Hmmm...Wishful Hoping?

I read today of an interesting quote by Lewis Smedes in his book Keeping Hope Alive. It speaks of his suggestion that hope "is a combination of wishing, imagining, and believing for things in an unknown future. Hope is the spiritual power for living successfully as creatures endowed with godlike ability to imagine the future but stuck with humanlike inability to control it." A little later he's paraphrased like this: "...our spirits were made to hope, just as our hearts were made to love, our brains were made to think, and our hands were made to create things."

Now, this is personally interesting because it suggests to me that I can have hope in Christ without being certain of even His existence. I can wish the Bible accounts of redemption and such are true, I can imagine that Heaven is a real place prepared for us by a loving Father, and then I can believe that a personal relationship with Christ is possible, all without having any certain proof that any of it is "real".

Furthermore, I'm beginning to think that my personal experience has been that of owning a lemon. If religion is merely the vehicle of spirituality, in which one expresses his/her faith, then the religion I was a part of for a chunk of my life was the problem, and not the spirituality I found there. I've maintained an inward distinction between the form of religious activities I was a part of and the belief I held while participating in them. This has allowed me to believe that what I've experienced is "real", while the bitter feelings I've harbored have been the result of a major engine failure in my spiritual vehicle. Hmmm, the jury, as it were, is still out, but I think I may be on to something for myself here.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

I watched The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford last night. My earlier reflections on 3:10 To Yuma revealed a fascination with western-style films, and now I can add another one to my favorites of the genre. Although lacking in action, the dialog and imagery were fantastic. Even the sometimes cheesy, sometimes tinny soundtrack was exceptional, fitting in with the scenes seamlessly, like the comfortable, though silent, accompaniment of a dog on a walk. The most phenomenal part of the movie for me, though, was the character and acting of Casey Affleck. Wow, what a performance! That he was playing a difficult role is an understatement, and though he was asked to nail it in the shadow of one of Hollywood's biggest names, Brad Pitt, he pulled it off swimmingly. The lingering effect of the story and the remembrance of scene after stellar scene fresh in my mind has created a melancholy pleasantness for me today. The weather today perfectly fits the mood; overcast, chilly, breezy, glum. But alas, I must not overlook the quality of the lead character's portrayal of a neurotic, confused, slightly stupid Jesse James. Brad Pitt played his part without a hitch. I suppose the only reason I'm gushing over Affleck is that it came as a surprise to me. But Brad Pitt, who I expected to do well, sold me once again on his ability. I don't know that it's his best, but I think I can safely say this is my favorite role for him. Bouncing back to Affleck for a second, the one disturbing (if that's not overstated) factor is that I can't imagine him ever being in a movie again. It's as if when the movie ended his acting, and his character, faded to black. I don't mean this in a negative sense, just that he carried it out with such perfection the two, the historical figure and the modern-day reteller, became one. Casey Affleck will certainly emerge on the big screen again, but I'll forever see him in a slightly tattered derby.

Thomas More: Utopia

Just now I've finished the middle section of the 36th volume of the Harvard Classics, Thomas More's Utopia. Having only a minimal recognition of the work prior to delving into it, I was completely unaware of what to expect. The First Book was difficult, but necessary to understand the groundwork of the fantasy island and the role of Raphael Hythloday, the fictional world-traveler who described Utopia. The Second Book, though, was phenomenal. Originally published in 1516, I was surprised to see a variety of striking similarities to modern day issues, such as euthanasia, religious tolerance, seeing a prospective spouse naked prior to marriage (I'm not kidding), etc. I'm going to complete this post with some quotes without comment, but I'll offer a quick plug here: if you are interested in economics, religion, countries at war, politics, ethics or a study in the quality of life issue, among other things, this is a must read at some point in your life. The quotes:

For they marvel that any men be so foolish, as to have delight and pleasure in the glistering of a little trifling stone, which may behold any of the stars, or else the sun itself. Or that any man is so mad, as to count himself the nobler for the smaller or finer thread of wool, which selfsame wool (be it now in never so fine a spun thread) did once a sheep wear: and yet was she all that time no other thing than a sheep. They marvel also that gold, which of the own nature is a thing so unprofitable, is now among all people in so high estimation, that man himself, by whom, yea and for the use of whom it is so much set by, is in much less estimation than the gold itself. Insomuch that a lumpish blockheaded churl, and which hath no more wit than an ass, yea and as full of worthlessness and foolishness, shall have nevertheless many wise and good men in subjection and bondage, only for this, because he hath a great heap of gold. Which if it should be taken from him by any fortune, or by some subtle wile of the law (which no less than fortune doth raise up the low and pluck down the high), and be given to the most vile slave and abject drudge of all his household, then shortly after he shall go into the service of his servant, as an augmentation or an overplus beside his money. But they much more marvel at and detest the madness of them which to those rich men, in whose debt and danger they be not, do give almost divine honours, for none other consideration, but because they be rich: and yet knowing them to be such niggardly penny-fathers, that they be sure as long as they live, not the worth of one farthing of that heap of gold shall come to them.

