It is meaningful that I first encountered the problem of evil in a university classroom. I had a disgustingly happy childhood, an affliction that has stunted my development as an artist and as a scholar. It did not occur to me that the world could possibly constitute a case against the goodness of God; how could it? I had experienced mosquitoes, and I had read about famine and war, and I had cried at funerals, but the place I actually lived in was overwhelmingly marked with love and beauty; it was fitting and sensible to praise God for his goodness. I had to be told that the world was catastrophically rotten and twisted. I could not see it for myself; I was happy and that was all that mattered.
The University would not let me linger long in my comfortably limited reality, instead forcing the reality of suffering upon me with a bewildering force. “Where is your God?” they asked. “Where is the redemption of Auschwitz? Where is the justice that is the foundation of his kingdom? If the universe were governed by a God who is love, then love would not be so catastrophically scarce.”
It is easiest to see the problem of evil when it is expressed a technical claim against the existence of God. Specifically, the existence of evil makes the existence of a God who is all-powerful, all-loving and all-knowing logically impossible. If a set of premises embed a contradiction, then they cannot all be true. In this case, he is alleging that there is a contradiction because
a) if God were all-powerful, he could prevent evil if he wanted to
b) if God were all-knowing, he would know about the existence of evil
c) if God were all-loving, he would prevent any evil that he could.
d) Evil exists.
Remember that if there is a contradiction in a set of premises it means that they cannot all be true. Since we know that evil exists (we can see it) we know that the problem lies with a, b, or c. Thus, though God may be very powerful, he is not all-powerful; though he may be very intelligent, his not all-knowing; though he may be very loving, he is not omni-benevolent. If God is all three, then paradoxically, he does not exist. So which of the characteristics listed above are we going to sacrifice?
Philosophically, it doesn’t matter. It makes no difference at all. To human reasoners, and particularly believers, it is nothing matters more.
There is some question in the Bible as to whether God is all-powerful – Satan provides a very powerful opponent to God, and it appears that God allows humans free agency (we are allowed to do what we want, and sometimes we mess that up). As a result, God may be constrained – for the time being (and by his own decision) – to inaction. It is therefore reasonable to conjecture that God wants to fix the problem of evil, but cannot.
The idea that God is constrained may be offensive to some Christians – it was offensive to me when I first encountered it. But we are not approaching this question as Christians. We are approaching it as philosophers. It is an absolutely critical distinction – the standard of proof is different, the methods of discourse are different, what counts as evidence is different. You may have had an experience of God. You may have felt God’s presence; you may “know in your heart” that God loves you. Those feelings do not count to a philosopher. They don’t matter.
As a philosopher, I do not think that we are able to finish the sentence, “God can…” with just anything. For instance, I do not think that we can say, “God can act in a way that is contrary to his character,” or the famous “God can make a stone so big he can’t lift it.” There are some things that God cannot do. Perhaps, for instance, God cannot eliminate evil and allow for human free agency. It is possible that God has a “higher purpose”, some reason that he allows evil to continue.
Of course, we are back into “Why does God…” territory, but it seems less dangerous this time around because we’re talking as philosophers and theologians, not as human beings (strange that there is a distinction, but there is). What I mean is, there is a difference between the God of the philosophers and the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; we are not talking about a God that is worthy of worship, or present in experience. We are just looking for a God we can give intellectual assent to. This difference is as profound as the difference between acknowledging the existence of women and getting married. The requirements of logic are not terribly rigorous. But logical possibility is not terribly satisfying. As far as I am concerned, it is not even worth discussing.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
When Things Die (Part Deux - see part one in the archives if you missed it)
We did not see the sign until two days later, when we were walking home from school. She saw it first, breaking stride suddenly, leaving me to walk alone. I didn’t notice immediately that she had stopped, and the realization of my sudden solitude brought with it a wave of anxiety, as if for a moment I was the victim of a prank on a hidden camera show.
“What?” I asked impatiently, looking back at her. She had her hand to her mouth, staring at the side of the plain brown mailbox, dramatically transfixed and obviously shocked beyond words. Everything was shocking to her. Three months earlier, she had overheard me laughing uncontrollably at a story my cousin Darryl was telling me behind the garage. She demanded to be allowed in on the joke. I wasn’t about to tell her that we had been laughing at – suffice it to say that it was the sort of story that is a lot funnier behind the garage than in the sanctuary at church, and featured an unimaginative play on the last name of the High School janitor, Mr. Woodcock. She insisted that we tell her. “What’s so funny? What about Mr. Woodcock?” She knew. She must have known. But she wanted to be invited to share in our private joke. Eventually, Darryl joylessly told her. She was shocked, until her shock melted into outrage. She pursed her lips and squinted judgementally, then turned and wordlessly walked away. Darryl shrugged at me, and smirked, as if to say “what are you gonna do?” but I felt sick at being found out, a nausea that quickly gave way to anger. I shook my head. “Who does she think she is?” I seethed. “Seriously, she begs us to tell her, and then she gets all uptight when we do. She should learn to mind her own business.” Darryl continued to smirk (he was trustworthy with a dirty joke, but less proficient in virtually all other areas of verbal communication), perhaps confused at the intensity of my reaction. “It wasn’t that bad,” I thought to myself. “She should learn how to take a joke.”
I expected that her tender constitution had been wounded by a naughty word scrawled on the side of the mailbox, or some similarly meaningless offence. When I stepped around the mailbox to see what she was pointing at, I felt a sudden rush of recognition. The picture was grainy, a white cat looking back over his shoulder at an unseen owner, and I knew that I had seen that face before, though by the time I saw it, it was much changed. The poster was taped to the side of the mail box, the once black ink from the once bold ‘LOST’ had faded and run like mascara mingled with tears onto the paper, now wavy and yellowed. We must have walked past the mailbox twenty times, but we never saw the poster before, or perhaps we had, but did not bother to remember it. One gets accustomed to seeing the sad little signs seeking lost pets; this one had not meant anything special to me. When I was little, I hated this sort of signs. I remember seeing one in the parking lot at the grocery store with a picture of a little ginger coloured spaniel called Stig. I was terrified on his behalf, imagining myself, unable to speak, wandering down unfamiliar streets, knowing only that I was lost. It was an entirely empty empathy. I did not think to look for Stig. I just moved closer to my parents, remembered that I was not lost, and let their presence calm and comfort me.
“What are we going to do?” she asked breathlessly, filled with an ostentatious concern that would otherwise have annoyed me – she was always certain that the world was waiting on her next decision. She had already decided that this was our responsibility. The possibility that the desiccated remains we had found were unrelated to this sign had apparently not crossed her mind.
