A Long Belated Update

Hello dear readers, if any of you still happen to exist. I’m very bad with endings–in fact, I often just let things sort of fade away as I did with this project. Though the work I did on Churchgoing was interesting and, I think, useful for quite a few people, it was also a bit more engagement than I have time for anymore. I haven’t been to a church for anything more than a wedding since the last time I posted here. Well, the truth is, I did have to go to FIVE different weddings last year, but really, there hasn’t been much for me to write about otherwise. There are sports icons flaunting their religion while people die in floods around the world and all of that, but really, that’s not my usual area of discourse, so it’s best to leave it alone. 

 

For those of you who were wondering, I’ve been busy working and building a business for myself as a private tutor for most subjects you can name. I study the physiological and neurological side of education (as best as one can without a PhD in the subject) and use those discoveries to help my students succeed. It’s a tough but rewarding job and I’ve seen a lot of students off to some really good colleges in the past two years. I will be blogging about education for the foreseeable future at this site here. Also keeping me busy this year was a more intellectual pursuit: I had the wonderful opportunity to work at Stanford, helping neurologists design websites to show off their brilliant and life-saving work. My first client was the wonderful Dr. Monje-Deisseroth who is pushing to cure a deadly form of pediatric brain cancer. You can see the page I created and learn more about her work here: http://neurology.stanford.edu/labs/monjelab/ 

 

You see, I didn’t really abandon this project so much as put my time and effort into the things that I believe in. Where Christians might pray or attend church to calm their nerves or find some sort of edification, I sought out the things that would make me a better person in my own way. I donated some of my tutoring hours and I got to visit with some extraordinary people like Dr. Monje and Dr. Han (another Stanford doctor who works on Multiple Sclerosis) instead of arguing about the non-existence of deities. It’s a nice change, to be honest. I even took a chance and applied to Stanford’s PhD program in education myself, a rather lofty and (probably) unattainable goal, but it never hurts to hope.

 

It was a big year for Atheists last year and next year can only be bigger. There’s a planned march on Washington for the sake of all things secular and, though we lost Christopher Hitchens, the spirit of his argument still burns within millions of us around the world. In the end, I hope that this entry, though off topic, can help those searching the web for someone to relate to. I hope that it can remind the religious among us that no matter the heat of the discourse, Atheists are people with lives and aspirations, too. If you’re wondering about their feelings or reasoning, ask them–politely–and they will probably enlighten you. On the other hand, if you’re questioning your beliefs, don’t operate under the false impression that you have to be the next Richard Dawkins to step away from a place your heart no longer lies. There’s a spectrum here with us, as everywhere else–something I learned from my church visits. No matter who you are, find someone like minded and enjoy his or her company, but occasionally, step outside of your comfort zone and see how the other half lives.

 

For the time being, feel free to read the back entries, comment and keep the discussion going. Feel free to spread the work I’ve done here around. If you’re feeling ambitious, feel free to invite me to come to your church. Who knows, I might just take you up on the offer. 

An Open Letter to Christopher Hitchens

Read this. Read it In its entirety, and then return here. There are no words I could write that could better express this situation and it would be foolish to try.

Now onto the matter at hand:

Hitchens gave me my voice. Though Harris may have dragged me from Pascal’s flimsy wager and Dawkins may have prepared me to push back against those who would claim science’s support, it was Christopher Hitchens who gave me the courage to talk. Though Daniel Dennett and Penn Gillette may offer varying opinions on matters of religious sanctimony, it was Hitchens who showed me how the faithless could speak with the same dignified conviction usually reserved for the faithful. By example, Hitchens taught me how to carry myself in the face of an onslaught. He taught me how to change hearts and minds by being the person—occasionally abrasive, but always considerate and therefore charming—that I was born to be.

For me, Hitchens is more than an atheist. He is more than a writer and a debater: he is the man that I wish I had known when I was twelve years old, when I fell into religion for want of an alternative. The allure of basketball down at the Mormon Church or chaste, hand-holding dances would have held no sway had there been a man of his caliber to guide me. Had I been offered a dissenting opinion, one with courage, with questions, and with introspection, I would never have experienced my own intellectual dark age. Had there been books with purposes and poets with deeper messages; had there been unbiased conversation and a solid review of history, I never would have seen the inside of those dingy halls. Had there been one man certain enough of himself to offer his side of the story, I may have learned about the world. I may have had truth.

The fact that it wasn’t to be—that I had no one willing to question my ill-gotten faith—is of little consequence now. But I do wonder. I wonder what it could have been like to have had that even keel through adolescence, to have been offered the chance to learn who I was (and who I could be), at that young age. How many times I could have stood up for myself and others. How many chances I missed to really learn about the world, about myself, and about the society in which I live. How much more I could know now. Where my ambitions could have led me, had I seen the purpose of the Ivy League and the worth of true academia instead of waiting for chance and God to guide me.

Though his is fast fading, Hitchens has given his voice to me and many others. We are unafraid to broach the bigger topics in life because of his example. We are happy to talk to others about our lack of faith which, it must be said, is not a lack. It is a great gift that we have been given, this view from the shoulders of giants, and I cherish it every day of my life.

