In an election campaign, there's probably no better ally than The Big Man Upstairs. So it should probably not come as a shock that Michele Bachmann has suggested that God called her to run--both for Congress and for the Presidency.
This line of "thinking"--if we can call it that--is so idiotic that it disqualifies her from serious consideration on that basis alone.
God is apparently a very busy guy. In a universe that is incomprehensible in size, comprised of millions of galaxies and billions of stars, God is quite the micromanager--He is invoked at football games and political rallies as if He is watching all the proceedings and intervening on behalf of the better candidate or team. Imagine what it's like up there in heaven: "Jeez, 4th and 2 with just 12 seconds remaining--I'd better have them call a fade pattern into the back left corner of the end zone; that will give them the win. Thank God I'm calling the shots here! My fantasy teams are kicking butt, big-time."
The fantasy, of course, is the idea that God is doing any of this in the first place. And it will do my heart good--oh so good--to see Bachmann's campaign wither away after the Iowa caucuses, where she is sure to flounder. And then, I hope Michele asks the obvious question:
If God wanted me to run, why did he make me lose?
(And why did he even let that Obama guy become President in the first place?)
There will come a time--unfortunately, not in my lifetime or maybe even my grandchildrens'--when people will look back at this type of belief system and say, "What in the hell were they thinking?" I surely do not know, and it's painful and frustrating to watch. When it comes to religion, people who are otherwise fairly bright and reasonable transform themselves into instant idiots.
R.I.P., Christopher Hitchens, for your efforts to debunk all this craziness.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Three months worth of lessons
Gosh--it's been over three months since the Contentious One added to his collection of rants in this space. Of course, as a consequence, my thousands of fans across the world have been in a funk--especially those hard-core CI followers in Sri Lanka, Uruguay, Belgium, and Malawi. But not to worry--I'm back! Let the celebrating begin.
What's been happening in the last three months? And what can we learn from these things?
Lesson #1: Health care remains amazingly expensive and out of whack. Our daughter had emergency surgery in August--a ruptured cyst on her right ovary. In the hospital before lunch; out of the hospital just after dinner. Total cost? $26,000. That's right--two, six, zero, zero, zero, a mere $3500 an hour. After several reductions and allowances--including insurance--our share became around $2,000--but that's still two grand out of pocket for less than a day in the hospital. WTF.
Lesson #2: College has become less demanding. Back in the day, the courses that I took as an undergraduate were pretty challenging. It wasn't at all shocking to have three or four textbooks in a course (and we walked to those classes in bare feet through 8-foot snowdrifts, too--and we liked it!) These days, I get all kinds of pushback (love that word--one of my favorites right now) about "how many theories we have to learn" and "how many chapters there are." (Never mind that the current set of readings is about 149 pages, total, to cover a minimum of three weeks of classes.) I've just heard a lot of whining lately, not to mention some serious misunderstandings of what's involved in higher education and how the game is played. ["Why aren't the tests open book?" "Writing assignments--what is this, an English class?" "This class concerns me--I guess I'm going to have to talk to the Admissions Office (!) about it."] But, bottom line, we are expecting less of these kids.
Lesson #3: The culture wars are still very nasty. And incredibly bizarre. I'm constantly flabbergasted by those who think (a) that beleaguered, oppressed top 1 percent needs to be shielded against higher taxes, (b) those gay people need to be told that they can't marry (even though they can't marry now anyway!), (c) the President is an evil Socialist, (d) God controls everything, and (e) unless you think that the U.S. is the most exceptional nation in the world that you should move to Teheran. And, in a nation of 300,000,000 people, that our "best and brightest" include the likes of Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin, and Rick Perry. (And let's not forget Mr. Herman Cain, former pizza chain CEO, who has about as much foreign policy experience as Larry the Cable Guy.)
Lesson #4: We all need positive strokes. I didn't realize until September how depleted my ego was--my very sense of self. After submitting 162 pages of material in the fall of 2009 to a promotion committee, and being told by that committee that 162 pages was insufficient, and that a promotion was not going to happen for several other reasons, I began to question my value in the world. And then along came Shannon--an angel from a publisher, a publisher that needed help getting a textbook finished. I reviewed 9 chapters of that book; I wrote 13 boxed items for that book; I revised several of those chapters from top to bottom; and I wrote a summary along with discussion questions at the end of each chapter. And for the first time in memory--certainly the first time this century--I felt recognized and appreciated. Shannon didn't seem to have enough superlatives--each new piece was either "excellent," or "flawless," or "perfect," or the like. And I just gobbled up all those strokes like a man who'd been wandering around the desert for 3 days with nothing to eat or drink. In the end, Shannon said she hadn't worked with anyone better in her 15 years in publishing, and I was floating. (And I made some pretty darn good money too!) I came to realize that I work in a place of benign neglect--no one ever really hassles you (thank goodness for that), but no one ever really tells you the good stuff that you need to hear, either. As best I can, I need to pay all this forward a bit: it's sometimes hard to do so with a whiny or inept student, but I was reminded of what that glow feels like and why it matters. Here's a big hug for y'all.
Thanksgiving tomorrow--my favorite holiday of the year. Have a good one.
What's been happening in the last three months? And what can we learn from these things?
Lesson #1: Health care remains amazingly expensive and out of whack. Our daughter had emergency surgery in August--a ruptured cyst on her right ovary. In the hospital before lunch; out of the hospital just after dinner. Total cost? $26,000. That's right--two, six, zero, zero, zero, a mere $3500 an hour. After several reductions and allowances--including insurance--our share became around $2,000--but that's still two grand out of pocket for less than a day in the hospital. WTF.
