the casuist

Devotional thot 7

2006-04-23T01:03:00.000-07:00

Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life…”

On hearing it, many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?”
(John 6:53, 60)

“This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?” Of course, these were Jews, who had been told since their youth that God forbids you to eat any meat with the blood still in it, for the life of a creature is in the blood. (Genesis 9:4) Surely if you are not to eat the blood of an animal, the prohibition extends to the blood of a man, especially the blood of a man who was a friend; Jesus was all of this, and – they hoped – he was the Messiah. Eat his flesh? Drink his blood? To say, “this is a difficult teaching” understates the matter rather dramatically…

I watched a movie about a Gladiator. It was called “Gladiator.” The hero of the story is a gladiator… (Is there not the possibility that we could make another verse for the song “I just wanna be a sheep” based on the gladiator? You know the rubric: “I don’t wanna be a Pharisee/’Cause they’re not fair-u-see… I just wanna be a sheep.” I charge the noble readers of the casuist with the task of writing a reason why we don’t want to be gladiators. (Also, is anyone else bothered by the fact that we don’t wanna be Saducees because they are sad? I always sing “I don’t wanna be a Saducee, ‘cause they deny the resurrection of the dead,” but it throws the rhythm off so badly...))

Anyway, after the gladiator violently decapitates some poor sod, he calls out to the crowd, “Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is that not why you are here?” And the crowd goes nuts, chanting his name, because that is why they are there. They have come to be entertained; they have come to see a good show, and he has provided it for them.

Every Sunday morning, my alarm goes off, and I wonder why I would bother getting out of bed. I have to tell you, I am used to being entertained, and this ceremony is not entertaining. Am I here to learn? Is this a time to be meet with friends who I would not otherwise see? Am I here to prove my devotion to the relevant church leaders, or to God himself? It doesn’t seem worth it.

We are here this morning to be restored. To imbibe the blood and so take the life of Christ into ourselves; we drink the blood precisely because the life is in the blood. I am here this morning to fill a need that I feel desperately. I am here because I need Jesus’ life; nothing else can liberate me, nothing else can free me from this body of death.

If this feels like an incomplete thot, I suppose it is. There is nothing to tie this together, no snappy line to neatly articulate the theology of the table. It is a reminder of why I came: not to be entertained, not to be taught some new truth, or to see my friends, but to be reminded of the story of sinners ransomed from the fall, and to find my life again, in the only place that it can be found.

devotional thot 6

2006-04-09T03:31:00.000-07:00

I have a close friend who, when he prays, sounds like a Texan. He prays with a strange drawl that I never hear any other time; the first time I heard him pray out loud, I opened my eyes, just to make sure it was really him. He sounded like a hillbilly from Midland. When he meets God, I wonder if God will say, “James, your voice sounds so different in person.”

I have often though of Jesus’ words: “Away from me, I never knew you.” I am so ashamed to have God see me for what I am, I sometimes wonder if when he meets me, it will be like those people who meet over the Internet, and send each other pictures, but never meet in person. I wonder if, when he sees me for the first time, Jesus will say, “You look nothing like I thought you would.”

He didn’t turn them away saying, “You never knew me.” He said, “I never knew you.”

I have this to confess: I find it difficult even to admit the reality of my sinfulness, and the depth of my failings. I am anxious to know God, enamoured with the idea of friendship with the creator of the universe, but much less pleased to allow unencumbered access to the facts of my life. I come this morning to take: to take this bread, and take this cup. But the mystery of communion is that it is essentially reciprocal: I cannot take Christ into me without allowing Christ to take me into himself.

addendum to Devotional Thot 5

2006-03-29T22:02:00.000-08:00

David;

I hope that you are right. I hope that I am not the only one waiting to find an easy love for God.

It feels to me, when I sit in church, as if I am all by myself, as if I am the only person who is baffled and stymied by God. I watch everyone else sing the songs, but I cannot sing along: there are so few songs that resonate. (I am not claiming that worship songs fall short because they are all stupid and kitschy, though some are. Sometimes the true sentiments of a good song fail to take root because the words fall like seeds on a rocky pathway.)

I hear someone sing, “Your love is all that gets me through, all I need on this earth is you.” Suddenly, I am desperate and tired. I hear those words, this sentiment of confident love, and I want to sit down with my head in my hands. Sometimes, after my despair, I lift my head with a new determination, ready to pursue God with the force of my whole will. Sometimes I want to abandon even the pretense of halfhearted pursuit, and never sing any of these songs, or see any of the people ever again for the rest of my life. Sometimes, I feel encouraged and comforted, and am convinced that this is a good place for me, and I know what peace feels like. Sometimes, I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I am not sure what the appropriate response is.

As I look at the people around me, singing the songs, their eyes closed, their hands raised, I don’t see any confusion. Our church services avoid drawing attention to confusion, or failings; we scarcely even acknowledge them; I am not sure why this is. I like the penitential songs, the songs that are admissions of our weaknesses and of our foolish allegiances. I like admitting “I have not loved you with my whole heart, I have not loved my neighbor as myself. I am truly sorry, and I humbly repent.”

I hate the songs that are confident, the “I will not be shaken” songs. It is one thing to claim that “when the nations crumble, the word of the Lord will stand”; it is an entirely different thing to claim that “I will not be shaken, I will not be moved.” You know what? I am going to be shaken; I am prone to wander. If my salvation is vouchsafed by my ability to hold onto Christ, I am lost. I am not making a theological point, I am just telling you about the reality of my life. I am too lazy, too rotten, too stubborn, too skeptical… If it is up to me, I am not going to make it.

When I sit in the church and we sing our songs, I am often confused and often angry. I don’t understand what we are singing about. I wonder, David, if everyone else feels the same way I do, or if they are genuinely moved, genuinely responding to a sentiment that makes no sense to me. In my last post, I wished that I were one of the people who love God easily, with confidence, without remorse. There must be such people out there, else who is writing our worship choruses? I wanted to say two things: I don’t feel that way, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand – God doesn’t promise understanding, he promises peace that passes understanding. I face a choice, on every Sunday. I can choose to know, or I can choose to trust. Trust isn’t easy, but, for me at least, knowledge isn’t nearly enough.

