Putting aside any allusions you are now having toward all things Mason Proffit, let me tell you about it.
I dreamed I was in a house with CS Lewis, a woman I know named Ann from an online Charles Williams group, and a man who seemed to be something like a butler. It was a very simple dream and was the last thing I remember upon awakening this morning.
I don't know where this house was. I don't recall seeing Jack (I can call him that since we're old drinking buddies), but I think he was inside the house while I was in the front yard. The home was old and brick--the front yard a bit small and sparse of vegetation except for the grass. The yard was fenced in by an iron fence like the ones they made in the old days. Iron in fact played a big role in this dream. On the other side of the fence everything you saw was rather rundown. Not terrible, but certainly the other properties had been let go for a number of years. There was also a shop where a man (who I didn't see) made things from iron. He had made an outside chair for Jack and an odd piece of "poetry" for Charles Williams. Both objects now sat in Lewis' front yard. The butler had just brought them out, and I was afraid they would get stolen.
There's no point in trying to describe the chair, it having no distinguishing characteristics from other iron chairs except to say it had a lot of open spaces instead of tons of bars going around it like some chairs do. The more intriguing object was this piece made for Williams. I don't know if Williams was still alive or not, but I believe the object was made to his specifications. Ann came out of the house and looked it up and down for a while before declaring that the "poetry was too dense" to figure out. The odd thing was that the object seemed to be nothing but a hurdle bar--the kind people jump over when running hurdles. It was different from other hurdle bars I had seen in that it was made from iron and had no wood on it. It was completely iron, and instead of having a flat wood piece on the top that you were to jump over, it had an iron bar that was shaped like a half moon with the curved side facing up making it more difficult to clear.
The butler moved one of the pieces (I can't remember which now, but I think it was the chair) over against the fence. This really worried me, because I could see how easy it was to steal from there. Sure enough a boy grabbed it and ran off with it in just a few minutes. I was chasing him when I woke up.
Whatever could it mean?
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Beginning of Wisdom
The summer of 1968 would have probably been a bland summer. There was a nine year old boy named Billy who lived on Michigan Avenue in East St Louis, the oldest of five (or was it six?) siblings, all of them mentally disabled to a degree except for the oldest daughter whom nobody liked. They were close in age to myself, but I wasn't allowed to play with them, and only watched them from afar.
They weren't so different from other boys and girls really with the same predilection for games and laughter as any other children. They always said their father worked for the state, but mom explained to me one day that this meant he was on public aid, and they required people to work for the state in some small capacity to get the money. There were no totally free rides in those days. East St Louis used to be a big railroad town where people could always find work, but over-the-road trucking brought an end to all that, and times were getting hard. Most folks lived in houses they had built themselves with whatever used wood they could find and wrapped their homes in cheap, but very flammable, shingle siding that always made for a quick fire, and there were plenty of those during the race riots.
Billy was appointed king of his clan. He was to keep an eye on all his brothers and sisters to keep them safe, and this he did with great pride. Mostly he was just a good boy. I don't remember Billy ever telling a lie, and when you're nine years old, telling lies is your measuring stick where goodness is concerned. But while he had his siblings to play with, they were too young to be much fun for him. There was no one to catch him when playing tag, no one to beat him at shooting targets with slingshots, no one to catch his fastball without dropping it. Yes, it would have been a bland summer.
One day to Billy's great delight, a new family moved in a few houses down on the other side of the street, and they too had a nine year old boy named Billy. And even though the new Billy was above average in the brains department they became quick friends. People found it difficult to call them by name though since they had the same moniker, so it was decided that the former Billy who had been there the longest would be called Willy.
Life during hard times doesn't seem hard at all when you have a friend to go through them with. The two Billys did everything together. Willy wasn't normally supposed to go far from home, but as long as he was with Billy his mother didn't care. He also didn't have a bike, but Billy would gladly cart Willy on the handlebars all over town. East St Louis is an odd town, shaped like a football field, several miles long, but only a mile or two wide, and there wasn't much of any part of it they hadn't traveled. Still, they found the most pleasure close to home playing on the canal behind Billy's house where they shot off bottle rockets, tossed cats in the quick moving water, or captured cottonmouths in jars only to torture the "evil varmints" to death later as nine year old boys are want to do. There was also a boy over on Minnesota Ave who had an actual car! It was a tiny French car that sat two people and looked like a glorified go-cart. It had no motor and was very light, so the two Billys and the other neighborhood kids took turns pushing each other down the hill in it. The summer of 68 was turning out not to be so bland after all.
Willy had blond hair and very fair skin with the bluest eyes I ever saw. He had posture that was so good you would have thought he was brought up in a military school, but that's just the way he was. One day after some testing at his "special" school, it was decided that he would be able to go to regular school, although he would always be in remedial classes. I remember him that first morning walking to the bus stop by himself for the first time to go to a normal school. He looked so proud.
