Wisdom and Folly

I have a new favorite grocery store experience. It used to be the video carts where for a dollar you can have a noise-free cruise through the aisles while your children slowly grow less intelligent watching mindless programming in the cart below. (I only did this once. Okay, twice but it was late at night and I was taking pity on the kids…and myself. And the second time doesn’t really count because Maggie kept a running commentary going on the show, poking her head out every few minutes to let me know what was happening now, thus negating the noise-free aspect.) But the video carts pale in comparison with my new passion for the self-checkout lane. 

There is something very existential about the process of ringing up your own groceries, while paid professionals laugh at your inability to get the bar code to scan. Does it get more American than this? We pay ridiculous amounts of money in order to “work” out, simulating actual physical labor rather than performing similar, calorie-burning tasks at home. We flock to restaurants serving “home-style” cooking rather than actually cooking at home. So why shouldn’t we pay for the privilege of figuring out how much money we owe the grocery store? Despite the obvious absurdity of the whole process, I can’t help myself. As soon as I begin to head for the front of the store, I hear that lane of self-determination calling my name, like the sirens calling Odysseus to his doom. I love escaping the judgment of some pimply faced high-schooler with regard to how many packages of Reese’s cups make their way into my cart. I love going at my own pace, organizing all my purchases by category without the weighty stare of the people behind me, urging me to mix my canned goods with my dairy. I love the feeling of accomplishment and independence the power of the self-checkout lane brings. 

And isn’t that the draw for us all? Why do we pay someone to torture us with free weights and cardio rather than pull weeds and chase our kids around the yard? Because the one we do by our own free-will and the other is compulsory. Why do we pay inflated prices for mediocre food when we could make something tastier, cheaper and healthier at home? Because eating out is a “privilege” and making dinner is a chore (and you don’t have to do the dishes, which is pretty big, but nevertheless). And why do I choose to add twenty minutes to my grocery shopping trip rather than have someone more qualified and efficient ring up and bag my groceries? Because I want to do it myself, thank you very much. 

It would be funny, if it weren’t so tragic. In our attempt to have everything on our own terms, the only person we really cheat is ourselves. I want to follow the example of Christ, living a life pleasing to God. So what do I do? In arrogance and pride, I pull myself up by my own spiritual boot-straps (which are neither sturdy nor dependable) and attempt it on my own. What I am called to is a life of submission and humility but somehow, my perverse human nature can even distort that into an unrecognizable life of self-reliance and failure. I think I am failing when I lack the fortitude to live up to His standards but in truth my failure came long before, in my lack of trust in the life, death and resurrection of my Savior. I want to gather my supplies, count the cost and pay what I owe when in fact, I don’t know what I need or how much it is worth or have anything worthy to give in return. So while this doesn’t mean I am giving up my independence with regards to grocery shopping, I am making an effort (through the grace of the Holy Spirit) to relax my hold on this stroll through the mall called life. It certainly seems appropriate to the season of Lent, when Jesus prepared to relax His hold on life itself for my sake and for yours. Who better to entrust ourselves to than the One who considered His duty a privilege and obedience an honor? Maybe we will find the same joy He found in the sorrow of humility.

In my February 12 post I presented an anti-naturalist argument from beauty.  A key premise of this argument is that beauty is an objective quality in the world.  This view is known as aesthetic objectivism.  Before offering some reasons in defense of this view, let me first explain the contrary perspective known as aesthetic relativism.  The aesthetic relativist maintains that aesthetic values, such as “beautiful,” “elegant,” “ugly,” “sublime,” or “poignant,” are entirely relative to the preferences of individuals or cultures.  So, for example, an aesthetic subjectivist would say that all aesthetic judgments are relative to the individual.  Or, as it is popularly expressed, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”  The somewhat less common brand of relativism is aesthetic cultural relativism, which says that all aesthetic judgments are relative to particular cultures.

Notice that both forms of aesthetic relativism deny that there is any objective sense in which beauty or other aesthetic values exist in the world.  So according to relativism, an artwork (such as a poem or a film) or a part of nature (such as a flower, a sunset, or a human face) is not beautiful in itself but is only pleasing to a person or group of people.  Aesthetic judgments (like “this song is lovely” or “that painting is ugly”) do not reveal facts about the world but only reflect observer responses to aspects of the world.

