Darren sprawled on the couch in a senseless stupor, vaguely aware of the infomercial cascading from the TV in front of him. His limbs splayed uncomfortably, his chin resting painfully on his chest, he looked like a rag doll, gathering dust in a forgotten corner. I should move, he thought numbly. I should change the channel. I should get up and write, he thought, his cloth limbs mocking him with their limpness. You’re a disgrace, he chided his muscles. Get up, you pansy, he goaded his body, but it was unflappable.
Darren felt like a stranger in his life; or rather as though life had abandoned him, leaving him stranded in a foreign place, stealing his will to move. Life had been a little girl tripping along with her doll, but she had cast it aside, left it powerless, defenseless.
Darren’s every thought of action, of direction, was like trying to flex a muscle he didn’t even have. God, help me, he cried, despising his thoughts even as they left him.
The phone’s ringing fell on him like a blow; he jerked upright, his masochistic thoughts fading away momentarily. He leaped up and crossed the room in a hurry, glad to be moving. Reaching for the portable, his gaze fell on a stack off bills sitting on the table, and he felt a momentary disgust: abandoned by life, he now had only to wait to be captured by these monsters, to be sucked into a lifetime of fifty weeks of misery a year, like his dad, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and likely a hundred generations of broken men before him, trudging across infinite muddy fields.
These thoughts translated into a vague, directionless anger as he answered the phone: “Hello?”
“Darren?”
“Hey, Dad. Where are you?”
“I’m in La Guardia. The airport.” Distant clattering and muted voices, occasionally spiking in anger or exclamation, put Daren in mind of some vast bazaar.
“That’s great…”
“Is your mom there?”
“No, she went to the store.”
“Oh, well, listen: if Tom from work calls, tell him to tell Mr. Rosen to wait on closing that account until Tuesday. I’m just about to board, so I won’t be available for a few hours.”
“Alright.” First a rag doll, Darren had now advanced to an automated messaging service.
Next came the painful tension, the awkward silence that heralded the end of each of their conversations. “Well…good talking to you,” his father mumbled, the effort he made to make his voice sincere painfully obvious.
“Sure, Dad. See you tonight?”
“Sure. Well, bye, then.”
Darren hung up the phone and felt that vague anger harden into a point of searing heat, a needle that dug into his soul. He wanted to take that needle and stab every corporate executive, shred every corporate newsletter, destroy every 757 crammed to the ceiling like a cattle car. He felt his hands clench into fists with the desire to hurt his father, to hurt him so that no more week-long business trips would be possible.
The phone once again shook him from his black humor; he looked down at the table in surprise, hoping suddenly that his dad had forgotten something. He shook his head to clear away the clinging anger, and pressed TALK. “Hello?”
A thin, reedy voice whispered back. “Ummm, hello. This is Ernest Schultz, at the Internal Revenue Service. Is this John Giraldi?”
“No, it’s his son.”
“Well, I’m sure you can help me just as well. In line 16 of Section A16-b24 of your father’s taxes, there is a blank for your home address that was left, well, blank.” He chuckled quietly, as though this was terribly witty. “Could you please confirm your home address for our records?”
The address was poised on Darren’s tongue; he was ready to be done with Mr. Schultz. Yet, at the last second, something within him leaped forward and caught those fateful words. He paused, as that needle of anger turned maliciously against poor Ernest. He wanted to act, to strike a blow, however meaningless, against this ridiculous world that turned men into machines and sent them scurrying to copy the addresses of men they would never meet for reasons that would never quite be disclosed. He wanted to rail and scream, to break things and face down tanks; but he couldn’t muster much on such short notice.
Ernest’s quavery voice brought Darren back to reality. “Are you there?”
Darren let his own voice quail slightly: “I’m sorry, it’s just that…my dad died six months ago.”
Ernest’s reply sounded like a tree being shaken in a hurricane. “W-w-what?”
“He died six months ago. A heart attack.” Darren, an experienced liar, knew how to silence a pushover like Ernest. Be direct, be confident.
“W-well, we s-should have been notified. The h-hospital or funeral home is sup-p-posed to send a certificate of death. Are you sure?”
“Mr. Schultz, this has been a very difficult six months. I’m sure my dad’s address can’t be very important to you if he’s dead, right?
“Well, no, not really. If you’re sure. You’re sure?” he pleaded.
“Quite sure.”
“W-well…I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll work to correct this error as soon as possible.”
As Darren hung up the phone, he felt a bubbling exuberance that was marred by only the slightest twinge of doubt. He felt light, like a boy that has just gotten away with kicking a crabby uncle. Nevertheless, Ernest’s parting words gave him some pause. How exactly did one “correct” this type of “error?”
* * *
A thousand miles away, Ernest slumped in his office chair, his cubicle suddenly seeming to close in on him. This was impossible. His first day in his new position, and disaster struck. He waited five years for a promotion, and found upon rising that the universe had only been planning an elaborate joke. On a sudden impulse, he lunged forward and began scrabbling at his computer like a rat clawing at its cage, pulling up every available piece of information on John Giraldi. The panic welling within him overflowed into beads of sweat as he realized that this alleged dead man had somehow sustained an entire identity for these six months: bank account open, credit cards showing regular use, social security still being drawn from a salary that had been paid regularly every two weeks.
That little bastard, he thought to himself. Either the boy was lying, or this man’s life had somehow been left exposed, and probably violated, by society for all these months. Ernest felt nauseous; he felt like a necrophiliac. How dare he put me in this position? Ernest had a history of panic attacks and asthma; he had once spent an entire night hiding underneath the school bleachers after he tripped and fell down twelve of the hard aluminum seats at the Homecoming Game.
What can I do? There were legends at the IRS of men, usually the janitors of multi-national corporations, who died without making a ripple, leaving their salaries to quietly trickle into bank accounts for years, even decades. However, Ernest had never heard of anything like this. If it were an error on the part of the IRS, it was the most egregious mistake he had ever encountered; it was probably big enough to make the news, maybe even at the national level. And it was Ernest’s fault. Well, not technically, but Ernest felt deeply in his soul that he would be blamed, and he was likely right. Ernest was a born scapegoat, a nervous, twitchy man who invited bullying but hadn’t the spine even to be a tattletale.
So he sat there, an unwilling god, holding the fate of an unknown man in his sweaty palms. If he called his boss for help on his first day, he would seem weak. If he asked his co-workers for advice, he would only invite further abuse. As minutes passed, he felt a dull sort of anger welling within him: anger at the injustice of his life, anger at his own cowardice, anger at his ridiculous career choice, anger at those rickety bleachers and a hundred petty bullies who had slowly murdered his self-esteem. His panic began to harden, becoming a knot within him, a burning fist that gripped his throat and left him breathless. He was trapped, was he? The universe had it out for him? Ernest felt tired of hunching furtively before life, cringing and whining plaintively for a few stale crumbs. He felt the need to act, to do something. He had been given a choice, and he suddenly no longer cared if he chose correctly.
Damn this screwed up system, and damn this hollow life, he thought as he began to type briskly, sending out memos and notices like a crazed archangel upending the Bowls of Tribulation onto an unsuspecting earth, his face lit with a deranged smile.
* * *
John Giraldi stepped into the brisk air of the terminal with the almost mindless determination that is the hallmark of any good executive. He had honed his walk over the years: it was fast enough that friends not adapted to the corporate life had trouble keeping up, but not so fast that it tired him to maintain its pace for long stretches. While as unflagging as a marathon runner’s steady plod, it never seemed to be a physical act: John’s body seemed to be just another machine at his disposal, always ready for use, and forgotten immediately afterward.
