Library Remodeling

I am in the midst of a giant overhaul of my library. I've ripped out all my old shelves and replaced them with six-foot-tall cherry wood units. It's a nice wood that looks even more beautiful attached to the hickory--or oak--lining the walls. I removed many of my better volumes from the built-in bookcases in the living room and brought them downstairs. (My collection of classical authors will remain upstairs.) I still need to buy two more bookshelves in order to clear my desk of the stacks and stacks I've placed there temporarily, but I have wall space set aside for them. We have new carpeting throughout the downstairs and I placed a new area rug over that in the library, giving the room a cozier feel. An armchair and a couple of new lamps really add to the scholarly ambiance.

I had to get rid of a lot of books in order to make this work: paperbacks, duplicates, etc. Our collection now numbers a pretty manageable 2,000, more or less, but that includes a few hundred I've shelved at my office. I'll post some photos once everything is in its place.

Mr. Tough-Talk Atheist Gets Wishy-Washy

Richard Dawkins, in The God Delusion, goes to some great lengths attacking the notion that agnosticism is a valid intellectual response to the question of God's existence. Agnostics typically say that there is no way to know if God is real, and that the chances of his being real are 50/50. Given the evidence, writes Dawkins, the chances that God is non-existent far outweigh the chances that he exists. And he goes on to ridicule the traditional Deist philosophy that there is a God who designed the universe for a purpose, but has withdrawn from his creation and has let it take its own course. Again, he says, where is the evidence?

My position is, I suppose, a modified Deism: through some undefined act for some unknown purpose, some inconceivable power is responsible for what is; that's all we know for now, but that could change.

No, Dawkins is right to say the idea of God is not a 50/50 proposition--if you define God as an existing supernatural power watching over us and directing our lives. But I think the probability for God's existence is 50 percent when considering the origins of the universe. Either the universe (or multiverse) arose from nothingness, unbidden, or it didn't. That's a coin toss, 50/50.

Strangely, Dawkins lets slip this intellectual inconsistency, found on page 155:

"Time and again, my theologian friends returned to the point that there had to be a reason why there is something rather than nothing. There must have been a first cause of everything, and we might as well give it the name God. Yes, I said, but it must have been simple and therefore, whatever else we call it, God is not an appropriate name (unless we very explicitly divest it of all the baggage that the word 'God' carries in the minds of most religious believers.)"
So you see, despite his trouble with semantics over the meaning of "God," Dawkins is an agnostic in the end.

An exchange

I just had an interesting exchange with someone over at a news blog I read frequently. The original article was about the preacher who baptized Jeffrey Dahmer. He is quoted saying that Dahmer, who claimed to have repented his crimes, is in heaven. Most commenters at the blog found it ludicrous that all that would be needed to be considered "saved," even when guilty of the most atrocious crimes, are professions of faith and repentance. I made a short comment on the validity of this theology (within the Christian theological framework).

A regular poster at the site, an ardent but not over-bearing Christian, also chimed in, with an expansive exposition on the nature of sin.

I then added, in good nature, this:

"Paul, thanks for the hermeneutics, but drawing on two thousand years of Christian teachings, although it sounds authoritative, doesn't make your theology true.

"Just playing Devil's advocate."

To which, he replied:

"Oxhead--Interesting. Please explain. Or email me to save posting space..."

I can't resist an invitation like this so, on my company's time, I wrote him. To follow is our exchange of about 30 minutes ago (reproduced here with his permission.)

Paul,

It is a heavy burden for an agnostic like me to love the Bible so much, but I can't help it. It's like me and chess: I love the game, but I'm terrible at it. I've read the Church fathers and the medieval scholastics, and the theologians of the reformation--I just can't get enough of that stuff--but I'll never be a Christian believer.

Everything you wrote at Obscure Store reflected Church (as in Catholic; but it applies to most Christian thought, no?) teachings on the nature of sin. It's beautiful and logically compelling. But the point I wanted to make was that a self-contained, hermetic system of thought, is only logically impervious if all its premises are accepted. An atheist could listen to you expound on the nature of sin for six hours and then undermine you by questioning the premise of God's existence.

