by D.K. Holland
The following essay is a response to “God in the Living Room,” an essay by Cole Jeffrey published in Vol. 6, No. 2.
The sum total of meaning in a work of art is more than equal to its parts. In every art form, from painting to photography, the artist attempts to communicate and the viewer attempts to interpret a message beneath the oil or silver comprising the medium. That being said, the distinction often made by viewers of art remains one of “high” versus “low,” pitting the physical medium against the inherent significance of a given piece. Eerily close to Plato’s Theory of Forms, the belief that the material world reflects a shadow of reality contextualizes the general understanding of art in contemporary culture.
With the default position of Greek philosophy deeply imbedded in Western thought, many people suffer from an inferior understanding of art’s makeup based on the platonic split between the work of art and the ideal it attempts to represent.
Cole Jeffrey, in his essay “God in the Living Room,” asserts that “if we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor.” Jeffrey correctly observes that art has both a tangible substance and a higher ideal. Like Plato, he believes that the eye and the mind work in tandem, but also separately, in the perception of a statue. According to this reasoning, the statue of David has at once a physical image recognized by the eye and a certain “David-ness” that appeals only to the sensitivities of the mind, if it can be perceived at all. What this “David-ness” means varies from person to person. But according to Jeffrey, only the human mind can respond to seeing the real statue.
Jeffrey bases his ideas on Plato’s thinking and unfortunately misapplies the concepts found in the Theory of Forms. In so doing, he wrongly assumes that art is inherently steeped in ambiguity. In “God in the Living Room,” there is a disparity between Jeffrey’s description of emotional reaction and the cerebral understanding of art. Jeffrey does not fully explain what he means by “receiving” art. This eventually leads to frustration when trying to pinpoint what he means by “thinking about what [art] can give us.” Try as he might, Jeffrey’s platonic view of a painting would lead him to see only oil and canvas, leaving the ever-present undertone undefined. Since one’s experience and knowledge differ from that of another observer, there remains the possibility for minor disagreement about the deeper meaning of a piece. Conversation concerning the artwork would circle round to an end with two unaltered, extremely limited original opinions and no conclusion. This scenario seems to be nothing more than the proverbial banging of one’s head against a wall.
Allow me to suggest an alternative. The idea that a moment in time can be captured through human endeavor is known as mimesis, a Greek term meaning the representation of aspects of the sensible world. The viewer viscerally perceives this representation as separate and complete, and the artwork essentially becomes its own autonomous world. Every form of art involves the creation of a mimetic world, whether two-dimensional in painting or photography or three-dimensional in film or drama. This new world is more than a thing with corresponding thought-provocation. It is a separate universe the viewer can explore. With this idea of mimesis in mind, art’s purpose becomes twofold. Sir Philip Sydney, in his Defense of Poesy, enumerated these two purposes when he stated that a poet’s station is to “teach and delight.” Sydney wrote in response to a flagrantly anti-art sentiment proposed by his Puritan peers, specifically Sir Stephen Gossom. In his work, The School of Art, Gossom sarcastically condemned the creation of poetry as well as other arts. Interestingly, this condemnation was based on arguments in the works of Plato. In The Republic, Plato had called for the removal of all poets from his utopian society on the basis that they did not “tell the truth” about the world around them. This assertion appears to be sensible in light of Plato’s belief that the true form of the world cannot be fully captured with the mere words of a poem. Gossom took Plato’s argument one step further and stated that poets were liars, often targeting Sydney personally. Sydney carefully crafted a thorough response, graciously leaving out Gossom’s name in favor of allegorical pseudonyms.
In Defense of Poesy, Sydney describes an artist’s station as teacher and one who brings delight. Poets, according to Sydney, do not invent subliminal messages to deceive and lead listeners away from the higher ideal. On the contrary, artists manipulate their chosen mediums to illuminate the viewer. This allows the viewer to connect diegetic aspects of the artwork with ideas and truths already known. Sydney recognized that man does conceive of abstract forms, but saw that in art these abstractions do not necessarily exist separately from the work of art itself.
In light of Sydney’s astute observations, Jeffrey’s diagnosis of art’s purposes can be seen, not as erroneous, but hasty. The platonic outlook of dividing meaning from substance is in some ways unavoidable. Humans naturally tend to look for a deeper meaning in all things, and their quest for sub-textual information is too fruitful to deny that art is simply material. Since art is a facsimile of reality, no piece can be completely without a “shadow.” A separation between what can be seen and what can be imagined invariably makes for inquisitive viewers. However, the goal of art is not to encourage this schism between imagination and substance, but to close it. In order to promote a broader understanding of the world, artists will continue their attempts to impart to viewers more than pieces that cause emotional reaction. The creation of a mimetic world in which characters or objects act in ways that allude to other areas of life is the surest way to break away from ambiguous and pedantic views of art.
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Friday, May 4, 2007
Seattle's Homeless: An Essay
by Katie McCausland
I hurried down the wet plank and onto the back of the small passenger ferry that ran from my town of Port Orchard to Bremerton. It was my first day of work, and I wished I’d dressed warmer as I took one of the last seats on the exposed deck of the boat and made a sad attempt to wrap the tail of my scarf over my knees. The salty wind whipped through my hair, and I was amazed at the beautiful sunrise coming up from behind the towering forests of Kitsap Peninsula that quickly grew smaller as we pulled away from the dock. The sun warmed the gray clouds to pinks and oranges that contrasted against the clear blue sky. I began to think that catching the early ferry might not be so bad after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I tramped onto the Bremerton docks with the rest of the passengers. However, I paused to curiously examine a man who was waiting to go back to Port Orchard. Everything about him said he was homeless — his long, tangled, salt and pepper hair, his dirty, shabby jeans and his old plaid jacket. My attention was caught though, by a birdhouse attached to a string that hung around his neck. It was a small wooden birdhouse, clearly damaged and faded from the Seattle rain and wind. If I didn’t know better than to talk to the homeless, I would have liked to look inside the birdhouse and see what kind of bird he had in there. “Don’t mind him,” a small, middle-aged Filipino woman advised me, noticing my interest. “He don’t keep no bird in there. He keep the money he begs for. He used to carry it in jar, but the others break it and steal his money too much. Now he try to fool the people with his birdhouse. If you ask me, he should get a job. I come here and get my nursing degree, and now I make the money myself.” I nodded, replied “Oh,” and kept moving toward the larger ferry leaving from Bremerton’s terminal to downtown Seattle.
Once on the Seattle ferry, I found a booth near a heating vent and curled up to go to sleep. I had taken this ride so often that I wasn’t anxious to look out the window. The boat would pull out of Bremerton and cross the Puget Sound towards Rich Passage and then move on to the piers of Seattle. It would pass several big red navigational buoy towers, bobbing cheerily in the cold water. On a sunny morning like this, a few sea lions would be fighting to jump up on the bases of these towers to sun themselves. Large homes lined the shore, set against rolling hills covered in brownish-green brush and a backdrop of evergreen trees. On the beach a few of the timid shore birds might run up and down, quickly pecking at the wet sand, then racing away from the approaching waves. It all looked the same for that hour-long ride.
