Why Do People Shoot up Schools? Because They Believe the Same Thing You Do

How’s that for a provocative title? I did my best.

It’s a new year, a new month, a new atrocity. Yet another individual decided to take the lives of as many of his fellow men as he could, consequences be damned. Not him be damned. Because damnation is not a thing. Which I guess means the consequences won’t be damned, either.

Why could such a travesty occur? Because gun are available?

Why would such a travesty occur? Because the killer insane?

How could such a travesty occur? Because of depression? Because of psychotropic drugs?

No.

It is because he believed what he was told his whole life. Because believed what we told him.

It is because there is no meaning to his life. Because we are not bearers of the image of God. Because we are just the descendents of bacteria which crawled out of the primordial ooz. Smarter, sure, but what does that matter? God doesn’t exist. Fate doesn’t even exist. Just time and chance acting on matter. Goodness doesn’t exist. It’s just a social construct. We are here, but there is no purpose. The empty blackness of the void looms before us. We will join it someday. It will be as though we never existed. We will be only a memory of those who still crawl the earth, until they too join the void. Until they join the nothingness. Until they join the despair that is not to be despairing, but not to be.

This is what he was taught. He believed it. He internalized it.

Time and chance, acting upon matter. Some people are good looking, and rich, and have friends. Not me. Just the dirty trick of the cosmos. I will avenge myself against the universe. I will destroy. I will take happiness from others, as it was denied to me. I will make them feel my anguish. My emptiness. My dispair.

Why were mass shootings not a thing 30 years ago?

The AR-15 was invented in 1956. Why didn’t shootings start then?

What was the god of the system in 1956? In 1956, the god of the system was the echo of a Christian morality. In 1956, the memory of the Christian West was too recent. People still had Christian presuppositions in their bones. They stood only on the cusp of the void, they had not drunk it. They had not become it.

The god of the system is chaos. The god of the system is pain. The god of the system is the darkness of the void. The god of the system is me, and I am the chaos, and the pain, and the void.

Do we want to end violence, or do we want to end violence against the innocent? Hopefully the latter. Even the American Left thinks the police should have guns, that they should wield the sword on behalf of justice. Even the British Left thinks the police should have clubs, to bludgeon the wicked into submission.

Do we want to end violence, or do we want to end gun violence? If you want to end gun violence, you can probably do it by ending access to guns. But you cannot end violence. Not with laws. People will use cars. Over the past few years, that has proved more effective than anyone had previously imagined. People  will use knives. Knives kill more people than guns every year. People will use bombs and aeroplanes. Those have proven effective. People will use fists. Fists cannot be taken away.  At least not easily. But they might try it in Qatar.

If you want to end violence, you have to change the philosophy. You have to change the way people think about who they are, who God is, who they are in relation to other human beings. You have to change people.

The God of the System needs to be One who punishes unrighteousness. One who is great in power, slow to anger, and who will by no means clear the guilty. Because to be found guilty means there is a standard. And to have a standard means to have an authority. And the only authority who could establish such a standard must be God.

Thanksgiving: Let's Party Like it's 1621

Human creatures can be notoriously ungrateful. Often, we think we would be grateful if only we had more than we do. If we had more money, or different families, or better health or looks or cars or what have you, we would surely be appreciative of our blessings. This is routinely disproved by reality. The poor, hungry man is immensely thankful for a scrap of bread or a cup of soup, while the rich man picks contemptuously at his lobster. Ah, but Thanksgiving Day gives us the perfect opportunity to at least pretend to be thankful for the good things we have been given (or, for the naturalist, the things which Chaos and Old Night have been pleased to spit our way at random. How does Thanksgiving dinner go down for those chappies, anyway?), even if we're tremendously ungrateful the rest of the year.

Friends, we’re Bing Crosby. You know, in that one scene from Holiday Inn? Wait, you don’t know? Well, go, watch it, and sin no more! Anyway, Bing sits down on Thanksgiving to eat a whole turkey by himself. He’s feeling mighty blue, because his buddy Fred Astaire stole his girl (again). It’s a great scene: Bing puts on a record of himself singing “I’ve Got Plenty to be Thankful For” and mocks his own song while he eats. “Are you kidding? Like what?” he asks his recorded self. He then criticizes, “you’re a little flat, too.” Turning to the turkey on the platter in front of him he says, “You know, you’re better off than I am!” The movie is on YouTube. The Thanksgiving scene is near the end, around the 1:48:00 mark. You can thank me later. 

