Why Writing Nonfiction Feels Wrong, But Isn’t

 

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My uvula is forked, but not my tongue. That little dangly bit at the back of your throat? Yeah, mine has a bifurcation in it (likely the result of my palate closing late-on in my mother’s pregnancy). The kindest way to describe what this looks like is to say that it resembles a sort of upside-down heart. The way I end up having to describe it, inevitably, is that it basically looks like a tiny ballsack in my throat.

I know about the forked-uvula thing because I was told about it by my family doctor literally every time I visited him when I was growing up. We’d have almost the exact same conversation every visit, verbatim.

Doc: “Say ahh.”
Me: “Ahh.”
Doc: “Hey, did you know you have a bifurcated uvula?”
Me: “Yes.”
Doc: “How did you know?”
Me: “You tell me every time I come in here.”
Doc: “Well, it’s a pretty rare thing. Pretty neat, Michael.”
(an awkward pause)
Doc: “Hey, it’s better than having a forked tongue!”

And every time, this cheered me up. Even when I was sick. Maybe my mood lightened because of the humor of my doctor’s confusion (though certainly not his corny joke); maybe I felt better because of the sheer familiarity of the routine. Most likely what lifted my mood was something different, something bigger than all of that.

Most likely what lifted my mood was the doctor’s sincere interest, his wonderment, at a part of me (even such a small thing as a uvula that no one ever sees, that has no effect on anything, really, whatsoever). As if something about me was worthy of note.


I grew up a good Christian boy, regularly attending church as many as three times a week, listening as patiently as I could to sermons and Sunday School lessons. From the age of nine until the age of twenty-five, when I left the faith, I was relatively diligent in my beliefs. What I’m saying is that I heard a lot of sermons and talks and testimonies and messages. Understandably, plenty of these talks get lost in time, and it’s interesting to note the ones that I remember.

One such moment from my religious past that has stuck with me is a talk that was given to my youth group by our youth pastor, Brad. The talk concerned humility. Trying to drive home the fact that remaining humble is a constant process that requires serious dedication, Brad gave us this little quip that I think has some profound implications: “If I were to give out a trophy to the most humble person in the room, I’d have to snatch it back the minute someone came up here to take it.”

Obviously Brad’s point was that humility is one of those slippery qualities that put you in a Catch-22 situation. If you think you have it, you probably don’t. And this was meant as a way for us young folks to start to think about our actions and our attitudes, to strive even more toward behaving in healthier, kinder ways toward other people. It was meant as a sort of admonishment and encouragement to us, a command to esteem others above ourselves. And this, of course, is a good and noble purpose.

However, I have grown up to be a writer. I have discovered that I feel most comfortable and alive when I am crafting some kind of written work. It is, to borrow jargon from my religious past, my calling. And one of the most important lessons to learn about writing is that the most powerful pieces resonate on a personal level. As all of my teachers hammered into me in college: write what you know.

But I don’t like writing too much of what I know. I don’t like writing creative nonfiction about my own past. For one, it feels less revelatory than my fiction (which, paradoxically, often winds up showing me something true about myself that I wasn’t even aware I was writing toward). Yet I think the worse issue with nonfiction, at least for me, is that it feels terribly unhumble. Writing fiction feels like I’m creating something new, making a thing that wasn’t there before. Perhaps I’ve been trained by an upbringing that urged me to join in the work of the Creator, that told me art and creation were things that proved I was made in the image of God, and perhaps for this reason fiction seems much holier, much safer. With fiction, I create whole realities out of thin air.

Writing nonfiction feels like screaming at the world LOOK AT ME, THESE ARE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME, READ THEM AND BOW BEFORE MY WORDS. It feels uncouth, somehow almost dirty, in a way that writing fiction simply doesn’t. It feels like esteeming myself before others.

It feels like sin.


But it is not.

Writing nonfiction can be poignant or aphoristic; it can be a way to categorize your own life, even only for yourself (like a journal); it can be useful in finding others who have had similar experiences, useful in helping them through those experiences when needed, useful in bonding. Even if it weren’t important in all of those ways, writing nonfiction would still be important simply for the reason that it often does feel less safe, less holy than writing fiction. What better way to stretch yourself in your art than by doing that which is difficult for you to do? What better way to learn?

