Not on One's Own Strength

A short word about an uncomfortable fact, introduced by Langston Hughes:

Gather up

In the arms of your pity

The sick, the depraved,

The desperate, the tired,

All the scum

Of our weary city

Gather up

In the arms of your love—

Those who expect

No love from above

How often does God speak to us through each other when our ears are dulled to Him? And how often are we effective vessels? If I am lost and alone, vacillating between fury at God and denial of his existence, do you realize that you are his representative…his translator…the carrier of his words and love to those who don’t even believe in it?

From a Jon Foreman song based off of verses in Isaiah and Amos:

“Give love to the ones to the ones who can’t love at all

Give hope to the ones who have no hope at all

Stand up for the ones who can’t stand at all”

At first blush it’s a deeply intimidating, if thrilling, commission. I am not up to that task in and of myself. I get irritated nigh to the point of violence with the people who stand on the walking side of the escalator and with anyone who uses valley-girl speak…and I’m supposed be a representative of God’s love?

Thank goodness it isn’t my capacity to love and serve I'm dealing with here. I'd be done for. It’s God’s capacity we’re talking about. That changes it from an “assignment” or an impossible command into something different…not an outflow of some frantic humanistic flailing to ‘do the right thing’ (whatever that is on the given day or decade), but an outflow of God’s nature.

Can’t this:

“Gather up

In the arms of your love—

Those who expect

No love from above”

Somehow lead us to understand this: that it is God “who comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God” (2 Corinthians 1:4)

It is precisely because of my (extremely) limited capacity to serve and love that know I must learn to lean on God’s. I know now more than ever that the only other option is eventual, complete hypocrisy…slowly wasting away and running dry, like a rank body of water without inlet or outflow.

Don’t want that to happen. So, as God offers in the book of Amos, let’s argue this out, so that we don't mistake the world's ideas of justice (or our own) for God's:

Searching for the Right Things in All the Wrong Places

Below is my attempt to delve into the appeal of Paranormal literature. Though not so old, it is already becoming dated (Dystopias are the new thing, it seems). Trouble is, I don’t read Young Adult Paranormal literature. I like reading about it, because it produces interesting discussions…I just don’t enjoy reading paranormal romances. Not my thing. The real reason that I even had enough information to write this is because I have a book-review addiction, and an affinity for snark: YA (young adult) paranormal romances produce scads of both. So, having read more reviews and snark pieces on this style of novel that I care to admit, I was more or less able to pick up on the trends as an outsider, and form on opinion on the ‘why’ of the thing.

Bookstore shelves are stuffed to bursting with Young Adult paranormal novels these days. Not only that, but the contents of these novels, per most genre fiction, fit neatly into a comfortingly familiar plot structure; young girl meets mysterious, inexplicable boy who also inexplicably loves her despite her plain humanity. The boy will turn out to be one of the following; fallen angel, vampire, werewolf, faerie king or some such mystical being.

It is not a bad set-up and though the famous (or infamous?) Stephanie Meyer had a firm hand in popularizing the sub-genre, she was hardly the first person to put this fantasy to paper. The appeal is obvious; the tension of two different worlds, a heavily exaggerated version of a cultural or class conflict—a ‘higher’ being drawing a lower into some epic, earth-shattering romance. ‘Meant for each-other’ to the impossible extreme.

Catering largely to teenagers, but appealing to almost the entire age spectrum, the gist I get from my critical-book-review addiction is that most of these tales break down into a series of tension-fraught make-out scenes, with the paranormal conflict laced throughout so as to make all this hormone-charged behavior so much more epic than it would otherwise be.

Is it surprising that teen girls want romance? Hardly. Is it a shock that they find the exploration of sexuality in these books fascinating? Not at all. Is there more to this obsession with otherworldly romance, than meets the eye?

Absolutely. And the desires buried in the text go beyond the secularly obvious.

So let’s begin at the beginning (“and then, when we get to the end, let’s stop!”): Otherworldly. Something beyond our normal parameters. What is it that draws people to the “other” which can’t be defined, contained or at all transformed? It can’t be discarded. The lure is too strong. The mysterious “other” is what it is and it’s worth your time (Why? Because). Some people wonder and question. But she knows. That nameless girl who represents all the heroines in these stories knows. Therein lies the appeal. The very idea that there is no concrete explanation is half the draw.

