Sacred

The highest human purpose is always to reinvent and celebrate the sacred.

~ N. Scott Momaday

It’s been a while since my last post; school and job hunting have kept me dashing to and fro, and lengthy, library-scented sessions devoted to writing essays and researching term papers have been scattered here and there.

And in the midst of it all I’ve found a few opportunities to reflect . . .

Last Thursday, philosopher and author A. J. Jacobs visited our campus as part of the Omnibus Lecture Series. And while his talk was indeed entertaining, much more fun for me was the chance to interview him in my Religion & Popular Culture class.

Besides a couple of professors in attendance, I had the privilege of being the only one in the room to have read his fantastic book, The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible. And since he dedicated much of his time with us to answering questions, I jumped right in. I knew he was coming and I was ready. Interviews were always my favorite thing to do when I worked in radio, so I was in my element. Mr. Jacobs is a very soft-spoken, humble guy, and we had a great conversation about the book and his experiences during his year of taking fundamentalism to the extreme. If you’ve visited me on Facebook, you know that, under Religions Views, I consider myself “Reverently Agnostic”. Here’s why . . .

Do I believe in a traditional biblical God? Well, not in the sense that the ancient Israelites believed in Him. I could never make the full leap to accepting a God who rolls up His sleeves and fiddles with our lives like a novelist does his characters. I’m still agnostic. But in the words of [spiritual advisor] Elton Richards, I’m now a reverent agnostic. Which isn’t an oxymoron, I swear. I now believe that whether or not there’s a God, there is such a thing as sacredness. Life is sacred. The Sabbath can be a sacred day. Prayer can be a sacred ritual. There is something transcendent, beyond the everyday. It’s possible that humans created this sacredness ourselves, but that doesn’t take away from its power or importance.

I come away from this year with my own cafeteria religion. I’ll be doing things differently than I did thirteen months ago, things both big (resting on the Sabbath) and small (wearing more white clothes). And I’ll keep on saying my prayers of thanksgiving. I’m not sure whom I’m thanking, but I’ve become addicted to the act.

I did the addicted thing for a season; the version of Christianity I lived, like any physical substance, kept me flying high, and I lapped it up with self-righteous vigor. Then I found the will to cast it aside, and for several years now I’ve lived outside the tent. I have basked in the freedom of living without any reverence – any sacredness – at all.

And it has left me feeling a bit empty.

So a couple weeks ago I started going to church again, this time on my own terms, among a people willing to consider the importance of reinventing what is sacred. My daughter has been coming with me, doing yoga and learning about kindness. And I’ve had my mind stretched by the words of an excommunicated Greek . . .

A vehement Eros runs through the Universe. It is harder than steel, softer than air. It cuts through and passes beyond all things, it flees and it escapes. It is a Militant Eros. Behind the shoulders of its beloved it perceives mankind surging and roaring like the waves, it perceives animals and plants uniting and dying, it perceives the Universe imperiled and shouting to it: “Save me!” Eros? What other name may we give that impetus which becomes enchanted as soon as it casts its glance on matter and then longs to impress its features upon it? It longs to merge with the other erotic cry, to become one ’til both may become deathless. It approaches the soul and wishes to merge with it so that “you” and “I” may no longer exist. It smashes the duality of mind and body, to merge all breaths into one Divine Monad. In moments of crisis this Erotic Love swoops down on human beings and binds them together. It is a breath superior to all of them, independent of their desires and deeds. It is the Spirit, the breathing on the earth of what human beings call God. And it comes in whatever form it wishes – as dance, as Eros, as hunger, as religion, as art, and does not ask our permission.

On Sunday, I lit a candle for my dear friends fighting to hold back a swelling river running through their city, and it felt right. Were I there I’d grab a sandbag or two . . . lend a hand and a smile. But I’m here. And though we are separated by miles, both physical and ideological, I know we each long to let the sacred pounce upon us, to see it in the faces of our families and friends and total strangers, and embrace it, even as it slips through our fingers, unwilling to be pigeonholed or packed away in tidy compartments.

My journey is getting interesting, and I’m enjoying the walk . . .

[photo credit]

Panentheism, Dead Prez, Religious Epistemology, and Wilkie Collins

Sporting such an untypically verbose title, you probably think this post is going to be a doozy, another long-winded and rambling entry in which I bore you to tears.

Fear not. I have no time for such nonsense at present. I’m in the midst of one the busiest semesters I’ve had to endure since I went back to school several years ago. I typically take two classes, and do my best to mix them up so that my workload is manageable. This Spring I am taking three classes, one at the graduate level, and amidst the chaos of trying to find a job, I’m reading and researching and writing more than I have in years. Here are just a few of the papers currently in development . . .