Above all that, writing nonfiction is important and good and righteous for this reason: it affirms that everyone has some feature that is interesting and worthy of note.

See, you may not have some harrowing drug-recovery story that you think will sell a lot of books. You may not have met tons of famous people or traveled to exotic locations. Hell, I went out of the country one time over a decade ago and I still try to milk those stories as much as I can. But even so, you have something within you that can serve as a story, that can and must be told. As the great Flannery O’Connor once said: “Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.”

You have important things to say. You are interesting and worthy of note.

As for me, my name is Michael Candelario.

My uvula is forked, but not my tongue.

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Why I’m Not An Atheist, pt. 3

(on the Euthyphro Dilemma)

1. What is the Euthyphro Dilemma?

Everyone has a concept of morality, right? We all feel sick when we hear news about innocent people being gunned down and we all have a sense of justice being served when a thief is caught and punished. Our very societies operate on the idea that certain things are okay and other things are not okay. Some things are right and some things are wrong. Most of us—if we aren’t suffering from frontal lobe disorders—seem to have these very deep intuitions about goodness and badness, about rightness and wrongness. This is true despite the fact that our conceptions about what makes something right/wrong can be very different. Now, theism (or at least Western theism) has traditionally defined morality as being objective and absolute—that is, something that is wrong is wrong in all places, at all times, for all people. This view (which I will defend in this post) has come under attack from atheism (though it should be noted that some atheists defend an objective morality without God). So when I’m talking about “theistic morality” in this post, you should read that as an objective morality. What I want to talk about specifically in this post is one argument that has been used to call an objective, theistic morality into question.
In Plato’s Euthyphro, Socrates and the titular character discuss what has come to be known as the Euthyphro Dilemma. This has come down through the years to our own day and age, albeit in a modified form. It has been used to argue, basically, that the existence of both God and morality results in two equally nonsensical moral landscapes. In its modified form, the dilemma is this: “Is something good because God commands it, or does God command it because it is good?” To show just why this dilemma is considered such a good refutation of theistic morality, I’ll lay out both horns of the dilemma. Keep in mind that the point is to show that God’s existence leads to nonsense and contradictions.

The first horn is that “God commands something because it is good.” Simply put, this view asserts that morality is something that God recognizes and then proceeds to command us to adhere to. For example, the Christian God delights in things like fidelity/benevolence/piety and abhors things like murder/adultery/theft because those things are right or wrong in and of themselves. As I understand it, this horn is chosen by some in order to avoid charges that God’s morality is arbitrary (which I’ll get to in a moment). In this view, morality is something that is inherent. It is essential to the universe. God’s own goodness, therefore, can be seen in that God adheres to those moral standards perfectly. Thus, for the person who picks this option, God can be praised for being moral without seeming arbitrary. However, there are some problems with this setup—especially for the Western (read: Judeo-Christian) theist. In Western conceptions of a deity, God is supposed to be sovereign and omnipotent. God is supposed to have a freedom of the will. However, if one’s conception of morality is in line with this horn of the dilemma, there exists a moral law behind God to which God must adhere. That is, God is subject to something other than Himself—a fact that most Christians would reject. Also, from an atheistic standpoint, this view shows that God is not necessary for morality. Thus, moral arguments for God’s existence cannot be used. So there seem to be some real problems here.

In order to escape the problems of the first horn of the dilemma, many philosophers and theologians have chosen the second option—namely, “something is good because God commands it.” Known as Divine Command Theory, this option maintains that God alone decides what is morally Right. The reasons for choosing this option are obvious, since it allows for God’s sovereignty/freedom of will/omnipotence/etc. So it seems to avoid the problems that the first horn of the dilemma falls into. However, this opens up some equally significant problems, some would say. To wit, morality in this schema becomes essentially arbitrary. God could tell us to go kill infants and that would, by definition, be the morally correct thing to do. In fact, not killing infants would constitute doing something wrong. This seems to go against our very deep intuitions about morality. In fact it seems to deny that our intuitions (the very things that theistic morality is said to explain) actually mean anything. And this seems wrong indeed.

A quick recap: the Euthyphro Dilemma seems to show that theists have to accept one of two options. Namely, either  [A] there is a moral law behind God (which seems to make God irrelevant in moral questions and to go against the traditional conceptions of God being sovereign, etc.) or [B] morality is based solely on God’s command (and thus is arbitrary). Both these options seem lacking.

