Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Yet


http://janotec.typepad.com/terrace/2009/09/yet.html

A friend of mine and I had lunch the other day. He told me that Obama had to go. I said it didn't matter. He said that the country was descending into a Nanny State, and that we were being turned into a socialistic society. I said he should have noticed this a long time ago, when the last twenty Administrations were in power.
Conservatives like T. S. Eliot critiqued the Nanny State for engendering a culture of boredom. He, in particular, hoped that the existence of "classes" actually structured or ordered society to provide meaning: an existence that is more than "hollow."He was, of course, incorrect.
To be sure, Eliot could not have imagined that virtual reality – in its present near-total extent – could have ever been so possible. Much less he did not know that such is not only possible, but so widespread. It is now the rule.
The post-industrial society has made fools of conservatives (I speak as one). With its ubiquitous and polluted fog of virtual reality – which eclipses reality, or direct experience of creation – conservatives who would still like to use the historic language of reality are left speechless. God knows there are too many shrill and bumpkin voices who fly the conservative banner, but are really boorish right-wingers.
It turns out that the right wing is not conservative at all. They do not conserve: it goes without saying that they are not interested in conserving the environment; but neither are they interested in conserving quiet community, decent agriculture, home industry and Christian sexuality. They are not really interested in conserving or perpetuating the virtues nested in the Beatitudes – especially meekness.
You may add, rightly, that the left wing cares not a whit for these things, and I am inclined to agree. The liberal movement has ever fought the Church and her moral witness: listen, if you've a mind to, to the cacophony of media slander against the "Thou Shalt Not's" of the Church. The left wing cannot tolerate, even in their vaunted multi-cultural sensitivity, the Church's insistence that one must not engage in physical or psychic sex outside the nuptial union; that one must not participate in the homosexual sub-culture; that one must not join or abet armed revolution or rebellion; that one must not speak or act in the customs of either Sodom or Gomorrah.
I may add, just as rightly, that the right wing also disapproves of certain "Thou Shalt Not's" – interdicts that are as Traditional as the ones just listed above. The right wing cannot abide being told that Church is not something you can invent out of marketing questionnaires; that virtue has little to do with value; that goodness and beauty have an inverse relationship with consumerism and comfort; that the virtue of protecting family and land should not be confused with the protecting of wealth and privilege – the protection of which is cowardice.
I am all for reactionarianism (if that is a word) – but one must have a Tradition one uses as a criterion with which to react. Ask a Tea-Partier what is important to him or her, and they will say nothing really Traditional. "Expedient," yes, and surely so: the politics of Tea-Partying & Townhall-Whining (e.g., no taxes, yes guns, no aliens, yes drilling, no GM workers, yes rich bankers) is much like the histrionic arguments of James Carville and Mary Matalin over dinner at home.
But is there any reference to "Tradition" as the nexus of moral imagination? As a force for the ordering of mind against the hegemony of world and shadow? As a culture for the harmony of the soul with Heaven, against the epidemic toxin of passion?
No. There is no one who succeeds or leads in politics who cares dearly for the permanent things and Tradition. There is no one who conserves Nature and Human Nature.
The main reason for this, I fear, is that post-industrial society has rendered the conservative critique trite at best, and probably idiotic. (Although I take issue with being called a "village idiot" together with my fundamentalist friends – with whom I join in solidarity at the abusive expectoration of Franky Schaefer.) The old myths of bootstrap and fishing now sound cloyingly stupid: the poor who are becoming poorer and more indentured will not be helped by Amway or Horatio Alger stories. It is not enough, nor was it ever enough, to tell the poor as a class to just get a job.
In this moment – however one wants to describe it, and whatever one wants to call it – the old prescriptions do not work. We would like all the poor people to work instead of taking a dole. We write books and hope that the poor will read them, so that they will raise themselves up by their own bootstraps – a physical feat, if taken literally, whose very impossibility underlines the mythical role this expression fulfills in the cult "rugged individuality." Then there is the old saw "give him a fish, and he's hungry again … teach him to fish, and he feeds himself." That, too, is a myth that cannot be realized until the poor gets just as much welfare (and socialistic intervention) as do the rich: one cannot fish when he is starving, or worried about sheltering himself or his children.
We have forgotten that the Gospel ethic demands feeding the poor: it is silent about the business of turning the poor into capitalists so that they can care for themselves and release us from the Gospel burden.
Regionalists and phobics (like me) who hate Leviathan worry about the growing and menacing pale of the State. But we are not brave enough to consider the strong possibility that the post-industrial world, inbreathing virtual reality, is predicated upon a State that is both humanitarian and totalitarian.