He set off from the gate with his economical carry-on suitcase bouncing off his hip, and instinctively took out his cell phone, thoughts of the Rosen account crowding out any budding desires for home. To his consternation, there were no new messages, an unthinkable occurrence in John’s non-stop correspondence. I bet Darren didn’t pass the message on, that lazy kid. He’s going to end up on the street, on welfare, five kids, four mothers…As he mechanically punched in the number of his remote voicemail, John fought against the cycle of worry and resentment that swallowed him like some mythic vortex whenever he thought of his distant son. With great effort, he wrenched his thoughts from that destructive whirl and focused them on the tiny screen before him, where a cute little bubble informed him that the impossible had occurred.
Service to this phone has been terminated.
He shook his head numbly; there was some mistake. As he tried again, and again, he felt frustration welling within him. He squeezed his phone tightly, wishing it were a person so he could hear a tiny voice cry out in pain.
John channeled that violence into his walk, driving his feet into the floor with stinging force, a forty-two year-old’s temper tantrum. His breathing came heavily through the sudden tightness in his chest, his thinking turning in mindless circles like ants on a wheel: a five hour flight with no leg room for his knee, Darren in a homeless shelter, his phone gone, a terrorist attack leaving his neighborhood a smoking crater, and himself tied to a chair with his eyelids taped open so he missed none of it. A distant corner of his brain mused if these bouts of frantic worry he experienced so often were true panic, or just a successful man’s eccentricity.
Rising suddenly from the scuffed linoleum and burnished floor-to-ceiling brass wall plates, the Rocky Mountain Sports Bar and Grill beckoned to him like an oasis. He paused guiltily, fearful of trouble at home, but desperate to stop. A glance at the phone in his hand, now just an elaborate paperweight, tipped the balance. I need a drink, he thought wearily.
For an hour he nursed a pair of Coronas at a small table, alternately mourning his useless phone and his relationship with his sullen teenager. The phone, he reasoned, had surely passed at a crucial time in his career, causing him to miss a conversation whose outcome would determine his financial well being for the rest of his life. Then his thoughts turned to Darren, and while for a moment he would be furious with his son and curse him under his breath, after the next swig he would feel morose and hang his head like a beaten dog.
John hated to confront his relationship with Darren; he preferred to reside in his familiar world of offices, commerce, phones, and memos. There, he had control. Usually. His uncooperative phone had cracked the retaining wall that sealed one from the other; he could not stop his sickly home from seeping in, as out of place as a bum in his neatly vacuumed waiting room.
When his emotions had exhausted themselves, he handed the waiter his debit card thoughtlessly and took a mental inventory, finally feeling certain that he was sober enough to drive. John prided himself on his ability to hold alcohol.
He had almost begun smiling fondly, recalling long-gone near-drunk driving experiences, when the waiter returned, his expression nervous. “There was a problem with the card, sir.”
John rose from the table imperiously, wrapping his boardroom aura about him like a robe. Looking down on the skinny, timid boy, barely older than Darren, he leaned in slightly and let the tiniest hint of disdain creep into his voice. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the account appears to be frozen.”
“That’s not possible,’ John answered, already certain that it was absolutely true. He fiercely maintained his composure, in spite of the sudden spike of fear that coursed through him. What was happening?
“I’m sorry, sir. The computer is indicating that all accounts under your name, including credit, are frozen. There’s nothing we can do.”
He stood there uncertainly for a moment, hoping for some way to save face, but none presented itself. Finally, he nodded and gave the boy a twenty. His change an indistinguishable mass in his pocket, he rushed from the restaurant, vaguely panicked. He felt hunted, as though some deranged sniper was methodically blasting apart his life.
He reached the desk marked Secure Parking Check-In looking flushed and sweaty, his stomach roiling nervously. The attendant looked distantly concerned, his expression the same that John wore when viewing footage of some Third World atrocity from the security of his bed. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to get my car,” John practically gasped.
“Certainly. I’ll just need your driver’s license.” John had to support his weight on the desk as his knees buckled; he wanted to shout prayers of thanks to a God he didn’t believe in that he had paid for the entire stay before leaving. He handed over his driver’s license, feeling that some measure of justice had returned to the universe.
The attendant swiped the license under a scanner and typed a few words. When his eyes went wide and flashed to John like a boy passing a grisly car accident, John almost laughed. He had been so close. He nearly collapsed again, a hollow feeling carving a hole in his belly.
He seemed to hear the attendant from a great distance. “Sir, there’s a problem.”
John looked up in resignation, the life draining from his face. “Yes?”
“Sir, I don’t know how to say this…there’s obviously been a terrible mistake…I can’t say who’s responsible—“
“—Well?”
“Your license has been canceled, sir. Not suspended, but canceled. The computer lists you as dead.”
John cocked his head to one side, as though studying some curiosity. He heard a strange voice mumble, “Jesus…” and didn’t realize for a moment that it had been his own.
“The immediate problem, sir, is that the computer won’t release a car to anyone without a valid license. I’m sorry. Do you have anyone you can call?”
John turned away from him without even answering, leaving his worthless license, dropping his worthless phone into a trash can as he exited the building, stepping out into the frigid night air.
He stopped where cement met grass, and looked up into the clear mountain sky. A billion stars stretched overhead, their twinkling seeming to mock him. He remembered how he used to hold a hand in front of his face when he looked at the stars, telling himself that he could blank out the heavens. You arrogant bastard, he thought. You never blanked out the sky; you only blinded yourself. He sank slowly to the ground, grinding his expensive pants into the dirt, wrapping his arms around himself. He was dead. He really might as well be, he reflected. No bank account, no phone, no car. How else could anyone tell that he was alive? His hands, his feet, his voice had all become machines; he felt crippled without them. Life had tossed him by the wayside, he was a paralytic on the side of the road, calling soundlessly for help.
A distant voice counseled that this problem could be sorted out, that there was an answer. Yes, he acknowledged, his life could almost certainly be salvaged. The many layers of his public existence could be restored. But, who will save me from them? he wondered bleakly. Is there even a me to save? Tears welled in his eyes, and he began to rock back and forth quietly.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
"The Workout Plan"
My American Civ. professor broached his views of healthcare reform last night during class, and I almost fell out of my chair from laughing. I think the Democratic Big Three ought to consider reshaping their proposals for universal healthcare around Professor Corbin's ideas.
Aside from some superficial differences in structure and timing, the thrust of the Democratic move for healthcare reform is to increase taxes on everyone making over $250,000 (or, in one case, $200,000) a year, and use the money to fund health insurance for the poor, combined with new legislation to force employers to provide healthcare on a more uniform basis. Now, these plans seem backwards to me on several levels, but my principal frustration is this: rather addressing the root of the problem, these plans subsidize the symptoms of poor life-choices.
What is the number one, undisputed killer in America? Cholesterol. If you die in America, chances are it was from a heart attack caused by clogged arteries. Now, how (generally) does one attain high cholesterol? By eating McDonald's four times a week, pizza the other three nights, and exercising once a year.
I want to see Barack Obama take the stage, and, in his assuring baritone, say, "My healthcare plan is simple: all Americans should eat less fat and sugar, exercise more, and drink lots of water. Then, we won't need to go to the hospital so often, so we might actually be able to afford to pay some of our own bills. After that happens, we'll talk about the government picking up the tab."
(I love a good over-generalization, don't you?)
Of course, the problems run deeper than just lifestyle choices (though, I think the solutions also require more thought than a knee-jerk grasping for redistribution of income). However, the problem surely begins with lifestyle choices. If nothing else, Hillary's new plan should include some measure for enforcing mandatory diet and exercise regimens for its recipients. "But, that would be tyranny!" detractors will exclaim. "The government doesn't get to tell us what to eat, and when to sweat!"
Of course they don't, silly--they just get to tell us how much of our money we can keep, and how much health insurance we have to pay for.
Aside from some superficial differences in structure and timing, the thrust of the Democratic move for healthcare reform is to increase taxes on everyone making over $250,000 (or, in one case, $200,000) a year, and use the money to fund health insurance for the poor, combined with new legislation to force employers to provide healthcare on a more uniform basis. Now, these plans seem backwards to me on several levels, but my principal frustration is this: rather addressing the root of the problem, these plans subsidize the symptoms of poor life-choices.