Billy was a dark haired boy and a little husky. His grandfather had once been a minister in this town, and his home was full of religious pictures and statues. There was even a painting of Jesus surrounded by children that hung in his bedroom. Billy though, like most kids, never thought too much about religion. His parents sent him to a school in another all-white town where he had gone before they moved to East St Louis. He wanted to go to school with Willy, but there was no talking his mother out of it. She wanted her boy to have a good education and was afraid of the riots, and in truth, was probably not wrong to feel that way. There were lots of killings in those days by blacks and whites both. There were also the old-time gangsters who still ran the town behind the scenes, and you sure wanted to stay clear of them. That lady was just about the most scared women I ever did see. But she had no fear of other women, and once I saw her threaten to knock the teeth right out of some neighbor lady's face during a dispute about a parking space. I realized then that women fight over the silliest things only to make up again before supper. That's why we don’t let them run the Army.
One day Billy's cousin, Brenda, went to see Gypsy about her warts. Gypsy was an old woman who lived on Minnesota next door to those Wells boys who had the little car. I never knew what her real name was, but she knew some old remedies to heal people of various ailments, and so we always just called her Gypsy. She wrapped Brenda's finger in some gauze, said a few words, and then rubbed the finger this way and that. When she pulled the gauze away, the warts fell to the ground. She was an amazing woman that Gypsy.
Another time, Willy had lost his dad's car keys. He used them to unlock the shed and somehow managed to misplace them and was afraid he'd get whooped when his dad got home. Billy had heard of an old woman downtown though who could find lost things if you gave her a little money. So off they went on Billy's bike.
They had to ask several people before they found someone who could tell them where she lived. It was a very rundown house not far from the bridge traffic. She sat outside on the porch in a rocker fanning herself in the summer heat. The boys thought she looked a bit crazy, but they got their courage up and walked to the steps. "Warm night isn't it boys?" she said.
"Yes ma'am," both Billys replied in unison. "Are you the lady that helps people find lost things?" said Willy.
"Well, I help folks when I can. And did you lose something?"
"He lost his dad's car keys," said Billy. "Can you help us find them? We have some money." They used to hunt down soda bottles and turn them in for the deposits. Together they had nearly two dollars worth.
"Well let me see what ya'all got there honey," she said as he placed the money in her hand. She smiled and gave the money back. "You keep this. You might need it one day." Then she laid her head back and seemed to go to sleep.
The boys weren't sure what to do now. They were too polite to wake the old woman. Finally they were starting to walk away when she bolted upright and said, "You'll find those keys in the creek behind the shed."
The boys looked startled at one another.
"You better head on back home now. It'll be dark soon, and it ain't safe here after dark," she told them.
They both thanked her and headed back home on the bike. By the time they got there it was already dark, and their mothers were beginning to get worried. Billy said a quick greeting to his folks and then ran out again with his small penlight in his pocket saying he'd be right back. Willy's dad said nothing about the keys. It was a Sunday, and Willy hoped his parents hadn't tried to go anywhere. People weren't on the go all the time in those days like they are now.
The two Billys searched the creek behind the shed, which thankfully, was dried up in the summer heat. Willy let out a gasp, "There they are!" he exclaimed. Sure enough, there were the car keys just as the old woman had said. He went to put them in his pocket and found a gaping hole there. He carried them into the house instead and laid them on his mom and dad's dresser without anyone noticing.
Both boys were quite exhausted and slept well that night. Before drifting off to sleep, Willy thought about going to college one day even though he knew the odds were against him. Billy, on the other hand, for the first time took a serious glance at the painting on his wall, thought of how much fun it was to be a boy in East St Louis during the summer of 1968, and wished he never had to grow-up. And he never did.
They weren't so different from other boys and girls really with the same predilection for games and laughter as any other children. They always said their father worked for the state, but mom explained to me one day that this meant he was on public aid, and they required people to work for the state in some small capacity to get the money. There were no totally free rides in those days. East St Louis used to be a big railroad town where people could always find work, but over-the-road trucking brought an end to all that, and times were getting hard. Most folks lived in houses they had built themselves with whatever used wood they could find and wrapped their homes in cheap, but very flammable, shingle siding that always made for a quick fire, and there were plenty of those during the race riots.
Billy was appointed king of his clan. He was to keep an eye on all his brothers and sisters to keep them safe, and this he did with great pride. Mostly he was just a good boy. I don't remember Billy ever telling a lie, and when you're nine years old, telling lies is your measuring stick where goodness is concerned. But while he had his siblings to play with, they were too young to be much fun for him. There was no one to catch him when playing tag, no one to beat him at shooting targets with slingshots, no one to catch his fastball without dropping it. Yes, it would have been a bland summer.
One day to Billy's great delight, a new family moved in a few houses down on the other side of the street, and they too had a nine year old boy named Billy. And even though the new Billy was above average in the brains department they became quick friends. People found it difficult to call them by name though since they had the same moniker, so it was decided that the former Billy who had been there the longest would be called Willy.
