On the Christmas Story

During church yesterday, I started to think about the Christmas story, and an interesting notion struck me. I am still working through the idea, but I tried to write a poem that would express it. I'm not sure if it entirely makes sense, but I'll post it here anyway.

Innocent Blood

Everyone knows that Jesus died
They hung him on a cross
Pierced his side
His feet
His hands
They killed him
And he died
To be our atonement
A perfect sacrifice
With pure and innocent blood
And there was weeping in Jerusalem
As there had been many years before
Not far away
In Bethlehem
When Herod killed the baby boys
Trying to kill a king
They were slaughtered in the streets
Before their mothers' eyes
Their pure and innocent blood
Poured out
while the family of Jesus escaped
A gruesome sacrifice
But we were atoned by those deaths
Those cruel deaths
That saved the life of our Lord
So he could be placed on the altar

On the Silver Lining

I've finished another semester.

Finally.

As fast as it flew by, this has been a very long semester--very full. It had its great moments, but I am very glad that it is accomplished. I have had a hard time really looking forward to being at Oxford, just because so many things stood in the way. When I first found out I was accepted, it hardly even felt real. I didn't know how to be excited about it. The last few weeks have been different. I finished off more and more final projects which meant that there were fewer and fewer obstacles between me and the trip. It got scary for a while. In some ways it is, but now it is only three weeks of Christmas break away, and I can truly look forward to it.

Finally.

I think I have spent far too much time focusing on the negatives of a semester abroad, which is strange for me. I am a die hard optimist. I can almost always see the bright side. Of course, I have seen the bright side to studying at Oxford from the beginning, but oddly enough, it has not always been the side on which I centred my attention.

I am changing that. This trip will rock my world, and it will do so in Europe. I'll have a close, long-time friend to share it with, and we are going to be studying in Oxford. That I have the chance to have such an experience blows my mind.

God is good.

Oh yeah, and only one week to Christmas.
Woot!

On Being Almost There

I feel like I'm cruising down a trench on the surface of the Death Star . . .

On Traveling

Things are ending.
New things are starting.
It is a strange time for me. I'm coming to the end of a semester, which is usually a jubilant time. Finals go by, then there is a gorgeous three week break. However, that break means something completely different to me this year. I won't be coming back in three weeks; I'll be leaving. In fact, I'll be heading a few thousand miles east by northeast to spend a semester in this little place called Oxford.

I am exceedingly pumped to be there, to see Europe, to learn.

I am not so excited to be gone.

There is so much that I will miss. I will miss my sister's final musical while she is in high school. I will miss two shows put on by my own school and two more put on by my friends, all of which will be starring friends of mine. I will be missing vocal recitals by people in my life of whom I am exceedingly fond.

But more than that, there are so many little things I will miss, and those will be the hardest: the day to day happenings. People whom I pass on the sidewalk and greet. Chapel services. Impromptu trips to 24 hour restaurants. Inside jokes. My friends will still be my friends when I return, but there is so much shared experience I will not have. What if some of my friends start dating, and I don't get to know them in relationship? What if other friends break up? What if a friend lops of all her hair? What if a friend takes up dancing?

I don't know how to express it.

But it is the little things I dread missing.
Things like the sounds of familiar voices.

On Empathy

I just wish to understand people. I don't think there are many things more important for me

. . . as a fellow person

. . . as a writer

. . . as an ambasador of Christ

than knowing why a person does instead of merely what, knowing where they are coming from and where they are going. I long to be able to look--the way that God looks--and see the heart.

On Bigness

I have never really experimented too much with writing in a stream of consciousness. Some of my poetry is stream of consciousness-esque, but I tend to edit while I write and usually end up forcing something that started out stream of consciousness into a coherent structure and line of though, so it doesn't really count. I felt like writing something today, but wasn't sure what, so I decided to give it a shot, and this is what happened.

the page is yellow like flames, and the heat illuminates words that sear in my mind as surely as they are blackened on this paper. it is crisp in my hand and i can smell the age on it. it is a wondrous smell, deeper than the sea and carrying more weight. how much weight there must be at the bottom of the ocean. I have carried ten gallons of water and it was a burden that made me wish for the might of hercules, i am not nearly so strong as i wish, am thought, or presume to be, but i was strong enough to carry that water, and i thought it a terrible load, but it was just ten gallons and there are millions in the ocean. the sheer weight of it is inconceivable and sometimes i feel that such huge numbers could overcome my mind like a tidal wave, like thinking of infinity vanishing into the crushing force of a black hole which swallows and spits out an infinity in itself, at least it seems like it, but my mind cannot conceive of such weighty sums; it prefers smaller numbers--less than ten is nice, but sometimes one or two is more than enough, you see, i am not all that good at making decision and the fewer the options, the better: that is why infinity is such a frightening concept. who knows what can happen in infinity, and the contemplation of it almost seems to swallow me up as surely as my bones will someday be swallowed up by time, long after my soul has been lost to eternity.

On Publication

So, I found this magazine called Poetry the magazine, which accepts submissions from anyone and everyone who fancies themselves deserving of publication: four poems at a time in the space of two months. However, they do not accept any poetry that has been previously published...even things published on the internet. That means blog posts too. So now I am afraid to put any of my good poems on my blog, because someday I might want to submit them. However, I don't want to put mediocre poetry on my blog because that is no fun for anyone.

I am at an impasse.

On Catching my Breath

It's been a while since I posted, but my life was pretty severely insane there for a while. As a consequence of my tendency to over-commit, I found myself devoting numerous hours that I did not have in working on a set I co-designed with my buddy Scotty. Sleep was the thing most sacrificed (my blog too apparently). Twice this week I got less than two hours of shut-eye: not good. Somehow (and by somehow, I mean by the grace of God) I made it through this week, and the set was even completed. I have been hoping for about a fortnight that I would eventually find some time to breath. I am really hoping this is it. What I am really hoping is that I will find some time to create before I find myself over-committed again. I am gearing up for a night of poetry/music/monologues at Lula's this week. I can't wait. It's been far too long since I've done a reading of any of my poetry.

On Balance

I have been thinking about balance a lot lately. I consider myself a fairly balanced person, both physically and in temperament. I'm about as laid back as they come, and I tend to see the world from that perspective. Balancing all things against each other. For every joy, there will be a sorrow; for every pleasure, pain. Republicans and Democrats both mess up. What goes up, must come down. There is male and female. Every sunrise has a sunset. Balance is all over the place, but it seems most prominent at times in nature. A tree's roots dig as deep as its branches climb. Tides always come in and go out. Electricity has both a positive and a negative charge. Even at the very nature of the universe there is balance. For every particle in existence, there is an anti-particle. The prevalence of all this balance does not become truly troubling until one considers the presence of good and evil. Do they share in this balance? Are they equal?

Philosophers, theologians, writers, and movie makers have been fighting for years to discern whether human nature is inherently good or inherently evil. There seem to be good arguments either way, but the more I look at it, the more it seems to me that there are both. Everything humanity does has both good and evil applications. We invent a metal blade, and with it we harvest our grain, then kill fellow humans. We create languages, which help us to communicate, but also create divides between each other worth fighting wars over. We find ways of producing more food and better food, then eat until our weight kills us. We invent television and the internet, technological wonders that can inform, entertain, and aid human connection, but they are also vessels for violence, pornography and a further disattachment from other people than has ever before been known. The list could go on forever.

If good and evil are the opposite and opposed forces they seem to be here, what does that mean in the big picture? Were Taoism and Dualism right all along? Is this battle between good and evil not only equally matched and thus futile, but also a necessary balance for the maintenance of order in the world? Christianity would argue that God already has the victory over Satan and that evil cannot triumph, but a look at the world shows a whole lot of evil running rampant. How can this be justified? This is another of the classic questions.

