Words, Words, Words

As rain pours, making ponds of our goat paddocks, I ponder the practicality of being proud. We met a woman the other night who insisted her husband is the only man she ever met who has no ego. That's what she said. Maybe she meant he isn't egocentric. Perhaps that's why I liked him. I don't think so.

When we lived in North Carolina, many people said, "I'm proud of you." In a way, it was like being in a non-English-speaking country. Someone who barely knew us would say, "I'm proud of you." The statement was believable, said with confidence and certainty. It was not fluff. Well, maybe it was, but it sounded sincere, not like the "love ya" that gets tossed about so easily. For me to believe that phrase, it must be said fully and completely, "I love you," with no ambiguity as to who loves whom.

Many religions view humility as a virtue and pride as a deadly sin. I understand that St. Augustine wrote that pride "is the love of one's own excellence" and in the words of Meher Baba, "Pride is the specific feeling through which egoism manifests." Some philosophers consider pride a virtue. Funny thing, in one week one can receive a compliment for humility and a suspicion of pride. Hmmm, maybe it's okay coming from someone else but not from oneself or, like ice cream, chocolate and almost everything else, in moderation.

"I thought pride was a pack of lions," says Virginia.

Of course she's right. Rrrrr.

After the Bubble

“Tell me a story,” says Virginia....

When I knocked, I heard Charlie stomping in his kitchen, not a good sign. “Come in,” he yelled, as if hollering at a stubborn goat. I knew he knew why I’d chosen this time to visit. He pointed at a chair. I said “How ya feelin'?” as I sat.

“About the same as yesterday,” he said. “I don’t know why we raise our kids the way we do, or don’t. Whatever. We oughta let 'em out as soon as they can feed themselves, like most animals do. Instead, we rant and rave about things that are never the same as when we were their age, wishing they’d work as hard as we did, save their money – our money – and sacrifice for their futures. What for? When they finally settle down, they latch onto the latest false prophet and give him everything, figuring they won’t need it when the judgment day comes. Then they start all over, with our help."

“I get your drift,” I said. “Have you heard from her?”

“Of course not,” said Charlie. “She’s not going to crawl back here until our memories fade a little. She doesn’t want to hear my ‘told you so.’”

“Are you planning to say that?” I said.

“Hell no,” said Charlie, reddening, “but I might as well. It’ll hang in the air as thick as fog over the James.”

“Call her and tell her,” I said.

“What?” said Charlie. “That I believe people who can should live life in reverse? Retire first, work later if they need to? No kid should be told that.”

“She’s not a kid any more, Charlie,” said I.

He looked at me real hard, frowning, eyes partly closed, like an ex-girlfriend when I’d done something she didn’t like.

“I’m not a kid any more either, Charlie,” I whispered.

“You should've married her,” he said.

“Right, you know why I didn't,” I said. “I didn’t believe in myself enough, or anyone else for that matter, to not work hard, save my pay and sacrifice for the future. You wouldn’t have respected me.”

“So now we’re stupid together,” said Charlie. “What’s wrong with us anyway?

“We’re definitely not that,” I said, “and nothing’s wrong with us, other than we get played for suckers, one bubble after another. The others depend on people like us. We pay our debts, suffer our trespasses, and deliver them from evil.”

“Cut it out,” said Charlie. “You’re beginning to sound like that preacher.”

“Would you really want it any other way?” I said.

Apocalypse Not Now

I understand that Family Radio spent millions on more than 5,000 billboards and 20 RVs plastered with the doomsday message. In 2009, the nonprofit reportedly claimed in IRS filings that it received $18.3 million in donations, and had assets of more than $104 million, including $34 million in stocks or other publicly traded securities.

"That's a fair amount of money folks turned over," says Virginia.

