I've been thinking recently about an aspect of Christ that is rarely named. A neglected facet of the divine, a window seldom opened. This glimpse, like every glimpse of Jesus, is sharp and beautifully startling, if only we can see it.

We're accustomed to think of Jesus in pacifist terms, as if his goal was to end all war and die quietly and leave those who knew him affirmed in their self-esteem. We sometimes paint him as a kind of Dalai Lama or a bobbing-head doll, who murmurs pacifying truisms to his followers. Likely at the bottom of this is our modern tendency to misconstrue love (in this case, God's) as whatever makes us feel good. But a mild-mannered smiley-Jesus does not tell the whole story, not by half.

For the Jesus who cooked his comrades' breakfast, raised spirits at a village wedding and coddled children is the same Christ who railed at evil and called his rivals names: "Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, with outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead men's bones...you serpents, you brood of vipers" (Matthew 23:27,33, The Bible). The pronouncements of Jesus sting. And they are meant to, words that cut to the heart, from the very Maker of bones. These were no slip of the tongue, but calculating. Awful: "Why do you not understand what I say? Because you cannot bear to hear my word. You are of your father, the devil, and your will is to do your father's desires" (John 8:43-44, The Bible). No milksop Jesus, this. And how could he be?

Jesus would lay into feelings to spare the soul. What concerned him most was not a universal happy hour, but reality. He knew a comfortable, false life was ultimately lethal. Therefore we find in Christ a mean streak, a hard-nosed toughness turned on evil. Jesus was a fierce instigator where illicit trafficking was concerned. A moral brawler. He mercilessly called it like it was, disrupting the darkness hiding in the status quo.

Unlike a model pacifist, Jesus was a fighter. His weapons were verbal, and he made no apologies for arguing reality. Apparently he found some things, like eternally-continuing lives, worth fighting for.

Therefore, Jesus fought. He fought for you and for me, and he said things meant to hurt and to incise—to spur people on to God. He came to turn the whole world order on its head, advancing the unseen above the seen, the eternal over the temporal, the small over the great. He did it so that we would see life for what it really is. He said that earthly wealth and power were mere knockoffs, and if you chased them you were damned. Jesus didn't hedge about the truth, and when he called out error he was ready to follow through.

He was not mean. But he was honest, and strong enough to beat the fear-mongers at their own game. He was never cruel. But his devotion to truth was equal to his compassion, and not less.

All told, he is, as ever, paradoxical: A defiant sacrifice, bringing a violent grace. Deathless but bleeding. Indestructible but beaten. Invincible, facing imminent death. Christ is a miracle child who wars on false appearances. Put him in a box, and it shatters, the splinters bursting into flame. And as we look at the pattern he left, we see that it couldn't be otherwise.

Christ was the perfect teacher, the ideal master, the consummate rescuer of souls. As such, he was the type of man you would want beside you in a fight, for he knew how to tend wounds as well as deal them. If I am to have a hero, a God-man who fights for my life, let him be fierce. Let him be fierce and kind at heart. Give me an Achilles with the cross at his heel and the heart of a Teresa. Let him be fiery love embodied.

Let him be as he is.

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Geniuses are said to have their little quirks.

“If someone gets 100%, the test was too easy. If someone gets 0%, it was too hard.” So says my august professor, and I’m wondering if this might be his Platonic foible…and my Achilles heel. His concept sounds good in theory, but one slowly realizes the margin for failure is much greater than the margin for success; at my last calculation, A-level is 95% and up.

I’ll give you my verdict after I get the first exam back.

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I’ve been wanting to write this for approximately forever.

I usually opt to show rather than tell, but occasionally one has to lapse into de facto exposition. I’ve been savoring the “post-postmodern” tagline in my blog intro, and reflecting on how it ought to be spelled out.

For months now, this verbal anomaly has existed without comment, but the time for closet post-postmodernism is past. No doubt the phrase has excited wondering agreement (“He’s right…I think”) and grammatical confusion (“This guy can’t spell”), if nothing else. Time to set the record straight. Post-anything words, when explained, must begin with their antecedents. Our starting place, then, is obvious.

“Postmodernism” is the supposed cultural constant that surrounds us all, the sea in which we splash, know it or not. If you’ll allow me to oversimplify: We unearthed this Truth (for which Nietzsche, among others, laid the groundwork) and it rose to dominance in the 20th Century. The Truth was that none of us really knew anything (relativism). In the arenas of faith and moral compass, we had to hazard our best guesses and trust to the winds of chance to treat us well (existentialism). In our necessarily troubled (angst-filled) lives, virtue could only be regarded in hazy terms of “acceptance,” “tolerance” and “inclusivism,” though when push came to shove, no one could define these either. And there you have it. Postmodernism in a paragraph.

But I haven’t said anything startling yet. My clincher, then: Postmodernism is becoming passé. Like kids with cotton candy, we're making the startling discovery that its skeleton is made of paper, and paper is a poor infrastructure. Have you ever seen a beached whale? If not, imagine a de-boned elephant. It’s not a pretty sight. Postmodernism is slowly collapsing under its own weight. The postmodern high-rise is a large establishment, and people will continue living there, unaware of their sinking real estate. Nonetheless, the street lights are flickering and the paint is starting to peel.

