Pointless Pontification: April 2007 Archives
I've blogged about this before but it still bears repeating: I am not a post-modern writer.
I don't even think we can make the case that we're living in a post-modern culture any more. There may be relics of that obsolete and naive religion (which grew out of a culture created by spoiled brats who loved marijuana more than people) still floating around in the social conciousness. But I'm reading too many essays lately which finally come right out and explain how sick and tired people are of the reign of terror these burnt-out hippies are still waging as they cling more viciously to their dead and rotting philosophies.
"No, don't hold back," you say. "Tell me how you really feel!" I always get myself in trouble when I do that. I'd rather let others, who are eminently more qualified than I to say the things I wish I could say with such clarity and authority.
Read this article by Ron Rosenbaum (HT Books, Inq.). He says it better than I can.
I can't say I was all that well-rested this morning. The little monster came and got in bed with us and was kicking the covers down all night. But I was finally able to get to bed about 10:30, fall asleep right away, and sleep for a good nine hours, off and on.
But I usually get a lot less than that. I'm usually in a perpetual state of sleep-deprivation. I have a really hard time getting to sleep. I abhor lying there awake, so I'll stay up and watch Turner Classic Movies for hours until I feel confident that, when I do finally go lay down, I'll fall asleep right away. But to do that, I have to be completely exhausted. I'll stay up writing or watching movies until 1, 2, or sometimes 3. Then wake up and feel like a zombie all day, then do the same thing again. And again. And again. Until I fall asleep on the couch after dinner because I'm so tired.
But last night I got a fair amount of sleep and it made me a little concerned this morning. I felt weird. It's been so long since I've felt actually awake, I thought there was something wrong with me. I wasn't used to the feeling. Sleep aids just make me groggy (I've tried a lot of them) and it doesn't help that me "day job" doesn't fire me up and make me want to get out of bed.
I suspect that a lot of creatives have troubling sleeping. Along with depression and generally odd behavior, us ahh-tist types (queue pinky in the air on a cup of tea and a beret) have a lot of issues to deal with.
It ain't easy to be me.
I recently came across a link to a speech made by Pope Benedict XVI to the students and faculty of Regensburg University. The whole speech is very interesting (and quite dense) and concerns itself, primarily, with the relationship between faith and reason; but the following quote, in his closing, really jumped out at me:
Here I am reminded of something Socrates said to Phaedo. In their earlier conversations, many false philosophical opinions had been raised, and so Socrates says: "It would be easily understandable if someone became so annoyed at all these false notions that for the rest of his life he despised and mocked all talk about being — but in this way he would be deprived of the truth of existence and would suffer a great loss".
— Socrates, qtd. by Pope Benedict XVI
I know a lot of Christians who love to mock "all talk about being". They despise philosophy and intellectual inquiry. It could be argued that today's Protestant Christians are, in the majority, anti-intellectual, thanks in no small part to violent reactions against the the works of Kant et. al.
I don't blame Christians for being wary of the intellectual establishment, and I don't blame anyone for not wanting the headache of being around people who want explanations for why people believe in Christianity. Explanations we probably feel grossly unprepared to provide. But isn't that what the Bible says we should do? Be prepared in season and out of season to give a REASON for the hope we have?
Living a good life is certainly a great witness, but so is defending Christianity with rational, reasonable intellectualism. With Reason.