The Bing on the record has something of the right idea; Bing on camera with his turkey sounds more like us a lot of times. Or maybe Bing and I are the only ones who sometimes want to trade places with roasted turkeys? No, I refuse to believe that.

Every schoolchild knows the story of the first Thanksgiving. Or at least, they know whatever version of it is being shilled in the schools these days. Anyway, what were the Pilgrims thankful for? Not starving to death, for one. When the happy story of Pilgrims and Indians sitting down for a thanksgiving feast gets told, what often gets left out is the bit about the brutal, bitter winter those Pilgrims had just endured. They had arrived at Plymouth in late 1620, just weeks before winter. That first winter claimed the lives of half of them. Of the original one hundred pilgrims, only fifty survived until that First Thanksgiving in the fall of 1621 (see, half. I told you I could do the maths). They had all lost family members, friends, colleagues. One hundred is a pretty small, tightknit group, and it goes without saying losing half in less than a year must have been unimaginably devastating and heart-wrenching.

Above: Mayflower Passengers
Below: Those who survived until the first Thanksgiving

Life was hard. It’s hard now still. But for most of us, not quite that hard.

Edward Winslow, one of the Plymouth colonists, wrote:

"Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruits of our labor. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which we brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty."

They rejoiced. They feasted. They thanked Almighty God for His providence, for providing for them, for granting them the abundance of their first harvest, and most importantly, for granting them the freedom from the impositions of the Church of England, and the ability to worship God according to His Word, as their consciences convicted them.

Friends, have we not as much for which to be thankful? Have we not more? Life itself is a gift. Every breath we breathe is a gift from God. Let us gather with friends and family, and rejoice as William Bradford and Plymouth did so many years ago. Let our hearts overflow with gratitude to the Lord, and with Christian charity towards one another.

“O give thanks unto the LORD, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.”

Let’s party like it's 1621.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends! 

Don't Say "Might as Well"

I closed the door of the Range Rover and strode towards the door of the dilapidated gas station, the one all my friends avoid because they think they’ll get robbed. Some of us are made of sterner stuff, and fear not such things. As it is, I myself now avoid this particular gas station as well, but my reasons for so doing, rather than being fearfully motivated, have to do with the idea that perhaps an establishment as shady as this one can’t necessarily be trusted to dispense a gallon when a gallon is purchased. But I digress.

At least they know what they want . . . 

I pulled my cream fedora down farther onto my brow, straightening my tie as I stepped over the threshold. The other patrons wore stained tank-tops and baggy jeans around their knees, and they looked at me as though I were from Mars. I am not from Mars. I took my place in line behind another customer. He was short, unshaven, wearing faded, concrete-spattered denim, and he was purchasing two 40 oz. cans of Bud Light. As he set them down of the counter, the clerk tried to make some small talk. “Oooooooh,” she said. “Looks like you’re going to party tonight, eh?”

Now, Bud Light isn’t really my idea of a party, but we’ll let that one slide. The man half nodded, half shrugged, and replied, “Might as well!”

I was taken aback, not by these words, but by my reaction to them, which was rather extraordinarily Baptist-y. Now, as a Reformed Baptist I am not opposed to alcohol as such. In fact, it would be a stretch of the truth to describe me as anything other than whole-heartedly in favor. The Lord’s Supper is celebrated with wine, which is no accident. The Israelites were commanded to celebrate with “strong drink,” a kind of ancient beer. The Apostle tells us to “test the spirits,” and I always oblige. (That’s a joke, people. Lighten up a bit, what?). Which is to say that I was altogether surprised to find myself begrudging (ever so slightly, mind you) this fellow his beer. However, I also have a fairly well established philosophy concerning how alcohol is and is not to be used, and it was this sensibility of mine which was offended. It was the shrug and the phrase might as well that raised my Scandinavian eyebrows. Friends, never say "might as well." Don't think it either.

Initially, I suspected my knee-jerk displeasure was merely a reaction against cheap alcohol. Confessedly, I have some not-so-slight inclinations towards snobbery. I want to enjoy alcohol if I drink it, which means that the alcohol needs to be enjoyable; id est the drink in question ought to be one of quality. But this is only a small part of the matter. While I might not enjoy a typical American pilsner (e.g. Budweiser or Coors) as much as a craft ale or an imperial stout, I have to concede that this is a matter of preference. That beverages ought to be enjoyable does not speak to the fact that others enjoy different things than I.

