On Meetings With Old Men

Every Thursday at 2:30 I meet with former professor emeritus of psychology at Upenn Henry Gleitman. We discuss, well, really most anything, but have both shown a particular interest in ‘religious experience.’ Henry is a pleasant old man, clearly sophisticated, but not pretentious by any means. You might say that he, at 87, knows himself very well, and is content with his talents and weaknesses. He is, as he put it, “a staunch agnostic,” unbending in his conviction concerning the explanatory power of empirical science. Clearly, he's comfortable among the modern materialists, though thankfully not a sentimentalist like so many during his time.

I liked him immediately after meeting him. Agnostics tend to be my favorite brand of people. They have a similar temperament to my own, never taking one particular idea more seriously than another. Once you’ve read enough, been exposed to the world, as it were, academic hero worship vanishes, as does the sensation arising from a new and possibly true philosophy. All philosophies are possibly true to the agnostic, and he feels it.

It’s interesting, I think, that Henry and I have such similar psychological propensities considering we fall into two very different camps of agnosticism. When after only just meeting him he said, “moral ambiguities, despair, the inevitability of death: you know, the usual things,” I knew I had found a comrade. “Yes, the usual things,” I thought. He is 87, myself 25, yet both of us have concluded not only that hope and absurdity lie at the essence of human experience as important issues, but that they are “the usual things.” There’s a kind of indifference toward the whole procedure of internal dialects once you’ve gone through them enough. A kind of ‘worn out-ness’ on the cyclical nature of what is probably unknowable, in the epistemological sense anyway.

To say with this in mind that I have lived on the fringe of Christian belief over the past 3 years would be a dramatic oversimplification. I have not and will not commit the intellectual fallacy of assuming that because most Christians I have known have a certain bland naivety—even the most intelligent among them—concerning despair (and all it entails) that Christianity is false. Christianity, whether true or false, at the very least functions therapeutically to remove that despair, and perhaps the very possibility for that despair; that function is of its essence. (Of course, no worldview, not even that of Absurdism—however hard it tries—,can successfully avoid the narrative of hope. It may change the object of hope and thus the character (and value) of hope, but not the impulse to hope). That most people are naïve about this aspect of their own psychology, and theology, does not sully the truth or falseness of those beliefs. It does not even remotely suggest sullying. Totemism is not false because its adherents are too emotionally attached to a giant stick in the ground. It is false probably if for no other reason than worshiping giant sticks as opposed to Omni-attributed Beings is silly. I thus reject the popular sentiment that because normal Christians are naïve that the creeds of Christianity are naïve. In any case, who could accuse Dostoevsky or Kierkegaard of being naïve? Yet they certainly believed.

The questions up here in the stratosphere of being are, in my view, the most significant of the bunch. Those down to earth quibs over the minutia of some theological point, over types of baptism or denominational differences, even of heaven and hell, I leave to the experts. What concerns me and what has always concerned me is a Christianity which leaves none of the data out, now matter how upsetting, and yet, somehow, by some roads—familiar or foreign—demonstrates itself to be at the very least tenable.

Why I Shouldn't Watch Youtube Videos

I can’t help but comment on the sheer volume of responses to the recent video, “Why I Hate Religion, but Love Jesus.” And I have to start with an obvious point made by Chesterton all those years ago that a thing is not all the more serious for being taken seriously. The videographer—Jefferson his name—certainly has good intentions. He demands that a distinction be made between possessing a personal relationship with Jesus and adhering to a series of dogmas reducible to the name ‘religion.’ The video is little else besides the old Evangelical obsession with a personal relationship with Jesus Christ as the element sui generis—God coming down to man—distinguishing Christianity from all other religious systems. The truth, of course, is that all religions claim to have the element sui generis which stands over and against other religious systems. His brand of Christianity is not all the more unique for claiming to be unique; it is only unique if it is right.

That’s not to say that I think he is wrong; nor is it to say that I think he is right. I’m unconcerned at present with the truth of his assertions. What interests me is that we’re talking about this guy’s claims at all. I have watched the video several times bemused and befuddled not at what he means but that so many people are interested in what he means.