Devotional thot 5

2006-03-25T23:08:00.000-08:00

I locked my keys in the car, and so I had to stand outside for probably an hour in the cold. Painful. And so I waited, and after I had waited, grudgingly and not sure why, I prayed. I had no other options at that point, and nothing else to do. And truthfully, I did not expect anyone to come. As I stood in the parking lot, cold and wet, I thought that maybe God was punishing me for my unwillingness to abandon myself to him first – “why am I always a last resort?” But does God punish like that?

Too often I ascribe motivation: God let this happen, or caused it – because he wants to teach me… or wants me to learn… or is blessing me. But I don't know what to the point is, we worship God with all that is in us at all times because we do not understand how he means to bless us. Call it a gracious non-cognitivism. We do not evaluate or ascribe value to the goodness of God; we trust in what we do not know. It is that simple: it is not very clear.

Let me try again… I want God to be immediately present to me. I want to rely on the closeness of his spirit. But God does not reveal himself. I am desperate to know, to be led by the hand, to feel the comfort and reassurance of a lover in the presence of his beloved. But God does not do that. I want clear answers, a quiet, steady life, prosperity, wisdom; God asks, “Do you love me more than these?”

Though I want to believe with all my heart, I do not know if I will ever find this sort of abundant life: the easy, unquestioning love that my peers have for the unseen God. Some days, as though from a long ways off, I see what seems to be evidence, but I never touch it, and then I suffer because I don't want the peace that passes understanding. I want to understand.

Quote of the week

2006-03-18T23:19:00.000-08:00

"I'd kill for a Nobel Peace Prize." ~ Steven Wright

devotional thot 4

2006-03-18T23:18:00.000-08:00

I read this week about a sociological study conducted at Princeton Theological Seminary in which seminarians were asked to prepare a brief talk on a Biblical subject, and present it at a nearby building on campus. As they walked across campus to deliver their talk, the budding theologians encountered an actor, slumped in an alley, head down, eyes closed, coughing and groaning, obviously injured and in need of help. The researchers wanted to know what factors would predict who would stop and offer assistance. Would it matter if the students had entered seminary because they wanted to help people? Did it matter what topic the students were asked to speak about? How much of an impact would it make if the students were late for their speaking engagement?

The researchers gave the students a brief questionnaire about why they chose to attend seminary. Was their interest in theology merely academic, or did they intend to use their education to make other people’s lives better? It turned out that it did not make any difference: the academics stopped to help just as often as the altruists. The researchers also wondered if it would make any difference if the students were asked to speak about the parable of the Good Samaritan as opposed to some other parable. They found that that did not make any difference either: the people who were on their way to speak about the Good Samaritan were no more likely to stop to offer help. In fact, the experiment showed that the only factor that made a difference was the student’s schedule. “The only thing that really mattered was whether the student was in a rush. Of the group that was, 10 percent stopped to help. Of the group who knew they had a few minutes to spare, 63 percent stopped.” (The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell, p. 165)

I thought about this a lot, about theologians rushing past an injured man to give a talk about how important it is to help those in need. I thought about students who were so sure that their talk was very important, hurrying, maybe worrying that they were not properly prepared to talk about love, and your fellow man. I thought about how theology really isn’t all that important unless it touches our hearts, unless it really changes us. And more often than anything, I remembered that the sermon is not nearly as important as the person you walk past on the way to the church service.

Question of the Week 4

2006-03-14T09:17:00.000-08:00

My friend Braden is very intelligent, socially adept, and talented in a variety of ways. Last week, he sent me an e-mail informing me that in the coming weeks, Hotmail would begin charging its clients for access to their free web based e-mail service. It is not the first time that I have gotten this particular e-mail, and so it was not the first time I have been annoyed and frustrated by it. I confess, on a number of levels, I don’t understand. This experience forms the basis of my question of the week, which, in order to make up for last weeks dereliction, will actually be a series of questions, any one of which could, I think, be answered with some variation on “People are dumb.”

1. Why did Braden send this to me? He is, as I said, very intelligent; prior to this unfortunate incident, I would have said that he is one of the most intelligent people I know. I have to suspect that if he had brought even a small portion of his intellect to bear on this issue, he would have realized that this is ridiculous. Did he think, “Oh no! This is such bad news! I have to warn my friends!” Or did he just read the first line, the part where it says “Forward this to everyone in your address book!” and then skip the rest?
2. Can he have read the whole thing, and think that it is true?
3. Is it possible that this is the first time he has been told that everything is changing at Hotmail? I have received this message probably a dozen times. It has never been true before… Maybe Braden suspects that, this time, they’re not just crying “Hotmailischarging”? (Crying “wolf!” is much more rousing and poetic, but in this case, a little too figurative.)
4. Why would Hotmail charge for its service? Wouldn’t they be worried that people would switch to one of the myriad competing (and vastly superior) services rather than pay a fee for turdmail?
5. If Hotmail were going to charge us, why would they care that we forwarded the message to our whole address book? What benefit is there for Hotmail in annoying me? (though I admit, being annoying does seem to be a part of the business plan over at Hotmail.) What would motivate Hotmail to say “We will reward you for presenting our future clientele with a way to prevent us from charging them”? That’s stupid, right?
6. I confess, I can understand what happened to Braden: he figured he had nothing to lose, and there was the possibility of some advantage. He didn’t think about it too hard, he just sent the message on; it took two seconds... why not? What I really cannot fathom is the person who started this rumor. Why would anyone do that? Was he just sitting in his basement, thinking, “I know what would be cool! I’ll tell people that Hotmail is charging, and everyone will believe me! It will be soooooo funny, and when I tell them that they have all been had, we will all laugh, and many years from now, when our grandchildren’s grandchildren are all grown, we will reminisce about how I once deceived them in such a humorous way!” I can understand starting a rumor about Tom Cruise’s deteriorating mental health – that is a funny topic (or would be if he weren’t poisoning the lovely Joey Potter with his craziness (Katie, if you’re reading this, I understand, I forgive you, and we can work this out.)). But why would you start a rumor like this? Where is the punchline? Is this more of that ‘dry wit’ the British are famous for? Either way, I do not understand.
7. Why does this bother me so much?