I was not quite sure what to do with all of this until I started to change my conception of good and evil. I did not adopt a stance of relativism or anything of that nature. Rather, it was through reading the work of C. S. Lewis that I came to understand evil as not the opposite of good, but as a corruption, a twisting of good: a pursuit of good too long, too far, for too much of it, or in the wrong way. It is just like dark is not the opposite of light, rather it is the absence. Black is not the opposite of white, rather, a white surface reflects light, and a black surface does not. They are opposed, yes, but not opposites--not equals.

The final stroke against Dualism for me was when I realized that all of this balance in the world--the very balance that likely led to the ideas of Dualism--was good. Balance was a good thing. God created all of this balance "and it was good," but we humans with our tendency to corrupt everything try to make good and evil fit within an institution that is already good itself. It is a contradiction. But if God created this balance, than he is beyond it, outside of it, supreme to it. So we should not be surprised when he is able to triumph over evil. He is not fighting an opposite; he is light shining in a shadow.

On Imperfection

"At the beginning of electronic music, some German studios claimed that they could make every sound that a natrual instrument could make - only better. They then discovered that all their sounds were marked by a certain uniform sterility. So they analysed the sounds made by clarinets, flutes, violins, and found that each not contained a remarkably high proportion of plain noise: actual scraping, or the mixture of heavy breathing with wind on wood: from a purist point of view, but the composers soon found themselves compelled to make synthetic dirt - to 'humanize' their compositions."
--Peter Brook

It seems to me that one of the essential human traits is imperfection. Most people would reply to this with a resounding duh, especially Christians. However, I don't just mean sinfulness, or even a proclivity for wrongdoing, though that may be a derivative. I believe that even a sinless person would be imperfect. Only God is perfect. That is why it meant lowering himself when Christ became a human being: He was still sinless, but no longer perfect.

I think of Tolkien's description of the elves of Middle Earth. They are almost ephemeral beings: ageless, wise, and profound in all, especially beauty. Whenever the mortal races interact with the elves, there is a distance kept, an incomprehension that stands in the way of comfort. Next to the elves, men and dwarves and hobbits all seem low and dirty, but they have their own richness, not necessarily better or more, simply different.

In writing dialogue, especially for plays and screenplays, one piece of advice I have heard often and to which I try to cling is that dialogue ought to have imperfections. No one uses perfect grammar when they speak. Maybe a few characters try here and there, but sooner or later, they will respond with a fragment. That is just the way we talk. Even in Shakespeare's verse, heightened language, some of the most interesting moments are when he breaks the rhythm of his iambic pentameter. One of my favourite lines in all of Shakespeare's plays is King Lear's line upon finding his daughter Cordelia dead: "Thoult come no more/Never, never, never, never, never." The regular iambic rhythm of "ba Bum ba Bum ba Bum" is replaced by halting trochaic feet: "Bum ba Bum ba Bum ba" It is almost as if, through the speech, you can hear his heart faltering. Imperfection finer than any that gives a diamond its true beauty. In the same way, though symmetry is what makes a face attractive, it is asymmetry that makes it stand out. Think of Marilyn Monroe and her famous "beauty mark." It was a mole--a mutation, a defect--but it is what made her beauty special.

I think this is why we find imperfection so beautiful. We are ourselves imperfect. We may find perfection admirable, but we do not connect to it as personally. It is distant, foreign. This is one of the reasons why God had to become human. We could not really know him otherwise. He had to share in our imperfection for us to truly be able to approach him, and in approaching him really approach the perfect Deity we so fear to know.

On Silicon Skins

Binary

In this binary world
We are all ones and zeros
Ones
And zeros
Standing alone
Standing empty
With ones and zeros on every side
Ones and zeros
In endless rows and columns
Adding up
But never becoming sums
Remaining forever
Ones
And Zeros
Disparate
Alone

It probably seems hypocrytical for me to post a poem like this in an electronic blog, and maybe it is, but at least I wrote it in ink...
Regardless, this blog is a place where I have a voice, even if it is one that only a few people hear. And what I want to say with this voice is that nowadays we have a hard time connecting to people, especially when so much of it takes place online. The internet is great, and it can help connect people. That is true. But so often it becomes a crutch that keeps people from walking far enough to actually see each other, and that is when it becomes a problem.

On Leaves

I love Fall.

I love all the seasons, and they all have their merits, but there is nothing like fall. This is probably pretty common knowledge to those who know me well, and they've probably heard some of this stuff before, but fall is so prevalent right now that I cannot stop thinking, and therefore writing, about it. Something about fall just gets deep inside me. It helps, of course, that I enjoy cold weather. The feeling of a strong, chilly wind is enlivening, and Autumn rain is like the showering of the Spirit. However, I also love the colours.

The colours.

Fall is absolutely beautiful. I don't think I could live anywhere without deciduous trees. Maybe for a while, but I would miss the changing of the fall season too much. I take so much joy in watching Autumn paint her masterpiece year after year, turning the world into a wash of ochre and umber with vibrant splashes of fire here and there. How can you see this and not love fall? Maybe my artistic sensibility just runs away with me, but I cannot help feeling that there is something holy about fall.

It is interesting to think scientifically about what happens when the weather starts getting cold and the leaves start dying. That is essentially what it is. The leaves start dying. What keeps them alive is the chloroplasts using photosynthesis to provide energy for the plant. These chloroplasts are also what make leaves green. When the cold weather hits, these chloroplasts stop their photosynthesis, and the leaves lose their green. That is when their true nature comes out.

I was told once that Death is the road to awe.

How remarkable it is that God would create plants that became beautiful in death! The greens of spring and summer are vibrant and striking, and I would not give them away, but it blows my mind to think that when that green--that life drains away, the leaves are still beautiful.

That is poetry.

That is God.

Sometimes I think that Jesus is like the autumn leaves. His death came with a wash of red, and in that death he became something inconceivably beautiful. The true nature of his life was revealed in a way that is truly awe inspiring. And like the trees, his death was not forever, but he rose again.

Sometimes I think that we are like the autumn leaves.

Sugar Maples

The trees are beginning to burn
Burn
Throwing their light against the sky
But like Moses and the bush
The trees are not consumed
No, they are the fire
Showing light from deep within the leaves
Iridescent reds and yellows
Revealed by the coming death of winter
As these leaves die
Their true natures are revealed
Awe
And we are like the leaves
With iridescent souls
Waiting only for death
To be revealed

On Publishing

I had decided this summer that I was going to start assembling some poetry and try to get it published. This suffered a serious setback when I was deprived of my laptop. However, now that I have a new one, I have begun working on it again.
The only problems is: I have no idea what I'm doing. Right now, I'm just typing up a bunch of poems, but I don't know where to go from there. I'm trying to follow a basic theme, but I have written so many poems over the past year, that it is hard to wade through them all and weed stuff out. Then I will edit it, but that is a process that seems quite daunting. Since I started writing a poem every day, I stopped revising quite so much, which may be a problem, but I am certainly going to get a work out now. There is also the challenge of actually getting them published. A nice electronic copy of well-edited poems is pretty useless without any way for people to read them. In this area, I have no idea whatsoever what I ought to be doing.
Any advice?