Lesson #2: College has become less demanding. Back in the day, the courses that I took as an undergraduate were pretty challenging. It wasn't at all shocking to have three or four textbooks in a course (and we walked to those classes in bare feet through 8-foot snowdrifts, too--and we liked it!) These days, I get all kinds of pushback (love that word--one of my favorites right now) about "how many theories we have to learn" and "how many chapters there are." (Never mind that the current set of readings is about 149 pages, total, to cover a minimum of three weeks of classes.) I've just heard a lot of whining lately, not to mention some serious misunderstandings of what's involved in higher education and how the game is played. ["Why aren't the tests open book?" "Writing assignments--what is this, an English class?" "This class concerns me--I guess I'm going to have to talk to the Admissions Office (!) about it."] But, bottom line, we are expecting less of these kids.
Lesson #3: The culture wars are still very nasty. And incredibly bizarre. I'm constantly flabbergasted by those who think (a) that beleaguered, oppressed top 1 percent needs to be shielded against higher taxes, (b) those gay people need to be told that they can't marry (even though they can't marry now anyway!), (c) the President is an evil Socialist, (d) God controls everything, and (e) unless you think that the U.S. is the most exceptional nation in the world that you should move to Teheran. And, in a nation of 300,000,000 people, that our "best and brightest" include the likes of Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin, and Rick Perry. (And let's not forget Mr. Herman Cain, former pizza chain CEO, who has about as much foreign policy experience as Larry the Cable Guy.)
Lesson #4: We all need positive strokes. I didn't realize until September how depleted my ego was--my very sense of self. After submitting 162 pages of material in the fall of 2009 to a promotion committee, and being told by that committee that 162 pages was insufficient, and that a promotion was not going to happen for several other reasons, I began to question my value in the world. And then along came Shannon--an angel from a publisher, a publisher that needed help getting a textbook finished. I reviewed 9 chapters of that book; I wrote 13 boxed items for that book; I revised several of those chapters from top to bottom; and I wrote a summary along with discussion questions at the end of each chapter. And for the first time in memory--certainly the first time this century--I felt recognized and appreciated. Shannon didn't seem to have enough superlatives--each new piece was either "excellent," or "flawless," or "perfect," or the like. And I just gobbled up all those strokes like a man who'd been wandering around the desert for 3 days with nothing to eat or drink. In the end, Shannon said she hadn't worked with anyone better in her 15 years in publishing, and I was floating. (And I made some pretty darn good money too!) I came to realize that I work in a place of benign neglect--no one ever really hassles you (thank goodness for that), but no one ever really tells you the good stuff that you need to hear, either. As best I can, I need to pay all this forward a bit: it's sometimes hard to do so with a whiny or inept student, but I was reminded of what that glow feels like and why it matters. Here's a big hug for y'all.
Thanksgiving tomorrow--my favorite holiday of the year. Have a good one.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Dad turns 100 today
August 8, 2011 marks my father’s 100th birthday. (We often talk in these terms with celebrities—even if they are no longer living, we refer to them as if they were; e.g., it’s Beethoven’s 200th birthday or some such thing.) In dad’s case, May 14, 1970 marked the end of his life in the normal sense of the word, but in that other sense he’s now a full century old.
Since it’s been over 41 years since he died, I have to realize that Victor Elmer Lapakko has been gone for well over two-thirds of my life. In many ways, his passing seems like such an ancient, distant event; it’s almost as if he was never around. But, if I see a photo or two, or think about stories from the past, he becomes real again.
When it comes to dad, my dominant fantasy involves just showing him around the world of 2011. I think more than anything, he would have been fascinated by what’s happened in the way of technology. I’d love to demonstrate to him how computers work, or the Internet, or cell phones, or iPods; he'd be amazed by it all. One trait that he had was a sense of awe and wonder about the world, and I think there’s much that would dazzle him.
Dad would also be intrigued by what’s happened in politics. On the day he went into surgery--never to come out of it--he was as concerned as anything else about the Vietnam War. He wanted to know if the political pressure to end that war was going to succeed. He’d be surprised by the dissolution of the USSR and the end of the Cold War. And he, along with my mom, would be pleased as can be that a person of color was sitting in the Oval Office.
When you’re 19 years old, you think that your parents will live forever, and it’s still a shock that dad died at the age of 58. But even a full century after his birth he lives on for me, and I will always respect and appreciate the buoyant, committed, and curious person that he was.
Since it’s been over 41 years since he died, I have to realize that Victor Elmer Lapakko has been gone for well over two-thirds of my life. In many ways, his passing seems like such an ancient, distant event; it’s almost as if he was never around. But, if I see a photo or two, or think about stories from the past, he becomes real again.
When it comes to dad, my dominant fantasy involves just showing him around the world of 2011. I think more than anything, he would have been fascinated by what’s happened in the way of technology. I’d love to demonstrate to him how computers work, or the Internet, or cell phones, or iPods; he'd be amazed by it all. One trait that he had was a sense of awe and wonder about the world, and I think there’s much that would dazzle him.
Dad would also be intrigued by what’s happened in politics. On the day he went into surgery--never to come out of it--he was as concerned as anything else about the Vietnam War. He wanted to know if the political pressure to end that war was going to succeed. He’d be surprised by the dissolution of the USSR and the end of the Cold War. And he, along with my mom, would be pleased as can be that a person of color was sitting in the Oval Office.
When you’re 19 years old, you think that your parents will live forever, and it’s still a shock that dad died at the age of 58. But even a full century after his birth he lives on for me, and I will always respect and appreciate the buoyant, committed, and curious person that he was.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Bachmann & Palin: babes rule
Fortunately, I have a lot of hair, because I've been pulling it out in clumps as I ponder the announced candidacy of Michele Bachmann and the potential candidacy of Sarah Palin for the highest office in the land. PRESIDENT Bachmann? PRESIDENT Palin? The whole idea makes Governor Ventura and Governor Schwarzenegger seem almost sane and normal.