For my Theories of Religion class, I am researching Panentheism, what philosopher and theologian John W. Cooper calls The Other God of the Philosophers. In addition to giving a detailed history – no easy task as panentheistic thought goes back at least to Plato – I am digging a bit deeper into the nuances presented in the systematic theology of Paul Tillich. I’ll wrap it up by distilling the thoughts of such modern panentheists as Philip Clayton and Marcus Borg.

For my Religion & Popular Culture class, the subject is hip hop duo Dead Prez. Again there is a necessary section about their history, but the bulk up the paper is a careful analysis of the spiritual sensibilities of their lyrics. Since starting this class I’ve exposed myself to many interesting hip hop artists, but none seem to be tapping into the heart of the genre like Dead Prez. One revealing source is an interview presented by M. K. Asante Jr. in his book
It’s Bigger Than Hip Hop.

In addition to the normal reading and essays in my Theory of Knowledge class, I am also writing a paper comparing two arguments about what we can know about God. One is a skeptical view presented by J. L. Schellenberg in his book Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, while the other is an argument in support of a rational belief in God (“even if God doesn’t actually exist”) put forward by Paul K Moser in The Elusive God: Reorienting Religious Epistemology. This is going to be the toughest nut to crack in terms of researching and writing. An alternative subject, percolating in the back of my mind, is a similar examination based on a published debate about the Knowledge of God between Alvin Plantinga and Michael Tooley. No less dense, but presented in a format that makes comparison and contrast a bit more manageable. We’ll see . . .

These are just the papers! There is also a copious amount of assigned readings for each class, plus quizzes and other short-form writing assignments. You’d think I’d be working on this stuff with every available minute. But . . .

That damned Wilkie Collins! Or rather the Wilkie Collins personified in Dan Simmons’ latest novel Drood. I picked this up on a whim a couple of weeks ago, and it has sucked me in like few books in recent memory. I love to read a good piece of historical fiction on occasion, and this one has everything an English major could love. I would go into them, but I need to curl up in my reading chair and get this thing done. I’m just over halfway through and it’s starting to get very interesting . . .

Hot Seat

It is dangerous to let the public behind the scenes. They are easily disillusioned and then they are angry with you, for it was the illusion they loved.

~ W. Somerset Maugham

Back in late February, A Free Man started a little Q&A meme among his readers, a hot seat forum meant to get us reading other blogs and “meeting” new faces. I signed up to take part, albeit a little later than most, and found out my questions were to come from Rassles, list maker extraordinaire and possessor of more than enough wit to commandeer any conversation. She’s a firecracker – a smart-as-hell firecracker – and I started getting nervous. She is cool. I am so NOT. There is no way I will be able to keep up with her, I feared.

But, as I said, she’s smart. The total package, that Rassles . . .

Just so you know, this was hard. You’re so open on your blog, and you cover everything, so it was like, seriously? How do I find questions he has not yet answered? I’ve only got eight of these, but I have a feeling you can make it work.

I’ll give it a shot, my dear.

You’re a big fan of Life of Pi. Which truth is correct? (Sub-question: in your mind, is correctness interpretable?)

(SPOILER ALERT!  If you haven’t yet read Life of Pi and intend to do so, you may want to skip to the next question . . .)

There are several levels to this question.

If you’re referring to the final chapters, where the tale presented earlier in the book is called into question, it seems obvious that the version of the story sans Richard Parker is the accurate retelling of the events. But in this case, the truth, if you will, is much less interesting than the story. As Pi says, “So it goes with God.” For some, God resides in the punctuation marks they liberally sprinkled throughout most any sentence, be it joyous, horrific, or mundane. When seen as what German-American theologian and Christian existentialist philosopher Paul Tillich termed our “ultimate concern,” faith is the yeast that makes the bread rise. Not dogma.

Which leads to another level: Of all the religious traditions Pi simultaneously embraces in the beginning of the novel, is there one that is truer than the others? For Pi, absolutely not. Each spiritual leader meets Pi at his level and extends to him what their brand of religion has to offer. But Pi isn’t looking for belief, he’s looking for faith. And in the context of the novel, it is his exploration of the many facets of faith that helps him endure his time lost at sea. These facets blend together and become the Grand Storyteller of his adventure, providing him with, as author Yann Martel said in an interview once, “a way of viewing the universe in which things make sense.”