It's not worth much if you know you won't be around any more after May 21, 6 PM.  It reminds me of the mathematician, whose name I forget, who suggested discussing the existence of God in terms of probabilities.  Ask yourself how important is the existence of God.  What value would you place on it?  A million dollars, a billion dollars, a trillion dollars?  Let's say a billion dollars.  Consider, if you think the chance that God exists is 100%, then the expected value to you of belief in God -- 1.0 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $1,000,000,000.  Then consider, if you think the chance that God exists is 50/50, the expected value to you of belief in God -- .5 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $500,000,000.  That's still a lot of green bills.  Now consider, if you think the chance that God exists is only 1 in 100, then the expected value to you of belief in God -- .01 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $10,000,000.  That's still worth a lot to most people.  So is it worth believing?  (By the way, a short youtube video on expected value is available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAjVAEDil_Q.)

"That's downright silly," says Virginia. "What's the point?  Belief is cheap?  God is rich?"

Yeah well, belief may require more than nothing, like maybe changing the way you live or putting your life on the line once in a while.  No formula is going to answer the real question.

Wildcat Mountain Hike

We celebrated this spring-like afternoon with a couple friends hiking part-way up Wildcat Mountain.  My legs were a bit tired after running to Arrowhead Lodge and back this morning.

We took the camera along.  I'd include some pictures if it hadn't stayed in my water bottle belt the entire time. 

We saw no bears, so we talked about bears.  I imagine plenty of them saw us.  We didn't hear them talking.

Part of the forest road had a freshly applied coat of gravel, which worked up my tree hugger instincts -- to no avail.  We saw no evidence of recent logging activity.

One of the hikers suggested I read "God is Not One -- The Eight Rival Religions That Run the World -- and Why Their Differences Matter" (Stephen Prothero).  He says the book debunks the idea that "the essential message of all religions is very much the same."  This may be a "lovely sentiment," "but it is dangerous, disrespectful and untrue."

"I don't know much about Islam," says Virginia.  "Maybe I should read the book."

Our friend also mentioned a native American woman who said native Americans tend to look at strangers as they look at family and friends, whereas other Americans look at strangers with fear and distrust.  Maybe, maybe not.  I don't like stereotypes because they don't treat individuals as special; they put me into categories, some appropriate, some not.  Target marketing pieces that arrive at our door get tossed into the paper shredder for future compost.

Good hike.  Good ideas.

The Sabbath

Never, never work on Sunday.  I remember the first time I noticed a violation of this rule.  After church, we drove a block over to Niswander's Newstand so Dad could run inside to buy a paper.  It dawned on me that because of us the Niswanders had to work on Sunday, so I asked another obvious question, "how come the preacher works on Sunday?"

The topic arises because, like many self-employed people, I have a bit of a problem stopping.  The sooner I finish a project, the sooner I can either take a break or begin the next one.

I just sent an update off to its editor. Look at the calendar.  It's a Sunday.  Among other things, that means I worked 12 days in a row, some of them very long days.

"You're going to you know where," says Virginia.

Yeah, I'm going to go party pretty soon when I have a whole week or more off.  I'm not going to justify my approach by spouting some religious mumbo-jumbo about legalistic behavior and the importance of grace.  If you want to, go ahead, comment.

"I am not...."

"I am not a witch and I am not a bigot," says Virginia.  "I am not the murderer."

When I was a child, hearing "Thou dost protest too much," I would protest even more.  "But I'm not!  I didn't do it!  I promise!"

"Now James, don't make promises you can't keep."  As the knife sunk into my sorrowful heart, I knew I was falling farther into a hole I would soon yearn to escape.

"I am not..." is one of those sayings adults should use very carefully.  If the answer isn't clear by observation and independent facts, then denying isn't going to help very much. 

Well, you could say "witches do not exist."  Do they?

It depends on how you define "witch."

As for bigots, I dare say most of us have a bit of bigotry in our hearts, perhaps buried under lust, gluttony and other deadly sins.

"I am not the murderer," yells Virginia.

Oh give me a break.  Climb off that broomstick, will you?

"Don't forget Peter," says Virginia.

How could I forget the rock?  Since I was a child, I feared the day I might have to deny the truth if I wanted to save my life, another reason to avoid politics.

Meanwhile, the sun is shining today, so here are a couple more shots from the window of my study.

Book Burning

So you're itching to burn the Koran?

"Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." (Matthew 7:12).

"I seem to remember some famous person said those words," says Virginia.

