The Ontological Tower of Babel Thursday, Oct 20 2011

Mice flee from serpents, antelope from lions, fish from sharks, and human beings from (or toward, rather) each other. Survival is the aim, and no fit organism—Darwin argues—strives to do otherwise. The fit continue, the unfit do not, and the means don’t really matter much. Of course, the self-reflective being asks why, and now the debate begins about what exactly humanity should do to survive. To what end should we abet technology? Shall we seek to eradicate Alzheimer’s, AIDS, and Cancer? What next: shall we work to extend the average human lifespan from the mid seventies into the two or three hundreds? Why not the 1000s? The capping question, finally, is if we should seek to achieve our own immortality.

Everyone dies, as cliché as it is to those wishing to jolt the depressed psyche of humanity for brief moments of purposeful action, is true, and as Kierkegaard rightly noted, should be approached with a special type of earnestness. But what if the question was undone and needed qualification? What if there existed two classes of beings—those to whom everyone dies is relevant, and those to whom it simply isn’t true? Ray Kurzweil says it’s possible. In fact, he has boldly predicted that by 2045, human beings will have merged with technology in such a way that renders them immortal. Humans will actually transcend themselves (as they cannot but do, Kurzweil argues) and overcome death. And it isn’t just a hopeful theory of his. Stephen Hawking, today’s superhuman Einstein, thinks it will happen as well.

The U.S. Bioethics commission has taken upon Kurzweil’s concerns and topics and made them a top research priority. Oxford University’s World Transhumanist Association follows suit, and even modern geniuses like Bill Gates recognize the direction bioethical technology is moving. Kurzweil’s 2045 prediction, though bold, is not really all that important unless one subscribes to his self-defined Law of Accelerated Returns or Moore’s Law regarding the exponential increase in technological capabilities. What is important, however, is that bioethical technology is oriented in the same direction as the mice, antelope, and fish. We want to survive, and for as long as possible. Immortality is the epilogue. The important question that I want to ask is should it be?

In this piece, I want to begin at a distant point in time in time where humanity has actually merged with its technology and become immortal. All disease has been eradicated, matter itself can be manipulated, laws of nature can be created or done away with, and “humanity” should really no longer have “human” as a part of its name, and will therefore be referred to as the “gods.” In this hypothetically proposed age of posthumanity, the human race has diverged into completely separate species (posthumans and humans). But unlike the differences between many species, the differences between god and human are similar to our current conceptual differences between beast and man—ones in which the very being of each is fundamentally different. Because of this ontological change (a change that will be described in detail in the coming pages), the somewhat obvious question of whether the remaining humans should change into gods arises (or if the gods should change back, if possible). In order to answer this question, it must be asked whether the gods and humans share one good, or if both have different goods. I will argue on the side of the latter by claiming that the good of a species is relative to its ontology. Any comparison of goods is therefore unfruitful. But there remains one objection to such a conclusion that needs mentioning, and it claims that any comparison of goods is unfruitful indeed, lest there be some being that has been/is in every sense of the word (quite literally is in a total sense). And such a being (I will argue) is the only being that can compare and offer an answer to the question of whether humanity should change its ontology (i.e. become gods).

Before delving into the crux of the argument, it will be necessary to set the scene in which the debate takes place in a bit more detail. In this prospective future, as mentioned, there exist two distinct classes of beings: humans and gods. Except for some extrinsic technological advances (not unlike things we currently have and use), humans are largely the same as they currently are. That is to say, their ontological properties are no different than ours. Humans exist spatiotemporally and are always already oriented towards death. Every human being will die, and this death is an individual experience (no person can die for another). Death is therefore fundamentally limiting and has substantial bearing on how one ought to live. As human beings drift forward in time, they are faced with certain possibilities. Such possibilities can include, but are certainly not limited to (Note: I am not seeking to engage ontology as Heidegger does at great length, I am instead spouting out some obvious existential features that are so familiar to us that they sometimes escape our immediate attention), career paths, identity formation, forming and sustaining relationships, and assimilating a compendium of knowledge. And since only a certain number of possibilities may be fulfilled in the relatively small number of years each human lives, a human may only live “one life” so to speak. They therefore live on a singular line (though it may branch many times in many different directions) with a beginning and an end, and any other possibility of what could have been accomplished or known is extinguished along with the last dying neuron (this is not meant to be nihilistic, but instead a characterization of what happens between birth and inevitable death regardless of the possible existence an afterlife). As each choice is confronted, only one direction may be taken. For even if the human turns around and wants to go in another direction (like multiple career paths, for instance), this may only be done so many times (even then no choice can be undone and tried again), as there is only so much time he or she has to act.

The gods, on the other hand, are humans who have merged with technology in such a way that has made them immortal. But they are not just immortal, as if they were merely “undying human beings.” Rather, they are existentially different insofar as they are able to cope with and exist throughout eternity. While a human being’s memory is degenerative, the memory of the gods is unlimited, and despite such infinite boundaries, is stored in memory banks smaller than quarks for rebooting into new bodies should one be destroyed. While humans have five senses, the gods have a number increasing towards an undefined slope/singularity (more are constantly developed), which are wholly indescribable in the same way as describing “purple” to the blind or “loud” to the deaf is impossible. So it is not as if the gods are stuck in eternity for better or for worse—they are rather equipped to exist in eternity. But the way in which they are equipped may not be fully understood from a human perspective, because human beings existing for eternity would not arguably be good. To some, it is the content of nightmares. And this is where our focus should narrow—on the distinction between the good of humanity and the good of the gods as being relative to the ontology of each. For while humans are, ontologically speaking, always already oriented towards death and fundamentally limited in myriad ways, the gods are not. The gods are always already oriented towards potential—a literally infinite array of possibilities. They do not exist as a scattered line, but instead as a shaded plane. They can experience everything and are poised to experience the always-extending plane of such future possibilities.

At the same time, however, there are many similarities between gods and men, which will need to be recognized and analyzed. Beasts and humanity, for instance, share the same world, exist concurrently, spatiotemporally, and in time. Both need sustenance to live, the lives of both are finite, both have an intrinsic desire to survive, and both share many of the same behaviors like seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. But humanity also has language, self-reflection, identity formation, complex societies, creative instinct, and reason and freedom (as opposed to mere “determined instinct”). And it is through these additional features that humanity has come to discover things like meaning, morality, discourse, and purpose.

As human beings, we dare to ask “why” and come up with theories that attempt to get at truth. More pertinently stated for the purposes of this essay—we come up with theories that strive for a correct conception of our good—how we ought to live. How truth is properly arrived at, or what the best moral theory/approach is, or why we seek to do any of these things in the first place, however, is not directly relevant, except for the fact that the way in which we can engage in such disciplines, ask such questions, and reflect upon experience is wholly limited by our existential features (our “ontology”).

Such existential features, then, are like tools, though this is an admittedly crude analogy, as the use of tools is volitional and concatenational, while being is an uncontrolled, always-already-all-at-once-ensemble. And at the same time, there is volition within some existentially distinct features like language and reason, and so this is where the analogy should be applied. Hence, our ontology is like a bag of existential hammers, nails, nuts, and bolts by which to discover truth and meaning and to ask what the good of humanity is.

A second, albeit more passive, analogy that may prove helpful to some is existential features being like a window, as opposed to something external, like tools. Viewed as capabilities, a species’ ontology is a window by which to view the good. But such a window is narrow, may only be viewed from afar, thus revealing only a sliver of the good beyond, and is incomplete and even slightly distorting. This sliver of the good should then be conceptualized as our good, as it is our specific window and vision. A tree’s window is some place else, as is a bear’s or a god’s. Hence, it would be foolish for the human or god to claim that their sliver is appropriate or somehow better than another’s. They are all good, but they are also all incomplete.

Moreover, it is possible for an individual or species to come to a false conception of the good, which would be analogous to using a hammer for measuring or putting one’s ear up to the window to see the deer in the field. For to use these analogies is not to say that morality or the good is what each one makes it—no—to use these analogies, as I will argue, is to say that the good has objective bearing over all within an ontology: what it is to be a good human—what a god ought to do.

Beasts, in contrast to humans, have a more limited set of existential features by which to “discover” their own good, which we most often claim to be survival and procreation (whether we can discover or even understand the good of another ontologically different species in the first place will be addressed later). It would be absurd to say that the good of beasts is to enter into discourse, via language, with fellow beasts and humans in order to discover universal maxims, because beasts lack the necessary equipment to realize such a good.

This contrast between beasts and humanity can be applied to humanity and the gods. While they too have shared, existential qualities, they too have distinct ones. And as was noted before, the good of a species may only be actualized through one’s ontology. But this situation is more delicate, because the differences themselves are understood by both. That is, it is possible for me to understand that the gods live forever and can manipulate the foundational features of gravity or light on a whim. Similarly, the gods can understand that humans inevitably die and live their lives with this in mind. But just because such differences may be understood does not mean that they may be compared.

This point may be illustrated by examining the difference between a widower and a married man. Both men are asked to compare whether it is worse to lose their spouse or their daughter. For the sake of argument, it will be the case that the widower has also lost his only daughter, while the married man has only lost his daughter. In this situation, the married man certainly understands the idea/possibility of losing his wife. He may imagine what it would be like and he could try to predict what getting through it might entail. But he will still not know what it is like unless it actually happens. The widower, by comparison, knows exactly what it is like to lose his wife, and also knows exactly what it is like to lose a daughter, because both have happened to him. It would not be unreasonable, then, to ask him which loss caused him more pain. In an analogous way, it does not seem unreasonable to ask the god which “good” is better, since both have been experienced, as opposed to merely understood in a linguistic way.

The necessary criteria for judging whether it is worse to lose one’s wife or daughter, then, is having experienced both. Shifting back to gods and men, if two goods may be compared and judged, then there must be some objective criteria by which to judge the two. Such criteria, then, would need to be recognized by both the gods and humans in the same way. So if the gods, for instance, examined both goods according to such an objective criteria and found that the good of humanity is better than the good of the gods, then the gods should therefore “change back” into humans in order to take part in the better good. The same may be said of the converse. But it seems to be impossible for such an objective criteria to be viewed/realized at all by either species as it currently is, because it cannot be known if every aspect of such a criteria is even being realized because of the limited ontologies of each. In the case of the widower and married man, the criteria is confined to a specific ontology, but in the case of ultimate goods, we are going beyond ontology to find/access the necessary criteria. Humanity can only “use” its own existential features to try to access it. It can only look through it’s own window. It could be the case that there are further components or nuances to the criteria that cannot be accessed by humanity or the gods. Of course, it cannot be speculated on how this might be so, because if I could adequately describe an area of the criteria that cannot be accessed by humanity, I would, in effect, be accessing it. The same may be said of the gods. Nevertheless, how it is exactly that such an objective criteria is accessed, or how it is that one can even know that he or she or it has accessed it seems to be problematic (for gods and humans). In short, in order for a human or god to say that he or she or it has discovered the criteria appears to beg the question by assuming that their own ontology is a sufficient method of approach.

What we then have is the proposition that the good of any individual species is relative to its ontology, and cannot be said to be better than another’s (so far). This rids the need for an objective criteria altogether, and gives rise to the somewhat surprising conclusion that morality is indeed relative (though certainly not in the individualistic or cultural way most moral relativists assert). Nonetheless, perhaps the most important problem that arises now is how humanity should decide when it comes to changing its ontology. After all, it is this very question that is at the center of the entire debate surrounding posthumanism—whether we should seek to become gods or not.

If we stop at the above conclusion—that morality is relative, and no two goods are better than the other (but are instead merely different), then the question becomes as pointless as asking whether I should step out of my bedroom in the morning with my left or right foot. So in response to the question, I must admit that if I claim that humanity either should or should not change, then I am implying that the two goods may be compared by me, which has already been shown to be impossible. The seemingly obvious answer, then, is that one does not know which is better. But it needs to be noted that such an answer is also problematic, because it presupposes that there is some kind of objective criteria by which to judge goods, and the argument so far has dismissed the possibility of either humanity or the gods being able to access such a criteria. So a better answer might be that the question is fallacious—it may only be said that the goods are different—do what you please. But the argument so far has assumed that neither species has ever changed. So while the argument holds for two independently arisen species (as opposed to one evolving out of the other in a single moment), it does not necessarily hold for existing gods that were once humans. In order to sufficiently address the transformation question, therefore, the implications of transformation must be addressed.

As was argued, relative goods are realized via existential “tools,” and as such are arrived at through experience. By “experience,” however, I do not wish to say that goods are realized empirically, because it is much more basic than that. Not all existential features are strictly empirical (reason, for example is not). But if “experience” is defined as the employment of existential features (the only way we can and always already engage the world), then I certainly mean to say that experience is how we arrive at the good. So if an individual has experienced two ontologies, it would seem to be the case that she may compare the two. How the comparison is performed, however, may not be speculated on, because I can only speculate according to my own ontology’s limits. Who knows what kinds of existential features the hybrid being (the god, in this case) may have at her disposal. Nevertheless, a comparison by the god is still necessarily incomplete, because it could be the case, logically, that while one ontology’s good is deemed worse than another’s, it could be a necessary step towards yet another, better ontology. Unlike the widower example, this is not a matter of preference, but a matter of what ought to be done. It would not be unlike a child going through the often-unpleasant adolescent phase towards the better end-phase of adulthood (assuming adulthood is better than childhood). While adolescence is not as pleasant or “good” as childhood, it is a necessary step towards adulthood. So no matter how many ontologies an individual has “had,” she would need to have experienced all possible ontologies (presumably infinite) in order to come to a conclusion as to which is best—she would need to be in a total/infinite sense. For without having experienced all possible—even if infinite—ontologies, the species claiming that its ontology is superior (or inferior) could just be in an “adolescent phase” necessary for transformation into a better ontology.

The experience of all possible ontologies, therefore, is the necessary “objective criteria” touched upon earlier. What would therefore be required for one to make a meaningful decision to change his or her or its ontology is the instruction/advice of a being that has experienced all ontologies/whose ontology has expanded maximally. Such advice could arguably be communicated, though this can only be said if the ontology of the being is such that includes commensurable language. However, it would be impossible to know if the being is who it says it is, as there would be no way of knowing to what extent its wisdom or knowledge or experience ranges. Ultimately, accepting the advice of the only possible being who could offer it could only be made by faith—faith in the idea that such a being actually had our best interest in mind in leading us along the good path. But no matter which way we choose to act we are acting in faith, because we have already said that without the existence of the final being, we cannot make a meaningful decision regarding changing our ontology. A step of faith, even by those who have none, must be taken.

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Abducted Wednesday, Jan 19 2011

Everyone has fantasies. Dreams. Some may dream of going on a safari deep in the grasslands of Africa. Others might want to dive the Great Barrier Reef. Still others may aspire to fly to the moon or, if they’re really ambitious, be the first to go bipedal on the red dust of Mars.

How generic.

Me? I have two dreams. They’re both different and very specific. The first is to be a survivor in the zombie apocalypse. I want to live in a world where guns are gold and Benjamins are great for starting fires when the generators run out of fuel—a time when social norms take a backseat to survival like a woman’s desire to keep her hair primped before a catfight. Our will to survive is raw, baby, and norms only act to keep our minds from really realizing that fact. The zombie apocalypse brings us back to basics—where surviving takes priority, and at all costs. It creates the need for our Neanderthal roots to kick in from some suppressed area of the brain instilled since creation when all of a sudden the unprepared 99% of humanity are being slaughtered by the brainless before the people who are at fault for the outbreak can even begin to accept the fact that they have singlehandedly initiated humanity’s extinction event. But not me. No, I’ve got it all planned out like an ultra-conservative, gun-toting, religion-clinging, SUV-driving, backwoods-dwelling, redneck hick stockpiling enough munitions to arm a militia the size of Vermont for when the infection begins. But I digress.

On to my second fantasy, which is much more interesting, I think, and is actually relevant to the story I am about to tell you.

I want to get abducted.

You believe in aliens? To be honest, I don’t know if I really do, but I do know that I want to. I think most people want to believe as well, because let’s be honest, if those saucers come down over New York City, no one’s going to work. People are either fleeing to the remotest places our little planet has to offer, or sitting stupefied in front of their television sets watching the world’s collective, Uh Oh (And Stephen Hawking’s, “I told you so.”). I, however, don’t fall into either of these categories. In vivid contrast, I will use whatever means necessary to get my sorry self to “them.” Why? I want to board the ship. I don’t care if I have to infiltrate the damn thing like Ethan Hunt in the CIA headquarters’ vault. Hell, if I have to break some alien law to be captured as a prisoner, I might just have to do that. Maim one of them? Break a window? Scream fire in a crowded spaceship hallway? I don’t know. But I’ll try them all if I have to. I don’t care if they don’t want me there—I will be there, and they will take me back to where they’re from. If they kill me, so be it, I tried. Go big or go home is the saying, but in my book it’s ‘Go big or go under’ (six feet under, that is). No, I will not go away, take me to your homeland or I will commandeer this vessel and attempt to do it myself. Or something along those lines.

At any rate, I’m telling you about my fantasies, because what happens in the true (as in “not false”) story below was nearly a direct fulfillment of one of the two. And since you are obviously not fleeing from hoards of the undead during the culmination of the zombie apocalypse, you can probably make a guess as to which I am referring.

*DISCLAIMER*

If you are currently fleeing from the undead during the culmination of the zombie apocalypse, then you don’t need to read any further. You have much more important things to worry about, and reading this is not one of those things.

I was attempting the breaststroke at the time, though I was never quite able to get that frog kick down. It’s bad enough that Homo sapiens aren’t really designed for aquatic excellence—the average six year old can beat Phelps in a foot race if Mike’s in the water. I do consider myself a good swimmer, however, and the scissor kick works just fine for me. Nonetheless, for reasons I cannot recall, I was attempting to do the proper frog kick like an Olympic trial depended on it, and when I came up for air—just before plunging back below the water’s twinkling surface—I saw it floating just above the Organ Mountains.

Our rectangular pool is situated to where one side is perpendicular to the Organs, the Organs being plainly visible from almost any point in our backyard. It isn’t uncommon for their jagged face to reflect New Mexico’s dramatic sunsets, which often result in hues of orange, yellow, and even purple and red. So despite being acclimated to seeing God’s beauty in that form, I was taken aback nevertheless when pink showed up in the direction of the Organs—specifically above them—and in the form of a blimp. The balloon was the largest part of the vessel (probably twenty times the size of the Hindenburg), and the bottom was only about the size of what would normally hang below your garden-variety hot air balloon. Eerie, right? I thought so, and so I stopped mid-stroke, wiped the water from my eyes to take a second look, and just caught the top of the pink blimp descending below the Organs’ pipes, like the sun escaping below the horizon.

It’s weird when you see something you know isn’t real. Like when you might’ve looked to your left while driving, could’ve sworn you just saw a roadrunner the size of the Holiday Inn, and after a second glance found that your brain tricked you into thinking the shadows and lines from a building off in the distance were the true culprits for the outline of the Jurassic bird. You thought real roadrunners were fast. Imagine if that thing were real. They aren’t, of course, but our brains still posit images like that all the time. We all possess a “blind spot” (an area where we literally cannot see), yet it doesn’t appear in our every day vision because our brain “guesses” what that little area would most logically look like according to surrounding details and whatever the other eye is seeing. But sometimes that guess is wrong. Our brain wants to make sense of the world—that’s what it means to be human—and sometimes the subconscious comes up with conscious nonsense instead of sense. It comes up with a pink blimp instead of pink mountains or pink clouds. At least that’s what I was thinking when I was treading water in my pool that evening.

So I thought nothing of it. I got out of the pool, dried off with nothing, because I forgot to bring a towel, and walked up the steps to our backdoor with a trail of flat-footed footprints behind me. The image of the blimp was fresh in my mind when I went into the house, but then it occurred to me that a shower with the steamer on sounded extraordinary. An ominous pink blimp? Eh, I want to inhale hot steam in a scalding shower.

The steamer was in my parents’ master bath, so I opened the bedroom door and saw my dad standing by the TV, which was in a cherry wood armoire in the corner across from the bed. He was dressed in blue scrubs and an operating room disposable coat. And he was wearing a hat. And a surgical mask. And gloves. And his face wasn’t my dad’s face at all. And he looked borderline angry.

What the hell?

You know when you’re going down a flight of stairs just a tad too quickly, miss a step, and then you get that sensation that feels like your stomach is slamming into your diaphragm in a way similar to when you go down the death plunge on the wedgie-inducing, shoulder blade-skinning water slide? Well that was the one that hit me when I realized that the person standing in the corner of my parents’ bedroom was not my dad at all, but an alien.

In that moment of recognition, my adrenal glands squeezed, kicking my sympathetic nervous system and adrenal-cortical system into overdrive. I was basically like a pregnant mother poised to lift a car off of one of her children, except it wasn’t a car I was worried about; it was a hostile E.T. (“E.T.” being short for the general expression, “extra terrestrial,” not the name of the Reeses Pieces-loving, homesick raisin). And by the way, that fight-or-flight response is, if you ask me, convenient. It gives you options. You can decide to make like Lucky the Leprechaun or just go straight-up chimpanzee on the guy. Whichever you decide, you at least have a fighting chance of surviving. But as for me, my feet stayed glued to the carpet and opted to do neither. Not that it mattered in the end—the E.T. glided towards me faster than what I imagined to be a fitting speed to either escape the room or bite his hands and feet off, so I didn’t feel so bad when he pinned me on top of the bed. I couldn’t put up much of a fight anyway, because apparently my adrenal response must have malfunctioned or accidentally induced a massive estrogen secretion. And neither of those sorts of things can be fixed by a tap-rack-re-acquire routine either.

The E.T. then proceeded to cover my eyes and place his surgical mask over my nose and mouth. Despite his smothering, however, I could still breathe. In fact, air was rushing in like the mask was a lifeguard giving mouth-to-mouth. Then everything started getting fuzzy. I’d felt this before. I’d felt the same thing when I went under to get my nose fixed. It was incredible. And what was even better is I knew exactly what was happening.

I was being abducted.

What other explanation could there have been? Well, I suppose there could’ve been others, but at the time, I knew. I knew precisely what was happening and I was almost giddy inside, my body feeling like it was sinking into a sea of cotton.

It’s finally happening, I thought, one of my greatest dreams is coming true.

I wish I could explain in detail what happened next, but I was unfortunately unconscious at this point. If I had to guess, I’d say that the alien had me beamed up to his pink blimp, and then he and his compadres flew me to their home planet for whatever it is they do to their abductees. And they sedated me because otherwise I might’ve been able to figure out how to get back to Earth or maybe tell others how to get to their home planet. Just a hypothesis.

The next thing I knew, I was lying down in a white room on three white cushions in an open plastic cocoon, facing forward, and in front of me was what appeared to be an arched window, but without glass. Behind the half-oval opening was just another white wall, and at the base of the window was a sill. A long cylindrical glass sat on the sill, which was filled with a liquid that looked like fruit punch. A label with black and yellow lines was wrapped around its center.

The room itself was mostly white, with the exception of a control pad at the top of a small platform to my left. On the control pad, which sat diagonally as if on a music stand, appeared to be a touchscreen of some sort with fast food labels on it. At the top was McDonalds, on the right was Burger King, and in the middle was Sonic. At the bottom, however, was a snake coiled up with its forked tongue stuck out to the left. Its tongue was very long, probably half the length of the snake.

They must have taken me here in the pink blimp, I thought (and previously hypothesized). How else could I have gotten there? I was on their home planet, this was something else I was sure of, and so the only means by which I could’ve gotten there, obviously, was the pink blimp I had seen while swimming. Sound argument if I’ve ever heard one.

Looking back on it, I don’t know why I didn’t get up and I don’t recall being restrained either. Even so, I was very captivated by the fruit punch in front of me, hoping it wouldn’t fall from some invisible nudge. I was very worried of this, actually, and as my eyebrows rose to the point of blending with my hairline, I raised a hand to block what I knew would happen. I had no good reason for doing this, but I knew something before without reason, so it must’ve been so that I knew this as well. Once again, a sound argument if I’ve ever heard one.

Anyway, I was right again, and the juice spilled. Well, it didn’t spill so much as it leapt out of the glass. It did so in an arch, like water out of a hose, and landed in my mouth, which I opened. I mean, who wouldn’t just gulp down any old foreign drink after being abducted? It tasted like fruit punch (right again), and before I had time to wipe away the peripheral splash damage, another glass—just like the previous one—appeared where the other had just been. This one had a yellow liquid in it, however, and it too leapt out of the glass like a spring-loaded snake and tasted like lemonade.

This went on for about three minutes. A series of ten glasses sat on the sill, each liquid shooting out, one after another, but it wasn’t until the fifth or sixth that I noticed the stormtrooper standing behind me.

No joke.

A bona fide imperial stormtrooper in all white plastoid armor was standing there, holding a legal pad—E-11 blaster at his side. After each successive glass, he would scribble something down on a new page, tear it off, and get ready for the next glass.

Finally, a glass wrapped in a skull and crossbones label containing a murky white liquid stood on the sill.

It’s venom—probably rattlesnake venom, I thought.

Aha! A trick! I didn’t open my mouth for that one, no, I turned my head, allowing it to wash over my face and drench the cushions beneath. After the toxic shower, I looked up at the stormtrooper, rattlesnake venom beading on my eyelashes. He smirked and proceeded to tell me that the test was over. Satisfied with my efforts, I followed him out of the juice room. We walked through three dimly lit hallways all oriented in the same direction. At the end of the last hallway, I could see light bursting in through a pair of windows centered on push-open double doors. The stormtrooper, which had been about five feet ahead of me the whole way prior to this moment, began to walk towards them at an incredible rate (probably three times as fast as I), but his legs were moving the same speed as mine. He moved just like my abductor had done in my parents’ bedroom—almost gliding as if on skates.

I started jogging to catch up, but didn’t make it in time to follow him outside, as the doors shut behind him just before I reached it. Promptly pushing them back open, I expected to see him on the other side, but he was already gone. Now outdoors, I was able to get a better grasp on exactly where I had been taken. There were hundreds of E.T.’s walking in all different directions—all wearing stormtrooper armor. I felt like I had just walked into the middle of a Star Wars convention where only the Emperor’s grunts had shown up, except none of them were human. They were walking too fast. They all looked human, but they weren’t, and I knew.

These were no ordinary stormtroopers.

The building I had come from looked like a massive pigmy hut one would typically see in the African bush. Brilliant disguise. The complex in its entirety was composed of many of these huts (though I was sure the interior was much more sophisticated, probably containing hundreds, if not thousands, of juice rooms). The surrounding landscape was thickly forested for the most part, but I could see a beach beyond the tree line not fifty yards in front of me. The air smelled like pizza.

No one paid me much attention, so I decided to walk to the beach. The trees quickly faded into a desert landscape dotted with creosote and mesquite. Another fifty yards past the desert was the beach where two-foot waves softly curled onto smooth sand. The coast only stretched down for a mile or so and then wrapped around in both directions, which meant we were on some kind of island or narrow peninsula. The water stretched out all the way to the horizon, and in the sky beyond was a moon that would’ve looked eerily similar to Earth’s if just a little smaller. Almost directly above me was another moon, this one probably twenty times the size of the other. Both were grey, but the dark spots on the larger one overhead had tinges of red.