2. My Response: A Modified Divine Command Theory

Really quickly, I want to show why I think this is a false dilemma. In doing this, I stand on the side of Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas (note: I only point that out to show that I didn’t just come up with this myself). Basically, I want to say that morality is based upon the nature of God and not simply the commands of God. This is a significant modification, even if it doesn’t appear to be so on the face of it. According to Christian theism, God has always and will always exist. This means that anything tied to the nature of God is necessarily eternal and absolute. In this conception, God’s commands flow out of His nature. That which is good is what is in line with the nature of God, just as that which is evil is what goes against the nature of God. Therefore, God’s commands are essentially to reveal to us what His moral nature is—it is not the result of God trying to make up a morality for us to follow. In this way, Modified Divine Command Theory avoids both a morality based upon arbitrary commands and a God who is subject to something outside of Himself. You can think of this as admitting, essentially, that “might makes right” – but that, since God is by definition the Mightiest, His morality wins. (That doesn’t quite sum it up, because I believe that God’s having created us means that our [uncorrupted] intuitions point toward His morality).

Now, I’m going to anticipate the objection that this is all semantics. After all, many critics would say this view only moves the problem onto the nature of God rather than the commands of God. That is true, in a sense. I don’t think the arbitrariness is quite the same in this case, though. Since God has always necessarily existed, it cannot be said that morality “could have been different” and is thus arbitrary. This is because it is meaningless to say that God “could have been different,” since God is presupposed to have always been—and since that which is moral is defined as “that which reflects the nature of God,” morality equally cannot be spoken of with such language. However, the critic has hit upon something serious. In this conception, praise of God seems to become meaningless. After all, saying “God, thank you for being moral” is like saying “God, thank you for being God.” The speaker of such a phrase is extolling God for doing something that God is unable not to do.
I think there is a way out of this critique, though. Praise in this conception is valid based upon God’s choice between two equally valid moral alternatives. In other words, my saying “God, thank you for being merciful” has meaning in that God could just as easily have been just toward me and punished me for my not living up to the moral standard. So I think praise can still retain its meaning. Also, I think this is the view that the authors of the Bible’s various books seem to hold. This is why they can praise God even for His just destruction of societies, and why Proverbs says that the “fear of the Lord” is the beginning of wisdom.

3. Why Atheism Doesn’t Escape This Problem

Enough about my own views. I just included them in an effort to put my cards on the table, since I’m basically finding fault with the alternative. Anyway, my main point for this post is that I don’t think a move away from theism escapes this dilemma. In fact, I think that move just intensifies our problems rather than alleviating them. Other than simply denying the existence of morality, which I don’t think is a wise move, the most common way for atheists to deal with morality is to say that “what is moral” equates to “what is good for society,” so I’m going to run with that and show why I don’t think it provides any answers.

If I say that killing is wrong because society is hindered by it, I run into similar problems as the Divine Command Theorist in the Euthyphro Dilemma. Does this mean that killing per se isn’t wrong? It would seem to be so, since I can easily point to cases in which killing must be done for the good of society in general (i.e. resource scarcity/overpopulation). However, that seems also to go against the intuitions that we used to throw out the existence of God.  Part of the reasoning we had when trying to discount Divine Command Theory is that it made things like murder or genocide “possibly” okay. Our problem with DCT seemed to be that God could say that killing is okay, and then it would become so. My point here is that now, in our societal-benefit conception of morality, we have the same exact problem. It could be the case that occasions arise in which killing is not only acceptable but morally required. We haven’t solved anything by making this move.

In fact, constructing morality in this way seems to assume that society ought to exist. That is, this view assumes that society is good. That humanity itself is good (though, if we look at what we’ve done to the world and to each other, that view seems counter-intuitive). The atheist still has not explained what makes something good. She has merely pointed to goodness and said “these things are good.” One ought to do something because it benefits society (because, it is implied, society is good). This is the same circularity with which many atheists charge theism. It suffers from the same problem.

I’m not saying that these problems are in any sense particularly damning of atheism. My point is merely that I don’t see how these conceptions solve the problems that the atheist had with theistic morality anyway. And in fact, as I will show in the next post, I think that morality itself points to the existence of a deity.