If you want others to burn the Bible, go ahead and burn the Koran.

Random Thoughtlessness

I've been reading court decisions again today.  Rain does that to me.  When it rains I turn to "real work" deadlines.  This time of year, when the sun comes out, I want to be outdoors. It's too bad it doesn't rain more often so I don't have to miss the sunshine.  I'm waiting for a computer whose screen is easy to read in bright daylight.  Does it already exist?

Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life, mentioned how she preferred to write in a place that didn't draw her attention away from her writing.  Her "office" sounded miserable to me.  I like to think an attractive space helps me concentrate on writing.  Ignore me. I'm far from the writer she is.

Yesterday the rented rototiller turned, cut and exposed scads of wiregrass to beating sunlight.  The exposed earth was hard, as if a drought approached.  Today the grass lies there, softening, reaching back into the ground to re-root.  I yearn to harvest it with a rake, starve it to certain death, but mud is not the answer.

From dust to dust, the old saying goes.  Maybe in the rainforest, folks say from mud to mud.  A drunk drives into a tree, or an embezzler commits suicide, and certain friends insist "you get what you deserve."  Like Thomas Jefferson, whom they quote when it's convenient and disavow when it's not, they seem to have scratched out their own version of the New Testament, except theirs has been slimmed down to these few words, "the poor will always be with you." I don't think the speaker meant for us to ensure they always are.

"Your crayons have strayed outside the lines," says Virginia.

I guess I should order new coloring books. (See the poem, "Scribble" in my "Think Beyond" posting for April 9, 2010.)

Tax Day Cometh

Thank God it's over,
that day near April 15
when visions of dollars
rotting in foxholes
bubble between my ears.

Spineless, I have placed
my checks in the mail,
my head in the sand
and followed the crowd
"marching as to war."

To the partiers of
coffee and tea,
I'll take mine
with sugar, please.


"Shake it out," says Virginia.  "Let's sing."

"Sorry," I say, worn out.  "Maybe tomorrow."

Letting Go

Tiger Woods has announced he will participate in the Masters.  Eliott Spitzer goes to his office at his father's real estate business and accepts many public appearance invitations, but this former champion of worthwhile causes who saw what was happening with subprime mortgage lending and tried to stop it hasn't decided what challenge will be next (other than the most important, rebuilding his own family).

It may be hard to feel sorry for these disgraced "celebrities."  It may be hard to feel anything other than disgust for them, but....

Virginia says, "Let go."

She's right.  When I think of Woods and Spitzer I also think of many other people, including George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Marion Jones and most famous athletes.  What do they have in common?  After rising to the "top," they enter a purgatory -- a time of temporary suffering or misery; if not that, a time of introspection (even Cheney, while he continues to blow hard).  They deserve to be let alone if they want it (Cheney apparently doesn't), just as you and I do after we hit a high or low point.

Instead, I go off on my high horse, judging as is my custom, even though I might vaguely remember a religious instruction such as "judge not lest ye be judged."  I was no fan of George W. Bush, but I respect him for "disappearing" into the Texas carpet.  His actions have had dreadful consequences, worldwide, and even though his smirk irked me, still irks me, I sort of think (not sure because I haven't met him) he thought he was doing the right thing.  If he asked me to join him on a run, I'd jump at the chance.

Most us can remember at least one thing we've done that might have landed us in jail, or at least that we wouldn't have wanted our grandmother (or spiritual leader) to see.  If nothing worse, perhaps we waited outside an attraction and accepted an unexpired tag from someone leaving, so we got in "free."  We knew we were required to pay, but we "put one over on the man."  Some friends I know condemn people they call "queers," and, instead of doing something constructive I condemn my friends for their bigotry.  We're in this together.

"Let it go," says Virginia, again.

Appearance Prejudice

I moved the goddess of bad notes away from the piano, out of sight in another bay window, in case I've been depending on her.  I had thought the wooden carving was androgynous, but further inspection suggests the god is a goddess.   She appears angry, with deep ruts in her unsmiling cheeks and a fiercely set jaw under asymmetrical eyes set in deep sockets, her scraggly hair long and wiry.

