God in the Living Room: Essay

by Cole Jeffrey

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.”

Master Minds: Inspiration from the Past: Editorial

by Heather Donckels

One night about a month ago, I walked across the baseball field in the dark. The Astroturf felt springy under my feet, and above me, the white half-moon hung in the sky. The air was so clear that I could see the half of the moon that was supposed to be hiding. It looked like a faintly glowing handle attaching the moon to the blackness. I found the gate in the chain link fence, stepped through it, and crossed the path to the Bryce House.

Anna and Debbie, my fellow editors, were waiting for me in the Writing Room across from Dr. Simons’ office. It is a small room, containing two computers, a bookshelf full of writing books, a coffee table covered with old yearbooks, and a water dispenser. On the far wall, there’s a window covered with blinds, the cheap, flimsy, off-white kind, and a deep windowsill crowned with the two-volume Oxford Compact Dictionary.

After a minute, Titus Gee finished his phone call and joined us. He is tall, with a goatee, rimless glasses and nearly white blonde hair held back in a ponytail. In 2001, he edited and published Master Minds for its first year. After about an hour, a petite young woman wearing a purple sweater joined us. She had soft brown bangs on her forehead. Her name was Christine Berwick, and she was the editor of Master Minds after Titus.

For two hours, Titus and Christine taught Anna, Debbie and me about newsletter layout, how to gather content, writer-editor relationships, and what we could expect our editing experiences of the semester to look like. But also, perhaps without knowing it, they passed along their original vision for Master Minds.

“Every night, the Bryce House used to be full of students,” Titus told us. “People would come here to hang out and study and talk philosophy. This was the art hub of The Master’s College.” Today, the Bryce House is a discarded shell of the old days. It’s almost always quiet.

Titus and Christine left for a meeting. Debbie and Anna left too, but I stayed behind in the Writing Room. “This is your office,” Titus had told us, “your home away from home.” I looked over the first year’s issues of Master Minds and was transported to the days when it ran strong, being published bi-monthly.

I sat down in the desk chair and looked around—at the world map on the wall and the picture of Albert Einstein that Titus said they’d salvaged from the Science Department when they were remodeling. I thought about a noisy Bryce House. All I could hear was the ticking of the clock and the computer fans spinning. Where do the artists and writers of TMC discuss ideas? I wondered. I hear the English majors whispering behind me in class, and their whispers tell me they’ve talked things over already. So they must talk somewhere. What about creative expression? Where do the writers and poets express themselves and get read? Master Minds hasn’t been published in a year. What has the artistic community of The Master’s College done in the meantime?

Then and there, I decided that as much as it depended on me, Master Minds would be that creative outlet. Master Minds’ motto is “Read, Write, Think, Discuss, Create.” I want this newsletter to live up to that motto. As a result of reading Master Minds, I want people to think and discuss and be inspired to write and create their own art.

Before I left the Writing Room, I whispered a prayer that Anna, Debbie and I would be useful and honor God in our editing this semester. And then I added to myself with a smile, “Maybe this is the beginning of something new.”

So, writers and artists of The Master’s College, come out of the woodwork. Feel free to express yourself and glorify God in that expression. If He has given you a gift, don’t hesitate to use it.

