We Shall Not Be Moved
Allow me to be clear: Barack Obama is the very antithesis of what conservatives hold dear. He is an amalgam of the passions of the moment, a man beholden to virtually no voting record, yet still rated as the most liberal senator in the United States. Armed with a fully Democratic Congress, he would, as president, set about making good on his fevered promises ”” retreating troops, universal health care, liberal judges, and other vast, vast gains for the left. The idea of four years with Obama as president sends (literally, now) a chill up my spine.
In speaking to other conservatives, I find similar emotions, even to the point that we shy away from talking about it at all. It is unnerving, nightmarish and nauseating. It is apocalyptic. But talk about it we have, the intrepid among us, and I have found a common thread in our hushed whispers that is uniquely interesting and has made me feel strangely warmed. I have not heard one conservative, either on the personal or media level, talk about moving abroad if Obama should win.
Such a little thing, but to me, titanic in its implications.
Back in 2004, when President Bush was hanging tough enough in the polls for liberals to imagine their own doomsday scenario, I remember four people I know personally who said they would move abroad if he won. Now, as a Vermonter, I am subjected to a rarer and more robust species of liberal than others might encounter, but the theme remained true throughout donkeydom.
Of course I knew even then that it was pure desperation, not genuine sentiment ”” and sure enough, all four of those people survived to crawl, weakened but gasping, through the thick battle haze of a destroyed and dismembered America to valiantly place freshly-peeled Obama ’08 bumper stickers on the back of their Subaru Outbacks.
Allow me to be clear. No such statement will pass these lips. In fact, if you hear any conservative say it without irony, go buy a lottery ticket. It’s like an albino polar bear ”” the American conservative who would imagine leaving America to those people. The difference in vision is subtle but all-important. America isn’t just my residence. This is my land and you are my people. If she is attacked — from inside or out — we can be depended upon to defend her.
If Obama wins, I will be distressed, but I won’t be disembarking. The thought would simply never cross my mind.
One Hundred Words (15)
It’d be like Happy Christmas and Merry New Year. Gentlemen and Ladies, Brothers Warner.
Ernie and Bert, corn creamed.
Sirhan Sirhan.
Trojan Appaloosas, seeds of sunflowers — Roll n’ Rock 7/24!
Like the Unbelievable Hulk went to his throat, nose and ear doctor with mouth and hoof disease.
The Pips and Gladys Knight — ya feelin’ me? Catch my drift, Yoda?
It’s why I didn’t, knowdontcha?
I could’ve told her I loved her. It would’ve been accurate.
But it sure wouldn’t have sounded right.
The glass wasn’t half empty or half full — the glass was completely neutral.
That’s right — I have a Swedish glass.
–JBT
One Hundred Words (8)
In the spirit of Proverbs 10:19, our newest regular feature will be a series of posts of 100 words — or fewer. Comments under ten words!
My Orioles have failed me again.
Against seemingly insurmountable odds, the Baltimore Orioles have risen from the smoky ruins of this past winter, where they traded off their stars and paired down their lineup, to present themselves as contenders against some of the league’s best teams and arms. This has included, up till this week’s series, the highest-paid team in baseball history — the New York Yankees.
So yes, they’ve failed me this week, but they’ve done so reeking of determination… and with the stench of class.
So it’s true: I guess the O’s just stink.
–JBT
A Living EthanHell
A story is told — one you are probably familiar with — about a trap in China, with a hole just big enough for a monkey’s paw. Inside is a morsel of food; when the animal grabs it, his paw is too big to remove from the trap. Whether due to pure instinct, stupidity, or simply primal greed, the creature is easily captured — or so the story goes — caught because it refused to surrender its prize, because it failed to grasp how simple escape could be.
In the middle part of this decade, the drums of ethanol began to be beaten, along the river of rising energy costs. The President, along with our vast and intertwined agricultural and industrial lobbies, greedily stuck their proverbial paws inside the trap and grabbed fistfuls of corn, wheat, and even switchgrass.
The idea was, and is, a seductive one. A sprawling American breadbasket (you know the one, laid out in neat little squares 30,000 feet below our airplane seat) that can suddenly Abracadabra! fuel into our Fords, the dark shades of Big Oil and Sheikdoms plotting and profiting half a world away replaced by the light hues of soft-spoken Iowan farmers talking baseball at the Agway. The government seemed unusally bipartisan, aggressive, and strangely on board. There was an energy and a drive: incentives, programs, plans, timelines. It was the magic bullet to free us from the burden of dependence.
Silly little monkey.
Ethanol was not a necessary step towards energy independence, but rather a poorly timed distraction from it. In a time of obvious instability in global markets, a devalued dollar, and a two-front war in Oil’s own backyard, ethanol has served to make food scarcer and more expensive. It has demanded more attention for superficial environmental restrictions that push the dream of more refineries and nuclear facilities further into exile, and it has yoked oil companies, agriculture, and the government into an unseemly, uneasy, and overwhelmingly unproductive union.
