I'm currently reading Nevertheless: The Varieties and Shortcomings of Religious Pacifism by John Howard Yoder. It's a fascinating book, as I would expect from Yoder. Furthermore, the notes to the chapters often contain insights and illustrations as important and interesting as those in the chapters themselves.
Alas, the book has endnotes, not footnotes. This means that either I'd have to flip to the back of the book each time I reach a note marker (a tedious exercise), or I need to wait and read the notes for each chapter at the completion of each chapter (which sometimes separates a note from its chapter context), either way keeping a second bookmark for the notes. I choose the latter because it's easier, but certainly I wish I could easily glance at a footnote each time the author wishes to provide a note.
Let us all agree: footnotes are superior to endnotes.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
From Shaw's "The Devil's Disciple"
"Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have convinced both Americans and English that the most high minded course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as possible, and that military operations to that effect are in full swing, morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of God on their arms."
"I see little divinity about you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies? Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense!"
"I see little divinity about you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies? Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense!"
Monday, March 17, 2008
Violence and Watching (2)
Gabriel McKee in Religion Dispatches:
"Liberal viewers who oppose the death penalty, for instance, still expect the black hats to get killed in the final shootout. As much as we contend that no one deserves to die, we all throw our personal ethics out the window when we enter a movie theater. We’re all hangin’ judges."
Indeed. I'm a committed pacifist, but I watch Big Love wishing Bill would just solve his problems by killing his father and most of the male members of the Grant family. And that's not even a terribly overtly violent show: think of how I watch Deadwood, Rome, The Sopranos, Dexter.
The problem isn't, I think, whether a nonviolent person can enjoy violent entertainment; after all, in a film no actual people are killed. The problem comes when television and film reflect a particular narrative to us, a narrative that tells us violence solves problems. Too many people imbibe this fictional narrative of what McKee calls "redemptive violence," which may lead them away from the conclusion that in the real world violence causes deeper problems, and toward the conclusion that violence is an effective and moral way to solve problems. But it is neither.
"Liberal viewers who oppose the death penalty, for instance, still expect the black hats to get killed in the final shootout. As much as we contend that no one deserves to die, we all throw our personal ethics out the window when we enter a movie theater. We’re all hangin’ judges."
Indeed. I'm a committed pacifist, but I watch Big Love wishing Bill would just solve his problems by killing his father and most of the male members of the Grant family. And that's not even a terribly overtly violent show: think of how I watch Deadwood, Rome, The Sopranos, Dexter.
The problem isn't, I think, whether a nonviolent person can enjoy violent entertainment; after all, in a film no actual people are killed. The problem comes when television and film reflect a particular narrative to us, a narrative that tells us violence solves problems. Too many people imbibe this fictional narrative of what McKee calls "redemptive violence," which may lead them away from the conclusion that in the real world violence causes deeper problems, and toward the conclusion that violence is an effective and moral way to solve problems. But it is neither.
Friday, March 14, 2008
All of Western literature is but a retelling of Don Quixote
Re-reading Shaw's Arms and the Man, I'm struck by how familiar the story really is. It's the story of the confrontation between an Ideal and Reality.
I've read it in Don Quixote, in Madame Bovary, in Death of a Salesman, in M. Butterfly. I've seen it in Main Street, I've encountered it in Faulkner and Steinbeck. It's in "Dulce Et Decorum Est" and a lot of other war poetry. It's even in The French Lieutenant's Woman, though treated a bit differently. I suppose it pre-dates Cervantes: you can sense it in Chaucer. And if you want, you can add to the list of books about it.
Over and over we see these characters deluded with a fantasy, with an outrageous ideal, with a cherished image. And over and over again, we see the comic and tragic consequences when these characters are forced to face reality. I suppose it's a natural theme for literature, for made up stories.
I've read it in Don Quixote, in Madame Bovary, in Death of a Salesman, in M. Butterfly. I've seen it in Main Street, I've encountered it in Faulkner and Steinbeck. It's in "Dulce Et Decorum Est" and a lot of other war poetry. It's even in The French Lieutenant's Woman, though treated a bit differently. I suppose it pre-dates Cervantes: you can sense it in Chaucer. And if you want, you can add to the list of books about it.
Over and over we see these characters deluded with a fantasy, with an outrageous ideal, with a cherished image. And over and over again, we see the comic and tragic consequences when these characters are forced to face reality. I suppose it's a natural theme for literature, for made up stories.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
What does violence mean?
See also: "What does peace mean?"
