showcase

Villain

Who is the villain in the story of Adam and Eve? Christianity and Judaism will have you believe it’s the serpent, but I think a close reading without the blinders of preconception proves God is the villain.

To begin with, notice when in the narrative God forbids the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil:

The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.”

The Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”

Genesis 2.15-18

That second paragraph is crucial because it shows that God gave the command to Adam before Eve even existed. He told Adam, “Don’t eat of the tree.” He said nothing to Eve. In fact, if you read the text closely, he never talks to Eve at all.

The temptation occurs in the next chapter:

Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”

The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”

“You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

Genesis 3.1-5

A few questions arise here:

  1. Where was Adam? Since God communicated with him about the cursed tree, he should have been careful to prevent an unknowing Eve from approaching the tree.
  2. Where is God? Since God never communicated with Eve, I’m assuming he assumed Adam would take this role. Now that it’s obvious that Adam is doing nothing, why wouldn’t a loving God step in.
  3. Why the hell is the tree there in the first place? This is the fundamental question. It’s like putting a knife in a baby’s crib. What do you expect is going to happen?
  4. Why did God allow the serpent to enter the garden to being with? Again, it’s like putting a circular saw in the nursery.
  5. Why didn’t God do something to prevent this? He is all-knowing: he knew this is going to happen. He didn’t take a single step other than warning Adam. And of course this gets us back to the question of why the hell God made this tree to begin with.
  6. Why is the tree of knowledge that’s forbidden? What’s so dangerous about knowledge. Oh, never mind…
  7. How could God expect them to obey him (i.e., to realize it was a sin, i.e., to understand it was evil to disobey him) when they clearly didn’t know the difference between good and evil? Now we’ve got a knife and a circular saw in the crib of a blind toddler.

The narrative continues:

When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.

Genesis 3.6, 7

First of all, we see that Adam was right there with her. What the hell was he doing? Why didn’t he stop her?

More significantly, we see that the serpent was telling the truth: “the eyes of both of them were opened.” But the didn’t die, despite God’s telling Adam that “in that day you shall surely die.” They didn’t die: God lied.

So let’s build the case for the serpent being the villain:

  1. He encouraged the couple to disobey God. However, God only bothered to tell Adam, and Adam did nothing to stop Eve. More troubling, they didn’t even know what good and evil as concepts were, so there’s no way we can hold them accountable for that.

That’s it. One point, a point that’s really not significant at all. What’s the case for the serpent being the hero?

  1. He was encouraging them to increase their knowledge.
  2. He told the truth: they did not die when they ate the fruit.
  3. He told the truth: they did receive knowledge when they ate the fruit.

There’s not much, but at least he has the truth on his side.

How about the case for God being the villain:

  1. He put a tree in the garden that he decided was forbidden and chose to punish Adam and Eve for eating of it.
  2. He only told Adam not to eat of it; he didn’t even bother to communicate with Eve.
  3. He lies to Adam about the consequence of eating of the tree.
  4. He expected obedience from
    • newly-formed creatures who
    • didn’t know what good and evil were.
  5. Once Eve and Adam eat of the tree, he punishes all future generations for the crime (which they couldn’t know was a crime because they didn’t know good and evil). And according to Christianity, the punishment is eternal torment. Eternal torment for a finite crime committed by other people!
  6. He turned Adam and Eve’s daily life to a relative hell of struggling for mere subsistence.
  7. After having told Adam and Eve to “be fruitful and multiply,” he makes the act of childbirth painful and potentially lethal.
  8. He creates Adam and Eve and the garden and everything else with complete foreknowledge of this catastrophe (for which he is responsible).

And the case for him being the hero? Well, I guess according to the text, we have him to thank for our existence since he made everything. But since that “everything” includes hell and a guaranteed ticket there for the vast majority of humanity, that one point in his favor is hardly significant and is in fact a point against him.

This all of course depends on the narrative being factually accurate, which of course it isn’t. But imagine trying to square all of this with a literal interpretation of this passage: anyone who worships this being is worshiping a monster.

Barron’s Response

On Bishop Robert Barron’s minstry’s YouTube channel — Word on Fire — he had a conversation with staff member Brandon Vogt after Barron’s interview with Alex O’Connor in which they promised to go a little deeper in the responses.

Vogt points out that Barron and O’Connor went back and forth for a long time on faith, and invited Barron to elucidate a little. Instead, he just gave the same analogy, changing it from getting to know his interlocutors to getting to one one’s spouse:

The analogy which I think is very illuminating there I often use is come to know a person. So you’re coming to know another human being. Of course, reason is involved all the time. I mean, reason understands all sorts of things, but there is a moment when that person, if you’re coming to real intimacy with that person, reveals something about herself that you could not in principle know no matter how many google searches and how much analysis and how much how clever you. There’s no way you’d get what’s in that person’s heart unless she chooses to reveal it, at which point you have to make a decision: do I believe it or not. Now is it credible what she’s saying, and you might say, “Yeah it is because it’s congruent with everything else I know about her.” At the same time, is it reducible to what I know about her? No, otherwise it wouldn’t be a revelation. So that’s why it’s a false dichotomy to say reason or faith. No, it’s reason that has reached a kind of limit, but reason has opened a door. Reason has poised you for the self-manifestation of another.

Well, that’s not just with God; that happens all the time. When two people are married and deeply in love, I’m sure you could point to those moments when [your wife] revealed something to you that you would never ever have known otherwise. You revealed something about yourself to her and then the two of you, because you’re in love with each other, I imagine said, “Yeah, I believe that.”

Now, can I reduce that to an argument? No, you never can. In a way it remains always mysterious to you yet your will, in that case, has commanded your intellect. That’s exactly what Thomas Aquinas says about faith. It’s a rare instance when the will commands the intellect. Normally, it moves the other way right? The intellect kind of leads the will. The intellect understands the good and then it leads the will, but in the case of faith, the will leads the intellect. It says, “No this is worthy of belief. This person who’s speaking to me is worthy of belief, and what the person is telling me is congruent with reason yet beyond it, and so I choose to believe.” That’s the relationship between faith and reason it seems to me so.

In the debate with O’Connor, Barron defined faith as “the response to a revealing God.” That makes very little sense in terms of how most people use faith. “You just have to have faith that God’s plan, which involves this horrendous suffering, will result in good,” someone might say. Let’s switch those out: “You just have to have [the response to a revealing God] that God’s plan, which involves this horrendous suffering, will result in good.” Clearly, this definition of “faith” is not the same as the original sentence’s sense of “faith.” This might work for “the Christian faith” — “the Christian response to a revealing God.” That works. That’s fine. You’d also have “the Muslim response to a revealing God,” and so on — but this “faith” just means “belief system” or even “religion.”

Furthermore, the faith that Barron gives in this example is not faith — it’s trust. It’s a trust that is based on experiential evidence. I believe my wife because she’s shown herself to be trustworthy. I wouldn’t make this same move (to use a favorite Barron term) with a stranger. The only time such a move (there it is again) is conceivable is if the revelation the stranger gives you is utterly trivial: “I have a dog.”

This faith/trust often moves into faith/trust in Jesus, that we’re to get to know Jesus and then we’ll have faith in him. Or trust in him. But that is utterly different from the situation with my wife. My wife is physically present with me. She’s not some hypothetical spiritual being out there but a real person that I can observe and talk to.

“You can get to know Jesus,” comes the rejoinder. But how? Directly? No.

I can get to know him through the Bible, but that’s problematic for obvious reasons that I’ve discussed numerous times here. It’s filled with contradictions. The image of God presented in the Old Testament is positively barbaric. It’s packed with immorality commanded from God — it’s just not a good example of a good supposedly written by an omnipotent being.

I can get to know him through what the church teaches about him, and here the Catholic church has a leg up on Protestants because they don’t restrain themselves to the Bible. The magisterium has equal footing — or nearly-equal footing. So if the Pope says it ex-cathedra, it’s an article of faith. Still, that’s just the same as relying on the Bible — it’s a product of humans.

Finally, I can get to know him in that way that Evangelicals and Mormons are especially fond of: that sense we have in our heart (it’s telling that religions insist on using that metaphor when we’ve known for ages that the seat of our intellect is not our hearts but our brains — it’s an attempt, I suspect, to move the whole experience away from the intellect) that God is involved in our lives. That warm feeling in their hearts that Christians attribute to the Holy Spirit. I don’t doubt the experience of that warm feeling, but to attribute it to anything outside one’s own mind is itself an act of faith, an act not based on evidence. “It’s the Holy Spirit!” the Bible proclaims and our pastors echo, and so Christians accept that explanation. Muslims have the same experiences but attribute that not to the Holy Spirit (that would be blaspheme, for God is one!) but to Allah. Hindus would make the same move. (It’s rubbing off on me.)

So all three ways we get to know God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit are questionable: they’re all open to interpretation; none are firmly grounded on rational reasoning based on evidence. That is what we skeptics mean when we say that faith is not reason, that it does not work in a similar way, and that it is separate from (sometimes anathema to) evidence.

Miracles and Belief

A priest in a local parish recently included in his homily a quote that appears to be a variant of something Thomas Aquinas said. The priest phrased it thusly: “For those who don’t believe, no miracle is enough; for those who believe, no miracle is necessary.” Aquinas’s quote is a little different: “To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.” The order is different, but the idea is the same.

The quote has a certain rhetorical symmetry to it, a certain parallel structure that makes it resonate in believers’ minds. That symmetry makes it more memorable, and that memorableness combined with its emotional resonance means it will stick.

The quote will seem clever as well. In believers’ view, it encapsulates both the weakness of the skeptic’s position and the strength of the believer’s. It creates a simple juxtaposition that both validates their own position and invalidates the position of opponents. In short, it’s the perfect rhetorical flourish believers can take home with them and use when talking to or about skeptics.

Like many rhetorical constructions, however, this one ultimately fails because of its oversimplification of both sides of the structure. From the skeptic’s point of view, it represents neither the skeptic’s position nor the believer’s position accurately. It is filled with generalizations and question-begging most believers would not notice.

The first part of this quote deals with skeptics. The assertion is that no miraculous event could convince the skeptic. There is some degree of truth to that. Were someone to rise from the dead, for example, the skeptic’s first response would not be, “Oh, this is possible proof of God’s existence.” Rather, she would begin looking for natural explanations. Even if no natural explanation were obvious, the skeptic would not default to a supernatural explanation. Rather, the skeptic would simply say, “We don’t know.” So in that sense, the assertion is correct: it’s doubtful that anything so puzzling could happen that a skeptic would move beyond a simple “I don’t know” into a theistic explanation based on the supernatural suspension of natural laws.

Believers, though, already primed for belief, eagerly accept as miraculous anything they can’t understand. It’s the argument from incredulity, which could be framed thusly: “I don’t understand how this could happen, therefore God must have done it.” Much creationist theorizing that attempts to refute the clear evidence of evolution lies along these lines.

This is no to say theists are not willing to admit ignorance. Indeed, when pressed on contradictions in their faith, the fall-back position is often simple: “God is a mystery.”

“Why would a loving god allow such suffering among children who can gain nothing from it and who simply suffer?” the skeptic asks.

“I don’t really know. I just know God has a plan, and that this is somehow part of that plan,” the believer responds.

The second element of the quote in question that we need to examine is the nature of miracles: A miracle is the suspension of natural laws. Yet because it is is it a suspension of natural laws, there’s no way to test a miracle to prove that it is a miracle. All of our knowledge is bound up in the natural laws that govern the universe. The suspension of those laws in order to create a miracle would be indistinguishable from a new law or principle we have yet to discover, and as miracles are one-time events, there’s no way we could test it to prove that it was not, in fact, some bizarre quantum event but instead a miracle. So in that sense, this assertion is correct: because skeptics generally deny the possibility of miracles, it would not even be an option.

Yet if the purpose of miracles was to convince skeptics, an omniscient god would know exactly what it would take to convince a skeptic. The Christian god’s very characteristics make this merely a question of will: if this god exists and it wants a skeptic to believe, it knows what it would take and would merely need to do this. The fact that it doesn’t suggests — again, if it exists — that it chooses not to, that it doesn’t want to.

The quote from the believer’s side is quite disingenuous, but it’s not immediately obvious. It states that “for those who believe, no miracle is necessary.” This suggests that miracles are secondary to some other method of conviction. But if we’re discussing Christianity (as the priest obviously was and as Aquinas was), the entire religion is based on faith in a central miracle: the resurrection of an executed first-century Jew. So in fact, the quote has it exactly backward: the central tenant of the Christian belief system is a miracle.

When discussing why they believe in this miracle, Christians point to accounts of the event in the New Testament and to personal experiences they claim to have had with “the risen Christ.” In order to accept the accounts in the New Testament, one has to have a certain degree of confidence in the accuracy of the New Testament’s accounts, and given the fact that there is not a single eye-witness account in the whole collection of books but instead multiple second- and third-hand accounts decades after the event, most skeptics find the Biblical evidence weak at best.  On the other hand, to accept the authenticity of a believer’s accounts of personal inner experiences with Jesus, skeptics must necessarily accept that believer’s interpretation of that inner event. No one would doubt that the believer had that moment of clarity, that experience of warmth and love that they claim. However, just because a believer had that experience doesn’t mean that experience came from some god or other. Believers are often looking for reasons to believe: they’re looking for miracles large and small. They’re seeking these quasi-mystical experiences with their god. Since they’re looking for them, they often find them. As Augustine of Hippo said, “Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.”

Yet a believer is likely to protest that such an analysis is going too far. “It’s about skeptics’ calls for miracles to aid in belief now. ‘God, give me a miracle so I believe!’ skeptics proclaim, but this quote is suggesting that’s not necessary for believers.” Skeptics are skeptical, though, not because there are no miracles today; we’re skeptical because we find the evidence for the source of any potential miracles lacking. To look at an event, proclaim it a miracle, then use that as evidence for a god is question-begging: it assumes the god exists in the first place. It works backward to an unwarranted assumption. Skeptics see things that believers proclaim to be miracles and say, “Now hold on — there’s probably another way to explain that phenomenon.” And if there’s not, skeptics will simply say, “We don’t know how to explain it.”

In the end, the quote is just as much an indictment of believers’ question-begging as it is of skeptics’ lack of faith.

Old Friend

M and I were the most unlikely of friends. In many ways, we were as opposite as anyone could imagine. He was raised by his grandparents in the country, and throughout his schooling, I’m sure he was considered “at-risk.” He smoked (cigarettes and more), drank, and was, by his own admission, a hellion. When, at a church youth function, the minister gathered all the boys together and asked who’d brought the flask, it was M. If anyone ever got in trouble for making a smartass remark in youth group, it was always M. He was rebellious and sometimes disrespectful, and academic concerns were of little importance in his thinking. He finished high school, but just barely.

Yet on a church youth trip to Disneyworld, he and I ended up spending an afternoon together. We’d been in separate groups during the morning, but the kids in my group had wanted to break up into small groups. “Mr. K said not to do that,” I protested. But they did it anyway, and the result was the Mr. K, the minister, followed through with his threat: they had to spend the rest of the day with him and his group of adults. I protested my innocence, and the kids in my group admitted that I’d tried to keep the group together, so I was pardoned. M and I ended up spending the rest of the day together. It was the first time we’d really spent any time together, and from that afternoon, we became close friends.

While we had little in common, what we did have in common was enough, I guess. We both loved hot food, for example, and we’d often get the spiciest salsa we could find with a bag of chips to see if we could handle it, washing it all down with Mountain Dew. We loved music, and we spent a lot of time with his grandparents playing bluegrass, Paw (as I came to call his grandfather just as he did) and I on guitar, M on banjo, and Maw singing. We both enjoyed shooting .22s at anything that would sit still long enough, and though we shot at a lot of squirrels and birds, we never hit them. Old cans and cola bottles filled with water were our favored targets. How many times can you hit that two-liter bottle before all the water drains out? The strategy is, of course, simple: start aiming at the top and work your way down. During the summer, if we needed money, we’d spend an afternoon helping this neighbor or that put up hay, and we’d earn enough for dinner, gas, and a couple of movies.

When he graduated high school the year before me, my parents asked him about his plans. “I’ll just get a job in construction, I guess.” They encouraged him to at least take a few courses at the local community college. “Then, you could start your own construction firm and you’d have the paperwork skills to run it,” my mom explained. “Nah,” he laughed, “school’s not for me.”

One July day that summer, Paw gave us a job: “There’s some raccoons that are just giving our garden hell,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you boys’d take care of it.” We sat at the edge of a small clump of trees that summer evening, a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew sitting between us, .22s by our sides waiting. Soon enough, three raccoons trundled into the garden. We waited until the were situated so that we could shoot away from any houses then let loose.

Maw and Paw’s farm was in a valley that seemed to echo with the sounds of neighbors’ activities, and as we fired away, we heard their nearest neighbors, who were sitting on their front porch, cheer us on: “Somebody’s gettin’ some coons!” they whooped.

Afterward, we put them in a trash bag and Maw took a commemorative picture.

Eight years after his picture, I came home for the summer after spending two years in Poland and having already committed to a third year. I went to track down M, heading to his grandparents’ farm. I didn’t know if M was still living with them or if he’d moved out. In point of fact, he’d been moved out.

“He’s locked up in the Washington County jail,” his grandmother explained. “Breaking and entering.”

I went to visit him that same afternoon. After the deputy filled out all the paperwork, I waited in the visiting room. It wasn’t a room with a row of chairs and little telephones like you see in the movies. This was no prison, just a county facility: there was a chair on the other side of the bars and the rest of the office with a single chair next to the bars on the visitors’ side. Glancing around, I saw a sign that visitors were not allowed to bring anything to inmates. I looked down at the two packs of cigarettes I’d bought him, wondering what I’d do with them, when I heard the deputy call his name: “You’ve got a visitor.” M’s face was a mixture of pleased shock and utter embarrassment. We talked for a while — I’m not sure because we never really talked about anything important. I had friends that I could sit around and talk about the existence of gods, the current political situation, the ironies of life, but with M, it was seldom more than friendly banter.

As the visit ended, I turned to the deputy. “Here’s some cigarettes. I guess you can give them to any officers who smoke since I can’t give them to my friend.” The deputy smiled: “Go ahead. It’s no big deal.”

When I returned a year later, he was incarcerated again, this time in prison; I was in Boston, starting what I thought would be a long slog to a Ph.D. in the philosophy of religion. We corresponded for about nine months, and then it just stopped just about the time I dropped out of grad school with the realization that while the philosophy of religion is an utterly fascinating topic, it has little practical value. I can’t remember who sent the last letter.

Shortly after K and I moved to America in 2005, I got word that M’s younger brother, who was in his mid-thirties like I was, had died from an aneurysm in his brain. Paw had died just a few years before that, and I hadn’t gone to the funeral because I was still living in Poland, but I was determined to go to C’s funeral.

The day before the funeral, though, a horrible storm swept through Ashville, covering the mountain I’d have to drive over with icy snow. K asked me not to take the chance; Nana begged me not to take the chance. I didn’t go.

A few years after that, Maw passed away. She’d moved in with her older daughter, and we’d moved to Greenville. For whatever reason, I didn’t go.

Some years ago, Nana got a contact number for M from his aunt, who was more like a sister — or was it the opposite, an sister so much older that she was more like an aunt? I can’t remember. I sent a text to that number, but I never got a response.

I find myself sometimes thinking about people from the past, wondering where they ended up. Social media has answered that question for so many of the people I grew up with. Others disappear. But it occurred to me that I might simply Google him.

I did, and I wish I didn’t: I find an article from the local paper where we grew up — “Bristol, Va. man arrested after agents find meth lab.” The link is to a Facebook post, so I click through, but the link to the article itself is broken. I go directly to the site and search. I find two hits.

“Please let this be a different man.”

It’s not.

A Bristol, Virginia man is charged after a tip given to police leads to the discovery of a methamphetamine lab.

Washington County, Virginia Sheriff Fred Newman said a search warrant was secured to examine a home located in the 22000 block of Benhams Road on Monday.

Deputies then arrested Michael Lee Braswell, 44, who is charged with possession with intent to manufacture 28 grams or more of methamphetamine, possess precursors to manufacture methamphetamine, allow a minor under the age of 15 to be present while manufacturing methamphetamine, and possession of meth.

Newman said Braswell is being held without bond in the Southwest Virginia Regional Jail in Abingdon. (Source 1 || Source 2)

The article is from Tuesday, September 20, 2016. I guess had I been in the area then, I could have visited him in the same jail in which I’d visited him almost twenty years earlier.

I head back to the Facebook source and read the comments:

A dear friend from my youth is being called a dopehead (I guess that’s true) and scum.

I guess I could have seen it coming when we were kids. I did see it coming. I was with him on two occasions when he bought pot. He didn’t admit. He didn’t show it to me. He certainly didn’t offer it to me, but there was no doubt. When you pull into a convenience store parking lot, and your friend gets out, goes over to another car, and sits in that car for a few minutes, coming back stuffing something in his pocket, it’s obvious. When you and your friend pull into a driveway, and a scruffy young man walks out to the car, makes small talk, then asks, “How much of that stuff did you want,” it’s obvious.

I clean up his photo in Lightroom to make him look a little less — what?

It doesn’t work. He still looks too much like a — what? A thug? An exhausted and frustrated man? I try again, trying to soften the hardness of his skin.

A little better, but there’s nothing I can do with those eyes, those forlorn eyes that seem completely lacking in surprise, completely resigned to his reality, completely fatalistic.

Every year, there’s a kid or two on the hall that I find myself wondering about, thinking that he or she might end up like this. There’s the same resignation about them, the same air of fatalism. Every year I try to help them, to show them that they do have some control over their fate, to show them that more is in their hands than they probably realize (though the cards are often stacked against them). To try to prevent them from being a photo someone looks at thirty years later, wonders whatever happens to them, then loads a search engine and beings looking…

God of the Gaps, Again

The pastor of K’s parish tweeted a link to “Has quantum physics smashed the Enlightenment deception?” by John Moran with the comment, “Reality is Rubbery.” I clicked through thinking, “Great — another ‘God of the Gaps’ article,” but hoping that I might be wrong. I wasn’t.

The article begins,

Forget Richard Dawkins, Stephen Hawking, Steven Pinker and the other high-profile God-denying “clever” boys. It is time for the broader implications of the 20th-century physics revolution, often described as quantum mechanics, to again be debated seriously and out in the “town square,” not just the backrooms of academia or in “deferring to the expert” interviews and documentaries.

The critical word there is “implications.” I’m not sure what Moran is suggesting here. At its heart, it’s simple: “Quantum mechanics is so weirdly different from the physics of our everyday reality that there must be implications for the nature of our everyday reality.” But must there be? There must be if we’ve already nurtured for millennia a belief in the supernatural, but all “quantum mechanics is weird” implies is “quantum mechanics is weird.”

Whatever these implications are in Moran’s mind, though, should be “debated seriously and out in the ‘town square,’ not just the backrooms of academia or in ‘deferring to the expert’ interviews and documentaries.” Part of the reason we “defer to experts” is because they are just that: they’ve forgotten more about their specialization than we laypeople even begin to understand. So when the people who actually work in quantum mechanics say, “No sorry — your implications that you want to discuss are based on misunderstandings of the quantum world,” as they do, we can just dismiss them. Who wants to defer to experts? After all, we’re seeing the benefits of not deferring to experts in the way covid is ravaging the conservative Christian anti-vaxers.

What does Moran say these implications are, though? To introduce them, he begins with a quote from a video by Leonard Susskind

It is hard to understand. Our neural wiring was not built for quantum mechanics. It was not built for higher dimensions. It was not built for thinking about curved space-time. It was built for classical physics. It was built for rocks and stones and all the ordinary objects and it was built for three-dimensional space. And that’s not quite good enough for us to be able to visualize and internalize the ideas of quantum mechanics and general relativity and so forth. …that can be extremely frustrating when trying to explain to the outside world. The outside world, by and large, has not had that experience of going through the rewiring process of converting their minds into something that can deal with five dimensions, 10 dimensions, or the quantum mechanical uncertainty principle or whatever it happens to be. And so the best we can do is to use analogies, metaphors.

Moran jumps on this:

Metaphor? So quantum physics has brought science full circle, back to the world of religion and the story telling methods of Jesus Christ and other religious figures.