Once we docked in Seattle, we were greeted by a crew of seagulls who landed on the deck to beg for food. They angrily fluffed their wings and tried to peck their way closer to the passengers. A few tourists displayed their naivete by feeding the seagulls, creating a larger, noisier flock of birds as the pigeons and nearby crows joined in. An irritated ferry employee shooed the birds away and threw a dirty look towards the tourists. I was carried off the ferry by the bustle of commuters who went in different directions with looks of determination on their faces. They didn’t notice the cries of the workers in the fish market, how the sun sparkled and gleamed on the side of the cruise ship that had docked a few piers down, or the graffiti showing off the artistic talents of the local street kids.
I followed this oblivious group into the pedestrian tunnel leading out to the streets of Seattle. I was immediately taken aback by the strong smell of urine. Apparently the tunnel doubled as the local restroom for the homeless and a home as well, judging by the dirty sleeping bag crumpled nearby. I did my best to hold my breath, and silently cursed my high heels for crippling me from walking any faster. This was when I first saw Smiley. I was waiting at the corner of Marion and First, right by Starbucks, which happened to be his corner. His deformed purplish-red nose and ears (and slightly intoxicated state) testified to his alcoholism. From his looks and the long thin braid hanging down his back, I guessed he was probably Native American. I wondered how this 50-something man was able to survive. He stood there in nothing but a tattered t-shirt and jeans, while I could barely stay warm enough to function with my scarf, wool coat and layers of sweaters and shirts.
The thing that most surprised me was how he chose to occupy himself: smiling, not asking for money, but merely holding a bent cardboard sign that said in sloppy black marker, “Smile.” He looked at me, almost begging me to smile with his glazed-over brown eyes. I averted my gaze to the light and quickly crossed the street when it turned green. I knew it was better not to encourage the homeless to bother you. If I was going to see him often, I didn’t need him trying to talk to me every time I waited at that light.
I hiked four blocks uphill and then another four through the hotel district to the historic Fairmont-Olympic Hotel where I was employed by a watch boutique. Smartly-dressed bellhops nodded at me as I walked by, while valets ran around vehicles and assisted guests with their luggage before driving the cars off. A couple of bank employees stood outside the back of Wells Fargo, smoking next to a sign that pointed to an Asian deli located down a shady-looking alley. I crossed the street to the Fairmont Hotel, happy that this area remained relatively free of bums and suspicious characters.
I hadn’t been working more than a few hours before I was sent down the street to the warehouse to bring more stock to the watch shop. I didn’t mind though; I needed some fresh air. One of the benefits of the continual rain in Seattle is that it keeps the air clean of smog. The sidewalks always provide one with plenty to look at. The tables and chairs outside of cafes attract gray pigeons, bobbing their heads and cooing at the customers, hoping for a stray crumb. Asian tourists run around with cameras, asking those passing by to take their picture. And I always have a hard time not staring at the costumes the “artsy” women turn out in, with their bright stockings, crazy windblown hair, and fluttering peasant skirts. Confused groups of elderly tourists grabbed anybody who would stop and inquired where Pike Place Market was. I stopped only to greet the old Jewish man who ran the hot dog stand on the corner of Fourth and Union (because you never know when a friendship like that might come in handy) before reaching the warehouse.
“Oh man, look at that!” I heard our repairman, Ryan, yell as I scanned the shelves for the box to a watch I was pulling. The shipping manager and I rushed into his office and found Ryan in his usual stance, leaning against the window. We all peered down five stories to the sidewalk across the street. There on the ground lay a heap of rags that might have once been a man, but now was so lifeless I was sure someone would come along and throw it in the dumpster at any moment. “Wait, here come the bike patrol dudes. They’ll pick him up for sure.” Ryan pointed as two policemen came coasting around the corner. To my surprise, they stopped and talked to each other only for a moment before directing their attention to a pedestrian who seemed to need directions. An ambulance began wailing in the distance. Surely it was coming to pick up the poor passed-out man, but as it drew closer, it rumbled by in a hurry to help someone else. I strained my eyes to see if the man was breathing. “How long will he be there?” I asked. “I don’t know, a little while. I’m pretty sure that storeowner will get really upset if he has a homeless man dead outside his store. It looks bad for business, you know.” Ryan responded absently as he turned back to his ringing phone. “Do you really think he’s dead?” “I don’t know…Hello? Yeah…I’ll send her. Hey Katie, Sara says to hurry back down there with that watch.” I glanced out the window one last time before leaving. I found it odd that humanity would just sweep past a man who might be dying.
That was the thing with the homeless; they didn’t seem to have any connections with anybody. Nobody really cared what happened to them. I wondered if I should have done something, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head. He was, no doubt, just drunk or a drug addict who was finally getting what had been coming to him for years. Nobody cared about the homeless for a good reason — they didn’t contribute to society; all they really did was try to leech off of other people’s sympathies.
I felt relieved when the time came for me to leave. Eight hours of being in uncomfortable dress clothes made me eager to get home. The sun was setting behind the city and the air grew chilly again. I wanted to stop and stand in between the buildings where the last few warm rays of sun were able to reach, but I had a ferry to catch. That’s the only problem with taking a ferry; you’re always in a rush to catch it. If you miss it, it will be a good hour or two before the next one comes.
The same determined crowd that had pushed me off the boat now trotted down the steep hills of Seattle, everyone once again oblivious to the world. I loved soaking in the sights of the city. White horse-drawn carriages meandered along the waterfront carrying couples cuddled in the backseat. A few shopkeepers watered their flower boxes and swept their storefronts before closing and joining the crowds towards the ferry. People coming from Pike Place Market had their arms loaded with colorful bouquets and fresh produce. The only thing I disliked was the squealing and hissing of the buses as they lurched by, trying to make all their stops on time. A few frazzled individuals dressed in business suits sprinted towards their bus stop, waving their arms and yelling for the bus to wait. I had nearly been knocked over by one of these people as I was crossing the street when I ran into Smiley again. He hadn’t moved an inch from his corner. He still waited, imploring anybody to smile for him. He waved and thanked those who were brave enough to take notice of him. I looked his way, and he caught my eye. “Oh won’t you please take me home with you?” he pleaded, giving me a rather toothless smile. Unsure of what to do, I gave him a weak smile and tried to pass him as quickly as possible.
When I entered the pedestrian tunnel, I was surprised to find the offensive smell of urine replaced with that of a cleaning agent. A man who would become a very familiar figure to me that summer was working away in there. I called him Mr. Clean. He stood inside the tunnel, scrubbing the walls. He didn’t work energetically or cheerfully, but at a dreary, steady pace, like a tired donkey that plods along, not because it wants to, but because it’s a duty that must be done. He took no notice of the people passing him or the curious looks he received, but continued spraying and scrubbing. His appearance wasn’t one that suggested an individual with a clean streak. He had the same tangled gray hair, the same lanky, malnourished body, and the same worn, leathery skin as any other homeless man. Yet underneath this ordinary appearance was a man who had resolved to make his home clean.