Though he may never read this, I will still send it. Though he may never respond, I don’t need for him to. He has already given so much and I will see to it that his gifts continue to bear fruit in the future. I will make sure that no one ever lacks that which he so eloquently has given us and that, even in his absence, we continue to question the world with the same harsh veracity he always has.

Though it must be of little consolation to one so ill, I offer him the only thing I can: my sincerest gratitude.

Thank you, Christopher Hitchens. I wish you the best.

Cj

On Loss

I don’t believe in a lot of things, but I especially don’t believe in beating around any proverbial bushes, so I’ll come right out and say it: this morning, on his 78th birthday, my grandfather passed away. He had an aneurysm earlier in the week and essentially lost a lifetime of memories, the use of half of his body, and any number of other cognitive faculties on that day.

After the initial damage had been repaired, the other veins and arteries that webbed across and through his brain fell apart, releasing even more blood into his already sensitive situation. The wounds failed to heal because of an unexplained anomaly in his blood that sprang up a few short months ago—he had too many white cells and too few platelets. Even with constant care and the help of doctors, they were unable to seal the leaks. My mother, ever the strongest of her generation, was trying to find a place for him to live out the remainder of his numbered days when he slipped away. He was already unconscious, lost somewhere inside of his injured brain, but it still hit the family hard. At least they have a god, if not the same one my grandfather had, for solace.

It’s at these times—when I lose a beloved friend or family member—when I think of writing an essay entitled “Atheist Meets Foxhole, Is Undeterred,” but I never do. It’s a brash statement to make, that loss doesn’t turn me to religion, and it makes it sound like I have no heart. I do, though. I’m just a bit numb, especially now.

The truth is, my entire life has been spent in a foxhole, one way or another. I never spoke of it, least of all to the internet, but while I was graduating this summer, indeed, while I was giving my final presentations at Antioch, my father was in the hospital recovering (with many complications) from surgery that had recently relieved him of a cancerous internal organ. Before then, there were other troubles, and before those, even more. Those of you who have read the early entries to this blog know what I’m talking about, those of you who are interested are welcome to go and read them.

But losing my grandfather is different. It’s not my own personal struggle, it’s an irrevocable loss. When I was younger, I had no concept of the changes I would experience when I lost my grandmother, losses that are compounded now with the loss of her loving husband. I’m not even biologically related to the man I lost today, but that doesn’t matter: he married my grandmother long before I was born, took care of my parents when they were in need, and has supported me in my every endeavor—even this one.

What many of you probably hadn’t guessed is that my grandfather is—was—a biblical literalist. One of those, “the earth is six thousand years old,” Christians. The kind who argue in ways that make their pastors blush, retreat, and hit their bibles like never before. When I visited my hometown in the years since my parents moved away, I slept in a room that had two cinderblock-and-plywood bookshelves covered in religious literature. He even had a bible split into several volumes, and, after my grandmother died, a book appeared bearing the title, “Where is God When it Hurts?”

For him, God was always there.

For me, he doesn’t exist.

Yet we would dine together, or get an extremely late breakfast—right on time for me, but lagging far behind his usual 4am wakeup—on my way out of town every time I came. Across the table from one another, eating McDonalds when the budget was tight or fancier eggs and toast, we’d talk about God plainly. He’d make his case, talk to me about the Mormon Church (a heresy in his eyes, though he did appreciate what they’d done for my mother and me), how he believed that God had zapped the fossils in the earth’s crust into existence the day He had created the land—everything. He made allowances for anything that would make his case, working out the miracles as he went. When I mentioned Occam’s Razor, the notion that when all things are equal, the simplest answer is usually the correct one, he would just claim that nothing was simpler than God’s will. The bible was his everything, the beginning and the end of every argument.

As this project grew, I talked with him at length about each of the churches I had visited and what I had learned. Miraculously, he never tried to talk me into a religion, never tried to change me or make me anything other than what I was. I could walk into his house with my hair dyed blue, wearing makeup or women’s clothing and he would scoff a bit, offer me a hug, and get on with discussing what I wanted for dinner. His door was always open and he embodied what a real Christian should. He was a man free of judgment, who even when he spoke of how the bible condemned homosexuality would shrug it off with a raspy Texan laugh and talk about how he didn’t mind homosexuals too much and even enjoyed some of our friends who swung that sinful way.

He was a Texan. He was ex-Navy. He was a biblical literalist. He was a stubborn mule of a man. He was my mother’s stepfather.

But to me, he was grandpa.

My one regret is that my children, when I have them, will never get a chance to know him or his wife, two of the kindest, most understanding people I have ever known. I’m glad that I got to call them mine, while
they were here.

As an Atheist, their loss hits me hard. There are no words—no prayers, no well-wishes—that can console me. The only thing I have is time, memories, and my writing. One way or another, my children will know those who have gone before, even if they themselves have arrived too late.

The Overbearing Prayer

Though I prefer to paint myself as an activist in the atheist world, there are places I don’t do it. Namely, places where I am drastically outnumbered, and places where I would be disrupting too many people’s lives at once. In the first instance, it’s impossible to have an intelligent conversation about anything when too many people are throwing their hats into the ring and reinforcing stereotypes. In the second, it’s a matter of respect. I wouldn’t want a theist to walk into a skeptic’s meeting and rile everyone up, so I apply the same standard to myself. This Thanksgiving featured both of those circumstances, and as such, I kept my mouth shut on a couple of issues, one of which I’d like to discuss with you.