Wooden benches lined the beach at the tide’s edge, and behind one such bench were my two brothers and parents.

They abducted all of us? I thought.

But before I could walk towards them or even call out to them, a stormtrooper stopped me and handed me a plastic Ziploc bag.

“You must find the crab legs in the sand! Comb the sand for the legs, and I will show you what is in store for you next.”

Makes sense, I thought.

It only took me a minute to find my first appendage, which was as long as my own leg. I brought it over to the stormtrooper who was taking notes on my efforts, and told him that the crab legs were too big to fit in the bag.

“Exactly,” he replied, “follow me.”

So I followed him towards the water and stopped beside him at the point of the waves’ retreat.

“I’m going to send you and your family back now. For your time and work, you will be given any human automobile of your choice. What would you like?” the stormtrooper asked.

This was fantastic. However, there was no way I could get something too flashy because the conversation would inevitably lead back to my abduction, and I couldn’t let that happen—mainly because I just couldn’t do time in the loony bin. For one, I’m not good at wrestling (those dudes in white are obviously all MMA fighters), and secondly…I’d be in the damn loony bin.

So I settled for a Mustang, thinking I could sell it and use the extra cash for other things, since I already had a car.

“You ready?” the stormtrooper asked, taking out a handheld electronic device.

“How does it work?” I asked.

“You’ll see. Actually, when do you want to go back? I can send you back at any specific time you want—give or take a few minutes.”

I thought for a moment and answered, “Well I have school tomorrow and I have a couple tests so I guess I’ll just go back in time to go to school.”

Without another word, he placed the device on my chest, to which it clung like a magnet. Before I had time to even try to comprehend what he was doing, I shot off the surface of the planet like a test dummy strapped to a rocket, and traveled through space at what seemed to be very close to the speed light, and then my vision went white.

The next thing I knew, I was in school, walking to class. I spun around, bewildered at how quickly my return had happened. I exchanged awkward glances with a few people who had noticed my flustered demeanor, and then I realized that something had gone wrong. Everyone was in our Wednesday chapel dress: shirts, ties, and skirts.

They sent me back on Wednesday.

Chapel was on Wednesdays. It was supposed to be Monday. But before I had time to think another thought, I shot off Earth’s surface exactly like I had before, and then I found myself standing back on the beach with the same stormtrooper who had sent me off.

So I went ahead and told him about the mix-up, to which he replied, “I’m sorry about that, sometimes these things are a little sketchy. Maybe if I insert an exact time according to your system of hours and minutes then it’ll work better. What time would you like to go back?”

“Well, school starts around eight, so seven would be perfect.”

Seconds later, I lifted off again—my vision going red instead of white this time, and just a few seconds after that, I opened my eyes, closed them again, and realized I was seeing red because of the sunlight pouring into my bedroom. Squinting, I checked the time, which read exactly 7:00a.m.

They got it right. Not bad.

I swung my legs over the side of my pillow-top mattress and stood up.

Wait.

Was that a dream?

No. No way. It couldn’t have been, it was too real. Too vivid. But it had to have been a dream. I just woke up from it—no they sent me back. And it was right at seven like they said it would be.

With thoughts like these fighting in my skull, I began my morning routine by plugging my iPod into a pair of speakers on my dresser and put it on shuffle. The first song that played was “Was it a Dream?” by 30 Seconds to Mars, and right then and there I got that same stomach-tackling-the-diaphragm feeling that happened when I saw the alien standing in my parents’ bedroom.

Of course it was a dream. Everything screamed that it was—especially reason. I mean, let’s be honest, “absurd” doesn’t even begin to describe what happened. From stormtroopers to rattlesnake-venom-juice rooms, the whole charade spelled LSD-induced-befuddlement more than Caroll’s Alice in Wonderland. And by the way, Lewis had to have been on drugs when he wrote that—don’t give me that “no factual evidence of drug use” BS, the story is all the evidence you need. Needless to say, the D-R-E-A-M was ludicrous.

(But just to make sure, I checked the garage for the Mustang I requested)

Yet despite factually knowing that me being abducted was a nonsensical dream at this point, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the whole experience with a sense of wonder. It felt so real. It was just as vivid, if not more so, than I just described with words.

Actually, hold on. Stop reading this after this sentence, go pour a glass of water on the floor, and then come back. Just do it, trust me.

Now that you’ve made a mess, imagine that that didn’t just happen—that you leaving and pouring water on your floor for no reason whatsoever literally did not just transpire. Well that’s what it was like. The dream was just as vivid as reality, except for it being insane. So if you went back to where you poured the water out and found that there wasn’t any water on the ground, then you might have an idea as to what it was like to try to come to the conclusion that I hadn’t actually been abducted.

And you can also imagine how doubts might start to creep in.

What do you mean I didn’t pour the water on the ground—I poured the whole damn glass out. It even splashed me.

What do you mean I wasn’t abducted—I flew back right at 7a.m.—like the stormtrooper said…after I gave him the giant crab leg too big for the Ziploc bag.

I then began to think about Neo waking up from a dream he had in The Matrix. He woke up from what seemed to be an exceptionally irrational experience in which his mouth sealed shut and a mechanical burrowing insect infiltrated his body. And it turned out to be real. No way, right? Yes way. The little insect was real and Trinity had to suck it out with a sci-fi Hoover.

But of course, movies aren’t real. We’re not really living in the Matrix, are we. We’re not really just running around in a temporary world trying to survive without thinking, there must be more than this.

Are we.

In the end, I truly was disappointed that my dream wasn’t real. I mean, I really do want to be abducted by aliens if they exist. No sarcasm. Re-read the little bit about my two fantasies and re-evaluate your consensus if you don’t believe me. Sounds kind of intriguing, if not dazzling, doesn’t it? Smile all you want, but it’s my dream—not yours, and besides, who’s to say that the hypothetical “they” don’t exist, or that they won’t take me? Who’s to say they don’t have juice rooms or giant pigmy huts? And who’s to say they didn’t just forget to deliver the Mustang, brainwash me into thinking none of it made any sense, put me in my bed to make me think it was a dream, and forge memories from the day before that suggest the previous night was normal?

Right?

Don’t squash my dreams with that smirk.

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Crimson Saturday, Dec 25 2010

December 25, 1971

For Thomas and Faith, Christmas came faster every year. It seemed like just yesterday when they had brought Nathan and Emily home from the hospital in their doll-sized pink and blue pajamas, and now the twins were celebrating their eighth birthdays with papery snow falling outside like confetti. Wrapping paper, plush bows, red and green gift bags, and crinkled tissue paper littered the floor, and both Nathan and Emily were sleeping next to each other on the couch with their new stuffed animals—a bear for Nathan, and a bunny for Emily.

“It’s Russia isn’t it.” Thomas said to Faith as he held her, both watching their children’s chests slowly rise and fall.

“No, it’s not. I mean, well, a little. It’s just coming up so quickly. Florida’s all we’ve ever known. How’d you know?”

“You get this look when you’re really thinking about something. You look distant.”

Faith lifted her head off of Thomas’ chest, her dark brown hair covering her green eyes. She moved it away asking, “I do?”

Thomas took a sip of his hot chocolate, which was lukewarm by now with grainy cocoa collecting on the bottom like muddy coffee grounds. “Yeah. And you bite your lip, too.”

“No I don’t,” Faith said, smiling at Thomas.

“Seriously! You do! Was I wrong? It is Russia, right?”

Faith looked down at her own mug of hot chocolate. Her smile faded, and her silence answered Thomas’ question.

Thomas began to speak again, but Faith interrupted, “You may be right, but I do not bite my lip when I’m thinking about something.”

Thomas laughed. “I’m going to take a picture next time. You’ll see.”

Faith tried to keep a smile from crossing her face, but was only partially successful.

“Okay, you do that, then, but I still don’t believe you, Thomas.”

Thomas laughed again, kissing his wife on the cheek, and brought her closer, though her stubborn body language showed that really wasn’t what she wanted.

“Listen, I know you’ve been worried about moving, but I promise it’ll be okay. I may be trained for this kind of thing, but you know the language just as well as I do, and I know those orphans over there will love you. We’ve been so blessed—the least we can do is be a blessing to others, right?”

Faith held Thomas’ gaze for a moment, smiled, and lightly kissed him. “I know. I trust you. God is good right? God is faithful.”

The couple sat in silence, watching the fire in the fireplace die down, its golden embers fading to black. The snow was falling harder now, looking more like cotton balls than snowflakes. It hardly ever snowed in Florida. It would be the kids’ first real experience with the stuff apart from a family trip the four had taken to visit their grandparents up in Montana a few years back. But they were only four then and not nearly old enough to remember. Tomorrow would be special.

The black wood in the fireplace popped, sending sparks up into the chimney. Emily sat up and rubbed her eyes, her bunny still in her hand.

“Bedtime?” Faith asked Thomas, hinting towards Nathan and Emily. Thomas agreed and set his mug down on the stone mantle above the fireplace. Picking up the twins—stuffed animals and all—the young couple took them to their beds. Tomorrow would be a busy day; it was time to teach the kids how to build a snowman.

December 25, 1972

Loud knocking resonated throughout the small one-bedroom house in the Ural Mountains of the Soviet Union. Thomas knew they had been found out and scrambled for an idea—even a thought about what to do. Faith huddled in the corner of the bedroom with Nathan and Emily trying to quiet them down—telling them everything was going to be okay. Thomas grabbed their Bibles off of their nightstand and put them in a small hidden space beneath one of the floorboards.

Another volley of sonorous pounding filled the room. “I’m coming!” Thomas yelled, looking around for anything else that needed to be hidden. He saw nothing, and just as he reached the door to open it, he was met with a strong kick, sending him reeling to the floor as communist soldiers flooded into the house like water through a broken dam. They shouted to each other in Russian and immediately began to rummage through drawers and closets in search of any type of Christian paraphernalia. If they found anything, it would be enough for a conviction.

Rising to his feet Thomas yelled over the commotion, “Please! What do you want?” He knew what they wanted, but he didn’t know what else to say. “You can have whatever you want. Please, just let me and my family go.”

The commanding officer approached Thomas and said through a thick Russian accent, “You know what we came for. You are underground missionary. Give us the Bibles and the names of your church members and we will let you go.”

Hundreds of incoherent thoughts ran through Thomas’ mind, as he visibly struggled to produce an answer—his mouth hanging slightly open with no words to form.

Emily began to cry.

The officer picked up a lamp and threw it to the ground, its red porcelain exploding like fireworks. “Okay!” Thomas yelled. “I’ll give you what you want, and we’ll leave.” Thomas removed the loose floorboard and gave the officer their Bibles.

“And the names?” The officer asked, examining the Bibles’ leather covers.

“I don’t know. I don’t have the list. Another family has it. Please, just take the Bibles and anything else you want and let us go.”

The officer blurted out a command in Russian to the other soldiers, and three of the armed men grabbed Faith, Nathan, and Emily. Thomas instinctively bolted towards them, but was struck with a rifle butt to the stomach. Falling to the floor and unable to breathe, Thomas managed, “Please don’t hurt them. Let them go, take me!”

The soldiers paid no attention to Thomas’ plea and took his family outside where snow descended through the black like shattered stars. As Faith was forced through the doorway she said through tears, “I love you, Thomas.”

Thomas made another effort towards the soldiers, but the tall officer struck him again in the stomach and once in the head. Thomas spat blood and looked through the doorway where the soldiers had taken his family. The officer eyed Thomas, making sure he really was incapacitated, before he too stepped through the door and out of sight.

Thomas’ world spun—the blow to his head causing a rush of nausea and throbbing agony. Managing to prop himself up on one knee, and then finally two feet, he stumbled through the doorway. He wiped his mouth, saw smeared red on his hand, spat into the snow, and looked out into the wavy, moonlit night.

Three consecutive gunshots came from his right.

Thomas’ blood went cold. He turned and ran with every last ounce of strength in his body. The Jeep the soldiers came in drove off into the night with a loud rumble, and Thomas yelled aloud—faster than the tears could fall from his eyes—as he looked upon his beautiful wife and two children slain in the snow. Hot blood melted through the soft powder, settling on the pine needle-littered forest floor—a crimson grave marker partially hidden beneath crusted white. Thomas tried to find words, a prayer, anything. All that came was a shout of anguish. Kneeling next to his wife, he kissed her as he uncontrollably sobbed and shook. He brought Nathan and Emily into his arms along with Faith and buried his face in Emily’s brown hair. He kissed them both on the head and began to feel rage build inside him as if gunpowder had been thrown into the smoldering furnace of his soul. The only word that shouted out from the broken depths of his mind was, Why? For what felt like hours, Thomas wept and held his family in his arms, snow dusting his quaking shoulders.

Thomas noticed something lying on the ground next to him half-buried in the snow. It was the stuffed bear and bunny Nathan and Emily had received last Christmas. Thomas picked up the soggy stuffed animals and placed them in his children’s arms.

Thomas recalled that winter night the four of them had spent together—that perfect night when Thomas and Faith had held each other, reflecting on how much God had blessed them. Staring at Nathan’s bear through a prism of tears, Thomas remembered Faith’s words, “God is good right? God is faithful.”

He took Faith’s hair in his hands and wiped his tears with it, his vision clearing.

The snow continued to fall.

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The Explosion Monday, Dec 13 2010

Nothing good happens after midnight. 7a.m. is after midnight. In fact, it’s seven hours afterwards, and let me tell you, seven hours makes a hell of a difference, especially if you’re planning on operating heavy machinery for summer basketball weight training. They really should come up with a better system for racking weights, as if some of them aren’t heavy enough already; they shouldn’t let gravity have its way with them like it did with King Kong in New York City. It didn’t work out so well for the big fella.

Shrugs are meant to work the trapezius, but it is known to a weight lifter that they also test grip strength. If you can’t hold on to the iron dumbbells, how are you supposed to practice dumbfounded body language with your shoulders? You can’t shrug your shoulders without a sturdy clench, some sense of utter confusion like a third grader watching Jeopardy, or both in my case. I was stupefied, in a way, while attempting to re-rack 65lb dumbbells on the peculiarly designed weight racks. Both of the dumbbells combined fell short by 5lbs of my total hulking body weight of 135lbs, so it’s no surprise really as to why my finger exploded.

They were slanted at an angle with two metal rungs sticking out for the weights’ hexagonal ends to rest on. The rungs were meant to keep the weights from sliding off, like an engaged parking brake on a hill. My right arm successfully placed the weight down, but the left one—you remember how I told you grip strength is key for shrugs—didn’t take heed of the possible ramifications of not quite engaging the weight-rack’s parking brake mechanism and placed the top of the weight on the rung instead of beyond it.

Hold it right there. Freeze frame. There I was, facing a long row of dumbbells, steadily increasing in weight and size to my left, looking at myself in the mirror that makes up the entire back wall of the gym for the first time that morning—seeing how tired I really was according to the swollen crescent moons below my eyes—and awkwardly standing off balance with my left hand resting the 65lb dumbbell on the precipice of eventual freefall. Only my hand stood in the way of its plunge into the abyss of the black rubber floor beneath. I was standing on my tip-toes, as if those two inches would help lift the weight past the point of no return, and upon the realization of the severity of the situation, I was not unlike Wile Coyote suspended over a desert cliff’s edge, knowing what would happen, yet somehow defying the inevitable for a brief moment of accelerated awareness.

Now, before continuing, a brief lesson in physics is necessary to really understand what happened next. You know how the apple fell on Newton’s head and therein laid the cause of gravity’s discovery? Well, gravity doesn’t just cause things to fall; it causes things to fall and smash. So when the weight slid as I released my Vulcan grip, I instinctively thrust my hand back towards the weight’s handle to stop it. I don’t really believe I’m plugged into the Matrix, at least I don’t really remember having a metal rod plunged into the back of my head causing me to wake in the realm of the blue pill, but I think I may still have believed in the whole “being able to dodge bullets” thing when I made that thrust with my left hand. Needless to say, the weight laughed (I heard it) at my efforts and crushed my finger up against the rung that was supposed to be holding the damn thing on the rack. If anything, I reacted with superhuman speed to permit the weight to crush my finger, though that was obviously not my intention, should you doubt me. I shook my finger after the collision like one typically does after slamming a thumb in a car door, and my teammate horrifically said, “Dom, Dom.” Okay, him saying “Dom, Dom” was not all that horrific, but the way the warm red blood glistened off of his arms and face did work to accentuate the terror-stricken tone of the statement. Following his gaze, I saw a pulsating squirt of blood come out of my finger and splash onto the floor like a child pressing a water fountain’s button over, and over, and over again to find that, yes, water comes out whenever you press the button. Except in my case, the button was my heart, and if that button stops, you stop.

So there I stood, with hot red honey surging out of my birdie finger’s tip with each successive heartbeat (which may have been synced to the beat of Eminem on the iPod I was listening to, but I’m not certain enough of this to declare it as coincidental fact), thinking, wow, this doesn’t hurt as much as it should. Instead of shrieking in panicked trepidation, I merely looked at it in wide-eyed amazement like a five year old daredevil looking up at a roller coaster he is too short to ride. I knew the injury was serious, of course, but the strange correlation between the gruesome appearance of my finger and the miniscule pain experienced shrouded the severity of the injury like a veil on a burn victim. The orthopedic surgeon would say later that morning that it didn’t hurt much because the tip of my median nerve was severed, and irreparably so. To this day I feel nothing in the tip of that finger.

So while my fingertip is decrepit, Newton’s head went on to concoct calculus faster than the average college student learns it and to invent equations pertaining to the cause of both our injuries. I suppose it was only fitting that Einstein turned the world of physics on its head when he disproved much of Newton’s findings. Whether his theoretical error was because of the apple trauma is another matter entirely—I’m no neurosurgeon or any kind of an expert in fruit-induced intraparenchymal hemorrhaging. But is it a coincidence? Who knows how high that apple fell from—I’ve heard a penny falling off the Empire State Building will travel straight through a grown man’s skull like a scalpel through fatty tissue. I’m just saying.

I would also find out later that blood was actually found on the roof of the gym—nearly 15 feet high at this particular establishment—and a HAZMAT crew had to come in to clean up the mess. My finger was broken, but the weight was not. That’s why I’m telling you this story. You see, the apple fell on Newton’s head, and he probably thought, “Oh, a delicious snack from above,” but if a 65lb dumbbell had fallen on his head, he would not have said much (maybe an indiscernible grunt) and our history of physics would probably not include his adventures under apple trees. So the next time you decide to pick something up that requires more than your natural means, remember my finger, envision red-spewing drinking fountains with the spigot as one of your digits, know that gravity is not your friend but your enemy, and be aware that the rack design is its evil accomplice.

Oh, and that nothing good happens after midnight.

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In His Image Saturday, Dec 11 2010

David dug the rusty key to his shop out of the rough interior of his jeans. Leaving a trail of reddish brown from the opening of the cavernous pocket to the base of a busted belt loop, David was again reminded of his need to re-key the door. The rust’s fecal grip on the key had infectiously spread until it finally coated the original iron like loose topsoil over a freshly covered grave. After turning the key three times and adding to the rust now growing inside the dirty lock, David shoved the oak door forward. The swift push caused the cow skin rug on the inside to fold over on itself, effectively stopping the door’s forward sweep, and the rush of wind kicked up by the door’s sudden life offered up a pleasant aroma of sawdust and fresh pine. David pushed the rug to the side thinking he would fix it before he left—why he’d kept the dusty thing in the first place he still wasn’t sure.

David, now sixty-five years old, searched for the keypad next to the doorframe in the dark, found it, snapped it open and pressed the blue-lit touch-screen security system’s keypad with the same numbers he’d used for the last forty years. 1234. This was the security system’s default code, but David didn’t care much to change it (mainly because he didn’t know how and didn’t care to learn). No break-ins so far, and who would want to break into a vintage toy-maker’s carpentry shop—a retired toy-maker’s carpentry shop—was beyond him.

The experienced craftsman was known for his dolls, nutcrackers and the sort. He only did custom jobs, all with his own rugged hands, and signed his name on a thin wooden chip hung by the neck of the dolls as the key to showing the piece’s authenticity. One wooden doll could run a well-off family upwards of 10,000 British pounds, and if modern electronics were used, that figure easily quadrupled. Most of the world’s forests were gone since the War of Wars, and the only remaining source of wood for that kind of thing came at the expense of craftsmen such as David and their own protected reserve granted to them by the government, as long as they planted two trees for every one they cut down. The oak door and vintage lock were birthday presents to himself when he first opened the shop: a decision he was now learning to regret.

Carpentry was his passion, but the recent advancements of China in synthetic xylem and its imitation of authentic carpentry had nearly put him out of business. Did put him out of business. David was ready to retire anyway, but there was one project he was yet to finish.

He approached “the lab,” as he liked to call it, and examined the square hole in the center of a three-foot tall wooden doll’s back. The microchip and all of its relevant components would fit fine, but if the programming itself would work like it was supposed to was another story. He had worked on the algorithm for almost thirty years now, the same amount of time since the death of his only son, Anthony. The idea behind the programming was simple, but was yet to be done by the modern world. Sure there were “intelligent bots” as IBM had coined, but there was something missing in them. They couldn’t feel emotion like a human could. They could appear to experience it, but their responses were too rigid, too planned and calculating. They cried because they were supposed to cry and they laughed because a sensor buried deep inside told them something was “humorous” ipso facto. And IBM admitted this much: that the emotion wasn’t genuine, but instead a very primitive reflex pathway, as opposed to the complex biological pathways present in the brain that science still barely understood. Robots couldn’t really feel joy, happiness, or actually decide to like something, much less love someone. It was impossible, or so the wizards in the expensive labs said (some said “highly improbable”), but David knew otherwise, and his program was proof of that. He would prove it by installing it in a wooden exterior. It would walk and talk and do much less impressive things than the intelli-bots, but that didn’t matter. The algorithm was the algorithm. It spoke for itself.

AI toys were all the rage as of a few years ago, Christmas time, though some trial versions were allegedly released in Japan six months prior, and the humanistic appearance most portrayed invoked tremendous curiosity in those who were willing to shell out for them. Good Morning America had one in the studio that Christmas Eve, mainly to tell jokes and make TV viewers around the country ooh and aah at its seamless interactions with the just-as-intrigued anchors. The bot, framed with a teddy bear exterior (ironically named “Ted”), walked, jumped, and even made facial expressions perfectly amalgamated with each sentence and stimuli-dependent reaction. It almost came across as narcissistic—like it was trying to show off how “real” it was to its audience, constantly looking into the camera as if it could see its audience’s open-mouthed goggle, only smiling wider or grimacing harder to make those jaws actually scrape the floor.

David was one of the engineers responsible for the intelli-bots’ programming of course, mainly working in the stimulus-response programming pathways, and easily saw through Ted’s life-like face—a face that looked like a window into some kind of soul consisting of barebones mechanical DNA that revealed nothing more than electrical signals coordinating motor function and audible noise that came pre-packaged in over fifteen different languages. Needless to say, he knew how it worked, and he knew why some people (most people if they could get past the initial performance-shock) cried foul. The toys were too dependent on programmed responses. There was little, if any spontaneity in their functions. Not to mention they sat idle for hours on end if not spoken to or played with. Just like any other toy, they sat on a shelf, collecting dust, only coming to life if an imagination was willing to turn it on. They served no useful function and would certainly be selected against if the War of Wars’ nuclear fallout had actually ended humanity (all too many had predicted this much), as opposed to only the West. Ted couldn’t do anything to survive, but boy could he do a good moonwalk if you asked him to.

David’s work in the AI Toy-bot Project allowed him to investigate the bots’ downfalls to a point of finding the problem and hopefully modifying it. He had wanted to write a program that could function like a human could—living a certain number of years, always engaged with the world it found itself in. And David had written just that program. What was more is that whenever he tested it for its first dry run in a robotic body (which was basically a primitive stainless steel case with four limbs and not much else), the robot’s will to survive was apparent. Unlike Ted, David’s bot actually responded to the threat of destruction. Ted would simply smile at a dropping sledgehammer, as if he wanted no teeth, welcoming his existence’s destruction just as much as a Lego space ship might in the battlefield of a ten-year-old’s bedroom floor. But David’s bot would scurry away, which wasn’t fast considering its restricted body, and would even try to reason with David as to why he shouldn’t smash his circuitry with a crowbar.

“No, David,” It would say in perfectly spaced syllables without inflection, “I want to live, and if you hit me I will not.”

Curiosity also came along with the program, almost too much so, though David welcomed the unexpected feature and fed the bot’s apparent desire to learn. It wanted to know everything. “What is that tool? Who are you talking to? Why can’t I leave this space?” But the most surprising inquiry, and the one that directly caused David to practically drop the thing while carrying it to put it away for the night, made him sure the program worked.

“Why am I?” It had asked in its monotone voice. David first thought the question was a malfunction, maybe it meant ‘who am I,’ but when David re-iterated this, it only responded with, “I know who I am, I am Alpha. I want to know why I am.” Why it was. It wanted to know the reason why it existed. It was able to examine itself—to look inward—to both question and recognize its existence. Alpha wanted to know why, a question the greatest minds of history never left alone.

The program was a success, David knew this much. If implanted in a sufficient body, it could bring it to life. But David didn’t want to provide the program with anything flashy, just enough to house the program well enough to allow the soul to stand out. It didn’t need to be fancy, it just needed to be.

The body David had made for the bot was made out of Catalina Ironwood, one of the most robust woods still left in existence. Threaded throughout the heavy arms, legs, neck, and head were titanium joints and various hydraulics for the bot’s movement. David fitted its mouth with a specialized voice box—one that could enunciate just like a human could, thus eliminating the almost sinister utterance that Alpha had sported. It had the capacity for only two senses, sight and hearing, and that was really all it needed to function as David intended.

It sat on the only table in the lab, its dark brown legs hanging over the edge, sanded smooth torso sitting perfectly upright, brown face looking forward with empty eyes. It was only a shell—nothing particularly fantastic to look at. It wasn’t painted like the dolls David had painted in the past. It had no black tuxedo, no polka-dotted red dress. It didn’t need to be painted. It wouldn’t be played with, no opulent businessman would be showing it off during cocktail parties; it wasn’t designed to. This bot’s purpose was to love. It was built to love David.

David had felt love once before and had subsequently felt its absence. Its theft. Anthony’s accident wasn’t ever supposed to have happened. Good kids shouldn’t die like that, everyone knows that. Beta would be different. ‘Beta’ was the name he had finally decided on; it sounded mechanized enough, and seeing that it was his second prototype, he couldn’t help but cling to orderly thinking. He was a scientist after all.

David carefully lifted the heavy doll and placed it face down on the table, allowing the shop’s yellow light to illuminate the doll’s open core. Though the program and internal wiring was complicated in theory, it only manifested in the form of two single wires, one red and one white, which would be fused to the motherboard—a green square the size of the Winston cigarette box in David’s shirt pocket. Once the wires were connected, David needed to activate the miniature nuclear reactor contained within the motherboard, and then Beta would be born.

