Avatar

When Avatar first came out, I decided to avoid it because I thought it was just another left-leaning anti-corporate anti-capitalism movie.

Then I read this article about Avatar being all about "white guilt" and well... you can read the article yourself. One salient quote:

Our main white characters realize that they are complicit in a system which is destroying aliens, AKA people of color - their cultures, their habitats, and their populations. The whites realize this when they begin to assimilate into the "alien" cultures and see things from a new perspective. To purge their overwhelming sense of guilt, they switch sides, become "race traitors," and fight against their old comrades. But then they go beyond assimilation and become leaders of the people they once oppressed. This is the essence of the white guilt fantasy, laid bare. It's not just a wish to be absolved of the crimes whites have committed against people of color; it's not just a wish to join the side of moral justice in battle. It's a wish to lead people of color from the inside rather than from the (oppressive, white) outside.

Annalee Newitz, the author, is convinced that what people (like me, although I'm not very white, I'm more pinkish) are overwhelmed with the guilt of our ancestors and all their evils, and we keep making movies like this (Pocahontas, Dances With Wolves, District 9, etc...) in order to make ourselves feel better.

I went to see the movie in part because Annalee was so irritating about it. That and because my brothers said it was a lot of fun.

I think Annalee is mostly wrong. It is about guilt at doing the wrong thing, not about being white. Here's why I liked the movie and it appealed to me:

A man goes on a mission. He realizes the mission is wrong, that he's been wrong, that he's been helping bad people do bad things. So he stands and fights for what is right. In the end he helps destroy the evil and earns the affection of a strong, smart, beautiful (and blue!) woman. Blue women it seems are quite hot.

Avatar spoke to me because a man became a warrior for the right side and won the heart of a great woman. I feel bad for Annalee that she doesn't see that.

Flowery Language

I spend a lot of time thinking about God. Or god. And if God or god cares if the word we use for him/her/it is capitalized. The language Christians use make God very hard for me to understand, makes me frustrated. It's not the "thee" and "thou" and "art" and "forsooth" stuff, that's just old English. It's the spiritual language and descriptions of God that don't have specific meaning, at least not to me, that drive me up the wall.

(I'm just going to skip my doubts as to God's existence and God's nature. That is a discussion that will never go anywhere with anyone. I've been having it for the better part of 30 years and nobody's mind has ever been changed. And I'm just going to call God God and him, because it's my people's tradition.)

For instance, God, I doubt, has a penis. What would be the point? So why do we call God "him"? Does God think he's a him? Does God even care? Wouldn't it be better? It's less personal, but God likely doesn't procreate, he just creates. And he doesn't do it by having sex with... um... other gods? Or if he does then the Judeo-Christian thing is has some gaping holes in its understanding.

Another one that drives me nuts is "Heavenly Father". In western thought, God is everywhere equally. I'm not going into details here, but by definition he has to be everywhere otherwise he's not the Judeo-Christian God. So if God is everywhere, why is he a Heavenly Father? He's equally a Shower Father and Toilet Father and Palm Tree Father and Shoe Lace Father, since he's just as much in Heaven as he is in the shower, toilet, the palm tree outside, and the shoe lace on my boot. And why Father at all? I know my actual father. And as great as my father is, he's not God. At least, if he's not, he hides it really well.

God, if he's an active parent in my life, could equally be called my Heavenly Mother, right? Is God truly more masculine than feminine? Does either word apply to God? Wouldn't the oh-so-politically-correct word parent be better? But since I already have a complete set of parents, would that make God my God-Parent?

Then there's the Holy Spirit stuff. We already have one difficult to understand omnipresent being, why do we suddenly have two? What's the difference? Why does God need or want spirits and ghosts and stuff. Can't God just be the spirit too?

I'll give God the Jesus thing. Came to earth in physical form to talk to the people, bang some heads together, turn over a few tables, and get things done. I'm not saying it makes sense to me, but it at least isn't flowery language. Jesus was a down to earth guy. He was a Rabbi and carpenter, and he didn't mess around. Jesus I can make sense of. Not everything he said makes sense to me, but the man, yeah, I'm on board.

The "personal relationship with Jesus" stuff is exceptionally flowery. It takes all my effort to maintain personal relationships with the people who are physically around me, the people I can see, feel, and hear. And I largely do a piss-poor job of it. Somehow I'm supposed to have a relationship with someone (or something) I cannot see, cannot feel, and cannot hear? If it's a relationship, how can it be personal? I just don't get that at all.

