Don’t Throw the Baby Out With the Bath Water

I have been through what I was told was true, what for a while I believed was true, what I was afraid was true, and am now left with what would be nice if it were true, but...

My struggle with “...faith...the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 1:11 KJV) began in the Christmas season of my 10th year. For five decades I have wrestled on and off with the claims of fundamental Christianity. I have studied the Bible, its doctrines, and the claims of various systematic theologies from more than one perspective.

I have recorded two translations of the Bible from Genesis 1:1 all the way through to Revelation 22:21. Recorded... that means that with at least one practice read before turning on the microphone, I have been through the entire Bible from cover to cover at least four times. That does not count any of the reading, section by section, that was done during other periods of study. My struggle with faith and my ultimate ability to embrace, “I don’t know,” as the ultimate truth is not for lack of having read the Bible enough.

What I ran away from was the iron-clad cock-sureness of fundamentalist who believe they understood every jot and tittle of their Bible. I ran away from the fundamentalist’s inability to say, “I don’t know, I could be... wrong.” I have yet to meet a fundamentalist of ANY faith who can distinguish between “don’t know” and “disbelief.” Fundamentalists of all faiths live in a world of false dichotomy: “Either you believe as I do, or you are wrong.”

“Not believe” is not the same as disbelief. There is an entire range of human knowledge, opinion, and questioning that lie on the continuum that is defined by absolute disbelief on one extreme and absolute faith on the other.

The baby was the faith of a child who had yet to be washed in the learning of scientific principles, critical reasoning, and logic – including the logical fallacy of CIRCULAR REASONING – which is what many of you who believe that I am going to go to hell are practicing right now. “The Bible is true because the Bible says it is true” just doesn’t cut my spiritual mustard anymore.

Throwing out the bath water is not to throw out the science, reasoning, and logic. It is to refill the tub with fresh water so that my baby, the maturing mind that is able to say, “I don’t know,” can have a nice warm soak. To throw the baby out with the bath water would be to abandon some of the most instructive literature, most profound philosophies, and the grandest ideas that keep hope alive in the hearts of millions.

Please, do not be offended, but please DO consider: I believe that if there is an almighty creator God to whom I am ultimately responsible, that that God is not petty, is not malicious, is not ego bound, nor is he unable to understand that I have honest doubts, but am open to learning more, and more, and more... on into existence on a plane that I do not presently have the capacity to comprehend. I don’t know... I could be wrong.

All “God” has given me is NOW, and the EVIDENCE at hand. 

Nighthawk, Vernita Bridge Rest Area

Marmots at Palouse Falls

ÿ

Embrace Nothing and Have Everything

 

What do our accomplishments amount to when placed on the scales of the cosmos? Do our lives count for anything in the face of eternity? Where will the museums and libraries full of the most celebrated works of art and literature be in ten thousand years? Nothing lasts forever, not even the earth and sky.

What will the achievement of lofty goals matter when the earth is a charred cinder orbiting a red dwarf? Was Shakespeare correct when he wrote, “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more... a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing."?

This is not a dirge; it is a celebration! If our accomplishments and our very lives ultimately signify nothing, we are truly free. Free to stop worrying about product and embrace enjoyment of process. Free to be who we will; free to value what we choose to value.

The value of a single day does not dwindle to nothing on the scales of the cosmos and our lives matter, even in the face of eternity. If we are ultimately nothing and our past is unalterable and our future uncertain, then all we have is today. Today is all we ever had or ever will have.

Today is everything. We are not valueless and our days do not signify nothing. On the scales of the cosmos, in the face of eternity, and possessing nothing but today, each one of us and each one of our days is of incomprehensible rarity and singular preciousness.

My nothingness does not depress me; I embrace it. It gives my mind the freedom and the wings to ride updrafts of unbounded joy and priceless beauty. I can let misfortune and grief drag me out of the sky and chain me down, or I can embrace misfortune as the measure of the worth of good fortune. I can bear my grief as the measure of the value of what has been lost.

So, whether that hand is young and supple and strong, or old and stiff and weak, reach out and lay hold of as big a chunk of today as you can, because by tomorrow, today will be irretrievable. Lay hold of your only possession, seize the day.

A smattering of images from learning the capabilities of my new Fujifilm S6800 camera.

(Excluding the aircraft carrier)

 

 

Billionaire House, mouth of Robinson Canyon from Craig's Hill

 

One of my neighbor buddies, Cinnamon

 

Canadian Goose, lake at Irene Rinehart Riverfront Park (IRRP)

Waiting for lunch on Brick Mill Road

The creek at IRRP taken from bridge into upper park

 

From across the river on the IRRP trail to upper park

 

Good ole whatshisname, backyard

Old Vantage Hwy, center left

Panorama of low river from Ginkgo

New river bridge at New Vantage

Position of caves in relation to bridge

Just a couple of holes in the wall

Up river and across from Ginkgo

 

Too lazy to have learned all these species yet

Ditto

 

 

 

Now, imagine yourself in a rowboat...