Peter King recently wrote about his USO trip to Afghanistan. It's mostly what you'd expect: an incredible experience being in a war zone, his experience talking with the soldiers, etc. After writing about one soldier that died, he writes about "guys [that] jump out of planes and hunt Taliban soldiers for a living." He writes about a guy that reminds him of Rambo, of another guy "as tough as they come." He writes,
"One of them talked about mowing down Taliban troops as they walked into death.
"'We heard on their radios later that we got 75 of 'em,' one of the Rangers said. The platoon members joked about what bad shooters the Taliban soldiers were, and if they had been any good, how many more of our side would be dead or wounded."
Later King describes a ceremony for a soldier that was killed. At the end, he writes about his trip to visit the military in Afghanistan that "They don't sell tickets for the experience of a lifetime, but if you can do it somehow, I'd highly recommend it."
During all this writing, King speaks nary a word critical of war. He doesn't challenge military values. Yet near the end of his column, he manages to do what he frequently does in his columns; he criticizes violence in film:
"While waiting for the flight out of Bagram on Sunday night, we watched the worst movie of all time. Death Sentence, with mindless killing until everyone in the world was dead. You're better than that, Kevin Bacon. I think."
Peter King talks about visiting with soldiers that were "mowing down" 75 real human beings. He speaks of two soldiers that were killed and being mourned. He doesn't condemn war. He doesn't suggest war is a bad thing. He doesn't show horror at real life killing.
But he doesn't like a movie that had a lot of killing.
Peter King recently wrote about his USO trip to Afghanistan. It's mostly what you'd expect: an incredible experience being in a war zone, his experience talking with the soldiers, etc. After writing about one soldier that died, he writes about "guys [that] jump out of planes and hunt Taliban soldiers for a living." He writes about a guy that reminds him of Rambo, of another guy "as tough as they come." He writes,
"One of them talked about mowing down Taliban troops as they walked into death.
"'We heard on their radios later that we got 75 of 'em,' one of the Rangers said. The platoon members joked about what bad shooters the Taliban soldiers were, and if they had been any good, how many more of our side would be dead or wounded."
Later King describes a ceremony for a soldier that was killed. At the end, he writes about his trip to visit the military in Afghanistan that "They don't sell tickets for the experience of a lifetime, but if you can do it somehow, I'd highly recommend it."
During all this writing, King speaks nary a word critical of war. He doesn't challenge military values. Yet near the end of his column, he manages to do what he frequently does in his columns; he criticizes violence in film:
"While waiting for the flight out of Bagram on Sunday night, we watched the worst movie of all time. Death Sentence, with mindless killing until everyone in the world was dead. You're better than that, Kevin Bacon. I think."
Peter King talks about visiting with soldiers that were "mowing down" 75 real human beings. He speaks of two soldiers that were killed and being mourned. He doesn't condemn war. He doesn't suggest war is a bad thing. He doesn't show horror at real life killing.
But he doesn't like a movie that had a lot of killing.
Self and Confrontation in Teaching
While discussing Stanley Milgram's "The Perils of Obedience" today in class, I highlighted the following two passages:
"This may illustrate a dangerously typical arrangement in a complex society: it is easy to ignore responsibility when one is only an intermediate link in a chain of action."
"Thus there is a fragmentation of the total human act; no one is confronted with the consequences of his decision to carry out the evil act."
After reading these passages, I asked a direct question:
"Are you responsible for sweatshops?"
I'm comfortable asking this question, and after a little discussion on the subject, I asked another question:
"Are you responsible for slaughterhouses?"
This question makes me slightly more uncomfortable. I'm challenging students on their consumption of meat, but as I teach at a school with a lot of students with an agricultural background, I may be challenging more than that. Furthermore, I made passing reference to disapproval of rodeos, knowing several of my students not only enjoy rodeos but likely participate in them (this reference was relevant to the conversation).
I do feel strongly about treatment of animals, but I also recognize that a college class on English composition is not the place to really make major issue of treatment of animals. I brought it up because I felt it was useful to the discussion (what does the Milgram experiment mean in our world today?), and I truly enjoy this type of discussion, but afterward I'm a bit uncomfortable and sheepish. Should I really be talking about my vegetarianism when I'm supposed to be teaching students how to read and write better?
Furthermore, my emotions are tied into it. Just as when I teach literature I love, I sometimes blast past discussion and start running around the room raving with joy, I don't bring up treatment of animals as an objective theoretical question. Thus, I respond to students with energy and emotion that might not quite fit with my typical demeanor (which is energetic, but with the requisite detached irony to focus on analysis), and is not directed toward the course objectives.