4. Final Thoughts.

Okay, this one was a little tough to write. I debated on whether or not to write this post or the next one (Part 4) first. Ultimately, I decided on this one, though maybe that was a mistake. In the end, I think that this post hearkens back to the first post in this series and its discussion on “necessary brute facts.” Both systems of thought have these presuppositions that must simply be accepted prima facie. However, I think that atheism actually increases the number of things one must “simply accept.” In this case, atheism cannot explain morality in any sense. It must simply say “society is good/life is good/humanity is good/etc.” This, as we have seen, is circular. After all, the Universe has existed without us for quite some time. Why is it the case that we ought to preserve life? Appeals to selfish gain work here, but then the very moral intuitions that we used to reject Divine Command Theory seem to go away as well—since I can’t really be commended for doing something just to preserve myself, can I?

One of the big reasons for writing this post first was to get my own Modified Divine Command Theory out there so that you, the reader, know where I’m coming from. The next post, which is going to deal with why I think the so-called Problem of Evil is not actually a problem for theists, will lay out exactly why I think this is the only way to have a morality that is worthwhile.

Anyway, thoughts?

WHY I’M NOT AN ATHEIST, pt. 2

(on determinism and free will, and thus also on moral responsibility)

Before I even begin this post, let me take the time to define some terms. This part of my Why I’m Not an Atheist series is about determinism and free will, so it behooves us to make sure we all know what I mean by those terms. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy defines “causal determinism” as “…roughly speaking, the idea that every event is necessitated by antecedent events and conditions together with the laws of nature.” I like this definition. Later in this post, I am going to use what has been called the Basic Argument of determinism to attempt to show why I adhere to this idea. However, given that this post is at least in part about theology – I mean only that we’re discussing the God question and thus our terms are going to need to relate directly to this God question – I’m going to use the word “determinism” to mean “theological fatalism” when discussing the idea from a theist’s perspective (don’t worry, I think you’ll be able to follow…). The SEP defines theological fatalism as “the thesis that infallible foreknowledge of a human act makes the act necessary and hence unfree.” Basically, determinism itself is the analog of theological fatalism in a world in which God does not exist, and theological fatalism is the analog of pure determinism in a world in which God does exist. To put it more simply, we’re discussing the idea that the future is determined by something (nature and the state of the universe on one hand, God on the other), and so I choose to use the same term to emphasize what I see as the sameness of the issue. If you don’t follow that, it’s fine – that is basically what I’m going to try to argue in this post anyway. Okay, on to the next definition: free will. When I discuss free will in this post, I am not referring to the notion that human actions are completely undetermined by anything other than that person’s will. Thus, I’m not talking about a completely autonomous will. Most of us would reject that wording anyway, because most of us realize that our situations in fact do determine our choices to at least some extent. For instance, I cannot choose to be three feet taller, or to spread my arms and fly to Thailand. There are laws to this universe. Some people (Buddhists, maybe? or New Agers?) believe in the idea of “mind over matter,” but this is not the idea I’m talking about when I am referring to free will. For the duration of this post, think of free will as simply the ability of rational agents (humans) to choose between various alternative options that do not go against the physical laws of the universe. Free will is the idea that you can make a choice and thus influence the flow of time. Determinism is the idea that the things which happen necessarily happen – that they happen out of necessity, because they have been determined.

(I won’t get into much detail, but suffice it to say that as a Calvinist I believe that determinism/ theological fatalism is true. Some of my fellow Christians will balk at that – maybe even some Calvinists will balk at the usage of the word “fatalism,” since it has the connotation of meaninglessness. However, I personally believe that we have real wills that we exercise but which are ultimately under the sovereign will of God. There is no other possible way, in my opinion, for God to be said to be sovereign – because if everyone has free choices to make and thus can freely influence the flow of history, then history is at the mercy of people and not God. Okay. Just wanted to make that clear. Let’s get on with the actual post, since this isn’t supposed to be about me defending my own particular brand of theism).