“Shh, shh, I’m trying…” I do not know why I needed a moment. I pretended to read the description in the poster, and thought about Stig.
I wonder how scary it is to be a lost dog. I wonder if dogs possess enough awareness to know that they are lost, or if the situation is only really desperate and frightening for their owner. I wonder if it is just arrogance and anthropomorphism that makes us imagine lost dogs wandering pitifully through mall parking lots, listening sorrowfully for the familiar sound of the name they know belongs to them, listening for any kind word at all. I wonder if our pets realize how difficult it is to navigate the large city, or if they imagine that they are always within easy reach of home.
“What are we going to do?” she asked again, her voice still tremulous. I knew what she wanted me to do – that was the point of her repeated inquiries – but she still wanted me to act as if I were making the decision. Her delicate prodding drove me crazy. I knew that we would call the cat’s owner eventually, but I hated that she gave me no choice while still demanding that I be responsible for the decision.
I folded my mouth into a scowl Darryl would have been proud of and shrugged. “Well, I’m going to go home,” I said, turning toward home to emphasize my point. I didn’t look back; I knew that if I did, I would see her writing down the address and phone number in her day planner. I hated that day planner, too. She always handed her homework in on time, and sometimes deigned to remind me a couple of days before things were due. It would take her a few seconds for her to catch up, longer if I walked fast.
I thought about childfind posters. I thought about the picture I had seen of a five-year-old girl that had been kidnapped by her mother. The police had been looking for her for nine years. She probably doesn’t even know she is missing. A computer artist had artificially aged her picture. I would have been interested to find the girl just to see how accurate the artist’s anticipation was. How well can you predict what nine years will do to a little girl’s face? Who knows what she has lived through? Who knows what her face will betray of those years?
She caught up, and walked wordlessly a couple of steps behind me. “Did you write down that number?” I asked. She nodded; but I couldn’t see her. “We should call.”
“What?” I asked impatiently, looking back at her. She had her hand to her mouth, staring at the side of the plain brown mailbox, dramatically transfixed and obviously shocked beyond words. Everything was shocking to her. Three months earlier, she had overheard me laughing uncontrollably at a story my cousin Darryl was telling me behind the garage. She demanded to be allowed in on the joke. I wasn’t about to tell her that we had been laughing at – suffice it to say that it was the sort of story that is a lot funnier behind the garage than in the sanctuary at church, and featured an unimaginative play on the last name of the High School janitor, Mr. Woodcock. She insisted that we tell her. “What’s so funny? What about Mr. Woodcock?” She knew. She must have known. But she wanted to be invited to share in our private joke. Eventually, Darryl joylessly told her. She was shocked, until her shock melted into outrage. She pursed her lips and squinted judgementally, then turned and wordlessly walked away. Darryl shrugged at me, and smirked, as if to say “what are you gonna do?” but I felt sick at being found out, a nausea that quickly gave way to anger. I shook my head. “Who does she think she is?” I seethed. “Seriously, she begs us to tell her, and then she gets all uptight when we do. She should learn to mind her own business.” Darryl continued to smirk (he was trustworthy with a dirty joke, but less proficient in virtually all other areas of verbal communication), perhaps confused at the intensity of my reaction. “It wasn’t that bad,” I thought to myself. “She should learn how to take a joke.”
I expected that her tender constitution had been wounded by a naughty word scrawled on the side of the mailbox, or some similarly meaningless offence. When I stepped around the mailbox to see what she was pointing at, I felt a sudden rush of recognition. The picture was grainy, a white cat looking back over his shoulder at an unseen owner, and I knew that I had seen that face before, though by the time I saw it, it was much changed. The poster was taped to the side of the mail box, the once black ink from the once bold ‘LOST’ had faded and run like mascara mingled with tears onto the paper, now wavy and yellowed. We must have walked past the mailbox twenty times, but we never saw the poster before, or perhaps we had, but did not bother to remember it. One gets accustomed to seeing the sad little signs seeking lost pets; this one had not meant anything special to me. When I was little, I hated this sort of signs. I remember seeing one in the parking lot at the grocery store with a picture of a little ginger coloured spaniel called Stig. I was terrified on his behalf, imagining myself, unable to speak, wandering down unfamiliar streets, knowing only that I was lost. It was an entirely empty empathy. I did not think to look for Stig. I just moved closer to my parents, remembered that I was not lost, and let their presence calm and comfort me.
“What are we going to do?” she asked breathlessly, filled with an ostentatious concern that would otherwise have annoyed me – she was always certain that the world was waiting on her next decision. She had already decided that this was our responsibility. The possibility that the desiccated remains we had found were unrelated to this sign had apparently not crossed her mind.
“Shh, shh, I’m trying…” I do not know why I needed a moment. I pretended to read the description in the poster, and thought about Stig.
I wonder how scary it is to be a lost dog. I wonder if dogs possess enough awareness to know that they are lost, or if the situation is only really desperate and frightening for their owner. I wonder if it is just arrogance and anthropomorphism that makes us imagine lost dogs wandering pitifully through mall parking lots, listening sorrowfully for the familiar sound of the name they know belongs to them, listening for any kind word at all. I wonder if our pets realize how difficult it is to navigate the large city, or if they imagine that they are always within easy reach of home.
“What are we going to do?” she asked again, her voice still tremulous. I knew what she wanted me to do – that was the point of her repeated inquiries – but she still wanted me to act as if I were making the decision. Her delicate prodding drove me crazy. I knew that we would call the cat’s owner eventually, but I hated that she gave me no choice while still demanding that I be responsible for the decision.
I folded my mouth into a scowl Darryl would have been proud of and shrugged. “Well, I’m going to go home,” I said, turning toward home to emphasize my point. I didn’t look back; I knew that if I did, I would see her writing down the address and phone number in her day planner. I hated that day planner, too. She always handed her homework in on time, and sometimes deigned to remind me a couple of days before things were due. It would take her a few seconds for her to catch up, longer if I walked fast.
I thought about childfind posters. I thought about the picture I had seen of a five-year-old girl that had been kidnapped by her mother. The police had been looking for her for nine years. She probably doesn’t even know she is missing. A computer artist had artificially aged her picture. I would have been interested to find the girl just to see how accurate the artist’s anticipation was. How well can you predict what nine years will do to a little girl’s face? Who knows what she has lived through? Who knows what her face will betray of those years?
She caught up, and walked wordlessly a couple of steps behind me. “Did you write down that number?” I asked. She nodded; but I couldn’t see her. “We should call.”