Is it worth it, in a discussion of obedience, trust, and situation, to confront students on their tacit complicity in some of the world's problems (or my own, for as I tell them, I rarely read the labels on items I buy, either)? To help students become better readers and writers, am I better off avoiding such thoughtful confrontation, or is thoughtful confrontation precisely useful to make students better readers, writers, and thinkers? For as Mark Edmundson writes in "On the Uses of a Liberal Education: Lite Entertainment for Bored College Students,"
"A willingness on the part of the faculty to defy student convictions and affront them occasionally--to be usefully offensive--also might not be a bad thing."
By being "usefully offensive," am I forcing students to think critically--and personally--about the essays they are reading, and the paper they will be writing?
I hope so.
"This may illustrate a dangerously typical arrangement in a complex society: it is easy to ignore responsibility when one is only an intermediate link in a chain of action."
"Thus there is a fragmentation of the total human act; no one is confronted with the consequences of his decision to carry out the evil act."
After reading these passages, I asked a direct question:
"Are you responsible for sweatshops?"
I'm comfortable asking this question, and after a little discussion on the subject, I asked another question:
"Are you responsible for slaughterhouses?"
This question makes me slightly more uncomfortable. I'm challenging students on their consumption of meat, but as I teach at a school with a lot of students with an agricultural background, I may be challenging more than that. Furthermore, I made passing reference to disapproval of rodeos, knowing several of my students not only enjoy rodeos but likely participate in them (this reference was relevant to the conversation).
I do feel strongly about treatment of animals, but I also recognize that a college class on English composition is not the place to really make major issue of treatment of animals. I brought it up because I felt it was useful to the discussion (what does the Milgram experiment mean in our world today?), and I truly enjoy this type of discussion, but afterward I'm a bit uncomfortable and sheepish. Should I really be talking about my vegetarianism when I'm supposed to be teaching students how to read and write better?
Furthermore, my emotions are tied into it. Just as when I teach literature I love, I sometimes blast past discussion and start running around the room raving with joy, I don't bring up treatment of animals as an objective theoretical question. Thus, I respond to students with energy and emotion that might not quite fit with my typical demeanor (which is energetic, but with the requisite detached irony to focus on analysis), and is not directed toward the course objectives.
Is it worth it, in a discussion of obedience, trust, and situation, to confront students on their tacit complicity in some of the world's problems (or my own, for as I tell them, I rarely read the labels on items I buy, either)? To help students become better readers and writers, am I better off avoiding such thoughtful confrontation, or is thoughtful confrontation precisely useful to make students better readers, writers, and thinkers? For as Mark Edmundson writes in "On the Uses of a Liberal Education: Lite Entertainment for Bored College Students,"
"A willingness on the part of the faculty to defy student convictions and affront them occasionally--to be usefully offensive--also might not be a bad thing."
By being "usefully offensive," am I forcing students to think critically--and personally--about the essays they are reading, and the paper they will be writing?
I hope so.
Links Catered to You
For people who observe cliches and notice the overuse of "drinking the Kool-Aid" (Boston Globe).
For people wondering when injecting humor into your teaching goes a bit far (The Onion).
For college teachers that complain too much about their students (Inside Higher Ed).
For those who want to know why John Milton is a fabulous poet (The Guardian, via ALD).
For those who want to know how Homer started it all (Washington Post).
For those concerned about a president that claims to worship a Lord that was tortured, yet vetoes legislation that would outlaw torture (Common Dreams).
For people wondering when injecting humor into your teaching goes a bit far (The Onion).
For college teachers that complain too much about their students (Inside Higher Ed).
For those who want to know why John Milton is a fabulous poet (The Guardian, via ALD).
For those who want to know how Homer started it all (Washington Post).
For those concerned about a president that claims to worship a Lord that was tortured, yet vetoes legislation that would outlaw torture (Common Dreams).
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Animal and Human Advocacy
I sometimes see people dismiss or criticize animal advocacy with a "humans first" argument. Basically, some people ask why we should bother advocating for animals when there are so many human problems that we need to deal with. Shouldn't we use our resources (time, money, work, arguments, energy) for helping solve human problems?
I can easily debunk this excuse:
We can do both.
Trying to help people does not require one to eat meat. We can advocate for better treatment of animals even as we advocate for helping people. We can work toward better treatment of animals even as we work for better treatment of people. We can devote energy to both.