This Thanksgiving, we had a prayer before dinner. Well, not so much before dinner as during it. We did a buffet sort of self-serving routine, and about the time half of us had our food (and some of us were already eating), my grandfather insisted that one of my uncles come and offer a blessing. My grandfather is deeply religious, as regular readers already know. My uncle, though not my grandfather’s son by birth, is descended from religious folk. I’m pretty sure my biological grandfather (a man I only met a few times before he died) spent more than a couple hours discussing the good book in front of an audience. I know for a fact that one of my other uncles is deeply religious (he told me so when I mentioned this blog to him), and that the other one is so deep into spirituality that you might as well refer to him as a de facto theist at this point. Among the other attendees were my incredibly religious nephew, my brother who claims to be an atheist but defends the beliefs of others to a rather ridiculous extent, and my family who has recently returned to church. My wife (the partial agnostic) is still up in Santa Cruz preparing for opening night of her professional directorial debut (break a leg, my dear), and thus, I was all alone in my disbelief, mired in a bog of believers.

Now, let me begin by saying I understand wanting to bless the food. I really do. It’s a tradition that’s been around for centuries, if not millennia. Thanking God (or whomever you happen to believe in) is perfectly fine, especially on a holiday that is based on the very concept of thanks. (Obviously, I wouldn’t do it if I had my way. Personally, I prefer to thank the people who purchased and prepared the food, but I’m the weird one here.)

A normal blessing, one that thanks god for the bounty of this feast, for the good health we have, for the trees and all that, is, as I said, perfectly within the realm of respectability for me. But what many theists don’t realize, is that prayers of this sort can easily become less about being thankful, and more about being, in a word, fearful.

Our prayer started out innocuous enough, though my uncle did insist on using phrases that assert the supremacy of god. I can get past that, the whole “our God in charge of everything” thing. But the part that didn’t sit well with me came after the thanks. He said, “please help us to recognize that everything we have comes from you, and that everything is because of your will.” Those of you who are open minded, reading this alone on your long weekend, read that sentence again. Maybe three times.

“Please help us to recognize that everything we have comes from you, and that everything is because of your will.”

“Please help us to recognize that everything we have comes from you, and that everything is because of your will.”

Now tell me, honestly: is that sentence more for God, or for my uncle’s three children? Or for the ungodly one in the room? I don’t suspect my uncle of any malicious intent—he really goes out of his way to be a nice guy most of the time—but I don’t think he has any idea how this sort of thing sounds. I don’t think anyone who ever offers this prayer aloud, to an audience, really thinks about the words that are coming out of his mouth. One on one, alone, on your knees by the side of your bed, I understand asking God to help you remember where your blessings come from. I understand asking him to help you keep your faith, especially if it’s an often-tenuous proposition. I also understand saying this sort of thing in front of an audience of devout believers, where everyone is hoping for similar results. But to say this in the blessing of a meal strikes me as odd. Something about it makes me question this prayer the same way I question backhanded compliments, as if it’s some sort of code. “That’s a beautiful painting for someone who hasn’t been trained in the arts.” To me, it felt far less inviting than it could have. But again, I’m the weird one.

I’m interested in your opinions. I feel like prayer is a sacred space where no one casts a critical eye, and maybe we should. Some people hide threats within prayers, and I’ve (more than once) heard someone send a message to their children while offering their heartfelt thanks to their chosen deity. I don’t really know how much these public prayers are about god anymore. What do you think?

Quick Update

I wasn’t sure that people would continue coming to the site, given that I haven’t had time to do a proper update in a while, but apparently, I’ve had many visitors this past week. Given that, I would really like to leave you with something to think about, whether or not it’s straight from my mouth. Here’s an article that Penn Jillette tweeted today. It’s about ministers who have lost their faith–because they read atheist literature as well as the bible. Somehow, taking a critical look at the bible can make it rather difficult to reconcile the differences and inconsistencies it contains. For those of you who always tell me I should read the bible, feel free to chew on these details for a little while:

Via ABC News

I’ll be back at you soon, one way or another. Seems I might be doing lunch with one of my favorite pastors soon.

My Father’s Churchgoing, Plus a Propaganda Note

I digress more than I get to the point lately. I suppose that’s the hallmark of a distracted mind. I’ve got a few more important things on my mind than religion. By definition, as an atheist, I’m fairly unconcerned with it. I don’t really want any misconceptions here: I do think that religion is mostly nonsense. I do think that any system that puts doubt in doubt is beyond tragic, and that convincing people to believe without seeing does them a great disservice. All superstitions aside, including the time wasted knocking on wood and kneeling for prayer of any sort, there are churches that don’t do a whole hell of a lot of good in this world, and those are where my attention most readily goes. I wish I had time to explore again, to see what’s good in the world, but for now, I’ve fallen into a rather pessimistic phase.

But all is not lost. Apparently, my family has made a bit of a return to God, and my father left this comment on the blog recently. Given that most people don’t patrol the comments, looking for new content, I wanted to post it here on the front page for all to see. Though he’s back in the good graces of God, I want you to notice that my skepticism is far from God-given: my attitude is straight up genetic.

