I’ve decided to put Totally Baked to sleep.  Either I’m losing interest in the kind of content usually posted here or I’ve run out of things I want to say, especially since it involves a lot of work just to get it down.  I’m tired of my own material.

This doesn’t mean I’ve quite writing, but I have shifted my focus.  Instead of trying to walk the borderlands of philosophical theology or whatever it is I have been doing here, I’ve decided to ride the bull directly.  I’m going to face off with the central document of the Christian enterprise and see where it takes me.

You can find me at Our Daily Fred if you’re interested.  Otherwise, thanks for reading Totally Baked.

Good night, Gracie.

]]> http://totallybaked.wordpress.com/2009/04/10/fare-thee-well/feed/ 0 Fred speechless http://totallybaked.wordpress.com/2009/04/04/biblical-spiritual-weird/ http://totallybaked.wordpress.com/2009/04/04/biblical-spiritual-weird/#comments Sat, 04 Apr 2009 19:52:30 +0000 Fred http://totallybaked.wordpress.com/?p=1739 ]]>

Devotions for the Deviant

Go.

It’s time for a brand new devotional.  Oswald Chambers had his moment, but times have changed.  What we need is a devotional for those of us who can’t park straight, who don’t quite fit into starched vestments, who think God is a great comedian.  And since I’m the most qualified, I pick me to write it.

Our Daily Fred is just what you need.  Make it your daily habit.

Mother Teresa never reads the newspaper, never listens to the radio and never watches television, so she’s got a pretty good idea of what’s going on in the world. —Malcolm Muggeridge

Mass mediocrity. Informed ignorance. Blitzkrieg banality. Digital distraction. Call it what you want; it’s the bane of the 21st century tech-state. We have unlimited input relentlessly available, so much so that we have lost the ability to interpret it. We are awash in information, entertainment, propaganda, virtual personalities, conduits, and just plain doggerel—infoporn.  The result is we can’t see the forest for the trees. As literary critic Harold Bloom notes: “Information is endlessly available to us; where shall wisdom be found?”

I don’t watch television—at all. I don’t go to movies (I see a few at 35,000 feet) or read popular magazines. And while I check the headlines on a couple of bookmarked websites, I don’t surf the net for fun. I don’t own a cell phone or PDA. Basically, I’m as Luddite as you can get and still run a Mac. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong about any of our modern conveniences. But add them all up and we’ve got a world teeming with precision vapidity. Lots of foment, but little intellectual—little human nutrition. We are experts at delivery, but rotten cooks.

Here’s a case where less is definitely more. It’s not just input we need, but the space to think about it. Our culture of volume and velocity erases that space, or better, fills it. Broadband abhors a vacuum, which is exactly how the media moguls view us: a pitiable emptiness that must be filled like a cavity. But I will not comply. Instead, I jealously guard the fallow fields of my inner landscape, planting, when I plant, carefully sifted thoughts of proven worth.

Yes, I will miss out on the many opportunities to seed the latest fabrications and mutations. I will continue to fall inexcusably behind the times and be confirmed a relic of the primordial past. I am a dinosaur. But a living one—with teeth. So I will growl and gnash my dire pronouncements as the distracted children of surface and skim dissipate their substance through the filaments grafted to their ears and eyes and text-savvy thumbs. I will indeed careen toward sure and obscure extinction, unmourned and unnoticed, yet with an intensity that can burn holes in silicon. And if I cannot turn back the chattering tide (as I know full well I cannot), I will at least leave scorch marks on the tarmac.

There is no question that the Godhead we inherited from Christian tradition is way overdue for an overhaul. The old group just doesn’t play well in our tech-savvy, glamor-drenched culture anymore. So instead of trying to put new clothes on a doddering emperor, I thought it was time to make nominations for an updated deity, one we believers don’t have to apologize for. So here are my votes for a new and improved Trinity:

To replace our archaic Father Who Art in Heaven, I select Jon Stewart. He comes across as smarter than the incumbent and doesn’t need a beard to photograph well. But where Stewart has it hands-down over the Ancient of Days is his sense of humor. Steward employs passionate insincerity, sarcasm, and flippant remarks to make his points and crush his enemies. Yahweh is just too heavy-handed and pedantic to score many points today. Steward would fill his slot with impressive style and would keep the Godhead’s ratings up. The Daily Show would be the new Our Daily Bread.