Where quantum physics challenges everything, including those who arrogantly dismiss things like spirituality, is that it basically tells us two things:

  1. There might not be such a thing as an objective material object; and
  2. Consciousness has to be fundamental.

Now, let’s be clear. This new science does not prove the existence of God or anything else of that nature. But, it does shatter the arrogant certainty of those who think science is all you need and has killed off the spiritual. Through quantum physics we were again reminded of just how much we don’t know, especially about the mystery of the universe and the atomic world. In fact, we were not even close. This new quantum world was nothing like what scientists had envisaged prior to its discovery.

Why Moran gets so excited about Susskind using the word “metaphor” is confusing: does he not think that we use metaphor for anything other than religious ideas? After all, when we’re examining the quantum world, we’re looking at something so different from what we’re used to that we have to ground it in something we are used to — that’s what metaphor does. The use of metaphors does not equate scientists with theologians. This is an important distinction because scientists study the thing they study; theologians, unable to study gods directly, only study what other theologians have said. Scientists base their ideas on evidence; theologians’ try to do that, but their only evidence is ancient and anonymous manuscripts — again, studying what others have said about gods rather than studying the gods themselves. If, of course, we could study the gods themselves, there would be fewer atheists. Theologians would reply, “If we could study God, he wouldn’t be God,” but for one thing, that doesn’t necessarily follow. It’s based on the presupposition that gods must be so far beyond us that we can’t interact on their plane of existence. That very conveniently explains why there is no evidence for gods. For another, any god worth its salt could easily manifest itself regularly for study and confirmation of its existence. I do that with my own children daily; it’s too bad gods don’t do that with their children.

From there, Moran goes into a layman’s analysis of quantum theory brought about by this quote from Andrew Klavan’s article “Can We Believe?” subtitled “A personal reflection on why we shouldn’t abandon the faith that has nourished Western civilization.”

And is science still moving away from that Christian outlook, or has its trajectory begun to change? It may have once seemed reasonable to assume that the clockwork world uncovered by Isaac Newton would inexorably lead us to atheism, but those clockwork certainties have themselves dissolved as science advanced. Quantum physics has raised mind-boggling questions about the role of consciousness in the creation of reality. And the virtual impossibility of an accidental universe precisely fine-tuned to the maintenance of life has scientists scrambling for “reasonable” explanations.

Like Pinker, some try to explain these mysteries away. For example, they’ve concocted a wholly unprovable theory that we are in a multiverse. There are infinite universes, they say, and this one just happens to be the one that acts as if it were spoken into being by a gigantic invisible Jew! Others bruit about the idea that we live in a computer simulation—a tacit admission of faith, though it may be faith in a god who looks like the nerd you beat up in high school.

In any case, scientists used to accuse religious people of inventing a “God of the Gaps”—that is, using religion to explain away what science had not yet uncovered. But multiverses and simulations seem very much like a Science of the Gaps, jerry-rigged nothings designed to circumvent the simplest explanation for the reality we know.

The problem with Klavan’s thinking here is simple: he doesn’t realize that these conjectures are just that. No one is making dogmatic proclamations about multiverses or computer simulations. Why? Because there is no evidence or at least not enough evidence. Science is free to do what religion can never do: reject ideas it itself has created when evidence to the contrary appears. Indeed that is what science is all about.

It might seem ironic, though, that Klavan himself brings up the “God of the Gaps” fallacy in this article that amounts, in short, to the latest installment in the “God of the Gaps” theory since his whole idea here is nothing more than that. “Quantum theory is spooky and weird, and it’s outside our understanding now: therefore, God.” But irony is when the unexpected happens, and I’ve come to expect “God of the Gaps” theorizing in any apologetic piece, so far from being ironic, it is instead expected.

It is the Enlightenment Narrative that creates this worship of reason, not reason itself. In fact, most of the scientific arguments against the existence of God are circular and self-proving. They pit advanced scientific thinkers against simple, literalist religious believers. They dismiss error and mischief committed in the name of science—the Holocaust, atom bombs, climate change—but amberize error and mischief committed in the name of faith—“the Crusades, the Inquisition, witch hunts, the European wars of religion,” as Pinker has it.

By assuming that the spiritual realm is a fantasy, they irrationally dismiss our experience of it. Our brains perceive the smell of coffee, yet no one argues that coffee isn’t real. But when the same brain perceives the immaterial—morality, the self, or God—it is presumed to be spinning fantasies. Coming from those who worship reason, this is lousy reasoning.

There are just so many issues with this line of thinking here that I don’t even know where to start: with the false equivocation, with the question-begging, or with the general lack of experience this short passage exhibits.

To begin with, equating “the Holocaust, atom bombs, [and] climate change” is a curious mix. Certainly, some Nazis promoted pseudo-scientific reasoning for their antisemitism, but a far amount of it was good old-fashioned Christian antisemitism: the Jews reject the Christ, and so that is at the heart of their malevolence. The atom bomb is an unquestionably evil application of science so I’ll give him that. Climate change, though? I’m not even sure what he’s suggesting here. Is he saying that climate change was brought about by science? Well, it certainly was enabled by it, but our voracious appetites for convenience that science facilitated seem more responsible for climate change than the science itself. On the other hand, is he suggesting that climate change is a hoax that science is perpetuating on the world? That would seem more in line with the article’s source, City Journal, which is an unabashedly right/nearly-hard-right publication.

Klavan then equates, for all intents and purposes, the smell of coffee with God. “Our brains perceive the smell of coffee, yet no one argues that coffee isn’t real,” he writes, and I just scratch my head on that one. When my brain perceives the smell of coffee, I assume that there is coffee somewhere around because in my own experience, that odor has always been associated with coffee. However, if it’s terribly important to me to prove that there’s coffee, I can search for it. I can find evidence that the smell I’m encountering is indeed coming from coffee. It’s worth noting, however, that just because my brain perceives the smell of coffee there is coffee somewhere. I want to scream at Klavan, “Good grief, man, have you never encountered Scratch-And-Sniff stickers?!” We can fool our brain into thinking there’s coffee when in fact it’s not there. That’s why we investigate and examine and confirm. The smell of coffee is a bad example, though: we do this all the time when we think we smell something burning.

Klavan then equates smelling coffee with perceiving “the immaterial” such as “morality, the self, of God” in a perfect example of question-begging. No one suggests that people who say they are perceiving “the immaterial” are not having some sort of cognitive experience. Instead, skeptics are simply pointing out that what we think might be an experience of God isn’t necessarily that. We can fool people into thinking they smell coffee; atheists simply suggest that the mind is fooling itself into thinking it’s experiencing God.

It’s important to point out here that attaching the label “God” to any such experience depends on prior exposure to the idea that a god exists. If no one believed in a god, would we deduce it exists simply from these experiences? Scientifically illiterate people might; scientifically literate people probably wouldn’t. So this is a strange kind of cultural question-begging: the idea of a god was already in place; these experiences simply provide another hook on which to hang it.

Klavan concludes his article thusly:

Pinker credits Kant with naming the Enlightenment Age, but ironically, it is Kant who provided a plausible foundation for the faith that he believed was the only guarantor of morality. His Critique of Pure Reason proposed an update of Plato’s form theory, suggesting that the phenomenal world we see and understand is but the emanation of a noumenal world of things-as-they-are, an immaterial plane we cannot fully know.

In this scenario, we can think of all material being as a sort of language that imperfectly expresses an idea. Every aspect of language is physical: the brain sparks, the tongue speaks, the air is stirred, the ear hears. But the idea expressed by that language has no physical existence whatsoever. It simply is. And whether the idea is “two plus two equal four” or “I love you” or “slavery is wrong,” it is true or false, regardless of whether we perceive the truth or falsehood of it.

This, as I see it, is the very essence of Christianity. It is the religion of the Word. For Christians, the model, of course, is Jesus, the perfect Word that is the thing itself. But each of us is made in that image, continually expressing in flesh some aspect of the maker’s mind. This is why Jesus speaks in parables—not just to communicate their meaning but also to assert the validity of their mechanism. In the act of understanding a parable, we are forced to acknowledge that physical interactions—the welcoming home of a prodigal son, say—speak to us about immaterial things like love and forgiveness.

To acknowledge that our lives are parables for spiritual truths may entail a belief in the extraordinary, but it is how we all live, whether we confess that belief or not. We all know that the words “two plus two” express the human version of a truth both immaterial and universal. We likewise know that we are not just flesh-bags of chemicals but that our bodies imperfectly express the idea of ourselves. We know that whether we strangle a child or give a beggar bread, we take physical actions that convey moral meaning. We know that this morality does not change when we don’t perceive it. In ancient civilizations, where everyone, including slaves, considered slavery moral, it was immoral still. They simply hadn’t discovered that truth yet, just as they hadn’t figured out how to make an automobile, though all the materials and principles were there.

To begin with, the suggestion that an idea doesn’t have a physical correspondence only works with abstract things like morality and love. Two plus two equal four is simple: take two items; set two more beside them; count them. There. I don’t even know what Klavan is suggesting using that idea. “I love you” is harder to prove physically: we can’t scan brains and say, “Look — see that? That’s love.” Yet. All evidence points to the fact that our consciousness is bound in our brain, so it’s not unreasonable to think that we will indeed be able to do something similar in the future. It’s more “God of the Gaps” in action. “Slavery is wrong” is tricky because morality is tricky. Yet morality is very fluid at the same time. The Bible itself endorses slavery, and nowhere in scripture does Jesus or anyone else condemn the owning of other people. Indeed, it seems to suggest the opposite: in 1 Peter, we see an appalling command: “Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh” (1 Peter 2.18). The book of Philemon is almost as bad:

I am sending [Onesimus, your slave]—who is my very heart—back to you. I would have liked to keep him with me so that he could take your place in helping me while I am in chains for the gospel. But I did not want to do anything without your consent, so that any favor you do would not seem forced but would be voluntary. Perhaps the reason he was separated from you for a little while was that you might have him back forever—no longer as a slave, but better than a slave, as a dear brother. He is very dear to me but even dearer to you, both as a fellow man and as a brother in the Lord. (Philemon 12-16)

Here Paul could have said, “Slavery is wrong.” Here he could have said, “I am not sending him back because I have no authority to do so. He is a free human being with his own will.” But he sends him back and suggests that, since Onsemus is a Christian too, perhaps Philemon should treat him a little better.

Many proponents of slavery used the Bible to endorse the position so maybe this wasn’t the best moral to use in trying to suggest that morality implies a god.

From there, though, Klavan makes a hard, awkward turn to Christianity. He’s essentially saying, “Words often don’t have physical referents in the real world, and Christianity calls Jesus ‘the Word,’ so it’s likely true.” It’s a hard sell, completely out of the blue, completely illogical, for anyone other than a Christian who already accepts all this. Of course, given the fact that it’s a conservative source, Klavan is justified in assuming that most of the readers already accept these presuppositions, but the ideas themselves make very little sense without those presuppositions, which we skeptics reject. This, then, is still another example of question-begging.

The idea that Jesus spoke in parables in order to make the connection between language and ideas that have no physical referent is just speculation like scientists’ speculations about multiverses, so I’m not even going to deal with it.

Finally, there’s this: “In ancient civilizations, where everyone, including slaves, considered slavery moral, it was immoral still. They simply hadn’t discovered that truth yet, just as they hadn’t figured out how to make an automobile, though all the materials and principles were there.” Funny: if there was a god that felt that slavery is immoral and he wrote a book, it’s ironic that he didn’t say as much in that book but left it for us to discover while untold millions suffer in slavery.

Moments

Papa’s existence when the meds that keep him calm and sedated changes from moment to moment: There are lucid moments when he is just like the Papa we all know and love, there are moments enveloped in hallucinations, and there are moments that seem to fall somewhere in between.

This is a lucid moment.

He occasionally smiles while hallucinating, and it’s such a mischievous little smile that I want to catch a photo of it. Tonight, he smiled that smile, a little kid’s smile when he’s gotten away with something and yet is still just nervous enough to realize that he might not have in fact gotten away with it. An “I know you know I did it, but please don’t tell on me” smile. I didn’t have a camera ready, though, so I went downstairs and got our good Nikon. I was telling Papa about that smile and how much I wanted to get a picture of that smile, so he smiled for me. It’s not the smile I’d initially wanted, but it was a smile of intent, a smile of purpose, a smile to fulfill a request. A smile that said, “I know I’m having a lot of problems following instructions when you ask me to open my mouth or to roll over. Right now, though, I can do exactly what you asked me to even if I’m not sure why you want me to. I trust you and will do it because I trust you.”

Those lucid moments are rare, and they are increasingly rare with each passing day. The hospice nurses all say that they have never seen anyone with Parkinson’s progress this quickly. Every day is literally a new normal. Yesterday it became clear that he could no longer eat solid food because he didn’t chew it. He kept it in his mouth sometimes, partially chewed it others, and every now and then chewed and swallowed, each motion of his jaw a supreme effort. Today we gave him only pureed food, and in the morning he did a good job with it, but in the evening, it was difficult to get him to open his mouth to eat. He no longer can draw liquid through a straw, and when he does get liquid in his mouth, he almost chokes on it, so we bought thickener and we spoon-feed him his thickened water to keep him hydrated. Today we also stopped giving him pills to swallow: they’re all ground up own, sprinkled on spoons of yogurt. What tomorrow will bring is a complete mystery.

This is a hallucination.

He pulls threads out of thin air. He talks to people who over his bed, who sneak behind his bed and hide, who stand on either side of his bed. Strangers come to visit him as well as friends. Nana comes often. “Hey, babe! Don’t you think it’s about time we get out of here?”

This is the picture I hesitate to put on here, but this is the reality he’s suffering now. This is the reality that leaves us shaking our heads wondering how much one poor man has to suffer. This is the reality that creates new habits: I walked out of the room today just as he started saying something. I paused for a moment, then realized he was talking to a hallucination. I didn’t respond. I just continued out.

These are the moments when he seems most vulnerable, too. The hallucinations don’t frighten him: he once said he saw a hangman standing by his bed with a noose, but other than that, the people who come to visit him seem relatively harmless. He’s restless, though: he’s always been a mannerly man, a gentleman, a problem solver, so he wants to respond to all the things he sees around him, deal with all the issues around him (the threads that hang endlessly over his bed, for instance). In the past (i.e., earlier this week), when he started talking to these hallucinations or pulling at the threads, we did as the nurses advised: we played along and asked the person he was talking to to leave or took that threads ourselves. “Don’t worry,” we’d then reassure him. “We asked him to leave. Did you hear? Did you see him leave? He just walked out the door.” Now, he doesn’t engage with us when we say those things. That change has come in the last 36 hours.

This is a mystery.

Not hallucinating, not engaging with us — just there. Remembering? We don’t know. This might disappear tomorrow because it only appeared a few days ago. The way things change, “normal” is a fluid concept that can change within one day.

This is the only thing that seems to help these days.

This is what I feel guilty about neglecting with Nana: I didn’t realize how little time we had left with her once she came back from rehab. I didn’t realize how quickly she could go. I didn’t take the time simply to sit with her and to talk to her as much as I could have or should have. And now, so much that we say to Papa just goes unacknowledged. Perhaps because he didn’t hear. Perhaps because he didn’t understand. Perhaps because he was busy talking to someone else. But there’s one thing he understands.

The Inevitable Move

A few days ago, Fr. Mike, on day 50 of his Bible in a Year podcast read Exodus 37 and 38 as well as Leviticus 26. The passages in Exodus all had to do with sacrificial offerings, but the chapter from Leviticus was, in many ways, the most troubling passage in the whole Bible so far. It is, in short, a list of the punishments the god of Old Testament will mete out on Israel if they abandon the proper worship of him, but it presents such a conditional love, which bears all the hallmarks of an abusive relationship that I don’t see how someone can read these chapters and not absolutely cringe.

It begins with a promise of what will happen if they do remain faithful:

“If you walk in my statutes and observe my commandments and do them, then I will give you your rains in their season, and the land shall yield its increase, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit. And your threshing shall last to the time of vintage, and the vintage shall last to the time for sowing; and you shall eat your bread to the full, and dwell in your land securely. And I will give peace in the land, and you shall lie down, and none shall make you afraid; and I will remove evil beasts from the land, and the sword shall not go through your land. And you shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword. (Leviticus 26.3-7)

One might question whether this god would be upset to discover that people were worshiping him because they want all the benefits, but this supposedly omniscient being should know that and perhaps work that into the passage. “You must honestly love me and worship me.” Something like that. Still, that’s a trivial point compared to what happens later in the chapter.

By verse 14 it turns quite troubling:

“But if you will not hearken to me, and will not do all these commandments, if you spurn my statutes, and if your soul abhors my ordinances, so that you will not do all my commandments, but break my covenant, I will do this to you: I will appoint over you sudden terror, consumption and fever that waste the eyes and cause life to pine away. (Leviticus 26.14-16)

Fr. Mike, in his commentary, explains, “There are consequences for actions. […] He hands them over because he loves them.” If this doesn’t call Israel back to their god, Fr. Mike explains, then their god will let more stuff happen to them until they do turn back to him. “The whole point of this is not punishment,” Fr. Mike assures us. “The whole point of this is rescue.” This is the first problematic idea, and it hits at one of the biggest issues I’ve had with Christianity for some time now. “Rescue” suggests the following:

  • Force A
  • affects entity X
  • and entity Y somehow stops force A by
    • getting rid of force A,
    • removing entity X from the effects of force A, or
    • mitigating the effects of force A.

Within all of this is the idea that force A is separate from entity X doing the rescuing. If I’m beating my son and then stop beating him, I’m not rescuing him. If I’m holding my daughter’s head underwater and then stop holding her head underwater, I’m not rescuing her. It’s only a rescue if someone or something else is doing it, and I somehow stop it.

The problem with Christianity is simple: this god is the one doing the beating; this god is the one holding heads underwater. How so? Simple: Christians frame all this “rescue” as a rescue from the consequences of sin. But the god of Christianity defined sin. He designed the consequences of sin (and everything else) by creating the world as he did. He’s ultimately the victimizer and the savior. That’s not rescuing. That’s a sick relationship.

Putting that aside, though, it’s disturbing to look at the consequences listed in Leviticus, through verse 45:

  • I will bring more plagues upon you, sevenfold as many as your sins.
    This is not a consequence. This is God responding to one’s actions, and with a sort of severity that might even be rare in the mafia.
  • I will let loose the wild beasts among you, which shall rob you of your children, and destroy your cattle, and make you few in number, so that your ways shall become desolate.
    Who is really paying the price if the children are getting devoured by wild beasts? And what kind of relationship does this inspire? We’re just cowering in fear of what this being might do to us.
  • I will walk contrary to you in fury, and chastise you myself sevenfold for your sins. You shall eat the flesh of your sons, and you shall eat the flesh of your daughters.
    What!? God here is saying he will, in fury, bring such desolation that the Israelites will turn to cannibalism. Will he be like with Pharaoh in Egypt? Remember: several times Pharaoh agreed to let the Israelites go, but according to Exodus, “God hardened his heart” so that he would change his mind. Is God going to harden the hearts of the Israelites to make them turn to cannibalism, or will things just get so bad that they won’t feel they have any choice? (And when would a parent ever really feel that way?)
  • And I will devastate the land, so that your enemies who settle in it shall be astonished at it.
    The implication earlier is that Israel’s enemies will do all this destroying, but here it seems to indicate that God doing it. After all, the enemies come and are astonished, presumably at the brutality which has swept through the land.
  • And as for those of you that are left, I will send faintness into their hearts in the lands of their enemies; the sound of a driven leaf shall put them to flight, and they shall flee as one flees from the sword, and they shall fall when none pursues.
    Again, God does this, not the enemies. He seems to be suggesting that he’ll make them such cowards that they’ll be eradicated.

How does Fr. Mike explain all this? He makes the move I’ve been waiting for him to make the whole time, really the only move he can make: The fact that it doesn’t seem right is our fault. “We just need to trust God and understand that there is an answer to all these questions,” he argues:

This is the discipline of a father, and this is so important to us. You know, when we approach scripture, and we don’t trust God, we see these things and go, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m done with this. Day 50, that’s it. I’m out.” But when we approach the word of God, and we have that spirit of trust where it’s like, “Okay, if I don’t understand this, it must be me that doesn’t understand this.”

If I begin to be suspicious of God, and I say, “Wait, let me pause. God is a good dad. And while I don’t understand what he’s doing here or not doing there, I have to look at him, look at life, look at myself through the lens of ‘Okay, God is a good dad.’ So why would a good Dad allow these punishments to come upon those who are disobedient?” Well, because, like any good dad, like any good parent, I want more for you than just your comfort. I want more for you than for you to just go about your life and do whatever it is you want to do. I want the best for you.

So this is God, who is the good dad. And he says, “I want the absolute best for my children, so if they refuse to walk in my ways and walk contrary to me, here’s the consequences. Because I want to bring them back to my heart.”

But how do we know that this god is a “good dad,” as Fr. Mike suggests? It hits at the very heart of the question of theism: how do we know anything about this supposed being? All Christians claim to know about him comes from three sources:

  1. Personal experiences with what we call the divine.
  2. What the church teaches about this being (and here I have in mind the Catholic idea that the Bible and the church are equal authorities).
  3. What the Bible says about this thing we call the divine.

Personal experiences are just that: personal. If you have a warm feeling in your heart, that’s all you know. To attribute it to the Holy Spirit or anything else is interpretation and therefore highly subjective. In this sense, the believer is putting faith in herself and her interpretation of her inner experience. The other two sources, though, inform that faith.

What the church says about its god is just what other people say about, and so ultimately the believer is putting her faith in these other people.

The Bible is just a book. Nothing more, nothing less. If believers purport it to come from the hand of their god, there should be evidence of some sort in the book itself. The safest way to approach it, then, is to look at the Bible and ask, “What sort of god is presented in its pages?” From this reading in Leviticus, it seems a stretch to say that this being is in any sense “good.” He’s vindictive, envious, and petty at best and ghastly, wretched, and unspeakably cruel at worst.

So where does Fr. Mike get this “good dad” stuff? Simple: it’s his working preconception. He’s making assumptions about the Bible before he reads the Bible, and he’s suggesting believers do the same. And to be fair, what else are they going to do? If they’re committed to his idea that their god is good, they have to approach it with that assumption, and no one really wants to worship an evil god. In addition, if they were raised in the church, they were taught that their god is a good and loving god long before they can read the Bible for themselves and see all these terrors.

It is here that the true horror of the situation enters, for it is here that believers being to look like spouses in an abusive relationship. Take what Fr. Mike said about his god and reframe it: imagine that Fr. Mike is an abused wife and his god is the husband:

If I begin to be suspicious of my husband, and I say, “Wait, let me pause. My husband is a good husband. And while I don’t understand what he’s doing here [with all the unspeakable abuse mentioned earlier] or not doing there, I have to look at him, look at life, look at myself through the lens of ‘Okay, my husband is a good a good husband.’ So why would a good husband allow these punishments me? It must be because I am disobedient.” Well, because, like any good husband, he wants more for me than just my comfort. He wants more for me than for me to just go about my life and do whatever it is I want to do. He wants the best for me.

That is classic victim-blaming. Worse: it’s victim self-blame. “My husband beats me because I deserve it. It’s for a greater good, and if I don’t understand that, it’s just because I’m not as smart as he is.”

If any of our friends spoke this way, we would encourage her to go to a shelter immediately with her children. But Christians simply stay in this relationship. They believe they deserve it because of Original Sin and their own short-comings. How many times have I heard Christians talk about how wretched they are? “Amazing grace, that saved a wretch like me.”

Most Christians would respond, I think, by saying, “That’s the Old Covenant. Look at how beautiful the New Covenant is! That’s where I draw my faith. Jesus saved us from all of that!” Yet the response to this is so simple that even a child can make it — and has. “But that’s the same god!” These are not different entities. The Christian doctrine of the trinity paints them into a corner, and they fail to see that it’s happened. In doing so, it makes the relationship even more toxic.

I, for one, got out of that relationship, and I feel so much better for it.

Day 47: Quartets and Cars

Quartets

This afternoon, while cleaning up the kitchen, putting away groceries, and just generally puttering around the house, I discovered a BBC culture podcast that talks about, among other things, T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, a cycle of four poems that have, from the very first time I encountered them during my freshman year in college, utterly enthralled me. Naturally, I listened to it; naturally, halfway through, I was rooting around in the bookcase where we store such books for my thin volume of the poems.

Some passages of those poems seem pulled from the very fabric of existence itself, so fully do they capture the experience of being a finite human. In “Burnt Norton,” the first of the poems, Eliot writes of the frailty of the one thing that links us humans one to another: language.

Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.

I read those lines in college at a time when I was growing very distrustful of language having been in a relationship that I ended largely because I felt like the young lady was lying incessantly, for no reason whatsoever. Was it compulsive lying? Was it even always conscious lying? Was it even lying? I could never figure that out, but I learned I couldn’t trust her, and when that happens, there’s only one thing to do.

The second poem in the cycle, “East Coker,” returns to this motif:

So here I am, […]
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion.

“Is he reading my mind?” I thought. The poem seemed to be a summary of my growing interest in the idea of language itself. Such a strange thing — it’s the only thing we have that connects us to other people, yet it’s such a fragile connection, so easily manipulated and bent.

The Buried Car

This evening, as I was reading the poems again after dinner, the Boy brought me a little car he’d found buried in the backyard.

“I found it buried in Mommy’s flowers,” he explained.

“It was my car,” I said, wondering if he would remember that it had been among the mass of cars that Nana had saved from my childhood just to give to a grandchild.

“Really?!” He couldn’t believe it. “Why did you bury it out there?”

It’s so rare that we can see someone’s entire faulty thinking process from just one sentence, the entire line of thought backing up neatly, step by step, until the whole story is clear, and it was so different from reality. That was such a moment. I knew I could utterly perplex him with one short sentence.

“I didn’t bury it out there; you did.”

I could almost hear the gears clicking. He wrinkled his brow, cast his eyes upward, and his breathing quickened. “I did?”

Back to Eliot — the very next lines:

And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

I had not really lost the car; he had not really gained it. He discovered something that he himself had owned, had played with, had possibly even treasured.

“Yes, you must have been playing with it when Mommy was working out in the flowers and you accidentally left it there. Or maybe you even buried it on purpose, and you just don’t remember.” More thinking.

“I did?”

“Yes.” And I could even imagine how it happened: E, with more than a handful of cars, following K around as she planted flowers or pulled weeds, never willing to let her get very far away from her, picking up everything to follow closely behind.

Nana told me I was the same way. Probably, we all are.

“You must have been playing with it when Mommy was working in the flowers.”

He shrugged, not convinced, still wondering, I think, how I knew it was mine. “Was it one of your favorites?”

True, I think I can remember when I got that car, which means an event likely forty years ago. When we went to our church’s annual fall retreat, we had two-hour church services every day. To keep me quiet when I was a child, Nana and Papa gave me a new Matchbox car every day at the start of the service. I believe that’s where this one comes from. But it could simply be that I just remember playing with that old car.

Are there any of my old toys I wouldn’t recognize? I rather doubt it in a way. Toys are so precious to children — at least they were to me and to my own children — that they form an integral part of our identities. Like the music we listen to as adolescents, the toys we love as children reflect our interest and how we see ourselves.

I didn’t tell him all that, though. Too much back story, and so much of it so very different from the reality the Boy experiences.

“Two-hour church every day?! Why would you do that?” I can hear him ask. Why, indeed.

Back to the Quartets, this time, from “Little Gidding”:

There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives—unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation—not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past.

It’s attachment to things that makes us remember those toys, I guess, and the sense that they are part of us — thus, attachment to self.

Sifting Through the Layers

I spent the better part of today going through pictures, digital and print, looking for images of Nana to use during Saturday’s memorial. I scanned about 30 images and found about 60 others in our digital collection, and I’m only through 2013. It was much like looking at old pictures of our children: we always feel like our children have always looked like they do today even though we know they haven’t. The changes are so gradual that it takes an image from the somewhat-distant past to jar us into understanding — realizing — anew that our children are on an ever sliding spectrum, that they in fact don’t look like this for very long at all.

Nana in first grade

So it was with Nana. I got used to what she looked like now and forgot all about the Nana of my youth, when she was simply “Mom.” And then I began going through pictures and rediscovering images of Nana before I even existed, images of Nana when she was my age, images of Nana when she was the Boy’s age.

I saw Nanas I never knew. I saw Nana as a young lady, about to go out for a night on the town, looking every bit like someone off the Mad Men series.

Nana in 1963

I saw Nana as a senior in high school, just a little older than most of my students, and wondered what she was like in class.

The graduate

I saw Nana when she was a mother but younger than I am now, with a version of me that’s probably about E’s age. It’s as hard to imagine Nana climbing up into a barn as it is to imagine her bedridden and frustrated.

In the loft of her brother’s barn

And now that she’s passed, all these versions live on in various people’s memories. “That was about the time I met your mother,” Papa explained about the Mad Men photo. Her best friend since forever likely remembers first-grade Nana as they went to school together from kindergarten through graduation.

The rest of the day I spent working on Nana’s obituary. Ever the English teacher, I examined examples before starting to write hers and I noticed I finally have an answer to students’ common question when learning the difference between active and passive voice: “Mr. Scott, when do we use passive voice?”

“In obituaries, children, almost exclusively.”

On Monday, May 27, Naomi Ruth Williams Scott, wife, mother, sister, and grandmother, passed away peacefully at home surrounded by her family after a six-month struggle. Naomi will be lovingly remembered by her husband of nearly 55 years, Melvin; her son, Gary; her daughter-in-law, Kinga; her grandchildren, Lena and Emil; and sisters-in-law Laverne Williams, Diane Mathis, Yvonne Van Seeters, and Mary Barnes, as well as many nieces and nephews, and countless friends. She was preceded in death by her father, Lewis Williams; her mother, Ruby Gordon Williams; and her two brothers, Nelson and Wallace Williams.

A native of Indian Land, South Carolina, Naomi graduated from Indian Land High School and married Melvin Scott in 1964. They lived for several years in the Charlotte/Rock Hill area relocating to the southwest Virginia/northeast Tennessee area, where they lived for over thirty years.

Versatile and skilled, Naomi worked various jobs through her life, including jobs in a flower shop, a printing and finishing shop, a travel agency, later in life, her own business. She would have argued, however, that her most important job by far, her only truly important job, was being a mother. She was a dedicated and loving mother who provided all who knew her a clear example of what it really means to be a mother.

Naomi was a very active church member in all the congregations she attended. She served as a deaconess in the Worldwide Church of God, where she also sang in the choir and provided quiet leadership through example for members. A firm believer in Jesus, she never wavered in her faith and leaned heavily on His love and promises.

The memorial service for Naomi will be this Saturday, June 1 at 3 PM at Woodruff Road Christian Church, 20 Bell Road, Greenville, SC. Following the service, there be time for fellowship and visitation with light refreshments to give everyone an opportunity to share with each other their memories of Naomi.

As Naomi felt special tenderness to all children but especially her son and grandchildren, the family requests instead of flowers memorial donations to the Shriners Hospital for Children and St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Since her faith was so important to her and because the church has shown so much support in this time of need, the family would be honored with donations in Naomi’s memory to Woodruff Road Christian Church.

But bottom line, I look at these pictures, especially the most recent, of Nana and Papa, and it hits me again and again:

Probably my favorite picture of my parents

I simply can’t believe she’s gone. I imagine we’ll all be experiencing that for many months.

Strands

I swore I hated that old cat. Looking back on it, I really don’t know what she did to prompt such a response, but I think I was just being ornery. Trying out the grumpy old man act to see how it fit me. It didn’t fit me too well, because I ended up being the one who did most of Bida’s grooming and I came to enjoy it in a strange way.

It was messy: as she aged, she didn’t particularly put too much stock in the importance of hygiene, and that led to obvious problems. I was the one who bathed her. It was irritating: getting the tangles out of her long fur led to anger, frustrating, growling, scratching.

I don’t know why I started doing it if I hated that old cat. I don’t know why I would let her nestle into my neck as I held her, freshly dried but still shivering. She was terrified, angry, and cold; I held her trembling little body, petted her, and insisted the next day that I hated her.

DSC_8763
November 1, 2009

“Maybe she got run over!” L worried one summer when we returned from Poland and Bida had stayed gone for three weeks past our return.

“We wouldn’t be so lucky,” I snorted and thought I was only slightly joking.


At times, it seems that an impossible confluence of accidents comes together in an impossibly ironic way making it impossible not to think that perhaps there isn’t someone pulling the strings behind it all, weaving something terrible yet beautiful out of all the strands of our life.

I spent the summer helping D, my friend and mentor, the grandfather of L’s closest friend and the gentleman who helped me for several weeks in 2016 to renovate our kitchen. We were working on an addition to the house, an extension of the master suite and additional closet space, and D had decided he was going to pull all the insulation out as well. It was going to be new, from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling. Remembering I’d mentioned that I wanted to add some more insulation to our attic, he suggested we pack the still-good insulation into construction waste bags so I could truck it home. Those bags still sit in our basement, almost six months after D gave them to us. Bida discovered how soft and warm they are, and she began leaping on them (they sit about three feet tall, probably eighteen inches in diameter) and sleeping the day away there. That’s the first strand.

Nana has been in rehab for a couple of weeks after a hospital stay, and she’s been having a hard time of it. We visit her daily, encouraging her and doing our best to make her smile. But having someone so close to me so debilitated sparked a new resolution about my own health. Sure, I walk the dog every night, and I ride my bike a fair amount (though “fair” is fairly relative), so the other night, I went out to a sporting goods store and bought some running shoes. I’ve run every night since then. Except tonight. That’s the second strand.

Returning to D, one of the things I admired most about him was his determination to accomplish goals he’d set out for himself. When he was diagnosed with cancer about sixteen months ago, he fought it with everything he had, and he fought to keep his promise to his wife about a new bedroom. The man worked with a small backpack strapped on in the middle of a humid, South Carolina July so that he didn’t have to stop working while receiving his chemotherapy. Yet cancer doesn’t look at someone’s bravery and tenacity. It just attacks, and D passed away this Sunday. K and I managed to see him Saturday morning; his funeral is tomorrow. That’s the third strand.

DSC_5670
May 21, 2009

D’s grandson, E, is the Girl’s oldest and closest friend. They went to Montessori together almost ten years ago, and since they liked each other so much, their joy together drew our two families together. That’s how we know D to begin with. E, like the Girl, is fond of cats. His cat died of over the summer. His mother texted us about it to prepare L for when she saw E at D’s house. (The Boy and the Girl often went to D’s house to help.) “He’s not quite himself,” she explained. That’s the fourth strand.

I’d just been writing and thinking about the fact that Bida is skin and bones, knocking on death’s cliche door, wondering without saying it about whether we might need to have her put down in the near future. That’s the fifth strand.

I’ve been thinking and writing about death and health and age and ignoring pain. That’s the sixth strand.


Tonight, when we came home from visiting Nana and sharing a meal afterward with Papa, K went downstairs to check on Bida. After a few minutes, I heard a panicked voice.

“G, I need your help.” I’d been drawing the Boy’s bathwater, so I turned it off and headed downstairs as K added, “Hurry. It’s an emergency.” As I walked into the basement, she explained: “Bida fell off the insulation bag where she was sleeping. I don’t know if she’s alive. She looks dead.” I pulled back the insulation bag and there was Bida, pinned against some shelving, lying upside down, not moving. I reached down and slid her onto the ground as gently as I could.

“I think she’s dead,” I said. But Bida took a deep, shuddering breath, and K’s sadness overwhelmed her.

I took Bida to the couch in the basement and lay her on it while K went upstairs and got the kids. L was the first one down, tears streaming. E made it down shortly after that with K. And thus began our long vigil, sitting with our poor cat as she slowly shuddered and gasped away after falling from insulation given to us by a hero who himself passed away only days ago.

We sat and talked about Bida, all the silly things she’d done, all the times she’d irritated us. She’d brought chipmunks into the house when she was young and energetic and had a magnetic collar that allowed her to let herself in and out on her own accord. We talked about what an honor it was that a rescue cat, who was initially terrified of us, decided we were a good enough match and stuck with us for over a decade. We talked sadly about the time Bida discovered a rabbit burrow in the grass and cleared it out of all the young rabbits in a matter of minutes. We remembered how she used to torture birds she’d caught but not killed, toying with them in the backyard.

We laughed a little; we brought the other pets down, one by one, to say goodbye; we talked about how the remaining two pets would have to find a new dynamic without the old gray lady there to rule them all; we sat in silence a little; we petted her a lot.

Yet life continues and makes its continual demands on us, and one by one, the others left. K had work the next day — she had to get some sleep. E was exhausted — he had to get some sleep. L stayed with me the longest, but in the end, the sadness was overwhelming and exhausting, so she went up to bed.

I sat with Bida as her breathing went from labored to almost nonexistent, a gasp every thirty seconds or so. A tremor of nerves every ten minutes or so. I sat with her as a strange, sour odor came over her and the time between her gasps increased; the shuddering diminished. I petted her, held her paws, stroked her under her chin, rubbed the top of her nose. Each time she took a deep breath and let it out with tremors, I thought it was her last breath, and then she would begin shallow panting again which would diminish. Then another deep breath. Shudders and twitches. Then stillness. And so it went, on and on, for two painful hours. Her eyes were glassy; her tongue began hanging out of her mouth. At one point she began running her back legs, as if she were dreaming of chasing the chipmunks, birds, or bunnies she used to bring us. She was there and not there.

And then, at 10:54, our beautiful, ornery, sweet, irritating, wonderful Bida, that damn cat I loved to hate, was gone.

DSC_4124
March 1, 2009

I went to the storage room to find a box to put her in and found that K had already taken out a shoebox for me. It was the box my running shoes came in, my latest attempt to outrun mortality I mused.

I gently picked up Bida and put her inside wrapped in the pillowcase we’d put under her on the couch, the pillowcase that covered her old bed she loved until she discovered D’s bags of insulation. I tucked her into the box, making sure her legs were tucked up as if she were sleeping, curling her tail over her legs, and the strands formed a knot, and I wept for them all.

Larry

The smoke from my Saturday-evening cigar blurs the view of his picture that hangs over the fireplace in our basement, and I look down at the wad of burning leaves pressed between my fingers and realize that it’s because of men like him, my uncle whom I never met and after whom I am named, that I can enjoy such a little pleasure. In the picture, he sits before a brick wall, his peaked cap pushed back to show a hint of his hairline, his forearms on his knees, fingers almost fidgeting, with an expression of tired sadness. I really have no idea when the picture was taken. Perhaps he was home from Vietnam on leave; maybe he hadn’t even shipped out yet. In a way, it’s not as important as the simple fact that the expression on his face mirrors my own when I really think about him, when I remember the odd bits and pieces I heard about him growing up, when I think of the simple but profound fact that, after my parents adopted me and decided that the name my short-term foster mother had been using for me fit me perfectly, they decided his name would make the perfect middle name. The uncle who, my mother more than once laughed, hated baths as much as I love them. The uncle I never met.

As a child, I remember seeing this picture hanging in my grandparents’ home, smudged brown with the nicotine of thousands or even tens of thousands of cigarettes. It was the house in which they both died tragically, though ironically neither passed as a result of the stains that seemed to cover so many of their possessions of their house. Like so many in my family, they died not from what everyone in the family thought would kill them — like my uncle. The picture — one of only two I know of him as an adult, of only three I know of him in his short life — is framed in a gold-painted rectangle that, after all these years, seems brighter than the picture itself. The mortar and the bricks behind him have faded into an almost indistinguishable hue that seems only a darker shade of his uniform, and the triangle of his white undershirt seems only a lighter shade still.

The other picture of him as an adult seems likely to have been taken at the same time, though perhaps earlier. The same brick wall seems to be over his left shoulder, but he hadn’t yet pushed back his cap, and its brim hides his eyes in shadow. I think he would have liked it that way. Perhaps the tired expression in the second picture comes from being asked, badgered, to push his cap back a bit, “so we can see your eyes.” Over his right shoulder is a tree, and in the triangle of his right arm he stands with his hands on his hips is is a dumpster with white letters stenciled in to instruct someone about something that must at all costs be “down.” Or “town”?

He died on Thanksgiving, a fact that seems so fought with irony that it almost seems like it must be one of those made-up details that our memory seems sometimes to invent in order to add almost unconsciously to the most significant events. I heard this week that there are only two truly significant American holidays: Thanksgiving and Memorial Day. My uncle embodies them both.

I am much older than he, the baby boy of the family, was in the picture, and I have been blessed with what he likely dreamed of: a beautiful, loving wife, the mother of my two incredible children. A house with a room downstairs where I can smoke my cigars with offending my wife’s nose, harming my children, or leaving a stain over picture frames that hold images of their lives. Two cars parked on a pad of concrete. A few tomato vines and zucchini plants in the backyard. All of which I have because of people like my uncle.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

I was recently asked to view this TED talk and provide some feedback. Here’s the talk.

Here are my thoughts in virtually un-edited form:


To begin with, a few seemingly-random facts: Sir Ken Robinson has a PhD from the University of London. He’s speaking as part of the TED program, which was implemented by Chris Anderson, an Oxford graduate, and his Sapling Foundation. This video was delivered on the World Wide Web, which, despite Al Gore’s protests to the contrary, was the creation of Sir Timothy John Berners-Lee, who studied at Queen’s College at Oxford. All of this is computer based, and many attribute the creation of the computer largely to John von Neumann, a classically trained Hungarian mathematician and physicist who, in an effort to bring himself some peace on his deathbed, quoted from memory large swaths of classical poetry in their original Greek and Latin. I am currently writing this on a computer in my home that uses Linux, an operating system (i.e., Windows and Apple’s OS X) created by Linus Torvald while he studied at University of Helsinki. While many might never have heard of it, Linux is the most used operating system in the world, running on 80% of the world’s super-computers and probably closer to 95% of the servers that make up the Internet. Finally, I am writing this in a country that in the history of the world is and has always been quite unique for its constitutional freedoms, a country that was created by a group of men that experience classical education in its truest meaning.

So it’s deeply ironic that Robinson and all of the individuals who created the technology to view his speech were products of this very education system that Robinson suggests needs reforming. Robinson suggests that we’re stifling innovation and thus we need to have a revolution in education but he says so on a platform made possible by this age of unprecedented innovation, an age that is the product almost exclusively of classical education and its modern kissing cousins.

Robinson suggests that modern education is killing creativity. Yet to be creative, one must have something to be creative with. Otherwise, creativity consists of only the basest instincts, as we have seen here at Hughes on the eighth-grade hall with the recent behavior of two of our students. Their hideous act (and if you don’t know what it was, it’s best not to ask), in their eyes, was brilliantly creative. But as the saying goes, garbage in, garbage out. If we start with nothing to be creative with, we will be creative with our basest instincts.

We traditionalists often suggest that we need to have a wide liberal arts education before the specialization of college in order to ensure the continuation of culture, but it is less esoteric than that. Creativity comes from having something to create with, and all great creative endeavors have stood on the shoulders of the creativity of others–I know I’m mixing my metaphors here, but I’m only intending a first draft of this, so bear with me. Picasso, for example, did not start with Cubism; he learned all the rules, then he decided how he wanted to break them. Faulkner did not begin by writing run-on sentences; he mastered his craft and then learned how and when to break the rules for effect. Linus Torvalds did not create the Linux operating system in a vacuum, and Jef Raskin, Bill Atkinson, Burrell Smith, and Steve Jobs did not create Apple’s operating system from nothing: they both used UNIX, an older, very stable system, as a starting point. So when we start pushing this individualization, this specialization from graduate school to college to high school to middle school, we decrease the amount of raw materials we provide students to be creative with. Despite Robinson’s contention to the contrary, it is based on “the idea of linearity.”

The truth of the matter is that education is linear: one has to learn addition before algebra, and one has to learn algebra before calculus. One has to learn to read music before embarking on a Chopin Ballade. One has to learn basic coding before attempting to create an operating system. There is a hierarchy of knowledge in any discipline, and one must learn things in that hierarchical order or else it’s simply chaos.

I understand Robinson would not dispute that. He’s not suggesting we let students begin wherever they want. He’s talking about an organic model that allows students to follow their own interests wherever they lead them. To do otherwise, he suggests, is soul-killing: We “have sold ourselves into a fast food model of education, and it’s impoverishing our spirit and our energies as much as fast food is depleting our physical bodies,” says the man who quotes Yeats, a product of this very education, an education that, in Yeats’s time, was much more linear than anything we have today. My point is that, as with creativity, to be organic, you have to start with something: life, art, technology, or even existence does not start from nothing.

But there’s more to it than that when we consider the fact that we live in a democratic republic like America. Robinson suggests that students should be able to create learn “with external support based on a personalized curriculum.” This is going to result in a highly fragmented society, with very little common knowledge–i.e., cultural literacy–to share. It is nothing short of Balkanization. E. D. Hirsh, Jr. writes in Cultural Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know about the impact of highly-specialized knowledge on democracy:

No modern society can hope to become a just society without a high level of universal literacy. Putting aside for the moment the practical argument about the economic uses of literacy, we can contemplate the even more basic principle that underlies our national system of education in the first place–that people in a democracy can be entrusted to decide all important matters for themselves because they can deliberate and communicate with one another. (12)

In other words, for democracy to work, everyone must be informed about the basic issues and be conversant about them. That this is not the case in America today is painfully obvious when watching the gotcha viral videos that show people struggling to name one single American senator, to find a given country on the map, and other ridiculous ignorance. Should we create a completely personalize curriculum, many of our students would study video gaming and rap music, leaving very few who are interested in the functions and institutions of our government. It’s easy to see that this becomes an oligarchy quite quickly.

So Robinson can’t possibly be suggesting complete topical freedom for students. He would have to accept the fact that there are some basic things that everyone needs to know in order to function in a modern Western democratic society, but the instant he does that, he’s undermined his own argument. What we have them is not the revolution Robinson is claiming but a bit of feel-good tinkering around the edges. Or complete chaos.

What then is the problem? Why does our education system not work anymore? I suggest that it’s not the education system that’s broken: after all, as I pointed out, it has created all we see around us today. It’s culture that’s broken. Why does the same educational system of the early 20th century no longer work? Because it doesn’t mesh with the 21st century culture, which demands instant gratification, complete and blissful entertainment, and absolutely no hard work.

Furthermore, education doesn’t kill creativity; our modern culture kills creativity. We turn on and tune out with our huge televisions, mobile devices, and gaming systems, then wonder why we aren’t as creative as we used to be. We serve up to our children mindless entertainment that requires no imagination, then wonder why they don’t have imagination. And like always, we blame it on our education system, the system that created Mark Zuckerberg and Sean Parker, Sergey Brin and Larry Page, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. And what do most people use these men’s amazing inventions to do? Foster creativity? Hardly.

So can this proposed Robinsonian revolution solve the problem? Well, I don’t think as Robinson presents it, it really is much of a revolution. A total revolution would look like this: the dissolution of the grade-level system in exchange for a mastery-learning program with a basic curriculum that fosters general civic, mathematical, linguistic, scientific, and technological literacy. This program would let students learn these basics at their own pace, but it would require mastery before moving on. If takes a student three years for one topic in math, then it takes that student three years and she stays there until she shows mastery; if it takes another student three months, that student moves on in three months. Once students master these basics–what used to be about an eighth-grade education but now is probably more like a twelfth-grade education–students can move on in a similar setting to explore any interest he or she wants. And if that means a student stops his education then and gets a job in construction, then that’s his choice. But that is too radical a reform, and still more important to policy makers, the fiscal cost of such an education would be relatively staggering.

Yet that wouldn’t solve the underlying cultural problem. That, I’m afraid, is out of the purview of public education. It’s a pessimistic view, I understand, and I’m sure some might wonder how I could be a teacher with such a bleak outlook.

And so in final response to Robinson and to more succinctly and beautifully sum up my thoughts, I too turn to Yeats:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Goodbye, Nelia

“Mr. Scott, today is my last day.” Nelia looked at me matter-of-factly when she said it one Friday morning, but the news was anything but matter-of-fact. There are students who, though it pains a teacher to admit, could say those words and the teacher would find it difficult to suppress the resulting smile. Few are their numbers, thankfully, but every year almost every teacher has at least one or two students about whom he thinks, “If only this kid wasn’t in my classroom–I could get so much more done with these other children.”

Nelia was not such a student. Indeed, she was the polar opposite: a quiet child who applied herself diligently each and every day, who turned in model work as a result, and who seemed to draw my attention in class like no one else. I knew she was trying; I knew she was paying attention; I knew she wanted to learn the things I had to teach. When explaining things, I found that I glanced at her more than almost any other student. Hard workers get that kind of attention.