To me, one's view of Bachmann and Palin constitutes a reliable intelligence test: If you think these two babes are smart and capable, you're an idiot. Line up all their strange quotations and bizarre notions about the world and you have a set of beliefs that is ignorant, simplistic, narrow-minded, and just plain scary. Their views on religion and homosexuality alone are enough to disqualify them from any executive position. They are, in the end, demagogues in skirts.
But, strangely enough, it is the "skirt" part that seems to work for them. Maybe our standards and expectations in politics are not as high in this regard, but I always have to grudgingly admit that Bachmann and Palin are attractive. Yes, their ideas can diminish that attractiveness a bit, but as a guy, I can say that they are easy on the eyes. Since the first telegenic Presidency--John F. Kennedy's--we have become increasingly susceptible to mere images in politics. And images now really matter. At more than 300 pounds, William Howard Taft could not be elected President in 2012. And at considerably less than 300 pounds, Dennis Kucinich looks sufficiently odd and dorky that he doesn't have a chance as long as there are electronic screens.
The whole thing doesn't say much for us these days. We're not too far from choosing the high school homecoming queen. Michele and Sarah are like a 17-year-old Buffy, or Muffin, or Midge: cute, perky, energetic, and vacuous--with a lot of school spirit. Don't you just love your freedom? Go USA!
To me, one's view of Bachmann and Palin constitutes a reliable intelligence test: If you think these two babes are smart and capable, you're an idiot. Line up all their strange quotations and bizarre notions about the world and you have a set of beliefs that is ignorant, simplistic, narrow-minded, and just plain scary. Their views on religion and homosexuality alone are enough to disqualify them from any executive position. They are, in the end, demagogues in skirts.
But, strangely enough, it is the "skirt" part that seems to work for them. Maybe our standards and expectations in politics are not as high in this regard, but I always have to grudgingly admit that Bachmann and Palin are attractive. Yes, their ideas can diminish that attractiveness a bit, but as a guy, I can say that they are easy on the eyes. Since the first telegenic Presidency--John F. Kennedy's--we have become increasingly susceptible to mere images in politics. And images now really matter. At more than 300 pounds, William Howard Taft could not be elected President in 2012. And at considerably less than 300 pounds, Dennis Kucinich looks sufficiently odd and dorky that he doesn't have a chance as long as there are electronic screens.
The whole thing doesn't say much for us these days. We're not too far from choosing the high school homecoming queen. Michele and Sarah are like a 17-year-old Buffy, or Muffin, or Midge: cute, perky, energetic, and vacuous--with a lot of school spirit. Don't you just love your freedom? Go USA!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Mourning the loss of a friend
Even we introverts like to have a few friends, and it appears that I have lost one.
Someone I've known for more than 30 years essentially "broke up with me" a few days ago, and I'm still sad and reflective about it. (The ultimate proof of this demise: my Facebook friend list appears to be one name shorter.) And, if I'm honest about it, I'm maybe a little angry, too.
Near as I can tell, the issue, in his mind, was that at a key point in his life, several years ago, I was too cold and judgmental toward him, and that in recent years, I was way more into me than I was into him--that is, I loved to call and talk about myself but didn't show enough interest in the joys and sorrows of his life. In the end, I have to say, point well taken. For the most part.
There are some mitigating or complicating factors. An odd feature to this relationship is that in the last 20 years, I've probably made at least 500 personal calls to him, while he's possibly made one or two such calls to me. Really. After a while, you begin to wonder who's really interested in whom. And yes, I liked to share personal stories--you know, good, bad, funny, or strange stuff that was going on in my life. But the idea that I had no interest in his life whatsoever is ridiculous on its face. Maybe I didn't ask enough questions, or the right questions, but I did ask them, more often than not. Also, I always just assumed that part of friendship is simply reciprocal storytelling--I tell you my stories and you tell me yours. If he had wanted to read me the yellow pages, I would have listened. And if my calls to him seemed like egotistical babbling, all it would have taken is a few calls FROM him with the desire to tell me a few more of HIS stories. He could have asserted who he is rather than spending what turns out to be several YEARS in quiet passive-aggressive resentment. Well, at least I know why my last two lunch invitations were met with such indifference.
The other thing that is painfully clear to me is that when you have issues, then you have a responsibility to raise them--and for me to learn in 2011 that he had an axe to grind from maybe 2004 or 2005 (can't remember the year--it's been so long that this is an estimate) is at best unfortunate and at worst unkind. Jeez, we could've talked about this stuff; we really could.
And so I am left to mourn the loss of this friend--someone who has meant a lot to me over the years. I wish him the best and hope that maybe someday all of this will change.
Someone I've known for more than 30 years essentially "broke up with me" a few days ago, and I'm still sad and reflective about it. (The ultimate proof of this demise: my Facebook friend list appears to be one name shorter.) And, if I'm honest about it, I'm maybe a little angry, too.
Near as I can tell, the issue, in his mind, was that at a key point in his life, several years ago, I was too cold and judgmental toward him, and that in recent years, I was way more into me than I was into him--that is, I loved to call and talk about myself but didn't show enough interest in the joys and sorrows of his life. In the end, I have to say, point well taken. For the most part.
There are some mitigating or complicating factors. An odd feature to this relationship is that in the last 20 years, I've probably made at least 500 personal calls to him, while he's possibly made one or two such calls to me. Really. After a while, you begin to wonder who's really interested in whom. And yes, I liked to share personal stories--you know, good, bad, funny, or strange stuff that was going on in my life. But the idea that I had no interest in his life whatsoever is ridiculous on its face. Maybe I didn't ask enough questions, or the right questions, but I did ask them, more often than not. Also, I always just assumed that part of friendship is simply reciprocal storytelling--I tell you my stories and you tell me yours. If he had wanted to read me the yellow pages, I would have listened. And if my calls to him seemed like egotistical babbling, all it would have taken is a few calls FROM him with the desire to tell me a few more of HIS stories. He could have asserted who he is rather than spending what turns out to be several YEARS in quiet passive-aggressive resentment. Well, at least I know why my last two lunch invitations were met with such indifference.