Now that we have those terms defined, I can begin my main argument (if it can be called that). Some atheists I have met have posed to me a charge against theism which they find very strong indeed. The charge is that, if God exists, then we do not have a free, effectual will. Our choices are merely the illusions of choices, since a deity that exists outside of time and knows all the events of the future and that can interact within human history would be in control. The criticism can be seen in pop culture all over the place. For instance, think back to the movie The Matrix (yes, yes, I know this is an easy target, since virtually no other movie in popular culture has been so blatantly about philosophy). When asked if he believes in “fate” – the idea that the future is destined to happen – Neo replies “No… because I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my life.” This is a particular criticism of Christianity, since one of the attributes of the Christian God is sovereignty – the idea that this God is in complete and utter control at all times and in all places. This conception of God negates, in these atheists’ minds, the common sense notion that we have the ability to choose freely between alternative decisions. Note that this criticism, and indeed the whole determinism vs. free will debate, is very closely tied up with discussions of moral responsibility. I will get to issues of morality in the next two posts, but the main gist of this criticism of theism is that it seems to preclude real moral responsibility. After all, how can we be said to be morally responsible for an action if that action happened necessarily – if, in effect, we did not have any real control in the matter at all and the action was foreordained and predestined? I don’t shy away from the fact that this is a serious charge. However, what I want to prove here is that a move away from theism does not solve this issue. It merely moves the sovereignty from this deity to something else.

Brace yourselves, because this is where it’s going to get really dense and possibly hard to follow. I’m going to try to keep it as simple as possible (partly because going into depth on every term and theory would take a lifetime, and partly because the whole point of this thing is to be readable). To my knowledge, atheists tend to be materialists – that is, they reject the notion of the supernatural and hold that everything “supervenes on” the physical world. This is consistent with the usual reasons they pose for rejecting theism and supernaturalism in the first place, so you can’t fault them for that. However, let’s run with that scenario. The material, physical world is the only thing that can be said to exist in reality. Even mental processes such as love, pain, reason itself, happiness, depression, etc. can be said to supervene on or be based upon the physical realities. Consciousness is the result of the physical world behaving in a certain way. Okay? Now, here’s where the Basic Argument I talked about earlier comes into play. If this is the way that reality is, the atheist has not escaped determinism. Let me show you. I first heard of this argument in Galen Strawson’s “The Impossibility of Moral Responsibility,” which can be found in the 2007 edition of Ethical Theory (edited by Russ Shafer-Landau… the forthcoming quote is on page 347). It is he who termed it the Basic Argument and it can be stated thusly:

“(1) You do what you do because of the way you are. So,

(2) To be truly morally responsible for what you do you must be truly responsible for the way you are – at least in certain crucial mental respects. But,

(3) You cannot be truly responsible for the way you are, so you cannot be truly responsible for what you do.”

This is tough to parse on some levels – especially as it relates to the a/theism debate. So let me try to simplify it by connecting it directly with what we have been talking about. To the atheistic materialist, the world is entirely made up of physical things. In fact, even seemingly non-physical things supervene on the physical processes. So, our mental faculties are merely the result of the workings of physical processes in our brains. But, these physical processes behave according to strict physical laws that have been working on your physical makeup since literally before you were born. This is evidenced by the fact that alcoholism, for example, has a genetic basis. Therefore, since you cannot be said to have been responsible for your original physical makeup (after all, you didn’t exist yet and certainly did not pick out the physical properties you would have upon birth), and since you cannot be said to be responsible for the physical laws that have been acting on those original physical properties over time (since those laws existed before you did and are not mutable, or at least certainly not mutable by you), and since your physical makeup dictates your mental processes (this is materialism, the mental supervening on the physical), you cannot be said to have free will, nor to be morally responsible for the choices you make.

Let that sink in a bit. It is very difficult to object to this Basic Argument (in fact, I think it to be impossible if it is approached from an atheistic, materialistic perspective). If the atheist denies premise (1), she is denying the very materialism that she has claimed to espouse. If she denies premise (2), she must then try to figure out what it means to be morally responsible for something that she can’t be said to be responsible for in a nonmoral sense. That is, negating premise (2) is to say that, paradoxically, one is responsible for something one did without being responsible for one’s physical makeup, even though materialism would have to hold to the idea that what we do is predicated upon our physical makeup, according to premise (1). This seems illogical. It is basically like saying that I, Mike, should be held accountable for things I did even though those actions were the result of material processes over which I have no control. Where does this sudden responsibility come into play? Note: I am not saying the theist has it any better. I am simply showing that the atheist has not escaped the problem by a simple move to atheism. What would be required is a radical restructuring of the very common-sense notions of free will and agency that caused the atheist to object to theism in the first place. (Just to make sure I cover this, the only answer given to this problem in the Bible is a rather unsatisfying one. In Romans, Paul argues basically this same idea, but applied to God. He says that none can resist the will of God, that if God has made some to be vessels of wrath for the day of destruction and some to be vessels of mercy no one can resist those purposes. He anticipates the objection “Why does (God) still find fault? For who can resist his will?” and answers the objection by saying “But who are you, O man, to answer back to God?” Check it out in Romans 9:19-20. My point is that I sympathize with the atheist at this point, because I do not have an answer for this problem. More on that later).

