Half Past Noon

In recent radio show, that was broadcast on more than 400 affiliates, [Glenn Beck] told his listeners to leave any church that uses the phrases “social justice” or “economic justice.” “I beg you, look for the words ’social justice’ or ‘economic justice’ on your church Web site,” he said.

“If you find it, run as fast as you can. Social justice and economic justice, they are code words. Now, am I advising people to leave their church? Yes!” He went on to say, “If you have a priest pushing social justice go find another parish. Go alert your bishop and tell them. [Ask them] are you down with this whole social justice thing?” (from the National Post)

I know that none of us really care what Glenn Beck thinks (or FOX News, for that matter), but I couldn’t help but post this quote. Later in the article, it’s noted that Beck credits “communists and Nazis” for the invention of “social justice.”

That’s right: watch out for those bad ideas. They’ll turn you into sadistic goosesteppers in no time, and just like zombies, there’s nothing you can do about it. Except be afraid, of course. Everybody be afraid and beware of your neighbours. You never know what they’ll do to you.

A new First Things post by Stephen Barr contends that Intelligent Design argument have “done positive harm” (“The End of Intelligent Design?, HT: Davey). It’s an interesting article with an interesting thesis. Yet, Barr’s post feels sloppy, for a couple of reasons.

First, he doesn’t really explain any of his significant accusations. It’s clear that he’d prefer to condemn ID on theological grounds; yet, since he has to address the science (at least in part), he seems to content himself with flat generalizations. I say “seems” because I admittedly know very little about science or ID—I complain because I’d like to know why he makes these statements and why I should trust him over, say, Ben Stein. For example:

It is time to take stock: What has the intelligent design movement achieved? As science, nothing. The goal of science is to increase our understanding of the natural world, and there is not a single phenomenon that we understand better today or are likely to understand better in the future through the efforts of ID theorists.

Pretty bold and interesting statements. And I’d honestly love to see why he makes these claims: I’m persuadable! Yet, this is all the evidence he provides. This sort of reasoning occurs at least two more times in the article, which leads me to suspect that Barr isn’t writing for ID sympathizers. Why else would he make these broad statements and assume that we see things the way he does? And that makes me ask another question: just who is this article for?

Second, Barr’s central complaint about ID is that it hurts Christians in the eyes of unbelievers. He ends his article by saying, “Religion has a significant number of friends (and potential friends) in the scientific world. The ID movement is not creating new ones.” But so what? Should Christian scientists be aiming to make friends? Is Barr complaining about poor behaviour by ID folks, or is he simply annoyed that ID folks make it harder to be respectably Christian? That’s a harsh question, I know, but I can’t help but ask it. Even if Barr is right and ID does more harm than good, I find it hard to stomach an argument based on embarrassment. Which, at the end of the day, is all I get from this article.

First, a disclaimer. Davey tends to rebuke my criticisms of localism with these words: “But Frank, I don’t know any localist who believes that.” Hopefully I do a better job this time.

Austin recently re-tweeted a link to this, a write-up about an author doing his best to save, or at least “treasure,” local bookstores. For the record, I think this is cool. A good independent bookstore is a wonderful thing. Like many others, I rarely enjoy a visit to Barnes and Noble, Chapters, Books-a-Million, etc. They’re sterile places with a counterfeit sense of familiarity and comfort. Their book selection is rarely interesting, and I generally find their books overpriced. (Though, in their defense, publishers are probably more to blame for that.)

Yet, I confess that I’m tired of hearing people complain that big-box stores like B&N killed the local bookstore. (Or, for that matter, that Amazon is carrying on that trend.) I don’t really believe this storyline, and in the words of the immortal Calvin, I wish they’d shut up and stop whining.

That sounds harsh, I know, so let me explain myself.

I understand that big-box bookstores have often received tax benefits and other such incentives not available to smaller bookstores. And I agree that this is unfair, even wicked. I’m as anti-interventionist as any of you.

But why should this be the last word? Too often, I think that local bookstores use this as a crutch. Instead of thinking, “How can I be better than Barnes & Noble?” they resign themselves to a fate of dying relevancy. “I’ll never compete be able to compete with them!” To give this a concrete example, we tend to assume that You’ve Got Mail captures this scene with truth: The Shop Around the Corner just can’t stand up to Fox Books. It’s impossible. So let’s shed a tear, share stories about our Spanish lovers, and wait for the big bad businessman to bring us flowers.