In other words — not only do I spend nearly $4 for a gallon of gas, but I will soon spend that same amount for a bag of broccoli, while the few continue to profit immensely at the cost of the many, and the government comes to look more and more silly. When we expend more energy than we get in making the energy, the math is not hard to compute.
And it says, “Let go, remove your paw, and run like Jehu, little fella!”
Best of Job: That Stupid Little Von Dutch Hat
Originally published March 6, 2007.
He wore it all the time. Legend was he even slept in it. And hating him, we hated that hat. So we came to the decision one night, over IBC root beer and Oatmeal Creme Pies, that the hat had to die, and die spectacularly. No simple grab and run, throw on the top of a roof scenario. We desired a true, live-wire Mafia hit.
But it never left his smarmy little skull. We knew we’d have to bide our time.
For an entire semester we did just that. He was from the other dorm, South Hall, and was one of their pedigree front men. Our disdain for him had to be carefully veiled, lest we upset the precious balance that kept relations between the two houses of Houghton at a somewhat reasonable peace. Oh, to be sure, he hated us just as much. In fact, we two vied for the affections of the same young doe-eyed lass. But the passive observer would’ve thought we served in ‘Nam together or something, with our back-slapping brand of camaraderie; elliptical orbits taking us in and out of the same groups of friends.
His mistake was the Homecoming Dinner, or rather going to the Homecoming Dinner…the type of event one does not normally wear a stupid little Von Dutch hat to.
My friend (we’ll call him Rick, although this was not even remotely his name) and I made eye-contact over a row of tables when we saw him enter the cafeteria, hatless, but compensating with some doe eyes on his arm.
We knew the time was now. I was Homecoming King, of all the freaks of nature, and Rick had the prettiest girl at the dinner, but we knew the moment demanded an expediency of action that superseded these elements.
I nodded. He nodded back.
What began over IBC and Creme Pies was finished by abandoning sparkling cider and filet mignon. We excused ourselves and reconnoitered by the coats, breathless. Down the trail to South Hall we ran, the campus eerily empty.
Into the hated hall, somewhat confused by the unfamiliar layout, we found the hunted’s lair.
Inhale, exhale.
Looked to the left.
Looked to the right.
Still breathless.
The door was unlocked!
We bum-rushed the room, expecting a difficult search — but there, like the golden chalice, sat the stupid little Von Dutch hat on top of his Aiwa stereo.
Our hearts pounded a jungle beat. I was blinded with opportunity, revenge choking my vision. Those doe eyes squeezing shut with the laugh he had just given her.
Rick to the rescue. A pair or scissors glinted under the light of the Lava Lamp.
Deftly, smoothly; more for me than for him.
A gray, sweat-stained Von Dutch hat cut neatly into three pieces.
They spelled out, on his pillow case:
R.I.P.
Our filet mignon was still warm.
Best of Bweinh! — Genesis 1-4
Every Wednesday, we discuss a passage from the Bible, and this week, we reprint our very first — Genesis chapters 1 through 4.
INTRODUCTION:
Steve:
It seems there’s a widening dichotomy these days between those who read the opening to Genesis as a scientific textbook, and those who see it as an ancient creation myth, on par with the claim that Earth rides on the back of a giant turtle.
I stake a claim between those two positions, believing wholeheartedly in the divine creation of the universe as told in Genesis, while remaining largely unconcerned about specific details undefined by the text. This story was not meant to answer all the scientific and philosophical questions surrounding the origin of the world; if it had been, it would have befuddled all its readers, ancient and modern. What it tells us is enough, and what it tells us is not only perfectly compatible with the discoveries of science, but God’s simple and singular command for light to ‘be’ seems more and more apt as the Big Bang is explained theoretically.
Job:
I’ve always wondered if this springboard to the Bible, these first four chapters, is where most people in their darkest hour flip – having turned to God in anger, frustration, pain or confusion. Subsequently, I’ve always wished that the Gideons would put their “recommended reading” page right between the first and second chapters. An ambush of sorts.
SOMETHING YOU’D NEVER NOTICED BEFORE:
Djere:
2:23 is in poetic form. It’s more than just a quote, Adam notices Eve and just casually says what he does, but he says it in the poetic form.
Tom:
1:11 notes that plants came before animals, an evolutionarily sound idea.
Job:
In the first verse of chapter 3, the serpent is described as being more crafty than any of the wild animals God had made. Am I to think then that God made domesticated animals alongside them for provisional purposes, implying the known need for future sacrifice?
Josh J:
One theory of The Fall is that eating the forbidden fruit represents Adam and Eve discovering their sexuality. The Scriptures rule out this possibility: 1:28 contains a command to “be fruitful and increase in number.” Since there’s only one way, by God’s own design, to accomplish this, human sexuality is actually God-ordained.
Steve:
Some complain the first two chapters of Genesis are incompatible, that the Biblical creation account can’t be true because it’s self-contradictory. But re-reading these chapters, I see it more like the classic structure of a sermon, essay or speech — start off with an overview, then zoom in on the particular point you want to make. The retelling of the creation of man gives more details, not contradictory ones, and it explains a lot.
