The other day, a friend of mine was complaining about a religion class she had just left. They had begun discussing the doctrine of predestination, and she was a bit upset over the way her classmates insisted on overreacting to the issue instead of waiting to see what the professor had to say about it. The issue is one that I thought over a fair bit before I was comfortable coming here, so for those of you who aren't familiar, the basic gist most people use to describe predestination is as follows:
Whether you're going to heaven or not is essentially "determined" (poor semantic choice, in my opinion, but we'll get to that) before you ever have a chance to live.
Those people who are bound for heaven are generally referred to as the "Elect"; and back in the day (and even to a degree now) it was generally believed that the Elect could be identified while they were alive, frequently by material prosperity. The strongly traditional Calvinist views of many of the founding fathers are where we get a lot of the idea of America being the new Jerusalem (after all, God must have been with us if we beat the British!). As popular as this notion has been (and is), it's clearly un-Biblical and not supported within any official doctrine I've seen or been quoted (which is, admittedly, very little).
Many people also just like to assume that all people who claim themselves to be Christian are among the Elect, but this also has no support. Fundamentally, only God determines who the Elect are, and we have no way of knowing. Once I realized that neither of these two things were part of the doctrine of predestination, I decided to let the Heaven and Hell part of the issue out of the equation. I decided at the time that, minus the whole "pre" part, it was suitably vague in terms of who gets what at the end of time that I could deal.
Unfortunately for my friend, her classmates weren't nearly so cool, so they derailed a large part of their education complaining and asking how come God couldn't give these people a chance. This type of thought is, in my mind, really the poor kids being upset about the doctrine of Hell (and maybe a little bit of Limited Atonement) but being far too afraid to express their distaste for such a fundamental part of Christian theology.
The real complication, in my mind, has little to do with the final destination nearly so much as the journey, and what predestination can be interpreted to say about how that journey (I'm talking about life here) works. If we are predestined for Hell, then, obviously, we are predestined to live a life fit for Hell, as God us fundamentally just (also, if you don't understand how Hell can be just, which is a tricky issue in its own right, let me know, and I'll see what I can do there). So, what does this say about our free will? People who believe intently in predestination will tell you it's an illusion. THIS, I have difficulty with. However, over the last few years, I've been formulating a model of predestination that I'm relatively comfortable with. As you've probably guessed, I'm going to spend the next while explaining it to you. Also, if any of you happen to have Theologian parents *COUGH*, I'd actually be interested in hearing what type of heathen they think I am...
So, first thing's first. We need to remember that predestination is something that occurs and exists outside of the foreknowledge of God. Of course, God, existing outside of our concept of time, knows everything we will do and where we will end up in what could be called an experiential manner. Predestination goes beyond this, so any theory of predestination must take this into account. So, I ask you this, think about a person you know incredibly well: a parent or sibling, a close friend, a boy/girlfriend, or something of the like. Now, you've probably got a pretty good idea of how they will respond to most basic events, right? If you do something, knowing how they will respond, you didn't make them do that thing, did you? Obviously, abusing this knowledge for your own benefit (and/or their detriment) would be undesirable, but that's another issue.
Now, think about God, who knows you better than you know yourself; who has a fundamental understanding of every aspect of your character, every working of your heart and mind. Wouldn't such a God be able to know exactly the sort of life you would live without you needing to live it? Wouldn't, then, the outcome of your life be written in stone and known to such a God before it ever occurred?
Dilemma solved...except not really. This raises serious questions about the nature of our souls and our characters. If God created us as individuals who would actively lead lives deserving of damnation, isn't that just as bad as making us do these very things? Perhaps, but this assumes that our souls are temporal; that they have only existed within time. Obviously this is treading incredibly towards notions of Cartesian dualism (ironic, seeing as the other complication I'm about to get to delves closer into materialism than I tend to enjoy), but if the soul, as originally created, exists outside of the complications of The Fall, then such a thing could not be said; as it is only the fallen nature of creation that puts our souls in jeopardy (oh no! potential gnosticism!).