While the claim that all aesthetic judgments are relative to a person or culture has a generous ring about it, a bit of reflection reveals the view to be absurd.  First, consider the implications of aesthetic relativism when it comes to comparing works of art.  My four-year-old daughter, Maggie, loves to draw, and on our refrigerator there are several samples of her recent work, including a crude drawing of three horses.  It is rendered entirely with a pink marker, and the horses have rectangular bodies and triangular heads.  So, we might ask, how does Maggie’s Three Horses composition compare, in terms of aesthetic quality, to, say, Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa?  Is one of these works superior (i.e. more objectively beautiful) to the other?  Not according to aesthetic relativism.  Remember, on this view no work of art can be objectively superior to another, because the relativist maintains that beauty is entirely relative to individual or cultural preference.  So if I happen to prefer Maggie’s Three Horses to Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, then the former is superior to the latter for me.  Or if a given culture—because of, say, a prevailing fancy for the color pink—preferred Maggie’s drawing, then Three Horses would be superior for that culture.  In neither case could it be said that the Da Vinci painting is aesthetically superior to Maggie’s drawing in an absolute sense.

Such a relativist view contradicts common sense.  Obviously the Mona Lisa is superior to Maggie’s line drawings, regardless of how fond I might be of my daughter’s efforts.  But the only way this judgment can make sense is if beauty is an objective fact, not merely a matter of individual or cultural preference.  Only an objectivist view can account for the common sense distinction we ordinarily make between personal tastes and real excellence in works of art.  So if we are to maintain (as we should) that the Mona Lisa is better than my daughter’s drawing, we must admit that aesthetic qualities (whether good or bad) are public facts about the world.  In other words, beauty is an objective quality of things. 

A second argument for aesthetic objectivism appeals to the universal, time-tested appreciation of many works of art.  Educated people will agree, as they have for centuries, that Shakespeare’s King Lear is a great play, that Handel’s Messiah is an excellent piece of music, and that Michelangelo’s David is a superb sculpture.  How do we explain this consensus of opinion among intelligent connoisseurs of art, except by acknowledging that the tremendous aesthetic qualities of these works are public facts?  If aesthetic relativism is true, then the convergence of opinion by hosts of art critics is mere coincidence.  There just happen to have been similarly positive responses to these artworks across cultures for hundreds of years.  But, of course, this is absurd.  So aesthetic objectivism must be true.

Third, consider the fact that we often debate the quality of artworks and we sometimes change our opinions about whether a film, book, or song is good or not.  We might find ourselves defending the merit of a novel we have read or saying something like “I was wrong about that film.  I think it is good after all.”  These are everyday occurrences in discussions of art, and they confirm the basic intuition that aesthetic judgments are objective, whether correct or incorrect.  Aesthetic qualities must be public facts and not simply subjective or cultural responses.  Otherwise, we could not meaningfully argue about them or improve our views on works of art.

For such reasons as these, we can safely say that beauty and related aesthetic attributes are not merely in the eye of the beholder or a matter of cultural preference.  They are objectively real facts about the world. 

[My arguments here are adapted from my article "Good Art and Bad Art: What is the Difference?" in Areopagus Journal, 4:1 (January-February 2004).  For an extended defense of aesthetic objectivism, including an elaboration on some of the arguments that I employ here, see Eddy M. Zemach, Real Beauty (University Park, PA: Penn State Press, 1997).]

Whenever I go on Amazon.com, which is sadly at least two or three times a day, I feel the full weight of the finiteness of our time on earth. Along with having a thing about food, I also love books, which translates into an obsession over my Wish List almost as much as my Netflix queue. I love browsing for books I will never buy and buying books I will never have time to read. But as I sit staring at the mile-high pile of books on my bedside table, I whisper a short prayer that goes something like this “Dear Lord, please help me to live long enough to have more than five minutes at a time to read interesting books. If I could just have a few years of enjoyable reading, Lord, I could go to heaven happy.”