In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert Pt. 1

by Joe Barnes

Arizona and New Mexico have little to offer bored eyes. I’m stuck picturing the large, three-pronged cactus as Native American people waving goodbye. Every five miles or so, an old cowboy appears in the mix. It becomes apparent that the desert is truly forsaken when you realize that both the Indian and the cowboy are waving goodbye with both hands, instead of just one. Once you reach Texas, it takes a couple of hours before you start enjoying the scenery, and by then you’re almost home.
My 22-year-old brother Luke sat next to me driving his ‘98 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Earlier that morning, Luke and I had woke up at 6 a.m. to begin the tedious task of driving 22 hours from Santa Clarita, California, to Austin, Texas. Luke had received his college degree the day before. Once we arrived home, he planned to continue his physical training in preparation to enter the Marine Corps as an officer. He’d been running and weight-lifting since February, although this training was merely an extension of playing soccer for four years at The Master’s College.
When I thought about living at home that summer with all of my old friends, I became nervous and anxious. I didn’t know how I would withstand the pressure to abandon all I had learned and simply pick up where I’d left off, or what they would think about how I had changed. I didn’t know how I would tell them what I had learned and if I should even hang out with them. I looked over at Luke and smiled as I turned up the music.
Luke is five foot nine and has a shaved head (he shaves it instead of leaving his thin hair). I’ve heard girls compliment his clear blue eyes, which create an attractive contrast to his thick black eyebrows. Some have said he’s “dreamy.” His posture and walk are confident, not to be mistaken for arrogance, and he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He’s known for loving sleep and never saying more than necessary in the morning.
Therefore, we were silent as the loud old engine and the air against the windshield formed a mind-numbing vibrating noise as we rode. Two of our friends, Rob and Kelly, also soccer players, were headed to San Antonio, Texas, and caravanned close behind us. Rob was the tall, dark and handsome type and Kelly the short, sweet and cute.
We reached Phoenix in six hours. I stepped out of the car into the Subway parking lot, glad to stretch. After we ate, we walked through the parking lot back to the cars and noticed a long trail of liquid streaming slowly down the asphalt, coming from under the hood of the Jeep.
“Man, what is this!” Luke exclaimed.
I opened the driver door and pulled the handle to release the hood. Kelly and Rob stood by as Luke and I examined the engine. The antifreeze had been seeping out, nearly depleting the coolant in the tank. There was a hole in the tank near the cap. Luckily, an auto store sat in the shopping center we were in. It took us the next 45 minutes to seal the area around the cap with tar and replenish the tank with antifreeze. Hot and sweaty, the four of us climbed in the cars and drove back to the 10 East.
Thirty minutes down the highway, just as I had begun to get cool and relax, Luke noticed the engine temperature gauge running way too hot. “Joe, check this out! We need to stop!”
I sat up and leaned over to see. “Yeah, pull over.”
Luke slowed down to let Rob know we were stopping. Now slightly angry, we got out of the car and popped the hood again. We watched in wonder as blue antifreeze spewed violently out from under the lid, melting the tar we had just applied and making it bubble up. Baffled, Luke did what any Barnes boy does when car trouble arises: he called our dad, the self-taught, nearly-professional mechanic.
Dad told us to drive to the nearest gas station and then call him back. Luke had Dad back on the phone as I pulled up next to the air and water tank at the station. I got out and raised the hood, darting backward to avoid the geyser of hot antifreeze. As it shot up two feet in the air, Luke relayed instructions from Dad, shouting at me to cool down the engine with the hose. I sprayed water wherever I thought best, all over the dark, steamy abyss. Nothing was working. Luke’s tone was demanding and harsh as he instructed me to jam the hose in the radiator and flood it to cool it off.
Kelly and Rob stood by with their jaws dropped. I glared over at them as they tried not to laugh. Luke yelled to my dad that nothing was working, while hot antifreeze and water splattered all over me.
“Chill out, Luke!” I shouted.
Luke quickly ended the call. “Dad told me to call him back when I’ve calmed down and can talk in a normal voice!”
“Yeah, calm down, man!” I yelled.
Rob, Kelly, Luke and I stood staring in dismay, silently watching the geyser run its course and the hose flood the engine. Water spilled over the grill onto the concrete. Strangers looked on with glances I interpreted to be calling me an idiot. That was okay, because I felt like an idiot, and I knew I looked like one. With wet hair and a drenched shirt, I stood out of breath with my hands on my knees, bent over and blinking at the concrete.
The tank soon depleted itself of coolant. I got Dad back on the phone. He told me to fill up the tank with enough water to keep the engine cool and drive to a mechanic. But it was Sunday, and the mechanics weren’t open. Though they politely offered to stay and be of any assistance they could, Luke and I urged Rob and Kelly to get back on the road. I talked it over with Luke and proposed that we stay at a friend’s house 30 minutes away and find a mechanic in the morning. Pulling out from the gas station, Rob and Kelly turned right, back on the road towards Texas, while Luke and I made a left, back towards Phoenix.