The other complication is the question of whether or not we could actually determine a person's behavior entirely from some aspects of their character. Such a proposition implies that materialist ideas that human behavior, and indeed, consciousness is merely the result of some sort of incredibly complicated function being applied over a set of inputs. I really don't know how I feel about this, as I've always wanted to err more towards the side of dualism than materialism (probably, in part, to justify the shitty care I take of myself =P), but as I think about it, the more I'm inclined to worry less. Think again for a moment about this: the results events generally accepted as random (coin tosses, die rolls, etc.), can be computed precisely given enough environmental information, but it's simply not worth the effort.
Now think of something as complicated as human consciousness; even if there is some sort of magical formula unique to each person determining exactly how they will respond to an event, it would be impossible for any living person to comprehend everything that a person takes into account, much less how it weighs, for a single individual, much less the entire human population that ever has lived, is living, or will live...if my behavior is the result of some complicated set of rules that can only be perceived by God, I think I'm okay with that.
And, I'm spent.
Of the, like, four of you who occasionally mention having read this, I doubt most of you care too much about higher theology...But I've been thinking about this for quite awhile, and the situation just seemed right. I'd welcome any critiques of my thoughts, corrections of my likely errant supporting theology, or guidance towards stronger resources for hashing these sorts of things out.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Ask and it shall be given:
This will need some editing, I'm sure (I think I randomly switch tenses at a couple of points), but I do so love the Littlest Hobo. Here we get an idea of what started him on his life of adventure, and where he gets his giant hat! Enjoy, I guess.
*********
On this fine, sunny day we find the Littlest Hobo was walking down a dusty road, as we so often seem to do. It's a wonderful day for walking, the sky is clear, the air is warm, but not too much, and with just the perfect breeze to keep you cool as you go. Despite this, the Littlest Hobo, having been walking for quite some time, found himself sweating to quite some degree. It had, in fact, been a number of days since he'd given his feet rest, and what little water was left in his dehydrated body was dripping in small beads directly into his already sore, stinging eyes.
There wasn't much he could do about this difficulty; being so small, it took all of the strength of his feeble arms to keep the giant stick (not so large to you or me, but simply gargantuan to our diminutive mutual friend) from which his rucksack hung firmly rooted to the cavity his shoulder had long since created for it. Beyond this, his extreme weariness cautioned him from merely blinking the fluid away, for he knew that upon closing his eyes, he was likely to fall asleep in his exhaustion, and we all know quite well by now what that means for poor L.H.
And yet through all of these difficulties, the Littlest Hobo manages to keep his spirits high. He has noticed quite some time ago that his awkward, hobbling pace just happens to provide the exact rhythm to hum along one of his favorite songs. It is a melody his sweet mother had sung for him in the days before that ever so finely clad pimp showed up at their door to take her away. The memory was as clear as always: He first recalls the question he had asked this dashingly tailored whoremonger, "Kind sir, why are you making an orphan of me?"
Upon discovering that the inquiry had come from somewhere near the vicinity of his knees, the pimp responded in plain "Quite simply, boy, your father has wracked up quite the debt in his infidelity; and your sweet mum is the only collateral he could offer." As he peered downwards to say this, his beautifully plumaged hat tipped from his head, wafting onto the meager dome of our friend, the soon-to-be vagabond. Overwhelmed by the apparent generosity of this spectacular gift, the Littlest Hobo (as he is now known, though he of course wasn't then) started to tear up. Misunderstanding the significance of what was welling up in our picayune playmate's eyes, the princely purveyor of prostitutes exited with great expediency, not even waiting to hear the strained words of heart-felt thanks the followed after him.