Really quickly, let me summarize the point of this long post. The reason I find it worthwhile to discuss is that some atheists I have talked to share the opinion of Neo in The Matrix: they do not like the idea of not being in control of their lives. Seeing within theism a determinism that goes against their notions of free will, they attempt to solve the problem by a move to atheism (I’m not saying this is the only reason, nor that all atheists even have a problem in this area, but simply that some do). However, what I have hopefully shown here is that making that philosophical move does not solve the issue. What it does is merely push the control down from a deity to Nature itself. If you go back and re-read the Basic Argument, you will realize that in a materialistic universe punishing someone for their actions is much the same as punishing someone for their hair color, or for their skin color. It is the same because in a materialistic universe all things necessarily supervene on the physical, and we do not have control over the physical. Any attempt to assert that we do have control over the physical properties of our bodies will lead to the inevitable fallacy of the causa sui (the notion that we are the cause of ourselves, which is obviously untrue as evidenced by the fact that we did not pick out our parents’ genes, etc.).

Finally, I want to point out a few things. There are many philosophers nowadays who are compatibilists. That is, they hold that free will and determinism are compatible. In fact, there are some who hold, seemingly paradoxically, that moral responsibility is only possible in a deterministic universe. One example of an atheist compatibilist is Daniel Dennett , and the link I just provided is a video of him discussing his views on this dispute. However, I would argue that any move that an atheist makes to solve this problem can equally be made by the theist. For instance, I hold that we are morally responsible for our choices. In fact, adhering to the doctrine of the Bible, I would hold that the problem is that our will is always and only in the opposite direction of God’s will – and that therefore the only way to repent (or, in other words, to turn toward God and from one’s immorality) is to be made to do so by God who is sovereign. Or, other theists (in the sense of including all forms of theism) reject the notion of moral responsibility or else reject the notion of determinism altogether, just like other atheists reject these notions in order to get out of the predicament. My point is that moving to a position of atheism does not help the problem. And if the problem is cited as a reason for the move away from theism, and the move to atheism does not solve the problem, then the reason for moving to atheism was invalid in the first place.
So that’s it. It’s a long one, I know. But I hope it was not too difficult to follow and that it can generate some discussion. My next two posts are going to deal with the issue that this one leads into: namely, morality itself and the supposed problems from which theistic morality is said to suffer. I am excited about these next two posts because, personally, I find morality to be the biggest indicator of a deity’s existence. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to suddenly switch my purpose here and start trying to convert everyone to Christianity. I merely plan on refuting the problems that atheists have with theistic morality.

Book Review: Dune Messiah

In light of the fact that last week’s review was so long, I’m going to keep this one relatively short. Dune Messiah, the second book in the Dune Chronicles, is in my opinion much more focused than its predecessor. As the title suggests, the plot of this novel centers on Paul Muad’Dib Atreides – the Kwisatz Haderach of the Bene Gesserit breeding program and newly crowned emperor. In the twelve years since Dune, Paul has become the focal point of a new religion. He is worshipped as the Mahdi of the Fremen, and he is the impetus for a great Jihad that spread through the entire Imperium. So, in a sense, Dune is about Paul (the Atreides ducal heir and boy of fifteen), and Dune Messiah is about Muad’Dib (the Fremen Mahdi, man-god, and Emperor of the Known Universe). As such, it allows Herbert ample space to provide his own thoughts on religion.