No, but alcohol is to be enjoyed. It is celebratory. Wine is the perfect accompaniment for a fine meal. A jolly evening with friends should include porter and stout and ale. Scotch is the drink you should choose for a quiet evening with a pipe and book. Warm brandy comforts the body and sooths the soul when you have the flu. But these beverages are not to be enjoyed for the sake of the alcohol they contain, nor is alcohol to be used for the purpose of becoming drunk. They are to be enjoyed because they are delicious. If you buy cheap alcohol because you enjoy it, well and good. By all means, let me not stop you. But if you buy the cheapest beer you can find because you are using the beer as a delivery mechanism for alcohol and nothing else, this ought not to be.

Now, if you’re downing two 40 oz. cans of Bud Light because you “might as well,” this raises the obvious question: Might you, then, just as well not? If you are only drinking because you can’t think of anything else to do, I beg to differ, sir. You might better use that money on your wife and family, or on clothes or food or shelter or charity (some might make this argument regardless of the reasoning behind the purchase of the alcohol, but for my purposes here I will conveniently forget that such arguments exist. In the mean time, I shall simply point you to John 12:3-7 and assume that my point is made).

If you are enjoying a beer because you are with old friends and are having a roaring good time, I am with you. If you want a mug of the frosty brew because you have toiled all day in the hot sun and wish to be refreshed, I shall gladly buy the first round. But if you’re drinking “cause, like, why not, like, you know?” then I suggest you repent, quit drifting through life as though it were one of the less exciting rides at Disneyland,  and develop the fine and manly qualities of tenacity and assertiveness.

I have used the example of alcohol, but I wish to illustrate a far broader point. Whatever we do, or say, or think, it should be done purposefully. An action might be neutral in and of itself, but no action is neutral when placed in the context of real life. Do you eat or sleep or read a book or go to the gym? These are neutral actions. But at present, you either should or should not be doing them. Are you playing the violin? Well and good if you are practicing for a symphony, but woe to you if you are watching Rome burn. Do not say “might as well.” Act purposefully, or refrain from acting, also purposefully. “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.”

Doctor Who, Doctor Schaeffer, and Christianity Today

Every once in a while Christianity Today gets it in their minds to publish something. Worse still, every so often I actually read what they publish, and then I get annoyed when it turns out to be hogwash. I quite understand that Christianity Today is writing for the broader evangelical audience, including (unfortunately) those more liberal elements, so I can’t really complain when they publish things which I think very wrongminded. But it’s when they publish something that is just plain silly that I start scratching my head and wondering how the editors ever let this sort of thing in their magazine.

So, a couple weeks back, they published a piece in the “her.meneutics” (not my doing, don’t blame me) section about the wildly popular English Sci-Fi show Doctor Who. I read it, mostly because I actually like Doctor Who, but I was very disappointed by the article. Fast forward a bit, and I was reading some Francis Shaeffer, when something he said reminded me of that article, so I figured it was time to bust out the old ink and vellum, and here we are.

If you were eagerly anticipating a post in which I nerd out over Doctor Who, I’m afraid this might not be fun for you.

I’m not going to argue that Christians can’t watch or like Doctor Who. It’s fun, and funny, and exciting, and clever, if sometimes downright corny. There are certainly worse things on TV these days, and Doctor Who is relatively benign. But, as with all art, it is the product of a certain worldview and as such it is based on certain presuppositions. If a Christian decides to watch it, fine, but he should do so knowing where the show's writers are coming from, and he can then enjoy that which is fun, and dismiss that which is heathen. What we mustn’t do is pretend that it espouses a Christian worldview when it clearly doesn’t (and I say this as one who has given Charlie Daniels’ Devil Went Down to Georgia a rigorous treatment as theological allegory).

Here’s a quote from the article:

The concept of the show involves Christian symbolism; the series reboot gets referred to as a “resurrection” and each new Doctor an “incarnation.” As the central character, he’s a mysterious and powerful hero who travels through space to earth (and across the universe) to help and save . . . Theologian fans use the Doctor’s stories to contextualize the gospel with small group studies on how the sonic screwdriver is mightier than the sword or how we are both inside and outside of time.