Devotional Thot 3

2006-03-07T09:06:00.000-08:00

This last week, I was in charge of introducing the topic in the first service, and that meant that I didn't need the accountability afforded by the internet. I also didn't want to post my devotional thought and spoil it for the hoardes who are regulars of both Crapilano and the casuist... In either case, here is the belated post. It is longer than a standard devotional thot. It might even be more properly considered a "thought."

There is a grave temptation, when you are asked to be the speaker, to search for something profound, something new, a realization that no one else has ever made; the communion service is not the place for theological prognostications, it is a place for being reminded of what we already know. It is a place where we renew our confidence and hear the same story, the old story, of sinners ransomed from the fall. I am tempted to find something post-modern and intellectually rigorous to say, and all week I was disappointed, a little Jonah perhaps, knowing that I would end up talking about God’s love. God’s love! As I got closer to the moment when I would speak, I remembered that there is nothing ordinary or infantile about the realization that we are loved by God – it is (at best) an implausible message that has become routine and predictable in the retelling. It is good to be reminded that we are gathered at this table because God loves us. Perhaps it is a vestige of my upbringing; somehow I still believe that anything worth saying is worth saying in three points.

1. God’s call is personal: God’s call competes for our ear with so much noise. All around us are advertisements, subtle and not so subtle, that offer satisfaction. “Snickers really satisfies you.” Imagine my disappointment when I learned that snickers is a kind of chocolate bar! So many things clamor for my attention, so many temptations and distractions and promises, but God knows my name. God is seeking me. God knows us; has known us since before the foundation of the earth, and still loves us. I admit I cannot understand why. I am here because God loves me.
2. Without love, the rest doesn’t really matter. We’ve been taught since birth, and rightly so, that it is faith alone that saves us. But if we only believe, if we do not love God and the people around us, then what will distinguish our faith from the faith that James describes in the second chapter of his epistle? “You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that – and shudder.” (James 2:19) James goes on to tell us exactly what he means, a message that is summed up by Paul in Galatians 5 verse 6: “The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.” Faith is more than mere intellectual assent. It’s more than just believing the things, or committing to memory the right principles. Faith does more than merely saying the right words. And this bring us to the final point…
3. Love is not, and cannot be merely our knowing God. It is larger than that. Since birth, I have been taught about God. I have learned about his history and covenant with the people of Israel; I have heard about his character; I can recite a list of truths about God and his ways without even really breaking a sweat. But I have been learning that this is not enough. Amazingly, it is not enough for me to know God. God loves me, and as hard as it is to believe, God wants to know me. In Galatians, Paul makes a special point of pointing this fact out when discusses the change that has come for those who formerly did not know God. Galatians 4:8 “Formerly, when you did not know God, you were slaves to those who by nature are not gods. But now that you know God – or rather are known by God – how is it that you are turning back to those weak and miserable principles?” The point I want to stress is the same point that Paul stops to emphasize to the Galatians: they know God, and just as importantly, God knows them. I want to ask you to imagine sitting down with a friend, and asking him about his new marriage. He smiles, and gazes languidly into the middle distance, and, with great sighs and a visible affection, he holds forth. “She’s wonderful, man. She’s… she’s everything I ever wanted, and she’s a bunch of things I needed and never knew to ask for. She’s lovely, she’s kind to me, she smells wonderful, and I don’t think she knows the first thing about me. She buys me little gifts, and sometimes she sings when she first gets out of bed… and… yeah, the best part is, she doesn’t know me at all. Frankly, I don’t think she’s even interested to learn!” I don’t need to tell you, there is something misplaced in this relationship. It is tempting to be silent and secretive, particularly early in a relationship; if they don’t know the truth about your secrets and your flaws, maybe they won’t be able to gather enough evidence to leave you. I guess this is something akin to the wisdom of the sage who advised, “Tis better to be silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” But a relationship is not possible without communication and knowledge in both directions. I have always been struck by the fact at what Jesus tells those who called “Lord, Lord” but did not do the will of the Father. (This is recorded in Matthew 7:21-23) “Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles? Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evil doers.’” It seems important, that Jesus says, not “You never knew me,” but “I never knew you.” I have struggled for years to admit my failings, the failings that I know he has seen, to God. But above all things, I want to be loved by God, and this is a part of that.

Riddle me this, smart guy

2006-03-02T21:43:00.000-08:00

It is strange how I can have so many questions floating about in my head and still cannot setlle on just one to post to my website every week... But I have settled on a question, and only because I know what my answer would be, if i were asked. So my question this week is:

"If you met a fortune teller, a medium, a psychic, a tea leaf reader, a clairvoyant... what would be the first question (that is, what is the most important question) that you would ask?"

Quote of the Week 3

2006-03-02T21:39:00.000-08:00

"Pray to God for things you really need, not for things that you think God will think you're cool for wanting." ~ Craig Baldo

Devotional Thot

2006-02-25T23:15:00.000-08:00

'Then Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve disciples, went to the leading priests and asked, "How much will you pay me to betray Jesus to you?" And they gave him thirty pieces of silver. From that time on, Judas began looking for the right time and place to betray Jesus.'

What did Judas want? What was Judas’s motivation? He knew Jesus, spoke with him as one man speaks to another. Where Jesus went, Judas was welcome also. Judas heard the message, saw the miracles – Judas knew Jesus. What would motivate him to betray his friend?

The answer, I am afraid, does not appear to be profound – he wanted money. The priests who condemned Jesus to death were clinging to a religious worldview that they understood and had cherished for hundreds of years. The Romans who ordered his execution were protecting the stability of their empire; the soldiers who carried out the orders were men under authority. But Judas… Judas wanted money. I confess, it is not a desire that I can (even in abstract) understand. If it had been a misguided attempt to win favor; if he thought that he would be a hero to the Jews; if he were tired of living like a fox without a hole or a bird without a nest, any of these I could understand. Judas just wanted money.

