Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A Celebrity Appearance
The Jenkins, made famous by shows such as Molokai Gleeks and the Jenkins College Road Trip, made a guest cameo appearance a few days ago as part of Moriah’s transcontinental publicity tour. Although it is a well known fact that I am a fan of the Jenkins and their work, I unfortunately just barely missed them during their show in Chicago a few weeks back. Finally getting to see them live again, then, was fantastic. Although their standup has changed some over the years with less of the slapstick sister beating sister that gave them prominence early on, the more mature nature of their current performance has really helped provide character development. During this latest event they arrived early while Patrick and I were still desperately working to get everything packed and ready for my move to New Hampshire. Despite this haphazard way they were introduced into the series, their poise and comedic timing carried the day. Between the way they stuffed every nook and cranny of the moving truck with the remaining debris of my apartment, to the way they all seven (with their uncle and cousin) bunked down for the night on the cement floor of an empty studio apartment, to the way they hurled random objects at each other’s faces when they ran out of better things to occupy themselves with, it was pure comedic gold. The one scene where Sarah walked down to the moving van with arms full of nothing more than random wires was classic Jenkins and certainly a highlight of the evening. Although I was disappointed they didn’t play up the offer for ice cream scene – who doesn’t want ice cream while on an evening stroll in the hottest city on the planet? – I was overall very satisfied with their total product. I look forward to seeing them live again, hopefully during their upcoming Christmas holiday tour in December, and I'll definitely be buying their t-shirts. If only there was a Jenkins family coozie....
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Reformation and Restoration in Hispaniola
A few months back I found myself in the back of a small, white commercial van bouncing along the dusty roads of an equally small, rural Dominican village. In the van, crammed inside with me, were a number of military physicians, nurses, optometrists and other medical personnel sharing space and either passing out for a brief disorienting nap or discussing whatever it is suited our interests at the particular moment. And this particular moment it was Mormonism.
Now those who know me know there's little I love to talk about more than Mormonism.* Nothing gets me more excited than the Book of Mormon. Between all the talk about Nephites, Lamanites, golden plates, seer stones, potions, elves, and orcs; I get pretty psyched. And I was never more excited than when they finally made it all into a movie trilogy starring Rudy Ruettiger. I wasn’t the one who did the talking this time, though, as we had with us on this particular ride our very own gang of Mormon missionaries. Or is it a pod? A pod of Mormon missionaries? Gaggle? Herd? A murder? In whichever case the Mormons -- there were about 6 or 7 of 'em -- had been working with us on and off for the previous few days in our attempts to convert the entire country into a liberal democracy under our Lord and Savior Joseph Smith. They helped fill our significant Spanish translator gap and served as essentially our only Creole translators early on. They were not officially assigned to work with us, and their attendance was rather random, but their assistance was invaluable.
This particular conversation started with my relatively innocuous question of why they all wore white button up shirts and ties. (Answer: something to do with them being elders?) This was then followed by my slightly less innocent question of what the next step after elder was, and exactly how many points it took to level up. After that the fire had been set and the rest of the back of the van took over in what would be a 45 minute debate as to whether or not Mormonism was the One, True™ Religion. The details of the discussion are largely unimportant as it was mostly a disjointed, random exchange of accusations, defenses, and barely comprehensible apologetics as these conversations often become in the setting of large group discussion, but what did interest me was the oft-repeated claim that what separated Mormonism from other religions and other brands of Christianity in general was that its foundation was not a “reformation” of sorts – i.e. something decided upon and brought about my man – but rather a unique “restoration” which was God breathed and Heavenly led. Man was not rebuking and reforming man, but God Himself was intervening to restore the true religion to the planet. Its history then, whether true or not, was what separated it from other heresies and was what served as testament to its ultimate veracity. It was a claim I have heard made by many religions now, and a claim which, by and large, I think is bunk. Whatever you want to call it, reformation or restoration, the processes which brought about a good number of today’s modern religions were largely the same.
Luther, prior to taking the first steps towards what would eventually be Lutheranism and the start of Protestantism as a whole, was only brought to take that step by a divine vow to God during a terrible thunderstorm. Calvin, before his embracing of the six points, was only led away from Catholicism and into his reformist zeal by a personal conversion experience of his own. Even though neither of these “reformers” invested into their religions stories about sunglasses and mass transatlantic migrations to South America, each felt he was nevertheless led by God to “restore” Christianity to its rightful, original state. And truly no religious sect can be said to be more in touch with the Divine than the Charismatics who regularly commune with Him through the gifts of tongues and prophesy, and who in their birth at the turn of the last century felt their changes were not some academically inspired changing of the rules but a glorious return to Christianity’s ancient roots. And if survival of belief despite wackiness of back story is the key to a true restoration? Truly no Christian branch can beat the Seventh Day Adventists who have at their very foundation a failed guess at apocalypse by their theological head William Miller in 1844. And if authenticity is verified by an inability to compose wackiness on one’s own, then no Christian denomination has got anything on the Prophet Muhammad (peace and virgins be upon him) who was thought by many to be completely illiterate and yet received and recorded God’s word through Gabriel. From a proper vantage point it is indeed not the restorative nature of Mormonism which distinguishes itself from all other religions, but it is what in fact unites it with all others. No preacher or prophet since the passing of BC to AD has claimed to invent a religion. They have all claimed to simply be bringing man back to what God had always wanted for him: the One, True™ Religion.
