Shifting from the heavy lifting of new-thinking philosophy, I got some good page-turning fiction from the library a few days ago - and, as usual, it has played havoc with my schedule. The one I am reading now, State of Fear, is by Michael Crichton, one of his last (if not his last) before his death, and it is a classic pop nail - biter. It also gives genuine, serious pause for those deeply concerned with global warming, or any other hot-button issue of the day. What, we are forced to ask, is really behind the headlines? Who is manipulating what we know and what we fear, and why?
A topic all in itself, but it is about the ruined schedule that I write, and how the book managed to keep me up past 1 AM, and how, for some reason, that led me to wake up earlier than usual, enabling me to attend early morning Mass.
The Mass was normal in all respects, and the homily nothing especially new, but there was something that demanded notice. Looking around at the early morning crowd, I noticed a guy in uniform with sergeant stripes on his sleeve. As we got up for communion, I saw that he was huge, and a policeman - and also that he had, tucked neatly at his belt, what looked like a service 45 pistol. I had never seen one carried before at church, but in a moment of reflection, thought of the recent headlines about mass murder at Mass, and shrugged - heck, no one's going to blast up this place! The sergeant, in line and as penitent as everyone else, looked totally human and decent. We could count on him.
Of course many policemen are decent, regular guys, but then again, it is also true that none of them are. Regardless of the purity of their souls, they represent the law, and as such have special powers that make many of us wary. My encounters with them in an official capacity have always been unpleasant, although never scary - traffic tickets and stern warnings are all that I have ever walked away with. Still, they represent a power both greater than myself, but also just as flawed. Justice is capricious. It is determined, like newspaper headlines, by our fears and our prejudices as much as by deep morality and real security. For that reason, or so I believe, I found myself having more sympathy than I should for the New York State inmates who escaped last month and remained free for nearly two weeks.
One of them had killed his boss with a hammer after torturing him. He had the look of a real thug, but surprisingly was an artist with some genuine talent. The other was forgettable, but also deserved the life sentence that he received. They had also deceived and heartlessly used a woman of small mental capacity, who will now end up behind bars for helping them. Her life is in a shambles that is beyond fixing. Still, I could not help rooting for them. I felt akin to them in their exile, for they were taking on a power that exceeded theirs to an almost infinite degree. The odds against them were so formidable that it came as no surprise when the artist was shot dead as he walked drunkenly with a shotgun, and the other was pried out of a ramshackle trailer and led away in chains. End of story and absolutely predictable.
But I had wanted, in an abstract way, for them to make good on their escape, to make it to Mexico like the guy in The Shawshank Redemption. I did not think of what they would do there, but only that they would have beaten The Man. Against all odds, they would have beaten The Man.
It is this, then, the desire to feel that one can beat the system, that runs my, and perhaps many other's, sympathy. We feel impinged, even though we are not criminals. We want to be able to shake off the feeling that we are always being watched, being judged, and on the edge of catastrophe - not because of nature, but because of Man. We want to believe that there is a way out. Hollywood has made millions off of this feeling, and in the movies, the heroes beat the odds. That it almost never happens is why Hollywood exists at all - it makes our fantasies come true, for fantasies they usually are.
All this came at Mass, where we are also exhorted to watch ourselves,.because here, too, we are being judged. The reminders of our imperfections make us uncomfortable, but there is a difference. Here, the big cop with the big gun was as penitential, as small and insignificant, as the rest of us. And while religion often tries to distort the message of the prophet, the message is still there for all to see. Ultimately, God as we understand It, is beyond the headlines of the day and even our own morality. And oddly, it is the belief in a vastly greater power that can lead to freedom, for from that perspective, all of Man's works and all of humanity is small and frail and flawed.