I’ve been thinking a lot about humility lately. In the end, I think humility amounts to nothing more than having a genuine preference for God’s will; a lack of humility is something that I can understand. When, instead of choosing to follow God, I prefer my own will, then I am following in the footsteps of Judas, and the Romans, and the soldiers… When I choose to pursue my ambitions, satisfy my desires, ensure my own security; these are the things that would motivate me to betray my friend.

Gambling Stat Tracker

2006-02-24T16:32:00.000-08:00

Wins:
Peter: "Bet you two dollars you can't eat two super-hot jawbreakers from start to finish without taking a break."

Catherine: "A dollar says that your team (Jonas and Elliot) doesn't win this game of Cranium"

Losses:
Catherine: "I'll give you three to one odds that your team does not win this round of charades." (We were meant to act out "the Hokey Pokey" and didn't win. Three to one odds seemed attractive; there were four teams, so our team had a one in four chance BEFORE you consider our natural advantages.)

Weekly Total: two dollars to the good, and what matters more, I have discovered that Catherine likes to gamble. I need that sort of thing.

Bet at offer this week: I'm offering even odds that I score in the soccer game tonight. This is a very god bet for anyone to take advantage of -- I don't score in even close to half of the games, and this week the competition promises to be stiff, but I feel strong. I am not currently able to facilitate bets larger than two dollars. Bets must be received before midnight, Mountain Time.

If you're interested in offering another bet, make your offer below. No bet too ridiculous to be considered.

Quote of the week 2

2006-02-24T16:26:00.000-08:00

"I have overcome a fiercely anti-Catholic upringing in order to attend Mass simply and solely to escape Protestant guitars." ~ Annie Dillard

A crisis of faith that has tempted me, too... Protestants and their acoustic guitars (shakes head).

Question of the Week 2

2006-02-22T10:38:00.000-08:00

You’ve put in the hard hours, lingered around the Rutherford Library or the Engineering buildings, and finally met someone exciting, someone who might possibly be The One… The One who makes talk of the weather seem fascinating, The One who gilds the ordinary moments of your days, The One who will walk with you through the dangerous places in your heart, and blah blah blah.

Early in a relationship, it is easy and even delightful to selflessly sacrifice, but is it wise? When things have just begun, competition is often fierce to see who can be more attentive to the needs of the other, and everyone wins! Some part of me thinks that it might be smarter to do things exactly the opposite way: commit to a general selfishness early in the relationship and seek your own happiness first. (I know, this flies in the face of everything you’ve learned in YM (or Brio) or GQ (or Breakaway), but bear with me.) Being committed to your own happiness means that you are doing the things that you really enjoy, telling the jokes that you really think are funny, watching the movies you really like; in short, being the person who you really are. If your intended doesn’t like that person, you are early enough into the relationship to cast them back into that wide sea filled with many fishes, and “no harm done.” If they do like the person you are, then the long term health of your relationship will not rest on maintaining a persona or an alter ego.

Of course, at the same time, it seems intuitive that selfishness and relationship run always in opposition. This leads us to question of the week: Early in a relationship, is it wise to be self-sacrificing, or does a long term relationship grow more easily when fertilized with selfishness?

Devotional thot

2006-02-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

Pavlov;

I am interested to know why you would ask me about how I reconcile Matthew 25 to the picture of salvation given in the rest of scripture; I am convinced that you will not be satisfied with my answer. I have long been of the opinion that scripture (and in a more profound way, God himself) resists systematization. In fact, the sort of generalities that I am most comfortable with are along the lines of “God is unpredictable.” When I consider the story of God’s relationship with man as presented in the Bible, there is a trend of God doing unexpected things; think of the incarnation – nobody saw that coming. Jesus promises that no one knows the day or the hour of his coming but the Father himself; this might well underlie a more profound theological point, namely, that prognostication will fall short, and God will resist our dearest efforts to understand. We know God only by the spirit of God – we know what he tells us, and nothing else.

It might sound like mere laziness to present the problem as incorrigible right from the start, but I am not above laziness, and when the topic is God, I am quick to admit that I am in over my head. Here is that admission, Pavlov: I do not understand the mechanism of salvation, and indeed, the accounts given by James, Paul and Jesus differ in important ways. That said, I must admit also that this (apparent or actual) inconsistency does not bother me in the least, nor can I think of any reason why it should. The point of the parable of the sheep and the goats is pretty clear: those who will be with Jesus in the end will be those who cared for others; there is an element of ministering to God in ministering to the ‘least of these’.

I think that you are struck by the inconsistency between the account given by Paul, which makes it clear that justification is by faith, and not by works, and the account given by Jesus, which makes it clear that the separation between those “blessed by [the] Father” and the “cursed” is made according to their deeds. So… what saves us? My short answer: Jesus. Jesus saves us. “When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with eloquence or superior wisdom as I proclaimed to you the testimony about God. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” I am incapable of stating the means of salvation or bridging the gap between faith and works; wouldn’t it be just the flexing of ‘superior wisdom’ to try? Why do we need to distill the message further?

Things are gonna change around here!

2006-02-15T10:30:00.000-08:00

David Hengen came over from the popsicle stand to add his two cents, refusing even to “pretend that i read part three,” and instead informing me that he “regularly check your blogs for more entries like the one about the comedy house, or the trip to the west edmonton mall theme park.” And who can blame him, really? It is entirely selfish to post windy, wordy stories with no immediate payoff, and it doesn’t fit well with the weblog medium, either. For some reason, it is really hard to read all the way through something long on a weblog, and I am always putting long things on, for my own entertainment. It’s an approach that will never make you popular with the weblog crowd. I’d been thinking for several weeks that I needed to make a change, a thought that was confirmed by David’s comment.

So let me spell it out for you. From now on, things are going to be different. For every long thing I post, I will also post a short thing. That means that when part four of the dead cat story comes out (and it is coming, I promise. I can’t stop, I really can’t) it will be accompanied by something short and funny.

But wait! There is more!

