Stupid Things That Sound Nice, But Are Wrong

"If we surround ourselves with only like-minded individuals, we won't grow intellectually or spiritually." Someone said that to me. "Disagreement and debate is what makes this country great." I hear variations of that one, too, like, "It's our differences that make us stronger." These are very pleasant things to say and hear, very politically correct when you're at odds with someone, very along the lines of agreeing to disagree. But they're actually pretty stupid if you put any amount of thought into them. (It's okay for me to say that despite your disagreement, because by your logic I'm causing you to grow; I take comfort in knowing that you cannot abandon me for such derision, or your well-being might suffer.)

It makes zero difference what anybody thinks about something that is true. Well, I shouldn't say zero, because the fools who ignore truth and pretend there is an alternative can actually do unknowing harm if avoidance has consequences. If you're about to be hit by a train (I choose a train in this example because I like the imagery of something that has no course but one unless derailed), and I see it plainly and have the opportunity to push you out of its way, if I see that you are not in motion to remove yourself from its path--whether you are aware of your impending meeting or not--it is fair to expect that I should act in your interest and attempt a rescue. (The whole principle of fairness has fantastic wealth of material in itself, but for now I'll just pass right through it to get on to the point.) Now there are those whose idea of a rescue is try and derail the thing, but a more likely productive effort would be to focus my energies in the moment entirely on getting you quickly out of its way. The thing still proceeds, and may yet find others on the track ahead, but you the individual are past its danger. If the train is a dumb idea like atheism, it is fairly senseless to try and derail it if you can safely remove the individuals one by one that it might strike, and it is fine if a dumb idea like that runs its course without splattering anyone. In that regard, the response of many with religious inclinations to those without has been counterproductive, because many would rather be hit by a train than with a Bible.

There's something else I should give equal treatment to, and that is that truth is truth regardless also of faith. Believing anything will not make it true; it will only make your perception that it is true, which can accurately be called out as delusional if it is not, though by that point you very likely do not care. So anyone who says anything about faith in trying to prove or disprove anything is just being silly. It is possible, however, for truth to strengthen faith, which I believe is what most of the anti-religious are hoping for. But you must first be willing to accept truth and see it for what it is.

Since I've decided to pick on atheism (more accurately agnosticism, because it is not possible for a creature to not believe it was created, so we are really only dealing with denial, which is only a lie to oneself and not a valid system of belief), we benefit from considering something important about some terms frequently thrown around in the discussion. "Proof" is one, which leads to things like "facts" and "evidence", and often borrows from scientific approach, and is suggestive of a courtroom drama in which cases are laid out before a determination is made. I'm equally as happy to work within those confines as without, so let's lay a very important foundation and proceed from there. Let's think about what proves a thing--what makes it factual. Usually when someone tells me they want proof of God, they go on to describe something very tangibly present before them, usually a personified God himself right in the same room, performing miracles. Now when Jesus was on earth, tangibly present, performing miracles--indeed, raising from the dead--people still chose not to believe. So what proof are people really asking for that they would be willing to accept? I don't have a good answer to this, but I suspect it would look very much like a personal genie, which is certainly what many people suppose God is. But then, that wouldn't be much of a God, would it? That's much more of a mythology than what an actual God would need to be. An actual God could not be fully contained within its own creation; it could be present and evident, but would certainly have to be larger and operate on a much grander level.

So, does that mean, since an infinite God cannot be fully grasped in a finite scope, that it is unprovable and can therefore not be true, or at least not known? Of course not. If something is true, it is proof of itself. Since we think linearly, let's think of it as a crime scene. The truth is what we are trying to glean, through what? Evidence. So evidence is a sort of presentation to those who were not present of a perception of something true and real that definitely happened. If it cannot be convincingly presented to, let's say, the jurors and judge, did it still happen? Absolutely. And individuals hearing the body of evidence may find it sufficient or insufficient to convince them--the hardest skeptic in the room may require more than someone who doesn't care so much and would accept sooner than doubt, and that is why we generally seek consensus in matters of law, because there is in fact a sort of safety in numbers when we are able to transfer responsibility across a broader populace and assume less of it for ourselves. (This may actually be why we vote on anything at all--not because agreement makes something correct, but because another's surety can cause us to err with confidence and not much accountability.)