And that predication means, simply (and appallingly), that such a State is here to stay, no matter how many guns we tote to tea parties, no matter how many signs are waved – misspelt – by angry flabby short-panted white-sock-and-rockported Tommy-Bahama-shirted social security and medicare pensioners.
We always knew that "Tea-Partiers" -- a group who would be happier as hobbits in Bywater -- are generally unaware of their historic and occultic surroundings. That is made cringingly clear by so many signs depicting Obama as Hitler (comment from Jesse Owens on this one?), and by those that equate Nazism with Socialism.
But what we should consider is just how unaware we non-Tea-Whiners are. We who hold our nose (rightly) at the off-scourings of Dreck TV and Il Magnifico radio-rooter-rants – we like to read Kirk and Eliot and romance our sentiments with agrarian and regionalist lyrics.
We are troubled, however, by apocalyptic visions. We do not like to disturb our Amish reveries: we push away unbidden suspicions that prophets like Berry may hold mainly for Arcadia (and not anywhere else), or only for little clusters like the insular community in M. Night Shyamalan's Village.
In an age where world hunger lurks monstrous around tomorrow, and coastlines likely will be sinking, can agriculture really abandon the legacy of Norman Borlaug?
Can conservatives really hope for social renewal? Can they intelligently hold fast to the dream of cultural triumph? The very substance of thought has changed. And that fact alone has rendered much conservative thinking wretchedly obsolete.
Despite the lullabye croonings of Internet cheerleaders like Vincent Rossmeier, our mode of communication has profoundly affected the quality of our ability to think, and the quality of the things we think about. When our thinking is forced by events to stretch beyond routine and the usual events of our week, we usually fall apart at the first onset of any disruptive passion. Moreover, the things we think about usually do not follow the solid lines of goodness and beauty: rather, they are overpopulated by demotic urges, menial demands for comfort and a denial of Time in favor of the Moment.
I would like to say, with Eliot, that we are surely the Hollow Men. But unlike Eliot, I have to remember that Hollow Men themselves are unable to say such a thing. By definition. They look in the mirror and do not recognize the face.
The Wasteland is like water to a fish: so ubiquitous, so invisible, that the fish is unaware of its vast and profound presence. We are fish.
Liberals cannot ever know this, to be sure. Their hope is ever in mortal princes, despite their incessant and perennial disappointment. They would rather believe in Benthamite doctrines than in the simple Law of God: but dealing with God means accepting the status of "sinner," and no self-respecting liberal will ever put up with that.
Right-wingers are hopelessly unable to learn this, because they are Philistine. They are not village idiots (it is more idiotic to say so). They simply do not care about things that should be cared for. They need to grow up out of their prurient addictions but they never will.
Conservatives should know this, but they have been ambushed by industrialism and the gas cloud of virtual reality. They should have discerned the spirit of antichrist. They were busy looking for him in the ecumenical movement, in heresies and other religions, in foreign nations. But wherever they looked in other times and places, he was there at their back creeping in.
The humanitarian, totalitarian State is here. It is only secondarily mediated by the Government. It is directly mediated by the media and marketplace, which has combined into one environment – and this environment has entered not only our home and hearth, but has interposed itself in the midst of our consciousness. There are very few thoughts these days that proceed unaccompanied by phosphorescence and pixilation.
Our problem is not the Nanny State. It is, rather, the Nanny Marketplace, whose commercials are broadcast these days on the dark side of our foreheads.
That is why I tell you not to worry so much about Obama or his Republican predecessors and successors: they are, to a man, impotent at stemming the tide (even if they cared). The conservative mistake in the last hundred years is that they were too political, and boorishly so. They cared more for elections than for stories, for art and poetry. They insinuated political contests into religion, of all things, and wondered why God discredited them at every turn. They abandoned philosophizing and turned instead to Philistine sarcasm (think of Buckley here).
They have willingly joined the Gadarene rush down over the cliff and into the briny sea.
The foe of real conservatism is the spirit of antichrist. The substance of real conservatism, as the inheritor and steward of permanent things, is of course orthodox Christianity. I say this with dread, as I worry that orthodoxy, in its American manifestation, is distinctly unready to confront this malevolent spirit. God is cleaning His House for sure, and His broom is sweeping many bureaucratic corners. Leadership in a time of trial and unease must be leadership that has attained apatheia, that can discern and test the spirits, that is practiced in the fight against passion and demonic insinuation. (This lack is the single reason why there is no correction of Orthodox jurisdictional miasma, and why so much Orthodox administration is in turmoil.)
There is not enough of this spiritual fight and test today. The darksome spirit is trying to cover and confuse the permanent things. He has set up billboards all over the interstate highways of our speeding minds, billboards that hide the hollowness with plastic and charming self-esteem … billboards that hide the waste and what lies foreboding on the horizon.
Mortal princes will never look beyond the billboards. Spiritual princes should, but have not.
Yet.

