemplating something more significant, but I was told that would not do. I had to believe that bread and wine turned into flesh and blood. After all, people had been waterboarded for less. We were living in the twentieth century and no one was likely to torture me over issues of Catholic dogma. Still, I couldn't be Catholic and not confess the reality of transubstantiation.

But I had been an alter boy, I saw first hand where the bread and wine came from. They were just bread and wine. I saw that bread and wine stayed bread and wine no matter how many spells were cast on them. I tasted bread and I tasted wine. I tasted flesh (in small quantities); I tasted blood. All different. I never in all the Masses I attended saw anyone ever grimace or react as if surprised because they tasted flesh or blood. I can say as plain as anything, I never knew- have never known- bread and wine to change into flesh and blood- in any circumstance. Perhaps if this were to happen to me today I could have a more sophisticated understanding of "believe," but as it was "two roads diverged" and all that.

So as much as it's possible, I was no longer Catholic.

Providentially, at that time there were pretty girls at the Friends church that were not too proud to date some schlub clearly beneath them. So that's where I was, but my recent encounter with the lies that undergird religious truth and the deep suspicion of Protestants my in some ways proper Catholic upbringing inspired suggested I should look into these people called Quakers. That's what I did, and I liked what I found. I first read Barclay's Apology and then George Fox's Journal. I looked over Quaker histories. I dated demonstratively affectionate girls. I found answers to questions I couldn't quite articulate and a hope for what something called "the church" could be. This was what Christianity was supposed to be. Things made sense to me. (And what's religion if not some system that simply affirms our sensibilities and fits well with our temperament?) Not the kind of sense that Intelligent Designers or Talbotesque Apologetics want religion to make- it made a kind of spiritual sense. It didn't put the known and unknown universe into some coherent order. I didn't suddenly believe things I couldn't believe. It seemed to just fit with how I had known God and myself. For what that's worth.

Time would show me there is always a gap between what a people could be at their best and what is- a gap between where we are and what is actually possible given desire and imagination. But for the most part I liked what I lived and I liked the potential.

So... this is to say: I am decidedly Quaker. What that means has grown but remains the source material for how I understand me and "its" relation to a community. Perhaps that puts me into some circle where my understanding of what is Quaker feeds my sense of who I am that depends on what it means to be Quaker to know who and how I am, but it's a circle that something I call Quaker is uniquely able to understand and it's not necessarily the proverbially vicious circle. This being Quaker is important and true, so I am concerned with our Annual Conference, erstwhile Yearly Meeting, and its desperate search for something that resembles life. Of course a desperate search for life can be a good thing, but in our case, perhaps for the sake of some type of growth- so we could build forty churches in five years- because big equals true- because bigger is more real- it seems we are building and embracing some dummy Christ- some generic Christianity stuffed with straw and rags. Perhaps it's because of something else, but it seems like window dressing all the same- a mannequin rather than a living body.

Maybe it is real. Maybe there's a life in it that I can't see. But I can't lie and say I see a life where I don't.

It certainly was easier when I could simply taste what wasn't real.

Speak Roughly to Your Little Boy
and Beat Him When He Sneezes
He Only Does It to Annoy
Because He Knows It Teases.

Alec Baldwin can call anyone "a rotten little pig" if this actually happens.

And though it's neither here nor there, to be fair, Alec Baldwin's daughter may be a pig.

But At Least We're Having the Conversation OR I May Not Agree With Your Decision to Be Horrible But I will Defend With My Life Your Right to Try to Be Horrible

Freedom is an odd thing. No...

More precisely, our sense of freedom is an odd thing.

Or maybe it's our sense of liberty that is odd- maybe I think of them as the same thing.

Maybe I'll slip back and forth here... That's what you can expect.

It seems that we think of freedom as some unconditioned will; in order to be free I have to be able to do whatever I want. There can be nothing that determines what I will do other than my will. Save except for those things that force us to exist as human, we are only free if we are Hercules at the Crossroads- free to choose good or bad.

If that were really the case, I would hate us for our freedom too. But I don't think anyone really lives that way- well no one that we wouldn't call crazy lives that way.

It's something else. It's more about saying "You're not the boss of me." Saying, "You're not the boss of me," corresponds to the way we seem to live our freedom, but saying that means, "I'm the boss of me," and meaning, "I am totally in control," might relate to something we like to say we have but it certainly assumes much more volition than any one can actually know.

It seems we are the boss of us, and knowing who we mean by we, the greater the group that is we, and the more whatever collective-singular-inflective pronoun that reflects the collection of components that constitute that sense of us fits here-awareness there is, the greater a sense of freedom there is.