I do realize that this actually borders on sickness and perhaps even heresy. In essence what I am saying is “No, Lord, I don’t want to live in eternal bliss with You in Paradise just yet. Please let me at least finish Team of Rivals (which I wanted to read before President Obama started using it as his new Bible) and all of the works of Elizabeth Gaskell and Charlotte Bronte. Then I think I could go in peace.” I have actually started to have panic attacks when considering how little time we have on earth to do things that are truly pleasurable. When you add up all the teeth brushing, house chores, and waiting in line at the bank, half of your life practically disappears. Not to mention sleeping, eating, and wasting time playing Settlers of Catan online. (Maybe that last one is just me.) But I have had an epiphany. It is as if the heavens have opened and the voices of the angels have spoken to me in perfect harmony saying, “THAT’S WHAT HEAVEN IS FOR, YOU IDIOT!”

I must confess that my theology regarding heaven has been shaped more by Hollywood than Scripture. I have more than once pondered the possibility of being, well, not unhappy in heaven, but perhaps being a bit bored. I have swallowed the picture of robes, singing choirs, and cloud-floating without even thinking about it. I fall into despair over the thought of leaving Jim and the kids behind (not to mention those unread books) and the only time I get really excited about going to heaven is when I think of all the cool people that are going to be there.

But this is all going to change. For one thing, I must change my thinking or face up to my hypocrisy. Here I am gripped with fear when driving through a dangerous neighborhood, and in the same car ride I glibly pontificate on the wonders of heaven to my kids. Perhaps it is the kids who have helped to change my thinking. They talk about heaven a lot and with seemingly little fear of the door through which we all must walk in order to gain entrance. This might be because they haven’t given much thought to death and the fact that to them heaven seems like the zoo, the circus, and Disneyworld all rolled into one. They marvel at the abilities they will have, the idea of having no bedtime, and playing with animals that would gobble them up for a snack on this side of eternity.

Of course, heaven isn’t just about all the great stuff we will be able to do or even the loved ones with whom we will be reunited. It’s about worshiping God, right? And here is where my lack of faith really shows. I have fallen into the Sunday School myth that says worship is what you do on Sunday mornings while wearing panty hose and uncomfortable shoes. What a crock! Worship is playing with a saber-toothed tiger before breakfast and a woolly mammoth after lunch. It’s reading books for a thousand years without getting a headache or needing a nap. It’s the lion eating straw and the child putting his hand in the viper’s nest (I am sure this verse refers to one of my boys.). It’s not some other-worldly experience. It’s this world, only lots, lots better. Worship is enjoying the presence of God and his creation in all its forms. So while I still intend to continue my quest to one day have read all the books on my Wish List and to avoid the avoidable dangers of this world, I am leaving behind my cloudy visions of heaven and planting my feet more solidly in the Kingdom. I am sure Elizabeth and Charlotte would approve.

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody!  For me, this was certainly one to remember.  It began, like most Saturdays, with my making pancakes for the kids.  This is one of the few culinary endeavors where my ability actually exceeds Amy’s.  This morning I nailed it again, blowing the kids’ minds, with the most fluffy and tasty pancakes this side of the Mississinewa River.  Oh yeah. (I hate to disillusion Jim, here, but I believe that my pancake skills have actually exceeded his. Since this is one of only two things he used to be able to say he could make better than me, the other being milk shakes, I won’t tell him that the children are only being polite and secretly like my pancakes better than his. Poor man.)

After breakfast, I took Bailey to his basketball game, where his team, the Longhorns, played the Golden Hurricane.  Who won, you ask?  Nobody.  Bailey plays in the Upward league where they don’t keep score.  The stated rationale for this is that it encourages fellowship and learning the game, but everybody knows that it’s to discourage parental hysterics and abuse of the referees which is so common in such leagues.  Funny—when I was little, it was us kids who needed to be restrained, not our parents. (What Jim isn’t telling you is that he knows full well that Bailey’s team lost because he is one of those parents that keeps track of the score despite the “Everyone’s a winner” attitude of the league.  Not only does he know the score but could probably give you a play-by-play account of this and every other sporting event any of our children have competed in.  Sad but true.  Just like the pancakes.)

