You may ask, as some have already, why do you care what happens in Christianity if am not a believer? Some have concluded that I am still "in the camp," albeit very far from the fire while others discount my observations all together as mere bitter rants from an expatriate. As for the latter, one should not question the legitimacy of a person yelling 'fire' in the midst of a burning building--especially if you are inside it. The accuracy of a statement or observation is not diminished by the source, if in fact, the statement is accurate, much to Nietzsche’s dismay, an ad hominem is still a fallacy of logic. As for the former conclusion, if I am, in fact, still in the camp of Christian, it is unbeknownst to me. I am not a Christian because I do not believe in the basic assumptions that comprise the faith (I will be sure to outline those in a later post because most Christians seem to have misplaced them in their feverish search for a more acceptable faith). Regardless of my present bitterness towards or secret affection for Christianity, what I will lay out here are my observations of what has become of my past faith.
But back to the original question. Why do I care?I have searched myself thoroughly and have come to this conclusion; one that is best expressed as an analogy. It is like a Marine who could no longer serve in the Corps due to an serious injury, and who know comes in contact with past comrades only to find that the Corps has subverted its original purpose or contradicted its values, in short, she finds that it has gone against the very ideals and aims that first drew her to enlist. It is the same feeling I get when I pass the house I grew up in. The new owners have changed the exterior color and put gaudy lawn ornaments around its parameters. They replaced the old chain link fence with a campy picket fence you might find on a movie set. I long for the way it was but I can't ever return there--it is too costly. I feel that they should appreciate what they have been given and be good stewards. In the same way, Christians should be thankful for the faith they have received and not show it contempt by treating it like a hobby or club membership. A man who was God gave up His glory and was murdered for their salvation (according to their book). Does not such a sacrifice cry out for some deeper level of commitment, some genuine gratitude, some authentic attempt to identify with that sacrifice on the part of those whose very lives have benefited so much from it… because I can't save myself, I am compelled to save others.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
What couldn't fit on my headstone if I died today
Belief exists in the absence of consensual truth and therefore is an indispensable byproduct of subjectivity. Once I came to this realization, I loathed my need to believe. While others revel in the opportunity that such ambiguity provides them, I am overwhelmed, paralyzed by the absurdity of creating something that will in turn create me.
My quest for a credible personal credo has been relentless, and at times, fanatical, first as an undergrad in an Evangelical Bible college with aspirations of full-time ministry, then as a graduate student in philosophy exploring the depths of atheistic existentialism and finally as a corporate whore feeding a brick and mortar addiction. In the final semesters of Bible College, after my devotion had given way to doubt, the challenge was to support my beliefs about the world by arranging a cogent conglomeration of individual positions on everything from creation to the afterlife. Each time that I attempted to ensure the stability of my belief, I would find some flaw in the construction that I had overlooked in my enthusiasm, a tiny crack in the foundation that condemned the entire structure.
Unable to reconcile these anomalies, I would painstakingly dismantle what I had created and start over again until I realized that all the pieces did not fit, or perhaps, could not fit together seamlessly. Once outside the Christian framework, I explored rationalism, pragmatism, utilitarianism, existentialism and nihilism in rapid succession in an attempt to transfer the responsibility of choice to something less fallible than myself.
Even as mine collapsed under the weight of my own arguments, I retained a genuine admiration for other religious systems, but from afar, like a recovering addict. Each time I was taken to the precipice of faith, I relented from uttering those fateful words of resignation—‘Lord, help my unbelief.’ I could not bear to be caught up once again into that euphoric fanaticism that comes with the possession of absolute truth. Now as a Polo and Docker ensemble in a corporate training department, determinedly clinging to some intermediate rung of the company ladder between peon and president, my elaborate edifices of truth and right action have been reduced to the flimsy cardboard façade of business ethics—summed up simply as an allegiance to the bottom line while maintaining the guise of regulatory compliance and professionalism.