Right. Except it’s not Christian symbolism. These are words which have relevance to Christianity, yes, but in context they are completely divorced from any sort of Christian meaning. Implicit in this paragraph is that the Doctor is portrayed almost as a type of Christ. Now, we have such types in Scripture. Moses and David typify Christ. I will be so generous as to assume that the author is not intending to reduce Christ to “a mysterious and powerful hero who travels through space to earth (and across the universe) to help and save.”  I was going to pass over the sonic screwdriver is mightier than the sword bit, but it’s really bugging me, so I shan’t. “The pen is mightier than the sword” is a phrase coined in 1839 by Edward Bulwer-Lytton for a stage-play, so why exactly we’re adapting it to Doctor Who and designing small group studies around it is frankly beyond me. If Solomon had said it that would be one thing, but alas, he did not. As old Leonidas would say, much to the point, elsewhere.

Also, we’re not “both inside and outside of time.” Like, at all. We’re inside time. God is outside of time. God, the creator, is outside of time, and we, the creation, are in time, where he placed us. Right? Right. What do they teach in these schools!

The real problem here, however, is that the Doctor personally, and the show generally, espouse a cosmology that is very un-Christian. It is naturalistic in its presuppositions and existential in its philosophy. Far from promoting Christian ideas, the thrust of the show’s philosophy is an attempt to take a strictly naturalistic cosmology and somehow derive meaning and value from it.

C.S. Lewis once gave a lecture called Is Theology Poetry? in which he considered the argument that Christianity is merely poetic in the same way that Greek or Norse mythology is, and that this is the attraction to it. In the course of his argument, he also considers the poetic merit of evolutionary naturalism, which he compares favorably to a good Elizabethan tragedy: against all odds, life emerges from the primordial goo, against all odds it develops over millions of years. We see the caveman, mastering fire, striving with the elements and with beasts much stronger than he. We see the emergence of modern man, using brain rather than brawn, subduing nature. But then, the universe runs down, and man is powerless to stop it. After emerging the conqueror against all odds, man finally succumbs, with everything else, to nature.  

Lewis remarks that such a narrative deserves a better treatment than it’s gotten. Doctor Who endeavors to give it just such a treatment. Through the Doctor’s travels, we are shown the beginnings of the universe, human history across the ages, great advanced civilizations, and then, finally, the very end of the universe, as time itself runs out, and the remnants of humanity struggle against the inevitable, seeking to hold out as long as possible before everything breaks down and there is nothing left except darkness and silence and nothingness.

Where do we find meaning in such a futile universe? The nihilist rightly concludes that there can be none. But Doctor Who is crafted around the desire to snatch meaning from the jaws of futility. How? In the chance of it all. In one season Seven episode, the Doctor is trying to talk a young girl out of sacrificing her life, saying:

Hey, do you mind if I tell you a story? One you might not have heard. All the elements in your body were forged many, many millions of years ago in the heart of a far-away star that exploded and died. That explosion scattered those elements across the desolations of deep space. After so, so many millions of years these elements came together to form new stars and new planets. And on and on it went. The elements came together and burst apart forming shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings. Until, eventually, they came together to make you. You are unique in the universe. There is only one Mary Galel and there will never be another. Getting rid of that existence isn't a sacrifice, it is a waste!

Meaning is thus to be gleaned from the extraordinary unlikelihood of existence, the temporary nature of life, and the uniqueness of each person. The chance and futility of it all is part of the beauty. Indeed, the writers of Doctor Who have done an admirable job of making their cosmology seem attractive.

The problem is that Doctor Who is fantasy, and the sense of meaning propounded by its philosophy is also fantasy. It lasts just about as long as the music continues to swell. When credits roll and the orchestra clears out, so do the bubbly feelings. Glorying in one’s random uniqueness is all well and good until one is actually standing face to face with the real world, and finds that there is no screwdriver-wielding hero to set things right. Such a random universe is, at its core, futile, and, as the nihilist properly concludes, totally meaningless. “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.”

Entre Shaeffer. I’m going to quote him at length, but it’s well worth reading the whole quote. If I could write like Shaeffer, I would, and then you wouldn’t have to bother.