After Bailey’s game, we headed over to Lowe’s to pick up a new shower nozzle.  Our old one was leaking and badly needed replacing.  (Again, Jim fails to give the whole picture here.  I am beginning to feel unsettled by his lack of full disclosure.  Does he mention that I have been pestering him for well over a year to fix the showerhead?  Does he describe my “temporary” solution of tying a washcloth around the pipe to keep it from spraying water everywhere?  It actually worked really well, maybe even better than his solution. Just another area where I surpass him.  It’s actually sad to see how blind he is to his own competitiveness.)  The kids were thrilled about the new nozzle, which has both spray and massage settings.  This is the first time we’ve ever seen them want to take a shower. 

In the afternoon Amy and I officially celebrated Valentine’s Day by going to see Slumdog Millionaire together.  This wasn’t just the highlight of my day—this was the highlight of my life as a filmgoer, at least since I first saw American Beauty and perhaps even going as far back as Pulp Fiction, which I recall watching with Amy before we were an “item.”  Like those films, Slumdog Millionaire weaves a redemptive theme through a lot of suffering and wickedness.  (Kind of like my life with Jim.  Despite his delusions about his culinary skills and his ultra-competitiveness, especially when I am so obviously superior, I choose to endure.)  In Slumdog, Love triumphs over evil, but without any Hollywood clichés or patronizing—partly, I’m sure, because this isn’t a Hollywood film.  We both wanted to watch it again as soon as it was over.  Pure aesthetic joy.  Kind of like my life with Amy, now that I think about it.  Happy V-Day, Honey-Bunny.  (That’s actually really nice.  Maybe I should take all that other stuff back.  Everything except the part about the pancakes, that is.  Happy V-Day, Pumpkin.)

The history of philosophy has seen many “theistic proofs” or arguments for the existence of God, dating at least as far back as Plato in the 4^th century B.C.  Some of the standard arguments reason to God’s existence from apparent design in nature (the teleological argument), human consciousness (the argument from mind), the causal dependence of the cosmos (the cosmological argument), the existence of moral values (the moral argument), and the very concept of God (the ontological argument).

There is another line of reasoning which I believe holds much promise as an argument for theism—the argument from beauty.  While aesthetic evidence for God may be presented in a variety of ways, I prefer to appeal to beauty as an argument against naturalism.  If successful, such an argument serves, ipso facto, to prove the truth of supernaturalism, which in turn provides strong evidence for theism.  Succinctly put, my argument is as follows.  According to naturalism, the entire physical world is fully describable in scientific terms (statements about the physical world).  However, beauty and other aesthetic features cannot be captured in purely scientific terms.  Therefore, it is not the case that the whole of reality can be described scientifically.  So naturalism is false.

Here is a modified version of the argument which makes explicit a crucial assumption about the nature of beauty. 

1. Beauty is an objective quality in the world.

2. Beauty is an evaluative concept—specifically, an aesthetic value.

3. Therefore, there are objective aesthetic values.  [from 1 & 2]

4. If naturalism is true, then there are no objective aesthetic values.

5. Therefore, naturalism is false.  [from 3 & 4]

Propositions 3 and 5 each follow validly from prior premises (1 & 2 and 3 & 4, respectively).  Proposition 2 is a widely accepted observation about the meaning of the term “beauty”—that to describe something as beautiful is to recognize that it has significant aesthetic value.  And proposition 4 follows from the meaning of naturalism, which asserts that the physical world can be completely described in terms of physics (i.e. assertions about physical entities and relationships).  Clearly, beauty (and other aesthetic features, such as “ugly,” “elegant,” “insipid” and “poignant”) cannot be physically analyzed.  Thus, according to naturalism, aesthetic values cannot be a real or objective quality of things.