He activated the nuclear reactor with a simple switch and sealed the core shut with a half-inch-thick titanium hatch, screwing it down through its corners. The reactor needed just over fourteen hours to reach optimal levels for basic physical demands, and once this occurred, the bot would automatically turn on.  It hadn’t occurred to David that this dusty shop filled with jagged scrap wood, tools strewn about countertops in a particularly disorderly manner, sawdust piled in the corners—would be his bot’s ‘birthplace’ until now. It wouldn’t wake up as a baby might, fresh out of its mother’s womb in a cozy hospital room; it would enter the world all at once—already knowing how to speak, how to reason, and how to recall information already stored in its memory. It would be born, and David would help it along. It would have so many questions, but David was prepared. He was ready to answer all of them.

David sat Beta back up, positioning his feet forward, his legs parallel with the table, his arms at his sides. Sawdust clung to his front like lint on clothing, and David brushed it off, examining him to make sure he didn’t wake up to any surprises. David smirked at the idea of Beta waking up covered in sawdust—sawdust being analogous to the bodily fluids covering newborn babies. Maybe he should’ve left the powdery wood there. Babies didn’t care. But Beta might, so David left it at that.

He set the alarm before leaving, glancing back at Beta blankly facing forward as if he was in timeout and not allowed to get up and move around the shop. Tomorrow would be his birthday. It was a shame he had to spend it there, but it was necessary in case David had to do any last minute work on him should there be any complications. Babies were born in hospitals after all, right? Same idea.

***

David’s half-hour buffer twinkled into a fifteen minute deficit by a thirteen-car-pileup a mere two hundred feet from his exit. He’d smoked half a pack just waiting, mainly to ease the anxiety. He was about to be a parent for God’s sake, anxiety was normal, wasn’t it? And who cared about the smoking—Beta didn’t breathe, so it’s not like he was being irresponsible. Now that he thought about it, he should have built Beta with the capacity to smoke. That would’ve thrown a kink in the Biomechanical Ethics Committee’s agenda.

He’d hoped to be there when Beta awoke (10:30am by his watch), but Beta would probably be up and about doing…things…by the time David finally arrived. The truth was, David didn’t know what Beta would be doing. He was a three-foot tall wooden robot with the intellectual capability that surpassed most adults, yet harbored literally no experience in doing absolutely anything. It wouldn’t have surprised David in the least if Beta had gone exploring in the shop, breaking things as he went, only to uncover various items as foreign to him as Chinese letters to the average American.

My God, what if he got a hold of a sawzall? Or a router?

So when David pulled his 96’ Buick (‘2096’, that is) up to the parking dock at the back of his shop, he was relieved to see that the door was closed, the lights were off, and the windows were still intact. Well, if anything broke it wouldn’t be the windows. They were ballistic-grade fiberglass. A little overkill, maybe, but he liked to have his peace of mind. ‘You never know!’ David’s sister used to always say. With these windows, maybe he would’ve told her, ‘yes, actually I do,’ and then would’ve followed it with a healthy ‘shut the hell up. Thanks for getting drunk before taking Anthony to football practice. Think you could recycle your cans next time?’

Going through his regular routine, unlocking the door to once again wedge it up against the folded cow-hide rug, barely allowing him to squeeze his enlarged gut between the door and its frame, David disarmed the security system, flipped on golden lights shining down like reflected brass, and scanned the shop for Beta. The last place he looked was where Beta sat, ironically, which was exactly where he had left him the previous night. David had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that Beta would be up and about, but seeing him sit there led David to wonder if maybe the reactor hadn’t fully charged, or maybe he hadn’t fused the red and white wires properly (though he was sure he had—he’d triple checked it), or maybe the algorithm wasn’t running properly (God forbid) in the new motherboard. But all of these possibilities halted like a car seeing red, as Beta turned his head towards David, his once plain eyes now full of verve.

“David, it is good to see you, I thought I would never be able to safely get down from this precipice.” Beta spoke like a grad student presenting his research thesis, enunciating every word without accent or mistake.

David was caught off guard. He knew Beta would be operational today, but the moment stirred up excitement and fear.

“Beta!” David coughed, clearing his tobacco-black throat. “Beta, you seem to be doing well, how are you feeling?”

Who greeted their child (David supposed Beta was like his own child after all) with, ‘you seem to be doing well, how are you feeling’ as the very first words its virgin ears would ever hear? He might as well have uttered ‘goo goo gah gah’ or something of the sort. It would have been just as appropriate, babies cried all the more, but Beta only looked confused.

“Well, David, I don’t really feel anything as I understand the meaning of the word feel, but if you are referring to my overall well-being, I seem to be doing fine and am in working order, considering my intended design and possible bodily functions.”

Beta turned, swinging his legs over the edge of the worktable like two pendulums, knocking off bits of sawdust. David looked at him in obvious bewilderment, his eyes staring searingly as if he was discovering some unknown specimen on a petri dish for the first time. But he did know something about Beta—he had created him—he’d written his DNA. If anything, he knew everything.

“Could you raise your arms for me?” David asked Beta, now playing doctor. Beta complied.

“Now stand here on the table.”

Beta did this as well, his hydraulic joints flexing and bending without a hitch.

David sat Beta back down, manually bent his arms and knees, rotated his head to the left and right. All seemed well. Then again, his body wasn’t anything groundbreaking—Beta’s shell was really nothing more than a doll with sturdier parts, but he was still pleased that everything worked as he had anticipated.

Satisfied, David stood back, looking at his greatest piece of work. It wouldn’t be complete, though, until David pushed the algorithm to tap into its potential. The program was like a child. It needed to be reared—instructed—in the proper direction in order for it to really blossom. Previous AI bots didn’t have free will, which was why they weren’t really AI at all. Without free will, they were robots that only functioned according to how their programmers designed them. Beta, on the other hand, needed to recognize that he had free will. It was like taking the training wheels off of a bike. Just as the child develops and hones his balancing skills, so would Beta with freely choosing. The terrible two’s give rise to incessant “no’s,” but Beta’s intellectual capacity would make his free decision go a little more smoothly.

David picked him up off the workbench, Beta wrapping his arms around David’s neck like a toddler. But when David leaned down to place him softly on the floor, Beta didn’t let go. In fact, he had strengthened his grip around David’s neck. My God he’s choking me (though he quickly dismissed this thought)—David pulled back, breaking the embrace.

Beta looked startled, his child-like placidity absent.

“Hugging. It is what we do to show love, am I correct?” Beta asked.

David’s inquisitive eyes flashed back to understanding almost as quickly as he had retracted.

“Oh, yes, that is what we do to show affection. Would you like a hug?”

Beta never broke eye contact with David.

“Yes. Yes I would, I suppose.”

The two embraced—much more warmly this time—David’s wrinkled hands pressing firmly against Beta’s untextured back.

“What do you think?” David asked Beta, whose expression remained stoic.

“I love you, David.”

This was the moment David had been waiting for. He had literally designed Beta for this very purpose, to love him. But the moment still felt empty somehow. Maybe it was because it had happened right away. Relationships don’t start up all at once. They take years, even decades to build. Whatever it was, David wasn’t sure, but he was still excited that the algorithm was working.

David wanted to press Beta further. “Why do you love me?” he asked.

Beta’s eyes looked through David’s, absently. His mind was working. David knew the algorithm would adapt to external stimuli—including human interaction—and this was perhaps the most crucial step in the process, asking questions with why attached as a prefix. ‘Why’ demanded original thought. It demanded the workings of free will. The fact that David hadn’t written (purposely so) a reflex pathway for ‘why-responses’ was a key component of Beta’s free will. The algorithm would need to adapt—it was up to Beta’s mind to “dwell” on answers that didn’t involve programmed responses and adjust accordingly.

Beta continued to think, his eyes not moving, his arms still at his sides. Finally, he broke the silence.

“I’m not certain. Can I give you an answer at a later time?” Beta inquired innocently enough. David didn’t expect the algorithm to respond right away, it would be a process for sure, but he still felt disappointment knocking.

“That’s okay, Beta, you take whatever time you need.”

“I do love you David, I’m just not sure why yet. I’m sorry if I have disappointed you in any way. I promise to find out.”

David chuckled, the disappointment leaving after he declined to let it in. “You don’t worry about that. Again, you’ve got as long as you need.”

“What are we doing today?” Beta asked.

“Well unfortunately I have to keep you here for observation. I just need to make sure everything is working properly. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely, whatever is needed,” Beta said, still looking awkwardly into David’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do that you know. Always look me in the eye. You can look around if you want,” David said half-sarcastically, a grin forming out of the corner of his mouth.

Beta didn’t respond, but took heed to David’s suggestion nonetheless, looking up and around the shop at whatever caught his fancy.

“This way,” David said, motioning for Beta to follow him. Beta’s eyes darted back to David, as if he had interrupted some kind of daydream. He walked in small steps, his wooden feet knocking on the floor as he went. The two came up to a glass chamber with a Beta-sized door hanging open to reveal a white plastic cocoon with wires and chords hanging down from the top.

Beta studied the pod, lightly knocking on the glass with his wooden fist.

“It’s okay, there’s really nothing to worry about. I just need to connect these wires to your motherboard and run some diagnostic tests. You won’t even remember a thing. It’ll feel like you go to sleep and then just wake up.”

“What does it feel like to go to sleep, David?” Beta asked.

He had a point.

“Nevermind, the tests will take just about fourteen hours, but to you it will feel like a second. Less than a second actually. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Beta continued to study the pod he would apparently be standing in for the next fourteen hours.

“How long have I been here? Talking to you, that is?” Beta asked.

“Oh, I’d say around fifteen minutes or so. But it won’t feel like that long. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

“So it will take exactly sixty times longer than the time I have been alive.”

David smiled, amused by Beta’s mathematical precision.

“That’s right, but you won’t be aware of it, because it puts you to sleep to run the tests. To you, it will seem like you just stepped in…and then it will be done. Just like that.”

Beta contemplated David’s words, holding prolonged eye contact again.

“Okay. Is ‘just like that’ better than fourteen hours?”

“Of course! You wouldn’t want to just stand here for fourteen hours on end, would you?” David asked.

Beta thought for a moment, then answered, “Well I don’t suppose I would mind waiting for fourteen hours. I could think, and that would certainly be worthwhile. Could I be awake? I actually think I’d quite like that.”

David put his hands on Beta’s shoulders. “I can tell we’re going to get along already. No, unfortunately you can’t be awake, because the computer is going to use your circuitry to do its tests. Technically you will be awake, but you won’t be aware. Does that make sense?”

Beta looked back at the machine. “Not entirely. But that’s fine.”

Beta stepped into the pod, his back facing David. David carefully unscrewed the titanium covering on his back so as not to strip the head, lifted the hatch, and attached the wires to the motherboard. He turned to the computer, reading the code off the screen as it scrolled down automatically. He took the Winston box out of his shirt pocket, its laminated covering wrinkled and folded, only to find that he had just one cigarette left. He lit up with a plain, stainless Zippo, drawing in and exhaling harshly. He snapped the lighter shut with a flick of the wrist, setting it down next to the keyboard.

After hitting a few more keys and double-checking Beta’s connection, David said with the cigarette jutting out of the corner of his mouth, “Okay, Beta, you ready? The program is going to kick in here in just a few moments. Before you know it, I’ll be right here and it’ll be all over.”

“What’s that?” Beta pointed towards the computer, an arm’s distance from the pod.

“This?” David asked, following Beta’s gaze. David picked up the stainless Zippo. “This is just a lighter, I use it for these cigarettes. Cigarettes are bad. And fire is bad too, especially for you.” David winked. “Okay, you ready?” David asked.

“ ‘Just like that,’ right?” Beta asked, still looking at the Zippo.

“Just like that,” David affirmed.

Beta took his eyes off of the Zippo, turning them forward, out through the pod’s plastic pane. Just before the program started (or was it just as the program started?), his eyes looked empty, almost like they had been before he was born. They looked sad. Heartbroken. Heartbroken? Yes, that is exactly how they looked, if David could describe it. If not heartbroken, then grieving, but that was pretty much the same thing. Which couldn’t have been accurate. Beta loved David. He was designed to. He may not have known ‘why’ yet, but he would in time.

But…wasn’t that just it? Didn’t Beta love David, only because David had forced him to love him? Maybe technically, but wasn’t their relationship still authentic at least like any father and son’s—like his relationship with Anthony had been? Yes, yes, that was why he hadn’t written in ‘why’ responses. So that Beta would have free will, and still love David. But what if the two contradicted? What if Beta recognized that he only loved David because he was programmed to love him…because he was forced to love him. David hadn’t thought about this scenario until just then. How could he have missed it? But what were the chances, really, of something like that happening? That is, the chances of Beta recognizing that he would never be able to not love David? Would that override the programming that had made Beta love him in the first place? Maybe that’s what was in Beta’s eyes—that helpless look of sadness—that Beta had recognized the dilemma. He had just asked Beta why he’d loved him, after all. But he’d done it to initiate the algorithm’s process of becoming the first of its kind…the first with a truly free will. But now as David saw the look in Beta’s eyes pass into unawareness caused by the program’s diagnostic tests, he thought about what Beta might think about the program that made him love him. Wasn’t love a choice? Could a relationship exist without it? No, no it couldn’t. Beta had seen it. His eyes didn’t lie. Or had they? No, the diagnostic had done it to his eyes; it wasn’t him.

‘Why do you love me?’

‘Can I give you an answer at a later time?’

***

David had left the shop exactly fifteen and a half hours before his phone rang like a siren, causing him to practically fall out of his living room recliner. He’d accidentally dozed off.

“Hello?” David answered, realizing he still had ribs stuck in his teeth from dinner.

No response. He checked the display to find that it wasn’t actually a call, but an alert. The external LCD showed a police siren-graphic with flashing lights. The security system at the shop was going off. What time was it? The grandfather clock by the door said half past eleven. The diagnostic must’ve just ended. Had the computer tripped the alarm somehow? No, they weren’t connected at all. Stupid thought—the drowsiness was probably to blame. Maybe another break-in? Possibly. Probably. David didn’t really want to go fill out another police report, though, mainly because they were pointless: no, officer, nothing was stolen; there is nothing valuable in this shop other than wood and I keep that locked up. What do you mean, ‘why do I have an alarm, then?’ I have an alarm because it’s my damn right to have an alarm.

But this time was different. Tonight, of all nights to have a break-in, his most cherished work was sleeping right there in the shop, and helplessly so. If they took Beta…well if they took him they would probably sell him for a few thousand bucks, but if they found out what Beta was, no, who Beta is, the potential for profit had no limit. In the right person’s hands (or wrong person’s hands, depending on your point of view), Beta would blow the top off of AI research, which was never David’s intention…and for good reason. So he slipped on his brown penny-loafers, which were sitting neatly by the door, grabbed his keys, and headed out to his car, his house’s automatic lockdown system activating behind him with a series of loud metal-on-metal slams.

David could see the smoke from five miles away, its black plume appearing brown against the night’s backdrop. Surely it was the shop; it couldn’t be a coincidence that the alarm had gone off just as a fire popped up in its exact vicinity. Or maybe the alarm had gone off because of a different fire? The Chinese restaurant across the parking lot was always running at least fifteen burners at once, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t given them trouble before. Half the kitchen had caught fire not even eight months ago, who couldn’t see this coming?

Five minutes later, he took the 3^rd Street exit, crossing a bridge over to Maple, where the Chinese restaurant stood, unaffected by the flames heavily engulfing David’s carpentry shop. The black smoke had hints of white in it now that the fire trucks were dousing the flames with water by the pool-full. Three trucks were working on it, which didn’t thoroughly surprise David, considering the shop was essentially a large furnace full of wood.

“We’re going to need you to move a little further back, sir, at least until we’ve got this thing under control,” a young firefighter told David, still wearing his protective mask and helmet. David didn’t protest and did what the man said, never taking his eyes off of the flames. What could he do?

No, this is my shop.

Like they would care, a fire was a fire; it didn’t matter what was burning.

No, but you don’t understand, I have a robot in there.

Yeah, well that robot is nothing but a glorified space heater right now, hope you have good insurance, mister.

So David waited. He waited until a fourth truck came, and until the crew chief told him the worst of it was out. The black corpse of a building steamed, white-hot coals coating the edges of the remaining exterior, grey ash still raining down like snow. He wasn’t allowed in yet, not until the police finished their investigation as to the cause of the fire. That was the strange thing: there was nothing that could have really caused such an inferno, unless the computer Beta was hooked up to was filled with dynamite unbeknownst to him. Even then, the fire probably wouldn’t have rivaled Ground Zero like this one had, which was why the police’s notes screamed arson.

Finally given the OK by the police chief just as the sun was beginning to crest the eastern horizon, David carefully stepped through the soggy black wood coating what used to be the entryway of his shop. A few of the main support beams were still intact, jutting out of the black and grey rubble like the bows of capsized ships. The framing that survived made the place look like a burned down prison, similar to how a half-built house looks when it consists of a mess of wooden cells and concrete. Most of the roof was gone, though David continually looked up, half-ducking, as if something was about to collapse on him.

There was nothing to be recovered. The computer was gone, now existing as a solid puddle of melted plastic and fried pieces of scrap metal. The pod looked like this too, and Beta wasn’t inside. But David didn’t expect to see him. There shouldn’t have been anything left—Beta was just wood with some metal pieces to make him come to life. But even those, if they were somehow intact and amongst the chaos (he would later find parts of the hydrolic joints), couldn’t be identified from what remained of the computer and the pod. The fire had practically welded it all together into a nice little collage that an abstract painter could probably sell for millions. Here lie the remains of the origins of artificial intelligence, freshly recovered from the pyromanial palette of the Trashcan Man.

The police investigators later told David that they had officially concluded the cause to be arson, probably from some kind of lighter fluid or gasoline judging by trace amounts of residue present where the fire appeared to have originated. It had, as David suspected, originated in the lab. Some samples in the area came back reading signature-petroleum, but the type used was nothing more than speculation. One of the investigators suggested gasoline, since a similar incident had occurred only ten miles down the road where four empty five-gallon diesel containers had been found. It was a church that had burned down, and a controversial one at that: its preacher wanted to burn some Qurans and allegedly a mosque in the name of God, but the latter was never proven. It made national news.

So David was left to wonder. The case remained open, and they promised they’d let him know something as soon as they learned anything…but he couldn’t help but wonder about his Zippo, the one Beta had asked about. He’d thought about it first whenever he’d reached for a cigarette after dinner that night, only to find that it wasn’t in his front pocket along with the smokes. He never did find it at home, leaving him to think he’d accidently left it sitting by the computer—just an arm’s reach away from the pod. He wondered about the Zippo, but he wondered even more about Beta’s eyes.

He was heartbroken. Beta’s eyes showed sorrow.

Which led David to think again about the algorithm.

Is “love” worth engaging if only through shackles?

If so, Beta’s only escape would’ve been to take his life—by fire.

By a Zippo, only inches away.

David later asked the police chief about it, but the chief dismissed the idea altogether. That fire could’ve burned your shop down ten times over—you’d need hundreds of those there lighters to burn a building down like that as quickly as it did.

He was probably right.

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I am a Philosopher Wednesday, May 5 2010

It is often asked of me, “Why philosophy?”

An appropriate response might be that it is of interest to me, or more primitively put, I find it amusing. But to say such a thing would regrettably be a product of the habitual mundane—a momentary redirect is necessary if what I truly see as a reason to study philosophy is to be befittingly conveyed.

In the back of my mind, now moving to the forefront, I examine my current situation. I find myself dropped into a reality in which a material object (with a similar resemblance to me) is asking me in a language I comprehend without conscious effort, “why do you seek truth?” Of course, such an experience entered my consciousness via “thought” from the peculiar depths of the subconscious—via language—and all at once. But if I am to even use the verb “entered,” I inadvertently usher in the notion of “past,” and rightly in turn, “present” and “future,” as if I am trapped by yet another phenomena so foreign (but perfectly familiar—it is all I know, all I have ever known, and all I ever will know) that I cannot help but examine it. But as soon as I examine it, I realize the very thing I am trying to analyze is acting as a lens by which I examine everything—including itself. Perhaps I have reached futility—a dead end—or maybe I have stumbled upon a pure intuition of the mind. But I will leave that inquiry for another “time” (or “now” located in the future, but connected to my finite connection to the infinite stream of nowness that is always presented immediately in experience). A question is being asked of me by a foreign object.

I now move to the issue of how I should answer the question that will satisfy the curiosity of the object—the thing I know as a person, as opposed to a “body” or “man” or “woman.” As I begin to try and formulate a better answer that would represent what I really do think about the seemingly simple inquiry, I am blindsided by the very experience that brought me into the discipline. Whether the question itself awoke me from my cursed, perpetual, conscious tendencies is irrelevant; the important thing is that I nonetheless find myself truly awake and separated from my dreams of what most call “every day life.” This new state of alertness is one of confusion. I instantly recognize that my previous state was nearly equivalent to unconsciousness—dead in the monotone scales of everyday living through moments carelessly strung together. But now, I feel almost thrown into a new moment—one in which I am fully conscious and aware of a world of objects and hidden phenomena. I feel detached.

Included under such “hidden phenomena” is the category of the understanding, “causality.” I don’t merely see objects existing in space and time; I see these objects causally interact. I see a tennis ball hit the ground and bounce upward, only to fall and bounce again and again until it finally comes to a rolling rest. So I wonder about what Hume calls “secret powers” and how such powers are contained within objects. As Hume notes, it is a tragedy that my existence completely depends on inductively contrived empirical explanations. Such explanations/reasons, like the inference that the ball will bounce every time it is dropped, can really only be said to be customary if it is held that what is occurring really is occurring and is being presented to the mind in a pre-Copernican way (“pre-Copernican” referring to the Aristotelian approach that generally holds that the world we observe is observed as it is in itself as opposed to what Kant offers with his Copernican Turn in his Critique). For induction is ultimately fallible, as it begs the question by assuming constancy. And reason can have nothing to do with fallibility.

That being said, it could be the case that there is no causality to begin with. Perhaps it only appears that the ball and the ground and gravity have causal relations, when in actuality I am only witnessing Leibnizian harmony. It would be hard to say that this is the case, however, because it seems counter-intuitive to assert that that which is most apparent is not actually true. The ball bounces, because every time I have ever dropped the ball, it has bounced. It has never not bounced. I seem to control it (freely), and this is contrary to pre-established harmony. But I must now laugh at such thoughts, since they require what I previously deemed fallible—induction. Forgive me though; such abderian behavior is brash. I should get back to the thought process furiously invoked upon the posing of the original question with the hope that it will give rise to a sufficient answer. For at this particular moment, I am still silent, my mind is wandering, and my inquirer is waiting.

Alluding back to my original experience of being thrown into a world of objects and hidden phenomena, I wonder how and why I crash-landed in the moment I find myself in. Why are their objects, what are these objects, and most importantly, what am I?

You are a person.

Yes, but what is a person?  And why is there something instead of nothing at all? This entire experience of existence is extremely strange, and I am very, very lost.

Because of this experience of wonder (an experience I have unfortunately butchered with the limits of language), I find it to be absolutely necessary to find answers. I am here—now—and completely immersed in a reality I did not choose to be in. I—Dasein—have the peculiar ability to utilize reason and recognize many basic truths—mathematical, logical, perhaps metaphysical, etc.

Because of this truth (some hidden, and some immediate), I am confronted with things like morality, or what some call the “moral law.” I recognize a few different probable paths to an answer of how I ought to act—Utilitarianism, Deontology, Relativism, and Virtue Ethics (there are more, but these seem to be the most probable), but I don’t necessarily know which is best. I read Mill and find elements of the pleasurable truth I am seeking, I am astounded at the rational genius of Kant, I am perplexed by the godlike esteem of Aristotle, and I am terrified at the intellectual justification I find in postmodern relativism. And what about God? I mentioned Aristotle as being godlike, but what do I even mean by “G(g)od?” Who or what is God, and does such a being exist?

You are a Christian. You should abandon this line of inquiry and have faith in the revelation of God.

And perhaps I should. But what I have come to find is that such a proposition unfortunately renders God as an unlit candle—something waiting (no, desiring is a better word) to change into a beautiful and pleasing fragrance with the purpose of pervading my mind if only I would have the courage to light it—to truly seek Him. For through philosophy my understanding and finite comprehension of God has exploded to heights and depths I never thought possible. Theology is arguably the greatest philosophy, but I must not forget that “philosophy” is a part of that phrase and is paramount to understanding the noumenal revelation graciously bestowed to the godlike creation.

My mind now leaves this path of considering God and theology for another time and focuses on the new consideration of what is underneath my linguistic thought process. For such erratic thoughts expressed through language (i.e. always linguistically triangulated about another in time—specifically the future) once again cause me to return to the question of the nature of my being and its relation to the external world. How do I know the external world even exists? How do I know that the person asking me why I study philosophy is a real being or “another?” I am once again at a crossroads. Can I know the external world in itself, or am I hopelessly stuck in eclipsing illusions?

I feel I should begin with my own phenomenological experience, scrap a third-person objective viewpoint, and delve into what I—an “I” whose doubt I cannot reasonably dismiss—observe and am. I first realize that I am here, right now, and am bombarded by what my sensory manifold interprets as objects, or “this suches.” These suches exist spatiotemporally, but only according to the participation of my mind. And this “transcendental aesthetic” that has been tattooed into the wiring of my mind without my permission does not belong to the this suches—it has been actively imposed on them by my mind.

Secondly, I realize that I did not cause myself to exist here and now, but I rather “find myself” here (a phrase I use all too often, but is really the best way of describing the experience)—all at once and separate from any choice to be. What is more is I transcendentally transcend myself in a Kantian/Heideggerian sense, i.e. I cannot but be ahead of myself in the future—drawing pictures so to speak in anticipation of what will happen next in time. Even as I write this sentence, I cannot help but be already ahead of myself in language, lest I not know what word to write next in any kind of sensical way.

So I don’t actually exist in the present, I exist in the future of schematized potentials. I am a being always already projected into the future—therefore beyond myself and beyond my boundaries. I anticipate and react (even if what I anticipate does not occur) and I instantaneously adjust and schematize in different directions all the time. I do not make an effort at doing this. I just do (you, reader, do too). I must be this way and I cannot control it.

Finally, this series of metaphysical propositions presents me with a problem that deeply terrifies me. For since I am a being existing in the future, I must heed the fact that the future is similar to the now in that even as a succession of events continuously flows, it is flowing towards something. This may be illustrated by being in a boat. This boat I will call the typically understood notion of “future” (my “now”), and I am always there in the boat as I move to another “there” and call it a “here.” Next, I wonder where my statically drifting (“statically” refers to being stuck in the there, which is really the schematized future/”drifting” refers to the succession of events characterized by and through time towards some end) reality is traveling. For I realize that at any moment, I could cease to be—either altogether or just from the standpoint that I currently am (the latter being an ontological change, not an absence of being). Such death will likely occur in the same exact fashion as my coming into existence occurred—all at once and beyond the realm of my will. Even if I choose to take my life, I can really only do this in a physical sense, as it would appear that I really have no control over my being. For I am here, now, and did not ever choose to be here and now lest I be the absurd idea of a self-sufficient and self-causing entity. Only God, or what most call the “first cause” can really be considered under such a notion. Nonetheless, if it is the case (and I think that it is) that I am ontologically facing forward in time and am statically drifting towards an end I know nothing of, then it can be said of me that I am a being oriented towards imminent death, or the “mystery.” And it is this mystery that drastically individuates me and stirs up an intensely haunted state of mind. I become anxious—sometimes terrified—of what entering into the mystery might entail. I must admit that the mystery is almost as strange as my current state of existence, but holds my attention much tighter. For it is only when I consciously tap into my suspension over the mystery (a suspension that will eventually break) that I experience real anxiety—anxiety that is wholly demanding of my immediate attention.