So, again, if something is true, its truth is its own proof, and its proof depends on its truthfulness, which is why only it has the authority and power of testifying about itself with any legitimacy. Truth testifying about itself is safe to take at its word, but untruth testifying about truth cannot be trusted. Whatever is fallible, whatever can be discredited, cannot contribute to the gleaning of truth and therefore has nothing to do with it, but it can effect our individual perceptions of truth, and that depends entirely on what we are willing to accept. So whoever asks for proof of God has not yet accepted the proof already in front of them. It is not that God cannot be proven, because truth is proven simply by existing and being true; it is that a person has not yet accumulated enough of whatever particular evidence they are looking for to move from unbelief to belief--which, again, has no bearing on the truth itself (I would hate to think I've been unclear about that point). There is no deficiency in the truth, but only in our knowledge of it, and I suppose this is the point where faith comes in. Faith is not a substitute for evidence--that sounds rather more like stupidity--but it holds off its revelations of perception until the threshold at which an individual's criteria for evidences has been met, and takes over from there. Now, things get muddled (maybe intentionally so) when people use the word "fact" interchangeably with "evidence", when it should in fact be interchangeable only with "truth". It is misrepresentative and deceptive to say "provable fact" when you mean "evidenced truth". All fact is proven by merit of being true; what you are instead looking for is enough evidence to overcome a preexisting bias--whatever personal impediment you've been nursing--to allow yourself to see truth for what it is. Where communication of that breaks down is in the false assertion that the variances of processing and accepting information somehow make the information itself relative to the hearer. No, only perception is relative, while truth remains 100% factual, proven truth, not at all threatened by anyone's inability to conceive of it.

That was the main thing I was concerned with for this writing, so now we can think about the implications on people who hold disagreement as some sort of lofty ideal. If you tell me you can't grow unless challenged by dissent, you're telling me that your perception of truth is relative and alterable, and that suggests to me that you are seeking consensus in order to validate presuppositions which have nothing to do with accuracy. When you agree to disagree, while you may both perceive yourselves correct, only one of you actually is. To consider it tyranny for the correct to stand by their correctness is just foolish; and it is a foolishness they in the wrong will likely also confront once their perception has changed, and their obstacles to belief have been surmounted, and they finally lay claim to the benefits of truth. Is it really our differences that make us stronger, or is it that one of us is actually right? We would be stronger if both of us were right, but in the absence of that, the one who is can probably carry the one who isn't a good bit of the way before being worn out by exhaustion.

So rather than praising conflict, it would be better if each party would attain sufficiency of faith for themselves, then truth could guide both and the collective group could go much further than if some remain burdensome. If not being on the same page really was beneficial, we would pair kindergarteners with grad students, and put laypersons in executive roles, and mix sporting leagues without any kind of detriment. But no, beginners learn together as beginners, then advance to intermediate levels, and hopefully again to expert when they have mastered enough of the skills to demonstrate proficiency and be reliable to instruct others. This can be taken as arrogance or accepted as the progression of wisdom. You can pretend to be an expert in matters you know nothing about, or you can accept your limitations and work to overcome them. But you cannot with any convincingness say to an expert that he is not or cannot be an expert because you yourself are not, and it must therefore be impossible. And you cannot say truth cannot be proven simply because it hasn't met your flawed (and by that I mean relative and alterable) criteria for processing it.

If my arguments can be useful to you, wonderful, but if you're unable to see what I see as truth, the missing pieces for your perception are for you alone to glean. There is a point where you yourself become convinced by your own nature inside you that truth is as laid out and apparent and easy to accept as it is to a child, because it does not ultimately depend on anything we understand, but it is rather staring us in the face with compassion and grace and humility, splendid and simple and complex as it is. You become an expert when you realize that all evidences hinge on truth, and your understanding of them can then rightly be filtered, and there is suddenly no disagreement or conflict that cannot be properly contextually placed. From that moment on, everything you see is further testimony to the knowable, personal God. Humanists who think it possible to leave this all-encompassing insight out of an arena like politics--or, really, any portion of life--misunderstand entirely what truth must be and lead to. An encounter with truth, especially after an exhausting search for it, is transformational. If you have not been transformed, you have probably not yet understood your encounter with truth. Instead of dismissing it, you should continue looking. The proof is there; the only setback to seeing it is you yourself. But--through faith, after working through your particular evidences--you are also your own key for overcoming it. In this, God has given you a great bit of leeway and responsibility, so I hope you don't rely too heavily on the mercies, opinions, and consensus of others.

I Could Never Hang Out With Myself

Aside from the obvious, there are several reasons I could never hang out with myself. It's probably necessary to confront this now while trying to discern why I have no friends. Right off the bat, I've just offended about eight people who immediately thought to themselves with the very last sentence, "Hey, jackass, what about me? I thought I was your friend!" Well, yes, of course I'm thinking of you, and certainly call you a friend... but, really, don't I treat you as more of a social network acquaintance than someone to invest in? Of course I do, and that's because I'm not the sort of person I wish I could find.