But, wait a minute…why is it always a girl being drawn “upward” into this mystical romance, and not the other way around? We could cite sexism or marketing strategy. The trope sells like hotcakes. But that’s an insufficient explanation. Why does the formula resonate?

Well first of all, from a strictly story-standpoint…it’s the most basic Cinderella tale: being rescued from the normal, from the mundane, from the unpleasantness of regular life.

But from a broader, spiritual stand-point, I think we can answer that question of resonation when we recall that the church is referred to as the ‘bride’; a woman, plucked from obscurity to become something far beyond her natural capabilities. The same metaphor is used in the Bible to describe God's relationship with Israel, most particularly through the prophet Hosea. She was meant for it, somehow...in spite of the circumstances, and in spite of herself, even.

It should also be noted that there is a male version of this trope and the sci-fi/fantasy world is positively saturated with it. The farm-boy/rogue/outcast who turns out to be the ‘destined-one’/king/savior-of-all-mankind. The parallel here is a bit more overt and accepted than in vampire “chick-lit”. ‘Messiah’ figures in literature are very common. But, for some reason, it’s the bride/Cinderella figure that is the current money-maker, cultivating avid fans who line up for book-number-whatever like it’s Harry Potter or something. (I definitely get the appeal of both tropes, but I like the more action-y fisticuff characters my own self…those are on the up-and-up in YA female-oriented literature as well, a la Hunger Games). It’s a dime novel that doesn’t look like a dime novel, essentially.

The trouble with both tropes is that these messiah-types and lover-hero types, however otherworldly, are inevitably filled with human flaws and selfish actions. Even the ostensibly ‘perfect’ ones come off as tin men and nobody likes them because there’s no such thing. We do not know how to make what we do not understand. We write human messiahs with supernatural powers, because that’s all we can manage. We turn them into the ideals of what we want to be, or how we wish we would be loved. We are trying to satisfy a desire we were created to have…and which can be fulfilled...but only by God.

Vicariousness isn’t gonna cut it…but it sure has oceans of market-appeal: Romance, Sci-fi, Fanstasy, Video Games, Role Playing, Chick-flicks, Super Hero movies etc.

Now what about the fact that, in many of these teen novels, the mysterious male lead often treats the smitten girl condescendingly...even unkindly? He’s a “bad boy.” He’s “dangerous.” What does this say about our society? Do women want to be pushed around without explanation? Do they want to be treated poorly? Must the man keep his epic secrets from them? Must he deal with her so strangely? Must he be so difficult to understand? Must the heroine feels like she’s kept in the dark?

(Frankly that would annoy the ever-loving daylights out of me in a guy character, but okay, it seems to be really popular)

Well, I’m not alone in my belief that women don’t want to be treated like this by any actual, human man (that’s a different discussion called “unhealthy relationships”) but only by a fantasy ideal whose otherwise inscrutable behavior is derived of irrefutably loving motives. They want to be loved and pursued in this very unique way by this incredibly unattainable person. So he gets invented on the page. These heroic figurines can’t live outside of the lines they’re typed in, yet they represent the notion of something powerful and all-knowing that we less-knowing humans long for.

To suss this out, I can only recall that the heroes of both the Old Testament and the New struggled with the genuine hardship of following God. He didn’t always make sense to them. He was not always easy to obey. His judgments could be devastating. His followers have been known to endure heartbreaking delays, persecution and periods of silence, loneliness and pain. Sometimes he permits horrible things to happen to those who love him, as in the cases of Job and Joseph.

But He was worth it to them. He is worth it to us. Also they were worth it to Him, which is the confusing bit. His thoughts are not our thoughts neither are our ways his ways. I’m tempted to say to this entire genre of paranormal romance, as if to a person, “close…so close, but no cigar.” The crucial facts are missing, so the passion is misdirected.