I’d had my eye out for her from the first day. Mrs. Wilson, a teacher from a lower grade, had seen her name on my roster and exclaimed, “Oh, Nelia! You’ll love her!” She’d gone on to explain that Nelia had had a difficult life and had brought a lot of issues into the classroom. “But by the second semester, she’d worked a lot of them out–anger management, patience, things like that–and just became a sweet, wonderful student.” We teachers all like to hear that about rising students, so I was ready and very eager to meet her.

Because of her last name and the fact that I arrange my students alphabetically the first few days, Nelia sat in the back. She seemed quiet, not really talking to anyone and certainly not talking out of turn, but she always appeared sad. Tired. When students did group work, I found that she quietly participated but didn’t really take the lead. At the same time, the other students immediately realized that she had a quick mind and grasped things before most others in the classroom, so she became the de facto advisor to the group. She often finished before anyone else and then helped the other members of her group: not exactly the ideal for group work, for among other things, group work is intended to give students and opportunity to practice the real-world skill of cooperation in pursuit of a common goal. Still, her willingness to help had its own positive effects, and not just in the subject matter.

Her work was impressive. Always neatly organized in clear, looping handwriting, her work demonstrated from the beginning her impressive intellect and her pursuit of virtual perfection. Yet when praised for the quality of her work, she often smiled only a bit, the edges of her mouth just turning up and a sparkle temporarily flashing in her eyes.

All of this I noticed in just over a week.

When she told me she was leaving, the news hurt immediately, though initially for admittedly selfish reasons. It’s always a little sad to see a productive student who has a positive impact on the classroom environment leave, but it’s even more upsetting when it’s a student known to struggle, known to have overcome some bad habits and replaced them with some positive behaviors. When I found out why she was leaving, though, I sat silently for a few moments, wondering just how I should respond, considering how I could wrestle the wild and wildly depressing thoughts that surged into my mind when she began her explanation, “You see, I’m in foster care, and the lady that is taking care of me right now has decided she’s too old to do it anymore.”

Suddenly it all made sense, all the things the other teacher had mentioned, all the little implications. The changes Nelia had made, breaking habits built up from years of disappointment, rejection, and loneliness, were all the more impressive. I found myself suddenly grateful that I and my children knew where we would wake up tomorrow, the next week, the next year. I found myself unexpectedly thankful for the little habits that we take for granted, habits that sometimes even annoy, but habits that can only form in a secure environment where there are no surprises like, “Guess what!? You’re moving next week and that means changing everything in your life!”

And then the wild thoughts, the unrealistic thoughts that I just couldn’t beat down: “How quickly can someone get to be certified to be a foster family? Could we do that fast enough?” Thoughts that I knew the answer to.

As she left class that day, I pulled her aside and told her that I was very sad that she was leaving us. “I was really, really looking forward to working with you this year. I can see already that you would be one of those students that make me think, ‘This is what I got into teaching for.’” She smiled and thanked me, then started down the hall. I called after her and told her, “Make sure you head up to the seventh grade hall and say goodbye to Mrs. Wilson.” She smiled and assured me she would.

On the drive home that day, I began wondering if I should have said more, if it would have been helpful or even appropriate to say what I truly wanted to tell her: “If I had it in my power, I would take you into my family’s house and gladly try to provide a stable environment for you until you graduate high school, or even longer if necessary.” Unwarranted hope? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe hearing those words, essentially telling her, “You’re not unwanted. You can have a secure place in this world” would have been an incredibly positive thing; perhaps hearing those words would have had the opposite effect. Possibly she would have thought I was just being a little weird. I don’t regret not saying it, and yet I’m thinking and writing about it still.

I did say something though, something to hint that she’s wanted, that she’s appreciated. Enough to make up for any of the sadness in her life? Certainly not: that’s a hole impossible to fill with only a few minutes of chatting. But she smiled when I said those things, and it made the day a success.

When Monday rolled around, I was still hopeful she would walk into my classroom. “Perhaps there’s been a change. Perhaps she got the dates mixed up,” I thought. No mistake. No change. Simply no Nelia. She was always so quiet that I really didn’t notice her absence until five or so minutes into the class, the students working on their bell-ringer and I checking roll.

“Michael,” I said, glancing up, checking his name with I saw his tuft of blond hair.

“Nelia.” And then I remembered. A voice from the back of the classroom: “I think she moved.” I stood silent for a moment, wondering where Nelia was, wondering what family had taken her in, wondering what school she’d landed in, wondering if she would settle in quickly, wondering how long it would take for her teachers to notice what I and others had seen, wondering if old habits might return as defensive mechanisms, wondering, wondering, wondering.

“Yes, she moved,” I finally confirmed, hoping the students wouldn’t notice the crack in my voice.

The Visit

“J, are you here?” She somehow knocks at the door, opens the door, enters the house, and says this all at the same time. It took me a long time to grow accustomed to this style of entering a friend’s house, but she’s lived in Orawa all her life, and it comes naturally to her.

I walk to the door as she enters and asks, “Is Pani J here?”

“No, she went to the store a few minutes ago,” I explain. “She should be back shortly.” I usher her into the kitchen, recommending that she wait here. Then again, Babcia has a gift for coming back home, sneaking into the house, and disappearing upstairs to iron this or to clean that, so I suggest that perhaps she’s upstairs. “I’ll just check.”

I head to the base of the stairs–those countless stairs that lead to a floor of rooms for guests of the bed and breakfast and then to the next floor where the family residences are and finally to more guest rooms on the floor above–and call, “Babcia!” The name echoes through the tiled stairway and dies without response.

“I guess she’s not here,” I explain heading back to the kitchen.

“J is too young to have a grandchild your age. You’re calling her ‘grandmother’ because…”

“Because my daughter calls her that,” I explain.

“Oh! You’re K’s husband! Oh, okay, okay. You know, I was K’s teacher.”

We chat for a little about K, about E and L, about roads in Poland (why does that topic always seem to come up? Every Pole summarizes the situation with the same words: “holes within holes.”) and suddenly, there’s Babcia.

“I hear voices!” she sings as she enters. She’s always glad to have visitors, and she’s particularly glad to see M, her close friend.

“What shall I make for you? Coffee? Tea?”

VIV_3675

Before long, they’re drinking coffee and talking about who’s gotten married, how M’s mother, who just turned a mind-blowing 99 years old in May, is doing, about their children, their grandchildren, the neighbors, politics, films.

Yet the conversation always seems to turn back to something we might call in English gossip but in Polish sounds somehow different. It’s not just that the word somehow is different. The word for “gossip” in Polish (plotkować) traces its etymology directly to the word for “fence” (płot), for that’s where it traditionally takes place. No, it’s not that the word sounds different–of course it would, as it’s a different language.

It’s the act itself that sounds different. All gossip here eventually turns back to a personal connection, and while malicious gossip certainly does take place, the vast majority of it sounds more like a cross between a local newscast and spoken memoirs. The gossip can reach back years and years, to people they knew decades ago, to events that have long passed from the common memory.

And so the two babcias sit at the kitchen table, swimming in the past, present, and future simultaneously.

Rest in Peace, Dziadek

When I first met him, I was still learning Polish, and the intricacies of the cultural formal/informal divide largely escaped me. I knew kids referred to adults in the third person, as “Pan” or “Pani.” The fact that it applies to complete strangers as well had largely gone over my head, so I began talking to him in the second person, like we were equals and I’d known him all my life. By the time K and I married and I could legitimately speak to him in the informal second person, I’d already been doing so for almost ten years. As I got to know my father-in-law, long before I even could have imagined he would be my father-in-law, I realized that his gesture of laughing off my apology later when I realized my linguistic mistake and mentioned it was not a gesture. He probably really didn’t mind, and not just because I was an ignorant foreigner.

Escorting the bride
At Fall’s Park
Fort Sumpter
Evening of arrival in 2007
Jablonka living room, 2011

When he developed cancer some years ago, I really thought it to be little to worry about it. Perhaps it was denial; perhaps it was the understanding that, in fact, people beat cancer all the time. Two friends of mine, in fact, recently beat breast cancer. People win against cancer all the time. Of course, cancer more often than not seems to win, but Dziadek was too stubborn to let cancer best him, I rationalized. Too stubborn and too strong. As if overcoming cancer is a question of willfulness, obstinacy, and strength. If it were, it wouldn’t have had even the slightest chance of gaining even the smallest foothold with Dziadek.

With L at Falls Park
Grand Canyon, 2007
In-laws, Jablonka, 2004
A plantation
On the Yorktown

Indeed, for several years, it looked as if he and his doctors had indeed subdued it. For about five years, it was as if nothing had happened. Daily walks, guests in the bed and breakfast, weekly games of bridge, Mass every Sunday morning at 7:30, responsibilities in the village, parties when we visited — it was as if the operation, the chemo, the time in the hospital had never happened. He still got up ridiculously early every day to stoke the fires in two furnaces for guests, and when we were visiting, he was usually taking his morning coffee break when I stumbled downstairs in the morning.

Downtown Spartanburg
Blue Ridge Highway
Grand Canyon
Civil Wedding, May 2004
Somewhere in Arizona

The thought of heading to Poland this summer and not have him in the morning poking at me about how long I’d slept the night before — anything past about six thirty was a waste — makes the visit, on this side, still more than a month off, seem hollow. So much will be missing.

Christmas 2007
Jablonka kitchen with Kajtek
Christmas 2007
Falls Park

When it returned, the cancer struck his leg and quickly robbed him of one of his daily traditions, something K and I picked up as well during our visits there — indeed, while we still lived in Poland and went for family visits. A quick turn to the left at the end of a short paved road, a hundred meters to the next road, a rutted dirt road, and a right turn and within a few hundred meters, one is in the midst of hay, potato, and beet fields. “Idę na spacer!” he would declare matter-of-factly in the early afternoon, sometimes the late morning, and off he’d go, calling the family dog to his side and shuffling through the gate, settling his hat comfortably and muttering dzień dobry‘s to those he passed along his way.

As the weeks progressed in late 2011, he admitted during weekly Skype conversations that the walks were becoming shorter and shorter. Walks all the way to the river became a rarity. Then walks to the fields became scarce. Then the walks were confined to the yard.

And then they disappeared.

With new friends, 2007
Easter 2005
Party after civil wedding, May 2004
Jablonka living room, January 2013

It might be trite to add “like all of us” to that previous sentence. Trite but true. We all disappear from the flow of everyday life, but so often those disappearances are so distant, people we’ve never met, never heard of. Indeed, the vast majority of deaths in the world go completely unknown to all of us. Almost all of us. It’s the “almost” that gets us sooner or later. And so that’s why it’s difficult to comprehend the loss of Dziadek, to accept the loss of someone so central to our lives.

Table Rock, North Carolina
Post-wedding return, 2004
Fat Man’s Squeeze, Table Rock
North Carolina hike
Parish Halloween Party

Yet there’s no choice: we must accept it. Some things are easy to accept: he’s no longer suffering, and that’s a blessing in itself. But we’re selfish; we think about “me” before we think about anything else. It’s our first instinct, and the rare people who don’t turn automatically, almost reflexively, to the first person pronoun we call saints. So perhaps being a little selfish about a loss is acceptable. Human.

From Bricks to Books: A Literacy Memoir

In some sense, my love of reading and writing was inevitable. Given my parents’ background and dreams for my future, given the religious environment of my youth, and given my temperament, it would have been more surprising for me not to grow into a man who has bookshelves in each and every room of his house, with books scattered on coffee tables and nightstands.

When my father was in ninth grade, he decided he would drop out of school. His father, James, a mason by trade, was wise enough not to forbid my father from making these choices for himself.

“Good,” James replied. “You’ll come to work with me tomorrow.”

As soon as they arrived at the work site, James pointed to a large pile of bricks and indicated that my father was to carry them to another area of the construction site. My father spent the rest of the day hauling bricks to James’ journeymen masons and mixing mortar. He finished the day with raw fingers, a dragging body, and second thoughts.

Three days later, he declared that he’d reconsidered his future in school. Ten years later, he was working as an electrician by day and going to school at night, with the hope of becoming a draftsman. By the time I was in school, he’d become a project manager, with several engineers working under him and a handful of patents to his name.

He was determined that my intellectual life would be the opposite of his.

II

My first memories of books are connected with my father. I sat on his lap, and he read book after book to me. Every week, my mother would buy me a Golden Tell-A-Tale book at the supermarket, and my father would read it to me that evening, along with a handful of older favorites. He often found the books as amusing as I did; occasionally, he found them more so. As he tried to read The Sleepy Puppy for the first time, he had to put the book down several times to wipe the tears out of his eyes and calm his laughter. This comedic trend continued: as I grew older, Dad read more and more “adult” books. When I was about nine or ten, he introduced me to Tom Sawyer and the pirate adventures of Treasure Island. Not only did my father read to me every night, but he also read to the family as we drove to vacation or to visit relatives. Mother always drove, and he always read something to us. My early love of reading, then, was deliberate: I loved reading because my father loved it.

It didn’t take too long, though, for my father to graduate out of the “worldly” books and into the religious books that I listened to him reading long before anything like “Books on Tape” existed. As we belonged to a less-than-perfectly orthodox denomination, we were constantly exhorted to “always being ready to make a defense to everyone who asks [us] to give an account for the hope that is in [us].” Because many of the organization’s beliefs were simply and blatantly heterodox, we had to read much from the church’s publishing division that explained, essentially, why the Bible seems to say thus-and-such but in fact states the polar opposite.

We had so many Bibles, commentaries, and church-produced literature that my father and his brother constructed an entire wall of built-in bookshelves for his downstairs office. There was room left over for dad’s Great Books collection, and I used to thumb through the hardback copies Aristotle, Pascal, Adam Smith, Lawrence Sterne, Lavoisier, and others that comprised the collection, wondering when my reading and attention span would be great enough to tackle such seemingly incomprehensible books: I admired the Lexile heights from afar.

As I grew older, books continued to a part of our relationship. Most of my Father’s Day and birthday gifts were books. While in college, I worked in the bookstore, and with the discount I could get on discontinued books, I once bought enough new books to hide them throughout the house the next birthday. Even today, when it comes time to pick out a present for him, I head to the nearest bookstore.

When I became a father myself, I began passing on the love of reading to my daughter. I read to her in the womb, and every night, my wife and I take turns reading to her while she’s in bed. I’ve inadvertently upped the intellectual ante, though: because I married a Pole, we have a bilingual household, and on Mama nights, Lena chooses her favorite Polish-language books, often frustrated the next evening when I don’t read a Polish book to her. “I don’t want you learning my bad accent” is the weak excuse I give.

III

I wrote my first book when I was in grade school. The teacher handed out blank books (little more than blank paper folded hamburger style, then stapled and trimmed) after we’d been reading Virginia Mueller’s Monster books for independent reading, and she declared that we were going to write and illustrate our own Monster books.

For days, I thought about what I might want to write. The formula for a Monster book was simple: the purple beast was always going new places, and the title always reflected the novel destinations: Monster Goes to School; Monster Goes to the Doctor; Monster Goes Shopping. I had two concerns, really. First, I wanted it to be original: I wanted to take Monster some place he’d never been before and some place no other student in the class would think of. Second, I needed to compensate for my rather limited artistic ability: I knew I wasn’t the best drawer in the class, and I didn’t want that to be painfully obvious in my creation. Fortunately, I was able to solve both problems easily enough: I could draw boats without much difficulty, and I didn’t think anyone would think to take Monster to a shipyard.

We worked on the books in class and at home, and I noticed a striking difference between my creation and others’: most students were using the illustrations to take up the majority of the individual page while I was trying to have at least three or four lines of text per page. I’d even decided that, no matter how difficult, I was going to have one entire page with “nothing but words.”

Writing, too, ultimately came from my father. He’d dreamed of being an adventure story writer for so long that he enrolled in a creative writing course and sent several manuscripts to various publications. “I got enough rejection slips to wallpaper the study,” he later laughed: he never received any more positive notification from a publisher than the occasional encouraging word scrawled on the rejection slip.

As a deacon and eventual lay pastor in our church, my father spent a great deal of time writing sermons and exegetical treatises. Seeing someone sitting, surrounded by books, absorbing and synthesizing made it easier for me to do my own writing (i.e., homework). I learned that reading and writing are the same: the difference is only in the direction of the relationship. It also provided a practical example of real writing, not just writing for an audience of one, the teacher.

When I began writing for school (essays, research papers, etc.), I found it to be relatively easy, and occasionally, I even found myself excited about the prospect of writing on this or that topic. The process of untangling my thoughts and research, of putting down ideas in a systematic, organized way appealed to me immediately.

It was in eleventh grade that I discovered the journal. My English teacher told us the first day of school, “Go out tonight and buy a spiral notebook. You’ll be writing your journal in it.”

“What do we write?” someone asked.

“Anything,” Mr. Watson replied.

Just writing anything, whatever came to my head, had never occurred to me. The thought of creating a narrative of my life as I lived it, being my own stenographer, thrilled me. It was as if I’d discovered that I could see after thinking myself blind for sixteen years. I went home thinking the journal might be the most engaging assignment I’d ever received in school.

Every night I wrote in that journal, pages and pages of adolescent angst and joy. When I was the object of a perceived wrong, I simply couldn’t wait to get back to my room to write about it. Somehow putting it into words helped it make more sense. When hormones got the best of me and I cheated on my long-distance girlfriend, I wrote about in small, guilty letters that filled several pages. When a minister told a friend and me that we couldn’t perform a certain song in the youth talent show because of the simple fact that it was originally performed by an objectionable band, I scratched my anger, in exaggerated, looping letters, into that journal. When I felt a teacher was giving busy work, I jotted a quick note about it in the journal.

Once every six-week grading period, Mr. Watson took up the journals and read them all, leaving responses and notes in the margins. He helped me come to grips with my cheating heart, writing a full page in response. His words calmed my anger at being discriminated against musically. His calm acceptance of me, in writing and in person, made me a better person and inspired me to be a teacher. Indeed, were it not for Mr. Watson, I’m not sure what I would be doing now, but I’m not convinced I’d be a teacher. (The greatest regret of my life is that I never told him that. He died of leukemia several years ago, when I was still living abroad. I never even wrote him a letter to say, “I am who I am because of you.”)

My journal writing continues to this day. While I no longer keep it in a ragged spiral notebook, I still try to write daily, still try to pour out my frustrations and joys. I write on the computer, in leather-bound journals, in a small Moleskine notebook I carry everywhere. During the last several years, my writing has shifted to a blog I keep as a scrapbook of my family’s life and my daughter’s development, but I still consider it a journal of sorts. Writing a public journal, of course, raises the question of audience, and I’m not nearly as frank online as I was when keeping a daily journal, but it brings the same benefits.

I was most diligent in my journal keeping while I was in the Peace Corps in the mid-1990’s in Poland (of all places). During the three years of my extended service (I didn’t get enough in two years), I don’t believe I missed a single day writing in my journal, and it began the moment I boarded the flight Washington, D.C. to join the other volunteers on June 1, 1996:

I don’t know what to write – I don’t know what to feel. I’ve been shoved to this moment by a force more powerful than anything I’ve ever encountered. It seems time was jerked from me like a tablecloth yanked from a table. It’s been so sudden that I don’t believe I’ve even begun to deal with the emotions. What I’m about to do still feels as unreal to me as the landscape far beneath me.

Yet as I leave, as I finally get under way, a calm has settled in. The most difficult part is over. I cannot turn back now even if I wanted to. With that finality is an almost perverse security. Now that I can no longer cling, I no longer reach. Of course this is just the eye in the first of many emotional storms I’ll face. I suppose part of it is simply the beauty of flying – it’s difficult to be upset up here.

Of course, there was so much to write about, living in a new culture and learning a new language. On arriving in Poland, the first thing I wrote was:

Everything is different. I suppose this is culture shock, on a small scale at least.

From the air the first thing I noticed was the fields: long and narrow. From that point everything just became more and more different. (Horrible sentence construction.) The roads are terrible, the people are friendly, and nothing feels the same. Even the toilets and bed sheets are different.

I would love to write more, but I am simply too exhausted.

In addition, I was exploring my post-Peace Corps options and gradually coming to the conclusion that I wanted to earn a doctorate in religious studies (specifically philosophy of religion). I have many pages of response to Aristotle, Hume, Kant, and others (I finally began reading the Great Books!) scattered among celebrations of finally understanding this or that element of Polish grammar, screeds about this or that ridiculous aspect of the Polish school system, and descriptions of odd toilet designs and of traveling about Poland by bus.

It was during my second teaching stint in Poland (2001-2005) that I discovered blogging and quickly created two: one for sharing my adventures in Poland, the other for discussing the religion and church I’d grown up in. The first continues to this day; the second, while it reached a peak of about 500 visitors a day, exists only in the Internet Archive site.

Keeping a blog has changed my journal writing habits. Indeed, it has virtually killed my journal: I only have so many hours each day to fulfill an ever-growing list of responsibilities. I blog about many of the things I would have journaled about, yet I find there are enormous differences. The first, of course, is audience. A journal is private, and while my blog has such low readership that it might as well be private, the potential for uninvited eyes exists. Additionally, blog entries encourage brevity. Lastly, I find I tend to let photographs tell my story instead of my writing.

IV

In some sense, my love of reading and writing was inevitable. Given the teachers I had, the desire of my parents that I have a strongly intellectual life, the books that surrounded me and shaped my life and views, it’s certainly not surprising that my chosen profession involves teaching the skills and techniques to read and write effectively. Teaching something I love is advantageous in that I don’t have to fake the enthusiasm I feel. It helps create a positive atmosphere in my classroom, and it draws me back each and every August.

Putting the “Scat” back into “Eschatology”

There are movies out there that are so awful that you just have to recommend them to your friends. Like the old Saturday Night Live sketch in which Chris Farley has everyone trying the rancid milk and rubbing his clammy belly, there are some evils that we simply must share to appreciate.

The Omega Code is one of them. Without a doubt, it is the worst movie I’ve ever seen, yet one film everyone should endure just to see how bad a movie can be.

There is nothing redeeming about this film, and that’s its perverse charm. The acting is awful, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, most times just not there; the script is pathetic, ranging from faux Elizabethan nonsense to middle school scribblings; the special effects are neither special nor effective; the cinematography is along the lines of “put the camcorder there and hit the red button”; the soundtrack has all the subtlety of a mix prepared by an eight grader who’s just discovered Carl Orff; the direction lacks any whatsoever; the costumes are late-eighties high school drama club quality.

If someone sat down to plan a worse movie, it would be tough to top this one.

A look at the production credits brings everything into focus, though. TBN Films, as in “Trinity Broadcast Network”–Paul Crouch’s network. Writing credits include Hal Lindsey as a consultant for biblical prophecy.

A-ha! It’s not the film itself that’s important, but the ideology behind it. In short, it’s propaganda portraying the soon-coming end of the world according to a certain fundamentalist Christian interpretation of the Bible.As a bizarre aside, there is a bizarre theological menage a trios involved in this film that is about as dumbfounding as the film itself. Both Casper Van Dien and Michael Ironside play in The Omega Code and Starship TroopersTroopers, in turn, was directed by Paul Verhoeven, who was a fellow of the notorious Jesus Seminar, the ultimate liberal theologians club, hated and scorned by Crouch’s TBN. Talk about working with directors of diverging views!

Michael York plays Stone Alexander, “beloved media mogul turned political dynamo,” whose rise to power is never explained. Within a few minutes of the film, however, he’s “named chairman of the European Union,” developed “an inexpensive, high-nutrient wafer that can sustain an active person for more than a day and a revolutionary form of ocean desalination that will bring life-giving water to the driest of deserts,” and won the “United Nations Humanitarian award.”

And there you have it, folks: if you haven’t figured it out already, Alexander is going to set himself up as the miracle working Beast prophesied in the Book of Revelation.

Initially, “motivational guru Gillen Lane,” played (or rather, played at) by Casper Van Dien, joins forces with Alexander in an effort to make a cliche difference in the world. He soon realizes the evil of Alexander’s true aims and becomes determined to stop him.

Lane's talk show entrance
Lane’s talk show entrance

In the meantime, though, he has some of the choicest moments of the film, often serving up the lines that other characters hang themselves with. For example, Lane suggests that, in order to motivate people, Alexander needs to be someone “to rally behind,” an “archetypal figure to embody the message.” His ultimate suggestion, after mention Martin Luther King and Gandhi, is “a new Caesar,” to which Alexander memorably replies,

Oh, no, no! No, not Caesar! Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves. Oh, no! No, I’m not that ambitious.

