When I was in my late teens, a certain gang of people would sometimes meet by coincidence on a backwoods dirt road a few miles from my parent's house to drink and cavort. Here I came to know kids that I had never had classes with, but who I knew by sight. One was John B, whose father was an assistant at a small local grocery store that had higher prices because of its size, but the best and only real butcher shop in town. His father was a short, very blond man who always seemed in good humor, even though he was doing much of the grunt work in a small store into middle age. Some time later the owner would retire and sell the store to him, which was fitting. He deserved it.
There was one thing about this man that stood out - really stood out - though; although not particularly fat, he had an enormous butt, conspicuous enough to make small children comment and deeply embarrass their mothers. Still, a nice guy, no one could dislike him, and his butt, it seemed, made no one jealous of him.
His son John was a carbon copy - short, very blond hair and an enormous butt, but also friendly to all. He would show up at these impromptu drinking fests and fit in well with the rest, even those blue-collar toughs who would often taunt such people. Apparently, his deviance was too easy a mark, and he was a very, very nice guy.
It was there that I got to know him, but only there. I went off to college and such ties quickly fell by the way side. It was during these college years that I got into nature and alone-ness, so much so that I camped out for several nights on a nearby mountain called "Tri Mountain" for its tripple hills. On the middle one, there were three smaller humps called the "Three Sisters" where no official path went, and to where we in the know would always go, pushing our way up steep rock slides and through poison ivy, because the Three Sister were hard-rock cliffs which offered a spectacular view. On a very clear day, one could see Long Island to the south, and Mt. Tom to the north, at least ten miles north of Springfield, Mass. And, as said, it was off the beaten path, and so became the chosen spot for my lone camp outing.
Problem was, there was no flat land there to pitch a tent. Finally I settled on the flattest land near the cliff, just beyond an oak that leaned far out over the lower part of the cliff, which would have made for a great and very dangerous swing. As usual, there were screeches and rustlings throughout the night, bringing a sort of terror that seemed ridiculous in the light of day. I would go back in the day to grab something to eat at my parents, would head back in the late afternoon, and repeat. Hardly a fantastic adventure, but I did learn something about fear and imagination.
Some few years after that, I heard the terrible news: John B had killed himself. He had been married with a small child when his wife left him for another man. Apparently, beneath his friendliness there had been a chronic depression, and when the bad days came, he couldn't take it. His chosen method of death, like many suicides, was crude and cruel and old fashioned, as if he and others in the same boat wished to punish themselves. It had taken three days to find him after his disappearance. When they did, he was dangling from a rope from a tree, the same tree I had camped by a few years before.
Of course I felt spooked, but it made sense. Hanging goes back for a thousand years or more as a method of punishment in the Old World. Also, on the cliffs people from a hundred years or more had chiseled in their names with dates: "Aaron Hill, 1878; Horace Hall, 1903" and so on. It was a place, almost a graveyard of the past that only some of the locals, and some others like John who knew the locals, knew how to reach. He had found it, found the right tree and footing, and had swung himself out on a limb in indescribable despair.
His memory came to me recently for an unknown reason - maybe the Robin Williams suicide, maybe not - and this time it struck me as an incredible, almost impossible thing, this suicide. Imagine, as much as you dare, approaching your neighbor with a shot gun and pointing it at him. He has done nothing more wrong to you than let his dog bark at night, and he now has time to plead with you: don't do it! My wife, my kids, everything and everyone I have, don't do it! And you look calmly at him and pull the trigger. In a second, you have taken everything from him and turned him into a slab of meat. You have also crossed a line into a country with an entirely different culture, topography, everything. You have with one shot catapulted yourself and everyone around you and the dead neighbor into a frighteningly unfamiliar lands.
Now imagine yourself, who has probably done no more wrong than the neighbor. You have a big butt, but everyone likes you; your wife has found another guy, but your daughter loves and needs you. You look into the mirror of your mind and it pleads, don't do it!, but you cinch the knot and swing out over the precipice into the unknown. How? I can understand this with the raving maniac, with the man who has become possessed by some psychological or spiritual devil, but for the otherwise thinking person?