This is where the central problem is. No human is worth this particular breed of trust and devotion. No glittery hero either. So obsessions are created around these human impossibilities to compensate for this giant misdirection away from God towards Man. We should love and serve each other, not idolize each other. Are we setting young girls up to idolize and idealize the men they date/marry? Yes, I suspect so, and it’s easy to see how that will go awry.

It’s perhaps too simple for me to dismiss these teen fantasies as merely that. But in our modern world, in which ‘youth culture’ is dominant and worshiped, the vamp-and-werewolf literature of today probably bears a more accurate representation of people’s deepest desires than the Andy Hardy-and-Nancy Drew of yesteryear. Young adult literature is dubbed excellent if it is bilingual; speaking equally to its target audience and to the generation that raised them.

This is the tricky part; these sorts of books are the fluff of our day. These are the sugar-coating idealists. The wistful dreamers. The seekers of happily-ever-after, producing ‘spunkified’ versions of old-fashioned damsels-in-distress. The cynicism which surrounds these mouthfuls of cotton-candy can quickly melt their thin cry for something ‘other’—oh how much hilarious snark they have produced!—because it is so very thin. It hardly knows what it’s asking for. It’s caught in the mire of a life unperceptive of God.

As C.S. Lewis observed about ungodly or perverse affections, “Eros, turned upside-down, blackened, distorted and filthy, still bore the traces of his divinity.” So, are sewage weeds better than nothing growing at all? At the very least, they show a lack of resignation to the pervading philosophies in which all deep desire is dismissed as childish folly; love is a lie, faith is a fairytale and destiny is for dungeons & dragons.

So perhaps my respect for these pieces of literature is scant, but my empathy is substantial. This washed-out fantasy love can be seen for what it is beneath all the teen angst: yet another translation of a deep, unshakeable desire to know, love and be loved by Someone enigmatically “other”—the only One who stands so wonderfully beyond our natural selves—to be in the otherworld, with the One who created the world.

History Repeats Itself

Preface: Three years ago there was a Hezbollah-Israel prisoner swap (of sorts) and, in my flurry of thoughts about the situation, I wrote an opinion article regarding it. It has since sat in my pile of thoughts and documents, growing increasingly out of date.

Now a new prisoner exchange is taking place. Gilad Shalit, who has been held by Hamas militants for five years now, is finally being released…in exchange for 1027 Palestinian prisoners.

It’s difficult to comment on this. On one hand, I want to rejoice along with Israelis that Shalit is finally being released. On the other, the inequality of the exchange speaks distressing volumes, and here is where the old article I wrote from 2008 will serve instead of any further commentary. And: warning. The commentary conveys strong feelings. It is not impartial. It is an opinion piece coming from someone with very strong opinions:

Dead for More Dead

I must write about an exchange.

Prisoners for Prisoners, bodies for bodies…these are natural exchanges between enemies.

Prisoners for bodies is something I cannot stomach.

This is a difficult subject to present. Not because of its controversial nature…to most, the morality of this subject, or lack thereof, is plain. And not because of its complexity. The facts are also plain. No, this is difficult to write because it is a subject about which it is nearly impossible to speak dispassionately. Hopefully the sources and translations will speak for themselves.

The bodies of two Israeli soldiers were returned to Israel, as Hizbullah received five live prisoners in exchange. The bodies of 199 militants were also promised as part of the exchange. The most prominent of the prisoners returned to Hizbullah is Samir Quntar. Quntar is the most infamous of those being released because he shot an Israeli man, Dani Haran, in front of his four-year-old daughter, and then killed the girl by repeatedly striking her in the head. Haran’s wife apparently hid and their second child was killed as the mother tried to smother the child’s cries, so they could both remain hidden. I am trying to use the coldest language possible to describe this information, lest I be accused of “inciting emotions.”

Now, putting aside the “lop-sided exchange,” as it was stated in one paper, I want to focus on the reactions.

Al-Jazeera dutifully reported both sides of the story. (In this case that means both sides of the border):

In Lebanon there was celebration at the return of the five prisoners and a hero’s welcome for Quntar*.

In Israel there was mourning, as the families, and the nation, were finally able to bury their dead.