Yes, your sophomore English serves you well–Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene ii.

"Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves"
“Why man, he’d have to stride the narrow world like a colossus, and we petty men walk beneath his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves”

Is this an attempt at high-brow script writing, or is it York improvising, flexing his theatrical muscle, so to speak? I’m not sure which alternative is more frightening.

Yet as the film progresses through the second half, it gets worse. Or better. Or both, if you’re a masochist.

Some examples: Alexander develops technology that “neutralizes” nuclear weapons, unites the world into a single government, with a single-currency, rebuilds Solomon’s Temple, and literally comes back from the dead.

5-Fullscreen capture 12262013 122052 PM
“Gentlemen, we all know the rules to Risk.”

Gillen Lane’s close friend Sen. Jack Thompson, played by George Coe (The Mighty Ducks, Bustin’ Loose), laments,

I don’t know anything about visions. I never had one. But I know about marriage. And I know about family. And I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face.

" I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face"
” I know the worth of a real man will show in the countenance of his wife’s face”

The director, Robert Marcarelli, introduces bizarre attempts at plot twisting which, to anyone really thinking during the film, are inexplicable plot complications. Characters faced with immanent danger react with increasingly baffling shortsightedness. And most puzzling, the relationship between the purported Bible code (the crisscross, three-dimensional code supposedly hidden in the Torah, a la Jewish Kabbalah) and Biblical prophecy is never explained, though it seems clear to everyone in the film.

This is perhaps the film’s most confusing point. The waters get muddied right at the film’s opening, when Lane, who also has “a doctorate in both world religion and mythology from Cambridge,” is interviewed on a talk show by Cassandra Barashe, played by Catherine Oxenberg.

Barashe: In addition to your many other accomplishments, you seem to be an expert on the Bible code. […] Explain to our audience what this Bible code is, and how it works.
Lane: Well, crisscrossing the Torah is a code of hidden words and phrases that not only reveals our past and present, but foretells our future. […] Most amazingly, in the Book of Daniel, an angel tells him to seal up the book until the end of days. But Rostenburg[, an expert on the Bible code,] may have found the key to unlock it. See, he believed that the Bible was actually a holographic computer program and that instead of two dimensions, it should be studied in three. If this could be achieved, the code would actually feed us prophecies of our coming future. Anyway, the reason I discuss this in my book is because what we want to believe as religion really traces back to myths born out of our collective consciousness.
Barashe: Has anyone raised the question of how people like yourself can believe in these hidden codes within the Bible, and yet not in the Bible itself?
Lane: You mean like, “Jesus loves me, this I know [Looks at the audience with skeptically raised eyebrows], for the Bible [Air quotes, returning his gaze to Barashe] tells me so?” [Looks at the audience as they laugh at his wittiness]
Barashe: Yes, exactly.
Lane: My mother used to sing me that song. But you know what? She died in a tragic car accident when I was ten years old, and I finally realized that her faith in this loving God, her truth, was just a myth. Therefore, myth must be truth.

"We are the higher power!" to applause in middle America
“We are the higher power!” Lane proclaims, to applause in middle America. Highly realistic.

This kind of twisted logic is the basis for the film and snakes its way throughout the whole script. The Beast rises to power by following the secret codes of the Bible, yet we’ve all been warned of it in the books of Daniel, Ezekiel, and Revelation, as other characters make clear. We’re left wondering, “If it was supposed to be so clear to us mere mortals, why did Satan–and that’s really who Michael York’s Stone Alexander is, a possessed megalomaniac–need the secret Bible code to figure out how to bring it all to fruition?”

That’s a question that not only does the film not answer, but it doesn’t even realize it raises it. I suspect this confusion between code and prophecy arises from TBN’s effort to get “real prophecy” into a mass marketed, main-steam film. The popularity of Michael Dorsnin’s The Bible Code and similar books seems to have gotten the writers at TBN to thinking, “Hey, we can use this as a springboard into the Bible’s real code: prophecy!” As a result, it’s a mess.

As a whole, the biggest flaw of The Omega Code is its earnestness. Films usually don’t take themselves as seriously as The Omega Code does, for it not only depicts but is a battle against the wiles of the devil. Yet what the cast and crew end up making, instead of the Biblically-based, thought-provoking thriller they think they’re working on, is a B-movie, and the absolute worst kind: an accidental B-movie. Its “B” status slipped up unawares, probably just a few moments behind the initial idea was taken seriously by all involved.

Even if the film were made in earnest but intelligently, it wouldn’t be so bad. But not only are we dealing with an awfully written script, but we’re also enduring characters who are simply stupid. They scribble “bug” on a legal pad to let one another know a room is wired, then proceed to talk in hushed stage whispers that no known listening device can detect. They run for their lives, literally the most wanted individual on the planet, then start ranting about visions they’re having when they finally find someone who’ll help them.

What kind?
What kind?

God bless them all, but they’re freaking idiots, each and every one!

The clear stupidity of the characters lets us sigh in relief, though. In the end, their idiocy transforms the film into a hopeful vision for the future, because if Revelation’s Beast turns out to be half as dimwitted as any one of the characters in this film, there’s hope for humanity.

Unless he starts producing films.

Hell

Kinga and I went to Auschwitz-Birkenau today.

It’s only now that I can appreciate the scale of the Holocaust. Reading Hitler’s Willing Executioners, seeing Schindler’s List, thumbing through albums – it’s not the same. Walking under the sign, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” standing in a gas chamber, walking along the barbed wire, standing by the railroad tracks where the selection was made – only then did the number of Holocaust victims (up to ten million) begin to take on any personal, tangible significance for me.

Auschwitz I

Auschwitz (the main camp — Auschwitz I) is surprisingly small. A former Polish army base, it doesn’t have such an immediately ominous feel if you ignore the barbed wire and guard towers. Single and double story buildings laid out in a grid, with grass growing in between and birds singing. It could easily be mistaken for an old prison. In fact, that’s really what Auschwitz was.

Despite it’s being associated with genocide, it wasn’t an extermination camp, per se. It was a prison and work camp. That’s not to say that death wasn’t everywhere. Indeed, it was. But it was not a death factory on an imagination-defying scale.

Birkenau was.

Birkenau is three kilometers from Auschwitz, and is actually one of several sub-camps. It was known as Auschwitz II, and it served one purpose: destroying humans.

Birkenau is Auschwitz, for Auschwitz is the synonym of death in the Holocaust, and Birkenau, with its stark and lethal geometry, is the machinery we always imagine when we think “concentration camp.” If one can use the words “stereotypical concentration camp,” then that’s the perfect description of Birkenau.

Gas chamber at Auschwitz I

At Birkenau, Nazis had two gas chambers and (as I recall) six crematoriums. Nazis processed humans like animals – herded out of the cattle cars, stripped naked, gassed, shaved and checked for gold teeth, then burned.

Barracks at Auschwitz II

It’s the monotony of Birkenau that is sickening. A mile and a quarter by a mile and a half, it’s an enormous camp that had three hundred barracks and housed up to 100,000 people. About sixty of the barracks remain intact: forty-some brick and twenty-some wooden structures stand in the camp, with countless chimneys marking the ruins of the rest.

Most all of the barracks are open, and most all look the same. It’s that monotony – after a few barracks, you don’t even go into them anymore – that made me realize the true horrific scale and monstrosity of the Holocaust. Nazis lulled themselves into a rhythm of killing that resulted in literal mountains of corpses.

Something had to be done, so they started burning bodies. But this was not efficient – shooting people, then making huge bonfires. No – much more efficient to make an assembly line of death. And that’s what they did at Sobibor, Treblinka, Birkenau, and many extermination camps. Day in and day out, trains arrived, people were slaughtered, and the Nazis went back to their warm barracks and listened to Bach and wrote letters to their wives. Assembly line – everything at Birkenau screams it. Lines of barracks, dissected by a railroad track, surrounded by a fence. It’s geometrical, exact death.

Remains of gas chambers at Auschwitz II

Death times one point five million, to be precise. That’s the death toll of Auschwitz, and it means as you walk along the grounds, you’re walking on literally blood-soaked earth. It’s one of the few places in the world, I would say, where you can throw a stone and know it will probably land within a foot of where someone died. Within inches. Rather, at the very spot.

You walk in the barracks, running your hand along the bunks, realizing that every single morning, the inmates awoke to find someone else had died in the night. And as you’re running your hand along the bunks, you realize that they died in this bunk. And in this one. And in this one. In all of them, chances are.

There is not an inch of that ground that has not seen death, and it seems to root the buildings to the place and make it difficult to lift your legs as you walk.

Tourists crawl over Auschwitz. They’re literally everywhere. Tour groups weave in and out of the barracks and through the streets, making it impossible to be alone. And the languages you hear – Japanese, Arabic, Spanish, French, English, Hebrew, everything.

And you hear German. We bumped into at least two German tour groups, and it somehow seemed eerily appropriate to hear German in that place.

Birkenau, in contrast, has much fewer tourists. Its sheer size, compared to Auschwitz, means more privacy, less competition with other visitors. The parking outside is probably one-tenth, if even that, of what’s outside Auschwitz, and yet it makes such a bigger impression.

My stomach churned the entire time, and for one brief moment, I was sure I was going to vomit. It was in one of the exhibits in Auschwitz, housed in the barracks. Hair – a literal mountain of hair, shaved from victims’ heads after being gassed. The hair provides proof to anti-Semitic Holocaust deniers because there remain traces of Zyklon-B in the matted, filthy hair. There are over fifteen-hundred pounds of hair in the exhibit, and at the near wall, just as you enter, is the spot I grew so nauseated that I had to go to the window to get air.

Fabric, woven from human hair, intended for clothes. An entire bolt of cloth – who knows how many were produced in total – with bits of hair placed on top.

Exhibit at Auschwitz I

There are hideous mountains throughout the exhibits: of shoes, of combs, of suitcases, of pots and pans and other kitchen utensils, of twisted eye-glasses, of artifical limbs. There are piles of shoe-polish tins, face-cream tins, forks, spoons, baby shoes.

It’s too much. You just want to scream.

The most tragic part for us, in the twenty-first century, I told K as we walked along the train tracks in Birkenau, is that there are thousands, even millions, of people who would gladly see this camp open and operational again. I wasn’t just referring to the anti-Semitism that still haunts our world, the young Neo-Nazis who deny that the camps were death camps – Hitler didn’t know; Hitler got a bum rap; and other absurdities – and yet know what the camps were used for and would like to see them killing again. I was referring to the guards and others responsible who are still living, some of whom no doubt regret that Hitler didn’t finish what he started.

What would have happened if Hitler had won the war? Birkenau leaves little doubt. The Jews would be non-existent, as would Slavs, Roma (Gypsy), blacks, Asians, and anyone else who offended Nazi sensibilities.

What’s most astounding about the concentration camps is that they, to some degree, cost Hitler the war. Hitler could have fought to a stalemate, then resumed again when his forces were strengthened. But what did he do? When supplies were needed at the front, instead of decreasing the shipments of victims to camps and using those trains to get supplies to the army, he increased the number of shipments. The pace stepped up as the inevitable loss approached. The Nazis’ hatred literally consumed them in the end. Its irrationality overwhelmed the cooler heads needed for military strategy, and reduced Nazi leadership to foaming-at-the-mouth, obsessive maniacs.

It’s not just the scale of victims that comes into sharp focus at Birkenau. The number of perpetrators – mostly German, but with help from other collaborators – required to murder that many people becomes obvious. It was not a handful of Nazis that did this. A significant percentage of the European population (again, the vastly overwhelming majority Germans) was mobilized to slaughter ten million people like household pests. And yet, at the Nuremberg trials, Allies brought forward only 24 indictments, resulting in 10 death sentences.

What about the others? If there are surviving victims sixty years later, there are surviving perpetrators. How do they live with that? How can they sleep knowing what they did and what they saw?

It’s another aspect of the Holocaust that defies all sense of reason and decency.

Last night, looking at pictures I took, it seemed like a nightmare. Even when I was living the experience, it seemed dream-like and intangible. Walking around the camp, seeing the barbed wire and barracks and train tracks, imagining what it was like to be interned there, thinking about what happened – it all seemed unreal.

Remains of barracks at Auschwitz II

Such is the scale of the Holocaust that even when you’re in the center of the hell it created, it seems impossible. How can people do this to one another? You stand there in the incontrovertible proof of the Holocaust’s reality, and yet it seems insanely unimaginable. “What kind of an individual would think of such a thing, let alone put it into practice?”

Selection area, Auschwitz II

I’ve seen it, but I’m even further from understanding it.

(Re-published for the yea write. Photos re-edited June 2021.)

The Churches of God–A Sociological Examination

Herbert W. Armstrong

Since the doctrinal changes in the Worldwide Church of God (WCG hereafter) in the 1980s and 1990s and its subsequent division into the numerous “splinter groups,” there has not been much genuine communication between those who stayed (whom in this essay I will call “assenters,” for they give their assent to the new doctrines) and those who left (whom I will call “dissenters,” for they withhold their assent to the new doctrines).[1] When there is communication, it can generally be described as nothing less than a hateful argument, of which both assenters and dissenters are guilty. Assenters declare that dissenters are not really examining scripture “objectively” (a term which I will deal with shortly), indicating that accepting the WCG’s new doctrines is simply a matter of logic; dissenters declare that assenters are betraying everything they were taught under Herbert Armstrong and that they are hopelessly deceived by Satan. With such divergent presuppositions held firmly, assenters and dissenters often verbally bash each other over the head until one or the other (or both) realizes the futility of the “discourse,” and then communication ceases altogether.

At a WCG-related web site, John Bowers explains this lack of communication this lack of communication in, “Why Christians Hate.” He claims it is simply because of fear: “To be a member of an unpopular religious cult, such as the Worldwide Church of God, is to live in fear.” To some degree, I feel Bowers was on track in this assessment, but it doesn’t go deep enough. It offers a somewhat superficial explanation as to why members of sectarian cults “fear.” The purpose of this essay is to use sociology (specifically sociology of knowledge) to locate a little more precisely the source of this “fear” in Bowers’ essay and to a lesser degree.

The World through Sociology’s Eyes

From the moment of our birth, the world is mediated to us. Usually this is done by our parents, whose job it is to teach us “the ways of the world.” This involves teaching us very simple, physical things, like the fact that touching a hot stove is a bad idea. We could, of course, figure these simple things out for ourselves, and very often we do. That is how we learn to walk, for example.

Yet our parents’ responsibility doesn’t stop with teaching us to keep our fingers away form hot stoves and out of electrical outlets. It also involves teaching us things that we wouldn’t be able to figure out for ourselves – at least not immediately. For example, it is from our parents that we learn our ethnic and national heritage. The average 18-month-old French girl has no idea that she is a French girl. Indeed, she probably has no idea what France is at that point. If she’s born into a Catholic family, she also has no idea what Catholicism is. Nor would she easily figure these things out on her own. Instead, her parents explain these things to her – things that later in her life will appear as normal, everyday reality.

Our parents introduce us to a very specific world that has many facets: social standing, race, religious orientation, ethnicity, etc. As our parents expose us to these aspects of their world, we come to accept it as our world too. In short, our parents define reality for us as we are growing up. This is called socialization, or more specific, primary socialization.

The things we learn in primary socialization are the things that later we take for granted as “everyday knowledge.” They form the basis of what we think “normal” people do. The end result is that within a given culture where certain groups of people undergo a very similar primary socialization process, these people define reality in almost identical ways.

Rules of etiquette provide a good example of this: In the Western world we generally do not slurp our soup, flatulate in a crowded train, make rude comments about our boss’s hair, urinate in a public park, or any number of things, all because we have been taught not to – most often by our parents. The things described above are the “basics” of polite behavior – they constitute the foundation of how everyone knows they should behave.

Yet in and of themselves, these basics that “everyone knows” are arbitrary. Nothing physical will happen to us if we break taboo and do any of the preceding things things. We won’t die if we slurp our soup, or relieve ourselves in the middle of Central Park. We will, however, get glares at the dinner table for our noisy soup eating or be carted off by the police if we duck behind a tree in Central Park.

Thus is the world into which we are born. The rights and the wrongs have already been decided, even though in most cases the decisions made are, from a purely biological point of view, arbitrary. They are not based on universal human needs (like eating or sleeping) and as such they are open to a wide range of interpretation. This fact is most vividly illustrated when you go to a foreign country and find a man standing against a wall in broad daylight, his back to the street, urinating – for all to see. Clearly, you and the man relieving himself define reality in a different manner. Indeed, you define reality in a way different from the man urinating and all the other people walking by him without so much as a second glance. For you it is decidedly disgusting and unnatural; for them, it’s the norm.

The “norm” we receive from our parents during primary socialization is initially not in competition with any other definitions, and we come accept our parents’ reality as reality in its totality. For example, a child raised by Muslim parents in a Muslim community will initially assume that the entire world is Muslim. It’s possible to imagine a grown man who clings to this definition of reality as normative throughout his life. How would such a feat be possible? Simple. If he never encounters anyone who is not Muslim, he will never have any reason to doubt that the entire world is Muslim. However, given the proliferation of mass communication and the ease of contemporary travel, he probably will encounter someone (via television or tourism) who is not a Muslim, and this encounter will constitute a competing claim about the nature of reality.

In a pluralistic society such as America, such primary socialization that excludes all other definitions of reality is simply impossible. We usually become aware of different points of view at a fairly early age, but such alternative points of view can be easily dismissed as “different” or even “abnormal.” Our parents at first do this dismissing. For example, when we’re traveling to Florida for vacation and we encounter a group of punks at a rest area, our father mutters derisively, “Freaks.” We incorporate this into our own worldview and for us, as 5-year-old children, these individuals become “freaks” as well. We don’t question whether our father is right or wrong in his assessment – we simply accept it. He was correct when he taught us “right” and “left” and how to tie our shoes – why wouldn’t he be right here as well? This points out the simple fact that to the extent that our parents are our primary mediators to the world around us for our entire early childhood, they are infallible.

It is from such encounters with people who define reality differently that the “us-them” view of the world comes into play. While this paradigm is often (and rightly) criticized as being “narrow-minded,” it is unavoidable in a sense. As long as there are cultures that define reality different, these different views will have to be sensibly incorporated into our own worldview. As seen above, in can be done in a somewhat flippant manner, writing off the legitimacy of a whole worldview with a pshaw and flick of the wrist.

There are other ways to deal with differing worldviews, though, that don’t amount to an ideological annihilation. The father in the above example could have just as easily explained the punks’ spiked hair and leather in such a way that doesn’t completely debase them. He could have just explained that they’re different and left it at that.

However, there are some things about which even the most liberal-minded and socially tolerant parent will make will have make normative. Incest, for example, is a fairly universal taboo[2] and even those who are willing to accept punks or bikers will be unwilling to condone incest – or murder, stealing, or any number of semi-universal norms.

Primary socialization, then, simply involves our acceptance as children of certain subjective ideas as being objectively true. As a sort of negative example, imagine the following: as a cruel experiment, parents decide to teach their child that everything is the opposite of what it “actually” is. So they teach this child that “up” is “down,” “blue” is “green,” “left” is “right,” and so on. On what basis will this child initially know that her parents are lying to her? Initially, none. Only when she begins interacting with others and makes a comment about how blue the grass is and sees their reactions will she be able to understand that her reality is different than everyone else’s.

We might even ask, “On what basis are the parent lying to the child?” When we encounter this child calling the sky green and the grass blue, on what authority to we exclaim, “Why, you’ve got it wrong – exactly opposite, in fact!” In other words, why is blue blue? Because some omnipotent force decreed that light within a certain range of wavelengths will be called blue? Perhaps, but we have no evidence of that. From our point of view we must accept that blue is blue because that’s how speakers of English define that particular wavelength of color.[3]

All if this is simply to say that reality is a construction. It is something we learn from our parents, who learned it from their parents, who learned it from theirs – ad infinitum. And what’s more, this reality we learn from our parents is all encompassing. It is not simply a matter of colors and direction – it is a matter of what it means to be a good father, or how a man behaves and how a woman behaves, and so on.

To put it bluntly, the things we think of as “objective” really aren’t. Certain things are given objective status simply because everyone around us agrees that they have objective status. Nothing comes from an infallible fount of wisdom; everything we know, we know things because someone else told us – in the case of primary socialization, that someone is our parents. And the simple fact is, they could have just as easily socialized us in any number of ways. The reason they did as they did is simply because that was how they were socialized.

There are many different ways for parents to define reality to their children. What it means to be a man or a woman, for example, is a product of primary socialization and it differs greatly from culture to culture. In Western society, for instance, hand-holding has romantic and even sexual connotations in our society, and we learn these connotations during primary socialization. We also learn (generally speaking) that such romantic connections should not exist between two men. Therefore, it is culturally wrong for two men to hold hands in our society, unless of course they are lovers and are bold enough to show their affection in public. However, in other cultures, hand-holding is not a sign of romantic or sexual attraction, and while homosexuality might be generally socially condemned in that country just as it is in our own, two men holding hands doesn’t even get a second glance. Why? Because just in our society we “know” that hand-holding is a sign of romantic involvement, members of other cultures “know” that hand-holding is a symbol of intimacy and closeness but not sexuality. These two cultures might agree on the point that “men shouldn’t have sexual attractions for other men,” but still disagree on whether or not it is acceptable for me to hold hands as the stroll. Therefore, to be a man means slightly different things in these cultures.

Of course we can push this even further by pointing out that this notion of homosexuality being acceptable or not is something we learn during our primary socialization. From a biological point of view, the only drawback to homosexuality is its inability to produce offspring.[4] The fact that our culture defines reality in such a way that homosexuality is deemed offensive makes more of a statement about our culture than it does about homosexuality.

Not all of our knowledge comes from our parents and peers, though. Some of it comes from teachers, ministers, and counselors and constitutes secondary socialization. While similar in many ways to primary socialization, though, secondary socialization is much more fluid. Both teach us particular realities and provide knowledge about the world around us, but they do so in different ways and to different ends.

While the “knowledge” we learn during primary socialization is general – the taken-for-granted information that everyone in our culture accepts – what we learn in secondary socialization is much more specific. In addition, knowledge from secondary socialization tends to be less objective from a cultural point of view.

One of the things we learn in secondary socialization is how to perform the actions required of us by our jobs. If one is a chemist, these are the things one learned during many hours in the chemistry classroom and lab in college. If one is a garbage collector, these are the things one learned from the “old hands” at work. It doesn’t take long to realize that this knowledge is considered subjective. Not everyone agrees one the best way to keep warm while collecting garbage during the winter, and not everyone agrees on the best way to explain the behavior of certain chemicals under certain conditions. These are “matters of opinion,” we like to say.

It’s also clear from these examples that secondary socialization is much more specific – it is connected to roles that not everyone plays. Not everyone is a chemist, and so not everyone can even begin to explain why chemical x acts this way at time y. And since only a very few of us have collected garbage (in the summer or winter), we won’t all be able to keep warm simply because we’ve never been taught how.

Plausibility

Up to this point we have dealt with two kinds of knowledge – that which “everyone knows” (given to us through primary socialization) and that which a few people know (from secondary socialization). What both these kinds of knowledge have in common, though, is their source: they both come from other people. Other people not only are responsible for giving us knowledge; they are also responsible for making it possible to accept this knowledge as knowledge and not opinion. In short, the reason we can continue to believe most of the things we learned in primary socialization and secondary socialization is that people around us make us feel it is reasonable to believe. The fact that they believe something makes it easier for us to believe it; their belief in it makes the belief itself more plausible.

For example, the reason it is difficult in our modern Western society to hold that sticking pins in a doll will have an affect on a given person is in part because no one else believes it. If we do go around talking about voodoo dolls as if they were as effective as two aspirin, we would be labeled a lunatic, or at the very least, strangely out of touch with reality. If we were plopped down in the middle of a community where voodoo is plausible, we would have quite another situation on our hands. In fact, our insistence that voodoo is nothing but rubbish would have the same effect in this culture as our insistence on voodoo’s efficacy would have in our modern Western culture. In either case, we would constitute a cognitive minority – a group of people (or a single person in this case) who believe something radically different than what the majority of people believe.