BEST BAND NAME FROM THE PASSAGE:
Tom, Djere: Bdellium
Steve: Tunics of Skin
Job: Vengeance Seven Times Over
Josh J: Surface of the Deep
Best of Bweinh! — Let Them Eat Cake
Originally published March 19, 2007.
When Prohibition swept through 1920s America, the effect was not just limited to the intake of spirits — several major corporations found themselves with, simply, nothing to do. 
The ones that wanted to survive refocused their factories into other endeavors. Coors made malted milk and ceramics, while Budweiser hawked yeast — brand name and logo intact, but a wholly different product.
I’ve recently begun to engage, rather than ignore, some of the new and provocative literary products of our faith — The Prayer of Jabez, Your Best Life Now, and the Purpose-Driven texts that make up the majority of what modern believers rally behind. When I read some of these works I sense, whether above or below the service, embarrassment toward Christ and His message in light of a world ever more aggressive in its dismissal of that Message.
The writers and ideologues behind some of these works seem to have sensed this change, and seek to re-brand the faith in a style more palatable to our sin-soaked society — as if to apologize for the tension caused by our ‘judgmental’ nature. The name of Jesus is invoked and the cross around the neck remains intact, but the message is horribly neutered — a relativism that adds a carpool lane to our narrow way.
Let me tell you about my home. Vermont, for all her lovely rolling hills, has the unfortunate distinction of being the second-most unchurched state in the nation, with 25% of its population claiming no religion at all. (Oregon is number one; Colorado number three… atheism and poor hygiene must be linked somehow.) Of the remaining 75%, the number of evangelical Christians is staggeringly low, so with the level of combat one sees when preaching the gospel kin to that preached by the saints, a somber mindset sets in. I sense, daily, a mobile and coordinated effort to bring our faith to its knees — not in prayer but in defeat — by intimidating us into an intellectual sterilization of the Truth or the loss of motivation to preach it at all.
They want us to change our product.
But in these odd, hard-to-describe times, I’m all about the still. I won’t be selling any yeast like our friends at Budweiser, knowing it leavens the whole lump.
You will find in my message only 200 proof Gospel Truth.
Moonshine and bathtub gin, my friends.
Best of Bweinh! — Dating or Courtship?
Originally published November 5, 2007.
Read volume 1 here and volume 3 here!
Q. How should a young Christian bachelor handle a romantic relationship?
A. Hiding in the alleyway to the heart of every desirable, virtuous Christian female I’ve ever pursued was the darkly-shrouded character of Joshua Harris, author of the equally praised and notorious I Kissed Dating Goodbye. In this alleyway I have put up some spirited and tremendous fights, but always seemed to fail, as Harris swung the proverbial tire iron against my mouth just as I uttered a final, desperate “Fascist!” I’d wake up out on the curb the following morning, blinking in the sunlight . . . bruised and battered. Throttled. The loser.
My foil, this Harris fellow. He always seemed to head me off in college, and as time went on, he even seemed to take preemptive steps to ensure my romantic failure. I decided to wait him out, for surely his influence would drop off, and I could mount new offensives on the hearts I treasured. This never happened. I thought these women were asking for the impossible; ironically over-romanticizing our interaction by never allowing for a medium ground. It was go big or go home with these chicks. Suddenly, parents were part of the quotient, friends had to be courted and won over with equal necessity. Anger.
The female I pursued with the greatest amount of energy in my career — Lady Jerusalem of my Crusades — was a devout follower of Harris’s philosophy. In desperation I waited for a time when a friend was working the register at the college bookstore, bought the book with a wink, snuck it back to the dorm and proceeded to read it furiously, not for edification, but as a coach who had miraculously come across his rival’s playbook. Finally, theology to pick apart, poor analogies to dismantle, and an infuriating condescension to inflate and act injured by.
When it was finally fully read (much to the jealousy of my uncracked textbooks), I sat back and realized what was so wrong with the book, where its flaw was most exaggerated.
The book was not written for Americans. It’s written, rather, for some romanticized Victorian-era youth, ripped straight from the pages of Pride and Prejudice. I was infuriated. A little research revealed my suspicions that Harris was homeschooled (as was I; stand by).
I prepared my verbal counter-offensive, deciding that the best way to slip past Harris in the alleyway was to complement him to a degree while roundly dismissing him. I looked to President Hoover for guidance, memorizing his dismissal of prohibition: “Our country has deliberately undertaken a great social and economic experiment, noble in motive and far-reaching in purpose.” Yes, that’s the ticket, I told myself. Americans don’t court, we date. And if we were to attempt a comprehensively Biblical approach to love, we’d do neither, leaving the decision entirely to our parents.
So I played the role of a Benedict Arnold, betraying my homeschooled tribe. I told the object of my desires how flawed his worldview had to be, having been so isolated for so long. I told her I had suffered the same fate, but was smarter than the average bear and came through unscathed. She seemed to be listening anew. I went for the kill, tearing homeschooling a new one, while loving all it had done for me.
Did I feel dirty? Absolutely.
Did I feel bad? Not even a little bit.