That’s not to say the movement hasn’t had its moments.

For example: One would have to say that the persistent tendency to question the status quo is, in itself, not a bad thing. Often it’s been good. But the benefits of a critical eye have often been neutralized by an ironic propensity to jump to new conclusions. All too often the jump is a back flip. The blind spot of postmodern thought is a hasty swallowing of unexamined claims, hook line and sinker, in a rush to fill the mental vacuum. The dash to dispose of “old truths” was too urgent to critique the new ones. “Fools,” as Pope says, “rush in…”

So we end up asserting things like All truth claims are manipulative! (except this one) and Words have no inherent meaning! (except mine) and One truth is no better than the next! (except the one you’re reading). Postmodern “truth” is like a folding dish chair on a waxy floor, where the axis of solidarity is always in flux. The mod styling is nice, but after awhile your back starts aching. That’s when you start looking for the overstuffed recliner.

I’m not saying that postmodernism was a waste. No, the existentialist-self-doubting ethos has given us some good things. Not the least of which is ironic hair and a critical inward eye.

But I have the sense that a whole group of people are steadily emerging beyond the postmodern. Like going through a tunnel, learning some valuable things about low-light vision, and reemerging into life in the sun. People eventually grow tired of naming their kids “Apple” or “Audio” and saying that Stalin was a guy with “different ideas.” Maybe absolute uncertainty wasn’t as absolute as we made it out to be.

Some of us are ditching the postmodern cloud of unknowing and itching to actually know something again. True to our roots, we’re seasoned debunkers. But our roots aren’t immune from critique.

We’re the ones waking up the benefits of truth and gravity. We think Beauty has a more than artificial charm. We say that constant ignorance can be draining. And we take a roguish joy in skewering the silly.

We’re willing to weigh ideas, for we think the post-postmodern has the weight of the universe on its side. This, we assert with happy bravado, is the supreme advantage: Post-postmodernism is not just avant-garde. It’s True.

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I remember with fondness my first graduate-level exam. I approached it like a dare, with a certain flamboyance. It was me versus the exam. Me versus the professor, the establishment, the world. I’d take their best pitch and knock it out of the park into A-land.

Today, the metaphor has changed. I’m playing dodge-ball, and I always seem to be on defense.

Last week, I successfully executed my first artful dodge, good to get me to the next round. The idea is to remain unflattened on my section of playground until the air clears. I’ll stay out in the open where there’s room to maneuver. The opposition always has their eye on you, but at least you have time to dodge. Those who set up in the tight corners systematically get plastered. They think they can hide behind each other but it never works.

Sometimes I wonder what it will take to “regress” to my original strength and speed. How do I get back to taking my cuts, giving out better than I got, brutally KO-ing unsuspecting tests? Is academic aggression a thing of the past?

Only time will tell. One thing, however, is for sure.

On Monday, the games begin again…

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In a rare venture into non-satirical personal blogging, there’s something I have to get out. I’m slightly baffled as to how to say this.

Well, first off, it’s good news. So let out that deep sigh of relief.

Secondly, it’s not a book deal. Or CD deal. Or any typical kind of deal, sorry.

Thirdly and lastly, I, er…refer you to this prophetic link. There it is, in my own words. Incredible foresight.

All right then.

So. You, uh, got it—right? Ok, I’ll just say it.

Well…

WE'RE EXPECTING A BIG (LITTLE?) CHANGE AROUND HERE!

That's right, young Michelangelo is on the way!
Or young Tolkien maybe.
Shoot, we’d even settle for a young Jordan!

The crucial thing is that he (I maintain, but a she is conceivable) is on the way. And yes, we’ll love him even if he becomes a computer scientist or engineer.

Coming up, “October 17”…

It’s a baby deal!

Awww yeah.

:D

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This afternoon, Lindsay and I were walking up the alley to our downtown apartment. We were coming home from work, and it was a 60+ degree day with blue skies, the kind of moment perfectly suited for thinking out loud.

“Substitute teaching does not instill one with a sense of being needed.”

Crunch, crunch, through broken glass.

“Or self-worth.”

We step over a puddle.

“Or accomplishment.”

Past the dumpster.

“Or money.”

Laughter, and the door thuds behind us.

Sometimes the nonsensical tendencies of our lives are really striking.

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Bittersweet Grit

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More often than not I find myself writing from a sense of pathos. How could I do otherwise? Life is imperfectly pleasing. It’s treacherously beautiful.

Sometimes I render “life” as a woman who lets me down. What I am still figuring out is whether she is fundamentally bad, but outwardly appealing, or essentially kind and good, but physically plain.

Life slights me, but she’s so lovely I’m suckered into loving her again. Or life is steady and amiable, but I keep wondering if she’s all there is. Probably it doesn’t matter which. Ultimately, to love life is to embrace a bittersweet lover.