Life during hard times doesn't seem hard at all when you have a friend to go through them with. The two Billys did everything together. Willy wasn't normally supposed to go far from home, but as long as he was with Billy his mother didn't care. He also didn't have a bike, but Billy would gladly cart Willy on the handlebars all over town. East St Louis is an odd town, shaped like a football field, several miles long, but only a mile or two wide, and there wasn't much of any part of it they hadn't traveled. Still, they found the most pleasure close to home playing on the canal behind Billy's house where they shot off bottle rockets, tossed cats in the quick moving water, or captured cottonmouths in jars only to torture the "evil varmints" to death later as nine year old boys are want to do. There was also a boy over on Minnesota Ave who had an actual car! It was a tiny French car that sat two people and looked like a glorified go-cart. It had no motor and was very light, so the two Billys and the other neighborhood kids took turns pushing each other down the hill in it. The summer of 68 was turning out not to be so bland after all.
Willy had blond hair and very fair skin with the bluest eyes I ever saw. He had posture that was so good you would have thought he was brought up in a military school, but that's just the way he was. One day after some testing at his "special" school, it was decided that he would be able to go to regular school, although he would always be in remedial classes. I remember him that first morning walking to the bus stop by himself for the first time to go to a normal school. He looked so proud.
Billy was a dark haired boy and a little husky. His grandfather had once been a minister in this town, and his home was full of religious pictures and statues. There was even a painting of Jesus surrounded by children that hung in his bedroom. Billy though, like most kids, never thought too much about religion. His parents sent him to a school in another all-white town where he had gone before they moved to East St Louis. He wanted to go to school with Willy, but there was no talking his mother out of it. She wanted her boy to have a good education and was afraid of the riots, and in truth, was probably not wrong to feel that way. There were lots of killings in those days by blacks and whites both. There were also the old-time gangsters who still ran the town behind the scenes, and you sure wanted to stay clear of them. That lady was just about the most scared women I ever did see. But she had no fear of other women, and once I saw her threaten to knock the teeth right out of some neighbor lady's face during a dispute about a parking space. I realized then that women fight over the silliest things only to make up again before supper. That's why we don’t let them run the Army.
One day Billy's cousin, Brenda, went to see Gypsy about her warts. Gypsy was an old woman who lived on Minnesota next door to those Wells boys who had the little car. I never knew what her real name was, but she knew some old remedies to heal people of various ailments, and so we always just called her Gypsy. She wrapped Brenda's finger in some gauze, said a few words, and then rubbed the finger this way and that. When she pulled the gauze away, the warts fell to the ground. She was an amazing woman that Gypsy.
Another time, Willy had lost his dad's car keys. He used them to unlock the shed and somehow managed to misplace them and was afraid he'd get whooped when his dad got home. Billy had heard of an old woman downtown though who could find lost things if you gave her a little money. So off they went on Billy's bike.
They had to ask several people before they found someone who could tell them where she lived. It was a very rundown house not far from the bridge traffic. She sat outside on the porch in a rocker fanning herself in the summer heat. The boys thought she looked a bit crazy, but they got their courage up and walked to the steps. "Warm night isn't it boys?" she said.
"Yes ma'am," both Billys replied in unison. "Are you the lady that helps people find lost things?" said Willy.
"Well, I help folks when I can. And did you lose something?"
"He lost his dad's car keys," said Billy. "Can you help us find them? We have some money." They used to hunt down soda bottles and turn them in for the deposits. Together they had nearly two dollars worth.
"Well let me see what ya'all got there honey," she said as he placed the money in her hand. She smiled and gave the money back. "You keep this. You might need it one day." Then she laid her head back and seemed to go to sleep.
The boys weren't sure what to do now. They were too polite to wake the old woman. Finally they were starting to walk away when she bolted upright and said, "You'll find those keys in the creek behind the shed."
The boys looked startled at one another.
"You better head on back home now. It'll be dark soon, and it ain't safe here after dark," she told them.
They both thanked her and headed back home on the bike. By the time they got there it was already dark, and their mothers were beginning to get worried. Billy said a quick greeting to his folks and then ran out again with his small penlight in his pocket saying he'd be right back. Willy's dad said nothing about the keys. It was a Sunday, and Willy hoped his parents hadn't tried to go anywhere. People weren't on the go all the time in those days like they are now.
The two Billys searched the creek behind the shed, which thankfully, was dried up in the summer heat. Willy let out a gasp, "There they are!" he exclaimed. Sure enough, there were the car keys just as the old woman had said. He went to put them in his pocket and found a gaping hole there. He carried them into the house instead and laid them on his mom and dad's dresser without anyone noticing.
Both boys were quite exhausted and slept well that night. Before drifting off to sleep, Willy thought about going to college one day even though he knew the odds were against him. Billy, on the other hand, for the first time took a serious glance at the painting on his wall, thought of how much fun it was to be a boy in East St Louis during the summer of 1968, and wished he never had to grow-up. And he never did.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Fundie Dumpty Sat on a Wall
I've watched fundamentalism turn otherwise normal functioning humans into hate filled mechanisms of destruction all my life. There are also a ton of equally crazed crackpots out there who believe with all their hearts that churches, particularly the Catholic Church, are about nothing but mind control and money. That the gods were an invention to kowtow the people, and religions--just a scheme to collect money from them in the process.
But then we have the atheists who seem to grasp both groups and their problems really well... at first. But a well oiled human will quickly see that the atheists have also committed brain felo-de-se on the way to the rally.