From that point on, every day I saw Smiley and Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean spent all of his mornings reading and cleaned in the evening. The only thing I ever saw him read was a faded green Gideon New Testament. I often wished that I could stop and talk to Mr. Clean. He fascinated me. It didn’t surprise me that he had a New Testament, because most of the homeless often read and can even quote a little Scripture, but I wondered what Mr. Clean thought of it. I also wondered how he survived. I never once saw him panhandle, beg, eat or drink anything. And why did he always clean? Living as a homeless man was one of the dirtiest lives he could’ve chosen. Where did he get his cleaning supplies? He had several bottles with different colored liquids, but I couldn’t figure out where he kept them. In the morning I never saw them poking out from his shopping cart. Despite my desire to talk with Mr. Clean, I knew he never spoke to anybody, not even to himself. The few times I had tried to get his attention, he just went on cleaning or reading.
At first I was disgusted by Smiley. On several occasions I heard him making lewd comments to women. Later, I noticed that he only said nasty things to women who ignored him. To those who would acknowledge him, he put on that huge toothless grin, and sometimes, if you were really special, he would mockingly give you a flourished bow. But Smiley’s mind was not right, and he could not hold a conversation. I remember near the end of the summer, Smiley passed out from drinking too much. The next day I asked him how he was feeling, and he just gave me a blank stare and held up his sign. I smiled, he bowed, and I continued on my way.
On my last long ferry ride from Seattle to Bremerton, I stared idly out the window. Huge dark clouds began rolling in, turning the soft colors of sunset into cold, bluish-grays and greens. The forests were no longer a rich emerald green, but black, and the houses that had seemed so brightly painted on sunny mornings turned dull under the clouds. A few of the braver seagulls who were catching rides back to Bremerton stepped under the covered side of the deck and huddled together for a little body heat.
I thought about how through those trips to Seattle I had really grown attached to Smiley and Mr. Clean. Because of them, my view of the homeless had been significantly changed. They’re not all societal leeches looking to use other’s emotions and sympathies for their own benefit. But they are all sinners, like me, who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. It’s not often that two people you’ve never held a conversation with change you, but that summer, those homeless men changed me.
I hurried down the wet plank and onto the back of the small passenger ferry that ran from my town of Port Orchard to Bremerton. It was my first day of work, and I wished I’d dressed warmer as I took one of the last seats on the exposed deck of the boat and made a sad attempt to wrap the tail of my scarf over my knees. The salty wind whipped through my hair, and I was amazed at the beautiful sunrise coming up from behind the towering forests of Kitsap Peninsula that quickly grew smaller as we pulled away from the dock. The sun warmed the gray clouds to pinks and oranges that contrasted against the clear blue sky. I began to think that catching the early ferry might not be so bad after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I tramped onto the Bremerton docks with the rest of the passengers. However, I paused to curiously examine a man who was waiting to go back to Port Orchard. Everything about him said he was homeless — his long, tangled, salt and pepper hair, his dirty, shabby jeans and his old plaid jacket. My attention was caught though, by a birdhouse attached to a string that hung around his neck. It was a small wooden birdhouse, clearly damaged and faded from the Seattle rain and wind. If I didn’t know better than to talk to the homeless, I would have liked to look inside the birdhouse and see what kind of bird he had in there. “Don’t mind him,” a small, middle-aged Filipino woman advised me, noticing my interest. “He don’t keep no bird in there. He keep the money he begs for. He used to carry it in jar, but the others break it and steal his money too much. Now he try to fool the people with his birdhouse. If you ask me, he should get a job. I come here and get my nursing degree, and now I make the money myself.” I nodded, replied “Oh,” and kept moving toward the larger ferry leaving from Bremerton’s terminal to downtown Seattle.
Once on the Seattle ferry, I found a booth near a heating vent and curled up to go to sleep. I had taken this ride so often that I wasn’t anxious to look out the window. The boat would pull out of Bremerton and cross the Puget Sound towards Rich Passage and then move on to the piers of Seattle. It would pass several big red navigational buoy towers, bobbing cheerily in the cold water. On a sunny morning like this, a few sea lions would be fighting to jump up on the bases of these towers to sun themselves. Large homes lined the shore, set against rolling hills covered in brownish-green brush and a backdrop of evergreen trees. On the beach a few of the timid shore birds might run up and down, quickly pecking at the wet sand, then racing away from the approaching waves. It all looked the same for that hour-long ride.
Once we docked in Seattle, we were greeted by a crew of seagulls who landed on the deck to beg for food. They angrily fluffed their wings and tried to peck their way closer to the passengers. A few tourists displayed their naivete by feeding the seagulls, creating a larger, noisier flock of birds as the pigeons and nearby crows joined in. An irritated ferry employee shooed the birds away and threw a dirty look towards the tourists. I was carried off the ferry by the bustle of commuters who went in different directions with looks of determination on their faces. They didn’t notice the cries of the workers in the fish market, how the sun sparkled and gleamed on the side of the cruise ship that had docked a few piers down, or the graffiti showing off the artistic talents of the local street kids.
I followed this oblivious group into the pedestrian tunnel leading out to the streets of Seattle. I was immediately taken aback by the strong smell of urine. Apparently the tunnel doubled as the local restroom for the homeless and a home as well, judging by the dirty sleeping bag crumpled nearby. I did my best to hold my breath, and silently cursed my high heels for crippling me from walking any faster. This was when I first saw Smiley. I was waiting at the corner of Marion and First, right by Starbucks, which happened to be his corner. His deformed purplish-red nose and ears (and slightly intoxicated state) testified to his alcoholism. From his looks and the long thin braid hanging down his back, I guessed he was probably Native American. I wondered how this 50-something man was able to survive. He stood there in nothing but a tattered t-shirt and jeans, while I could barely stay warm enough to function with my scarf, wool coat and layers of sweaters and shirts.
The thing that most surprised me was how he chose to occupy himself: smiling, not asking for money, but merely holding a bent cardboard sign that said in sloppy black marker, “Smile.” He looked at me, almost begging me to smile with his glazed-over brown eyes. I averted my gaze to the light and quickly crossed the street when it turned green. I knew it was better not to encourage the homeless to bother you. If I was going to see him often, I didn’t need him trying to talk to me every time I waited at that light.
I hiked four blocks uphill and then another four through the hotel district to the historic Fairmont-Olympic Hotel where I was employed by a watch boutique. Smartly-dressed bellhops nodded at me as I walked by, while valets ran around vehicles and assisted guests with their luggage before driving the cars off. A couple of bank employees stood outside the back of Wells Fargo, smoking next to a sign that pointed to an Asian deli located down a shady-looking alley. I crossed the street to the Fairmont Hotel, happy that this area remained relatively free of bums and suspicious characters.