So, then, what about the crucial first proposition—that beauty is an objective quality of certain things?  What grounds do we have to believe this?  In my next post I will defend this claim, but for now it seems that I have at least shown that the naturalist must reject the first premise—and thus deny the reality of beauty.  That is, if my argument works, the naturalist must accept the implication that neither the world as a whole, nor anything in it, is beautiful (or ugly) in itself—from artworks such as the Mona Lisa to a Shakespearean sonnet to Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos to aspects of nature such as a tiger, butterfly, sunset, or human face.  This is a significant—I would say unacceptable—price to pay for naturalism.  But, again, as I will show later, even this option is not open to the naturalist.

There are many things I love about my mother-in-law: the fact that she loves and admires my husband almost as much as I do; the fact that she insists on my taking naps when I come to visit and gets mad when the kids or Jim wake me up; the fact that she is a brave and strong woman who is, nonetheless, as afraid of mice as I am. But up there on my list of her lovable qualities is her love of food which borders on obsession and rivals my own. During our visits, she and I camp out on the couch and watch the Food Network until we get hungry. I then tear myself away (not really, she has a TV in the kitchen, God bless her.) and begin to prepare one of the many special recipes I have spent weeks collecting. After this, we leave the dishes for Jim and sit on the couch eating our yummies, analyzing every nuance of flavor and watching more Food Network. For me, this has always seemed perfectly normal but recently I have begun to question the healthiness of my food preoccupation. I give more attention to meal planning than housecleaning, laundry or bed making. I am not sure when I crossed the line between meal maker and food junkie but I am pretty sure it had something to do with being locked in a house with four children for years on end with only a stove to express myself.

In an attempt to justify the amount of time and energy I spend thinking about, making, and consuming food, I have begun to think more seriously about our relationship to food. (Of course, this is actually adding a new category to my food obsession—food philosophy, but who’s counting?) For me, while living a life with seemingly endless restrictions, food has become an outlet, a way to vary the monotony of my day. Anyway, you are what you eat (or so they said in elementary school, and then they ironically fed us chicken patties and Sloppy Joes, but that’s on their conscience, not mine.). Just as what you watch, read, or listen to affects your beliefs, it seems reasonable to assume the same is true for food. The biblical writers use food as a metaphor for various truths and realities. And at the center of our lives as Christians is a meal—the Lord’s Supper. The reminder of Christ’s sacrifice and atoning work is represented in the action of eating and drinking. So why can’t there be other meanings in our daily consumptions? If we carefully evaluate the films, books, and music we experience, shouldn’t we also consider how the food we eat affects not only our physical well-being but our spiritual health as well?

So here are three exhortations in hopes that others will join my pursuit of excellent flavor. First, before you put something in your mouth, ask yourself this question: “Does this food in any way resemble something that natural occurs or is its point of origin more likely to be a scientific laboratory? I love a bag of Cheetos as much as the next girl, but shouldn’t we strive for more fresh less synthetic options? If your lunch is unlikely to biodegrade in the next decade, then go now and leave your life of sin. If nature is the first book that God wrote, His first revelation of His character to us, then shouldn’t we partake of it as often as we can?

Second, don’t be afraid to try new things. Variety is the spice of life. Go to new restaurants. Try new recipes. At worst, you have one bad meal. At best, you experience a new part of the world, a new corner of the globe. Eating new foods, whether ethnic food or something your neighbor recommended broadens not just your palate but your worldview. After all, Jesus didn’t eat tuna casserole every third Wednesday of the month and neither should you.

Third, bring others along for the ride. There is nothing like food to enhance our fellowship. I have seen how guests tend to gather in the kitchen and linger over a meal. Jesus didn’t just call all of His disciples together in the morning, break for lunch and go eat in a corner somewhere. Remember the feeding of the five thousand? The breakfast on the shore after the Resurrection? There is something so intimate about sharing in the recognition of our daily need for nourishment, not to mention the act of showing someone you value them by taking the time to provide for their needs as well as your own.  

So the next time you step into your kitchen, prepare to worship. It may not be manna, but it is God’s provision nonetheless, food from His hand until we join Him at the great wedding feast.

Hmm…I wonder if there will be cake.