Luke and I arrived at Justin’s around 4 p.m. While I hung out with Justin and swam in his pool, Luke continued to talk with Dad. He could not relax knowing there was a chance he could fix his Jeep and get us back on the road. I didn’t bother convincing him to swim, knowing he was too stubborn to relax and wait for a mechanic. I accepted it as pride of ownership, considering I’d probably do the same.
He disappeared and came back a couple hours later, explaining that he had replaced the tank cap at the auto parts store, refilled the antifreeze, and test drove the Jeep through town. He declared it would be okay to skip the mechanic and leave first thing the next morning. My desire to be home silenced my skepticism. We stayed the night to get some rest.
We left Justin’s house at 8 a.m. It was my turn to drive. The Monday morning traffic slowed us down while leaving Phoenix, so I suggested finding an alternate route. Before drifting off to sleep, Luke pointed out a detour on the map that bypassed the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I drove on the shortcut through the desolate, hilly terrain in the Arizona desert, making sure to constantly check the engine temperature.
Around 9:30, while going up a long and steady grade, the engine temperature started to rise, and suddenly the car lost power, locking the breaks and killing the engine. I quickly steered to the side of the road and made a sudden stop. Luke sprang up, and once again, we got out and popped the hood. The antifreeze bubbled from the same place as before. It wasn’t spewing out, but the engine was definitely overheated. With the loss of power, a new problem arose: our battery died. Being in the desert and off the main highway, neither of our cell phones had reception. I walked over and leaned against the driver side door, slowly knocking the back of my head against the window. A story I’d recently heard about a man whose car broke down came to mind. He had prayed, acknowledging that the Lord was in control and said that he would wait for the Lord to work the problem out.
Lord, I’ll trust you, I said to myself. I know You’re in control. I stopped the knocking and slightly grinned.
We spotted a house across the street and down the hill about 200 yards and began to walk towards it in hopes of finding a land-line to use. Walking up the dirt driveway, I stared at the rectangular white house sitting alone on a couple acres of desert. A chain-link fence bordered the property.
I walked up the stairs and onto the long, prairie-style porch, then knocked on the door and peered through the window, quietly repeating, “Hello? Is anyone home?” Never an answer. “Who would ever want to live here?” I asked Luke.
We walked back to the car. I retrieved the jumper cables and began swinging them around as a beacon to any car that passed by. Luke stood by with one arm in the air. In 10 minutes, two cars had gone by, neither caring to stop. Five minutes later, a two-door silver sports car made in the early eighties passed us, still running in spite of its age and seemingly-obvious number of wrecks. It slowed down to make a U-turn and puttered straight up to the front of the Jeep. The driver knew exactly where to position the car for a jumpstart.
As he pulled up, I walked to the right side of the Jeep and stood beside the hood, dangling the jumper cables at my side. Luke stood opposite on the left side. We watched the driver slowly open the door, use the top of the frame to hoist himself out of the driver’s seat, and then finally stand to his feet. He stood close to six and a half feet tall with scruffy facial hair and a beer belly. His skin was weathered and leathery and browned from the sun. His legs, arms and face were covered with a layer of dirt as if he had not showered in a couple of days. He wore thong sandals, baggy, gray cotton shorts, a white t-shirt and a trucker ball cap that didn’t fit. However, the wear of his appearance was not to be mistaken for weakness. He looked in our eyes as he spoke and seemed to possess strength and fury capable of being released at any time.
As he slowly walked toward the hood of the Jeep, Greg (that’s how he introduced himself) made a comment in his scratchy deep voice, acknowledging our car trouble. The way he walked made it look like he had just woken up from an afternoon nap and was trying to regain his balance.
Tucked in the slot behind his ear and skull lay a browned and rotten-looking cigarette. A cigarette becomes this color when it gets wet and has time to dry out again. After drying, the wet tobacco stains the white paper brown. Not only did Greg have a salvaged cigarette behind his ear, but the cigarette had ripped, taking the shape of an L.
Luke and I noticed the cigarette at the same time. We exchanged a smirk that said, “You see that, man?” We looked back at the cigarette, affirming that we had glanced at each other for the same reason, all the while holding back our laughter, so as to not offend the stranger. He was oblivious, and something about him made me assume he would rather wrap the broken cigarette with tape, dry it out and smoke it again, instead of tossing it in the trash.
Reaching the hood, he braced himself with both hands on the grill and hunched over, leaning his face close to the engine. He began inspecting it, swiveling and turning his head and upper body as if he were a snake looking for a way to slide through the small gaps and crevices under the hood.
“I think I can help you out,” Greg said. “Looks like your water hoses going to the engine are clogged. Yeah, you probably need new hoses.”
He stood up and took a step back. “Follow me to my house,” he said, looking at both of us. “I live about 10 minutes away.”
Greg stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the right, waiting for a response. Luke and I stood silent. This seemed to be the best option, and a second longer of silence would have communicated distrust and fear. We glanced warily at each other and then simultaneously agreed to follow.