I hadn’t been working more than a few hours before I was sent down the street to the warehouse to bring more stock to the watch shop. I didn’t mind though; I needed some fresh air. One of the benefits of the continual rain in Seattle is that it keeps the air clean of smog. The sidewalks always provide one with plenty to look at. The tables and chairs outside of cafes attract gray pigeons, bobbing their heads and cooing at the customers, hoping for a stray crumb. Asian tourists run around with cameras, asking those passing by to take their picture. And I always have a hard time not staring at the costumes the “artsy” women turn out in, with their bright stockings, crazy windblown hair, and fluttering peasant skirts. Confused groups of elderly tourists grabbed anybody who would stop and inquired where Pike Place Market was. I stopped only to greet the old Jewish man who ran the hot dog stand on the corner of Fourth and Union (because you never know when a friendship like that might come in handy) before reaching the warehouse.
“Oh man, look at that!” I heard our repairman, Ryan, yell as I scanned the shelves for the box to a watch I was pulling. The shipping manager and I rushed into his office and found Ryan in his usual stance, leaning against the window. We all peered down five stories to the sidewalk across the street. There on the ground lay a heap of rags that might have once been a man, but now was so lifeless I was sure someone would come along and throw it in the dumpster at any moment. “Wait, here come the bike patrol dudes. They’ll pick him up for sure.” Ryan pointed as two policemen came coasting around the corner. To my surprise, they stopped and talked to each other only for a moment before directing their attention to a pedestrian who seemed to need directions. An ambulance began wailing in the distance. Surely it was coming to pick up the poor passed-out man, but as it drew closer, it rumbled by in a hurry to help someone else. I strained my eyes to see if the man was breathing. “How long will he be there?” I asked. “I don’t know, a little while. I’m pretty sure that storeowner will get really upset if he has a homeless man dead outside his store. It looks bad for business, you know.” Ryan responded absently as he turned back to his ringing phone. “Do you really think he’s dead?” “I don’t know…Hello? Yeah…I’ll send her. Hey Katie, Sara says to hurry back down there with that watch.” I glanced out the window one last time before leaving. I found it odd that humanity would just sweep past a man who might be dying.
That was the thing with the homeless; they didn’t seem to have any connections with anybody. Nobody really cared what happened to them. I wondered if I should have done something, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head. He was, no doubt, just drunk or a drug addict who was finally getting what had been coming to him for years. Nobody cared about the homeless for a good reason — they didn’t contribute to society; all they really did was try to leech off of other people’s sympathies.
I felt relieved when the time came for me to leave. Eight hours of being in uncomfortable dress clothes made me eager to get home. The sun was setting behind the city and the air grew chilly again. I wanted to stop and stand in between the buildings where the last few warm rays of sun were able to reach, but I had a ferry to catch. That’s the only problem with taking a ferry; you’re always in a rush to catch it. If you miss it, it will be a good hour or two before the next one comes.
The same determined crowd that had pushed me off the boat now trotted down the steep hills of Seattle, everyone once again oblivious to the world. I loved soaking in the sights of the city. White horse-drawn carriages meandered along the waterfront carrying couples cuddled in the backseat. A few shopkeepers watered their flower boxes and swept their storefronts before closing and joining the crowds towards the ferry. People coming from Pike Place Market had their arms loaded with colorful bouquets and fresh produce. The only thing I disliked was the squealing and hissing of the buses as they lurched by, trying to make all their stops on time. A few frazzled individuals dressed in business suits sprinted towards their bus stop, waving their arms and yelling for the bus to wait. I had nearly been knocked over by one of these people as I was crossing the street when I ran into Smiley again. He hadn’t moved an inch from his corner. He still waited, imploring anybody to smile for him. He waved and thanked those who were brave enough to take notice of him. I looked his way, and he caught my eye. “Oh won’t you please take me home with you?” he pleaded, giving me a rather toothless smile. Unsure of what to do, I gave him a weak smile and tried to pass him as quickly as possible.
When I entered the pedestrian tunnel, I was surprised to find the offensive smell of urine replaced with that of a cleaning agent. A man who would become a very familiar figure to me that summer was working away in there. I called him Mr. Clean. He stood inside the tunnel, scrubbing the walls. He didn’t work energetically or cheerfully, but at a dreary, steady pace, like a tired donkey that plods along, not because it wants to, but because it’s a duty that must be done. He took no notice of the people passing him or the curious looks he received, but continued spraying and scrubbing. His appearance wasn’t one that suggested an individual with a clean streak. He had the same tangled gray hair, the same lanky, malnourished body, and the same worn, leathery skin as any other homeless man. Yet underneath this ordinary appearance was a man who had resolved to make his home clean.
From that point on, every day I saw Smiley and Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean spent all of his mornings reading and cleaned in the evening. The only thing I ever saw him read was a faded green Gideon New Testament. I often wished that I could stop and talk to Mr. Clean. He fascinated me. It didn’t surprise me that he had a New Testament, because most of the homeless often read and can even quote a little Scripture, but I wondered what Mr. Clean thought of it. I also wondered how he survived. I never once saw him panhandle, beg, eat or drink anything. And why did he always clean? Living as a homeless man was one of the dirtiest lives he could’ve chosen. Where did he get his cleaning supplies? He had several bottles with different colored liquids, but I couldn’t figure out where he kept them. In the morning I never saw them poking out from his shopping cart. Despite my desire to talk with Mr. Clean, I knew he never spoke to anybody, not even to himself. The few times I had tried to get his attention, he just went on cleaning or reading.
At first I was disgusted by Smiley. On several occasions I heard him making lewd comments to women. Later, I noticed that he only said nasty things to women who ignored him. To those who would acknowledge him, he put on that huge toothless grin, and sometimes, if you were really special, he would mockingly give you a flourished bow. But Smiley’s mind was not right, and he could not hold a conversation. I remember near the end of the summer, Smiley passed out from drinking too much. The next day I asked him how he was feeling, and he just gave me a blank stare and held up his sign. I smiled, he bowed, and I continued on my way.
On my last long ferry ride from Seattle to Bremerton, I stared idly out the window. Huge dark clouds began rolling in, turning the soft colors of sunset into cold, bluish-grays and greens. The forests were no longer a rich emerald green, but black, and the houses that had seemed so brightly painted on sunny mornings turned dull under the clouds. A few of the braver seagulls who were catching rides back to Bremerton stepped under the covered side of the deck and huddled together for a little body heat.
I thought about how through those trips to Seattle I had really grown attached to Smiley and Mr. Clean. Because of them, my view of the homeless had been significantly changed. They’re not all societal leeches looking to use other’s emotions and sympathies for their own benefit. But they are all sinners, like me, who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. It’s not often that two people you’ve never held a conversation with change you, but that summer, those homeless men changed me.
The Loosing of Words: An Essay
By Jamie Lundsberg
I wouldn’t call myself a writer, or at least not a good one. I don’t consider my writing something that William Shakespeare, George Orwell or even you would take the time to read. But I can say that I am faithful to dedicate portions of each day to the smooth, buttermilk paper in my papyrus journal. It deserves that much at least, for even when I miss my scheduled times to write, it still waits for me to pick up my yellow Number Two and chat away with it.