The two alternatives are very clear cut. Either there is a personal beginning to everything or one has what the impersonal throws us by chance out of the time sequence. The fact that the second alternative may be veiled by connotation words makes no difference. The words used by Eastern Pantheism; the new theological words such as Tilich’s ‘Ground of Being’; the secular shift from mass to energy or motion, all eventually come back to the impersonal, plus time, plus chance. If this is really the only answer to man’s personality, then personality is no more than an illusion, a kind of sick joke which no amount of semantic juggling will alter. Only some form of mystic jump will allow us to accept that personality comes from impersonality . . . No one has presented an idea, let alone demonstrated it to be feasible, to explain how the impersonal beginning, plus time, plus chance, can give personality. We are distracted by a flourish of endless words, and lo, personality has appeared out of a hat! This is the water rising above its source.  No one in all the history of humanistic rationalistic thought has found a solution. As a result, either the thinker must say man is dead, because personality is a mirage; or else he must hang reason on a hook outside the door and cross the threshold into the leap of faith which is the new level of despair (The God Who is There, 88). 

Got that? Doctor Who presents us with a random, impersonal universe. This presents us with the dilemma outlined by Schaeffer, and the Doctor’s solution is the latter option, to ignore the fact that this system doesn't allow for meaning or rationality or personality, and to continue on as though it did. It is the philosophical equivalent of knocking back half a bottle of Smirnoff and pretending your troubles don’t exist. 

For the Christian, on the other hand, there is an actual basis for meaning. There is an actual source for personality. The Christian is not condemned to the futile exercise of attempting to squeeze purpose out of randomness, for he worships a God of order. The Christian is not subject to futility, for God works all things together for good.

My turn to tell a story. You may have heard it, but it bears repeating: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. (John bore witness about him, and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks before me, because he was before me.’”) For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.

Is Your Breakfast Virtuous?

“He that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it hath already committed breakfast with it in his heart.” 

 – C.S. Lewis

It is well known among my friends and family that I consider cold breakfast cereal to be modern and unvirtuous. And though it puts me at odds, seemingly, with the whole cereal-loving world, I shall stand firm on this sentiment. Cold cereal is unvirtuous. It is not hearty, delicious, and comforting. It is a processed, mass produced, measly little dish for those who think themselves too busy to make a proper meal. Moreover, it is often dubiously flavored, and usually bathed in an impious amount of sugar. If you think cocoa puffs or fruitloops are delicious, I’m afraid you may be nearly beyond hope, but I nonetheless invite you to repent. When I was a child, I ate like a child, or something. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.

All foods are not created equal. They can be virtuous, or unvirtuous. They can be decadent or hearty, gourmet or peasantly. All meals call for virtuous foods, but perhaps none can rise to such virtuous heights or sink to such craven depths as breakfast. Now, one should always strive to eat a virtuous breakfast. After all, is it really conceivable that one should go virtuously through his day if he starts his day with an unvirtuous breakfast? The present writer raises his eyebrows dubiously.

What makes a breakfast virtuous or not? This deserves some consideration. The word virtue comes from the Latin, virtus, meaning manliness, strength, courage, goodness, and excellence. All of these ideas should be embodied in the breakfast you choose. You need a manly breakfast to give you strength and courage throughout your day.  Such a breakfast ought to be highly nutritious, which is related to the goodness of it. And it ought to be delicious, which is, of course, very excellent.

How are we to judge as to which breakfasts meet these criteria? Much of this will have to be intuitive for you, but don’t worry, it comes pretty naturally once you get the hang of it. When in doubt, consider! Can you imagine Winston Churchill eating this breakfast before a long day of winning World War Two, or Teddy Roosevelt eating it before hunting an elk or boxing a foreign diplomat?  Can you imagine it being served out of a chuck wagon to hungry cowboys on the Chisholm Trail?

Simple fare is that which is called for, friends. Simple, but hearty. The sound of pans sizzling with bacon and sausage, eggs frying in grease, the smell of fresh toast and warm butter, the warmth of a mug in the hand - these are the things of which a good breakfast is made.   

Eggs and Coffee

Eggs and coffee should be thought of as the basic breakfast, as a sort of foundation on which the rest are built. You may occasionally forgo the eggs, but this should be done rarely. The coffee really is standard. You need a half-pint of the earthy, inky brew to drive the sleep from the eyes, to clear the mind and to invigorate the limbs. The eggs give you that bit of salty protein which starts ones day off so famously. The eggs should be fried or scrambled; the coffee should be strong and good.