Mom, Melissa (my younger sister) and I have been attending a Church that one of Melissa’s friends’ family likes. I will mention no names here. When you enter the Church, located in the Industrial area of Simi Valley Ca., you are greeted by a very nice coffee bar, in several flavors. There are the usual folks standing at the door with the agenda for the service. The seating is Movie Theater style with the seats gradually set higher than the ones in front to allow a good view.

The regular preacher has been in attendance only once in the several times we have been there. He was on a vacation to Hawaii the first two times we attended.

We went to a service in the evening a couple of weeks ago and he actually was there. He sounded more a motivational speaker than a preacher. He is young and handsome. He wears street attire and delivers his words in a more common manner. He uses no big words and wears a perpetual smile.

When you enter you may sit where you want. Then… the music starts! The front man is shoeless fellow with a preacher’s message. His back-up band is a motley crew of musicians. Among them are two lead guitars and sometimes three. There are acoustic and electric. There is a drummer and a keyboardist. The music is so loud that I have resorted to wearing earplugs! I do not think that God meant for you to have your hearing ruined for life.

Back to the band if I might. One of the lead guitar players is tipping his guitar back side up as he plays. One base player looks as though he just stepped in from the halls of a very informal high school. He wears t-shirts with some sort of message on the front every time he plays. Some of others look like the usual battle of the bands type. Funny hats, faded blue jeans and tattoos. A couple have the clean cut look. There is even a screen that shows the lyrics while you sing along. But, the last time I was there, after the lyrics to Amazing Grace had been depleted, they added a made up verse of their own. And that one had no screen assistance. It left thinking “What the?”

As I said before, I had to wear ear plugs. The funny thing is, they were not much good to me as the music was extraordinarily loud. After the music was over, I could hear only my ears ringing. I could not make out half of what the preacher was saying. In short, the word I was supposed to receive was unobtainable to me.

I am told it was a pretty good sermon. I will never know though. I don’t know if I will try it again. Maybe I am getting to old for this? I do wish that they had, had a healing session after, I could have used it.

I love my family, and I hope that this church gives them what they want without any of the bad aftertaste that the Mormons occasionally left them with.

Which brings me to my second point. I endured a bit of a public shaming (via Facebook no less) from my mother this week. I made a comment about being in a Laundromat and how disturbed I was that there was so much religious propaganda in it. I’d found some of these little notes on cars outside of the grocery store (in the rain, no less), but in the Laundromat itself, there were dozens of them scattered about. They weren’t simply on the tables, they were also on top of every single washer, every dryer, and even tucked into the faces of some of the machines. You literally could not cast your eyes across the room without spotting at least ten of them. I, being a good Samaritan, decided to read some of them, to see what they were about and what kind of vision they were propounding. Some were about God and whether or not he “cares when you’re suffering,” while others were about (and I kid you not here, dear readers) exactly to whom people are talking to when they say they’re “talking with the dead.” We all know how I favor the psychics around here…

Long story short, I took the pamphlets home with me. Not just a couple, or one of each type, but as many as I could get my hands on. I also came away with a couple of magazines from Watchtower, the Jehova’s Witness press. Basically, I took these things out of circulation to prevent them from falling into the wrong (read gullible) hands.

My mother literally told me “shame on you. Someone else might have found what they were looking for in those things.” I don’t take such a comment lightly, especially from my mother. Despite common assumptions to the contrary, I do care what she, and others, think of me. I really do. And thus, this explanation:

The next time you see propaganda from a church, I want you to take a page from my playbook and ask yourself a couple of questions about the people who wrote those leaflets, left them there, and espouse the beliefs that caused them to come into being. First of all, what kind of church is this? Second, what kind of information does this pamphlet contain? Third, is there a drastic disconnect between the true beliefs of that organization and the pamphlet in question? In my case, many of these things were left by the JW’s, whose beliefs include several harmful, ridiculous notions. In the literature, there was, of course, no mention of those less savory things, but instead, only discussions of God’s perfect love for us. (We must assume that this love for us doesn’t include any respect for our lives in some cases, especially those that center around blood transfusions, but whatever.)

This is my point: if you see religious propaganda from a church, you should be suspicious. What kinds of churches need to disseminate propaganda around town just to bolster their memberships? (Hint: often times, it’s the not so good ones, the ones that have dark secrets, the ones that have to have two faces just to get by.) I will tell you all the same thing I told my mother: if these pamphlets had been from a community church, with a Xeroxed flier on the wall with tear-off tabs that said, “we’re here to help,” I would have left it alone. But when they lure you in this way, with the best of their doctrines only spearheading a slow simmer of regrettable details to follow, they’re not worthy of even the briefest consideration. If someone wants to find God, I would never stand in his way. But if “God” is trying to find you, especially through a pamphlet in a Laundromat, you might want to figure out who the real source is before you end up trapped.