I'd also like to add that I have searched and searched and searched and have never seen "personal relationship with Jesus" or "personal relationship with God" anywhere in the Bible. As far as I can tell modern Christians have just made it all up. Maybe it helps them, but it doesn't help me.

Maybe I'm being a jerk about all of this. Maybe I should lighten up. But maybe Christians have established a new standard, one that doesn't reflect reality. All I know is that the flowery language adopted by modern Christians makes it harder for me to understand them.

Power

The Lovely Young Lady gave me a book for my birthday, Wild at Heart: Discovering the Secret of a Man's Soul by John Eldredge.

It is in part about being a man, and the rites of passage that we as a culture no longer embrace about boys becoming men. One of those rites is going into nature alone to be alone and with God, to explore the world and our souls.

Because of this advice, I decided to take a little foray into nature. It wasn't terribly far from civilization, it was on the west coast of the island of Hawai'i. My game of golf was going nowhere, and I wanted to go take some pictures of the waves crashing against the rock formed by lava. The beauty there is amazing - bright skies, unbelievably blue water, black lava, white foam, all in motion, all playing off one another. So I grabbed my cameras and my sense of adventure and started climbing the lava to the ocean to see what would happen.

On my way I said, "God, please protect me and don't let me do anything stupid."

That prayer was 50% answered.

I worked my way towards the water, snapping pictures and taking some video. I was watching the waves, timing them, seeing how high up the rocks they would wash. Occasionally a wave would wash up a little high, up to my ankles at the highest. The lava was slippery the closer to the sea I got, the more time under water the lava spent the more algae was able to take a hold.

The way I saw it, I knew the patterns of the waves and how they beat against the rocks. I knew the limits of how high the waves could come and where they would go. And knowing this I perched myself right at the edge of a little precipice where waves would come in and send flumes of water and mist high into the air. I had never seen a wave crest the edge there, and had no reason to think that would change.

With video camera in hand, I crouched low hoping to get a nice big splash on film. A few waves came and went, with little effect. I moved a touch closer.

It was right about this point that God resoundingly ignored half my prayer. It seems it's my job to not do stupid stuff. A wave, I have no idea how big or fast, came rushing over the edge of the precipice, hit me right in the chest, bowled me over, and dragged me across the lava while I desperately tried to get a hold of something. Even though the lava was slick with algae it still gouged copious amounts of flesh from my knees, elbows, and hands.

The other half of my prayer, the more important half, was fortunately answered. I found some rock onto which I could get a grip and the wave washed away without taking me out to sea. Had I hit my head on the lava or had the wave pulled me back out into the much more dangerous waters, it's likely I would not have lived. This wasn't just a beautiful place, it was a powerful place.

I walked back wet, bloody, and substantially less proud than I had when I started my adventure. I'm glad I prayed that prayer. I'm glad the water and rocks showed me who the boss really is. And I'm glad for my adventure. Thank God for beauty and power.

Answered Prayers

About a month ago my grandmother (the one I've been taking to church for the last few years) fell ill. She'd been struggling ever since - having good days and bad days as she fought off pneumonia. She wasn't in terrible shape, but at 97, it was pretty serious. She was hospitalized for about a week where she didn't get better but didn't get worse. The family decided to take her home, she'd be more comfortable, and maybe being outside of a hospital environment she'd start feeling better. She was certainly tired of doctors and had told us many times "I'm just waiting for the Good Lord to come and take me." She had not given up, but she was more interested in seeing what comes next than hanging around here.

About 10 days ago, we took her home. We set up oxygen, a hospital bed, full time nursing, and plenty of morphine and other fun drugs to keep her comfortable, and at the worst, all doped up so she wouldn't be in pain. All last week she was doing great, started drinking more, and even eating a little bit (okay, eating ice cream, but what the hell - who's going to tell her she can't have dessert before dinner?). She was alert, fully aware, would look forward to Tour de France coverage and Braves games on TV. Except for being bed-ridden and wearing an oxygen mask, she was the same grandmother as always.