To take over the role of the Logos, I nominate Bono. Jesus still gets kudos for a job well done (nobody could do the cross thing better—Jesus nailed it), but his vibe’s gotten too sentimental for modern tastes. Bono has some of the the same agenda as Jesus does but is much hipper going about it. Bono knows the value of a rock band and four-letter words. And unlike Jesus, Bono knows how to hob-knob with political big shots and get great press. (The Queen recently appointed Bono to be an honorary Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire.) Granted, Jesus does dominate the book market, but let’s face it, nobody reads anymore. The future is definitely iPod. The new Gospel? U2 can be saved.

Without a doubt the conservative love-goddess Ann Coulter is the choice to replace the Holy Spirit. She’s sexier by far, which should be good enough for nearly everybody. (And talk about a tongue of fire!) Even women believers should have no trouble submitting to her leading. Beyond that, Coulter’s positions on issues, though often crass, are refreshingly categorical and clear—more than we can say for our invisible and notoriously elusive Counselor. Besides, it’d be great to have a Helper who was really nice to look at for a change.  Being invisible is so yesterday.

So there you have it, my nominations for a new Godhead. I think they’d work much better than the current crop. We’d finally have a Deity we wouldn’t have to be ashamed of and whose bloody history and global mismanagement we wouldn’t have to try to explain. Not only that, with Coulter on the team, I know my prayer life would improve almost immediately.  I surrender all, baby.

The trouble with God is that he’s too right. No negotiations. No compromise. No, “Oops, sorry about that. My fault.” Being the Being of ultimate righteousness, he’s got the corner on oughtness and by definition is always . . . well, right. He always knows the correct answer and the meticulously proper way things should be done. In theory it’s nice to have somebody like this around in case you need advice. But nobody likes a morally superior know-it-all, especially when they are morally superior and rarely offer anything as advice. We all want to govern our own moral universes, thank you very much, and quietly begrudge the Great My Way or the Highway hovering over us like the sword of Damocles. Of course, the alternative—a God who blunders—is even more disconcerting considering that the office of Deity has no foreseeable term limits.

The trouble with God is that he’s too good. Granted, there are advantages to having a perfectly virtuous divinity. It’s nice to know that the guy with unlimited power is somewhat bound by a code of ethics. (I say “somewhat” because certain passages in the Bible suggest that even God can have a bad day.) The downside is that, by implication, he’s also the exemplar of goodness, which means we’re supposed to copy him. How lame is that? Goodness is so boring. Paradise Lost is a romp because Milton’s Satan is so doggone cool. In Paradise Regained, by contrast, Jesus comes off as a divine goody two-shoes. Sure, he redeemed mankind and whupped the devil hands-down, but even so, personality-wise Satan would be much more fun at a cocktail party.

The trouble with God is that he’s too big. We need things in byte-sized chunks, clearly marked parcels of meaning and experience that can be easily stored or deleted. That’s why we like sermons and the latest “secrets to the successful life” books; they’re vapid and easy to digest, a kind of spiritual tapioca—minus the nutritional value. God, on the other hand, is a sprawling mess of paradox, contradiction, mutation, mystery, and infinitude. Just when you think you’ve got the dude pinned down, he morphs on you; you think you’ve got him in the box and—poof!—Yahweh has left the building. As a general rule, Americans like big, but not when it comes to God. We want a manageable deity not some outlaw behemoth with a mind of his own. Our God has got to be programmable and fit into our pockets. The idea of the mega-god of the Bible tends to oppress us like credit card debt: we make minimum payments, but can’t seem to touch the principal.

