The Wrestler

There is always lots of laughter. Giggling, chuckling, a chortle. And he usually sets himself up across the room from me. I, on my hands and knees, growl, lower my shoulders, engage the enemy. He laughs some more. Puts his hand to his mouth and thinks. But only for instant. I am sure the tactics of Patton cross his mind. Some advanced mathematics perhaps. But it only takes him an instant before he moves forward. Before he is resolved to the fight, to the war, to the wrestle. Sometimes there are weapons. He will use his prized green blanket. Either it will be a cape or a whip. In the latter, picture the stylings of Linus imitating the Power Rangers. And there is laughter. Much, much laughter.

He is a cheater. A little bit of a cheapskate. He will jump on my back, usually by way of my fulcrumed shoulder. From there, he may bite me, right below my scapula. Right on a good piece of skin. It is his arrow. He is Bard and I am the Middle Earth dragon. And I will fall and roll. Throwing him off. Begin again. Subsequent times he will use his fingers, eye gouging, mouth pulling little fingers. The ones not holding the green blanket.

Wrestling is something boys and Dads do. Since time immemorial. Isaac has learned some strategies recently. And it's gotten to the point where it's a little more of a struggle. A little more of a wrestle before it descends into tickling and calling out to Mommy because someones bumped his head or been unfairly (whatever, he ran at me, I just lowered my shoulder and lifted him up) tackled and pinned beneath Daddy.

But there is always lots of laughter. And it is the most fun.

Now unlike a particular wrestling episode with my father, I've yet to break a bone in him. Yet to be forced into naming a place in the living room Peniel. Though I've more than once found it profoundly moving that God wrestled with man. Like a father and son. I know I complain more than often about unfair pinnings, lowered shoulders and have bitten much in my own time. And it is here I am most like my Isaac. Grossly out-manned, out-strengthened, out-maneuvered. Constantly relying on weapons. But each time I am pinned. And there is this great foolishness. This great silliness prevailing over those times. Like I could out-wrestle The Wrestler. Still it is something that must be done. Must needs be part of our relationship. And He presses me, but does not crush. And while laughter does not permeate the engagements, there is, by the end, this deep abiding Joy. A closeness with God. A Peniel.

Tell me, friend, can you ask for anything more?
Tell me can you ask for anything more?

On Art

So this is an interesting article. And reading it is almost as big a waste of time as the reason for the article. Finally, one of the world's great mysteries has been solved. But if not for a simple quote near the end of it, reading it would have been a complete waste of time.

"Art is never completed, it is only abandoned."

DaVinci said this. Fascinating idea. And I don't think we're solely talking about painting either. Any kind of art. Music, literature, it all goes un-completed. Ends up like the house on the end of the road with the overgrown shrubbery.

About 6 months ago I ordered a book, Art and Scholasticism. It was a profound influence on some writers I had stumbled across (Ironically it has gone abandoned on my shelf if only because I mistakenly ordered a flimsy bound, large print edition. I'm particular about few things, I like my books to feel a certain way). I think, perhaps soon, I shall pick it up. Possibly there lies an answer to the profundity of the aforementioned quote.

Until that time, I remain challenged by this quote. Can art ever be completed? I suppose in the sense that art is to be interpreted it can never be complete. There will always be a new perspective that can be offered as to the beauty of a particular work of art. But for the artist, must they simply abandon the task? Must they put down the pen, the chisel, the paintbrush and leave? It's been my experience that this is necessary more for the sanity of the artist who tend to go rather Type A on their "masterpieces". But lest we think less of them, consider this: artists (in the broader sense to include writers, musicians and the like) have stumbled into a vast ocean, an uncharted and unmapped region. Pulling from it colors, experiences, rhyme and the details of this magnificent place. Translating and transliterating it to us, the meager peons. And here's where I find this quote so apropos, the artist is just "stretching himself in this world". And it is a vast, nearly infinite world he has just sought to "get his head into". If such is the case, I suppose we cannot expect the artist to complete his work.

But to say it's abandoned. Or must be abandoned. That's a brilliant quote from a brilliant artist.

Coffeespoons And God: An Allegorical Dialogue

Enter into modern looking coffee shop. Lights are dimmed low. The room, divided by couches and recliners, is scattered with magazines and tables. Obscure, but easy going music plays underneath.

Rick, the hero of the story, gets in the cue (queue) that has formed of well-dressed twenty-somethings.

Rick peruses the menu, spotting the item he wants. Quietly he taps his foot to the music. He glances at his watch, noting how much time has passed. He is a little impatient. Finally, it's his turn.

The clerk/coffee shop worker, in her mid-20s, attired in casual, but official looking garb, greets him. Her name is Susan.

Susan: We're glad you could join us. We're so glad and happy you've decided to come here.

Rick (taken aback, but warmed by the greeting) : Yes. Well. Yes. Good to be here too. Um. Well. I'd like to order...