Saturday afternoon, she fell asleep. The nurse let us know that this was different, that something wasn't right. So Sunday after going to church with the Lovely Young Lady and her daughter, the three of us went to visit. Looking in her eyes I knew she wasn't really there anymore. My grandmother's pastors came, and the five of us prayed for her. I had my own prayer though - I don't really understand the way regular Christians pray, I just don't think like that. I told God that she said she was ready to go, that she wanted to go, and that I hoped he would take her soon. I hope it's okay to ask God for that.

When the Lovely Young Lady, her daughter, and I left we said goodbye just as if she was waving goodbye to us, like normal. "Bye Grandma! Love you! See you soon!" The Lovely Young Lady and her daughter headed off to do some stuff, and I headed to Meanie's to shoot zombies with him and another friend. On the way I called my parents to tell them that I thought that they should head this way, that unlike earlier when I knew that Grandma was doing well, this time didn't seem hopeful. I said I thought she was gone. It was a quick call. Not a lot to say.

A few minutes later Dad called me back to tell me that she had died.

I'm not really sad that she's gone. She had an awesome life - she was a tough lady that never let anything stop her. She lived alone until she was 92 or 93, delivering Meals on Wheels to old people younger than she was. After her husband died she raised two daughters on her own at a time where single mothers were rare. And there was no question in her mind that she was going to Heaven to see God. For her, this was simple fact, like the sun rising in the east.

Was God listening to me? I asked God to take her, and she died moments later. How does one know if it's coincidence or an answered prayer?

Another funny thing, I've been volunteering at church for the last month with the Lovely Young Lady. Today they noticed that I've been around a lot, and the leader asked me if I wanted to volunteer formally and fill out the required paperwork. I told her "I don't like paperwork. Can I informally formally volunteer?" She of course said it'd be preferred if I went through the normal process. I guess I can't change every process to suit my screwy personality. So I told her that my grandmother was ill, and that I really couldn't commit to anything until that was resolved one way or the other. It's now resolved. Is that God too?

God is more complicated than the fairer sex, and maybe even more complicated than the Lovely Young Lady - full of mystery and intrigue and unanswerable questions. Except, sometimes, my questions seem to be answered.

I'm a Jerk

Over the last few years I had started becoming aware of something, that something was a little off. Something was not quite right. I would be out with friends and I'd start feeling a little bad, guilty even, and I couldn't know why.

After a while I figured out that this feelings gnawing at the edges of my awareness usually coincided with me feeling grumpy, or surly, or impatient. So I started asking my friends, "do I seem different to you?" or "am I being a jerk?" And always the answers were "not really" or "you seem normal to us" or "no more a jerk than usual."

So I just chalked it up to male PMS and carried on. Months passed.

Recently a friend and I were helping another friend get some furniture at IKEA, load it into a rental van, get the furniture back to my friend's home, unload and assemble. And I knew that I was being a jerk. Not a big jerk, but I was being a jerk. So I said to them "hey, I'm sorry I'm being a jerk," to which they said "you're being normal, don't worry about it."

It took about an hour for that to sink in. "You seem normal to us." "No more a jerk than usual." "You're being normal." None of these say "you're not being a jerk." They're all saying "you're acting like you usually do." And when someone says "you're being normal" when you know you're being a jerk, this probably means you're a jerk.

"So what you're saying is that when I'm being normal, I'm being a jerk?" I inquired.

"Pretty much."

"So I'm a jerk?"

"Yeah. You're surprised?" I was surprised.

"Yeah! I had no idea! Why didn't you guys tell me?!?"

"We thought you liked being a jerk!"

Okay, so yeah, I like being a jerk. Or I used to. I never really thought about being a jerk, but there it was. I'm a jerk. What I had been slowly realizing is that there are consequences to being a jerk: three first dates in the last five years and zero second dates; people with a look of unease when I speak with them; only very tolerant or edgy people will associate with me voluntarily.

For the last few years I had thought I was a nice guy because I did nice things: I give money to charity; drive my elderly grandmother to church every Sunday; take care of kids at another church; keep a house full of rescue animals; help out my friends whenever I can. I go out of my way to help people.

Problem is that I do those nice things is part because it allows be to be a jerk. Think about it, if someone is a jerk all the time and has no redeeming qualities, nobody is going to hang out with that guy. But if that guy cares about and helps people, does lots of good things, then all of the sudden it might be worth it to put up with the crap because of the good stuff.

This too makes me a jerk.

I think it's time to stop being a jerk.