Lastly, the trouble with God is that he’s too loving. He’s way too tolerant of jerks, ignoramuses, and various assortments of dweebs, diddlers, and Rod Stewart fans. Can it be possible that he would let into heaven rap singers, folks who let their dogs sit their laps when they drive, or anybody with subwoofers in their trunks? I’ve discussed my doubts about this elsewhere. This divine tendency to love idiots makes it somewhat problematic for us to ignore the guys with cardboard signs or to send F-18s to bomb the crap out of the more cantankerous members of the world community. Then again, God has never been much of a pragmatist, so we allow for his weakness like we would an indulgent grandfather who insists on telling us the same stories over and over. We nod, but carry on with business as usual, protecting God through benevolent disregard from the unfortunate consequences of such indiscriminate affections. God can be such a sap.

We can’t actually get rid of God; by definition we’re sort of stuck with him. However, we can reshape him to better fit the realities of life as we know it. Some might call this rebellion, or idolatry or—even worse—average Christianity. I like to think of it as Dale Carnegie for an awkward deity. We help him understand the etiquette of the times and he gains a more realistic self-concept. Quite frankly, he needs an image upgrade if he’s going to remain titular head of the Corporation.

To his credit, though, God is very good at plagues and catering.

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
—Friedrich Nietzsche

In the nineteenth century the problem was that God is dead;
in the twentieth century the problem is that man is dead.
—Erich Fromm

If we could just find out who’s in charge, we could kill him.
—George Carlin

It’s a mad mad mad mad world. And is it any wonder? The deity of Western Christendom seems to have lost his moxie (he’s still a nice guy though), the redneck Bubba-god of the Middle East is punch drunk and looking for trouble, and the human race seems evenly divided between those who want to make nice, those who want to kick butt, and those who are too sick and tired to care.

But enough about the holidays.

I recently checked in on the Ancient of Days, a sort of impromptu pilgrimage via delorosa minus the floor show, and discovered that the Old Guy was indeed dead as Nietzsche declared, but he seemed surprisingly okay with that. The vibe I got was of a deceased deity who’s finally at peace with himself and has found a few new hobbies (one of them, bonsai mountains, was especially interesting). I was delighted to find him open and even chatty.

Fortunately I had my microcorder and, with his permission, recorded our brief conversation. What follows is a fairly accurate transcript. I’ve edited out a divine “uh” or two and a long, rather experimental recitation of Lamentations in strict iambic pentameter accompanied by ukulele (which he played quite well). Anyway, here’s my tête-à-tête with Alpha & Omega:

Totally Baked (TB): I’m not quite sure how to address you.

ΑΩ: Don’t worry about it. Nobody remembers how to pronounce my real name anyway. The boys have taken to calling me Big El. Get it? I will B.E. what I will B.E.? Pretty clever.

TB: Not LORD or Most High or He Who Rides on the Clouds?

ΑΩ: Naw. We’re a lot more casual around here now. We do things more by consensus than edict these days. Everybody’s got a say now. We’re formed into management teams. Sure, I’ve got tons of seniority, but even I can be overruled from time to time.

TB: Overruled?

ΑΩ: Agreement is key. Frankly, I’ve had nothing but trouble trying to enforce categorical imperatives. Always ended up losing my cool and destroying things. This is better. Less pressure.

TB: But you’re God.

ΑΩ: What does that mean anymore? Supreme Being? Prime Mover? First Principle? Creator? The Good? Mere metaphysical conceits. Listen, Nietzsche was right: I’m dead. But hey, now I get a two-day weekend and can even take a nap when I want to.

TB: So you’re not sure who you are?

ΑΩ: I’m flexible. Want a beer or something?

TB: No thanks. I’m a bit confused. Doesn’t the Bible say that you do not change?