It’s a good premise, I assured her, noble and just — just not achievable. I’d love to convince your parents first, but I don’t even know if I want to convince them — eyes sheepishly on the carpet, with a hushed whisper — without knowing if I like you enough. What do you say we catch some mini-golf and a movie this weekend?
I mean, if you had camels, I’d water them for you, but since you don’t, how about we get a couple of slices?
We’re Americans, for the love of Mike — Christian Americans, 8 days a week; but Americans, still. Let’s do it our way. Let’s rebel against this rebellion!
Of course I never offered, and don’t still, any clear response to Harris and his followers, other than the status quo highlighted with Christian integrity. But at the time I was able to offer up a dazzling array of one-liners that kept the defense guessing with every snap.
And while I am, of course, unmarried and hopeless, with zero prospects, I hold it as a point of personal pride (an eternal ego ember, no matter how immature I may have been) that I was able to waltz into that alleyway, after so many repeat beatings, feed Joshy a corner of that proverbial dumpster, then take his recently brain-soiled apostle to see a movie — stealing a kiss during the lull in the story and the climax of our relationship.
Popcorn, Josh. She tasted like hot, buttered popcorn.
Clash of the Titans LXXX: Short-Term Mission Trips
| In this corner, opposing short-term missions, is Job! | And in this corner, in favor of the trips, is Josh! | |
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Dear _______ , Hi! Some of you are my family, some of you know me from church, and some of you are friends of my parents, whom I assume must have some money. Don\’t you just love the Northeast this time of year? Or whatever part of the country you might live in? I just love it when the snow melts and the growing grass seems to scream, “Time for a short-term mission trip!” That\’s right — while our youth group leader isn\’t sure yet where he feels “led” to take the youth group on our annual summer mission trip to any non-American place that\’ll have us, we\’ve been told to raise $3000 anyway. So I\’m writing you! Won\’t you please donate $100 so I can spend a day traveling to Honduras or somewhere, a day to recover from jet lag, four days to hammer away on a roof or something, another day to sight-see, and then a day flying home? I\’ll take pictures! While I am already knee-deep in college planning and other social trappings that will ensure a life lived here in the States, I think it best not to invest myself completely in a summer job that will expose me (and the Gospel) to my unbelieving contemporaries. Instead, I want to spend a week or two struggling with the language somewhere visually stunning and, quite possibly, way more Christian than my own country! Viva wherever! I\’ll be going with 20-25 other young people and in addition to our iPods, we’ll also be taking our petty dramas and romances. Yeah, Shannon is going but she\’s being really weird lately. We, like, never play foosball anymore on Wednesday nights. I think Tyler may have told her how I kissed Esther. OMG! Hopefully we can work it out over a pile of rubbish. Look, it\’s just $100, but it’ll look like a million bucks on a college application. So whaddya say? What’s that? I live mere miles from inner cities choked with poverty and crime, places where Satan has laid easy claim? I have friends in school who don\’t even know I\’m a Christian? (My art teacher does — she goes to my church!) My understanding of theological matters is at best elementary, while my concept of missions will soon be forever shaped by gross excess and lack of commitment, in an appallingly poor nation we will leave to flap in the wind? And — worst of all — I only stand to (maybe) accomplish temporary physical gain, while learning to accept that as reasonable proxy for the eternal and spiritual? Well… How ’bout $50 then? |
My first question when I received this assignment was how exactly we were defining short-term mission trips. Since Job was involved, I should have known the answer would be “narrowly and cynically.” So, if the question is whether I think it’s a good idea to take weeklong trips, masquerading as vacations, to areas so distant as to be a financial burden, by large groups of people with questionable spiritual maturity, then I guess not. But what we’re looking at here is an error in execution, not a wholesale indictment of short-term missions. Let me start by conceding that I don’t believe ministry is ideally accomplished in the short term, that it takes commitment and often immersion to make real Gospel connections. But many people have ministries almost entirely defined by the short term, including the apostle Paul, and — in a way — Job’s own pope-whuppin’ hero, Billy Graham. One man plants, another waters, you know the drill. And who said a missions trip has to be to the other side of the world? Job correctly recognizes that there are fields to be harvested right in our backyard, and yet he still frames this debate in caricature. Having personally led student-based mission teams all over the northeast United States, I can assure you that not every effort fits that mold. Ultimately, I think short-term missions should have a few goals in mind. Energizing existing ministries with extra manpower and new perspective is obvious. So is the idea of encouraging both the visiting team and the host church, by shrinking the world and expanding the body of believers. But what is also okay is to concede that sometimes the visitors will be the ones most blessed and convicted, challenged to go back boldly to the need at home, while not forgetting the world of need they’ve witnessed firsthand. You might even be able to get that all done in a week. What did you do with your spring break? |
Clinton’s Curdling
“I remember landing under sniper fire. There was supposed to be some kind of a greeting ceremony at the airport, but instead we just ran with our heads down to get into the vehicles to get to our base.”
The above quote is a patent lie by former first lady, and current Democratic presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton. This was no hazy recollection or minor embroidering on her 1996 visit to Bosnia, but rather, a huge fumble.
