Alan Paton and culture

Somewhere in my basement, buried in boxes of books in need of shelves, lies a copy of Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton. Five years ago I deemed the cover irreparable, and I replaced it with duct tape. All that to say, the book is good. It's a novel about the tragedy of mid-20th century South Africa. Its brilliance lies in Paton's ability to see the enormous complexity of racial problems, and, peering into the blackness of the human heart, to see possibilities for reconciliation. He could, as W.B. Yeats said, "hold in a single thought reality and justice."

As Paton sets out the central conflict of the novel, he makes one statement that forms the thesis of the first portion of the book: "The white man has broken the tribe. And it is my belief--and again I ask your pardon--that it cannot be mended again." In this statement Paton caught the first winds of the gathering storm of globalization. The white man--and Western culture, and the global economy--have broken the tribe, and it will not be mended.

So we're left here, with fragments of broken cultures, baubles left over from something grand and important, reduced to a price tag, or a dance performed for tourists. I am tempted to say that globalization turned our world upside-down, but that's not the case. Globalization shoved our world toward the middle. What used to be a world of fragmentary, unique, patchwork cultures is being shoved toward a centerline. In many countries--including America--we can now speak of Culture with a capital C. Homogeneity has replaced originality, and that homogeneity, rather than feeling diverse, has come out feeling bland.

In America today many people will start their day with yoga, have Chinese food for lunch, and then watch the World Cup while they eat their dinner. These swirling cultural currents have left the Western world without a firm grasp on anything. Culture is something to be consumed, not possessed or experienced, so marketers hijack consumables from other cultures and sell them to Americans, who then relish their own hipness at being the first on the block to have tried the new Thai place.

But the tribe is broken, and it will not be repaired. So it's up to us to create a new culture, not based on consumption, but on digging deep into the mines of our creativity and coming up with something fresh, something unborrowed.

As Kavanagh said,

That in the end
I may find
Something not sold for a penny
In the slums of Mind.

Civil liberties and all that jazz

While I will immediately admit that I am no supporter of the Bush administration, I don't buy the conspiracy theories. I've heard the left-leaning elements of the media carry on about how Bush is a war-mongering simpleton, or an oil-consumed, plutocratic nincompoop, but I just don't think so. I don't think he started a war because of a generational grudge, and I don't think that he destroys the environment just because he can. I really think that he is attempting to do his best.

That being said, there is one thing that does genuinely concern me about Bush, and that is his haphazard curtailment of civil liberties. The recent flap between the administration and some members of the press--specifically the Times--is an example of the Bush administration's attitude toward the smaller freedoms the constitution affords us.

For those of you not familiar with the incident, on Thursday the Times reported that the US government has a program in place that looks at records of international bank transactions in hopes of "following the money" to find out just who finances terror operations. Members of congress had been briefed on the program and found no fault with it; however, the program has not been tested in court.

Shortly after the report aired, a number of members of the administration--including Bush, Cheney, Snow, and a host of others--lashed out against the report, arguing that revealing such a program hamstrings the government's ability to conduct anti-terror investigations. Some even called for prosecution against the Times, and in particular against executive editor Bill Keller. Keller shot back against these calls with a letter, which emphasized that the Times considered thoroughly whether or not they should release this information, and that it was deemed in the public interest to green-light the story.

Bush's response to this story has been animated, calling the report "disgraceful." This has been an archetypal exchange between Bush and the press lately: the press reports on an anti-terror operation of questionable legality, the administration gets angry at the press for reporting it, and the schism between the administration and the press widens.

On one point I agree with Bush: revealing these programs may hurt their effectiveness. Likewise, revealing Abu Ghraib probably hurt the effectiveness of that institution, and revealing Haditha probably hindered the effectiveness of Kilo company. But these little inconveniences are the inevitable results of democracy, and they are to be celebrated.