(Not my picture)

From my back fence

From my back fence

From my back fence

 

He's really very interested in my lunch

 

 

Sir Thomas Gibb, The Gray Hobbes

The Tyranny of Need

Take a beguiling phrase or sentence, marry it to the right melody, and you can get away with making the most indefensible position sound appealing. In 1968, Jimmy Webb wrote “Wichita Lineman.” Right there between the “stretch down south,” that “won't ever stand the strain... and the Wichita Lineman,” who, “is still on the line,” Webb slips in a memorable line that is a hazard disguised as a sweetly romantic idea: “And I need you more than want you and I want you for all time.”

What a horrible thing to say to someone you love. Sweet sentiment? Not even close when you consider how burdensome that is for the one who is being needed. Neither is it any great news for the one doing the needing. Webb was not writing about normal human social needs. A little dash of need can spice a relationship and sharpen our wits. No, the Wichita lineman wants this person for all time. Being wanted can be flattering as long as you have some wanting of your own. But, we don’t have that normal complexity of human relationships with the lineman.

This character wants this other person so much that he is declaring his willingness to enter into a state of absolute, status quo existence in the eternal “now” with his beloved. That is a lot of want. And he needs her more than that!? That’s too much need! Good grief man, get a grip! The kind of need you are expressing is not at all healthy for you or your beloved. You’re sacrificing your independence to an ensnaring dependency on another human being... who may fail you. They may fail you not because they don’t care, but because we all have a limit to our capacity to carry another’s load.

The person who is needed isn’t getting off lightly, either. Quite the contrary. They are carrying the heavier load. It’s as if they are carrying a half dozen burning candles delicately balanced on a flimsy tray through a paddle of gasoline... and the earth starts to shake.

A little need humbles us and helps the ties that bind our friendships, but the need being expressed by the Wichita lineman is tyrannical. Nobody needs that kind of need.

Touring the USS Turner Joy - DD951

Maintained as a museum ship by the Historic Naval Ships Association at Bremerton, WA

Forward 5"/54 and superstructure

Traveling companions pacing the ferry looking for a handout

There is a huge I-beam just under that four-spoke valve wheel in the center of this picture.
That's the keel. There is nothing on the other side of that but Puget Sound.
At this point, the water line is a foot or two over our heads.

The Turner Joy is driven by steam tubines

A "coffin" locker

Puget Sound Naval Ship Yard
A neighbor

In the neighboring marina
Taken from the weather deck of the Turner Joy

 

Returning to Seattle

What Matters Wisdom?

I have lived as a fool for decades and loathe myself for the mess I have made of my life. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. If the American Dream is morphing into the American Nightmare as fools in congress and business continue to dismantle our country, our economy, and our constitution, it occurs to me that if I had lived wisely all these years that, in the end, it would have made no difference. I may even be better off for having gotten so good at barely getting by.

Like an insect, my kind of low-life may be better equipped to survive the national and social melt down that increasingly seems to be the eventual fate of a once powerful and prosperous nation that may be trapped on a dead end hell slide into poverty and shame. Who's better equipped to hunker down and survive in a hovel while grubbing for enough food to keep body and soul together: the "winner" who is well invested, lives in a nice big house, and is used to a wide range of comforts and diversions – or the "loser" who is used to doing without, struggling to get by, and discovering in the process that he is no more or less bored than he was in the earlier, more affluent days of his youth.

Now, just because I'm a fool doesn't mean I'm ignorant. I recognize that a significant portion of the population who currently enjoy a comfortable, well supplied, and – seemingly – secure life style are persons of strength, character, and courage. When faced with adversity, they are capable of responding to the shifting fortunes of circumstance, making adjustments, taking action – and surviving. Many who have made their way through challenging times find that the experience has benefitted them. Sometimes a real shake down of the status quo is an opportunity to sift through the detritus of our lives and adjusts our values.

However, there are others who are living lives which are in great jeopardy, yet they settle into their daily routine blithely unaware that they are walking on a tight rope stretched between two houses of cards. Captive in a culture of consumerism, they spend every dollar they earn – and more (thank you, Visa; thank you, MasterCard). Never having made up their minds just what it was they really wanted to do to earn their livings, they graduate college the slaves of their student loans and, if they are lucky, get a job in a nice, clean career. Having grown up with televisions, computers, and cell phones, many of them don't know one end of a screw driver from the other. They hire everything done, while having no desire, and often no skill, to do anything for themselves. God help them, because when the financial egg hits the fan they may look to the government for help to survive – and find the government bankrupt. The coffers empty. No bread in the bread line. No soup in the soup kitchen.