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Seinfeld on Evil
Why do we need B.O? What is the function of it? Everything in nature has a reason, has a purpose, except B.O. Doesn’t make any sense – do something good, hard work, exercise, smell very bad. This is the way the human being is designed. You move, you stink. Why can’t our bodies help us? Why can’t sweat smell good? It’d be a different world, wouldn’t it? Instead of putting your laundry in the hamper, you’d put it in a vase. You’d go down to the drugstore and pick up some odourant and perspirant. You’d probably have a dirty sweat sock hanging from the rear-view mirror of your car. And then on a really special night, maybe a little underwear comin’ out of your breast pocket. Just to let her know she’s important. ~ Jerry Seinfeld
Definitions
Anthony’s life was unravelling. He was living a country and western song – his girlfriend had left him, his dog died, and he lost his job. In addition to all of this, Anthony was trying to finish his last semester of University, and although he worked hard to keep up with his studies, it was very difficult, and despite his best efforts, one morning he fell asleep in his philosophy class. After the class ended, the professor gently woke him, and asked if there was anything wrong.
“I’m sorry professor,” Anthony admitted. “I’ve been having a really difficult time these last few weeks…”
The professor nodded understandingly, and Anthony continued. “It’s hard for me to understand what this is all for. Is there any meaning? Is there a purpose?”
The professor thoughtfully rubbed his chin, and then asked, “Define ‘is’…”
It’s an old joke, and it is not very funny (particularly not when compared to that pun about the roller coaster) but it is accurate. Definitions are of critical importance in any philosophical discussion because they allow us a bit of common ground – we understand the questions that the opponent is asking, and we can avoid the difficulties that plagued Abbot and Costello’s famous inquiry into the identity of the first baseman. Seeking definitions can devolve into a stalling tactic: when a debate is not going well, I start asking my opponent to define things. Even if it is merely to avoid the stalling, it is useful to get definitions out of the way early on. When someone shakes their head and bemoans the proliferation of evil, I give a sly grin, try to look a little bit cocky, and say, “Well, of course that depends what you mean by ‘evil.’” It gives me some time to think.
Philosophical definitions try to balance two competing virtues: the ideal definition is general and exceptionless. Metaphorically, writing a philosophical definition is like describing to your ideal mate. If you ask a fourteen year old boy (or an engineer) to describe what he looks for in a girlfriend, they will invariably answer “A girl.” It’s a good answer, but in most cases, it is a little broad. (Ironically, if he likes short girls, his answer could be ‘a little broad’ and still be exact. That’s a joke.) It needs to be more specific. On the other hand, if you ask a philosopher what they are looking for, they will hem and haw, and then answer with excruciating specificity. “Her age cannot exceed 28.4 years, but she cannot be younger than 20.3 years old. She must drive a later model Corrola, enjoy the music of Bach, and vote Conservative federally and Liberal provincially.” That’s a description that gives you a good idea of what he is looking for, but unfortunately, it excludes most of the women that he is likely to meet. That, much more than a crippling lack of social skills, is why most philosophers die alone.
Although we can think of countless examples of evil, and we all know what we are talking about, it remains difficult to find a general and exceptionless definition of evil. A lot of times, we use ‘pain’ as a short of shorthand, asking “Why is there so much pain in the world?” But not all pain is bad. The athlete who disciplines his body might feel pride at his sore muscles, and even enjoy the stiffness that follows a difficult workout (I have no idea, because I have nothing in common with athletes). According to a well-known aphorism, chicks dig scars. Sometimes, things are pleasantly painful: we enjoy jumping into an icy cold lake, and as every person who has ever been a teenaged boy knows, there is something really ineffable and fun about a welt from a ping-pong ball thrown at your bare back. It would seem that pain and evil are not synonomous.
That said, there is pain that is not in any way enjoyable. Some have suggested that pain is the body’s early warning system, a way of alerting the owner of the body that there is a problem. Thus, a burn is God’s way of saying “If you don’t take your hand off the stove, you will damage yourself.” On the face of it, this seems reasonable, but the skeptic will ask, “Why does the burn have to hurt two days later? I already have my hand off of the stove.” A larger question looms: why did God make us out of such fragile stuff and then fill the world with things that burn/cut/damage? Similarly, the suffering of the athlete who endures pain toward a greater end raises difficult questions: why did God not make the world so that we could enjoy the benefits of exercise without the necessity of pain? Noted Philosopher Jerry Seinfeld asks this question in a roundabout way when he asks why exercise makes people smell so bad. “Why can’t our bodies help us? Why can’t sweat smell good?” Why did God make the world this way?
I think that the most honest answer, intellectually and scripturally, is the shoulder shrug. Any question that begins “Why does God…” is going to thwart attempts at an honest answer. “Why does God make puppies/sunsets/cabbages/shit?” Shrug. I simply do not know. Who can know the mind of God? Who can search his purposes? I believe that God has a purpose in these things, but philosophical conjectures about that purpose are sure to come up short, and are often less comforting and satisfying than a long hot bath. This answer is not satisfying to the philosopher or the suffering, but it is, I believe the most honest answer a believer can give.
Even if we fail to come up with a decent definition, no philosopher is going to be able to convince us that there is no evil. Perhaps the construction of a definition ought to return to our shared experiences, and when we consider Auschwitz, Pol Pot and tsunamis it is beyond arguing that this is a world aquainted with evil: irredeemable pain, extreme forms of moral wrong, and grotesque suffering. There is evil. The only question is if its existence impunes (or casts into doubt altogether) the character of God. Over the next week or so, I will approach this question from three perspectives, culminating in my final argument for the goodness of God: A baby dressed as a sunflower peeking impishly over the lip of a terra cotta pot.
“I’m sorry professor,” Anthony admitted. “I’ve been having a really difficult time these last few weeks…”
The professor nodded understandingly, and Anthony continued. “It’s hard for me to understand what this is all for. Is there any meaning? Is there a purpose?”
The professor thoughtfully rubbed his chin, and then asked, “Define ‘is’…”
It’s an old joke, and it is not very funny (particularly not when compared to that pun about the roller coaster) but it is accurate. Definitions are of critical importance in any philosophical discussion because they allow us a bit of common ground – we understand the questions that the opponent is asking, and we can avoid the difficulties that plagued Abbot and Costello’s famous inquiry into the identity of the first baseman. Seeking definitions can devolve into a stalling tactic: when a debate is not going well, I start asking my opponent to define things. Even if it is merely to avoid the stalling, it is useful to get definitions out of the way early on. When someone shakes their head and bemoans the proliferation of evil, I give a sly grin, try to look a little bit cocky, and say, “Well, of course that depends what you mean by ‘evil.’” It gives me some time to think.