I am also going to add a “gambling stat tracker” to the website. I have been meaning to do this for some time now. In September, when I made my annual New Year’s resolutions, I began my attempt to turn five dollars into $200 using only canny gambling. Since then, there have been some successes. For instance, I won a dollar by knowing that green peppers, red peppers, yellow peppers, purple peppers and even the rarely seen brown pepper are all the same pepper! Yessir, the farmer (isn’t the idea of a farmer quaint?) just leaves the green pepper on the vine longer, and as the pepper matures it gets sweeter and changes colour! I won a dollar for that. I won a dollar and a big buck after speculating (correctly) that there is an escalator in Red Deer. On the other hand, I have lost several bets. The problem is that I have no idea how much I am up, or, more likely, down. Hence, the gambling stat tracker. Every time I make a wager, it will be listed on the website, and when it is resolved, the stat tracker will reflect a running total. That might be kind of fun.

But wait! There’s more!

To counter the ‘fun’ of the gambling stat tracker, and in deference to my Christian upbringing, I am going to add a weekly ‘devotional thot’. (A ‘thot’ is like a ‘thought’ only shorter and more inspirational; often grounded in suspect logic.) I have long believed that one of the great things about going to a Brethren church is that everyone is prepared to share at every meeting. In theory, everybody in a Brethren church could end up preaching, and so (once again in theory) everyone should be comfortable with their Bibles and what their Bibles say. In practice, the same eight guys get up every week, and I have never shared, ever, in the first service. There is no good reason for this. I ought to prepare something to say, even if I am not going to say it, and the Interweb is going to help keep me accountable to that end. You will see a ‘devotional thot’ posted prior to church every Saturn’sday.

But wait! There’s more!

I am also going to add a “quote of the week” section – quotes to inspire and lighten the load as you wend your way through your week.

But wait! There’s (a little bit) more! (How is it possible?)

Finally, the casuist will from now on supply a “question of the week” to be pondered, mulled and debated passionately. Check back often, as this feature is sure to generate plenty of discussion! The first question of the week and the first quote of the week are listed below.

Now, David, I feel I have made some concessions. It is up to you to now do your part. In exchange for all my wit and delightful repartee, I expect that you will read, or at least pretend to read, the windy, wordy stories I insist on foisting upon you. That is all for now.

Part four of the damn cat story will be available soon.

Quote of the week

2006-02-15T09:31:00.000-08:00

"We could not obey your commandments, for we did not believe your promises." ~ G.E.M. Anscombe.

(Anscombe originally wrote this as a part of a discussion about the Cold War, and intended it specifically to comment on the (Christian) world leaders who built up their nuclear armaments and drove the world to the brink of war. Anscombe pictures them standing before Christ, attempting to explain the foreign policy decisions that did not respect Jesus' prohibitions against force and vengeance. Anscombe believed that we should never allow ourselves to act as if the 'end justifies the means'. So, for instance, if a madman offered a bargain: "If you kill this one kid, I will let these twenty go," Anscombe would advocate our refusal. God has commanded "Thou shalt not kill," and that, for Anscombe, is the end of the matter. We don't apply our own judgment to the situation; our responsibility is to trust God. Besides, Anscombe points out, we cannot expect a person who makes such a demand to act predictably; nothing assures us that they will live up to their end of the bargain. (Anscombe adds some further philosophical justification, but it is not needed here.))

I have been challenged by this thought, and I think it is applicable to more than just world politics... I thought I would share it with y' all.

Question of the Week

2006-02-15T08:57:00.000-08:00

Each building on campus contains its treasures, there can be no doubting this, but the treasures are not the same. My question is fairly simple: where on the university campus would you choose to loiter if you wanted to catch the eye of a desirable mate? Obviously, if you spend time outside the dentistry/pharmacy building, you stand a high chance of meeting a future dentist or pharmacist, and they are widely rumored to make a good salary. Or, perhaps you would choose to visit the Phys. Ed. building, where you are likely to meet fit and handsome people, fresh off the treadmill. Or maybe you would head over to the drama department, where exciting, passionate, artistic visionaries roam the halls, looking for someone to impersonate or lie to.

Of course there is no perfect indicator of romantic compatibility, and the people inside the building are as varied and unique as snowflakes, but I am looking for generalities: In view of Valentine’s day, where on campus would a single person would be wise to eat their lunch?

A dead cat, Part three... Forgive me

2006-01-26T08:07:00.000-08:00

(Editors note: I don't know why I am doing this. I just... can't stop. Perhaps Ruthie was wrong: if the blogging business were all purely performative, surely I would not post stuff that was so obviously uninteresting and long. If anyone is interested (and you aren't, but that is ok) the first two parts of this story are in the archives somewhere.)

I stared at the phone and let my arms dangle limp. I pretended that I physically could not lift them; that my body was battling against my mind; that will alone was insufficient to impel my hands to their duty. I knew that I could reach out at any time, but still there was some doubt. I was stunned at my own immobility. Stubbornness has a certain inertia, and I was powerless to break it. I stared at the phone, and imagined that I had suffered a stroke. I imagined that I could not as much as turn my head; someone would eventually find me, catatonic and helpless, staring at the phone, my mouth open slightly, my eyes frozen open. It was not the first time I had been enfeebled by my own imagination.

When was I young and I loved to read the stories of Drama in Real Life out of Reader’s Digest. I was particularly fond of the story of a mountaineer who had suffered some horrific accident, and crawled, both legs broken, some 19 miles to civilization. I read it again and again, with an innocent and obscene delight. I had no frame of reference with which to make sense of nineteen miles, and even less for the pain of two broken legs, but it did not stop me from putting myself in his shoes. One day, on the way home from school, I pretended that my leg was broken. I dragged it pitifully behind me, wincing, even collapsing when I accidentally put my weight on it. I crawled through a parking lot on my stomach, without shame. I was very young. I staggered, and fell again, and lay on the ground, eyes screwed shut in agony, holding my broken leg, hoping for rescue or death. I must have pretended compellingly: a car stopped, and a man asked if I was ok. I was very embarrassed – it is embarrassing just to remember. I could not admit to the helpful stranger the reality of my situation, but neither could I let him take me to the hospital. I slowly rose, grimacing, then bravely shook my head, refusing his help, and staggered away with what I hope resembled proud courage. When I was out of sight, I abandoned my limp; the attempted rescue had ruined the fantasy. I knew for certain that I was not a wounded alpinist; I was an eight year old with two perfectly good legs and some sort of mental malady.