The vultures, eternally circling, cut off their accompaniment, bringing the Littlest Hobo back to the present, where the fluid building in his eyes was of another, much more agitating sort. After checking to make sure they weren't preparing for another swoop, the Littlest Hobo allows himself a wheezing chuckle. "How ironic it is that a trader of tramps should make a tramp of a completely different sort of me!" He rejoices in the bittersweetness of it. What a fond thing it is when you only need to remember one day to recall receiving both your proudest possession and the commissioning of your life's work!
With this small bit of refreshment, the Littlest Hobo picks up his pace once more and continues his journey, anxiously waiting to see what sorts of adventures lay down the road he's been thrown upon.
*********
On this fine, sunny day we find the Littlest Hobo was walking down a dusty road, as we so often seem to do. It's a wonderful day for walking, the sky is clear, the air is warm, but not too much, and with just the perfect breeze to keep you cool as you go. Despite this, the Littlest Hobo, having been walking for quite some time, found himself sweating to quite some degree. It had, in fact, been a number of days since he'd given his feet rest, and what little water was left in his dehydrated body was dripping in small beads directly into his already sore, stinging eyes.
There wasn't much he could do about this difficulty; being so small, it took all of the strength of his feeble arms to keep the giant stick (not so large to you or me, but simply gargantuan to our diminutive mutual friend) from which his rucksack hung firmly rooted to the cavity his shoulder had long since created for it. Beyond this, his extreme weariness cautioned him from merely blinking the fluid away, for he knew that upon closing his eyes, he was likely to fall asleep in his exhaustion, and we all know quite well by now what that means for poor L.H.
And yet through all of these difficulties, the Littlest Hobo manages to keep his spirits high. He has noticed quite some time ago that his awkward, hobbling pace just happens to provide the exact rhythm to hum along one of his favorite songs. It is a melody his sweet mother had sung for him in the days before that ever so finely clad pimp showed up at their door to take her away. The memory was as clear as always: He first recalls the question he had asked this dashingly tailored whoremonger, "Kind sir, why are you making an orphan of me?"
Upon discovering that the inquiry had come from somewhere near the vicinity of his knees, the pimp responded in plain "Quite simply, boy, your father has wracked up quite the debt in his infidelity; and your sweet mum is the only collateral he could offer." As he peered downwards to say this, his beautifully plumaged hat tipped from his head, wafting onto the meager dome of our friend, the soon-to-be vagabond. Overwhelmed by the apparent generosity of this spectacular gift, the Littlest Hobo (as he is now known, though he of course wasn't then) started to tear up. Misunderstanding the significance of what was welling up in our picayune playmate's eyes, the princely purveyor of prostitutes exited with great expediency, not even waiting to hear the strained words of heart-felt thanks the followed after him.
The vultures, eternally circling, cut off their accompaniment, bringing the Littlest Hobo back to the present, where the fluid building in his eyes was of another, much more agitating sort. After checking to make sure they weren't preparing for another swoop, the Littlest Hobo allows himself a wheezing chuckle. "How ironic it is that a trader of tramps should make a tramp of a completely different sort of me!" He rejoices in the bittersweetness of it. What a fond thing it is when you only need to remember one day to recall receiving both your proudest possession and the commissioning of your life's work!
With this small bit of refreshment, the Littlest Hobo picks up his pace once more and continues his journey, anxiously waiting to see what sorts of adventures lay down the road he's been thrown upon.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Beats me...
I want to write about something...but I can't think of anything that I really can.
Seeing Parpika the other day reinvigorated my frequent desire to rant for awhile about the way that people dismiss whole genres and mediums of expression off hand based on limited experience; how people insist on assuming that the prevailing examples of a genre in the popular psyche defines it and not the unique aspects of the art form itself; how this off hand rejection limits the ability of the medium to expand beyond the current proponents and thus the prevailing styles that are so despised...but there's not much more to say than that. Every time I try and say more, it loses focus and becomes impossible to read.