If we are a cognitive minority, we have two alternatives. We can sell-out, so to say, and accept the definition of reality of the cognitive majority. If we decide not to sell out but to hold fast to the truth as we see it, we face an uphill battle. To everyone else’s “Yes!” we will always be saying, “No!” Everyone else’s black will be our white. To keep this up indefinitely will be exhausting unless we get some support. As long as someone else is saying, “That’s okay – I believe what you believe and I don’t think you’re a lunatic for doing so,” it will be more bearable to be the cognitive minority. What will happen, then, is we will find that we spend more time with those who believe as we do (after all, we can relax and stop justifying our beliefs to them) than with those who think we’re somewhat off our rockers for our crazy views. Put differently, we eventually will create for ourselves a community that serves to make the reality we take for granted seem more plausible. In doing so, we will implement what sociologists refer to as plausibility structures.

Plausibility structures help determine what is believable and what is not. The more support an idea gets from those around us, the easier it is to believe. In yet simpler terms, it is easier to be a Catholic in Rome than in Mecca. Peter Berger expresses it thus: “The strength of [an idea’s plausibility], ranging from unquestioned certitude through firm probability to mere opinion, will be directly dependent upon the strength of the supporting structure” (A Rumor of Angels, 40).

It is now time to return to John Bowers’ comment, “To be a member of an unpopular religious cult, such as the Worldwide Church of God, is to live in fear.” This really is an empty statement because we all live in a certain fear that the world constructed around us – the world into which we have been socialized and accept as “normal” – will turn out to be contrary to fact. A lie, to be blunt. To return to an earlier image, we’re always a little worried when we sit down at the table that those around us will begin slurping their soup as if it’s just the most natural thing in the world to do.[5]

We have all sorts of mechanisms – from psychotherapy to Mass – that ensure that we keep this fear under control, so much so that it’s almost unconscious. If it were not for these mechanisms, in fact, we would be unable to operate “normally” in our daily lives. Indeed, it is rare that someone is so overcome with the fear that the world she sees around her is somehow “wrong.” Such individuals are usually considered prime candidates for a psychiatrist’s couch – or, if radically different enough, for a straight jacket. This is because we’ve been “shown” (i.e., taught) – and we’ve accepted – the world around us as somehow corresponding to some normative “truth,” and the fact that everyone else around us behaves as if it’s true reassures us. Cars stop at red lights because we drivers have agreed to halt our cars at red lights and because it was somehow ordained at the beginning of time that such should be the case. People don’t slurp their soup because that’s how it’s always been done and it was ordained from the beginning that such should be the case. Or so it feels to us on a normal, everyday basis.

So to a degree, I take issue with Bower’s statement. We’re all a little frightened that what we believe to be reality is not reality. Proof of this is easily found in that disturbing limbo we inhabit immediately after waking up from a bizarre dream. For a moment the ontological status of the dream is unclear, and we’re just a little worried that the dream might be reality and vice versa. This last only for a few moments, however, and as the fog of sleep lifts, we see clearly that it was just a dream–and we are reassured.

Roles and Our Ever-Changing Biography

A convenient way to think about reality through the eyes of sociology is through roles. We all have particular roles we play, and each of these different roles – mother, lawyer, aunt, and sister – comes with built-in cultural expectations. A good aunt if is someone whose behavior conforms to the general cultural expectations of the role of “aunt.”

Some of the roles are defined by primary socialization, such as “mother” or “uncle” while others are delineated during secondary socialization, such as “professor” or “colonel.” Generally these roles coexist rather peacefully so that we have an “office self” that is not radically different from our “home self.” If there is a great deal of difference between these two roles, though, one or the other will have to give. Which one actually does give will depend on which one is more important, which in turn depends on any number of cultural and personal factors. To add to the confusion, a choice we make today to subsume a professional role (perhaps “lawyer”) to a personal role (maybe “mother”) because family life is deteriorating might have been drastically different five years ago when, say, there was rumors that one might be promoted to partner in the law firm.

Peter Berger points out one intriguing aspect of all this role-playing that makes up our lives: our biographies are in fact largely influenced by the various roles we play in our lives. Berger discusses this at length in Invitation to Sociology and it will be helpful here to outline his ideas in this regard.

Most of us like to think that the act of writing our autobiographies would be a fairly simple act. After all, we would simply need to record in chronological fashion a description of what we did in our lives. I was born on this date; I went to this school; I married this person; I had these children; I worked at these places. Yet we obviously can’t include everything in our autobiography, else it would be thousands of pages long. Therefore we have to select some things to include and others to leave out. How do we do this? Simple – it depends on what is important to us at the time of our writing. But here is the interesting catch: were we to write this at a different time – earlier or later – different parts of our lives would stand out as more important than they would now. More abstractly, our autobiography is an interpretation of our lives, not purely a description. What we see as important in our past depends on what is important in our present. Not only that, but we can re-interpret portions of our lives, giving them drastically different meanings than whatever meaning we attached to the moment as we were living it, or at some other point in our lives.

For example, imagine a woman who, after attending rallies and reading books, becomes a Communist. Her life to that point will need to be re-interpreted. What was once a happy, fiscally secure middle-class life will be viewed as an empty, bourgeois false consciousness. A Catholic convert might come to see a series of personal misfortunes as events God was using to bring him into the Mother Church.

It becomes clear, then, that such biographical reinterpretation is critical when one role conflicts with an earlier role. Some kind of explanation must be provided as to how the same individual could have been two seemingly different people, ideologically speaking. To do this, we reinterpret our biography.

Religion and Conversion

One of the most significant acts of secondary socialization is religious conversion. When one converts from one religion to another, it means altering how one defines reality, and very often, accepting one set of religious beliefs involves denying the set of religious beliefs we received from our parents. This type of secondary socialization can be more radical than any another because it often involves drastic changes in how we live our lives, how we explain the world around us, how we interpret our past, and so on.

In a sense, religious conversion is similar to primary socialization. Indeed, one might say it is a second primary socialization since “true” religious conversion results in a complete change of one’s course of life.[6] The primary difference is that this “second” primary socialization within religious conversion does not create a reality ex nihilo (“from nothing”) as one’s true primary socialization did many years earlier. We are not learning and interpreting reality; we are re-learning and re-interpreting reality.

Since it doesn’t create reality ex nihilo necessitates, conversion is one of the biggest stimuli for reconstituting one’s personal biography. That which transpired before conversion must be re-interpreted in order to maintain consistency with one’s current standards.

Frequently this includes the retrojection into the past of present interpretative schemas (the formula for this being, “I already knew then, though in an unclear manner . . .”) and motives that were not present in the past but that are now necessary for the reinterpretation of what took place then (the formula being, “I really did this because . . .”).[7]

This “then-and-now” biography creates a certain internal “us-them” mentality. “Before conversion, I was among the blind; now I can see.” One is no longer among “them,” the blind. Instead, one is among “us,” the enlightened.

Additionally, the conflicts that can arise between our pre-conversional selves and our post-conversional selves are not always easily resolved, and they can sometimes be destructive to relationships of our life that no longer conform to our new definition of reality. This radical new view of one’s past can, of course, necessitate a distance between the friends of the “former me” and the “new me.” This reality-twisting that we engage in when converting necessitates relationship-twisting that some relationships cannot bear. Something will have to give –our new interpretation of reality, our relationship, or both.

Sociology of Religion and the Churches of God

When we put all this together and use it as a tool of examination for the various Churches of God[8] it all seems to make sense – the distancing from non-members, the rigid instance on doctrinal purity and complete acquiescence, the virtual impossibility of assenter/dissenter friendships, etc. Indeed, one gets the uncanny feeling that authors writing general descriptions of sociology of knowledge and religion used the Churches of God as a model. And in fact, sociologists did just that, for the WCG and its sister churches are textbook examples (sometimes literally) of the processes described above.

To begin with, until the recent changes, members of the WCG had been a cognitive minority in the religious community in particular and in society in general. This was certainly not something the leadership and members of the WCG tried to deny. The knowledge Herbert Armstrong shared was special – esoteric knowledge available only to the select few that God has called out. It was not a source of shame. Indeed, the “cult” badge was worn with pride for many years, and still is by various splinter groups.

Armstrong would not even deny that the fact that WCG members constitute a cognitive minority was the reason it formed such a tight community in the local churches. The theological reasoning was simple: don’t be unequally yoked with nonbelievers.[9] The sociological reason for this, though, should now be obvious: since it’s easier to believe something when all your friends and acquaintances believe the same thing, it’s best to stay among one’s own kind. They back you up; they make belief in something plausible.

Herbert Armstrong certainly realized the importance of creating strong plausibility structures (though he never would have used such a term) and in essence, he created an alternative universe within the WCG. Armstrong’s WCG had its separate rules, regulations, and definitions of reality, and the individual churches served to provide social support for believers in time of “doubt.” This is not to say that WCG leaders or congregations nurtured people who had doubts, helping them find resolution to various problems. In fact, they often did quite the opposite and criticized fellow believers for their lack of faith. Instead what I am talking about here is plausibility support for a cognitive minority that the cognitive majority could describe as bizarre. Local congregations provided a community that made it easier to hold these beliefs that flew in the face of most other Christian theologies. Spouting off about the Great Tribulation on any street corner will immediately get one labeled, “Lunatic.” Doing so in the local COG congregation might possibly earn a promotion to deacon.

Sociology also helps explain why it was necessary to quarantine prospective members instead of inviting them to Sabbath services the next Saturday. Perspective members still hadn’t redefined their pre-Armstrongian biography and their new WCG socialization process had only begun. They still had in their heads alternative, “heretical” definitions of reality, and introduction of such an unsocialized element into the local congregation could lead others to adopt these heretical points of view.[10] More succinctly, the new member might re-socialize an established member or two if things are not handled carefully.[11]

It is clear now why Mr. Armstrong taught that sociology (among other “worldly” sciences) was to be avoided. When someone can explain anything from a non-theological point of view, it threatens the authority of those who explain the same thing from a theological point of view. Mr. Armstrong taught members to avoid close contact with people of “the world” because they were just that – the world, deceived by Satan and inherently dangerous from an ideological perspective. Members were called out, set apart, different in every way. This is the theological explanation. The sociological explanation is simply that associating with “the world” would tend to weaken rather than to support WCG members’ beliefs and the authority of Mr. Armstrong by providing alternatives to his explanations. Reading and studying sociology shows Armstrongian reality to be one of several alternative worldviews, and in such a fundamentalist sect such as the WCG, choice – heresy – is a dangerous thing. It also explains the mechanisms by which Armstrong tried to bracket out competing realities. It showed the man behind the curtain.  Again, not a good thing for a fundamentalist sect such as the WCG.

Armstrong and the other leaders of the WCG were of course aware of the various alternative definitions of reality swirling about outside the WCG, but in a sense they had nothing to worry about because they had mechanisms already in place to deal with them. Just as our father in an earlier example “nihiliated”[12] the punks’ worldview with the single word, “Freak,” so Armstrong nihiliated competing worldviews with a single word: Satan. The notion of worldwide satanic deception was convenient for two reasons. First, a different solution does not have to be proposed for each problematic worldview. All can be subsumed under the simple heading of “satanic deception.” Hinduism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Protestantism,[13] and even atheism all have the same flaw: Satan. Second, it helped highlight the lack of satanic deception in the WCG. In strengthened the us-them mentality by simultaneously pointing out their error and WCG’s correctness.[14]

The reinterpretation of one’s pre-conversional biography within the WCG also provided a nice way of setting members apart from the rest of the world, reinforcing the “us-them” mentality. “I was deceivedas the rest of the world is now!” And as pointed out earlier, this tends to force one to internalize the “us-them” view. In addition, the Armstrongian sorteriology provided a strong “us-them” mentality, with WCG members destined to be the leaders while the deceived world were to be subjects.

Whether or not Herbert Armstrong deliberately planned all of this is open to debate, but I for one think it is highly doubtful. While such a book could be written, there does not exist (to my knowledge) a monograph entitled How to Start a Sect.[15] Even to say that Armstrong envisioned a church approaching the scope of the WCG at its height seems to credit Armstrong with much more cunning than he actually possessed. It was all, to some degree, an accident. Armstrong was at the cliché right place at the right time with the right message that appealed to certain people. Once he gained a small following, the process of institutionalization followed its somewhat natural course and a sect formed.[16]

The Split

As the WCG’s initially slight theological changes became more pronounced in the late 1980s and the early 90s, the resulting splintering was hardly avoidable. There was initially an attempt to keep everyone together with assurances that “we can all live together in peace even if we have slightly different theological views.”[17] But as the scope of the changes broadened, expanding beyond make-up and healing, this became increasingly unrealistic for a simple reason: the local church communities, which, once united in a common belief, had served as plausibility structures, no longer provided this sociological necessity for everyone. People became “unequally yoked.”

Not only did individuals’ worldviews cease to support each other but as the changes dug deeper into the fundamentals of Armstrongian theology, individuals’ worldviews began to contradict each other. No institution can survive very long when members hold conflicting views, and so the divisions became not only theologically but also sociologically and psychologically necessary.

This is also the reason assenters and dissenters are hard-pressed to sustain meaningful relationships – their definitions of reality challenge each other. To remain in contact with those who no longer share the same beliefs would produce threats to one’s own worldview. Those for whom common religious beliefs were the defining aspect of their relationship could not long remain close friends with those who no longer share the common beliefs because of a lack of mutual support. If, however, there were other bonds in the relationship – either familial bonds, or perhaps even a strong personal friendship – the relationship might continue, but it’s doubtful that religion will be a frequent topic of conversation.

The Current, Post-Armstrongian WCG Reality

Where does all this leave the WCG today, almost fifteen years after Herbert Armstrong’s death? The future of this church is now questionable and those who were unable to acquiesce to the new teachings (the dissenters, as I originally named them) have formed many churches, which have themselves split (sometimes many times over). Armstrong’s once-great empire is now a fragmented mass of various churches with significant numbers attending no church at all. What are the implications of all this?

Both assenters and dissenters have had to re-think their definitions of reality. No one predicted such a cataclysmic event as what happened in the late 80s and early 90s. No one was prepared, ideologically speaking. Suddenly, a huge event had to be explained from worldviews that were not equipped to do so. An Armstrongian worldview could explain lots of things – why everyone looks at you like a freak when you talk about the Place of Safety, why Europe was moving toward increasing unity – but it couldn’t explain this. It couldn’t make sense of how so many people could turn their backs on the truth delivered through Mr. Armstrong; or, conversely, how so many people could fail to see the mistakes in Armstrong’s theology once they had been pointed out and prayerfully studied.

For each group this had somewhat different consequences. The dissenters had to come up with a way of explaining how God could allow so many “true Christians” to be deceived. Gerald Flurry, of the Philadelphia Church of God (PCG), uses 2 Thessalonians 2.10—11[18] as an explanation, explaining that God is separating the true Christian minority from the deceived WCG majority by sending a “strong delusion.”[19] Other splinter groups explain it in a variety of ways, but most of them deal involve the idea of Satanic deception in one way or another. From the point of view of the dissenters, the assenters have now joined the ranks of the “deceived,” and as such the assenters’ new worldviews have long been nihiliated.

In a way, the predicament of the assenters is more interesting. To some degree those who accepted the new teachings have had to go through yet another socialization process when they came to accept once again the ideas they’d rejected upon conversion to Armstrongian theology. When they joined the WCG, they had to re-evaluate many of the simple facts of their lives, like what it means to be a Christian, what humanity’s potential and destiny are, etc. They had to reject “the world’s ideas” and accept Armstrong’s ideas. Once the changes were made, they essentially rejected Armstrong’s ideas and returned to “the world’s ideas.”

Not only that, but the assenters had to reformulate their worldviews in such a way that could account for the massive number of people who abandoned Armstrong’s teachings. This could be a particularly traumatic experience for some if they come to the conclusion that the reason their friends went with one of the other Churches of God was because their friends were (and are) still in the grip of cultic control. And that, by default, means they themselves were “in the grip of cultic control” – not something one likes to admit to oneself. Such a drastic explanation is not inevitable, though. Another possibility is to say that those who remain with Armstrongian Churches of God do so because they fulfill some basic need in their lives – a need they themselves once fulfilled with Armstrongian theology but now fill with “the grace of Christ.”

Whatever the explanation, one thing is certain – all involved must make some attempt to explain how such drastic changes occurred and further, to explain why John Doe assented to the changes while Susan Jones didn’t. Not to do so would be to leave a huge section of one’s life an enormous question mark – and that’s something very few people can live with.

Notes


[1] I do not mean “dissenter” to be a pejorative word, certainly not in the sense that it was used in the WCG (and is still used in other organizations) as grounds for disfellowshipment. Additionally, I am not implying that they are dissenting from a universal norm. In as much as the WCG’s doctrinal authority was once the norm for them, they are “dissenters.” Still, I am hesitant to use these words for they create an unavoidable polarity that I would actually like to avoid. Indeed, it is simply a matter of perspective: The “dissenters” could have just as easily been called “assenters” since they continue to subscribe to and support Armstrongian theology.

Further, I do not wish to describe them as “Tkach-ites” and “Armstrong-ites” for several reasons. To begin with, it’s grammatically clumsy and it sounds ridiculous. More importantly, the term “Armstrongites” has already been used and it is always used in a pejorative manner, something I hope to avoid like the cliché plague in this essay.

[2] This is true even in ancient Egypt when the pharaoh married his own sister. The difference lies in how various cultures define incest. What is incest in our culture is not in others, and vice versa.

[3] This illustrates that one of the most important aspects of primary socialization and one of the most subjective is language. While it is a fascinating topic, it is not a diversion I will make in this essay.

[4] One might point to sexually transmitted diseases as an example of another biological drawback, but this argument is rendered ineffective by the fact that no sexually transmitted disease is transmitted exclusively through homosexual encounters. Thus sexually transmitted diseases might be seen as a biological drawback to promiscuity, whether homo- or heterosexual.

[5]The fact that it is not natural is because of our primary socialization. There are a great many things that we are socialized into believing are not “natural” when in fact “nature” tells us nothing about these things.

[6] The apostle Paul in the New Testament speaks of conversion in terms that underscore this: “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways“ (1Cor 13.11).

[7] Peter Berger, The Social Construction of Reality, 160

[8] Worldwide, Philadelphia, International, Living, Global, United, etc.

[9] “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?” King James Version – Armstrong’s preferred translation.

[10] It is useful to recall that “heresy” is derived from the Greek for “choice.”

[11] Gerald Flurry, leader of the Philadelphia Church of God, explains it thus: “God’s Church has the responsibility to PROTECT its members. WITH AN OPEN DOOR POLICY, THE WCG IS BEING DESTROYED SPIRITUALLY BY SATAN!” (Worldwide Church of God Doctrinal Changes and the Tragic Results, 74)

[12] The term is used in Peter Beger’s Invitation to Sociology.

[13] It has always amused me that Armstrong differentiated himself and his church from Protestants (using that term in a derogate fashion) while at the same time failing to realize that his church, by default, was itself Protestant. It was not Orthodox (Greek, Eastern, or Russian), Coptic, or Catholic, and the only other option (denominationally speaking) was Protestant.

[14] This simple dualistic view (us-them, Satan-vs-God, black-white) is common in fringe sects and fundamentalist denominations, and it serves as an easy way to deal with all competing worldviews. Not only did this dualism annihilate any possibility of an alternative reality having any validity, but it also strengthened the sense of inner-church community by fostering an “us-them” attitude.

[15] Some have labeled the WCG a “cult,” but from a sociological point of view, I would hold this is not quite correct. A cult by most sociological accounts is a new religion (such as UFO worship) whereas a sect is just a marginal interpretation of an established religion.

[16] For a more detailed discussion of the relationship between a charismatic leader and the subsequent formation of a religion, see Max Weber’s The Theory of Social and Economic Organization.

[17] I attended a WCG First Day of Unleavened Bread service in the early 90s at which the minister said, in effect, “If you think this is a holy and binding day, we welcome you. If you think this is not, we welcome you.” Such an attempt at tolerance was greeted with applause. Months later, though, the minister left the WCG for the United Church of God and many of the likeminded members, unable to survive in such a divided environment, followed.

[18] “And with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved. And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.” (The quote is from the King James Version, the preferred translation of the PCG.)

[19] This theological argument is questionable at best and creates certain negative connotations in the PCG explanation of God’s nature. For more on this see my “God as Represented in Malachi’s Message.”

The Sound and the Flurry

The Cultic Revelations of Malachi’s Message

Gerald Flurry

When the Worldwide Church of God began reevaluating doctrines, many people within the organization were suddenly faced with a decision they thought they would never have to make: stay, or go? For the most part, people stayed when Joseph Tkach Sr. began reevaluating and modifying certain church doctrines because in making these changes, Tkach was leaving the core doctrines (Sabbath attendance, tithing, the nature of God) intact. The first changes included a new position on the use of cosmetics, a new scripture to designate the church’s commission (Matt. 28.19, “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” instead of Matt. 24.14, “And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.”), and the decision to seek accreditation for Ambassador College. Gradually, though, Tkach and the WCG leadership turned their attention to doctrines many considered indispensable, and eventually Gerald Flurry and others decided that the WCG, in changing its doctrines and dogmas, had turned its back on God and therefore it was no longer God’s church. Flurry immediately wrote Malachi’s Message to God’s Church Today, the centerpiece of all his writings and, with his followers, formed the Philadelphia Church of God.

Little time need be spent discussing Flurry’s actual argument. His thesis is not incredibly complex and can be summed up quite succinctly: Because we are nearing the end-time, it is necessary for God to separate the true Philadelphian minority from the Laodicean majority. He accomplishes this by sending a “strong delusion” (2 Thes. 2.10-11) in the form of deceived leadership. Converted Philadelphians will see this with the aid of divine revelation (read: Malachi’s Message), thereby escaping the Tribulation and receiving their eternal reward.

The interesting thing to look at when reading Malachi’s Message is not so much the prophetic rantings and ravings, interesting as they may be, but rather the implicit revelations Flurry makes about his personal theology and the PCG’s official teachings while arguing his case. Flurry also illustrates the sociological and theological mechanisms used by cult leaders to keep their “flocks” in submission. Lastly, a close examination of several passages reveals Flurry’s definition of God to be quite heterodox with some rather unnerving aspects to it.

Explanations

By and large, Flurry’s teachings are identical to those put forth by Herbert Armstrong, the Worldwide Chruch of God founder. Since many of Armstrong’s ideas are unlike anything found in mainstream Christianity and the terms and figures of speech he uses are found in traditional Christian articulations, a few explanatory comments might be helpful.

Herbert Armstrong’s Lingering Influence

From the beginning, Flurry illustrates that this book is intended for those steeped in Armstrongian theology. This is obvious enough when we remember the full title of the book, Malachi’s Message to God’s Church Today. However, this sense is strenghtend by the fact that Flurry expects his readers to grant him several basic assumptions which are based on WCG theology. Remarking that several churches have left the WCG in recent years, Flurry argues, “Your Bible says only one of these groups can be doing God’s work” (x). The idea that God is working with only one group of people during these “end times” is a recurrent theme in both Armstrong’s work and Flurry’s own theology. That Flurry takes this as his starting point makes it clear that this book is designed to do one thing: encourage people to leave the fellowship of the WCG and join his own. To be sure, Flurry does not hide this agenda, and later in the book makes it perfectly clear that he sees the warning of God’s people as his calling. In fact, Flurry argues that Herbert Armstrong (hereafter referred to simply as HWA) “set a precedent for what the PCG is doing now” by writing to the members of the Sardis era and telling them “their Church was dead!” (149). However, Flurry provides no documentation for this, and an otherwise good point is compromised.

This assumption that all readers are thoroughly familiar with HWA’s teachings also manifests itself in the use of Armstrongian theological terms which would be completely incomprehensible to non-WCG members. Flurry tosses around “The Place of Safety,” “The Great Tribulation,” the “Laodicean Era” without defining them or proving them scripturally. They are given truths to be accepted from the beginning. you could go so far as to demonstrate your scholarship ? here and define them for the reader here.

Clearly Flurry feels that there is only one true church, and with so many to choose from, it’s critical to make the right decision, for “if you make a wrong choice, it is going to bring physical and spiritual curse. A right choice will lead to incredible physical and spiritual rewards.” The criterion Flurry initially gives for finding this church is not what most people would expect from a Christian church. Instead of saying that we must weigh carefully what these churches teach against what the Bible says, we must find the “one Church [which] truly follows in the footsteps of Mr. Armstrong” (x). This and this alone is the one true, pure Church of God. To be fair, Flurry does encourage his readers to prove scripturally his argument, but the initial criterion is whether or not the church follows Herbert Armstrong.