You might respond, "Well, all the resources you used for helping and advocating for animals could have been used for helping and advocating for people." That's true. But all the resources you used for CDs, DVDs, jewelry, concert tickets, sporting event tickets, beer, extra clothing, restaurant food, or any of the other things you don't really need but you consume for your own pleasure could have been used to help or advocate for people too. Why hold somebody's unselfish advocacy against him or her, when you could more reasonably criticize people's selfish consumption?
The problem isn't people using their resources to help animals instead of people; the problem is people (most of us) that don't use our resources to help anybody.
I can easily debunk this excuse:
We can do both.
Trying to help people does not require one to eat meat. We can advocate for better treatment of animals even as we advocate for helping people. We can work toward better treatment of animals even as we work for better treatment of people. We can devote energy to both.
You might respond, "Well, all the resources you used for helping and advocating for animals could have been used for helping and advocating for people." That's true. But all the resources you used for CDs, DVDs, jewelry, concert tickets, sporting event tickets, beer, extra clothing, restaurant food, or any of the other things you don't really need but you consume for your own pleasure could have been used to help or advocate for people too. Why hold somebody's unselfish advocacy against him or her, when you could more reasonably criticize people's selfish consumption?
The problem isn't people using their resources to help animals instead of people; the problem is people (most of us) that don't use our resources to help anybody.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Life in Ideas: "the greatest existentialist of our generation," 2000-2008
If there is an idea that has mattered to me, it is existentialism. But I do not know that I am still an existentialist.
A hostile universe? You bet. Hazard? Yep. Free Will? Absolutely. I'm still comfortable with much of existentialism. But...
I no longer call myself a "Christian Existentialist."
That's what I've called myself for years, never quite defining it in a satisfactory way. I now call myself a "Christian Humanist." I believe all human beings are imbued with dignity, that redemption is never beyond a person's reach, and that I must treat all human beings accordingly.
I no longer believe we create and/or choose our own morality.
I've never quite believed that "Everything is permitted," but I have believed that each individual may create or choose his or her own morality (which, when you think about it, isn't terribly far off "Everything is permitted"). But my commitment to vegetarianism and pacifism reveals a belief in a higher moral order. I am not a pacifist and vegetarian merely because that is the morality I "choose:" I am a pacifist and a vegetarian because at a deeper level, I believe that is morally right.
I no longer believe we are individuals isolated from other human beings.
I was once comfortable with the belief that humans were isolated from each other, alone with no connection. I now see meaningful connection between people.
I do not think life is absurd.
Here's the thing about Absurdist literature: it is so noticeably absurd. Real life has plot. Real life has meaningful human relationships. Real life has meaning. It is governed by chance, but there is meaning in that, not absurdity.
Is this enough? Am I an ex-existentialist, or is this merely a new part of my evolving existentialism?
A hostile universe? You bet. Hazard? Yep. Free Will? Absolutely. I'm still comfortable with much of existentialism. But...
I no longer call myself a "Christian Existentialist."
That's what I've called myself for years, never quite defining it in a satisfactory way. I now call myself a "Christian Humanist." I believe all human beings are imbued with dignity, that redemption is never beyond a person's reach, and that I must treat all human beings accordingly.
I no longer believe we create and/or choose our own morality.
I've never quite believed that "Everything is permitted," but I have believed that each individual may create or choose his or her own morality (which, when you think about it, isn't terribly far off "Everything is permitted"). But my commitment to vegetarianism and pacifism reveals a belief in a higher moral order. I am not a pacifist and vegetarian merely because that is the morality I "choose:" I am a pacifist and a vegetarian because at a deeper level, I believe that is morally right.
I no longer believe we are individuals isolated from other human beings.
I was once comfortable with the belief that humans were isolated from each other, alone with no connection. I now see meaningful connection between people.
I do not think life is absurd.
Here's the thing about Absurdist literature: it is so noticeably absurd. Real life has plot. Real life has meaningful human relationships. Real life has meaning. It is governed by chance, but there is meaning in that, not absurdity.
Is this enough? Am I an ex-existentialist, or is this merely a new part of my evolving existentialism?
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Loving what you do
Next up in lit class, I get to teach Tony Harrison's "v." (probably my favorite 20th century poem) and David Henry Hwang's "M. Butterfly" (probably my favorite 20th century play).
I always look forward to exposing students to these works, but teaching literature you love can be a challenge. Lit classes thrive on discussion, so I have to resist turning class into a proselytizing lecture ("This is why this poem is so brilliant. Don't you get it!?!").
I always look forward to exposing students to these works, but teaching literature you love can be a challenge. Lit classes thrive on discussion, so I have to resist turning class into a proselytizing lecture ("This is why this poem is so brilliant. Don't you get it!?!").
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