On the other hand, I don't know her well, so her contorted mouth might be a gentle smile.  At my age, I should have outgrown appearance prejudice.  Many people have surprised me over the years.  A few nights ago, I appeared to myself in a dream, my face damaged by burns or disease and, as I re-entered consciousness, I was thinking, "It doesn't matter; I am who I am."

"You rascal," says Virginia.  "I hoped you were going to explain your thought that a piece of wood could swallow bad notes."

"It wasn't my idea," I confess.  "The friend who gave it to me is a respected professor emeritus of religion and philosophy.  He suggested she might help me out."

"I should have guessed," says Virginia.  "Is this the same fellow who earned an amulet in a Japanese dojo,* after learning to invoke spirits and lay hands on dead cars and frogs?"

"Croak," I say.

"Vroom," says Virginia.
__________
* The religious sect was Sukyo Mahikari.

The First Annual R&S Awards

Have you caught the fever?  It's on all the talk shows, even had an ad during the Superbowl.  If you missed it, turn on this week's American Idol.  The Oscars?  No, but it could be big or bigger.  It's the R&S Awards.

What's that?  Come on.  Where have you been?  Everybody who's anybody is behind it, that is, all the religious and spiritual leaders, anyway.  Would you believe the Pope, the Dalai Lama, William Franklin Graham, Rick Warren, Ali Khamenei, and Joel Osteen?

"I don't know why we didn't think of this before," groused Jack Carissimi, the Vatican's delegate to the R&S Academy, which is meeting in Las Vegas to announce the first year's nominees.  "What a great city to begin this effort," said the excited Maharaji Maestro, the event's mastermind.  "All of us can spread our word on the way to and from the Academy."

"Yes, it's about time."  That's Julie Priestess, director of outreach for the Las Vegas Business Development Board.  "The seculars have milked the Oscars and reality tv for all they're worth.  Why not the religious?"

"We've had a great run," said Wiggly Worm, with the National Order of American Evangelicals, "God's honest truth, the greatest marketing campaign of the ages, but now, with a worldwide recession, it's time to take advantage of another great opportunity."

Of course, dissenters complain.  "I'm not sure it's such a good idea," doubted Jesse Whitte, rabbi in The Lakes nearby, "but I hope bringing together all these different faiths bodes well for the future."

"Now there's a thought," says Virginia.  "Maybe they'll realize they have some things in common and start working together."

I say, "I'd like to have been a spider on the wall when they debated top tens for Best Preacher, Best Message, Best Supporting Congregant, Best Sanctuary.  I hear they're open for suggestions about other Bests."

Have you got any?

The Least Reverend James

When it comes to writing, an image haunts me -- water pressure behind a spigot.  As I now try to complete a tedious update to one of my books and three other February 1 deadlines loom, I'm tempted to turn the spigot and wash them away. Virginia would like that, my current publisher would not.

Right now, the spigot holds a story I'd like to write about friends.  Even though they wildly disagree on politics and religion, their commonalities hold them close.  How can this be?

Many people think of the United States as a "Christian" country.  Some point to the founding fathers although, because of persecution in their past, they set this nation on a foundation separating church and state.  Some point to a slogan on our greenbacks, "In God We Trust," even though that could apply to almost anyone who isn't an atheist.

Watch and listen to what goes on.  Do we look and sound like a Christian country?

"It's not works," some Christians insist.  "It's grace that gives you the key to heaven."  Goodness gracious, let's talk about grace.  After all, it's a Sunday.

Let me begin by admitting I grew up in a faith that rarely mentioned "grace."  I didn't hear much, if anything, about it until I joined the Methodists.  Later, I learned that certain Pentecostals believe it doesn't matter if a preacher molests little girls during the week.  When he preaches on Sunday, he deserves your full attention because his words are the words of God.  Virginia says, "I might call that grace to the nth power, 'radical grace.'"

What is "grace?"  In the less radical version, I understand that by believing Jesus is your Savior and the Son of God, His grace admits you into Heaven (for example, Romans 11:6).  Some point to the crucifixion story.  Remember the three crosses:  two bore criminals, the middle one, Christ.  One of the criminals kept deriding Jesus, "Are you not the Messiah?  Save yourself and us."  The other rebuked him and turned to Jesus, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."  Jesus responded, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."  (Luke 23:39-43.)