I could pick up the phone, and I knew I could, but I didn’t want to, so I continued to stare at it. It was sitting inches away from me. I had the phone number in my hand. No further preparations could be made. I reached out and picked up the phone, but pressed my finger over the button so that the phone would not know the difference. Suddenly the phone jangled to life in my hand. I answered it, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Of course it was her, calling to check up on me. I told her that I hadn’t called yet, and reminded her that because the cat was dead, it was not really a time sensitive issue. She sat silent at other end of the line, and I could as much as see her face. I closed my eyes, but it did no good. “I’m going to call,” I promised. “It just hadn’t crossed my mind, that’s all. Look, I’ll call right now, ok?” She nodded gravely. I hung up the phone, exhaled, and dialled quickly, as if any intervening time might break my resolve. The phone rang three times, and I realized that I hadn’t decided what to say if the machine picked up. Answering machines panic me, I think because the permanence of the message. If the answering machine…

“Hello?” Someone had picked up. She sounded like my mother. I wondered if I might know her kids. At least I didn’t have to worry about the answering machine.

“Yes, hello,” I said. “Sorry to bother you, but I saw your sign… about the cat.” I hoped that she would step in, contribute something, at least to let me know that I had called the right number, to let me know that she was listening, but she remained silent. “I think… I found a cat, I guess, and it is… Well, I found a dead cat, in the empty lot. I suppose, I thought that it might be…” This was incredibly difficult. Why wasn’t she saying anything? “I thought you would like to know.”

“Oh,” she said, eventually, but it was not a response to my news. It was as if she just remembered the proper protocol of a phone conversation. “I did… I didn’t think that she was coming back, I suppose, it has been three weeks. Still I do appreciate the call. Thank you.” She paused again. I had nothing left to say. “The poster did promise a reward, didn’t it?” she said.

“I wasn’t going to mention it unless you did,” I said cheerfully, and immediately regretted the words. I wished I could assure her that a reward was the furthest thing from my mind. I had called out of courtesy, and I couldn’t imagine a reward that would make this phone call worthwhile. In order to collect a reward, I would have to meet this woman. Our only commonality was her dead cat.

“Well, ok. My husband owns the Turbo station. Why don’t you drop in tomorrow afternoon? I’d like you to point out the place where you found her, so at least we can give her a Christian burial.” She chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s no problem. I’ll look forward to it.” I’ll look forward to it? What was wrong with me? What was wrong with me? “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right, see you then.” She hung up the phone. I remembered my promise to call back with a recap, but I’d had enough of the phone, and it could wait. I walked out of the room, shaking my head and smiling. “I’ll look forward to it,” I thought angrily. “I’ll look forward to it.”

That's why they play the game

2006-01-14T01:33:00.000-08:00

I decided that I was going to pick the winners in the football games because I wanted everyone to know that I was a super-genius. I learned a valuable lesson: if you want to gloat about being a super-genius, it is wise to first verify that you are a super-genius.

I have watched many football games, and I have read columns by learned football scholars, and I have strong opinions about which techniques will lead to success, and about the relative importance of cheerleaders. With football forecasts as with dating advice, it is wise to consider the past record of the source before you wager based upon their counsel. Last week, my prognostications (prognostication is a fun word) were twice correct, and twice incorrect. (It would be impolite to discuss my rate of success in other speculative endeavours; instead let me say that you are far better off with my football advice.) With that in mind, let’s get to the picks (home team in capitals).

(Oh, and no one explained this to me, and I do not want you to be similarly benighted. The game is given a ‘line’ by oddsmakers – the oddsmakers estimate who they think is going to win the game, and by how many points. In the case of the Seattle-Washington game, Seattle is heavily favoured to win. In order to give people some motivation to wager on Washington, the oddsmakers say that it will not count as a win for Seattle unless they beat Washington by 10 points or more. It’s like when I play basketball against Daytona Splendor – we usually play to ten and I spot him six. For gambling purposes, Seattle is spotting Washington a 9 point lead. If, as in the case of the New England game, the line is 3, and the Patriots lose by exactly 3 points, the bet is declared a ‘push’ – no one wins and no one loses.)

SEATTLE (-9.5) over Washington – About the only interesting angle in this game is that Seattle is in Washington, but this is a road game for the Redskins, so we can also say that Washington is in Seattle. You can go ahead and read that a couple of times.

Game Note: Sometimes, for vanity or intimidation, a player’s profile will “gild the lily” as they say. “The program lists him at 220,” the announcer might say, "but he looks closer to 250 to me, and I’ll tell you, he hits like he weighs 280!” The program lists Mark Brunell as 35 years old, but he looks closer to 50 to me, and he runs like a man who has misplaced his wheelchair.

Game Note 2: Shawn Springs (who was ejected last week after spitting on another player) will be permitted to play. There were fears that his criminal trial for a weapons violation (specifically, pointing a loaded gun at someone during an altercation; he was charged with “assault with a weapon and simple battery.”) might interfere with the game, but the courts granted a continuance. I think we can all agree that justice was served, and that Mr. Shawn Springs is a class act.

INDY (-9.5) over Pittsburgh – I really don’t like Peyton Manning. I love it when he loses. It is not going to happen this week. Happily, it is going to happen next week.

New England (+3) over DENVER – If there was a word that meant the opposite of confident (disconfident? unconfident?) I would use it to describe this game. My heart tells me that the Patriots are a slightly better team, but my heart also recommended making an emotional investment in Katie Holmes (Katie, if you’re reading this, we can work it out. I don’t care about What’s His Name…). Ultimately, the choice came down to Jake “the Snake” Plummer or Tom Brady, and I am reversing my long-standing policy of “back the quarterback who looks most like hobo” and taking the three-time champs on the road.

