The Game Is Afoot
I beg your pardon, but today was a very full day and its outcome involves several tasks for me to execute carefully and sequentially. As I get these squared away, I’ll be in a position to say more. Thank you for your patience.
Ruminations about hermeneutics, theology, theory, politics, ecclesiastical life… and exercise.
I beg your pardon, but today was a very full day and its outcome involves several tasks for me to execute carefully and sequentially. As I get these squared away, I’ll be in a position to say more. Thank you for your patience.
On a walk back to the Center from Small World, the “Pruit Igoe” section of Koyaanisqatsi played on my iPod. I can sort of understand not enjoying Einstein on the Beach or some other Glass works, but even twenty-plus years after Margaret and I were first captivated by the film and music in a small theater in New Haven, these compositions still knock me out.
“That was depressing, even for a Finn.” — Olli-Pekka Vainio, author of Justification and Participation in Christ
I just received word from Seabury’s email newsletter that my [former] colleague Frank Yamada has accepted a position as Director of Asian American Ministries and Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible at McCormick Theological Seminary in the Hyde Park consortium of seminaries on the South Side of Chicago.
Frank will be a tremendous catch for McCormick, and his departure from Seabury will sadden everyone who continues under the Seabury banner. Congratulations, Frank (and Michelle, and Steven and Adam)!
We seem to be approaching resolution. There are ways it will be fine and good, and ways it will be hard and wearying. I expect I’ll be in a position to write about it within a week.
Margaret and Pippa spotted this luna moth on their morning walk (Pippa nearly ran into it, which would have been pretty unnerving). I’d never seen a luna moth before; it ranks up there with having seen a pileated woodpecker as exciting nature events in my life. I’m taking it as a good sign.
I just got a very bogus email purporting to be from the Internal Revenue Service. Ordinarily I just delete such emails; if I were to forward each one I get to the appropriate corporate anti-phishing address, I’d have a full-time job of it (hmmm).
But this seemed to belong to a different category, and I thought it worth alerting the IRS to this effort to impersonate a federal agency. So I went to the IRS fraud page to find the email address to which to forward the message, and — lo and behold — it seems that if you want to report (apparently) fraudulent activity, you have to download and print out Form 3949-A and send it by postal mail to the IRS.
So, I deleted the message.
When we went out to go to Evensong to hear Pippa, the car wouldn’t start. (We borrowed a neighbor’s, and I expect we’ll have the car towed tomorrow.)
There are lots of reasons I oughtn’t to say much about looking for work — so I won’t. I have been the addressee of a number of deeply touching letters, emails, and visits, for all of which I’m intensely thankful. I struggle with the up-in-the-air-ness of the job scene, but that may clarify itself in the next week or so. In the meantime, please forgive me if occasionally the clouds obscure the sunshine around here.
I’m working on what I want to say about the function of “literal” in interpretive/theological discourse; as part of that think I recalled that most people come to hermeneutics as they do to politics and religion and design, with partially-formed intuitions about what must be and what ought to be. I was wondering how to get at the relation of those under-theorized premises, when it occurred to me that the SongMeanings website provides some helpful illustrations.
If I teach a hermeneutics course again, I may direct students to a song each, with the assignment to examine the kinds of claim that commenters make about what the song “means,” and the sort of evidence they adduce for their claims. It may be easier to recognize some exaggerated errors in this open website than to catch them in play when arguing out a theological issue.
I would have a difficult time giving a deep account of why, but I was greatly saddened by the report that Deborah Jeane Palfrey seems to have hanged herself yesterday. I don’t know enough about the charges to take a stance relative to her innocence or culpability on the specific counts of which she had been convicted; I (not surprisingly) take a dim view of commercializing sexuality, though the penal system seems an awkward implement for discouraging those practices. Phil cites sources that suggest she was murdered. That possibility, and the likelihood that the question won’t be resolved, intensify the baleful gloom that envelopes the principals in this very sad story. I pray that all these lost sheep be brought to relief, to peace, to forgiveness and truth, under better circumstances than prevail here below.
I haven’t read All the Sad Young Literary Men, and I’m not confident that I’ll get around to it eventually, but in Scott McLemee’s column/podcast about the book and its author, he quotes the following paragraph:
The trouble is that when you’re young you don’t know enough; you are constantly being lied to, in a hundred ways, so your ideas of what the world is like are jumbled; when you imagine the life you want for yourself, you imagine things that don’t exist. If I could have gone back and explained to my younger self what the real options were, what the real consequences for certain decisions were going to be, my younger self would have known what to choose. But at the time I didn’t know; and now, when I knew, my mind was too filled up with useless auxiliary information, and beholden to special interests, and I was confused.
So (as best I apprehend this), when you’re young, you don’t have sufficient experience of the world to assay truth from folly or deception, and when you’re older, you have made enough wrong decisions that you’re enmeshed in errors that you started into when you were too young to know better.
This all seems plausible enough to me, but I wonder about the note of betrayal in the lament. Whence came the idea that we have the prerogative to expect a higher degree of certainty? I admit that just now I’m scoring pretty high on the “affected by unforeseeable contingencies” scale, but I believe I recall making this sort of point in various public venues well before this winter. The illusion that we have, or ought to have, a determinative role in how our lives play out cripples our capacity to thrive in circumstances we didn’t choose and don’t control. Sulking, fulminating, agonizing over how things should have been misses the point, because our particular (always conflicting, always divergent) visions of “ought to be” pertain to how things actually go only sporadically. If we stake everything, anything, on controlling our own destinies, we gamble on a giant lottery with contingencies compared to which our aspirations and willpower are but paltry things.
(I hope I’m listening well to what I just wrote.)
Now, speaking theologically, there’s much more to be said about sin, grace, alienation, hope, theosis, and so on. On the terms of everyday secular discourse, though, the poignance of a character discovering how much more complicated it all has been all along, and perhaps not even registering how misplaced his expectations were, struck a note that reminded me of other times I’ve inveighed against illusions of control.