In Life of Pi, correctness is interpretable only if you choose a side: Is truth found in the facts, or in the telling of the tale? Being fiction, our choice matters very little. But in life? Oh my . . . don’t get me started. I’ve wrestled with this for years, and there’s no three-count in sight . . .

Assuming you have a favorite bar, let’s say you just pulled up a chair. Several minutes later after you’re properly situated, the door opens, and six strangers enter: a priest, a rabbi, an imam, a Brahmin, a politician, and me. Eventually, the seven of us are all enjoying the refreshing beverages of our choice. What are we drinking?

Let’s do Henry’s. It’s just west of downtown along a relatively quiet street, and its interior is lined with high back, wooden booths and moody chandeliers. There is no karaoke, no jukebox, and no pool tables. The food is off the hook, and it doesn’t get too crazy. Henry’s is the ideal spot for some engaging dialogue. A friend of mine, however, swears it’s a “gay” bar. Honestly, I’ve never noticed, and he’s a bit hypersensitive about that sort of thing. Also, I don’t generally go there just to hang out; we would have arranged in advance to meet up, so I arrive early and get us a good table. I take the liberty of ordering the first round . . . Sex on the Beach for everyone! If you don’t like fruity drinks, then I’ll be happy to finish yours. After that, I’ll sip a Foster’s or Blue Moon, or maybe a Smirnoff Ice, and let everyone order on their own from there . . .

Sex on the Beach

1 1/2 oz vodka
1/2 oz peach schnapps
2 oz cranberry juice
2 oz orange juice

Eighties Metal: Hair Versus Heavy, or: Which of the preceding attributes would you choose to epitomize the rock of your youth?

Hair, hands down. And while I like to think I’ve matured beyond all that, there’s just something very comforting about listening to my local station’s Mandatory Mullet . . .

Dude, you’re totally metal. Right?

I like it loud, but I’m not necessarily into all the growling that seems to be a dominate feature of “metal” these days. A while ago, on a whim, I picked up a copy of a Headbangers Ball CD, just to see what I’d been missing lately, and came to the sad realization that I just can’t get into quite a few of those bands for any significant length of time. I prefer a singer who can hold his own melodically without resorting to screaming, and guys like James LaBrie of Dream Theater still do it for me. But there is a time for screaming; Corey Taylor of Slipknot/Stone Sour does it well and can say something relevant at the same time. Another favorite growler/singer is Mikael Åkerfeldt of Opeth; before I saw them live, I never would have guessed they had only one lead singer. If you’re familiar with any of these bands, then you can tell I tend to lean toward the progressive rock side of things, and there are few bands that turn my crank harder than . . .

Tool – “Vicarious” From the album 10,000 Days.

“Credulous at best, your desire to believe in angels in the hearts of men.” Indeed . . .

You are in a room with four blank walls, no windows, no doors. If a train traveling to St. Ives really really fast and is scheduled to arrive before the egg but after the chicken, what number am I thinking of?

42.

Arkham Horror or Dungeons & Dragons?

If you’re willing to revert back to 3.5, then we can do D&D. But if you insist on 4.0? Then you can stay at home with all your creepy little n00b friends and get your unimaginative freak on with them. At my pad, we’re dishin’ out some hardcore Lovecraftian mayhem . . .

I think, for the record, we all know that you are an incredible writer. Seriously. Incredible. You used to be on the radio (me too, but in college, and the majority of my speaking time was devoted to using “dude” and “like” and “you know.” I had one person who always listened, and that person was me.) Do you speak like you write? If so, I’d be a riveted listener. For the record. But yeah…are you as authentic and attentive?

Like my grandfather before me, I am a notorious eavesdropper. I love to hear people talk. And, while I do love to engage in a good conversation, I often remain quieter than most people prefer. I enjoy picking up on nuances and subtle undertones in what people say, as expressed in how they say it. This, of course, can lead to trouble, for I tend to read too much into words. So, when I do chime in, it is often an attempt to seek clarification. My big mouth knows the taste of foot, so I’m learning to be still and listen more. And, believe it or not, writing is difficult for me. I like to express myself clearly, cover all the angles that interest me about a particular topic, and anticipate and address objections before they can get blown out of proportion. To do this, I use more words than many find necessary. See? Like that . . .

As far as radio goes, I was never a puker. You know, the one who gets on the mic and sounds all better than you? With the perfect arena announcer voice? While I articulated well, I tended to talk too fast, which more than once brought on a situation where my body had to force me to stop talking and take a breath, creating an awkward, mid-word silence. Like a hiccup, but not as painful. And over a weather bed? Ugh! But at least I sounded like the guy next door, someone you could relate to. That’s how I try to communicate when I speak. Riveting? Nah. And the older I get, the quieter I talk. I used to be able to talk over anyone. Now, I’m much calmer. I try to say something whereby meaning and weight is granted based on content and not on volume level. Maybe that’s why I enjoy Henry’s so much . . .