For one thing (and these things will be in no particular conscious order), I don't call. While I physiologically dread receiving phone calls, I still count those who break through (and are not selling insurance or attempting to collect a debt) as part of my inner circle, which is obviously not a very good circle, because I seldom allow any sort of continuation or allow my opposite around the circumference to bear equal burden or share equal reward. I exist very much isolated, and do very little to correct it aside from occasional wistfulness or sentimentality. I am somewhat aptly encouraged in those instances, but I should think I would find it incredibly tedious to respond to me when I reach out when it has only to do with my own self-interested whims and nothing to do with the real me or current state of life. If I wanted to be my own friend, I would make myself call me, even knowing that I am not the most receptive and that I was probably on both ends dreading the call, and then I would make me call myself back as a courtesy. Since I apparently lack this skill, I would probably find any emails and messages to myself to be slightly compulsory and patronizing, and it wouldn't cause me to want to foster the relationship.

For another thing, since I just mentioned patronage, I'm sure I would find myself condescending. Words are very important to me, so much so that I prefer to write them in attempt to retain control, and I have a tendency to challenge the use of words outright, elevating nuance and meaning of living communication at the expense of the live individual who just uttered whatever was the phrase I'm picking apart, often forgoing entirely the intent. I use at once too many and too few words without ever saying anything. If we're both lucky we might come away with some amusement, but more often I'll come away more perplexed and introspective than before, and the other party (in this case, me) will go away suspecting (or being very certain) that I did not listen, or that I trounced the heart and meaning of what was said--which is, either way, very discourteous and unfeeling. I'm sure I would roll my eyes and rant afterward about how I found myself so ridiculously superior, as if lowly me couldn't grasp my lofty, flowery language, and I would be right to mock myself for being so pretentious. It's a tremendous turnoff, and I could probably never take myself seriously--especially after obligatorily trudging through the kind of garbage I write. It would be exacerbated by the obvious mentality that I had anything original to offer--as if I came up with new concepts or information I'd never considered or was unable to arrive at on my own. I find such pretense appalling, and certainly won't waste time introducing it where it is unwelcome. So it is better if I just avoid myself altogether.

I said several reasons, didn't I? I think snobbery and elitism fall under the previous category, but let's mention them again just in case. I'm very convinced of my views, having put an awful lot of thought and practice behind them. It is usually not worth reopening a closed case once there is already a correct and established verdict just because someone else missed the trial, so I have a tendency to be noticeably, mercilessly dismissive when someone's evolution of thought has not progressed to the same extent as I suppose mine has. I'm torn on agreeing with myself here, but I can concede at least that I should be more considerate of the emotional attachment to such postures as I deem incomplete, and should approach the subject matters with significantly more grace and tact--perhaps to the degree that I don't even realize I'm leading myself down that road. While it is the case that truth is truth regardless of what we do with it, what we do with it can still influence others' receptiveness, so my attacks, whether justified or not, can have the unfortunate effect of emotionally hardening a heart, which has the power to then harden--or dull rather than sharpen, or darken if you prefer--a mind. That leads to shutting down emotionally, or at the very least withholding intimacy of human connection (intimacy would have been enough of a word, but I know some people find it problematic), and that has no place in friendship. So again, I could not hang out with myself, even if only for the lack of intellectual or spiritual closeness--possibly the very foundations of demonstrable equality--and I would have to take issue with most of what I said if there was any kind of depth beneath it. I would argue with myself just because I didn't like the delivery.

And there are practical matters too. I'm kind of a mooch. I say "kind of" because it is only passive--I don't set out to be a recipient of generosity. But I am pretty quick to accept gifts--especially in the form of food, especially if it is something I cannot justify buying for myself. I very often think to myself, "I hope someone gives me beer..." which does happen, but not frequently enough to be so upfront in my brain, and my anticipation of an evening should not factor it in so prevalently. The same can be said of accolades; I'm not altogether uncomfortable hearing what I perceive as praise, but I am incredibly reserved in offering it. I contribute very little to conversations aside from quips tantamount to promotional sound bites. I'm a sponge of a sort for entertainment, most particularly toward artists, who are more like peers than friends, and I usually have a fantasy in my head of storing them for "projects" (which in most cases do not and will not ever exist, so we may say that delusion is another of my unforgivable flaws); we tend to enjoy together our common ground and silently judge the uncommon.