So, what matters wisdom? A great deal. Just because I didn't apply a great deal of wisdom doesn't mean I don't recognize it's value. Quite the contrary; because I find myself old, crippled up, tired, and bitterly paying the price for not having lived wisely, I see clearly the value of what could have been – if only…

Some of what I learned the hard way and too late:

• Put the plug in the jug. There is nothing that can happen to you that can't be made worse by booze and drugs.
• It's not the high cost of living that is your curse, it's the cost of living high.
• You don't NEED a new car… nor the payments. A mechanically sound used car will serve you better by costing you less.
• The bigger the house, the more costly the maintenance.
• The longer your commute, the more money you're burning on gas and the more time you are losing on the road.
• Learn how to do stuff for yourself. Mechanical skills, building skills, gardening.
• You don't have to be extremely wealthy to be financially independent. You just have to have lived long enough spending less than you earned, and investing wisely, to reach a point where you can maintain an abundant life with a moderate income.

Faith Is Not Blind, It Is Fundamental

Faith is a part of our system of perception. It does not stand alone, but serves as an extension of the other two parts of our system of perception – empiricism and rationalism. Faith is what we use to bridge the gap between what is provable and improvable by empirical evidence and rational thought alone.

Faith is fundamental. It is the cornerstone of the foundation of our minds. Without it, we do not develop the capacity for rational thought. Rational thought is contingent upon language – the ability to build vocabulary, conceptualize the world in which we live, and to communicate among ourselves. As infants, we learn language by faith. As our capacity for language develops, we accept – by faith – the system of sounds and symbols that are our languages. It is not proven to us empirically or rationally that that’s mommy, that’s daddy, that’s a cat, dog, chair, table, or house. As our facility for language increases, our potential for rational thought increases.

We are born empirical beings. We develop our capacity for rational thought by accepting – through faith – the meanings of the symbols of our language. We are finite beings. Our senses are limited; our capacity for thought is limited. Empiricism and rationalism can not be divorced from faith; scientific methodology can not be divorced from faith. Evolutionary theory begins with faith in the axiom – the presupposition, the assumption – that the origin of life can be explained by purely natural causes.

Harvard Professor of Genetics, Richard Lewontin, a world leader in Evolutionary Biology, acknowledges the nature of evolutionism’s foundation.

“We take the side of science in spite of the patent absurdity of some of its constructs, [. . .] because we have a prior commitment, [. . .] (W)e are forced by our a priori adherence to material causes to create an apparatus of investigation and a set of concepts that produce material explanations, no matter how counter-intuitive, [. . .]. Moreover, that materialism is an absolute, for we cannot allow a divine Foot in the door.”1

The theory of evolution does not end with naturalism; that is, “the view that all phenomena can be explained in terms of natural causes.”2 It begins with an assumption of naturalism.

Faith is fundamental to those who believe we have been created; faith is fundamental to those who believe we have evolved. The billions of dollars spent and the billions of person-hours invested in the devout pursuit of a “scientific” explanation of the origin of life is the simple seeking of justification for believing what the evolutionists accepted – by faith – in the beginning. The pretentious ridicule of faith by evolutionists is a foolish denial of the fundamental role of faith in the functioning of human perception. The self-righteous disdain in which some of the religious look upon many scientists is an ignorant denial of the nature of the human mind – whether created or evolved.

“I am not a person of faith, I am a person of science.” Humbug. “I am not a person of science, I am a person of faith.” Equally humbug. At the core of science is faith in our ability to gather sufficient evidence, measure it with satisfactory accuracy, and to interpret it correctly. And the most faith-based persons among us use rudimentary scientific reasoning in the course of our daily lives – our vocations, our decisions.

Maybe it is better to be uncertain of a truth which we can not prove, than to be certain of a falsehood which is assumed to be proven.

---

[1] Richard Lewontin, “Billions and Billions of Demons.” The New York Review.

(9 Jan. 1997) 31.

[2] The American Heritage Dictionary. (New York: Dell, 2001)

Adding Insult to Injury

Being 59 and unemployed is not an encouraging circumstance in which to find myself. It may not be the end of the world… but I can see it from here. It’s not the end of my life, but it is the end of my “American Dream.” The odds are that I will have no “comfortable” retirement.

I am not totally without hope. My life is in my mind, not in my wallet. Good thing, because my wallet is empty. I am becoming increasingly unable to compete for the physically demanding jobs with which I have paid my way so far and there seems to be a real shortage of entry level positions for older workers to break into a new line of work.

So, the wolf is at the door and my back is against the wall. That’s okay… the door is closed and having a wall behind you means you don’t have to cover your rear. But it does mean that until I get around to sending those certified letters to my creditors telling them to stop calling me that I have to put up with their constant and pointless phone calls.