No, I am not a writer — not yet anyway. But I set aside time for the use of words because I am fascinated, even captivated, by the rhythmic hum of their lullabies. Words don’t mind when I manipulate and contort them to my liking. I can make them say whatever I want them to say, and they are faithful to keep my secrets in the safety of their shadows.
There was a time in my life when words rescued me from a pit of deadly silence. When my world was failing, words, like faithful friends, did not neglect me. Words were the glue that kept my sanity intact. I remember the specific moment in which words became something personal to me. But not just any words: my words.
My hero, my older sister Danielle, was severely poisoned by methyl bromide, a pesticide used to spray crops, when she was 16. To this day, we don’t know how it happened. Some have concluded that it was done intentionally; others have said it was an accident. But have you ever watched someone die, someone wilt away like the petals on a fallen rose? It is one thing to strip all life from a flower, to rob it of its beauty in one lethal sweep. But to mutilate it, bit by bit, until nothing but its shell remains, is heart-breaking. Danielle was that flower, a rare beauty, growing and flourishing, until one day her life was demanded from her. It was as if some greedy child happened on a daisy, and instead of gently stroking its petals and enjoying it, plucked it out of the ground, roots and all, and tore off the petals one by one.
Each day, a bit of Danielle’s strength was stolen away, a bit of her life taken captive by the poison that ravaged her body. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even the doctors did nothing. They told my weeping parents to take their child home to let her die peacefully. How does one communicate such pain? I didn’t know how, but I was desperate to find a way to release the tension within me. I did not want to pray since I was angry with God. My thoughts were whirling about in chaos, and no matter where I turned, I was faced with the ugliness of reality with no way to escape.
So I went into my white oak desk, a hand-me-down from Danielle, and took out a piece of college-ruled binder paper. I sat in front of my window, pencil in hand, and proceeded to write an angry letter to the doctors who, I thought, were not doing their jobs properly. My sister had a problem, and I demanded that they and their so-called “expertise” fix it. Finally, I had put my thoughts into words, and it felt good.
From that point on, I made it a ritual to write throughout each day. Sometimes I would scribble out a few sentences of a story I had made up in my head while riding to the doctor’s office with my mom and Danielle. The stories and poems I wrote were my way of escaping from the reality I wished could be make-believe. Why couldn’t my life be a tragedy that I had formed? Why did it have to be real?
I daily fought with God over these questions. I demanded answers, reasons as to why He was allowing this to happen to my family. His only response was “wait.” So I did, quite begrudgingly in fact.
And then one day it hit me. My mom, Danielle and I were in the checkout line in the grocery store when a little boy came up to my sister and innocently asked, “Are you an angel?” She smiled and told him no and watched him walk away with a skeptical look on his face. I took a long, hard look at my sister and realized that if she did die, if this poison did claim her life, she was going to go to heaven and live forever with the God she loved and placed so much faith in. God was in control, no matter what.
Fortunately, Danielle’s new treatments of homeopathic medicine came through. Within months of her first dose, she began to show improvement. And it is by the grace of God that she was completely healed. Though she has a weak immune system, she now lives a normal life and graduates from college in June. I seldom talked about my sister’s illness and the effects it had on me and my family, but my binder paper knew, my composition books knew, my secret stash of scribble-covered Post-it notes knew. Writing became my catalyst, and words became the dearest of friends.
My hope was in knowing that words would not die, they would not fade with time, and they would never leave me. As long as I was able to think and contemplate, I would have them with me. Even though the past nine years have changed me, have shown what time is capable of, my words have not aged, nor have I grown tired of writing them. If anything, I have fallen more in love with them because I have learned the beauty of the 26 letters that roll like die in a magician’s cup until they are ready to be spilled out and moved around to form words. One could even say that they hold me spellbound.
I carry my journal with me virtually everywhere I go. Who knows when a thought will come into my mind that must be put down on paper? My boyfriend, Jonn, frequently remarks how much he enjoys watching me suddenly grab my journal and write something in a frantic manner. He finds my writing quirk charming. There is a persistent desire within me to get my thoughts out, even if those thoughts are meaningless.
I feel that if I don’t put my thoughts into words, I have betrayed them. The thought of betrayal saddens me. That is why I always keep a pencil in my purse to pull out whenever I need it, to show my thoughts and words that I am thankful for them, for all that they have done for me. But more specifically to show my thankfulness to God for allowing me to think and to write, for forming my body in such a perfect way that my mind is able to tell the muscles in my hands and wrists to pick up that yellow Number Two and write.
At a time in my life when I struggled most, God showed me His grace and faithfulness in the strangest of ways. He opened my eyes to the beauty and freedom that are found in words. I am forever indebted to Him for saving me, not just from hell, but from wanting to keep my thoughts in a cellblock. Words are important to God. He gave us the Word, so words are important to me as well. The least I can do is say thank you by putting them to use, even if they are just words shrouded in Number Two lead in the safety of my journal.
I wouldn’t call myself a writer, or at least not a good one. I don’t consider my writing something that William Shakespeare, George Orwell or even you would take the time to read. But I can say that I am faithful to dedicate portions of each day to the smooth, buttermilk paper in my papyrus journal. It deserves that much at least, for even when I miss my scheduled times to write, it still waits for me to pick up my yellow Number Two and chat away with it.
No, I am not a writer — not yet anyway. But I set aside time for the use of words because I am fascinated, even captivated, by the rhythmic hum of their lullabies. Words don’t mind when I manipulate and contort them to my liking. I can make them say whatever I want them to say, and they are faithful to keep my secrets in the safety of their shadows.
There was a time in my life when words rescued me from a pit of deadly silence. When my world was failing, words, like faithful friends, did not neglect me. Words were the glue that kept my sanity intact. I remember the specific moment in which words became something personal to me. But not just any words: my words.
My hero, my older sister Danielle, was severely poisoned by methyl bromide, a pesticide used to spray crops, when she was 16. To this day, we don’t know how it happened. Some have concluded that it was done intentionally; others have said it was an accident. But have you ever watched someone die, someone wilt away like the petals on a fallen rose? It is one thing to strip all life from a flower, to rob it of its beauty in one lethal sweep. But to mutilate it, bit by bit, until nothing but its shell remains, is heart-breaking. Danielle was that flower, a rare beauty, growing and flourishing, until one day her life was demanded from her. It was as if some greedy child happened on a daisy, and instead of gently stroking its petals and enjoying it, plucked it out of the ground, roots and all, and tore off the petals one by one.
Each day, a bit of Danielle’s strength was stolen away, a bit of her life taken captive by the poison that ravaged her body. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even the doctors did nothing. They told my weeping parents to take their child home to let her die peacefully. How does one communicate such pain? I didn’t know how, but I was desperate to find a way to release the tension within me. I did not want to pray since I was angry with God. My thoughts were whirling about in chaos, and no matter where I turned, I was faced with the ugliness of reality with no way to escape.