The difference between the US and totalitarian states is that we believe that we have nothing to be ashamed of. We don't deal in misinformation, but in facts, cold and hard, and we trust the public to judge them appropriately. We stand by democracy because we believe that power corrupts, and that accountability is the only cure for the moral flim-flam of the demagogue. We believe that the morality of the many outweighs the morality of the few.

The founding fathers chose to allow a free and vigorous press because they stood by the idea of public oversight. Hopefully, Bush can understand that public oversight, while it is an inconvenience, is always a necessary part of a free and worthwhile democracy. While fighting the war on terror, we must remember not just what we fight against, but what we fight for.

Good ole Liz

I have recently discovered Elizabeth Bishop, the poet, and I think that I could do you no greater favor than to point you to "The Moose," my favorite of her poems.

Just click here.

The Literary Culture

I've been having this realization lately that text as a medium of communication is dying. To say this is sad feels trite. This is an atrocity. In a recent Time article, John Updike recounts his childhood, when everything was stacked with piles of books. Lending libraries were everywhere. He even remembers when departments stores had lending libraries. Those days are gone, and our great writers are dying. Updike is 74, Philip Roth is 73, Cormac McCarthy is 72, Toni Morrison is 75, Seamus Heaney is 67, and Don DeLillo is 69. Worse yet, all of these writers are feeling more and more irrelevant. Updike's new book, The Terrorist, feels awkward and feeble. He tries to portray an 18-year-old driven to Islamic extremism, but it feels so out of touch that I had to put it down.

Candidates are interviewing for the title of great young fiction writer, but all come with gaping holes on their resumes. Dave Eggers has yet to handle fiction with grace, and his po-mo cutesiness has proven to be an enormous handicap. David Foster Wallace is perhaps just a little too dark and a little too unreadable to find an audience. I'm convinced that Jonathan Lethem is holding back on us, but only time will tell. The sad thing is that even if these writers wrote a masterpiece, no one would read it. It would languish on book store shelves, and there it would die. I wish I could turn off TVs and force us as a people to learn to read again, to find margin in our days, but I know that's not possible.

The World Cup

If you're not yet excited about the World Cup, you ought to be. The world's largest sporting event isn't just a bunch of teams kicking around a soccer ball, it's the discovery of national identity. In our soccer teams, we find reflections of ourselves: the German team is meticulous and perhaps a tad bit boring, the Brazilian team plays with spunk and a sense of fun, and the Americans just run until their legs fall off. That's where the fun comes in. The World Cup ends in an affirmation of one country's life--all of it--its culture, style, language, and everything else.

The Brazilians won the Cup last, in 2002, and it was a celebration of Brazilian culture--its sense of joy and fun, its carefree lifestyle, and its sense of blue-collar hard work. Ronaldinho, Brazil's best player, represents the apotheosis of everything it is to be Brazilian. He plays soccer like he dances at the carnivale, with quick feet and a giant smile. Likewise, Landon Donovan is the epitome of America: talented, never quite accepted in Europe, a bit petulant, but always playing his heart out.

And it in the World Cup that we find a safe microcosm for all our eccentricities, triumphs, and failures. The World Cup isn't just a bunch of soccer matches, it's a proving ground for our national character. Will we win or we lose--and how will we win or lose? Will we be out-thought, out-worked, or out-classed? Because at the end of the day, that's what the World Cup is all about.

And the great wonder is how everyone slips into the first-person plural talking about their country. Perhaps that's what makes it so special: in the World Cup we find a place where America is not an idea, or a government, it's a group of revolutionaries, always hustling, always striving.

Response from the Monaghan

The Reidster responded to my previous post, and quite adroitly, I may add. An excerpt:

But slow down a tad and admit it - it would be cool if a 2500 sq ft house was purchased rather than a 5000. A 250K one rather than a 400K one...and the rest of the wealth given to the poor and the Kingdom. But I feel you brother, but maybe there is helpful practical advice for those following Jesus as Lord in the burbs. It is at least hypothetically possible, no?

Afterall, for some strange and mysterious contours of divine Providence...he did ordain that the suburbs be. Now, dear Jesus, Sovereign Lord, please help us to escape the burbs!!!