What is the number one, undisputed killer in America? Cholesterol. If you die in America, chances are it was from a heart attack caused by clogged arteries. Now, how (generally) does one attain high cholesterol? By eating McDonald's four times a week, pizza the other three nights, and exercising once a year.
I want to see Barack Obama take the stage, and, in his assuring baritone, say, "My healthcare plan is simple: all Americans should eat less fat and sugar, exercise more, and drink lots of water. Then, we won't need to go to the hospital so often, so we might actually be able to afford to pay some of our own bills. After that happens, we'll talk about the government picking up the tab."
(I love a good over-generalization, don't you?)
Of course, the problems run deeper than just lifestyle choices (though, I think the solutions also require more thought than a knee-jerk grasping for redistribution of income). However, the problem surely begins with lifestyle choices. If nothing else, Hillary's new plan should include some measure for enforcing mandatory diet and exercise regimens for its recipients. "But, that would be tyranny!" detractors will exclaim. "The government doesn't get to tell us what to eat, and when to sweat!"
Of course they don't, silly--they just get to tell us how much of our money we can keep, and how much health insurance we have to pay for.
A Platform for Hate
Part of why I love New York is its penchant for attracting epochal controversies, such as the indescribable foolishness of Columbia's Lee Bolinger inviting President Ahmadinejad of (The Islamic Republic of) Iran to speak to the student body yesterday.
President Bolinger defended his action, saying, "If Hitler were in the United States, and...he were willing to engage in a debate...we would invite him" (quoted in WSJ, 9/25). The Times (predictably) defended the invitation as well: "We can imagine no better way of laying bare the bankruptcy of Mr. Ahmadinejad's views than to have him speak...at a university forum."
Much of the debate surrounding the visit has centered on the idea of free speech. Many have argued that for Columbia to deny President Ahmadinejad a platform to speak would be equivalent to a suppression of ideas. "Let him come," they say, "and we will prove to the world just how ridiculous his views really are." In this light, the derisive laughter, and biting criticism that haunted the bearded Iranian throughout his visit represent a victory for America.
Unfortunately, Lee Bolinger and the Times editorial staff have badly misjudged the nature of Ahmadinejad's ideology, and thus grossly misapplied the free speech protected by the Constitution. The First Amendment does not guarantee the right to say anything at all--I cannot run down Sixth Avenue shrieking profanity, or tell my friend that I'm going to kill him. The First Amendment rests on the principle that speech is principally a mode of rational discourse, not a cloak to veil tyranny, oppression, and extremism.
President Ahmadinejad has repeatedly denied that the Holocaust took place, and has called for the immediate dissolution of Israel. He represents an oppressive, theocratic state, perhaps the single largest government sponsor of terrorism worldwide, a state founded by a man who popularized the notion of America as the "Great Satan." At his direction, millions of dollars have flowed into the bank accounts of Hezbollah and their allies. His government produces a stream of propaganda (I generally try to steer clear of polemics, but the word has a place, and it's here) that advocates a distorted view of history, morality, gender relations, and religious devotion. In short, President Ahmadinejad is not interested in rational discourse.
In his editorial piece in the WSJ today, Bret Stephens draws out the Hitler comparison made by Bolinger. Say Hitler of 1939 (not yet a genocidal maniac, but a maniac nonetheless) had come to Columbia, and ranted and raved about Aryan supremacy, to the derision and bold refutation of the American academic elite. He notes wryly that, while a few in the audience would quietly reflect that he ought to be arrested on the spot, most would disparagingly muse how to make the fool "see reason." Many of those same scoffers would have found themselves bleeding and dying on the battlefields of Europe a few years later, realizing too late that the appropriate response to a man who has abandoned reason is not an argument, but a well-aimed gun, and a jail cell. I use forceful language only to drive home the point: if you find yourself locked in a room with a rabid dog, you do not reason with it.
Now, Ahmadinejad is neither Hitler, nor a rabid dog. I doubt very much that he wants either to kill all Americans, or ignite World War III. However, he consistently engages in irrational, violent, inflammatory discourse with the world, a discourse he maintains in glaring opposition to an understanding of reality that is blatantly obvious to most Westerners. In inviting him to Columbia, Bolinger gave his ideas a status they do not deserve: he has created a platform for hate to address the world. For the rest of his petty, megalomaniacal life, Ahmadinejad can now glowingly boast how he spoke at an Ivy League University, how American elites are really open to hearing his view of life, how his warped picture of reality was given equal status with the American vision on a world stage.
There is wisdom in America engaging our admitted adversaries with diplomacy. There would be wisdom in America exchanging embassies with Iran, with American diplomats discussing Mid-East politics, and nuclear proliferation, with Iranian ministers. However, there is real difference between the realpolitik mindset that cautions nations to keep their enemies closer than their friends, and the naievete of an intellectual trying to engage a polemical dictator in a reasoned debate.
Serious biblical scholars do not invite mystics claiming that Jesus was an alien to seminars on historical criticism of the Gospels; World War II historians do not invite conspiracy theorists claiming that the Illuminati orchestrated the Holocaust to seminars on Hitler's Germany; Ivy League institutions should not extend invitations to debate to men who oppose us as enemies with an irrational, extremist vision of life. It is not a matter of free speech; it is a matter of prudence.
President Bolinger defended his action, saying, "If Hitler were in the United States, and...he were willing to engage in a debate...we would invite him" (quoted in WSJ, 9/25). The Times (predictably) defended the invitation as well: "We can imagine no better way of laying bare the bankruptcy of Mr. Ahmadinejad's views than to have him speak...at a university forum."
Much of the debate surrounding the visit has centered on the idea of free speech. Many have argued that for Columbia to deny President Ahmadinejad a platform to speak would be equivalent to a suppression of ideas. "Let him come," they say, "and we will prove to the world just how ridiculous his views really are." In this light, the derisive laughter, and biting criticism that haunted the bearded Iranian throughout his visit represent a victory for America.
Unfortunately, Lee Bolinger and the Times editorial staff have badly misjudged the nature of Ahmadinejad's ideology, and thus grossly misapplied the free speech protected by the Constitution. The First Amendment does not guarantee the right to say anything at all--I cannot run down Sixth Avenue shrieking profanity, or tell my friend that I'm going to kill him. The First Amendment rests on the principle that speech is principally a mode of rational discourse, not a cloak to veil tyranny, oppression, and extremism.
President Ahmadinejad has repeatedly denied that the Holocaust took place, and has called for the immediate dissolution of Israel. He represents an oppressive, theocratic state, perhaps the single largest government sponsor of terrorism worldwide, a state founded by a man who popularized the notion of America as the "Great Satan." At his direction, millions of dollars have flowed into the bank accounts of Hezbollah and their allies. His government produces a stream of propaganda (I generally try to steer clear of polemics, but the word has a place, and it's here) that advocates a distorted view of history, morality, gender relations, and religious devotion. In short, President Ahmadinejad is not interested in rational discourse.
In his editorial piece in the WSJ today, Bret Stephens draws out the Hitler comparison made by Bolinger. Say Hitler of 1939 (not yet a genocidal maniac, but a maniac nonetheless) had come to Columbia, and ranted and raved about Aryan supremacy, to the derision and bold refutation of the American academic elite. He notes wryly that, while a few in the audience would quietly reflect that he ought to be arrested on the spot, most would disparagingly muse how to make the fool "see reason." Many of those same scoffers would have found themselves bleeding and dying on the battlefields of Europe a few years later, realizing too late that the appropriate response to a man who has abandoned reason is not an argument, but a well-aimed gun, and a jail cell. I use forceful language only to drive home the point: if you find yourself locked in a room with a rabid dog, you do not reason with it.