Oh, dear... judgment. That's another big one. My cynicism and harshness could drive me close to insane. I can be most unpleasant to those uninitiated in my version of optimism (the sort where everything terrible continually happens for the very good reason that Christ will ultimately be exalted, but that we will very likely suffer--a term which can here mean in action without necessarily following in attitude--through to the very end when it finally does); and since we've already established that I shy away from intimacy, it is most likely that nearly everyone falls into that "uninitiated" category. And since I am me, it is easy to forget to view myself from the outside, and not easy to remember that I most likely appear unapproachable, and too negative to care or be worth pursuing. Sometimes I step back and view myself from another perspective, and am taken aback by the magnitude and volume of my non-redemptive side in contrast to the part that is actually redeemed. I would find myself very "woe is me" and draining, and not very inspiring to be around unless I enjoyed destitution and failure merely for the sake of extolling endurance as a quality (which, admittedly, I do, but it still wearies me after very long).

Despite uncommitted fondness, I do not go especially out of my way to attend the events important to others, and I've developed a particularly keen ability to justify or even assign a false nobility to my absence. I would stop inviting myself to things, because I would get tired of continually allowing my hope to be even slightly raised, only to be again let down on some practical grounds that could easily have been overcome. I would find the lack of effort disheartening, and think I must not be very important to myself. I would take it personally when I found out I did not follow my tweets or read my incessant blogs--that I presumably found them uninteresting and was rather irked that I'd infringed on my own territory, since I'd been writing since long before it was a thing to do. I'd be hurt that I never seemed to support my art or music or whatever other things I was passionate about. I would find me so self-involved that I would be annoyed with myself drinking my beer in those rare instances when the mooch-fulness won out over the self-centeredness and I did actually hang out. I would take note of every annoying thing I said or did and wonder why I was ever friendly toward someone like me to begin with. I would probably even invent some differences just to compound the offense and embellish my argument against me.

Furthermore, I've gone through this entire thing in my head thinking only about the male relationships in my life. Females don't even factor in, because I will absolutely never open myself in any degree to any female who is not my wife. So men can rest assured that I will never be anything but absolutely surface with their significant others--if even that--and women can just put it out of their heads that I would ever have a sensation other than fearfully and desperately wanting to flee, very much like a trapped animal darting his eyes about for an escape. While estimable in many regards, I should think that if I was a woman I would find this at least somewhat unappealing. If I was an unmarried woman, I would probably be blatantly offended, but this is the sole point I will not negotiate. Nevertheless, it could come across as misogynistic.

Sometimes I reach out. Sometimes I don't. I'm not very good at it, though I might be sufficient in expressing the effects of the disconnect; I'm sometimes able to emote in a way that transcends my inability to relate. That may be the only thing I would be drawn to in myself. Humor is fine. Intellect is fine. But I can get those things from reading, or watching TV, or listening to music. They're not friendship. I don't think I could ever hang out with myself because I don't think I would ever reach out to myself. Instead I just look in from the outside and out from the inside, and half admire and half pity me, thinking to myself, "What a lonely person that must be; what a sad life that will have been."

On Jesus' Authority Over Death

Something I've never thought about until now is why Jesus' death was unique. I don't mean the typical "It was the cruelest death anyone could bear..." descriptions of how it happened, nor even necessarily the resurrection, but what would have happened had He not been killed? Considering that death is the result and consequence of sin, and that the Son alone lived a perfect life without sin (as one in total communion with the Father could), He was therefore exempt from death, and it is quite possible (probable, I'd say) that He would not have died at all, but been taken up into heaven just as He was after conquering death.

So which is the element that robbed death of its power? It was the authority--not being subject to death, not under its jurisdiction--with which He said (paraphrased, of course) "Death has lost, and is now subject to me, and whoever follows me may now live, as I am their master." Death is not so much a punishment as a result, which should free up anyone hung on this "Why does God allow death?" question, so as Jesus enables through the Holy Spirit for us to be seen without sin, He is within His full rights to determine that we should no longer perish and that it has nothing whatsoever to do with our efforts. He extends His life to us by His incredible grace and love as we are conformed to His image (the image originally designed and designated in the garden).

It's a nonstarter to bother with why bad things happen to good people because there are no good people, only comparably good people, and that is not good enough. Even a comparably good person is wholly depraved and utterly wicked by the standard of what he was created for and subsequently turned away from. Instead, good things happen to bad people, and that would not be justice at all, but grace from God's infinitely loving kindness.