ΑΩ: Oh, the Bible. Well, you know, I’m a bit embarrassed by that. It was an early draft of a novel I was working on. I was having trouble with character development and the plot was fragmented. The sex and violence came across well, but I could never figure out just what I wanted to say. So I set it aside. Somehow it surfaced as a religious constitution. I probably should have stopped the whole thing right away, but it did end up a best seller. I wrote a sequel, but it bombed. The unsold copies are moldering in a warehouse somewhere in Utah. Considering the catastrophes surrounding the original, it’s probably a good thing. Still, I can’t help but envy JK Rowlings.

TB: She’s definitely on a roll.

ΑΩ: She makes the supernatural seem so believable. Mine always came off looking like cheap pyrotechnics. You don’t have a Rowling Seminar expunging her books.

TB: Everybody’s a critic.

ΑΩ: (chuckling) Yeah. Sure you don’t want a beer?

TB: No thanks. So now that you’re . . . ah, dead, what happens to everybody who believes in you?

ΑΩ: I’m not sure

TB: You’re not sure?

ΑΩ: As part of my demise I relinquished omniscience. And let me tell you, was that a relief! Of course that means things are no longer strictly predetermined.

TB: That’s a little troubling.

ΑΩ: Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along, free will and all that?

TB: I guess so, but—

ΑΩ: There you go then. Make up your own ending. Just don’t blame me for how things turn out.

TB: Do you still answer prayer?

ΑΩ: Now that’s an interesting development. Someone over there prays for rain. Another person asks for sun. Each side of a war prays that their cause prevails and their troops are kept safe. No matter how I played it, I disappointed half the audience. So the communication department makes this brilliant suggestion that we let contrary prayers simply cancel each other out. Only the prayers that remain get through. Know how many prayers we actually had to handle in the past three years? Seven total. Seven! And five of them had to do with the Janet Jackson Superbowl incident. Thank God for YouTube. Say, you wouldn’t mind if I had a cold beer, would you?

TB: No. Go right ahead.

ΑΩ: I never really was much of a wine guy—except it does go better with those little wafers.

TB: You seem pretty happy about your own afterlife.

ΑΩ: Being dead’s been good so far. I’ve come to terms with who I am and have even found the courage to come out of the closet on a few things.

TB: Do I dare ask?

ΑΩ: Sure. For one thing, I never really liked the Jews. Arrogant sons of bitches every one of them. Abraham was kosher, but the rest were pains in the butt. The Arabs have been one migraine after another too. Don’t have an artistic bone in their bodies. And don’t get me started on dwarfs. God, they give me the willies! About the only person I’ve ever really liked was Liberace. Now that guy was a dresser!

TB: Wasn’t he gay?

ΑΩ: What’s the Trinity if not three guys living together in an intimate, church-recognized union?

TB: I don’t think I’m ready for this.

ΑΩ: Theology can paint you into a corner if you’re not careful.

TB: Are you saying that you’re. . . ?

ΑΩ: Relax. I’m just kidding. I may be dead but I’m straight. Remember mother Mary?

TB: Oh, yeah. Whew. You had me for a moment.

ΑΩ: Of course we did it outside of wedlock. Even the Southern Baptists don’t seem to have a problem with that one. Go figure.

TB: Well, I have to confess, you seem a lot mellower than I expected.

ΑΩ: The first thing I did after checking out was get rid of those four living creatures. Can you imagine what it was like to listen to them thrash the same song over and over and over and over for a bazillion eons? Not even a second verse, for crying out loud! Just Holy Holy Holy on and on and on. No wonder I was edgy. If I’d have canned them earlier, there’d probably have never been a flood. Hell, you all would probably still be living in the Garden! I got another beer if you want one.

TB: Thanks, but I really need to get going. I appreciate the time. This has been very interesting, uh, Your Honor.

ΑΩ: You can call me El—that is if I can call you Betty. Ha ha ha. Seriously, call me anytime. Maybe we can play poker or something. I promise I won’t cheat. Ha ha ha. Sure you won’t stay for another beer?

TB: Thanks, El. Maybe another time. Loved the ukulele! Ah . . . men?

.  .  .

[This is a repost, mostly because I don't think it got the kudos it deserves.]