I also find it odd that in all the articles I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot of them), I’ve never seen anyone ask, “What have local bookstores done wrong?” As someone who’d like to start my own little bookstore one day, I’ve got more than a few opinions on this matter; but they’re not founded upon anyone else’s insight. I’d be much more willing to believe the “bad big box store” line if I saw more self-examination on the part of the independent bookstore. People who complain instead of looking to grow usually will only see their problems grow, so it’s no surprise that more local bookstores have closed in the past several years. After all, who wants to go and buy books from someone who’s going to share their gripes with you?

Before you jump all over me and call me a greedy capitalist pig, remember what I said at the beginning: I love a good local bookstore. Really, I do. The trouble is, I don’t believe that a local bookstore is good in and of itself. I’ve been to plenty of bad ones, and a bad local bookstore is much, much worse (imho) than any Barnes & Noble or Borders. Heck, it’s even worse than a Waldenbooks.

I’d love to see local bookstores blossom. And if I ever get a chance to do a book tour, I’d love to do local bookstore stops. But two things need to happen first: one, I have to write something worth reading again, and two, local bookstores need to start viewing their “predicament” as a “challenge.” There are ways around this problem, if only you try and tackle them.

An endnote. I’ve dropped a lot of generalizations. I know this. I did it on purpose. I know there are top-notch local bookstores out there. Good on you, all of you. I wish I could visit you. I just wish you didn’t have so many siblings that are the opposite. That’s really all I’m getting at.

What makes a good story “good”?

It’s a question pondered too often, yet it never seems to go away. Particularly in Christian circles. Even if it isn’t stated verbatim, it’s often the question that lurks behind most projects addressing the “state of the arts” or how Christians should “engage culture.”

But did you know that Plato had an eerily familiar answer? Eerily familiar, that is, for anyone who’s encountered these kinds of “culture” projects.

In Book 3 of The Republic, Socrates takes Homer and Hesiod to task for their poor behavioural models. To his reasoning, it is not right—let alone heroic—for a man to be caught weeping, mourning for the death of his friend. Why should we mourn something that is better for a friend, he asks. The solution? “We shall be right, then,” he declares, “to get rid of the heroes’ songs of lamentation, putting them in the mouths of women—and not even the best women, at that—and cowards.” Why? “We want the people we say we are bringing up to be guardians of our country to be appalled at the idea of behaving like this.” (388a)

And in case you’re confused about with this means, Socrates makes it quite clear earlier: “We shall ask Homer and the rest of the poets not to be angry with us if we strike out these passages, and any others like them.” (387b)

As the discussion continues, Socrates and his yes-men proceed to criticize all the “excesses” they can think of—over-laughing, over-eating, over-drinking, and over-sexing. Slowly, their reasoning emerges: men are too impressionable, too eager to imitate whatever they see without discernment. If you don’t want your men to be given to weeping, then make sure that their heroes are never weak. And don’t you dare tell any stories that show the gods at their worst: don’t you know what that’ll do to our people?

It should be noted here that the people in question are the guardians (those whom Socrates later refers to as the “gold” of humanity). These are the people born to lead and care for those who aren’t born well enough to guide the course of the city. If they can’t withstand these stories, who can?

Obviously, there’s something to be said for not immersing yourself in garbage. We are impressionable, which is why we’re each responsible to know our frames and our weaknesses. Yet, there’s something inherently wrong with the way Socrates is reading poetry. It’s not just that he believes poetry is only good for education—it’s that he never asks, “What happens in this story?” The problem is not that Achilles teaches young men to be first sulking and then heartlessly vengeful (something that Socrates probably wouldn’t find praiseworthy). The problem is that Homer focuses on Achilles’ bout of weeping. Socrates doesn’t take into account the rest of the story; instead, he focuses on one pitiful moment and decides that it needs to go, without looking to see why it’s there and whether or not Achilles would be worthy of praise without it.

It’s cliche to point that Christians do this sort of thing, a lot. Talk about “shit,” and it’s doubtful that your story will be read, much less respected. Talk about extramarital sex, and you’re guaranteed to be blacklisted. Unless, of course, the girl sleeping around is the whore of Babylon, and she gets properly punished by the end of the story.

