As you may be aware, the Vatican recently decided that trying to ordain a woman is worse than child molestation. The former is a crime against the sacraments and the latter a crime against morality, both of which are investigated by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (basically what used to be the Inquisition).
Sure, whatever, it's just Ratzinger's Church being against women. Is that really news?
What's astonishing is that participating in the ordination of a woman results in automatic excommunication (this is actually not new, it's just re-emphasized), whereas sexually abusing a child warrants an investigation and possible de-frocking (read: results in being transferred to another parish). No excommunication.
I'm not arguing for excommunication; I'm just pointing out the difference in the treatment of these crimes.
Obviously everyone who is not the Pope (or close to it) thinks this is a horrendously stupid thing. Except, apparently, our own Craig Myers, who promoted the story on Dunker Journal.
This makes me angry.
(The blog post does not say "Hey, this is a good thing," but given the BRF's stated position on the issue, familiarity with Myers' posting style, and the non-critical language used in the link, there's really no doubt of the intent.)
Update: REALLY?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Beauty in connection, life and death
The following is strange. It's random. It is possibly offensive. But it's as true as anything I've written.
I was having a truly awful day. I was lost in my own world, I was angry at everyone, and my multitude of neuroses and mental illnesses were working in full force.
I arrived early at the chapel for the hymn sing that would open the conference, and picked an out-of-the-way seat in the fourth row with plenty of room around me for my friends to find me. The singing began, and I tried my best to follow along, though while the Mennonites use the same hymnal as us, they tend to pick different songs.
My fellow Bethany students wandered in. I glanced in their direction, hoping to catch their eye, but they didn't see me; they sat on the other side of the room, laughing amongst themselves, celebrating the dinner they'd had together--the dinner I'd missed for a previously-arranged one with my parents.
I felt abandoned. Rejected. Alone. And worst of all, everyone could see that I was alone. I stuck out, the one person in a room full of Anabaptists with no friends or family, with no ability to connect to others. The loser.
This is what I mean when I talk about mental illnesses.
I became less and less interested in the songs, my voice fading into a quieter and quieter tone. After a few minutes, a woman involved in the conference came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
"We're trying to get people to fill the front rows," she told me. "Would you mind moving up?" I told her I would not.
I was furious. Not only was I a leper, now I was being chastised for it, asked to rectify the situation as if it was my fault I was all alone. I seriously considered just leaving. Fuck this hymn sing.
I moved sideways to a section of seating that was more populated. By now, though, my last shred of sanity was gone. I numbly opened the hymnal and accompanying book to the appropriate songs, but I stared straight ahead, no longer even pretending to sing. My mind left my body to sit there, catatonic.
I was jolted to attention by a man moving aggressively into the chair next to me and offering his hand. Great, I thought, now I have to pretend to be interested in meeting someone new.
It was Stan Noffsinger.
I've never been out for drinks and deep conversation with Stan, but he always addresses me by name and has always been a friendly and engaging person. While I never would have predicted this reaction to him, I felt my anger and resistance melt a little. Desperately, I clung to familiarity. He was safe. I was safe. All was not well, but with Stan there I could at least survive to the end of worship.
We sang a song, then Stan turned to me and asked, "Did you hear about Art Gish?" I felt a hint of fear creep into my chest. I told him I hadn't. "He was killed today," Stan said. "He was working on his farm and his tractor flipped and pinned him."
"Oh, no," I said. I wanted to say "oh, God," but this was the general secretary of the Church of the Brethren, and I was uncertain of his position on breaking commandments.
Instantly, I was cured. This tragic news was the slap in the face that brought me out of my own, small world, and re-connected me to what was real. Suddenly I could feel the love of those around me in worship. The connection to Stan strengthened. Just then the music started for the next song, and now I sang loud and clear. This was my worship, my celebration. For Art. For life. For the joy I felt in the community in which I stood.
I did not know Art personally, though I think I met him a few times. In life I admired his work, but I never got the opportunity to connect to him as a person. In the moment I learned of his death, though, he gave me the gift of connection when I was at one of my lowest points. Art Gish, the peacemaker, brought peace to my heart.