At one point in the novel, Muad’Dib is having a conversation with a Guild Navigator in which the latter points this out: “It seems to most observers, however, that you conspire to make a god of yourself. And one might ask if that is something any mortal can do… safely” (p. 126). Indeed, Paul Muad’Dib struggles throughout the entire novel to come to grips with the fact that he is now a religious symbol, a god worshipped on countless planets across the universe. What must it feel like to be such a figure, trapped by your own mythos and the religious ideals of billions of people? I won’t spoil the ending of the novel, but Muad’Dib’s response, when pressed by a friend, is: “There are problems in this universe for which there are no answers…. Nothing. Nothing can be done” (p.320).  And in an epigraph for one of the book’s sections, he is quoted as saying “I’ve had a bellyful of the god and priest business” (p. 183). Simply put, Herbert’s analysis of Messiah-ism is that being a mortal human, knowing full well your own limitations and humanity, and being thrust up as a Messiah or god would be really difficult to bear. As Paul does throughout the novel, such a figure would struggle constantly to keep his or her own personality and individuality separate from the mythos generated by worship.

The second big theme of this novel is Time. Muad’Dib is worshipped as a god almost exclusively because he possesses the power of prescience: he can seemingly see into the future. Herbert uses this power of Muad’Dib’s to expound upon his own theories of time and temporal existence. On page 181, Muad’Dib is told by his sister not to grieve someone’s death before that person actually dies. Since both of them can see into the future, this admonishment makes a sort of sense. But Paul’s response is this: “Tell me, little sister. What is before?” And even Muad’Dib’s enemies must struggle with temporal awareness, since trying to conspire against someone carries even greater risk when that person could have known all along that you were conspiring against him. One of the conspirators rather wisely points out that the Kwisatz Haderach is “a being filled by the spectacle of Time. It is a form of existence which cannot be threatened without enclosing yourself in the identical threat” (p. 189). As a Calvinist who struggles with the ideas of predestination, determinism, and moral responsibility, I was very interested in and captivated by Herbert’s take on the philosophy of time and free will.

I said I’d keep this one short, so I’ll go ahead and wrap it up. Herbert weaves a wonderful story of betrayal and Imperial politics around these philosophical ideas, and he does so without seeming too far out of reach for the average intellect. The man was quite possibly a genius, so keeping the story readable for someone like me is definitely a feat worthy of admiration (although the book was published in 1969 and so I wonder how much was genius and how much was just the drugs talking… not to besmirch Herbert’s legacy). Because of its limited scope and lack of the detail-richness that Dune had, this book scores lower. It was still enjoyable, but I felt that the writing was a little lacking. In any case, I’m sure Herbert struggled for a long time to match the masterpiece that was and is Dune. I’m not sure it can be done.

OVERALL SCORE: 7.5/10*

*Yes, I can give decimal scores. Who asked your opinion, anyway?

Nonfiction Project Snippet

So, I’ve been sort of halfheartedly starting a nonfiction project about the evolution of my religious beliefs – how I became a Christian, how my theology changed, struggles I’ve had along the way, etc. This will probably not be finished or published in a long time, since I’m working on a deadline for my first novella right now (as well as trying to start an online arts magazine). However, I thought I’d post the first section of it here for you all to check out. Bear in mind that this section is not a happy one, and in fact is very tragic and saddening. So read at your own risk!
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When my wife was getting her master’s degree in Speech Language Pathology, part of her work was to observe clients in a clinic. People would come into the clinic from all ages and races; people who stuttered and lisped, children who were late developing critical speech skills, or children with debilitating physical or social disorders who needed extra help in communicating. But the most harrowing and terrifying and anger-inducing story that I ever heard was about the parents of one of my wife’s clients, one of whom was a nurse at a local care center.

These people had a baby, and for a while everything seemed great. The boy was developing wonderfully, and he was understandably the light of his parent’s eyes. Then, out of nowhere, the baby started having what are called Infant Seizures. He was four months old. Imagine the horror of this for a moment. I think the phrase “a parent’s worst nightmare” is thrown around way too much in our society. It’s used for things like your daughter showing up with a boy whose moral code is slightly less than that of Jesus. But imagine for a moment that you wake up one night to find your baby having a seizure. Imagine realizing, after all these months of everything seemingly going according to plan, that your child is having seizures. That something is going terribly and utterly wrong in his brain. That there is literally nothing in your power that can be done to correct this. And that perhaps this has been going on unnoticed for quite some time. This is your child, your life. A being for whom you are completely responsible. And yet there is nothing you can do. Now imagine that you have the sufficient medical knowledge to know all the possibilities of what could be causing the problem – and all the possibilities of skills and developments and important personality characteristics that could be lost, that could be getting destroyed from these seizures. How would you feel? What would you do?