The thing none of our cerebrally unhinged groups can seem to comprehend is where the truth lies or how to get there. In all three cases it's literally like trying to communicate with a brick. Or a... well, a really dumb cat. If they were taking drugs I could take their drugs away. If they were the victims of brain frequency altering sound waves or optical sensory manipulation to achieve a hypnotic effect, I could close their eyes and stop up their ears or shut the machines down. But how do you wake people from a hypnotic trance which has been self induced and habitually maintained? After Pavlov's dog has already been drooling for a couple of decades, or since birth, can you ever stop him from doing so with each and every bell that rings?
This is why I can't agree with the Universalists. There are just a small handful of people walking the Earth who haven't flown into intellectual flypaper. Can a man be taught truth when his mind has been locked away, and only he holds the key?
I am reminded of CS Lewis' story about a bus ride through purgatory where those who were the farthest from Heaven were also the ones whose minds had been closed around both selfishness and self deception. Where Hitler for instance, and those like him, could be found far away on a distant star because their selfish nature kept pushing them further and further away from other humans and from the Creator of life. Fundamentalists, conspiracy theorists, and atheists are also wrapped up in a closed cocoon of thought where nothing can penetrate their trance. They all see a completely different version of the great dance of life, all with different figures stepping to different tunes, each of them out of key because they've fired the conductor.
I suspect all of mankind has wrestled with these same parasites of mind manipulation. What is it that keeps some from falling prey to them? It has nothing whatsoever to do with intelligence; some of the finest minds, the most erudite thinkers, come under the spell of the perverted dance, and yet, some of the feeblest of intellects seem able to avoid the pitfalls as the fly evades the horse's tail. One thing is for sure; if the mind is to be able, it must first be free.
A good Christian must always be as skeptical of his bible as he is fond of it.
A good conspiracy theorist must be willing to test both sides of his theory with equal and complete impartiality.
A good atheist must be skeptical even of his own skepticism. (In other words, the only good atheist is an agnostic).
All honest men are capable of pleasing a God who is truth itself. But where is the honest man?
But then we have the atheists who seem to grasp both groups and their problems really well... at first. But a well oiled human will quickly see that the atheists have also committed brain felo-de-se on the way to the rally.
The thing none of our cerebrally unhinged groups can seem to comprehend is where the truth lies or how to get there. In all three cases it's literally like trying to communicate with a brick. Or a... well, a really dumb cat. If they were taking drugs I could take their drugs away. If they were the victims of brain frequency altering sound waves or optical sensory manipulation to achieve a hypnotic effect, I could close their eyes and stop up their ears or shut the machines down. But how do you wake people from a hypnotic trance which has been self induced and habitually maintained? After Pavlov's dog has already been drooling for a couple of decades, or since birth, can you ever stop him from doing so with each and every bell that rings?
This is why I can't agree with the Universalists. There are just a small handful of people walking the Earth who haven't flown into intellectual flypaper. Can a man be taught truth when his mind has been locked away, and only he holds the key?
I am reminded of CS Lewis' story about a bus ride through purgatory where those who were the farthest from Heaven were also the ones whose minds had been closed around both selfishness and self deception. Where Hitler for instance, and those like him, could be found far away on a distant star because their selfish nature kept pushing them further and further away from other humans and from the Creator of life. Fundamentalists, conspiracy theorists, and atheists are also wrapped up in a closed cocoon of thought where nothing can penetrate their trance. They all see a completely different version of the great dance of life, all with different figures stepping to different tunes, each of them out of key because they've fired the conductor.
I suspect all of mankind has wrestled with these same parasites of mind manipulation. What is it that keeps some from falling prey to them? It has nothing whatsoever to do with intelligence; some of the finest minds, the most erudite thinkers, come under the spell of the perverted dance, and yet, some of the feeblest of intellects seem able to avoid the pitfalls as the fly evades the horse's tail. One thing is for sure; if the mind is to be able, it must first be free.
A good Christian must always be as skeptical of his bible as he is fond of it.
A good conspiracy theorist must be willing to test both sides of his theory with equal and complete impartiality.
A good atheist must be skeptical even of his own skepticism. (In other words, the only good atheist is an agnostic).
All honest men are capable of pleasing a God who is truth itself. But where is the honest man?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Religion and the Govinda Principle
I read Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha not long ago. Don't get me wrong concerning what I'm about to say. I mentioned to someone just this past week that Hesse along with most of the ballyhooed novel writers of the 20th century such as Ernest Hemingway, Samuel Beckett, James Joyce, Norman Mailer etc. were really a bunch of lightweights both in style and substance. Siddhartha isn't terrible or anything, although it is very sappy in some places, but when it comes right down to it, Hesse brings nothing new to the table that every writer of Hinduism and Buddhism hadn't already said. (By the way, have you ever noticed that Hindu writers almost never write without showing some Buddhist influence, but Buddhist writers seldom show any Hindu leanings?) There is, however, at least one passage in Siddhartha worth mentioning:
I won't go into all the places the book went wrong. Suffice to say that Chesterton has already outlined what's wrong with the philosophies of the east better than I could in his popular book, The Everlasting Man. My only concern is with the above quotation because, from it, we can easily deduce the ways in which so many spiritually minded people get hung-up.