Our Wedding Day!!

http://katherineholly.com/blog/?cat=3

Monday, October 13, 2008

Persimmon Trees and Faithful Compatriots: Cultivate and Let Loose


If you have ever experienced the taste of a persimmon fruit, you might have heard yourself saying things like, "Mmm, creamy," or, "Ooh, sooo sweet!" Quite possibly one of the sweetest fruits you will taste, it reminds me of a cross between a date and a fig. According to Wikipedia, persimmons are "sweet, slightly tart fruits with a soft to occasionally fibrous texture. It is edible in its crisp firm state, but has its best flavor when allowed to rest and soften slightly after harvest. The fruit has a high tannin content which makes the immature fruit astringent and bitter. The tannin levels are reduced as the fruit matures. Persimmons must be completely ripened before consumption. When ripe, this fruit comprises thick pulpy jelly encased in a waxy thin skinned shell."
Sitting around a table on the back porch of Sip Cafe this evening around 7 pm, joined by my dear friends, Laura and Evan, I was able to share in the creamy sweetness of this bountiful fruit. A first for me. Only one of many firsts I have experienced with these great friends who so rapidly and unexpectedly merged into my life this past summer. So far there have been many adventures.
For instance, earlier this evening we walked along the tracks of an elevated train bridge above Shelby Park, seeing who could balance on the tracks the longest. I was doing very well, until I realized that the tracks that had just a moment ago been resting soundly on the gravel-top were now sitting atop beams spaced 8-10 inches apart through which you could clearly see the tree-filled ground 150 feet or so below.
Too bad I am afraid of heights. I honestly forget this. I'll just be walking along and then I get that feeling. You know, when your stomach lifts into your throat and all at once walking, much less balancing atop railroad tracks 150 ft in the air, suddenly becomes difficult. Sure I know the impulse to lie down and hug the ground is just in my head, a fear to be mastered by concentration, meditation perhaps, but it's powerful!
Arriving safely back on the gravel-top, we emerged from the bridge just moments before a train whistle started a-blowin' and we got the hecka outta there! (But not before seeing who could bulls-eye a sign post with the most rocks before the train came through). And once it did, Man! Standing that close to a moving train kinda gives you the sensation of flying. Truly! I didn't know this before. There are lots of things I did not know before meeting my two adventuresome friends.
We cheered at each open boxcar that passed. Train-hopping anyone? Earlier this evening we had tried to conceive of ways in which we could do a short spoof on the science fiction novel "Dunes" (which I have never read by the way but hear is very popular among a certain population of adolescent boys). We thought we could somehow frame the trains as the huge monsters in the novel, that have to be tamed by learning to ride them. (Sorry to those who actually know the story as I am not doing it justice i'm sure). Unfortunately, after giving it some thought, I have decided I better stick to my plans for staying put and saving money. That means to work for me!
However, conceiving of the idea has a certain pleasure in it, even if unfulfilled. Maybe another short, one that does not involve a four-day train-hopping excursion. Maybe something on the ground or just a short car-ride away. This may have to do for now. But the seeds of adventure have been planted, make no mistake of that!
And train-hopping is not all. There was also cliff-jumping, and have you ever heard of noodling? Though I myself have not been bold enough to try this one (I leave that to my nomadic friend BMX), I can attest to this proud and apparantly growing sport in which the participant willingly sticks his or her hand under a riverbank until he/she feels a bite down. Hopefully, what's biting is a catfish. If you can confirm this (I assume by sense of touch, though I have no idea what a catfish feels like as opposed to any other large, biting fish), you thrust your arm into its stomach, grab hold of its guts, and pull. You've caught the fish! Now, kill, skin and enjoy! Ah, the sweet success of the natural!
All of this adventure - new sights, sounds, and tastes - began to emerge in early June as if a floodgate had busted open. A recent college graduate, moving to a new part of town, making a fresh start in many ways, and not unhampered by past pains and regrets, I was intent upon moving to East Nashville to engage, to really begin in some way. In what ways I would be beginning I had yet to discover.