Philosophical definitions try to balance two competing virtues: the ideal definition is general and exceptionless. Metaphorically, writing a philosophical definition is like describing to your ideal mate. If you ask a fourteen year old boy (or an engineer) to describe what he looks for in a girlfriend, they will invariably answer “A girl.” It’s a good answer, but in most cases, it is a little broad. (Ironically, if he likes short girls, his answer could be ‘a little broad’ and still be exact. That’s a joke.) It needs to be more specific. On the other hand, if you ask a philosopher what they are looking for, they will hem and haw, and then answer with excruciating specificity. “Her age cannot exceed 28.4 years, but she cannot be younger than 20.3 years old. She must drive a later model Corrola, enjoy the music of Bach, and vote Conservative federally and Liberal provincially.” That’s a description that gives you a good idea of what he is looking for, but unfortunately, it excludes most of the women that he is likely to meet. That, much more than a crippling lack of social skills, is why most philosophers die alone.
Although we can think of countless examples of evil, and we all know what we are talking about, it remains difficult to find a general and exceptionless definition of evil. A lot of times, we use ‘pain’ as a short of shorthand, asking “Why is there so much pain in the world?” But not all pain is bad. The athlete who disciplines his body might feel pride at his sore muscles, and even enjoy the stiffness that follows a difficult workout (I have no idea, because I have nothing in common with athletes). According to a well-known aphorism, chicks dig scars. Sometimes, things are pleasantly painful: we enjoy jumping into an icy cold lake, and as every person who has ever been a teenaged boy knows, there is something really ineffable and fun about a welt from a ping-pong ball thrown at your bare back. It would seem that pain and evil are not synonomous.
That said, there is pain that is not in any way enjoyable. Some have suggested that pain is the body’s early warning system, a way of alerting the owner of the body that there is a problem. Thus, a burn is God’s way of saying “If you don’t take your hand off the stove, you will damage yourself.” On the face of it, this seems reasonable, but the skeptic will ask, “Why does the burn have to hurt two days later? I already have my hand off of the stove.” A larger question looms: why did God make us out of such fragile stuff and then fill the world with things that burn/cut/damage? Similarly, the suffering of the athlete who endures pain toward a greater end raises difficult questions: why did God not make the world so that we could enjoy the benefits of exercise without the necessity of pain? Noted Philosopher Jerry Seinfeld asks this question in a roundabout way when he asks why exercise makes people smell so bad. “Why can’t our bodies help us? Why can’t sweat smell good?” Why did God make the world this way?
I think that the most honest answer, intellectually and scripturally, is the shoulder shrug. Any question that begins “Why does God…” is going to thwart attempts at an honest answer. “Why does God make puppies/sunsets/cabbages/shit?” Shrug. I simply do not know. Who can know the mind of God? Who can search his purposes? I believe that God has a purpose in these things, but philosophical conjectures about that purpose are sure to come up short, and are often less comforting and satisfying than a long hot bath. This answer is not satisfying to the philosopher or the suffering, but it is, I believe the most honest answer a believer can give.
Even if we fail to come up with a decent definition, no philosopher is going to be able to convince us that there is no evil. Perhaps the construction of a definition ought to return to our shared experiences, and when we consider Auschwitz, Pol Pot and tsunamis it is beyond arguing that this is a world aquainted with evil: irredeemable pain, extreme forms of moral wrong, and grotesque suffering. There is evil. The only question is if its existence impunes (or casts into doubt altogether) the character of God. Over the next week or so, I will approach this question from three perspectives, culminating in my final argument for the goodness of God: A baby dressed as a sunflower peeking impishly over the lip of a terra cotta pot.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Seriously, you guys GOTS to read this.
I went with a friend to ride the roller coaster. Later, someone asked me how it was. I said, "It was up and down."
_________________
I don't even know why I am posting this on my blog; I've already told everyone I know about it, because I thought it was the cleverest thing that I have ever said...
_________________
I don't even know why I am posting this on my blog; I've already told everyone I know about it, because I thought it was the cleverest thing that I have ever said...
This... is a little weird.
Sadness haunts me, stalks me and finds me in every moment of happiness. But it is not my God. I do not need to bow to it. Success is not my God. I am free to fail. Beauty is not my God. I am free to be ugly. Happiness is not my God. I am free to mourn. Let me mourn genuinely and also rejoice in the good God has blessed me with.
Lord, hear my prayer.
Lord, hear my prayer.
Friday, December 09, 2005
When things die
“What is it?” she asked, too loudly, from behind me, her voice at once hesitant and nagging.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “It’s been dead a long time.”
Though it was dead, it moved, teeming with a life not its own, crawling with maggots and ants. I poked it again with a long straight stick.
“Do you think we should tell someone?” she asked. Her voice was meant to convey concern, but I knew that that she just wanted to gossip, put herself at the centre of the neighbourhood and inform everyone, in the gravest terms, of the mysterious remains in the empty lot.
“We found a dead thing!” I sang, my voice falsetto, my hands fluttering girlishly, exaggerating her volatility. Her face fell at my mockery, and I suspected that I had made a mistake, but I blundered on. “Who are we going to tell anyway?” I asked, incredulous. “ And what are we going to say? That we found a dead raccoon or something? What’s anybody going to care?”
“It might not be a racoon. I thought maybe it was a cat, someone’s cat,” she said, much more quietly. I rolled my eyes in mock disgust.
“It’s not a cat,” I said, with much more certainty than I felt. “Besides, what are we going to do, put up posters? Nobody’s going to recognize... it now.” She sat on her haunches behind me as I pushed the cat, or whatever it was, up with the stick. It was stiff and flat as a board, with gaping leathery holes where its eyes should have been, its teeth bared in a final, horrible grimace.
“I don’t want to look at it anymore,” she said without moving.
“If you don’t want to look,” I said slyly, “you can just leave.” I didn’t look back to see her reaction; I didn’t have to. I knew she’d stay. I moved it again, and watched beetles scuttle into little tunnels in the dirt under the carcass, eager to escape my gaze. Suddenly, I was very bored. There was no great mystery here, nothing meaningful or important to uncover, nothing to solve. It was dead long enough that I could not picture it alive – for all I could see, it had lain in state since the foundations of the earth. “Let’s go,” I said, turning and brushing past her. She skipped along the path behind me as I headed back toward home. I listened to her sing as she skipped. She had a beautiful voice. It oppressed me. When she sang, which was often, I would panic, immediately seek some interruption, some way to stop the music. She was only singing, and it was beautiful, but I wanted it to stop. “Why can’t she just walk normally?” I fumed silently to myself. “Why does she have to skip? Why is she always singing?” I thought of what I could say to cut her off, but I needn’t have worried about it: she changed the subject herself.