Querying whether life is fundamentally good, but imperfectly so, or essentially ruined, with flashes of beauty, is to miss the point. Life is like Christ said it would be: Bittersweet but being redeemed (John 16:33, The Bible). Jesus’ description of present-reality fits the facts exactly. Bittersweetness, though, is not enough. Life ought to be perfect and we all know it.

In our mind’s eye, “life” is not sick, flawed or defective. Allegorically, I need a woman who is captivating in essence. The love I want is uninterruptedly sweet—and no disclaimers. I’m not going to hedge and tell you less.By saying “Life is bittersweet,” I’m acknowledging that I haven’t laid hold of real life yet, but I will. (Philippians 3:11-14, The Bible.) You can count on that.

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No one can run through a brick wall, but sometimes we don’t realize we’re trying to until we’re halfway in.

It’s like the temporary “suspension” of gravity when one falls off a cliff—the briefest of moments in which one realizes, I’m falling. Before you hit the ground, there’s the awful realization of plummeting. Likewise, with the brickwork through which no creature can emerge, there’s a surreal realization, pre-collision, of colliding.

At the moment, I’m trying to extend this analogy to reading assignments and papers. I’m not in over my head yet, but I’m about to be. Can one run through a wall of papers? We shall see...

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I talk a lot about life's BitterSweetness, but mostly in terms of allusion. I say, "Time has a bittersweet quality," or "Have you thought about how sorrow and joy converge?" But if BitterSweetness is as inescapable as I make it out to be, shouldn't we be proactive? I mean, wouldn't this phenomenon have implications for living—not merely referential, but operative? I think it would.

Here are some guidelines for lived-out bittersweetness. To avoid overwhelming the blog with a 24-point outline, I’ve formulated just three main aspects of the BitterSweetLife. So pull on your battered thinking caps and precede at your leisure. Here's the first:

::1: Ask hard questions of life.

And sooner rather than later. Ingrained in the bittersweet ethos is an impulse to account for both good and evil, darkness and light. There's no use in barricading ourselves off from apparent mysteries, paradoxes, puzzles or contradictions—often, the heart of bittersweetness lies in such places. So be an persistent interrogator on every consequential front. Consider, for example, spirituality (Is the soul eternal?), ethics (What is the morality of cloning?), and, inevitably, personal decisions (What are the implications of sleeping around?).

Don't be naive about truth and consequences. We're in this game for more than laughs. Ultimately, realize that all questions—and answers—have spiritual ramifications, determined by how you answer—or ignore—life's first order questions. Who am I? Where am I from? Why am I here? As Einstein queried, "Is the world a friendly or unfriendly place?" These inquiries refuse to remain shelved.

(If you're wondering why bittersweetness is a good thing, or if it's really a discernible phenomenon, I refer you to the "must read" posts on the sidebar.)

::2: Embrace pleasure.

If this sounds like hedonism, it is. But it's hedonism in its purest and only justifiable form. A "BitterSweeter" sees joy not as a distraction to be avoided, nor as sentimentality to be sneered at, nor as an evolving emotional "commodity" to be handled with care. Rather, joy is a necessity to be embraced. And a person on this path values pleasure so highly that it must be undiluted, that is, true. He sees joy for what it is, and rejects all substitutes as "dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers" (C.S. Lewis).

A principled pursuit of real happiness and, therefore, a moderated "skepticism" about apparent fulfillment, is central to BitterSweetness. As Lewis says, "I sometimes wonder whether all pleasures are not substitutes for joy." Joy is what we are ultimately after, and genuine pleasures are within our reach—if we know their source. This is the Sweet. And for purposes of this Manifesto, the Sweet can be captured in a word—Christ.

::3: Study suffering.

Article 2 covered the Sweet. Now we turn to the Bitter. On first glance, it might seem that my generation has this one covered. Among us you'll find professing "realists," non-confessing pessimists, and chronic gripers (not to mention habitual whiners). But despite all this, we fundamentally fail to really deal with suffering. Perhaps our relationship with it is too shallow. Perhaps we ask the wrong questions. At any rate, the answers that we often give—"Life sucks," "‘Things’ will get better," a muttered "I hear you," an awkward silence—are clearly inadequate.

We hover between bleak depression and naive optimism. At the very least, this Bitter side of life deserves an honest examination. What are we to make of "meaningless" pain? Why does distress so often infringe on joy? And conversely, how shall we explain joy's strange "intrusions" into heartache? Strangely, the two aren't often separate, and BitterSweetness inevitably appears. Well, there it is... I leave you with a triune approach to a bittersweet life:

::1: Ask hard questions of life.
::2: Embrace pleasure.
::3: Study suffering.

Drop any one "precept," and we risk incoherence. Life is all sunshine? Never for long. Life is "one long struggle in the dark?" (Lucretius). Not without rays of wonder. And we'll never grasp the essence of this phenomenon without querying our experience. Indeed, "An unexamined life is not worth living." Why? Because we may miss the very revelation "life" is meant to impart. When grasped by an inquiring mind, BitterSweetness is a good tool for the road.

* If you've been around awhile, you may think this sounds familiar. Ages ago, I posted "A BitterSweet Manifesto" in three parts. I thought it would be worthwhile to patch my previous thoughts together, update slightly, and republish.

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