Amy and I love our children.  In fact, we think they are the most fascinating creatures in the world.  But it sure is a lot of work trying to civilize those little people.  “Maggie, please stop making that chirping sound.”  “Bailey, don’t make fun of your brother.” “Andrew, why didn’t you tell us you needed to poop?”  It’s as if kids were pre-programmed to create chaos and generally make life difficult for their parents.  Recently it dawned on me how much easier it would be to domesticate a wild animal (just name a species) than a human child.  And, being an obsessive list-maker, I came up with ten reasons why.  So I present that list to you now for your consideration.  Bear in mind that these items pertain to various ages, basically covering the age range of our own kids at this time:  2 to 9 years.

Unlike kids, wild animals do not…

1. Have to be taught the value of work and self-discipline.

2. Fight over unimportant matters.

3. Make random noises just to irritate those around them.

4. Say or do things solely for the sake of hurting someone else.

5. Tell lies and fabricate stories.

6. Boast and brag.

7. Grumble and complain, even when all of their needs are met.

8. Envy.

9. Try to embarrass others for sheer entertainment.

10. Excrete on their own bodies.

This might seem depressing, but I take heart in the fact that I, too, was once such a savage beast.  Somehow my parents managed to tame me, so perhaps we will have some similar success with our little wild ones.  May God keep us sane as we try.  And may he bless the efforts of the rest of you zookeepers . . . uh, I mean . . . parents out there.

Like most citizens of the internet world, this past week I received several lists and requests for “25 Random Things.” Having been burned by such demands for information in the past, I hesitated to respond, but after receiving yet another “Random List,” I sat at my computer with great purpose in order to be random. Like all Facebook-related activities, there was a careful balance to strike—to be lighthearted but not flippant, introspective but not frighteningly personal. I hammered out a list, tagged twenty-five carefully chosen “friends,” and off it went. (If you weren’t chosen, feel free to become my cyber-friend and see just how little you missed.) The most interesting part of this exercise was that for the rest of the day, I thought in “Random List” mode.

            #26:  I love the smell of my kitchen hand soap.

            #27:  I look forward to folding laundry but hate ironing.

            #28:  Patches of dirty snow are really depressing to me.

Despite my attempt to indiscriminately share information regarding my inner life, certain patterns emerged. I think a lot about what I eat, movies, books, and my family. Of course, these areas often overlap in my thought process. “What am I going to eat while watching my next film?” “Which book should I read to the boys next? And what snack could we eat while reading?” As I began to see the theme of all the seemingly arbitrary facts that make up this person called me, I realized just how very nonrandom we each are. All of these seemingly insignificant and unrelated preferences, habits, and traits come together in a type of personality pointillism, creating the picture of our character. That bad experience with blueberries you had when you were three. The fear of something lurking under the bed, which you never could shake. The order in which you put on your clothes each morning. All of these traits or experiences are probably shared by millions of others, and yet there is no combination quite like you. It reminds me of a handheld game owned by one of the boys’ friends. To play this game of “artificial intelligence” twenty questions, you simply choose something or someone at random and then answer yes/no questions related to whatever you have chosen. Eerily, the game rarely fails to “guess” correctly. As it eliminates possibilities, one question at a time, the field of potential answers quickly narrows until only one answer is left.

This is true of us as well. I think of my husband and all that we have in common. We live in the same town, in the same house, go to bed at roughly the same time, eat the same food, watch the same films, and are raising the same kids. On and on, and yet we are clearly two unique individuals, with interrelated but distinctly different callings. (Anyone who has heard me sing in the shower or watched Jim try to cook dinner would heartily agree.) This would explain the popularity of the “Random List,” though it perhaps suggests that a more suitable title should be found. It is entertaining to consider all the ways that you are different from those around you and affirming to find that others want to uncover unknown aspects of your personality.

All of this carefully orchestrated design points clearly to our infinitely creative Designer. What an amazing Being He must be. Yet I fear that in marveling at His creatures, we often lose sight of the Creator. And staring too long at all the little dots, we may lose sight of the masterpiece in front of us.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just a harmless exercise in order to get to know more about your friends. After all, dots are pretty. People like dots and I am sure that God created them for our enjoyment. Right?

            #29:  I have a tendency to overanalyze everything.