The Govinda Principle says that people who seek too much will never find. This is of course true. Yes, "knock and the door will be opened", but once you're in the reception area you can, and should, quit knocking. You simply wait to be seated. And then you learn, but the lessons come a little at a time, and the more impatient you are, the slower the lessons come. So lesson number one means learning patience, and learning patience is what John of the Cross meant by "the dark night of the soul", although I don't think even he recognized it for what it truly was. The teacher leaves the classroom now and then for extended periods of time. Each time he does, the students get antsy. Antsy is best described as a nervous inability to relax. Now the students are free to come and go as they wish. The most antsy among them may even decide the teacher isn't coming back and will get up, go back through the front door, and look for another teacher. I'd like to say this represents the golden calf incident in Genesis, but if it does, it does so very poorly.
Other students will leave the classroom and head for the library thinking that the teacher expects them to learn on their own when he isn't around. They study all the world's great mystical texts and religious doctrines. Some, a little at a time, will find themselves enticed by the words in these books and may eventually go off to find other kinds of schools where the teachers are always around and always willing to fill their heads with nonsense... usually for a price.
Still other students will use the free time for play and nothing more. They go fishing, but not for men.
A few students will remain seated. They are extremely curious and yet very quiet, blanking their minds and senses, expecting to find their teacher in an astral world waiting for them with open arms to say, "Well done thou good and faithful students."
But there are still a couple of students left. They aren't seekers. They aren't antsy. They aren't even curious. For themselves they are content. Their only concern is for the people who haven't yet made it to the classroom at all. While the teacher is away they go out into the world, to its highways and byways, to care for the sick; clothe the naked; feed the hungry; build homes for the poor; and talk of their teacher. These are the students the teacher is most pleased with. In doing these things they learn the greatest lessons of all about God, their fellow man, and the meaning of life for the teacher whispers into the students' ears while they're working. It is in fact only during work that the great vistas of learning are opened to them. They never return to the great teacher's door because the world has become their classroom now, and the teacher goes where they go because he resides within each of them.
I'm not looking for fellow seekers. I'm not seeking anything except for like-minded people of the same Spirit to fellowship with and nothing more. This is what church is to me. Christ left no commands about organizing our thoughts into a religious system. If that's what he wanted then I believe he would have done it himself, and we'd still be in the classroom on the other side of that door closed away from the world. It appears that he belonged to no sects of Judaism. At least nothing is mentioned of him being a Pharisee, Sadducee, Samaritan etc. When he spoke to the crowds about ancient Jews he always addressed them as "your" forefathers, never "our" forefathers. It seems to me that he did this deliberately, perhaps to show us that he had no part in religion. In fact, he spent most of his time arguing against various teachings in all sects of Judaism. Maybe there's something to be learned from that. It could be that religion, like faith, is meant to be personal, and that each of us must truly work out his own salvation.
People are usually too impatient for that though. They want a systematic learning regiment with detailed class courses. They want a predictable teacher and a class motto/creed. Most important to them though is having a structured philosophical outline of the world and the God who governs it... even if they have to make it up themselves. And damned to hell be anyone who steps out of line with their manmade religion, for thus speaketh the church, and their authority is next only to God himself. Why? Because they say so. And only their system is the orthodox system. Why? Because they say so.
I pay no heed to church authority. I have no regard for biblical cannons. I take what I can and disregard the rest, especially anything that puts an evil face on a God of love whether in the bible or out. The bible is a great book collection, but in the end, it's still just a book collection. God never sanctioned it, never commanded its existence as a whole, and never even predicted it should ever come into being. Both the bible and organized religion are just an aid for the most part, good for fellowship and seeing what great men in ancient days who claimed to have known our savior had to say about him. But there's a point where these things can hurt instead of help. When the bible starts being a rule book sent by God (no matter what despicable things it may have to say about him in places here and there) to represent his very words and thoughts, then we do both the bible and God a disservice. And when we try to make religions and doctrines a means of salvation when churches are only supposed to be about fellowship, we do our fellows a disservice.
Seek, find, work, and fellowship--that's the path to God and no other.
"I am indeed old," said Govinda, "but I have never ceased seeking. I will never cease seeking. That seems to be my destiny. It seems to me that you also have sought. Will you talk to me a little about it, my friend?"
Siddhartha said:[sic] "What could I say to you that would be of value, except that perhaps you seek too much, that as a result of your seeking you cannot find anything, ... Seeking means to have a goal; but finding means to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal."
I won't go into all the places the book went wrong. Suffice to say that Chesterton has already outlined what's wrong with the philosophies of the east better than I could in his popular book, The Everlasting Man. My only concern is with the above quotation because, from it, we can easily deduce the ways in which so many spiritually minded people get hung-up.