One final explanation: among the bad tastes that the Mormons have been known to leave in people’s mouths are their bizarre beliefs about death. My mother was once informed that my eldest brother’s soul was irreparably lost because she had had him cremated. Other leaders of the church disagreed with the genius who made this claim, but the damage was done. There is also the “keep the Sabbath day holy” nonsense to deal with. If you’re a good Mormon, you’re not allowed to do anything on Sunday. It’s not quite as harsh as ultra-orthodox Judaism (where you can’t even push an elevator button on the Sabbath), but it’s bad enough. No sports, no swimming (and this includes lounging in the pool, according to some), or anything of the sort. No gathering for anything except for church… These details, when turned into social pressures, shouldn’t have to be a part of the bargain, and thus, I will always secret away the propaganda I find from this type of church. I don’t agree with anyone who presents a one-sided case, only to spring the less-agreeable facts later on. After all, this is what so many of us dislike about our fellow human beings in the first place. When was the last time you approved of a lie by omission?

But I’ll keep it civil. If you disagree with me, I’d love to hear your opinion, but first, I want you to consider these questions before you reply:

1) Am I thinking about my own church and giving it undue deference because it’s the one I belong to? (I don’t want to hear, “oh, well, we put out happy fliers and then weigh people down with Sisyphean stones later, but it’s okay because I believe in it”—that’s crap. Though, I would like to see the word “Sisyphean” in the comments someday. Good story that.)

2) Would I not rather the soon-to-be-believer come to a church that really does have a sense of community not based on guilt-trip returns once the honeymoon is over? (Both the Mormons I’ve dealt with and many of the JW’s I’ve read about have these problems, but there are obviously better alternatives out there–how about a church where love really is the answer?)

3) Do I really think that these pamphlets would have been helpful as more than foot-in-the-door, gateway-drug, conversation starters? (This is the only of the three I can see having any sort of intelligent argument behind it, and thus, I am most open to this interpretation. Still, given the potential consequences, I am undeterred in my mission.)

I’m interested in what you think, but I do want to mention that, if you believe as I do that these churches should stop their predatory practices, don’t just pass these things by. Take the items in question. Recycle them. Leave what you will in their place, a letter of understanding, a business card with your church’s details written on it, whatever. I’m not saying we should cut God out of these public spaces, I’m saying we should cut churches who succeed because of their big budgets (more than their love and mutual respect) out of society. Period. It will be far easier to build a better tomorrow without them, I assure you.

My Mad Life

Hello dear readers:

I haven’t abandoned you, I assure you, but things have gotten a little hectic around the house. After a month or so of having no work, I’ve had to scrounge up every opportunity possible to keep the bills paid, especially as my student loans start to come due. Teaching and tutoring so much has been rather rough, but the real drain on my intellectual capabilities has been writing test copy for my parent company. Basically, I’ve been writing passages for mock SAT and ACT exams and I haven’t had time to write a word of anything I’d actually like to have down on paper.

Well, I guess I did sneak a question or two about Christopher Hitchens into my passages, but that’s besides the point.

I still owe you a Japan entry, something that I think about nearly everyday. Sometime soon, I will get those words down on the page and get my butt back in the pews at local churches. As soon as I do, you will hear about it.

One final thing: Christopher Hitchens has written an autobiography, Hitch 22, and I believe everyone should go out and read it. For those of you who say we atheists don’t believe in anything, check the previous sentence. It’s not a tirade against religion, but rather a discussion about the formation of one of the most brilliant minds of our times. My father, a man who regularly disagrees with Hitchens, has come around to see who the man is and where he has come from because of this book, and I believe you might as well. The second half of the book, when Hitchens gets more into our modern condition, is slightly more relevant to this blog than his younger days, but the whole thing is well-written and worth the effort.

I hope to see you all back here soon.

A Brief Digression from Japan: Dear Nancy Menefee

I’m working diligently on my Japan entries, but they’re taking longer than usual. You see, given that I couldn’t understand most of what was going on while I was there, I was more or less sight-seeing, but that doesn’t make for a very good blog. I mean, you enjoy some of my observations, but I’d rather give a bit of a history lesson and the overall cultural effects of the things I see rather than simply pile on the fluff for you to read and immediately discard from memory. Thus, I’m reading up on the things I saw and their histories to back up (or rearrange) my perceptions of the things I saw. It’s really fun, but… like I said, it takes a little while.

In the meantime, I’ve received a letter that I would like to address, especially since it isn’t the first one of these that I’ve ever gotten. Please allow me to return the letter here before I do so on paper.

Dear Nancy Menefee

Your handwritten note is a sweet little sentiment, albeit one that is misguided in so many ways it’s hard to enumerate them. Well, allow me to try:

Firstly, I’m an atheist, and your waste of paper, postage, and effort are a sad reflection on humanity. These letters that you send to hundreds of people (I live in a trailer park and I know you sent one to each of the fifty homes in here), are generally thrown immediately into the recycling bin. Honestly, you’d do better going door to door–at least then the energy you wasted would be yours and yours alone, instead of that of the mail service whom you have employed to tote your nonsense around for you. It seems to me that coupons and religious propaganda are all I receive in the mail lately and we could save a hell of a lot of trees if one or both of you would simply knock it off.