The other thing that is painfully clear to me is that when you have issues, then you have a responsibility to raise them--and for me to learn in 2011 that he had an axe to grind from maybe 2004 or 2005 (can't remember the year--it's been so long that this is an estimate) is at best unfortunate and at worst unkind. Jeez, we could've talked about this stuff; we really could.
And so I am left to mourn the loss of this friend--someone who has meant a lot to me over the years. I wish him the best and hope that maybe someday all of this will change.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
4th of July: overrated jingoism
In the community where I live, the 4th of July is probably THE biggest holiday of the year. The whole town goes a little nuts, with a morning parade; an evening street dance; a little carnival area with motorized rides, hot dogs, and cotton candy; and, of course, a massive fireworks display. What's not to like? Well, leave it to The Introvert to explain why the 4th is by no means his favorite holiday:
• It's a boozefest. In this suburb, the main form of personal recreation on "Independence Day" is continuous consumption of alcohol, for teens and adults alike. That's disgusting.
• It's crowded and noisy. People fight for spots to watch the parade--they put down rows of folding chairs at 7 am to claim their spot. The park with the fireworks is prone to gridlock. And there are all these people to walk and drive around and through. And, sorry to say, after 30 or 40 years, fireworks do lose some of their charm. I've seen fireworks in so many places that I have a bit of a "been there, done that" mindset. I'm almost out of "oohs" and "ahhs."
• It's hot and buggy. You need to have both sunscreen and mosquito repellent. And various types of smoke waft through the air from dawn to midnight.
• The various picnics going on in the neighbors' back yards aren't bad in concept, but the food is normally not much to celebrate. We vegetarians don't eat a lot of brats, and store-bought coleslaw and potato salad have some pretty cloying flavors.
• Worst of all, it's jingoistic. The 4th of July is an excuse for a lot of drunken chest-pounding by people wearing red, white, and blue Old Navy tank tops. Somehow this is regarded as "patriotic." To me it is the shallowest form of patriotism, and not to be encouraged. Our national pride should be quieter and more sophisticated. The "rockets' red glare" is nothing to glorify; war is at best a necessary evil. And the worst irony of all: if you were to ask U.S. citizens what the 4th of July commemorates, a huge percentage wouldn't have a clue. (If you doubt that claim, check: http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message1548908/pg1)
But hey, pass me a brewskie!
• It's a boozefest. In this suburb, the main form of personal recreation on "Independence Day" is continuous consumption of alcohol, for teens and adults alike. That's disgusting.
• It's crowded and noisy. People fight for spots to watch the parade--they put down rows of folding chairs at 7 am to claim their spot. The park with the fireworks is prone to gridlock. And there are all these people to walk and drive around and through. And, sorry to say, after 30 or 40 years, fireworks do lose some of their charm. I've seen fireworks in so many places that I have a bit of a "been there, done that" mindset. I'm almost out of "oohs" and "ahhs."
• It's hot and buggy. You need to have both sunscreen and mosquito repellent. And various types of smoke waft through the air from dawn to midnight.
• The various picnics going on in the neighbors' back yards aren't bad in concept, but the food is normally not much to celebrate. We vegetarians don't eat a lot of brats, and store-bought coleslaw and potato salad have some pretty cloying flavors.
• Worst of all, it's jingoistic. The 4th of July is an excuse for a lot of drunken chest-pounding by people wearing red, white, and blue Old Navy tank tops. Somehow this is regarded as "patriotic." To me it is the shallowest form of patriotism, and not to be encouraged. Our national pride should be quieter and more sophisticated. The "rockets' red glare" is nothing to glorify; war is at best a necessary evil. And the worst irony of all: if you were to ask U.S. citizens what the 4th of July commemorates, a huge percentage wouldn't have a clue. (If you doubt that claim, check: http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message1548908/pg1)
But hey, pass me a brewskie!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Religion: a license to say or believe anything
Let's face it--contentiousintrovert is not exactly google or yahoo; it's not even the Huffington Post. (Heck--it's not even the Soybean Farmers Weekly.) But if I happen to write about religion, someone often responds. And the responders are often strangers from out-of-state. Lord knows how they find this little teeny niche in cyberspace. But, it's motivating to get a response. So here I go again.
In a general sense, perhaps my biggest complaint about religious discourse in the world is that religion is regarded as a "personal" issue, which in this case means: a person can say just about anything they want about religion, and since religion is a personal issue, no one has any right to criticize. In short, talking about religion is often a free pass to say anything, no matter how stupid, ignorant, or nonsensical it happens to be, and very few people will be compelled to call you out on it. It's just not polite to do so.
Do I believe that there are actually 100 gods, not just one? That's OK, because it's religion we're talking about. Do I believe that God can read my mind right now? You can't make fun of that, because it's religion. Do I think that God has a personal career plan for me? It may be silly, but I can believe that and nobody will blink an eye. Do I think that God sits on a velvet throne with a book listing all of those who are "saved"? It's OK, because it's religion, you know--personal, and not capable of being verified. (A woman I took to prom in high school believes that there is such a book, by the way, and her name is in it, just so you know.)
Such a "hands-off" mindset enables all sorts of people--many of whom I see on cable from time to time--to say the most outrageous things, and nobody is up in arms about it. The latest kook: this 89-year-old minister who predicated The Rapture on May 21. (Oops! Now, we discover, it's actually going to be October 21.) Why does the press even give him the time of day? He's a bleeping idiot, plain and simple.
Until religious claim-makers are held to the same standards as the rest of us--providing things like evidence and coherent reasoning--I see no reason to even listen. And if we do listen, and they say things that are total rubbish, we need to get in their face and tell them so. Otherwise, people will continue to say things that are utterly ridiculous.