Now, Ahmadinejad is neither Hitler, nor a rabid dog. I doubt very much that he wants either to kill all Americans, or ignite World War III. However, he consistently engages in irrational, violent, inflammatory discourse with the world, a discourse he maintains in glaring opposition to an understanding of reality that is blatantly obvious to most Westerners. In inviting him to Columbia, Bolinger gave his ideas a status they do not deserve: he has created a platform for hate to address the world. For the rest of his petty, megalomaniacal life, Ahmadinejad can now glowingly boast how he spoke at an Ivy League University, how American elites are really open to hearing his view of life, how his warped picture of reality was given equal status with the American vision on a world stage.
There is wisdom in America engaging our admitted adversaries with diplomacy. There would be wisdom in America exchanging embassies with Iran, with American diplomats discussing Mid-East politics, and nuclear proliferation, with Iranian ministers. However, there is real difference between the realpolitik mindset that cautions nations to keep their enemies closer than their friends, and the naievete of an intellectual trying to engage a polemical dictator in a reasoned debate.
Serious biblical scholars do not invite mystics claiming that Jesus was an alien to seminars on historical criticism of the Gospels; World War II historians do not invite conspiracy theorists claiming that the Illuminati orchestrated the Holocaust to seminars on Hitler's Germany; Ivy League institutions should not extend invitations to debate to men who oppose us as enemies with an irrational, extremist vision of life. It is not a matter of free speech; it is a matter of prudence.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Tragedy of Retail
(I wrote this on 9/11 this year, after a trip to Ground Zero.)
If I could, I would legislate a grey drizzle for every September 11, which is exactly why I will never run for President. I felt as though the city itself wept to remember its loss, a slow, pitiful trickle of tears, the kind that seep from your eyes without a sob.
I didn’t cry today, however. I never can cry on sad occasions. I cry when I get angry; I’ve known myself to cry when embarrassed, but pathos has little effect on my eyeballs. Sadness makes me uncomfortable: I would rather look away.
In fact, one of the first occasions that evinced my stunted emotions was September 11, 2001. I remember receiving the news of the attacks with some measure of disbelief, perhaps shock, but I also remember a decided sense of bemusement. Now, even my thirteen year-old sensibilities found nothing amusing about the rising death toll; rather, I found the situation as a whole ridiculous: the enormous buildings, the histrionics of the planes-turned-bombs, the idea of a holy war against democracy and capitalism. It struck me as a drama whose plot was at best contrived.
I remember arriving at my mom’s office later that afternoon, and finding her huddled on the floor of her waiting room, weeping those same, silent tears as images of the falling towers flashed across a grainy television. That picture flattened me; the brokenness exuding from my mom captured the tragedy in a way that the numbers, video, and newscasts couldn’t.
True to my apathetic roots, I decided to visit Ground Zero today, less to remember the tragedy, than to shop. Yes, I will be the guy at the wake reading a book in the back row. I wish I were the uncontrollable sobber: in our enlightened age, guys can score points for emotional breakdowns, while the stony-face has finally proven itself as a sure sign of a brittle psyche. Now, I didn’t go shopping just to spite the world. No, I really needed clothes, and I mean needed: prior to today, I had exactly two dress shirts in my closet. No further explanation necessary. So, I needed some new clothes, and the world’s largest outlet store happens to reside across the street from the hallowed ground. Given my state of desperation, I likely would have climbed into a manhole had I seen a sign for 50% off menswear.
When I stepped off the W-train on Broadway, the skyline continuing its emotional meltdown, I felt an immediate sense of crushing guilt. Everywhere I looked, camera crews captured footage of solemn processions and sign-waving protesters, while swarms of police stared stonily into the crowds from behind metal barricades. An oppressive air clung to the streets more thickly than the shifting fog, such that everyone seemed to tip-toe, and speak in whispers; even the conspiracy theorists confined themselves to an extended pamphlet, followed by a muttered, “Bush did it,” and an ominous look.
I moved among the crowds like a thief, my gaze downcast, the somber monotone of the voice reading victims’ names reverberating in my ears. I turned down Fulton, Century 21 rising out of the mist on my left, the enormous crater of debris and detritus directly before me. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the spectacle that loomed ahead, I waited until the last possible moment to whip my body into an abrupt turn, and slip through the revolving doors, through the blast of fresh-scrubbed air that kept the misery outside at bay. Involuntarily, I glanced back over my shoulder: I think some part of my brain could not shake the feeling that I must have been tailed.
Of course, I hate department stores, so the shopping offered no real relief. I kept thinking back to the aftermath of that terrible day, remembering Bush’s ridiculous decree that all Americans should go shopping to prevent a recession. I pictured myself paying for a $600 sweater, and mouthing, “Take that, Osama!”
Retail stores always seem caught up in that kind of idiocy. The entire industry hangs on average Americans remaining convinced that unlimited, frivolous consumption holds the key to fulfillment and joy. I wonder if it ever occurs to these stock brokers’ wives and trust fund babies (or whoever else would join me to shop in the middle of the day on 9/11) to stop and ask, “What is any of this adding to my life?”
Yet, how can I judge them, as I seem to have joined them?
My shame grew with every moment I remained in the store: the names of the victims broke through the very walls, pursuing me like harpies from floor to floor. The tension became unbearable when the reader called for a moment of silence (of course, having shopped alone, I wasn't talking to begin with)--every customer froze timidly, as looks of shock leapt from face to face, like a crowd of somnambulists awakening to find themselves undressed on a busy street.
At that point, I had had enough--bundling the clothes I had picked out, I rushed to the register, and thence to the street, my breathing slowing only once I had entered the anonymity of the W once more.
If I could, I would legislate a grey drizzle for every September 11, which is exactly why I will never run for President. I felt as though the city itself wept to remember its loss, a slow, pitiful trickle of tears, the kind that seep from your eyes without a sob.
I didn’t cry today, however. I never can cry on sad occasions. I cry when I get angry; I’ve known myself to cry when embarrassed, but pathos has little effect on my eyeballs. Sadness makes me uncomfortable: I would rather look away.
In fact, one of the first occasions that evinced my stunted emotions was September 11, 2001. I remember receiving the news of the attacks with some measure of disbelief, perhaps shock, but I also remember a decided sense of bemusement. Now, even my thirteen year-old sensibilities found nothing amusing about the rising death toll; rather, I found the situation as a whole ridiculous: the enormous buildings, the histrionics of the planes-turned-bombs, the idea of a holy war against democracy and capitalism. It struck me as a drama whose plot was at best contrived.
I remember arriving at my mom’s office later that afternoon, and finding her huddled on the floor of her waiting room, weeping those same, silent tears as images of the falling towers flashed across a grainy television. That picture flattened me; the brokenness exuding from my mom captured the tragedy in a way that the numbers, video, and newscasts couldn’t.
True to my apathetic roots, I decided to visit Ground Zero today, less to remember the tragedy, than to shop. Yes, I will be the guy at the wake reading a book in the back row. I wish I were the uncontrollable sobber: in our enlightened age, guys can score points for emotional breakdowns, while the stony-face has finally proven itself as a sure sign of a brittle psyche. Now, I didn’t go shopping just to spite the world. No, I really needed clothes, and I mean needed: prior to today, I had exactly two dress shirts in my closet. No further explanation necessary. So, I needed some new clothes, and the world’s largest outlet store happens to reside across the street from the hallowed ground. Given my state of desperation, I likely would have climbed into a manhole had I seen a sign for 50% off menswear.
When I stepped off the W-train on Broadway, the skyline continuing its emotional meltdown, I felt an immediate sense of crushing guilt. Everywhere I looked, camera crews captured footage of solemn processions and sign-waving protesters, while swarms of police stared stonily into the crowds from behind metal barricades. An oppressive air clung to the streets more thickly than the shifting fog, such that everyone seemed to tip-toe, and speak in whispers; even the conspiracy theorists confined themselves to an extended pamphlet, followed by a muttered, “Bush did it,” and an ominous look.