I said that the preacher's comment about Dahmer is actually sound theology, but to accept that as a relevant statement one would have to accept God as a real being.

--
Oxhead
Washington, D.C .

Oxhead,

Couldn't agree with you more. In fact, I think that theology is more for the believer than those who don't believe. I once heard of a man who had the entire Bible memorized in two different translations! When I found out he was an atheist, I was dumbfounded. But then I realized one fundamental truth that I was overlooking: all the knowledge in the world doesn't mean anything if the heart is not transformed to be able to have faith.

For me, there is plenty of evidence to support why I believe. But that is not why I believe. I do so, because God changed my heart, opened my eyes to see his truth and not what I think it should be. My life, experiences, and events are testimony to me about the reality of God. Without that, I am simply a religious studies major. For me, it's less about knowledge and more about a relationship with God on a deep level that cannot be expressed adequately with words.

I would never presume to think I can change anyone's mind or heart. It's true, I can talk to an atheist until I am blue in the face, but unless God removes the veil from their eyes, they can never truly believe.

I am curious why you would not allow your heart to explore the possibility of experiencing his love, grace and acceptance. Never say never, my friend- God had changed harder hearts than yours.

I hope you don't mind if I pray for you in your search for truth and answers. I am glad you are agnostic- never stop asking the tough questions. Nothing is worse than a "Christian" who believes simply because they are told to or feel they should based on upbringing or pressure or whatever. It is highly probable that they are being self-deceived in thinking they have a faith when really they are on a borrowed faith living for approval of others.

Thanks for your insights. I pray you find what you are seeking and that one day you would cross-over from the intellectual to the real.

Paul Johnson

I was not aware that intellect is something apart from the real...or am I over-reacting? I suppose I am. I get his point, which is an exceedingly old one, almost Pauline, in fact: don't over-intellectualize the matter, just have faith. This is strong stuff. It's what moved the early Christians to allow themselves to be beaten, whipped, crucified and tossed to the lions when all they had to do to avoid such troubles was to utter four words, "The emperor is divine." That kind of devotion to a philosophy or faith is downright scary to me. If I had lived in those times, I'm sure that my penchant for the underdog would have made me a Christian, but the prospect of having my eyes gouged out would have turned me back into a pagan straight away.

As for Mr. Johnson praying for me, well...I'm not a believer, but why should I object? If the god of Paul Johnson is real, I shouldn't mind a small deposit of prayers in my name. A little Pascal wagering can't hurt.

You have a certain...thisness.

A Latin neologism invented by John Duns Scotus: haecceitas, "thisness." It describes the individual essense within a wider group.

Things change

An opinion piece the Washington Post last week discussed the demise of penmanship instruction in schools. I think the writer, Margaret Webb Pressler, is correct in this: Good penmanship is important. Further, it's vital that schools teach it.

Indubitably, writing by hand helps children concentrate their thoughts. Just compare the average teenager's paper journal to another's MySpace blog and you'll know what I'm talking about. Kids, therefore, should be encouraged to write by hand often and legibly.

I differ with Pressler on the form of handwriting best taught in schools. To me, printing is a perfectly acceptable form of penmanship and the lapse of cursive is not the disaster this article and others make it out to be.

The argument that block printing is a ponderous form of handwriting is just plain wrong. My personal experience refutes this claim. Whenever I write in cursive, which I do occasionally for old times' sake, I find that my hand moves slower and I have a hard time keeping my writing in time with my thoughts. Printing, on the other hand, is quicker and easier for me. Granted, this may be due to long-term personal custom, but what does that matter? For me, printing is faster.

Like all art forms, the development of new writing tools and preferences won't make cursive disappear completely; it will remain within the purview of hand-writing enthusiasts, calligraphers, etc. As for society's supposed loss: the cursive form of Latin letters is not a particularly old form of writing. Even ancient Roman cursive, the so-called majuscule form, wasn't really cursive in the modern sense, with letters connected, but really was just a sloppy way of printing block capitals.