“Still,” she said thoughtfully, “It’s sad when things die.”
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “It’s been dead a long time.”
Though it was dead, it moved, teeming with a life not its own, crawling with maggots and ants. I poked it again with a long straight stick.
“Do you think we should tell someone?” she asked. Her voice was meant to convey concern, but I knew that that she just wanted to gossip, put herself at the centre of the neighbourhood and inform everyone, in the gravest terms, of the mysterious remains in the empty lot.
“We found a dead thing!” I sang, my voice falsetto, my hands fluttering girlishly, exaggerating her volatility. Her face fell at my mockery, and I suspected that I had made a mistake, but I blundered on. “Who are we going to tell anyway?” I asked, incredulous. “ And what are we going to say? That we found a dead raccoon or something? What’s anybody going to care?”
“It might not be a racoon. I thought maybe it was a cat, someone’s cat,” she said, much more quietly. I rolled my eyes in mock disgust.
“It’s not a cat,” I said, with much more certainty than I felt. “Besides, what are we going to do, put up posters? Nobody’s going to recognize... it now.” She sat on her haunches behind me as I pushed the cat, or whatever it was, up with the stick. It was stiff and flat as a board, with gaping leathery holes where its eyes should have been, its teeth bared in a final, horrible grimace.
“I don’t want to look at it anymore,” she said without moving.
“If you don’t want to look,” I said slyly, “you can just leave.” I didn’t look back to see her reaction; I didn’t have to. I knew she’d stay. I moved it again, and watched beetles scuttle into little tunnels in the dirt under the carcass, eager to escape my gaze. Suddenly, I was very bored. There was no great mystery here, nothing meaningful or important to uncover, nothing to solve. It was dead long enough that I could not picture it alive – for all I could see, it had lain in state since the foundations of the earth. “Let’s go,” I said, turning and brushing past her. She skipped along the path behind me as I headed back toward home. I listened to her sing as she skipped. She had a beautiful voice. It oppressed me. When she sang, which was often, I would panic, immediately seek some interruption, some way to stop the music. She was only singing, and it was beautiful, but I wanted it to stop. “Why can’t she just walk normally?” I fumed silently to myself. “Why does she have to skip? Why is she always singing?” I thought of what I could say to cut her off, but I needn’t have worried about it: she changed the subject herself.
“Still,” she said thoughtfully, “It’s sad when things die.”
The Problem of Evil
I was 17 when I gathered all my dreams into an ancient carpetbag with a tricky handle and set out for University. I had endured an idyllic childhood, cosseted in a loving Baptist church as close to me as my own family, but I was excited to see the real world, a world where the best minds of a generation were routinely destroyed by madness. (Or so I had read.) I wasn’t scared, I was ready: ready to have my faith challenged and my stalwart character tempted by the cosmopolitan delights of Lethbridge, Alberta.
I knew almost immediately that I was unprepared. My classes were not difficult, and my marks were good, but my peers and even some of my professors were openly antagonistic toward the faith of our fathers. I remember my logic professor quickly diagramming “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so” on the blackboard, mockingly asking if it was a valid argument (it isn’t). I had thought that I was part of a respected community; it turned out that we were barely tolerated. I tried my best to defend the faith I loved, as if Jesus would have been ashamed to learn that I was confused and intellectually outclassed. I argued even when I could see no hope, as if it was my duty to the members of the Baptist church to unleash my ignorance at every turn. My efforts at apologetics were only occasionally embarrassing, but it was always an uphill battle, and I learned to wear a confident smirk even when I was sure that I was beaten.
It was no comfort to learn that I was not alone – the Christians I encountered seemed either blithely unaware or transfixed, continually organizing box socials and hayrides. Of course, these were not the only believers on campus, but those who did not remind me of panicked rabbits were just as distressing: wolfish, menacing and intimidating, ostentatiously intellectual, often smoking pipes and always ready to give an answer to anyone foolish enough to spout the calming theology I was familiar with. I had never met Calvinists before, and they impressed me, and always left me with a quiet feeling of dread. I sometimes wondered if I preferred an utterly oblivious, cheerful ignorance to a sour, intellectually respectable faith; I was not anxious to make the choice.
I wish that there were a tidy end to this story, a character introduced in the third act who lived a quiet, penitent, orthodox faith and taught me to respect my mind without sacrificing my heart. There was no such deus ex machina available to me; I will not invent one here. I have struggled, and I continue to struggle, with the intellection that has destroyed the finest souls of my generation. I continue to struggle, but I have made progress. These questions do not cut through me the same way they used to; I have learned to handle my own weapons better and I have learned to accept (and expect) defeat. I have become comfortable, and even rejoice in my own fallibility. I don’t have the answers to the questions that haunt me, but I am called to trust, not to know. It is liberating experience to realize that losing an argument does not mean that I am constrained to doubt or discard my faith – the God that the philosophers are content to prove or disprove is not the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. When I am confused, God does not cease to exist any more than the sky ceases to exist when I close my eyes.
When I first encountered the Problem of Evil, I felt as though my faith was collapsing. My philosophy of religion professor, Dr. Woods, was a considerate, learned and generous scholar. He did not present the problem as a means to enlightening my ignorance, and neither did he dismiss it as an ancient question, long since solved and no longer pertinent. He set the problem before us, and let us contemplate it. It was an example of philosophy as it is meant to be done – thoughtful, respectful, fascinating and (if we are to be honest) incredibly difficult.
As I read Jacob’s recent entries on the Problem of Evil, I realized that I want to go through it too, not as a response (at least not directly) to Jacob’s questions, just as an account of my own experience and thoughts with regard to one of the central philosophical arguments that is put to theists. I feel somewhat guilty, because I know that philosophical posturing does not have wide appeal, and I do not have Dr. Woods's wisdom. I will try to make the discussion accessible and enjoyable; I’m so confident that you will enjoy this that I am willing to offer a ‘money back guarantee.’ (It’s kind of a joke, because you didn’t pay anything to read this, so even if you were dissatisfied, all you would get back is… never mind.) And I’ll try to augment the philosophy stuff with some other stuff, maybe a story or some such, and maybe some jokes, or something, or maybe sports analysis and gossip, for people that don’t really like philosophy. And also, the promised pictures of babies dressed up as potted plants (no, I haven’t forgotten).