But I think Plato offers us some insight into what we need to change. We are prudes with the best of intentions. Those who grew up without Christ remember the gunk they soaked up, and they’re determined not to let their kids make the same mistakes. And so the answer, of course, is to build an impermeable brick wall. Parents become Plato’s guardians, careful to make sure that their kids only know about the admirable things in life. Not because they think evil doesn’t exist—they know the opposite far too well. It’s a misguided act of love, because they know what it means to be impressionable.

But maybe that’s the point? Why else do we have the story of the dismembered concubine? Or the story of Judah and Tamar? Or the countless other distasteful moments in the Bible. Perhaps we live as if wisdom is the disappearace of nasty stories, when we really ought to be thinking that wisdom is knowing how to respond to nasty stories. And if that’s true, then a lot of our stories aren’t doing a whole lot of good.

Stumbled across this fantastic article yesterday encouraging everyone to talk to strangers. My favourite bit:

People don’t usually go around telling strangers stuff – it’s why God invented talk radio – and that’s why you have to ask them questions. When people start their answer, those first few clacks of the tongue will reveal an ocean of information: where their grandparents’ grandparents’ came from; whether they smoke and drink whiskey; whether or not they’ve chipped any teeth after falling against a table-edge or shoreline rock; whether they prefer garlic or curry; whether they are grateful that you asked or annoyed that you bothered them.

And you know, those answers are the stuff of life. So go get some.

Two quotes from Secondary Worlds that I find shocking (and imagine that others will, too). They’re both restrictive and yet somehow liberating.

#1 (against O’Connor-esque art, perhaps?)

It is necessary that we know about the evil in the world, about past evil that we may know what man is capable of, and be on the watch for it in ourselves, and about present evil so that we may take political action to eradicate it. This knowledge it is one of the duties of the historian to impart. But the poet cannot get into this business without defiling himself and his audience. To write a play, that is to construct a secondary world, about Auschwitz, for example, is wicked: author and audience may try to pretend that they are morally horrified, but in fact they are passing an entertaining evening together, in the aesthetic enjoyment of horrors.
(page 84, “The World of the Sagas”)

#2 (against art as evangelism)

In a magico-polytheistic culture all events are believed to be caused by personal powers who can be understood and to some extent controlled by speech, and the nearest that man can come to the concept of necessity is in the myth of the Fates who determine events by whim; in such a culture, therefore, poets are the theologians, the sacred mouthpieces of society: it is they who teach the myths and rescue from oblivion the great deeds of ancestral heroes. That to which the imagination by its nature responds with excitement, namely, the manifestly extraordinary and powerful, is identified with the Divine. The poet is one whose words are equal to his divine subjects, which can only happen if he is divinely inspired. The coming of Christ in the form of a servant who cannot be recognized by the eye of flesh and blood, only by the eye of faith, puts an end to all such claims. The imagination is to be regarded as a natural faculty the subject matter of which is the phenomenal world, not its creator. For a poet brought up in a Christian society, it is perfectly possible to write a poem on a Christian theme, but when he does so, he is concerned with it as an aspect of religion, that is to say, a human cultural fact, like other facts, not as a matter of faith. The poet is not there to convert the world.
(pages 137-138, “Words and the Words”)

Thoughts?

“Impenetrable Forest,” from The Tent by Margaret Atwood.

The person you have in mind is lost. That’s the picture I’m getting. He believes he is lost in the middle of an impenetrable forest. His head is full of trees. Branches he’s bumping into. Brambles he’s tangled up in. Paths that lead nowhere. Animals that jeer at him and run away. Here and there the glimpse of an elusive maiden, wearing a dress of what appears to be white cheesecloth. I’m getting some insects too, the stinging variety. This is not pleasant. The sun is sinking. The shadows are darkening. Things could hardly be worse.

Then there’s you. Where do you come into it? You’re not one to resist an opportunity, the sort of opportunity he presents. Some would call it meddling, but you think of it as helpfulness. I apologize for being so frank but I’m just the messenger. Here you come, descending in our pinkish cloud, glowing like a low-wattage light bulb or an aquarium in a chintzy bar. Feathers sprout from your shoulders, rays of light shoot out from you, silver-and-gold confetti wafts down from you like metallic dandruff. It does not occur to you that your dress is covered with tiny fish hooks. On some of them scraps of bait are still hanging: cricket wings, worm torsos, old bank deposit slips.