But I will confess to some hypocrisy here. I've sat through my share of church services, and I've never had the nerve to stand up and say, "That's baloney!" I'm not one to make such waves. But maybe some of you are courageous enough to tell a few religious emperors that they are not wearing any clothes.
In a general sense, perhaps my biggest complaint about religious discourse in the world is that religion is regarded as a "personal" issue, which in this case means: a person can say just about anything they want about religion, and since religion is a personal issue, no one has any right to criticize. In short, talking about religion is often a free pass to say anything, no matter how stupid, ignorant, or nonsensical it happens to be, and very few people will be compelled to call you out on it. It's just not polite to do so.
Do I believe that there are actually 100 gods, not just one? That's OK, because it's religion we're talking about. Do I believe that God can read my mind right now? You can't make fun of that, because it's religion. Do I think that God has a personal career plan for me? It may be silly, but I can believe that and nobody will blink an eye. Do I think that God sits on a velvet throne with a book listing all of those who are "saved"? It's OK, because it's religion, you know--personal, and not capable of being verified. (A woman I took to prom in high school believes that there is such a book, by the way, and her name is in it, just so you know.)
Such a "hands-off" mindset enables all sorts of people--many of whom I see on cable from time to time--to say the most outrageous things, and nobody is up in arms about it. The latest kook: this 89-year-old minister who predicated The Rapture on May 21. (Oops! Now, we discover, it's actually going to be October 21.) Why does the press even give him the time of day? He's a bleeping idiot, plain and simple.
Until religious claim-makers are held to the same standards as the rest of us--providing things like evidence and coherent reasoning--I see no reason to even listen. And if we do listen, and they say things that are total rubbish, we need to get in their face and tell them so. Otherwise, people will continue to say things that are utterly ridiculous.
But I will confess to some hypocrisy here. I've sat through my share of church services, and I've never had the nerve to stand up and say, "That's baloney!" I'm not one to make such waves. But maybe some of you are courageous enough to tell a few religious emperors that they are not wearing any clothes.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
108 billion people at the whim of the Lord?
This month's National Geographic poses a question I have often asked myself: how many humans have lived at some time or another on the planet Earth?
The answer, it turns out, going back to the dawn of human history, is somewhere in the vicinity of 108 billion. Of those 108 billion, something like 6 or 7 percent are living today. That means that billions of people are part of past generations, and those past generations go way back--centuries and millennia before Jesus Christ, including Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Alexander the Great, etc. etc. So the question becomes, if the acceptance of Jesus as Lord and Savior is an indispensable pre-condition for the afterlife, whatever became of the ancients, who, quite bluntly, didn't know Jesus from a hole in the wall?
This may seem like an obvious question, but in my view, a rather important one. All of those billions of people who lived "Before the Common Era" were real human beings with thoughts and feelings and relationships and behaviors--but because they lived before the arrival of Jesus, what was their fate? Were they destined to go to hell? Given special dispensation and a free pass to heaven? Or did they simply "die" with nothing to show for it?
It seems to me that this question poses some very sticky problems for those who see God as infinitely wise and just--especially for those (possibly) poor souls who passed on just a day or two or a year or two before our Lord and Savior made his arrival. It is yet another reason why I struggle to make sense out of Christian dogma. There simply has to be a better way to explain and understand all this than to trot out the Bible and claim that it has all the answers. It flat-out just doesn't.
The answer, it turns out, going back to the dawn of human history, is somewhere in the vicinity of 108 billion. Of those 108 billion, something like 6 or 7 percent are living today. That means that billions of people are part of past generations, and those past generations go way back--centuries and millennia before Jesus Christ, including Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Alexander the Great, etc. etc. So the question becomes, if the acceptance of Jesus as Lord and Savior is an indispensable pre-condition for the afterlife, whatever became of the ancients, who, quite bluntly, didn't know Jesus from a hole in the wall?
This may seem like an obvious question, but in my view, a rather important one. All of those billions of people who lived "Before the Common Era" were real human beings with thoughts and feelings and relationships and behaviors--but because they lived before the arrival of Jesus, what was their fate? Were they destined to go to hell? Given special dispensation and a free pass to heaven? Or did they simply "die" with nothing to show for it?
It seems to me that this question poses some very sticky problems for those who see God as infinitely wise and just--especially for those (possibly) poor souls who passed on just a day or two or a year or two before our Lord and Savior made his arrival. It is yet another reason why I struggle to make sense out of Christian dogma. There simply has to be a better way to explain and understand all this than to trot out the Bible and claim that it has all the answers. It flat-out just doesn't.
Monday, May 16, 2011
20,000 miles and counting
I have to own up to the fact that I like things to count. This, for example, is my 94th Contentious Introvert posting.
Yesterday, my counting compulsion was evident as I reached a new running milestone (pun intended): 20,000 recorded running miles. 20,000--I must confess to feeling very satisfied by that number. Obviously, it has involved hundreds and hundreds of runs over the years, with record-keeping going back to 1975.
Some of those years are pretty lean--1986, for example, when our son was born, I was teaching at 5 different schools and working on my dissertation: 58 total miles for that entire year! On the other hand, 1500 miles in 2007 means that I had to average over 4 miles per day, and I'm not sure I'll ever get back to that number. At any rate, suffice it to say that I've done my share of running--in the dark, in blazing sunshine, in 15-below weather, when it's 98 and humid, in a thunderstorm/hailstorm (I was laughing so hard I almost couldn't continue), up north (where I once encountered a timberwolf), in our local nature center (where I encounter many deer), on the California beach, in Malaysia, etc. etc. etc. And it has involved 77 different races (there's that counting again!), including 6 marathons, 6 25Ks, and 26 half-marathons.