I don't feel like taking up my soap box about any of the societal issues that have been nagging me for the last few years until I'm feeling collected enough to do so more clearly than I have the last couple of times (wow, I'm sorry about how jumbled and undirected some of the stuff on here comes out). I've already touched on most of them anyway - even if quite poorly - and seeing as nobody has tried to start any dialog with me on them, I'll assume that people don't care too much about my thoughts on them as it is. =P
Blogging about current events on the larger scale isn't something I ever intended to do, and so I intend to continue not doing it. As for my real life, the people I'm writing this all for know that I'm a fairly private person; and, as such, am not really comfortable talking specifics in such a potentially exposed place. Besides that, writing about whatever actual difficulties I may have in my life in a place where those involved could easily run across them instead of actually taking up the issue with them just strikes me as incredibly passive-aggressive, and I hate passive-aggression, and hate myself more when I start to go down that road without realizing it...
That said, here's a call to arms:
The few people who occasionally mention to me in real life that they read something on here tend to know me pretty damn well, but that doesn't mean you know everything. Any particular issues you want to know my opinions on? A movie or TV series you want me to spend way too much time collecting my thoughts on? Want me to write some incredibly absurd story just for you fine few?*
I won't make any promises, but I started this for the sake of hopefully getting some conversations started. Let me know if there's any part of my thought process you're curious about, and I'll try and find some time to elucidate you. I promise to be completely honest in anything I answer to. The invitation extends to real life conversations as well (or, you know, IM for most of you back home), but listening to me rant at you for 20 minutes while I mostly try and develop my thoughts into something concise and understandable isn't nearly as convenient for the most part.
*Note that I'm a relatively terrible narrative writer and make no assurances as to the quality of my stories, which are more like fictionalized anecdotes at best. All I can guarantee is a high degree of absurdity, and a strong likelihood of morbidity. Sorry.
Seeing Parpika the other day reinvigorated my frequent desire to rant for awhile about the way that people dismiss whole genres and mediums of expression off hand based on limited experience; how people insist on assuming that the prevailing examples of a genre in the popular psyche defines it and not the unique aspects of the art form itself; how this off hand rejection limits the ability of the medium to expand beyond the current proponents and thus the prevailing styles that are so despised...but there's not much more to say than that. Every time I try and say more, it loses focus and becomes impossible to read.
I don't feel like taking up my soap box about any of the societal issues that have been nagging me for the last few years until I'm feeling collected enough to do so more clearly than I have the last couple of times (wow, I'm sorry about how jumbled and undirected some of the stuff on here comes out). I've already touched on most of them anyway - even if quite poorly - and seeing as nobody has tried to start any dialog with me on them, I'll assume that people don't care too much about my thoughts on them as it is. =P
Blogging about current events on the larger scale isn't something I ever intended to do, and so I intend to continue not doing it. As for my real life, the people I'm writing this all for know that I'm a fairly private person; and, as such, am not really comfortable talking specifics in such a potentially exposed place. Besides that, writing about whatever actual difficulties I may have in my life in a place where those involved could easily run across them instead of actually taking up the issue with them just strikes me as incredibly passive-aggressive, and I hate passive-aggression, and hate myself more when I start to go down that road without realizing it...
That said, here's a call to arms:
The few people who occasionally mention to me in real life that they read something on here tend to know me pretty damn well, but that doesn't mean you know everything. Any particular issues you want to know my opinions on? A movie or TV series you want me to spend way too much time collecting my thoughts on? Want me to write some incredibly absurd story just for you fine few?*
I won't make any promises, but I started this for the sake of hopefully getting some conversations started. Let me know if there's any part of my thought process you're curious about, and I'll try and find some time to elucidate you. I promise to be completely honest in anything I answer to. The invitation extends to real life conversations as well (or, you know, IM for most of you back home), but listening to me rant at you for 20 minutes while I mostly try and develop my thoughts into something concise and understandable isn't nearly as convenient for the most part.
*Note that I'm a relatively terrible narrative writer and make no assurances as to the quality of my stories, which are more like fictionalized anecdotes at best. All I can guarantee is a high degree of absurdity, and a strong likelihood of morbidity. Sorry.
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