There there, you say. A whisk here, a flick there, with your magic wand – transparent plastic, with a miniature motorcar in it that slides up and down in a sparkly fluid when shaken – and the brambles vanish. The sun reverses directions, the paths straighten out, dawn occurs.

Voila! you say. Your debts are paid, your emotional problems are solved, your illnesses are cured. Not only that, but your childhood sorrows – the ones that held you back and bogged you down – they’ve been erased. Now you can get on with it.

He looks at you without gratitude. What is this it I’m supposed to be getting on with? he says.

You don’t know? you ask, with an irritation you try to conceal. I’ve come down into this stupid woodlot, gone to major trouble, cleared away a lifetime of junk for you, and you still don’t know?

You don’t understand much, he says. Why do you think I was lost in the impenetrable forest in the first place?

Davey and I have been going back and forth on “antithesis”—hammering out what it means, trying to figure out if we agree or disagree (since we’re both prone to generalizing), and working towards a workable definition. Except that I hate definitions, so I keep protesting and asking for a story instead.

And now I have one.

It’s not by me, nor is it explicitly about antithesis. But I think it sheds some light on the topic and is worth the read. It’s titled “Dimensions,” and it’s in Alice Munro’s latest short story collection, Too Much Happiness. You can read the story here, on Google books.

If you’re interested in the topic, take a gander and see what you think. Does it shed any light? Or am I committing gross isogesis? You be the judge.

More on antithesis later. Stay tuned.

I didn’t have the patience to completely read the recent “Manhattan Declaration” in its entirety. Lazy, I know, but I’m not a theologian and was more interested to see who signed it than to understand every jot and tittle.

I’ve had several responses (some supportive, some not) forwarded to me. One of the most thought-provoking was from Professor John Stackhouse. I particularly liked this point:

3. The document gives no clear direction about what anyone is supposed to do once they have read it—besides sign it, I suppose. Is anyone now going to campaign for prolife positions any differently than he or she did before? Is anyone going to change his or her mind about homosexual marriage? Is anyone going to seek new legislation or, if the law swings against conservative Christians, engage in civil disobedience of some unspecified sort? Who knows? (HT: Garry Vanderveen)

The striking thing about previous church documents (the Creeds, Luther’s 95 Theses, the Westminster Confession) was their immediate practicality. The Nicene Creed, for example, was designed to distinguish between right and wrong worship of Christ. Luther’s Theses, though they began as an invitation to debate, ended up again distinguishing between true and false shepherding. And the Westminster Confession was designed to be a document for the edification and education of the church.

But what really is the Manhattan Declaration for? Speech can’t really be called speech unless it leads to discernible action and discernible change. Stackhouse is right to call this document a waste of time. Imagine the hungry that could have been fed, the pregnant teenagers that could have been counseled, or the lost souls that could have heard the Gospel with the time and resources expended in this document’s creation. To riff on Lewis, we’re content with defining the proper building code for mudcastles in slums when we should be inviting others to enjoy salt water and sunshine.

To make this personal, the more I’m faced with church responsibilities and church life, the more I realize how guilty I am of this in my everyday life. It’s hard and often not fun to talk to strangers at church, so I don’t. And I can admit this till I’m blue in the face, but what does it matter if tomorrow, I again go to church and leave without communing outside of my comfort zone? It’s not enough to feel guilty.

Father forgive us for our propensity to talk and our reluctance to get our hands dirty.

I am the prodigal returning.

After reading Austin’s celebratory post last week, I realized that I really missed HPN. Plus, blogging here is way more fun than blogging by myself. So I’m moving back in and will hopefully coax the rest of you to do the same. HPN, version 3.0.

I’ve been reading Bleak House sporadically over the past year. I’m over 300 pages in, but I’m still not at the halfway point, so I find it easy to lose interest and put it down for a while. But I’m learning to appreciate Dickens, which is good. Case in point: descriptions.

During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact, that it has had no child born to it, and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced, have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. (Ch. XXI)

That last sentence is priceless. So absurd and yet so vivid.