Secondly, your letter is unbelievably childish and ridiculous. After the common greetings and a mention of your “worldwide volunteer work to share an encouraging message from God’s word,” you ask if I check my horoscope before leaving the house each day. Well, Nancy, as a matter of fact, I don’t. Horoscopes are even more nonsensical than your belief in God, and, dare I say, more damaging to those delusional enough to invest their lives in such off-the-cuff tripe. I have known people to interpret their entire lives according to the signs and to cause themselves to have bad days simply because some idiot in a newspaper office decided that “Capricorn should be wary of the waning moon.” No, actually, Capricorn should be wary of swallowing nonsense from an asshole with a typewriter. I’m an asshole with a typewriter–I should know. Furthermore, the fact that you associate the bible (hurray Kings) with seeing constellations and interpreting them only further demeans the book that I already find worse than useless. I suppose it’s a good idea that you’re targeting those feeble-minded enough to follow you on the whole horoscope thing (I mean, they’re a better audience than I am), but you’re really not helping your case.

Finally, you ask if I would like to “learn more about this subject and others,” then request that I please write you. Well, I would like to learn more about… other subjects. That’s why there are schools. And blogs. And newspapers. And books. And podcasts. And specialists. And professors. And teachers. And lectures. And essays. And libraries (which you demean in your letter, you sad sack). And colleges. And universities. Unfortunately for you, I have no desire to learn about your religion because I know enough already. I’m writing you for one simple reason: to inform you that you are brainwashed and that you need to open your eyes if you hope to lead a productive, peaceful, and fulfilling life.

So, Nancy–the other thing you put in your envelope is a pamphlet that asks Would You Like To Know The Truth? Yes, yes I would. Unfortunately, the “truth” you offer comes from the only book that “contains reliable answers” in your view, which is, of course, the bible. But worse than that, it’s not even a real bible. It’s something called the New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures–With References. What would we ever do without those references?

Inside this treasure trove of terror (your pamphlet, not your own personal bible), you feature images like a man lost in a crowd, a child who has obviously been the victim of severe violence, gravestones (how evocative of our own mortality! good choice!), a girl who is obviously wondering “is there any hope for the dead?” (according to the accompanying headline), a man in prayer, and finally, a smiling woman holding a bible to her chest. I appreciate the scriptural references for all of these things and the fact that you think you have all of the answers, however, I am not going to refute you one point at a time. You see, I’m not a biblical scholar, but rather a pragmatist.

Given that pragmatism is probably not a word you’re going to find in the bible, let me describe it for you: I worry about reality and how to make life better while I’m alive for myself and for others. Why? because that’s the only sensible thing to worry about. The afterlife, what the bible says, all of that–really, it’s all debatable. If you don’t believe me, ask a Muslim. Or a Hindu. Or a really devout Buddhist. Or a Krsna. Or a philosopher. Or a history book. Or even a few different scientists–you’re bound to find some that think they have the answers, but no consensus, just like in religious circles. The one thing I know is that suffering in this world can be prevented and the surest way to prevent it is to

STOP LISTENING TO JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES. (And, subsequently, anyone else who behaves like a fucking cult. Yes, I used the f word–there needs to be emphasis on this point.)

Is there hope for the dead? Well, how about some hope for the living? I know that the only Jehovah’s Witness I knew growing up was taunted, teased, and constantly depressed because of his beliefs. It’s fun being the only kid who doesn’t get to eat a cupcake because it’s someone else’s birthday. Or to have your own birthday party. Or to celebrate a holiday.

But let’s stray away from the circumstantial evidence of my childhood. Here’s a blog I found written by an ex-Jehovah’s witness about his experiences. (Well, here’s a quote for those of you who don’t want to click over:)

He describes your ritualistic idiocy as

A set of beliefs which teach young children that their whole world, including non-Jehovah’s Witness relatives, schoolmates etc. is soon going to be destroyed by god because they are evil, wicked people. I was becoming more and more aware that what Jehovah’s Witnesses are prepared to teach children, MY children, is wholly inappropriate.

I reasoned that if this religion could take me, a happy go lucky 17 year old and turn me into a paranoid, depressed, anxious wreck, then what could they do to my children by means of this gradual drip, drip, drip that happens as you soak in their words and phrases?

That sounds like a fun way to live. Also, please note that I didn’t make that up. I’m also not making up the fact that your religion instructs you to refuse blood transfusions, even unto the point of letting yourself, or worse, your children, die. There’s no need to discuss the medical basis for such refusals–after all, the decision against transfusions was made back in the supremely well-informed 1930′s. Who can question such sound science from a time when blood was simply removed from one body and dripped into another? It’s not like we’ve improved the process over the last eighty years.

More than all of this, though, I’m simply offended by your decision to bother good people, in person or through the mail, with your beliefs. What you don’t realize is that people who want religion (I will never admit to anyone “needing” religion) will seek it out. If your beliefs are worthwhile, they will find you, probably through what we call the Internet. Should your claims prove to be viable (or helpful), they may come knocking on your door, but by all means, leave my household alone.

I would wish you luck, but that would be a falsification of my feelings. I wish you no luck in your current endeavor to twist the minds of susceptible people, though I do wish for you a swift and decisive split from your church.

Cj

PS : I don’t have an order form for any specific books, but I would insist that you read some that aren’t printed by Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society of Pennsylvania. Maybe try out “Crisis of Conscience”–it seems up your alley and was suggested by someone smart enough to part with your particular ideology.