Despite this, I do not cherish this apparent freedom, but rather I share in Camus’ desire for there to be a god who is able to give meaning over the prospect of personal choice with impunity; for I believe that all people are equal and that the naked should be clothed, the hungry fed and the sick healed but I have no deeper conviction than my own perception. I am indignant but without righteousness. I once remarked to a close friend from Bible College that when he makes a decision, no matter what happens, he can confidently interpret it within his religious framework, whereas as I have no such guarantee of success or redemption in failure. Perhaps all this is a banal excuse for my lethargy, couched in eloquent reasoning.
Nonetheless, at this point in my life, the question is not what I believe but to what extent I believe it. For me, belief is as much the expression of a desire for things to be a certain way as it is the proclamation that they are, in fact, that way. Unfortunately, I lack both the desire and conviction to progress more than a few steps in any one ideological direction. However, I believe it was my mother’s faith that carried her for two years beyond her prognosis though her body was cancerous. I believe that it was my father’s hope in an afterlife that sustained him at her graveside. Moreover, I believe that a group united by a belief may overcome seemingly insurmountable odds—for good or ill. All I can muster with all my own strength is a belief in my own being, a Cartesian cry and nothing more. I know that am occupying this place, at this time in such a way as only I can. However, I also trust that what has led me to this place in my life will also be the very same thing that leads me further into…
My quest for a credible personal credo has been relentless, and at times, fanatical, first as an undergrad in an Evangelical Bible college with aspirations of full-time ministry, then as a graduate student in philosophy exploring the depths of atheistic existentialism and finally as a corporate whore feeding a brick and mortar addiction. In the final semesters of Bible College, after my devotion had given way to doubt, the challenge was to support my beliefs about the world by arranging a cogent conglomeration of individual positions on everything from creation to the afterlife. Each time that I attempted to ensure the stability of my belief, I would find some flaw in the construction that I had overlooked in my enthusiasm, a tiny crack in the foundation that condemned the entire structure.
Unable to reconcile these anomalies, I would painstakingly dismantle what I had created and start over again until I realized that all the pieces did not fit, or perhaps, could not fit together seamlessly. Once outside the Christian framework, I explored rationalism, pragmatism, utilitarianism, existentialism and nihilism in rapid succession in an attempt to transfer the responsibility of choice to something less fallible than myself.
Even as mine collapsed under the weight of my own arguments, I retained a genuine admiration for other religious systems, but from afar, like a recovering addict. Each time I was taken to the precipice of faith, I relented from uttering those fateful words of resignation—‘Lord, help my unbelief.’ I could not bear to be caught up once again into that euphoric fanaticism that comes with the possession of absolute truth. Now as a Polo and Docker ensemble in a corporate training department, determinedly clinging to some intermediate rung of the company ladder between peon and president, my elaborate edifices of truth and right action have been reduced to the flimsy cardboard façade of business ethics—summed up simply as an allegiance to the bottom line while maintaining the guise of regulatory compliance and professionalism.
Despite this, I do not cherish this apparent freedom, but rather I share in Camus’ desire for there to be a god who is able to give meaning over the prospect of personal choice with impunity; for I believe that all people are equal and that the naked should be clothed, the hungry fed and the sick healed but I have no deeper conviction than my own perception. I am indignant but without righteousness. I once remarked to a close friend from Bible College that when he makes a decision, no matter what happens, he can confidently interpret it within his religious framework, whereas as I have no such guarantee of success or redemption in failure. Perhaps all this is a banal excuse for my lethargy, couched in eloquent reasoning.
Nonetheless, at this point in my life, the question is not what I believe but to what extent I believe it. For me, belief is as much the expression of a desire for things to be a certain way as it is the proclamation that they are, in fact, that way. Unfortunately, I lack both the desire and conviction to progress more than a few steps in any one ideological direction. However, I believe it was my mother’s faith that carried her for two years beyond her prognosis though her body was cancerous. I believe that it was my father’s hope in an afterlife that sustained him at her graveside. Moreover, I believe that a group united by a belief may overcome seemingly insurmountable odds—for good or ill. All I can muster with all my own strength is a belief in my own being, a Cartesian cry and nothing more. I know that am occupying this place, at this time in such a way as only I can. However, I also trust that what has led me to this place in my life will also be the very same thing that leads me further into…
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