Talk about life being unfair.  Think of the wonderful person who has lived kindness and good works, who has sacrificed luxury so others can live, but doesn't accept Jesus as her savior.  She does not pass Go, she goes directly to everlasting hell, while the criminal who has lived a crooked, lascivious and downright evil life makes a last minute decision and goes straight to Heaven.  (I understand scholars may debate whether "Paradise" is Heaven.)

May I suggest something might be missing here?  Pretend you are Jesus on the cross.  Being Jesus, you have superpowers, so when you look at the grace-full criminal you don't see and hear what the rest of us do -- an empty head on a body saying something nice.  You see the man's past, present and future.  You see his soul, his mind and his spirit.  Maybe you see that he is not guilty -- confessions are notoriously unreliable (the good criminal said, "And indeed we have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds...").  Maybe you see a man who, except for the crime for which he suffers, lived a life doing many good things.

"Wrap it up," says Virginia.  "I'm used to homilies, not sermons."

"The point is," I say, "don't count on grace to get you in.  We need more help here first."

Finity

PopPop, age 95, prepared Thanksgiving dinner for several of his ten children. "Let's say grace," he said. "Thank you for giving me another day to cook dinner for my family." Later, one of his great-grandchildren said, "I wonder what it's like to wake up every morning and be grateful to be alive one more day."

I used to go to bed knowing I would wake up the next morning. I didn't doubt it. Now I'm not as sure, although I'm very hopeful. I have aged into the uncertainty of infinity. Some of us are becoming more and more hopeful that infinity will know us, everlasting. At the same time we are growing to value the finiteness of the present.

If we're going to use religion to guide our behavior and we believe in the sanctity of human life, I don't know how we can ignore most of the people who will ever exist -- our descendants. Our great-grandchildren need our help. It's not a matter of believing or not believing that humans are contributing to the end of the Earth as we know it. All we need to know is simple arithmetic. If we're running out of food, we don't wait until our cupboards are bare. We plan ahead. The earth contains a finite amount of coal and petroleum. If we continue to use them the way we're using them now, they will run out.

Most young people view life as endless, even though they "know" it is not. We know this because yesterday we were young. They deserve our help and our planning, now. They are worth our investment.

"I sang into an overlook this afternoon," says Virginia. "No one but I heard me, except maybe some wildlife. Sometimes I wonder if I hear myself."

Happy New Year!

Christmas Out-of-Season

I was three and confused when I saw Dad carrying Mother down our driveway, across the street, through the alley to the hospital. At first I was worried, but smiles on other faces belied sickness and danger. She couldn't walk? Something fishy was going on. A few days later we met a baby girl at the hospital and brought her home. Christmas in August.

Twenty-five years later and five hundred miles away, I saw folks celebrating Christmas In August on the National Mall. Apparently they still do, in Washington, in New York City with the Rockettes, and elsewhere. I'm a scrooge in August (no offense intended, Sister Mary) and I still don't care much in August for the music I find comforting or nostalgic in December.

Warm weather isn't the issue. I found Christmas spirit in New Zealand the two Christmases we visited, despite the lack of ludicrous lights. I think the near concurrence of Christmas and New Year's Day with their emphasis on newness makes August seem old and inappropriate. Maybe all the explosions in December and again on July 4 call for quiet in August.

"Wait a minute," says Virginia, "are you saying August could be a great time to remind us to hope for and believe in the possibility of peace, and a Prince of Peace?"

All right, not only August, but please, no "Granny Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

All [Wo]Men are Created Equal

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...."

This phrase appears in:
(a) the Bible.
(b) the United States Constitution.
(c) the Declaration of Independence of the United States.
(d) the Gettysburg Address.
(e) both (c) and (d).

If you're wondering about the right answer, perhaps a Google search will help you out. I suspect this is one question that would draw a lot of (a) answers in a poll of Americans.

Where did the statement "all men are created equal" originate? Some say Thomas Jefferson wrote it to express dissatisfaction with the privileges of royalty.

