Echoes and Moments

He's not the Existentialist we deserve... A Manifesto on Belief I've thought about a helpful proposition to summarize the wisdom of the late-modern and postmodern thinkers. It follows: Humankind is subject to inescapable suffering, which deprives it of objective meaning. Human attempts to remedy suffering inevitably devolve into sectarian tribalism and competition for resources. Ultimately, humankind's existential condition cannot be changed, because it has only so much control over its circumstances as creatures. There is no evidence for any "supernatural" being, and the vast majority of God-talk upholds superstition at its most harmless best, and unspeakable atrocity at its brutal worst.  Humankind will only be free when liberated of belief: ideology and God are dictators when considered as objective. "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God." In choosing action, to lay down one's life for the sake of mercy, humanity wi

The Pilgrim: Part II "There were many at first," he breathes and goes on, "The Road was busy with those like me who wanted To flee the flames of a city, a nation, tearing it Self apart and casting the poor to the grinding stone Like Babylon, Rome, great Persia before; The Empire claiming Godhood for all to cling to, and kneel." "We wasted no time with our things, we  Have seen enough of material gain, spending long Days and years working for scraps of paper now Burning with all the banned books and seditious  Speech read aloud as hate; all we did was claim that this Road was more than a myth, more than the hope of a fool." I dare interrupt with a smile, the first to my lips in long Weeks as the autumn chill cuts into thin skin: "Hope? Is Not hope the very thing that proves the fool as wisest of them All? He has wasted his riches for nothing, and in Nothing he Finds the very truth he sought all his long life..." and we St

It's not a coincidence she looks like an Elf princess... Considering the dirth of negative press, critical reviews, and general shade thrown at the DC Cinematic Universe since Henry Cavill groaned and yelled his way through Zack Snyder's overcooked Man of Steel in 2013, I was greatly pleased to see much in the way of positive feedback surrounding the franchise's latest offering, Wonder Woman. Since origins stories are necessarily difficult endeavors with regards to the source materials, fanbase of comic readers, and general public, I am always willing to cut slack to films that stick to the basics of all good filmmaking: character and narrative. While the superhero genre has saturated the screens for over a decade, I was reminded by a friend that before Robert Downey Jr. launched the Marvel Cinematic Universe into its current reign as a box-office juggernaut with Iron Man in 2008, the vast majority of regular joes/janes (myself included) were more familiar with the DC l

Heaven in 2017. As the shards of my consciousness reform after the inevitable energy drain received in the aftermath of an intense five-day urban program (and the final project for my ministry with InterVarsity), the depth of my awareness for the wounds of young people returns. When the reactive depression recedes like a strong tide, and the wind stings my face beside a salty shore, and the connective tissue in my thoughts, emotions, and passions resume their normal furious pull -- there is another, deeper crisis in miniature, the point where my courage falters, a split-second where the absurdity overwhelms and paralyzes. In a talk I gave at the end of Day Three of the program, I described the work of French novelist and philosopher Albert Camus, who evolved from the same colonial European milieu that produced Derrida and dialogued with the great existentialists (whom he never enjoyed being lumped in with). He is famous for giving flesh to the concept of the Absurd, which in br

The Pilgrim: Part I Howling wind gives way to gentle rustle: Pine needles and old bark sing to the coming night And the Great Silence greets my evening light, a  Single candle gleaming bright amidst the black without While these sinews twist into the posture of peace, I hear A knock, and wincing, I wait.  The heavy breaths shatter whatever prayer was mine Before this night: one of thousands upon this mountain Closed in by stone, by wood, by skin, flesh, and bone, A temple to perennial truth, each breath a new liturgy As wind drawn in swallows the dying world outside and Returns an exhale full of Light, simple, furious Love.  A second knock, and remembering Benedict, I  Turn the rusted iron and the heavy wood gives way A weary man staring with flint-grey eyes, hollow And streaked red with pain, there is perhaps a look of  Shock, as if he never knew the world could be so cruel and  Full of hate.  Commentary on Stanzas 1-3: The narrative introduced is a fam