Poetry: Issue 1

Well-Read
by Debbie Stampfli

Behind your cover
You’ve been read more than once
With fingerprints and signatures
Of those who once knew your plot,
And memorized lines
Of meaning(At the time).
And bent down corners
To save their places.
With highlights and coffee stains,
And pencil shavings,
And cigarette burns
That fade the pages.
While the outside
Looks as though it’s been dropped
Into a puddle,
Or even a river.
But he paid anyway,
And gave his money at the register,
And counted his change,
Carefully;
So he wouldn’t be taken.
But when he carries you home
In the plastic white sack,
And reads the beginning,
And finishes a chapter,
He’ll realize:
It was never that interesting,
Not even worth it.
And will proceed
To throw you out.

Escaped
by Allegra Weaver

It looked impossible to them,
The fire blazed and licked the hem
Of woolen cloak and gown worn thin,
And then its whiplash reached the skin
Of praying mother, father grim
With one accord they sang a hymn,
While tongues of fire leapt and flared,
Amidst the wild crowd’s hungered stares.
The flames engulfed the hands, the face,
As Death came on at quickened pace
To seize his prey, secure his store
Of souls to feast on evermore.
But while at last their bodies burned,
To dust and ashes, roundly spurned
By those who gazed in open mirth,
Their souls enjoyed a living birth.

Birthday for Evie: A Short Story

By Anna Forbes

Evie scrambled into her car-seat and reached for the seatbelt, but Dad found it first and winked as he handed it to her. She had been excited for this all week. Dad was taking us to the park for her eighth birthday. This would be the best part of her day. Evie loved to be outside so much more than inside. The indoors made her think of the dreaded school and books. Evie had moved to the first grade this year after two years of kindergarten, lots of testing and special tutors. She was one of the oldest in her class, but by far the smallest.
We arrived at the park, and I hopped out into the cold wind. I zipped up my jacket and waited for Dad to help Evie with hers.
“Look up, Evie. We don’t want your chin to catch in the zipper.”
Evie always got her chin caught in the zipper, and it always left a mark. She ran ahead of us to the playground, but paused several times to make sure we were still coming. Her small, delicate face lit up as she pumped her frail legs to swing. Something in her eyes seemed hollow. Her bobbed hair whipped across her face in the strong wind. Evie was blissful. She didn’t have to think or talk. She could just enjoy the simple moment all by herself. I often wished she would take me with her to the places in her mind.
Dad and I watched her for a minute, and then he suggested we race. He knew how I loved to run and that I loved racing against him. I secretly knew he could win, but I always said I would out-run him one day. I bent over and set my fingers in the cold grass, ready for the signal. Dad crouched next to me, and I prepared myself for his pranks. He said “Go!” and my legs flew, two strides for every one of his. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my eyes reacted to the rush of cold wind. He let me get ahead of him, but I knew what was coming. His fingers gripped my waist, and we fell to the ground in a mound of bulky coats and laughter.
Catching our breath, we sat up to see Evie standing on the edge of the sand, with her hands on her hips and disappointment written across her face. Dad knew she felt left out, so we challenged her to a race. We took off running to the other end of the field. Soon I was leading with no one behind me. I stopped and turned to see where everyone had gone.
A look of horror covered Evie’s face. Those once hollow eyes were now filled with fear and confusion. I quickly understood the situation. Her delicate frame couldn’t run against the wind, and the harder she ran, the more she was blown back. Seeing us fade farther away was more than she could handle. She couldn’t understand why she was being abandoned, and she screamed because she didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t fast enough to catch us, but to turn around would be going farther away from us.
Dad ran to her and knelt down so his eyes were looking straight into hers. His thumb wiped her tears away, and he scooped her into his strong arms and carried her to the car.
I slowly walked back, wishing Evie was normal. Then everyday things like footraces wouldn’t be turned into disasters. I sat next to her in the car and watched her sad face. Tears clouded her eyes until she went to sleep; then her nap was interrupted only by a hiccup and a sigh. She had looked so helpless and vulnerable out there on the field. I thought about the world from her perspective: cold and unforgiving, with no one to understand.
No one but Dad. He was her rescuer. He had protected her from so much and had never spoken a word of disapproval or frustration. He did that for both of us, and we loved him.

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:

“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.
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.