Of course, I have two disadvantages. The first is that I have been overly exposed to the vocabulary of Evangelicalism. I find most of it empty of content and the rest worn out from overuse. The other, I confess, is that I get all snooty when the word “poetry” is used loosely. Sorry, but the guy is as much a poet as I am a pillow-case.

But I think when I boil it down, I am mostly frustrated with the quality of our public discourse. Why is there a giant kerfuffle over this particular video, over what is so obviously a semantic quib, over whether the belief in and personal relationship with Jesus is a religious statement? I understand the need to help justify one’s claims with a corresponding sentiment; what I don’t understand is why we’re doing quasi-religious theory in order to generate that sentiment. Why are so many so desperate to correct a small, insignificant error--if it is an error at all? I do not reject the importance of the answer, i reject the importance of the question. If he is right, so be it. If he is not....so what?

It is symptomatic, I think, of an Evangelical tendency to neglect good thinking. To put it less delicately, many people talk most adamantly concerning issues they do not understand. And the best indication that someone does not understand is that they get disproportionately emotional about it. The first markers of bad arguing are overreactions and oversimplifications. In this case, Jefferson is oversimplifying the Jesus/religion dichotomy, and everyone else is overreacting to his oversimplification. The reality of the situation is that he deserves a pat on the head for his efforts, and everyone else deserves a disapproving glance for taking him too seriously. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yet it is this general neglect of sensible discourse, this penchant for all things trite, which does more than irritate me. It worries me. It proves conclusively, I’m afraid, the failure of our church education to inculcate not mere doctrine, but quality of dispute. Really, it is the failure to educate Evangelicals in the principle of epistemological humility. Whatever happened to, “be wise as serpents but gentle as doves”?

The truth is that whatever else Christianity must be over the next century, it must not be this simple minded if it is to fit the needs of a dissonant American people. It must be able to harbor in one bay the multifaceted consciousnesses of millions whose internal lives are infinitely more complex than their forbearers. People used to live in a village, or a city, or, if they were truly experienced, a country. They used to do what they were told and get along. But we, dear friends, live in the world, and the world is fairy-land without the fairies. We have returned to Canaan, and the gods tempt us on all sides. Jesus conquered Olympus, I grant, but he has not yet conquered Absurdism (perhaps his most formidable and long-standing opponent), or the Eastern religions, or tribalism, etc. Baal greets us with smile at the click of a button or the purchase of cheap plane ticket. We will know, and already do know, Philistines whose actions don’t seem all that philistine. Idols are everywhere, and the people who flock to or fight against our Christianity will not be of one mind. This is America for heaven’s sake. This is the world. We had better get used to the idea of being wrong, as well as the idea that others might be right. We must learn the distinction between theory and dogma, and which must be defended (to the death) and when. We must gain that maturity which chooses which battles to indulge and which to ignore. It seems altogether obvious to me that Jefferson’s video does not deserve the attention it has received. It is thoughtful enough for a youth camp; it is not thoughtful enough to be treated as theology.

Bedtime: a short story

Bedtime

My pants fell to the floor, and I slid into bed. The covers were getting cold just like the beginning of last winter, and my pillow had traveled over to other side where she used to be. It was stuck underneath a sheet. I yanked it, and looking I noticed the fan unplugged. The little things annoy, like a dripping faucet or a bug bite or a fan unplugged. I turned over, and my boxers rolled up underneath my thigh as I rewound my motion, getting out of bed to go plug it in. The same motion of getting in only reversed. Like me now, the same height of passion only reversed. The outlet lay behind a leather chair, just out of arms reach, on the empty side where she used to be, like all things, just out of arms reach. They were unbunched now, and I walked slowly around the bed, lowering my gate till I began a crawl like in those evolution pictures where ameba changes into man, only reversed. Crawling to reach the outlet. The night was silent, and so were my words. Like all words, they crawled. Like me, my words crawled.