I moved among the crowds like a thief, my gaze downcast, the somber monotone of the voice reading victims’ names reverberating in my ears. I turned down Fulton, Century 21 rising out of the mist on my left, the enormous crater of debris and detritus directly before me. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the spectacle that loomed ahead, I waited until the last possible moment to whip my body into an abrupt turn, and slip through the revolving doors, through the blast of fresh-scrubbed air that kept the misery outside at bay. Involuntarily, I glanced back over my shoulder: I think some part of my brain could not shake the feeling that I must have been tailed.
Of course, I hate department stores, so the shopping offered no real relief. I kept thinking back to the aftermath of that terrible day, remembering Bush’s ridiculous decree that all Americans should go shopping to prevent a recession. I pictured myself paying for a $600 sweater, and mouthing, “Take that, Osama!”
Retail stores always seem caught up in that kind of idiocy. The entire industry hangs on average Americans remaining convinced that unlimited, frivolous consumption holds the key to fulfillment and joy. I wonder if it ever occurs to these stock brokers’ wives and trust fund babies (or whoever else would join me to shop in the middle of the day on 9/11) to stop and ask, “What is any of this adding to my life?”
Yet, how can I judge them, as I seem to have joined them?
My shame grew with every moment I remained in the store: the names of the victims broke through the very walls, pursuing me like harpies from floor to floor. The tension became unbearable when the reader called for a moment of silence (of course, having shopped alone, I wasn't talking to begin with)--every customer froze timidly, as looks of shock leapt from face to face, like a crowd of somnambulists awakening to find themselves undressed on a busy street.
At that point, I had had enough--bundling the clothes I had picked out, I rushed to the register, and thence to the street, my breathing slowing only once I had entered the anonymity of the W once more.
Monday, September 17, 2007
ON CROSSING 42nd STREET, or, REFLECTIONS ON ADVERTISING
Walking through Times Square today, I was nearly run over by a hearse. Of course, some of the blame rests with my distraction. I stood there on Broadway, waiting to cross 42nd, my neck craned to fix a bewildered gaze on the spectacle above me. My eyes brushed across the Pollock-canvas draped over the Westin, the five-story can of Diet Coke, Madame Tussaud’s outstretched arm, a billboard showing a cougar stretched across a reclining woman (“Advertising jeans, or cat food?” I mused faintly), with the rumblings of ten thousand taxis, and the tittering of ten thousand tourists buzzing in my ears: like a man with his head under an open fire hydrant, my brain could do little but choke and splutter beneath the torrent of color and sound. The signs flashed, the billboards swirled; Times Square spun above me like a mobile over a cradle, and I stared up with obedient wonder.
I chanced to see the traffic light turn red, and took three, unthinking steps into the street, where the squeal of tires, and the shriek of a car horn jarred me back to life. Tensed for impact, I glanced right to see the hearse skid just feet before me, rumbling and bucking in rebellion. I suppose the driver thought to beat the light, perhaps racing towards the 9A to head upstate for the weekend; clearly, he forgot that death takes no holidays.
Frozen with shock, I could not stop a few of the unprintable words rolling inside my head from trickling out of my slack jaw, while the driver responded with some encouragement of his own, punctuating every syllable with emphatic jabs of an upraised finger. I shook life back into my limbs, and quickly plunged forward into the river of suits that swept around me.
I made it perhaps a block before my body mutinied against me: my stomach ran laps around my abdomen, my heart sought to crack my ribs with its beating, and sweat cascaded through the crevices of my hands. “I almost died”—I began with a whisper that rose quickly into a terrified giggle as the inanity of death-by-hearse-while-contemplating-ambiguous-advertisements gripped my larynx, and sent chills down my spine.
Suddenly, the Square took on a sinister character: the billboards’ glared with the light of a hundred fires consuming the heart of New York, and the clamor of traffic and tourism had the panicked quality of civilians fleeing a catastrophe. Everywhere I looked, glass doors swung wide like the gaping maws of beasts, emitting blasts of hot breath into the faces of the shoppers they swallowed in droves.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, blotting out the oppressive thoughts, and continued forward, resolving to keep my mind at the street-level for the rest of my walk.
Barely a block later, an incongruous sight arrested my progress once more. A lone homeless man stood on an island of solitude amid the flood of humanity, an outstretched hand pleading soundlessly for help, as the multitude swept by, giving him a wide berth: Moses could not have divided that sea any more thoroughly. An enormous image of Jay-Z, advertising his clothing brand, loomed directly above the man; many of the passerby studiously focused their gaze on the brooding rapper, rather than face the gritty reality that confronted them on the sidewalk.
“How can we live like this?” I wondered. “We see so much, but we know nothing. We’re children looking at pretty pictures, wandering through a world full of speeding hearses.”
I saw person after person choose passive indifference, and I felt a strange sort of courage. Gingerly, I stepped into the void surrounding the bedraggled figure. His eyes narrowed, he asked, “How you today, boy?”
“Grateful,” I replied. “Can I buy you some lunch?”
I chanced to see the traffic light turn red, and took three, unthinking steps into the street, where the squeal of tires, and the shriek of a car horn jarred me back to life. Tensed for impact, I glanced right to see the hearse skid just feet before me, rumbling and bucking in rebellion. I suppose the driver thought to beat the light, perhaps racing towards the 9A to head upstate for the weekend; clearly, he forgot that death takes no holidays.
Frozen with shock, I could not stop a few of the unprintable words rolling inside my head from trickling out of my slack jaw, while the driver responded with some encouragement of his own, punctuating every syllable with emphatic jabs of an upraised finger. I shook life back into my limbs, and quickly plunged forward into the river of suits that swept around me.
I made it perhaps a block before my body mutinied against me: my stomach ran laps around my abdomen, my heart sought to crack my ribs with its beating, and sweat cascaded through the crevices of my hands. “I almost died”—I began with a whisper that rose quickly into a terrified giggle as the inanity of death-by-hearse-while-contemplating-ambiguous-advertisements gripped my larynx, and sent chills down my spine.
Suddenly, the Square took on a sinister character: the billboards’ glared with the light of a hundred fires consuming the heart of New York, and the clamor of traffic and tourism had the panicked quality of civilians fleeing a catastrophe. Everywhere I looked, glass doors swung wide like the gaping maws of beasts, emitting blasts of hot breath into the faces of the shoppers they swallowed in droves.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, blotting out the oppressive thoughts, and continued forward, resolving to keep my mind at the street-level for the rest of my walk.
Barely a block later, an incongruous sight arrested my progress once more. A lone homeless man stood on an island of solitude amid the flood of humanity, an outstretched hand pleading soundlessly for help, as the multitude swept by, giving him a wide berth: Moses could not have divided that sea any more thoroughly. An enormous image of Jay-Z, advertising his clothing brand, loomed directly above the man; many of the passerby studiously focused their gaze on the brooding rapper, rather than face the gritty reality that confronted them on the sidewalk.
“How can we live like this?” I wondered. “We see so much, but we know nothing. We’re children looking at pretty pictures, wandering through a world full of speeding hearses.”
I saw person after person choose passive indifference, and I felt a strange sort of courage. Gingerly, I stepped into the void surrounding the bedraggled figure. His eyes narrowed, he asked, “How you today, boy?”
“Grateful,” I replied. “Can I buy you some lunch?”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Coincidence and Plagiarism
I have an ushakeable fear that one day Murphy's Law will overcome the Law of Averages, and leave me thoroughly, albeit accidentally, screwed. I'm referring to plagiarism--I have this recurring nightmare that one day I will pen a brilliant paper on communication theory, only to discover later that I've somehow exactly duplicated five random pages out of Neil Postman. Unlikely? Extremely. But, possible? Of course, and therein lies my fear.