CHICAGO (-3) over Carolina – Employing a complicated statistical analysis, I have determined that in the second round of the playoffs home teams are the prohibitive favourites (home teams are 49-11 in the second round since 1990). The Bears are the home team. They have the inexperienced quarterback, the rookie kicker, and the Panthers looked good destroying Eli Manning, but how good to have to be to beat a Manning in the playoffs? (I thought it was funny when the announcers were predicting that Eli would bounce back, reminding us that big brother lost his first playoff game too. Which would be encouraging, if Peyton had blossomed into a proven playoff performer. But he has blossomed into a full-fledged suck, and that makes me very happy, every year. And will make me happy again. Not this week; next week.) Anyway, I think that the Bears will win. But last week I was wrong. Twice.

Problem of Pain... more, and still more

2006-01-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

In the West, the Christian story is so ingrained that when we talk about God we are (almost without exception) talking about the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the God of the Bible, the God that you and I worship in the person of Christ. The problem of evil does not trouble the Greeks, for instance, because their pantheon were much more mutable, much less dependably gracious, and much less powerful than the God of the Bible. For the Greeks, the problem of evil was pretty much, a “Yeah, so?” kind of problem, because they did not believe that any one God was all-powerful, all-good, and all-knowing. For them, the cosmos were filled with deities, each one having a slightly different agenda. Sometimes these gods co-operated with each other and with man, and sometimes they were more pissy. A drought killed thousands; “God did it,” was an explanation that fit perfectly with their theology – killing thousands of people was the sort of thing a god might do. Thus the existence of the Greek pantheon is not contradicted by the existence of evil – far from it! In fact, random evil reinforces a belief in their god, for “If god does not exist, then who killed all those people with the lightening bolt?” For Christians, who worship a God who is One, no competing deity can be blamed. The Greeks could have said, “Well, obviously, this is the work of god A. God B would not do something like this. Damn you, god A!” The God of the Bible is alone sovereign: he is jealous; he demands all praise; he alone bears the blame.

The point of this is to point out, from a different perspective, that the existence of God is not militated against by the existence of evil. One very specific construal of God is disallowed by a very specific method of inquiry – the question we face as human reasoners is “Is the God that is disallowed the God I worship?” Put another way, “Is Christian theology robust enough to deal with the existence of evil?” To this question, my answer is an unabashed “Yes.”

It is would love to point out all the allowances that the scriptural account gives for evil, but I will just touch on a few pertinent points:
a) Humans are responsible for much of the evil that is present in the world. God gave humanity the freedom to choose, we chose badly, and continue to choose badly, and as a result we suffer. Human choices are the cause of all suffering – the fall of man was, according to the Bible, led directly to our ongoing struggle against nature, and to all kinds of suffering. This leads us unavoidably to question why God allowed us the freedom to choose. Once again, I am forced to shrug. I do not know why God made puppies, or sunsets, and I do not know why God so values freedom. The Bible hints at some reasons, but is most clear in its promise that we know the mind of God only when God reveals his mind to us. To pinch a phrase from Augustine, “We are talking about God. What wonder is it that you do not understand? If you do understand, then it is not God.”
b) This suffering, this whole world, is temporary. According to Christian eschatology, God has made provision for an end to suffering and evil. This is slender comfort when one is actually suffering, but pain is not the end. There is hope; things will get better.
c) This suffering is purposeful. It is purposeful for the development of character, and perhaps more importantly, it is purposed to allow for God’s demonstration of love in this: “ that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” Christ could not have died if there were not death, and he could not have died for us when we were sinners if there was not sin. He could not have demonstrated the depth of his love for us without allowing us to be distant from him. Recall the story of the father who ran down to his prodigal son. God could not have come to us “while we were still a long way off” if we had been constantly at his side. I think it is telling that, in that story, the son who stayed behind ended up bitter and angry. He had not seen the depth of his father’s love because he had not been far off. As Christ said Simon in response to the woman who washed Christ’s feet with her hair, “Who has been forgiven much loves much.” Suffering, it seems, serves ultimate purpose: it teaches us about love.

Surely the universe could have been constructed in another way; surely we could have been instructed in a less costly way. Perhaps it is true. But it is also possible that God is constrained to act in this way, that what we call love is a feature of God, and he could not imbue his universe with his character (love) without making it possible for us to suffer loss. Perhaps this is not the best of all possible worlds, but it is perhaps the most God-like of all possible worlds. The truth or falsity of this claim, it seems to me, is not important, however.

NFL playoffs

2006-01-07T08:24:00.000-08:00

The NFL playoffs begin this weekend, and no one really cares. We live in Canada, and we love football, but we love Canadian rules. We largely do not care about the watered-down, slow game that, over the objections of the rest of the world, the Yanks insist on calling football (you have to give it to the Americans, they are really good at doing things over the objections of the rest of the world). We love the wacky rules, we love the wacky plays, the fumbled interception that is recovered, fumbled again, kicked into the endzone, and then kicked back out. As befits our great nation’s heritage of free land, the field is bigger. As befits our socialist leanings, the game is not over until the last whistle; there is always a chance that the underdog can come back. (I love hearing the announcer say “All they need is a touchdown, a two point convert, a recovered onside kick, and field goal.” And they are serious!) Also, in the CFL the uprights are at the front of the endzone instead of the back, so there is always a chance that someone is going to run into them.

I have a confession to make, a confession that is too shameful to speak anywhere but into the anonymity of the Internet: I like American football better. I have for some time now. I remember when it began. I was watching the St. Louis Rams in around 1999. Kurt Warner dropped back to pass, but several very large gentleman, intent on doing him harm, rushed toward him. Sensibly, he ran away toward the right sideline. As he ran to his right, he threw the ball (across his body, against his momentum) toward the left corner of the endzone. The ball travelled sixty yards in the air, and came down in the arms of a receiver. The receiver was ‘double covered’ (that is, two highly skilled players were being paid vast sums of money to prevent the catch) but the ball went over the head of the short cover man, and under the arms of the deep man. The receiver caught the ball without breaking stride, and stepped across the goal line for a touchdown.