So I went into my white oak desk, a hand-me-down from Danielle, and took out a piece of college-ruled binder paper. I sat in front of my window, pencil in hand, and proceeded to write an angry letter to the doctors who, I thought, were not doing their jobs properly. My sister had a problem, and I demanded that they and their so-called “expertise” fix it. Finally, I had put my thoughts into words, and it felt good.
From that point on, I made it a ritual to write throughout each day. Sometimes I would scribble out a few sentences of a story I had made up in my head while riding to the doctor’s office with my mom and Danielle. The stories and poems I wrote were my way of escaping from the reality I wished could be make-believe. Why couldn’t my life be a tragedy that I had formed? Why did it have to be real?
I daily fought with God over these questions. I demanded answers, reasons as to why He was allowing this to happen to my family. His only response was “wait.” So I did, quite begrudgingly in fact.
And then one day it hit me. My mom, Danielle and I were in the checkout line in the grocery store when a little boy came up to my sister and innocently asked, “Are you an angel?” She smiled and told him no and watched him walk away with a skeptical look on his face. I took a long, hard look at my sister and realized that if she did die, if this poison did claim her life, she was going to go to heaven and live forever with the God she loved and placed so much faith in. God was in control, no matter what.
Fortunately, Danielle’s new treatments of homeopathic medicine came through. Within months of her first dose, she began to show improvement. And it is by the grace of God that she was completely healed. Though she has a weak immune system, she now lives a normal life and graduates from college in June. I seldom talked about my sister’s illness and the effects it had on me and my family, but my binder paper knew, my composition books knew, my secret stash of scribble-covered Post-it notes knew. Writing became my catalyst, and words became the dearest of friends.
My hope was in knowing that words would not die, they would not fade with time, and they would never leave me. As long as I was able to think and contemplate, I would have them with me. Even though the past nine years have changed me, have shown what time is capable of, my words have not aged, nor have I grown tired of writing them. If anything, I have fallen more in love with them because I have learned the beauty of the 26 letters that roll like die in a magician’s cup until they are ready to be spilled out and moved around to form words. One could even say that they hold me spellbound.
I carry my journal with me virtually everywhere I go. Who knows when a thought will come into my mind that must be put down on paper? My boyfriend, Jonn, frequently remarks how much he enjoys watching me suddenly grab my journal and write something in a frantic manner. He finds my writing quirk charming. There is a persistent desire within me to get my thoughts out, even if those thoughts are meaningless.
I feel that if I don’t put my thoughts into words, I have betrayed them. The thought of betrayal saddens me. That is why I always keep a pencil in my purse to pull out whenever I need it, to show my thoughts and words that I am thankful for them, for all that they have done for me. But more specifically to show my thankfulness to God for allowing me to think and to write, for forming my body in such a perfect way that my mind is able to tell the muscles in my hands and wrists to pick up that yellow Number Two and write.
At a time in my life when I struggled most, God showed me His grace and faithfulness in the strangest of ways. He opened my eyes to the beauty and freedom that are found in words. I am forever indebted to Him for saving me, not just from hell, but from wanting to keep my thoughts in a cellblock. Words are important to God. He gave us the Word, so words are important to me as well. The least I can do is say thank you by putting them to use, even if they are just words shrouded in Number Two lead in the safety of my journal.
Monday, April 9, 2007
God in the Living Room: Essay
by Cole Jeffrey
Art is intimate. Whether an artist paints, writes or composes, he is providing someone with a window into his soul. He lets you see him as he truly is. But art is also relational because while you are allowed to see him you are also allowing him to change you. It’s the same way with God. His art lets us see Him, but it also lets Him change us. That’s why we need to abandon our notions of what is practical, of how we can “use” religion, and instead, just sit under Him and be changed. If we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor. So let’s go see God, whether it’s in church while listening to a sermon, in an art museum standing before a Michelangelo, or on a mountain roadside staring out across the great divide. Like Mary, let’s go sit at His feet and fall in love with Him. Leave the dishes in the kitchen, because God is in the living room.
People often ask if art is useful.
When they ask that question, what they really want to know is if art has any practical value. They want to know if a painting can be used for something more than giving a sparse wall a little color or if music does more than just please the ears.
But the truth is that art is quite useless. It has no practical function in the real world. You cannot “do” anything with art. However, art can do so much with you. You are very useful.
In an essay called “Experiment in Criticism,” C.S. Lewis wrote:
“We sit down before a picture in order to have something done to us, not that we may do things with it. The first demand any work of art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way.”
What Lewis is saying is that we don’t “use” art like we use a kitchen knife or a vacuum cleaner. Art isn’t used. It is experienced. The value of art lies in the experience and in the subsequent results of that experience. William Wordsworth, the poet of Nature and Experience, urged his readers to give up society and science and enjoy the outdoors. “Let Nature be your Teacher,” he wrote in “The Tables Turned.” Later in the poem, he exhorts his readers to:
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth and bring with you a heart,
That watches and receives.
Wordsworth was writing as England was on the verge of the Industrial Revolution, ready to take the plunge into materialism and the middle-classes. He was very much alone with his message of nature and beauty. But over a century later, people still go to visit a large hole in Arizona called the Grand Canyon because it’s supposed to be beautiful. Somehow, seeing something beautiful has value to people, even in an age of pragmatically-minded materialism. The experience is considered worth it.
People still read books, listen to music, and visit art museums—all for the purpose of seeing something beautiful. This is because the artistic experience is considered worth it. But it is only worth it if we remember that it’s an experience, not a tool, not something to be picked up and used like a mop or broom. The value of art cannot be translated into practical language. It cannot be expressed in terms of everyday life. Start talking about what poetry means to you, and you’ll feel ridiculous, like your soul is the stuff Hallmark cards are made from. But art has value nonetheless. However, that value can only be realized if we stop thinking about what we can take from it and instead start thinking about what it can give us. As Lewis said, we have to “sit under” art. We have to receive it.
That is why art and God always dance together in my mind. The two cannot be isolated. God is like art, because God is the force behind art and behind human creativity. In the same way that you have to “sit under” art, you have to “sit under” God. You have to receive Him. You cannot come to God with the practical on your mind, hoping to use your religion like you use your kitchen appliances. Too many Christians sit through sermons, taking notes and making outlines as they look for the stuff that can be taken away. But God calls us to experience Him. The value of a relationship with God lies in our experience of Him and the subsequent results of that experience. God said to Job, “Be still and know that I am God.” Stop thinking about yourself and think about Me. On his blog, while writing about God, art, and nature, Donald Miller wrote:
“I am wondering if sunsets, faces, mountains and rivers were not designed to [be] invitations to know God more fully, more completely. This seems the nature of a love letter, in ways. That is, a love letter adores and praises, but also invites a greater intimacy.”