The parents took the child to doctors and tried all sorts of cures and therapies until they were left with only one. The seizures had been isolated in one half of their son’s brain, and so the only option left to these people was something almost so unspeakable that it is physically difficult to type it out here: the doctors suggested the highly dangerous treatment of removing that half of their son’s brain where the seizure were occurring. Would this cause damage? Yes. But it would likely cure the seizures and prevent the other half of their son’s brain from being damaged.  When I say this must have been a difficult decision, the words seem paltry and ridiculous, since for most of us a “difficult decision” is which college to attend, or which movie to watch on the weekend. This is a decision about removing another human being’s brain, and is thus tied up with all kinds of other decisions like “what do we do if this puts him in a vegetative state?” or “how do we manage to live with ourselves if the procedure kills him?” But the parents decided in favor of the medical advice and the probabilities – like I think any parent would after exhausting literally everything else.  And the boy survived the surgery and came out just fine, minus half a brain.

The real tragedy here is not the difficulty of the decision, or even the removal of half of the kid’s brain. The real tragedy is that afterwards, the seizures came back. Only now the parents had no options left, their son had been hemispherectomized with their consent, and he was still experiencing seizures. Try to imagine your life like this. I do not want to do any disservice to the parents – who I am sure do not want our pity. They are, I am sure, wonderful people. They sure as hell proved that they are sacrificial and tough-decision-makers. And, for me at least, they sure as hell proved that they are good parents. They had to sleep with their child every night and hold him when he had his nightly seizures so that he wouldn’t hurt himself or swallow his tongue, or any other number of terrible things that he could do to himself while seizing. Imagine this. Not getting to sleep in the same bed as your spouse. Imagine trying to speak soothing words to your child as he goes through a seizure, all the while feeling so angry and depressed and guilty inside. Yes, guilty. Imagine the guilt. I’m not vilifying the parents in any way. Nor am I suggesting that their decision was the wrong one. What I am saying is that the situation itself provides no way to not feel guilty: I would have felt guilty having my son’s brain removed, and I would have felt guilty not having my son’s brain removed and letting the seizures go on unchecked. But now, through no fault of their own, the parents have to live with ordering a hemispherectomy on their child to no avail. It is literally the worst of both sides. And so yes, I think there would be guilt there, regardless of whether or not it was deserved.

My wife told me this story shortly before my own son was born. I think it was the first time I ever seriously doubted the existence of God.

Groanings Unspeakable

Feet like hymnals
carry us inevitably
to the same asherahs
as our forebears.

This, too, is vanity
and a striving after wind.

‘For I will visit the iniquities
on the children
and the children’s children
to the third and forth
generations.’

Thus says the Lord.

Grandpa (2)… or (1), I guess

He would sit in his chair,
a battered old recliner,
and prop his feet up
not one over the other, but
side by side
(they were wingtips,
nicely polished).

I’d sit in the corner
as the grownups talked
politics and gossip,
religion.
And me in the corner
reading comix.

I didn’t ask my mother
why his anger sat so deep.
She told me willingly,
half-embarassed.
She told me
his childhood:
-how as a little boy
my great(?)grandmother told him
she’d have preferred
miscarriage.
Or, perhaps,
abortion.
-how as a teen, even,
he’d made a rough time of it.
No ego, no esteem;
warring with others,
quitting jobs.
-how the USMC
had saved him,
but only for the Vietnam
atrocities, and (later)
alcohol.
-how he’d lost his family
to the bottle
and ¾ of his heart
to the cigs.

It was years later when
she told me (through cupped hands, whispering)
he thought salvation
a work.
A work for which
he was not cut out.
He thought God a closed-hand man,
fists full of gifts you have to earn.
He thought “God damn”
could ruin the grace.

I understand you better
now you’re gone.
I bit your nose
when I was teething, remember?
at the elephant-circus
where trapeze artists
flew through the air.
I realize now you felt
you had no net.

The smell of your
kitchen still
lingers in my
soul.
I eat the fruit
of your table.