On Celebration: Misfortune Addendum (post 100)

This is a post for celebrations. First off, this is the post when my blog turns 100. I started this blog on a whim about 15 months ago and I have finally reached 100 posts. It feels like a big milestone. Any time you can throw "hundred" into something, it makes it feel a lot more significant. Maybe someday, I will be able to say I have written hundredS of blog posts. Just think how much more significant I will feel about myself then.
I have another reason to celebrate. I have finally gotten a new laptop to replace the one that was stolen. It is such a crazy story. It took over a month and a half to get my replacement laptop, but I still consider myself incredibly fortunate for the whole affair.
Why?
Because I did not have to pay a cent. Since I was living on Notre Dame's rent when the robbery happened, they took full responsibility for the loss and bought me a brand new laptop at no cost to me. What a huge blessing! Sure, I had to go quite a while without one, but even that helped me distance myself from the over-attachment to the internet that most college students tend to form. The new computer has also come at a very good time. I am finally getting to that part of the year when papers start getting assigned. I have a very gracious roommate, but I don't think that even he would be generous enough to let me write an entire research paper on his computer.

On Feet

Walking

There is a story
Written on the rough cement
In the soft earth
And through the dew-soaked grass
Known to the wise
Like Braille
Read by bare feet
And this story tells the secret
Of so much hidden beauty
Disregarded
Passed by
Trampled
By careless rubber-soled feet
Ignorant of what it means to walk

On the Soul of Wit

I have been feeling very poetically impotent lately. I have not been able to write much that I am pleased with. Maybe that is a sign of growth. Perhaps I will rise to this challenge to create poetry that is sweeter and more profound.

Maybe.

Right now, it is just discouraging. I still write every day, but the products often seem tedious or even worse unpoetic. Now, to be fair, I am always my own worst critic. So it is possible that these poems are not nearly as bad as I suppose them to be. Nevertheless, this is the first one in over two weeks that I have felt is worth posting here. It is also the shortest that I have written in two weeks. In fact, it is one of the shortest that I have ever written. I think that is why I like it. Its brevity makes it beautiful.

No Rain Fell

Not today

There are no words today

No words

They tore up the flowers

A green leaf spiraled down

I can muster nothing more

On Management

Why do humans seem to think they can handle living? None of us are equal to the task, but still we try so hard. Sometimes it seems we would rather try alone and fail than seek help and actually succeed. Confound self-reliance and our stubborn self-centredness.

On Brilliance

Today, I saw a man who looked like Albert Einstein.

Then he put on sun glasses and picked up a guitar.

Then he started singing.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I am so glad he sounded the way he did. He was definitely unenergetic and off-key, but he was so laid-back, that it was all okay.

It was beautiful.

On Splendour

Angel of Death

I hear her footsteps
Can you hear them?
They are faint now
But coming closer
Growing ever louder
Autumn is coming closer
I feel her in the chill breath of wind
I see her in the patch of coloured leaves
I hear her in those ever louder footsteps
Autumn is coming.
Very soon now
The trees will go up like fireworks
Burst with the colour of flame
Then fall away
Like smoke and ash
For Autumn in all her beauty
Is nevertheless
An angel of death
She is the downward stroke
Of Time's sharp sickle
And all of the leaves tremble
Knowing how soon she will be arrived
Knowing
Their end is near
But it is not an end without grace
For Autumn gives to every death
A gift
A final measure of splendour
Turning every leaf to a treasure
So every eye will note
And marvel at their passing.
This is her greatest act
And I see
The she has already begun
Already started her work
Do you hear her footsteps?
the leaves are changing
Autumn is coming.

On Baptism

Over a month ago, while I was still living in South Bend, I was walking home from a friends house at night when it started to rain. Being a lover of rain, I decided to walk around campus and enjoy the weather for a while. I ended up walking around for hours, and it was quite an experience. There was a storm that was approaching the entire time and the heart of it finally reached mine. I stood in the middle of a cemetery while this downpour battered me, and it was one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever had. The next day, I wrote quite a three page poem about the night. I decide that one was a bit lengthy for a blog post, but this Sunday was Baptism Sunday at my home church, and out of that service came this retrospective poem:

Baptism

What was I seeking
That night in the rain
When I raised my arms to the torrent
Was I waiting to be washed?
Or just to be swept away?
The heavens
Broke
Over me
They descended
I was immersed
In water and fury
And in that moment
The storm and I knew each other
The water running down my face
Touched my soul
I don't know where the water carried me
I don't know what was washed away
But I emerged
In a world I saw for the first time
With eyes no longer afraid
To see

On Confusion

Over time, I have become greatly perplexed by the phrase, "How are you doing?" and its sister phrase, "What's up?" I use both of thse phrases more or less regularly, but they are nonetheless enigmatic to me.
Consider the first: "How are you doing?" Doing what? Walking? I am walking by lifting up one foot and putting it in front of me, shifting my weight to that foot, then repeating the process with the other foot. Breathing? I inhale good air and exhale used air. Oh, you wanted to know what is going on in my life? Why didn't you ask that?
The second is similar: "What's up?" As a child, I was once fond of the obnoxious joke responses such as "the sky" or "the ceiling." For a while, I thought these comebacks were incredibly clever. In fact, I know some people who still think so.
Now, these seem like somewhat odd ways to ask after a person's health and well being, but the part that really confuses me is when a person uses these phrases as a greeting. There are those who ask "What's up?" and not actually expect an answer. What they really mean is "hello." The problem is, there are still a great number of people who ask "What's up?" and want to know what's up, which really means "what is going on?" However, with all these layers of nuance, I am sometimes confused by what a person is actually asking. Whenever I pass someone and they say, "How's it going?" I am forced to guess whether they are actually asking or just happen to be greeting me. Then I must decide whether to answer a question, or just say, "Hello," and move on. The split second I have to decipher the other persons intention is usually a grueling one, and the worst part is, I always seem to choose wrong.

On Identity

I Remember the Day

I remember the day
I realized my father wasn't tall
He always used to pick me up
And I would soar
With the ground so far away
He seemed like a giant
But that day
The other men were looking down on him
And he craned his neck to them all
My father changed that day
At least in my eyes
Like the day I found out that his name was Greg
Or Gregory
Or Mr. Fox
Not Daddy like I always called him
Gregory Fox is my father
But it is Daddy who tucks me in at night

I remember the day
I realized my father was short
I finally stood
Level with his broad shoulders
Knowing I had years of growing left
It was one thing to pass mom
She was just a girl
But to learn that my father
Was small
He changed in my eyes again that day
The he himself had never changed
But you see
Daddy was a great big man
And my father is only five-foot-eight
So I'm a bigger man than he.

I remember the day
I realized my father wasn't strong
He could always pin me when we wrestled
And he always broke my toughest tackles
But it didn't take long
Before I outran him
Before I hit him like a brick
And I realized he was a man
Just a man
Not superman
Like I secretly hoped
And somehow he was different then
Somehow he changed
My father always carried a pen
Never a sword
Daddy was still a super hero
But my father is just a writer

I remember the day
I realized my father was weak
It was the day
I saw him cry
And seeing those tears in his eyes
Changed the way I knew him
I learned
That he was like me
That he felt pain and sorrow too
Daddy was never soft
Never let his emotions show
Least of all to me
I didn't even know he could feel
But my father
Was a broken hearted man
Who tried to carry the world
And I'll never forget the day
I realized who he was

On Observations

The ironies of getting robbed:

A kicked in door looks really cool, until you try to close it.

Police fingerprint kits are cool, but the police don't clean up after using them. So not only were we robbed, but then there was grimy black dust all over the house.

Everyone in the house was subletting from the University of Notre Dame. Nothing belonging to the house (and therefore insured) was stolen, only the belongings of poor college students.

I have a lock for my computer so I can chain it to my desk, but I never used it this summer because I trust my housemates.

At the beginning of August, Best Buy sent me a letter encouraging me to renew the warranty on my laptop in case of accident or theft. I ignored it, and my warranty ran out...four days before I was robbed.

We still lock the house, but we are not sure what we are protecting.