Susan (interrupting): Before we can give you your coffee, allow me to explain how our drive-thru works.

Rick (quixotically): But I'm not using the drive-thru. I'm here now.

Susan: And we completely recognize this fact. That's why we're going to skip the directions on how to get here. Obviously you're here. But we would like to go over our drive-thru with you.

Rick (slowly): Okay.

Susan: Here's how our drive-thru works. First, you pull up to the section marked "Drive-Thru" in your car. Then you will see several headers regarding our different items on the large and very colorful menu full of cool fonts and pictures. From there, for example, there's the coffee section which, if you choose that, has our different flavors of coffee we're currently offering. Then, there is the tea section -- if you want tea-- we certainly have just as many flavors for tea lovers.

Rick: Look, I really would just like...

Susan: Sir. This is important. After you have perused our different headers on our main menu. You will be able to speak with an attendant who will greet you with their name. They're one of our many workers who are employed here at the coffee shop.

Rick (amusingly): If they don't say hello do I get a free coffee.

Susan (unamused): After they greet you. Then you can place your order by speaking into our state of the art two way intercom system that works much like the speaker phone on your home phone.

Susan: After you have done this you can pull forward in the drive-thru, collect your drink, and pay. It's all quite easy. We've made it as user-friendly as we can. Do you have any questions?

Rick: Can I order my coffee now?

Susan: In a moment. First, do you have any questions about our drive-thru?

Rick: Uh. No. Think I'm okay on that. But I'll be sure to remember these entirely useful and instructive directions as soon as I use the drive-thru again.

Susan: That's wonderful sir. I'm so glad, again, that you're here and I'd be glad to take your order now.

Rick: Large Coffee. Black.

This is an allegory (is it an actual allegory if you have to say it's an allegory?) after a church experience the Mrs, me and a friend had yesterday. Trying a church closer to the house, we attended on good recommendations. In the middle of the atmospheric service, and that's all I'll say about that, we sat through a ten-minute tutorial on how to use their website. In the middle of the service. Ten minutes.

On The Theotokos

It's Mother's Day. The Mrs'. first Mother's Day. Isaac and I both got her gifts and I think she liked mine better. His involved his footprints (ooooohhhh!) while mine involved something called decoupage.

But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.

I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.

It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.

All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!

On The Pilgrims

So I finished "The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage" by Paul Elie. In truth, it was a well-written and extremely challenging book. As I said before, the book examined the lives of four Catholic writers in the 40s and 50s. It looked at their lives, their writing, their beliefs and how they incorporated it all. It looked at their "predicament shared in common" to quote Percy.

Dorothy Day
Founder of the Catholic Worker. A poverty movement that provided homes and food for the poor. Amazingly, she herself took the same vow of poverty. Donating all of her profits from her books to the organization. Very much a peacenik she protested the wars believing it didn't jive with the commandment to "love thine enemy". She was someone who's writing I didn't care for but her actions spoke much louder.

Thomas Merton
Became a monk at age 27 and spent almost 30 years in a Kentucky Trappist monastery. Wrote "Seven Storey Mountain" which became an international best seller. It was his spiritual autobiography. I enjoyed his writing, but he was too much of a contemplative for me, a little too much of a recluse. But he was firm in what he believed and his writing reflected that.

Flannery O'Connor
Easily my favorite of them all, perhaps because she was the author I was most familiar with, perhaps because she may have actually been the best author of them all. I've already mentioned her works several times in this blog. I offer another assessment: In talking with a friend we both feel that her writing doesn't strike you right away, but "Everything in it stands for something and you only find out what it stands for after you've left the book and the events sort of explode in your mind." She's a remarkable writer.

Walker Percy
Led a very mundane sort of life, honestly. Trained as a doctor he abandoned it all to write. At first his writing reflected to much of the philosophy he had taught himself and was quite cumbersome. Then he became a writer with the Moviegoer, next on my list of books to read I think. I am intrigued by his writing, for his approach and the challenges he faced with writing mirror my own in many ways. I'm always trying to be philosophical or have my characters be philosophical. I've yet to cross the bridge he eventually did. He was an interesting writer. And I like his "holiness of the ordinary" idea. Expect a post on that soon.

In conclusion, all these people, these writers, were Catholic. They weren't perfect people by their Church's standard either: Day had an abortion, Merton had an affair, O'Connor may have been racist. They knew quite well about grace. And so did their characters. And as Christians, they didn't make Christian art, they made good art. And I liked that about them.

With What

One my my favorite quotes. It involves Flannery O'Connor. One of the writers I'm currently fascinated by. Here's the back story and the quote:

Flannery was taken by some friends to have dinner with an accomplished author. This author departed the Church at the age of 15 and was a "Big Intellectual". Flannery didn't speak at all throughout the dinner party, "there being nothing for me in such company to say. Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them." The conversation did turn to the Eucharist, which Flannery, the Catholic, felt she should defend. This author said as a child when she received the host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, "He being the most portable person of the Trinity" and that "now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one." Flannery's response: "Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it."