International Christian University Chapel

This post is the first in my Japan series which will probably only be two or three entries long. Unfortunately, the language barrier makes it hard to say an awful lot about the things I experienced in Japan, but I’m probably going to add a little history to some of these entries to make them more worthwhile.
**

I awoke on June 30th in Tokyo, Japan, far from Simi Vallley and Culver City where I had spent the previous weeks. I’ll spare you the details of my travels, suffice it to say I had been awake for 24 hours before I crashed into a mattress at the lovely Hotel NUTS (New Urban Time and Space—don’t ask).

At eight AM Japan time, I dragged myself out of bed and shoved myself through the bowels of Tokyo’s subway system. Granted, it’s a lot more pleasant than the other trains I’ve been on (I’m looking at you, AmTrak), but the sheer magnitude of human bodies milling about is more than a little overwhelming to a misanthrope like me. Half an hour and a few missed connections later, we arrived in Narita, a greener, prettier suburb near Tokyo, and hopped a taxi to ICU Japan.

Why is this relevant to the blog, you may ask? Well, ICU stands for International Christian University. It’s one of the few universities in Japan that is accredited by the United States, and thus, the place where my sister-in-law Molly came to spend the past four years of her life. Molly isn’t religious, though I don’t know exactly where she stands on the issue, I do know that church doesn’t even begin to register on her list of priorities. ICU was simply the nicest campus she saw amongst the accredited schools, but for my purposes, it is a hotbed of Christian activity, and thus, a useful trope for the blog.

Back to the narrative, I must say that the crushing weight of the city was more than I could take in my jet-lagged sleep-deprived state and ICU’s verdant campus was a rather pleasant change of scenery.

Or, it would’ve been if we weren’t already late for Molly’s graduation.

By the time we got out of the taxi, the bell-tower built out of the school’s chapel was already sounding out a last chance warning, and we (the family minus our little graduate) hurried up to the heavy wooden doors. (See the splash page image here—we rushed up that little walkway, around the circle (which is actually a little lawn area), and over to the church itself.)

But we were too late. The path was clogged with professors in their PhD hooded robes, and several administrative helpers genially led us with broken English to wait by the side. My father-in-law wheezed a rather grumpy retort, but the machinations of the grand display were already in motion and we would simply have to wait our turn.

Promptly, the foyer doors opened, and the professors began singing the opening hymn of the graduation, the ironically titled (and even worse-ly worded) “Take Our Minds, Dear Lord.” Some sang the words in Japanese, others in English, but all marched diligently down the central aisle and took their seats on the rear-facing pews at the front of the room. As the final notes echoed their last reverberations through the rafters, our ever-smiling hosts (formerly our polite foyer-bound captors) opened the doors and motioned for us to find seats near the back of the chapel.

Shuffling quickly around the edges of the room, our family unit was broken up by a tiny old woman who inserted herself as we came through the side door, and we scattered ourselves amongst the remaining seats in the sweltering hall. A robed official took to the lectern, and I settled into my seat for the long haul.

The program listed a handful of minor events, but I knew well enough (having been to my fair share of graduations) that this wasn’t bound to be a short process. First, there was a prayer, later, a benediction, and in between, the individual conferring of degrees for both undergraduates and post-grad students. There were other songs (one from the Glee Club even), speeches, and even an emeritus ceremony in there as well, but nothing particularly caught my eye. After all, I was in a church—there were more important things to look at than the program or even the tassle-capped heads that tilted sleepily before me.

Though I’ve provided a link to some pictures of the church, the one thing you’ll miss by looking at them is actually the most important: how hot the place was. During our week in Japan, the temperature in Tokyo wavered a grand total of ten degrees night and day, from a low of 76 to a high of 86, but with near-total humidity throughout. Even now, when people ask me how my trip was, I remark with a single adjective: “sweaty.” Inside the chapel, there was no air conditioning—just six rotating fans set up to service the couple hundred people who had come to watch the proceedings.

As for the architecture, the ceilings were vaulted to the standard awe-inspiring height, fit to accommodate the downright impressive pipe-organ set up that sat behind the stage. (See this page for a good visual The picture is taken from a balcony–I only ever saw the bottom of it, though.) Wood paneling was affixed to everything but the windows, and the pews (though rather old fashioned and short enough to seat the average Japanese congregant rather than my lanky self) were pretty comfortable. I would show you my own pictures if I had any, but there were signs posted between the life-giving fans that said (in English as well as Japanese) that photography was not permitted.

Though I once took quite a bit of Japanese in school (two years—one conversational, one academic), I couldn’t make out a single word of what was going on at the front of the room, even when they were speaking English. There were microphones, but the chancellor chose not to use them the majority of the time, and our position at the back of the room meant that what little noise did manage to squeak its way back to us was garbled and unintelligible. It made me appreciate the more modern churches I’ve visited around here. Apparently, acoustics are the unappreciated gift that most religious institutions readily enjoy. Maybe you should thank your architect instead of Jesus one of these days.