Additionally, it’s not enough according to Flurry simply to follow HWA’s teachings. It’s necessary to fellowship with this one true church: “We, as Christians, have the responsibility to be in that Church following Christ” (xiii). The implication is that being a member of the right church is necessary for salvation, not simply following Christ. Even if we keep all the Old Testament commandments (even the seemingly ridiculous ones about wearing clothes of two fabrics and destroying our houses when we can’t get rid of the mildew), it won’t be enough unless we’re in the right church (read: PCG).

The Philadelphia Church of God was formed because the Worldwide Church of God was not clinging to Herbert Armstrong’s doctrines. A logical place to begin an analysis of Malachi’s Message, therefore, is a consideration of how Flurry and the PCG view Armstrong and his teachings.

Flurry explains in the introduction how the WCG has gotten off track: “Why do the Laodiceans fail to see that Mr. Armstrong fulfilled all of these major end-time prophecies? Because their focus is too much on the man–not on God and his message!” (xi). Ironically enough, this serves as a perfect thesis when discussing the PCG’s view of Herbert Armstrong: The emphasis is clearly on what Herbert Armstrong taught and not on what the Bible actually states.

From his introduction onward, then, Flurry makes it clear that Herbert Armstrong’s teachings are of utmost importance. Flurry’s exaltation of HWA is, in fact, the most striking thing in the entire book. This manifests itself in several ways in Malachi’s Message.

The first thing one notices is the manner in which Flurry uses Armstrong’s writings as final authoritative proof concerning almost anything, something which is not surprising since the “true gospel ends with Mr. Armstrong” (130). Many times in Malachi’s Message, Flurry’s final recourse is simply, “Mr. Armstrong said . . . ” On one occasion, Flurry even writes that “Jesus Christ agreed with Mr. Armstrong” (91). One would think it should be the other way around, but to make that assumption is to forget that we are talking about a cult and not a healthy Christian church.

This trend really begins in the introduction when, discussing the “end-time . . . John the Baptist,” Flurry writes, “For years Mr. Armstrong said repeatedly that he fulfilled this office” (xi). No other evidence, scriptural or otherwise, is given that Armstrong did indeed fulfill this role. Yet, since Mr. Armstrong said it, it must be true. Flurry does the same thing when discussing HWA as the end-time Elijah (14) and later when trying to illustrate that HWA was the end-time Zerubbabel (59, 65, 131). In each instance, the fact that HWA said it is enough to establish it as fact.

The equating of Mr. Armstrong with Zerubbabel deserves some attention in itself. As stated before, Flurry really does little to prove this thesis other than the fact that HWA said it was true. Early in the book Flurry points out, “Zerubbabel died an old man. So did Mr. Armstrong” (3). If this is meant to be taken as evidence, it is a laughably weak attempt to prove this thesis. According to this logic, the following syllogism is true: “God thinks. Humans think as well. Therefore, humans are God.” The real “proof” seems to be in the idea that HWA created a new church just as Zerubbabel was responsible for a new temple. Following that logic, though, anyone who begins a new church would be a candidate for this “Zerubbabel,” including Luther, Calvin, Smith, and Koresh (to name a few). Yet despite the fact that this is complete speculation, Flurry takes it as fact to the extent that on at least thirteen occasions he even equates HWA and Zerubbabel thus: “God says Zerubbabel (HWA) built the house with God’s Holy Spirit . . .” (61). This makes it possible to read all references to Zerubbabel as references to Armstrong.

Assigning scriptures to leaders (both religious and secular) is a favorite weapon in the Armstrongian interpretation arsenal. It is so much so that Flurry considers the WCG’s current reluctance to engage in this practice as one of its major doctrinal changes. (For more on this, see page twenty-six of Worldwide Church of God Doctrinal Changes and the Tragic Results.) Indeed, to interpret prophecy in the exacting detail that the WCG has historically done, it is necessary to assign Biblical passages to individuals, both contemporary and historic. When HWA applied names to world leaders examples? it is simply amusingly bad exegesis; when applied to you’re missing some words here HWA applied names to himself, it was not only poor Biblical interpretation but arrogance. Of course Flurry doesn’t see it this way, and names HWA as Elijah at least ten times and as John the Baptist twice, both in the same fashion as with Zerubbabel.

It’s ironic that while Flurry is perfectly willing to name HWA as certain Biblical figures, he seems reluctant to name Joseph Tkach Sr. specifically as someone from the Bible. To be sure, he hints (more than strongly) that Tkach is the less-than-ideal Joshua of Zech. 3.1-2 and “the man of sin” from 2 Thes. 2.4, but he never equates them in a “Joshua (Tkach)” manner as he did with HWA (90). (It’s interesting to note that Flurry gives two possible roles for Tkach, thereby doubling his chances of an accurate prophecy. There is a doctrinal reason for this, however, which we will explore in due course.) In addition, there is a disturbing comparison which implies that Mr. Tkach represents Judas and HWA, Christ (99), but there is no direct “Judas (Tkach)” comparison.

One major aspect of the Philadelphia Church of God’s mission is to keep the memory and teachings of Herbert Armstrong intact, untainted with accusations of personal immorality and un-Biblical doctrines.

It should, in theory, come as a surprise to discover in PCG’s theology any changes in what Herbert Armstrong wrote. In an older issue if the PCG’s magazine, the Philadelphia Trumpet, writer Dennis Leap asserts that the “Philadelphia Church of God is the only Church on earth that upholds all of the doctrines Mr. Armstrong established in the Church” (“Who Are Today’s Laodiceans?” Vol. 6, No. 8, pg. 27). If the Philadelphia Church of God follows all of Mr. Armstrong’s doctrines then there should be absolutely no changes to any doctrines or dogmas whatsoever. Doctrine for the Philadelphia Church of God should remain constant, never changing, always identical to the teachings of the Worldwide Church of God at the time of Mr. Armstrong’s death. Yet, in reality, the PCG has made several doctrinal “corrections” which, for all intents and purposes, amount to doctrinal changes.

To be sure, Flurry is not making these changes without any outside stimuli. Indeed, the very reason for his church’s existence necessitates certain changes and realignments within PCG theology. All of these changes are almost inevitable given the fact that the Worldwide Church of God has so radically changed its theology from an inward-looking, exclusive cult to an outward-looking, evangelical ministry. None of these things were prophesied to happen in quite they way that they did. Armstrong taught that there would be a lukewarm, Laodicean era which means?, but it seems doubtful that he ever imagined that this “Laodicean attitude” would be embraced by the WCG leaders and make it necessary for the “Philadelphian elect” to remove itself from the Laodicean majority. If anything, Armstrong indicated that the Laodicean’s would be the minority, and speaking from my personal understanding of the doctrines, I always believed that the Laodiceans would remove themselves from the Philadelphian majority and start a new church, not vice versa. Therefore, there is a need to update all prophecies concerning the end-time church eras and Flurry has, according to Dennis Leap (in the same article quoted above), received “new revelation [which] has corrected slightly some of what Mr. Armstrong taught prophetically concerning the Church.” So the key thing to look for is “slight corrections,” not major new teachings. However, change is change, and any “slight correction” invalidates the PCG’s claim to uphold “all of the doctrines Mr. Armstrong established in the Church.” (page number)

The most decisive change in Herbert Armstrong dogma stems directly from this Philadelphian-Laodicean relationship. As with most cults, the WCG used to love to look for significant numbers in the Bible and then, using a hodge-podge mixture of math and prophecy, figure out what these numbers mean ‘for us today.’ Concerning the alleged history of church eras in Revelation, the key number is 144,000. The WCG always taught that this is a reference to God’s chosen, the number of people who would be whisked off to Petra to be saved from the German savagery of the Third World War. any documentation? This also served as a gauge for how close we were to Christ’s second coming, for it was always implied that when church membership reached 144,000 baptized “firstfruits,” Armageddon and Christ’s subsequent return were very near at hand.

However, Flurry no longer teaches that the 144,000 represent Christ’s chosen, Philadelphian elect. Instead, he argues that the 144,000 represents the Laodiceans (43). He quotes an Ambassador College Correspondence Course from 1966 as saying, “They will be some of the modern-day descendants.”

Occasionally Flurry obscures the point that he is changing one of HWA’s doctrines by stating that “the Church” has taught such and such. Consider the following: “God’s Church has applied II Thessalonians 2.4 to the world for the most part. But it doesn’t apply to the world. There is tremendous biblical support to show it applies to God’s church” (79). While Flurry doesn’t say that Armstrong taught this, but there can be little question where this doctrine originated. Flurry is basically saying, “Herbert Armstrong taught this, but it’s not quite right. It’s close, but a little flawed.”

Is this a drastic change? In some ways, no. After all, it doesn’t involve a change in underlying assumptions and fundamental dogma. Specifically, it’s still an explicit and direct application of a prophecy to contemporary events, something quite in line with Armstrongian interpretation techniques. Flurry still teaches this is a prophecy which has a contemporary fulfillment. Since the WCG stopped looking at the Bible in such a fashion (one of the catalysts for the PCG’s formation), this is not a major change for the PCG, comparatively speaking. At the same time, it is not at all in line with what the PCG claims concerning their unwavering support of Armstrong’s doctrines. It is certainly an unqualified affirmation of his exegesis techniques, but not complete support of the doctrines themselves.seems a little redundant.

Flurry makes another slight “correction” concerning the curse of Mal 4.5-6: “This is a curse which means ‘utter destruction.’ In the past, this has been applied to the ‘utter destruction’ of the earth’s inhabitants. That is not what it means! The message of Malachi was not sent to the nation of Israel or the world. Primarily, the subject is God’s ministry” (119, 141). This is certainly not what Mr. Armstrong taught, but Flurry is careful not to acknowledge this and introduces the idea even more vaguely than the preceding example.

Surprisingly, Flurry does directly and bluntly say that HWA was wrong on one occasion. Referring to the fact that Armstrong felt he would be alive at the time of Christ’s return, Flurry says, “Mr. Armstrong didn’t live to see the end of this age as he thought he would. (So correct that little error in [The Book of Revelation Unveiled at Last].)” (110). Of course Flurry had little choice but candidly to admit that Mr. Armstrong was wrong in this case. He would look utterly foolish to try to argue that, ultimately, Mr. Armstrong was right even in this case. But doctrinal revision due to historical incompatibility is a far cry from the drastic changes within the WCG concerning prophecy. The leaders of the Worldwide Church of God had a choice concerning whether or not to disclaim Armstrongism and embrace evangelical Christianity; Flurry had no such choice in this case.

Flurry has also made slight changes in the Church’s “God-given” commission. He writes, “The major work now is getting the message of Malachi to the Laodicean Church. The Gospel has been preached. The Laodiceans must now be warned!” (133). In Worldwide Church of God Doctrinal Changes Flurry goes to great lengths to point out that the WCG has changed its commission from Matt. 24.14 to Matt. 28.19-20 (114-117), but neither verse mentions anything about warning the Laodiceans. Clearly this is a change in the primary directive (read: commission) of the Church, but it doesn’t seem to bother Flurry in the slightest. (Later still Flurry claims that Mr. Armstrong himself changed the commission and said that the primary thing now is to “get the Church ready” (137), yet he provides no documentation of this claim.)

The last change that Flurry has made in HWA’s teachings which we will consider concerns the Bible’s final warning to the people of the end-time, Flurry now states that, “The greatest warning in the end is given to God’s people–not the world” (103). Armstrong never said anything like this (to my knowledge). Indeed, he was quite often decrying the horrible condition of the world and making it known that he was God’s chosen to give the pathetic, deceived wretches of the world their final warning. Flurry, however, feels now that Mr. Armstrong wasn’t quite right concerning to whom the Bible gives the strongest warning (though of course Flurry doesn’t say it in so many words). While this is technically not a change of doctrine, it’s a slight shift of emphasis in what HWA taught.

Of course this final warning is contained in Malachi’s Message and is simple: God prophesied all this to happen, and showed the consequences of not heeding this warning. But this thesis begs the question: Why, with his prophetic acumen, didn’t Herbert Armstrong see these prophecies? He made very specific claims about Germany rising again to initiate the Third World War; he made quite detailed assertions about what would happen to God’s elect during the Great Tribulation. Why, with all his clairvoyance, wasn’t Mr. Armstrong able to see what Flurry now understands so clearly? The answer is simple: Armstrong did not have the privilege of hindsight that Flurry now has. In other words, this is a prime example of what I’ll call retroactive prophecy, a topic we’ll return to in a bit.

It is not surprising, given the preeminence accorded Mr. Armstrong and his teachings, that Flurry is gradually adapting his leadership style to a manner more befitting to someone claiming, for all intents and purposes, to be Armstrong’s true successor. Flurry gives several indications that he learned well from Herbert Armstrong how to lead a cult and has incorporated several Armstrongian techniques into his methods.

Early in the book Flurry makes a most-Armstrongian declaration: “You must prove what I say in this book!” (9) Many times Herbert Armstrong would get quite excited about this point, calling on people to “blow the dusts off your Bibles” and prove what he was saying there. However, both Flurry and Armstrong only allow certain Biblical proof. The criterion for their Biblical proof seems to be to “let the Bible interpret itself” (89). This is not a bad idea in itself, but Flurry’s application of this principle is questionable. Additionally, in telling people to look to the Bible to prove this or that, Armstrong and Flurry are calling on people to exercise rather poor exegesis.

Another example of how Flurry is becoming more like Armstrong in his leadership is shown by a subtle, egotistical claims. One such claim comes from Flurry’s view of his own writing. Mr. Armstrong several times made claims that God was working through him and inspiring all he wrote. The best example of this concerns what HWA said about Mystery of the Ages, specifically that “I myself did not write” it but rather “God used me in writing it.” (See Malachi’s Message 20-25). Armstrong tried to assure us that he viewed all his writing as being more from God’s mind than from his own. Yet sometimes his ego interfered slightly and he let things slip, like saying that Mystery was the “the best work of [his] 93 years of life!” Flurry is beginning to make the same slips. While he often declares that Malachi’s Message was directly inspired by God, he wonders why “Why does this deceived [WCG] minister [would] say it would be wrong for WCG members to read what I write?” (93).
Another claim that smacks of egotism (though in a strangely pathetic fashion) is the declaration (made originally in all caps), “It takes courage to warn the world” (75). This is a courage that neither of the Tkachs have, but clearly Flurry has it in abundance.
Of course doctrinally Flurry will always be akin to Armstrong, but he also makes claims in Malachi’s Message which, while not direct quotes from Armstrong, certainly are in line with Armstrongian leadership. The first one notices when looking at Malachi’s Message is a startling claim on the back-cover abstract: “[Flurry] also preaches the wonderful news that Jesus Christ is going to intervene and save mankind in this generation.” The final prepositional phrase, “in this generation,” leaps off the page and in the minds of educated Christians sets of warning bells. This obviously enough is a direct contradiction of what Christ said concerning his own return in Matt. 24.36, 25.13, and 13.32. Apparently Flurry seems to think he is privy to information that not even God has revealed to Christ.

Flurry is only so specific concerning Jesus’ return once, but on several occasions he hints strongly that it will occur within the next few years. In the introduction he proclaims that “soon it will be obvious to everyone which group comprises the very elect” (xiii). Later, discussing “Joshua’s fellows” (Zech. 3) he declares that the appearance of “Joshua’s fellows [is] a sign that Christs return is very near” (69). As his reference he gives Zech 3.8: “Hear now, O Joshua the high priest, thou, and thy fellows that sit before thee: for they are men wondered at: for, behold, I will bring forth my servant the branch.” Even if we read the verses before and after, it’s clear that there is no way this can be seen as a sign that Christ’s return is near. Finally, while discussing the rebellion of 2 Thes. 2, Flurry claims twice that it is an indication that Christ is returning soon. This rebellion, he says, is another sign that the end “is at hand or imminent. It could be very imminent” (79). Later, concerning the same scripture, Flurry writes, “When you see this ‘falling away’ from the truth God taught through Mr. Armstrong, it’s time to think very seriously about Christ returning soon–very soon” (83).

All of these examples are clearly in keeping with Armstrongism, but tragically unbiblical. One might imagine that Flurry has learned from the abysmal historical record of setting dates for Christ’s return, to which Armstrong of course made several of his own contributions. Naturally Flurry can rightfully enough counter, “But we’re not setting exact dates!” At the same time, to say Christ will be returning “in this generation” is as close as one can come without actually setting a date.

With such special prophetic knowledge and understanding, it should be clear to all (according to Flurry’s reasoning) that he is now the sole divine messenger, passing on God’s words and thoughts to the nations for their edification. This is an idea common to almost all cults and Armstrongism is not an exception. Following in Armstrong’s example, Flurry elevates himself to prophet and prophet fulfiller. He writes, “This is [that warning to the Laodiceans]. You are holding it in your hands! It is a prophecy being fulfilled this very minute!” (31). Just in case readers don’t get the point, Flurry makes it two more times: “God is knocking–to a great extent through Malachi’s Message” (41); “God must reveal the ‘man of sin.’ God has done that through Malachi’s Message” (87). Flurry gets so carried away with the idea that he alone is God’s spokesperson that he makes two quite fantastic and egotistical claims toward the end of the book. He first argues that “all of God’s ministers are going to know Malachi’s Message came from God–whether they realize it now or in the Great Tribulation” (143). In the conclusion, though, he broadens this claim: “Malachi’s Message was revealed by God. Every human being on this earth must eventually come to see that!” (151). None of this should not come as a surprise as God is using him alone to carry on HWA’s work (99).

Since, in the eyes of the general PCG membership, Flurry is God’s sole messenger on the earth today, we should expect that if Flurry makes claims that have no Biblical support whatsoever they will remain generally unquestioned by the PCG majority. And indeed, Flurry indulges in such extra-Biblical speculation on several occasions. In doing so, Flurry is, for all in intents and purposes, speaking for God, revealing information that God previously chose to keep to himself.

Flurry first makes this mistake when referring to a passage on the famed “church eras.” “God included these verses in Revelation 14 to be an encouragement to the Laodiceans who read them during their trials in the Tribulation” (48). Of course the interpretation (re: seven prophecied church eras) Flurry applies to this scripture is subject to great debate, and many Biblical scholars, if not most, would vehemently disagree with this bit of exegesis. Yet even if this were the accepted interpretation of this passage, there is nothing here to indicate that God included this as comfort for the Laodiceans going through the “Tribulation.” Flurry is making a leap completely out of the Bible and claiming information that is not even hinted at in these scriptures.

One of WCG’s most disastrous doctrinal changes, according to Flurry, is the de-emphasis of prophecy. Flurry says that “God considers this prodigious change by the WCG to be a major sin!” (108). While there is an indication that prophecy should be a part of any ministry (Amos 2.11-12), it is certainly short of saying that not prophesying is a sin. Once again, Flurry is speaking for God.

The most striking (and tragically comic) example of this comes in the final pages of Malachi’s Message. The passage deserves to be quoted at length:

Malachi’s Message was first received by many people on January 16, 1990, the very day of the anniversary of Mr. Armstrong’s death (January 16, 1986). We didn’t plan it, but we were happy it happened that way. You are going to see the date of Mr. Armstrong’s death take on more significance as time goes on. John Amos and I were disfellowshiped on December 7, 1989–40 days before the anniversary of Mr. Armstrong’s death. The number 40 is significant in the Bible. The third 19-year time cycle of the Work of the WCG ended in January of 1991–the same month as the fifth anniversary of Mr. Armstrong’s death. In the original version of Malachi’s Message we asked this question: “Will we see some dramatic event in the world or within God’s Philadelphian and/or Laodicean Churches then?” The Persian Gulf War began on January 16, 1991! God considers the date of Mr. Armstrong’s death to be very significant (149).

After quoting Luke 13.7-9 in its entirety (referring to giving a vineyard three or four years to bear fruit), Flurry continues making wild claims.

God gave the fig tree four years to bear fruit. If it failed to produce, He cut it down. After Mr. Armstrong died, he also gave the WCG four years to bear fruit. When the WCG failed, God raised up the Philadelphia Church to do His Work. Mr. Armstrong died in January 1986. The Philadelphia Church made the first mailing of Malachi’s Message in January 1990–exactly four years later! We planned none of this–God did the planning (150).

The fact that four events of some significance can be “connected” to the date of Mr. Armstrong’s death is hardly proof that “God considers the date of Mr. Armstrong’s death to be very significant.” To begin with, it wouldn’t be very difficult to connect almost any event to Mr. Armstrong’s death using the significant numbers of the Bible (which are abundant in Armstrongian exegesis).

Not only is this an example of poor exegesis, but it is a variation of a logical fallacy known as the cum hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy. One makes this fallacy by asserting that because two events occur together, they must be causally related, and obviously enough, it’s a fallacy because it doesn’t take into account other possible factors and causes of the events. The initiation of the Persian Gulf War on 16 January had many factors, primarily logistical and political considerations.

The final point to be examined concerning Flurry’s growing Armstrongian leadership methods concerns writing style. Herbert Armstrong was an advertising man, and he took the techniques which successfully caught people’s attention in the ad business and incorporated into his theological endeavors. The result was the signature Armstrongian SMALL CAPITAL LETTERS FOR MODERATE EMPHASIS, LARGE CAPS FOR SCREAMING EMPHASIS and italics for subtly. Of course Flurry follows in Armstrong’s typographical footsteps, and so he doesn’t have to worry about writing succinctly but instead uses typography to make his point. On at least one occasion he manages to include all three styles in one sentence: “They are taking a Laodicean turn AWAY from Christ–because they ignore what CHRIST ESTABLISHED through Zerubbabel (HWA)” (62).

While the intended purpose of such uses of different type styles may indeed be emphasis, the result is something quite different. Instead, it turns the passage in question into a quite emotional cry. The huge amount of italics and all-caps when discussing the WCG’s donation to help restore the Globe Theater at Stratford-upon-Avon? (129) and when considering whether WCG considers HWA a false prophet (113) reveals a strong emotional response to these issues. One can almost hear how a WCG minister of old (or current PCG minister) would deliver this in a sermon. Good writing makes its own point and a well-planned, well-documented argument reveals its strengths without the aid of typographical stunts.

Unfortunately, Flurry has taken other aspects of Armstrong’s writing as his own, including an avoidance of documentation of any sort. This actually weakens one claim in Malachi’s Message that otherwise would have been good points. Toward the end of the book, Flurry writes, “Mr. Armstrong set a precedent for what the PCG is doing now” by writing to the members of the Sardis era and telling them “their Church was dead!” (149). This would be a good point response to the claims that HWA began the Worldwide Church of God in a way diametrically opposed to Flurry’s methods (and it was this idea that Flurry was “causing division” unlike Mr. Armstrong had which prompted his disfellowshipment), but it loses any strength by the lack of documentation.

Another example of undocumented claims is the assertion that “Mr. Armstrong’s last instructions to Mr. Tkach were, ‘I have reached world leaders, your job is to get the Church ready'” (137). It’s amusing that Flurry doesn’t see this as a change in the church’s “commission.” The first in Flurry’s list of WCG doctrinal changes is a the new commission of Matt. 28.19-20 as opposed to Matt. 24.14 (see WCG Doctrinal Changes, 16-19). The idea of preparing the church is not in either scripture, so it appears that neither the PCG nor the WCG are following Armstrong’s wishes on this matter.

It seems, in conclusion, that the relationship between HWA’s legacy and the PCG’s theology and leadership is at best troublesome and unbalanced. Flurry wants to keep the core Armstrongian beliefs in his church. However, the fact that the WCG abandoned Armstrong’s teachings and necessitated the formation of the Philadelphia Church to begin with makes it impossible for Flurry to maintain a completely static Armstrongian theology. The result is dogma and doctrine that claim to be Armstrongian but suffer from their own necessary modifications and modulations and are not as pure as Flurry claims

The Cult Characteristics of the Philadelphia Church of God as Revealed in Malachi’s Message

In his book A Rumor of Angels, sociologist Peter Berger writes that the “social psychology of fundamentalism is what Erich Fromm called the ‘escape from freedom’–the flight into an illusionary and necessarily intolerant certitude from the insecurities of being human” (“Religious Liberty–Sub Specie Ludi” in A Rumor of Angels, 177). Obviously, a cult is necessarily fundamentalist, and this psychological analysis applies to the Philadelphia Church of God. Just as the Worldwide Church of God thought of itself as the exclusive body of Christ for so many years, the Philadelphia Church of God believes it is God’s elect.