The Govinda Principle says that people who seek too much will never find. This is of course true. Yes, "knock and the door will be opened", but once you're in the reception area you can, and should, quit knocking. You simply wait to be seated. And then you learn, but the lessons come a little at a time, and the more impatient you are, the slower the lessons come. So lesson number one means learning patience, and learning patience is what John of the Cross meant by "the dark night of the soul", although I don't think even he recognized it for what it truly was. The teacher leaves the classroom now and then for extended periods of time. Each time he does, the students get antsy. Antsy is best described as a nervous inability to relax. Now the students are free to come and go as they wish. The most antsy among them may even decide the teacher isn't coming back and will get up, go back through the front door, and look for another teacher. I'd like to say this represents the golden calf incident in Genesis, but if it does, it does so very poorly.
Other students will leave the classroom and head for the library thinking that the teacher expects them to learn on their own when he isn't around. They study all the world's great mystical texts and religious doctrines. Some, a little at a time, will find themselves enticed by the words in these books and may eventually go off to find other kinds of schools where the teachers are always around and always willing to fill their heads with nonsense... usually for a price.
Still other students will use the free time for play and nothing more. They go fishing, but not for men.
A few students will remain seated. They are extremely curious and yet very quiet, blanking their minds and senses, expecting to find their teacher in an astral world waiting for them with open arms to say, "Well done thou good and faithful students."
But there are still a couple of students left. They aren't seekers. They aren't antsy. They aren't even curious. For themselves they are content. Their only concern is for the people who haven't yet made it to the classroom at all. While the teacher is away they go out into the world, to its highways and byways, to care for the sick; clothe the naked; feed the hungry; build homes for the poor; and talk of their teacher. These are the students the teacher is most pleased with. In doing these things they learn the greatest lessons of all about God, their fellow man, and the meaning of life for the teacher whispers into the students' ears while they're working. It is in fact only during work that the great vistas of learning are opened to them. They never return to the great teacher's door because the world has become their classroom now, and the teacher goes where they go because he resides within each of them.
I'm not looking for fellow seekers. I'm not seeking anything except for like-minded people of the same Spirit to fellowship with and nothing more. This is what church is to me. Christ left no commands about organizing our thoughts into a religious system. If that's what he wanted then I believe he would have done it himself, and we'd still be in the classroom on the other side of that door closed away from the world. It appears that he belonged to no sects of Judaism. At least nothing is mentioned of him being a Pharisee, Sadducee, Samaritan etc. When he spoke to the crowds about ancient Jews he always addressed them as "your" forefathers, never "our" forefathers. It seems to me that he did this deliberately, perhaps to show us that he had no part in religion. In fact, he spent most of his time arguing against various teachings in all sects of Judaism. Maybe there's something to be learned from that. It could be that religion, like faith, is meant to be personal, and that each of us must truly work out his own salvation.
People are usually too impatient for that though. They want a systematic learning regiment with detailed class courses. They want a predictable teacher and a class motto/creed. Most important to them though is having a structured philosophical outline of the world and the God who governs it... even if they have to make it up themselves. And damned to hell be anyone who steps out of line with their manmade religion, for thus speaketh the church, and their authority is next only to God himself. Why? Because they say so. And only their system is the orthodox system. Why? Because they say so.
I pay no heed to church authority. I have no regard for biblical cannons. I take what I can and disregard the rest, especially anything that puts an evil face on a God of love whether in the bible or out. The bible is a great book collection, but in the end, it's still just a book collection. God never sanctioned it, never commanded its existence as a whole, and never even predicted it should ever come into being. Both the bible and organized religion are just an aid for the most part, good for fellowship and seeing what great men in ancient days who claimed to have known our savior had to say about him. But there's a point where these things can hurt instead of help. When the bible starts being a rule book sent by God (no matter what despicable things it may have to say about him in places here and there) to represent his very words and thoughts, then we do both the bible and God a disservice. And when we try to make religions and doctrines a means of salvation when churches are only supposed to be about fellowship, we do our fellows a disservice.
Seek, find, work, and fellowship--that's the path to God and no other.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sally Forth Oh Man Of Honorificabilitudinitatibus
I just wonder if it's as hard for other people as it has been for me when it comes to church-going. I grew-up in an Evangelical setting. By the time I was in my early 20s I knew I needed to get out, but for some reason I didn't completely break free until I was nearly 40. I think that I had never met anyone who attended a big mainstream church before, and my conception of them was that the congregations tended to just show up and go home--that there was no real sense of family or excitement about being in church. Actually I did know a couple of Catholic girls, and this is exactly what church was like for them.
Evangelical church services are like a big party. Everything is very festive and lively most of the time. And when they're somber, they're really somber. Evangelicals wear their emotions on their sleeves. They're very passionate in everything they do. They look forward to going to church. For most it's the highlight of their week. Many in fact go several times throughout the week. Besides Sunday morning services there are usually Sunday night services and one midweek. I would say that around 65% of all Evangelicals attend all those services and more besides. There's usually a youth night on Friday or Saturday. And then there are bible studies and home get-togethers. Some churches are also involved in a sports program such as a church softball league. And then there are often times the Evangelical version of the Boy Scouts called the Royal Rangers.