Keep still, I said; don’t talk. Keep your eyes open. Wait. Wait. Keep your eyes open. Her wide eyes took in the world. Her wide eyes watched the world. I crawled like my words toward the outlet. The carpet curved around my knees, my hands leaving tracks like deer tracks. Silence is a sound the second you say it. And it was silent when she went limp, and I say it, and she is still limp, and it is silent now and I say it. Just therapy. Just words. Unmeaning doesn’t mean unmeaning. It can’t; I can’t. I do not have the luxury of bricks or birds. Because I can see the stars fall from her eyes. I watched Orion tumble from his perch; I watched the big dipper droop and fall. She shouldn’t have turned the wheel. The headlights cracked and windshield and my ribs. She shouldn’t have turned the wheel.

I had changed the thermostat ten minutes ago, and finally heard the heater vibrating to life through the walls. The outlet was far away and I stabbed at it. The fan was already switched to on, pointing in the wrong direction. I knew because I could feel the air toward me on the floor and I remembered anew the white noise and the unmeaning. It blew fresh against my face, like the feel of her breathing while she kissed only not. She breathed heavily and with a pitch in her voice. The fan too has a pitch, only not. I pushed myself off the carpet, smelling her leftovers on the sheets. She’s not breathing, he said, and I mumbled words I do not remember. I do not remember what I said, and I can’t hear her sleeping, even though she’s sleeping. The fan and the white noise, and I call it silence, not her breathing, and I call it the unmeaning and the hum of the fan, as if that’s not a meaning. And I, bending over, retrograde, smelled her on the sheets again like in the evolution pictures.

I stood up, my shoulders slummed, and scudded back around the bed. The covers were still cold, so I made friction with my hand on the sheet and slipped back in. One should never stick their necks out for giraffes, I joked, and she laughed, her wide eyes and the orange juice everywhere. The waitress got a good tip. The unmeaning of the white noise and her breathing while she kissed. Nighttime breakfast and the waitress poured her more orange juice. She snorted, and could barely say I am cute, so she said it with her eyes, and I saw Orion’s tumble, and the waitress got a good tip. Keep your eyes open. I said. Wait. Wait. Then the fan wasn’t blowing on my face so I turned it toward me, and the covers felt cold again. I pulled them over my head forgetting and not forgetting to turn the lamp off.

Just therapy. Just words. She’s not breathing, he said. The orange juice stained my shirt and the blood stained the orange juice. I heard the ribs crack as he pumped her breast; him touching my breasts and it was ok and it was not ok. Her breasts not breathing. Him touching my breasts. My breast cracking at hers cracking. I said Wait. Wait. all selfish. And when she was limp and the stars were gone I knew my sin. She couldn’t talk, her eyes were afraid, and I knew my sin.

Words. Words. Words. She couldn’t talk and I have nothing to say. As if the story of the thing makes the thing more bearable. As if saying that the story isn’t therapeutic isn’t just a story wanting what’s therapeutic, and us learning another meaning ad infinitum. The banality of words. The banality of the dead. The banality of that goddman deer. The drama banal par excellence. Therapy is Lethe or death or her alive. Not God, not distraction. It is not even therapeutic to say there is no therapy. Just words. And yet we say them and feel the therapy. But we have only dominated with words, words, words. An infusion of meaning into the mundane, as if saying it is mundane isn’t just a substitute meaning. As if saying we don’t need any aid isn’t an attempt at some kind of aid. As if the revolt against the unmeaning isn’t grasping for meaning, and the rejection of hope doesn’t hope for something. We are hope. We are meaning so long as we are human. And it does not matter whether it is true, it does not matter what is true if truth is unmeaning. It is. I am. She was. Calling it languor doesn’t accustom you to the fan.

She used to pull the covers over my head because she knew I sleep like that. But the light still gets through, and even though they were over my head now the light still sneaked through. I remembered the lamp. The little things annoy, like a dripping faucet or a fan unplugged or a lamp still turned on. Me trying to sleep in the darkness, but the light always shining through. I whisked the covers back and stretch to pull the lamp chain. It slipped a bit, so I shifted further over to get a good grip and tugged. It was dark now, and I closed my eyes. They always have patterns, though less so in the light. How can I see colors when there is no light on the back of my eyelids? What am I seeing if not light?