On Sorting through Thinking

I always find it interesting what I come up with when I try to write poetry with a limited vocabulary choice. Basically this only happens when I write poems using those refrigerator magnets with words on them. They are intended to leave messages or funny statements, but I generally just make poems. I guess it comes naturally for me, or it's just force of habit. However, I've noticed that I usually end up sounding deeper in these than in my normal poems. I don't think I necessarily am, it just makes me sound different.

This Mortal Fog
composed with kitchen magnets

Beneath celestial music
Above my how's
Why's
Who's
I see light
From night moons and broad smiles
The earth flowers
A would not
Is not

On Misfortune

As I type this, I am sitting at a computer in a classroom at Notre Dame, logged in under a friends account. Normally, I would be typing a blog post on my laptop, where I do most of my writing. I suppose, it's where I did most of my writing.

This summer, I have been living with six other guys in a house provided by the University of Notre Dame. We are all students working for the Notre Dame Shakespeare Festival. Last night, one of my housemates and I returned to the house after a movie to find the door ajar. We thought it just meant that someone was home and had absent-mindedly forgotten to lock the door. Then we realized that it wouldn't shut because it had been kicked in, breaking the door itself, the latch, and bending the dead bolt.

The house where I am staying was robbed last night. Five computers (including mine) and an x-box were stolen, along with some other small electronics. A police report has been filed, but we're not really expecting much to come of it. Situations like this are difficult.

It has been an interesting experience. I have never been robbed before. It is quite different than I ever would have imagined. And I certainly never would have expected to take it the way I have. Once I got over the shock of the matter, I sat down to just think it over. What had I lost? Well, I lost a computer. Yes, it is a lot of money, but in the end, it is essentially just a time consuming collection of plastic and silicon. I was a bit more upset about losing all of my writings that were saved on the computer, but most of them, aside from a play and a short story that are both in progress, are backed up with hard copies. It is a bit upsetting that I lost almost all contact with the outside world. I don't have a phone, and now I cannot even communicate with people online. That is a bummer, but it will be amended in time. However, as I reflected, I came to discover that I had lost something else, and this was the most surprising.

I had lost my fear.

I don't know when it happened or how. Perhaps it had been long gone, and I simply hadn't noticed. Nevertheless, as my housemates began making preparations to find places to stay for the night, I realized that I had no qualms about sleeping in a freshly robbed house with the door kicked in. Now maybe that is just foolishness, but I simply wasn't afraid. It was actually a relief. I hate it whenever fear enters my life, and to not feel it at such a stressful time was remarkably freeing. What was there to fear anyway? I had already lost the most lucrative of my possessions, what else could be taken? My life? Why should I fear death?

Now, I did not stay in the house. A friend gave me a couch to sleep on. It has been remarkable how much compassion my housemates and I have received as a result of the incident. It has been encouraging, but, as I have said, I don't feel like I have lost that much. Maybe I am just too laid back for my own good. My only real misfortune is a bit of inconvenience in communicating with people, but other than that, I am doing quite well. Still, if any of you reading this are looking for something to pray for, feel free to pray for my housemates and I. This has been a lot harder on all of them, and it is certainly going to be unpleasant to replace these stolen items, even for someone as laid back as I am. Nevertheless, I know that God has been present, and his hand has been here protecting us. I have spent all summer reading through the prophets and learning about how God is a redeemer bringing good out of evil. I don't want to let a silly thing like a laptop make me forget what he can do.

On the Symbol of Canada

I admit to having certain quirks, as I am sure all people have, which may be considered slightly odd. However, these quirks are a large part of what makes me who I am, so over time I have chosen to embrace them. The problem is that I sometimes forget that these quirks can be observed by others, and these others do not always have a familiar enough acquaintence to overlook my oddities. In short, over the course of my life, I have gotten more than my share of strange looks. Recently, one of these looks of bewilderment was so pronounced as to inspire poetry:

The Maple Leaf

You think me a silly fellow,
Don't you?
As you pass me by.
Maybe I am...
No doubt I look it,
Clutching this maple leaf as I am
I hold it like
A very young girl enraptured by a dandelion,
Loving its soft yellow,
Caring not that it's a weed.
You may think a leaf a trifle--
An unimportant little thing--
But tell me,
Have you ever held one tenderly?
As you would a woman's hand?
Compassionately stroked the smooth green skin?
Letting it fold around your fingers--
Like a lady's delicacy?
There is more gentility in one maple leaf
Than can be found in a thousand men.
But fair as it is,
A leaf is fragile,
And taking it between your fingers--
You would see it
For what it is:
Just a membrane stretched between veins,
Little more than dust--
As easily torn as tossed aside,
And in the this
The leaf would prove a treasure,
For that is most valuable
Which is most difficult to keep.
So laugh,
If you like,
Scoff--
At the man,
The grown boy,
Holding a leaf as he walks.
But I hold the stories of life and love in my hand--
I hold the story of death.

On the Matrix

"You're going to realize just as I did, there's a difference between knowing the path and walking the path."

Yes. This is a quote from the Matrix. And even though that is the movie that tricked us all into thinking that Keanu Reeves might be able to act, the film still has some redeeming qualities. Among those are its intelligence. The depth of that movie is such that there are many lessons that Christians can learn from it. One of those lessons is the one mentioned above: "there's a difference between knowing the path and walking the path."
I don't know about you, but I sometimes get overly preoccupied with "doing the right thing," or "choosing the right path." Okay, I frequently get preoccupied with such concerns, especially as a Christian. There is a very strong movement among Christians to make sure that you are following God's will. I think this is incredibly important, but this is a very vague concept, and it is usually not very well explained. There is only further confusion added by going to school on a Christian campus where it seems like everyone is searching for God's will in different ways and with different definitions. I have understood for a while that there is something lacking in my conception of God's will, but it did not hit me until recently when I was watching the Matrix with a couple of my coworkers.

There's a difference between knowing the path and walking the path.

I don't have to know exactly what God's will is for my life. Perhaps he has a specific will for me, but he hasn't revealed much of it if he does. However, I know that God would have me obey his commands and live a life of love. He has told me that directly in his word. That is a path I can walk. I don't need to know all of the twists and turns or even where it will take me. All God asks is that I walk in that path and trust him with the rest.

On the Sky

The clouds drifted overhead like forgotten dreams, coming from and going to who knows where, and for a while my soul drifted with them--to another night when I watched the silent memories pass, so long and not so very long ago, and now I find that my heart lives in both moments, but it is too weak to experience them together.

On the Weather

I write a lot of poetry. Some of it is not that good, and some of it may not even really count as poetry for some people. However, every now and then in the aimless wanderings of my pen, I come up with something special, something of which I am truly proud. I do not know if the following poem is all that special, but I am as proud of it as I have been of anything I've written in a long while. We have been getting a lot of rain lately (which I have enjoyed immensely) and I thought it ought to be commemorated with some poetry. Sorry if it is too long.

The Raincatcher

I can hear a distant, quivering thunder
And the patter of drops ascending the roof;
It is raining again:
The music of a dying sob.
I look out the window to share the melancholy,
But the storm looks too perfect,
Like something out of a movie,
Somehow strange:
Diluted splendour.
Perhaps it is the parking lot backdrop--
The manmade manicure.
At least the smell is authentic--
The perfume of life in song,
And it takes me back to rainy days long past--
Long passed away...
When I was young,
And I lay in bed at night
While nature's frenzy threatened at my window,
Or when I was older,
And I stood in the downpour
Begging to witness the heavens wrent open,
Begging to take it all in,
Begging to feel.
Storms have a terrible beauty.