The strange thing about coincidence is really that we find it coincidental. If I had a computer generate a random string of numbers, I would see no revelation in the sequence 34 78 93 40 13 97. However, if 01 02 03 04 05 06 appeared on the screen "at random," how could I fail to interpret it as a miracle of the divine? Yet, if we're picking randomly, "01" is no more improbable than "34" as a first choice, and so on, and so forth. Our interpretation of the data imposes a sense of order where none may exist.
I guess this isn't an exact parallel to the accidental ruination of my fledgling writing career, but it still makes me nervous. If enough people keep writing long enough, surely there is a chance that we will begin to repeat each other in some ways, as a wife passes her idiosyncrasies on to her husband through time and proximity.
The strange thing about coincidence is really that we find it coincidental. If I had a computer generate a random string of numbers, I would see no revelation in the sequence 34 78 93 40 13 97. However, if 01 02 03 04 05 06 appeared on the screen "at random," how could I fail to interpret it as a miracle of the divine? Yet, if we're picking randomly, "01" is no more improbable than "34" as a first choice, and so on, and so forth. Our interpretation of the data imposes a sense of order where none may exist.
I guess this isn't an exact parallel to the accidental ruination of my fledgling writing career, but it still makes me nervous. If enough people keep writing long enough, surely there is a chance that we will begin to repeat each other in some ways, as a wife passes her idiosyncrasies on to her husband through time and proximity.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Defending the Wright
Well, I couldn't resist responding to the second half of Caleb's comment, mostly out of a fiercely territorial love for the good Bishop. I think Caleb's concern over the "new perspective on Paul," lead by Wright, comes from a recent article on the subject in Christianity Today (in either case, I read the article, so I can address his concerns best through it).
As Caleb said, the article carried a tone of apprehension; the author definitely worried that Wright's emphasis on Paul's redefinition of Israel's key symbols came at the exclusion of any kind of emphasis on a spiritual renewal, or justification by faith.
As I read, I kept shaking my head, thinking, "This guy has it all backwards." It's absolutely true that Wright tries to fit the early church within the world of first-century Judaism; this does not mean that he abandons the concerns of contemporary theology.
(I should note here that I have not read any complete works of Wright's on Paul, but I have read several shorter papers, and a large tome he authored on the life of Jesus.)
Wright's "new perspective" begins not so much by redefining the gospel, as by redefining the Judaism it opposed. My own adolesence left me believing that Jesus came to found a new religion of grace and an inner spirituality, in opposition to Jewish legalism. This, Wright insists, simply was not the case. Jews have a deep appreciation for the grace of God--even the Sinai Covenant, called the "Covenant of Works" by the Reformers, comes in the context of grace. Just before he gives Israel the Decalogue, God reminds them how he "bore them on eagles' wings" out of Egypt (Ex. 19:4). From its conception, Israel was "blessed to be a blessing," redeemed by grace to showcase an alternative society, to remind the world of the true way to be human. Yet, Israel drastically failed in this vocation. "How can a city on a hill [unquestionably Jerusalem] be hidden?" Jesus asks. God gave Israel the Law, which essentially consisted of covenant boundaries: the complex interaction of moral and cultic precepts set Israel apart for a different kind of life. The Temple, Torah, sabbath, circumcision, and food laws all cried with the thunderous voice of symbol: "We are different! We are God's!"
Sadly, over time Israel came to believe that the symbols themselves represented an absolute guarantee of God's favor. In other words, the Jews focused on the "blessed" bit, to the exclusion of "to be a blessing." Wright summarizes this mindset in his exegesis of Jesus' action in the Temple in Luke 19. As he overturns stalls, Jesus quotes two passages from the Tanakh. One, from Jeremiah 7, contains a crucial episode in the life of Israel.
Jeremiah goes to the Temple, and there announces, "...Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal,...and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, 'We are delievered!'--only to go on doing all these abominations? Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your eyes?"
Jesus also quotes Isaiah 56:7, which reads, "For my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples."
So, Jesus storms into the Temple, and quotes these two passages. One represents the true vocation of Israel--to be the light of the world, the vehicle by which God will draw all men into covenant with himself. The other represents Israel's failure, her determination to go her own way, and to trust in her nationalist symbols as guarantees of a political protection she does not deserve. In fact, the word Jesus uses, generally translated "robbers," is the Greek lestai. In the first century, lestai almost always referred to brigands, highwaymen, particularly the Jewish Zealots who hid in the hills and attacked Roman caravans, seeking a military overthrow of the oppressor.
When Jesus stormed through the Temple, he was not aimed at reform--he was acting out the destruction God promised in Jeremiah 7 for Israel's waywardness. In fact, Jesus whole ministry focused on subverting Israel's symbols, and redefining them around himself. He, Immanuel, was the true Temple. He was the true Passover Lamb, the true Water and Bread (both important symbols of God's provision in the wilderness wanderings). His teachings constituted the new Torah (this is the best way to read the Sermon on the Mount). At the heart of these redefined symbols is the belief that the true Israel would use her covenant boundaries as symbols of God's loving inclusiveness--thus, the redefined covenant included all the wrong sorts of people: the sick, the poor (both often believed as suffering due to sin), the Roman, the Samaritan, the women, the children.
Another, more complicated strand of thought is Jesus' belief about his death and resurrection, which developed out of passages like Isaiah 53, Zechariah 13, and Daniel 9, but encompasses far more even than those. Jesus firmly believed that his vocation as Israel's true representative was to fight her decisive battle against the true oppressor (Paul's "powers and principalities"). The global mindset I outlined earlier made this battle a fight for the world, rather than for Israel as a political entity. On the Cross, Jesus broke the powers of darkness; in his Resurrection, he "swallowed up death forever" (Is. 25, 1 Cor. 15).
Wright does redefine the traditional understanding of justification by faith. "Faith" to Jesus and Paul meant one's faith in the power of the resurrection to redeem him from bondage, and to lead him out into a new kind of life, the life detailed in Jesus' redefined covenant.
Thus, the distinction the CT article makes between a cultural argument between Paul and Judaism, and our traditional understanding of justification, does not exist. Wright is every bit as concerned as Luther about grace and redemption; he just speaks about them a bit differently.
As Caleb said, the article carried a tone of apprehension; the author definitely worried that Wright's emphasis on Paul's redefinition of Israel's key symbols came at the exclusion of any kind of emphasis on a spiritual renewal, or justification by faith.
As I read, I kept shaking my head, thinking, "This guy has it all backwards." It's absolutely true that Wright tries to fit the early church within the world of first-century Judaism; this does not mean that he abandons the concerns of contemporary theology.
(I should note here that I have not read any complete works of Wright's on Paul, but I have read several shorter papers, and a large tome he authored on the life of Jesus.)
Wright's "new perspective" begins not so much by redefining the gospel, as by redefining the Judaism it opposed. My own adolesence left me believing that Jesus came to found a new religion of grace and an inner spirituality, in opposition to Jewish legalism. This, Wright insists, simply was not the case. Jews have a deep appreciation for the grace of God--even the Sinai Covenant, called the "Covenant of Works" by the Reformers, comes in the context of grace. Just before he gives Israel the Decalogue, God reminds them how he "bore them on eagles' wings" out of Egypt (Ex. 19:4). From its conception, Israel was "blessed to be a blessing," redeemed by grace to showcase an alternative society, to remind the world of the true way to be human. Yet, Israel drastically failed in this vocation. "How can a city on a hill [unquestionably Jerusalem] be hidden?" Jesus asks. God gave Israel the Law, which essentially consisted of covenant boundaries: the complex interaction of moral and cultic precepts set Israel apart for a different kind of life. The Temple, Torah, sabbath, circumcision, and food laws all cried with the thunderous voice of symbol: "We are different! We are God's!"