Now consider this: The phrase is -- (a) true, or (b) false.

A Google search may help answer this question, too. Think of the babies born around the world and whether their parents can do a Google search. Some can, some can't. Are those babies created equal?

Some would say they aren't. Certain babies clearly have advantages others don't have -- such as higher levels of wealth, intelligence, physical ability, and beauty -- yet we have seen that an abundance of one talent over another doesn't necessarily mean that person will "succeed" more than someone with less talent; Witness, Michael Jackson or John Forbes Nash, Jr. (whose schizophrenia is shown in The Beautiful Mind). Thomas Hobbes (The Leviathan) suggested that when all is taken into account, the difference between one human and another is not so great that one may reasonably pretend to be more valuable than someone else.

I think Hobbes was right, and that one of the mistakes we make is to over-emphasize specialized talent, such as a biologist, a mathematician, a writer, or a lawyer. Wendell Berry, in Citizenship Papers, writes: "Facts in isolation are false. The more isolated a fact or a set of facts is, the more false it is. A fact is true in the absolute sense only in association with all facts. This is why the departmentalization of knowledge in our colleges and universities is fundamentally wrong."

Time, the magazine, has struck out twice on this topic in recent issues. A couple weeks ago, an article bemoaned the fact that budget cuts have "trimmed starting pay at major airlines to $36,000 -- little more than a grade school teacher's." This week's article on five lessons we can learn from China quoted a young Chinese engineer as saying none of his descendants would ever work in the wheat fields again, as an example of the lesson, "Look over the horizon." What are we being asked to buy into -- that grade school teachers aren't worth as much as airline pilots and that farmers are less valuable than engineers?

Nonsense. If I were to choose people I admire for their expertise, I would include a fine farmer among them. A successful farmer is the quintessential "Renaissance" person -- meteorologist, mechanic, chemist, biologist, environmentalist, reader, scientific experimenter, athlete, economist, manager and more. I would also include an excellent grade school teacher, someone who, like the farmer, wends a wide knowledge of living into a class experience.

Karen, Virginia and I have discussed an ideal university. The students arrive in early summer (in our climate) to build a dormitory and grow food so as to be prepared for cooler weather in the Fall. As they pound nails and hoe weeds, they discuss relevant mathematical and engineering principles, as well as books they have read. Their entire learning experience is built around living experience.

And It Was Very Good

Many folks see evolution as a call to arms. Some of them judge anyone who thinks evolution has merits to be not a "Christian."

I don't get it. I thought "Christian" referred to belief in Christ, whose teachings appear in the New Testament, not the Old, and who, as I recall (my memory could be faulty) did not discuss evolution.

When I turn to Genesis 1, I find the 7-day creation story these folks think is critical to Christian thought. As I read it, Genesis 1 gives the following schematic:

Day 0: A formless, watery void.

Day 1: Light.

Day 2: Sky.

Day 3: Dry land ("earth") and the "seas."

Day 4: Sun, moon and stars.

Day 5: Living creatures (but not humans).

Day 6: Humankind.

Day 7: Rest.

I admit that making this neat list from the sometimes ambiguous language might be risky, but I think I have the basic elements "correct."

Don't stop! There's more. Genesis 2 mixes things up a bit. In Genesis 2, man is created earlier than the "animal of the field" and "every bird of the air," sort of throwing a wrench in the science of the 7-day story of Genesis 1.

Why, I ask, does the Bible begin with such a remarkable inconsistency? Could it be a warning that the words that follow should not be read "literally?"

When one of her neighbors welcomed Virginia to Sin Valley, she carried a gift. "If you're going to live in this church," she said, "then you need one of these." "Thank you," said Virginia, as she placed the new Bible on a dirty, dusty mantle and went back to work.


P.S. (1/10/10).  Barbara Kingsolver, in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle offers a real-world example of evolution:  "More than 500 species of insects and mites now resist our chemical controls [pesticides], along with over 150 viruses and other plant pathogens.  More than 270 of our recently developed herbicides have now become ineffective for controlling some weeds.  Some 300 weed species resist all herbicides."