The best blogs to read are the ones written by fascinating individuals, regardless of how mundane they may feel. You’re up near the top of the hierarchy, I think. I want to turn this into a question, and I can’t figure out how. Will you please do that for me?

Do I consider myself a fascinating individual? Not really. I wear Guitar Hero pajamas, cook pancakes for breakfast on weekends, and can read Rolling Stone and The Philosopher’s Magazine in one sitting. I spend way too much time sweating over the details and not enough time searching deeply for the broader horizon; I possess a plethora of dots, but make no sincere, intellectual effort to connect them. My shoes are Vans and my car is a 1986 Honda Prelude. I have very few real friends, people with whom I can just hang out and be myself, warts and all. In life, I am the guy standing next to Drew Carey, overwhelmed by the game, searching for an answer somewhere in the crowd, incapable of picking a damn number.

So I blog. I hash stuff out in this forum. It’s generally quiet where I write, and I like that. As I’ve skimmed the surface of Blogland for the past year or so, I find that the people I enjoy reading don’t have an answer. But they are looking . . .

As for you, dear Rassles, I’m still waiting for you to come and escort me to the Creation Museum. I’m free most Fridays . . .

[photo credit]

Hit Wonder

There can be no vulnerability without risk; there can be no community without vulnerability; there can be no peace, and ultimately no life, without community.

~ M. Scott Peck

It’s telling that one of the albums I ordered from Columbia House, back when we used to tape pennies to postcards and mail them in, was Donna Summer’s On the Radio. I entered double digits infatuated with Top 40 radio. Even at that tender age, listening to the hits granted me a sense of belonging, each single a bent corner marking a special moment in the book of life.

Perhaps this is why I love my Whitburn so much. I can flip it open to just about any page and be transported back in time: Boy Scout summer camp, 1983, all-night Euchre-fests, Eddie Grant singing about a place called “Electric Avenue“; living in the double-wide, 1978, that babysitter with the tops that were always one button short of covering everything up, Toto holding the line; Six Flags over Georgia, 1986, a couple new friends, who also happened to be cute girls, annoying the others in each and every queue with our a cappella remake of “That’s What Friends Are For“; freshman year in northern Minnesota, 1988, disagreeing mightily with Joe Elliott’s sentiment that “Love Bites“.

Singers, songwriters, bands . . . they come and go, but, if I may wax a tad bit hyperbolic, hits are forever. Hits have united us in the past, and they can do it again.

Now I admit that I’m a fan of many artists that are considered “niche” entertainers, whose music appeals to a relatively small, but fiercely loyal, base of followers. There is a part of me that takes great pride in having found a connection through such groups with other like-minded people; we share the songs and stories that others just don’t understand or are able to relate to.

But there are songs that are universal. They seep into the pores of the public consciousness and spread like a virus, uniting people from all walks of life in ways that transcend every possible boundary. Such necessary invasions of our precious privacy are rare these days, and lacking are the artists with the skill and charisma capable of pulling it off.

Bands like U2.

Bono and the boys get it. They understand the power and wonder of a hit, as Bono explains in the cover story for the latest issue of Rolling Stone:

We grew up on the rock & roll 45. It is, in an evolutionary way that [producer] Brian [Eno] should, but doesn’t, appreciate, the Darwinian peak of the species. It is by far the most difficult thing to pull off, and it is the very life force of rock & roll: vitality, succinctness and catchiness, whether it’s the Sex Pistols, Nirvana, the Pixies, the Beatles, the Who, the Rolling Stones. When rock music forgets about the 45, it tends toward progressive rock, which is like a mold that grows on old, burned-out artists who’ve run out of ideas. We have a soundtrack/Pink Floyd side of our band, and it has to be balanced by fine songwriting. It’s an infuriating thing for me to see indie rock & roll give up the single to R&B and hip hop. That’s why I love the Kings of Leon album or the Killers album: These are people who have such belief in their musical power that they refuse to ghettoize it.