How I wish I had a raincatcher!
Like the meteorologists have,
That I might gather up a storm,
Measure up magnificence,
And pour it in my inkwell:
The potent product of my effort
To use with care upon the page.
Think of it:
The might of a thundercloud--
Those mountains doing battle in the air--
Focused into every delicate stroke;
The roar of thunder,
Like the mustering of heroes,
Shouting in the briefest utterance;
The sizzle and crackle of lightning,
The bolts of Zeus himself,
Giving furious awe to my most crude speech;
And remaining long after the words have all been read:
A sweet sentimentality would linger,
Like the scent of rain,
Like a parting kiss.
Such words I would write then--
Such words!
Such poetry as would split the heavens
And stir the soul to tremble.
If only I could harness a storm,
Then I would be a true artist--
Yes, then I would be a poet indeed.

On Blogging

I was really excited when I started out this month with six posts in the first two weeks. However, I then proceeded to go almost two more weeks without a single post. So much for that little spree. It is not that I have had nothing to write; a lot of life can happen in two weeks, for some reason I have simply not been able to set anything down. It is like I have had some sort of blogger's block. I usually feel like I have to be witty, profound, or eloquent in my blog posts, and lately, I have not felt like I could muster any of those traits to write about myself, so I simply did not post.
I think I hold myself to too high a standard sometimes--a higher standard than that to which anyone else holds me.
I don't feel like this post is at all witty, profound, or eloquent either. Mostly it is just meandering thoughts, but I am at least doing something. Sometimes, the only way out of writer's block is to force yourself to write. You may not be particularly pleased with the result, but at least you have momentum again. I feel like the same practice applies to blogging as well. At least I am posting again. Maybe this is what I need to ease myself back into being witty, profound, and eloquent again. Or MAYBE I will finally learn not to take something as silly as a blog so seriously...

We shall see.

On an Antagonist

The following poem describes an event I have experienced fairly frequently ever since I moved into the house where I'm staying this summer. It is a tragic event, even more painful because of its frequency, and I hope that, through this poem, you will be able to understand some measure of my pain.

Morning

I roll over
And I see it
There it is
Mocking me
Waiting
Winking with that little red eye
The one next to the word:
Alarm
Numbers lit in green
Shift on schedule like a traffic light
Methodically keeping order
Keeping me in place
But right now
That place is bed
At least for a few more minutes
Or so the numbers tell me
In their own strange language
So why am I awake?
Why?
I wish I knew the answer
Perhaps it's a trick of the sun
Throwing its joy across my face
The sun is always so eager to bring me joy
Especially these summer months
Maybe my body is the traitor
Driven to wake
By some internal schedule
Known only to itself
Whatever the reason
I'm rolling back over
Clinging to night for just a little while longer
Just a little while
But I know
I know full well
That eye is watching me still
Glaring
Waiting
To call me from my dreams

On Nomenclature

In my continuing saga of writing poems about writing poems, I had a good time writing this one about a choice that most every poet makes, but one that is rarely given any thought. I don't know why, but I tend to adopt a very different tone when I write these sort of poems. Is it because I'm writing from outside of myself? Are they less personal? Maybe in some ways. Although, it is still in the first person. I am probably thinking too hard about this. I just know that it is fun to write about poets. We are such strange people who do such strange things and think in strange ways. Hopefully this poem captures at least one facet of that.

Addressing a Poem

How should I write it?
To whom should I address my verse?
Should it be to her?
Or should it be to you?
To write to you
Is to speak my feelings
Into the heart of whoever reads
To speak the words that may be longed for
As though we were face to face
As though we knew each other truly
But it is dangerous to write to you
For what if the words are secret?
Written to only a single you?
So whenever the poem was read
It would be a conversation overheard
Words cheapened
Secrets stolen
Given to a heart which had not earned them.
But to write to her
Provides a certain anonymity
For no one knows who she might be
A secret love
A faultless Muse
Or maybe even an unknown you
Regardless
Praise will make her timeless
She will be forever enshrined
While a you will change with every read.
With every poem
Comes the choice
To write to her or you
But always
The greatest fear
Is that you will never realize
The she I adore is you.

On Carpentry: Addendum

So, if using a wood chisel in the shop makes me feel like a real carpenter, then who or what should I feel like after using a chain saw?

On Carpentry

I was very excited for this summer when I found out that one of my job titles would be carpenter. I have been building sets for three years, but this is the first time I have ever been called a carpenter. However, even then, I did not feel like a real carpenter until I used a wood chisel. Accomplishing a task without the aid of power tools suddenly made me feel like I actually deserve the title.
Oddly enough, it also makes me feel like I have a new sense or understanding of who Jesus was. I wonder if he had calluses in some of the same places I do, I wonder how he dealt with splinters, I wonder what the sawdust that coated him would have smelled like (I always end up smelling like pine), and I wonder how many cool things he could make with a wood chisel. It's always cool to find something in common with Jesus. I just hope I have more in common with him than a marketable skill set.

On Finding Gilead

I had the day off from work today in honour of Independence Day, and along with wasting a lot of time lounging about the house, I also managed to get outside long enough to go on a walk with God. It was a simple thing, just me exploring the world around me. No one who knows me well would have been surprised at all by anything I did: walking by the river, looking over the edge of a bridge, swinging, climbing a jungle gym, climbing a tree. But I went with God, and I talked with him a lot. It was one of the most restorative conversations I have ever had with him. Perhaps it was because I let myself be myself with him. I am sometimes overly formal when it comes to prayer, and even my faith in general. This was a good break from that. I think God would agree.
Maybe I'm learning something.

Rest

I went down to the river this afternoon
The sun was finally out
And I thought the day deserved a walk
It certainly did
I think perhaps it told me so.
Beneath the bridge the water raced quickly
Hastening on with unknown purpose
And the wind in the trees
Lent a roar to the river's murmur
So one would almost think the water dangerous
It wasn't so dangerous
And it delighted in the sunshine
Reflecting and spreading the light for all to share.
I walked in the shade of the trees
Where the sunlight fell in mottled grins
And I found an inlet there
Where the water was calm and gentle
Smooth stones rested below
And ducks were teaching their young to swim
The ground all about was flecked with tufts of down
Shed by ducklings yearning to fly
The soft, tiny feathers
Reminded me of the not too distant spring
When the cotton fell
And hung in the air like magic
Casting the world in a softer tint.
I waded into the still water
Delicately
It was colder than I expected
But refreshing
Maybe even healing
The water swirled and eddied about my feet
Washing away
The dirt of the steps that brought me there
Washing it away
Then I sat on a broad flat stone
Letting my feet dry in the mottled sunlight
Listening to the quiet words of the water
And I felt my soul restored.

On a Memorium

With the recent death of the "King of Pop," I thought it only fitting to pay tribute to Michael Jackson through an image montage which chronicles his life.












Seriously! Shouldn't we have figured this out a long time ago?


IT EXPLAINS SO MUCH!

On Irony (ii)

It is amazing how God can prepare a person for eventualities they don't even know are coming.
Recently, God has been using various people, circumstances, and scriptures in my life to remind me of his faithfulness, his providence, and his unimaginably great love and delight in me.
How did he know I was going to rely on these promises?

On What I Saw with Scotty

So, the event I'm going to describe happened a few days ago, but I still want to share it, because it was too wonderful to keep to myself.

Fireflies

The sun set late
After a long summer day
Flecks of gold tint the vermilion skies
Twilight slowly spreads
Filling the sky
The way hot cocoa warms the body.
We sit in the grass
Cool beneath the darkening sky
Listening to the rippling water
And a light blinks beside me
The first firefly of summer
It hovers beside me
It rests in my hand
Blinks
And flies away beneath the trees
Where other little yellow lights
Flicker in the night
Rising like spark from a fire
Lighting
And extinguishing
Like the passing thoughts
That go forever unspoken

For all those of you who may have been seeing fireflies for weeks, please do not spoil my joy by posting on here and telling me all about it. I am living in the city this summer, so my nature quota is quite low right now.