This is not an exercise to condemn anyone - in such a strange land, I feel powerless to debate. It is like murder, but it also is not; in suicide, you know yourself better than anyone, and it is left to your judgement or your pain. Still, it is so beyond the boundaries that I am drawn in by the debate now going on about euthanasia. Those for it are for it for mercy reasons - it is usually suicide by those in great physical pain with no hope of a cure. Those against it argue the slippery slope - that it might be used by those in temporary crises, not just those in terminal illness. Others approach it from the God perspective: the Bible, they say, says we do not own our bodies - God does, and so we should leave its death to God alone.
For me at the moment, the question goes back to yesterday's blog: while God, or great outside force, often intercedes to direct our lives, at what point does our personal freedom contradict such direction to the point that it is nullified? That is, at what point have we crossed from natural law to something that carries us beyond this law irrevocably, like the murderer? Beyond, that is, the guidance of Providence, into a new and dangerous country. Into Hell, perhaps.
There are many possible answers, but one that first comes to mind is this: could morality be not a system of rewards and punishments as we understand it from our childhood, but a careful set of instructions to keep us in line with the "natural," with the guidance of the Great Directive? And yet, these differ from nation to nation, from tribe to tribe. Are there any absolute values, then? Or is it rather a system of relationships, each culture and/or era offering a different take on reality? That is, each system developing values which keep one in touch with divine direction through the proper exercise of relationships. Is it that fluid? Is the native priest who is lawfully ripping out beating hearts on an Aztec temple just as compliant with divine will as the Catholic priest who is bathing the lepers in spite of the risk to himself?
As a social scientist I would say "yes," minus any mention of divine will. As my honest self I would say, "you've got to be kidding!" John B's actions were not the best, and he ended for the moment any guidance he and those with whom he had a relationship could get. The murderer, priest or no, also ends by his own direction the fate of another. This has to be wrong. But what then of moral relativism? Where is the line to be drawn? Do we adhere to the full extent of the Bible, including not eating pork, or do we pick and choose at our own discretion? I will continue to eat bacon, but will we as a society abandon so much of basic morality that we cross a boundary that places us beyond a cosmic law and cosmic guidance?
Or is it all about relationships, but with one caveat: the golden rule - do unto others as you would wish done unto yourself. Yes, but what of John B's suicide? Might it also be, do unto yourself as you know you should do unto others? And this final question: was Judas condemned for his betrayal of Jesus, or his suicide,.or both?
Next blog, a further look into relationships, reviewing the movie "Cloud Atlas." FK
There was one thing about this man that stood out - really stood out - though; although not particularly fat, he had an enormous butt, conspicuous enough to make small children comment and deeply embarrass their mothers. Still, a nice guy, no one could dislike him, and his butt, it seemed, made no one jealous of him.
His son John was a carbon copy - short, very blond hair and an enormous butt, but also friendly to all. He would show up at these impromptu drinking fests and fit in well with the rest, even those blue-collar toughs who would often taunt such people. Apparently, his deviance was too easy a mark, and he was a very, very nice guy.
It was there that I got to know him, but only there. I went off to college and such ties quickly fell by the way side. It was during these college years that I got into nature and alone-ness, so much so that I camped out for several nights on a nearby mountain called "Tri Mountain" for its tripple hills. On the middle one, there were three smaller humps called the "Three Sisters" where no official path went, and to where we in the know would always go, pushing our way up steep rock slides and through poison ivy, because the Three Sister were hard-rock cliffs which offered a spectacular view. On a very clear day, one could see Long Island to the south, and Mt. Tom to the north, at least ten miles north of Springfield, Mass. And, as said, it was off the beaten path, and so became the chosen spot for my lone camp outing.
Problem was, there was no flat land there to pitch a tent. Finally I settled on the flattest land near the cliff, just beyond an oak that leaned far out over the lower part of the cliff, which would have made for a great and very dangerous swing. As usual, there were screeches and rustlings throughout the night, bringing a sort of terror that seemed ridiculous in the light of day. I would go back in the day to grab something to eat at my parents, would head back in the late afternoon, and repeat. Hardly a fantastic adventure, but I did learn something about fear and imagination.
Some few years after that, I heard the terrible news: John B had killed himself. He had been married with a small child when his wife left him for another man. Apparently, beneath his friendliness there had been a chronic depression, and when the bad days came, he couldn't take it. His chosen method of death, like many suicides, was crude and cruel and old fashioned, as if he and others in the same boat wished to punish themselves. It had taken three days to find him after his disappearance. When they did, he was dangling from a rope from a tree, the same tree I had camped by a few years before.