Do you remember in Prince Caspian when Peter and Edmund are looking forward to the prospect of breakfast upon reaching Aslan’s How? Lewis writes that they want “buttered eggs and hot coffee.” Of course they do. That’s a virtuous breakfast, and they’re virtuous chaps.

Bertie Wooster in one of the Jeeves stories opined, "I'm never really much of a lad until I've downed an egg or two and a beaker of coffee." None of us are, Bertie, none of us are.

Bacon, Sausage, Ham, Steak

A breakfast of eggs and coffee is very virtuous, but it is always made much more excellent and cheery by the inclusion of some breakfast meat. Sausage and bacon accompany the eggs so splendidly, and you can use the grease from the bacon or the sausage to fry your eggs. Capital! Ham and eggs is a classic. Steak and eggs is one of the heartiest breakfasts one could ask for. That’s what our boys ate for breakfast before they stormed the beaches at Normandy, ya’ll.

Potatoes

From Dublin to Idaho, and everywhere else for that matter, what could be more virtuous than the potato? Potatoes are dug from the ground, and we all know that agriculture is virtuous. Potatoes have a rare sort of earthy quality. And, no, that’s not just the dirt. I rinsed ‘em first, I promise. They are starchy and delicious – a perfect complement to your eggs. Dice ‘em and fry them in a pan, or grate them and make hash-browns.

When potato crops die, people starve. It's history, folks.

Toast

Simple.  Delicious. What more could one ask for at breakfast? Toast plays a similar role as the potato, balancing out the eggs. I always find that toast goes best with scrambled eggs.

Poptarts

No.

Porridge/Oatmeal

Hot cereal, it should be clear, is in a different category entirely from cold cereal. Now, oatmeal certainly isn’t spectacular, but it has its place. It's good and filling, and sometimes just the thing. It’s also very easy to pack and to cook, and it keeps virtually forever. If you’re hiking the Sierras, you’re not going to be lugging a carton of eggs around in your backpack. A bowl of oatmeal is just what the doctor ordered. It'll warm you up in the morning and give you the energy to hoist up your pack and hit the trail.

Omelets

Oh, boy. There are few things in this world more delicious that a good omelet. Cheese, meat, tomato, and green onion, encased in egg and fried in butter. Of course you can adjust the omelet according to your tastes, but it needs to have meat and cheese and green onion (scallions). The scallions are what really pull the thing together, and raise it from just another egg dish to the heights of culinary art. Truly, the omelet is to be revered, and – aye! – it is virtuous. My favorite? Ham, Tillamook sharp cheddar, scallions, tomatoes, and chopped bell pepper, with Tabasco liberally applied over the top. If you’re in California, you might crown your omelet with a few slices of ripe avocado.

Pancakes, Waffles, French Toast

Of adequate virtue, and often very delicious. There’s a great deal of variation here, though. If these things are frozen, or made from a packaged mix, they are not very virtuous at all. Similarly, artificial syrup is an abomination which will quickly render virtue-less anything with which it comes in contact. Good maple syrup or a rich blackberry syrup, along with plenty of butter, are the proper media for the anointment of your griddle-cakes. Oh, and calling them griddle-cakes or flap-jacks makes them sound much more ruggedly virtuous than pancakes. So do that. Ideally, these should be paired with fried eggs, bacon/sausage, the works. Also, such a sweet breakfast crieth out with a loud voice to be washed down with strong black coffee.

Biscuits and Gravy

Oh-me-oh-my-o! Biscuits and gravy, friends! Nothing is quite so hearty and filling as a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. This is the kind of breakfast that sticks to your ribs. Next time you’re going to be spending the day felling trees or chopping wood, this is the breakfast you need. Lean your ax against the wall, grab a plate of biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs, and pour yourself a steaming cuppa joe. Hearty. Satisfying. Virtuous.  

Think you’ll fell those trees on a belly full of fruitloops? Not a chance.

Eat up, lads and lasses! 