The Al-Jazeera article about Israel described the funeral and the national mourning, with half the article dedicated to reporting the medical examinations, which were conducted in order to prove who they were, and to determine how they died. The article states that “the examiners found difficulty in examining the bodies because they had not been preserved in freezers and they were in a progressed state of disintegration.”

My automatic reaction when I read any article is to go to the bottom and see what the reading public had to say. Al-Jazeera draws its viewers and its readership from all over the Arab world. Disappointingly, many of the reader’s comments were too hateful to warrant translation, but I will offer a few examples.

“With a quick look at the developments we see that the strategy which Hizbullah employed is sound and effective and simply requires patience and prior knowledge of what is needed. So it is a lesson to us Arabs in how to face against [the enemy]”.

Another says:

“God greet the heroes of Hizbullah who freed those men who are of the Arab people and the Islamic people.”

Some quotes are just religious rhetoric immediately followed by congratulations to Hizbullah and “the resistance” (generally referring to Hamas and such groups). 

Another reader directed his comments towards Israelis: “God willing all your days will be sad, and it brings me great joy when I see you all at a funeral.”*

Another simply says “Death to America and Israel” and describes the judgment that will be brought on them.

Out of nearly 30 commentaries that are currently posted for the article, I only saw one, which stood in sharp contrast to the rest.

“Look you Arabs how the leaders treat just one soldier. If it had been an Egyptian, or a Jordanian, or a Syrian or a Saudi soldier, would their country have launched a war for their sake? Or have conducted a funeral such as Israel did? When will the Arabs learn from their enemy the meaning of respect for a citizen…”

The President of the Republic of Lebanon, Mishal Sulayman was present to greet the released prisoners, as were other representatives of various official political factions in Lebanon. Perhaps this is one of the most troubling results of this situation and yet it will likely be viewed as peripheral information, if it is noticed at all.

Again, to make it very clear: The President of Lebanon was present to greet the return of the prisoners, one of whom killed a father in front of his daughter, and then brutally killed the girl. This criminal was treated honorably, warmly and as a hero. The attendance of President Mishal Sulayman is equivalent to Lebanese government support of this man’s actions.

The article about the celebration on the Lebanese side of the fence was followed by pages of congratulatory letters directed towards Nasrallah, (Leader of Hizbullah), and the “resistance”

Another stated “By God, Oh Arabs, what a victory…2 in exchange for more than 200…we congratulate you on this accomplishment, oh Arabs.”

One reader seemed suspicious of the absurdity of Israel’s concessions and speculated that there was some other strategy afoot.

Whether there is some grand plan or idea, I don’t know. But the whole thing boils down to this: One country gave up more than it perhaps ought to have in order to return the bodies of loved ones to their families and to show them that their country had not forgotten them. The other country received, in return, 199 bodies and five prisoners, at least one of whom was not imprisoned on any overlookable charge: killing a child. Not with a bomb, and she happened to be nearby...but in brutal close-hand fashion. This is a quote from Samir Quntar himself:

“I did not come to Lebanon except to return to Palestine.” He expresses that the greatest wish of all for himself, and Hizbullah and the “resistance” is to become a martyr and that he will go on fighting.

So will Israel put bullets in the hands of their enemies in order to do right by their own dead?

I think this was perhaps an honorable-minded concession, but likewise a horrible one. I’m torn. The newspapers and the commentary sections are burning up with passages about how this was a “fantastic victory” for Hizbullah. Those who would see Israel destroyed have now concluded that Israel will give up anything and everything in exchange for ‘nothing’. That is because, to those and sadly even to many non-militants, two men is nothing…nothing but cannon fodder and food for propaganda. To Israel, however, two men are indeed something. They are citizens, soldiers, brothers, husbands, sons…they are countrymen.

The disparity in the numbers of the exchange equals the disparity in mindset of the two sides of this exchange.

As Israelis mourn and finally have a chance to pay respects to their lost loved ones, Eldad Regev and Udi Goldwasser, Hizbullah, and any who look to them for their opinions, rejoice and swear on it as a victory on the battlefield.