The images currently being looped on cable news are very good ones. Clinton looks comfortable, authoritative, and frankly presidential, as she walks through what appears very much to be a war zone. She looks brave, not dodgy, shaking hands and sharing warm greetings with soldiers and civilians alike. Surveying, empathizing, politicizing. And doing it all, most importantly, without Bill at her side.
This is the first time I’ve seen these images (which surprises me, as an aggressive consumer of all news). It is just the type of spin-worthy capital she needs to convince the electorate that she has some modicum of experience.
But her greed has absolutely spoiled the video, like pouring expired cream into a perfectly good cup of coffee. Curdled, it is no longer of any value to her, but is, instead, something to be poured down the sink. Images of her shaking the hand of a colonel on a shelled tarmac is now proof of a lie, not leadership.
Ultimately, that trip to Bosnia — on which she was accompanied by Sinbad, Sheryl Crow and her daughter — was made after the peace, and served no greater purpose than a photo op.
But this is true of most political visits abroad, so I wouldn’t hold it against her to use camouflage as a prop on the stage of her candidacy. But this mishandling is greed, courtesy of a brain that has entered the realm of untruth and grown unsettlingly comfortable there…
Turns out Bill was at her side after all.
Bweinh! Goes to the Movies: 10,000 BC
I knew a girl like 10,000 BC once. An entity of enthralling beauty and delicately constructed features, but once I discovered how shallow and plotless she truly was, I came to resent the effort spent on her charms. As such is this movie, a libation poured out on the ground of cinema.
To be sure, the fanboys will have something to text each other about. The graphics are state-of-the-art, at times truly captivating, and there’s enough gore to sate the bloodlust of any desensitized young American man. The cinematography was beautifully captured, and it covered the entire earthscape, from snowy hillsides to dry deserts. But — I say again — I was just appalled that so much effort could be expended to provide this beautiful vehicle of a motion picture, then occupy it with a little runt of a story.
To call it formulaic would give it too much credit. Missed opportunities to force myself to become emotionally invested in characters were all too frequently evident, and the script smacked of having been written in an afternoon. Enthralling CGI manifestations like the saber-toothed tiger were sadly, sorely wasted, and the timeline of technological advances was irritatingly incongruous.
The film is rumored to have cost more that $100 million to produce, which is remarkable for a flick that doesn’t boast one A-list actor. You can clearly see where the money was spent. Please note it wasn’t on acting talent.
The movie has no swearing (of the anno domini variety at least), and despite the loincloth era setting, there was practically no nudity. Also, while numbing, the story is also harmless, and does achieve its thinly stated goal of proving that men can’t be gods. If you don’t mind horribly warping your kids’ sense of history and Egyptian architecture, this could be an easy way to kill a night at the movies.
But as this wannabe epic wound down, and the remaining cents of my $8 gasped their last, I just wanted more. I didn’t want to have any points driven home, and I didn’t want to feel educated about culture and earthly history. I simply wanted to be entertained. I frankly expected this, from the director of Independence Day: more of the ridiculous, yet thrilling, variety of film that doesn’t last much longer than the parking lot, but makes your popcorn taste better in the theatre.
I’m not hard to please, but this film was resoundingly poor, ill-conceived, and executed with only the vaguest of intentions. While it wanted to appear as a revolution in modern film-making, believe me — there was no wheel invented here.
Best of Bweinh! — Is Hell Eternal?
| In this corner, arguing that hell is finite, is Job! | And in this corner, arguing that hell is eternal, is Dave! | |
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I hail from the Advent Christian denomination, the Millennium Falcon of Protestants — old and small. Two main tenets from our statement of faith create the most distance between us and the Empire. First, we believe in “soul sleep” — a person doesn’t immediately ascend or descend to heaven or hell but remains, well, dead (1 Thessalonians 4:16) until Christ’s return and the subsequent judgment. Second, we don’t believe hell lasts forever, as some might imagine. We believe that when Matthew writes that “these (the wicked) will go away into eternal punishment,” he means eternal destruction (not necessarily torment) and separation from God. Let me clarify that point. My opposition would seem to read that verse to mean the wicked will go away into an eternal life of punishment; I read it to say the end of their lives is the punishment. While neither of these Adventist points pertain to salvation and are best summed up as “splitting hairs,” they are, nevertheless, important for Christians to discuss because of the way the world has begun to paint our views. This point can lead to the larger and more relevant debate — how else is our faith colored by things other than Scripture? Be it Gary Larson’s Far Side or the iconic film It’s a Wonderful Life, we — and the world — have begun to view both heaven and hell through the filter of modern fiction, lore and whimsy. The idea of the torment one might receive eternally in hell or the bliss awaiting in heaven is largely produced by our “Mind’s Eye.” Lava, steam, wailing, pitchforks? Clouds, togas, gold, pearly gates? With this as our tapestry of thought, our theology tends to coordinate itself with it. I don’t think anyone would argue accuracy has been the foremost concern of Christianity over the past few centuries. But rather than deferring to Dante, I note instead the words of the Apostle Paul in his second letter to the Thessalonians (1:8-10) — “He will punish those who do not know God and do not obey the gospel of our Lord Jesus. They will