Thou Art as Thou Smokest

Ever notice that stuff from way back when tends to last longer than stuff made today? For instance, your great-grandfather's desk is probably as solid today as it was the day he bought it. Sure, there might be a few scratches in the finish where you gouged it with a penknife when you were five, but that’s your own darn fault. Other than that, it’s as good as new. Moreover, if you’ve had to move it to a different room or a new house, you’re aware that the thing weighs a ton. That’s because it’s built solidly. The hardwood is of the highest quality, as is the construction. The thing was built to last, to be useful long after the craftsman who built it had died. It’s a desk which is very pleasing to the eye. Whether it’s built with a simple and practical design, or decorated with ornate carving, it’s designed to be not only functional as a desk, but also a piece of art.

Compare this to the piece of junk that passes for a desk today. It's ugly, and it’s made out of plywood. It wasn’t built to last four hundred years; rather, it’s designed to break in five years so that you’ll have to buy a new one. Thanks a lot, corporate scam-artists.

I chose furniture as the subject of that little rant, but there are any number of things which would have served as nicely: cars, architecture, clothing, Ritz cracker tins. People used to place value on craftsmanship, quality, beauty, charm. Now, mass production, cookie-cutter design, and disposability run the show.

On what, as a society, do we place value? On permanency or disposability? The answer to this question will inevitably pervade every aspect of our lives.

In the 1940s, men smoked pipes. Oh, they smoked cigarettes too, and often they smoked both. But over seventy percent of all men chose to smoke their tobacco in briar pipes, which is, needless to say, and astounding number. Nowadays, those who choose to imbibe the fragrant leaf can be seen rushing out of their office-buildings to stave off their nicotine cravings, hastily gasping in a few lungfuls of acrid smoke before returning to the earning of their daily bread, or at a bus stop passing the idle minutes, only half conscious of the roll of paper and tobacco pinched between their fingertips.

The pipe brings forth a very different image, and this is no mistake. Pipes are the natural companions of thoughtful solitude, large arm chairs and larger books, tea and brandy and deep contemplation. The pipe likewise (and perhaps to an even greater degree, the cigar) is at home amongst good company, wherein thick billows of fragrant smoke constitute the very atmosphere for comradery and conversation, of jovial brotherhood and earnest discussion alike. The very nature of the pipe demands that it be approached in a very different manner from a cigarette. It must be carefully packed, carefully lit, and thoughtfully smoked. Twenty minutes is hardly sufficient time in which to smoke a small pipe, and an hour or more is required for a larger one. These things give the pipe its character and virtue, but they are the very same things which have caused its decline in popularity. The very nature of the pipe makes it unattractive to the man who craves only a quick nicotine hit.

When we examine the briar pipe, we find that is a beautifully simple object designed for a beautifully simple task. It is in essence a small furnace, constructed so that the smoker may draw smoke from the burning tobacco into his mouth so as to savor it, and, in so doing, simultaneously keep the tobacco lit by supplying the coal with oxygen. Yet it is more than this. It is a small work of art, a testament to and legacy of the craftsman who made it. It is simple, but it is beautiful. It is not discarded after smoking like a cigarette; rather, it is a constant companion and friend. It can serve your grandson as faithfully as it has served you. It lasts. It is permanent.

As men made in the image of God, we are designed for eternity. This mortal body will wear out, but our next one never shall. We were designed for permanence. How many times in Scripture are we exhorted to think not of the temporary things of this world, but to be concerned with things that are forever? In light of eternity, even gold and silver are to be considered perishable. Yet we are made in the image of God, and an aspect of that image is our creativity. God creates. And when God creates, he creates things that are functional, beautiful and lasting.

The man who smokes cigarettes is concerned with a temporary sensation of relief. He is in bondage to nicotine, and inhaling smoke into his lungs keeps his cravings at bay. He takes the momentary pleasure in his cigarette for what it’s worth, and then tosses it aside. It is disposable. It is temporary.

The man who smokes a pipe is not a slave to nicotine. He does not draw the smoke into his lungs, and could just as easily refrain from smoking if he so desired. It is not nicotine he craves, but fragrance, flavor, relaxation, rest, and thought. When he knocks the last of the ashes from his pipe, he returns it to his pocket or his coffee table or desk, until next they meet as friends, and the old ritual – the filling, so carefully yet so naturally; the striking of a match, the kiss of the flame upon the leaf, the steady puff, puff, puff, the billows of smoke, the gentle tamping of the coals, and the easing into an hour of quiet bliss – is repeated once more. The pipe lasts. The pipe is permanent.