I think it's fair to say that, for Evangelicals, their whole world revolves around their church and church friends. I've always maintained that if you were to ask the first 10 Evangelicals you saw on the street who their best friend was, at least 8 of them would name someone from their church. Many in fact have no friends outside of their church whatsoever.
Evangelicals are extremely bible oriented. In fact many of them refer to their churches as "bible churches". I'm reminded of a passage in CS Lewis' novel, That Hideous Strength, where MacPhee is talking about how his uncle used to slap his big bible down on the table and say, "Show it to me in the world of God", whenever people came to him "blathering about religious experiences." Most Evangelicals are extremely well-versed in the bible and many have large portions of it memorized. And I've never seen an Evangelical (besides myself) that didn't believe in some form of biblical inerrancy. They just shrug off biblical difficulties and think that God will answer all their questions in Heaven. There's a certain absurdity that goes with that kind of reasoning (or lack thereof), and this is one of many reasons I felt a need to leave.
Leaving is easy; finding a direction in which to travel is hard. I feel torn between so many paths, and all of them wrong. There's the rub in all this. Not one of them feels right. Finding a church that doesn't have biblical infallibility in their doctrine begins and ends with the Episcopalians. That's fine, but many of them have gotten so liberal about their bible and religion that Christianity for them has become more an ideology of ethics than a religious belief system. When you start ordaining homosexual ministers to lead your flocks I think it's safe to say you're playing very fast with the rules. It makes me very uncomfortable being in such churches. This is definitely not something I desire in a place of worship, and it's one of the main reasons I've never officially joined them.
But where else to go? This is something true Christians (few and far between though they may be) ought to be in constant prayer about. There simply is no denomination that has its act together. Either they're bible worshipping, creed loving heretics, or they're sin infested dens of... well, you know. More often than not it seems that what we find behind Christian pulpits are people who want you subservient to their personal desires while pocketing your cash; or they're blathering some mystagogical idiocy like a Whirling Dervish with all the pretenses of losing the self on the outside, but with a narcissistic desire within for power and adoration.
I'm tired of being torn in-between. God needs someone to build him a true church. Not a house--a church. He won't do it for us. We'll have to work for it. But we need a leader to sally forth and take on the task. For once, wouldn't it be nice if it was someone who actually deserved to be in leadership? I haven't seen him yet, but I know he's out there. Say your prayers kids.
Evangelical church services are like a big party. Everything is very festive and lively most of the time. And when they're somber, they're really somber. Evangelicals wear their emotions on their sleeves. They're very passionate in everything they do. They look forward to going to church. For most it's the highlight of their week. Many in fact go several times throughout the week. Besides Sunday morning services there are usually Sunday night services and one midweek. I would say that around 65% of all Evangelicals attend all those services and more besides. There's usually a youth night on Friday or Saturday. And then there are bible studies and home get-togethers. Some churches are also involved in a sports program such as a church softball league. And then there are often times the Evangelical version of the Boy Scouts called the Royal Rangers.
I think it's fair to say that, for Evangelicals, their whole world revolves around their church and church friends. I've always maintained that if you were to ask the first 10 Evangelicals you saw on the street who their best friend was, at least 8 of them would name someone from their church. Many in fact have no friends outside of their church whatsoever.
Evangelicals are extremely bible oriented. In fact many of them refer to their churches as "bible churches". I'm reminded of a passage in CS Lewis' novel, That Hideous Strength, where MacPhee is talking about how his uncle used to slap his big bible down on the table and say, "Show it to me in the world of God", whenever people came to him "blathering about religious experiences." Most Evangelicals are extremely well-versed in the bible and many have large portions of it memorized. And I've never seen an Evangelical (besides myself) that didn't believe in some form of biblical inerrancy. They just shrug off biblical difficulties and think that God will answer all their questions in Heaven. There's a certain absurdity that goes with that kind of reasoning (or lack thereof), and this is one of many reasons I felt a need to leave.
Leaving is easy; finding a direction in which to travel is hard. I feel torn between so many paths, and all of them wrong. There's the rub in all this. Not one of them feels right. Finding a church that doesn't have biblical infallibility in their doctrine begins and ends with the Episcopalians. That's fine, but many of them have gotten so liberal about their bible and religion that Christianity for them has become more an ideology of ethics than a religious belief system. When you start ordaining homosexual ministers to lead your flocks I think it's safe to say you're playing very fast with the rules. It makes me very uncomfortable being in such churches. This is definitely not something I desire in a place of worship, and it's one of the main reasons I've never officially joined them.
But where else to go? This is something true Christians (few and far between though they may be) ought to be in constant prayer about. There simply is no denomination that has its act together. Either they're bible worshipping, creed loving heretics, or they're sin infested dens of... well, you know. More often than not it seems that what we find behind Christian pulpits are people who want you subservient to their personal desires while pocketing your cash; or they're blathering some mystagogical idiocy like a Whirling Dervish with all the pretenses of losing the self on the outside, but with a narcissistic desire within for power and adoration.