As I was unable to hear and appreciate the things that were being said, I turned my attentions to other things, like the Japanese language bibles, hymnals, and other little treasures that could occupy me for the ensuing hours. The bibles were diminutive in size compared to the ones that are so regularly thumped in the states, and though they had the customary black covers, I almost didn’t recognize them. Flipping to any random page, they didn’t seem like bibles: there were no verse numbers and hardly any periods to be found. Instead, there were just columns of text—in kanji and hirigana, of course—and rather telling empty space. I flipped through and practiced my hiragana reading skills (sounding out random syllables to waste some time), before returning the little tome to its slot on the back of the pew before me.

Of slightly more interest was the hymnal, a sometimes English, sometimes Japanese affair with notes, words, and syllabary sound-outs for the musically inclined. It seemed to me that none of them were works of original Japanese origin, but just simple, rote translations of things that had been passed down from generation to generation through Christian families. I’m sure the cockles of the Christian heart will be warmed to know that this Sunday they may be singing the same song as their brothers and sisters in Japan, though I would have rather seen something a little more culturally ethnocentric than all of the same stuff I’d seen in the Mormon hymnals back in California.

Other than the books, I was rather given to boredom, as was the rest of the audience. At one point, a young couple a few pews in front of us were making out (rather unseemly for a graduation, let alone one that’s taking place in a church), but other than that, people watching was largely uneventful. All around me, people fanned themselves with their carefully printed programs or the cheap, freebie fans they procured from street vendors or their hotels. My father-in-law took to reorganizing his day-bag, occasionally flashing me bits of interesting electrical accoutrement that he had brought for our picnic later in the day, but that was about it.

On occasion, I put some real effort into understanding the English portions of the ceremony but still never understood what was going on. At one point, while flipping through the little bible, I heard the current speaker declare, “in the name of our Savior, Amen.” Oddly, no heads in the audience had been bowed (at least, not anymore than they had been before), and I hadn’t even known he was praying.

It was hard to tell where one agenda item ended and the next began, until the graduates received their diplomas and made their way back to their seats. It was a rather interminable process—one group had 50 names in it, and it was only one amongst nearly a dozen disciplines. We waited for each group to wander up, receive its four-year-reward, and then clapped with a bit of enthusiasm (though far more subdued than the rollicking efforts common to American graduations) before repeating the process. By the time the final prayer was offered, everyone was anxious to return to the lush lawns outside and take photos with their own little graduates.

Though there were hymns, one of which was sung very beautifully by the ICU Glee Club, there wasn’t much religion in the process at all. The Christianity at ICU seems like much of the religion throughout the rest of Japan—a tradition to nod to, but nothing to get bent out of shape about. ICU is interdenominational, and much of its student body isn’t even Christian at all (as I understand it). We spent the rest of the day hanging around, eating and chatting with a lot of students (I’m sure my picture, mohawk and all, is floating around the internet right now because of it), but there was no more mention of religion, God, blessings or anything else you might expect to hear at a Christian University. In the end, I rather appreciated the way they handled their religion at ICU, as opposed to some of the more ridiculous things I would see in the coming days.

Next entry: my visits to a shrine and a pair of oversized Buddhas.

I’m Still Alive

I have officially survived my final semester as an MFA candidate, a trip to Japan, and the return journey. Today, I’m getting my life back in order, but tomorrow, I will be writing up an entry about my wanderings in and around Tokyo–I went to a few religious sites and a couple of religious landmarks, so it’s pretty good fodder for the blog. I think you’ll like it.

I’m also going to get to work on editing my lecture for those of you interested in that. It’s going to take a while, though, so I wouldn’t hold my breath on that front.

The main reason I’m writing this entry today, however, is that I’ve had another interesting encounter in Santa Cruz:

I woke up at three in the afternoon today. I’m jet-lagged and in a foggy headspace, just sort of drifting through my waking hours. While making the six hour drive home from LA last night, I meandered over the white line enough times to get Gina to take over driving duties and get us home safely. Note: Gina never drives that road–I am completely out of my mind.

Shortly after I woke up today, I decided to clean out the fridge and restock my life. I haven’t set foot in this house for nearly a month and everything has gone bad. And continued to sit in the fridge. Molding.

So I made a list and wandered through the store for an hour, picking up the things I needed and the things I craved (curse you Japan and your delicious, unavailable-in-the-states noodle dishes). When I was done, I walked to the car and unloaded the groceries. After returning my grocery cart to the pre-determined cart corral, I noticed that someone in the lot was having car trouble.

With the toaster waffles melting in the car, I wandered over to the driver and offered him some help. His hood was open, and it seemed to me, given the relative newness of his car, that he probably only needed a jump-start.

He was sitting in the driver’s seat, talking on a cell-phone, but he stood up to greet me. “Do you need a jump?” I offered.

“Yeah, but the tow-truck is on its way. Should be here any minute.”

“I could do it right now,” I offered pointing to my car a few spaces away.

“It’s okay, I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes already, but thanks a lot.” He reached out and shook my hand.

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

As I walked back to my car, he continued the conversation he was already having on his phone.

“Yeah, it just proves that people around here really are human. And that’s why I’m willing to go to war for them.”

I had no idea he was a soldier, and I’m not trying to make some grand 4th of July statement, I just want to say this one more time: do something right for someone else, for no other reason than that it’s the right thing to do. Make the world a better place. It doesn’t cost you anything more than a minute of your time. Pass it on.