Exclusive religious tendencies provide a sense of security for believers, as Berger points out, and in the case of Armstrongian exclusiveness there is a sort of double-walled sense of protection. First, it draws from the general Christian idea “God loves me” the simple feeling that even if no one else loves us, God does. Christianity is peculiar because it makes very specific claims and provides a very intense sense of personal importance. When Christians speak of Christ and his crucifixion, they speak of his love, specifically his love for them as individuals. “Jesus loves me,” is a common refrain in Christianity which echoes a frequently quoted passage in the Bible (John 3.16). However, Armstrong’s Christian cultic ideas intensify and slightly modify this feeling. Instead of “Jesus loves me,” stressing the love, one can say “Jesus loves me,” stressing the self, the “me,” implying an elliptical, “But I’m not so sure about whether he loves you.” It hints at a superiority that is intensified in the language of Armstrongian theology: the elect, the firstfruits, and so on.

Therefore, within the PCG, this exclusiveness takes on a new dimension, a sort of triple-layered exclusiveness. At the first tier is the basic Christian exclusive doctrine that Christ is the only way to eternal life. This removes any possible authenticity (“truth,” in other words) of alternative salvational routes offered in other religions and at its extreme, removes the necessity for dialogue between these religions. In other words, it creates a sort of separate universe and states that any universe not identical (i.e., those which don’t have Christ in them) are fundamentally flawed. (Peter Berger offers an insightful analysis of this issue in “A Funeral in Calcutta,” also found within the newest edition of A Rumor of Angels.)

There is ample evidence of this in PCG theology. There is one particularly startling example of this, though: “The Jews have not been commissioned to build God’s Temple–as Zerubbabel and Solomom were anciently. If they build a temple, it will be the Jews’ temple, not God’s temple–just as it was “the Jews’ feast of tabernacles” (John 7.2), not God’s Feast of Tabernacles” (80). In this one sentence Flurry uses excruciatingly poor exegesis to illustrate strong exclusiveness while hinting at subtle yet arrogant xenophobia. To being with, Flurry takes this scripture completely out of its written context and original cultural milleu.

This scripture is not intended to juxtapose Christ’s example or view point to the Jews’. Indeed, Christ was a Jew. If it was the “Jews’ feast of tabernacles” then it necessarily was Christ’s as well.

Flurry also hints at anti-semitism in this passage. Xenophobia is an obvious extreme to which exclusiveness can be taken, and racism abounds in Mystery of the Ages and in Armstrongian theology in general, most obviously in the theory of Anglo-Israelism. Of course it is usually not explicit racism but implicit, as in this case.

Returning to the issue of triple exclusiveness, Armstrong added a second layer by saying, “Not only is Christ the only way to eternal life, but only my interpretation of Christ is the way to eternal life.” While there is much chaffing and back-biting ridicule among denominations about finer doctrinal points, there are not many which go to a cultic extreme and call all other denominations Satanic as Armstrong did.

With the former Worldwide Church of God Armstrongites leaving for either the Global Church of God, the United Church of God, or the Philadelphia Church of God, there exists a possible third layer of exclusiveness. All three new churches claim to be following Armstrong’s teachings more righteously and rigorously than the WCG, but there are certainly differences. One thing is common, though: There is still an exclusive tendency which sets members apart from the world, but now it does so in three ways. First there is the general Christian tendency toward exclusiveness which sets Christians apart from the rest of the world. The second is the Armstrongian exclusiveness which sets believers apart from the rest of the Christian community. Finally, there is what I’ll call the Flurryian exclusiveness, which sets PCG members apart from G/U/WCG members. As we saw before, Flurry claims that “your Bible says only one of these groups can be doing God’s work” (x): “Several different churches have been formed by former Worldwide Church of God ministers. All of these churches–including the WCG–are Laodicean, except one” (6). Flurry points out soon enough that only the PCG is made up of God’s elect Philadelphians: “The Laodiceans are comprised of the WCG and other groups that have left the WCG–except the PCG” (31). This is the doctrinal reason why Flurry gives two possible Biblical names for Tkach: Clearly, someone else (possibly David Hulme or Rod Merredith) must be the other figure. All of this serves to strengthen (for PCG members) the idea that they are the elect and so “no other group is given this understanding [of Malachi’s Message] by God” (55). Flurry summarizes this idea nicely himself: “We . . . have a ‘corner on the spiritual market'” (91).

This exclusiveness has several theological ramifications, some of which Flurry notices (and even revels in), some of which he ignores. He does realize quite clearly that he is denouncing in the strongest possible terms other people’s religion, for he states that the failure to recognize Armstrong as the end-time Elijah “condemns a person’s religion” (52). He also understands that such exclusiveness removes almost completely the possibility that God even acknowledges non-Armstrongian Christians, to the point that he implies that God refuses to witness (and, hence, sanctify) non-Armstrongian marriages (16). However, this doesn’t follow logically even if we grant that only PCG members are true Christians. There is nothing in the Bible to indicate that God ignores those who aren’t his chosen favorites. Indeed, we find just the opposite in most everything Christ does and says, but Flurry overlooks this.

One of the results of this extreme exclusiveness is an equally exclusive view of the Bible. “The WCG has taught for years that when the Bible says ‘you,’ it’s talking to God’s people” (28). The Bible is written, therefore, solely for the PCG audience only. This conclusion is allows Flurry a great deal of latitude in determining what passages are prophetic for God’s end-time elect. Verses directed to the human population in general (in as much as any passages in the Bible are directed thus broadly) can be scaled back and applied only to the PCG. A good example of this is found on page 93 where Flurry discusses the “strong delusion” of 2 Thes. 2.10-11.
Another cultic characteristic which Flurry illustrates in Malachi’s Message is the tendency to create a separate reality opposed to general society in as many ways as possible. This is related to the exclusiveness I just mentioned, but whereas said exclusivness tends to be more theological, what I have in mind now is the practial results of this mindset.

The best way to create this alternative universe is to limit contact with non-Armstrongites which would give members something to juxtapose to Flurry’s teachings. The closed-door policy of the PCG’s church services accomplishes this nicely. While Flurry doesn’t specifically comment on this policy in Malachi’s Message (see WCG Doctrinal Changes, page 73, for Flurry’s view on this topic), he does make it clear through his use of Armstrongian vocabulary that the message is intended for Armstrongites familiar with the terminology of the cult. This perptuates the need for a closed-door policy because it makes it necessary for perspective members to receive much “counciling” before they are ready to attend services. In other words, Flurry’s use the Armstrongian theological lexicon (without providing any definitions or explanations) both creates an alternative reality (theological and practical) and assures the believers’ distance from non-PCG society.

One of the tragic results of this exclusive universe is a lack of compassion for those of “the world.” Flurry declares as a waste of money the donation the WCG made to “hurricane and other disaster funds. Instead of spending money to warn people why disasters are happening, the WCG helps them financially. Soon the world is going to be literally flooded with disasters! . . . Tithes and offerings are going to be spent in vain if they continue this approach” (95). Since “only God’s people have true love” (98), we are left with the startling conclusion that true love preaches about how humanity’s sins brought these disasters upon various individual but it shouldn’t not help them.

It stands to reason that the creation of a separate reality necessitates an inherent distrust of those outside that protective reality. In this sense, Flurry continues with Armstrong’s education bias, thereby providing another assurance that nothing can challenge his teachings. This is clearly why “Mr. Armstrong taught us to avoid educational areas such as pyschology, sociology, the word’s theology and much of man’s law” (76), for each of these areas of scientific inquiry can illuminate the unhealthy, cultic aspects of Armstrongian theology as well as call into question many of HWA’s core doctrines. For Flurry, the results of “relying more on human, scholarly reasoning” (75) based on the “authorities of the world” (73) are clearly illustrated in Satan’s beguiling of the WCG’s leadership. “The Worldwide Church is too scholarly–too academic in wordly ways” (138), and the consequence is Satanic deception.

As an aside, it’s interesting to note that Flurry declares as Satanic only things from the outside world (“the scholars of the world”) which criticize or refute Armstrongian theology. When the world supports Flurry’s pre-conceived conclusions, it is a clear plus. Concerning whether the rebellion in II Thes. 2.4 is in the world or in the church, he points out that The Interpreter’s Bible Commentary says it’s within the church, concluding that “If people in the world understand this, certainly God’s people should!” (79). Later, he writes that “‘Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse’ implies that some of the tithes are being misdirected (see almost any commentary)” (128). (I will return to this topic when I examine Flurry’s interpretation techniques.)

Any cult leader must have mechanisms to ensure that members follow whatever rigorous guidelines the particular leader imposes, and most of these mechanisms are fear and guilt based. Flurry uses both with a dexterity Armstrong would have been proud of.

Flurry’s primary tactic is simple. He writes, “God’s truth is sometimes very hard to receive. But there is no other choice when you consider the alternative” (104). Clearly, fear is used to offset the heavy obligations of the law. “You think it’s difficult to follow the law? Here’s the alternative!” he seems to be saying. This means that people are following Flurry not to gain benefits but to avoid punishment. Since Flurry rejects the idea of eternal punishment, he is writing here about the loss of eternal life. And he makes this point quite a few times. The first time he connects it through implication to Armstrong’s teachings: “Either we hang on to what we learned or we lose our eternal life!” (97). At another point, he makes the connection to the Laodicean majority: “God will destroy the work of the Laodiceans!” (86); “The Laodicean work of rebellion is destined to be smashed. It can end no other way, because God is against it” (87). Later, it evolves into a simple, general threat: “Eternal life or eternal death is at stake for many of God’s people!” (101). By the end of the book Flurry has incorporated also the fear of losing one’s physical life and makes a direct connection with Joseph Tkach: “If you follow [Mr. Tkach], nuclear holocaust awaits you!” (127).

Flurry’s Interpretation Techniques

As stated before, a common element in Flurryian exegesis is the acceptance of worldly authority which conforms to Armstrongian doctrine and a rejection of other wordly influence. A long-time King James Only advocate, Flurry has often maintained there are interpolations included in other translations (i.e., the New International Version) which are Satanically inspired. Others, like the Zerubbabel inset (Zech. 4.6-10) are seen as inspired by God (63). No criteria are given for how to determine whether it is inspired by Satan or Christ, but it seems safe to assume that all passages which support Flurry’s pre-conceived interpretations are from Christ and all which detract are Satanic. (There is, in fact, an article in an old Philadelphia Trumpet which makes a case for the KJV-Only position–unfortuantely, I don’t have the documentation for it at the moment.)

There is a deeper irony in Flurry’s KJV-Only position which he doesn’t seem to grasp. If the New International Version and others are flawed because the translators were worldly and Satanically deceived, how did King James’ scribes and interpreters escape this same pitfall? And more importantly, how does Flurry know that they weren’t, in fact, deceived by the wily devil? Surprisingly, he does maintain that King James’ interpreters were deceived in at least one area: They wrongly translated hagios pneuma as “Holy Ghost” instead of “Holy Spirit.”

Naturally, the best way for Flurry to avoid the problem of deceived translators is to read the Bible in the original Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic. To do so, though, would require a proficiency in these ancient languages that Flurry simply doesn’t have. He could attend a university and take classes in these languages, but that would be going out into the world and receiving the instruction of worldly academics, something he’s not willing to do.

Even though he staunchly maintains a KJV-Only position, Flurry occasionally admits that other translations offer a better interpretation of a particular word or passage. Sometimes, in stating that such-and-such is a better translation, he falls into his familiar and habitual lack of documentation: “In II Thes. 2.3, ‘deceive’ should be translated ‘beguile'” (81), he writes, giving no documentation whatever. Ironically enough, not even the HWA favorite Strong’s uses “beguile” in its definition. A couple of pages later, he does the same thing, saying that “the ‘traditions’ of II Thes. 2.15 are better interpreted ‘instructions'” (83). Again, there is no indication of how he determined this.

Flurry claims that the best way to read the Bible is to “let the Bible interpret itself” (89). This is, in fact, not a bad idea, but in applying it, Flurry makes one basic mistake in doing this: Flurry’s Armstrongian dictate to look to the Bible to “prove it!” (9) necessarily entails approaching the Bible with pre-conceptions about what we will find there, and this is one of the worst mistakes we can make when interpreting the Bible. If we look to the Bible to prove a specific point, we’ll do just that. In the meantime, we will take scriptures out of their context in every way imagineable, mis-quote, and ignore contradicting passages, all of which Flurry does.

With this in mind, it’s easy to see how Flurry, bent on prophecy, easily turns anything and everything in the Bible into a prophetic pronouncement. Therefore the story of Esau and Jacob can be a prophetic description of the end-time church (122). In this case, Flurry’s reasoning seems to be thus: a) Malachi is clearly a prophecy directed to the church; b)Esau and Jacob are mentioned in Malachi; c)Therefore, all references to Esau and Jacob are at least somewhat prophetic and directed at the church. Once again this is sloppy exegesis combined with flawed logic. In this case, Flurry commits the circulus in demonstrando fallacy. This fallacy occurs if you assume as a premise the conclusion which you wish to reach. But as logic is a wordly science, Flurry can’t worry himself too much if he violates a few of its principles here and there.

Sometimes, there doesn’t even need to be a slight indication of the desired conclusion in a verse for Flurry to declare that it has some special prophectic meaning. In other words, he finds things in scripture that aren’t vaguely indicated in the passage in question. For example, he claims that Amos 6.1 (“Woe to them that are at ease in Zion, and trust in the mountain of Samaria, which are named chief of the nations, to whom the house of Israel came!”) is “a prophecy for the Laodicean church today!” (126). There is nothing in the verse itself or in the contextual verses to indicate this.
conclusion needed

The God of the PCG

While Flurry never gives a succinct definition of God and his attributes in Malachi’s Message, we can piece one together from various parts of the book. Not surprisingly, the resulting God is startlingly different than the God of orthodox Christianity in that Flurry has disallowed from his definition of God the three main assumptions of the Western world, namely omniscience, omnipotence, and complete beneficence.

One of Flurry’s worst techniques of exegesis is an indulgence in inappropriately literal interpretations of some scriptures, resulting in an incredibly anthropomorphic view of God. In short, Flurry creates an anthropomorphic God which is incapable of omnipotence and omniscience, two of the most basic components of the Western idea (and in particular, the Christian articulation) of “God.”

Scripture attributes to God a great deal of qualities and emotions, many of which are necessarily anthropomorphic. This is, of course, to be expected. As humans, we have nothing except our own experience to form frames of reference about anything. To be sure, our finite nature makes it nearly impossible for us to speak of God without resorting to anthropomorphic (or, as Peter Berger refers to it, “humanizing”) language. We must therefore speak of God in terms of analogy (specifically, through analogy of proportionality, not analogy of attribution), though this still presents certain problems. (The British philosopher H. P. Owen deals with these problems of analogy in religious language in his book The Christian Knowledge of God.)
The trick to developing a blanaced view of the Scriptural claims about God (and indeed, of forming a healthy view of God) is a balance between our necessarily human-based, limited articulations and the realization that they are such. Either extreme produces ridiculous propositions about God: On the one hand, it would be impossible to say anything about God if we limit ourselves to strictly non-anthropomorphic explanations of God. Even St. Bernard’s via negativa relies on anthropomorphic language in describing what God is not. On the other hand, if we forget that these things we say about God are necessarily flawed (contaminated with our own humanity, you might say) and indulge in a linguistic free-for-all in our descriptions of God, we will only end up looking quite ridiculous (as Tillich pointed out in his article article for The Christian Scholar entitled, “The Nature of Religious Language”).

Flurry’s explanations of God and his omnipotence cross the line and are simply too anthropomorphic. He takes a literal interpretation of what Scripture says when he says God “didn’t know” this or “couldn’t do” that, failing to keep in mind the different shades and hues language must take on when discussing God. In other words, he has greatly reduced the powerful symbolic meaning of Scripture by viewing it too literally.

Flurry’s exegesis most commonly creates a God which is decidedly not omniscient. There are almost endless examples of this in Malachi’s Message. Twice he mentions something about our actions “revealing” something to God. First he says that “your approach to Bible study helps reveal to God how nobel you are” (10). Later, “the next few months and years are going to be very revealing–to God’s people and to God” (91). It should be impossible to “reveal” anything to God, for something to be “revealed” necessitates prior ignorance  While Flurry doesn’t say as much, he is implying that God is ignornant of certain things.

However, Flurry later crosses that line of implication and says specifically that there are things God doesn’t know: He argues that “we’re either going to be God, or we’re going to be nothing. God wants to know who is going to qualify for His Kingdom. That is the whole purpose of our existence” (11). Later still Flurry maintains that there is a “precise point when God will know absolutely which Laodiceans are to be saved and which Laodiceans are to be lost” (46). And lastly, “God wants to know if they love Him and His truth more than a man, a church, or even their own lives (Luke 14.26)” (94). It seems, then, that human existence is little more than a cosmic experiment, with God testing a hypothesis about free-will by creating humans, and clearly Flurry’s God isn’t quite sure of the outcome of this grand experiment.
That being said, the story of Abraham and Issac has startling implications: “God didn’t know until after the test what Abraham would do” (100). Of course the seemingly inescapable conclusion here is that God was ignorant before the temptation. However, before we reach this conclusion, we must first interpret that God said, “Now I know” in a manner identical to how we as humans would say, “Now I know.” Most theologians and philosophers would contend that this is a faulty interpretation, that God didn’t mean “Now I know” in the way that humans mean, “Now I know.” However, that’s what is written in Scripture and Flurry, taking huge liberties, interprets this and other passages literally, resulting in an almost comically unorthodox God.

Obviously these examples constitute a complete denial of God’s omniscience. How does Flurry get around it? He resorts to one of Armstrong’s most un-Biblical and illogical assertions: “God does not yet know . . . because He has chosen not to know” (87). To begin with, there is absolutely no scriptural support for this idea. It is necessary only when we interpret scripture too literally, as Flurry does and Armstrong did before him.

In addition, the contention that God “wills not to know” is logically fragile. To have a will about anything one must have knowledge of it. God would necessarily have to know what he was willing not to know, therefore creating a logical contradiction. (If Flurry were to respond by saying that “God doesn’t ‘know’ in the same way that we know,” then he would be trying to turn my argument against me without applying it to himself. In other words, he would be making my earlier argument for me and render the whole issue a moot point.)

To back up the contention that God “controls what He knows and doesn know”, Flurry might point out that God “forgets” our sins when we are forgiven. However, there is a big difference between ignorance and forgetting. For God not to have known the outcome of Abraham’s temptation requires both a priori and a posteriori ignorance. Forgetting implies a posteriori knowledge which is removed. In other words, to forget means that we know before the act of forgetting, but later lack this knowledge. This is of course quite possible, as I do it myself all the time, and while it’s impossible for us to forget intentionally, I’ll allow that God, in his omnipotence, can do such a thing. There seems to be no logical incongruity there. However, to interpret that God “forgets our sins” as proof that he controls what he knows is ridiculous because it amounts to God forgetting before he knows, which is impossible.

Not only is Flurry’s God not omniscient, but he is also not omnipotent. Toward the end of the book, Flurry declares that “if we faithfully do our part, God’s message won’t be suppressed!” (108). This implies that it could be suppressed, that God would be incapable of overcoming the obstacle of PCG’s failure. He says the same thing a few pages later: “If the Philadelphia members don’t protect God’s truth, it will perish from this planet!” (147). So impotent is Flurry’s God that it is possible for humans to overwhelm him and eradicate his “truth” entirely. It makes one wonder what would God do then? Pack up and say, “Oh well, we tried.”

The last traditional aspect of God to fall in the wake of Flurry’s inept exegesis is beneficence. As pointed out earlier, Flurry’s thesis is that God is separating the true Philadelphian minority from the Laodicean majority by sending a “strong delusion” (2 Thes. 2.10-11) in the form of deceived leadership (11, 91ff). This contemporary prophetic interpretation of 2 Thessalonians has dire implications for God’s beneficence. It means that not only can people lose their salvation by leading a sinful life, but also because God deceives them. In other words, Flurry’s God tricks people into losing salvation. Flurry all but admits this: “God is testing each of us to see what we will do. This is a carefully laid plan to reveal the quality of our character” (134). It sounds more like a carefully laid trap devised by an immature, immoral being than an act of a loving God. Obviously, this “plan” too has obviously dreadful consequences for God’s omniscience, for it also implies that God doesn’t know the quality of our character without toying with us. Additionally, this is not only dreadfully immoral but also a complete contradiction of the Bible: “Let no man say . . . I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man” (James 1.13, KJV).

The God of the PCG also places conditions on his acceptance of humans. There are numerous references to “qualifying” for God’s kingdom (and therefore, escaping the horrible death that awaits humanity in the Great Tribulation). Also, Flurry makes it clear that “God remembers the Philadelphian group because they remembered him” (2) and “God is not going to take his people to a place of safety unless they support those who serve God!” (135). Not only is there no scriptural support given, but this flies in the face of all that Christ did. (It does, however, go a long way in assuring Flurry will have financial support to carry out his self-ordained mission. It is, in other words, another example of using fear to control the general membership. Also, the general lay-members are not the only ones who get this treatment: “Fellow ministers, what is God going to think of us if we fail to act?” (133).)

Since Flurry’s God is limited in knowledge, power, and goodness, it would be well to stay always on his good side. Fortunately, Flurry provides plenty of guidance concerning how to remain in good standing with God: in a word, works. God has provided a set of rules concerning everything from what meat to eat to how to spend your Saturday afternoons (though there are several portions of the Hebrew law that the PCG doesn’t follow, i.e., destroying one’s home if mildew persists or not wearing clothes of two fabrics). Through strict obedience to these laws, we make God happy and he blesses us. If we don’t follow these laws, God gets irritated and curses us.

One way we can get on God’s bad side is not following his earthly leaders. Of course since God sends out strong delusion, we might have trouble discerning who are the true elect leaders, so we must be careful: “We all have the potential to fail horribly” (135) because our “reward depends on recognizing the true representatives of God” (145). Once we find out where the true church is, we must redouble our efforts to hold onto the precious knowledge that God gave us through HWA because “we are judged by what we do with all that knowledge” (49). Ministers too must watch their backs because the “are being judged by what [they] do with God’s flock!” (144)

We are must still be vigilant once we’re in the true church because God “will allow His followers to go astray. Then He usually has to start a new era–or work with those who remain loyal to him” (8). This means that if we go astray, God essentially abandons us.

Also, our salvation is ultimately in our hands–we can mess it up to the point that God is no longer willing (or possibly not able) to help

The observation that PCG/Armstrongian theology is completely works-based is nothing new, but Flurry takes this to a frightening level when discussing the fate of the Laodiceans. After less-than-ample proof that all the Laodiceans are to die in the Tribulation (46), he says, “The Laodiceans have to prove themselves by dying for God” (47). Armstrongian theology has moved from saying that we must not eat pork to prove that we are godly to saying that some of us must die to prove that we are godly. There is really no need to comment on the frightening implications of this except to say that it raises the cult status of PCG to a level nearing Jim Jones/David Koresh intensity in some ways.

There is a practical purpose for this works-based legalism, though: It provides a measuring stick for righteousness. “God loves me . . . so much that he chose me–not you–to be among the first fruits of his coming Kingdom. What? How do I know God loves me? Because unlike you, I follow his laws! I don’t work on the Sabbath. I pay my tithes. I don’t eat pork or other unclean foods.” It gives us added security that we are in good standing with God and a strong sense of superiority over and condescending pity for the deceived masses.

As a final point it’s important to point out that Flurry has even managed to incorporate works into his definition of faith: “Faith is nothing more than acting on God’s word!” (144). Obviously enough this contradicts the Biblical definition in Hebrews 11.1: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” While it seems impossible, Flurry has forumlated a definition of faith in which works plays a significan roll. It would seem that there doesn’t need to be a link between faith and works for Flurry as there is in other denominations–they are simply pronounced synonymous

In tracing several of the themes in Malachi’s Message, it becomes obvious that the Philadelphia Church of God is far from the Christian orthodoxy and exhibits theological and behavioral symptoms of a cult. Of course this is nothing unexpected as the WCG’s initial motions toward orthodoxy which prompted Flurry to form the PCG. What is surprising is the level this reaches and its pervasiveness. Flurry takes the already-unhealthy ideas of Amstrong and uses WCG’s doctrinal shift to construct a new layer of guilt-producing, works-based, exclussivist theology. It’s probably a good thing that Flurry teaches that the members of the Philadelphia Church of God should wear the “cult badge” with pride–unless there are incredibly drastic (and equally unlikely) changes, the membership will be wearing that label for many years to come.