Art is intimate. Whether an artist paints, writes or composes, he is providing someone with a window into his soul. He lets you see him as he truly is. But art is also relational because while you are allowed to see him you are also allowing him to change you. It’s the same way with God. His art lets us see Him, but it also lets Him change us. That’s why we need to abandon our notions of what is practical, of how we can “use” religion, and instead, just sit under Him and be changed. If we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor. So let’s go see God, whether it’s in church while listening to a sermon, in an art museum standing before a Michelangelo, or on a mountain roadside staring out across the great divide. Like Mary, let’s go sit at His feet and fall in love with Him. Leave the dishes in the kitchen, because God is in the living room.
On Language Thoroughness and Gardening: Essay
By Samuel Moore
High school summers and school time Saturdays meant working at a gardening store. I worked with a hopper, scale, and sewing machine, metering out bags of mineral fertilizers. If I worked alone, it went slowly.
If I worked with another employee, we tried to set and break time records. I did this full-time for two summers. Eventually, I was promoted to sales. I stocked the shelves, swept the floors, memorized several pages’ worth of information in order to answer common questions that affected Bakersfield, learned how to test the pH balance and calcium content of soil, and worked the register. Every customer was to be an object of attention, though many people came in with the same problems.
I became used to the hard customers, the incoherent customers and the “enemies” (such as the gardening talk show host who only dealt with the name brand money-makers and not our local products). One day, an elderly man in overalls and thick glasses walked into the store, and I started reciting my lines. “How can I help you today, sir?” But I was taken off-guard by a product request louder than anything I had heard in the store before—except for the gas-powered forklift. He was deaf. I practically ran to the back of the store (after politely motioning that I would be right back, of course) to take refuge in the experienced wisdom of Paul, who had big sideburns and a handlebar mustache and had worked there for many years. Paul took him off my hands.
Apparently, Paul had dealt with this old deaf man before. I suppose that if he had been deaf for quite some time, he might have forgotten how physically offensive it is to yell (unexpectedly, especially) in someone’s face. But there’s also the possibility that he didn’t care how he heaved his language around. I didn’t think it would be wise to ask him at the time which was his philosophy.
Then there was the time when my neighbors came into the store. We established early on that we recognized we lived next-door to each other. They wanted to kill all of the weeds in their front lawn, and I knew what would do the job, so I explained it to them.Here’s some background though: these neighbors were not pleasant. The husband, probably in his late 60s, encouraged his stylized poodle (named Pierre, of all names) to use our front lawn as a restroom. My dad caught him doing it several times. So one day, we sort of didn’t stop our Husky-Chow mix from defending our yard by attacking the poodle, and the neighbors knew. Shortly after that, our dog’s insides turned squishy and her health declined. We had to have her put to sleep soon enough. We had no proof for anything, but we had plenty of suspicions.
I wasn’t surprised when the neighbors didn’t take my advice and walked out without buying anything. A few weeks later I noticed that their lawn had turned yellow. They hired gardeners to tear it out and replace it with new sod, and soon after that, the weeds came back. Did they know that my advice was sound, but rejected it because I belonged to the house of Moore? I tried to let my words be the mediator in the midst of the feud, and I talked to them the same way I did to the customers before and after them. But my favorite gardening-store-conflict was much more subtle, and it happened many times—sometimes several times a week. We sold a selective, systemic herbicide called Trimec, and it was one of the most popular sales. It would kill weeds, but not lawns—if used properly. Of course, there would be people who would use it wrongly, kill their lawns, and come back to our store to blame us for the mistake. Those customers made me laugh. If they got bad enough, I could use my authority to ask them to leave and never come back.
That’s not the best part. Time after time, customers would walk into the store and ask for Triaminic, which is a brand-name cough syrup for children. Most of the time I would inwardly laugh at them and hand them a bottle of Trimec. I tried to understand (or imagine) their logic: Oh, no: a word I haven’t seen all my life...but I’ve heard this word on TV. It must be the same thing because it looks like it could fit. I don’t know how accurate that was, but it gave me peace in my perceived superiority. I distinctly remember one red-faced woman (maybe in her late 40s) with the kind of glasses that didn’t look thick, but still magnified her eyes when I looked at them. She came in blustering. “I need some Triaminic to kill splurge.”
(Note: she meant, “I need some Trimec to kill spurge.” Spurge is a creeping green and purple weed that grows close to the ground and has networking root systems. Also note: I may be mixing memories here. This may or may not be a singular event.)
I coolly responded that children’s cough syrup would not kill spurge, but I did, in fact, have Trimec, which could. She looked up and clearly didn’t get the joke. It was a blank stare she gave, and then she blinked. “How much is it?”
My smugness was wasted. I didn’t question then why I would try to play on customers’ cursive readings of brand names, but now I know that to teach them to do otherwise would have been like trying to teach a rabbit not to hop. It seemed to be so deeply ingrained in their reading skills that only a time machine could have stopped them from misreading words they weren’t used to.
See, there is a difference between clarifying or correcting language for the purpose of communication and doing so for pride. I let the latter happen (or, more accurately, pushed the latter to happen), and I generally helped those bad pronouncers in contempt. I’m glad lessons can be learned after the incident.
But it’s not all serious. Sometimes it’s really funny. I wonder who the first Southerner was who put the “r” in “wash.”
Cultural Repercussions of a Paradigm Shift: Essay
By Austin Smidt
Without a doubt, the West is undergoing a change. Certain philosophers are identifying this change as a major paradigm shift from modern to postmodern thinking, while others see this change simply as the necessary consummation of modernization and modernity. The latter view is referred to as “late-modernism” or “ultra-modernism.” Regardless of the exact terminology one would employ, it is no doubt that an all-encompassing change is just over the horizon for the West and the world as a whole.
Change isn't something that we should be surprised about. By nature, culture is dynamic. Change is inevitable, as humans learn from past mistakes, grow from those experiences, adapt to new cultural and ideological tides, and adopt new beliefs, values and symbols from the international community. However, even though culture is dynamic, it hasn't always been so quick to change, as it is now.
Can stability be maintained in a fast-paced, dynamic community (worldwide or local)?
If we examine the civilizations that lasted long periods of time, one thing is evident: they remained fairly static, usually under the leadership of one dynastic line. (To be clear, I am by no means advocating dynastic rule). Yes, there were changes. But the changes that the Ming and Ching dynasties faced were slight, subtle and for the most part very similar to China’s preceding cultural structures. The Ottoman Empire lasted for about 600 years, give or take a few (from the 14th century to the early 20th), while undergoing many changes in leadership. But it wasn't until the 19th century when things began to fall apart for the Ottomans (because of massive cultural changes), and things fell fast and hard, leading ultimately to the demise of the empire around the end of World War One. The Byzantine Empire, which the Ottomans eventually conquered in the mid-15th century, also remained a relatively stable empire for many centuries. This empire underwent very little change up until the end, when it faced drastic cultural changes. Of course, there are many other examples throughout history that follow this same trend (and of course, there are always a few exceptions to the majority rule).