The POCblog. You just can't beat it.

Christianity and Suburbia

In his blog, Reid Monaghan called my attention to this article, which is a review on two books about how to be a Christian in suburbia. So this is now a blog about a blog about a review about books. And before I talk about it, one quick caveat: I am not saying that it is better to live in or out of suburbia. God calls people everywhere. There is nothing noble about living in one place or another. So that being said, let's move on.

The book review covers a book by David Goetz, Death by Suburb, and a book by Albert Y. Hsu, called The Suburban Christian. A few excerpts from the article appear below:

Goetz identifies eight "environmental toxins" that plague suburbia and offers a spiritual practice to purge each toxin from your system and help you realize that "even in suburbia all moments are infused with the Sacred." By packaging his insights in this self-helpy formula—7 habits, 8 practices, 40 days to a more authentic Christian life—Goetz obviously opens himself up to criticism: this blueprint recapitulates some of the very problems of the suburban mindset that he is trying to offset. But I suspect he knew what he was doing, and chose the idiom to convey a subversive message to his target audience....

Consumerism goes hand in hand with suburban living. How can we "consume more Christianly"? Shop in locally owned stores; create holiday rituals that don't revolve around gift-giving; regularly fast, not just from food, but also from media, new technology, and new clothes; buy organic, fair-trade coffee produced by companies that don't destroy rain forests. (And if you agree with the skeptics who find the "fair-trade" crowd self-deluded, there are plenty of other ways to become a more discriminating consumer.) A basic guideline for simple living, says Hsu, is "to live at a standard of living that is below others in your income bracket. It you can afford a $400,000 house, live in a $250,000 one instead. Or, if you can afford a $250,000 house, live in a $150,000 one."

So that's the plan. 8 steps, buy the more expensive coffee at Starbucks, and all is well. What if Christ actually operated this way? It might have looked like this:

Jesus: "Come follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."

Disciples: "Jesus, we're really slammed, and this fishing thing is really taking off."

Jesus: "Ok, well how about this. Don't worry about following me, but at least use dolphin-safe tuna nets."

Disciples: "Done deal, Jesus!"

(high fives ensue)

The problem with suburban Christianity is the very message that these books preach. Christianity is not about wedging Christ into the empty space in your life on Sunday morning. It's not about requesting Christ's participation in your suburban lifestyle. It's about learning that Christ doesn't come along with you on your journey to the top of the corporate ladder. He leads, or he simply doesn't participate. The problem with these books is that they ask the wrong question: "How do I slightly change my daily actions to make them more Christ-like?" The question we should be asking is, "How can I learn to be obedient to God's calling, even if it means calling me away from lattes and picket fences altogether?"

Christ did not die on the cross because he bought fair-trade coffee or shopped in locally-owned stores. I think sometimes we skip right over the verse where it says that God will not be mocked. Indeed, he won't. The call of Christ is the upending of our lives, or it is nothing.

George Herbert

I recently bought a beat-up little collection of the metaphysical poets from my local used book store. It has not let me down. One member of the collection, George Herbert, is first-rate. He wrote only theological poems, and did a darn good job of raising great questions and stating truths in profound and fresh ways. Check him out. And here's one for ya.

Marie Magdalene

WHEN blessed Marie wip’d her Saviours feet,
(Whose precepts she had trampled on before)
And wore them for a jewell on her head,
Shewing his steps should be the street,
Wherein she thenceforth evermore
With pensive humblenesse would live and tread

She being stain’d herself, why did she strive
To make him clean, who could not be defil’d?
Why kept she not her tears for her own faults,
And not his feet? Though we could dive
In tears like seas, our sinnes are pil’d
Deeper than they, in words, and works, and thoughts.

Deare soul, she knew who did vouchsafe and deigne
To bear her filth ; and that her sinnes did dash
Ev’n God himself ; wherefore she was not loth,
As she had brought wherewith to stain,
So to bring in wherewith to wash :
And yet in washing one, she washed both.