My instinctual tendency is to retreat. I want to flee and occupy myself once again with the habitual mundane. By withdrawing from the anxiety, I am better able to function. But I must ask, is such functionality really what my nature as a rational being transcendentally pursues? No. I must reject such a thought, for reason itself wants answers, and the mere functionality of the habitual mundane contains none. While it is useful for understanding the fundamentals of being qua being, it is almost useless if the answer to the uncertainty-driven anxiety produced by my suspension over the mystery is to be found. And this very suspension is where I must finally concentrate, for I have not yet found an answer that is sufficient for the satisfaction of reason.

It is here where I approach a dilemma that few philosophers dare to step towards. Why? Because this final area of philosophical debate has been devastated by an earthquake revealing an infinitely deep chasm. On one side of the chasm is reason and all of its alleged boundaries. On the other is truth. But within the chasm is that which cannot quench the thirst of reason, yet must be necessarily crossed for the possession of truth. This chasm is the mystery and it is this very chasm that I am statically drifting toward. While it may appear that I am currently safe in the drifting boat, I am not, and I am terrified of the potential nothingness that is permeating me. If I were to dive into it in a desperate attempt at understanding, it would mean certain destruction. The chasm cannot be understood, for reason shouts into its miry depths, and they echo with silence. Death’s door is like a thick curtain—impenetrable by any means of sight or understanding. Death, then, is uncertainty. And while to some (maybe most), as Kierkegaard notes, “death’s despondency would make life a vanity,” I choose to adopt a more authentic approach to its uncertainty. I must confront it.

And I must leap.

For if the chasm is bypassed—literally leapt over—then truth may be arrived at. Granted, such a leap is contrary to reason, but my faculties need it, and my heart intrinsically desires it. It is in my nature to transcend myself, and if I only stop at the mystery’s echoed silence, then I see no point in continuing on in any kind of intellectual journey. This is why we hate the possibility of nothingness—I hate the possibility of nothingness, and so I leap. But where I land, however, is solely dependent on revelation. It was mentioned before that I am a Christian, and so I am. But in order to truly be a Christian, I must have faith that Christianity is true—I must leap over what I do not currently understand with the hope that I have acted rightly. And here, as my mind’s eye smiles, anxiety turns to joy. But now I’m venturing out of the realm of phenomenological philosophy into theology once again. I should continue, or else my interrogator may take my silence as unmannerly.

Alas, this personal phenomenology of my stream of consciousness resulting from the originally posed question of “why do you study philosophy?” is sadly poignant if philosophy’s potential depth is to be illustrated in any sort of fair way. I have effectively taken galaxies within the universe of philosophy and clumsily thrown them about in a successive manner without argument or counter in order to convey some sense of fluency of truthful thought. And in so doing, I have failed to bring to light the intricate makeup of such galaxies. For within galaxies are things like solar systems, and in solar systems there are stars and planets, and further simplification leads to the matter making up such entities as well as the molecules, atoms, and divinely orchestrated nature of the interaction amongst those atoms and protons and electrons making up such matter. What I have ultimately assembled, therefore, is a forlorn attempt at smashing together celestial philosophical theses and expecting it to produce a sufficient answer to the originally posed question. So forgive me for only scratching the surface of where the question has taken me, but I feel a thousand lifetimes would still fall short of doing an adequate job at penetrating the surface of the immense amount of existing truth. So enough of this philosophical banter. After all, I have been asked a question, and it would be rude to press on any further with terms, theses, and theories most are unfamiliar with and I myself am still learning and studying.

Why philosophy?

Because I want the truth.

 

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The Clockmaker’s Climax Friday, Apr 30 2010

The Clockmaker’s Climax

Tick, tick tock, tick, tick tock
Backwards and forwards the hands glide and play
Conducting a symphony they turn and they walk
Unnoticed and unhindered, they pace and delay

Crooked fingers follow time’s word and rhyme
They often move fast and rarely move slow
Circling the face, they speak and they sign
Like a river, they ebb and they flow

Long is short and short is long in time’s song
Round and round it continuously winds
To those who will listen, the story is strong
Through ticking and tocking its plot you can find

But listen carefully—its words you may miss
For they tick and tock quicker each day
Just as its Maker has geared hours for bliss
He has also wound minutes for dismay

So do not be troubled when you are sometimes afflicted
Take heart when those hands read the undesired
For that golden hour was picked and depicted
To strip you and purify you in a refining fire

For as it keeps ticking and ticks towards the top
The summit is reached, and the hands move as one
A new song is sung as the seconds again drop
And a new hour begins once the song has begun

The melodious verse of its bells rings aloud
They burst far and wide at the Clocmaker’s climax
Clashing and resounding they rejoice and are proud
Before they disperse and begin to relax

So when those hands strike and fashioned bells chime
Remember whose hands were first struck on a tree
So during that hour, our sin He could bind
And during that minute, our soul He could free

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The Blind Painter Saturday, Apr 24 2010

“Wait, did you remember your Blackberry charger?”

“Yes honey, I have it with my computer.” Derrick smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back on Sunday.”

Derrick kissed his wife of five years. Dennise walked back around to the driver’s side of the couple’s black Beemer and opened the door.

“Don’t forget to tell Mom that I made her an appointment with Dr. Grenzky for tomorrow morning. She’ll forget if you don’t remember.”

“I won’t forget, Derrick, you just go have fun and make sure those important men wearing important-looking suits know you mean business.”

Derrick laughed and waved goodbye as Dennise drove off from the 30^th Street Amtrak station in Philadelphia. Derrick Harper, a young and successful business executive for a major advertising company extending its reach to most of the East Coast, made his way toward his train—steaming coffee in hand. It wasn’t a long trip to the city, but Derrick fully intended on reviewing the proposal he would be giving to the vice president of an up-and-coming telecommunications company based out of Long Island. Even just a little bit of time was too valuable to waste. If he could work out a contract with the company, it would be his third in two weeks. Not only would it be his third major contract landed in such a short amount of time, but the commission from the deal was quite a bit more than pocket change to say the least. He had to land the contract. Success was at hand. And Derrick was never one to relax. Success doesn’t come to those who wait; it comes to those who work.

The voice of a middle-aged woman came over the intercom announcing that Derrick’s train was set for departure and ready to board. She didn’t seem to be very excited about her announcement. She spoke as if no one was listening. Was she angry? No, just tired. Maybe she worked two jobs and didn’t get much sleep last night. Or maybe she’s just a lazy person who’s just trying to skid through life the easy way. Probably the latter.

Derrick adjusted the shoulder strap to his computer bag, disposed of his empty latte, and prepared to board his train to New York City. Derrick was six foot three, African-American, and in better shape than most thirty-five year olds. His new Cesare Paciotti shoes clicked and clacked rather nicely on the cold marble floor of the Amtrak station. Freshly polished, it would be hard not to notice such a nice pair of shoes hand crafted in Italy. That is, if his Canali pinstriped suit or Breitling watch weren’t noticed first. No matter how someone looked at Mr. Derrick Harper, you knew he meant business. But no one likes a showy person. So Derrick confidently handed his ticket to an older man with a full head of grey hair with a smile after stepping onto the train.

“Thank you, sir, have a great day,” Derrick said as the train attendant handed the ticket back. Why didn’t the man smile back? He must envy successful people. Maybe if he worked a little harder in school instead of drinking and dropping out he would be more successful than a minimum wage-paid ticket handler—or whatever they’re called. Derrick made his way through the train to find a secluded place to work. Did all of the seats in business class face each other? No, the whole train couldn’t be laid out this way. The last thing Derrick needed was to start up an unwanted conversation or maintain an awkward silence with a stranger sitting directly across from him inquiring about his business. If they really wanted to know about him, all they needed to know was that he didn’t become successful by shirking a perfectly good opportunity to get some work done or by talking with complete strangers he would undoubtedly forget thirty minutes later.

“Excuse me, ma’am, would it be possible for me to sit where I could charge my computer during the trip?” Derrick asked a young lady readying refreshments for the passengers. He knew the only place with power outlets was at the front of business class—usually only one or two seats secluded by themselves. It would be a perfect place to solidify his business proposal.

“I’m sorry sir. Normally I would let you sit there, but we’re currently having trouble with the power outlets at the front of the train.”

“No problem, ma’am, thank you for your help.”

Power trouble? Unlikely. She probably had her cell phone along with other Amtrak employees’ cell phones plugged in up there. That’s what happened last time at least. Was it so hard to remember to charge your things ahead of time? Whatever happened to accommodating customers first? Affluence never did come easily.

“Welcome to 30^th Street Station giving service to Penn Station along the Northeast Regional. We will be departing shortly, so if you could please take your seats and stow any loose baggage, it would be much appreciated. Our ETA is 5:17pm Eastern Standard Time, the current weather forecast for New York City is 72 degrees fahrenheit with cloudy skies and an 80% chance of rain. We hope you enjoy your trip with us, thank you for choosing Amtrak.”

Derrick found a sequestered group of vinyl seats near the middle of the train (community seats would be a more appropriate term) and placed his bag in the empty seat next to him. With two empty seats across from him, things seemed to be turning out well despite the train attendant’s shady excuse about the power outlet dilemma. Derrick checked the time, unzipped his computer bag, and pulled out his 17’’ Macbook Pro. T-minus two hours.

As he waited for his computer to start up, Derrick spotted a young child running ahead of his mother holding a toy airplane. Apparently he was fighting the Battle of Britain right there in the train’s aisle. Banking left, he bumped into Derrick’s left shoulder and continued on ahead spitting out sound effects for good measure. The boy’s mother, dressed in jeans and a faux red leather jacket, loomed from behind and made no attempt to apprehend her child’s socially unacceptable disturbance. She was noxiously thin and held an imitation Hermes handbag along with an imperious glare aimed at anyone attempting to notice her flashy façade of confidence. Her eyes had bags underneath them, either because she hadn’t slept well or because she’d been crying. Judging by the smeared eyeliner at the corner of her right eye, tears were probably the culprit. Sometimes life sucks. Get over it and move on. Feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t help the situation—just look at the bulimic-skeleton syndrome it’s produced.  Suck it up and let it make you stronger.

As she shuffled past, Derrick half breathed a sigh of relief that she and her unruly son weren’t sitting near him, but his breath was cut short by the overwhelming aroma of potpourri inundating the area as if it were the smoke from the air battle fought by the skeleton woman’s son. Thin woman. “Skeleton” might be derogatory, “thin” or “petite” was the correct word to describe her. Either way, her perfume was much too strong—Derrick’s singed nostrils could attest to that.

Derrick coughed a few times to clear the smell of the skeleton’s premature decomposition he had just sucked into his lungs. How could people let their bodies deteriorate to such a size anyway? Were they really so depressed that they couldn’t at least maintain a healthy diet? Then again, she was probably mentally abused as a child and didn’t have many friends. That’s still no excuse to blame your failure at life on your parents. Who knows, maybe half of what they said to her was actually true. People who don’t take criticism well don’t do well in life, or in anything for that matter. Most of the time they end up blaming others, confiding in a false sense of security, and carrying around fake purses while belittling everyone around them with their eyes. Maybe if she gained some weight and took criticism to heart, she’d be carrying a real Hermes.

But enough about others’ problems, Derrick had a proposal to review. But just as Derrick turned his attention to his half-charged computer, a peculiar and steady knocking sound approached Derrick’s seat from the aisle ahead of him.

“Pardon me. I’m sorry, pardon me.” The sound of shifting bags and people moving out of the way caught Derrick’s attention.

“Oh I’m sorry, sir, let me help you to your seat,” said a woman just out of sight. The knocking sound ceased and a short moment later a young and surprisingly attractive train attendant with brown hair and dark blue eyes appeared at the front of Derrick’s car leading the way for a rather short elderly man carrying a large leather case and long white stick. He was blind. Now if anyone were to sit across from Derrick, a blind man would be the best possible candidate. Derrick could just mind his own business, and maybe the man wouldn’t even notice he was there. But if he did start talking to him, he wouldn’t be able to tell he was busy or even annoyed unless Derrick was straightforward with him about it. And being straightforward or rude for that matter was not Derrick’s way.

“Okay sir, this is your seat, let me just help—”

“Thank you so much ma’am,” The blind man interrupted, “I think I should be alright from here. I may be blind, but I’m not completely helpless.” The man grinned in the general direction of the attendant. His humor was genuine.

“You’re welcome, sir,” she said smiling back as she continued on towards the back of the train. Didn’t she know he couldn’t see her smile? A laugh would have been more appropriate. Although her voice did sound attractive. Maybe the blind could discern that kind of thing—like whether someone was smiling when they were talking.  Or maybe not. The blind probably mistake a lot of those small hints of body language people exhibit all the time. That’s probably why they come across as such nice people. Who knows what they’re really like behind closed doors. Could someone with a handicap like that really be happy? Maybe, but not likely. Frustration would be a more appropriate response.

The blind man’s leather case, or satchel, or whatever it was certainly looked strange. It was unusually large and square-shaped, and the brown leather was faded and cracking—probably because the poor man couldn’t tell when the leather needed to be treated.

Derrick’s computer alerted him of incoming mail with the sound of a high-pitched bell. Why wasn’t the volume turned down? Critical error.

“Oh I didn’t realize someone else was sitting here. I’m usually put by myself on these trains.”

Derrick wasn’t caught off guard in an awkward moment very often, but having had his cover freshly blown, he struggled with his response.

“Oh. Yes, I’m,” Derrick cleared his throat, “I’m here. Just going over something for work.”

“Really? Me too. Unfortunately I don’t have much time left to finish mine up. But maybe the weather will hold,” the blind man said with his head pointed towards the window to his left.

Maybe the weather will hold? Was he pretending like he could see the weather outside? No, he would have known it was rainy or cloudy from when he entered the Amtrak station. Maybe pretending to look outside was just his way of trying to appear normal. Not that he wasn’t normal of course. Everyone has his or her ways of coping. But what did ‘maybe the weather will hold’ even mean in the first place?

“Yeah, I heard the rain is supposed to continue into tonight. That’s New York for you though, right?” Derrick said with a smile. The man couldn’t see him smile.

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe it’ll surprise us out there.” The blind man continued to face the window as if gazing into the dreary grey sky.

“So why are you dependant on today’s weather? Are you a meteorologist?”

The blind man shifted his weight and put down his white stick. “Sometimes. At least, I certainly enjoy the weather. I’m not much of a forecaster though. What do you do?”

Sometimes? Maybe this man wasn’t quite all there. Being blind didn’t usually make people deranged, did it? No, most blind people are perfectly sane. Not being able to see shouldn’t have anything to do with sanity.

“I’m an executive for a major advertising company. We do advertising for telecommunication companies all along the East Coast. That’s actually why I’m heading to New York. I’ve got a meeting with a company based out of Long Island. What do you do?”

“Very interesting. I don’t have a cell-phone, never had a need for one. I’m actually a painter. My name’s Manny by the way.” Manny offered his hand.

Derrick shook it replying, “Derrick Harper. A painter? How do you—I mean—”

“How do I paint when I can’t see anything? I usually just do the big things—things that are still beautiful even if they aren’t how someone might normally think of them. You know, things that don’t get lost in all of the details. Not that details aren’t important of course.”

He must be, well, ‘Manny’ was his name—Manny must be an abstract painter. How many people could say they owned a painting painted by a blind man? Maybe there was actually money to be made there. But the money surely didn’t come from the work; it came from the fact that a blind man did it. The train crept forward and slowly began to accelerate. T-minus one hour, fifty-five minutes. Derrick needed to end the conversation. But how often was it that one is presented with the opportunity to talk to a blind person, much less a blind painter? What if he was famous? How many blind painters could there be in the world?

“So are you traveling to the city to display any of your pieces?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. It’s a unique piece—one of my favorites to be sure. It isn’t finished though, I was hoping to finish it up on the ride over.”

Was this blind painter trying to end the conversation with Derrick so he could get to work? He must be famous. Famous or just in a hurry. Either way, Derrick’s proposal needed some going over.

“Well, Manny, I won’t bother you any longer. You just go right on ahead and paint away.”

Manny smiled. “Yes sir Mr. Derrick Harper.”

He was good with names. Must be smart. Charming personality too. Maybe some further prying into this ‘Manny’ character could prove fruitful. Bringing up an acquaintance with a possibly famous painter could look awfully good in casual conversation with potential clients.

Manny felt for his leather satchel and pulled out a large wooden board with a white canvas stretched and tied around it like the top of a djembe. Derrick tried to sneak a look at its front but couldn’t get a good enough angle to tell what it was exactly that Manny was working on. Next out of the satchel came an oval-shaped wooden board with many different colors of dried paint on its surface. Most had mixed together to form an ugly brown, but the individual colors of blue and yellow and red could be seen on the pallet’s fringes. Then came some bottled paints labeled with what appeared to be brail, about ten different brushes, and a small bottle of murky water.

“I see you’re using some thick paint. Trying to cut down on the spilling during this train ride?”

Stupid question.

“Absolutely. I usually use watercolors, but this thick stuff will have to do the job for now.”

Not a stupid question. Perfect question. Watercolors? Maybe Manny wasn’t famous. He was sacrificing what he was good at to get a job done (on a train ride no less). That meant one of two things. Either he was truly in a hurry and could work well with thicker paint, or he was just trying to get by with what he could get done in a desperate attempt to propose a piece to some hole-in-the-wall gallery.

“Oh, that’s probably a good idea.”

Manny lifted his head. “Probably? No, no I don’t deal with ‘probably’s’ or ‘maybe’s.’ Only ‘definitely’s.’”

Derrick didn’t know what to say. At least he was optimistic. Derrick acknowledged him with a simple ‘okay’ and once again focused on his task. For the better half of an hour, the two men worked in silence—Manny painting, and Derrick typing and studying. Derrick went over his notes and numbers for a third time, reviewed how he would respond to certain scenarios the company could put him in depending on whether they liked what he had to say, and finally managed a confident smirk. Derrick slapped down the top of his laptop, slipped it into his bag, and pulled out his Blackberry to check his e-mail. While waiting for his e-mail to load, Derrick raised his eyes to Manny’s canvas, which was lying on some sort of travel stand in his lap.

“Say, Manny, would it be okay if I took a look at what you’re painting there?”

Manny looked up, but in the wrong direction.

“You know, Derrick, I normally would, but I really need to get this piece finished before,” Manny pointed his head towards the window again, “before not too long.” Rain began to tap on the windows like keyboard pitter patter as the clouds continued to darken.

“Okay then, no problem.”

Was Manny mad? It wasn’t an intruding question, just a curious one. Maybe Manny really wasn’t famous but instead just a crabby old blind man trying to make some quick cash to get by. That is, if he could even finish his painting in time.

Manny paused again, looked up, and smiled. “But I promise, Mr. Derrick Harper, you will see the finished product. It’s going to be a unique one, you can count on that.”

The awkward exchange was once again extinguished by Manny’s charm. Derrick chuckled. “Okay Manny, I’m looking forward to it.”

Manny’s brush strokes became longer.

“Manny, how do you know how your painting is coming out? You paint as if you can see exactly what you’re doing. And I don’t mean that as an insult, I fully mean it as a compliment.”

“You would be amazed how much you can see when you understand how things really are. You know, how they are in themselves. I’m not much of a painter of how things appear. I’m a painter of how things are.”

“So do you paint abstract paintings then? Like paintings that come from ‘the heart’ and are up for people’s subjective interpretations?”

Manny laughed. “Oh no, Mr. Harper, no sir. Quite the opposite I’m afraid. You’ll see. I promise, you’ll see.”

Another thirty minutes passed as the empty rural landscape began to fill with tall buildings as if they were progressing on an urban timeline from primitive man to modern civilization. Manny was still painting.

“It is currently 71 degrees with partly cloudy skies here in New York City. We hope you enjoyed your time with us, and from all of us here at Amtrak, we would like to thank you for choosing us, and hope you have a wonderful stay at your destination.”

Passengers began to gather their bags and slowly exited the crowded train through the much too narrow aisle. Derrick stood, grabbed his computer bag, and tried to glance at what Manny was painting once more. Too late. Manny had covered his canvas with some sort of protective covering—so that the fresh paint wouldn’t be disturbed—and placed it in his satchel.

“All finished, Manny?”

Manny grinned as he grabbed his white stick and struggled up to his feet. “Almost. I just need a little bit longer and she’ll be ready.”

“Well that’s too bad, I was hoping I would be able to see it,” Derrick said in a playfully antagonizing way.

“Oh don’t you worry now Mr. Derrick Harper, you’ll see it.”

The attractive train attendant from earlier entered the car. “I can help you to your taxi, sir,” she said to Manny as she began to lead him down the aisle.

Derrick followed close behind. “How am I supposed to see it? Are you showing it at a museum somewhere nearby?”

No answer.

The satchel. Manny wasn’t carrying it. He must have left it in his seat. Derrick spun around, forced the last few passengers out of the aisle into seats, and finally made it back to where they had been sitting. The leather satchel was in the window seat propped up against the armrest. Derrick grabbed it, put the strap around his shoulder, and quickly returned to the exit.

“Manny!”

“Are you looking for someone, sir?”

Derrick pushed past the inquisitive train attendant.

“Manny! You forgot your…”

Manny was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t have gotten far.

“Manny, your painting!” Derrick yelled as he stepped off the train into Penn Station. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people were walking in different directions. Derrick scanned the crowd for Manny, but to no avail.

“Manny? Manny! I have your painting, Manny!”

Still nothing. A few people stopped and stared at Derrick, but continued walking without giving him a second throught. How did an old blind man just disappear like that? He must not have been famous if he was careless enough to leave his work on the train. Then again, not being able to see it probably didn’t help remind him. Maybe the train attendant hurried him too much. Even still, he should have noticed. Maybe he would return to the train.

Derrick walked up to where his train had arrived and approached an Amtrak employee behind a customer service desk.

“I’m sorry, but do you have the list of passengers that just got off that train from Philadelphia? Train R2306.”

“One moment, sir.”

Derrick impatiently scanned the masses for Manny.

“Okay sir, are you missing any members of your party?”

“No, I just wanted to find the phone number—” Manny said he didn’t have a cell phone, that wouldn’t work, “I mean, I wanted to see if I could somehow find out the last name and address of the passenger sitting across from me on the train. He left his bag here, and I just wanted to return it to him.”

“Well, sir, we have a lost baggage area just around the—”

“That won’t work. He needs this as soon as possible because…I don’t have time to tell you the details, I just need some way to get a hold of him.”

“Okay, sir, hold on for just a moment. What did you say his name was?”

“I only know his first name. Manny. I sat in business class and he was sitting directly across from me.”

The Amtrak employee pounded the keys of her computer, gave a puzzled look at the screen, typed again, and maintained her perplexed expression with squinting eyes. “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t appear to have any record of a ‘Manny’ on your train, are you sure that wasn’t his nickname?”

“No, I’m not sure, but could you just look to see if anyone has a name similar to ‘Manny’?”

More typing. More confusion.

“I’m sorry, we don’t seem to have any record of a ‘Manny’ or anything similar to ‘Manny’ on train R2306.”

Derrick’s frustration grew.

“No, there must be some mistake. There was a train attendant that escorted him on board, and she checked his ticket. He was blind. Do you have a disabled persons list?”

“One moment.”

More typing, this time only a few keys.

“Okay, the only disabled person we have on file for your train was a gentleman by the name of Rodney Michaels, and he is listed under the ‘wheelchair needs’ section. No blind people I’m afraid.”

Impossible. How could they have no record of a blind man getting on the train? He was obviously there; his satchel was proof of that.

“Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

Derrick jogged to the front of the station in hope of catching a taxi. He just needed to make a few phone calls to find all of the local art galleries having shows in the next two days to see if anyone knew of a blind painter named Manny. How many blind painters could there be? He couldn’t be that hard to find.

A long line of filled taxis slowly snaked out of the drop-off loop of the busy station—occasionally swerving to avoid the large hotel shuttles. Derrick walked to the curb with his hand in the air signaling for a taxi.  Something caught his eye to his left. On the ground. Derrick’s hand slowly dropped as he took in what he was seeing. To the right of the automatic exit doors sat a homeless man smoking a cigarette and reading a book. In front of him stood a sign propped up against a wastebasket reading, ‘Lost everything. Anything can help.’ But it wasn’t the sight of the homeless man that had caught Derrick’s attention; it was the three men standing around him dressed in white giving off a strange ambient glow. All three men wore white robes down to their bare feet. One of them was on his knees with his hands on the homeless man’s shoulders. Tears ran down his cheeks. The one standing to the homeless man’s left had his hands raised in the air and was uttering words towards the sky. The third walked amongst the crowd, touched people on the shoulder, and pointed towards the poor man sitting on the ground. The people he touched didn’t acknowledge him, but instead only acted as if something unseen had nudged them. Some looked down at the homeless man, some didn’t. And upon any giving to the penniless man, the third robed man would smile and raise his hands. But no matter how many gave, the robed man on his knees continued to weep.

“I don’t have all day sir, do you need a ride?” yelled a taxi driver who had pulled up next to Derrick.

Derrick continued to stare.

“Sir?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Derrick replied half-dazed, “Take me to the Andrew Hotel.”

Derrick opened the back door to the freshly washed and waxed yellow cab, threw in his two bags, and held Manny’s satchel on his lap.

“So what brings you to the city?”

“A painter.”

“A painter? What kind of painter?”

“I’m sorry, not a painter. I don’t know why I said that. I’m here for a business proposal in Long Island. I’m an exec for a telecommunications company.”

“Making the big bucks, huh?”

Derrick stared out the window distracted by the robed men he had just witnessed.

“I guess you could say that.”

A little less than an hour later, the cab pulled up to Derrick’s hotel. Derrick paid the man with a crisp one hundred dollar bill and didn’t stay to get change.

“Thank you, sir!” the cabdriver said as Derrick jogged to the receptionist counter at the Andrew—not paying any attention to the wear his hustle was leaving on his leather-soled Paciottis. After checking in, Derrick put his room key in his eel skin wallet and started for the elevators. While waiting, he noticed a group of people socializing over cocktails and hors d’œuvres in a banquet room across from where he was standing. The group of thirty or so were dressed in tuxedos and matching pink dresses and sat at two long tables placed in the center of the room. On a wooden three-legged stand just outside the open double doors was a blackboard that read “Kaina Wedding Party.” But what caught Derrick’s attention wasn’t the loud conversation  at the main table or even the silver platters of various meats and cheeses, it was the table secluded to the back corner. Four young children between the ages of five and seven ate together, laughed loudly, and were told more than once by two women—probably their mothers—to keep quiet and eat their food. Two of the children were boys (boys with their bow ties undone and tuxedos in complete disarray like they had just filmed a chase scene out of a children’s version of a 007 film), and the other two were younger girls wearing the same matching pink dresses as the older women in the room, but also wore white ribbons in their short blonde hair. The table was set for five—not four—as there also sat a man dressed in an off-white tunic at the table’s head. He was dark skinned, had long brown hair, and wore a full beard, though his most drastic feature was the ambient glow he gave off like a dissipating fog in the morning sun. It looked just like the glow of the robed men back at Penn Station.