Now let’s turn our focus to the “proudly-boasting” dynamic communities of the modern period (specifically the West), because I think I have begun to notice something fascinating. As cultural anthropologist Conrad Phillip Kottak points out in his book Mirror for Humanity, culture is not only dynamic, but it is also integrated:
When these changes confront us, there is one of two results: adaptive behavior or maladaptive behavior. And as Kottak goes on to explain, even adaptive behavior very often produces negative repercussions—maladaptive behavior:
If: - Cultures exist, and
Let me try to explain. It seems that modern, "Western" culture has never faced a paradigm shift such as the one it now faces. Ever since the Enlightenment, fixed beliefs, values, laws, and rules have governed. But now these once standard truths/realities that were so essential to modern life are losing importance and soon may fall out of existence. Granted, there have been many subtle societal shifts with substantial effects, but nothing that sweeps across the board in the same way that this paradigm shift, based on postmodern, relativistic thought could. A whole new way of thinking is now surfacing, not just in theory, but practically. Just imagine what could happen. Are we ready to deal with such changes? Can we as a culture survive such a major shift? Or will the ensuing reactions be so maladaptive that we crumble into the annals like the Ottomans?
Before I close, I would like to clarify something. I am in no way advocating modernity. I am not a modernist. And I am obviously at disagreement with the postmodern world. My point is not so much, “Which is the better ideological system by which we should live?” Rather, what I hope has come across through these few words is that the highly-praised paradigm shift that is staring us in the face might not be such a positive cultural decision. I really have no definitive closing thoughts, since this is just something that I was thinking about while I was at Starbucks and had to put to paper before I forgot. But let me run for a minute in closing.
One more syllogism:
If: - The West is facing a major paradigm shift, such as has never been seen before, and
- Any shift in any aspect of culture will produce an integrated effect, and
- Maladaptive results are to be expected from a shift in a single aspect of any given culture, and
- The current shift in the West directly affects multiple areas of our culture,
Then: - The West is staring at possible repercussions, stemmed from an integrated paradigm shift, that could produce undesirable effects, with great magnitude in every area of our culture, because each individual aspect of culture is necessarily linked with the integrated whole.
Without a doubt, the West is undergoing a change. Certain philosophers are identifying this change as a major paradigm shift from modern to postmodern thinking, while others see this change simply as the necessary consummation of modernization and modernity. The latter view is referred to as “late-modernism” or “ultra-modernism.” Regardless of the exact terminology one would employ, it is no doubt that an all-encompassing change is just over the horizon for the West and the world as a whole.
Change isn't something that we should be surprised about. By nature, culture is dynamic. Change is inevitable, as humans learn from past mistakes, grow from those experiences, adapt to new cultural and ideological tides, and adopt new beliefs, values and symbols from the international community. However, even though culture is dynamic, it hasn't always been so quick to change, as it is now.
Can stability be maintained in a fast-paced, dynamic community (worldwide or local)?
If we examine the civilizations that lasted long periods of time, one thing is evident: they remained fairly static, usually under the leadership of one dynastic line. (To be clear, I am by no means advocating dynastic rule). Yes, there were changes. But the changes that the Ming and Ching dynasties faced were slight, subtle and for the most part very similar to China’s preceding cultural structures. The Ottoman Empire lasted for about 600 years, give or take a few (from the 14th century to the early 20th), while undergoing many changes in leadership. But it wasn't until the 19th century when things began to fall apart for the Ottomans (because of massive cultural changes), and things fell fast and hard, leading ultimately to the demise of the empire around the end of World War One. The Byzantine Empire, which the Ottomans eventually conquered in the mid-15th century, also remained a relatively stable empire for many centuries. This empire underwent very little change up until the end, when it faced drastic cultural changes. Of course, there are many other examples throughout history that follow this same trend (and of course, there are always a few exceptions to the majority rule).
Now let’s turn our focus to the “proudly-boasting” dynamic communities of the modern period (specifically the West), because I think I have begun to notice something fascinating. As cultural anthropologist Conrad Phillip Kottak points out in his book Mirror for Humanity, culture is not only dynamic, but it is also integrated:
“Cultures are not haphazard collections of customs and beliefs. Cultures are integrated, patterned systems. If one part of the system (the overall economy [religion, ideology, value systems, etc.], for instance) changes, other parts change as well.”
When these changes confront us, there is one of two results: adaptive behavior or maladaptive behavior. And as Kottak goes on to explain, even adaptive behavior very often produces negative repercussions—maladaptive behavior:
“Sometimes, adaptive behavior that offers short-term benefits to particular subgroups or individuals may harm the environment and threaten the group’s long-term survival. Economic growth may benefit some people while it depletes resources needed for society at large or for future generations... [And] by-products of... ‘beneficial’ technology [automobiles, air conditioners, etc.] often create new problems [air pollution, depleted ozone layer, global warming].”
So, before I go any further, let me organize my thoughts into a syllogism:If: - Cultures exist, and
- The West is considered a culture, and
- Existing cultures are necessarily dynamic, and
- Existing dynamic cultures face negative repercussions due to changes,
Then:-The West, an existing culture, is necessarily a dynamic culture that faces negative repercussions due to change.
Now this may not seem like anything to write home about. But really, it is fascinating. For all the vaunted talk about the “positive” aspects of post-modernism in academia (relativism, moral neutrality, open-mindedness, free-thought, etc.), it seems as though the West is running headlong into a ditch. - Existing cultures are necessarily dynamic, and
- Existing dynamic cultures face negative repercussions due to changes,
Then:-The West, an existing culture, is necessarily a dynamic culture that faces negative repercussions due to change.
Let me try to explain. It seems that modern, "Western" culture has never faced a paradigm shift such as the one it now faces. Ever since the Enlightenment, fixed beliefs, values, laws, and rules have governed. But now these once standard truths/realities that were so essential to modern life are losing importance and soon may fall out of existence. Granted, there have been many subtle societal shifts with substantial effects, but nothing that sweeps across the board in the same way that this paradigm shift, based on postmodern, relativistic thought could. A whole new way of thinking is now surfacing, not just in theory, but practically. Just imagine what could happen. Are we ready to deal with such changes? Can we as a culture survive such a major shift? Or will the ensuing reactions be so maladaptive that we crumble into the annals like the Ottomans?
Before I close, I would like to clarify something. I am in no way advocating modernity. I am not a modernist. And I am obviously at disagreement with the postmodern world. My point is not so much, “Which is the better ideological system by which we should live?” Rather, what I hope has come across through these few words is that the highly-praised paradigm shift that is staring us in the face might not be such a positive cultural decision. I really have no definitive closing thoughts, since this is just something that I was thinking about while I was at Starbucks and had to put to paper before I forgot. But let me run for a minute in closing.
One more syllogism:
If: - The West is facing a major paradigm shift, such as has never been seen before, and
- Any shift in any aspect of culture will produce an integrated effect, and
- Maladaptive results are to be expected from a shift in a single aspect of any given culture, and
- The current shift in the West directly affects multiple areas of our culture,
Then: - The West is staring at possible repercussions, stemmed from an integrated paradigm shift, that could produce undesirable effects, with great magnitude in every area of our culture, because each individual aspect of culture is necessarily linked with the integrated whole.
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