Of course I felt spooked, but it made sense. Hanging goes back for a thousand years or more as a method of punishment in the Old World. Also, on the cliffs people from a hundred years or more had chiseled in their names with dates: "Aaron Hill, 1878; Horace Hall, 1903" and so on. It was a place, almost a graveyard of the past that only some of the locals, and some others like John who knew the locals, knew how to reach. He had found it, found the right tree and footing, and had swung himself out on a limb in indescribable despair.
His memory came to me recently for an unknown reason - maybe the Robin Williams suicide, maybe not - and this time it struck me as an incredible, almost impossible thing, this suicide. Imagine, as much as you dare, approaching your neighbor with a shot gun and pointing it at him. He has done nothing more wrong to you than let his dog bark at night, and he now has time to plead with you: don't do it! My wife, my kids, everything and everyone I have, don't do it! And you look calmly at him and pull the trigger. In a second, you have taken everything from him and turned him into a slab of meat. You have also crossed a line into a country with an entirely different culture, topography, everything. You have with one shot catapulted yourself and everyone around you and the dead neighbor into a frighteningly unfamiliar lands.
Now imagine yourself, who has probably done no more wrong than the neighbor. You have a big butt, but everyone likes you; your wife has found another guy, but your daughter loves and needs you. You look into the mirror of your mind and it pleads, don't do it!, but you cinch the knot and swing out over the precipice into the unknown. How? I can understand this with the raving maniac, with the man who has become possessed by some psychological or spiritual devil, but for the otherwise thinking person?
This is not an exercise to condemn anyone - in such a strange land, I feel powerless to debate. It is like murder, but it also is not; in suicide, you know yourself better than anyone, and it is left to your judgement or your pain. Still, it is so beyond the boundaries that I am drawn in by the debate now going on about euthanasia. Those for it are for it for mercy reasons - it is usually suicide by those in great physical pain with no hope of a cure. Those against it argue the slippery slope - that it might be used by those in temporary crises, not just those in terminal illness. Others approach it from the God perspective: the Bible, they say, says we do not own our bodies - God does, and so we should leave its death to God alone.
For me at the moment, the question goes back to yesterday's blog: while God, or great outside force, often intercedes to direct our lives, at what point does our personal freedom contradict such direction to the point that it is nullified? That is, at what point have we crossed from natural law to something that carries us beyond this law irrevocably, like the murderer? Beyond, that is, the guidance of Providence, into a new and dangerous country. Into Hell, perhaps.
There are many possible answers, but one that first comes to mind is this: could morality be not a system of rewards and punishments as we understand it from our childhood, but a careful set of instructions to keep us in line with the "natural," with the guidance of the Great Directive? And yet, these differ from nation to nation, from tribe to tribe. Are there any absolute values, then? Or is it rather a system of relationships, each culture and/or era offering a different take on reality? That is, each system developing values which keep one in touch with divine direction through the proper exercise of relationships. Is it that fluid? Is the native priest who is lawfully ripping out beating hearts on an Aztec temple just as compliant with divine will as the Catholic priest who is bathing the lepers in spite of the risk to himself?
As a social scientist I would say "yes," minus any mention of divine will. As my honest self I would say, "you've got to be kidding!" John B's actions were not the best, and he ended for the moment any guidance he and those with whom he had a relationship could get. The murderer, priest or no, also ends by his own direction the fate of another. This has to be wrong. But what then of moral relativism? Where is the line to be drawn? Do we adhere to the full extent of the Bible, including not eating pork, or do we pick and choose at our own discretion? I will continue to eat bacon, but will we as a society abandon so much of basic morality that we cross a boundary that places us beyond a cosmic law and cosmic guidance?
Or is it all about relationships, but with one caveat: the golden rule - do unto others as you would wish done unto yourself. Yes, but what of John B's suicide? Might it also be, do unto yourself as you know you should do unto others? And this final question: was Judas condemned for his betrayal of Jesus, or his suicide,.or both?
Next blog, a further look into relationships, reviewing the movie "Cloud Atlas." FK
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