be punished with everlasting destruction and shut out from the presence of the Lord, and from the majesty of His power on the day He comes to be glorified in His holy people and to be marveled at among all those who have believed.” While I can find a duality of thought in some verses, this one is far too straightforward to be renegotiated per the notion that the damned are due the déjà  vu of recurrent scorched skin. Paul infers nothing but a totality of dismissal from consciousness. I think the word “everlasting” is employed here and elsewhere concerning the afterlife because of the pagan religious thinking that Thessalonica and other locations were prone to. The idea of a soul as a cockroach, able to scurry under the fridge of malleable consequences, was one Paul was urgent to dispel. And it’s making a comeback. While I have already noted that our main concern should be what happens here in the fourth quarter, not in the locker room after the game, take it from Chewbacca — things are not always as you’ve always thought them to be. |
“There is no doctrine I would more willingly remove from Christianity than [hell], if it lay in my power…” In 1793 William Blake published The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Although he confessed ambiguity over Blake’s meaning, C.S. Lewis intended and entitled The Great Divorce as a response of sorts; in his view, the inhabitants of Heaven and hell could never be reconciled, for they are ever growing further apart, not closer. It’s a salient point in whether hell is eternal — if hell is temporary, we must assume that either its inhabitants are, in some fashion, being reformed, with an eye toward reuniting them with the inhabitants of Heaven — or their immortal soul has to be destroyed, allowing it to escape eternal damnation through annihilation. Is there some hint in the Bible of a place where such reconciliation could be accomplished? Is there evidence for annihilation to render Hell temporary? First let me make clear that my belief in eternal hell is not based on Lewis’s work or personal preference, but the authority of the Bible. It is stated clearly in Matthew 25:46 that “these [the wicked] will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” The word eternal, used twice, is the same word in the Greek and carries the same meaning in both phrases. The punishments of hell are just as eternal for the wicked as eternal life is for the righteous, whether we consider purgatory or annihilation. Other references, including Mark 9:42-48, Luke 16:19-31, 2 Thess. 1:8,9, Jude 7-13, and Rev. 14:9-11, affirm that Hell and its attendant punishments are eternal. The only Christian doctrine to support a temporary rehabilitation arrangement after death is purgatory. This is a doctrine of the Catholic Church whereby God takes people at death and holds them in torment until someone ransoms them. Originally this could be accomplished through prayers and good deeds on their behalf, but during fundraising for St. Peter’s Basilica, the church shifted its preference to cash. Any attempt to make hell less than permanent on the basis of reforming the wicked completely removes the belief in hell, leaving us with Heaven and purgatory. But this would be purgatory even the Catholic Church does not believe in, for in their doctrine, purgatory is purification the believer undergoes in preparation for Heaven. It’s never portrayed as a place the wicked can go. In Catholic doctrine, no one escapes Hell; only the Christian sees purgatory, then Heaven. Annihilation is a more modern achievement that rests on two arguments. The first is that God can’t punish finite sins with an infinite Hell, for this would be unfair and disproportionate. But how then can we expect God to reward finite obedience to the Gospel with an infinite Heaven? Each position is taught in equality in Matthew 25; what applies to one certainly would apply to the other. The second argument is that the Bible doesn’t say all men possess immortality, only God and the righteous. This would mean men would eventually perish and hell would cease to exist. There is more evidence for this, as Scripture does not seem to make any explicit statement that all men possess an immortal soul. But the enormous weight of passages presenting hell as eternal gives sufficient reason to believe it is taught by inference. |
Best of Job — For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
Originally published on Christmas 2005.
On the anniversary of my Savior’s birth, I’ve decided it is time to return the favor for all His grace and sopping up of my sins and whatnot. This time of year is so manic, as we stress about what to get people and what we might get. But the true meaning of this season is the manifestation of the Messiah — it’s His birthday!
We should give Him a gift, right?
But what do you get for the man who can claim every last sin the human race has ever committed? That’s a tall order!
I’ve thought long and hard about what to get Him. I listened intently to other Christians this year, read their devotionals, publications, and blogs, listened to their prayers, engaged them in discussion of their struggles, and through all this, I noticed one thing I should get the Son of God this year.
A total overhaul of his Faith!
During this “makeover” we’ll cut off a lot of scriptural “fat”. You see, we like the Word of God, but must there be so many words of God!?
The first to go will be “Lean not on your own understanding, and in all your ways acknowledge Him.” It’s cute, but it’s so Little House on the Prairie! C’mon on now, Lord, let’s get into the 20th century!
While my insides broil with wild insecurity, self-doubt and loathing, I am so much better at faking it when I lean on my own understanding. You don’t want your followers running around acting insecure, do You?!?
Of course not!
If I can delicately, artistically and smoothly integrate worldly things into a quasi-Christian walk, I’ll blur the line between faith and opaque hedonism so seamlessly that I’ll put the world on its head faster than You can say “Kanye”!
“I fooled you about the depth of my Christian walk and I give all the glory to God.”
Boom!
Number two — only one way to the Father? Tsk tsk!