On Saying "Oops"

It seems to me that our culture refuses to accept that everyone fails at some point. It is as though we have a zero tolerance level for errors. Shortcomings serve as signs of incompetence and merit punishment. We expect perfection.
We're all still human, aren't we? Shouldn't we have figured out by now that we all make mitsakes?

On Church

Last night I went with my girlfriend and another friend to a young adult service at Crossroads Community Church at their north campus. I really did not know what to expect, but it was one of the coolest things I have done in a long time. I had a really good feeling about it as soon as I walked in and saw that everyone was sitting around tables. There was a brief time of worship, then a sort of guided discussion. We ended up talking about problems with the church. And we were IN church. It was very cool. It's something that needs to happen more often. The church has problems, more than I can possibly know how to list or even begin to think about solving. However, if the church comes together and recognizes these, maybe they will begin to change. That was the most beautiful part of the night: just the dialogue. It felt like what church was supposed to be. People coming together and seeking the truth about God, and talking about it with one another. I am not saying that there isn't a place for traditional church services, and it is not a debate I would be excited about getting involved in, it was just nice to feel unity in Christ.
On top of all that, I got to see my former youth pastor and mentor, Karl. He is an awesome guy, and it is always wonderful when I get to talk with him and catch up. Only adding to the coolness was the fact that we sang the song, Fire, Fall Down, a song I have not sang since Timber Lakes Camp over a year ago. It was also special because of a poem I had written only days earlier. It was from the perspective of an Elijah-esque character, trying to call down fire from heaven, but failing because he sought it with impure motives (not a self-referential analogy, just for the record). Thus, I was able to seek the fire, the Spirit of God while re-examining my own motives. It was an incredibly fitting song, all the more so because it was already dear to my heart.
I guess my point is, it was a jolly good evening.

On Thinking

So I've been thinking for a while that I want to write a post on free-will versus determinism, but after my lengthy, and I'm afraid, rather dry thoughts on justice, I'm going to hold off on more philosophy and just let my thoughts simmer for a while. That way they will be more tender and soak in the flavour. Don't think too hard about that analogy.

I blame my recent overload of deep thoughts on my May term class. Granted, that ended two weeks ago, but the experience of ingesting a semester's worth of philosophy in just three weeks is enough to leave a deep impression on anyone, let alone someone like me who actually enjoys thinking. Every time we alighted on an interesting subject during our three hour class sessions, I would find myself thinking, "Ooh! I should blog my thoughts on this topic." However, now that my philosophical intake has slowed down a bit, I am starting to realize that there are probably not many people who care to read my thoughts on the mind-body problem. I think that the real reason I blog about stuff like this is that it helps me to organize my own thought. Hmm...writing as a form of self-definition and a construction of identity...more things to ponder.

But I shall leave all that for another time. In other news, I am stoked to start working for Notre Dame's Summer Shakespeare Festival tomorrow. These two weeks off have been nice, but I am ready for some activity. A forty hour work week will probably more than suffice to provide all of the activity I could want, but that's what I signed up for, so bring it on. If nothing else, having two weeks off afforded me plenty of time to read some great novels. Speaking of which, I am also looking forward to reading my first whole novel by the James Joyce. I am not sure I am quite ready for Dubliners, but it is about time I set myself to the task. We'll see what comes of that.


Thoughts on free-will coming on a date to be determined later.

On Justice

"God of justice, Saviour to all."

Has anyone ever thought about what a paradoxical statement that is? Christians everywhere praise God for being just and righteous, but they also thank him for his mercy and grace. If you think about it, these seem like things that definitely do not go together. Mercy and grace, by definition, both involve forgoing justice. Nevertheless, we lump them all into traits of the same being and are quite happy to do so. Don't get me wrong. I am not attacking this belief; it is one that I myself hold. I am simply addressing a contradiction that few Christians even seem to realize exists within their fundamental doctrines as well as many of their songs

Why do we want justice anyway? That of course prompts the question of what justice actually is. Considering the fact that philosophers have been asking that question almost as long as philosophy has existed, I will not be so presumptuous as to try to answer it here. Rather, I will just use the conventional definitions: a sort of fairness or equality, punishment for wrong-doing and reward for right-doing, or even a kind of retribution or restoration. The general idea centres around what is right and fair. Justice is generally thought of as a good thing...a desirable thing. If asked, most people say they want justice. I think those people are liars, or at least confused.

End

No one wants justice
Not really
Justice kills us all
And justice is the end
But we all just want to go on
To continue
We're selfish
In the end
And justice is only a means
Only a means
For someone else to end
We all end
An that's why nobody wants it
No one wants justice
Not really

This is a very cynical poem, one of my most cynical in fact. However, I am a human being, and I know what human nature is like. We're selfish. We all suffer from some twisted sense of pride or over-developed self-focus. It is the way of all people. That's why it seems to me that most people who seek justice are seeking a very narrow conception or focus of justice. Usually (and I do emphasize usually), people either want justice for themselves as retribution for wrong done against them, or they even want justice for another person or group of people who have been treated unfairly. However, in either case, these people generally want themselves unaffected by the enactment of this justice, unless it involves some endorphins. From my experience, most Western Christians fall into the second category.

I fully acknowledge that this is not true of everyone who desires justice. Still, it is a definite minority that is actually willing to suffer for the sake of fairness. Nevertheless, I don't know of anyone who has ever sought true justice. As the old saying goes, "An eye for an eye makes everyone blind." We live in an unfair world, and to make it fair means a lot of people, especially in the West, would have to lose a lot (a sudden influx of wealth to the impoverished of the world which raises them to the level of the West seems unlikely, and it also does not seem like this would account for the long apathy of the wealthy). I think perhaps the toughest loss for most in Western culture be their sense of superiority. I don't know if even Christians truly want justice. True justice means we're all damned. "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." When Christians ask for justice, I think they often forget this particular fact. In the words of Sweeney Todd, "We all deserve to die."

In the big picture, what I think everyone truly wants is grace and mercy. We may occasionally want justice done upon certain people, but for ourselves, we would undoubtedly desire mercy. In the case of the impoverished, people are most likely to desire grace. Deep down, we are all aware of what we deserve, even the most conceited of us. I do not think this is a bad thing. After all, our Creator has proved himself full of mercy and grace, and he undoubtedly instilled within us desires for these two as well as for justice. However, the modern church likes to focus on the mercy and grace. Perhaps this is why we have a narrow or underdeveloped sense of what real justice is and how it applies to religion.

The fact that is God is a God of justice is what makes his mercy and grace so remarkable. The Old Testament shows a clear example of this. Attacks against Christianity have said for years that there are inconsistencies between the two testaments, but I would disagree, they are simply on a macro and a micro level. In the Old Testament, God's justice is clearly enacted against the nations around Israel, and it is horrible, but it makes his mercy and grace toward Israel when they turn to him that much more astounding. This is the same God we see in the New Testament offering his grace and mercy to anyone willing to turn to him. "Anyone who trusts in Him will never be put to shame."

As Christians, it is essential that we acknowledge the reality of our iniquity and the punishment we deserve as well as God's merciful forgiveness of sin and graceful gift of salvation. "This righteousness from God comes through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus." Any step without the other leaves a person with an incomplete and therefore dangerous view of God.

On Travelling Companions

Once I shouted to God asking him to take me.

Take me.

I have had a good relationship with the Lord and have for a long time, but I have always felt a lack in the area of boldness. I am a quiet, laid-back kind of fellow. As such, the type of spiritual moxie and daring that evangelicals tend to praise has never come easy to me. I have sometimes wondered if it is just a lack of the Spirit's presence in my life or if I just needed God to take control of me and set me running on the right course, for him to take me over, to take me where he wanted me.