While I maintain a certain level of effort to work my way out of the mess in which I find myself, and while my attitude is not totally in the tank, there is a burr under my saddle concerning one particular practice on the part of at least one of my creditors that just plain pisses me off. In spite of all the economic mumbo-jumbo about the pseudo wisdom of outsourcing our work to foreign locations, I get a little rankled when I pick up the phone and it is another dunning call on behalf of a creditor… AND IT IS FROM A CALL CENTER IN INDIA!

If you want me to find gainful employment and pay what I owe you, stop exporting my job opportunities! Outsourcing is not done to make a profit in order to stay in business. It is done to MAXIMIZE profit in the short run. To hell with your greed! Pull your heads out of the nether regions of your posterior anatomy, settle for a modest and SUSTAINABLE profit, and return to a mode of operation that strengthens our business environment in the long run. We can not all make a living shuffling papers and selling hamburgers to each other.

Under the guiding hand of greed exercised by many modern business executives the American Dream is becoming the American Nightmare.

Bloody Friday – August 14, 1970

 

I enlisted in the Navy in 1970 and spent my summer at the Naval Recruit Training Command in San Diego. As luck would have it, my company drew a sadistic drunk as a Company Commander. He had a nasty habit of going to the enlisted men’s club or off base and getting sloshed while we were doing anything from being lead to classes by recruit petty officers to simply being left in formation on the grinder for a couple of hours until he felt like retrieving us.

There were, perhaps still are, two separate weeks that marked our progress toward graduation. Service Week, when we learned how to do with very little sleep while we worked in the scullery and mess hall from very early to very late; then there was Colors Company Week, when we attended the raising and lowering of the flag. For the ceremonies we were dressed in Class “A” Whites and stood inspection. On Friday of Colors Week we didn’t so well at inspection… according to our Company Commander. We didn’t know about it for a few hours.

After “Colors” in the morning we were led to a couple of different classes by our recruit petty officers, then chow, then back to our barracks where we were waiting out one of our Company Commander’s absences. We were still in our white uniforms. We were in our socking feet, as was our standard operating procedure to keep the deck clean and polished.

His name has been changed to protect the guilty.

From the rear of the barracks a voice rang out loud and clear, “Attention on deck!” We scurried into two lines bracketing the center aisle as our company commander came swaggering through the open back door. Ship Fitter First Class Billy T. Cracker marched silently and slowly between us. His mouth was tightly closed in a lipless slash as his half-opened eyes glared straight out over the flared nostrils of his reddened face. Reaching the front of the barracks, Cracker staggered slightly as he turned and regarded us scornfully as we stood in tense, tomb-like stillness.

I had never been the direct object of Petty Officer Cracker’s abuse. His targets were not random; he would only fire all of his guns at once and explode into the face of recruits guilty of some breach of protocol. I had been coached: keep your mouth shut and your eyes forward, and quickly do exactly as you are told. Like the story about two guys meeting a bear in the woods, I didn’t have to outrun the bear; I just had to outrun the other guy.

Cracker shattered the silence, “What a pathetic bucket of worms! A bunch of squirrels could have done a better job at inspection than you maggots did this morning! March to Georgia, NOW!” In pairs, we scrambled to lift a set of bunks and started marching in place. Cracker soon ordered us to put them down, pile all of our gear, and the lockers it was stored in on the bunks and then pick them up again.

A sailor can carry all of his Navy issue in a sea bag about three and a half feet tall, but we had the added weight of the metal bunks, our rifles, our lockers, and our boondockers. Cracker didn’t give the order to march, but he did begin to prowl among us. I knew he was drunk. I knew he was mean. I didn’t know how far he would carry the punishment... nor did I know how long I could carry that load.

After an eternity of two or three minutes, I heard the tick of a bunk leg tapping the deck. There was the clatter of loads being dropped as Cracker plowed through us and battered the poor boy who had been first to surrender. With spittle flying and eyes bulging, Cracker screamed for us to grab our rifles and form up outside for calisthenics… on the concrete apron in our socking clad feet.

The recruit next to me got out of time and Cracker bulled through our ranks, knocked him to the ground, hit him in the face, and ordered him to stand at attention on a concrete laundry table with his rifle held above his head. One of the recruit’s shoulders had been badly hurt when Cracker pushed him to the ground, he couldn’t raise that arm. He had to stand there holding the rifle over his head with one hand as bright red blood dripped from his nose to the front of his stark white jumper.

Fridays were the days of graduation ceremonies for companies that had finished their training and were leaving for schools and fleet assignments. The streets in front of the barracks were crawling with civilians who were on their way to Prebble Field to watch their sons/brothers/nephews graduate. There were witnesses. There were complaints. Cracker was put on report for maltreatment and sent to alcohol rehab. We were counseled, received an apology and a replacement company commander. We were the last company Cracker would ever be allowed to lead. That pathetic bucket of worms may have been a first class ship fitter, but he was a no class leader.