Things began to emerge slowly at first, one change at a time, sands slowly shifting. Then, the floodgates released! And it all came pouring in. Upon meeting my new friends (also come to find out my neighbors), I began a journey of engagement that I had been so thirsty for. There was community gardening, blackberry picking, square-dancing, and land exploration. As one thing led to another, there were more connections to be made, and suddenly there was a book group specifically formed around The Brothers Karamozov by Dostoevsky. Perhaps one of the most significant happenings of the summer, beginning to engage this book and the questions of other readers, I began to engage my own faith again. I felt I had been given hope, resusitated back to life in a sense, and shot through with love.
It's funny what has the power to effect change within a person. For me, it was blackberries and the Brothers, facing new adventures with new compatriots who were quickly proving themselves to be faithful and true. Some may say a change of pace, I would like to call it the mercy of God.
My point in writing all of this is not simply to narrate a personal story, or to attempt to be entertaining (though if I have achieved this I will be very glad!) My purpose in this particular post is to express, by recounting personal experiences, an awareness of the processes of change and growth through time. Processes that cultivate, grow, form, and solidify.
Surely it is not simply the persistence of the second hand of our clocks that allows new friendships to blossom, old wounds to heal, faith to revive, relationships to resurface, etc. It is more likely the process of growth, of cultivation, that involves movement, shifting, stretching and pulling, and a thousand other undetected motions.
I wish I were able to identify and trace the prime movers in these types of processes. What is it within us, within our souls, that breaks down, obliterates, realigns and restores? What threads of consciousness and desire, hope and fear can be pin-pointed? What scientific process can measure this? I do think there are perhaps answers here in some capacity.
Scientific processes of the soul, while perhaps hard to come by, have been attempted by some. Take Chardin de Teillard, for example, whose theory of the Omega attempts to identify and intuit the spiritual development of mankind as it intertwines almost imperceptibly with the physical world. Whether of not Teillard's theories are correct, I am aware that he had some influence on particular Orthodox Christian theologians. And as I have spent the past couple of months in pursuit of my revived faith, these authors have again become dear to me. In particular, Alexander Schmemman, whose opening lines in "For the Life of the World" indicate that we are what we eat, quite literally, for better or for worse.
I have spent the mid to latter part of this past summer feeding on love, and drinking in hope. Sometimes imperceptibly to myself, and often accompanied by the good medicine of some of my oldest and dearest friends, this food has taken effect. If we are what we eat, then we better pay attention to what we shovel in!
After all, the creamy sweetness of the persimmon fruit I mentioned earlier is only good when the processes of time have ripened it. Otherwise, be prepared to taste something not so sweet, if not a little shocking! "It's like eating cement," Laura stated when referring to the extremely bitter qualities of the unripened persimmon fruit.
Whether or not these processes of cultivation and ripening within our own souls are able to be traced scientifically, there are deeper processes at work, seeping back out into the daily threads of our lives through our every thought, word and deed. I pray that these processes of formation may be fruitful, and that the fruit may mature into the fullness of its true qualities.

Lord, have mercy.



Sunday, October 12, 2008

Mother Maria

"The bodies of fellow human beings must be treated with greater care than our own. Christian love teaches us to give our brethren not only spiritual gifts, but material gifts as well. Even our last shirt, our last piece of bread must be given to them. Personal almsgiving and the most wide-ranging social work are equally justifiable and necessary. The way to God lies through love of other people and there is no other way. At the Last Judgment I shall not be asked if I was successful in my ascetic exercises or how many prostrations I made in the course of my prayers. I shall be asked, did I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the prisoners: that is all I shall be asked." – Saint Maria Skobtsova of Paris