I know this is a strange reaction to have at the news of someone's death--especially the death of someone who was such an amazing gift to the world. It is self-centered and short-sighted and possibly evidence that I am a sociopath. But that is my story of Art's gift to me.
Rest in peace.
I was having a truly awful day. I was lost in my own world, I was angry at everyone, and my multitude of neuroses and mental illnesses were working in full force.
I arrived early at the chapel for the hymn sing that would open the conference, and picked an out-of-the-way seat in the fourth row with plenty of room around me for my friends to find me. The singing began, and I tried my best to follow along, though while the Mennonites use the same hymnal as us, they tend to pick different songs.
My fellow Bethany students wandered in. I glanced in their direction, hoping to catch their eye, but they didn't see me; they sat on the other side of the room, laughing amongst themselves, celebrating the dinner they'd had together--the dinner I'd missed for a previously-arranged one with my parents.
I felt abandoned. Rejected. Alone. And worst of all, everyone could see that I was alone. I stuck out, the one person in a room full of Anabaptists with no friends or family, with no ability to connect to others. The loser.
This is what I mean when I talk about mental illnesses.
I became less and less interested in the songs, my voice fading into a quieter and quieter tone. After a few minutes, a woman involved in the conference came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
"We're trying to get people to fill the front rows," she told me. "Would you mind moving up?" I told her I would not.
I was furious. Not only was I a leper, now I was being chastised for it, asked to rectify the situation as if it was my fault I was all alone. I seriously considered just leaving. Fuck this hymn sing.
I moved sideways to a section of seating that was more populated. By now, though, my last shred of sanity was gone. I numbly opened the hymnal and accompanying book to the appropriate songs, but I stared straight ahead, no longer even pretending to sing. My mind left my body to sit there, catatonic.
I was jolted to attention by a man moving aggressively into the chair next to me and offering his hand. Great, I thought, now I have to pretend to be interested in meeting someone new.
It was Stan Noffsinger.
I've never been out for drinks and deep conversation with Stan, but he always addresses me by name and has always been a friendly and engaging person. While I never would have predicted this reaction to him, I felt my anger and resistance melt a little. Desperately, I clung to familiarity. He was safe. I was safe. All was not well, but with Stan there I could at least survive to the end of worship.
We sang a song, then Stan turned to me and asked, "Did you hear about Art Gish?" I felt a hint of fear creep into my chest. I told him I hadn't. "He was killed today," Stan said. "He was working on his farm and his tractor flipped and pinned him."
"Oh, no," I said. I wanted to say "oh, God," but this was the general secretary of the Church of the Brethren, and I was uncertain of his position on breaking commandments.
Instantly, I was cured. This tragic news was the slap in the face that brought me out of my own, small world, and re-connected me to what was real. Suddenly I could feel the love of those around me in worship. The connection to Stan strengthened. Just then the music started for the next song, and now I sang loud and clear. This was my worship, my celebration. For Art. For life. For the joy I felt in the community in which I stood.
I did not know Art personally, though I think I met him a few times. In life I admired his work, but I never got the opportunity to connect to him as a person. In the moment I learned of his death, though, he gave me the gift of connection when I was at one of my lowest points. Art Gish, the peacemaker, brought peace to my heart.
I know this is a strange reaction to have at the news of someone's death--especially the death of someone who was such an amazing gift to the world. It is self-centered and short-sighted and possibly evidence that I am a sociopath. But that is my story of Art's gift to me.
Rest in peace.
Friday, July 16, 2010
I write like...
When I blog:
When I write creatively:
I was also going to include a badge for my academic writing, but the obviously deeply flawed algorithm compared my academic writing (which, let's face it, we all know is amazing) to the writing of Dan Brown. Now, maybe you liked The Da Vinci Code, but the best thing I can say about it is it probably would have been really good if Dan Brown were a good writer, and the movie was cool.