Mormon doctrine aside, what surprised me most from my interactions with the gang of Mormons wasn’t their beliefs, but their disposition. Given another time, another place, and another twist of faith they would no longer be Mormon missionaries but Evangelical missionaries. Nearly everything about them save their pointdexter shirts and ties reminded me of the dutiful, young Christian missionary fresh from his church youth group, ready to passionately share his faith, and with only a superficial familiarity of the depth and nature of the world’s great number of faiths. Despite their stuttering and stumbling, despite the fragmented sometimes circular nature of their arguments, and despite the flashes of confusion that periodically shadowed their faces they continued to debate and share as if by earnestness and eagerness they could make up for what they didn’t understand. They were being the salt of the Earth, a city on a hill, the lights of the world -- only in a world with a slightly different God who just so happened to have a thing for polygamy. Although I’d like to think I was a slightly smarter and handsomer version of them back in the day the nature and character of my belief was likely very much the same.
With that car ride as the backdrop for my religious disposition during the trip, my religious experience in the Dominican was not over. On the next to last day, the evening before our flight back to the States we went to the beach on the northern coast of the island. Good times were had by all, too good a time was had by many. After fighting to get back on the exact same buses we rode in on, we then slowly convoyed back to the FOB a noisy mess of relatively inebriated gringos. While many slept, a sizable portion decided a late evening drive home was the perfect time to tell random jokes for an hour straight all of which, from what I can tell, were terrifically funny. Having laughed as much as I could that day already I put on some head phones, turned on some Eve 6, and had some time to myself. And I never felt more alone. Not in the lonely sense -- I had a good friend sitting across from me in the seat adjacent, passed out -- but in the cosmic, existential, you are alone in the universe sense. It has been in my best estimation for a number of years now that there is no god, but it was only now that as much as such a thought can be felt I felt it. Thinking of the trip and the various parties that had taken part in it: the Mormon missionaries who valiantly strove to shape the world into God’s great image; the Haitian patients numbed by tragedy, poverty, and sometimes a bit of the dullards; the Dominican patients from all walks of life, with all sorts of expectations, who all for whatever reasons generally didn’t like the Haitians; the young Dominican translators who generously helped translate for us when they weren’t too busy flirting amongst themselves; the forward operating base’s officer corps who were primarily concerned with the strict implementation of rules and successful project implementation or enjoyment of the experience secondarily; the residents who were assigned to the MEDRETE and who were indifferent to its outcomes; the residents who volunteered for the job and who were disillusioned, excited, or bewildered with its progress; the multitude of family, friends, and strangers back home and the world over going about their lives, focused solely on their lives, and familiar only with their own perspectives; and the notion of an all powerful god underwriting the whole story seemed to me just a little silly. I don’t use run on sentences loosely -- in two weeks I had met and interacted with a seemingly numberless sum of people of different backgrounds, upbringings, world views, and nowhere did I see any grand purpose underwriting any of their lives. There was no unifying theme or central plot, just a thousand unconnected story lines. God’s invisible hand in life is often stated to be that of a great weaver forever working on the most intricate, beautiful, and complex of tapestries that is our world. We, seeing only one side of it, the side of its construction with its loose and extraneous threads and colors, often do not appreciate any sense or design in it. But God, seeing the finished side with every string in place and every image in full detail, knowing the pattern and purpose behind His every stroke, fully appreciates the plan He has for every one of us. I acknowledge my view is limited in life, but I feel I got the biggest glimpse yet of the tapestry, even if the reversed side, and still all I see is threads.
This is not meant to be a polemic against religion. The variability in world views and life courses does not prove anything about god. The seeming lack of purpose proves nothing more than that we are perhaps not meant to know. All I know is that during that ride back to base with all the commotion of the preceding twelve days sloshing around in my mind I’d never less felt a need for there to be a god in the world and I’d never less seen evidence of one in life. And though that may sound like a despairing thing to say, for me it is not. It was a moment of clarity. A brief moment of serenity. I was comfortable because it made sense even if it wasn’t the Truth everyone hopes for. When we got back to the barracks and as I sweated up to my sweaty room I was grateful for the Mormons and all their Mormonism. Their efforts may have not paid the dividends they had wanted, but I definitely feel as if I had profited from the experience. It’s just a shame I couldn’t join their club. I hear there ain’t no Heaven like Mormon Heaven.