Hell is oneself.
—T.S. Eliot

Hell is other people.
—Jean-Paul Sartre

I like hell. Not that I want to go there, but I do think it’s a hell of a great idea.

The concept of a state of ultimate punishment may be repugnant to some. The thought that a loving God could consign some of his very own creatures to everlasting torment (or at least permanent erasure) is to them inconceivable. I, on the other hand, actually appreciate the possibility. A God who can say “I’ve had it with you people” is a God with chutzpah. I just can’t do a namby-pamby deity.

There’s a ton of information about hell out there if you want to know how the idea developed and what different traditions think about it. The Greeks, for example, had Hades, a sort of grungy, windowless bar in the netherworld where hero and chump alike sat around drinking cheap cocktails and dreaming about the old days. Not scary, but maddeningly boring. Most other traditions, however, portray hell as a bad place. Bad bad bad.

As a last resort, you can read the Bible to see what those guys believed. In the scriptures you’ll find hellish concepts like punishment, torment, wrath, fire, darkness, destruction, and even worms (yuck). Whether these are literal descriptions or metaphorical conceits is not the point. The point is that hell is a decidedly rotten place for a timeshare.

Personally, I’d add a few more nodes to the infernal neighborhood. In my hell all the restaurants are Mexican. There’s not a coffee shop in sight. Everybody has at least three dogs and is covered with tattoos. There’s no toilet paper. No matter where you sit, a crying kid is next to you. Somebody has always just farted. And even if you don’t want anything you still have to wait in line. Come to think of it, my version of hell looks a lot like the DMV.

So who ends up in hell? Pretty much anybody you and God don’t like. (And it’s highly unlikely that any God you picked is going to disagree with you, right?) For most of us, hell is not really a religious issue, but a grudge wish. We want the jerks smacked, screwed, skewered, scalded, and scraped until they scream—and we want to watch too. Otherwise, heaven (which is, of course, where you’re going) promises to be a lot like Hades, except with windows, potted plants, and organic fruit juices—kind of like a hotel lobby. If we’re lucky, heaven might be a bunch of RVs parked by the lake of fire with the saints, cold brews in hand, watching the fireworks from lawn chairs. Now that’s something worth getting saved for.

If it weren’t for the pain part, hell actually seems kind of cool (in a hot sort of way). Sure, it may be a transitional neighborhood, but it definitely has character. Heaven, hell’s nice sister, is pretty and gracious, but not much fun on a date. In fact, I’m thinking that heaven wouldn’t be nearly so attractive without the looming threat of utter doom.

Ultimately, hell seems relative. It’s whatever we want for the jerks and the jerks want for us. From what I’ve seen, most of us are only concerned about keeping our own keisters out of there. The idiots be damned. Besides, we don’t really want them in paradise anyway. Heaven is a spacious subdivision with large lots and landscaping service.

The riff-raff can just go to hell.

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Preach it, Brother Frost.

Beauty is a fragile gift.
—Ovid

The tenuous and astonishing flicker of the hummingbird.  The glistening thread of a spider’s silk.  The short life-span of an ocean wave.  The anguish of surprise contentment.  The pristine chill of morning air.  A musical note.

The ephemeral moments of human achievement.  Thought flickering along a neural tightrope.  The inspiration of defeat.  Touch.  The brief lifespan of the Mayfly lived entirely within a column of momentary sunlight.  A confection of ice on a springtime puddle.

That one shining moment of personal triumph.  The fleeting oracle of birdsong.  Surrender.  The perfectly sharp pencil.  The lace of freshly baked bread.  Childhood.

—So much beauty rest upon a fragile balance, a transitory stasis that is as much ache as anything.  Look now!  Look!  Only for a moment then the moment’s gone. Like a breath this life is.

Teach me, O Great Momentariousness.  Teach me to count only to one.  Nullify the tyranny of future declensions.  Disperse the acrid hints of not yet.  Let me bask in the singularities and watch them evaporate one by one, adrift on the waters of fragile blessing.

NON EST MEA CULPA