Sadly, over time Israel came to believe that the symbols themselves represented an absolute guarantee of God's favor. In other words, the Jews focused on the "blessed" bit, to the exclusion of "to be a blessing." Wright summarizes this mindset in his exegesis of Jesus' action in the Temple in Luke 19. As he overturns stalls, Jesus quotes two passages from the Tanakh. One, from Jeremiah 7, contains a crucial episode in the life of Israel.
Jeremiah goes to the Temple, and there announces, "...Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal,...and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, 'We are delievered!'--only to go on doing all these abominations? Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your eyes?"
Jesus also quotes Isaiah 56:7, which reads, "For my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples."
So, Jesus storms into the Temple, and quotes these two passages. One represents the true vocation of Israel--to be the light of the world, the vehicle by which God will draw all men into covenant with himself. The other represents Israel's failure, her determination to go her own way, and to trust in her nationalist symbols as guarantees of a political protection she does not deserve. In fact, the word Jesus uses, generally translated "robbers," is the Greek lestai. In the first century, lestai almost always referred to brigands, highwaymen, particularly the Jewish Zealots who hid in the hills and attacked Roman caravans, seeking a military overthrow of the oppressor.
When Jesus stormed through the Temple, he was not aimed at reform--he was acting out the destruction God promised in Jeremiah 7 for Israel's waywardness. In fact, Jesus whole ministry focused on subverting Israel's symbols, and redefining them around himself. He, Immanuel, was the true Temple. He was the true Passover Lamb, the true Water and Bread (both important symbols of God's provision in the wilderness wanderings). His teachings constituted the new Torah (this is the best way to read the Sermon on the Mount). At the heart of these redefined symbols is the belief that the true Israel would use her covenant boundaries as symbols of God's loving inclusiveness--thus, the redefined covenant included all the wrong sorts of people: the sick, the poor (both often believed as suffering due to sin), the Roman, the Samaritan, the women, the children.
Another, more complicated strand of thought is Jesus' belief about his death and resurrection, which developed out of passages like Isaiah 53, Zechariah 13, and Daniel 9, but encompasses far more even than those. Jesus firmly believed that his vocation as Israel's true representative was to fight her decisive battle against the true oppressor (Paul's "powers and principalities"). The global mindset I outlined earlier made this battle a fight for the world, rather than for Israel as a political entity. On the Cross, Jesus broke the powers of darkness; in his Resurrection, he "swallowed up death forever" (Is. 25, 1 Cor. 15).
Wright does redefine the traditional understanding of justification by faith. "Faith" to Jesus and Paul meant one's faith in the power of the resurrection to redeem him from bondage, and to lead him out into a new kind of life, the life detailed in Jesus' redefined covenant.
Thus, the distinction the CT article makes between a cultural argument between Paul and Judaism, and our traditional understanding of justification, does not exist. Wright is every bit as concerned as Luther about grace and redemption; he just speaks about them a bit differently.
A Personal Atonement
Dear friends, Caleb's recent comment has forced me to confront some weaknesses in my earlier post, "The Medium and Message of Scripture." I want to thank Caleb for sharpening me; hopefully I can iron out some of the rough spots in the first attempt.
I suppose I should have inserted the bit about my being a Calvinist-sympathizer earlier--I honestly have tremendous respect for Calvinist thought in general, and Calvin in particular, who was a wonderful saint of God, judging from all I've heard.
I began thinking about all of this in the context of communication theory, particularly McLuhan's famous remark, "The medium is the message." I've worried for a long time that the way the church communicates the gospel, whether in systematic theology or tracts, often diminishes, constricts, or even warps the mystery, romance, and power of Jesus' message. Thus, the main thrust of my post was a fairly simple observation--"God gave us a narrative, not a textbook."
Of course, not every line of the Bible is narrative, but most of it is, and the parts that aren't only make sense within the context of the greater narrative. The detailed instructions in the second half of Exodus for the construction of the Tabernacle become relevant only when we answer the question, "Why build a Tabernacle?" The answer (expressed incompletely, I suppose) relates to God's plan to dwell physically among His people as the crucial element in His redemptive covenant with Israel, through which He began the undoing of the Fall. Likewise, the genealogies in Chronicles are probably best understood as signs that God has fulfilled His promise of descendents to Abraham--again, we must resort to a narrative to find our understanding.
Regarding salvation--Caleb wondered if I believe that salvation is "merely an epiphany drawn from the biblical narrative." I think he feared that, in describing the Bible as a story, I had relegated its power to the first century, leaving it potent only for emotional inspiration. I assure, I believe nothing of the sort, and am horrified that I might have suggested it to my readers. When I insisted that the gospel is not primarily timeless truths about salvation, I did not mean that it is in no way true. I take issue with formulaic, timeless characterizations of the gospel, because I do not see that the Bible presents God's redeeming creation as in any way mechanistic, or timeless, in the sense of having no spatial reference. The most revealing aspect of sin is not the moral culpability it saddles men with, but the fact that it places them in bondage to darkness and death, opposing them to God's will. The problem the Bible addresses is not so much one of an eternal destination, but of an earthly dominion. The story of redemption is one of God's reasserting his rightful kingship over the earth, defeating the usurpers, and restoring men and creation to true fellowship with himself. The Cross was not a piece of machinery, but a weapon; the Resurrection was not a timeless mechanism, but a triumphant victory. Thus, we arrive at our predicament today--how do we take part in this renewal? When we place our faith in the victory of Christ, and commit ourselves to joining His kingdom, the power of the Resurrection works to renew our lives, so that, powerfully, mysteriously, we can claim a second birth. The Kingdom is not merely a new society; it is a new humanity. Perhaps I generalized too much--I grew up with a gospel that concerned itself mostly with an abstract salvation from a post-mortem punishment. The gospel I heard had only a tangential relation to the earth, whether to man's role in it, or God's concern for it.
I most definitely will not claim that the Bible is a story without themes, or that it is inappropriate to expound on those themes. I do see some discontinuity between biblical criticism and all other literary criticism: as much empathy as we may find with other stories, the Bible is in a profound way our story. Our thoughts on the story should come in the context of our living in it; as Augustine said, "I do not understand that I might believe, but believe that I might understand."
At the end of all this, I hope that any affection I have for narrative theology will not become another semantics game. Rather, I see in the sprawling story of God and creation a way to transcend semantics altogether. I think my initial allusion to the sovereignty/free will debate is telling--rather than arguing one side of an indivisible paradox, let's just embrace the mystery, and trust in God's will, while still keeping the thrill of uncertainty.
One last remark, and I'm through with this topic for a bit--Caleb raised a great objection to my description of the Bible as the "true story of humanity." In this case, semantics do matter--"God and creation" seems to capture the intent of Scripture more completely, I think. I certainly hope I don't espouse a man-centered gospel; in my own way, I think I care about the glory of God as much as Piper, Calvin, or whoever. However, I see no point in separating the glory of God from His love of creation, which He tends as a shepherd, or of men, whom He cares for as sons.
If you have any further objections to this, or any former post, please leave them as a comment. I do love a good firestorm of controversy (perhaps too much, in fact).
I suppose I should have inserted the bit about my being a Calvinist-sympathizer earlier--I honestly have tremendous respect for Calvinist thought in general, and Calvin in particular, who was a wonderful saint of God, judging from all I've heard.
I began thinking about all of this in the context of communication theory, particularly McLuhan's famous remark, "The medium is the message." I've worried for a long time that the way the church communicates the gospel, whether in systematic theology or tracts, often diminishes, constricts, or even warps the mystery, romance, and power of Jesus' message. Thus, the main thrust of my post was a fairly simple observation--"God gave us a narrative, not a textbook."
Of course, not every line of the Bible is narrative, but most of it is, and the parts that aren't only make sense within the context of the greater narrative. The detailed instructions in the second half of Exodus for the construction of the Tabernacle become relevant only when we answer the question, "Why build a Tabernacle?" The answer (expressed incompletely, I suppose) relates to God's plan to dwell physically among His people as the crucial element in His redemptive covenant with Israel, through which He began the undoing of the Fall. Likewise, the genealogies in Chronicles are probably best understood as signs that God has fulfilled His promise of descendents to Abraham--again, we must resort to a narrative to find our understanding.