Of course, it is impossible to recreate the drama of this play in written prose. I just want to stress, the quarterback was running to his right, and threw to his leftt. The ball was thrown at a moving target, a space about the size of a basketball hoop, sixty yards away. (Sixty yards is further than most athletes can kick a football.) I had seen a lot of football. I had never seen anything like that play before.

That moment was a reinforcement of an obvious truth that had lurked for years in the recesses of my mind: the players in the NFL are better. They are faster, they are stronger, they make better decisions. The athletes in the CFL are very good, but they are not good enough to play in the NFL; that is why they play in the CFL. If you want to see someone run into the uprights, or catch an interception after the ball bounced off of the intended receiver’s helmet, the CFL is your game. If you want to watch the best athletes play football at its highest level, you need to watch the NFL. If you want to watch almost inhuman feats of athleticism by top tier American athletes, you will enjoy the NFL. If you want to watch second tier American athletes and a Canadian place kicker, the CFL is a perfect fit.

Some will protest, “But the NFL game is too slow! They run the ball too much!” In the CFL, teams are given only three downs to gain the ten yards needed for a first down. In the NFL, teams are given four downs. It is easy to see that a slow, plodding offense will be more successful in the NFL than in the CFL. What people who make this argument seem to forget is that in the CFL, the defense has to line up a yard away from the line of scrimmage. In the NFL, to gain a yard, you need to run through the defense. In the CFL, you get a whole yard of empty space to gather momentum, so running against a CFL defense is much easier. Because the defense has to line up a yard away from the ball, the offense has the privelege of an uncontested yard on every down. If you take those three yards away, the CFL team has to gain 7 contested yards over the course of three downs, where the NFL team has to gain 10 contested yards over the course of four downs – on average, the CFL game favours a slow, plodding offense!

The neutral zone is most obvious in short yardage situations. In the CFL, when a team faces third down with a yard to go, they will always go for it, and almost always get it: there is no one to run through to get the requiste yards, so all you have to do is not fall over and you are going to get your first down. In the NFL, to gain a yard you have to run through the defense, so in every fourth down situation, every goal-line stand, there is a chance that your team will be unsuccessful. In the recent NFL game between the New York Giants and the Oakland Raiders, the Raiders ran four plays from their opponents’ one yard line; four times they were stopped. It is important to remember that the Oakland Raiders are an incompetent, awful, lazy football team, but the distinction between the NFL and the CFL is obvious. In the CFL, a play from the one yard line is successful nine out of ten times. When your team gets to the one yard line, you might as well stop watching, because nothing exciting is going to happen. In the NFL, every yard is contested, and as a result, it is exciting.

CFL games, I confess, do feel a lot faster. The reason for this has nothing to do with the actual play of the game, but with the rules with regard to the clock. In the CFL, teams have 27 seconds to run every offensive play; if you take any longer than that, your team is penalized for delay of game. In the NFL, teams have 40 seconds. Those thirteen seconds are never put to good use; the team just takes its sweet time lining up, and the game drags between downs. That’s why fans of the CFL complain about the pace of the game – it has nothing to do with the number of running plays.

Miscellaneous rules:
• In the NFL, a receiver has to control the ball with both feet still in bounds. It’s very exciting to see a player running full speed catch the ball, stop the momentum of his lower body to tap both feet inside the boundary marker, and then smash uncontrollably into some poor photographer. In the CFL, one foot is good enough. Why is this? The field’s wider! They should have plenty of space to get both feet down. But as anyone who has watched the NFL knows, it is really hard to get both feet down in bounds, and I guess our boys aren’t up to it. Advantage: NFL
• In the NFL, the uprights are at the back of the endzone, so the kicker has to kick the ball further to score a field goal, making field goals more difficult. (Of course, the kickers are better in the NFL, so this is a bit of a wash: Sean Fleming’s effective range is about 20 yards. Yes, he got better toward the end of the season.) The downside of moving the uprights to the back of the endzone is that you never see an NFL player tracking the ball across the sky, arms outstretched, running full speed into a huge steel obstacle in the middle of the field. That happens in the CFL. Advantage: CFL
• The Canadian field is wider. This gives the offense more room to work: an obvious advantage. The Canadian field is also longer, meaning the offense has to move the ball further to score: an obvious disadvantage. I have not undertaken any sort of a statistical analysis, but it seems to me that NFL scores are comparable to those in the CFL. No advantage.
• The CFL has all sorts of wacky rules about kicking. I’ve been a fan for years, and I still don’t understand them very well. It is very unpredictable. I once saw a game where one team tried a field goal, and their opposition kicked the ball back out, so we kicked the ball back in, and they kicked the ball back out, through a crowd. And that was the end of the game. It’s like a bizarre, unpredictable circus, and you never really get the hang of it. Advantage: CFL

Washington over TAMPA BAY (-2.5)
Jacksonville over NEW ENGLAND (-8)
CINCINATTI over Pittsburgh (-3)
Carolina over NEW YORK GIANTS (-2.5)

More on Evil

2005-12-28T00:14:00.000-08:00

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.

When Things Die (Part Deux - see part one in the archives if you missed it)

2005-12-14T19:59:00.000-08:00

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.”

Seinfeld on Evil

2005-12-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-13T19:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Seriously, you guys GOTS to read this.

2005-12-12T22:48:00.000-08:00

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...

This... is a little weird.

2005-12-12T22:47:00.000-08:00

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.

When things die

2005-12-09T19:47:00.000-08:00

“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.”

The Problem of Evil

2005-12-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

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

Har har

2005-11-29T16:57:00.000-08:00

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.)

I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over

2005-11-29T16:53:00.000-08:00

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.

A cry for help

2005-11-28T21:32:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-28T21:18:00.000-08:00

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.

Time Traveller

2005-11-22T20:13:00.000-08:00

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.

surprised by joy

2005-11-18T12:52:00.000-08:00

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.

It begins

2005-11-09T16:16:00.000-08:00

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.