*Wait, that’s Mormonism? I thought that was Pokemon? Isn’t Mormonism a card game? Pokemon versus the Latter Day Saints?
Now those who know me know there's little I love to talk about more than Mormonism.* Nothing gets me more excited than the Book of Mormon. Between all the talk about Nephites, Lamanites, golden plates, seer stones, potions, elves, and orcs; I get pretty psyched. And I was never more excited than when they finally made it all into a movie trilogy starring Rudy Ruettiger. I wasn’t the one who did the talking this time, though, as we had with us on this particular ride our very own gang of Mormon missionaries. Or is it a pod? A pod of Mormon missionaries? Gaggle? Herd? A murder? In whichever case the Mormons -- there were about 6 or 7 of 'em -- had been working with us on and off for the previous few days in our attempts to convert the entire country into a liberal democracy under our Lord and Savior Joseph Smith. They helped fill our significant Spanish translator gap and served as essentially our only Creole translators early on. They were not officially assigned to work with us, and their attendance was rather random, but their assistance was invaluable.
This particular conversation started with my relatively innocuous question of why they all wore white button up shirts and ties. (Answer: something to do with them being elders?) This was then followed by my slightly less innocent question of what the next step after elder was, and exactly how many points it took to level up. After that the fire had been set and the rest of the back of the van took over in what would be a 45 minute debate as to whether or not Mormonism was the One, True™ Religion. The details of the discussion are largely unimportant as it was mostly a disjointed, random exchange of accusations, defenses, and barely comprehensible apologetics as these conversations often become in the setting of large group discussion, but what did interest me was the oft-repeated claim that what separated Mormonism from other religions and other brands of Christianity in general was that its foundation was not a “reformation” of sorts – i.e. something decided upon and brought about my man – but rather a unique “restoration” which was God breathed and Heavenly led. Man was not rebuking and reforming man, but God Himself was intervening to restore the true religion to the planet. Its history then, whether true or not, was what separated it from other heresies and was what served as testament to its ultimate veracity. It was a claim I have heard made by many religions now, and a claim which, by and large, I think is bunk. Whatever you want to call it, reformation or restoration, the processes which brought about a good number of today’s modern religions were largely the same.
Luther, prior to taking the first steps towards what would eventually be Lutheranism and the start of Protestantism as a whole, was only brought to take that step by a divine vow to God during a terrible thunderstorm. Calvin, before his embracing of the six points, was only led away from Catholicism and into his reformist zeal by a personal conversion experience of his own. Even though neither of these “reformers” invested into their religions stories about sunglasses and mass transatlantic migrations to South America, each felt he was nevertheless led by God to “restore” Christianity to its rightful, original state. And truly no religious sect can be said to be more in touch with the Divine than the Charismatics who regularly commune with Him through the gifts of tongues and prophesy, and who in their birth at the turn of the last century felt their changes were not some academically inspired changing of the rules but a glorious return to Christianity’s ancient roots. And if survival of belief despite wackiness of back story is the key to a true restoration? Truly no Christian branch can beat the Seventh Day Adventists who have at their very foundation a failed guess at apocalypse by their theological head William Miller in 1844. And if authenticity is verified by an inability to compose wackiness on one’s own, then no Christian denomination has got anything on the Prophet Muhammad (peace and virgins be upon him) who was thought by many to be completely illiterate and yet received and recorded God’s word through Gabriel. From a proper vantage point it is indeed not the restorative nature of Mormonism which distinguishes itself from all other religions, but it is what in fact unites it with all others. No preacher or prophet since the passing of BC to AD has claimed to invent a religion. They have all claimed to simply be bringing man back to what God had always wanted for him: the One, True™ Religion.
Mormon doctrine aside, what surprised me most from my interactions with the gang of Mormons wasn’t their beliefs, but their disposition. Given another time, another place, and another twist of faith they would no longer be Mormon missionaries but Evangelical missionaries. Nearly everything about them save their pointdexter shirts and ties reminded me of the dutiful, young Christian missionary fresh from his church youth group, ready to passionately share his faith, and with only a superficial familiarity of the depth and nature of the world’s great number of faiths. Despite their stuttering and stumbling, despite the fragmented sometimes circular nature of their arguments, and despite the flashes of confusion that periodically shadowed their faces they continued to debate and share as if by earnestness and eagerness they could make up for what they didn’t understand. They were being the salt of the Earth, a city on a hill, the lights of the world -- only in a world with a slightly different God who just so happened to have a thing for polygamy. Although I’d like to think I was a slightly smarter and handsomer version of them back in the day the nature and character of my belief was likely very much the same.