Moreover, the pipe, like everything worthwhile in life, takes care, maintenance, and commitment. A cigarette can be smoked thoughtlessly. This is impossible to do with the pipe, as anyone who has tried it knows. The pipe must be cared for and maintained, lest it turn bitter. It must be packed carefully before smoking, and tended carefully while smoking, lest it either die or burn hotly.

That our society has replaced pipes with cigarettes should not surprise us. Everything else which was once permanent is being replaced by the disposable as well. Cars which were made in the 1940s, ‘50s, or 60’s are still prized today. Now, a car is old after five years. And mark my words, in fifty years no one will be thrilled by the sight of a 2015 Toyota. They might say, “Wow,” but it will be “wow, that’s ugly.” The man who goes through cigarette after cigarette is the man who will goes from job to job, house to house, church to church, worldview to worldview, marriage to marriage. It should be stated that the point of this is not to condemn everyone who chooses to smoke cigarettes. Rather, it is to point out that certain attitudes have pervaded our society, from the smallest things to the greatest. The attitudes of our society can be demonstrated in our smoking habits, and these will in turn correspond to our attitudes about employment and marriage and religion. “He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.”

Let us not be those who value convenience over beauty, cheapness over quality, disposability over permanence. Let us not be those who are blown by every wind of doctrine. Let us not plow through marriages like so many cigarettes. Let us, rather, be as those who smoke pipes. 

Postmodern Coffee

I worked for several years during and immediately after university at a Christian camp and conference center, whereat I performed such divers jobs as serving food, hurdling kids down zip-lines at outrageous speeds, keeping kids from shooting each other with bows and arrows, keeping kids from shooting their counselors and pastors with bows and arrows, and scrubbing dishes. Glamorous work, what?

This coffee is relatively hot.

Anyway, I was working in the kitchen one morning, at something like 5:30 A.M., when I would certainly have been dead to the world if I had my druthers (my druthers being, alas, something which is so often withheld from me). On this particular occasion, I was propping my eyelids open with toothpicks and attempting to make coffee for the marauding hoards which were about to storm the gates and demand to be fed breakfast.

We used those big, square, two-gallon coffee pots like you see at any restaurant, and campers and counselors could grab a cup and get as much coffee as they wanted (which was usually a whole heck of a lot, and this coming from me). I was brewing four pots of regular, for the normal people, and two pots of decaf for those aberrant few who always manage somehow to sneak out without their handlers. Our pots for decaf coffee were marked by orange handles, as is the custom of the civilized world, as though to communicate by that particular monochrome what Dante might have rendered more colorfully as, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” or something of the kind.

So, I dutifully got out the orange-emblazoned coffee-pots, and began brewing. I stared blearily at the coffee-pots through bloodshot eyes. Something in my brain began to whir.

I blinked a couple of times. Probably it was nothing.

I stared some more and blinked again.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my sleep-deprived mind, a cog caught hold of a gear, something turned and I suddenly realized that although I had used the decaf coffee pots, I hadn’t actually used the decaf coffee packets. I had filled the decaf pots with regular coffee.

As I stood there, delving into the recesses of my bedraggled, pre-noon mind, and searching the depths of my memory, it occurred to me that, although I had prepared the coffee for the camp dozens of times, I couldn’t for the life of me remember ever actually opening a packet of decaf coffee.

Oops.

It’s okay though, right? I mean, it’s labeled as decaf, so it must be! In fact, until I realized my mistake, I firmly believed - nay, I felt - that the coffee was decaf. This makes it so. It’s in the decaf pot. It has an orange handle. What more could anyone want? It’s all a matter of identification, and that coffee was clearly identifying as decaf. End of story. Case dismissed. Move along. Nothing to see here.

Still, somehow I couldn’t manage to shake the feeling that, insist though I might that the coffee was decaf, those campers were gonna be wired.

Maybe that’s why they’d been pulling the fire-alarm every night. Live and learn.

If only I had some kind of application for this story, wherein I would emerge from this personal tale of woe possessing some perspicacious oracle pertinent to our modern times, shining a piercing light into the cloudy murk of the current philosophy and illuminating the fundamental flaws in the way the concepts of truth and absolutes are conceived of in our own era, or some such thing.

Nope, I got nothing.

Oh well.