Regarding salvation--Caleb wondered if I believe that salvation is "merely an epiphany drawn from the biblical narrative." I think he feared that, in describing the Bible as a story, I had relegated its power to the first century, leaving it potent only for emotional inspiration. I assure, I believe nothing of the sort, and am horrified that I might have suggested it to my readers. When I insisted that the gospel is not primarily timeless truths about salvation, I did not mean that it is in no way true. I take issue with formulaic, timeless characterizations of the gospel, because I do not see that the Bible presents God's redeeming creation as in any way mechanistic, or timeless, in the sense of having no spatial reference. The most revealing aspect of sin is not the moral culpability it saddles men with, but the fact that it places them in bondage to darkness and death, opposing them to God's will. The problem the Bible addresses is not so much one of an eternal destination, but of an earthly dominion. The story of redemption is one of God's reasserting his rightful kingship over the earth, defeating the usurpers, and restoring men and creation to true fellowship with himself. The Cross was not a piece of machinery, but a weapon; the Resurrection was not a timeless mechanism, but a triumphant victory. Thus, we arrive at our predicament today--how do we take part in this renewal? When we place our faith in the victory of Christ, and commit ourselves to joining His kingdom, the power of the Resurrection works to renew our lives, so that, powerfully, mysteriously, we can claim a second birth. The Kingdom is not merely a new society; it is a new humanity. Perhaps I generalized too much--I grew up with a gospel that concerned itself mostly with an abstract salvation from a post-mortem punishment. The gospel I heard had only a tangential relation to the earth, whether to man's role in it, or God's concern for it.
I most definitely will not claim that the Bible is a story without themes, or that it is inappropriate to expound on those themes. I do see some discontinuity between biblical criticism and all other literary criticism: as much empathy as we may find with other stories, the Bible is in a profound way our story. Our thoughts on the story should come in the context of our living in it; as Augustine said, "I do not understand that I might believe, but believe that I might understand."
At the end of all this, I hope that any affection I have for narrative theology will not become another semantics game. Rather, I see in the sprawling story of God and creation a way to transcend semantics altogether. I think my initial allusion to the sovereignty/free will debate is telling--rather than arguing one side of an indivisible paradox, let's just embrace the mystery, and trust in God's will, while still keeping the thrill of uncertainty.
One last remark, and I'm through with this topic for a bit--Caleb raised a great objection to my description of the Bible as the "true story of humanity." In this case, semantics do matter--"God and creation" seems to capture the intent of Scripture more completely, I think. I certainly hope I don't espouse a man-centered gospel; in my own way, I think I care about the glory of God as much as Piper, Calvin, or whoever. However, I see no point in separating the glory of God from His love of creation, which He tends as a shepherd, or of men, whom He cares for as sons.
If you have any further objections to this, or any former post, please leave them as a comment. I do love a good firestorm of controversy (perhaps too much, in fact).
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Upended World
It seems that Yeats waxed prophetic when, more than a century ago, he announced, “The center does not hold.” Americans increasingly inhabit a fluid world; where traditional industries wither like grass, and a new crop sprouts yearly; where technology unleashes a flood of possibilities, surging either to lift men, or to drown them. Predictably, such a world elicits mixed responses.
Lee works for the Ford production plant in Chongqing, where he earns about $200 a month (double the wages at his prior job), building the same cars that Dale once built for $2400 a month in Detroit. Dale’s union regularly called for reduced hours; Lee eagerly volunteers to work on Labor Day. Likewise, Pratini, an employee of Wipro Technologies in Bangalore, now handles the Delta customer services calls once answered by Patti from the Delta headquarters in Atlanta.
However, the departure of low-end manufacturing and services for the East by no means captures the essence of globalization. Consider this: Wipro, the seeming enemy of the Georgian workforce, is opening a development center in Atlanta, staffed by up to 500 domain experts and programmers, which will allow it to expand and personalize its “technology services business” in the Americas. Likewise, Infosys, a leader in service outsourcing, now also specializes in high-end business consulting for American firms. Take a deep breath, because your world has just somersaulted: the Indian outsourcer stole the chuck steak from Patti’s table, only to offer a sirloin in exchange; the upstart Third World company now tutors confused Californian start-ups in adapting to globalization.
Some perspective will help to untangle this mess. Between 2004 and 2014, America will lose about 80,000 production jobs, a decline of only .7%. However, growth in business management, healthcare, computer science, and other high-paying industries should add nearly 13.5 million jobs to the economy. Network analysis, a profession requiring only a bachelor’s degree, should grow as much as 55% in that time.
These statistics are merely projections, not promises. Americans must face an awful truth: Eastern workers do not want to build our cars, but to design them; not take our phone calls, but write our voice-identification software. However, the stories of Wipro and Infosys offer hope: by breaking down barriers, globalization can replace the zero-sum mindset of nationalist competition with imaginative, trusting collaboration and innovation. When fiber-optics allow technology firms to run 24/7 research programs across three continents, cutting development time by two months, and costs by 30%, everyone wins, be they in India, or Indiana.
Americans must abandon protectionist ideology, and embrace a vision of a seamless, digitally integrated world of wireless collaboration. They must realize this dream by renewing the Western passion for preeminence in math and science. They must aid the displaced, not by trapping them in stagnant industries, but by continually educating them for better work in emerging fields. Globalization has brought India and China to an arm’s length: our future depends on our embracing them as brothers, and working with them as friends.
Lee works for the Ford production plant in Chongqing, where he earns about $200 a month (double the wages at his prior job), building the same cars that Dale once built for $2400 a month in Detroit. Dale’s union regularly called for reduced hours; Lee eagerly volunteers to work on Labor Day. Likewise, Pratini, an employee of Wipro Technologies in Bangalore, now handles the Delta customer services calls once answered by Patti from the Delta headquarters in Atlanta.
However, the departure of low-end manufacturing and services for the East by no means captures the essence of globalization. Consider this: Wipro, the seeming enemy of the Georgian workforce, is opening a development center in Atlanta, staffed by up to 500 domain experts and programmers, which will allow it to expand and personalize its “technology services business” in the Americas. Likewise, Infosys, a leader in service outsourcing, now also specializes in high-end business consulting for American firms. Take a deep breath, because your world has just somersaulted: the Indian outsourcer stole the chuck steak from Patti’s table, only to offer a sirloin in exchange; the upstart Third World company now tutors confused Californian start-ups in adapting to globalization.
Some perspective will help to untangle this mess. Between 2004 and 2014, America will lose about 80,000 production jobs, a decline of only .7%. However, growth in business management, healthcare, computer science, and other high-paying industries should add nearly 13.5 million jobs to the economy. Network analysis, a profession requiring only a bachelor’s degree, should grow as much as 55% in that time.
These statistics are merely projections, not promises. Americans must face an awful truth: Eastern workers do not want to build our cars, but to design them; not take our phone calls, but write our voice-identification software. However, the stories of Wipro and Infosys offer hope: by breaking down barriers, globalization can replace the zero-sum mindset of nationalist competition with imaginative, trusting collaboration and innovation. When fiber-optics allow technology firms to run 24/7 research programs across three continents, cutting development time by two months, and costs by 30%, everyone wins, be they in India, or Indiana.
Americans must abandon protectionist ideology, and embrace a vision of a seamless, digitally integrated world of wireless collaboration. They must realize this dream by renewing the Western passion for preeminence in math and science. They must aid the displaced, not by trapping them in stagnant industries, but by continually educating them for better work in emerging fields. Globalization has brought India and China to an arm’s length: our future depends on our embracing them as brothers, and working with them as friends.
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