Once I shouted to God begging him to take me.

He asked me to take Him.

I comprehended it then. Now I'm starting to understand.

On Life as it Passes

I have been wanting to post for a while now, but the fates seem to be against me. Every time my fingers start itching to write, I am removed from internet access. Meanwhile, when I have access, I am usually busy doing something that is actually necessary. Well fate has finally taken a turn and afforded me an opportunity to do some writing.
I am in the midst of a May term class in philosophy. That means it is an entire semester's worth of philosophical questions and ponderings condensed into three short weeks. Normally, I probably would not think that the brief delving into a broad survey of the philosophical would be all that grueling. However, condensing all of those topics into three hours a day five days a week does make it rather challenging. It is also frustrating because we only have time to scratch the surface of so many immense issues. A lot of them have made me want to blog just so I could get my thoughts out. Unfortunately, as I stated earlier, blogging has not been easily facilitated, so all my thinking has gone unwritten. Ah well, it matters not. I am sure I will have other opportunities to wrack my brain about the meaning of life and then post it here. Hopefully it won't be in an eight part series again, but you never know.
On the other hand, it has also been a very good time for me poetically. I go through spells where I am not really pleased with many of my poems or I think them banal, trite, or just bad. Right now, however, I am going through a spell where I feel like I am writing some very good stuff, maybe the best I've written since I went to LA back in march. The only question now is which to post.
This one I wrote after hanging out with my friends Katy and Chester and my girlfriend, Hannah the night before Katy left for Texas for two months. It was a very cool and pleasant evening and seemed worthy of a bit of poetry.

Skyglow

We lay on the grass
To watch the stars
But it was a cool night
And clouds crept into the country
In the distance to the northwest
We couls see it
The ever present glow
Of the sleepless city lights
Like a great burning on the horizon
Filling the night air
With a lurid gleam
And the clouds
That came to watch us
Were all tinged with that dull orange
Looking hellishly contrived
Set against the deep blue heavens
The city lights came down on us
Like radioactive fallout
Desaturating all
So when we looked to the sky
We saw blindness
And hid ourselves under blankets
Trying to find the darkness
To reclaim the night
But knowing already
That it's lost

Obviously I'm not very keen on skyglow. Anyone who's read a lot of my poetry probably knows that I love the stars and hate fluorescent orange streetlights. Sure, their function is nice, but they are just obnoxious--especially when they block out the stars that I so love.
I'm going to post another one because...well...this is my blog, and I shall do with it as I please, and I like this poem, so I'm going to post it. And there's nothing you can do to stop me! Well, now that that overly dramatic power trip, here is a poem about something completely different.

Is This Why We Hold our Breath When We Pass?

The dead lie
In ordered rows
Side by side
Quiet.
Every one of them
Quiet.
Still.
Row after row
Of the dead
In the pale light
Of morning
It's chilling.
Quiet.
We pass by
And stonecut names
Stare back
Speaking
The only words left
For the dead
Quiet.

On a Birthday Gift

The Journals

A new journal sits there

Watching me

Waiting for me

To finish

To begin

A wondrous telling in its pages

Oh the things I will write

The many wonders that lay ahead

Like a new year

Eager

For its elder to go to rest

Waiting

On Experiments with Poetry

Quietude

It is quiet...
And I fear the scratching of my pen may be too loud.
I hesitate--

Hesitate--

For the sleepers gathered here
Rest.
In far too deep a peace.


I dare not rouse them from their end...
Call on them
To rise again and fill my lines...
To imprison them within my verse.

Forever--
A ceaseless existence devoid of peace--
Devoid of rest...

Void


The stillness shudders--

I put my pen away.
And I close my book.
I hesitate--

I go.
I will disturb the sleepers no more...
No captives will I make of them...
Their stories shall remain their own--

On Further Evidence to Corroborate

"Telephones are, without question, useful devices. But they are also, it seems to me, the verbal equivalent of houses without toilets. Telephones allow minds to communicate with minds (or tongues with ears, at least) in clarity or turmoil, in semisomnolence or drunkenness, in lust, joy, hysteria, stupefaction or any other state that fails to render a human physically incapable of holding up a quarter-pound chunk of perforated plastic--which is most every state there is. That telephones can connect us in seconds to any creature on earth foolhardy enough to lift its own chunk of plastic is wonderful. But it's also terrible, given what a lot of people think and feel about each other. That's why, until they're equipped with some sort of flush or filter or wast-disposal system for the billions of words that ought not to be spoken, I'll not trust the things."

--Kincaid Chance in the novel The Brothers K

This is just one more reason why telephones (and even more so cell phones) are overrated contraptions whose capacity for evil is rarely understood completely.

On the Development of my Thoughts (epilogue)

This has been quite the lengthy ordeal, and I fear that it has also been rather tedious reading. In print, all of those thoughts amount to a little over seventeen pages double spaced. They are a large part of my accumulated thoughts for the semester, mostly in response to reading Charles Taylor's A Secular Age, a weighty tome which was very insightful, but poorly written (my roommate and I agree that Taylor is greatly in need of an editor).
Muscling through page after page, I felt more like I was gleaning from the harvest than actually gaining a lot directly. Whether it was what I was meant to gain or not, reading Taylor's book spurred a lot of thoughts, things that I have passed through my mind before, but that I had never spent serious time contemplating.
There was a lot more that I wish had made its way into this essay (of course, that would have only made it longer), but there is so much more I could have said, so many more things that were churning about in my head: internet-constructed identities, marriage, absolute truth. However, I had a line of thinking I was following, and I decided it was better not to get too far off track. I think this issue of exclusive humanism is a major contributor to some of the major buzz-word topics in politics and religion today. Too seldom, people do not understand the true heart of issues or where they originated. A lot could be learned from a more careful exploration of motives and issues. Christians especially could benefit from understanding how the overarching Western worldview has shaped their thoughts. The statement remains true: "You can't know where you're going if you don't know where you've been."

On the Development of my Thoughts (part 8)

As with modernity, the church has taken its own spin on post-modernity as well. When I first mentioned Christianity above, I came fairly close to discussing its current situation. As with modernity at large, the number of opinions on religion has increased greatly due to the availability of resources, the increased weight placed on personal revelation, and the general undercurrent of society. Not surprisingly, this led to a form of relativity within Christianity as well. The problem with relativity within a religion based on absolute truth is that once issues become grey, it is harder to make definite stands on them. As a result, some churches have begun adopting strange or questionable doctrines which seem contradictory to scripture since they don’t know where to draw a line. The post-modern or emergent church is particularly noted for this trend. This is also the case with the aforementioned individuals who choose to give up on the church, especially if they set out on their own. Christianity without church creates some serious problems. Among these are deviations of religion and a much easier decent into unbelief.
Christianity has also had its own foray into the popularized issue of relationship. Though there has certainly been a great deal of strain on what proper relationships look like in the church, the main relational shift in Christianity has been in how God himself is viewed. Christians today will cry out until they are hoarse that Jesus is a relational God and that salvation is dependent upon this relationship. This is certainly a biblical principle, but it is a very narrow minded view of God. In scripture, he does not merely ask for conversation, he commands praise. There is more to Jesus' sacrifice than simply restoring right relations with the Father. However, the absolutes have begun to slip out of Christianity as well. Some Christians take Paul’s words in Corinthians, “Everything is permissible for me, but not everything is beneficial,” as a license to do what they please, provided it does not disrupt their relationship with Christ. There is an element of truth to this argument, but it is a dangerous view to adopt without fully understanding everything that comprises that passage. I (personally) believe in a God who demands obedience and a salvation that can be lost. However, I also believe that I have a loving relationship with the Father and that because of that relationship he will continue to offer me grace.
So what then is the solution to this convoluted maze? Shall I call for an attempt to eradicate exclusive humanism from Western society? Even if I did, I would be calling for the impossible. Exclusive humanism is an integral facet of society and can only be removed by changes which would take centuries. What then? Shall I long for the days before exclusive humanism? I could, but they had more than enough of their own faults which exclusive humanism has limited or fixed. The problem here is not with exclusive humanism itself, but with it being taken to excess. However, I know that the problems on which I have discoursed here are connected with exclusive humanism, and since I am an idealist, I want to believe that exclusive humanism can help to solve them. Additionally, I think that part of this cure must come from the church.
Unfortunately, judging by what I have written regarding the church in this paper, it has enough problems of its own. Christians must not fragment during this time and descend into division and eventual inconsequentiality. I believe that for Christianity to endure, then there must be unity, but this is something that can never be if Christians give up on the church. What sort of reform it would take for the church to recover, I cannot speculate, but I do not see how it would be beneficial in any way to further divide Christians by discarding church in favour of some new movement. What has become of Christ’s prayer that the believers would be brought to complete unity? Do even his followers value their own will above his? If this is so, what hope is there for any of us?