I was never brought up to take part in the Eucharist, though I regularly went to church. My church, the Salvation Army, didn't practice the sacrament, one reason was the belief that "All life is a sacrament". So to set aside special "sacraments" was, in some sense, unnecessary (I'm surmising Salvationist beliefs I know. Sally's out there indulge me). In fact, I didn't receive the Eucharist (Communion, Lord's Supper, Bread & Wine, etc.) until a college chapel service. And I did so not fully sure of the practice myself. The next few times it was offered, I refused it. Until, that is, I came across the subject in theology classes.

Now I won't get into consubstantiation and transubstantiation. Actually, I don't think I could anyway. But what the Eucharist has become for me is a deep spiritual experience. It is not an experience weighted in liturgy or concerned with intinction. It is an experience shrouded in the mystery that is the presence of God, the presence and reminder of Christ Himself, of His Sacrifice. I am utterly moved by the sacrament of Communion.

Back to Flannery. Perhaps I have not betrayed my Salvationist upbringing quite as much as I had once thought. Perhaps Catherine Booth simply said "to hell with it" because it had become a symbol. Even today, Christians have symbols they erect -- in some cases: the sacraments; in others: devotions; Christian music; the books Christians may read; the mission trips they go on. Events partaken in because they are to be the "symbols" to the world of the faith.

Then I say: To hell with them. For if they are JUST symbols -- then it is nothing; "it is all straw".

Because This Is A-"Pope"-priate

Good article in TIME on the Pope's upcoming visit to primarily Muslim Turkey. Given Benedict's recent comments, the current barometer of Islam in general and the fact that this is a somewhat historic visit in it's own right, the article is worth your read.

Two things of note:

1. Benedict's comments and uproar from the visit to Regensburg, Germany in September, are again, mentioned in the article...along with the quoted quote from Manuel II Paleologus: "Show me just what the Muhammad brought that was new." This idea is interesting in lieu of my second favorite book, "The Everlasting Man" by G.K. Chesterton. By far it is his most difficult book to read. In it he traces the history of the world, religiously, up until the supposed coming of Christ and then looks at the history of the world, religiously, from that point on. It's a marvelous work that makes a similar point as Paleologus: That nothing like Christianity existed until the supposed coming of Christ and since then subsequent "new" religions that have propagated the world are merely derivations of Christianity (i.e. Islam, Zoroastrianism, Gnosticism).

He makes the point with a little more romanticism and imagination and, in my opinion, although it is a truly sublime (GRE word!) work, well worth a read and re-read. It's quite challenging. G.K. doesn't force you to agree with him. He isn't polarizing either (meaning you don't have to be religious to find it engaging). I mention the book because it's well written and will make you think-- for good or for bad.

2. Along the same lines and back to the article, the TIME author, in hopes of, for some reason, proving Benedict a fool for the quoting (which has it's merit -- to a point) mentions that Islam is widely credited with bringing about algebra. Gee. Thanks.

It's All Aesthetics

So it occurs to me recently that there is no aesthetic argument for the existence of God. Aside from the obvious question: does there need to be one, it poses an interesting topic for discussion.

Currently there are four, out-dated and yet classic arguments for the existence of OOG God (an all-knowing, omnipotent, omni-good being -- not necessarily associated with any religion). The Teleological, Cosmological, Ontological and Moral arguments. My favorite is the Moral Argument -- best espoused by C.S. Lewis. Though I am an a priori guy so I do thoroughly enjoy Anselm and the Ontological Argument: "God is that which nothing greater can be conceived". Simply brilliant.

While the Teleological Argument comes the closest to what would be called an Aesthetic Argument, it's not quite the same thing. There is beauty to be found in complexity. The primary example of that is the human body taken as a whole.

My overall thoughts concerned the fact that there is lacking a formal apologia for God's existence in the face of a pretty woman (or man), in the warmth of a sunset, in the rhythm and lyricism of a song. Could one even begin to be proposed? I certainly lack the resources to formally present the argument for the argument.

But I am moved by beautiful things -- by the beauty of my wife, by songs and pictures. It leads me to OOG God. And certainly, isn't it implied that if there were an OOG God then beauty would be something he would be very much concerned with since beauty is most certainly a good and wonderful thing? I think so -- but it can be better stated.

Maybe the poet is the Aesthetic Argument, or it is the job of the poet to present the Aesthetic Argument for the existence of OOG God. Not the philosophers; not the theologians.

The thing of it is: which is more likely to make you believe there's an OOG God: Horton Hears A Who or The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock?

NOTE: A FRIEND, WHO DOESN'T BLOG ANYMORE FOR SOME REASON, IS ACTUALLY TRYING TO DO THIS IN HIS GRADUATE STUDIES IN TEXAS.