Brandi put it best: "So your academic writing is like a bad novel about religious secret plots that was written to be a screenplay all along. That's funny."
In defense of my writing, I don't think the computer brain behind this analysis has any kind of academic writing fed into it, so it'll give wildly strange results if your offering is not actually literature, and those results should in no way be considered accurate.
But still. Dan Brown?
I write like
David Foster Wallace
David Foster Wallace
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
When I write creatively:
I was also going to include a badge for my academic writing, but the obviously deeply flawed algorithm compared my academic writing (which, let's face it, we all know is amazing) to the writing of Dan Brown. Now, maybe you liked The Da Vinci Code, but the best thing I can say about it is it probably would have been really good if Dan Brown were a good writer, and the movie was cool.
Brandi put it best: "So your academic writing is like a bad novel about religious secret plots that was written to be a screenplay all along. That's funny."
In defense of my writing, I don't think the computer brain behind this analysis has any kind of academic writing fed into it, so it'll give wildly strange results if your offering is not actually literature, and those results should in no way be considered accurate.
But still. Dan Brown?
Thursday, July 08, 2010
In which I surf couches in Pittsburgh
Like thousands of other Brethren, I made the trek to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania this past week to attend Annual Conference. I fiercely avoided anything that looked too much like a business or insight session, and spent my days trying to score free meals and hang out with friends. Which may not have been worth the registration fee, but maybe conference will have a balance of $119 this year. And then I will be responsible for making it not lose money.
Since I'm dirt poor, I was determined not to drop money for a week in a hotel. The problem was that I decided at the last second to go, and everyone who was offering floor space had already given it away. Not about to be foiled once I'd made up my mind, I turned to Couchsurfing.
Couchsurfing rocks.
After many inquiries, I found two hosts between whom to split my four days. The first was totally cool, and we shared much in the way of beer and good times on the Fourth of July. My other hosts seemed quite awesome as well, and were definitely super generous, but I was sadly unable to spend any real time with them; I kept getting back late from late evening activities, and they had a sane bedtime.
I don't have any pictures to accompany this post because I couldn't bring myself to be that guy who snaps lots of photos with people he doesn't know. I'm too awkward and reserved, though I did find someone who makes my neuroses seem virtually non-existant. (By the way, finding a new show that is six seasons old is really, really bad news.)
Finally, I will in some way reward anyone who can accurately explain my occasional use of the phrase "in which" for post titles.
Since I'm dirt poor, I was determined not to drop money for a week in a hotel. The problem was that I decided at the last second to go, and everyone who was offering floor space had already given it away. Not about to be foiled once I'd made up my mind, I turned to Couchsurfing.
Couchsurfing rocks.
After many inquiries, I found two hosts between whom to split my four days. The first was totally cool, and we shared much in the way of beer and good times on the Fourth of July. My other hosts seemed quite awesome as well, and were definitely super generous, but I was sadly unable to spend any real time with them; I kept getting back late from late evening activities, and they had a sane bedtime.
I don't have any pictures to accompany this post because I couldn't bring myself to be that guy who snaps lots of photos with people he doesn't know. I'm too awkward and reserved, though I did find someone who makes my neuroses seem virtually non-existant. (By the way, finding a new show that is six seasons old is really, really bad news.)
Finally, I will in some way reward anyone who can accurately explain my occasional use of the phrase "in which" for post titles.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
In which my blog holds me accountable
Things I said I'd do, with commentary.
- I'm going to run regularly. - I'm working on it. I ran three miles today, my fourth time running in a week.
- I'm going to eat real food. - This one's still mostly a failure, though I did have a delicious pie containing cherries which I helped pick. Actually, the cherries that went into that particular pie were all picked by me. That's real food, yes?
- I'm going to do research. - Fail, and no comment.
- I'm going to write beautiful letters to beautiful people. - I wrote a few beautiful letters, but apparently that's weird and I haven't gotten any back.
- I'm going to take naps in the grass. - Not yet.
I'm going to do yoga. Even if it's bad yoga. - This one was probably overly ambitious anyway.
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