Bono makes some sense here. Perhaps there is a tendency within many artists to limit their talent, to restrain their reach, to admit that what they do only fits, that it is contained within, this one small part of the entertainment spectrum, and so to become content with creating art that speaks to only one particular audience. I wonder how much of this is due to the narrow-mindedness of the music industry, which seems to enjoy burying artists in musical “ghettos” and never permitting them the resources or the means to escape, in comparison with those artists who just won’t leave their niche, won’t attempt to appeal to the greater concerns of humanity or address issues that resonate on a global scale. Maybe these two extremes, the shortsighted suits on one hand and the reluctant artists on the other, are both responsible for the death of the hit. Bono seems to be aiming his critique scattershot style, for neither side appears willing to see beyond their own horizons.

For more than half of my life, in ways that I recognize anew every day, the music of U2 has taken my horizons and brought them close, allowing me to see past myself and toward the beauty of harmony with others. I haven’t always willingly listened. And not every song has inspired me. But theirs is a vast canvas and there is something for everyone, something to mark this time as one in which we can come together and create something magnificent.

Are all hits created equal? Hardly. Must every hit seek to bridge some perceived gap in our global understanding, between realizing what it means to be a human being living in a shitty world and the bringing to fruition of a sense of harmony among weary travelers? Surely not. But unite we must; we can hash out the details later. For now, a question: who inspires you . . .

[photo credit]

Dinnertime

Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.

~ Henry David Thoreau, “Walden,” the Conclusion

One of the advantages of being laid off (yes, I’m trying to count them) is having time to dine with the family. I’ve worked second shift for the past three years, so dinnertime, when I made the choice to actually eat something, usually meant twenty minutes spent helplessly overhearing coworkers grumble about this or that monotonous minutiae of life whilst trying to scarf down a greasy, overpriced helping of French fries and a Mountain Dew. The seconds spilled over each another in a cacophony of gossip and gustation.

Now, my evenings are free (so to speak), and I get to enjoy the company of loved ones. And the pleasure is all mine, for where else does one get to witness such heartwarming exchanges as this . . .

Aryn: “I love you Zoe.”

Zoe: “No you don’t”

Aryn: “Yes I do!”

Zoe: “No you don’t. Yesterday, you called me a butthead!”

Aryn: “But I still love you.”

Zoe: “No you don’t!”

. . . whereupon my daughters began smacking, kicking and yelling at one another. They were laughing in no time, however, for they were just kidding around. Girls!

But the benefits of dinnertime with the family are made more obvious when one considers the cuisine. Courtesy of Rachel Ray, the Queen of Dinnertime Fun for Families on the Run, (I just made that up, and now I’m worried she might try and steal it . . .) I present Exhibit A . . .

Frank & Beans Casserole

Ingredients

• 2-3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO)
• 3 packages of fat, ballpark-style, all-beef hot dogs, sliced on a slight angle (you can also use turkey or tofu dogs, whatever dog you like)
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 2 tablespoons molasses
• 3 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
• 2 cups (a 15-ounce can) tomato sauce
• 4 16-ounce cans or 1 family-size can baked beans
• 2 8 1/2-ounce boxes corn muffin mix, such as Jiffy brand
• 2 eggs
• 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter, melted
• 1 1/2 cups whole milk
• 1 tablespoon (about a palmful) chili powder
• 1/4 cup chopped or snipped chives
• 2 cups shredded cheddar cheese

Yields: 6-8 servings

Preparation

Preheat oven to 400°F. Place a large, oven-safe, nonstick skillet over medium-high heat, add EVOO.

Add the sliced hot dogs to the pan and brown, about 6-8 minutes. Add the chopped onion and cook for about 3-4 minutes.

Combine molasses, Worcestershire and tomato sauce in a small bowl and add to the skillet. Add the baked beans and bring up to a simmer.

While the hot dog mixture is coming up to a simmer, mix the two packages of muffin mix together with eggs, melted butter, milk, chili powder, chives and the cheese. Pour the mix over the top of the hot dog mixture in the skillet. Place skillet in the oven and bake until cornbread is light golden in color, 12-15 minutes.

This is stick-to-your-ribs grub, Dear Tweaker! If you don’t want it quite so spicy, don’t use so much chili powder. We learned this lesson rather quickly. And, as an added bonus, any leftovers will store in the fridge for weeks. And, seriously, what could be better in these famine-is-lurking-just-around-the-bend times in which we live.

Yeah, dinnertime can be chaos. They aren’t used to having me around, and I’m not used to being here. So we deal. Try new things. Enjoy old favorites. Engage in some tender moments. And laugh more than any family has the right to. We are honest. And will make it through this one meal at a time.

I might get called back some day. Or I might get lucky and land a new gig (though I’m not holding my breath). If I do, I’m going to miss this . . .

[photo credit]