Skip to main content

Easter, 2010

My father and I talk about the nature of man, in conversations that seem both polled and opposite. I go with the flawed – that inside people are creepy things that bump in the night – things that strain for inappropriate release as their way of shouting to the world, “This is wrong, This is wrong, This is wrong!”

I believe that everyone makes mistakes, and that everyone lies – and that acceptance of this is the key to understanding. I think of it as a harm reduction strategy for interpersonal relationships – a, “let’s work with what we have,” sort of approach. Everyone’s flawed with at least a touch of the original sin, and that this sin can’t be removed by an outside force. The sin is the sin of being human, and that's no sin at all -- it just is.

All is based on fears: that we will lose what we have, or not get what we need, and so we distract ourselves with crappy things and situations to take away the pain of being human. We surround with ourselves with noise to silence the need to both see our death and to make sense of it.

I think that my father goes to faith on this; he marginally accepts what I say at face value, but sees a greater thing in man -- that man can strive to be better by finding something bigger than they are to help – a sort of crutch, or bionic arm. He sees the guiding hand in all things, and conceptualizes life as a series of lessons as taught by a firm, but gentle master.

I think of Monty Pythons, “He was a cruel man, but fair.”

Great religious art promotes the stick Jesus and not the he-has risen version. Something in man needs the pain and sacrifice, and I don’t think it’s just Mel Gibson. No pain, no save. The miracle is in the rising; the understanding comes from the pain.

I’m coming around a bit. I’m starting to see that if we don’t rise to the occasions when tough choices force us to take a position, there’s no point to anything. If we are slugs to cause and affect, and bound only to our senses, why bother? We don’t always know the right choice, or even the best choice. To be a man comes in the choosing, as well as the living with the consequences. I see that there is a patterning order to the universe, and that there is a self-organizing principal weaved in all life that seeks progressive  improvement, or good, for all things. Because of this, I think the best in us drives us to good. I don't see this in a human made god that tells small kids the wine actually changes to blood, and the bread to flesh.

God’s will is what’s put in front of you, what you do about it is your will. No one can die for your sins and no one rises from the dead. No amount of faith can make it real. To be a good man is to accept responsibility for your own sins, and then to raise yourself with the power that comes from within you. God shows his work through the direction of actions. Faith without works is a death, and all the else is just the distractions of a comic book.






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wedding and Funeral

Went to a wedding and a funeral this weekend with Mary. Sacramento, Santa Rosa, then home– a whirlwind trip through weekend bay area traffic. The traffic was horrible – life changing horrible, but not unusual.
As with most things, it’s a balance of an the unnamed terror and an easy chair in a padded room that rocks. 
The wedding was delightful, part of an interconnected strong woman’s club that marries off their daughters to provably weaker men. And so, the cycle continues, but the company was nice and I’m too old to wonder at the process anymore.
The funeral was for another interconnected strong woman, who, by hinkey or dinky, was a scary woman that I used to work with as a nurse. She would have been surprised that I outlived her, much as Charles the cat was. Please pay attention out there – this is how life works.
(To be fair, she didn’t put up with shit and I liked to throw handfuls of it around as if I were Christ standing on the back of a broken piñata heaving candy cigarettes to the…

Only once

For clarity, I think I will write this only once.I do not write confessional poetry, and I do not write things down as a form of therapy. I write because I have something unique to say in a unique sort of way, a way that I think is universal in an analogous manner, not as any sort of literal telling of the truth.  I trowel spackle onto pages with a straight edged blade, I don’t paint aging widows with a brush. (My soul has been psychedelicized, but this shit’s not about me.)It comes in this form – that this relates to that, in this way – A form that I think illustrates things that are too true to be looked at straight on – personal truths that are usually discovered through interactions with other people – truths that are often relational, unreliable and subject to the weavings and debris of human beings. Truths that sneak out and become a miraculous surprise of insight – like a Zen master hitting you on the head with a baseball bat at just the right time.I don’t think I’m the only on…

How do I know when I'm done?

I left a message on Facebook for someone I care about that ended with the words, “one won”. I did it just because I thought was funny. That led to a whimsical discovery that I no longer had to place a period at the end of my sentences – in fact to do so would be rude and identify myself as an old person. 
It seems that, for online use anyway, a period has become a loud shout -- a purposeful exclamation point useful only in drawing unnecessary attention, or as a way of making an angry burp of anti-social angst. Sentences no longer end, they gently back out a side door when no one is looking -- they’ve become bars without a jail, or that angry driver just ahead of you who hesitates before moving through an intersection just to make a point of how stupid you are.
Since a period is no longer an end to a thought, its new function has evidentially become nothing but a stuffy ritual of formality that writers can now use to mark up or down generalized feeling of huffiness, or perhaps a way to s…