With that car ride as the backdrop for my religious disposition during the trip, my religious experience in the Dominican was not over. On the next to last day, the evening before our flight back to the States we went to the beach on the northern coast of the island. Good times were had by all, too good a time was had by many. After fighting to get back on the exact same buses we rode in on, we then slowly convoyed back to the FOB a noisy mess of relatively inebriated gringos. While many slept, a sizable portion decided a late evening drive home was the perfect time to tell random jokes for an hour straight all of which, from what I can tell, were terrifically funny. Having laughed as much as I could that day already I put on some head phones, turned on some Eve 6, and had some time to myself. And I never felt more alone. Not in the lonely sense -- I had a good friend sitting across from me in the seat adjacent, passed out -- but in the cosmic, existential, you are alone in the universe sense. It has been in my best estimation for a number of years now that there is no god, but it was only now that as much as such a thought can be felt I felt it. Thinking of the trip and the various parties that had taken part in it: the Mormon missionaries who valiantly strove to shape the world into God’s great image; the Haitian patients numbed by tragedy, poverty, and sometimes a bit of the dullards; the Dominican patients from all walks of life, with all sorts of expectations, who all for whatever reasons generally didn’t like the Haitians; the young Dominican translators who generously helped translate for us when they weren’t too busy flirting amongst themselves; the forward operating base’s officer corps who were primarily concerned with the strict implementation of rules and successful project implementation or enjoyment of the experience secondarily; the residents who were assigned to the MEDRETE and who were indifferent to its outcomes; the residents who volunteered for the job and who were disillusioned, excited, or bewildered with its progress; the multitude of family, friends, and strangers back home and the world over going about their lives, focused solely on their lives, and familiar only with their own perspectives; and the notion of an all powerful god underwriting the whole story seemed to me just a little silly. I don’t use run on sentences loosely -- in two weeks I had met and interacted with a seemingly numberless sum of people of different backgrounds, upbringings, world views, and nowhere did I see any grand purpose underwriting any of their lives. There was no unifying theme or central plot, just a thousand unconnected story lines. God’s invisible hand in life is often stated to be that of a great weaver forever working on the most intricate, beautiful, and complex of tapestries that is our world. We, seeing only one side of it, the side of its construction with its loose and extraneous threads and colors, often do not appreciate any sense or design in it. But God, seeing the finished side with every string in place and every image in full detail, knowing the pattern and purpose behind His every stroke, fully appreciates the plan He has for every one of us. I acknowledge my view is limited in life, but I feel I got the biggest glimpse yet of the tapestry, even if the reversed side, and still all I see is threads.
This is not meant to be a polemic against religion. The variability in world views and life courses does not prove anything about god. The seeming lack of purpose proves nothing more than that we are perhaps not meant to know. All I know is that during that ride back to base with all the commotion of the preceding twelve days sloshing around in my mind I’d never less felt a need for there to be a god in the world and I’d never less seen evidence of one in life. And though that may sound like a despairing thing to say, for me it is not. It was a moment of clarity. A brief moment of serenity. I was comfortable because it made sense even if it wasn’t the Truth everyone hopes for. When we got back to the barracks and as I sweated up to my sweaty room I was grateful for the Mormons and all their Mormonism. Their efforts may have not paid the dividends they had wanted, but I definitely feel as if I had profited from the experience. It’s just a shame I couldn’t join their club. I hear there ain’t no Heaven like Mormon Heaven.
*Wait, that’s Mormonism? I thought that was Pokemon? Isn’t Mormonism a card game? Pokemon versus the Latter Day Saints?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sing A Song Of Celeberation
Glory, glory, hallelujah! I have graduated residency and will soon by shedding off the chains of oppression. Loosening the bindings which have held me down. And getting the heck out of these dry barren, South Texan lands as swiftly as possible. (To be fair San Antonio *does* have four seasons: early summer, summer, late summer, and not summer.) The indentured servitude is coming to a close. Truthfully I have one more week of medicine consults till I am truly free, but I plan to defer all medical management questions to my consult monkey who I have trained in the use of both Essentris and the red pocket medicine book. My only regret is that I will not be able to see the old hospital pancaked through controlled explosions, and my one great wish for the future is to see via video feed the old hospital pancaked through controlled explosions. People tell me New Hampshire is going to be cold and unbelievably snowy, but people don't know that for the seven years I've prayed for cold and unbelievably snowy. I'd rather get sweaty shoveling snow off my car than simply because I am sitting inside of it.
Seven more days of work. However many days of military out-processing. A day or two of packing. And freedom!
Seven more days of work. However many days of military out-processing. A day or two of packing. And freedom!
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