*Quntar was later given an award by the Syrian President. I hope that most Lebanese and Syrians don’t actually concur with the honors accorded this man. I strongly hope that they do not. But those vocal on the Al-Jazeera Arabic commentary boards were in fierce support.

*I am aware that this is an exceedingly negative portrayal of the general Arab reaction. It bothers me too. Indeed, I am not trying to generalize. When I attended the commentary boards I expected a healthy debate and contradicting views. I must admit myself disheartened and surprised by the lack thereof.

Afterword: The points made here about a rather different situation still stand. I think the disparity in numbers is quite relevant. There are all manner of peripheral connotations which could be discussed (social pressure, symbolism, proper concessions, political machinations) but when we talk straight numbers we’re looking at a very unusual situation. I don’t know how to end this except to pose questions: Why are these exchanges so dramatically lop-sided? What does it say about how life is viewed and valued by both sides of the exchange? Why does this leave me feeling so disconcerted?

I speak Arabic and Hebrew and have worked with and enjoyed the camaraderie of Israelis, Egyptians, Jordanians and Iraqis, and I’m not convinced as to whether or not exchanges like this represent progress. Part of me want to praise it--the willingness to give up a lot for what seems like very little (but surely it isn't little)--but I am still troubled by what is signified in the huge numerical gaps. It bespeaks other, more troublesome gaps.

Kipling Again

I’ve decided to take a second shot at Kipling’s “If” poem. I’m not actually trying to run through this thing line-by-line, but I sorta can’t help it—there’s just too much to be had in there.

Immediately after the lines I wrote about previously—about not letting dreams become your master, or thoughts your aim—comes this curious creature:

“If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;”

When I first heard those bolded lines sung by Chuck E. Costa, (I link to him because I really, really want you to hear the song!) I found them very compelling, but I couldn’t say why. I mean, the idea of keeping a cool head throughout both triumph and disaster is very sensible and noble and all…but let’s be realistic. Does anyone actually think we’re supposed to treat those two imposters just the same? Why should triumph be an imposter? Don’t we strive for it, invite it, and incur it?

Well, sometimes. But sometimes it comes unexpected and unaided by our own skill or intent. Likewise disaster sometimes comes upon us wholly unexpected—and sometimes we invite it, or incur it.

That being said…I still narrowed my eyes at those lines so as to mull them over, for this is what I cannot help but picture:

You are at home, doing this that or the other, when someone steps through your front door—quite without asking—and it happens to be someone thrilling, charming and altogether enjoyable to be around. You welcome them with open arms. You have riveting conversation. He compliments you and your family, lifting your spirits, giving you trinket-y or not-so-trinket-y gifts. So long as triumph stays, sitting on your couch and sipping congenially whatever drink you offer him, you are flushed and in flight! When he leaves, you are rather down-hearted, but the memory of his visit still makes you smile.

Next comes a new visitor. He inevitably barges in at the most inconvenient time and does not wait for you to greet him before he begins to make himself at home. You don’t want to offer him a drink, but he takes whatever he wants anyway, getting drunk and rowdy and destructive in the process. You would love to kick him out, but he won’t leave. He insults you and your family, brings low their spirits, taking unoffered gifts from you left and right. So long as disaster stays, swallowing everything you never meant for him to have, you are uneasy and despondent. When he leaves, you lift up your head only to see the devastation he wrought, which now must be dealt with.

So I ask again…are we really to treat these two unexpected visitors the very same? It’s incredibly hard to imagine. On one hand, I don’t know that it is truly possible, or even always advisable; there’s something to be said for being able to genuinely relish a triumph, and no one expects you to put on a fake smile for disaster’s sporadic drop-ins.

But on the other: triumph can be coercive, sly and deadly. He can inflate your head and separate you from things—both trivial and vital—that gave you joy in simpler times before he came. And disaster, while cruel, can be an excellent teacher and can better expose the cracks in the veneer. Both can cause trouble, really. And both can bring about good. They just do so in such terribly, terribly different ways.