On the Development of my Thoughts (part 7)

This, then, creates an enormous inconsistency in our culture. Individualism is a penultimate value, but it is one that is unattainable. Not only is it an unattainable goal, but the closest approximation involves separation from others, from those who ascribe so much of life’s meaning, as has already been established. Is it any wonder that so many people suffer from depression? Exclusive humanism has wreaked havoc on our society.
However, perhaps society has figured out that individuality is an inaccessible goal. There is another shift in our society, one that is still in the process of developing. Any time there is an extreme push, there will be some form of backlash. In this case, it is post-modernism. It is arguable that post-modernity is not a new era of its own, but merely an extension, or the next necessary step of the modern age, though this will be impossible to determine for quite some time. It does seem like it is just the next logical jump for a society which has become organized around an individual focus. Unfortunately, this pursuit of independence and individuality has not been eradicated, but simply augmented.
One of the primary traits of post-modernity is relativity, a loss of absolutes. The rise of exclusive humanism gives value to people on an individual basis, which then gives a sense of validation to their opinions. Simultaneously, the individual focus of society creates a sort of societally ingrained self-centredness. Thus, people prize themselves as individuals and behave as if they were, while the society further encourages this by catering to them as such. The result is a conglomeration of individuals shouting to be heard amidst the din of other voices proclaiming their opinions, each of which must be taken as valid. It is bound to occur that two people will have contrasting opinions, so for both to be considered valid, there must be relativity. There is more to post-modernity than this, but this is an essential part of it.
In this regard, absolutes begin to fade into grey areas. Context more and more becomes the determiner of right and wrong. Everyone has heard the phrase: “What’s right for me may not be what’s right for you.” This coincides with the concept of a worldview. This is a fairly recent idea to enter society. It is the understanding that all people have a different way of perceiving events, which determines their behaviour. Since it prevails that all opinions are valid, it becomes taboo to judge other people’s worldviews by any standard other than their own. This is regarded as unfair or even cruel since a person’s worldview must be factored into the context of every action taken. In some ways, this idea of relativity and context removes blame and guilt from any individual. There is always some formative event or person who can be pointed to as the excuse for shaping someone’s behaviour. It is a variety of determinism, but it is a pluralistic one which exploits determinism to achieve the freedom to make any desired choices.
Another facet of the backlash against modernity has been a return from impersonality and individualism to an emphasis on relationships. However, there is a sense that it is too late to go back. Perhaps exclusive humanism has already taken society past a point of no return. This facet of post modernity creates a sort of pluralism. There is a longing for true deep and intimate relationships, but the individuality wrought by exclusive humanism cannot be undone. People hope to be connected to one another while still maintaining their autonomy. This is done through a range of means.
The sexual revolution is one example. It started in the 60’s as a rejection of strict sexual repression and a quest for meaning, but it has degenerated somewhat since then. As the norms regarding sex have slackened, intercourse has become more about the relationship than the protest. However, the pluralism of post-modernity is felt strongly here. Sex is a deeply intimate and binding act, but people either distance themselves from knowledge of this fact in order to remain independent or pursue this relational intimacy to excess, making it unachievable. In addition, the stress on independence and the impersonalizing of relationships cheapened them. So, when the emphasis was renewed, it created new forms of relationships which resembled their predecessors, but were lacking in commitment because of the already ingrained love of independence.
Another way this relational independence manifests itself is on the internet. The worldwide web was supposed to connect people all over the earth. In a way, it has (one could also argue that everyone in the world was already interconnected, the internet just tightened the gaps). People from opposite sides of the world can communicate almost instantaneously, but what is the quality of their communication? Often, it seems rather lacking. The shining silver turns out to be nothing more than polished iron. Though the communication initially seems genuine, the distance and imperfection of it keep the interaction from being completely authentic. Because the opposite ends of conversation are so far removed from one another, there is a sense of impersonality to even the deepest, most personal dialogues.
In both of these situations, the sexual revolution and internet communication, a new sort of anomie is present. It is different from Durkheim’s initial speculation on the loneliness of living in modern society. However, the present condition is perhaps worse because there is an illusion of true connection that is still an unsatisfying facade. The disillusionment is even deeper.
Darker.

On the Development of my Thoughts (part 6)

My point in all of this is to show the negative effects of exclusive humanism taken too far. Certainly, good has come of exclusive humanism, but in the perpetual balance of good and evil in human nature, a lot of bad has come of exclusive humanism as well. The strain of individualistic thought has infiltrated seemingly all aspects of American culture. After 233 years, we are still fighting for our independence, except now we are all fighting against our own sources of oppression, for our own form of individuality.
It is a futile fight.
Individuality is a lie. To be truly your own person, to make decisions based solely on your own thoughts, considering only yourself, and affecting only yourself is impossible. Individuality can only be understood in terms of its opposite, which consists of normal, interrelated human dependence. Individuality is the withdrawal from these dependencies, but since it depends on them for its very definition, it is unachievable before it has even been attempted. This is a bit technical, but individuality is impossible even in the contexts in which most people think of individuality. No human can exist as an absolutely autonomous individual. Everyone has been affected by another person at some point or another, even if it is in the slightest way possible. More likely than not, every individual on earth owe most of their knowledge, behaviour, and views to other people who have influenced them. To truly become an “individual,” to become independent of these influences requires removing yourself from them. It may be possible for a person to survive “on their own,” separated from all humanity. Emerson's transcendental contemporary Henry Thoreau even managed to produce a great deal of writing while relying on only himself in the wilderness. However, any of these accomplishments are meaningless without any human interaction. If Thoreau had been truly independent, Walden would never have existed for anyone but him and thus, in effect, would not have existed at all.
This becomes especially significant for those who try to seek individuality as an accomplishment. This is ultimately unattainable because for the accomplishment to mean anything, there must be some standard to which it can be compared or someone to recognize it, but for the true individual, neither of these can exist. It is a catch-22. Thus there can be no achievement. This may not be the only reason people seek independence. Some people find their identity in being an individual. However, identity is a very complex thing. One of the prevalent ideas held by the average person today is that people can determine their identities for themselves, and the only thing that matters is a person’s self assessment. This may be a comforting notion, but it is illogically founded. Identity is as much determined from the outside as from the inside, from how people are perceived as much as from how they perceive themselves. The pressure to conform is enormous, especially against those who stand out. Therefore, if an identity must be perceived for it to exist, then it is not possible for a person to have an independent identity. If nothing else, every person owes their physical existence to someone else. Ultimately, it would seem that to truly be an individual would mean not only to be completely removed from all society, but not to exist at all.