They reason of virtue and pleasure. But the chief and principal question is in what thing, be it one or more, the felicity of man consisteth. But in this point they seem almost too much given and inclined to the opinion of them which defend pleasure, wherein they determine either all or the chiefest part of man’s felicity to rest....Then if it be a point of humanity for man to bring health and comfort to man, and specially (which is a virtue most peculiarly belonging to man) to mitigate and assuage the grief of others, and by taking from them the sorrow and heaviness of life, to restore them to joy, that is to say, to pleasure: why may it not then be said, that nature doth provoke every man to do the same to himself? For a joyful life, that is to say, a pleasant life, is either evil, and if it be so, then thou shouldest not only help no man thereto, but rather, as much as in thee lieth, help all men from it, as noisome and hurtful, or else if thou not only mayst, but also of duty art bound to procure it to others, why not chiefly to thyself, to whom thou art bound to show as much favour as to other? For when nature biddeth thee to be good and gentle to other she commandeth thee not to be cruel and ungentle to thyself. Therefore even very nature (say they) prescribeth to us a joyful life, that is to say, pleasure as the end of all our operations....But to go about to let another man of his pleasure, whilst thou procurest thine own, that is open wrong. Contrariwise to withdraw something from thyself to give to other, that is a point of humanity and gentleness; which never taketh away so much commodity, as it bringeth again. For it is recompensed with the return of benefits; and the conscience of the good deed, with the remembrance of the thankful love and benevolence of them to whom thou hast done it, doth bring more pleasure to thy mind, than that which thou hast withholden from thyself could have brought to thy body.

Or what delight can there be, and not rather displeasure in hearing the barking and howling of dogs? Or what greater pleasure is there to be felt when a dog followeth an hare, than when a dog followeth a dog? for one thing is done in both, that is to say, running, if thou hast pleasure therein. But if the hope of slaughter and the expectation of tearing in pieces the beast doth please thee: thou shouldest rather be moved with pity to see a silly innocent hare murdered of a dog, the weak of the stronger, the fearful of the fierce, the innocent of the cruel and unmerciful. Therefore all this exercise of hunting, as a thing unworthy to be used of free men, the Utopians have rejected....

Furthermore in choosing wives and husbands they observe earnestly and straitly a custom, which seemed to us very fond and foolish. For a sad and an honest matron showeth the woman, be she maid or widow, naked to the wooer. And likewise a sage and discreet man exhibiteth the wooer naked to the woman. At this custom we laughed and disallowed it as foolish. But they on the other part do greatly wonder at the folly of all other nations, which in buying a colt, whereas a little money is in hazard, be so chary and circumspect, that though he be almost all bare, yet they will not buy him, unless the saddle and all the harness be taken off, lest under those coverings be hid some gall or sore. And yet in choosing a wife, which shall be either pleasure, or displeasure to them all their life after, they be so reckless, that all the residue of the woman’s body being covered with clothes, they esteem her scarcely by one hand-breadth (for they can see no more but her face), and so do join her to them not without great jeopardy of evil agreeing together, if anything in her body afterward do offend and mislike them.

Falling Hot Dog Spills The Beans

This is Patrick. A dachshund. He is owned by a friend of mine, Bill, and was thus named because he was born on St. Patrick's Day. I have another friend born on a holiday, St. Valentine's Day, in fact, but we don't have any pet names for him. That would be weird. Anyway, the other night I watched as Patrick jumped up on a day-bed in Bill's entertainment room, presumably to take a nap. Dogs do that a lot. Patrick does it almost non-stop. He gets up, I'm convinced, for one of only three reasons. Eat. Poop. Go outside to bark at people jogging down the road. That's it, really. But I digress. Back to the day-bed. Patrick had commenced his napping, which of course always begins with some strange ritualistic throwing of blanket up in the air over and over again while simultaneously jumping up and down, and somehow ending up wrapped up like a baby in swaddling clothes. I'm not saying he's god-like, just strange. And talented. On this particular day Patrick awakened after a short time, but was apparently disoriented. He started to back up off the other side of the day-bed, the side with Bill's strange apparatus that is part cabinet, part catch-all, part holder of white beans. This last thing is true, though odd. Indeed there are drawers with see-through glass fronts. The glass is easily unsettled if you're not careful. Inside each of these drawers is a large amount of white beans. Don't ask, I don't know why. Patrick slid off the back side of the day-bed, the wrong side I might add, hit one of the doors with his flailing body, unsettled the glass and when he landed, wedged between the bed and cabinet, a steady stream of white beans began pouring out, ever so evenly, on his head. The dog couldn't move, so I rescued him. But before I did I laughed out loud at the look of utter-bewilderment on his face...and conceived of this strangely-titled, more oddly written, more puzzlingly still published, post. The falling hot dog spilled the beans.