Until recently I would have left those lines mulling in the back of my mind, feeling that there was truth in them, but not understanding quite how. But a quote from Bonhoeffer brought it back to the fore.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer—who in his life became well-acquainted with that which we might call disaster, but which he called suffering—stands on viable ground when he asserts that personal suffering is a “more effective key, a more rewarding principle for exploring the world in thought and action than personal good fortune.” That is not to say that disaster is desirable or somehow virtuous by its mere existence—that’s a false greeting as well—but it should nevertheless be met with dignity. And I suspect that’s precisely what Kipling meant. Meet both these imposters with both full dignity and humility.

As Bonhoeffer said: “How can success make us arrogant, or failure lead us astray, when we share in God’s sufferings through a life of this kind?”

...a kind of life that joys in the Lord through triumph and disaster and confidently takes and appreciates all that can rightly be acquired from both, without fear of succumbing to the very real dangers of either.

A Story About an Un-World

The following is a short story that I wrote a number of years ago to no particular purpose except that it was very vivid and disconcerting. It has been sitting lonesome and unused among my word documents and I thought it might have a place here:

In the dream I was a man with hollow eyes. Everyone else in this psuedo-world carried on as if all was well, but my eyes were empty. Being that it was a dream, I could look at myself. I was dressed in the manner of the typical “anti-hero”. Dark, rough, dangerous. It was evident that I had a wretched history.

The setting had a post-apocalyptic feel. One immediately knew that a cataclysmic event had changed the world. Even so, nothing looked different. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and I distinctly remember seeing a family picnicking at some sort of park. I don’t recall seeing cottages or skyscrapers, but they could well have graced the scene without being out of place. The thing that had changed the world was not a bomb, or a war…but whatever it was, it had left the air empty. It had left my eyes hollow.

I walked up to myself. My anti-hero self looked at me as if he expected me.

“What happened here?” I said.

The calm landscape flickered, like a weak television channel, and what showed beneath the flickering matched the empty, post-world feeling of the whole dream.

“They took God away,” I responded.

In the dream I felt nauseous. So did the anti-hero. In retrospect, any proper apologist of any belief, in the realm of theism or atheism, could have argued against that absurd statement. God was or he was not. If He wasn’t then no void should be left in His absence. If He was, then he could not simply be removed. But in this post-world, I did not question that God was. And they took Him away.

“So what happened?”

“Nothing,” I said.

I watched a woman approach. She was beautiful, but she had come to take me somewhere I didn’t want to go. I watched her with a hateful curiosity.

“Come. The world still holds much,” she said.

I shot her in the forehead. Don’t be shocked. I don’t think I was.

Before I pulled the trigger, I saw that her eyes were far emptier than mine. This was strange because when she first approached her eyes had been full of that certain Hollywood-girl allure. By the time I shot her, though, I saw that the allure in her dark eyes was on a reel…like a looped tape, rigged to emit the same flicker of charm over and over.

I don’t mean that she was inhuman in anyway. But the spark of life in her was an imitation. Recorded and repeated. Nothing new under the sun, right? But things are supposed to ripen, to grow fuller and sweeter in the sun. They have to be attached to a tree to do so. But here, in this place, instead of growing in the sun, everyone was drying up and getting smaller. They weren’t attached to anything. It was all just getting stale.

I was no longer independent of myself at this point in the dream. I shot her because the post-world had a special “people program” for those who had trouble adjusting to a world without God. They were always trying to draft me in to this program. I knew better. I think I was some sort of vigilante.

You see, I am not one of those people who have much natural moral compunction. If there was no God, I would have few, if any, scruples about…anything. I realized that since there was no God, there was no morality. Right and wrong were relative, and based merely on the state of society. Without the divine spark, what difference did it make if man lived or died? What difference did it make if I was the one who killed them? All this nonsense about preservation of a species…who gives a damn if a species survives? I sure didn’t. I killed people, apparently. If I wanted to. If I needed to. It’s hard to know. I just killed anyone who tried to draw me in. Anyone who tried to tell me that all was well. Anyone who messed with me.

Preserve society? How about not. In the dream, I was out to destroy it.

Then the nausea that pervaded the dream dissipated, and my insides didn’t feel like they’d been carved out anymore.

I woke up.