One of the boys tossed a piece of drooping lettuce from his salad across the table onto the man’s plate with a smile, but quickly acted like he hadn’t done a thing. The bearded man looked at the foreign piece of lettuce, studied it, and proceeded to give the boy a penetrating stare. But just as quickly as he teasingly glared at the child, he laughed, picked up a dinner roll, and tossed it right back across the table into the boy’s lap. He threw his head back in laughter, but quickly took cover from what would likely be a messy retaliation. The boy faked the throw towards the man and then tossed the roll onto one of the girls’ plates. The two girls giggled to themselves, as the two boys and the older man laughed in unison.

One of the boys sitting next to the man gently grabbed one of the man’s hands and felt his palm with a shy expression. He looked up at him as he moved his finger across the worn lines in his palm, but didn’t say a word as if what he was doing said everything. There was some kind of darkly colored marking on the man’s palms. Was it a tattoo? No, it was different. They were holes.

The golden elevator doors opened in front of Derrick, snapping him out of his absorbing trance. He stepped into the elevator, pushed floor seven, and turned his attention to Manny’s satchel. Derrick cautiously lifted the leather top to reveal the painting inside. If he tried to remove the canvas’ protective covering, he risked damaging the painting. Derrick closed the satchel back up as he reached his floor and walked to his room. He inserted his key, opened the door, threw his bags on the perfectly made bed, and placed Manny’s satchel on the large wooden desk next to the window facing west.  Derrick’s business proposal was in thirty minutes. No time to change. He checked his pockets twice to make sure he had his wallet and Blackberry, and then left his hotel room to catch another cab. Manny’s painting situation would have to wait.

Derrick caught a cab with relative ease and gave the driver the address. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way up to the thirteenth floor of a newly renovated office building on the south side of Long Island. The inside even smelled like wet paint. The elevator doors opened to reveal a modest reception area with a red haired receptionist offering a welcoming smile.

“Mr. Harper?”

“Yes ma’am, I have an appointment at 6:30 with Mr. Gaines.”

“Okay Mr. Harper, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Derrick sat down on a firm black leather seat facing ceiling-high windows making up the back wall of the reception area.

The receptionist’s phone rang twice. “Yes? Okay, I’ll let him know. Mr. Gaines will see you now, Mr. Harper.”

That was quick. He must be eager to hear about the proposition. Well, eager to hear it or eager to dismiss it. Derrick pulled open the heavy oak door with Samuel Gaines’ name displayed in gold on the front. Upon entering, Derrick confidently walked forward with his classic Derrick Harper smile, but froze at the sight of the office he had set foot in. Sitting on a crude oil-soaked piece of cardboard was a man wearing a tattered and mud-stained three-piece suit. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a week, and the rest of his office was even less impressive. There was no carpet or tile—only a grey cement slab for a floor. On the cardboard Gaines was sitting on were various papers stained with coffee, an empty hollowed-out beer can for holding pens, and an outdated desktop computer with two large cracks running down the front of the monitor’s screen. On the back wall hung a crooked, old, wooden frame. Beneath its glass was a faded newspaper, which looked like it had been wrinkled into a ball and then undone again, displaying the Sunday cartoons. Engraved on the frame was “Masters of Business, University of Southern California.”

“Derrick, it’s good to see you! Please, have a seat.”

Derrick didn’t know what to say. Walking forward and sitting down on the floor across from Gaines, Derrick placed his computer bag next to him. The cardboard ground against sand beneath him as he shifted his weight. Wait. Something was wrong. Derrick stared at his computer bag—now Manny’s leather satchel—in confusion. Had he grabbed the satchel by mistake? No, he wouldn’t have made a mistake like that. He couldn’t have. He must have.

“Is something wrong?”

Gaines’ breath reeked of alcohol.

“No, I think I may have just forgotten something.” Derrick opened up the satchel and tried to appear normal, but his worst fears were confirmed when all that lay within the bag were painting supplies.

“I thought I brought it.”

“Brought what?”

Why did Mr. Gaines’ office look like this? What kind of man built up his life around such filth? The weight of the room’s disgust and fog of Gaines’ repulsive breath pressed down on Derrick’s composure. This was supposed to be a well-off company with millions of dollars in capital, not a third-world slum.

“I…I need to go.” Derrick rose, grabbed Manny’s satchel, and left the office. Taking the stairs, Derrick began to quicken his pace on the last flight, but tripped on the second-to-last step—sending him reeling into the door. Grabbing his ankle and grimacing in pain he saw that his own appearance had drastically changed since the beginning of the day. His Cesare Paciotti shoes were worn and holey, his pants were tattered and frayed, and his like-new Breitling watch was cracked and locked up at five o’clock. How had this happened? The little spill he had just experienced couldn’t have done all of this. Could it have? No, impossible. It all felt like a dream—a dream where he couldn’t run, read, or understand anything that was happening, yet felt perfectly familiar and real.

“Sir, can I help you?” asked an older woman as she picked up Manny’s satchel to give to Derrick.

“Oh, no I was just,” Derrick wiped his hands on his pant legs and took the satchel. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, are you sure—” but Derrick was already gone and walking to the street to catch a taxi. After three filled cabs drove by, one pulled up next to him. Stepping in, Derrick said to the driver, “The Andrew Hotel, 75 North Station Plaza.”

“You got it.”

The cab driver’s voice sounded familiar.

“Do I know you?”

“Well, I don’t know if you know or remember me, but I certainly know you Mr. Derrick Harper.”

It was Manny.

“Manny?”

It couldn’t be Manny. Manny was blind.

“Yes, that’s what some people call me, but my actual name is Immanuel. Manny for short.”

Derrick was at a loss for any kind of reaction.

“Manny, I thought you were blind. What is going on?”

“It’s okay, I know where I’m going. In fact, we’re almost there.”

There was no way they were almost at the hotel. It was at least a twenty-minute drive.

“But how—”

“Don’t worry about the ‘how’, just worry about the ‘what’.”

Manny eased the cab to a stop at a red light. “Look over there,” Manny said pointing to his right. A run down cemetery was just across the street from where they had stopped.

“Look at what? I don’t see—”

“Look!” Manny said pointing, “The woman and her son over on the right.”

Derrick squinted while shading his eyes from the sun, which hung just above the horizon waiting to fall like the last bit of sand in an hourglass, and saw what Manny was talking about. Standing at the foot of a simple black granite gravestone was the thin woman and her son from the train. The skeleton. The boy still held the airplane he had been playing with, but the battle he was fighting had ended, as he held the toy solemnly by his side with only one finger. The thin woman dropped to one knee and buried her face in her hands. The boy put his plane in his pocket and watched her as he visibly struggled seeing his mom in such a sorrowful state—wringing his hands together no longer sure of what to do with them.

“Her name is Kate. Her son, Max, was only two when his daddy was killed in a car accident.  Jim was the love of her life, and right now her heart is in ruins. Since the day of the accident, Kate’s struggled to resist the urge to take her own life. Max has really been the only thing keeping her alive. That’s Jim’s gravestone they’re visiting right now. They visit every year on the anniversary of his death, and it doesn’t seem to get any easier as each year passes. Sometimes time can’t heal every wound.”

Still on one knee, Kate’s body visibly shook with her shoulders going up and down and her face in her hands. Tears pooled in Max’s eyes as he embraced his broken mother. A man dressed in all white walked up to Kate and Max and kneeled down with them. He put his hands on their shoulders and shared in their mourning as he cried with them.

“Who is that man?” Derrick asked.

“His name is Comfort. Sometimes words or prayers aren’t enough to truly express the depth of what someone is feeling. Comfort shares in suffering and helps translate the deepest groanings of the soul to the one Person who can truly understand and heal all wounds.”

“I don’t understand, is Comfort…an angel?”

“No, Derrick. Comfort is the Spirit of God.”

The light turned green, and Manny pulled through the intersection and off to the side of the road.

“Well, we’re here.”

Obviously rattled from the day’s recent events—only to be topped off by a blind man (a blind painter at that) driving him to his hotel in a matter of minutes, Derrick paused before getting out of the cab.

Staring blankly at the dashboard, Derrick said, “Manny, I have your satchel here with the painting you were working on. You left it on the train. I don’t understand what or why—”

“You don’t need to worry,” Manny interrupted, “I painted it for you. But I would like my satchel back—those painting supplies aren’t cheap.”

Derrick took the painting out of the satchel and handed the leather bag to Manny.

“You painted this for me?”

“Absolutely.”

“But how did you know you would meet me?”

“Derrick, how many times do I have to tell you not to worry about any of that stuff? Just know that I painted it for you, and for you alone.”

Derrick looked down at the covered canvas.

“Thank you, Manny.”

“You’re very welcome Mr. Derrick Harper. I hope you’ve been able to see some things today—things that I see. Remember what I said on the train? I paint things as they are in themselves. I paint them as I see them. I may be blind, but I can see more than you might think.” Manny smiled a smile only he could pull off with such warmth. It gleamed even without the aid of manny’s eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Derrick gathered his things and pulled out his wallet to give Manny the fair. But just as he reached in, all he found were dirty strips of white paper. After fumbling through the remaining compartments of his wallet Derrick said, “I’m sorry Manny, I don’t know what happened to my money. I don’t even know what happened to me. My clothes, my shoes…I mean, I fell down a few stairs earlier but there’s no way any of this happened because of that. I just don’t—”

“What are you talking about?” Manny interrupted, “Your clothes? They look fine to me. At least, that’s what they’ve always looked like to me. Trust me, you don’t need to worry.” Manny winked. “And Derrick, it’s only a five-dollar fair. By the looks of things, you’ve got a little over $300 in there.”

“What? No I don’t,” Derrick said as he looked through his wallet and pulled out the dirty paper.

“See?” Manny said taking one of the dirty pieces of paper. Manny then pulled out a few dirty pieces of his own and handed them back to Derrick smiling. “Here’s your change.”

Derrick didn’t have any words—only a pale and confused expression.

Manny held up a couple dirty strips of paper and said with a smile, “Money. It looks like you’re starting to see things my way.”

“Manny, I thought you were blind. Who are you?”

“Like I said, don’t worry about any of that stuff.  You’ll figure it out soon enough. Just go up to your room, get a good night’s rest, and head on back to Dennise tomorrow morning.”

How did Manny know Dennise’s name? Derrick stepped out of the cab carrying Manny’s painting. Derrick started, “Manny, thank you for—” but Manny had already started driving off. Derrick stood on the curbside trying to just begin to understand what had just taken place. Had he been conned? Was he hallucinating? And what about this painting? Who were the robed men he had seen? Who was the glowing man at the banquet? How had Manny just driven in New York City?

Visibly embarrassed of his filthy appearance, though no one paid him any attention, Derrick walked into the hotel and headed back up to his room. Upon opening the door, he carefully began to remove the protective covering around Manny’s canvas and studied his work. Painted upon the canvas was what appeared to be a plain bedroom. On the left there was a black clock hanging on the wall and yellow lamp standing on a darkly colored wooden table, on the right was a queen sized bed with a white bed spread neatly laid across the top, and in the center was a large window looking out to nothing. Many hadn’t painted anything in the window or what would have been seen through the window, but instead simply left the window blank. Maybe this was what Manny had still needed to finish up. Why did he give him an unfinished painting? How had Manny even painted this in the first place? It was so clear and so well done. But just as Derrick studied the unfinished spot of Manny’s painting, he realized what the painting was depicting. Looking up towards the back of his hotel room, he saw a yellow lamp on a wooden table and a queen-sized bed with a white bedspread. A simple black clock hung on the wall to his left, and a fake painting of a yellow flower hung to his right above the bed. Everything in the painting—the color and pattern of the carpet, the proportions of the room, and even the texture of the wall was exactly the same. Manny had painted a picture-perfect portrayal of Derrick’s room, except for the window. At the bottom of the painting was Manny’s name signed in red with a few words written underneath it. They read, “Do you see as I see?”

Still confused, Derrick turned the canvas over, then back around, but then back over again. There was a note attached to the back.

Derrick,

Sometimes you have to open your eyes and see how I see. This painting is the frame of what I was really working on…what I just finished. Open the curtains to your window to see the painting I promised you would see.

You’re Friend,

Manny

Derrick placed the painting at the foot of the bed and looked over at the window. He took hold of the left and right curtains meeting at the center of the window and slowly drew them back. Light poured into the room from the horizon causing Derrick to squint and shade his eyes with his hand. Brilliant purple, red, pink, yellow, and mixtures of the four glowed on the western skyline of New York City. The sun had just dipped below the flat edge of the earth leaving behind a stunning array of colored clouds and a purple pastel sky. Storm clouds loomed on the right, but were beautifully highlighted by dark red and fluorescent magenta rays of the descending sun. The rain falling from the deep blue clouds, usually seen as a streaky blur, looked like motionless fire. Manny’s painting was perfect.

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Renouncing Absurdity: Personal Ruminations on Calvinism Sunday, Nov 8 2009

By: Dominic Marketto

Until this past year or so, I proudly called myself a Calvinist. Today, I do not. It all started when I felt a small logical pain in my head, the loss of small theological motor function, and most of all a nagging sense of doubt prying through TULIP’s five points within my frontal lobe. The splinters of doubt slowly embedded themselves deeper and deeper into my theologically tuned brained, until I was left with no choice but to go on an exhaustive search to dig them out. Through the Word and through reason I dug, and to my dismay, what I pried out was not a splinter at all, but instead a metastasizing tumor that would eventually end the life of Calvinism within me.

In this essay, I will take you on the surgical journey I underwent and will reveal to you what made me a terminal Calvinist. I tried to hold on, I really did, but sometimes cancer overcomes in the toughest of fights. But lucky enough for me, after death comes new life. I suppose the one question I have yet to answer now is whether that “new life” is really a new life in any sense at all, or just a dream from which I will eventually wake up only to find myself accepting Calvinism all over again. It’s a tricky thing, because I don’t know that Christianity can so easily reject or embrace Calvinism. There are consequences for both, but I feel that the consequences of accepting Calvinism are simply too much to bear.

Chapter 1: The Seed of a Tulip

Martin Luther. Jean Cauvin (John Calvin). The Protestant Reformation. During perhaps one of the most religiously charged times in recent history, John Calvin published the immortalized Institutes of the Christian Religion. Calvin’s Institutes lay an apologetic defense of the rising separation from the Catholic Church—Protestantism. Calvin’s Institutes was the textbook of all reformed churches and directly influenced those church’s ideology and backbone. Albrecht Ritschl called it the “masterpiece of Protestant theology,” while some even dared to compare Calvin’s genius to that of Augustine, Shakespeare, and Plato.

What did Calvin say that caused one of the largest uprisings in infant protestant circles? I would argue that the answer to this question is reason. Logic. Taking a logical and reasonable stance and interpretation of Scripture instead of a heavily allegorical one like the church had been doing for hundreds of years up to that point. Calvin and what is today known as Calvinism (while not a carbon-copy of Calvin’s Institutes, essentially one and the same) offered a defendable position to the Christian faith, a personal approach to the interpretation of Scripture, and a convincing systematic theology.

Today, Calvinism is most widely known by its five main points that make up the acronym, “TULIP.”

T—Total Depravity

U—Unconditional Election

L—Limited Atonement

I—Irresistible Grace

P—Perseverance of the Saints

The following paragraphs’ description of Calvinism’s five points has been taken from calvinistcorner.com. They give a succinct description of each point in turn.

Total Depravity: Sin has affected all parts of man. The heart, emotions, will, mind, and body are all affected by sin. We are completely sinful. We are not as sinful as we could be, but we are completely affected by sin. The doctrine of Total Depravity is derived from scriptures that reveal human character: Man’s heart is evil (Mark 7:21-23) and sick (Jer. 17:9). Man is a slave of sin (Rom. 6:20). He does not seek for God (Rom. 3:10-12). He cannot understand spiritual things (1 Cor. 2:14). He is at enmity with God (Eph. 2:15). And, is by nature a child of wrath (Eph. 2:3). The Calvinist asks the question, “In light of the Scriptures that declare man’s true nature as being utterly lost and incapable, how is it possible for anyone to choose or desire God?” The answer is, “He cannot. Therefore God must predestine.” Calvinism also maintains that because of our fallen nature we are born again not by our own will but God’s will (John 1:12-13); God grants that we believe (Phil. 1:29); faith is the work of God (John 6:28-29); God appoints people to believe (Acts 13:48); and God predestines (Eph. 1:1-11; Rom. 8:29; 9:9-23).

Unconditional Election: God does not base His election on anything He sees in the individual. He chooses the elect according to the kind intention of His will (Eph. 1:4-8; Rom. 9:11) without any consideration of merit within the individual. Nor does God look into the future to see who would pick Him. Also, as some are elected into salvation, others are not (Rom. 9:15, 21).

Limited Atonement: Jesus died only for the elect. Though Jesus’ sacrifice was sufficient for all, it was not efficacious for all. Jesus only bore the sins of the elect. Support for this position is drawn from such scriptures as Matt. 26:28 where Jesus died for ‘many’; John 10:11, 15 which say that Jesus died for the sheep (not the goats, per Matt. 25:32-33); John 17:9 where Jesus in prayer interceded for the ones given Him, not those of the entire world; Acts 20:28 and Eph. 5:25-27 which state that the Church was purchased by Christ, not all people; and Isaiah 53:12 which is a prophecy of Jesus’ crucifixion where he would bore the sins of many (not all).

Irresistible Grace: When God calls his elect into salvation, they cannot resist. God offers to all people the gospel message. This is called the external call. But to the elect, God extends an internal call and it cannot be resisted. This call is by the Holy Spirit who works in the hearts and minds of the elect to bring them to repentance and regeneration whereby they willingly and freely come to God. Some of the verses used in support of this teaching are Romans 9:16 where it says that “it is not of him who wills nor of him who runs, but of God who has mercy“; Philippians 2:12-13 where God is said to be the one working salvation in the individual; John 6:28-29 where faith is declared to be the work of God; Acts 13:48 where God appoints people to believe; and John 1:12-13 where being born again is not by man’s will, but by God’s. 



Perseverance of the Saints: You cannot lose your salvation. Because the Father has elected, the Son has redeemed, and the Holy Spirit has applied salvation, those thus saved are eternally secure. They are eternally secure in Christ. Some of the verses for this position are John 10:27-28 where Jesus said His sheep will never perish; John 6:47 where salvation is described as everlasting life; Romans 8:1 where it is said we have passed out of judgment; 1 Corinthians 10:13 where God promises to never let us be tempted beyond what we can handle; and Phil. 1:6 where God is the one being faithful to perfect us until the day of Jesus’ return.

Chapter 2: Splinters

In the next five sections, I will argue that there is one central theme that resonates throughout every petal of TULIP, and that without that theme, TULIP cannot stand. This theme is that of predestination and all of the relevant subjects upon which it is built—God’s sovereignty, God’s omniscience/omnipotence, and the nature of free will. For each petal I will show that this is the case and will then argue against the theme itself.

In addition to this undertaking, I will also touch on a few other objections I have that are specific to each petal. These will be few, however, and the bulk of my efforts will be directed towards Calvinism’s core.

Section A: Total Depravity

The doctrine of total depravity tends to go along with this line of thought: “In light of the scriptures that declare man’s true nature as being utterly lost and incapable, how is it possible for anyone to choose or desire God?” The answer is, “He cannot. Therefore God must predestine.” There is a logical progression here. Scripture says that we cannot save ourselves. Since we cannot save ourselves, God must save us. Not only must he save us, he must choose us—we cannot choose him. To be totally deprived means to be totally incapable of choosing or desiring God.

If the Calvinist holds to this assertion, then how is it that we come to repentance? The only possible answer is that we cannot come to repentance on our own; God must bring us to repentance himself (hence, predestination). Without God’s action, we are unable to come to repentance. As can be seen, Total Depravity hinges upon God’s action of predestination. Without God’s action, Total Depravity cannot hold, because what follows is contradictory. Man cannot choose or desire God on his own, but in reality, man does seem to choose and desire God. But Calvinism asserts that only God can cause us to choose him. If he does not act in this way, then we are doomed to an eternal fate of complete separation from God. Therefore, predestination must be true if we truly cannot desire or choose God on our own.

Is it true that man cannot choose or desire God simply because man is a fallen creation? Is it true that man’s sin definitively renders his ability to desire or choose God as impossible? Consider the following analogous situation. Imagine a man whose face is deformed to the point of reaching the definition of “ugly” in a physical sense. His physical appearance is ghastly—one for which you or I would undoubtedly feel an immense amount of pity. Imagine this poor man gazing out his window, watching normal looking people go about their business in a crowded marketplace. Imagine that the most beautiful woman—a woman who has reached the definition of “beautiful” in a physical sense—walks by the ugly man’s window. Will this man desire her? Would he wish that he had that kind of beauty in a masculine sense? If given the opportunity in marriage, would he choose her?

We, as fallen creatures, tend to will in such a way (there is a difference between our “will” and “desires”) that our desire is not to be fallen creatures, but instead perfect creatures in whatever sense of the word perfect we can even comprehend. I do not think that sin renders it impossible for us to desire or choose God. It can certainly hinder desire, but I do not believe it can extinguish it.

An objection may be made that sin (ugliness in the analogy) actually blinds our eyes from seeing God (beauty in the analogy), but I do not think that point to be true, simply because that would imply that our minds could only comprehend up to the level of our own place on a theoretical “meter of perfection.” But we know this is not the case, because we can in fact imagine the “ideal person,” however that may look varying from person to person or situation to situation. Whether that “ideal person” is appropriately ideal in an objective sense doesn’t matter; it only matters that we can actually conceive of something greater/unattainable.

Section B: Unconditional Election

Unconditional Election further expands the idea of predestination to its logical end. The consequences of doing this will be explained in Chapter 3 at great length. For now, I will only describe the logical fluency Calvinism projects from predestination.

Calvinism proposes: Not only does God predestine certain individuals (the elect), he does not perform this action according to those individuals meriting such action. Since all people are equally damned, incapable of choosing God, and incapable of attaining righteousness on their own, merit cannot be the reason God predestines. All that can be drawn from this, therefore, is that God predestines according to his will and his will alone (Romans 9:11, 16). This also implies that God does not look into the future in order to see who would choose him if given the chance, because that would imply some sort of merit on the behalf of the individual in that they made a “correct decision.” Therefore, God wills in such a way that only some will be saved, and this is not of their own accord. God’s reasons are God’s reasons alone (if such reasons exist in the first place) and not for us to know.

Section C: Limited Atonement

Limited Atonement applies simple logic to the relationship between Christ’s sacrifice on the cross and predestination. Without predestination, the assertions cannot hold. The argument goes like this: The elect (those whom God has chosen) are the only ones who will be saved, because God’s election is the only path to salvation. Christ’s sacrifice on the cross secured the elect’s salvation. Because only the elect were predestined to be saved, Christ only bore the sins of the elect, and not the sins of others. Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient for all of mankind’s sin, but because all of mankind is not predestined to be saved, Christ really only died for the elect.

If God’s election (predestination) is removed from the preceding argument, the conclusions drawn cannot logically follow. If God did not predestine a select number of people to be saved, then Christ had to have died for all of mankind’s sin with a hope that all would come to salvation through him. Furthermore, if God does not predestine, anyone and everyone has an equal chance to choose Christ and therefore become saved. All sins are covered, but not all sins are atoned. This eliminates the possible contradiction arising from merit-based works and faith. Man’s choice of Christ’s atonement is not merit-based (Romans 9:30-33).

Section D: Irresistible Grace

Irresistible Grace also logically follows from predestination. If God has predestined certain individuals to be saved, then the grace of God cannot be resisted, because if it could, then God’s predestination would be neither absolute nor authoritative. Put plainly, when God’s grace is revealed to his elect, it is impossible to reject it because it has already been decided by God that they will accept it.

Without predestination, it is hard to maintain the idea that God’s grace cannot be rejected. If God does not predestine in the sense that Calvinists advocate, then God’s grace can just as easily be accepted as it can be rejected. This is because it would not be known ahead of time who would choose to come to repentance, and therefore those who do accept God’s grace would choose to accept it, and those who don’t accept God’s grace would choose not to. Calvinists may agree with this last statement, but would disagree with the implied idea that everyone can accept or reject God’s grace according to their own personal autonomy given to humanity by God. Irresistible Grace, therefore, is dependent upon the validity of predestination.

Section E: Perseverance of the Saints

The idea of “once saved, always saved” as Calvinists propose it is contingent upon predestination, but the doctrine can still theoretically be held even if predestination is not true. The Calvinist’s argument for the Perseverance of the Saints is that since predestination is absolutely authoritative, it would be impossible for a member of the elect to “leave” the elect. If it seemed like someone was a member of the elect, but later denounced Christianity and died a self-proclaimed atheist, the Calvinist would likely argue that the individual was never truly saved (a member of the elect) in the first place. Predestination, therefore, directly implies that once someone is saved, they cannot lose their salvation.

The Perseverance of the Saints can also be held, however, even if predestination is not true. This belief would be formulated in the following way: Once someone accepts Christ’s atonement for their sin, his or her past, present, and future sins have been permanently washed away. Since Christ died for all sin, even the later rejection of Christ is atoned for. Therefore, that individual’s salvation is still intact.

The non-predestination advocate of the Perseverance of the Saints can also hold to the common Calvinistic argument of someone “not being saved in the first place” line of thought. While this may seem like a cop-out upon surface inspection, it is still an important point to consider for both parties. The non-predestination advocate, unlike the Calvinist, does have to account for verses like Matthew 12:31.

In this essay, I will not be arguing either against or on the side of the non-predestination advocate of Perseverance of the Saints, but will only focus on the Calvinist’s interpretation of the doctrine from a logical point of view. Since Calvinism’s form of the Perseverance of the Saints is contingent upon predestination, it is here I will focus my argument.

Chapter 3: Calvinism’s Dangerous Idea

The philosopher Daniel Dennett is the author of a book entitled, Darwin’s Dangerous Idea, in which he goes into great detail about Darwin’s theory of evolution and how it offers an explanation to the foundations of humanity and the search for philosophical sense of subjects such as the origins of knowledge, intelligence, and what it means to be human. What follows from his argument is a set of consequences—ones that must follow if evolution is true. Dennett describes the logical flow of Darwinism when he says, “I think many people are terribly afraid of being demoted by the Darwinian scheme from the role of authors and creators in their own right into being just places where things happen in the universe.”