It is equally futile to be upset when anyone proves in the eyes of others to be wholly depraved and utterly wicked in even the smallest manner--even only acceptably depraved and minorly wicked. It is a shame when anyone in this condition (which is everyone) says they cannot tolerate hypocrisy, because a hypocritical person disapproving of hypocrisy is by nature hypocritical, and they must therefore be very disappointed with themselves (and justifiably so). What instead they are upset with is the level and manner of hypocrisy, but pleased to an extent to point out that it outweighs their own, so that their terrible condition might be downplayed. But none of that matters when all, in fact, aside from Jesus alone, deserve death. Death is in this context actually justice, and it remains just because a loving God and His perfect creation cannot be otherwise.

So how does a loving God continue with the reality of death (again, the consequence of sin), redeem it to His glory while maintaining His perfection, and have it remain just? By transferring the sin to the sinless. Death is subject to justice; it is just because the sinner deserves it. In order for death to remain just in the killing of the innocent Son of God--who neither deserved nor would otherwise have experienced it--He allowed Himself to take on the sins of the rest of us--He transferred our sins and their consequence to Himself. It was, in fact, the only way justice could have been served, and in that manner the event of His death, which was intended for depravity and wickedness, became the ultimate justice and redemption; and in conquering the event, stripping it of its power, He became its Master, and was therefore free to extend it to whomever He chose.

Now since He is perfect and just, His grace can necessarily go only to those who accept His authority and power and throw themselves into His grace. Otherwise there would again be injustice (or unjustness, if you prefer), for anyone who does not accept their own depravity and wickedness--will not acknowledge their own condition--as you recall, still deserves to die. This judgement cannot be a hard concept to grasp, because we each judge everyone else to some degree or another--that hypocrisy factor we discussed, which we stupidly and hypocritically get so bent out of shape about--every day of our lives (provided we've seen or thought about another person that day). We judge the level and manner of everyone's goodness in comparison to our own, but we are all still--save Jesus alone--equally as depraved and wicked no matter what we do. Perhaps it would help us get around this hypocrisy thing if we instead consider whatever the behavior in question is to simply be a "guilty pleasure", something we know better than to enjoy but do so anyway in spite of ourselves, because we seem to have a higher tolerance for those.

So the good news of Christ is that, though we are all terrible and there is nothing whatsoever we can do about it, there is One who is perfect and just, and by simply accepting His love and grace, we allow Him to transfer our sins and their consequence to Himself and are therefore free to live--no longer subject to the death we deserved because He already conquered it. He was able to do this because He was never, by merit of justice, supposed to die. If you believe in justice (and your hypocritical distaste for hypocrisy says that you do), it is your duty to seek the counsel and guidance of the only One able to deliver it. Or, more accurately, to throw yourself at His feet and repent. That is the only just thing for the depraved and wicked to do.

Life As It Is

I was a writer once, in a past life. I was some kind of artist, sketching and jotting ideas on scraps and jamming them in a backpack to sort through in editing. I used to think myself a romantic, and envision some level of success at conjuring and relaying sentiment that could deeply effect people and somehow alter the course of life. I'm not that guy anymore. I hardly find the need to elaborate, and frequently barely communicate, as there is no longer any need within me to validate who or what I am. I'm happy-ish. Happy enough, anyway; happier than most, happier than I ever expected to be. I have a wife and son, rent a decent condo and have adequate means. I work behind the scenes on a TV show that gives me steady work I'm good at. I can do my job from anywhere with reasonably flexible hours. My years of cafes and bookstores are long gone, but I still count my blessings every time I wait in a retail line or go out to eat--especially around holidays. I won't be hugely disappointed if I've peaked, if I just maintain where I am now. I no longer want to be famous; I'm close enough to Hollywood to know I don't want to be any closer. I no longer admire anyone in the public eye. My hero now is my brother. Not the one who went crazy, the other one. The one with the big happy family, who works hard to provide so he can go home each day to a great life. The one who "grew his kids God's way", who sings in the church choir and posts his photos in protected albums online so friends and family can share in his happiness. I like my life. I like that my wife can stay home and be a mom; I like that she wants that. I like coming home to that, and living with it and not having to write about it. It's enough to just bask in what I have. I don't need anything else.

I used to be young and think I had a lot to accomplish so I could enjoy life later. Instead, I got old while pursuing it, and found it really didn't matter. I didn't need what I thought to be happy or enjoy life. Nothing would have made me feel more worthwhile than when my wife wraps her arms around me or my baby smiles when I walk in the room. I'm annoyed by teens and twenty-somethings now. I have no interest in being their idol. I don't even care if they like me or notice when I'm around. I'm whole; I don't care what half-people think. I still write sometimes, when there's a lyric or point I just can't get out of my head any other way. And when I write now, I think it's better than anything I wrote when I was trying to be a writer. It flows from excess now, so it doesn't take any extra time or effort. It just happens. I am what I am, and don't care to be anything else.