I have to think that running has saved my life in many ways--it's my Jesus. This past Saturday was the 41st anniversary of my dad's death; he died at 58 in the middle of bypass surgery. Although I could still keel over and die tomorrow (or even today!), I've passed that number, and even more important, I've felt good doing it. Physically (and in many ways psychologically and spiritually), nothing makes me feel better than a good run. I'm happy to have had a little quantity (not the time to list all my friends and acquaintances who have already passed on), but even better has been the quality of my life, and running has made that possible. I am still haunted by the many years during which dad experienced chest pains; several of those later years were more miserable than I could have possibly realized at the time. Up until dad died, I pretty much figured that anyone close to you lived forever, or at least into their 70s or 80s.
Anyway, the next goal is quite obvious to anyone looking at that number of 20,000. Yes, 24,901--the circumference of the planet. I'm now out to (sort of literally) run around the world. Hope to be there in just a few years--lord willing, as they say. And to go back to the opening sentence here: why do I like to count things? Although it may seem cold and clinical, for me, doing so helps to make them count.
Yesterday, my counting compulsion was evident as I reached a new running milestone (pun intended): 20,000 recorded running miles. 20,000--I must confess to feeling very satisfied by that number. Obviously, it has involved hundreds and hundreds of runs over the years, with record-keeping going back to 1975.
Some of those years are pretty lean--1986, for example, when our son was born, I was teaching at 5 different schools and working on my dissertation: 58 total miles for that entire year! On the other hand, 1500 miles in 2007 means that I had to average over 4 miles per day, and I'm not sure I'll ever get back to that number. At any rate, suffice it to say that I've done my share of running--in the dark, in blazing sunshine, in 15-below weather, when it's 98 and humid, in a thunderstorm/hailstorm (I was laughing so hard I almost couldn't continue), up north (where I once encountered a timberwolf), in our local nature center (where I encounter many deer), on the California beach, in Malaysia, etc. etc. etc. And it has involved 77 different races (there's that counting again!), including 6 marathons, 6 25Ks, and 26 half-marathons.
I have to think that running has saved my life in many ways--it's my Jesus. This past Saturday was the 41st anniversary of my dad's death; he died at 58 in the middle of bypass surgery. Although I could still keel over and die tomorrow (or even today!), I've passed that number, and even more important, I've felt good doing it. Physically (and in many ways psychologically and spiritually), nothing makes me feel better than a good run. I'm happy to have had a little quantity (not the time to list all my friends and acquaintances who have already passed on), but even better has been the quality of my life, and running has made that possible. I am still haunted by the many years during which dad experienced chest pains; several of those later years were more miserable than I could have possibly realized at the time. Up until dad died, I pretty much figured that anyone close to you lived forever, or at least into their 70s or 80s.
Anyway, the next goal is quite obvious to anyone looking at that number of 20,000. Yes, 24,901--the circumference of the planet. I'm now out to (sort of literally) run around the world. Hope to be there in just a few years--lord willing, as they say. And to go back to the opening sentence here: why do I like to count things? Although it may seem cold and clinical, for me, doing so helps to make them count.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
God: way worse than Hitler?
The cover story in this week's Time features the question, "What if there's no hell?" Seems that minister Rob Bell, a rising star in parts of the Christian world, is proposing that there really may not be such a place--that is, a place where God, presumably, punishes those who do not believeth in Him. And to his credit, Pastor Bell has enough intellectual integrity to say what frankly anyone should believe: "When we get to what happens when we die, we don't have any video footage. So let's at least be honest that we are speculating, because we are."
That said, Bell's speculation is that a loving God would not and could not condone a place like Hell. And to that, I say, hell yes. The proposed existence of hell is untenable--if one believes that God is a loving being. Indeed, if God is perfectly comfortable with hell, then I'd go so far as to say that He's more nasty and vicious than Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot combined--and by a long shot. Why? Let me count the ways.
First, there's the massive scale involved. Even Hitler, at his "best," could only exterminate 6 million people. If God sends all non-believers to hell, that number would be easily in the BILLIONS. Entire nations--Japan, for example, or China, or more than half of Europe, certainly--would be decimated.
Second, there's the fact that the punishment involves suffering, not death or the termination of existence. At least Stalin only killed people and in the process, we hope, put them out of their misery. But the God which some worship gets his kicks out of making people continue to suffer, literally in lord-knows-what ways. You just don't "die again."
Third and finally--and probably most important--the jail term in hell appears to be ETERNITY. Do you have any idea of how long eternity is? It's now 2011--think BEYOND the year 200,556,994,228,001,669, because that's only the START of eternity. Anyone who would punish anybody for eternity is so patently un-loving that I hardly know how to discuss this matter with a "fire and brimstone" person.
Bottom line: no God is an "awesome" God who would willingly make billions of people suffer for eternity. I simply cannot and will not entertain that thoroughly ridiculous notion. And anyone who does (sorry, I can't resist this closing) can go to hell!
That said, Bell's speculation is that a loving God would not and could not condone a place like Hell. And to that, I say, hell yes. The proposed existence of hell is untenable--if one believes that God is a loving being. Indeed, if God is perfectly comfortable with hell, then I'd go so far as to say that He's more nasty and vicious than Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot combined--and by a long shot. Why? Let me count the ways.
First, there's the massive scale involved. Even Hitler, at his "best," could only exterminate 6 million people. If God sends all non-believers to hell, that number would be easily in the BILLIONS. Entire nations--Japan, for example, or China, or more than half of Europe, certainly--would be decimated.
Second, there's the fact that the punishment involves suffering, not death or the termination of existence. At least Stalin only killed people and in the process, we hope, put them out of their misery. But the God which some worship gets his kicks out of making people continue to suffer, literally in lord-knows-what ways. You just don't "die again."