I bring Dennett’s book up not to draw a correlation between evolution and Calvinism, but instead to offer a correlation between a theory and its consequences. Every theory about subjects like theology and philosophy has consequences that must follow if the theory is true. Calvinism is no different. In the remainder of this section, I will present the severe consequences of predestination (which has been shown above to be an indispensable part of TULIP), how these consequences are applied to TULIP, and will respond to possible objections to these consequences.

Section A: Free Will Defined

The first problem that arises when addressing predestination is its apparent confliction with free will. When discussing the paradox of predestination and free will, the first of many questions that has plagued Calvinists asks, “If God predestines people’s salvation, can it truly be said that those people freely accept God’s gift of salvation as an act of their own free will?” In order to adequately answer this question, it is necessary to first define what it means to have “free will.”

Free will, as it applies to the human experience, can be defined in one of two ways. The first is “choosing or doing what you want to do.” If a young boy walks into an ice cream parlor and looks at all of the different flavors of the frozen treat he could possibly have and eventually tells the clerk he wants to have a chocolate mint double-scoop waffle cone, then it can be said that the boy exercised a free choice. But if his mother told him that he could not get an ice-cream cone because it would spoil his dinner, then the boy is obviously not exercising a free choice by not eating the ice cream.

Now, it would seem that under this definition of free will, predestination and man’s free will are not at odds. While God pre-ordained for me to accept his gift of salvation, I also, at that moment in time, wanted to accept his free gift of salvation and chose it. Whether God pre-ordained the event does not change the fact that I wanted to choose in the way I did. Under the above definition of free will, there seems to be no immediate conflict, but is the definition provided above the correct definition of free will? Consider the following example that is similar to one the philosopher John Locke proposed in the 17^th century.

Imagine that a group of women decide to go see a movie at a local movie theater. The women take their seats in front of the large screen, and talk amongst themselves before the movie begins. But just before the movie starts, and unbeknownst to the women, the theater’s manager bolts all of the doors shut to the theater so that it is impossible to escape. The movie comes on, the women sit and watch the movie, laugh and enjoy themselves, and none decide that they want to leave, but instead that they want to stay and watch the movie.

The question that arises now is, “Are the women making a free decision to stay and watch the movie? What if one of them needed to use the restroom and tried to leave—only to find that she could not? Does the nature of free will in this situation change? After all, the only thing that can be done is to remain in the theater. They cannot choose to leave.

Free will, in light of this situation, must be defined as, “a decision made where the power to do otherwise is held.” This definition, made famous by John Locke, fully encompasses all dilemmas within the realm of free decision. When applied to the boy in the ice cream store, the boy had the power to choose vanilla as opposed to chocolate-mint, but did not. However, if his mom did not allow him to have ice cream, then it is not in his power to choose otherwise. When applied to the women in the theater, they did not freely choose to stay in the theater, because they did not have the power to do otherwise. It can now be seen that it is this second definition of “free will” that must be used when discussing such matters, and it is precisely this definition that creates a dilemma between predestination and man’s free will.

Section B: Consequences of Predestination

Consequences 1 and 2: Predestined Damnation, Man is not free

The first consequence for which I will argue is if God predestines the elect, then God also predestines the damned. This is possibly the most popular objection to predestination, but must follow if predestination is to be accepted. According to Calvinism, only the elect are/will be saved and will enter into heaven. By consequence, those who are not members of the elect enter into Hell. But God has only predestined the elect. Therefore, God did not predestine everyone else—who will spend eternity in Hell.

A Calvinist may object to this consequence by saying, “God did not predestine those people to go to Hell, they chose that path by not freely accepting God’s gift of salvation, just as God predestined the elect to freely choose salvation.” This may seem like a plausible escape from the first consequence, but at a second glance, it is completely contradictory.

If God’s predestination is absolute (the Calvinist asserts this), then the only thing an individual can do is accept salvation—they cannot choose otherwise. At the same time, no one can choose salvation who is not predestined. By consequence, the only option for the elect to choose is salvation, and the only option for the non-elect to choose is damnation. Therefore, man does not have free will according to predestination. This is the second consequence of Calvinism.

An objection that may be made here is in regard to the two definitions of “free will” given at the beginning of this chapter. The Calvinist may claim, “Yes, the damned could not choose otherwise, but they still wanted to choose in that way—God did not force that decision. The same is true for the elect.” This attempt to avoid a contradiction by adopting the first definition of free will given in Part A unfortunately collapses. It may fairly be asked of this person, if God had not predestined salvation in the first place, would the former elect still want to accept salvation, and would the formerly damned still choose damnation? If answered with yes, then it must be conceded that God’s predestination is pointless in that it has no effect on the outcome of man’s salvation or damnation. If answered with no, then it must be the case that God’s predestination actually forces people’s wills, and therefore man does not have free will, because if God had not predestined, then people’s decisions would have been different. God’s act of predestination in this case does have a bearing on man’s choice. If the Calvinist would still like to maintain that God does in fact predestine, then he or she must concede that God predestines in two ways, and that man does not have free will (with regards to salvation).

After being faced with the preceding arguments, the Calvinist may want to concede that God does predestine in two ways, but that humanity still exercises free will. “Yes, God predestines people for Heaven and Hell alike, but we still freely choose that fate somehow.”

In order to align this claim with a reasonable explanation and to avoid a direct contradiction between God’s action and our alleged free will, the Calvinist must equivocate on the definition of “free will.” We cannot be predestined to act in one way, yet freely choose it at the same time. If it is said that our free will is different than God’s, however, this may be avoided altogether.

The problem with this proposition is I don’t know that there can be two types of free will in the first place, lest we consider one to be completely free, and the other to be only partially free. A “partially free” will does not seem to be free in the first place, and I don’t suspect many would argue for equivocal terms for freedom. The partially free will would have to be restricted when it comes to salvation, and this is really the only relevant part of freedom when addressing predestination. It should be noted that I am not advocating that God has predestined every choice we make, only the choice to accept salvation, for this is what predestination advocates. When I make the claim that predestination makes it so that we do not have free will, I am saying that we are not completely free if predestination is true. In order to have free will, one must be completely free. To describe predestination as leaving someone with a partially free will slants into a contradiction of terms.

A common surrendering statement is, “We do freely choose for or against God, and God does predestine. This seems to be a contradiction, but God is quite mysterious and incomprehensible, completely other than us. Therefore, we cannot understand, but must have faith that it is true.”

The problem with saying this is that if the above statement is true, then the Calvinist is abandoning all of her beliefs with regards to free will and predestination in that she is claiming an agnostic position. It is agnostic from the standpoint that the Calvinist does not know the reasons why she believes what she believes. At the same time, however, it is rooted in belief/conviction from the standpoint that the Calvinist still maintains TULIP’s assertions about free will and predestination. The faith exercised here is blind in every sense of the word, because a reason for the belief is absent.

The second thing the Calvinist is doing in this case is trying to make the claim that God can create logical contradictions. Being omnipotent does not mean that God can do anything (including making logical contradictions somehow true), but instead that God can do anything that is logically possible. God cannot create a round square, make 2 + 2 = 5, or as the Calvinist says in this case, predestine and also maintain our freedom.

Consequence 3: God is an evil puppeteer.

It can now be deduced from the preceding argument that if God predestines, then God predestines people for both Heaven and Hell. The third consequence I will argue for illuminates what follows from the second type of predestination—predestination for Hell. If God predestines people for an eternity spent in Hell, then God is an evil puppeteer.

This consequence immediately brings up a storming debate amongst both theologians and philosophers about a loving God and the existence of evil. The purpose of this essay is not to explore this matter, but it is necessary to draw upon the issue in order to adequately address whether God is an evil puppeteer. The Calvinist (as well as every other Christian) denies the proposition that God is evil or does evil acts. So in order to cope with something that appears to be evil (predestining a person for Hell), alternative explanations must be made.

The first explanation is that God’s predestined damnation must be used to accomplish a greater good in weight. The immediate problem with this assertion is the dichotomy between God’s allowance and God’s direct action. Predestination is an action (lest it have no bearing on the outcome of salvation—rendering it as pointless and powerless), and allowance is indirect action. In all truthfulness, I have no problem with this argument in principle. C.S. Lewis does a very good job in parts of his The Problem of Pain in explaining why God allows evil things to happen in order to accomplish a greater good. My problem comes not from the argument itself, but from the application of the argument to the topic of predestined damnation. Simply stated, I do not think that God’s direct action of placing someone in Hell for eternity when it was impossible for the person to receive salvation in the first place can be reconciled with a greater good. Eternal suffering can only be matched with eternal pleasure (Heaven), so it must be that God’s predestined damnation causes, for instance, two people’s eternal pleasure. I will certainly concede that this may in fact be the case, but I feel that this paints God as a utilitarian of sorts—a being bound by the eternal adding and subtracting of suffering from pleasure. If God is bound by the necessity of evil for the existence of good, then the only way in which it can be claimed that God is supremely good is if there is a supremely evil being that is equal in magnitude to God. In other words, “goodness” can only be “good” insofar as there is a certain amount of evil for comparison.

The second explanation given for predestined damnation is that it is not evil, it is just. My refutation of this proposition is simple. Damnation results from sin. All of mankind is sinful. The only way to escape damnation is through the acceptance of Christ’s gift on the cross as payment for one’s sins, thus leading to one’s righteousness. It logically follows, then, that damnation ultimately results from the neglection of God’s free gift of salvation, because salvation is the only way for man to be made righteous. Under the doctrine of predestined damnation, the damned are completely unable to choose God’s salvation, and are therefore unable to be made righteous. If an individual is completely unable to choose salvation/be made righteous, then God’s judgment is not just, because he is in turn judging his own action (It is God’s action that caused the judgment/necessary damnation in the first place). Put another way, God is judging himself.

In the end, God controls who goes to Heaven and Hell—this is not up to anyone but him. If God predestines someone for an eternity of suffering, it is strictly because God wills it. God’s will is subject to nothing but his desires, lest he be bound by certain platonic form-like paragons and subject to a morality other than himself. The only way that a person can deny that God is not evil in this case is by saying that God is the ultimate standard of good and evil. What God does is good, and what God forbids is evil. Anything God disapproves of is evil. God is not bound by “the good,” but actually creates “the good.” In this way, God’s predestined damnation is not evil, because God not only approves of it, he wills it. Now, this may be the case, and I actually think this final explanation bears some weight. The only problem I have with this plausible explanation is that I see no reason why God wouldn’t let a rational human being understand such action as being good. It certainly seems that undeserved (in the sense that God simply chooses, the individual has nothing to do with the decision and therefore cannot be held accountable) eternal suffering is evil. Why God would create us with faculties that falsely recognize good as evil or evil as good in some or all instances seems to be perplexing to the point of describing God as Descartes’ “evil genius.”

Consequence 4: Fatalism

The fourth consequence can be stated in the following way: If God predestines salvation, there is no reason to evangelize, pray for the salvation of others, or do anything in order to spread God’s love and truth to all people, because salvation has already been pre-ordained.

At the center of this argument is the nature of the authority of God’s alleged predestination. If God’s predestination is absolute, then nothing we do can change the outcome of anyone’s eternal fate. If God’s predestination is not absolute, then it has limited power, and therefore the “elect” becomes a pointless and inaccurate term within the doctrine. Calvinism does not endorse the latter of these statements, so I will only focus on the former.

Consider my originally posed question about trying to influence the salvation of others. It can be rephrased through asking the following questions: Why should I attempt to thwart the binding power of God’s predestination by trying to evangelize to an individual if God has already determined that they are not to be a member of the elect? If what I do does not ultimately matter with regards to salvation, then why do it? There are really only two possible explanations for this problem—either God uses our evangelism to accomplish his predestined salvation, or we are supposed to evangelize simply because God has commanded it.

If we accept the first explanation regarding God’s use of people to accomplish his ends (something certainly endorsed by both Calvinists and other Christians), then we still get nowhere, because any given individual’s obligation to evangelize does not matter. My original question still remains when applied to individual persons. Consider this line of thought by Agent X. “I should go tell Agent Y about Christ’s forgiveness. She needs to hear about his love. I know God predestines and that he uses people to accomplish his predestination. Since this is the case, I will just let someone else do the witnessing. After all, if she is predestined for salvation, she will become saved one way or another.”

This line of thinking does not lead to an immediate dilemma for the Calvinist, but a problem does arise if one applies this to all persons. If every Christian thought and acted in this way, then God’s predestination would have to be separate from mankind’s efforts. Now, this is a prime example of the reductio ad absurdum fallacy, because it is not the case that all Christians think in this way, but I argue that Agent X is still justified in his assertion that what he does ultimately has no effect on Agent Y’s fate if God’s predestination is absolute, because what he says is both true and predestined by God.

The objection is quickly made at this point that Agent X’s thinking may be justified, but the original proposition regarding God’s usage of moral agents to accomplish his goals is not directly dismissed. Everyone does not act or think in the way Agent X does, people seem to be both obligated and compelled to evangelize and do evangelize.

The problem with this objection is that if it is the case that God uses moral agents to accomplish salvation, then the moral agents God uses are nothing more than tools without free will. The original dilemma between free will and God’s action of predestination once again arises in that if God’s predestination is absolute (and if God uses moral agents to accomplish predestination), then the moral agents in question cannot freely choose not to evangelize. If they could choose not to in the way that Agent X chose, then God’s predestination is not absolute, and is ultimately contingent upon human exertion. Furthermore, if God’s predestination depends on human exertion (through a truly free will), then God’s predestination is ultimately pointless in the same way expounded upon at the beginning of the chapter. It cannot be avoided that free will must be infringed upon in one way or another if God’s predestination is absolute. Because of this, it cannot be validly claimed that moral agents are obligated or compelled to evangelize, because God’s action is that obligation or compulsion, not a mere influence giving rise to it. In order for there to be obligation, there must be autonomy.

The final objection to this fourth consequence is that we are to evangelize simply because God commands it. Whether we have any effect on the outcome of someone’s salvation is irrelevant.

My refutation of this final objection is short: If God commands us to spread the good news of his salvation throughout the world even though it cannot affect any individual’s fate, then it is the same as if a king commands his subjects to reverse the law of gravity. In other words, if what we do with regards to salvation does not ultimately affect others’ salvation, then God’s command is nothing more than an attempt to incite obedience for the sake of obedience alone. But once again, if that obedience does lead to salvation (which it would have to in some instances if this is God’s mechanism of predestination), then it cannot truly be said that a person’s obedience is really obedience at all, but instead a mere involuntary action controlled by God. “Obedience,” then, is the absurd idea of God obeying himself.

Section C: Objection from Foreknowledge

Some Calvinists hold to the belief that predestination does not necessarily involve God’s direct action, but only necessitates a divine foreknowledge of salvation. Instead of directly saving only certain individuals, God only knows who will choose him. His knowledge, therefore, does not infringe upon our free will.

It should be noted before I begin my thoughts on this objection that most Calvinists do not stop at the belief of foreknowledge. While foreknowledge is something Calvinists believe God has, most Calvinists take the step of direct action when it comes to predestination. Nevertheless, I feel that divine foreknowledge should be addressed because of its intimate connection with both predestination and free will.

I have two problems with the objection from divine foreknowledge. The first is that if God knows the fate of everyone before they were born, then God creates people knowing they will not choose him. Therefore, he is indirectly causing them to go to Hell, because God did have the choice not to create the individual. While this point may be conceded, free will is still intact. The individual did in fact choose salvation under the definition of free will, yet God also had foreknowledge of such a choice. Yes, this view may be compatible with our free will, but there still seems to be a problem with God creating people with the knowledge that they will spend eternity in Hell. Nonetheless, it is unnecessary to delve further into this possible problem, because my next objection dismisses its implications, as well as the word, “foreknowledge.”

To say that God has “foreknowledge” of events that have not yet occurred (drawing from his omniscience) is to imply that God exists in what finite beings have labeled “time.” God, by definition is eternal. In order to be eternal, a being must be outside of/independent of the law of time. Foreknowledge implies a specific position in time—present knowledge of things in the future. But if God is eternal and therefore wholly separate from the law of time, then God cannot have foreknowledge, but simply infinite knowledge. One famous Christian apologist to endorse this view was Thomas Aquinas. He famously argued nothing that happens in time is unknown to God, but God does know of events in the way in which we know of them—restricted by time. In this sense, God still knows everything that we categorize into the past, present, and future strictly from a “presently” oriented position (Hence, the name I Am).

I think this view of foreknowledge is a promising one for Christianity to embrace, as it preserves the compatibility of God’s omniscience and our free will. I do not think, however, that it is compatible with Calvinism. The principle reason for this is that Calvinism deeply emphasizes God’s direct action, as opposed to something distant like foreknowledge. He chooses, he does not merely know. He works, he does not merely have knowledge. He has mercy on whom he has mercy, he does not merely know who will ask for such mercy. If someone is to hold to divine foreknowledge as a means to explain predestination, then that person does not understand what predestination is according to Calvinism. Divine foreknowledge (a technical contradiction in and of itself according to God’s timeless nature) does not justify predestination, it only preserves omniscience.

Chapter 4: Scripture

The driving force behind Calvinism is basic logic applied to a very literal interpretation of certain scriptures. We Christians rightly claim that God’s Word is true, and apply this truth to the formations of our doctrines, creeds, and daily lives. In this chapter, I will first offer some of the most famous verses that proponents of predestination have used to support their beliefs, and will in turn offer ones that seem to challenge those beliefs.

Section A: Literal Interpretation

Ephesians 1:4,5,11b

“…even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will…having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will.”

2 Timothy 1:9

“…who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his own purpose and grace, which he gave us in Christ Jesus before the ages began.”

Galatians 1:15

“But when he who had set me apart before I was born, and who called me by his grace…”

(Others: John 15:16, Romans 8:28-30, Romans 9:16-18, Romans 5:19, Romans 9:19-24)

After applying a literal interpretation to these verses, there certainly seems to be the implication of the doctrine of predestination as Calvinists have proposed. Now, apply this same literal translation to the following verses that seem to indicate something contrary to predestination and the elect.

1 John 2:1-2

“My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world.”

Literal translation: God died for the sins of the whole world, not just a select few (the elect).

Hebrews 2:9

“But we see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.”

Literal translation: God tasted death for everyone, not just the elect.

2 Corinthians 5:14

“For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died for all, therefore all have died; and he died for all…”

Literal translation: Christ died for all people, not just the elect.

1 Timothy 4:10

“For to this end we toil and strive, because we have our hope set on the living God, who is the Savior of all people, especially of those who believe.”

Literal translation: God is the savior of all people—not just those who believe.

2 Peter 2:1

“But false prophets also arose among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you, who will secretly bring in destructive heresies, even denying the Master who bought them, bringing upon themselves swift destruction.”

Literal translation: Christ died for those who reject him and teach false doctrines.

Hebrews 6:4-8

“For it is impossible to restore again to repentance those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, and have shared in the Holy Spirit, and have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the age to come, if they then fall away, since they are crucifying once again the Son of God to their own harm and holding him up to contempt.”

Literal translation: it is possible to lose your salvation and leave the elect (therefore, the saints “do not persevere”)

Hebrews 6:26-27, 29

“For if we go on sinning deliberately after receiving the knowledge of the truth, there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, but a fearful expectation of judgment, and a fury of fire that will consume the adversaries…How much worse punishment, do you think, will be deserved by the one who has spurned the Son of God and has profaned the blood of the covenant by which he was sanctified, and has outraged the Spirit of grace?”

Literal translation: it is possible to lose your salvation and leave the elect (therefore, the saints “do not persevere”)

(Others: 1 Timothy 2:5-6, Romans 5:18, 2 Peter 3:9)

In the case of Calvinism, I feel that there is a narrow and often mistaken interpretation of Scripture. If the Calvinist seeks to claim the first set of verses as evidence for his or her doctrine, then he or she must be able to maintain consistency with the second set of verses according to the same literal scrutiny applied to the first. Some have tried to do this, but their accounts are not convincing and tend to try to walk around the second set of verses.

Section B: Example of Context

One of the most popular defenses of predestination given by Calvinists is Paul’s words in Romans 9. Romans 9:19-24 says, “You will say to me then, “Why does he still find fault? For who can resist his will?” But who are you O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, “Why have you made me like this?” Has the potter no right over the clay to make out of the same lump one vessel for honored use and another for dishonorable use? What if God, desiring to show his wrath and to make known his power, has endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction, in order to make known the riches of his glory for vessels of mercy, which he has prepared beforehand for glory—even us whom he has called, not from the Jews only but also from the Gentiles?”

The Calvinist mirrors Paul’s rhetoric and defends predestination with Paul’s, “You don’t get to ask why” response. The advocate of predestination looks at Romans 9 as a literal defense of predestination. Verse 15 says, “I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion. So then it depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy.”

Paul’s words certainly seem like they are a defense of predestination. The non-predestination advocate asks, “If salvation only depends on God’s divine election, how can those who God has not chosen be condemned? For who can resist his will? This is unjust!” The Calvinist/predestination advocate responds with, “God has mercy on whom he has mercy. God chose Israel, God chose Jacob, God chooses the elect. We don’t get to ask why.”

The problem I have with this interpretation of Romans 9 is one of context. If the true context of the passage is taken into account, it can be seen that Paul is not trying to defend predestination at all or offer the justifications of it given above, but actually something very different.

To whom is Paul speaking? Why is he speaking to them? To what is he responding? All of these questions must be answered before trying to interpret Paul’s words. Paul is speaking to Jews who are complaining about the salvation of the Gentiles. The Jews are making the claim that the Gentiles cannot receive salvation, for they do not follow the Law. The Jews are God’s chosen people, not the Gentiles. On the heels of Christ’s death and resurrection, salvation by grace through faith for the Gentiles is something very foreign to the Jews. Unlike the church today, Christian theology is not something that is common knowledge, but is actually in the process of being formulated. While many Jews became Christians, most did not completely understand what Christ did on the cross in his establishment of the new covenant. Faith-based salvation was not only foreign, it seemed to be unjust. The establishment of the new covenant was a hard thing to accept for the Jewish culture, as the Law dominated their faith. The assertion that anyone could be saved if they would merely have faith in Christ for the forgiveness of sins and redemption of their soul is a direct attack on God’s Old Testament choice of Israel and the Jewish Law. It is this issue to which Paul is responding.

Now that the context of the time period and issue at hand have been established, an interpretation of Romans 9 can be offered. Paul responds to the Jews by saying that salvation is gained through faith, not by works. This is the central message of the entire chapter. Paul first brings up God’s choice of Isaac, and later Jacob. Paul’s point in bringing them up is to show that Isaac and Jacob did not earn God’s approval; God simply chose them without them meriting such a choice. In Romans 3, Paul also speaks of Old Testament characters, specifically Abraham. He strongly emphasizes that Abraham’s faith was credited to him as righteousness. Abraham did not earn it, it was granted to him according to faith.

Jesus also previously illuminated the Jews’ forgetfulness of the importance of faith. He constantly scorned the Pharisees for their infatuation with the Law. At this point in time, the Jews Paul is talking to are clinging to the Law in the same way. Paul rebukes this line of thought and says in verse 15, “I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion. So then it depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy.”

According to the new covenant, what does God’s mercy consist in? Why does Paul bring up this Old Testament quote? Under the new covenant established through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, righteousness is gained by grace through faith. The Law does not save.

The Jews respond with, (verse 19) “Why does he still find fault? For who can resist his will?” Now before I move on to Paul’s answer to this question, the proper context of the question must be further expounded upon. The question is formulated in terms of God’s damnation in the new covenant. God’s mercy was ultimately manifested through the cross. Humanity should have received death, but God’s mercy intervened, as Jesus Christ bore our punishment. God, therefore, has mercy on those who accept Christ’s free gift (Romans 5), and condemns to Hell those who do not. In the Jews’ mind, they see no difference between the saved and the damned, because both are equally sinful. It seems to be completely unjust that God would have mercy on some people when they are just as sinful as those who are not receiving mercy.

In light of this, Paul asserts in verse 20, “But who are you, O man to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, “Why have you made me like this?” ” What Paul is getting at here is not a defense of predestination, but of the will of God. Why did God decide to sacrifice his own Son for the atonement of mankind’s sin? Why does God decide to grant cleanliness to those who accept his gift, and not to those who reject it? Paul’s response is very appropriate—we cannot get inside the mind of God, all we know is that this new covenant through Jesus Christ is the will of God. This is what we don’t get to ask “why” about.

Finally, the objection made by the Calvinist here is that having faith, in this context, seems to be a form of meriting salvation. This is simply not the case. In verses 30-32, Paul separates faith from merit-based works. He says, “What shall we say, then? That Gentiles who did not pursue righteousness have attained it, that is, a righteousness that is by faith; but that Israel who pursued a law that would lead to righteousness did not succeed in reaching that law. Why? Because they did not pursue it by faith, but as if it were based on works.” Here, Paul asserts that the saved Gentile has attained righteousness through faith, not merit-based works. This is where the separation is made. Many times, the Calvinist makes the false assumption that having faith is somehow something that someone must do in order to attain salvation. But according to Paul’s answer given to the Jews here and in many other places (Galatians 2:15-16, John 3:16), it is clear that one must have faith in order to be saved. But once again, this is different than merit-based works, because such faith is the acceptance of God’s gift of salvation by recognizing that Christ’s atonement is the only way to be made righteous.

The final piece of Romans 9 the Calvinist/predestination advocate can cling to now is God’s choice of Isaac, Jacob, and hardening Pharaoh. It does not say that Isaac or Jacob had faith, but that God simply chose them. God hardened Pharaoh in order for his glory to be manifested. This seems to indicate predestination via unmerited choice. What is overlooked, however, is that the new covenant was not present during this time. Righteousness through Christ’s atonement did not yet exist. Paul brings these people up for the sole purpose of showing that God’s will is God’s will, period. God’s will, now, (speaking to the Jews in Romans 9) is that God has mercy on those who accept Christ’s gift of salvation, and condemns those who do not. God does this, because the new covenant is his will. Just as God had mercy on whom he would have mercy before Christ’s death on the cross, he has mercy on whom he has mercy (those who freely accept the gift of salvation) after Christ’s death on the cross.

It can now be seen that when Romans 9 is interpreted through the proper context, the result is much different than what it is popularly made out to be. Paul is not defending predestination at all—he is defending salvation through faith.

Concluding this short chapter on Scripture, I think that Calvinism’s use of Scripture leads to an oversimplification of God. Scripture cannot be given a strictly literal interpretation—the context of the passage, the culture of the time period, and God-given rational thought must be applied to each and every verse. Skipping any one of these crucial components leads to a broken, incomplete, and dangerous result. In the case of Calvinism, it leads to absurdity via the consequences outlined in chapter 3. It leads to the “Masses in the Mire.”

Chapter 5: ”Masses in the Mire”

“Masses in the Mire” is the title of a short story I have written to illustrate Calvinism. The story takes place through a conversation between two angels—Solace and Insight.

“Masses in the Mire”

“And this, Solace, is Earth. All of those people you see down there are wandering souls created in the very image of God.”

“The actual image of God, Insight?”

“Yes, the actual image of God. Humans are very dear to his heart. It was only fitting for him to put himself in each and every one of those people down there.”