Can you imagine if Disney World only had one entrance? They’d hardly get any business at all, and that’s the happiest place on earth! In all seriousness, Christ, this is pretty potent, hard-to-swallow stuff. We need to water it all down (some doubt about scriptural integrity, the true nature of the Biblical narrative, the essence of grace, etc.) to pave the way for a “catch-all” deal, where even the people who patently reject You are still accepted.
We’ll call this “progressive” because it’s kinda sexy that way. I’ll make it seem like I’m compassionate and understanding — even loving — toward people of other religions. I hate to be harshly and crudely judgmental of them, so I’ll carefully renegotiate the fact that I am only loving myself (and my carefully prepared self-image) by not wanting to appear as a closed-minded prude lacking the intellectual integrity to see the peace and beauty of other religions.
I’m a modern man, for Christ’s sake!
And if this convoluted, turncoat love actually winds up damning souls to hell, at least I won’t have to face their aggression, contempt and incredulity here on Earth!
Phew! Dodged that bullet!
(James, you and your five chapters were fun, but we’re all set now, I think. You can probably catch a few gigs at a Greek Orthodox Church or something. Thanks for coming out.
And hey, when you see Peter, could you ask him, hypothetically, if his two books were drowning, which one he would jump in and save? This sheep is plenty full.)
Ha!
And last, I think this whole thing will click much better if I finally acknowledge that it’s all about me. I will pray, incessantly, about tired and petty subjects that concern only me and my endless cycle of relational and financial problems. I will reduce the world to such a small scale that the idea that it will go up in spiritual flames won’t occur to me — unless it happens at work or in my bank account.
I will try to please fickle humans consistently, and You collaterally. (Hopefully.) (Kinda.)
I will worry about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.
I will be passable at what’s good, while fully immersed in what’s evil.
I will rarely finish what I start if it demands too much of me.
Throughout it all, I will summon the gall to call myself Your follower, and in a sense of obligation, I will say I love You more than anything or anyone else, put You above all else, blah blah blah.
And the world will know us by our love! *wink*
Happy Birthday!! I hope You like it!
Clash of the Titans LXXI: White Meat v Dark Meat
| In this corner, backing white meat, is Job! | And in this corner, arguing for dark meat, is Connie! | ||
|
On a Thanksgiving day a few years ago, my brother Joel slaughtered, scalded, plucked and then deep fat fried two ducks, to serve as our turkey proxy. They were good ducks, by all accounts, well-bred, well-fed and extremely well-cared for. They were cooked well and thoroughly. There was nothing suspect about their life or culinary preparation…but they were doomed from the minute they were born, because ducks are all dark meat. The time spent between conception and parsley was merely spent building up to my disappointment. I blame cinema and literature for instilling in me a sense of awe concerning duck: that it was a sort of Everest of edibles. In fact, duck is oily, salty, fatty and overwhelmingly underwhelming. I ate the duck, I tried to appreciate the duck, I smiled and said I liked the duck. But my soul gobbled for the unhyped, protein-infused, and profusely healthier heaps of white meat a turkey offers. White meat is not only healthier, easier to handle, and not disgusting — but it complements, and is complemented by, other foods. It doesn’t demand a stage all to itself, but instead favors a team effort in pleasing your palate. From gravy to casseroles to cold sandwiches to soups, white meat knows how to delegate. Now, don’t get me wrong — I’m a bachelor. I’ve eaten my fair share of dark meat and I will eat it again. I’m not prejudiced against any food, and my stomach is the Ellis Island of your kitchen. Give me your fried, your baked, your raw; give me your tarts that pop, your topping of melted cheese. I don’t care. But as a proverbial immigration officer stamping the papers of the aliens seeking entrance to the new world of my tummy, I can discern those that stand a chance of climbing the menu ladder, and those doomed to spend their lives as esoteric members of an old cookbook. The forgotten. The undesirable. Thus is dark meat. It is, as a fact, edible, but it is not mainstream. It is not everyday. It is, my friends, the dreaded entity that is an acquired taste. If you either prefer dark meat, or are one of those souls who say they do, so they can be different, I actually don’t wish to dissuade you. Your contributions to the Thanksgiving meal — throwing yourself on the grenade of that greasy mess on the other side of the platter — only serves to distribute the wealth of white meat among those who know that it is the vehicle to a truly satisfying and diversified meal. Dark meat? You’re dead to me. Unless you’re free. |
There are few things I enjoy more than roasted chicken. My favorite way of preparing my bird is my crock pot, but be careful! Overcooking makes her fall apart, which is fine for Kickin’ Chicken Soup, but not if you want to enjoy the actual chicken pieces with the bones still attached. I like to put a whole orange or a peeled onion into the cavity of my bird while it’s cooking, then season it with an herb mix called Citrus Grill. Within minutes I’m carving away — carefully putting the boring, tasteless white meat on one side of the platter, and the juicy, flavorful darker portions on the other. I’ve always preferred the dark meat because of the flavor, and it’s not just limited to the meat family. I also like darker versions of gravies, breads, ice creams (Friendly’s Chocolate Almond Chip!), rice, even milk — and of course chocolate. White chocolate is simply disgusting! I’ve heard all of the stories about how dark meat contains more fat, but for years, I’ve been singing the old song, “If loving you is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right.” And now, I’ve been vindicated — as you shall see from my research. By the way, that research says red meat belongs in the the dark meat family, so a vote for the pasty white stuff is a vote against the good old American Porterhouse! The primary reason dark meat has been labeled bad — besides the political agenda — is saturated fat content. Unfortunately, the general public was considered too dumb to understand the difference between saturated fats and other fats. I cannot accept that. Dark meats simply have more myoglobin proteins, the magic stuff that ships oxygen to the muscle cells; they need them to transfer oxygen more efficiently to the muscles. Muscles which are used more frequently become dark. This is why non-flying poultry drumsticks are dark meat, while breast meat is white. Dark meats tend to contain more zinc, riboflavin, niacin, thiamin, vitamins B6 and B12, amino acids, iron than white meats. Chicken dark meat contain vitamins A, K, B6, B12, niacin, folate, pantothenic acid, minerals as selenium, phosphorus and zinc. Even the fats in most of the dark meats have healthy parts; they contain Omega-3 and Omega-6 fatty acids, and other ‘healthy’ fats. Now take a look at the fat content of that bowl of morning cereal twigs with a cup of organic milk. I will take my steak on a grill with some wood chips, thank you. Preferably with Djere grilling.