Maybe I should just have written "self-awareness."

Of course that's just me...

Who else could it be?

Anyway, with that, there are things that just do not correspond to greater freedom.

God's favorite Senator, Russ Feingold, peace be upon him, has stated that he will vote against the nomination of Mukasey for AG. Questions about warrantless wire-tapping, executive power, and torture are foremost for him. He seems to think that it's not enough that Mukasey say waterboarding is despicable or that he hems and haws on the balance of power among the branches of government. (In case you forgot since high school: congress is not subordinate to the president).

These, especially the waterboarding, are not "agree to disagree" or "we'll hash it out later" things; they get right at that sense of who we are.

There is little value in the discussion itself. We shouldn't be happy that at least we're talking about these problems because a.) we're barely talking about them and b.) that's not freedom. Freedom is not in the possibility or ability to talk about or do these things and any sense of freedom that rested on the possibility to choose this or, worse, on its use, is a cheap freedom.

Certain things are beyond the pale. Knowing what those are and being clear about it is where we see who we are.

Hey, maybe in that sense, some people really do hate us for our freedom.
Some of them act badly because they've had a hard life, or have been mistreated... but, like people, some of them are just jerks
Love Minus Zero/No Limit- Bob Dylan
Ever Fallen In Love- The Buzzcocks
Hotwax- Beck
Pressed in a Book- The Shins
Strange Brew- Cream
Excuse Me Mr.- Ben Harper
Watch That Man- David Bowie
Harrowdown Hill- Thom Yorke
Surfwax America- Weezer
Gaite Parisienne- Offenbach
Solbury Hill- Peter Gabriel

Cosmic

Previously on Through A Glass Dimly I mentioned there was a hole in the internets because I didn't find what I expected to find when I did the Google at "Footprints Mugs crossed with Psalm 23 incubated in Thomas Kinkade's colon." I don't know what exactly I expected- only that there wasn't a there there.

Now the there there just refers back to this.

I guess I'm the expert on Footprints Mugs crossed with Psalm 23 incubated in Thomas Kinkade's colon.

If that's the case I guess I should get cracking at making this a better resource for that.

Ceci N'est Pas un Potiron

I participated in our annual church pumpkin carving contest this Halloween. Many years ago, at our first ever, my partner and I won with a very scary, monster-headed, jack-o-lantern. It wasn't the typical triangle eyes, circle nose, big grin jack-o-lantern; think a terrifying Minotaur with glowing orange features and flaming eyes.


From the beginning, participants pushed the limits of what a jack-o-lantern could be (should be?). It was great. But as time passed people realized there were certain strings you could pull to easily win. Soon, the winning pumpkins were maudlin Bible scenes, hearts and crosses, and Jesus. Lots and lots of Jesus. The judges were unnatural selection, causing our pumpkins to evolve into a sappy pile of Footprints Mugs crossed with Psalm 23 incubated in Thomas Kinkade's colon.

I just Googled that.

Nothing.

There's a hole in the internets.

I think this video gives you a sense of what I mean though:

They might as well have been unicorns soaring over rainbows.

Anyway, when I participated I would try to break the barriers of pumpkin carving. I was trying to blow minds, man. I transgressed the boundary between viewer and pumpkin. I made people acknowledge their role in creating the idea of jack-o-lantern. I forced us to question the very concept. I pushed the physical boundaries of pumpkin... ness?- blowing one up, shooting flames out of another, leaving one blank pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern pumpkin jack-o-lantern

Needless to say, I wouldn't win. I was doing it all for fun, but it's certainly more fun to win.

So to win, I did this:

Layers upon layers.

Were I truly an artist, I would have raised my pumpkin high over my head, yelled, "To create is to deny!" and thrown it to the ground smashing it to bits. Instead I brought home my first prize- a huge bucket of candy, pumpkin puree, and pumpkin frisbees.

I promise to enjoy it all ironically.

And though the rules of the road have been lodged
It's only people's games that you got to dodge
And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.

Did You Know There Is a GodTube? I Just Learned That
Narcolepsy- Ben Folds Five
Youth Culture Killed My Dog- TMBG
Radio Song- REM
Sunny Afternoon- The Kinks
Ran Can Can- Tito Puente
Circle- Miles Davis
Robochacha- Kid Koala
The Love Cats- The Cure
We- Descendents
Bone Machine- The Pixies
Bullet In Your Head- Rage Against The Machine
Strange Fruit- Billie Holiday
Yes 'em to Death- The Coup