“We are talking about God. What wonder is it that you do not understand? If you do understand, then it is not God.” ~ Augustine
I knew almost immediately that I was unprepared. My classes were not difficult, and my marks were good, but my peers and even some of my professors were openly antagonistic toward the faith of our fathers. I remember my logic professor quickly diagramming “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so” on the blackboard, mockingly asking if it was a valid argument (it isn’t). I had thought that I was part of a respected community; it turned out that we were barely tolerated. I tried my best to defend the faith I loved, as if Jesus would have been ashamed to learn that I was confused and intellectually outclassed. I argued even when I could see no hope, as if it was my duty to the members of the Baptist church to unleash my ignorance at every turn. My efforts at apologetics were only occasionally embarrassing, but it was always an uphill battle, and I learned to wear a confident smirk even when I was sure that I was beaten.
It was no comfort to learn that I was not alone – the Christians I encountered seemed either blithely unaware or transfixed, continually organizing box socials and hayrides. Of course, these were not the only believers on campus, but those who did not remind me of panicked rabbits were just as distressing: wolfish, menacing and intimidating, ostentatiously intellectual, often smoking pipes and always ready to give an answer to anyone foolish enough to spout the calming theology I was familiar with. I had never met Calvinists before, and they impressed me, and always left me with a quiet feeling of dread. I sometimes wondered if I preferred an utterly oblivious, cheerful ignorance to a sour, intellectually respectable faith; I was not anxious to make the choice.
I wish that there were a tidy end to this story, a character introduced in the third act who lived a quiet, penitent, orthodox faith and taught me to respect my mind without sacrificing my heart. There was no such deus ex machina available to me; I will not invent one here. I have struggled, and I continue to struggle, with the intellection that has destroyed the finest souls of my generation. I continue to struggle, but I have made progress. These questions do not cut through me the same way they used to; I have learned to handle my own weapons better and I have learned to accept (and expect) defeat. I have become comfortable, and even rejoice in my own fallibility. I don’t have the answers to the questions that haunt me, but I am called to trust, not to know. It is liberating experience to realize that losing an argument does not mean that I am constrained to doubt or discard my faith – the God that the philosophers are content to prove or disprove is not the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. When I am confused, God does not cease to exist any more than the sky ceases to exist when I close my eyes.
When I first encountered the Problem of Evil, I felt as though my faith was collapsing. My philosophy of religion professor, Dr. Woods, was a considerate, learned and generous scholar. He did not present the problem as a means to enlightening my ignorance, and neither did he dismiss it as an ancient question, long since solved and no longer pertinent. He set the problem before us, and let us contemplate it. It was an example of philosophy as it is meant to be done – thoughtful, respectful, fascinating and (if we are to be honest) incredibly difficult.
As I read Jacob’s recent entries on the Problem of Evil, I realized that I want to go through it too, not as a response (at least not directly) to Jacob’s questions, just as an account of my own experience and thoughts with regard to one of the central philosophical arguments that is put to theists. I feel somewhat guilty, because I know that philosophical posturing does not have wide appeal, and I do not have Dr. Woods's wisdom. I will try to make the discussion accessible and enjoyable; I’m so confident that you will enjoy this that I am willing to offer a ‘money back guarantee.’ (It’s kind of a joke, because you didn’t pay anything to read this, so even if you were dissatisfied, all you would get back is… never mind.) And I’ll try to augment the philosophy stuff with some other stuff, maybe a story or some such, and maybe some jokes, or something, or maybe sports analysis and gossip, for people that don’t really like philosophy. And also, the promised pictures of babies dressed up as potted plants (no, I haven’t forgotten).
“We are talking about God. What wonder is it that you do not understand? If you do understand, then it is not God.” ~ Augustine
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Har har
A lady from the Comedy Factory just called me and informed me that I had been awarded 15 free tickets to this Friday’s show. “What is this,” I asked, “some kind of joke?”
_____________________
(This really did happen. If someone wants to go see some (probably horrifically unfunny) comedians on Friday, give me a call, but be forewarned – the comedy club’s in a bowling alley. That's... probably not a good sign.)
_____________________
(This really did happen. If someone wants to go see some (probably horrifically unfunny) comedians on Friday, give me a call, but be forewarned – the comedy club’s in a bowling alley. That's... probably not a good sign.)
I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over
I know, it has been too long since my last post, but it would be arrogant of me to apologize, as if my reticence withheld a gift from you. I am still sorry, and it is not my fault. I’ve been really busy. A ‘friend’ gave me a ‘gift’ and ruined my life.
Those of you who follow the blog (or follow my movements through a telescope) will know that I am a graduate student in philosophy. In other words, I have a lot of spare time. Or I did, until I took up permanent residence in Capeside, along the banks of Dawson’s Creek. It’s a beautiful place.
I don’t have a television in my house. Some people can handle the lure of a television; I can’t. Some people turn on the TV, flip around a little bit, and say, “There’s nothing on.” There is always something on. Perhaps there’s nothing good on. It may be the case that there’s nothing worth watching on. But there’s always something on. I will watch whatever is on. I will watch Cityline with Marilyn Denis. I will watch the Maury Povich show. I will watch that ridiculous man with the long ponytail sell his ridiculous exercise machine – the Gazelle – even though I know in my heart that I am not going to see what I am hoping for, because even if one of the spokesmodels suffered a horrific groin tear, they would edit out the screaming and writhing in post-production. I don’t know why, but if there is a TV, you can count on me watching it.
But still there is something special about Dawson’s Creek. I can’t explain it, and I know it is an indefensible and unhealthy addiction, but I just can’t get enough, and ever since I came into possession of Season Two on DVD, I am not constrained by the limitations of the television schedule. I can take a little trip to Capeside whenever I want. I turn it on, and I am taken to that special place where gorgeous white kids with huge vocabularies work through seemingly insurmountable problems (a surprising amount like life in my apartment). I know it is stupid. I know the girl playign Andie McPhee was 28 years old when they filmed season two; she was supposed to be 16. I know that there is really no depth of feeling or emotion behind these characters. I know that she never loved me, and she is getting married to Tom Cruise (this never would have happened if she had not chosen Pacey. Dawson would never have let this happen). I know all of this. I just can’t stop watching.
Those of you who follow the blog (or follow my movements through a telescope) will know that I am a graduate student in philosophy. In other words, I have a lot of spare time. Or I did, until I took up permanent residence in Capeside, along the banks of Dawson’s Creek. It’s a beautiful place.