Third and finally--and probably most important--the jail term in hell appears to be ETERNITY. Do you have any idea of how long eternity is? It's now 2011--think BEYOND the year 200,556,994,228,001,669, because that's only the START of eternity. Anyone who would punish anybody for eternity is so patently un-loving that I hardly know how to discuss this matter with a "fire and brimstone" person.
Bottom line: no God is an "awesome" God who would willingly make billions of people suffer for eternity. I simply cannot and will not entertain that thoroughly ridiculous notion. And anyone who does (sorry, I can't resist this closing) can go to hell!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Call me an idiot
I suppose I should be thankful, although I think someone should paint the word "IDIOT" on my forehead in large red letters.
On Sunday morning I was doing my best to eliminate any possible "ice dam" problems on our roof at home. I leaned an extension ladder from the flat roof of the garage against the edge of the roof on our sunroom--another 9 or 10 feet above the garage roof. I noticed that the garage roof, covered with a rubber membrane, was a little wet and slippery, but that didn't stop THE IDIOT from climbing up the ladder. Near the top--again, 9 or 10 feet up in the air--the extension ladder quickly slid downward from its perch on the edge of the sunroom; the little feet of the ladder simply would not hold on that wet, slippery garage roof. I went down with the ladder and rammed my right side into the metal rungs when it hit bottom.
The wind was knocked out of me, and my right side already hurt. I saw a teeny bit of blood on my clothes. I rolled around in agony for a bit, gasping and groaning, and feeling a little in shock. But I eventually got up, leaned the extension ladder against the gutter of the garage, and climbed down to the ground.
Initially I was just sore and a little panicked. So I took a hot bath. And then, in the next hour or so, my right thigh started to swell up, big time. I applied ice, but it still looked about twice as thick as my left thigh. A blood clot? A broken leg? It was time to head to urgent care.
Thankfully, x-rays revealed that I didn't have a broken femur, or a broken anything. But I have sore ribs and a black and blue area on my right leg that's the size of Cleveland. And I'm hobbling around with continuous doses of ibuprofin.
We only get so many chances. Many years ago, our neighbor Bruce took one dive into a body of water that was too shallow, and he's been in a wheelchair ever since. As sore as I am, I need to count my blessings. But the contententious introvert gave new meaning this past weekend to the term idiot--I'd kick myself even more, but it's too hard to bend my leg!
On Sunday morning I was doing my best to eliminate any possible "ice dam" problems on our roof at home. I leaned an extension ladder from the flat roof of the garage against the edge of the roof on our sunroom--another 9 or 10 feet above the garage roof. I noticed that the garage roof, covered with a rubber membrane, was a little wet and slippery, but that didn't stop THE IDIOT from climbing up the ladder. Near the top--again, 9 or 10 feet up in the air--the extension ladder quickly slid downward from its perch on the edge of the sunroom; the little feet of the ladder simply would not hold on that wet, slippery garage roof. I went down with the ladder and rammed my right side into the metal rungs when it hit bottom.
The wind was knocked out of me, and my right side already hurt. I saw a teeny bit of blood on my clothes. I rolled around in agony for a bit, gasping and groaning, and feeling a little in shock. But I eventually got up, leaned the extension ladder against the gutter of the garage, and climbed down to the ground.
Initially I was just sore and a little panicked. So I took a hot bath. And then, in the next hour or so, my right thigh started to swell up, big time. I applied ice, but it still looked about twice as thick as my left thigh. A blood clot? A broken leg? It was time to head to urgent care.
Thankfully, x-rays revealed that I didn't have a broken femur, or a broken anything. But I have sore ribs and a black and blue area on my right leg that's the size of Cleveland. And I'm hobbling around with continuous doses of ibuprofin.
We only get so many chances. Many years ago, our neighbor Bruce took one dive into a body of water that was too shallow, and he's been in a wheelchair ever since. As sore as I am, I need to count my blessings. But the contententious introvert gave new meaning this past weekend to the term idiot--I'd kick myself even more, but it's too hard to bend my leg!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Sins of commission and omission
Leave it to a heathen like me to think about "sinning."
I certainly don't accept the traditional Christian view that people are by nature wicked and sinful, or that there is such a thing as "original sin." Having said that, I also know that people are certainly capable of doing things which are not nice--that would be my preferred down-to-earth post-modern reading of the gospel.
When it comes to sinning, there are sins of commission--something that you did do--and sins of omission--something that you didn't. Like anyone else, I have my sins of commission--something I overtly did that I look back on with regret. You know, the mean-spirited remark, the ill-chosen word, the hostile action. The best I can say is that I have a limited number of those types of unpleasant memories. In 21st century terms, I could put most of my life on youTube and be OK with it.
That's the good news. The bad news is that I am haunted by all of those times when I had an opportunity to do or say the right thing but did not. I deal with a vast array of sins of omission--moments when I had the chance to do something good but reacted with indifference. In those situations--way too numerous to mention--I have let others down, and let myself down as well. Sometimes it is just too tempting to retreat into one's own reality and ignore everything and everyone else. To some extent, such retreating is a way to preserve one's sanity, but it also reminds you of what could have or should have been done. Yes, my sins have been more sins of omission, but that doesn't really wash away the feeling of regret.
Some people set the bar pretty low--as long as they haven't killed anyone or robbed a liquor store, they regard themselves as virtuous. But once sins of omission are introduced, the bar gets a whole lot higher--and, sadly, virtually impossible to reach.
I certainly don't accept the traditional Christian view that people are by nature wicked and sinful, or that there is such a thing as "original sin." Having said that, I also know that people are certainly capable of doing things which are not nice--that would be my preferred down-to-earth post-modern reading of the gospel.
When it comes to sinning, there are sins of commission--something that you did do--and sins of omission--something that you didn't. Like anyone else, I have my sins of commission--something I overtly did that I look back on with regret. You know, the mean-spirited remark, the ill-chosen word, the hostile action. The best I can say is that I have a limited number of those types of unpleasant memories. In 21st century terms, I could put most of my life on youTube and be OK with it.