The angel Solace and his mentor, Insight, floated motionless in the sky above the Earth’s surface. Solace tucked in his brilliant wings and dove like an eagle to get a closer view of humanity.

“I didn’t know there were so many! Why didn’t God give them wings like us?”

Insight laughed. “You’ve yet to learn many things, Solace. Don’t worry, even if they did have wings I don’t think they would know what to do with them! After all, they can’t even see the sky, watch the birds, or feel the pure rays of the burning sun. All they do is sit there—slumped over with their faces down in the great marsh.”

Solace’s innocent glow faded. “Why don’t they look up? God is up there! Who wouldn’t want to look at God’s glory, the creator of all things and the very embodiment of all that is truly good? I never get tired of listening to the seraphim’s trumpets praising him. Are you saying that those humans don’t want to have any part of that?”

“It isn’t that they don’t want to have any part of it, they just can’t…on their own that is. Only God can bring them to himself. Without God, they are completely deprived of everything because of their sin. They are completely incapable of desiring God or accepting his salvation.”

Solace looked down at humanity’s desolate state. Just as Insight had described, an endless expanse of people sitting in a crude mixture of mud, stagnant water, and weeping foliage stretched out as far as the eye could see. Not one soul looked up, or even around for that matter. No one spoke to one another and no one acknowledged another’s presence. Each human being sat like a mime in an imaginary glass case, unaware of anyone or anything outside of it.

Solace looked up toward God, but couldn’t see his glory because of a thick blanket of dark clouds separating humanity from the window of the heavens. “Why are those black clouds there, Insight?”

Insight looked up at the dark sky. “Humanity put them there. Those black clouds are the result of sin. Sin is a very dark thing, Solace.”

“So even if they did decide to look up, they wouldn’t be able to see God? All they can do is sit here! What a dreadful thought…” Solace’s felt trapped.

“They can do more than sit here. They can talk, laugh, enjoy each other’s company and even love each other.”

“I haven’t seen anyone say one word yet, Insight. All I see are people hopelessly trapped in their sin. There doesn’t seem to be much to laugh about or love down here.”

“Not so fast, Solace, you can’t forget about God’s election. Look over there.” Insight pointed at a young girl being lifted out of the mud by a single ray of light shining through the ominous black clouds above. She began to look upward.

“What’s happening to her?” Solace asked.

“God has chosen her! Praise God, the Lord of hosts, for salvation has come to a lost and wayward soul!” Insight began to sing a beautiful a cappella song in a heavenly language. His celebration of what the two angels were witnessing was truly beautiful—only something a heavenly being could so gracefully jubilate.

After Insight finished his rejoicing, Solace asked, “Why did God choose her? Why didn’t God choose that little boy right there?” Solace pointed at a small boy playing in the mud.

“I don’t know, Solace. God chooses to have mercy on whomever he wills. He doesn’t pick everyone. I do know that he didn’t pick that girl because of something she did. Her salvation is only due to God’s election. Nothing more.”

The young girl who had been lifted stopped rising and hung motionless—suspended in the air a few feet above everyone else. The girl began to speak of God, his redeeming love, and Christ’s atoning sacrifice, but no one looked up at her. It was like she didn’t exist.

“Why aren’t they listening to her? She’s speaking truth! If they would only listen to her, they could come to know God. Why do they only sit motionless in the filth of their sin?”

“Remember Solace, only God can affect the salvation of someone. That girl doesn’t have the power to save—only God’s divine election does. He—” Solace interrupted, “No, look! That man there is listening! And he’s rising up! He is saved now because of her! Praise God!”

Insight put his hand on Solace’s shoulder. “Look. See the ray of light pulling him up? See how it is connected to the girl’s ray? She didn’t save him, God did. God raised him up out of the mire, it only appears as if she contributed to his salvation.”

“But didn’t God at least use her to save him?”

Insight laughed. “By no means! If God uses her as a tool, does that all of a sudden mean that she is doing the work? Do hammers build houses or do people? Either way, God’s election is what raised him up. Nothing more. That ray connecting them represents the elect. The elect are all connected through God’s light. Their number was decided ages ago before you or I ever existed. It is for them and them alone that Christ died. And now, God’s will is taking shape.”

Solace looked back at the small boy playing in the mud. “I still don’t understand why God chooses some and only died for those people. These people can’t do anything about this bog they’re stuck in, God put them here!”

“Solace, God did not put them here. Their sin put them here. Don’t ever forget that.”

Solace’s frustration grew. “Yeah but they can’t—” Insight interrupted, “Isn’t it great to see the joy on a newly saved person’s face! Look at that girl. She is singing for joy, looking up at God through her beam of light.” Insight began to tear up. The girl’s song really was beautiful. Her ray of light intensified as her perfect notes drifted toward the sky.

Insight spoke again, “Her song is contagious, isn’t it Solace? It’s irresistible! Once God’s salvation raises someone up out of their filth, they cannot resist its tow. God’s grace is truly irresistible.”

“Do only the elect receive God’s grace?”

“Yes, only the elect receive it, but all hear about it. You see, those clouds up there don’t block out all of God’s light. There is still enough down here to see, but only the elect are penetrated by it. The unsaved are deaf to its call, but the elect hear it and listen to it.”

“Can they listen to it and ignore it?”

“Never! And who would want to? Listen to yourself, Solace, would you ever not want to listen to God? It is truly impossible to not listen when his grace is offered.”

“But the unsaved don’t listen!”

“That is because they can’t listen to it. Remember, only the elect can actually listen. The unsaved treat it as if it never existed to begin with because it does not penetrate them.”

Solace began to grow impatient. “But why doesn’t it penetrate them? I understand that it doesn’t, and that God doesn’t choose everyone, but why doesn’t he choose everyone and penetrate everyone with his irresistible grace if Christ’s sacrifice was sufficient for everyone’s sin?”

Insight’s smile faded. “Solace, God’s will is truly mysterious. His power is unsurpassable, and his ways are completely unsearchable! It is not our place or humanity’s for that matter to try and comprehend the answer to your question. Come. We have more to see.”

Solace and Insight glided down closer to the surface and landed atop a barren hill. The muddy swamp of Earth stopped near the base of the hill, allowing the two angels to rest their wings. Earth was quite the spectacle. Billions of people spread out far and wide—some stuck in the mire, some suspended in the air by God’s salvation. The silence of the unsaved rang out much louder than the song of the elect.

Solace pointed towards the base of the hill and began to walk towards an older woman sinking into the soupy ground. “That person is drowning, Insight! Come, let us lift her up!”

Insight took hold of Solace’s arm. “No, Solace, God has not instructed us to come to her aid. Our purpose for coming here today is only for learning’s sake, not for action.”

“But she will drown!”

“If that is God’s will, then it shall come to pass.”

The woman sunk below the marshy surface. A few bubbles rose up from where she descended.

Solace stared with wide eyes. “Where did she go, Insight?”

A dour expression came across Insight’s face. “She descended to the place where the slimy filth of humanity’s sin slowly seeps. Sin leads to destruction and damnation. Sin leads to Hell. Come. The Gates of Damnation is our last stop before we return. The hour is growing late.”

The two angels took to the air again and flew a few miles to the East. After a short while, a vast cavern came into view at the base of a mountain. The smell of sulfur was overwhelming.

“Before we enter, you must remember that we are not here to act, but to learn. The urge to storm the gates will be great, for the amount of evil behind them is immense. But it is not the time for battle. That time is reserved for when God commands.”

Insight and Solace entered the dark cave, and cautiously moved forward on the steep and widely spaced path.

“There are very few caverns like this one. Beneath the earth’s surface, the sewage of humanity drains into a massive nexus of rocky paths that lead down to the Gates of Damnation. This path here is the widest and most accessible. The path of the righteous is narrow, but the path of the wicked is wide. This path is so wide and well travelled that it is actually accessible from the surface. We are in a very grim place, Solace.”

Insight pointed up. “Look up there. Do you see that person sinking through the ceiling? That is what happens to the unsaved when they die. They finally drop down and lifelessly roll to the black gates at the end. Once someone enters those gates, they are admitted for eternity.”

Solace pointed up at what appeared to be gold on the ceiling. “Why is there gold up there? Isn’t all gold reserved for heaven?”

“Ah yes, that is gold indeed. That gold prevents the elect from sinking into the Earth. It acts as an anchor for God’s salvation to keep the righteous suspended in air. You see, it is impossible for the elect to enter Hell, because their righteous perseverance is sure. Even if they stray for a while, their salvation is absolute. The gold prevents them from sinking, no matter how sinful they become. After all, even the sins they commit after they are saved have been covered by Christ’s blood.”

Solace and Insight continued down the path and stopped abruptly upon viewing the black Gates of Damnation. Bodies rolled past them and through the gates, which opened as each damned body approached. Faint cries and horrifying screams could be heard from beyond the twisted black metal. Solace began to cry.

Insight comforted the troubled angel, “Do not be downcast O Solace, for the destruction these souls are receiving is just. The price of sin is steep, just as the rewards of righteousness are great.”

“But these poor people had no choice! They could not enter into heaven because God did not choose them! How can this be just if it isn’t their fault?”

“Solace, it is their fault because they indeed committed sin. The wages of sin is death, because sin and God are completely incompatible!”

“I understand that, but even if these people wanted to become saved, they could not!”

“Ah, you misunderstand the matter, Solace. None of these souls have ever wanted to become saved. If they had desired salvation, they would be saved indeed! God refuses salvation to no one who calls upon his name through Jesus Christ.”

“Why didn’t they ask for salvation then?”

“Because God did not choose them. Remember, salvation is based on election. Nothing more.”

“But I thought you said it depends on whether someone calls upon God’s name through Christ? Isn’t that their decision?”

“It may seem like that is the case, but God chose them before time began. Before they were even born they were destined to become a member of the elect. Nothing they do—not even a choice—saves them. Only God’s absolute will can save them.”

“Then humanity isn’t free! God is also choosing people to enter Hell, Insight! Why would God predestine someone for—” a large quake shook the ground upon which the angels were standing.

“Hurry, Solace, we must leave this place of destruction, for the evil one is drawing near. Our presence has not gone unnoticed.”

Insight took Solace by the hand as the two angels swiftly flew out of the cave and back to the Earth’s muggy surface.

“It is time for us to return to heaven, Solace, you have seen much and undoubtedly need time to reflect.”

Insight began to fly upward, but Solace resisted.

“Solace! Come, let us go!”

Solace looked out at the masses in the mire. “I can’t. I feel I must stay.”

“It is not your duty to stay, Solace, you must come back to heaven to continue your studies. You are not meant to stay with humanity.”

“Insight, I respect you and love you, but I cannot return to heaven. I feel I must stay and comfort those who are sinking into the ground. They need at least some comfort before they die, considering where they are being forced to spend eternity.”

“Blasphemy! Solace, if you dare defy the will of the living God, you will suffer the same fate as these evil and wretched people!”

“If that is my fate then so be it. I cannot live in heaven if people are sinking into Hell because of no reason other than the will of God. I must try to lift them out of their miry graves, even if it means sinking with them.”

Insight’s face reddened. “Solace, quit speaking such foolishness. Return with me to heaven, and we will address these matters. If you decline, I will be forced to deem you a fallen angel and a servant of Lucifer.”

Tears ran down Solace’s face. “I choose to stay. I love these poor people who are unwillingly drowning into eternal suffering. I cannot return, lest these people come with me.”

“Do you love these people more than God? Is your sympathy for these evil creatures greater than your desire to please the most Holy Lord? So be it, Solace. You leave me with no other choice.”

Insight grabbed Solace’s heavenly seal from around his neck and tore it from him. Without another word, Insight flew back into heaven. Solace watched with his face wet with tears. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken your creation? Why have you caused such evil upon your creation and your humble servant? My heart is crushed, and my soul is downcast. My wings cannot lift me, and the sorrow of the lost forces me down. Their fate is undeserved! Their eternal destruction is caused by you, and their freedom does not exist. I long for your love, but can feel it no longer as your acts of destruction and injustice have shrouded your face.”

Without another word uttered toward heaven, Solace, the angel of sympathy, embraced a young girl who was sinking and staring blankly into the mud. Through tears Solace said to the little girl, “Do not be weary O daughter of Earth, we will sink together, for there is at least one being here who has chosen to love you and desires for you to live.”

Chapter 6: Confessions of an ex-Calvinist

For the past two years and for the first time in my life, I questioned not only some of the things I had been taught regarding theology, but also what the Bible seemed to indicate. I finally came to the conclusion that the consequences of Calvinism are too much to bear and sit at the brink of absurdity. In my immature thinking, I took an all or nothing point of view when it came to things like this. I reached the point (in my mind) of making the choice to either accept Calvinism and all of its consequences, or to reject it. But by rejecting it, I felt like I was rejecting my faith and slipping into an atheistic mindset. If Calvinism is false, then Christianity is false. Or so went my thinking.

For a short period of time, I probably would have classified myself as an agnostic. I can honestly say that I no longer knew if my Christianity was justified by both Scripture and logic. In order to find a way to justify my faith, I turned to the tumor that had killed me. That tumor, in essence, was the absurdity of predestination, and in turn the Calvinistic doctrines that follow from it. I asked myself a series of simple questions. What if Christianity is true, and predestination is not? What if Christianity is true, but Calvinistic deduction is not? Without Calvinism, does Christianity make sense, and does Scripture support such a view? The idea that followed was one of love.

I reflected upon the necessary conditions for relationship, and reasoned that free will is necessary for a loving relationship to exist. Through the cross, we are able to enter into an intimate relationship with the God of the universe. But if the cross is forced through predestination, then so is the “relationship” that follows. Can it truly then be called a “relationship” if it is only singularly directed? Put another way, is it possible to have a relationship with a robot that has been programmed for predetermined functions or ends? I argue that it is not (and am writing a story to be published soon called “In His Image”), and that for a relationship to truly be a relationship, there must be a mutual (free) decision from both sides to engage in “love.” C.S. Lewis puts it rather elegantly in Mere Christianity, “The happiness which God designs for His higher creatures is the happiness of being freely, voluntarily united to Him and to each other in an ecstasy of love and delight compared with which the most rapturous love between a man and a woman on this earth is mere milk and water. And for that they must be free.” And in Miracles, Lewis writes, “[Sin] was rendered possible by the fact that God gave them free will: thus surrendering a portion of His omnipotence because He saw that from a world of free creatures, even though they fell, He could work out a deeper happiness and a fuller splendour than any world of automata would admit.” Predestination, on the other hand, effectively razes relationship and promotes singular love–the love of puppets in the clever guise of “humans” suspended in air for the ultimate fate of bliss or torture.

Central to this theology is mankind’s free will. Calvinism asserts that we are not free, but I argue that without free will, both personal relationship and love is impossible. If there is not a free decision made to desire another person or to love another person, then there is nothing more than an automated program of sorts performing what appears to be love. Love cannot exist without free will. Christianity without mutual love cannot be. This added on top of the necessary consequences outlined in Chapter 3 is simply too much for me to accept.

I mentioned in the introduction that I am not sure whether this new faith (which is, despite its very similar appearance, very different from Calvinism) is really a new life at all, or merely a dream. The reason I say this is because Calvinism is something that has been taught to me in one form or another throughout my entire life. Predestination isn’t just something endorsed by Calvinists, but by the majority of Fundamentalist Bible-believing Christians. It is easy to side with the majority, and many times their arguments can be convincing. Nonetheless, I have ultimately adopted a disdainful attitude towards both predestination and Calvinism I fear I cannot change. Like Descartes’ meditation, I too realized “false opinions that in my youth I had taken to be true, and thus how doubtful were all those that I had subsequently built upon them.”

I admit that I now consider myself an agnostic about many things Fundamental Christianity objectively claims—about things I previously wouldn’t have dared question—about things not even mentioned in this essay, yet are preached nearly every Sunday from the majority of pulpits. It has happened slowly as my education has progressed and my personal inquiries into the subjects of God, religion, philosophy, human nature, and even psychology have deepened. Some might think I have “fallen away.” Others may deem my beliefs blatantly agnostic. Neither of these assertions are wholly true, I will be the first to say, though they are at least partly true. I cannot deny them outright.

In light of this, however, it doesn’t matter what I believe or want to believe—what is will always be. Like Solace in “Masses in the Mire,” I will be deeply saddened if Calvinism is true. I do not think I could reject the god of Calvinism like Solace for fear of judgment and my need for salvation through Christ (and since I am a Christian, and therefore a member of the elect, would not be able to reject him). But one thing is clear to me: if Calvinism is true, my eternity will be filled with an underlying presence of despondency. That is, if the god of Calvinism doesn’t forcibly erase it.

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Listenin’ Tuesday, Aug 25 2009

Listenin’

May 2004

Darryl Cooper sat down in his favorite faded brown leather recliner that looked like it had been found on the side of the road somewhere between Hillsboro and Waco, Texas. But it didn’t matter to Darryl. He loved that chair unlike anything else in his little room in the Sunset Hills retirement home in Odessa. He called it “the place where he and God met every unpromised morning.”

During this particular morning, Darryl had a visitor he hadn’t seen in over forty years. Darryl met Maria Butler once in 1945 when he delivered a letter to her mother from her father, Charles Butler, that no wife or daughter would ever want to receive during a time of war. Since that inconsolable day, Darryl never saw or heard from Maria or her mother again. He had tried to write them, but only received his sealed envelopes back with “Return to Sender” stamped across the back in bold black ink. He had no way of knowing where they had moved to, and all they knew was that his first name was Darryl. It’s funny how a first name and a story can bring two people together after nearly sixty years of separation.

Darryl received Maria’s phone call the very day he was moving his boxes into the retirement home and couldn’t believe he was actually speaking to Charlie’s very own daughter again. She said she had found his previous residence in an apartment complex just outside of Ft. Worth. From there, she learned of his recent move to Odessa and called him to set up a time to meet and talk about Darryl’s time with her father—something she had been wanting to hear her whole life. She knew what her father did during the war of course, but she wanted to hear it from the man it impacted the most.

Maria Butler looked into Darryl’s dark brown eyes and smiled as she walked into his small, but cozy room and gave him a friendly hug. Unpacked boxes were stacked in the corner back by the window, and the new white sheets on the bed still had creases from their original packaging. Darryl didn’t take his eyes off Maria’s as he said, “There ain’t no doubt you’re Charlie’s little girl. I’d recognize that smile anywhere.”

Maria looked down at a small wooden box she was holding. “I brought something to show you. I thought you might appreciate it.”

Darryl put on bifocals two sizes too big for his face and examined the small shadow box Maria had brought with her. He stared at the small medal and ribbon with the insignia, “Valor” along the face of it. The blue ribbon of the Congressional Medal of Honor still held its brilliance even after sixty years of resting behind an aging wooden frame in a humble log cabin just outside of Denver, Colorado.

“It’s beautiful,” Darryl said in broken syllables. He coughed to clear his throat. “Your daddy was a special man, Maria. I’m sure you know that, though.”

Maria sat down on a metal fold-up chair next to Darryl’s recliner and put her hand on his knee. “Tell me about my daddy, Mr. Cooper. I know you only knew him a little while, but tell me about the little bit of time you knew him. Whatever you remember.”

Darryl continued to look at the medal in the small wooden box. He had known what they were going to talk about ever since she’d called, but somehow her voice calling Charlie by ‘Daddy’ caused a rush of memories stored away in the cave of his memory to leap out before his eyes. The bad ones stuck best; they were branded into Darryl’s mind. He saw a friend—George was his name—facedown in the the street of a muddy city. Both of his legs were severed, his blood mixing with brown puddles seeping into the street’s wrinkled face. Next came the stuttering flicker of machine gun fire on the horizon, and then came Charlie…Charlie’s smile. That smile tore into Darryl’s old beating heart more than any other snapshot from the rushing river of images. He held that one the longest, studying it like he had never seen it before, though he knew he had, as if he had gone through a scrapbook to pause on a photograph containing a memory long forgotten, yet always there.

“I know the war done ripped your life apart, but if it wadn’t for your daddy…I’d…” Darryl choked back the knot in his throat.

“Take your time, Mr. Cooper. I know this isn’t the easiest thing to talk about. You just take as long as you need, you hear?”

Darryl wiped his eyes and mustered up a small laugh. “The funny thing is, I’ve told so many people over the years about Charlie. I’ve never missed a beat about tellin’ anyone. I reckon I even spoke in front of a crowd of o’er a thousand youngsters down in Little Rock and couldn’t wait to tell em’ all about what he done. But once I seen that smile o’ yours, hell, I couldn’t help but think I was lookin’ right back at Charlie himself!”

Maria laughed and wiped away some tears of her own. “It’s okay, I’m just glad I was able to find you. It’s been too long.”

Darryl collected himself and looked back at the medal Charlie was never able to wear or accept. “If I’m gonna tell you ‘bout what your daddy done, I gotta paint you a picture of my time in the war and how he done changed it. All I can really say about Charlie ‘imself is what all he said and did durin’ the little bit of time the good Lord sent him to me. Those two days’ll tell you more about a man than the entire lives of most.”

Maria scooted her chair up closer to Darryl’s, the metal legs scraping the tile floor. She was ready to hear her Daddy’s story from the man who was with him during his last night. She looked like a small child waiting to hear a favorite fairytale, except this time she would be hearing it for the first time, not yet knowing it would be the best she’d ever heard. Maria put her hands on Darryl’s arthritic sausage-fingers and waited for him to start.

Darryl began, “You know, war can change a man in ways he never saw comin’. The chaplain in my company called the war “The Devil’s paradise, and Heaven’s nightmare.” Hitler was the Devil o’ course.  One of my buds from South Carolina described the first bullet that flew by his ear in France as “a screeching bat outta hell.” You see it’s a hell of a thing being shot at, and quite another shootin’ back. Growin’ up in Odessa, Texas; the only things I ever shot at was rabbits and squirrels. I ain’t never shot at no man before, and ain’t ever been shot at ‘cept for a ricochet or two down by the rocky creek behind my house. Shootin’ came natural to me my whole life, but there ain’t nothin’ natural ‘bout shootin’ a man. Well, I suppose it could be natural considerin’ we been doin’ it since we ever done invented guns and such.

Anyway, like I said, war can change a man. It makes some bitter, some depressed, others angry, and most crazy. I think they call it some kinda stress disorder or something. I know my friend Ronald wadn’t ever the same. He just crawled right on into a bottle and drank himself straight to the grave a couple a years after bein’ back home. Now I ain’t gonna lie to you, war’s one of the ugliest things I seen, but my time in the Ardennes Mountains in 1944 was the best thing that ever happened to me. What’s even crazier is that it happened to me durin’ a single night I spent in foxhole with your own daddy, Charles Butler. Charlie was one of those guys who was a little bit quiet at first, but once he warmed up to you he was as friendly as ever. He had a smile just like yours—one that let you know he cared about you even though he hadn’t said a word yet. I ain’t never seen one like it since.

Well, needless to say, Charlie changed my life forever. He was a preacher man, but he wasn’t like most of them preachers you listen to on Sunday mornings spoutin’ off about Hell and redemption. See, I’d spent my entire life in church tryin’ to stay awake during all them long sermons. I didn’t really much care for the whole religion thing to tell you the truth. I didn’t much care for the idea of God altogether, actually. I guess you could say I was more of an agnostic than an atheist though, ‘cause I wasn’t too sure there wasn’t a God—just sure enough to know that if there was one, he wasn’t worth believin’ in. But on that cold winter night in 1944, Charlie changed my perception of those things forever.”

·            ·            ·

December 1944

A frigid breeze cut through the towering trees deep in the Ardennes Mountains of Belgium knocking clouds of snow off sharp needles and jagged branches. Racing towards the extremities of the winter-stricken forest, the air began to pick up its pace and sliced straight through Darryl Cooper’s green fatigues and literally through his rigid body. Barely audible above the wind was the scraping and jabbing of shovels into the icy ground. Darryl Cooper and Charles Butler dug quickly and began to pile a small bit of soil and branches around the ridge of the hole to camouflage the primitive structure. This hole in the ground would be home sweet home for at least a couple of days before the small company pushed further into the mountainous wilderness to secure a stronger line against the defensive Germans. News had spread of an imminent final push by Hitler’s forces, but the harsh winter had caused the rumors to remain as only rumors. The German lines were holding fast without any drastic moves as of yet.

Charlie smoothed out the bottom of the foxhole for two and slapped the back of his shovel along the sides to insure a stable edge. Darryl hopped in, put away his small collapsible shovel, and slipped into his poncho for what would likely be a futile attempt to thwart the blowing wind and snow. Charlie did the same, dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets, and laid his head back against the cold dirt wall.

“Does Eisenhower really think them Nazis are goin’ to come all the way up into these mountains when they can barely even hold their own lines? I haven’t seen a German in over six weeks now, but here I am freezing my ass off just in case. Don’t make a whole lotta sense to me.”

Charlie chuckled to himself and said, “I’d like to see Eisenhower sit in one of these foxholes himself and then ask him if he thinks Hitler is dumb enough to try and navigate these mountains during winter.”

Darryl smirked and breathed a short warm breath into his numb hands. “Now that, I’d like to see.”

Charlie dug out two cigarettes from his jacket pocket , handed one to Darryl, and lit them up with a first-edition Zippo. Neither were smokers before the war, but ever since spending time in the wintry Ardennes, hot smoke in the lungs took the edge off of the cold and the stress. Without permission to build fires for fear of being spotted at night, there was nothing like a good Marlboro in subzero temperatures.

Darryl took a deep draw and blew out through his nose. He grabbed his pack, dug through it for a few seconds, and pulled out a black leather billfold. He took out a small photograph and handed it to Charlie. “This lassie here is who I got waitin’ for me back home. Name’s Gail. I gave her a diamond just before I left. She’s somethin’ ain’t she?”

Charlie took the picture and looked at the smiling brunette with her hair pulled up into a bun. “She’s awful pretty. You’re a lucky man. When did you last hear from her?”

“Well, we was writin’ letters at first, but I ain’t been able to get no mail since comin’ up in these here mountains. Guess our morale ain’t worth the postman’s trip. I reckon the last time I heard from Gail was five months ago. She’s the only thing that gets me through this hell-hole.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’re the one who’s getting her through hers. You know it isn’t easy waiting for that black car to pull up to your door with that envelope holding a letter that says your life has completely changed like you hoped it wouldn’t. You just keep fighting and get back to her, you hear? She looks like a mighty fine girl.” Charlie handed the picture back to Darryl and tightened the knot of his crossed arms to keep from shivering.

“What about you, Charlie? You got a broad waitin’ for you back home?”

Charlie took out a picture of his own after some searching through his pack and handed it to Darryl. Charlie pointed at the tall blonde in a modest red dress in the fading picture, “This here is my wife Connie. And that little one there is my little angel, Maria. She’ll be five this March.”

“No kiddin’. They’re beautiful. Hopefully me and Gail will get to workin’ on startin’ a family of our own. I gotta tell you, your daughter definitely takes after you. It’s that smile o’ yours she’s got right there.”

Both freezing men sat in silence, except for the occasional laugh or a cough from some of the other soldiers in foxholes of their own. Silence wasn’t a common sound heard during the war. Only the thoughts running through a man’s head could be heard during such a time—thoughts suppressed time and again during battle, only to be resurrected during sleepless nights.