I'm tired of being torn in-between. God needs someone to build him a true church. Not a house--a church. He won't do it for us. We'll have to work for it. But we need a leader to sally forth and take on the task. For once, wouldn't it be nice if it was someone who actually deserved to be in leadership? I haven't seen him yet, but I know he's out there. Say your prayers kids.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
"The Offence" (Movie Review)
I've seen many movies that undertook the subject of evil. They come and they go year in and year out. Some do it reasonably well like Hitchcock's 1960 thriller, "Psycho", for instance. However, if anything, "Psycho" tried a little too hard to be frightening, so that, in the end we came away feeling that the subject was one of fear itself more than of the thing that made us fearful. Michael Powell also released "Peeping Tom" in 1960, a movie about a psychopathic photographer/cinematographer who kills women and films them as they're dying. "Peeping Tom" was certainly creepy and disturbing, but in all the wrong ways. The murderer was treated as a poor, misunderstood man whose upbringing molded him into the villain he became instead of recognizing and acknowledging the self-will that must always be involved in the transgressions of man. The treatment of evil in most other films is either too underplayed to make us think hard about what evil really is, or is a typical Saturday afternoon cinema thriller like "The Exorcist" and its myriad of clones which are generally steeped in outward physical manifestations that all too often seem more of an excuse for showing off their latest special effects arsenal than anything.
There are few films which try to show us that "subtle suggestion" that evil plays within all mankind, that essence of a presence which can be felt in your marrow trying to work its way to the outward physical universe as though it's in need of a host to do any real damage to the world. (I'll never forget reading Charles Williams' book "Witchcraft" and his line about how demons "pine for matter", something which still chills me). 1972 brought us, however, what may be the two most notable and praiseworthy treatments of that subtle suggestion of evil within. One was "The Other" about a young boy who seems truly tormented by his own psychopathic inner twin (actually he had a real life twin who had died and which his mind has turned into an inward dwelling entity of destruction).
"The Offence" is the other great film on the subject of evil from the same year. The offence mentioned in the title is that of child molestation. There is a molester loose who not only rapes little girls, he does his best to make it hurt, to make them feel some of his own anguish for childhood traumas inflicted on him early in life. But we'll find nothing of "Peeping Tom" and its misplaced sympathy for the villain. Sean Connery is a police officer/detective who, by God, will have none of that! However, the movie takes a very strange turn during the interrogation, and in the second half of the film we get a real honest to goodness glimpse of what God must have meant when he said to Cain just before he killed Abel, "...sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it." Let me also echo what many film critics have said before me: Anyone who claims Sean Connery can't act hasn't seen this film! He is nothing short of brilliant in this movie. Having said that however, Ian Bannen very nearly steals the show with his performance as the suspected villain. I can't recommend this one enough.
This can presently be seen for free at hulu.com if you live in the USA.
There are few films which try to show us that "subtle suggestion" that evil plays within all mankind, that essence of a presence which can be felt in your marrow trying to work its way to the outward physical universe as though it's in need of a host to do any real damage to the world. (I'll never forget reading Charles Williams' book "Witchcraft" and his line about how demons "pine for matter", something which still chills me). 1972 brought us, however, what may be the two most notable and praiseworthy treatments of that subtle suggestion of evil within. One was "The Other" about a young boy who seems truly tormented by his own psychopathic inner twin (actually he had a real life twin who had died and which his mind has turned into an inward dwelling entity of destruction).
"The Offence" is the other great film on the subject of evil from the same year. The offence mentioned in the title is that of child molestation. There is a molester loose who not only rapes little girls, he does his best to make it hurt, to make them feel some of his own anguish for childhood traumas inflicted on him early in life. But we'll find nothing of "Peeping Tom" and its misplaced sympathy for the villain. Sean Connery is a police officer/detective who, by God, will have none of that! However, the movie takes a very strange turn during the interrogation, and in the second half of the film we get a real honest to goodness glimpse of what God must have meant when he said to Cain just before he killed Abel, "...sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it." Let me also echo what many film critics have said before me: Anyone who claims Sean Connery can't act hasn't seen this film! He is nothing short of brilliant in this movie. Having said that however, Ian Bannen very nearly steals the show with his performance as the suspected villain. I can't recommend this one enough.
This can presently be seen for free at hulu.com if you live in the USA.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Slowing Down Drastically
From here on out I will only post an article once in a while instead of every Sunday. I've only got so much serious stuff to say. All I wanted to do was write a book, make a movie, and record a decent CD. I did all three (although I'm still not crazy about the music CD and would like to do an all acoustic one utilizing my live setup with my Boomerang looper). I also made what I think is a pretty good and useful website about George MacDonald in what free time I had. In short, I think I did everything the good Lord asked of me, so from here on out my posting articles will probably be much less often.
Also, for those who liked last Sunday's post where I went into Stephen Oppenheimer's Eden in the East: The Drowned Continent of Southeast Asia, a good book that goes well with that is by geologist Robert M. Schoch called Voyages of the Pyramid Builders.
Also, for those who liked last Sunday's post where I went into Stephen Oppenheimer's Eden in the East: The Drowned Continent of Southeast Asia, a good book that goes well with that is by geologist Robert M. Schoch called Voyages of the Pyramid Builders.
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