That's the good news. The bad news is that I am haunted by all of those times when I had an opportunity to do or say the right thing but did not. I deal with a vast array of sins of omission--moments when I had the chance to do something good but reacted with indifference. In those situations--way too numerous to mention--I have let others down, and let myself down as well. Sometimes it is just too tempting to retreat into one's own reality and ignore everything and everyone else. To some extent, such retreating is a way to preserve one's sanity, but it also reminds you of what could have or should have been done. Yes, my sins have been more sins of omission, but that doesn't really wash away the feeling of regret.
Some people set the bar pretty low--as long as they haven't killed anyone or robbed a liquor store, they regard themselves as virtuous. But once sins of omission are introduced, the bar gets a whole lot higher--and, sadly, virtually impossible to reach.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Tucson as a symptom of our sickness
With the recent bloodbath in Tucson, we are left to consider once again how coarse and offensive much of our political rhetoric has become. We must consider the climate that has been created by people in this culture--some of them, unfortunately, political office holders themselves.
In recent years, I've become much more cynical about the role (or lack thereof) of reasoned discourse in our society. It's all about looking good and giving people a certain feeling. Since Obama was elected, those feelings have certainly included irrational anger, directed toward our Muslim, Nazi, Socialist President. The whole effort has been disgusting, and, in my view, more toxic than anything we've heard in the last few decades. Although there is not a direct causal link between this toxic discourse and the Tucson shootings, all of us have a responsibility to do what we can to create a climate in which people do not succumb to demagoguery and act out their perverse beliefs. (Shootings at abortion clinics are another sad example.)
Mario Cuomo's most famous statement is "You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose." Mr. Obama seems to have taken that idea to heart, perhaps to a fault. Now more than ever, we need a poet who can govern--someone who can, with his or her passionate and inspiring rhetoric--take us to a new place, with a new understanding of what public service is all about, what it means to be fully human, and what our highest ideals should be. Barack Obama has a unique opportunity to be that person, and I hope that he can summon his considerable rhetorical skills to make this a nation of which we can all be proud. Unfortunately, however, this week is going to be a national week of mourning. Tucson is a symptom of our collective sickness.
In recent years, I've become much more cynical about the role (or lack thereof) of reasoned discourse in our society. It's all about looking good and giving people a certain feeling. Since Obama was elected, those feelings have certainly included irrational anger, directed toward our Muslim, Nazi, Socialist President. The whole effort has been disgusting, and, in my view, more toxic than anything we've heard in the last few decades. Although there is not a direct causal link between this toxic discourse and the Tucson shootings, all of us have a responsibility to do what we can to create a climate in which people do not succumb to demagoguery and act out their perverse beliefs. (Shootings at abortion clinics are another sad example.)
Mario Cuomo's most famous statement is "You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose." Mr. Obama seems to have taken that idea to heart, perhaps to a fault. Now more than ever, we need a poet who can govern--someone who can, with his or her passionate and inspiring rhetoric--take us to a new place, with a new understanding of what public service is all about, what it means to be fully human, and what our highest ideals should be. Barack Obama has a unique opportunity to be that person, and I hope that he can summon his considerable rhetorical skills to make this a nation of which we can all be proud. Unfortunately, however, this week is going to be a national week of mourning. Tucson is a symptom of our collective sickness.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Narcissism and social media
I continue to think about an essay in Time magazine regarding Facebook--Mark Zuckerberg was Time's "Person of the Year" for 2010. In this essay, Richard Stengel argues that "All social media involve a mixture of narcissism and voyeurism."
The statement may be true, but it's also a little depressing. It suggests that if we have any interest in social media, it's either because we are obsessed with ourselves, or obsessed with snooping into other people's lives. Either way, it doesn't sound real healthy.
As this relates to those silly people who keep blogs (ContentiousIntrovert comes to mind), the "narcissism" part is haunting. Are blogs just a way for people to stroke their own ego and pretend that what they are thinking is somehow important and worth noting?
On the one hand, like lots of other people, I simply want to know that at some level, I'm heard, and I'm recognized. On the other hand, I am keenly aware that it's presumptuous to think that I have something to say that's worth hearing in the first place. This tension is also evident in my world with respect to "marketing"--I recognize the need to promote who you are and what you do, but I am, in the end, uncomfortable telling the world about it. So, I have a blog that I seldom mention; I've written a textbook that I seldom promote; and I accomplish things, often modest, that give me a little glow inside but stay largely internalized. It's as if I want the world to see me, but at the same time I hate asking to be seen. Go figure. It's a conundrum that has lurked in the back of my mind for basically my entire life--which, now that it's 2011, seems like a pretty long time.
The statement may be true, but it's also a little depressing. It suggests that if we have any interest in social media, it's either because we are obsessed with ourselves, or obsessed with snooping into other people's lives. Either way, it doesn't sound real healthy.
As this relates to those silly people who keep blogs (ContentiousIntrovert comes to mind), the "narcissism" part is haunting. Are blogs just a way for people to stroke their own ego and pretend that what they are thinking is somehow important and worth noting?
On the one hand, like lots of other people, I simply want to know that at some level, I'm heard, and I'm recognized. On the other hand, I am keenly aware that it's presumptuous to think that I have something to say that's worth hearing in the first place. This tension is also evident in my world with respect to "marketing"--I recognize the need to promote who you are and what you do, but I am, in the end, uncomfortable telling the world about it. So, I have a blog that I seldom mention; I've written a textbook that I seldom promote; and I accomplish things, often modest, that give me a little glow inside but stay largely internalized. It's as if I want the world to see me, but at the same time I hate asking to be seen. Go figure. It's a conundrum that has lurked in the back of my mind for basically my entire life--which, now that it's 2011, seems like a pretty long time.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)