I don’t have a television in my house. Some people can handle the lure of a television; I can’t. Some people turn on the TV, flip around a little bit, and say, “There’s nothing on.” There is always something on. Perhaps there’s nothing good on. It may be the case that there’s nothing worth watching on. But there’s always something on. I will watch whatever is on. I will watch Cityline with Marilyn Denis. I will watch the Maury Povich show. I will watch that ridiculous man with the long ponytail sell his ridiculous exercise machine – the Gazelle – even though I know in my heart that I am not going to see what I am hoping for, because even if one of the spokesmodels suffered a horrific groin tear, they would edit out the screaming and writhing in post-production. I don’t know why, but if there is a TV, you can count on me watching it.
But still there is something special about Dawson’s Creek. I can’t explain it, and I know it is an indefensible and unhealthy addiction, but I just can’t get enough, and ever since I came into possession of Season Two on DVD, I am not constrained by the limitations of the television schedule. I can take a little trip to Capeside whenever I want. I turn it on, and I am taken to that special place where gorgeous white kids with huge vocabularies work through seemingly insurmountable problems (a surprising amount like life in my apartment). I know it is stupid. I know the girl playign Andie McPhee was 28 years old when they filmed season two; she was supposed to be 16. I know that there is really no depth of feeling or emotion behind these characters. I know that she never loved me, and she is getting married to Tom Cruise (this never would have happened if she had not chosen Pacey. Dawson would never have let this happen). I know all of this. I just can’t stop watching.
Monday, November 28, 2005
A cry for help
Does anyone know anything about toothbrush repair? I have gotten all of the old bristles out, but I cannot figure out how to get new bristles in…
Fight for your mind
Last night, I watched Fight Club. For a moment, it seemed that my lifelong quest would be completed, and finally I would understand who I was. Brad Pitt swaggered in front of the camera, and promised that he knew the way to self-discovery. “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? Our great war is a spiritual one, and our great depression is our lives.”
And I watched as regular guys beat the tar out of each other in a search for meaning, and in the movie, they found it. A wide eyed, breathless media reported on the emergence fight clubs here in the real world – guys began punching each other in the face to achieve a rough enlightenment. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but we will do anything, no matter how stupid, if the promise at the other end is an explanation, a purpose. We will listen to any sort of foolishness if someone will tell us who we are, take the keys to the great filing cabinet upstairs and show us our permanent record, the file that makes everything clear. “Ah, Jonas, you are a very interesting case...” the great record-keeper will say. “I will let you see this. All you have to do is punch someone else in the face. No, I changed my mind. All you need is a girlfriend. Oh, sorry, no, I will tell you who you are if you go to church every Sunday…”
Dr. Phil or Dr. Freud, we will listen to anyone. Journals to fight clubs, we will do anything. And our great fear is not that it will hurt. Our great fear is that there is nothing to discover, no fact of the matter; that at the end of all our therapy sessions and boxing matches we still will not know ourselves. What if it turns out that this random thing is all there is? What if there is no permanent record, no string that ties together all the events that seemed meaningless, no hour long show that sums it up?
Sorry, I have no answers for you.
And I watched as regular guys beat the tar out of each other in a search for meaning, and in the movie, they found it. A wide eyed, breathless media reported on the emergence fight clubs here in the real world – guys began punching each other in the face to achieve a rough enlightenment. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but we will do anything, no matter how stupid, if the promise at the other end is an explanation, a purpose. We will listen to any sort of foolishness if someone will tell us who we are, take the keys to the great filing cabinet upstairs and show us our permanent record, the file that makes everything clear. “Ah, Jonas, you are a very interesting case...” the great record-keeper will say. “I will let you see this. All you have to do is punch someone else in the face. No, I changed my mind. All you need is a girlfriend. Oh, sorry, no, I will tell you who you are if you go to church every Sunday…”
Dr. Phil or Dr. Freud, we will listen to anyone. Journals to fight clubs, we will do anything. And our great fear is not that it will hurt. Our great fear is that there is nothing to discover, no fact of the matter; that at the end of all our therapy sessions and boxing matches we still will not know ourselves. What if it turns out that this random thing is all there is? What if there is no permanent record, no string that ties together all the events that seemed meaningless, no hour long show that sums it up?
Sorry, I have no answers for you.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Time Traveller
Tips for students:
If you want to accomplish nothing at all, why not buy yourself a laptop computer with a DVD player?
If I had a time machine, I would be really careful with it. I wouldn’t change anything in the past, because even very small changes in the past can have catastrophic implications in the future. You might not suspect that the something as insignificant as killing one little butterfly could alter the course of history, but it can. The responsibility of having a time machine is pretty major – that thing is not a toy. The grim faced general would say, “I don’t like it, but we’ve got no other choice; we’re sending you back in time. The parameters of this mission have been clearly laid out. Do not venture beyond them! I cannot stress this enough: any actions you take could dramatically and irreversibly alter the future.”
“Don’t worry General,” I’d promise. “I’ve been training for this mission all my life.”
When the chips are down, you can count on me to be the sort of person who will not have a perceivable impact on the world. If you need someone to send back in time, I am your man.
If you want to accomplish nothing at all, why not buy yourself a laptop computer with a DVD player?
If I had a time machine, I would be really careful with it. I wouldn’t change anything in the past, because even very small changes in the past can have catastrophic implications in the future. You might not suspect that the something as insignificant as killing one little butterfly could alter the course of history, but it can. The responsibility of having a time machine is pretty major – that thing is not a toy. The grim faced general would say, “I don’t like it, but we’ve got no other choice; we’re sending you back in time. The parameters of this mission have been clearly laid out. Do not venture beyond them! I cannot stress this enough: any actions you take could dramatically and irreversibly alter the future.”
“Don’t worry General,” I’d promise. “I’ve been training for this mission all my life.”
When the chips are down, you can count on me to be the sort of person who will not have a perceivable impact on the world. If you need someone to send back in time, I am your man.
Friday, November 18, 2005
surprised by joy
My life has been filled with moments of happiness, moments for which I would forestall the promise of heaven. I have sat with friends, and laughed hard, almost recklessly, until I was light-headed and desperate for air. I have stood on mountain peaks, awestruck at God’s power and goodness to us. I have felt summer sunlight filter through a bower of trees, sunlight as warm and delicious as honey. Even among these exceptional moments, this morning was singularly wonderful, as unexpected and rare and indescribable as true love. Wonderful things, and even miraculous, have happened to me before, but nothing like this… nothing even approximates to the moment when I found my profile on ratemyprofessors.com.
I had never heard of ratemyprofessors.com until this morning when I was reading Slate.com, which is currently running a series of articles on Universities. This morning, Slate ran a fluff piece on what makes a good university professor, making frequent reference to ratemyprofessor.com. I felt it was important, you know, in terms of my work as a graduate student, to investigate the rankings of some professors I know in the philosophy department at the U of A. My own impressions accorded fairly accurately with those expressed on the website – I agreed when one professor was described as pretentious and arrogant, and again when another was characterized as “interesting and intelligent.” And then I saw my own name.