“Charlie, you’s a preacher right?”

“Yes. Was. It’s a long story, but in the end I became a professor at a seminary college in Michigan. Two months later I got drafted and now here I am. From Pastor Butler to Professor Butler to Private Butler in just sixty days.”

Darryl laughed and then coughed a few times. “Well, Mr. Pastor Professor Private Butler, I take it you know a thing or two about God then?”

“I guess you could say that. Why, do you know him?”

“Well now Charlie I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t really believe in no God, much less know him. Why do you believe there’s a God up there?” Darryl pointed towards the sky with his cigarette lodged between two fingers.

Charlie smiled, contemplated the simple, yet delicate question, and replied with a question of his own, “Darryl, why do you believe I’m sitting here next to you?”

“Because you’re sittin’ there talkin’ to me. But I don’t see God sittin’ nowhere talkin’ to no one—‘specially not me.”

“Well, I guess that’s where we disagree. I can hear him.”

“Where? In the shadows creepin’ around or somethin’? I don’t. And that’s reason enough for me not to believe.”

Charlie shifted positions, breathed into his hands and asked bluntly, “Darryl, are you choosing not to believe in God because you don’t hear him, or because you don’t want to hear him?”

Darryl thought for a moment and replied, “Both. I don’t hear him talkin’ at all, and I don’t want to hear him talk. Last week I seen a man cryin’ out to God while he held his dead little boy. He’d been shot in the head durin’ a gunfight between some Germans and Brits. He wasn’t even doin’ any shootin’ or fightin’—just trying to survive the war that had walked on up to the porch of his house. God wasn’t there listenin’ or talkin’. That man was talkin’ to no one but himself.”

Charlie sat quietly without an immediate response. “If you had the chance to let that boy live or die, what would you have happen?”

Darryl laughed. “Live! I wouldn’t wish death on no one! How could it be better if he was dead?”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the right decision, Darryl. I don’t know and won’t speculate on the reason why God chose to let that boy die, but he did. That’s all I can say about that. One thing I do know for sure is that God didn’t shoot that boy, a stray bullet from a discharged weapon did. Man did. Not God. But there’s one thing I do know—God will work through it in ways you and I probably won’t ever see. All you can see is the dead boy and the agonizing father holding him. You’re only seeing the pain—not what will eventually come from it. Good can come from evil. Some people even say there can’t be good without evil, but that’s beside the point.”

“How do you know what’ll come from it? What if that boy is goin’ to Hell? Don’t you Christians believe that if you’re “saved” you’re goin’ right on to Hell if you die? And if that’s true and he is in Hell, then how is that the best thing to come from such a situation? I don’t rightly see how anything can ‘xplain someone goin’ to Hell.”

Charlie again thought for a short moment before he spoke. He drew one final time from his cigarette, put it out in the cold soil, and flicked it away into the darkness as he exhaled. “Darryl, I’m assuming you’ve asked yourself and others these same questions you’re asking me many times before. And the reason you’re asking me now is because there hasn’t been an answer that was satisfying enough to answer the biggest question burning in your mind. You’re right; I don’t know everything about that horrible situation with that little boy. I don’t know what’ll happen to his family. I don’t know whether or not he knew Jesus. But I do know that there is a God who loved him unconditionally, and wholeheartedly willed for that boy to become his child. Beyond that, I can’t give you an answer without speculating about what may or may not have been. But neither can you. Your guess is as good as mine, but the difference between how I see it and how you see it is a question of hope and experience. I hope and pray that child knew Jesus for the sake of his eternal fate, I hear God say that in his Word, but you already assume the worst—that only evil and suffering could come from such a thing. In the end, its only speculation. Nothing more. I could give you all kinds of different answers about why evil exists and how God uses such vile acts to accomplish his purposes. But I’m looking at you and listening to your questions and getting the impression you’ve heard it all before. You’re a smart man. You’ve heard the arguments. Am I right?”

Charlie’s words caught Darryl off guard. “Yes. You’s right. But none of them answers satisfies me. Sound like a bunch of runnin’ around the issue instead of hittin’ it head on.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

Darryl didn’t give an answer.

“The arguments against God don’t satisfy you either. Neither side can convince you to believe one way or the other. Either way, you have to have faith, and that makes you uncomfortable. You look up at those stars up there, whose number you can’t even count, and you feel something deep inside you, like it was placed there when you were born, telling you that there must be more than this.”

Darryl remained quiet, facing forward.

“It’s that question burning in your mind isn’t it. It’s the question that haunts every man whether he wants it to or not. I’ll be the first to tell you, it can either haunt you or it can heal you. It’s your choice which way you choose to address the question, but there’s only one right answer to it. Darryl, what happens when you die?”

Still nothing.

“Let me ask it differently. What do you want to happen to you when you die? Because you will die. We all die whether we live like we will or not.”

Darryl played in the dirt with his bayonet and thought about Charlie’s question. “Charlie, I have no idea what will happen when I die. But I do know that I don’t want to just stop existin’. Seems like life is endless when you is young. But every time a bullet goes by my head or a potato masher blows up near me, all I can think about is death. I’m supposed to be a grown man who ain’t afraid of nothin’, but to tell you the truth, I ain’t never been this scared in all the years I been alive. The more I think about death, the more I hate the idea of God.”

Charlie looked Darryl in the eye until he looked back. “If there is no God, then what are you afraid of?”

Darryl broke eye contact. “I’m ‘fraid of bein’ wrong.”

Charlie looked up at the clear night sky, the stars he had just mentioned to Darryl, their glittery expanse being temporarily shaded by the men’s foggy breath. He smiled, looked back at Darryl and said, “You’ve been listening, haven’t you. You’ve been listening to that little voice inside of you telling you there has to be more than just dying. There is something seriously wrong with this world, and you recognize that it isn’t right, as if there was some kind of standard by which to judge ‘rightness.’ But you, just like millions of other people out there, want to ignore that voice. You think its just some kind of wishful thinking from your subconscious. It isn’t rational, it’s emotional. It isn’t real, its all in your head. It’s only a blip of hope that’s easily pushed underneath all of those other thoughts going through your head. Or is it?”

Darryl started to say something, but stopped and thought for a minute longer. “I don’t know. Maybe it is or maybe it ain’t. But how do you know you’re right? How do you know that it’s God and not just somethin’ else?  Seems like you is shootin’ in the dark hoping you hit the right target. I suppose its better than not shootin’ at all, but why answer those questions with your Jesus?”

Charlie’s smile didn’t leave his face. “I know I’m right, because he speaks to me. You may think he can’t be heard, but I can hear him. He tells me what is and what isn’t. It isn’t a shot in the dark. It isn’t even a shot at all. It’s a conversation that continues from moment to moment each and every day. His love isn’t something you can refuse, because he will love you regardless. And even if it breaks his heart, he will speak to you—even if you’re not listening. I guarantee that if you truly listen, you will hear him.”

“Guarantee. Hah. I been tryin’ to listen, but I haven’t heard anything ‘cept the same old thing every Sunday morning. I hear people say things ‘bout how Jesus changes lives and makes you a new man, but as soon as I walk outta those big white doors, I seen the man sayin’ them words up on that pretty pulpit go runnin’ off with some woman he ain’t married to. I see others go and get drunk and say terrible things to other people. My best friend growin’ up, Stuart Cook, was Christian.  He went to Church every Sunday without exception. He read his big ol’ Bible, sang in the choir sometimes, and even put some of his money in the shiny tray. But the thing ‘bout Stu was he only did those things on Sundays. One thing he did, I’ll never forget.

We was playin’ baseball one Saturday morning in high school against a team from East Texas. It was a close game, and Stu was comin’ home in a full sprint. The catcher caught the ball just as Stu was slidin’ on in, and Stu done plowed right over him. The umpire called him out, and Stu got right up in his face in a rage. He said every last curse word you done heard and started pointin’ and spittin’ right in that umpire’s face. When he walked off, he said somethin’ I couldn’t quite hear to the catcher. That catcher got up so quick you wouldn’t have believed a high school boy could move so fast.

Anyway, he tackled Stu, and Stu fought right back. Stu was a big fella, and started beatin’ that catcher unconscious. Both teams got in a bit of a scuffle on the field after the fight started, and the umpire called the game. After the game, I was ridin’ home with Stu. Stu said, ‘Damn kid. He nearly broke my nose. That’ll teach him to ever mess with me again. I hope he dies in that hospital.’ I didn’t say nothin’ back. Stu dropped me off at my house, and I decided to go to the hospital to visit that poor kid Stu beat to a bloody pulp. I walked into his room up on the third floor and sat down next to his bed. He had bandages all over half his face and ‘least fifty stitches on the part of his face you could see. I told him I was sorry ‘bout what happened, and asked him if there was anything I could do for him. I won’t ever forget what he said to me next. He said, ‘If that beatin’ is what Jesus is about, then hell, I need to get to know him a little better so I can mess that son of a bitch up next time I see him.’ Now that put a taste in my mouth I can’t forget. From that day forward, I saw all them Christians talkin’ the talk in church, and walkin’ the walk of someone else everywhere else. Now why should I believe that Jesus’ll change me into a better man—that he’ll talk to me to even if I’m not listenin’—when I was the one who done visited that poor feller in the hospital while my Christian friend just went home wishin’ he was dead?”

Charlie’s smile had turned into a look of noticeable despondence. Five minutes passed before either of them spoke. The wind was gone, and the silence between them was truly silent for the first time during the arctic night.

“It seems to me, you’re using your experiences with Christians to gauge God’s character. That is exactly what you should do. God doesn’t speak like you and I are speaking right here, but he does speak through his children. You have to realize something, though. We aren’t perfect people. Your story about Stuart is perhaps the best reason people have to reject Christianity. Jesus doesn’t work. He doesn’t fix the problems you see in the world. So why believe?”

Darryl asked, “Why do you still believe?”

“Because I know the rest of Stuart’s story. Stuart and I aren’t really all that different. When I was growing up, I had quite the temper too. I got into fights, cussed out my friends and even my parents. The worst thing about it was I claimed to be a Christian. I went to church and did all the things Stuart did, but there was one thing I didn’t do and I can bet Stuart didn’t do this either. I didn’t listen. I didn’t listen to Jesus’ words speaking to me from deep down inside. Yeah, I heard something every now and again, but I never really listened.

It’s a funny thing, because even when you’re not listening, he’s working. He’s fixing things. And right when you least expect it, he brings you to your knees. The Bible says he humbles the proud and exalts the meek. I was walking to school one morning, and coming down the road in front of me was a drifter pushing a shopping cart full of his stuff. Right as I passed him, he looked at me and said, ‘God bless,’ and he just kept on walking. He didn’t ask for any money, or anything. He just said those two words—that’s it. Those words stopped me right there on the side of the road, and I didn’t really even know what to say back. It didn’t make sense why a dirty old drifter would say such a thing to a rich kid like me, but he did. And during that moment on the side of the road I listened. See, I don’t believe those words were the drifter’s. I believe it was God. It sounds stupid, I know. I could have just passed it off as just some words from some deranged homeless guy, but I didn’t. I listened. That feeling inside me made me listen. I remember asking God why he loved me and had blessed me the whole rest of the way to school. Two little words did that to me.

From that day on, I started reading the Bible not just to read it, but to know it. I went to church to get answers, not just to feel good that I went. If you looked at me before and after that Friday morning, I don’t know that you would recognize those two sides of me as the same person. The sad thing is that I know people looked at me before that day just like you looked at Stuart. Like I said, people tend to believe according to experience, and you’ve chosen to believe according to your experience of Stuart. But let me ask you something, do you think what Stuart did during that baseball game was something done out of love?”

“Course not. It was done outta hate. Nothin’ less.”

“Now you asked me a few minutes ago why I believed in God. I believe, because I am loved. I didn’t change myself, God did. I might have called myself a Christian before I listened to that drifter, but all that was was a fancy title. I didn’t know how to love, or how to be loved until I started listening. Now I can’t prove to you that what happened to me was something God did. In fact most people would say I was out of my mind for letting something as subtle as that impact me so much. But the minute I try and prove God is the minute I fail you and every other unbeliever as a human being. God will prove himself to you if you’ll listen. He did his part when he died on that cross in your place and now he’s waiting for you to do yours. All you have to do is listen.”

The wind began to pick up again, causing the sound of a river to emanate through the trees.

“What if I don’t wanna listen? I can’t just forget what people are doin’ to each other durin’ this war and try to find God in it all. ‘sides, I don’t deserve to be loved like you say Jesus done. Why should a loving God go off and die for a person like me? It don’t make alotta sense, and I don’t want somethin’ I don’t deserve. No sir. If he’s God, he don’t need to do nothin’ for me. He just needs to leave me alone if he knows what’s good for him.”

Charlie’s smile like it always seemed to do. “You don’t have to want it. He already did it. He loved you first, and wanted to die for you. That’s all there is to it. I know you’ve heard the story of redemption a thousand times before, so I’m not going to flatter you with it one more time. You’ve heard the words. It’s up to you now whether or not you listen to them. Either way, he’s going to pursue you and speak.”

“Well I appreciate them kind words, Charlie, but I think God’s done talkin’ to me if he ever was in the first place.” Darryl put his head to his pack and pulled his poncho up over his face. “We should get some shut-eye before it fixes to get real cold out here if you know what I mean.”

Charlie laughed and lay down next to Darryl.  “Sleep well, Darryl. I’m glad we talked about this. We can talk more tomorrow if you want.”

“We’ll see,” Darryl said closing his eyes.

·            ·            ·

Five shots from a Colt .45 rang out a few hundred yards into the forest, echoing off the trees and scattered boulders. Charlie and Darryl sat up to find their company running up towards their position, falling hard into foxholes, rifles ready. Darryl grabbed his M1 Garand, shoved in a magazine, and took aim at the still forest. Charlie chambered a round in his Springfield M1903 rifle and wiped off a clod of snow clinging to the end of his scope.

A burly soldier ran into Darryl and Charlie’s foxhole, shoved in a mag of his own, and said, “One of our patrols has been hit down by a little hiking trail a few hundred feet ahead of us. We’re not sure if it’s friendly or not.”

Darryl made room for the new member of their hole in the ground and said, “I thought we were at the front of Allied lines. Why’d there be friendlies up there?”

“I don’t know, them Brits are crazy asses, they might’ve gotten lost and tried to—”

“I’ve got fifty, maybe sixty Germans at our two o’clock. One 20mm, at least ten MG34s, and two Panzers,” Charlie interrupted. “Six hundred yards.” He was looking through his scope, one eye closed.

Charlie yelled aloud, “I’ve got German contact, six hundred yards at our two o’clock! We’re going to need—”

Mortar fire landed just twenty feet in front of them, causing a retaliatory volley of blind American gunfire. Charlie fired through the smoke at what appeared to be German soldiers running for cover behind trees. Charlie chambered another round, and took aim again. They were outnumbered.

The company’s platoon sergeant yelled from somewhere close behind them, “I need heavy cover fire on the eastern flank! Johnson, Butler, Watson! Get your asses over there!”

Two younger infantrymen, one carrying .306 belted ammunition and the other a Browning M1917A1, scurried into the empty foxhole to the left of Charlie and Darryl and began to lay down cover fire in the quickly advancing Germans’ direction. Another round of mortars bombarded the frozen earth. Charlie fired two quick shots, though he couldn’t see well because of the smoke, and jumped out of his foxhole and into the machine gunner’s like the sergeant ordered yelling, “Shoot everything you have and don’t stop! Where’s Watson?!”

“Mortar fire got him. We’re it.”

Charlie fired three more shots from his high-powered rifle. He looked to his right, and saw that most of the men were pinned and barely able to get off a shot with any kind of accuracy. Some even held guns above foxholes’ lips firing blindly. Darryl got up and ran thirty feet to Johnson and Charlie’s left, laid down a mag’s worth of ammunition, and pulled the pin on two grenades. He half-stood behind a tree, threw the grenades down range, and dove back into the foxhole he came from. The grenades exploded sending splintering wood and snow into the air.

Keeping his head down with one hand on his bobbling helmet, Charlie ran back to the platoon sergeant’s position. Charlie exclaimed to Sergeant Dixon, “Sir, we need to fall back!”

Dixon thought for a short moment and then relayed Charlie’s words across the line to his men. As the men began to hear and retreat, Charlie threw two grenades of his own and yelled out for others to do the same. The explosions blanketed them with a little bit of cover from the Germans’ rifles as they trudged through the snow-packed forest. More mortar fire rained down. This time, it was right on target. The sheer sound of the mortar fire was overwhelming—blocking out the sound of gunshots, changing shouts to inaudible murmurs. Just ahead of them, one took out Sgt. Dixon mid-stride, sending pieces of

After a few hundred more yards of running, Darryl and Charlie took cover behind a fallen tree covered in snow. Their small company of seventy had been reduced to twenty in a matter of minutes.

“I need a radio over here!” Charlie yelled through the tense and anticipating hush. A skinny kid who looked like he was maybe seventeen came running over to Charlie and handed his radio box to him, struggling to catch his breath. “Where is Sergeant Dixon?” he asked between gulps of frigid air.

“He didn’t make it,” Darryl said as he handed the boy’s radio to Charlie.

Charlie spoke into the radio, “This is Private Charles Butler. We need CAS as soon as possible, repeat; we need CAS as soon as possible. We have made German contact. At least two hundred troops with heavy artillery fire coming from further back at an unknown location. Stand by for coordinates, over.”

The young communications specialist called out the close-air-support coordinates twice into the small microphone. Someone talked back through the radio, “Copy that, fall back and join Captain Ulrich’s Bravo Company two miles south of your position. Over.”

“Copy that, Captain Ulrich’s Bravo Company two miles south. Over and out.” Charlie pulled Darryl close and said into his ear, “I don’t know if we’re going to be able to make it to Bravo Company before the Germans catch us. I’m going to need you to run hard and fast and help the men who fall behind. Do you understand?” Darryl’s eyes were wide, as he nodded emphatically.

“Good.” Charlie stood, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled to the twenty remaining soldiers, “We have to fall back to Bravo Company’s position! Don’t look back and don’t stop until you hear me tell you to! Dump any unnecessary weight and fall back on my signal!”

Charlie turned to Darryl, “Throw one grenade down the hill to the left, and I’ll throw one to the middle and one to the right. Then we go.”

Darryl pulled the pin with his teeth and hurled a grenade down the hill, while Charlie did the same.

“Go, now!” Charlie threw his last grenade and ran up the hill. For the first hundred feet, the only thing to be heard after the grenades’ concussive blasts was crunching snow and heavy panting. Just as they crested the hill, Charlie stopped and used his M1903’s scope to find the German line. They had reached their foxholes and were searching the bodies. Too far for a shot. Charlie gathered the men and said through gasping breaths, “Bravo Company is two miles south of here. We have to join them and report to Captain Ulrich.” One soldier quickly replied with, “There’s no way we can make it two more miles. Not at this pace in this cold.”

Charlie looked the young man in the eye and said, “You will make it, Private. Now go. Private Cooper and I will hold them off from here. Go!” The confused men started lumbering through the snow without looking back.

“Go! And don’t stop until you’re there!”

Charlie started walking across the hill due east of their current position, scoping out the movement of the German division. “I saw a small hunter’s cabin five hundred yards down that way,” Charlie pointed east. “We’ll make ‘em keep their heads down from there.”

The two men moved as fast as the deep snow drifts allowed, until they were at the door of a dilapidated pile of boards Charlie had called a ‘Hunter’s Cabin.’ Darryl kicked the rotting front door down, and Charlie moved straight for the back window. Darryl pulled up behind him, looking out through the thick snow-crusted trees.

“How far?” Darryl asked as he kept his eyes down the sights of his rifle.”

“Three hundred yards. If we keep firing, they won’t be able to see us in here at first. When we run out of ammunition, we drop our weapons and fall back further east to draw them off our men’s direction. We’ll be able to move quicker than them because of the Panzers, so we’ll circle back Northwest to meet back up with them. Get ready.”

Darryl aimed his M1 Garand through a small hole in the decaying back wall, while Charlie manned the window. Charlie gazed through his Springfield’s scope and waited for his target to walk into his cross. He chambered a round, held his breath, and fired between heartbeats. He chambered another round, and fired. Chambered again, fired. Darryl also fired downrange at the Germans who were still too small to fit in his iron sights, but he fired nonetheless—slowly and deliberately. The German lines stopped, and took cover behind trees and rocks, obviously unsure of where the shots were coming from.

“Keep firing, don’t stop,” Charlie said calmly. Charlie was loading bullets by hand now.

“I’m down to two mags, Charlie,” Darryl loaded one and fired three more shots, “Where’s that air support?”

Darryl broke a window next to him, and pulled the pin from his last grenade. He threw high and far towards the now advancing Germans and returned quickly to his firing position. The grenade blew too close to the hunting shack, and blinded Charlie’s shots. Both dropped away from the window and hole in the wall—sitting side by side.

German shouting could be heard getting closer to their position. “They know we’re here,” Darryl said. “Let’s go.”

“Not yet.” Charlie whispered. He pulled up again, steady, and fixed his aim on the nearest two German soldiers. He fired two shots, leaving two bodies. Charlie sat back down, grabbed his final three .306 rounds, and took a deep breath. “Darryl, we’re going to have to get out of here fast. If I’m hit, don’t come back for me. Just go.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Darryl said confidently.

Darryl stood and emptied his last magazine down range. As he fired his final shot, he noticed a German readying a potato masher. The soldier made a strong throw—a perfect throw—sending the grenade to Darryl and Charlie’s feet.

“Go!!” Charlie yelled, shoving Darryl towards the door. The shove gave Darryl a good head start, but Darryl lost his footing and was sent reeling to the floor at the base of the broken-down door, slamming into the cracking floorboards. Charlie tossed his rifle aside and jumped on top of the grenade right as it blew. Darryl stayed on the ground, covered his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the end. The sound was deafening. Darryl’s ears rang like angelic sopranos singing from some far away place. His eyes opened to reveal bright white. For what seemed like a full minute Charlie felt pieces of wood and dirt lightly fall on his prone body like snow from heaven. So this was how it ended. No, he was fine. He glanced up again to find the shack half-way obliterated, but his body unharmed. Reality rushed back to full-speed, as Darryl realized that Charlie must have taken the full blunt of the explosion. Darryl didn’t need to look to see what had happened. Darryl staggered to his feet and ran through the doorway, heading northeast as planned. He ran for almost a mile in the deepening snow without stopping until he finally collapsed to his knees from exhaustion. How far were the Germans? Did they take the bait?

Darryl leaned against the base of a dead tree, a limp body relaxing against a tall and contorted skeleton. He buried his face in his freezing hands. His tears turned to sobs as he realized the magnitude of what Charlie had done. Charlie had given up his life to save him. It was as simple as that. It was over. It couldn’t be reversed. Charlie was dead, and Darryl was alive. He couldn’t go back to change hit; Charlie had made his decision, for better or for worse.

“Friendlies at your twelve o’clock soldier!” Darryl looked up through foggy eyes at an American soldier—Captain Ulrich. Captain Ulrich motioned for him to move up. Darryl raised his hands and walked forward. The captain grabbed Darryl by the shoulders saying, “How many are there, soldier? Where is the rest of your company?”

Darryl wasn’t quite sure how to respond or even begin to explain what had just happened. He looked back at the captain, and mumbled, “Seventy…may…maybe more. Char…Charlie was…the rest of the men are heading south looking for Bravo Company.”

“If they keep heading south, they’ll run into the other half of Bravo Company. We’re the first half. We split ways to flank the German assault. Eisenhower’s already been notified. I guess we’re not the only ones running into Germans up here. These mountains are about to melt into Hell. Who’s Charlie?”

“Sergeant Dixon—” Darryl swallowed,  “He took charge after Sergeant Dixon was killed, sir. Charlie’s dead, sir.”

Captain Ulrich patted Darryl on the soldier and shouted back to his men, “Get this man back to his platoon! You two.” He pointed at two soldiers kneeling near him, guns raised in the direction Darryl had come from. “Take this man—what’s your name, soldier?”

“Cooper sir. Private Cooper.”

“Take Private Cooper back to the rest of his men. Private Cooper, you’re going to be fine.” He handed Darryl his sidearm. “You might need this.”

Darryl and the two soldiers headed out as the rest of the men moved forward to meet the Germans. As they went, Darryl let steaming tears stream down his face. “I’m listenin’, Charlie.”

• ·            ·

May 2004

“I done ran another two miles before I met back up with my men. All twenty had made it to the British base camp and were transported on back up to the front lines near Bastogne. I fought for a few more days before the “Battle of the Bulge” ended in an Ally victory. Of the twenty I survived with after that first fight, I reckon one or two came home. I can still see most o’ their faces. Some are a little fuzzy, but I certainly remember conversations we had. It’s interestin’ what you talk about during war. One minute you’re tellin’ jokes and drinkin’ stories, and the next minute you’re talkin’ ‘bout the kinds of things a man says when he feels he’s walkin’ up to death’s door.”

Darryl handed Charlie’s medal back to Maria. Maria wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, smiled a Charlie smile, and set it in her lap.

“Now see, there you go doin’ it again. I bet Charlie’s smilin’ right now lookin’ down on your pretty face from them shiny streets.” Darryl propped himself up and out of his recliner, picked up his old wooden cane, and carefully made his way towards his closet. “I want to give you something.”

Darryl rummaged around through some old boxes and remaining personal belongings from his eighty-two years. He grabbed a small photograph and handed it to Maria. It was the picture Charlie had showed to Darryl in the foxhole of Maria and her mother.

“I found it in Charlie’s box of things they collected from sweeps of the mountains after the battle. They were gonna bury it with him, but I asked to keep it as a memory of what we talked about that night. See, when he showed me that picture, and when he said the things he done said, it got me thinkin’ bout things. He got me to listen. I didn’t want no redemption or Jesus, but when Charlie gave up his life to save me, I knew God was speakin’ directly to this here heart. It didn’t matter what I wanted God to do or be, he is who he is, and he died in my place regardless. Just like Charlie did. That was his message that day. I just wish I wasn’t so hard-headed that it took—” Darryl choked back emotion, “—that it took someone like Charlie to have to die to get my attention.”

Maria took Darryl’s hand, kissed it, and looked up at him. “Mr. Cooper, I know my daddy wouldn’t have it any other way. He loved you. He may not have known you for a long time, but I know he loved you. I didn’t get the chance to have him growing up because of that day, but seeing what resulted from his death…I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Maria smiled again and gave Darryl a hug. Darryl returned the hug the best he could.

“Well I should be going, my husband should be picking me up about now. Thank you for this, Mr. Cooper.”

“You’re welcome, Maria. Let’s not wait another sixty years between talkin’ now, ya hear?”

Maria laughed, and hugged Darryl one last time. He helped her with her things, and closed the door softly behind her as she left. Darryl sat back down in his recliner and cracked open his Bible. Before reading, he paused for a couple of moments thinking about his last night with Charlie. Darryl chuckled to himself, looked back down at the Bible he’d bought the day he returned home from the war and said aloud, “I’m listenin’.”

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