Cursive script, like that of Jefferson's Declaration of Independence, is beautiful, but its time as a functioning form has passed. It is consigned now to art, and to the work of artists.

Gotta love that subversion

Parents in Frederic, Wisconsin, are up in arms because a homeschooling parent was appointed to the school board by the other board members. I think parents who home school are making a mistake for a number of reasons, but what's wrong with having a dissident on the school board? I think it's wise to get someone like that up there to point out the things he takes issues with. And, truth be told, it is probably a clever way to co-opt the fundamentalist segment of the population without giving them any real control. At least, I hope so.

My basic philosophy, I'm relieved to discover, coincides with this statement by I.F. Stone, which I read today at lunch. This is from his collected works:

"There must be renewed recognition that societies are kept stable and healthy by reform, not by thought police; this means that there must be free play for so-called 'subversive' ideas--every idea 'subverts' the old to make way for the new. To shut off 'subversive' is to shut off peaceful progress and to invite revolution and war. American society has been healthy in the past because there has been a constant renovating 'subversion' of this kind. Had we operated on the bogeyman theory of history, America would have destroyed itself long ago."

On history (Would Derrida agree?)

History is an art. It isn't a science or a craft, but more of a creative endeavor, like literature. Many historians would assent to this idea. It is even something members of the profession are proud of.

In his biography of Lenin, Dmitri Volkogonov writes, "History is a dispassionate judge." I think that's wrong. Whereas the past is dispassionate, history is not. History is written by human beings, and there has never been a dispassionate human being.

Truth, when represented as a singular event of the past, cannot teach much; only within the context of larger historical works, can that event provide an instructive role. And no matter how "dispassionate" a historian tries to be, his words on paper cannot escape their implicit connection to the mind--and passions--of their author. Although he may attempt to record nothing but truth, a writer's words are always to some degree a corruption of reality.

So that's why mama's crying.

I'm in the middle of Michael Babcock's The Night Attila Died, a intriguing investigation into the cause of the Hunnish tyrant's death (or murder). Last year, I wrote about the book, which at the time was yet to be published. I jokingly added that I would be reluctant to buy something that would make me think of the old Paper Lace song, "The Night Chicago Died," every time I picked it up:

"I heard my mama cry
I heard her pray the night Chicago died
Brother what a night it really was
Brother what a fight it really was"

To which entry Dr. Babcock himself replied in an email,

"I'm the author and I came across your post yesterday while pacing the virtual hallways of the Internet waiting, like an expectant father, for my book to be released on July 5.

"Needless to say, I never saw the Paper Lace connection. This has less to do with any specific cultural deficit on my part than on the popular mispronunciation of Attila's name. So here goes with my pedantic response. The analogy works well when you replace the trisyllabic Chicago (with its accent on the second syllable) with the trisyllabic Attila (with its accent on the second syllable). But here's the problem: the accent in 'Attila' doesn't fall on the second syllable. Philologists (I'm one) argue that Attila's name is formed from the Gothic word for father, atta, with the accent on the first syllable: AT-tila (not a-TIL-la). The diminutive suffix -ila transforms the name into a term of affection, into (roughly) something like 'Daddy.' Which, to bring things full circle, would explain why Mama is crying. By the way, all this is discussed in Chapter 4 of my book."

According to Dr. Babcock, when "Proto-Germanic" split off from the mother tongue, Indo-European, some time before 500 B.C., part of what distinguished the new language was a shift in word accent, moving to the first syllable. Much of the English language retains this tendency, and in some regions of the United States, the tendency is rather strong: in the South and in many African-American communities, for example, PO-lice and DEE-troit are common pronunciations of police and Detroit, words of French (ergo, Latin) derivation).

"Cultural snobs may regard this as a mark of unsophistication," Dr. Babcock writes. "[T]he linguist, however, hears an ancient pedigree behind these pronunciations, a linguistic force that's over theree thousand years old."

All this is extremely interesting, I think, and The Night Attila Died is wonderfully absorbing and well-written.