I don't know - I struggle with the loss of freedom all the time, and often resist ecclesiastical exhortations. These, too, were written by humans, but there is something different to it. We can go to the source if we try, and the source cannot be defiled. Ultimately, the Source is even beyond the holy scriptures. On the other hand, our media and cultural understandings cannot only be tinkered with, but are ALWAYS tinkered with. It is true, then, what they say, or so I believe - that the path to enlightenment, as encumbered as it is, is the only way to freedom. FK
A topic all in itself, but it is about the ruined schedule that I write, and how the book managed to keep me up past 1 AM, and how, for some reason, that led me to wake up earlier than usual, enabling me to attend early morning Mass.
The Mass was normal in all respects, and the homily nothing especially new, but there was something that demanded notice. Looking around at the early morning crowd, I noticed a guy in uniform with sergeant stripes on his sleeve. As we got up for communion, I saw that he was huge, and a policeman - and also that he had, tucked neatly at his belt, what looked like a service 45 pistol. I had never seen one carried before at church, but in a moment of reflection, thought of the recent headlines about mass murder at Mass, and shrugged - heck, no one's going to blast up this place! The sergeant, in line and as penitent as everyone else, looked totally human and decent. We could count on him.
Of course many policemen are decent, regular guys, but then again, it is also true that none of them are. Regardless of the purity of their souls, they represent the law, and as such have special powers that make many of us wary. My encounters with them in an official capacity have always been unpleasant, although never scary - traffic tickets and stern warnings are all that I have ever walked away with. Still, they represent a power both greater than myself, but also just as flawed. Justice is capricious. It is determined, like newspaper headlines, by our fears and our prejudices as much as by deep morality and real security. For that reason, or so I believe, I found myself having more sympathy than I should for the New York State inmates who escaped last month and remained free for nearly two weeks.
One of them had killed his boss with a hammer after torturing him. He had the look of a real thug, but surprisingly was an artist with some genuine talent. The other was forgettable, but also deserved the life sentence that he received. They had also deceived and heartlessly used a woman of small mental capacity, who will now end up behind bars for helping them. Her life is in a shambles that is beyond fixing. Still, I could not help rooting for them. I felt akin to them in their exile, for they were taking on a power that exceeded theirs to an almost infinite degree. The odds against them were so formidable that it came as no surprise when the artist was shot dead as he walked drunkenly with a shotgun, and the other was pried out of a ramshackle trailer and led away in chains. End of story and absolutely predictable.
But I had wanted, in an abstract way, for them to make good on their escape, to make it to Mexico like the guy in The Shawshank Redemption. I did not think of what they would do there, but only that they would have beaten The Man. Against all odds, they would have beaten The Man.
It is this, then, the desire to feel that one can beat the system, that runs my, and perhaps many other's, sympathy. We feel impinged, even though we are not criminals. We want to be able to shake off the feeling that we are always being watched, being judged, and on the edge of catastrophe - not because of nature, but because of Man. We want to believe that there is a way out. Hollywood has made millions off of this feeling, and in the movies, the heroes beat the odds. That it almost never happens is why Hollywood exists at all - it makes our fantasies come true, for fantasies they usually are.
All this came at Mass, where we are also exhorted to watch ourselves,.because here, too, we are being judged. The reminders of our imperfections make us uncomfortable, but there is a difference. Here, the big cop with the big gun was as penitential, as small and insignificant, as the rest of us. And while religion often tries to distort the message of the prophet, the message is still there for all to see. Ultimately, God as we understand It, is beyond the headlines of the day and even our own morality. And oddly, it is the belief in a vastly greater power that can lead to freedom, for from that perspective, all of Man's works and all of humanity is small and frail and flawed.
I don't know - I struggle with the loss of freedom all the time, and often resist ecclesiastical exhortations. These, too, were written by humans, but there is something different to it. We can go to the source if we try, and the source cannot be defiled. Ultimately, the Source is even beyond the holy scriptures. On the other hand, our media and cultural understandings cannot only be tinkered with, but are ALWAYS tinkered with. It is true, then, what they say, or so I believe - that the path to enlightenment, as encumbered as it is, is the only way to freedom. FK
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