|
Clash of The Titans XIII: Fire
Originally printed on April 13, 2007.
| In this corner, arguing that fire is overrated, is Job! | And in this corner, supporting fire, is Djere! | |
|
Fire as a survival tool? Yeah, whatever. Fire? You’re dead to me… I understand that when man first left the Garden, fire may have played a very important role in the survival and perpetuation of our species. Whether it was used for cooking bacteria out of meat or as an agent of warmth, I’m sure fire proved priceless to our ancestors. But I believe we need to ask ourselves, “Fire, what have you done for me lately?” If my little single-engine plane crashed in Alaska, leaving my bush pilot dead and me miraculously alive, you best believe I ain’t wastin’ none of my precious time or energy runnin’ around like JoJo the Idiot Circus Clown, trying to make fire. What’s it gonna do, really? Warm my extremities? Cook the snow rabbit I’ll never catch? I’m sure that’s how most search and rescue people find their targets — hunched over some feeble kindling and moss, the face of their watch frozen in their hand, telling the tale of their futile and desperate efforts to refract sunshine into flame. Me? They’ll find me back at base camp, ripping through some MREs, reading the newspaper, and telling them where I left the bush pilot. Wanna know why? I didn’t stay put and waste my time on combustion; I sucked it up and com-busted my way right outta there! Okay, I can hear you now. “Job, you’re an idiot!” “Job, you’re gonna die.” “No, Job, seriously, you’re an idiot.” But perhaps I’m just forward-thinking. For centuries people thought Earth was flat, and as a result, tethered themselves to familiar ports, afraid to sail off the edge of the world. Similarly, for centuries, people in survival situations have trusted Fire to save their sorry selves, and they’ve stayed tethered to their locations, rubbing sticks together and acting like they actually know what flint is, SOSing themselves crazy. But me? I’m a latter-day Columbus, willing to thumb my nose at accepted science and Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria-ing myself to new frontiers. Fire might be a luxury, but when it comes to survival, it is SO overrated. |
Of all the survival tips, tools, and tricks, fire is the American Express: don’t leave home without it. Any storied mercenary, mountaineer, or adventurer such as myself will tell you that when it comes to surviving the chilling cold winter winds of Siberia, the torrential monsoons of Southeast Asia, or a hostile desert crawling with wildlife, without fire, you will die. You. Will. Die. The benefits of fire are obvious and threefold. First, heat. When the sun goes down, Earth loses its heat source. When the planet loses its heat source, so do you. And a survival situation is more than just the discomfort you face while jogging six blocks down the street to Starbucks to get warm, Job. When base camp is hundreds of miles away, when there are no straight lines to gauge direction and distance, when you’re injured and you can’t just follow your nose back to your Froot Loops, what will you do? When hypothermia sets in, there’s only one way to stave off the cold that permeates, debilitates, and suffocates. Fire will save your life. Second, protection. Most of the predators that will attack a human in the wild are both nocturnal and opportunistic. Wolves, jackals, jihadists, dingos, and ROUSes all attack under the cover of darkness. Light from a fire will reveal your enemy and, in a pinch, make for an effective weapon. Use of tools separates the higher primates from the lower primates; use of fire separates us from the higher primates. Every other creature is instinctively afraid of the very tool some would so callously cast aside — fire will save your life. Third, morale. The greatest obstacle to survival is not nature, predators, or enemy combatants. It’s human nature. Fear and hopelessness will debilitate you more effectively than any RPG: from the inside out. If your survival depends on others, keeping morale high will increase your chances immensely. In the cold and dark, fear creeps in, and though light and heat may seem like creature comforts, they’ll keep you sane. Fire will save your life. As a luxury item, fire is overrated. But as a survival tool, it’s next to none. Fire will save your life. |
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