The force of the story is intensified if you know (as I do) that I have never taught a class at the University of Alberta, or for that matter, at any academic institution. (I once gave a lecture at G-Mac, but only the most generous could consider that an “academic institution.”) I should not be listed among the philosophy professors at the University of Alberta. But there I was. I thought for a moment that I might be setting myself up for another disappointment, like the time that I thought I wrote the song “In Moments like These” because my name was given authorial credit at the bottom of the overhead. Turns out I didn’t write it; it was another man with the same name. That experience and the attendant caution it provided saved me from embarrassment (and possible death) many years later when I read about my exploits as a world famous rock climber. In that case also it turned out that the rock climber was not I, but another man with the same name.
But the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it really was me. My attendance at the university has been sporadic, but not so spotty that a professor with a name identical to mine would have escaped my attention. With trembling fingers, I clicked on my name.
An angel sang to me. The heavens rang with his voice. He sang, “This guy is the bomb! If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it. Pure genius. I give him 8 years before his [sic] world renowned.” And then another voice rang out, singing, “I completely agree. Best teacher I’ve encountered in my 5 years at university. I give him a big thumbs up. On the downside, his class was tough. Probably because this guy’s so smart.” Those were the only two comments, which was disappointing, but not surprising, seeing as I have never taught a class ever (*except once at G-Mac which does not count). Both commenters granted me the coveted ‘red chilli pepper’, indicating that I am ‘hot.’ I mention the chilli pepper only because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.
I honestly have no idea how this happened. I only know that I did not post these comments myself. Obviously, someone did this as a joke, but what subtlety! They did not tell me to check the website – I chanced upon this without any guidance. This situation is as baffling and wonderful as the time I came out after church to find that someone had left a box of donuts on the roof of my car. It was not until almost six months later that the mysterious ‘donut bomber’ revealed his identity (shout-out to D-Heng; thanks for the donuts). Will anyone ever step forward and claim responsibility for the unwarranted praise? Only time will tell. Until then, come, my children, come sup at the table of my bountiful genius. And bring a doggy bag, for there is sure to be excess, and you can save some for lunch tomorrow. You might scoff at this suggestion; you might think you can continue to ignore my teaching without loss; on ratemyprofessors.com, someone said, “If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it.” I think it is good advice.
I had never heard of ratemyprofessors.com until this morning when I was reading Slate.com, which is currently running a series of articles on Universities. This morning, Slate ran a fluff piece on what makes a good university professor, making frequent reference to ratemyprofessor.com. I felt it was important, you know, in terms of my work as a graduate student, to investigate the rankings of some professors I know in the philosophy department at the U of A. My own impressions accorded fairly accurately with those expressed on the website – I agreed when one professor was described as pretentious and arrogant, and again when another was characterized as “interesting and intelligent.” And then I saw my own name.
The force of the story is intensified if you know (as I do) that I have never taught a class at the University of Alberta, or for that matter, at any academic institution. (I once gave a lecture at G-Mac, but only the most generous could consider that an “academic institution.”) I should not be listed among the philosophy professors at the University of Alberta. But there I was. I thought for a moment that I might be setting myself up for another disappointment, like the time that I thought I wrote the song “In Moments like These” because my name was given authorial credit at the bottom of the overhead. Turns out I didn’t write it; it was another man with the same name. That experience and the attendant caution it provided saved me from embarrassment (and possible death) many years later when I read about my exploits as a world famous rock climber. In that case also it turned out that the rock climber was not I, but another man with the same name.
But the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that it really was me. My attendance at the university has been sporadic, but not so spotty that a professor with a name identical to mine would have escaped my attention. With trembling fingers, I clicked on my name.
An angel sang to me. The heavens rang with his voice. He sang, “This guy is the bomb! If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it. Pure genius. I give him 8 years before his [sic] world renowned.” And then another voice rang out, singing, “I completely agree. Best teacher I’ve encountered in my 5 years at university. I give him a big thumbs up. On the downside, his class was tough. Probably because this guy’s so smart.” Those were the only two comments, which was disappointing, but not surprising, seeing as I have never taught a class ever (*except once at G-Mac which does not count). Both commenters granted me the coveted ‘red chilli pepper’, indicating that I am ‘hot.’ I mention the chilli pepper only because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.
I honestly have no idea how this happened. I only know that I did not post these comments myself. Obviously, someone did this as a joke, but what subtlety! They did not tell me to check the website – I chanced upon this without any guidance. This situation is as baffling and wonderful as the time I came out after church to find that someone had left a box of donuts on the roof of my car. It was not until almost six months later that the mysterious ‘donut bomber’ revealed his identity (shout-out to D-Heng; thanks for the donuts). Will anyone ever step forward and claim responsibility for the unwarranted praise? Only time will tell. Until then, come, my children, come sup at the table of my bountiful genius. And bring a doggy bag, for there is sure to be excess, and you can save some for lunch tomorrow. You might scoff at this suggestion; you might think you can continue to ignore my teaching without loss; on ratemyprofessors.com, someone said, “If you get the chance to learn anything from this guy, do it.” I think it is good advice.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
It begins
I am a strange sort. I've been a secret weblogger for almost a year. I created a weblog and then launched it into absolute anonymity. No one ever read it. It was fun to think that my secrets were available to anyone who had a will to look; like kissing in public for the first time, there was no need for reservation or remorse, and it was a joyful affirmation of my reality: the joy of authenticity. And I loved that freedom, but attendant to my joy was a melancholy, a sadness that realized that the freedom to say anything is intimately related to the fact that no one cared; no one ever read my words. They fell like raindrops into a well of noise and disappeared without a ripple. They made no difference to anyone. It was not so bad, I suppose. It would not make any difference, except that this, which vanishes as if it was never spoken, is my life. There is no point to living it in private.
Giftshop wisdom entreats us to sing though no one listens, and dance though no one dance with you. I will not. Instead, I sing, and beg others to listen. I dance, with the dream of someone to turn with me, lean close, and follow my steps. This is my hope. This is why I cast these words into the void. Not for the sake of speaking, but for the sake of being heard, thence to be understood. How could this happen? But I hope.
Giftshop wisdom entreats us to sing though no one listens, and dance though no one dance with you. I will not. Instead, I sing, and beg others to listen. I dance, with the dream of someone to turn with me, lean close, and follow my steps. This is my hope. This is why I cast these words into the void. Not for the sake of speaking, but for the sake of being heard, thence to be understood. How could this happen? But I hope.
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